“Doesn’t that describe it exactly?” exclaimed Mrs. Pitt, with enthusiasm. “That house always fascinated me, too. When Dickens last visited Rochester, it is said that he was seen gazing long at this old place, and some have thought that the result of those reflections would have appeared in the next chapter of ‘Edwin Drood,’ which novel, as you know, he never finished. Now, we’ll drive out to take a look at Gad’s Hill. Luckily, this is Wednesday, so we will be admitted.”
After making inquiries, Mrs. Pitt learned that the owner of Gad’s Hill throws it open only on the afternoon of each Wednesday; so they took their luncheon first, and then motored the mile and a half to Dickens’s home.
Gad’s Hill is charming! Dickens was devoted to this square, vine-covered house, where he resided from 1856 to the time of his death, in 1870. The story goes that when he was a small boy the place had a great attraction for him, and that one day his father, wishing to spur him on in a way peculiar to parents, reminded him that if he worked hard and persevered until he was a grown man, he might own that very estate, or one like it.
As they left the house, Mrs. Pitt said, “This hill is the spot where took place the robbery of the travelers in Shakespeare’s ‘Henry IV.’ The inn just opposite Gad’s Hill is the Falstaff Inn, probably built about Queen Anne’s time. It used to have an old sign with pictures of Falstaff and the ‘Merry Wives of Windsor’ upon it. I read that in the olden days ninety coaches daily stopped here. Fancy!”
“Well,” observed Betty, “I shall certainly enjoy reading Dickens better than ever, when I get home, for now I’ve seen his study where he wrote. It makes things so much more real somehow, doesn’t it, Mrs. Pitt?”
Having visited the cathedral and the old castle, they now left Rochester, and found that the run to Canterbury was rather longer than they had realized.
“But really, you know,” Mrs. Pitt had intervened, “Rochester is just about halfway between the two, London and Canterbury, I would say. And we did stop quite a bit to see the sights connected with Dickens.”
At last, however, about six in the afternoon, they came in sight of Canterbury, its great cathedral towering over all,—its timbered houses, old city-gate, and narrow, picturesque streets. As usual, the young people who never seemed to need a rest, desired to start sight-seeing at once, but unfortunately a sudden thunder-shower came up to prevent.
“Oh, well, it will stop soon,” Betty assured them. “It always does in England.”
This time, the weather was not so kind, however. The rain continued persistently, and the party was forced to remain at the inn the entire evening.