“O dear!” Betty sighed, really bitterly disappointed. “I always liked the part about Amy best of all, and now it isn’t true at all!”
“Never mind, Miss; there would be plenty of interest attached to the old place, even if Scott had never written of it. Oh, I know it’s a great book, and makes that particular period of Kenilworth’s history remarkably vivid. What I mean is, that the old castle is not dependent on Scott for its grand history and reputation.” He looked above him at the beautiful oriel-windows of the Banqueting-hall, as if he loved every stone there. After a few such speeches, even the children began to notice that he was “different from most guides”; he used most excellent English, was very neatly dressed, had a pleasant, refined face, and seemed to take an especial interest in the young people.
The guide went on in his deep voice. “Kenilworth was built in 1120, by Geoffrey de Clinton, Lord Chamberlain to Henry I. Later, it came into the possession of the great Simon de Montfort, and it then successfully withstood a siege; but it was during the Civil Wars that Cromwell’s soldiers reduced the splendid castle to these almost equally splendid ruins. Of course, it was at the height of its glory when the Earl of Leicester owned it, and Queen Elizabeth came here on a visit. I’m sure you have all read about that famous week,—of all the pageants, feasts, carnivals, and displays of fireworks upon the lake. The lake was there; water covered all those low fields back of the castle. At that time, the main approach was here,” pointing to where a rustic bridge crosses a little ravine. “There was once a large bridge there, and from that entrance the Queen had her first glimpse of the castle where she was to be so magnificently entertained.”
Just then Barbara saw that her mother had risen and was motioning that it was time for them to go. So they reluctantly left the guide, thanking him as Philip handed him his fee. That gentleman (for so he really seemed) doffed his hat most politely, and appeared genuinely sorry to have them go. As Betty turned to take a last look at the old Banqueting-hall, she saw him standing just where they had left him, and a bit wistfully watching them walk away. When they were once again in the carriage and driving toward Coventry, they described the guide to Mrs. Pitt, who showed much interest. Barbara thought that he was a poor scholar or teacher, who was taking that way of earning a little during the summer months; John was sure he was a nobleman in disguise, for some highly romantic, secret reason; Philip could not even imagine who he might be, so great was the mysterious atmosphere about him; but Betty added: “He’s surely a gentleman, and he was such an interesting, polite guide, that I wish they were all like him.”
“Yes, it is curious,” agreed Mrs. Pitt. “I’d like to have been along with you, for I should have enjoyed studying him. I have once or twice before come across just such puzzling characters. I once spent a month at a small hotel down in Devonshire, where there was a head-waiter who always interested me. I decided that he must have a history, and it was proved that I was right when I discovered him a few months later, dining with a lady at one of the most aristocratic hotels in London. I’ll never forget my sensations when I realized why his face was so familiar, and where I had seen it before! That mystery was never explained, and I’m afraid yours never will be.”
They found Coventry a delightful old town. Here it was that so many of the Miracle Plays used to be given in olden times. The “Coventry Plays” were famous, and Mrs. Pitt took the party to the court-yard of Saint Mary’s Hall, where they were wont to be performed; for such entertainments always took place in the open air,—in squares or courts, the stage being rudely constructed upon a wagon, which could be taken from place to place.
At the corner of two streets is an absurd figure of “Peeping Tom,” which recalls the fabled ride of the Lady Godiva, and her sacrifice to procure the freedom of the people of Coventry from unjust taxes.
Coventry streets are very narrow and crooked (Hawthorne once said that they reminded him of Boston’s winding ways), and there are many picturesque houses, their upper stories jutting out over the street. One most charming example of sixteenth century architecture is Ford’s Hospital, a home for forty aged women. The street front is unique in its construction of timbers, gables, and carvings. Inside is an oblong, paved court, overhung by the second story of the building.
“It’s like Leicester’s Hospital at Warwick, only this is really more quaint, isn’t it? The old ladies peeping out from their little rooms are dear! I’m going to make friends with them,” Betty declared, as she disappeared under one of the low doorways. She was soon seen accompanying an old dame on crutches, who was hobbling out to show off her bit of a garden, back of the house.
On the return trip to Leamington, they were rather quiet. Having seen so many famous places, it was natural that they should wish to think them over. The driver approached Leamington by another road than that by which they had left it, and it took them past Stoneleigh Abbey, the country seat of Lord Leigh. It is situated in the midst of woodland, which has been called “the only real bit of old Arden Forest now to be found in Warwickshire.”