As soon as the familiar chugging of the motor was heard at the front door in Cavendish Square, John hurried out. Just as he was examining all the chauffeur’s arrangements for the trip, and looking with approval over the entire automobile, the whir of the engine suddenly gasped, struggled to catch its breath, and then ceased altogether. The chauffeur, perfectly unconcerned, swung himself off from his seat and sauntered around to “crank her up,” but his expression of assurance soon changed, for the motor refused to start.

John’s face was pitiful to see. “Oh, bother!” he cried, running to where the chauffeur stood, in front of the hood. “Why has it got to go and spoil it all like that! It’s mean, I say! Can’t you fix her? What’s wrong?”

Off came the chauffeur’s nicely-brushed coat, his clean hands handled oily tools, and a big streak of grease soon appeared upon his trousers. Great was his humiliation! After about fifteen minutes of disagreeable work, all was well, however,—the engine started, and the sound was again smooth and steady. John’s expression was radiant, and he came to help the ladies in, while the forlorn chauffeur retired to make himself presentable.

“Now, we’re off for Canterbury!” John announced triumphantly, as they at last glided around a corner into Piccadilly.

Slowly and carefully they wended their way down to London Bridge, crossed, and stopped for a moment before the site of the old Tabard Inn.

“I’m going to take you to Canterbury by the very road which Chaucer’s pilgrims in all probability traveled, and I thought that to make the illusion as perfect as possible, we really should halt here in Southwark. This is where the pilgrims met, you know, and from here they set out in the lovely month of April: the ‘verray perfight, gentil knight,’ his son, the gay young squire, the stout Wife of Bath, the dainty prioress, the pale clerk (or scholar), the merchant with his fine beaver hat, the parson, the plowman, the pardonner, the summoner, the cook, and all the rest! They traveled on horseback, you remember, and to beguile the tedious hours when they advanced slowly along the dusty road, they took turns in telling the stories which Chaucer gives us in the wonderful ‘Canterbury Tales.’”

“I never did know just why they went,” Betty ventured, in some confusion lest they should laugh at her.

“Neither did I!” John promptly seconded. “Please tell us, Mrs. Pitt.”

“Dear me, yes! I certainly will, for you must surely understand that!” After pausing a moment in order to think how best to make her meaning clear, Mrs. Pitt went on in her pleasant voice. “You see, pilgrimages were always made to some especial shrine! We’ll take Becket’s for an example. After his terrible murder, Becket was immediately canonized (that is, made a saint), and for many years a very celebrated shrine to him existed at Canterbury Cathedral. In those days, sumptuous velvets and abundant jewels adorned the shrines, and if a person journeyed to one, it meant that his sins were all atoned for. It was a very easy thing, you see. If a man had committed a wrong, all he had to do was to go to some shrine, say certain prayers there, and he thought himself forgiven. Such trips cost men practically nothing, for pilgrims might usually be freely cared for at the monasteries along the route; a man was quite sure of good company; and altogether, it was very pleasant to see the world in this way. The numerous terrible dangers to be met with only added the spice of excitement to many. In short, such numbers of poor men started off on these religious pilgrimages, leaving their families uncared for, that the clergy finally were forced to interfere. Laws were then made which compelled a man to procure a license for the privilege of going to a shrine, and these permits were not granted to all. You understand then, that toward noted shrines such as St. Thomas À Becket’s, pilgrims singly and in companies were always flocking, and among these was the little group which Chaucer has made so familiar and real to us all.”

“Here’s Deptford,” announced John by and by, seeing the name upon some sign. “What went on here?”

“What makes you think anything ‘went on here’!” Mrs. Pitt exclaimed. “Fancy! What a curious boy!”

“Oh!” John burst out. “That’s easy enough! I haven’t seen more than about two or three places in all this country where some fellow didn’t do something, or some important thing go on.”

Mrs. Pitt pushed up her veil, removed her glasses, and wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. “I think you are about right, John. And something did happen here in Deptford; in fact, there were several things. First, I’ll tell you that it was here that Queen Elizabeth came in 1581 and visited the ship in which Drake had been around the world. The Queen dined on board the vessel and knighted Drake while there. Event number two was the death of Christopher Marlowe, one of the greatest of all England’s dramatists. Marlowe was only thirty years old when he was killed in a vulgar fight in a tavern. Fancy! Poor Anne of Cleves, after the early divorce from her royal husband, lived near Deptford, at Place House. Writers say that she used often to go up to London, and visit the Court, just as though she had not been (for a few short days, to be sure) the ‘first lady of the land,’ as you Americans say. Poor Anne! She always seemed a pitiful character to my mind. She couldn’t help it if Henry VIII didn’t find her good to look upon!”

