Henry turned to obey. Lord Rivers detained him a moment.
"May I?" he said, holding a sovereign in his hand, which could only be seen by Dr. Halford. "Just a trifle to purchase any books he may choose, and consider them my present."
There was a silent acquiescence to this appeal, which Lord Rivers quickly understood.
Turning to the boy he placed the sovereign in his hand, saying, "Good-by, Henry; there is something to buy you any books you wish for, and you must call them my present."
The child for a moment looked bewildered, then he turned to his father with inquiring eyes.
"Thank Lord Rivers for his kind present, Henry," said his father, "and when you have delivered my message to Mr. Howard you can return here."
"Thank you, Lord Rivers," said the child; and then with an earnest look in the nobleman's face he asked, "Was papa your tutor once?"
"Yes, my boy," said the earl; and as he stooped to kiss the bright, intelligent face, he added, "And now go and deliver papa's message."
With a quick movement the boy, turning to his father, placed the sovereign in his hand, and hastily left the room.
"What a splendid boy!" was the earl's remark as the door closed on the child. "What do you intend to make of him? he has genius enough for any position."
"I hope to send him to the university," replied Dr. Halford, "and if I find he has any predilection that way, I shall encourage him to take orders."
"Almost a pity, doctor, to bury such talents in the Church, and limit the young man's income to 100l.a year as a curate."
"I shall be guided by the boy's own wishes; but if I find he desires to become a clergyman as earnestly as I did, I will not raise a single obstacle in his path."
"Well, no," said Lord Rivers, rising as Thomas entered with the information that the horses were at the door. "I can quite understand your wish that your son should not be thwarted in his hopes as you were; and remember one thing—if in the years to come your son Henry should become a clergyman, I have two livings in my gift, one of which shall be his as soon as it becomes vacant after he is ordained."
Before the delighted parents could express their warmest thanks for this promise, the little boy made his appearance, and accompanied his father to the gate with the visitor.
The child's eager admiration of the beautiful high-bred animal which the earl mounted, and indeed of the earl himself, was so enthusiastic that it formed an epoch in his life never to be forgotten while memory should last.
Not more lasting and real was the earl's promise in the memory of the doctor and his wife; and this promise, added to the fact that Henry Halford's talents and wishes tended the same way, led to the results which have been described in the preceding chapters of this history.
Perhaps Dr. Halford, whose character was not hopeful, did not allow himself to trust too much in the earl's promise. He remembered the words, "Put not your trust in princes, for vain is the help of man." Yet it influenced him to a certain extent, for he felt convinced that if his old pupil lived, and the opportunity presented itself, Lord Rivers was not likely to forget his promise.
Mr. Armstrong's horse, a valuable and spirited chestnut, stood at the gate of Lime Grove about ten days after Mrs. Armstrong's visit to Englefield Grange.
The family had just finished breakfast in a large room overlooking a beautiful garden from its broad bay-window. The sun shone brightly on the frozen gravel walks, and glittered in the rime that hung on the branches of the leafless trees. Bare and cold as the January prospect of winter might be, yet the clear air and bright sunlight had an invigorating effect on youthful and healthy constitutions.
"Pray wrap up well," said Mrs. Armstrong, as she saw Mary helping her father with his great-coat, "you will have a cold ride this morning; and take care Firefly does not slip."
"No fear of that, Maria, he's a most sure-footed horse; and besides, the ground is too hard to be slippery. And as to wrapping up," he added, patting with his hand a thick shawl doubled across his chest and throat, "I think I am wrapped up sufficiently to defy any kind of weather."
"Not in Russia, papa" (the once objectionable title was tolerated now); "your nose would be frozen, and icicles would hang on your eyelashes; I learnt that in my geography at school."
"Yes, there is no doubt about that fact, Freddy; but in England such terrible results are not likely to happen; and that reminds me I hear you are going to a new school, and I hope you will be a good and attentive boy, and not give your mamma and sister any trouble about your lessons or by being late; and I must be off too," he added, glancing at the clock; "and, Freddy, you have only a quarter of an hour to finish your breakfast and get to school."
"I have finished now, papa," cried the boy, starting up as his father left the room; and then coming over to where his mother sat in an easy-chair by the fire, he put his little hand on hers and said—"Mamma, will you go with me to school? I don't like going by myself the first morning."
Mrs. Armstrong put her arm round her boy and drew him to her side.
"I am not well enough to venture out in the cold, Freddy," she replied, "but Mary will go with you; and you need not be afraid of Dr. Halford, he is most gentle and kind to little boys who are attentive and learn their lessons, and I hope you will try to please him.—Mary, my dear," continued Mrs. Armstrong as her daughter entered the room, "Freddy does not like to go to school the first time by himself, will you take him?"
