Mr. Bell knew something of what would be passing through her

mind, and wisely and kindly held his tongue. They drove up to the

Lennard Arms; half farm-house, half-inn, standing a little apart

from the road, as much as to say, that the host did not so depend

on the custom of travellers, as to have to court it by any

obtrusiveness; they, rather, must seek him out. The house fronted

the village green; and right before it stood an immemorial

lime-tree benched all round, in some hidden recesses of whose

leafy wealth hung the grim escutcheon of the Lennards. The door

of the inn stood wide open, but there was no hospitable hurry to

receive the travellers. When the landlady did appear--and they

might have abstracted many an article first--she gave them a kind

welcome, almost as if they had been invited guests, and

apologised for her coming having been so delayed, by saying, that

it was hay-time, and the provisions for the men had to be sent

a-field, and she had been too busy packing up the baskets to hear

the noise of wheels over the road, which, since they had left the

highway, ran over soft short turf.

'Why, bless me!' exclaimed she, as at the end of her apology, a

glint of sunlight showed her Margaret's face, hitherto unobserved

in that shady parlour. 'It's Miss Hale, Jenny,' said she, running

to the door, and calling to her daughter. 'Come here, come

directly, it's Miss Hale!' And then she went up to Margaret, and

shook her hands with motherly fondness.

'And how are you all? How's the Vicar and Miss Dixon? The Vicar

above all! God bless him! We've never ceased to be sorry that he

left.' Margaret tried to speak and tell her of her father's death; of

her mother's it was evident that Mrs. Purkis was aware, from her

omission of her name. But she choked in the effort, and could

only touch her deep mourning, and say the one word, 'Papa.' 'Surely, sir, it's never so!' said Mrs. Purkis, turning to Mr.

Bell for confirmation of the sad suspicion that now entered her

mind. 'There was a gentleman here in the spring--it might have

been as long ago as last winter--who told us a deal of Mr. Hale

and Miss Margaret; and he said Mrs. Hale was gone, poor lady. But

never a word of the Vicar's being ailing!' 'It is so, however,' said Mr. Bell. 'He died quite suddenly, when

on a visit to me at Oxford. He was a good man, Mrs. Purkis, and

there's many of us that might be thankful to have as calm an end

as his. Come Margaret, my dear! Her father was my oldest friend,

and she's my god-daughter, so I thought we would just come down

together and see the old place; and I know of old you can give us

comfortable rooms and a capital dinner. You don't remember me I

see, but my name is Bell, and once or twice when the parsonage

has been full, I've slept here, and tasted your good ale.' 'To be sure; I ask your pardon; but you see I was taken up with

Miss Hale. Let me show you to a room, Miss Margaret, where you

can take off your bonnet, and wash your face. It's only this very

morning I plunged some fresh-gathered roses head downward in the

water-jug, for, thought I, perhaps some one will be coming, and

there's nothing so sweet as spring-water scented by a musk rose

or two. To think of the Vicar being dead! Well, to be sure, we

must all die; only that gentleman said, he was quite picking up

after his trouble about Mrs. Hale's death.' 'Come down to me, Mrs. Purkis, after you have attended to Miss

Hale. I want to have a consultation with you about dinner.' The little casement window in Margaret's bed-chamber was almost

filled up with rose and vine branches; but pushing them aside,

and stretching a little out, she could see the tops of the

parsonage chimneys above the trees; and distinguish many a

well-known line through the leaves.




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