CHAPTER XVI

A GOOD CROSSING

It was not without trepidation that the three travellers embarked at Dieppe. Visions of a long and rough passage across the Channel arose before them and they watched the receding shores of France momentarily expecting an attack of _mal de mer_, but the sea was as smooth as a mill pond and all their fears were groundless, for a less eventful, monotonous and easy trip could not be imagined. There was the inevitable long wait for the customs at Newhaven, but they had reached an English-speaking country and began to experience a homelike feeling before even the Sussex downs came in sight. It was late when they reached London, but it was not difficult to bargain for a four wheeler, and they felt the sombre dignity of London’s streets as soon as they had passed out of the station, and had turned toward the great centre for American tourists, Russell Square.

“This lovely cab system,” said Gabriella, sinking back comfortably, “is such a boon to the traveller voyaging into the unknown. Why don’t we import it with a few other things? Imagine only paying two or three shillings to go this distance. When we cram our cars as full as we can get them so there is not even standing room, why don’t we clamor for cheap cabs? It is ridiculous to be satisfied with such miserably uncomfortable or expensive ways of getting about as we endure. I shall lobby for a bill to settle cab rates as soon as I get home, and thereby receive the undying gratitude of my fellow countrymen.”

“Gabriella is always going to do such wonderful things,” remarked Sidney. “One would think she meant to revolutionize the entire world to hear her. Doesn’t London seem quiet after Paris? London! Is it really true that we are here? We aren’t dreaming, are we?”

“No more than we were in Rome or Paris,” returned Miss Cavendish.

“I shall be dreaming very soon,” declared Gabriella. “Let me but find a pillow upon which to rest my weary head, and I will do all the dreaming necessary for the occasion. It is very dim and hazy and Londonish, isn’t it? But, oh, what a comfort it is going to be when we can gabble out our difficulties in our own tongue to some friendly bobby. I am eager for the fray. Will our landlady drop her h’s and will there be a Boots and a slatternly maid such as we always read about in English novels?”

“Let us hope the slatternly maid at least will be left out,” returned Miss Cavendish. “We shall soon know, for I think this is our street.”

As they drew up before the door from every house within the square arose the clangor of gongs. “Does that mean dinner, or is it their way of welcoming us?” asked Gabriella, as she gathered up her bag and umbrella.

“Presumably it is dinner,” answered Miss Cavendish.

“Then ho, for the roast beef, the mighty joint and the staying pudding,” said Gabriella, as she stepped upon the pavement.

“The room is beastly and the bed is a rotter,” was the girl’s comment after they had been shown their apartments.

“Why, Gabriella Thorne,” exclaimed her roommate, shocked at the expressions.

“That is purely English,” was the calm response. “I have even heard Miss Mildred use those terms, and I have no doubt the king speaks those very words at times. There are words which we use with freedom but which they look upon here with horror; I will not mention them lest I shock the walls of this very dingy room. Is the dressing bureau placed in front of the window so we may not look out upon the mews, do they call them?”

“Never mind what they call them. Don’t try to be English in such a startling manner, or you will terrify me.” And Gabriella followed her friends down to dinner. The meal was substantial and good; all the efforts of their landlady were evidently centred upon this department, for the house itself bore a shabby and neglected look.

“It is rather depressing,” Miss Cavendish admitted, examining their apartments when they had returned to them, “but we shall be in our rooms very little of the time, and as we have brought all our luggage here we may as well stay and see how it impresses us at the end of a week.” Then they entered upon a discussion as to their plans for the next day. Miss Cavendish wanted first of all to see Westminster Abbey, Gabriella was for the National Gallery, while Sidney yearned for a trip to Windsor and on to Stoke Poges. “It would be so lovely to worship in that dear little church, and to see the graveyard which inspired Gray’s Elegy,” she argued.

Miss Cavendish consulted her Baedeker. “But Sidney, dear, if we go there it ought to be on a day when we can see the State apartments at Windsor. There is no use in making two bites at a cherry.” So Sidney yielded and Gabriella compromised by giving up the galleries and by going to St. Paul’s for the afternoon service and to Westminster in the morning. Then began their sight-seeing, which they pursued so systematically and energetically that at the end of two weeks Sidney looked pale, Miss Cavendish declared that she had mental indigestion, and Gabriella was so wan and listless that her godmother became alarmed. The girl had been anxious to occupy her every moment since their arrival in London and never wanted to be left alone a moment or to be obliged to spend the day in the house even when the others were glad of a respite from the continual sight-seeing. Though they might be exhausted she would urge them to further effort and wherever they went the graceful little figure of Gabriella was always in the lead.

“We all need a change,” Miss Cavendish declared. “We have gone so steadily since we came here; it has been warm, and we have walked such distances looking at pictures and museums and such things that I think it would be best to fly London for a time. What do you say, girls, to a week by the sea? Miss Bailey is very urgent in begging us to join her and her sister at that quiet little place in Sussex, so why not go? It will do us all a world of good.”