"Oh yes, mamma, I should like the walk above all things on this bright cold morning. I know the house, it is not far—come Freddy."
Freddy kissed his mother, and then ran upstairs after Mary, and in a very few minutes they were walking along the country road together, Mary with elastic graceful step, and Freddy half walking, half running by her side.
The brother and sister were overflowing with health and spirits on this clear wintry day, and stepped quickly on till they drew near their destination; then Freddy subsided into a more sober pace. The first visit to a new school has rather a depressing influence upon the boyish feelings at eight years old. Freddy's manner excited Mary's sympathy, it was therefore with a very demure look that she led her little brother to the entrance and knocked.
As they stood waiting for admission several boys older than Freddy entered the gate, and passed round the house by a side way to the schoolroom entrance. Of course such a proceeding would have been at that moment too trying for Freddy's nerves, but he cast furtive, inquiring glances at his future schoolfellows, which they returned fearlessly and with interest.
So intent was the child that the opening of the door startled him, and he did not quite recover till he found himself alone with Mary in the drawing-room of Englefield Grange. How often in after years Mary recalled that visit! and how little she anticipated, as she stood admiring the prospect which had so attracted her mother, that its consequences would be interwoven with the whole thread of her future life!
Mrs. Armstrong had been unwilling to send her boy too soon after the close of the Christmas holidays. More than a week had passed, and yet the boarders were returning rather slowly.
"School is all very well," they argued, "in summer, when we can have cricket and games in the playground till bedtime." And we are quite willing to own that winter evenings at school are a trial to a boy who compares them with the warm carpeted parlour, the blazing fire, and the freedom of home, with no lessons to learn.
The arrangements at Dr. Halford's in winter were, however, very homelike. The boys sat on winter evenings in a comfortable class-room, with two fireplaces, not stoves, in which genial fires, protected by wire guards, blazed pleasantly, and large gas burners increased the warmth and created light and cheerfulness.
Still, during the first week or two after the holidays the restless boy-spirit often rebelled against the necessary restraint, without which or the presence of a master the room would very soon have become a modern Babel, or something worse, in noise and tumult.
On this Monday morning Mrs. Halford was busy in the dormitory, arranging, with the assistance of the wardrobe-keeper, the clothes of those boys who had arrived during the preceding week.
The door opened hastily, and Kate Marston entered. Mrs. Halford has changed very little since we saw her at the tea-table some years before, listening to Dr. Mason's letter. She looked up hastily and smiled as her niece said, "Aunt, is the key of the wardrobe room in your key-basket? I cannot find it anywhere." She advanced to the table on which the basket lay, and began to turn over the contents.
"I have the key, my dear," said her aunt, putting her hand into her pocket. "I found it in the door last evening, and took possession of it."
"Oh! Harry, Harry," exclaimed Kate, laughing, "you are incorrigible; how earnestly the dear old fellow did promise me to put the key back in its place! I expect I shall find the drawers open and every sash of the wardrobe pushed back."
Mrs. Halford smiled. "No, my dear," she said, "I went in and put everything to rights before I locked the door."
The kind, loving mother had found doors and wardrobe open, and the usual neatness of everything destroyed by her boy in his anxiety to discover a missing vest, which after all was found in his own bedroom.
Henry Halford has changed very little in character during the years that have elapsed since the receipt of Dr. Mason's letters. He has made great progress in his studies, and when he left Dr. Mason's care, about three years before the Christmas-time of which we write, his father, who had just parted with a classical assistant, found Henry quite capable of supplying his place.
Dr. Halford felt also the truth of Thomson's words—
"Teaching we learn, and giving we retain,The birth of intellect, when dumb, forgot."
"Teaching we learn, and giving we retain,The birth of intellect, when dumb, forgot."
And Henry Halford so thoroughly understood the advantage to himself that he entered into his task with interest and zeal. Young as he was, he soon gained the honour and respect of his father's elder pupils, who were not slow to discover the real value of their young teacher's knowledge.
But Henry Halford at the age of twenty-two was far beyond that age in appearance as well as knowledge. His figure, though tall and rather slight, had a manliness of carriage seldom seen before twenty-five. The clear olive complexion looked even fair by contrast to the thick dark whiskers and eyebrows that adorned it. A beard and moustache were not then, as now, considered necessary ornaments, or we might say useful appendages for the mouth, neck, and throat. At all events, Harry Halford was pronounced handsome by those who were sufficiently intimate with him to observe the play of features, the mobile mouth, and the intelligent sparkling of the deep blue eyes while conversing, although the former was large and displayed want of firmness, and the nose scarcely escaped being pronounced a snub.
Such was the young tutor who now sat in the class-room of the Grange, reading some Greek author, and quite oblivious to the unchecked noise made by the early arrival of day pupils and the boarders in the room.
