The tragedy was but forty-eight hours old; she had sat up with the
mother through her dying hours.
"Oh, my dear!" said Mrs. Roughsedge, suddenly--"here comes the Vicar. Do
you know, it's so unlucky--and so strange!--but he has certainly taken a
dislike to Miss Mallory--I believe it was because he had hoped some
Christian Socialist friends of his would have taken Beechcote, and he
was disappointed to find it let to some one with what he calls 'silly
Tory notions' and no particular ideas about Church matters. Now there's
a regular fuss--something about the Book Club. I don't understand--"
The Vicar advanced toward them. He came along at a great pace, his lean
figure closely sheathed in his long clerical coat, his face a little
frowning and set.
At the sight of Mrs. Roughsedge he drew up, and greeted the mother and
son.
"May I have a few words with you?" he asked Mrs. Roughsedge, as he
turned back with them toward the Beechcote lane. "I don't know whether
you are acquainted, Mrs. Roughsedge, with what has just happened in the
Book Club, to which we both belong?"
The Book Club was a village institution of some antiquity.
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