Joy-riding
The post at Pendlemere Abbey was distributed after breakfast, and the
girls devoured their correspondence in the short interval before lessons
began. One morning in April the usual weekly letter with the Paris
postmark arrived addressed to "Miss Hewlitt", and, five minutes after
receiving it, Diana came tearing down the corridor in search of Loveday.
She looked the very incarnation of joy--her face was aglow, and her eyes
shining.
"Such news!" she gasped. "What d'you think? I'll give you three guesses.
Father and Mother are coming over to England for Easter. I haven't seen
them since last September, and I'm simply off my head. Isn't it ripping?
And that's not all, by any means. Come up to the ivy room, Loveday mine.
I want to tell you all about it without those kids hanging about
listening to every word one says. Come now!"
Linking her arm in Loveday's, Diana dragged her friend upstairs, away
from the eyes and ears of inquisitive juniors, who were veritable little
pitchers where their elders' affairs were concerned. It was only when
they were in the safety of their own sanctum that she fully unbosomed
herself.
"Somebody else is coming to England. It's my brother Giles. He's been
made London correspondent of the _Louisville Herald_. He wanted most
frightfully to join the army, but they wouldn't accept him because of
his eyes. He'll be just standing on his head with joy at getting to
Europe after all. Did I tell you he was in a newspaper office? He's
crossing next week, and he's to go and see Father and Mother in Paris
first, then come back with them to England, and have a holiday before he
begins his new work. Dad's going to hire a car and take us a joy-ride,
and Lenox is to get leave and join us. You know Lenox isn't demobilized
yet. He's in a camp in Wales. But he expects they'll give him about five
days. Think of seeing Britain in a car, with Father and Mother and Giles
and Lenox! I want to shout!"
"You little lucker!" sympathized Loveday.
"But that isn't all yet. I haven't finished telling you," triumphed
Diana, laying a fluffy head on her room-mate's shoulder, and poking a
caressing finger into Loveday's dimples. "Mother said in her letter that
she guessed I'd enjoy the tour so much more if I had a girl companion
with me, and would I like to ask one of my school friends? You bet I
would! Ra--ther! Do you know whom I'm going to ask?"
"Wendy?"
"Wendy! No! I'm very fond of her, but she's not _the_ one for a tour
like this. Besides, I know she's going to the seaside with her own home
folks. There's only one person from Pendlemere I want, and that's
Loveday. Will you come? I'd just adore to have you!"
"O-o-o-oh! If your mother really asks me."
"Of course she does! She says she's writing about it to Miss Todd."
Such a dazzling prospect as a joy-ride through England was hardly to be
refused. In due course Loveday's aunt gave her permission, and the
invitation was accepted. It was arranged for the motor tour to begin on
Easter Tuesday, so as to allow Diana and her family to have a few quiet
days together first. They were to spend them at Windermere, then call
with the car at Liverpool for Loveday, and also to pick up Lenox, who
would join them there from the American camp in Wales.
Loveday went about the school feeling as if her reason were rocking. She
had never imagined that anything so nice could happen to her. Since the
loss of her parents life had not been too bright. Sometimes she almost
dreaded the holidays at her aunt's. She was shy and sensitive, and the
impression that she was not altogether welcome there was a bitter one.
It is very hard for a girl when she has no home of her own, and no one
whose special prerogative it is to love and encourage her. Though her
uncle and aunt saw that she had everything needful in the way of
education and clothing, they never petted her, and she had grown up
with the starved feeling of the child who lacks kisses. She had too
much self-respect to parade her woes at school, and perhaps her fellow
seniors mistook her shyness for pride; they were nice to her, but she
had not a real confidante among any of them. It was Diana--Diana whom
she had at first resented as an intruder in the ivy room--who had broken
down the wall of her reserve and found the road to her heart.
The remainder of the term passed quickly; the spring days were so full
with lessons and land-work that time at the Abbey literally raced along.
Nevertheless, with characteristic impatience, Diana crossed off the
calendar each evening, and counted the lessening dates in huge
satisfaction. Then came the joyful afternoon when trunks were brought
down from the box-room, and the school began its congenial task of
packing. The accustomed term-end routine was gone through, and next
morning three tired mistresses saw twenty excited pupils safely into
their respective railway carriages.
"Only a week and we meet again," said Loveday to Diana, whose train
started first.
"Just seven days," returned that damsel, leaning dangerously out of the
compartment window. "Guess I'm about living for that tour. If we don't
have the time of our lives, I'm much mistaken. Ta-ta till next Tuesday."
