ISABEL CLARENDON
By George Gissing
In Two Volumes.
Vol. I.
London: Chapman And Hall, Limited
Charles Dickens And Evans, Crystal Palace Press
1886
“C’était plus qu’une vue, hélas! c’était un monde Qui s’était effacé!”
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ISABEL CLARENDON.
CHAPTER I.
From Salcot East to Winstoke there are two roads, known respectively as
the old and the new. The latter was made about the middle of the present
century; the old road is immemorial. By the modern highway the distance
between the two parishes is rather less than five miles; pursue the
other, and you fetch a compass of well-nigh ten, taking into account all
the inexplicable windings and angularities between the “White Hart
Inn” at Salcot, where the roads disdainfully part company, to Winstoke
Rectory, where they unite and form the village street. It says much for
ancestral leisureliness in that north-west corner of ------shire, that
the old way ever established itself, or, being established, was used
to so recent a date; on the other hand, the construction of the new
thoroughfare looks remarkably like a practical joke, perpetrated at
their own expense by the good people of the country side, seeing that
this activity displayed itself just when it was least called for.
Formerly, there was a silk manufactory at Salcot East, and direct
communication with the neighbouring parish would have been a
convenience; only when the industry in question had fallen into complete
decay, and when it could not matter to any one whether it took one hour
or two to reach Winstoke (where not even a market was held), did the
inhabitants tax themselves for the great undertaking.
As regards picturesqueness, needless to say that the old road has
enormously the advantage. A pedestrian with time on his hands and
walking for walking’s sake, could not hesitate between the hard white
turnpike, running on into level distance between dusty hedgerows, and
that charming glimpse of elm-shadowed lane, grass creeping from the
densely verdurous bank on either side to the deep moistened ruts, and,
twenty yards away, a sudden turn round a fantastic oak, all beyond a
delightful uncertainty. Such a pedestrian was Bernard Kingcote, a man
neither too old nor too busy to be rambling aimlessly on this Midsummer
Day; over his shoulders a small knapsack, with a waterproof strapped
upon it, in his hand a stick he had cut from an oak-tree. Since eleven
in the morning the sun had shone as in England it shines but rarely--a
steady force of fire which drew the perspiration from every pore of
one standing unshaded. Under these circumstances, Kingcote had loitered
about Salcot all the day, having reached the place after a four-mile
stroll from another little town where he had passed the preceding night.
There were leafy lurking-places here and there along the banks of the
stream called Sale, and the “White Hart” gave promise of a comfortable,
homely meal at mid-day. The time passed pleasantly enough till late
afternoon, for he had a couple of books in his knapsack, and made
purchase of another in a musty little shop full of miscellaneous
rubbish, into which he was tempted by the sight of a shelf of ragged
volumes; then came tea at the “White Hart” again, and he was ready,
after a survey of his Ordnance map, to use the cool of the evening for
a ramble on to Winstoke. But as he came forth from the inn, unexpected
entertainment presented itself. A dancing bear had just been led into
the town, and the greater part of the population had assembled in the
broad street to watch the poor dusty-coated beast. With a humorous
sadness on his countenance, Kingcote stood in the doorway, observant
of the artificial biped and the natural ones which surrounded it. As he
waited, a trifling incident occurred which afterwards came back to his
memory with more significance than he had attributed to it at the time;
somebody jolted against him from behind, and then a country fellow of
evil appearance staggered out of the inn and mixed with the crowd; he
was seemingly half-drunk, or but just awakened.
This gave the pedestrian the impulse needed to send him forth on his
way. He looked for a moment along the new road, then his eyes wandered
to the old, and he turned at once into the latter. There was a
sign-post at the parting; both its arms said, “To Winstoke,” but one was
crumbling, fungus-scored, its inscription barely legible; the other a
stout piece of timber, self-assertive, with rounded ends and freshly
painted in black and white. Kingcote passed with a mental comment.
The road was just what it promised, perfectly rural, sweet with all
summer growths, seldom without trees on both sides, ash predominating,
oak and holly frequent. It mounted little hills where the least turn
would have enabled it to keep level; oftener still made a curve or
a corner, to all appearances merely for the sake of constructing an
exquisite little picture of banks and boughs and luxuriant vegetation.
At times nothing was to be seen for the robust old hedges; then would
come a peep over open country, a stretch of yellow fields bounded far
away by the bare chalk-hills. No cottages, no trim borders of stately
parks, seldom a gate giving into a grass meadow. It seemed that no one
ever came this way; the new road had monopolised traffic of every kind.