He had a wonderful power of concentrating his mind on any one subject in spite of surroundings which would have driven some students crazy. The brass bands or a grinding organ might have paraded London streets in peace so far as Henry Halford was concerned. And his sister and cousin would often practise together for hours in winter, in a room close to his little study, uncomplained of by him even when a boy.
As he grew older, and after Fanny left home on her marriage, he would often say to Kate Marston, "Why don't you practise, Kate? I assure you it will not disturb me."
But Kate, after his return from Dr. Mason's, seldom touched the piano while he was in the house; her love of music was so true that she could not understand the possibility of not being disturbed in any mental employment by thepractice, not theperfectperformance of a piece of music.
Well and correctly played, a beautiful air falls on the ear as melodious harmony without disturbing any mental effort then occupying the mind; but to a true musician every false note, every break of tune or measure, jars upon the senses, and attracts other mental powers beyond the mere sense of hearing, and totally breaks up for a time the disturbed train of thought.
But Henry Halford was no musician, and therefore not liable to interruptions of this kind, nor indeed of any other, as his present oblivion in the class-room plainly indicates.
Even the opening of the door failed to disturb him, and it was only when a sudden silence fell on the rebels that the voice of his father made itself heard.
Henry started from his seat, closed the book, and followed Dr. Halford, who beckoned him out of the room.
"Mrs. Armstrong is in the drawing-room, Henry. I suppose she has brought her little boy. Will you go and see her? I fear she will detain me. The clock has struck nine, and I will get these boys into order while you are gone."
Dr. Halford always took this "getting into order" upon himself; it was one of the duties he could not delegate to his son.
Dr. Halford had understood from the maidservant who admitted Mary and her brother thatMrs.Armstrong had brought the little boy, and Henry passed on to the drawing-room, prepared to be detained by a long story of the requirements of her child and the injunctions of a fond mother.
It must be owned he opened the door rather reluctantly, but it was to start with surprise, and for a few moments to lose all self-possession. A young, handsome, and elegant girl rose as he entered, and bowed also with slight confusion. Her mother had described Dr. Halford as a tall, pale, intellectual-looking man of sixty, with white hair and a slight stoop. Who then could this be, with his erect bearing and youthful face? Mary Armstrong could not control the deep blush that rose to her cheek, but she quickly recovered her self-possession. Mary had been subject to too many contrasts in life and was too really well-bred to allow of any awkwardness. She took Freddy's hand and led him forward as she said, "I have brought my little brother, Frederick Armstrong, to school; he did not like to come alone on the first morning, and mamma was not well enough to bring him herself."
Henry Halford by this time had also recovered himself to a certain degree as he stammered out—
"I will tell my father, Miss Armstrong; he is in the schoolroom at present. He asked me to see—I thought Mrs. Armstrong——" and then remembering his father's fear of being detained by that lady, and of his own dread of her in consequence, he paused in helpless confusion. Woman-like, this hesitation gave Mary courage. She could scarcely repress a smile as the young man's words explained unintentionally the cause of his evident surprise. He had expected a middle-aged lady, her mother, instead of a young girl. Perhaps this was the studious son spoken of by Dr. Halford to her mother. Bookworms were always awkward in the company of ladies, especially young ones; and as these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she said with her accustomed ease and dignity—for Mary Armstrong could be dignified at times—"I need not detain you, Mr. Halford, if you will kindly take my little brother to the schoolroom and explain to Dr. Halford why mamma could not bring him herself."
"Certainly, Miss Armstrong," was all he could say, as he opened the door and followed her with Freddy downstairs to the entrance.
When they reached the door he opened it for her to pass out.
"Be a good boy, Freddy," she said, as she stooped to kiss her brother, then she bowed to Henry Halford and descended the steps. On the gravel path she turned to give Freddy one more encouraging look. Henry Halford still stood at the open door, holding Freddy's hand in a firm clasp. Of course she could only bow to him again, but as she passed through the gate into the high road she reflected that this young man who held the child's hand so kindly would no doubt be kind to their little Freddy.
But of the thoughts which had been passing through Henry Halford's mind during that short interview Mary Armstrong was quite unsuspecting; neither had she the least idea that he stood at the open door watching her for some minutes, to Freddy's surprise, and until a movement of the child recalled him to the duties of the hour.
Hastily taking Freddy to the schoolroom and telling his father the child's name, he brought his mind to bear upon the duties of his class with his usual power of concentration. No sooner, however, had morning school closed than he retired to his own little sanctum, but not to his usual studies. A new object of study was occupying his mind, and he threw himself into his chair, and folding his arms, thought over again his adventure of the morning. How clearly every movement, every look, even every article of dress worn by the visitor was photographed on his memory! He could see again the tall graceful figure, the fair expressive face, the large blue eyes, the bright auburn hair, one or two locks as usual escaping under the hat.
