Enchanted? he exclaimed. I feared there was none such left in the world. How do you know it is?
The child was neatly dressed in light summer clothing, in knickerbockers, and round his waist was a green sash which held a toy bugle. He looked up with bright, intelligent eyes, not quite certain how to take the strangers laughter.
I know, he replied, because my father has told me. One cup does you good, but after the first
He paused and shook his head. Possibly the evils which would result from a second draught were but darkly vague in his imagination.
Who is your father? Kingcote inquired after a moments reflection.
My father is the rector, was the little fellows reply, not without dignity. Even as he spoke he caught sight of a lady and a gentleman walking towards them, the attire of the latter proclaiming the rector himself. The child at once drew out his bugle and blew a joyous blast of welcometarantar-ar-a!
This is my father coming, he then explained to Kingcote. Ask him about the Knights Well, and hell tell you, Ive no doubt.
And he ran off to meet the pair. Already Kingcote had perceived that the lady was she whom he had passed in the lane. The reverend gentleman had relieved her of the camp-stool, and was talking in the manner of one who enjoys the exercise of his own voice, with something, too, of the tone and aspect observable in men who believe themselves not on the whole disagreeable to ladies. He seemed to be just on the hither side of middle age, had a very fresh complexion, and kept drawing himself up to the limit of his five feet six, like one who wishes to correct a habit of stooping. As he talked, he held his glasses in one hand, and with them tapped the other; the camp-stool was pressed under his left arm.
Kingcote drew aside, as if he would walk over to the enclosure. At the lodge gates the two paused; the clergyman was politely insisting on carrying the camp-stool up to the house, the young lady refusing with rather a hard smile. Kingcote saw now that she was tall, and held herself with the grace of strong and shapely limbs. When she had persuaded the rector to take his leave, and was on the point of entering the gates, she turned half round, and Kingcote once more found the large eyes fixed full upon him. She cast the glance without any embarrassment, and, having satisfied her curiosity, walked on and disappeared.
The rector and his little boy, to whom the young lady had paid no attention, came away and walked towards the rectory. Kingcote could see that the child was speaking of him. On the spur of a sudden determination, he followed, coming up to the two just as they reached the house. With a courteous raising of his hat, he begged the favour of a few words with the clergyman.
By all means, sir, was the genial response. Be off to bed, Percy; youve no business to be up at this hour, you rascal.
The boy blew a farewell blast and ran round to a garden entrance at the side of the house.
Let us enter, said the clergymanMr. Vissian was his namewhen he had taken another look at the stranger.
This was better than discussing awkward matters in the open street. Kingcote found himself with satisfaction in a cosy study, the windows of which looked upon a trim garden with a view of the church beyond. Requested to seat himself, he told, as well as he could, the story of his lost purse, dwelling on the humorous features of his situation, and frankly avowing the reasons which led him to apply to the rector of the parish rather than establish himself at an inn and wait for a remittance. Would Mr. Vissian lend him a sum of money sufficient for the nights expenses and for return to London on the morrow?
With pleasure I will do so, responded the clergyman at once, plunging both hands into his trouser pockets. Then his face darkened. Ireally he began with hesitation, that is if I . Pray have the goodness to excuse me for a moment, he added with a jerk, and, his face reddening a little, he hurried out of the room.
Kingcote wondered what this might mean. Was it prudence coming rather late, or unanticipated poverty? He rose and looked at the volumes on the shelves behind him. They were not the kind of books one ordinarily finds in a country rectors library; instead of commentators and sermons there were rows of old English play-books beautifully boundthe collection of an enthusiast in such matters. The binding of a complete set of Dodsley was engaging his admiration when Mr. Vissian returned.
Do you think a pound would suffice to your needs? the clergyman asked, still rather disturbed in countenance.
Amply, Kingcote hastened to reply; hesitation being impossible under the circumstances.
Youyou are quite sure?
Quite. I am greatly indebted to your kindness.
Mr. Vissian held out a sovereign with a smile of embarrassment; the other took it, and, to get past the delicate point, remarked with a glance at the book-shelves:
You are interested in dramatic literature, I see. Pray let me show you something I picked up in a shop at Salcot this morning.
