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IN THE HIGH VALLEY.
[Illustration: "'I suppose we shall never see the ocean from where we
are to live,' said Imogen."--PAGE 15.]
IN THE HIGH VALLEY.
BEING
THE FIFTH AND LAST VOLUME
OF
_THE KATY DID SERIES_.
BY
SUSAN COOLIDGE,
AUTHOR OF
"THE NEW YEAR'S BARGAIN," "WHAT KATY DID," "WHAT KATY DID AT
SCHOOL," "WHAT KATY DID NEXT," "MISCHIEF'S THANKSGIVING,"
"CROSS PATCH," "A GUERNSEY LILY," "NINE LITTLE GOSLINGS,"
"A LITTLE COUNTRY GIRL," "A ROUND DOZEN," "CLOVER,"
"EYEBRIGHT," "JUST SIXTEEN," ETC.
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1896.
_Copyright_, _1891_,
BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.
=University Press:=
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. ALONG THE NORTH DEVON COAST 7
II. MISS OPDYKE FROM NEW YORK 40
III. THE LAST OF DEVON AND THE FIRST OF AMERICA 65
IV. IN THE HIGH VALLEY 93
V. ARRIVAL 127
VI. UNEXPECTED 149
VII. THORNS AND ROSES 174
VIII. UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER 204
IX. THE ECHOES IN THE EAST CANYON 235
X. A DOUBLE KNOT 267
IN THE HIGH VALLEY.
CHAPTER I.
ALONG THE NORTH DEVON COAST.
IT was a morning of late May, and the sunshine, though rather watery,
after the fashion of South-of-England suns, was real sunshine still, and
glinted and glittered bravely on the dew-soaked fields about Copplestone
Grange.
This was an ancient house of red brick, dating back to the last half of
the sixteenth century, and still bearing testimony in its sturdy bulk to
the honest and durable work put upon it by its builders. Not a joist had
bent, not a girder started in the long course of its two hundred and odd
years of life. The brick-work of its twisted chimney-stacks was intact,
and the stone carving over its doorways and window frames; only the
immense growth of the ivy on its side walls attested to its age. It
takes longer to build ivy five feet thick than many castles, and though
new masonry by trick and artifice may be made to look like old, there is
no secret known to man by which a plant or tree can be induced to
simulate an antiquity which does not rightfully belong to it.
Innumerable sparrows and tomtits had built in the thick mats of the old
ivy, and their cries and twitters blended in shrill and happy chorus as
they flew in and out of their nests.
The Grange had been a place of importance, in Queen Elizabeth's time, as
the home of an old Devon family which was finally run out and
extinguished. It was now little more than a superior sort of farm-house.
The broad acres of meadow and pleasaunce and woodland which had given it
consequence in former days had been gradually parted with, as
misfortunes and losses came to its original owners. The woods had been
felled, the pleasure grounds now made part of other people's farms, and
the once wide domain had contracted, until the ancient house stood with
only a few acres about it, and wore something the air of an old-time
belle who has been forcibly divested of her ample farthingale and
hooped-petticoat, and made to wear the scant kirtle of a village maid.
Orchards of pear and apple flanked the building to east and west. Behind
was a field or two crowning a little upland where sedate cows fed
demurely; and in front, toward the south, which was the side of
entrance, lay a narrow walled garden, with box-bordered beds full of
early flowers, mimulus, sweet-peas, mignonette, stock gillies, and blush
and damask roses, carefully tended and making a blaze of color on the
face of the bright morning. The whole front of the house was draped with
a luxuriant vine of Gloire de Dijon, whose long, pink-yellow buds and
cream-flushed cups sent wafts of delicate sweetness with every puff of
wind.
Seventy years before the May morning of which we write, Copplestone
Grange had fallen at public sale to Edward Young, a well-to-do banker of
Bideford. He was a descendant in direct line of that valiant Young who,
together with his fellow-seaman Prowse, undertook the dangerous task of
steering down and igniting the seven fire-ships which sent the Spanish
armada "lumbering off" to sea, and saved England for Queen Elizabeth and
the Protestant succession.