Gabriella immediately brightened at the prospect. “I should like it of all things,” she answered.

“Do you think we can get in anywhere?” Sidney asked. “You know everybody leaves London in August, and we have been told that all the watering places are simply packed.”

“We will see what we can do,” was the reply. “I will write to Miss Bailey at once and see if we can secure lodgings.”

“Lodgings? Real lodgings where you have a sitting-room and have your meals served as you choose?” Sidney was interested.

“All that.”

[Illustration: “‘THERE IS A LITTLE OLD CHURCH NEXT TO CROSBY HALL ... AND WE SHALL WANT TO SEE THAT.’”]

“Oh, how delightful. Can we do our own marketing?”

“I imagine so.”

“Then do let us go. I think it will be a delightful change. I will look up the Windsor Castle route while you are writing, for we might not be able to get that in when we come back to London and ought to do it before we go. To-day we go to the City and hunt up that old Crosby Hall and lunch there, isn’t that the plan?”

Miss Cavendish replied affirmatively and prepared to write her letter to Miss Bailey.

Their frequent rides on top of a ’bus had familiarized them with London streets and they had become nimble in climbing up and down and in distinguishing the proper words: “Piccadilly Circus,” “Oxford Street,” or “Bayswater” among the maze of signs which advertised Nestle’s Food, Van Houten’s Cocoa and the like articles. Gabriella generally managed to get next the driver, and by so going added many an item to their fund of information. It was she who had discovered that Crosby Hall was worth visiting. “It is in the old, old part of the city,” she told the others, “and the name of the streets down that way are fascinating: Threadneedle Street, Bishopsgate Within, Bartholomew’s Lane. There is a little old church next to Crosby Hall--St. Helen’s is the name of it--and we shall want to see that.”

As they stood before the venerable Hall, Miss Cavendish remarked: “And this was considered at one time to be the finest residence in London. Shakespeare mentions it in Richard III, and no doubt had dined here more than once.”

“When it was a palace and not a restaurant,” returned Sidney. “It is certainly a fine old building and I suppose we should be thankful it has been preserved even for its present uses.”

“I don’t object to the uses,” declared Gabriella, “not when we can get such excellent chops as we shall probably find here.” They passed into the lobby and up the steps into the great banquet hall where, under a noble Gothic roof, they seated themselves and gave themselves up to a carnal enjoyment of the excellent food that was provided them, Miss Cavendish meanwhile offering morsels of the history relating to the building, which she found in a small book which had been presented to her as they entered. “It was built in 1466 by Sir John Crosby,” she gave her information between sips of ale from a quaint mug. “Afterward it belonged to Richard III. ‘Here,’ says my little book, ‘were hatched those intrigues which enabled the wily Richard to secure the crown.’ It goes on to say that the situation of the Hall was favorable, for it is near the Tower where the two little princes were murdered and--”

Gabriella laid down her knife and fork. “And to think we poor commonplace persons sit here eating mutton chops,” she said, looking around the room with a new interest.

“Sir Thomas More also lived here,” Miss Cavendish went on. “There is a list of the notables who were occupants at different times. Queen Elizabeth was a guest.”

“It seems much more intimate to eat in a place like this than merely to look at it,” remarked Sidney. “You feel a certain personal sense of possession when your chops have been cooked in that great fireplace.”

“Then think what a change from a palace to a Non-conformist meeting-house. Finally it was bought, restored and put to its present uses.”

“Which are exceedingly good ones,” decided Gabriella.

From the Hall they found their way to the ancient church set back in an enclosure which one could enter from Crosby Hall, and which they might have missed if they had not known where to look for it. As early as 1216 there was a nunnery connected with the church. To this parish belonged Shakespeare during his residence in London, and was rated in the parish books for five pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” said Miss Cavendish enthusiastically. “It has been one of our pleasantest London experiences. We had an unusual combination of old-time associations and surroundings with modern service.”

“It gave one a sense of fitness to see all those good-looking Englishmen with their mugs of ale and their chops, just as one always imagines them lunching,” said Sidney. “There is something exceedingly stalwart and dependable in the appearance of most Englishmen, I find.”

Gabriella looked sober and proposed that they finish their day at the Museum, which was always their stop-gap when nothing else specially invited. There was one uncanny, red-haired mummy, which Gabriella declared was perfectly fascinating, and which she never failed to look for whenever she visited the Museum; this and the Elgin marbles were her favorite exhibits. Miss Cavendish enjoyed the illuminated missals and manuscripts of various kinds, while Sidney preferred the scarabae and the treasures of ancient Egypt.

The early start for Windsor was made on a day when the sun was dimly shining, but when the air was soft and balmy, yet not too hot. With many other tourists they were rushed through the rooms of the castle and were glad to get out again into the open air. “Here and at the Tower were the only times that I have felt that I belonged to the common herd,” said Sidney as they issued from the courtyard. “It is good of them to let us see it at all, I suppose, and I did enjoy it, but I do dislike to be prodded and poked and urged to come along as if I were a stupid gaping Cockney who had only an insatiable curiosity for things which belonged to kings and queens.”