He quickly unstrapped his knapsack, and extracted from it a thin, backless book, the outside leaves crumpled and dirty, and held it out to the rector. Mr. Vissian had put on his glasses, and took the offered object with an expression of dubious curiosity. Could any good thing come out of Salcot East? But at the first sight of the title-page he positively flushed with excitement. It was the first edition of Otways Venice Preserved.
You found this in Salcot? he exclaimed. My good sir, what did you give for it?
The sum of one penny, replied Kingcote, with a smile. It was stuffed among a lot of trash; but for want of something to do I should never have looked through the heap.
By the Turk! Mr. Vissian ejaculated. As it is acted at the Dukes Theatre Printed for Jos. Hindmarsh at the sign of the Black Bull, over against the Royal Exchange in Cornhill. 1682. Upon my word!
He chuckled with gleeful appreciation; something of envy too was in the side glance he threw upon the happy possessor. Forthwith he became as friendly and unconstrained as if he had known Kingcote for years. Taking from his pocket a bunch of delicate little keys, he stepped up to a book-case with a glass front, opened it with care, and began to draw forth the treasures. He was boy-like in the exuberance of his zeal, rubbed his hands, uttered crows and chirpings, and grew the more delighted the more he became aware of his guests congenial tastes. Kingcote was nothing of a genuine book-hunter; his years and temperament preserved him from that delightful pedantry; but he knew and enjoyed the literature in question. More than an hour passed in talk; it grew all but dark.
We must have a light, cried Mr. Vissian.
Is it not time that I saw after my room at the inn? Kingcote asked, looking at his watch.
Inn? Ah! to be sure. Butif I might offerreally I wish youd let us give you a bed here for the night. It would save trouble.
On the contrary, I fear it would give trouble somewhat needlessly.
But Mr. Vissian insisted.
I will give directions at once. It must be supper time too. Mrs. Vissian has thought me busy, I fear, and has let the usual hour go by. Pray come into the sitting-room. Its a year since I had any one to chat with over these things. It does me good; it does me good.
In the sitting-room supper was already spreadplain bread and cheese and draught ale. In an arm-chair, busy with sewing, sat the rectors wife. She looked very youthful, and was indeed only five-and-twenty, having been married at seventeen. She was delicate, pretty, and a trifle troubled in face.
A friend of mine, dear, said the rector, with an affectionate courtesy which pleased Kingcote, who will remain with us for the night.
Mrs. Vissian looked just a little startled, but speedily put on pleasant smiles, and went away to make her necessary preparations. On her return the talk turned to the son of the house, Master Percy.
What did he mean, Kingcote asked, by telling me that the water of the Knights Well was enchanted, and that you must not drink more than one cup?
Father and mother broke into laughter.
You thought it an interesting local legend, no doubt, said Mr. Vissian. I am sorry to disabuse you. That enchantment is merely a sanitary precaution of my own. Its not good for the child to drink much of the water this hot weather, so I hit on a device which has proved more efficacious than anything more literal would have done.
But is there no legend connected with the well? Kingcote asked.
Oh yes. The spring has doubtless been used for centuries. I will show you the story, after supper, in the county history. The marble basin was built five years ago by Mrs. Clarendon, the lady who lives at the house over there, which is itself called Knightswell.
The lady, Kingcote asked quickly, whom I saw entering the gates?
No, no, corrected Mr. Vissian, with a smile, Mrs. Clarendon is in London. That was Miss Warren, aa distant relation.
A very different person from Mrs. Clarendon, put in Mrs. Vissian, in a low voice. The rector murmured assent.
It was Miss Warren, then, Kingcote pursued, whom I saw sketching a charming cottage in the lane not far away. What an exquisite spot that is!
Wood Endyes. The trees there are all that remains of a forest.
The cottage is vacant, isnt it?
Yes, has been for a year. A labourer and his family left and went to Canada; Mrs. Clarendon gave the poor people the means to emigrate, and we hear they are already doing well.
No one whom Mrs. Clarendon helps fails to do so, remarked the rectors wife.
What maybe the rent of such a cottage? Kingcote inquired carelessly, leaning back in his chair.
Half-a-crown a week is what Yardley wants for that, I think, replied the rector.
The guest sat upright.
Half-a-crown? A delightful little place like that! Six pounds ten a year?
I believe so.
They were rising from the table. King-cote stood in his place, meditating. Mrs. Vissian again left the room.