Beyond Deptford, as they were smoothly gliding along, all at once there came a loud report.

“Goodness!” cried John. “What in the world was that!” Then he shouted with laughter at the frightened expression on Betty’s face.

“Dearie me! It must be a ‘blow-out’! Is that the trouble, Jo? Yes? Well, come, girls; we may as well step out.” There was forced resignation in Mrs. Pitt’s voice; she was trying not to mind the delay.

For forty minutes she and the girls sat by the roadside and watched the chauffeur and the two boys at work on the tire. It seemed as though every part of this operation took longer than usual. The tools seemed never so easily mislaid; it surely was a longer task than ever to inflate the tube, and then to fit on the wheel-rim. Finally, however, the three rose, grimy and dusty, but triumphant, and ready to set forth once again.

The accident came just at the edge of Blackheath, amid very historic surroundings. Some one has called Blackheath the Rotten Row of the olden days, for there royalty and fashionable people of the town went to ride and disport themselves, just as they now do in Hyde Park; and there important guests on the way to London, were wont to be met with much ceremony by the Mayor and certain great citizens. After the battle of Agincourt, the victor, Henry V, when returning to London, was given a magnificent reception at Blackheath, and many were the speeches of praise which had been prepared. The great soldier cut them all short, however, insisting that the honor be given God. At Blackheath, his descendant, Henry VIII, first saw Anne of Cleves (officially, that is), and straightway decided to divorce her. But perhaps the most joyful scene of all those at Blackheath, took place on the May morning when Charles II came into his own, and all England was glad, after the dark days of the Commonwealth and the iron rule of the sober Puritans.

“This,” declared Mrs. Pitt a little later, “is ‘Shooter’s Hill.’ That should bear a familiar sound. How many have ever read Dickens’s ‘Tale of Two Cities’? You have, I know, Philip. Well, in the second chapter, the stage which carried Mr. Jarvis Lorry on his way, is described as slowly mounting this very hill, while most of its passengers toil along the wet, snowy road, by its side. Do you remember, Betty? You must try to think over all of Dickens’s works which you have ever read, for we are coming to a district which that author knew well and often put into his novels.”

Sure enough, they almost felt as though they had stepped into the world of Dickens’s stories, for so many of the places mentioned therein they were able to find. Slowly they drove through Rochester’s streets, stopping when they came to any spot of especial interest.

“Here’s the old Bull Inn,” said Mrs. Pitt, pointing it out as she spoke. “It is supposed that there are no less than twenty-five inns named in Dickens’s ‘Pickwick Papers’ alone. This is one of them, for Room Number Seventeen was Mr. Pickwick’s bedroom, and there is also Winkle’s, which was ‘inside of Mr. Tupman’s.’ Come, shall we go in?”

The landlord of the Bull has most carefully preserved and cared for all which is of even the slightest interest in connection with Dickens or his books. He most kindly took Mrs. Pitt and her party all about the old house, showing them everything,—including the room where the famous ball in “Pickwick Papers” was held.

Leaving the Bull, they noted the Crown Inn, on the site of the one where Henry VIII went privately to take a look at Anne of Cleves, and the old White Hart, built in Richard II’s reign, which once sheltered Samuel Pepys. In Restoration House (built in 1587) Charles II stayed after his landing at Dover.

“‘Dickens wrote thus about Restoration House in “Great Expectations,”’” Betty read from the guidebook. “‘I had stopped to look at the house as I passed, and its seared red brick walls, blocked windows and strong green ivy clasping even the stacks of chimneys with its twigs and tendrils, as if with sinewy arms, made up a rich and attractive mystery.’”

“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.

Sunshine, even though it be sometimes a bit dim and watery, is never long absent during an English summer, so the morning dawned bright and clear. Just as they set forth from the hotel, Betty felt in her coat pocket and found that her precious red notebook, in which she inscribed all interesting facts and discoveries, was missing.

Philip promptly came to the rescue, saying: “I saw you put it behind you on the seat of the motor, yesterday, and it’s probably there still. I’ll go to the garage and see.”

Betty gave Philip a grateful little smile, but insisted upon accompanying him on his search. They came upon the treasure just where it had been left, and soon rejoined the rest of the party in the cathedral close, where John was in the midst of taking some photographs.