He recalled the blush which added brilliance to the face, and knew that in action, word, and movement the young girl before him was a true gentlewoman. Even the dress, so suitable to the season and the hour, showed this—warm and dark and soft, only brightened by an ermine muff and furs, and red ribbons in the hat. And the boy too, young as he was, had more of thesavoir faireabout him than many of the sons of rich merchants who attended the school, and yet the father of these young people was a tradesman. Henry Halford was puzzled. He had been brought up with the foolish prejudice against trade then so prevalent. Both his parents had been well born and were well connected. His father's sister had married into a good family, although, like many of these old families, they had little to boast of in the way of money. And then the young student grew bewildered. Hitherto his books had so occupied every thought that any idea of falling in love had never entered his mind. Perhaps he had too much poetry and imagination in his heart connected with the subject of marriage to allow him to do so easily. In him there existed a refined and spiritualised sense of what a woman should be in the different phases of her existence, as daughter, sister, wife, and mother. Marriage to him was too holy, and the pure love of a woman too ethereal, for either to be trifled with, or made the means of merely obtaining a home or a settlement.
As he thus reflected he began to wonder that the mere meeting with a stranger could arouse in his mind such thoughts as these. Henry Halford had certainly never given the subject such deep consideration before in his life as now. He had met with many young ladies, sisters or relations of the boys under his father's care, and also among his own relations; but none had ever so struck him as Miss Armstrong. What and how did she differ from others? Most certainly there was something about her he could not define.
These conflicting thoughts no doubt arose from ignorance of the world. Perhaps also the mind, fatigued by teaching and study, required more frequent relaxation. Indeed, his mother felt this necessary, and often urged him to accept invitations which he had refused, but without success. Be this as it may, before Henry Halford had been sitting an hour in his little study the old habits asserted themselves. He started up. "Well, I wonder if I am suffering from premonitory symptoms of softening of the brain?" he said to himself. "What have I to do with falling in love or marriage for years to come? Such thoughts, too, just as I am about to succeed in my aims, and have matriculated at Oxford! No, no, this will never do, Henry Halford;" and shaking himself as a dog fresh from the water, he took up Seneca and buried himself in its pages till the dinner bell rang.
In direct contrast to the bright frosty day we have described in the last chapter, the reader must be introduced to the clear atmosphere, cloudless sky, and bright sunshine of a midsummer day at Melbourne—almost England's antipodes. The inhabitants are enjoying a long summer's day on this 29th of January, and the surrounding country is presenting a verdant aspect and leafy foliage something akin to England in July. Midsummer when we have Christmas. Cold and frosty weather while we enjoy June sunshine; picnics and evening strolls in the calm summer moonlight, while we are shivering by the fire, or preparing for a Christmas party; midnight while we have noon, and short summer nights when with us darkness sets in at four in the afternoon and continues until eight the next morning.
Such are some of the contrasts which astronomers tell us are the consequences of the earth's varied movements on her own axis and round the sun. But in neither country are the inhabitants conscious of these differences, much less can they realise that we in England are walking feet to feet with our brethren and sisters in Australia. At Melbourne, indeed, with its broad streets, elegant shops, and noble buildings, there is too much that reminds one of England to allow of any consciousness of contrast. Cathedrals, churches, colleges, botanical gardens, and other proofs of refined civilisation mark the progress of Saxon energy and enterprise, which have already supplanted in large territories of our globe the original inhabitants.
The English are carrying with them not only civilisation and refinement, but also the principles of that "knowledge of the Lord which shall cover the whole earth as the waters cover the sea."
True, the seed so scattered is mixed with the tares which settlers in distant lands carry with them from Christian England to her shame. But, like the grain of mustard seed, Christianity will grow and flourish into a large tree wherever the seeds of the "kingdom of heaven" are sown, in spite of the tares.
In a large drawing-room, luxuriously furnished, and lighted by noble windows overlooking a broad street more than a mile long, reclined a pale, delicate-looking lady, about thirty-four years of age. Her sofa had been drawn near the open window, and as she gazed upon the gaily attired passengers passing to and fro on the broad pavements, or making purchases in the shops, she sighed deeply.
"What makes you sigh, mamma?" said a pretty little girl of nine years, who sat reading in a low chair by her mother's side.
"If I sighed, darling," she replied, "it was because this place reminds me of England, and I could almost fancy myself in that broad street in London that you have heard me speak of, Mabel."