Suppose, began Kingcote at length, one took a fancy to live in that cottage, would it be possible to find a labourers wifeor some person of that kindto come and give one say an hours service daily?
Very possible, I should say, returned the rector, with some surprise. Do you contemplate such a step?
One might do worse, I fancy, was King-cotes only reply.
Mrs. Vissian returned, bringing with her a large volume, the county history of which her husband had spoken.
Always thoughtful, and always helpful, said the rector, with a smile which made his face look wonderfully good. Thank you, Lucy. Now you shall read us the story yourself, if you will give us that pleasure.
Mrs. Vissian consented with a pretty blush. The story told how, in the troublous times of King Stephen, there stood in this place the stronghold of a great baron, who, shortly after he had wedded a noble and beautiful lady, fell in combat with another lord, the origin of their quarrel being obscure, and, indeed, nothing to the point. The lady, thus widowed, shut herself up in her castle and refused to yield to the victor, who had been one of many rejected suitors for her hand in former days, and now saw his opportunity of forcing her to become his wife. The stronghold being closely beleaguered for many days, and the garrison, too weak to make an effective sortie, already nigh to starvation, by the interposition of Providence there appeared upon the scene a certain knight, who also had been one of the ladys wooers, and who, in despair at her refusal of him, had betaken himself to fight in the Holy Land. Thence he was even now returned with a good band of tried followers. Learning how matters stood, he forthwith gave battle to the besiegers, hoping to rescue the lady he still loved, or, if that might not be, willing and glad to yield his life in her service. As indeed he did, for though victorious in the conflict, he was at the last moment mortally pierced by an arrow. In the ardour of pursuing the foe, his men lost sight of their leader; the wounded knight dragged himself to a spring hard by, and whilst endeavouring to slake his thirst, bled to faintness and so died. There his body was found by the lady of the castle when she came forth to give due thanks to her deliverer. In memory of his devotion, she built a basin of fair stone to gather the waters of the spring, and from that day forth it was known as the Knights Well.
We always call Mrs. Clarendon the lady of Knightswell, said Mrs. Vissian, when she had ceased to read.
The name is a beautiful one, said Kingcote.
It suggests a fair and gracious and noble woman.
Exactly what it should suggest, returned the lady, with a pleased laugh.
And who is the lord of Knightswell? asked the guest.
There is none, the rector made answer. Mrs. Clarendon has been a widow for a long time. But what say you to a pipe before bedtime, and a look at one or two old books? My dear Lucy, he exclaimed, turning to his wife, our friend has just captured a first edition of the Venice Preserved. And where, think you? In a miserable shop in Salcot East!And what for, think you? One penny, by the Turk! One penny!
Mrs. Vissian smiled, but at the same time shook her head; and Kingcote wondered why.
An hour later he was alone in a little bedchamber which looked out from the front of the house. The sun had been so strong upon the roof all day that this upper room was overheated; he extinguished the light as soon as possible, and sat down to get a breath of fresh air at the open window. His eyes turned in the direction of Knightswell. The east lay over there, and already it seemed as though a new day were beginning to touch the heavens; there was a broad region of delicate dusky pink above the dark tops of trees, and outlined against it was visible the roof of Mrs. Clarendons house. There was no shining of the moon, and but few stars anywhere in the sky; the night throbbed with a passion of silence. Just as Kingcotes eyes perceived the gables of Knightswell, somewhere in the park broke forth the song of a nightingale. For many minutes an unbroken stream of melody flooded the darkness; he all but sobbed in listening. Pain of the past and anguish of longing to the years which waited with unknown gifts of fate made his heart tumultuous. The kindness he had met with touched him; he had tender thoughts of the good rector and his sweet-faced, girlish wife. He loved this place; Knightswell was musical in his ears; he longed to see that gentle lady whose title has such a pleasant and stately sound of romance, and of whom such good things were spoken. As the nightingale sang he kept repeating to himself her name, the Lady of Knightswell. She had been a widow for a long time, said the rector; yet they had not spoken of her as of one who was old. He pictured to himself the fair, sweet, queenly woman whom that name would become.
The bird ceased. Over the country passed a leafy murmur, a hushed whisper of the tall dark trees, growing to a sigh, almost to a low wail, dying over Knightswell. Then an owl hooted thrice. The night had turned cold.