"Miss Mary, dear, wake up," said a pleasant middle-aged woman, as she gently shook the sleeper to whom she spoke; "it wants twenty minutes to eight, and Rowland will be here with the ponies presently."
A pair of large blue eyes opened languidly and stared at the speaker. "What's the matter, nurse?"
"Aren't you going to ride this morning, Miss Mary? you'll have to be quick if——"
But Mary's senses were roused now, and the young girl of thirteen sprung out of bed, interrupting her nurse's speech.
"I'll be ready, nurse, don't fear," she cried, as she began to dress with her usual quickness. "What did you say was the time?"
"Twenty minutes to eight," was the reply, "so you've twenty-five minutes. Rowland is allowed to wait five minutes, I know."
"Ah, yes," cried Mary, "but I wont keep him waiting at all, nurse," she added, "you need not stay. I laid out my habit and all I wanted in readiness last night."
"To be sure, Miss Mary, you can be quick, I know, and no mistake; so I'll get out of your way if you don't want me."
True to her word, the little lady appeared at the door in a few minutes after the groom arrived, and she was very soon cantering round the Regent's Park in the full enjoyment of this healthful exercise. Drawing rein as usual before crossing the New Road on her return towards home, she walked her pony through the Crescent, intending to enjoy a good canter up the broad thoroughfare of Portland Place.
Scarcely had she reached the turning leading through private streets to Piccadilly, when the sound of horse's hoofs coming rapidly behind her caused her to turn her head, and the next moment pull up suddenly as a large black horse trotted quickly to her side.
"Why, Mary," exclaimed the owner of the horse, "I had no idea you were such a capital rider. I saw a little lady cantering in front of me, but I should not have known who it was had not Rowland touched his hat as I passed; and what a clever little pony," he added, as he stooped low to pat the smooth black head and long flowing mane. "How long have you had him?"
"Six months, uncle," she replied. "Papa bought him of Sir Henry Turner; his boys all learnt to ride on Boosey, but they have grown too old and too tall for such a small pony, so now he is mine."
"What is the pony's name, Mary? It sounds peculiar."
"Oh, Boosey, uncle," she replied, laughing. "Sir Henry's boys named him after Alexander's horse Bucephalus; the groom shortened it to Boosey, and we still keep up the name."
"So he is a classical pony, eh?" said Colonel Herbert; "I suppose the name was too much of a jaw-breaker for the stablemen. Boosey, however, is rather a degradation for the bearer of such a title."
"He's a military pony, too," laughed Mary, "for he can stand fire, uncle. One morning the soldiers were at drill and firing in the Park as I rode past, and Boosey walked by as quietly as possible. I did feel half afraid till I remembered that Sir Henry was a field-officer and his sons were often with him at reviews, one of them always riding the pony."
"Well, then, my dear, if Boosey is so well trained, would you like to go with me to-day? There is to be a review at Hyde Park, and you can be with me near the flagstaff—opposite the firing, you know. Are you sure you have no fear?"
"Not a bit, uncle, and indeed I should like it so much if papa will allow me to go."
"Suppose we ride home and ask him."
The horses had been walking while they talked, and the colonel putting his horse into a trot as he spoke, Boosey started off at full speed, cantering as fast as his little legs would carry him to keep pace with the colonel's tall black horse.
They reached Dover Street in a very short time, and Mr. Armstrong, seeing them approach, came out to welcome the colonel. The request for Mary was soon made, yet she almost feared that the answer would be unfavourable when her father said,—"Mary had not breakfasted yet, colonel; and you know I object to my daughter being seen on horseback in the neighbourhood of my business after nine o'clock."
"Then let her ride home now to our house and breakfast with us," said the colonel, quickly.
To this there appeared no objection, and Mr. Armstrong readily gave his consent, but Mary had not forgotten her mother's fears.
"Oh, father," she exclaimed, "do you think mamma will mind my going? you know how anxious she always is even when I ride quietly before breakfast."
Mr. Armstrong was about to say that his wife was not likely to oppose his wishes, when the colonel exclaimed,—"I will go up and quiet her fears about Mary's safety."
He was not absent many minutes, but as he remounted his horse Mary knew he had succeeded, for on looking up she saw her mother at the window nodding and smiling at her as she rode off with her uncle.
Rowland, who remained behind, stood for a few moments watching his young mistress as she and her uncle rode towards Piccadilly. Then as he turned to take his horse to the stables he said to himself,—"Master wont get his way with that young lady, I can see, with all his queer rules about what she is to do."
Mary breakfasted with her aunt and uncle in Park Lane, and in less than an hour after started to be present at the review. She certainly felt a little nervous at first when she found herself among a group of officers and ladies on horseback, or in carriages near the flagstaff, especially when the soldiers were preparing for the first volley.
But Boosey stood firm, and that gave her courage to sit and calmly watch the varied performances of the men so easily seen from such an advantageous point of view.
Many questions were asked the colonel respecting the little equestrian, who looked very attractive in her riding attire. The long curls falling to the waist over the dark blue riding-habit would have been called golden in these days; and a black beaver hat, with a drooping feather and a broad brim, did not quite conceal the fair complexion and delicate features of the really pretty child. When asked, "Who is your little friend?" the colonel would merely reply, "My niece." No mention was made of her name, or of the fact of her being a tradesman's daughter, for in those days of exclusiveness it would have created a feeling of surprise.
More than fourteen years have passed since Edward Armstrong became the husband of the young girl who owed her life to his energy and courage.
A marriage under such circumstances was not unlikely to be accompanied with real affection on both sides, although a union of those who occupy different positions socially is seldom truly happy.
Notwithstanding the love that made Edward Armstrong gentle and indulgent to his wife, there yet existed certain phases in his character which jarred upon her love of refinement, and caused her great annoyance. His eccentricities, his prejudices, and, at times when angry, a certain coarseness of manner, were actual pain to his sensitive wife. But she possessed a natural sweetness of temper that could "turn away wrath" by a "soft answer" or silence. She had quickly discovered that his will was law, and brooked no contradiction; and her love of peace as well as her wifely love very soon taught her to give way to her husband in every point.
Besides, she had all the comforts and luxuries of a refined home, equal in many respects to the homes of her sisters, although considered so inferior in position; a loving and indulgent husband, and four children, of whom Mary was the eldest and only girl.
Her relatives had not cast her off because of her marriage; the occasion of their first meeting, when Edward Armstrong had been the means of saving their sister's life, rendered such an idea impossible. Added to this, Maria's husband was unmistakably a man of intellectual tastes as well as education, notwithstanding his eccentricities and peculiar notions. Association with his wife, and mixing in the society he sometimes met with at the houses of her sisters, had already increased his refinement of manner, although nothing could as yet entirely overcome the effects of narrow minded prejudices.
The custom now so prevalent which enables a man of business to take a house for his wife and children at a distance from London, was at the time of which we write a novelty. Railways and omnibuses, by which London is now filled in the morning and deserted in the evening, were in a state of progression. Yet Mr. Armstrong could not be persuaded to take a house out of town; it was a new-fangled notion, he would say, and quite out of place in a man of business. Mrs. Armstrong's family, therefore, could only get over the fact of her living above a shop with her children by ascribing it to her husband's eccentricities.
"My brother-in-law keeps horses, and he could easily ride or drive into town every day if he chose, but we cannot persuade him to do so," said Mrs. Herbert to a visitor on one occasion; "but I hope he will give way at last, especially when his daughter is old enough to be introduced into society."