The gnats began to swarm; here and there a spider, acting with the
assurance of long impunity, had carried his invisible silken thread
right across the road; the birds were softening their multitudinous
voices to sunset. Now and then was heard a sound of deep, steady
breathing from behind the hedge, and an odour of warm, sweet breath
filled the air; it was a cow that lay there chewing the cud. Or a horse,
turned out to grass, would put his head up and look over into the lane,
half-alarmed at the approach of a human being. The pedestrian had a
friendly word for him.
Kingcote’s way of walking was that of a man accustomed to his own
society; he advanced slowly, yet without pauses, and often became
forgetful of the things about him. His face was neither sad nor
cheerful, but the tendency of its free play of feature was clearly in
the direction rather of the former than of the latter expression. It was
plain that he enjoyed to the full the scenes through which he passed,
and enjoyed them as a man of poetic sensibilities, but there was no
exuberance of vitality in his delight. He looked like one who had been
walking all through the heat of the day, and was growing weary for his
night’s retreat. Evidently he had nothing of the naturalist’s instinct;
he never bent to examine a flower or leaf, and he could not indeed have
assigned its name to any but the commonest; the very trees whose beauty
dwelt longest in his eye did not suggest to him their own familiar
appellations. To judge from his countenance, the communing which he held
with himself was constant and lively; at times words even fell from his
lips. It was not the face of a man at ease with his own heart, or with
the circumstances amid which his life had fallen. A glance of pleasure
hither or thither was often succeeded by the shadow of brooding, and
this by a gleam of passion, brief but significant enough. This inward
energy was brought to view on features sufficiently remote from any
ordinary stamp to prove interesting in themselves; they were those of a
young man--Kingcote was not quite thirty.
When he had been walking for a couple of hours, his thoughts began to
turn to his plans for the following day; he took the map out again,
and examined it as he proceeded. He had been away from home--from
London--three days; to-morrow would be Friday, and on Saturday he
proposed to return. There came into his mind a question about money,
and he felt for his purse. For the first time he came to a standstill;
neither in the wonted pocket nor anywhere else was his purse to be
found. It had contained all his immediate resources, with the exception
of a few loose coppers. Then it was that the course of reflection
brought him back to that incident in the doorway of the “White Hart,”
and he felt little doubt that the seemingly drunken boor who pushed
against him had in the same moment dexterously picked his pocket. The
purse had been safe when he paid his bill at the inn, and certainly he
had not left it behind him by accident. At all events, purse and money
were gone, and it was not our friend’s temper to fall into useless
lamentation over irremediable accidents. If, indeed, the case were one
of theft--and no other explanation seemed possible--he wished the rascal
luck of his three pounds or so, and, walking slowly on again, began to
ask himself what was to be done.
To stop at Winstoke, take up quarters there at an inn, and wait till
money could be sent to him from London, was the course which naturally
first suggested itself. Yet the reasons against it were not long in
being discovered.
What guarantee could he give to his landlord--short of remaining shut up
in the inn all day--of his honest intention to pay when money arrived?
His knapsack and three old books were not much of a pledge. Another
would perchance have never given this matter a thought, but a feature
of Kingcote’s character was concerned in it. He was too proud to subject
himself to possible suspicion, especially that of his social inferiors;
to explain his position to an innkeeper would have galled him
exceedingly, still more so to live for a day under the innkeeper’s eyes
without an explanation. Things which most men accept as the every-day
rubs of the world were to Kingcote among the worst evils of existence;
the most ordinary transaction with uneducated and (as he held)
presumably uncivilised persons at all times made him uncomfortable,
and a necessity such as the present assailed his fastidiousness with
no little severity. He reopened his map, and began to calculate the
possibility of walking straight on to London. There was no possibility
in the matter. He might sleep in the open air this midsummer night, and
it would be rather pleasant than otherwise, but the situation would only
be complicated by the pressing need of breakfast in the morning. Was
there nothing for it but to face the innkeeper?
