Part 25 (2/2)

A Family Crest

After the joys of Stratford-on-Avon came the delights of the rest of the fascinating Shakespeare villages. ”Piping Pebworth”, ”Dancing Marston”, ”Drunken Bidford”, ”Haunted Hillborough”, ”Hungry Grafton”, ”Papist Wixford”, and ”Beggarly Broom” were visited and rejoiced over in turn; then the car wended its way from Warwicks.h.i.+re to sample the glories of Gloucesters.h.i.+re. Here, too, our pilgrims found plenty to arouse their enthusiasm: the richness of the landscape, with orchards just breaking into bloom; the slow winding rivers, with their willowy, reedy banks; the beautiful half-timbered manors and farms and the thatched cottages set in a tangle of greenery, made an ideal picture of English country life. They saw it at the cream of the year, in all the glory of spring tints and blossoms, and even if showers came on they put up the hood of the car and whisked along wet roads, admiring the freshness of the rain-washed leaves and the effects of gathering storm-clouds over distant hills. They were a full day's journey beyond Stratford when suddenly there happened that most common misfortune to motorists, ”something wrong with the car”. Giles just managed to run her into the nearest village, then, stopping at the inn, he sent for the services of the blacksmith, who was somewhat of a mechanic, and with his aid set to work on repairs. Leaving Giles, with his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, crawling under the car and getting exceedingly oily and dusty in the process, the rest of the party set off to explore the neighbourhood on foot. The village was so charming that they could really hardly grumble at being held up there. Each cottage seemed a picture, with its thatched or red-tiled roof, black-and-white walls, creeper-covered porch, and gay little garden. So luxuriant were the flowers that they even strayed through the railings and made bright borders among the gra.s.s at the edge of the road; forget-me-nots were mixed up with dandelions, and wallflowers bloomed side by side with dead-nettles.

At the end of the village, on a rise overlooking the river, stood the parish church, a grey, old Early-English building whose priceless architecture had mercifully not been tampered with by the ruthless hand of the so-called restorer. With a little difficulty Lenox found the cottage of the caretaker, whose wife presently came up clanking the big keys and unlocked the west door for them. The interior was most beautiful: the graceful sandstone pillars, the interlacing arches, the delicate tracery of the windows with their old stained gla.s.s, the black oak roof, the carved choir stalls, the ancient rood-screen, the blazoned s.h.i.+elds and faded banners, the Lancastrian tombs and the Elizabethan bra.s.ses, all combined to give that atmosphere which Milton expressed in his _Il Penseroso_; and as the afternoon sunlight flooded through the old stained gla.s.s, and cast blue and crimson gleams on the tiled floor of the chancel, the glorious building seemed like the prayers of many generations crystallized into stone.

Their guide, a young woman in a sun-bonnet, took them round to show them the various points of interest. It was when they had duly examined the banners and the Norman font, the carving on the miserere seats and the motto on the base of the lectern, and had listened rather wearily to the sing-song description of them poured out, like a lesson learned by rote, from the lips of their conductress, that in the side chapel they came face to face with an ancient tomb. It was an unusually beautiful one, carved in marble, probably by some Italian master-craftsman of the late fifteenth century. A knight clad in full armour lay stretched out in his last sleep; his clasped hands rested over the good sword whose handle formed a cross upon his breast; the att.i.tude of the inclined head and the sculpture of the strong, lined, n.o.ble face in its utter repose were magnificent, and recalled the marvellous art that created the busts of the emperors in the days of Rome's zenith. Round the base of the tomb were small figures in the costume of the period, somewhat defaced and worn, with finely-carved pilasters between the panels. At the end was a coat of arms.

Lenox walked round with the others, admiring the beauty of the sculpture, though rather bored by the eloquence of their guide. At sight of the coat of arms, however, he stopped and whistled.

”By all that's wonderful, that's our family crest!” he exclaimed.

Here was an excitement! At once the whole party began to examine the ancient, worn escutcheon, on which was depicted a chained eagle with a crown on its head, three arrows, and the motto _Manu et corde_ (with hand and heart).

”It's _exactly_ the same!” declared Lenox. ”Dad has a copy of the crest in an old book that his grandfather brought out from England more than a hundred years ago.”

”It's the arms of the de Cliffords,” said their guide, shaken out of her sing-song recitation into first-hand information. ”You'll find the same crest on those monuments over there in the nave.”

”Dad always said we were descended from an old family,” rejoined Lenox, immensely thrilled.

That their young cousin should have discovered the tombs of his ancestors in the village church was certainly a matter of great interest to the Hewlitts. They besieged their guide with questions. She could not really tell them very much, except that from mediaeval times the Cliffords had owned the soil, and that the Manor House was now in the possession of Mrs. Elliot, a daughter of old Squire Clifford who had died many years ago.

”It was before I was born, but I've heard my father speak of him,” she added.

”Where is the Manor House?” asked Lenox eagerly.

”Two miles beyond the village. It's a beautiful old place too, with a moat round it, and big stone gates.”

”Is it possible to look over it?”

The guide shook her head emphatically.

”No. Mrs. Elliot won't have anyone coming. She's an old lady and very infirm, and she can't bear to see strangers about the place. At one time she'd let people look round with a guide, but she found them so bothersome she stopped it. One day some Americans came and peeped through the windows when she was having her lunch, and wouldn't go away.”

”I'm sorry they were Americans,” put in Mrs. Hewlitt. ”My countrymen don't often so forget their manners, I'm glad to say.”

”Well, at any rate,” smiled the guide, ”both English and Americans made themselves nuisances, and she wouldn't let any more tourists come near.

She has the great gates locked, and whoever wants to go in, no matter on what errand, must ring the lodge-keeper's bell, and it's only her own visitors, or the tradespeople with meat and groceries and such like as are admitted. They say she's gone almost queer in her head about it.”

”What a pity!” sighed Diana.

”Still, you can hardly blame her,” added Mrs. Hewlitt. ”It must be very trying to live in a show place. I'm afraid, Lenox, you'll have to give up the idea of going over it. Is anything to be seen from the road?”

”Nothing of the house; it's all hidden by the trees. You can only see the great gates.”

”It would hardly be worth a four-mile walk, just for the gates,” decided Mrs. Hewlitt. ”If the car's not ready yet we'll just take a conveyance and drive to Ratcliffe this afternoon.”

The car repair proved a tougher job than either Giles or the blacksmith had antic.i.p.ated, and, as it apparently could not be finished for many hours, the Hewlitts arranged to make an excursion in a wagonette, and, as the inn seemed comfortable, to return to the village, spend the night there, and proceed on their way the next morning. Though her mother had dismissed all question of visiting the old Manor House, Diana still harped on the subject. She and Lenox talked it over in private after dinner. They were sitting in the porch of the hotel, watching the lights begin to gleam in the windows down the village street. Mr. and Mrs.

Hewlitt were writing letters; Giles and Loveday had disappeared into the garden to try to hear a nightingale reputed to sing there.

<script>