Chapter Xiii.

Marlow.—Bisham Abbey.—The Medmenham Monks.—Montmorency thinks he will murder an old Tom cat.—But eventually decides that he will let it live.—Shameful conduct of a fox terrier at the Civil Service Stores.—Our departure from Marlow.—An imposing procession.—The steam launch, useful receipts for annoying and hindering it.—We decline to drink the river.—A peaceful dog.—Strange disappearance of Harris and a pie.

Marlow is one of the pleasantest river centres I know of. It is a bustling, lively little town; not very picturesque on the whole, it is true, but there are many quaint nooks and corners to be found in it, nevertheless—standing arches in the shattered bridge of Time, over which our fancy travels back to the days when Marlow Manor owned Saxon Algar for its lord, ere conquering William seized it to give to Queen Matilda, ere it passed to the Earls of Warwick or to worldly-wise Lord Paget, the councillor of four successive sovereigns.

There is lovely country round about it, too, if, after boating, you are fond of a walk, while the river itself is at its best here. Down to Cookham, past the Quarry Woods and the meadows, is a lovely reach. Dear old Quarry Woods! with your narrow, climbing paths, and little winding glades, how scented to this hour you seem with memories of sunny summer days! How haunted are your shadowy vistas with the ghosts of laughing faces! how from your whispering leaves there softly fall the voices of long ago!