The first near view which they had of Canterbury Cathedral was in approaching it from under old Christchurch Gateway. In spite of its great age, the cathedral, in contrast with the much blackened gateway, appears surprisingly white and fair. The exterior is very beautiful; the two towers are most majestic, and beyond, one sees the graceful Bell Tower, rising from the point where the transepts cross. In olden days, a gilded angel stood on the very top of the Bell Tower, and served as a beacon to the many pilgrims traveling toward Becket’s shrine.

Walking about inside the cathedral, they saw, behind the altar, the position of the once famous shrine. All that now remain to remind one that this ever existed are the pavement and steps, deeply worn by the feet of many generations of devout pilgrims.

“I told you something of the splendor of this shrine,” Mrs. Pitt suggested to them. “It was said that after his visit to it, Erasmus (the Dutch scholar and friend of Sir Thomas More, you know) in describing it, told how ‘gold was the meanest (poorest) thing to be seen.’ See, here is the tomb of Henry IV, the only king who is buried here, and there’s the monument to the Black Prince. Above hang his gauntlets, helmet, coat, and shield. Do you see them, John?”

The northwest transept, so say all guidebooks and vergers (and they certainly ought to be truthful), was the scene of the murder of the Archbishop À Becket. There is even a stone in the floor which marks the precise spot; but, contrary to her usual habit, Mrs. Pitt absolutely pointed out that all this is false.

“I’m sorry, children,” she said, “but I must contradict this. Becket was killed at five o’clock on a dreary December afternoon of 1170. Four years later, the cathedral was entirely destroyed by fire. Therefore, it is not possible that they can show visitors the exact spot where the tragedy took place. William of Sens came over from France, and in 1184, finished the building which we now see.

“This nave,” she continued, as they again entered it, “is one of the longest in England, and the choir is several feet higher. Do you notice? It is an unusual feature. Also, the fact that the walls bend very gradually inward as they near the east end of the choir, is worthy of note. Here, as at St. Paul’s and a number of other cathedrals, business was carried on, even during services, and pack-horses and mules went trailing through. It’s curious to think of, isn’t it?”

Canterbury’s cloisters are wonderfully ancient. Blackened as they are by the centuries, and their still exquisite carvings broken, yet here, more than in the edifice itself, can one imagine the scene of Becket’s terrible death.

“The residence of the Archbishop stood alongside the church,” Mrs. Pitt proceeded, “and here the murderers came unarmed, upon their arrival in the town, to interview him. Becket was unmoved by their threats, so they left him to go and arm themselves. The entreaties of the monks that their master should seek safety in the cathedral would have been of no avail had not the hour for evening service arrived. Can’t you almost think how dark and cold these stones must have seemed on that winter afternoon, when Becket marched along with majestic deliberateness through these very cloisters, in by that little door, and up to the altar. A feeling of dread and terror was everywhere. Most of the monks had fled to places of hiding, and the Archbishop found himself alone with his three or four faithful friends, whom he commanded to unbolt the heavy church doors, which, in a panic, they had barred. No sooner had the armed men rushed in than the challenge came from Reginald Fitzurse, as Tennyson gives us the scene:

and Becket’s brave answer:

They responded, ‘Your life!’ and there immediately followed the horrible death.”

Mrs. Pitt drew a long breath and sighed.

“Such were the deeds of those unenlightened days. These fierce Norman knights, wishing to gain favor in the eyes of the King, and hearing him say in a moment of anger, that he wished himself rid of the troublesome Archbishop, they at once proceeded to Canterbury and killed him. It was all the outcome of the continual strife and struggle for power, between the Church and the State.”

“What did they do to those three Normans?” demanded John indignantly.

“Nothing. I believe they went free. But Henry II himself tried to atone for the deed in doing penance by walking barefooted to Canterbury and Becket’s shrine. Come, let’s go outside now.”

They then wandered about the precincts of the cathedral, pausing by some lovely, ruined arches which tell of an ancient monastery. Everywhere stretch smooth lawns, with grand old trees, and here and there the houses of those connected with the church. Also, very close by stands the King’s School, which was founded by Archbishop Theodore in the seventh century, ‘for the study of Greek,’ and later refounded by Henry VIII. Here that famous Canterbury boy, Christopher Marlowe, was educated. The school is well worth a visit, if only to see the beautiful outside Norman stairway.

