第157章 CHAPTER XXI ONCE AND NOW (1)

　　\"So on those happy days of yoreOft as I dare to dwell once more,Still must I miss the friends so tried,Whom Death has severed from my side.

　　But ever when true friendship binds,Spirit it is that spirit finds;In spirit then our bliss we found,In spirit yet to them I\"m bound.\"

　　UHLAND.

　　Margaret was ready long before the appointed time, and had leisureenough to cry a little, quietly, when unobserved, and to smile brightlywhen any one looked at her. Her last alarm was lest they should be toolate and miss the train; but no! they were all in time; and she breathedfreely and happily at length, seated in the carriage opposite to Mr. Bell,and whirling away past the well-known stations; seeing the old southcountry-towns and hamlets sleeping in the warm light of the pure sun,which gave a yet ruddier colour to their tiled roofs, so different to thecold slates of the north. Broods of pigeons hovered around these peakedquaint gables, slowly settling here and there, and ruffling their soft,shiny feathers, as if exposing every fibre to the delicious warmth. Therewere few people about at the stations, it almost seemed as if they weretoo lazily content to wish to travel; none of the bustle and stir thatMargaret had noticed in her two journeys on the London and North-Western line. Later on in the year, this line of railway should be stirringand alive with rich pleasure-seekers; but as to the constant going to andfro of busy trades-people it would always be widely different from thenorthern lines. Here a spectator or two stood lounging at nearly everystation, with his hands in his pockets, so absorbed in the simple act ofwatching, that it made the travellers wonder what he could find to dowhen the train whirled away, and only the blank of a railway, somesheds, and a distant field or two were left for him to gaze upon. The hotair danced over the golden stillness of the land, farm after farm was leftbehind, each reminding Margaret of German Idyls--of Herman andDorothea--of Evangeline. From this waking dream she was roused. Itwas the place to leave the train and take the fly to Helstone. And nowsharper feelings came shooting through her heart, whether pain orpleasure she could hardly tell. Every mile was redolent of associations,which she would not have missed for the world, but each of whichmade her cry upon \"the days that are no more,\" with ineffable longing.

　　The last time she had passed along this road was when she had left it

　　with her father and mother--the day, the season, had been gloomy, andshe herself hopeless, but they were there with her. Now she was alone,an orphan, and they, strangely, had gone away from her, and vanishedfrom the face of the earth. It hurt her to see the Helstone road so floodedin the sun-light, and every turn and every familiar tree so precisely thesame in its summer glory as it had been in former years. Nature felt nochange, and was ever young.

　　Mr. Bell knew something of what would be passing through her mind,and wisely and kindly held his tongue. They drove up to the LennardArms; half farm-house, half-inn, standing a little apart from the road, asmuch as to say, that the host did not so depend on the custom oftravellers, as to have to court it by any obtrusiveness; they, rather, mustseek him out. The house fronted the village green; and right before itstood an immemorial lime-tree benched all round, in some hiddenrecesses of whose leafy wealth hung the grim escutcheon of theLennards. The door of the inn stood wide open, but there was nohospitable hurry to receive the travellers. When the landlady did appear-andthey might have abstracted many an article first--she gave them akind welcome, almost as if they had been invited guests, and apologisedfor 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 beentoo busy packing up the baskets to hear the noise of wheels over theroad, 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 ofsunlight showed her Margaret\"s face, hitherto unobserved in that shadyparlour. \"It\"s Miss Hale, Jenny,\" said she, running to the door, and callingto her daughter. \"Come here, come directly, it\"s Miss Hale!\" And thenshe went up to Margaret, and shook her hands with motherly fondness.

　　\"And how are you all? How\"s the Vicar and Miss Dixon? The Vicarabove 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\"sit was evident that Mrs. Purkis was aware, from her omission of hername. But she choked in the effort, and could only touch her deepmourning, and say the one word, \"Papa.\"

　　\"Surely, sir, it\"s never so!\" said Mrs. Purkis, turning to Mr. Bell forconfirmation of the sad suspicion that now entered her mind. \"There wasa gentleman here in the spring--it might have been as long ago as lastwinter--who told us a deal of Mr. Hale and Miss Margaret; and he saidMrs. Hale was gone, poor lady. But never a word of the Vicar\"s beingailing!\"

　　\"It is so, however,\" said Mr. Bell. \"He died quite suddenly, when on avisit to me at Oxford. He was a good man, Mrs. Purkis, and there\"smany 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 goddaughter,so I thought we would just come down together and see theold place; and I know of old you can give us comfortable rooms and acapital dinner. You don\"t remember me I see, but my name is Bell, andonce or twice when the parsonage has been full, I\"ve slept here, andtasted your good ale.\"

　　\"To be sure; I ask your pardon; but you see I was taken up with MissHale. Let me show you to a room, Miss Margaret, where you can takeoff your bonnet, and wash your face. It\"s only this very morning Iplunged some fresh-gathered roses head downward in the water-jug,for, thought I, perhaps some one will be coming, and there\"s nothing sosweet as spring-water scented by a musk rose or two. To think of theVicar being dead! Well, to be sure, we must all die; only that gentlemansaid, 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. Iwant to have a consultation with you about dinner.\"