“Never mind, dear little aristocrat, you shall not be crowded at Stoke Poges,” Gabriella tried to console her.

A short railway journey to Slough, a drive of two miles over picturesque country roads brought them to the quiet little churchyard at Stoke Poges. They left their carriage a little way up the road and wandered across the fields to the church. There were but few other visitors, and the peaceful solitude was theirs to enjoy. “Could one imagine a more restful place,” murmured Miss Cavendish.

“Or a more beautiful English landscape,” put in Sidney.

“Or a dearer little church,” said Gabriella. “I could almost write an elegy myself. It is all here, Gem. I can hear the lowing herds; there is the ivy-mantled tower, though the moping owl seems to be missing, but there are the rugged elms and here where we are standing is the very yew tree’s shade.”

But Sidney had no words for her emotions and she mopped her eyes until Gabriella asked her if Melancholy had marked her for her own. “I didn’t suppose,” said Sidney by way of excuse, “that it could stay so exactly as it must have been when Gray used to come here, and when you find a thing like this that isn’t in the least disappointing, and that is as perfectly enchantingly peaceful and lovely as this is, you can’t help filling up and feeling as if you had realized a dream you never expected to come true. I suppose I am very incoherent, but I can’t help it. Don’t let us go back, Gem, till the very last minute. I wish we could spend days here, a Sunday anyhow, so I could come to this little church and could steep my soul in the loveliness of it all.”

“You brought the Elegy, I hope,” said Gabriella.

“No, but I can repeat it. You know it was my father’s favorite poem.” And she began the beautiful elegy, pausing every now and then at an interruption from one of the others, but at the close they all sat very thoughtful until Gabriella tip-toed across the grass to the tomb which enclosed the body of the poet and that of his mother. Here the girl stood and read the pathetic inscription, and then stooping, gathered a tiny flower and laid it on the slab.

“The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,” quoted Miss Cavendish, as the shadows deepened. “We must get back to the ‘madding crowd,’ girls.”

“Oh, but I can’t bear to,” exclaimed Sidney, rising reluctantly. “Don’t let’s ever go back. Let’s send for our best beloveds and stay here the rest of our lives.”

A leaf from the ivy-mantled tower, a bit of the yew tree, some photographs, and better than all, a sweet and lasting memory they carried away with them. Windsor Castle, in all its magnificence, filled their thoughts with less joy than did the quiet little churchyard set in the lush green of an English landscape.

“One doesn’t realize till going over the poem,” said Sidney, “how many ordinary quotations we take from it. I am always surprised myself, well as I know it. I must try to get an English copy and put my photograph in it with the ivy leaf and the bit of yew.” This finding of a simple copy she discovered was not an easy thing to do, and wondered that no enterprising publisher had seen the need of a cheap edition of proper size for the photograph, inasmuch as such would find a ready sale.

“London isn’t exactly lovable,” remarked Gabriella, as they passed through the tranquil streets where rows of sombre houses showed hazily. “It is dignified and kindly, while Paris is gay and amusing. It doesn’t seem to be London itself with its smoky atmosphere, and its general dinginess that one cares for, but it is the associations. It is altogether too big to be taken into your heart of hearts in the way we did the little church, yet you do admire it. I feel as if I might live here for centuries and still have to learn parts of it. We have been going, going constantly for three weeks, and yet there is much more to see than when we began, for every day something new turns up. I don’t believe I should ever care to live in London, but if all rural England is as charming as that part of it that we saw to-day, I shall love it, in spite of high walls, iron gates and unresponsiveness in general.”

“I don’t think it is unresponsive,” replied Sidney. “I think it is merely retiring. I like the way they make a garden of the back yards and have their tea out there. Why don’t we do such things? The back gardens are lovely and the people enjoy them as we never do. I think afternoon tea is a great institution, and have become very dependent upon it.”

“No wonder, after having had nothing but cold water to drink at luncheon. With no hot bread for breakfast, but only cold toast and the eternal bacon and eggs, and for dinner vegetable-marrow, cabbage and potatoes, I yearn for our American markets,” declared Gabriella. “We have our advantages at home, and there are some of the English customs I can never get used to. If I lived here a thousand years I would not set my dressing bureau with its back to a window, nor would I serve bacon and eggs for breakfast three hundred and sixty-five times a year. The back door garden and the afternoon tea go very well, but give me less grass and a country where you don’t have to grow all your tomatoes under glass; I am rather dependent upon tomatoes, you remember. I should like to borrow a cathedral or two, a couple of castles and some other antiques, but for the rest I shall be quite satisfied to exchange England for America.”

“You were not so wont to extol our new and raw country,” returned Sidney with a smile.