CHAPTER EIGHT
WINDSOR CASTLE, STOKE POGES, AND ETON SCHOOL
“It’s only a little more than twenty miles out to Windsor,” remarked Mrs. Pitt, one June morning. “Suppose we go in the motor, and then we can have a glimpse of both Stoke Poges and Eton School, on the way.”
There were always many exclamations of delight at mention of the “motor,” so it was settled, and the party set out at ten o’clock, all in the highest of spirits. It was slow and difficult driving through the city streets, but the English chauffeur was quite used to keeping to the left, as well as being perfectly familiar with the rules which govern the traffic, so he had none of the accidents which Betty and John had prophesied that their father’s American chauffeur would not be able to avoid. Very soon, however, they had reached the suburbs, and then they came into the open country.
They could go faster now, and the big touring-car sped over the wonderfully smooth roads at a speed which delighted the young people. The weather was proving a bit uncertain. Every little while, a tiny shower descended upon them out of a blue sky full of great white clouds, the sun shining warm and bright all the while.
“Oh, don’t let’s put up any umbrella,” exclaimed Betty, during one of the showers. “Rain never seems to do any harm in England. You don’t get wet, and never mind it a bit. Truly, I like it, for it’s so pretty to see it raining with the sun out. There! now, it’s stopped again! Just see that lovely rainbow!”
The English country is always beautiful in its individual way, but it is especially so on one of these showery days, when every leaf and flower looks fresher than ever with the rain-drops glistening on it. Now and then, they slowed down while passing through a busy town, where pretty ladies and children in little two-wheeled carts drove about doing the morning marketing. Most of the way, however, lay through country roads bordered by green-hedged fields in which the ever-present sheep grazed; and here and there were high brick walls over which the stately, vine-covered homes were just visible. There were also picturesque little workmen’s cottages at the edge of the wood, and lodges covered with climbing-roses.
It seemed as though they had only been riding a very short time when, upon emerging from a shady road, they drew up at a little gateway. John felt impatient at having to stop, and looked questioningly around at Mrs. Pitt from his place on the front seat. The others were already getting out, he found, and Mrs. Pitt was saying:
“This is Stoke Poges, and I want you to see it, for it’s such a lovely spot. Probably you have all learned in school parts of Gray’s ‘Elegy,’ and very likely you never cared or thought much about the poem. Even if that’s true, you can’t possibly help loving this peaceful, beautiful place, in which it was written.”