Edward Young lived twenty years in peace and honor to enjoy his
purchase, and his oldest son James now reigned in his stead, having
reared within the old walls a numerous brood of sons and daughters, now
scattered over the surface of the world in general, after the sturdy
British fashion, till only three or four remained at home, waiting their
turn to fly.
One of these now stood at the gate. It was Imogen Young, oldest but one
of the four daughters. She was evidently waiting for some one, and
waiting rather impatiently.
"We shall certainly be late," she said aloud, "and it's quite too bad of
Lion." Then, glancing at the little silver watch in her belt, she began
to call, "Lion! Lionel! Oh, Lion! do make haste! It's gone twenty past,
and we shall never be there in time."
"Coming," shouted a voice from an upper window; "I'm just washing my
hands. Coming in a jiffy, Moggy."
"Jiffy!" murmured Imogen. "How very American Lion has got to be. He's
always 'guessing' and 'calculating' and 'reckoning.' It seems as if he
did it on purpose to startle and annoy me. I suppose one has got to get
used to it if you're over there, but really it's beastly bad form, and I
shall keep on telling Lion so."
She was not a pretty girl, but neither was she an ill-looking one.
Neither tall nor very slender, her vigorous little figure had still a
certain charm of trim erectness and youthful grace, though Imogen was
twenty-four, and considered herself very staid and grown-up. A fresh,
rosy skin, beautiful hair of a warm, chestnut color, with a natural
wave in it, and clear, honest, blue eyes, went far to atone for a thick
nose, a wide mouth, and front teeth which projected slightly and seemed
a size too large for the face to which they belonged. Her dress did
nothing to assist her looks. It was woollen, of an unbecoming shade of
yellowish gray; it fitted badly, and the complicated loops and hitches
of the skirt bespoke a fashion some time since passed by among those who
were particular as to such matters. The effect was not assisted by a
pork-pie hat of black straw trimmed with green feathers, a pink ribbon
from which depended a silver locket, a belt of deep magenta-red, yellow
gloves, and an umbrella bright navy-blue in tint. She had over her arm a
purplish water-proof, and her thick, solid boots could defy the mud of
her native shire.
"Lion! Lion!" she called again; and this time a tall young fellow
responded, running rapidly down the path to join her. He was two years
her junior, vigorous, alert, and boyish, with a fresh skin, and tawny,
waving hair like her own.
"How long you have been!" she cried reproachfully.
"Grieved to have kept you, Miss," was the reply. "You see, things went
contrairy-like. The grease got all over me when I was cleaning the guns,
and cold water wouldn't take it off, and that old Saunders took his time
about bringing the can of hot, till at last I rushed down and fetched it
up myself from the copper. You should have seen cook's face! 'Fancy,
Master Lionel,' says she, 'coming yourself for 'ot water!' I tell you,
Moggy, Saunders is past his usefulness. He's a regular duffer--a gump."
"There's another American expression. Saunders is a most respectable
man, I'm sure, and has been in the family thirty-one years. Of course he
has a good deal to do just now, with the packing and all. Now, Lion, we
shall have to walk smartly if we're to get there at half-after."
"All right. Here goes for a spin, then."
The brother and sister walked rapidly on down the winding road, in the
half-shadow of the bordering hedges. Real Devonshire hedge-rows they
were, than which are none lovelier in England, rising eight and ten feet
overhead on either side, and topped with delicate, flickering birch and
ash boughs blowing in the fresh wind. Below were thick growths of
hawthorn, white and pink, and wild white roses in full flower
interspersed with maple tips as red as blood, the whole interlaced and
held together with thick withes and tangles of ivy, briony, and
travellers' joy. Beneath them the ground was strewn with
flowers,--violets, and king-cups, poppies, red campions, and blue
iris,--while tall spikes of rose-colored foxgloves rose from among ranks
of massed ferns, brake, hart's-tongue, and maiden's-hair, with here and
there a splendid growth of Osmund Royal. To sight and smell, the
hedge-rows were equally delightful.
