“In front of a certain farm-house was a large, flat stone, which tradition said was as old as the Flood. Here, at midnight, there always appeared a female figure, clad in a gray cloak and an old-fashioned black bonnet. The apparition would remain there until dawn, always knocking, knocking upon the stone. The inhabitants of the house nearby became so used to ‘Nelly the Knocker,’ as she was called, that they paid no attention whatever to her, did not fear her in the least, and would even stop to examine her queer garments. Finally, however, two young men of the family decided to solve the mystery, so they blasted the rock one day. To their great surprise, underneath were lying two large urns, packed with gold, which treasure enriched them for the rest of their days. But ‘Nelly the Knocker’ came no more.”
In place of repairing to the somewhat stuffy dining-room at the inn, they had their tea just outside one of the most sightly cottages, and were served by a pretty young girl. The china was coarse and the thick slices, cut with a big knife from huge loaves of bread, were by no means daintily served, but it could not have tasted better, and John ate a truly alarming amount of bread and jam.
At Clovelly, the summer twilights are very long and lovely, and down on the breakwater our friends enjoyed this one to the full. One might look over the blue expanse of bay and see the faint outlines of the coast of Wales, and then turn and gaze at the picturesque harbor and the quaint, hanging village, in the houses of which, lights were slowly beginning to twinkle, one after another. They stayed until it was quite dark, and were even then loath to wend their way up the steep street, and to waste so many hours by going to bed in the “Doll’s House,” as John persisted in calling the New Inn.
“Well,” said Betty comfortingly, “it will be fun after all,—sleeping in that funny wee inn, where there are only four bedrooms in the whole house. I choose the one with the pink rose peeping in the window! I saw it this morning. Come on.”
The next day dawned as fair as one could wish, and at Mrs. Pitt’s suggestion a walk along the “Hobby Drive” was first taken. This charming road was built by a Mr. Hamlin, the owner of the town of Clovelly, who lives at Clovelly Court. The drive starts just at the top of the village, and extends for three miles along the edge of the cliffs. The views are startlingly beautiful! Through the fresh green of the trees and vines, glimpses of the deep blue sea are to be had, and to add to the vivid coloring, there is the peculiar red rock which belongs to that part of the coast.
As they were retracing their steps, Mrs. Pitt said with slight hesitation:
“I promise not to give you very much history while you are here, but I must tell you just a bit about the relation which all this country bears to Charles Kingsley’s great book, ‘Westward Ho!’ Have you never read it, John? Fancy! I’ll get it for you at once! Well, Bideford is the nearest town to Clovelly, and it was from there that Amyas Leigh, Salvation Yeo, and all the rest set out with Sir Francis Drake. By the by, that very sailor, Salvation Yeo, was born in the old Red Lion Inn, at the foot of the Clovelly street. Oh, you’d like him, John, and all his brave adventures! At Clovelly Court, in the days of the story, lived Will Cary, another of the well-known characters in ‘Westward Ho!,’ and in the little parish church very near there, Charles Kingsley’s father was rector. Kingsley himself was at Clovelly a great deal, and probably gained here his knowledge of the seas and those who sail them. One of those old fishermen last night (he who claimed to be ninety-eight) told me that he used to know Charles Kingsley well, and I suppose it is possible.”
That afternoon toward tea-time, after another fascinating roam about the town,—into its back-yards and blind alleys, and along its pebbly beach,—as well as numerous exciting rides on the backs of the mules, the party gathered on the tiny veranda of the New Inn, crowding it to its utmost capacity. The purpose of this formal meeting was to decide where they should go the following morning, as they were then leaving Clovelly. Mrs. Pitt had promised them a week more of play in Devonshire before their trip to Canterbury, and she advised visits to Bideford, Minehead, Porlock, Lynton, Lynmouth, and finally Torquay. As the young people had no ideas of their own upon the subject and as they had vast confidence in anything Mrs. Pitt proposed, this plan was at once adopted.
“These places are all by the sea,” Mrs. Pitt continued, “and I’m quite sure you’ll like them. Torquay is just a watering-place, with big hotels, terraces, and gardens, but oh! it is so lovely, and nearby is the duckiest little village of Cockington! You’ll never leave the thatched cottages there, Betty! Lynmouth is very fine, with its combination of mountain and seaside views, and its moors. Close by is the Doone Valley, which figures so prominently in the story of ‘Lorna Doone,’ and we’ll visit that. It will all be beautiful—beautiful as only England and Devonshire can be—but you’ll find nothing at all like this strange little Clovelly, so enjoy it while you may!”