Isabel Clarendon, Vol. I (of II). George Gissing
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 night’s 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. “I—really–” 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 rector’s library; instead of commentators and sermons there were rows of old English play-books beautifully bound—the 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.
“You—you 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 Otway’s “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 Duke’s 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 guest’s 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. But—if I might offer—really I wish you’d 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. It’s 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 spread—plain bread and cheese and draught ale. In an arm-chair, busy with sewing, sat the rector’s 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 Knight’s 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. It’s 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, a—a 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 End—yes. The trees there are all that remains of a forest.”
“The cottage is vacant, isn’t 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 rector’s 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 labourer’s wife—or some person of that kind—to come and give one say an hour’s 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-cote’s only reply.
Mrs. Vissian returned, bringing with her a large volume, the county history