"Regent Street, you mean, mamma. Yes, I know, for I've heard papa say Bourke Street reminded him of it. He says there are just the same sort of beautiful shops, and lots of carriages, and ladies and children so handsomely dressed. Oh, mamma, I should so like to go to England, and see grandpapa and grandmamma, and uncle Henry. Do you think we ever shall?"
"Perhapsyoumay, my dear, but go on with your book, Mabel. I cannot bear talking."
The child gladly obeyed; she was a great lover of reading, and never more happy than when allowed to bring her book and her low chair, and sit near her mother, ready to attend to her every wish.
Mrs. Franklyn leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes. Some recollections of England had during the past few months been very painful to her from their contrast to the present time.
She had left her home at Englefield Grange, and readily consented to what appeared a sentence of banishment to every one but herself, for was she not sure of happiness with the man of her choice, even at the other side of the world to which they were going?
None of her friends could deny the apparent suitability of the marriage between the young lawyer, Arthur Franklyn, and Fanny Halford, the schoolmaster's only daughter. Arthur had been one of Dr. Halford's earliest pupils, and being an orphan and under the care of his aged grandmother, he often remained at school during the holidays. The boy soon became very fond of playing with the little Fanny, then nine years younger than himself, and this childish acquaintance was kept up long after he had left school to be articled to a solicitor. The almost friendless youth paid frequent visits to his old schoolmaster, and was always received with a kind welcome.
To make Fanny Halford his wife had been the purpose of Arthur Franklyn's heart for many years, but to mention the subject to her father until his means were sufficient to maintain a wife he well knew would be useless.
He had reached his twenty-ninth year, when the death of his grandmother made him the possessor of about fifteen hundred pounds. Now the way seemed open to him. But he had another scheme in view, which very nearly caused him the loss of Fanny. Australia had for many years been the El Dorado of his hopes; he had also distant relatives doing well at Melbourne, who had often expressed a wish that he should join them, but Fanny Halford had been the tie that bound him to England.
The little girl had learnt to love her boy playfellow in childhood as they grew older, and the young people, as if by mutual consent, seemed to take it for granted that some day they should be husband and wife. Although no word had passed on the subject either between them or to Fanny's parents, Dr. Halford felt towards the young man almost as much affection as for his own son, Henry Halford being at that time a mere child. It was not till his grandmother's legacy had altered Arthur Franklyn's position that his eyes were opened to the fact that the young man and his daughter might be attached to each other.
The good old gentleman, however, when once brought to understand the case, readily agreed to Arthur's proposals; and Mrs. Halford, much as she dreaded the loss of her child from her home, raised no objections. Her daughter would still of course be at a visiting distance now railways and omnibuses were becoming so general, and she could therefore often see her.
Arthur Franklyn's intimation, therefore, came upon them like a thunder-clap. "Australia! Our antipodes! No, no, Arthur, the idea is impossible, we cannot part with our child to such a distance," were the doctor's words. But neither the father's objections nor the mother's tears could influence Fanny, she would go with Arthur all over the world; and so at last the parents were conquered by the pale face and failing health of their only daughter, and they consented to the marriage.
To Arthur's legacy was added the 1000l.saved by Dr. Halford for his daughter's marriage portion, and the young people sailed for Australia with their own hopes for the future bright and glowing, and followed by the earnest prayers of their reluctant parents.
Fourteen years have rolled by since then, and what are Fanny Franklyn's reflections as she now reclines on the sofa in her luxurious home? What had she to complain of beyond the failing health and strength to which we are all liable? She had a kind and loving husband, four healthy, intelligent children, and every comfort and attention she required. But all this was on the surface; only wife or husband can detect faults in each other which are hidden from the world, unless those faults lead to or produce consequences which eventually become matters of publicity.
And a fear of this latter result had been the one bitter drop in Fanny Franklyn's happiness, the bane of her married life.
Arthur on arriving at Melbourne established himself as a solicitor, and for a time with moderate success. Then he became restless and dissatisfied. He wanted to make a fortune more rapidly, gave up his profession, and commenced speculating. With this began Fanny's anxieties. She had quickly discovered her husband's want of business knowledge. She could see how differently he acted from her own parents, to whose careful, saving habits she owed her marriage portion. Fortunately for Arthur, his wife was thoroughly domestic, and more than once she had warded off an impending blow by her economy and good management.
But as their family increased her anxieties became greater. The very good nature, and pleasant unsuspecting sociability which had won them all at Englefield Grange, proved Arthur's greatest danger. Sanguine to the highest degree respecting the results of a new speculation, he would recklessly act upon the mere hope of success, and involve himself in difficulties, and so it had been going on; at times living in a style of elegance and luxury, in consequence of a successful speculation, and at others in obscurity and almost penury.
No wonder poor Fanny Franklyn's health sunk in the midst of such vicissitudes.