Copplestone Grange stood three miles west of Bideford, and the house to
which the Youngs were going was close above Clovelly, so that a
distance of some seven miles separated them. To walk this twice for the
sake of lunching with a friend would seem to most young Americans too
formidable a task to be at all worth while, but to our sturdy English
pair it presented no difficulties. On they went, lightly and steadily,
Imogen's elastic steps keeping pace easily with her brother's longer
tread. There was a good deal of up and down hill to get over with, and
whenever they topped a rise, green downs ending in wooded cliffs could
be seen to the left, and beyond and below an expanse of white-flecked
shimmering sea. A salt wind from the channel blew in their faces, full
of coolness and refreshment, and there was no dust.
"I suppose we shall never see the ocean from where we are to live," said
Imogen, with a sigh.
"Well, hardly, considering it's about fifteen-hundred miles away."
"Fifteen hundred! oh, Lion, you are surely exaggerating. Why, the whole
of England is not so large as that, from Land's End to John O'Groat's
House."
"I should say not, nothing like it. Why Moggy, you've no idea how small
our 'right little, tight little island' really is. You could set it down
plump in some of the States, New York, for instance, and there would be
quite a tidy fringe of territory left all round it. Of course, morally,
we are the standard of size for all the world, but geographically,
phew!--our size is little, though our hearts are great."
"I think it's vulgar to be so big,--not that I believe half you say,
Lion. You've been over in America so long, and grown such a Yankee, that
you swallow everything they choose to tell you. I've always heard about
American brag--"
"My dear, there's no need to brag when the facts are there, staring you
in the face. It's just a matter of feet and inches,--any one can do the
measurement who has a tape-line. Wait till you see it. And as for its
being vulgar to be big, why is the 'right little, tight little' always
stretching out her long arms to rope in new territory, in that case, I
should like to know? It would be much eleganter to keep herself to
home--"
"Oh, don't talk that sort of rot; I hate to hear you."
"I must when you talk that kind of--well, let us say 'rubbish.' 'Rot' is
one of our choice terms which hasn't got over to the States yet. You're
as opiniated and 'narrer' as the little island itself. What do you know
about America, any way? Did you ever see an American in your life,
child?"
"Yes, several. I saw Buffalo Bill last year, and lots of Indians and
cow-boys whom he had fetched over. And I saw Professor--Professor--what
was his name? I forget, but he lectured on phrenology; and then there
was Mrs. Geoff Templestowe."
"Oh Mrs. Geoff--she's a different sort. Buffalo Bill and his show can
hardly be treated as specimens of American society, and neither can your
bump-man. But she's a fair sample of the nice kind; and you liked her,
now didn't you? you know you did."
"Well, yes, I did," admitted Imogen, rather grudgingly. "She was really
quite nice, and good-form, and all that, and Isabel said she was far and
away the best sister-in-law yet, and the Squire took such a fancy to her
that it was quite remarkable. But she cannot be used as an argument, for
she's not the least like the American girls in the books. She must have
had unusual advantages. And after all,--nice as she was, she wasn't
English. There was a difference somehow,--you felt it though you
couldn't say exactly what it was."
"No, thank goodness--she isn't; that's just the beauty of it. Why should
all the world be just alike? And what books do you mean, and what girls?
There are all kinds on the other side, I can tell you. Wait till you get
over to the High Valley and you'll see."
This sort of discussion had become habitual of late between the brother
and sister. Three years before, Lionel had gone out to Colorado, to
"look about and see how ranching suited him," as he phrased it, and had
decided that it suited him exactly. He had served a sort of
apprenticeship to Geoffrey Templestowe, the son of an old Devonshire
neighbor, who had settled in a place called High Valley, and, together
with two partners, had built up a flourishing and lucrative cattle
business, owning a large tract of grazing territory and great herds. One
of the partners was now transferred to New Mexico, where the firm owned
land also, and Mr. Young had advanced money to buy Lionel, who was now
competent to begin for himself, a share in the business. He was now
going out to remain permanently, and Imogen was going also, to keep his
house and make a home for him till he should be ready to marry and
settle down.