He moved on, and a turn in the road exposed a scene which for the moment
made him lose sight of his annoyances. He had suddenly come in full view
of a cottage, and, it seemed to him, a cottage of ideal rusticity. It
was very old, built of brick which had become finely toned wherever
it was not hidden by ivy, and the tiles of the roof were patched with
richest hues of moss and lichen; its low upper storey had two dormer
windows. The dwelling lay a few yards back from the road, and in the
middle of the grass before the door stood the bowed trunk of an old, old
oak-tree, branchless, hollow, killed by the parasites which clung about
it in astonishing luxuriance. To the rear of the cottage, which seemed
to be uninhabited, grew a cluster of tall trees, with a quantity of
bushy undergrowth; the tree-tops were black with rooks’ nests, and the
birds themselves were loud in talk. This scene, with its background of
magnificent evening sky above remote hills of the intensest blue, might
well have brought the pedestrian to a pause; it was something else,
however, that checked him with a movement of surprise. He was no
longer alone with nature; facing the cottage sat a girl, busy over a
water-colour sketch; she was working with rapid eagerness, and, as she
sat with her back to him, she could not see, and had not heard, his
approach. Kingcote would have liked to stay here awhile, but the
stranger’s presence made it difficult. Taking a step or two onwards, he
speedily drew her attention; she suspended the work of her pencil
and looked quickly round. Kingcote experienced a sense of profound
disappointment; far from being in harmony with the scene, the face
presented to him was irregular in feature and harsh in expression; the
eyes seemed very large, and, having met his, did not at once remove
themselves, but continued to gaze with something like defiance, whilst
the lips worked in a curiously nervous way, not at all pleasant to
watch. She was perhaps nineteen; her dress very plain, but that of a
lady. With the observance of these details, Kingcote walked past her
at a sharp pace, and did not venture to stay his steps again till the
ever-winding road had taken him from the sketcher’s sight.
“I never saw so uninteresting a girl,” was his first thought, but it had
scarcely passed through his mind when he felt that its hastiness did
not in truth embody his impression. To say that he had never seen a less
pleasing girl would be more accurate. A merely uninteresting face would
not at once, and so forcibly, have printed itself upon his memory; he
already felt that the unpropitiating gaze of those large, cold eyes
would remain long with him. He wondered who she might be. Certainly no
conventional young lady who came out to sketch in a feeble way, in the
ordinary course of her mild domestic existence; more likely than that,
a professional artist, or one studying to become such. There had been no
opportunity for a glance at her work, but the earnestness with which she
gave herself up to it inspired a certain confidence as to the results.
Whence did she come, dressed as if for a brief walk, with her camp stool
and sketching apparatus?
One more, and this the last, turn of the old road showed that she need
not have come any very great distance. Kingcote found himself entering
Winstoke. On his left hand was the village church, a low edifice with
a solid, square tower, and, just beyond it, what was evidently the
rectory. These occupied the angle made by the two roads as they
reunited. Across the churchyard and the rectory garden was visible the
white dust of the turnpike, along which on the further side ran a high
brick wall capped with tiles, the enclosure of private grounds. The
rectory thus stood with its back to the church; its front windows looked
upon a large open space, grass-grown and shadowed with fine trees, the
whole surrounded with iron chains loosely swinging from post to post. On
the left proceeded the high wall just mentioned, leading to gates and
a lodge; the dense foliage of a well-wooded park rose behind it. To the
right stood a few picturesque houses, with little gardens before them.
Straight on lay the main street of the village, the yellow-washed fronts
vanishing at length amid yet more trees. Children were playing on the
enclosed grass, and with their voices mingled the notes of a piano from
an open window near at hand. It was all very beautiful in the light of
sunset. For a minute or two Kingcote stood with a face of contentment,
soothed and restful.
It was half-past eight; the chiming of the church clock proclaimed it.
If he intended to pass the night in Winstoke it was time to make up
his mind where he should seek quarters. He began to stray round the
enclosure towards the houses of the street, walking slowly and with
frequent stoppings, beginning at length to feel the full annoyance of
his position, and in his somewhat hasty way inwardly cursing the whole
social constitution which made such a disagreeable experience possible.
As he drew near the lodge gates in the high wall, he perceived a
handsome drinking fountain, built of marble and set in the wall itself.
He was thirsty, and went to take a draught of water. Above the basin was
an inscription, carved in old English letters, “The Knight’s Well,” and
a recent date beneath it. The name struck him pleasantly; no doubt there
was some legend attached to it, which he promised himself to seek out.
He drank with delight of the sweet, cold water, and was about to fill
the cup a second time, when a little boy, who had come up to his side
unobserved, a youngster of six or seven, addressed him with curious
gravity.
“That water is enchanted,” said the child. “I wouldn’t drink more than
one if I was you.”
Kingcote laughed with pleasure.
“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 stranger’s 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 moment’s reflection.
“My father is the rector,” was the little fellow’s 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
welcome--tarantar-ar-a!
“This is my father coming,” he then explained to Kingcote. “Ask him
about the Knight’s Well, and he’ll tell you, I’ve 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;
you’ve 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 clergyman--Mr. Vissian was his name--when 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 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 lady’s 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
_Knight’s 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. Clarendon’s 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 Kingcote’s 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.