Mrs. Pitt next led the way down Mercery Lane, at the corner of which stood The Chequers of Hope, the inn where Chaucer’s pilgrims put up.

“You remember the old gate by which we entered the town yesterday,” said Mrs. Pitt. “Well, under that same arch came the pilgrims as they approached from London. Although the city-wall then boasted twenty-one towers and six gates, the West Gate is the only remaining bit. Here, at the inn which stood conveniently near the cathedral, the pilgrims stayed, and in Mercery Lane they bought their souvenirs,—probably rosaries or phials of Holy Water. At the further end of the Lane stood the ancient rush-market. Rushes were then in great demand, you recollect, for people used them to strew over their floors.”

One might stay on indefinitely in Canterbury, and still not discover all its treasures and interesting nooks and corners. The streets are narrow, crooked, and contain many very old houses. There is at Canterbury a castle; one may see the ruins of St. John’s Hospital, and of St. Sepulchre’s Nunnery, where Elizabeth Barton, the “Holy Maid of Kent,” once lived; the old gate of St. Augustine’s Monastery still stands, though it is now restored; by exploring, traces of the city-wall may be found, and the weavers’ houses which hang over the little river offer a delightful view. Interest is endless in Canterbury. But as it is impossible to see it all, especially in limited time, the visitor usually seeks out the best known and most famous places; and surely, after the great cathedral itself, ranks St. Martin’s Church.

A little way out of the town, and up against a sunny hillside, is this tiny “Mother Church of England.” Imbedded in the rough stone of the square, Norman tower are the huge stems of giant vines. Altogether, a more primitive, ancient appearing building cannot well be imagined.

“Well,” remarked Betty impressively, “this is the very oldest place we’ve been in yet. It makes me feel as Stonehenge did, somehow.”

“Yes, that’s true,” assented Mrs. Pitt. “The two places do give you similar sensations. It’s simply that you feel the age. I’ve always thought that if I were suddenly blindfolded, carried away, and set down in St. Martin’s Church at Canterbury, that I should know where I was just from the atmosphere, which is so heavy with the weight of the years.”

It is claimed for St. Martin’s that it is the most ancient church in all England, a land filled with ancient churches. It is in the vicinity of sixteen hundred years old, for Bede states that it was built while the Romans were still in possession, and certain it is that numerous Roman bricks may be seen to this day in the outer wall. The church was perhaps erected for the use of Queen Bertha, whose husband, Ethelbert, King of Kent, was also converted to Christianity, and baptized here. After the arrival of St. Augustine, it is believed that he and his followers came here to worship. Inside, the little church is a curious conglomeration of different styles of architecture; here a Roman doorway, there a Norman, and here an ancient Saxon arch. Some of the relics in the church are the Saxon font, built of twenty-two separate stones, a tomb which has been called that of Queen Bertha, and two Elizabethan brasses. The party found a most excellent and intelligent guide, a woman, who showed them the vessel which held the Holy Oil (a very valuable thing), and the “leper’s squint,” a slit in the wall to which the unfortunate sick men were allowed to come and listen to the service.

“That’s something like the ‘nun’s squint’ at St. Helen’s Church in the city,” observed Barbara.

On the way back to their hotel, John and Philip strayed into the old Guildhall which contains some portraits, which failed to impress the boys, however.

“S’pose they were old Mayors or some such fellows,” said John, when questioned as to what he saw. “Couldn’t bear ’em, with their bright velvet clothes and high ruffs. I’m glad I didn’t live then! Excuse me from ruffs!”

“If the important men of the town wore such gay and frivolous attire, they had to pay for it surely,” Mrs. Pitt added. “Last night I was reading that in the records of Canterbury for the year 1556, the Mayor was required to provide for his wife every year, before Christmas, a scarlet gown and a bonnet of velvet. That was enforced by law! Fancy! The women may have had a hand in that, for they very naturally wanted to make sure not to be outdone by the men in the point of fine clothes.”

As the automobile again passed under the West Gate, on its way back to London, Betty turned to Mrs. Pitt, and said in her quiet little way:

“I think you were right in what you said when we were at Salisbury. I think, too, that’s the most beautiful of all the cathedrals I’ve seen. But Canterbury, both the town and church, is very, very interesting. I like the stories about Becket and the pilgrims, too. I’d like to come again some day. Please take hold of my hand, John; I want to stand up a minute and watch that dear Bell Tower as long as I can.”