While reflecting over the past which has been so briefly described, the sound of a hasty footstep roused her, and presently her husband stood by her couch anxiously questioning her.
"How are you, darling?" he said gently as he stooped to kiss the pale cheek. "I have been so much engaged all day, or I should have come in to see you before this." And then, without waiting for her to reply, he walked to the window and looked out on the gay and busy scene in the street beneath.
"You will soon get well in this lively place, Fanny," he said; "I cannot tell you how anxious I have been to get you out of that dull cottage on the hills, with nothing to look at but gardens and fields and trees."
"Yes, but, papa," said little Mabel, rising from her seat and coming to his side, "we were close to the Botanical Gardens and the park, and mamma used to go out in a chair every day."
"Well, so she can here, Mabel, and I should think you and Clara like these large noble rooms better than those low ceilings and cramped apartments at the cottage."
"There are some rooms I should prefer far beyond those at the cottage, or even these," said Mrs. Franklyn, gently.
Mr. Franklyn smiled, and was delighted to see a smile and a slight tinge of colour on his wife's face as she spoke. "Where are they, darling?" he exclaimed. "I have only taken these for a month certain; we would move directly if I thought it would do you good."
"I'm sorry I expressed my thoughts aloud, Arthur," she said, "for you must not incur any farther expense; but the rooms I mean are at Englefield Grange."
Arthur Franklyn became silent. He was longing to return to England almost as much as his wife; but at that moment he had more than one speculation in view, which he felt sure would make him a rich man; and then to return to his native land and star it amongst his schoolfellows, who had often scorned the penniless orphan, would be indeed a triumph.
"I wish I could take you to England at once, dearest," said her husband; "indeed, I should like to send you and the two girls now, and remain here alone for a year or two; but I cannot allow you to attempt such a voyage in your present weak state."
"No, no, Arthur," she replied, "I will not leave you, I could not go alone. Let us continue in this house as long as you like, rather than go to greater expense. I hope I shall be better as the weather becomes cooler."
The appearance of the tea-tray put a stop to the conversation, and Fanny consoled herself by the thought, "I cannot leave him of my own free-will, and if God sees fit to remove me before he is able to return to England, I can leave him and the dear children in His hands."
Mary Armstrong returned home after leaving Freddy at school, quite unaware of the disturbance her appearance had created in the mind of Henry Halford; and indeed so perfectly indifferent, that after removing her walking dress she entered the dining-room where her mother sat, and said—
"I did not see Dr. Halford, mamma, he was engaged in the schoolroom, but his son took charge of Freddy."
"His son! Ah, yes, I remember he spoke of a son who was studying for the Church. From Dr. Halford's description I should say this son was a man of very studious habits."
"Yes, mamma, and I am sure he must be, for he appears quite unused to the society of ladies; he hesitated, and stammered, and seemed hardly able to say a word: he did manage, however, to explain that he expected to see Mrs. Armstrong. I set him down as a bookworm at once."
Mrs. Armstrong glanced at her daughter; she was not one of those foolish mothers who overrate the charms of their daughters, but a thought she could not repress made her fear that this son of Dr. Halford's might be a dangerous acquaintance. A kind of presentiment of evil made her look at Mary intently as she took her German books from a side-table and commenced studying the language just then coming into vogue.
There was a look of perfect indifference on the face which Mrs. Armstrong so carefully studied, and yet she could not help saying suddenly, "What sort of young man is Dr. Halford's son in appearance, Mary?"
The sound of her mother's voice made Mary look up with a start from a difficult exercise. "Haben sie!" she exclaimed aloud; and then, "Oh, mamma, I beg your pardon, did you not ask me a question? I have such a puzzling sentence here, and I quite forgot what Herr Kling told me about it."
"It was nothing of importance, my dear," said her mother, as carelessly as she could speak; "I only asked you what sort of a young man Dr. Halford's son is in appearance."
"Handsome or plain, you mean, mamma," was the reply: "certainly not handsome, and his hair looked as if, while poring over a book, he had been pushing it up with his hands till it stood on end like pussy's tail when she is angry."
"My dear, what a comparison!" said her mother, with a laugh and a feeling of satisfaction. But Mary felt ashamed of her description.
"I ought not to speak in this way, mamma, I know; the fact is, when I found young Mr. Halford so confused, I avoided looking at him; but he is a gentleman, I could see that, and his hair is black. He appeared to be careless about his dress and appearance, and that, added to his confused manner, made me think he was a bookworm. You know, mamma, two or three of papa's friends who are so wrapped up in science and literature fidget me dreadfully when they dine here. Mr. Barnett, the great engineer, often has his collar on one side, or a button off his boots, and they all look as if they dressed in the dark, and without a looking-glass. So I suppose young Mr. Halford will be just the same. Oh, mamma, please don't make me talk any more," she added, glancing at the clock. "Herr Kling will be here in half an hour, and I am not yet ready for him."