But if all these little matters troubled Mrs. Armstrong's family, her husband felt himself also aggrieved on one point in which she was the unfortunate cause.
He had quickly discovered after his marriage that his loving and accomplished wife was totally ignorant of domestic duties or of the management of a household.
She soon also became conscious of her deficiencies, and tried to acquire the necessary knowledge by every effort in her power, but in vain; and her husband, accustomed to the perfect order and regularity of his mother's house, never appeared satisfied.
This circumstance produced after a time, as their family increased, new plans on the part of Mr. Armstrong. He engaged a suitable housekeeper, to regulate the domestic arrangements of his home, and placed the education of Mary in the hands of her mother, knowing well that no one could be found more fit for that office.
Gladly Mrs. Armstrong gave up the duties she felt so irksome, and divided her time between the nursery and the schoolroom. In this way, notwithstanding the fact that her drawing-room and dining-room were on the floor above her husband's business, and in spite also of various annoyances which his eccentric doings in the household often caused, the years passed away in comfort and happiness, bringing the time in which this chapter commences.
Mr. Armstrong's next proposition, however, was by no means so satisfactory to his wife.
About six months before the meeting of Mary with her uncle Herbert during her morning ride, Mr. Armstrong made his appearance in the schoolroom, and finding his wife alone, he said apparently with an effort,—"Maria, my dear, I want to make some little change in Mary's educational duties; I suppose you have no objection?"
"In what way?" she asked, with a dread in her heart of what her eccentric husband might be about to propose.
"Why, my dear," he replied, seating himself, "you know your own deficiencies in domestic knowledge, but I am determined my daughter shall never fail in that important part of a woman's education; you may make her as accomplished as you please, I will take care that she is made domestic."
Mrs. Armstrong had been trained in those days when to stoop to domestic duties, or to understand how to make a pie or pudding, was considered a degradation to an accomplished young lady; and to her ultra refinement there was something repulsive in the idea of her daughter learning the duties of a cook or a housemaid. But when her husband expressed himself in such a firm decided manner, she knew it was useless to offer any opposition, so she merely said faintly,—"What do you wish Mary to do?"
"Send for her, my dear," he replied, "there will be no objections on her part, I am quite sure."
In a few minutes Mary made her appearance, and listened to her father's proposition, the subject of which will appear in the next chapter.
"Mamma, oh, do come to the window, there is such a dear little pony standing at the door, and father is talking to the groom."
Mrs. Armstrong advanced to the drawing-room window at her daughter's request, and joined with her in admiration of the shiny black coat, and long mane and tail of Bucephalus, whose purchase had on that morning been completed.
Some idea of the truth occurred to both mother and daughter when Rowland appeared and led the pony away. In a very few minutes Mr. Armstrong himself entered the room, startling Mary by the question,—"Well, my daughter, how do like your new pony?"
"Mine, father?" (one of Mr. Armstrong's peculiar fancies made him object to be called "papa," considering it another form of "aping the gentry"). How the blue eyes glittered and the face lighted up with pleasure and astonishment as Mary spoke.
"Yes, my dear, it is yours on the conditions I spoke of yesterday," replied her father, seating himself and drawing his daughter to his side; "will you be able to fulfil them?"
"I will try, father," she replied, glancing at her mother.
"Your mother will not object, I know," he said, noticing the glance; "but now listen, and I will tell you more clearly what I expect you to do, and your reward will be riding lessons for three months at the Riding School, Albany Street, and the attendance of Rowland while you canter round the Parks, any morning you like, before breakfast—hear me out, Mary," he continued, interrupting her expressions of delight—"Rowland will have orders from me to be here at seven in summer, and eight in winter, and if you are not ready for your ride within five minutes of the time, he is to take the ponies back to the stable, and you will lose your ride."
"Oh, I don't think that will ever happen, dear father," she replied. "I am so delighted I hardly know how to thank you enough."
"I don't want thanks, my child, if my gift make you an early riser, which I am very anxious you should be; and you will not forget that I wish you to spend two hours every morning in learning domestic duties."
"Mary has done this already, Edward," Mrs. Armstrong ventured to remark.
"I know it, my dear," he replied, "but not to the extent I wish. Although she may never be in a position to require such knowledge, excepting as the mistress of a house, yet those women make the best mistresses who know the time, the labour, and the skill required in every form of domestic work."
"I think you degrade your daughter by this strange request," said Mrs. Armstrong, whose opinions of what a lady might do without compromising her dignity and refinement were thoroughly shocked.
"Nothing done by alady," replied Mr. Armstrong, with an emphasis on the word, "will ever degrade her, if it can be done by awomanwithoutdisgrace."
In spite of what were called his singular notions, there was no doubt perfect truth in this remark. We are reminded by it of George Herbert's lines:—
"Who sweeps a room, as in God's laws,Makes that and the action fine."
"Who sweeps a room, as in God's laws,Makes that and the action fine."
Mary seemed to have the same impression; for after a pause she said,—"Father, I am quite willing to do as you wish, only——"
"Only what, my child?"
"I was going to say, it would take away the time from my studies, but I must work all the harder, I suppose, and I don't mind if mamma does not."
And so in this, at that period unusual association of domestic duties with refined studies, and the fashionable accomplishment of riding, Mary Armstrong passed the next two years of her life. Then occurred another phase in her father's opinion of what his daughter's education should be.
During the two years to which we have referred, partly as an additional reward for her efforts to please him, he had provided her with masters for French and music, and partly to relieve her mother, whose health had lately been rather uncertain. Mary's young brothers were high-spirited boys, and soon proved themselves too much for their mother's management.
The two elder were sent to school early, and the youngest, now five years old, was to accompany them after Midsummer. This was the opportunity for which Mr. Armstrong waited. He at once put a stop to the domestic duties, and took his daughter into his counting-house for two hours daily to act as his clerk; her love of arithmetic he knew would make this a pleasure to her.
But now worldly opinion interfered. One or two business men connected with the Corn Exchange, started with surprise at the appearance of a young girl writing at the desk when introduced to Mr. Armstrong's counting-house, and when alone with him spoke plainly on the subject.
Not all the domestic work, nor it must be confessed, the occasional coarseness of her father when angry, could counteract the influence of her mother on Mary's manner and appearance.
She was growing daily more like her, and the gentle graceful girl was in every respect a lady, and far superior in manners and appearance to the daughters of tradesmen in her father's position. Indeed, she knew nothing of any society but that of her mother's relations. The words which at last startled Mr. Armstrong were really needed to show him his error.
"Who is that young lady writing at the desk in your counting-house, Armstrong?"
"My daughter," he replied, proudly. "I wish her to acquire business habits, and this is the only plan I can adopt for the purpose."
"Then the sooner you discontinue it the better; nothing can be more unwise. Do your clerks have access to your counting-house?"
Mr. Armstrong was not without a certain degree of pride in his wife's connexions, and he flushed high as he replied—"Mrs. Armstrong's daughter is not likely to notice one of her father's clerks."
His friend shrugged his shoulders as he said,—"Well, Armstrong, you know best; but if I had such a beautiful girl for my daughter, I would not degrade her by placing her in a position on a level with those whom I considered her inferiors."