Diana enjoyed the quiet week at Windermere with father, mother, and
brother, and though the little circle was not quite complete--for there
was a brother of seventeen at school in America--it was delightful to
be among her own family again. Mr. Hewlitt was very tired after his long
spell of arduous work in Paris, and was glad to rest his brains, so they
spent most of the time boating on the lake, or strolling in the woods,
getting new-made-over in the fresh, bracing country air. The car they
had hired was to meet them at Lancaster. They went thus far south by
train, then motored to Liverpool. Loveday, ready with suit-case packed,
was eagerly expecting them. From the window of her aunt's drawing-room
she watched the big six-seater car arrive at the door. Giles--a
masculine edition of Diana, in spectacles--was driving. Lenox--a beaming
khaki-clad figure with twinkle-some brown eyes--sat by his side. Mr. and
Mrs. Hewlitt and Diana were in the rear seat. A goodly pile of boxes and
baskets was strapped on to the luggage-carrier behind. A change of
places was effected, resulting in the two girls sitting with Giles in
the front. Loveday's suit-case was stowed away, her aunt waved good-bye,
the electric-starter was applied, and the car moved off on its eventful
journey south.
It was a delightful way of travelling, to whiz along by road instead of
by rail. The country was just in the blush of spring, the woods were
bursting into tender leaf, plum blossom made fairy lace-work in wayside
orchards, and wallflowers and cowslips bloomed in cottage gardens.
Giles, who drove the car, had planned out their tour carefully. He was
determined to see rural England to best advantage, and, instead of
keeping always to the main roads, he intended to take by-ways, so as to
pass through typical country villages. Once free from the suburbs of
Liverpool, they avoided large towns as far as possible, as they made
their way through Cheshire to the Midlands. Their first object was that
Mecca of all American pilgrims--the Shakespeare country.
"In five days we haven't time to look at everything as we go along, so I
guess we'd better just sprint till we get to Kenilworth, and start our
sight-seeing there," decreed Giles.
He made an excellent chauffeur, and fortunately encountered no police
traps, though he certainly exceeded the speed limit when he saw a clear
road ahead. A lunch-basket with thermos flasks was packed in the car,
and the party picnicked for their mid-day meal in a wood where primroses
were opening their little pale-yellow flowers, and king-cups blazed in a
marshy ditch. The air was fresh with spring, and cuckoos were calling
from the fields by a river.
"When I was a small girl," said Loveday, "I thought there was only one
cuckoo in the world. People used to say: 'Oh, have you heard the cuckoo
yet?' so, of course, I thought there was only one. Nobody said: 'Have
you seen the swallow yet?' when swallows returned. I was fearfully
puzzled one day when I heard _two_ cuckoos both cuckooing at once."
They reached Kenilworth just at sunset, when a crimson sky was flaming
behind the old castle, and glowing on the windows of the picturesque
cottages that faced the ancient ruin from the other side of the village
green. Its grey walls, magnificent even in their decay, seemed teeming
with historic memories, and, in the glamour of the sunset, they could
almost, in imagination, restore the half-legendary splendour of its
later days, and picture Queen Elizabeth arriving there on her famous
visit to the Earl of Leicester. It was too late to do any exploring that
evening, so, after a halt to admire the beauty of the scene, they went
on to their hotel, promising themselves to make it the first object of
their sight-seeing to-morrow.
"It seems so extraordinary," said Mr. Hewlitt at dinner, "that every
little bit of ground we're passing over now has a history that dates
right back to the Middle Ages. It's a wonderful corner of England, and
so unspoilt. Half of the houses look as if they'd stepped straight out
of an artist's canvas."
For the next few days the party lived with guidebooks in their hands.
They thoroughly explored Kenilworth Castle, tried to call up a vision of
the pageant that was presented before Queen Elizabeth there, and
deplored the tragic fate of poor Amy Robsart. Then the car splashed
through the ford at the foot of the wood, and carried them along the
Warwick Road, past Blacklow Hill, where Piers Gaveston was executed, and
where, it is said, his restless spirit still rides at drear midnight, to
Guy's Cliff, with its old Saxon mill and romantic view of the Avon.
Then on to Warwick, to look at the treasures of a castle fortunately
untouched by the ravages of war, and the beautiful Beauchamp Chapel,
with its tomb of the "King Maker". They could have stayed a long time in
ancient, picturesque Warwick, admiring the quaint, old houses and the
smooth stretches of the river, but the attractions of Stratford lay only
eight miles away, and they had booked their rooms in advance at the
hotel there. None of them ever forgot their first entry into
Shakespeare's town. It was the season of his anniversary, and in his
honour flags decorated the black-and-white houses, and dainty little
maidens, with May garlands of flowers, came tripping down the
sixteenth-century streets. Our pilgrims did their devoirs in orthodox
fashion, beginning with Shakespeare's birthplace and its museum of
relics, going on to the Grammar School where he learned his "little
Latin and less Greek", to the remains of his house "New Place", and his
tomb and monument in the glorious old church. They could hardly tear
themselves away from Anne Hathaway's thatched, half-timber cottage at
Shottery, with its carved, four-post Elizabethan bedstead, its garden
full of rustic flowers, and its ingle-nook where perhaps Shakespeare sat
to woo.
"If we could only take it just as it is, and carry it out to America,"
sighed Diana.