All over the world there are good English sisters doing this sort of
thing. In Australia and New Zealand they are to be found, in Canada, and
India, and the Transvaal,--wherever English boys are sent to advance
their fortunes. Had her destination been Canada or Australia, Imogen
would have found no difficulty in adjusting her ideas to it, but the
United States were a _terra incognita_. Knowing absolutely nothing about
them, she had constructed out of a fertile fancy and a few facts an
altogether imaginary America, not at all like the real one; peopled by
strange folk quite un-English in their ideas and ways, and very hard to
understand and live with. In vain did Lionel protest and explain; his
remonstrances were treated as proofs of the degeneracy and blindness
induced by life in "The States," and to all his appeals she opposed that
calm, obstinate disbelief which is the weapon of a limited intellect and
experience, and is harder to deal with than the most passionate
convictions.
Unknown to herself a little sting of underlying jealousy tinctured these
opinions. For many years Isabel Templestowe had been her favorite
friend, the person she most admired and looked up to. They had been at
school together,--Isabel always taking the lead in everything, Imogen
following and imitating. The Templestowes were better born than the
Youngs, they took a higher place in the county; it was a distinction as
well as a tender pleasure to be intimate in the house. Once or twice
Isabel had gone to her married sister in London for a taste of the
"season." No such chance had ever fallen to Imogen's lot, but it was
next best to get letters, and hear from Isabel of all that she had seen
and done; thus sharing the joys at second-hand, as it were.
Isabel had other intimates, some of whom were more to her than Imogen
could be, but they lived at a distance and Imogen close at hand.
Propinquity plays a large part in friendship as well as love. Imogen had
no other intimate, but she knew too little of Isabel's other interests
to be made uncomfortable about them, and was quite happy in her position
as nearest and closest confidante until, four years before, Geoffrey
Templestowe came home for a visit, bringing with him his American wife,
whose name before her marriage had been Clover Carr, and whom some of
you who read this will recognize as an old friend.
Young, sweet, pretty, very happy, and "horribly well-dressed," as poor
Imogen in her secret soul admitted, Clover easily and quickly won the
liking of her "people-in-law." All the outlying sons and daughters who
were within reach came home to make her acquaintance, and all were
charmed with her. The Squire petted and made much of his new daughter
and could not say enough in her praise. Mrs. Templestowe averred that
she was as good as she was pretty, and as "sensible" as if she had been
born and brought up in England; and, worst of all, Isabel, for the time
of their stay, was perfectly absorbed in Geoff and Clover, and though
kind and affectionate when they met, had little or no time to spend on
Imogen. She and Clover were of nearly the same age, each had a thousand
interesting things to tell the other, both were devoted to Geoffrey,--it
was natural, inevitable, that they should draw together. Imogen
confessed to herself that it was only right that they should do so, but
it hurt all the same, and it was still a sore spot in her heart that
Isabel should love Clover so much, and that they should write such long
letters to each other. She was a conscientious girl, and she fought
against the feeling and tried hard to forget it, but there it was all
the same.
But while I have been explaining, the rapid feet of the two walkers had
taken them past the Hoops Inn, and to the opening of a rough shady lane
which made a short cut to the grounds of Stowe Manor, as the
Templestowes' place was called.
They entered by a private gate, opened by Imogen with a key which she
carried, and found themselves on the slope of a hill overhung with
magnificent old beeches. Farther down, the slope became steeper and
narrowed to form the sharp "chine" which cut the cliff seaward to the
water's edge. The Manor-house stood on a natural plateau at the head of
the ravine, whose steep green sides made a frame for the beautiful
picture it commanded of Lundy Island, rising in bold outlines over
seventeen miles of blue, tossing sea.
The brother and sister paused a moment to look for the hundredth time at
this exquisite glimpse. Then they ran lightly down over the grass to
where an intersecting gravel-path led to the door. It stood hospitably
open, affording a view of the entrance hall.
Such a beautiful old hall! built in the time of the Tudors, with a great
carven fireplace, mullioned windows in deep square bays, and a ceiling
carved with fans, shields, and roses. "Bow-pots" stood on the sills,
full of rose-leaves and spices, huge antlers and trophies of weapons
adorned the walls, and the polished floor, almost black with age, shone
like a looking-glass.
Beyond opened a drawing-room, low-ceiled and equally quaint in build.
The furniture seemed as old as the house. There was nothing with a
modern air about it, except some Indian curiosities, a water-color or
two, the photographs of the family, and the fresh flowers in the vases.