Half offended as he was, Mr. Armstrong yet took the hint. He returned to his counting-house and furtively examined the beautiful profile as Mary,con amore, leaned over her task. Her auburn hair hung in massive curls to her waist, and though braided on her forehead and thrown behind her ears, the curls drooped over the lower part of her face even to the paper on which she wrote.
"She's growing more like her mother than ever," was the father's thought. "I believe it is that profusion of hair which makes her so attractive; suppose it were cut off or rolled up in some way, I could insist——" He paused. "No; I should have mother, and aunts, and uncles all against me. I've had my way in most things, I suppose I must give up now and put a stop to this."
And so ended Mary's days in the counting-house. The time came when also for this short insight into business matters she could thank her father's peculiarities.
Mrs. Armstrong's sisters were, of course, duly informed of all these eccentric arrangements on the part of her husband, but they knew it was useless to interfere. They knew also that his influence over his daughter was too great for them to attempt to counteract it.
"Fancy, Helen," said Mrs. Armstrong one day to her sister, "Mary has not only to make beds and dust rooms, but actually spends an hour in the kitchen every morning learning to make pies and puddings, and even how to roast and boil meat!"
Mrs. Herbert shrugged her shoulders as she replied,—"Well, if all this nonsense about teaching her the duties of servants and such degrading employment does not eventually destroy all refinement of feeling and manners in Mary I shall be very much surprised."
But the two years passed, and the relatives of Mrs. Armstrong were obliged to own that no such terrible result had happened to their niece. She appeared at their social gatherings, she rode with her uncle and cousin Charles on horseback, and drove round the Park with her aunts in an open carriage, showing plainly both in person, dress, and manners, that the study of domestic duties had not unfitted her for good society.
Charles Herbert, the colonel's only child, was not only fond of his cousin Mary, but also a great admirer of his uncle Armstrong. Although scarcely old enough to retain a correct remembrance of the time when this uncle had snatched him from a watery grave, yet his mother had spoken of it to him so often that the impression made on his mind at four years of age had never been effaced. He once encountered Mary coming from the kitchen department with her curls tucked up beneath a white handkerchief, a large coarse apron before her, and her hands covered with flour.
"Why, Mary," exclaimed the youth of nineteen, "what ever will you do? there is mamma at the door in her carriage wailing to take you for a drive!"
"Come to the drawing-room, Charles, and wait for me," she said; "I will be ready to go with you and aunt in five minutes."
"Then you must be Cinderella," he replied, as he followed her upstairs as far as the drawing-room, "and have a fairy to help you!"
"So I have, and more than one," she replied, laughing, as she continued her flight upward.
Mary's fairies were Neatness, Quickness, Order, and Method. Therefore in very few minutes more than the time she had named she presented herself in the drawing-room ready for her drive.
All fear that domestic duties would make Mrs. Armstrong's daughter coarse or unrefined must have vanished at her appearance. She was simply attired in a pale violet silk dress and cape, with close-fitting gloves, lace collar and cuffs, and a broad-brimmed hat partly concealing her face, but not the profusion of auburn ringlets that fell around her shoulders.
"How like you grow to your mother, my dear," said her aunt, as Mary, with the softness and refinement of that mother's manner, advanced to welcome her. And as she rose to accompany her niece to the carriage she said to herself, "Well, perhaps after all Edward is right—a woman is none the worse for understanding the management of household duties."
One evening Mary was present at a family dinner-party at her uncle Sir James Elston's house in Portland Place. Very little had been said to the old sailor about what Mrs. Armstrong's sisters called the peculiar manner in which Edward Armstrong was educating his daughter, but that little had been met by him with a remark that silenced them—
"Making his girl domestic, is he? Wise man, wise man; that's all I can say."
On this family gathering, Mary, who was now in her sixteenth year, gave sufficient proof that learning to be domestic had not prevented her from becoming accomplished. A young French lady was present with whom Mary conversed with ease in her own tongue.
"You speak with a pure accent, mademoiselle," said the young lady; "have you resided in France?"
"No," was the reply; "but mamma was at school in Paris for years, and she has spoken French to me from my infancy."
In the course of the evening Mary was called upon to accompany her aunt Herbert in a duet for the harp and piano, and in this she succeeded so well as to gain approbation from every one present.
Another unexpected success awaited her. She had attempted to copy on ivory a miniature of her mother painted by Sir George Hayter. It was in truth only the effort of a learner, and by no means so deserving of praise as her studies of heads and landscapes; yet when Mr. Armstrong produced it, framed and reposing in a velvet-lined morocco case, it obtained for her great commendation.
"Oh, papa," said Mary, blushing deeply when she saw it in his hand, "my painting is not worth all that expense."
"I have had it done to show my approval of your conduct, Mary," said her father, in a low voice.
The flush on her face deepened at the words. Mary Armstrong sought for no greater reward than her father's approving smile.
"Well, brother Armstrong," said Colonel Herbert an hour afterwards, when the party were about to separate, "I must congratulate you on the success of your plans. If you are as much satisfied with Mary's exploits in the domestic line as we are with her in other respects, you have no reason to complain of failure."
And thus armed at all points butonefor contact with the world, Mary Armstrong passed from girlhood to womanhood without a care for the future.
More than three years have passed since Mary's probation ended so pleasantly, and they have very much changed her father.
Perhaps we ought to say that the gentle influence of his wife and close association with her family, had to a certain extent softened down the rugged points of his character, and made him more amenable to the usages of the society in which he moved. The very fact of his choosing for a wife a woman of education and refinement proved that his tastes were above his position, for in the days of which we write, the idea of refinement in the wife of a tradesman would have been treated with incredulity, if not contempt.
During this period the death of Mrs. Armstrong's mother, Mrs. St. Clair, was the only change that occurred in his wife's family. The house at Richmond was given up, and Mary greatly missed the society of her dear grandmamma, and the pleasant visits to her house; but she still constantly associated with her aunts and uncles.
Among the changes of opinion which had by degrees crushed down Mr. Armstrong's prejudices and crotchets, were two important ones, not perhaps in themselves, but in their results. He took a house for his family at Kilburn, which was then a really rural suburb of London.
Sometimes he would ride into town to his business, or take the newly established omnibus which left that locality in time for business hours.
This arrangement led to the less important change from an early to a late dinner, and also to the choice of a school for his youngest boy, Freddy, now in his eighth year. The child's health had always suffered in London, and as, since their residence in the country, he appeared so much better, Mrs Armstrong wished him to remain at home and go daily to a school in the neighbourhood.
It was not long before a circular found its way from Englefield Grange School to Lime Grove, as Mr. Armstrong's residence was named, from two magnificent lime-trees which stood as sentinels on each side the entrance gate, in summer filling the air with their sweet fragrance.
Mrs. Armstrong decided to call upon the principal, Dr. Halford, herself, and with all a mother's anxiety talk to him about her boy.
Her own health had wonderfully improved during the six months of her residence at Kilburn. The open country—for houses then were few and far between—the sweet fresh air, the pleasant walks, gave her, as it were, new life, and last, but not least, the six o'clock dinner suited her better than a late supper. Mr. Armstrong would sometimes tell her she was growing young again, and it may be understood well how her relatives rejoiced over the change in her husband's opinions which had brought about such pleasant results. This improved state of health enabled Mrs. Armstrong to array herself fearlessly in warm winter clothing, and venture out in the cold frosty air a few weeks after Christmas, to call upon Dr. Halford. The distance along the country road was very trifling, and she had more than once noticed the large old-fashioned house which stood back from the road, surrounded by playgrounds, orchards, and a farmyard, all visible to the passer-by.
