Our neighbouring town of Maidstone was closely investigated, as a matter of course. That perfect example of a sixteenth-century manor-house which is now the Museum, the far older Archbishop's Palace, magnificent All Saints' Church, and the relics of the historic past in back streets and byways, filled several afternoons with joy. But the country, in that sweetest weather—we did have rain and cold sometimes, but the best was always with me when I wanted it—the outdoor loveliness was the soul-saturating delight. Until as late in the year as I made my last visit this blessed luck held out. In the little pocket-book which contains the brief and only record of my movements at this time, I find the proof that memory is not drawing upon imagination:
"Oct. 30th.—Another gorgeous day, mild, sunny, summery ..."
"Oct. 31st.—Another fine day, although dull in the morning ..."
"Nov. 1st.—Beautiful day ..."
"Nov. 2nd.—Another lovely day ..."
"Nov. 3rd.—Another lovely day. Slightly foggy ..."
"Nov. 4th.—Still lovely, after the usual foggy dawn ..."
And then I think of the sort of weather they had in England the year before and the year after and bear in mind the sort of weather that an Australian is accustomed to!
It was on the 29th October that I went into Kent for the second and last time. That was the occasion when my other sixpenny porter failed me by putting me in the wrong carriage of my train, whereby I found myself at Rochester when C. was waiting for me at Maidstone. When I reached her house (to hear that she was still abroad searching for me) or, rather, when we met at last at the compensating tea-table, and I had leisure of mind to appreciate my surroundings, I thought Kent even lovelier than in the month of hop and apple harvest. My room was abloom with roses from C.'s garden (Madame Abel Chatney is, if I remember rightly, the name of the shaded pink beauty that made so brave a show), and a vase of the blue plumbago that riots like a wild thing in our Australian midsummer heat, but was here coddled in her greenhouse, displayed itself conspicuously on the chimney-piece to "remind me of home." The trees were yellowing and their leaves dropping gently, but the woods had not taken on their full colouring of decay as yet. The mistiness of the soft mornings only made the sunshine (and the breakfast fire in the little morning-room) the sweeter when it shone out.
It was on the "gorgeous day," 30th October, that we went to Malling Abbey.