But the sun shone in, there was a great sense of peace and stillness,
and beside a little wood-fire, which burned gently and did not hiss or
crackle as it might have done elsewhere, sat a lovely old lady, whose
fresh and peaceful and kindly face seemed the centre from which all the
home look and comfort streamed. She was knitting a long silk stocking, a
volume of Mudie's lay on her knee, and a skye terrier, blue, fuzzy, and
sleepy, had curled himself luxuriously in the folds of her dress.
This was Mrs. Templestowe, Geoff's mother and Clover's mother-in-law.
She jumped up almost as lightly as a girl to welcome the visitors.
"Take your hat off, my dear," she said to Imogen, "or would you rather
run up to Isabel's room? She was here just now, but her father called
her off to consult about something in the hot-house. He won't keep her
long-- Ah, there she is now," as a figure flashed by the window; "I knew
she would be here directly."
Another second and Isabel hurried in, a tall, slender girl with thick,
fair hair, blue eyes with dark lashes, and a look of breeding and
distinction. Her dress, very simple in cut, suited her, and had that
undefinable air of being just right which a good London tailor knows how
to give. She wore no ornaments, but Imogen, who had felt rather
well-dressed when she left home, suddenly hated her gown and hat,
realized that her belt and ribbon did not agree, and wished for the
dozenth time that she had the knack at getting the right thing which
Isabel possessed.
"Her clothes grow prettier all the time, and mine get uglier," she
reflected. "The Squire says she got points from Mrs. Geoff, and that the
Americans know how to dress if they don't know anything else; but that's
nonsense, of course,--Isabel always did know how; she didn't need any
one to teach her."
Pretty soon they were all seated at luncheon, a hearty and substantial
meal, as befitted the needs of people who had just taken a seven-mile
walk. A great round of cold beef stood at one end of the table, a
chicken-pie at the other, and there were early peas and potatoes, a huge
cherry-tart, a "junket" equally large, strawberries, and various cakes
and pastries, meant to be eaten with a smother of that delicacy peculiar
to Devonshire, clotted cream. Every body was very hungry, and not much
was said till the first rage of appetite was satisfied.
"Ah!" said the Squire, as he filled his glass with amber-hued
cider,--"you don't get anything so good as this to drink over in
America, Lionel."
"Indeed we do, sir. Wait till you taste our lemonade made with natural
soda-water."
"Lemonade? phoo! Poor stuff I call it, cold and thin. I hope Geoff has
some better tipple than that to cheer him in the High Valley."
"Iced water," suggested Lionel, mischievously.
"Don't talk to me about iced water. It's worse than lemonade. It's the
perpetual use of ice which makes the Americans so nervous, I am
convinced."
"But, papa, are they so nervous? Clover certainly isn't."
"Ah! my little Clover,--no, she wasn't nervous. She was nothing that she
ought not to be. I call her as sweet a lass as any country need want to
see. But Clover's no example; there aren't many like her, I fancy,--eh,
Lion?"
"Well, Squire, she's not the only one of the sort over there. Her
sister, who married Mr. Page, our other partner, you know, is quite as
pretty as she is, and as nice, too, though in a different way. And
there's the oldest one--the wife of the naval officer, I'm not sure but
you would like her the best of the three. She's a ripper in
looks,--tall, you know, with lots of go and energy, and yet as sweet and
womanly as can be; you'd like her very much, you'd like all of them."
"How is the unmarried one?--Joan, I think they call her," asked Mrs.
Templestowe.
"Oh!" said Lionel, rather confused, "I don't know so much about her.
She's only once been out to the valley since I was there. She seems a
nice girl, and certainly she's mighty pretty."
"Lion's blushing," remarked Imogen. "He always does blush when he speaks
of that Miss Carr."
"Rot!" muttered Lionel, with a wrathful look at his sister. "I do
nothing of the kind. But, Squire, when are you coming over to see for
yourself how we look and behave? I think you and the Madam would enjoy a
summer in the High Valley very much, and it would be no end of larks to
have you. Isabel would like it of all things."
"Oh, I know I should. I would start to-morrow, if I could. I'm coming
across to make Clover and Imogen a long visit the first moment that papa
and mamma can spare me."