The vacation was nearly at an end, and the house, with its large dormitories and schoolrooms, in perfect readiness for the return of Dr. Halford's pupils. Its clean and well-furnished appearance satisfied the rather fastidious lady, although she had no intention of sending her boy as a boarder. She had been conducted to a pleasant drawing-room overlooking a beautiful prospect at the back of the house, and instead of taking the chair placed for her she advanced to the window to admire the view. While thus standing, she almost started as the door opened and the doctor entered.
A mildly speaking man, above the middle height, with silvery hair and keen intellectual eyes, advanced to greet the visitor, who quickly discerned that the schoolmaster, of whose erudition she had heard so much, was truly a gentleman of the old school. The cavalier deference in his manner to women, the old-fashioned courtesy with which he requested Mrs. Armstrong to be seated, and addressed her as "Madam," were essentially pleasing to that lady. They were soon quite at home on the subject of education, and Dr. Halford added no little to the prepossession he had created by listening to her anxieties respecting Freddy's health with courteous interest.
"You have children of your own, Dr. Halford?" said Mrs. Armstrong, in a tone of inquiry.
"I have two living, madam; a son and a daughter. My son is being educated for the Church, but at present he assists me in my school."
"And your daughter in the domestic arrangements, I presume," said the lady, with a kind of wish to know whether other men were as anxious over that point as her husband.
"She was accustomed to do so before her marriage," he replied, "but she has resided for several years with her husband in Australia. My son is much younger than his sister. She is the eldest of seven, and he the youngest."
Mrs. Armstrong mentally reflected on the sorrowful loss of five children, which must have caused such a terrible gap between the only surviving son and daughter, for there had been a sadness in his tone when he last spoke. Her own sympathies were too strong, and the memory of the loss of two children since Freddy, too painful still to allow her to continue the subject, so she said—
"When do you commence school again, Dr. Halford?"
"On Monday, madam," was the reply. "Would you like to see the schoolrooms and dining-rooms?" he added, "as your little boy is to dine with us."
Mrs. Armstrong gladly assented, and on her way to these apartments met Mrs. Halford, with whom she was equally pleased to make acquaintance. After a stay of nearly an hour, she at last took her leave of the doctor and his wife, saying—
"I shall send my little boy on Monday week, Dr. Halford, not before, and I feel sure he will make progress under your care, and be quite happy."
The terms for so young a pupil were not of such great importance as to justify Dr. Halford's pleasure at this addition to his numbers, but he had been as quick to detect a gentlewoman in Mrs. Armstrong as she had been respecting himself. Besides, he had heard rumours already of the wealth and good connexions of the family at Lime Grove, and the latter fact was more especially agreeable to him.
A clergyman who is a schoolmaster and his wife are both often well born and well connected though poor, and naturally they prefer to teach boys who learn refinement and good breeding at home, to those who are perhaps better paid for by parents who think everything, even intellect and good manners, can be obtained for money.
Mrs. Armstrong returned home at a quick pace; the pleasure she felt at being able to place her delicate Freddy with such nice people, and the fresh bracing air of the cold morning, invigorated her so greatly that Mary, who met her in the hall, exclaimed—
"Why, mamma, you look quite young and blooming, and as happy as if you had heard pleasant news!"
"Well, dear, I think I have, for Dr. Halford is one of the nicest schoolmasters I ever met with, rather of the old school in manners, but not in the least pedantic, and I like Mrs. Halford exceedingly, there is such a kind, motherly way about her, and they are both really well bred."
"So I suppose you intend Freddy to go there to school, mamma?" said Mary.
"Yes, indeed I do, my dear; and I am so pleased with the house and the arrangements, that if the Grange were not too near home, I should like to send Arthur and Edward as boarders. But I begin to feel rather tired, darling," she added, throwing herself into an easy-chair, "although the fresh bracing air seems to have given me new life."
"Ah, yes, so it may," cried Mary, "but, mamma, I can see you are tired; all the bright colour on your checks is beginning to fade already, so you must sit quite still in that chair till luncheon time; it will soon be ready, and I will take off your things and carry them upstairs while you rest."
The fairies of old are still Mary's attendants; gently and quickly she removed her mother's bonnet and wraps, and running upstairs with them, returned in a very few minutes with her head-dress, which she arranged tastefully on the pale brown hair, still worn in side curls as in the days of her youth.
Mrs. Armstrong has not yet reached the age of forty, and the delicate health of the last few years has only rendered her fair complexion more delicate and her physical powers weaker, without adding age to her appearance or a single grey hair to the shining curls which hang on each side of her face.
As Mary Armstrong stands by her mother, smoothing the soft ringlets, it is plainly to be seen that the pretty child of twelve has developed into a very beautiful woman. At the age of eighteen she resembles her mother only in complexion, eyes, and hair. Her features, though as regular, are not so delicately chiselled, they are larger and more marked; and in this, as in an expression of calm decision, the resemblance to her father is very striking. It is when she smiles, and her blue eyes light up with pleasure and interest, that strangers often exclaim, "How like you are to your mother, Miss Armstrong!" Mary has grown very little since the time when her cousin named her "Cinderella," but she looks taller, partly on account of her figure having fully developed into rounded proportions, but principally because the curls have disappeared. They have been tortured into plaits and massive coils at the back of her head, but true to Nature they often rebel, and escape here and there in the form of ringlets—often unnoticed by their owner, but when pointed out to her they are unceremoniously pushed back.
Mary is still influenced by the words of her father; he once said to her, "Mary, can you not arrange your hair as other girls do? those long curls are too childish at your age."
From this moment, to her mother's great regret, she, as it was then called, "turned up her hair" in the way we have described.
Her aunts approved, because this arrangement was less singular and more fashionable, which latter fact would have greatly surprised Mr. Armstrong. At all events, they differed from him in one respect still. When the rebellious hair would escape from the plaits in stray ringlets while in the company of her aunts, Mary had at first attempted to reduce them to submission, but she was quickly interrupted. "Leave your hair alone, Mary," her aunt Herbert exclaimed; "why, those stray ringlets are most effective, and quite an improvement to the appearance of your head. Surely your father will not object to what is natural; if you curled it in paper every night to produce an effect, then he might complain or disapprove."
Mary laughed, but when visiting at her aunt's she allowed Nature to act as she pleased. Yet at home there seemed no happier task to the young girl than to give way to every wish of her father, whether openly expressed or slightly hinted at, no matter to what it referred. It was a kind of hero-worship in the girl's heart. Her father was her hero, and the fact that she did not love him with the same clinging fondness as she loved her mother was quite unknown to herself.
Mary Armstrong certainly obeyed the command, "Honour thy father and thy mother;" yet in the family at Lime Grove there was still one thing wanting, "the perfect love that casteth out fear."
The principles of honour, rectitude, truthfulness, generosity, and other moral virtues were cultivated in Mary's home, but the "charity, or love," without which, St. Paul tells us, all our doings are as "sounding brass and tinkling cymbals," was wanting. Love to God and love to man, on which "hang all the law and the commandments," were known only in theory.