Mrs. Armstrong was quite contented to remain silent. The easy and rather satirical tone in which Mary spoke of Dr. Halford's son removed all apprehension from her mind for the present.
Mr. Armstrong she knew too well would harshly oppose marriage for his daughter with any man who did not possess the means of making a handsome settlement on his wife, and raising her to the position of her mother's relations. Neither of Mary's parents wished her to marry young: the idea of losing her was agony to Mrs. Armstrong, and a constant dread had now arisen in the mother's heart lest this new position in a country home, which had already drawn them into society, might lead Mary to form a girlish attachment not in accordance with the conditions laid down by her father.
Mr. Armstrong, however, had no such fears; Mary's ready acquiescence in all his wishes, and the evident respect she had always shown to his opinions, caused him to overlook in his child a will as firm and unbending as his own.
Hitherto none of his requirements had been opposed to the deeper or more sensitive feelings of her nature. Mary could overcome her repugnance so long as her father's wishes only required the sacrifice of certain conventional rules, and minor matters of opinion. But he could make no distinction, and he was prepared to expect implicit obedience in every point, even where her wishes were opposed to his. The thought that she would ever fail in this obedience never entered his mind.
Mrs. Armstrong understood her daughter's character more correctly than her husband, with all his boasted superiority of intellect, and therefore she dreaded a passage of arms between these two so near and dear to her.
The trial was more closely at hand than even she for a moment anticipated.
Little Freddy often brought home from school a full and particular account of some incident that had occurred during the day, and in which he had been greatly interested.
These incidents were listened to by Mary only out of love to her little brother; and although very often Mr. Henry Halford's name stood prominent in these narrations, Mary's interest on that account was very little excited. It gratified her, however, to find that the child was treated with great kindness by both father and son, and to hear his earnest declaration—
"Oh, Mary, I like Mr. Henry Halford so much, he is so kind to us little ones in the playground; he plays at peg-top, and all sorts of games, with us; and sometimes we go into the cricket-field, without the big boys, and he teaches us how to play; isn't it kind of him?"
All this was very pleasing to Mrs. Armstrong, more especially as she could discern very clearly that Mary listened to it all as a matter of course. No suspicion that this kindness to her brother could arise from a wish to win the sister, or for her sake, entered her mind.
Not so her mother; suspicions of this kind would intrude themselves at times, only to be set aside by her daughter's evident indifference.
Mrs. Armstrong, however, was wrong. Henry Halford's kindness to the little boys arose from a natural love of children, and Freddy Armstrong was not favoured more than others. All thoughts of the fair girl whose appearance had so confused him on that cold January morning had been banished with determination. After school duties ceased he became, as usual every day, absorbed in his books, his only recreation a game at cricket, or, as we have heard, the fun with the juniors, which gave him the greatest pleasure. And so the weeks passed on, and brought with them signs of the approach of spring.
One afternoon, about a fortnight before Easter, Mr. Armstrong returned from the City rather earlier than usual, to have a ride with his daughter. He had on this account travelled to town and back by the omnibus.
"Give me half an hour's rest, Mary," he said, as she came in full of pleasure to ask when he wished to start.
"Yes, papa," she replied, "and there will be also time for you to have a cup of tea with mamma; she generally has it about four o'clock." Away ran Mary to hasten the refreshing "cup which cheers but not inebriates," while Mr. Armstrong seated himself and began to talk to his wife.
"I shall not be sorry to have a cup of tea," he said, "for I rode outside the 'bus, and the roads are too dusty to be pleasant, whatever the old proverb may say, and perhaps with some truth, that 'a peck of March dust is worth a king's ransom.'"
"If it is good for the gardens and the harvest to have a dry March," said Mrs. Armstrong, "it is certainly worth while to bear the inconvenience, and my health is always much better in dry, clear weather. Your proverb about March dust will form another incentive for patience when it troubles me while taking my daily walks."
"How much improved your health appears lately, my dear Maria!" remarked her husband, after a pause; "and you are looking almost as young as ever. I am not a little pleased to find you in such good spirits, because I want you to join me in accepting an invitation next week to dinner at the Drummonds'; I suppose you have returned Mrs. Drummond's visit?"
"Oh yes, a few weeks ago; she is a most pleasant, lady-like woman, and we were friends almost immediately."
"Then you will raise no objection, my dear; indeed, I am sure the change will be good for you. Mary is also invited, and I have my reasons for wishing her to go. Drummond rode with me from town to-day, and I accepted his invitation for Mary and myself at once, but for you conditionally."