"That will be a long time to wait, I fear," said her mother, sadly.
"Since Mr. Matthewson married and carried off poor Helen's children, the
house has seemed so silent that except for you it would hardly be worth
while to get up in the morning. We can't spare you at present, dear
child."
"I know, mamma, and I shall never go till you can. The perfect thing
would be that we should all go together."
"Yes, if it were not for that dreadful voyage."
"Oh, the voyage is nothing," broke in the irrepressible Lionel, "you
just take some little pills; I forget the name of them, but they make
you safe not to be sick, and then you're across before you know it. The
ships are very comfortable,--electric bells, Welsh rabbits at bed-time,
and all that, you know."
"Fancy mamma with a Welsh rabbit at bed-time!--mamma, who cannot even
row down to Gallantry on the smoothest day without being upset! You must
bait your hook with something else, Lionel, if you hope to catch her."
"How would a trefoil of clover-leaves answer?" with a smile,--"she,
Geoff, and the boy."
"Ah, that dear baby. I wish I _could_ see the little fellow. He is so
pretty in his picture," sighed Mrs. Templestowe. "That bait would land
me if anything could, Lion. By the way, there are some little parcels
for them, which I thought perhaps you would make room for, Imogen."
"Yes, indeed, I'll carry anything with pleasure. Now I'm afraid we must
be going. Mother wants me to step down to Clovelly with a message for
the landlady of the New Inn, and I've set my heart upon walking once
more to Gallantry Bower. Can't you come with us, Isabel? It would be so
nice if you could, and it's my last chance."
"Of course I will. I'll be ready in five minutes, if you really can't
stay any longer."
The three friends were soon on their way, under a low-hung sky, which
looked near and threatening. The beautiful morning was fled.
"We had better cut down into the Hobby grounds and get under the trees,
for I think it's going to be wet," said Imogen.
The suggestion proved a wise one, for before they emerged from the
shelter of the woods it was raining smartly, and the girls were glad of
their water-proofs and umbrellas. Lionel, with hands in pockets, strode
on, disdaining what he was pleased to call "a little local shower."
"You should see how it pours in Colorado," he remarked. "That's worth
calling rain! Immense! Noah would feel perfectly at home in it!"
The tax of threepence each person, by which strangers are ingeniously
made to contribute to the "local charities," was not exacted of them at
the New Road Gate, on the strength of their being residents, and
personal friends of the owners of Clovelly Court. A few steps farther
brought them to the top of a zig-zag path, sloping sharply downward at
an angle of some sixty-five degrees, paved with broad stones, and
flanked on either side by houses, no two of which occupied the same
level, and which seemed to realize their precarious footing, and hug the
rift in which they were planted as limpets hug a rock.
This was the so-called "Clovelly Street," and surely a more
extraordinary thing in the way of a street does not exist in the known
world. The little village is built on the sides of a crack in a
tremendous cliff; the "street" is merely the bottom of the crack, into
which the ingenuity of man has fitted a few stones, set slant-wise, with
intersecting ridges on which the foot can catch as it goes slipping
hopelessly down. Even to practised walkers the descent is difficult,
especially when the stones are wet. The party from Stowe were familiar
with the path, and had trodden it many times, but even they picked their
steps, and went "delicately" like King Agag, holding up umbrellas in one
hand, and with the other catching at garden palings and the edges of
door-steps to save themselves from pitching headlong, while beside them
little boys and girls with the agility of long practice, went down
merrily almost at a run, their heavy, flat-bottomed shoes making a
clap-clap-clapping noise as they descended, like the strokes of a mallet
on wood.
Looking up and above the quaint tenements that bordered the "street,"
other houses equally quaint could be seen on either side rising above
each other to the top of the cliff, in whose midst the crack which held
the village is set. How it ever entered into the mind of man to utilize
such a place for such a purpose it was hard to conceive. The
eccentricity of level was endless, gardens topped roofs,
gooseberry-bushes and plum-trees seemed growing out of chimneys, tall
trees rose apparently from ridge-poles, and here and there against the
sky appeared extraordinary wooden figures of colossal size, Mermaids and
Britannias and Belle Savages, figure-heads of forgotten ships which old
sea-captains out of commission had set up in their gardens to remind
them of perils past. The weather-beaten little houses looked centuries
old, and all had such an air of having been washed accidentally into
their places by a great tidal wave that the vines and flowers which
overhung them affected the new-comer with a sense of surprise.