Mary Armstrong had yet to learn that to her Father in heaven she must turn in trouble and sorrow, and in future days she might have said almost in the words of Wolsey, "Had I but served my Father in heaven as diligently as I studied to please my father on earth, He would not have forsaken me now in my hour of sorrow." And yet for these days of trial Mary at last could feel thankful. Christianity in her home had been an acknowledged fact. Its outward duties, its moral principles, were all inculcated; but when our daily life passes smoothly, untroubled, by sorrow or poverty, which is, perhaps, the hardest trial of all to bear, especially when accompanied by sickness and pain, we are apt to forget the sweet principle of love to God and love to man which, St. Paul tells us, "is the fulfilling of the law;" and Mary Armstrong's life hitherto had known no trials more painful than those caused by her father's eccentricities.
More than thirty-five years before the period of which we write, James Halford, who had been travelling tutor to the son of a nobleman, commenced a school at Bayswater, then a pretty rural village. His father, a country surgeon in good practice, had given his only son a superior education, but the young man had no liking for his father's profession. To send James to the university Mr. Halford felt would be beyond his means, and the young man's wish to enter the Church was therefore set aside, causing him great disappointment. Ultimately he was engaged as tutor to the youth already spoken of, and while with him in that capacity became acquainted with the governess of his sisters, Clara Marston, whom he afterwards married. At the death of his father a small but unexpected amount of money fell into his hands. He almost immediately relinquished his engagement with the son of Lord Rivers, and took a house at Bayswater. Trifling as the sum was, it still formed a sufficient capital upon which to commence a school, and so well had he performed his duty with his pupil that the high recommendation of the young man's relatives soon gained him several pupils. Six months after his father's death Clara Marston became his wife. For ten years they continued to carry on their school most successfully, till bricks and mortar had completely destroyed the countrified character of the place, and obliged them at last to seek a home elsewhere.
Armies of builders were already invading the beautiful fields and meadows in the neighbourhood; long rows of small semi-detached cottages, at rentals varying from 20l.to 50l.a year, sprung up as if by magic. Worse still, when the long leases of many old red brick mansions expired they were quickly demolished, and not only on their sites, but in the midst of the beautiful gardens and pleasure-grounds belonging to them arose piles of inferior buildings, bringing to their owners a quick return for the capital expended. The same spoliation of Nature is still going on around us, and in these days of utilitarianism how can it be avoided?
The loveliest of Nature's landscapes—the bright flowers of a well-kept garden—the glorious old trees, from the tops of which is heard the musical cawing of rooks—the red brick mansion with its many windows glittering in the setting sun, and its colour contrasting picturesquely with the green foliage—the stream of limpid water with the graceful swans gliding on its shadowed surface,—all this is very lovely to see, and belongs to the beautiful, but "will it pay?" is the question asked now; and the practical man of business knows thatmoneynot "knowledgeis power," in these days of mammon-worship. So the beautiful is sacrificed without regret if it can be replaced by something that "pays better."
This brick-building mania, however, hastened Mr. Halford's removal from a house already too small for his increased number of pupils and rising family. His gentle firmness with the former, and his wife's clever domestic management, had made them very successful, and when they removed to their present commodious residence all their pupils followed them, and others were quickly added to their number.
Many sorrows, however, had overtaken them during the twenty-five years at Englefield Grange. Of their seven children two only survived, the eldest and the youngest.
Fanny Halford at the age of twenty had married, and accompanied her husband to Melbourne about fourteen years before the time of which we write. The youngest, Henry, a studious reading boy, was therefore the only hope of his parents. Dr. Halford, remembering his own disappointment about entering the Church, watched his boy anxiously, and as he grew from childhood to youth discovered with satisfaction that his wish to become a clergyman was as strong as his own had been.
Indeed, the youth's tastes all tended to such a result. At eight years old he commenced Greek; Cæsar, Horace, and Virgil were the companions of his play-hours, history an amusement, and poetry a delight. When these talents developed themselves Mr. Halford could not control his regret at a lost opportunity. Henry had not reached his seventh year when a friend obtained for him a presentation to Christ's Hospital; but the mother, who had followed so many children to the grave, could not spare her youngest boy. Mr. Halford hesitated to press it, and so the opportunity was lost. Now, however, she was ready to make any possible sacrifice to help in carrying out his own and his father's wishes.
When Henry Halford reached the age of sixteen it became necessary to make some decision as to his future. He had his faults, as all young people have, and they had been to a certain extent fostered by the indulgence of his loving mother and sister. Fanny was twelve years older than her brother, and knowing how he hated the restrictions of order and neatness, she would, during his early boyhood, quietly set to rights untidy rooms, carefully replace scattered books, and forgive his seeming indifference to her kind attention. Even a certain irritation of temper was passed over by mother and sister, for if he was hasty, was he not quick to forgive? and who so penitent as Henry Halford after uttering an angry or unjust word? Besides, they reasoned, studious and imaginative people were often very irritable. After his sister's marriage, he had another to spoil him in her place, of whom we shall hear more by-and-by. And so the time passed on till his father felt it necessary to obtain for his son suitable preparation for the university.
One evening he broached the subject to his wife. "My dear," he said, "there is no one to whom I could send Henry with so much confidence as to Dr. Mason; he is a man of high standing, and his pupils scarcely ever fail in passing for the professions in which he prepares them. He took a first class at Oxford, and has had many years' experience."
"Are not his terms a hundred a year?" asked Mrs. Halford.
"Yes," was the reply, "but I have thought the matter over seriously; Henry must be with Dr. Mason two years at least, and we can spare the 200l., Clara dear, don't you think so?"
"Indeed, I do," she replied; "I would make any sacrifice rather than interfere with the dear boy's prospects."
"There will be no sacrifice," said her husband, "even if it should cost the whole of the thousand pounds I have saved for him, to send him to the university. Fanny has had her share, and if Henry is willing for his portion to be spent on preparation for the Church we cannot object to his wishes."
"And is he willing?" asked the mother, who was ready to give up double the sum named by her husband if by so doing she could gratify her son.
"More than willing, he is most anxious. I never saw the boy look so eager and delighted as when he found I could spare the money I had set aside for him without inconvenience to myself. I explained to him the whole cost—200l.for two years with Dr. Mason,—and, at the lowest estimate, 600l.while at Oxford. Altogether, with coaching, private tutor, ordination fees, and other expenses, a thousand pounds will just about cover it."
"You have set my mind at ease, James, about the boy," said Mrs. Halford. "In six or seven years he will be ordained, and by that time, if our school continues to be successful, we may still have something to leave to our children after all."
"And you forget, my dear, that if I should be laid up or unable to work, Henry as a clergyman will be much more suitable to carry on the school than myself, although I have a foreign degree. And after my death there will be an income for him to fall back upon if he does not speedily obtain a living."
"Don't anticipate evil," said the hopefully proud mother. "God grant we may both live to see our son a useful minister in the Church before we die, whether as curate or rector."
And in this happy prospect Henry Halford, at the age of seventeen, had been placed with Dr. Mason to prepare for matriculation at Oxford.
The breakfast parlour at the Grange was situated at the back of the house, looking over the prospect so admired by Mrs. Armstrong. The sun shining upon the front of the house during the summer afternoon made this apartment cool and pleasant for tea, which was now prepared on a table near the window.