"But it would be nothing without its surroundings," said Loveday. "It's
because Shakespeare seems associated with every corner of Stratford that
the whole place is so fascinating. Wherever you go you feel as if you
were following him round. I'd like to spend a month here, and do each
separate spot leisurely and quietly."
If the whole of the projected tour was to be carried out, and the
Shakespeare villages inspected, not to speak of Edgehill, Evesham,
Broadway, and Gloucester, which they had also set their hearts on
seeing, it was impossible to do more than rush through the various
sights, so their boxes were once more strapped on to the
luggage-carrier, and the car set off on its further travels.
They did not escape the usual accidents that delay motorists: a tyre
exploded one afternoon with a terrific bang, and the ladies of the party
had to sit for an hour by the roadside, while the men-folk fixed on the
Stepney wheel. Giles's love for by-roads landed him sometimes in
difficulties. He whisked them once down a charming primrose-starred
lane, only to find that it ended in a ford. As you cannot run a car
through even the shallowest river without stopping the engine, it was
evidently a case of "thus far and no farther", and there was nothing for
it but a return to the highway. There was no room to turn in the narrow
lane, so the car had to back the whole distance to the road--a most
difficult performance between high banks and round sharp corners, and
one which required all Giles's skill as a chauffeur. Another time,
trying a short cut across some fields, the car ran into soft earth and
refused to stir. Her occupants got down and tried with their united
efforts to push her out of her "slough of despond", but with no effect.
Giles kept starting the engine, but the wheels, instead of gripping,
simply turned round and round, and sank deeper into the soil. They were
obliged to go to a farm for help, and have planks fixed under the wheels
before the heavy car could move on to terra firma and proceed with its
journey. These little accidents, however, all added a spice of adventure
and fun to the tour; the young folks, at any rate, did not wish
everything to be too plain sailing; they thoroughly enjoyed the romantic
side of the trip, and liked to get off the beaten track into the wilds
of the country. They had brought all sorts of wonderful contrivances for
cooking the mid-day lunch, which they always ate out-of-doors. There was
an apparatus with a spirit-lamp for making coffee, which whistled like a
canary when the beverage was brewed; there was a marvellous double
frying-pan, heated merely by strips of newspaper being lighted
underneath it, which cooked eggs and sausages with surprising speed; and
there was a neat canteen-basket with cups, plates, spoons, forks, and
knives all ready to hand. In their enthusiasm the boys would have liked
to sleep in the car had that been possible, and Lenox often regretted
wistfully that they had not brought tents with them to pitch for the
night.
"No, thanks," said Mr. Hewlitt. "You youngsters may enjoy that sort of
thing; but I consider this British climate is too damp for camping out,
and I much prefer a comfortable bed at a decent hotel."
"Besides which, the hotels are so delightfully old-world and quaint, I
shouldn't like to miss them," added Mrs. Hewlitt.
"Rather _too_ old-world sometimes," shivered her daughter.
Diana had had an unpleasant experience the night before. Generally she
and Loveday slept together, but on this occasion they had been given
separate rooms. Diana, who had a tiresome trick of waking, furiously
hungry, in the small hours of the morning, put a couple of biscuits
under her pillow before she got into bed, so as to be prepared for any
emergencies of appetite. She woke suddenly in the night, with the
horrible sensation that a hand was groping under her pillow. She
switched on the electric light by her bedside, but nothing was to be
seen. Thinking she must have been dreaming, she switched off the light
and lay down again. Hardly was she settled, and sinking off to sleep,
when once more came a most unmistakable movement under her pillow.
Thoroughly scared, she switched on the light, only to find nothing. When
this happened a third time she no longer dared remain in the dark, so
lighted a candle which fortunately stood on the mantelpiece, and placed
it on a table not far from her bed. She could not see everything in the
room, and lay watching with wide-open eyes. For a few minutes all was
absolutely still; then came a slight noise, and along the rail at the
foot of the bed ran something with whiskers, either a young rat or the
very biggest mouse she had ever seen.
"Sh-sh-sh-oo-oo!" cried Diana, sitting erect in bed with round
frightened eyes. The intruder, equally terrified, took the hint to quit,
and scuttled noisily away. The idea that it might return to seek her
biscuits was too much for Diana.
"Even if I eat them it'll come back to see if they're there," she
thought. "I'd have a fit if I felt it under my pillow again. I can't
sleep another wink in here, that's certain. I'd as soon have spooks as
rats or mice. I'm going to Loveday."
So, though the time was about 1 a.m., she jumped up, seized the candle,
and managed to find her way along the passage to her friend's room.
Loveday, much astonished to be thus awakened, took her into her bed, and
they laughed over the little adventure.
"Oh, yes, it's all very fine to laugh," said Diana. "But if _you_ were
all alone you wouldn't like it yourself. Nothing will induce me to sleep
by myself again in a strange hotel; so I warn you. You'll be saddled
with your pixie girl for the rest of the tour. She's a scared baby at
nights, and she doesn't mind confessing it. Rats--ugh! The very name of
them makes me creep."