Down went the three, slipping and sliding, catching on and recovering
themselves, till they came to a small, low-browed building dating back
for a couple of centuries or so, which was the "New Inn." "Old" and
"new" have a local meaning of their own in Clovelly which does not
exactly apply anywhere else.
Up two little steps they passed into a narrow entry, with a parlor on
one side and on the other a comfortable sort of housekeeper's room,
where a fire was blazing in a grate with wide hobs. Both rooms as well
as the entry were hung with plates, dishes, platters, and bowls, set
thickly on the walls in groups of tens and scores and double-scores, as
suited their shape and color. The same ceramic decoration ran upstairs
and pervaded the rooms above more or less; a more modern brick-building
on the opposite side of the street which was the "annex" of the Inn, was
equally full; hundreds and hundreds of plates and saucers and cups,
English and Delft ware chiefly, and blue and white in color. It had been
the landlady's hobby for years past to form this collection of china,
and it was now for sale to any one who might care to buy.
Isabel and Lionel ran to and fro examining "the great wall of China," as
he termed it, while Imogen did her mother's errand to the landlady. Then
they started again to mount the hill, which was an easier task than
going down, passing on the way two or three parties of tourists holding
on to each other, and shrieking and exclaiming; and being passed by a
minute donkey with two sole-leather trunks slung on one side of him, and
on the other a mountainous heap of hand-bags and valises. This is the
only creature with four legs, bigger than a dog, that ever gets down the
Clovelly street; and why he does not lose his balance, topple backward,
and go rolling continuously down till he falls into the sea below,
nobody can imagine. But the valiant little animal kept steadily on,
assisted by his owner, who followed and assiduously whacked him with a
stout stick, and he reached the top much sooner than any of his biped
following. One cannot have too many legs in Clovelly,--a centipede would
find himself at an uncommon advantage.
At the top of the street is the "Yellery Gate" through which our party
passed into lovely park grounds topping a line of fine cliffs which lead
to "Gallantry Bower." This is the name given to an enormous headland
which falls into the sea with a sheer descent of nearly four hundred
feet, and forms the western boundary of the Clovelly roadstead.
The path was charmingly laid out with belts of woodland and clumps of
flowering shrubs. Here and there was a seat or a rustic summer-house,
commanding views of the sea, now a deep intense blue, for the rain had
ceased as suddenly as it came, and broad yellow rays were streaming over
the wet grass and trees, whose green was dazzling in its freshness.
Imogen drew in a long breath of the salt wind, and looked wistfully
about her at the vivid turf, the delicate shimmer of blowing leaves, and
the tossing ocean, as if trying to photograph each detail in her
memory.
"I shall see nothing so beautiful over there," she said. "Dear old
Devonshire, there's nothing like it."
"Colorado is even better than 'dear old Devonshire,'" declared her
brother; "wait till you see Pike's Peak. Wait till I drive you through
the North Cheyenne Canyon."
But Imogen shook her head incredulously.
"Pike's Peak!" she answered, with an air of scorn. "The name is enough;
I never want to see it."
"Well, you girls are good walkers, it must be confessed;" said Lionel,
as they emerged on the crossing of the Bideford road where they must
separate. "Isabel looks as fresh as paint, and Moggy hasn't turned a
hair. I don't think Mrs. Geoff could stand such a walk, or any of her
family."
"Oh, no, indeed; Clover would feel half-killed if she were asked to
undertake a sixteen-mile walk. I remember, when she was here, we just
went down to the pier at Clovelly for a row on the Bay and back through
the Hobby, six miles in all, perhaps, and she was quite done up, poor
dear, and had to go on to the sofa. I can't think why American girls are
not better walkers,--though there _was_ that Miss Appleton we met at
Zermatt, who went up the Matterhorn and didn't make much of it. Good-by,
Imogen; I shall come over before you start and fetch mamma's parcels."