Close to it sat a lady past middle age, yet most attractive in appearance. On her white silky hair rested a lace cap tastefully trimmed; beneath the white hair and strongly contrasted with it were dark eyes, eyebrows, and lashes, still reminding those who knew her in youth of the bright and lively Clara Marston. The soft, patient face has now lost its vivacity, but it is not the less pleasing on that account. Her hand held a stocking, but it rested on her lap, her thoughts were evidently far away.
The door opened and Dr. Halford entered, followed by his niece, who exclaimed—
"Aunt, I declare you have been mending stockings, but I mean to hide that stocking-basket out of your sight; and now you are to make yourself comfortable in your easy-chair while I pour out the tea."
Mrs. Halford smiled, but she submitted quietly to her niece's injunctions, gave up the stocking which she took from her passive hand, and then drew her aunt's chair nearer to the table.
Happy as they appeared, Mrs. Halford could scarcely, even after the lapse of ten years, repress a sigh as she saw her niece take her absent daughter's place.
Perhaps she felt thankful at not being able to trace a likeness in her brother's daughter to her own Fanny, who in features, eyes, and hair so much resembled herself. But in truth Kate Marston was a great comfort to her aunt and uncle. Plain and homely, with a fair skin and rosy cheeks that betokened her north-country origin, she was yet active, methodical, and industrious—a daughter in loving attention to her aunt and uncle, and at all times good-tempered and cheerful.
"Uncle," she said presently, "you need not hide your letter, I saw the postman give you one this afternoon."
Mrs. Halford looked up quickly. "Is it from Dr. Mason?" she asked.
"Well, yes, it is," he replied. "I wanted to wait till we had finished tea, but Katey is impatient, so I suppose I must read it at once."
"Yes, uncle, of course you must; I saw the postmark when you took it in, so no wonder I am impatient."
We also need not wonder, for the orphan daughter of Mrs. Halford's only brother had no hopes or interests beyond those of Englefield Grange; and although she had long passed the ominous age of thirty she had no thought of marriage.
Dr. Halford took the letter from his pocket, and not even the mother's eyes could be brighter with interest as she listened while her husband read than those of Kate Marston. And this is what Dr. Mason wrote respecting the dearly loved son and cousin:—
"My dear Sir,—When you requested me to send you my opinion respecting the abilities and character of your son Henry at the end of one month, I feared it would be too soon to enable me to form a correct judgment."I might, however, have done so safely, for as I found him during the first month he still continues; to even a superficial observer his character and tendencies are plainly distinguishable. I never met with a youth less reticent or more transparent,—too much so indeed for contact with the world; he is fearless of consequences, and careless of concealment."I have been led to form this opinion from mere trifling matters which have come under my notice. A want of order and neatness, and a reckless disregard to rules, have made him break them openly, and as if unconscious that by so doing he was deserving of blame. I am inclined to think that Master Henry's mamma and cousin are answerable for all this, for the boy acts as if he had been accustomed to be waited upon hand and foot."He has a high proud spirit which will brook no insult; yet, quick as he is to resent, he is equally quick to forgive, and when he has given offence by a hasty or unjust remark he is ready to acknowledge it and to apologise in a moment. He is warm-hearted and generous to a fault, and a great favourite with some of my best pupils, all older than himself."Perhaps one great cause for this may arise from their admiration of his talents. My dear friend, you did not prepare me for such a genius as your boy. You have, no doubt, instructed him well, but there is in him a natural love for the acquirement of knowledge for its own sake, and indeed talents, which if cultivated will one day make of him a great man."Do not hesitate to send him to the university; and if he still wishes to become a clergyman, encourage him by all means to work for that end."The power over his own language which he displays in his translations of the Greek and Latin poets is wonderful in a youth of his age. He never seems at a loss for a word to express the true meaning of the original, and his English themes are superior in many respects to those of my oldest pupils."The style wants training and pruning, like a plant of luxurious growth, till it reaches perfection and beauty. Time and experience will do this, and I have no fear for the result."In mathematical studies, however, he is rather deficient, but for these he appears to have no predilection. I shall not allow him to give them up entirely, although I have no hopes of making him a mathematician. My epistle is extending itself beyond all reasonable limits, but I was most anxious to give you my candid opinion of your son's character and abilities, and I trust I have complied with your request in a satisfactory manner."With kind regards to Mrs. Halford and your niece, believe me to be"Most faithfully yours,"M. Mason."
"My dear Sir,—When you requested me to send you my opinion respecting the abilities and character of your son Henry at the end of one month, I feared it would be too soon to enable me to form a correct judgment.
"I might, however, have done so safely, for as I found him during the first month he still continues; to even a superficial observer his character and tendencies are plainly distinguishable. I never met with a youth less reticent or more transparent,—too much so indeed for contact with the world; he is fearless of consequences, and careless of concealment.
"I have been led to form this opinion from mere trifling matters which have come under my notice. A want of order and neatness, and a reckless disregard to rules, have made him break them openly, and as if unconscious that by so doing he was deserving of blame. I am inclined to think that Master Henry's mamma and cousin are answerable for all this, for the boy acts as if he had been accustomed to be waited upon hand and foot.
"He has a high proud spirit which will brook no insult; yet, quick as he is to resent, he is equally quick to forgive, and when he has given offence by a hasty or unjust remark he is ready to acknowledge it and to apologise in a moment. He is warm-hearted and generous to a fault, and a great favourite with some of my best pupils, all older than himself.
"Perhaps one great cause for this may arise from their admiration of his talents. My dear friend, you did not prepare me for such a genius as your boy. You have, no doubt, instructed him well, but there is in him a natural love for the acquirement of knowledge for its own sake, and indeed talents, which if cultivated will one day make of him a great man.
"Do not hesitate to send him to the university; and if he still wishes to become a clergyman, encourage him by all means to work for that end.
"The power over his own language which he displays in his translations of the Greek and Latin poets is wonderful in a youth of his age. He never seems at a loss for a word to express the true meaning of the original, and his English themes are superior in many respects to those of my oldest pupils.
"The style wants training and pruning, like a plant of luxurious growth, till it reaches perfection and beauty. Time and experience will do this, and I have no fear for the result.
"In mathematical studies, however, he is rather deficient, but for these he appears to have no predilection. I shall not allow him to give them up entirely, although I have no hopes of making him a mathematician. My epistle is extending itself beyond all reasonable limits, but I was most anxious to give you my candid opinion of your son's character and abilities, and I trust I have complied with your request in a satisfactory manner.
"With kind regards to Mrs. Halford and your niece, believe me to be
"Most faithfully yours,
"M. Mason."
A few miles from Meadow Farm, the birthplace of Edward Armstrong, stood a nobleman's mansion, which in spite of modern alterations and adornments, gave numerous proofs of its antiquity. The building formed three sides of a square, the fourth enclosed by iron railings and a curiously carved gate, gilded escutcheons and coats of arms forming its chief ornaments. The house stood on the brow of a hill, looking across the town of Basingstoke, which lay beneath it at a distance of a few miles.
A streamlet, issuing in little rills from springs on the summit of the ascent, fell in tiny cascades through woody glens and artificial grottoes till it approached the house. Here it formed a miniature lake on which the majestic swans sailed in stately pride. Continuing its course, it passed under a rustic bridge, a limpid stream, in which the speckled trout sported, fearless of the angler's line, beneath the shadow of lofty elms or gracefully bending willows.
Within, the house was equally attractive. A large hall occupied the centre of the building, its lofty dimensions reaching to the roof, and lighted by tall narrow windows which faced the entrance gates. From this hall, doors and a noble staircase led to other apartments, the dining-room and drawing-room occupying a similar space at the back. In the former room, a few days after the marriage of Arthur Franklyn to Fanny Halford, a family party were assembled at breakfast. From a deep oriel window, with its lattice and diamond panes open to the sweet perfumed air of spring, could be seen, not only gardens, shrubberies, and a richly wooded park, but a distant prospect of hill and valley, field and meadow, equalled, no doubt, but not often surpassed in our fertile island.
The furniture of the room, though suited to its antique architecture, wore an appearance of brightness which the light though simple morning attire of some of its occupants greatly increased.
The party consisted of three ladies, a gentleman in the prime of life, and a youth of sixteen. The eldest of the ladies, though pale and delicate, appeared almost too youthful to be the mother of the two girls of seventeen and nineteen who sat at the table by her side.
The younger of them had theTimesnewspaper in her hand, and appeared to be deeply engaged in examining its first column. The elder presided at the breakfast-table.
"Well, Dora," said her father, "what have you found in the paper interesting enough to make you oblivious to the fact that your breakfast is getting cold?"
"Why, papa," she replied, laughing, "I am not particularly interested, but puzzled with the advertisement of a wedding. The house of the bride's father has the same name as ours,—at least, not exactly; but listen, papa.
"'On the 6th instant, at the parish church, Kilburn, Arthur Leigh Franklyn, Esq., solicitor, of Clement's Inn, London, and Brook House, Clapton, to Frances Clara, only daughter of Dr. Halford, Englefield Grange, Kilburn.'"
"Halford's daughter married!" exclaimed the earl, for such he was; "truly indeed time flies: it seems but the other day that he and I were travelling together on the Continent, and studying men and manners."
"Oh, papa, I remember now. Dr. Halford was your tutor. I thought I had heard the name; but how came his house to be called Englefield Grange?"
"A liberty rather, I should say," remarked the young heir to the title and estate, Lord Robert, Viscount Woodville.
"MyfriendJames Halford," said Earl Rivers, with a stress upon the word, "intended it as a compliment, Robert, yet he waited for my father's permission before he named his house Englefield Grange. My conscience smites me for having neglected him so long. I must pay them a visit this season while we are in London."
"I have heard your mother speak of Dr. Halford," said Lady Rivers; "did he not marry your sister's governess?"
"Yes, Clara Marston. Why, it must be two or three and twenty years ago. They lived at Bayswater for some time after their marriage, but I have seen nothing of them since they removed to Kilburn."
"And this daughter, papa," said Lady Dora, "did you ever see her?"
"Well, my dear, I have some recollection of a little dark-eyed girl named Fanny, to whom I was introduced in one of my visits at Bayswater. She was then, I should say, about eight years old, and the Halfords have resided nearly eleven years at Kilburn."
"If the little girl was named Fanny, papa, she must be the same who has just married, for the name in the paper is Frances. Oh yes," added Lady Dora, after another glance at theTimes, "and it says only daughter, so this must be the bride."
"You appear greatly interested in this young married lady, my dear," said her father.
Lady Dora blushed. Her interest was only that of girls of seventeen in all ranks of society about brides in general, and one in particular if her age, parentage, and antecedents are known. "I think I am interested now," replied the young lady, "because you knew the bride when she was a little girl, and her father was your tutor; but the name of Englefield first attracted me in the newspaper. Papa," she continued after a slight pause, during which no one spoke, "Englefield is a strange title for any house, especially such a beautiful estate as this. Do you know how it originated?"
"From nothing very mysterious or romantic," said her father, laughing,—"at least, none that I ever heard of. According to the etymology of the word, however, we ought to be descended from the gipsies, for Engle is evidently derived from the old Saxon word Ingle, which signifies a hearth or chimney corner. Ingle or Engle in a field, as the name of this estate implies, must denote a cosy, homelike fireplace, in a meadow or on a common, such as only gipsies can invent. But you must decide upon this matter yourself, Dora," continued the earl, as he rose and looked at his watch; "I have no time for farther discussion upon the origin of a name which belonged to this estate more than four hundred years ago."
"How very absurd you are, Dora!" said her elder sister, when the earl had left the room, "just as if it mattered to us what originated the name of an estate which has descended to papa through so many generations. And why you should be interested about the marriage of a schoolmaster's daughter I cannot imagine."
"A schoolmaster's daughter!" repeated Lady Dora, "I did not know Dr. Halford kept a school."
"He does, my dear," said Lady Rivers, gently, "but Dr. Halford and his wife are truly well-bred people, and their profession has never lessened the respect and kind interest with which both your father and grandfather have always treated them."
Lady Mary Woodville shrugged her shoulders; she had been a frequent visitor at her grandmother's, the Dowager Lady Rivers, and this lady's influence and opinions had fostered in the heart of Lady Mary her natural pride of birth, and a foolish contempt for those who had to work for their living.
"You have not much to boast of, Mary," said her brother, laughing, as he rose from his seat and approached the window, "if, as papa suggests, we are descended from the gipsies."
"What nonsense you talk, Robert!" replied his sister.
"Well, perhaps I ought to have addressed you, Dora, instead of Mary, for with your brown face and your flashing black eyes you are an out-and-out little gipsy;" but as the youth spoke, his glance of affection too plainly proved that the "little gipsy" was a favourite sister.
"I am like papa, Robert," she replied, good-naturedly.
"Of course you are, my dear," said Lady Rivers, "and he has nothing of the gipsy about him; but do not waste time in talking nonsense.—Robert, I thought you asked Dora to ride with you this morning, and the sooner you order the horses the better, for this bright April weather may not continue all day."
Lord Robert hastened to follow his mother's advice, while Lady Dora gladly escaped from the room to prepare for her ride.
This little peep into the domestic habits and manners of the family at Englefield will give our readers some idea of the pleasant home in which James Halford met his future wife, Clara Marston, in the years gone by.
The present Earl Rivers, who had been Dr. Halford's pupil for three years from the age of twenty-one, had reached his forty-fifth year at the time of which we write. Well might Lady Rivers assert that there was nothing of the gipsy in his appearance, in spite of the dark eyes and hair in which, as well as in features, his youngest daughter so strongly resembled him. Lord Rivers' tall, commanding figure, noble bearing, and marked features belonged to the class which an Englishman designates aristocratic. Yet he had no proud assumption of superiority on this account. Although polished and refined, and a true English gentleman of the olden times, his manners were simple and unobtrusive; and now, as he rides his horse slowly through the park and along the road to the station, he recalls with pain the fact that he has neglected his friend Dr. Halford long enough for his little daughter Fanny, whose marriage is in theTimes, to grow to womanhood and become a bride.
"I will pay them a visit next week," was his decision at length, as he put his horse into a canter.
April had fulfilled its proverbial destiny. It had passed away in "showers" and sunshine, leaving behind as its trophies the "May flowers" which were to gladden the earth with their beauty and fragrance in this the first summer month of the year.
One morning, while Kate Marston was busy in one of the rooms overlooking the road, she saw a gentleman on horseback stop at the gate and alight. She heard the peal of the gate bell, and then the question to the man-servant who answered it—
"Is Dr. Halford at home?"
The next moment the tall figure of a stranger to Kate approached the house, and she could hear the footsteps ascending the stairs to the drawing-room.
"Some gentleman about pupils," said Kate to herself, as she returned to her occupation. Yet she could not get rid of the idea that the visitor was not exactly of the same stamp as those who generally presented themselves at Englefield Grange.
Meanwhile Dr. Halford's man-servant had placed a card in his master's hand which made him rise hastily from his desk, leave the schoolroom to the care of the assistants, and hasten upstairs to welcome his visitor.
As the two gentlemen shook hands, so many recollections of the past thronged to their memories that neither for a moment could utter a word. Lord Rivers recovered himself first.
"Doctor," he said, the old familiar title coming naturally to his lips, "I am positively ashamed to meet you again after so many years of neglect, but here I am at last, to plead for myself, and ask you and your wife to forgive me."
"Lord Rivers," replied Dr. Halford, "there is nothing to forgive. I know too well what the demands upon the time of a man in your position must be, and my old pupil will always be welcome at Englefield Grange;" and as the gentleman spoke he placed a chair for his visitor and begged him to be seated.
"And this is the house you have named after Englefield," said the earl. "Well, it is a charming spot; and what a splendid prospect from that window!" he added, rising and approaching to obtain a more extended view. "I feel myself honoured by your choice of a name for such a residence."
"It can scarcely be called an honour," said the doctor, "but this house is a great improvement upon the one at Bayswater; do you remember it, Lord Rivers?"
"Indeed I do, to my regret. My last visit there must be nearly ten years ago, and that reminds me—I will make my confession at once—I saw in theTimesof last week a notice of the marriage of your only daughter. I suppose the little Fanny I met at my last visit. The name of Englefield Grange attracted my youngest daughter's notice, and when she pointed it out to me I felt inclined to say, like the chief butler in Pharaoh's court, 'I do remember my faults this day.'"
"My dear Lord Rivers," began Dr. Halford, but the visitor stopped him.
"I will not say another word on the subject, doctor. And now tell me all about your daughter; whom she has married, and how many sons you have. And one question I should have asked first—how is Mrs. Halford? I must not go away without seeing her."
Dr. Halford was at this time fourteen years younger than on the day when Mrs. Armstrong called upon him to arrange about her little boy; a man still in the prime of life, scarcely ten years older than his late pupil, yet the parting with his only daughter had sprinkled the first grey streaks in his dark hair, and already aged him in appearance. Lord Rivers had brought to his memory the occasion to which his lordship had referred. On that last visit at Bayswater, Fanny, the eldest, had not been theonlygirl: his family consisted then of five children; four of these he had lost during a few succeeding years, and of the two boys born since, his son Henry alone survived.
The bereaved father felt that while the loss of his daughter Fanny was such a recent event he must nerve himself before he could call up old memories to enlighten his kind visitor.
Lord Rivers, he knew, was actuated by the kindest interest in questioning him on the past, and the earl's present ideas about Fanny's marriage were formed on the supposition that it was a matter for congratulation, and a time of joyful hopes. All this was evident to Dr. Halford, and he gladly seized upon the opportunity offered by the mention of Mrs. Halford's name to say—
"Lord Rivers, you will stay and lunch with us in our plain simple way; you must not refuse, indeed you must not, for the sake of olden times," he added quickly, as he noticed a look of hesitation in his friend's face.
"I do not mean to refuse," said his lordship, "but I was thinking about the horses and my groom; if he could be told to take them to the inn for an hour or so, and get provender for them and himself, I will gladly remain with you to lunch."
Glad of an excuse to leave the room and tell Mrs. Halford of the arrival, Dr. Halford, with a hasty apology and a promise to send the order of Lord Rivers to the groom, left the gentleman to himself.
But Mrs. Halford, the Clara Marston of olden times, was more calm and self-possessed in cases of emergency than her erudite husband. She had heard from Kate of the arrival of a gentleman on horseback, and from Thomas the name on the card.
Giving orders at once for lunch to be prepared in the private dining-room, she made some trifling addition to her dress, and waited for a summons from her husband.
As he left the drawing-room she met him on the stairs.
"Lord Rivers is here, Clara," was his flurried remark.
"I know it, my dear; everything is ready. Whither are you going?"
"To send Thomas out to the groom about the horses. You go up to the visitor; he is going to lunch with us."
"Do not be long," she said, as she continued her way upstairs and entered the room.
Lord Rivers started forward with pleasure to receive her, and in a very few minutes they were talking eagerly of old times at Englefield, when the earl, then Lord Woodville, a youth in his teens, had been sometimes a troublesome intruder on the school hours or music and drawing lessons of his two young sisters, Miss Marston's pupils.
Presently Dr. Halford joined them; he was more able to touch upon family sorrows with his wife for an ally, and a great amount of the sad part of the details was got over before the summons to lunch.
In one point, however, Lord Rivers did some real good.
Dr. Halford was expressing a kind of mournful regret that his daughter's marriage should take her so far away from home, when Lord Rivers interrupted him.
"My dear doctor, you are not keeping pace with the times. In the present day a voyage to Australia is not more distant as regards time than America or even the Mediterranean in years gone by. And the wonderful facility of communication by post unites friends personally separated by thousands of miles as closely in these days of rapid travelling as those who a hundred years ago merely occupied different parts of our own little island."
"Very true," replied Dr. Halford, "yet, still——" and he paused.
"Not satisfied yet?" exclaimed Lord Rivers, cheeringly, as they descended to the dining-room. "Are you more hopeful about your daughter, Mrs. Halford?"
"I am getting more reconciled to her loss," was the reply, "and perhaps in time the interchange of letters and news of Fanny's happiness will complete the cure."
During luncheon the conversation became more cheerful, and Lord Rivers was about to express his regret that he must leave such pleasant society, when the door opened and a little blue-eyed boy of about eight years old entered the room.
"Ah," exclaimed the visitor, "this is your youngest child, doctor, I suppose, of whom you were speaking just now.—Come here, my little man, and shake hands with papa's friend."
The boy advanced fearlessly and placed his little hand in that of his father's old pupil, while he looked in the face of Lord Rivers with bright, intelligent eyes, and that peculiar smile which even in childhood added such a charm to the face of Henry Halford.
"My only boy, Henry, and my only child now, I may say," was the remark of the father, in a rather sad tone.
"I see nothing in that fact calculated to make you speak sadly, doctor," said the nobleman, pushing back the brown curls from the child's broad white forehead. "There is room for any amount of knowledge here, I should say. Are you fond of your books, my boy?"
"I like reading history," replied Henry, simply—"all about those wonderful Greeks and Romans, and the great Northmen that conquered so many countries," and then the child paused suddenly, as if ashamed of his enthusiasm.
Lord Rivers, with a glance at the radiant face of the proud mother, drew the boy nearer to him, and said—
"Go on, Henry, tell me what books you like best; have you begun to learn Latin yet?"
"Oh yes, sir," said Henry, "I've been all through my Latin grammar and the Delectus, and now I'm learning Greek."
"So you mean to be a learned man like your father, eh, Master Henry?"
"I don't know, sir; but I should like to be a learned man very much."
"And I daresay you will, if you study very hard."
Lord Rivers glanced at his old tutor as he spoke, and said, "What do you mean to make of this boy, doctor?"
"Go into the schoolroom, Henry," said his father, "and ask Mr. Howard to assemble the classes for afternoon school."