"I shall be happy to go with you," replied his wife. "The Drummonds are people I should wish Mary to know, and I am much more able to bear an evening visit at this time of the year than in the depth of winter. You must remember, Edward, that even when living in London I always regained health and strength in the spring and early summer."
"And here, of course, your health and strength are doubly sure to improve in these seasons," he replied, laughing. "Ah, well, darling, I am glad we made the change for your sake."
The appearance of the tea put a stop to the conversation, and in a very short time Mrs. Armstrong stood at the door watching her daughter as she sprang lightly to her saddle, on a beautiful grey mare, her father's latest gift.
Bucephalus is not, however, quite discarded; sometimes in the morning she will take him for a canter over the heath, or in the holidays join her brothers, one of whom rides Rowland's pony, and the other Bucephalus. Edward Armstrong is fifteen now, and has grown too tall for Boosey; during the absence of the elder boys the pony belongs entirely to Freddy, who is learning to ride under Mary's guidance.
During their ride, Mr. Armstrong told Mary of the invitation to dinner at Mr. Drummond's. "You will like to pay such a visit, I suppose," he said, "and I have accepted the invitation for you as well as myself."
"Will it be a large party?" asked Mary, timidly; she had no thought of opposing her father's wishes, after hearing that he had accepted the invitation for her, but she remembered her discomfort at her first dinner-party, at which a large number of guests were present, some of them not very refined, and certainly not well-bred.
In fact, she could not help making comparisons between the noisy, and to her, almost vulgar visitors at the table; or at the evening parties of the rich in the neighbourhood, and the quiet refinement and dignity of such gatherings at the homes of her mother's relations.
Something akin to Mary's thoughts was passing through her father's mind before he answered her question, and influenced his reply.
"Mr. Drummond told me to-day that he did not expect more than six or eight guests in addition to his own family. And, Mary," he continued, "you need not fear meeting coarseness or vulgarity at Mr. Drummond's table. Your mother has readily consented to accompany us, and that is a sufficient proof that she considers the friends of Mrs. Drummond fit associates for her daughter."
"Oh, papa," said Mary, "I hope you do not think it was pride that made me speak as if I did not wish to go, only I do dread a large number of people; and papa——" But Mary paused; she hesitated, with the delicacy of a refined mind, to speak of the coarse flattery to which she had been subjected at one dinner-party by some of the gentlemen when they left the dining-room.
"And what, my dear?" said her father, gently.
"I told mamma," she replied, "when I came home, but I only meant to ask you whether some of the gentlemen at Mr. Ward's dinner party had not taken too much wine."
A flush of indignation rose to Mr. Armstrong's brow as he thought of what, under such circumstances, some of them might have said to his gentle daughter. Determining to ask her mother, however, he merely said,—"I fear such was the case, Mary, but you are not likely to meet with anything of that kind at the Drummonds'. The practice of staying for hours after dinner, drinking wine, till men make themselves unfit for the company of ladies, is happily becoming less frequent in good society. And now," he added, looking at his watch, "we must canter for awhile, or we shall be late for dinner."
Among the guests expected at Mr. Drummond's table on that memorable occasion was a gentleman of great note in the scientific world, to whom Mr. Armstrong had been very anxious to be introduced. Indeed, this wish had influenced him greatly in his ready acceptance of the invitation.
"My friend Professor Logan will dine with us on that evening," had been Mr. Drummond's remark to Mr. Armstrong. "I suppose you have read his address at the Royal Society on the inventions of the last thirty years? It was correctly reported in theTimes."
"Yes, indeed, and there I saw it," was the eager reply. "Is Professor Logan your friend, Drummond? It will be a great privilege to meet such a man."
"And he will be equally pleased with you," was the reply; "indeed, I expect it will be quite a learned gathering, for I have asked three or four other men of education to join us, and I almost fear the evening will be dull for Mrs. Armstrong and your bright, lively daughter; but Mrs. Drummond will be terribly disappointed if they do not come, and she will make the evening as pleasant as possible for them. My nieces are very musical, and——"
"Oh, pray do not make the invitation more attractive than it is already," interrupted Mr. Armstrong. "My daughter's tastes resemble my own, and she has had advantages of education which I have not. I'm afraid, Drummond, your friends will expect too much from a self-taught man like myself if you have, as you say, placed me on the list of your 'learned' acquaintance."
"Nonsense, Armstrong!" was the reply, as the omnibus stopped for that gentleman to alight. "Mind," he added, as he waved his hand in farewell, "we shall expect you all on Tuesday."
Mr. Armstrong's close carriage arrived at Argyle Lodge only five minutes before the hour appointed for dinner. In a very short time, therefore, Mary found herself being conducted to the dinner-table by a gentleman whose face seemed familiar to her, but whose name, when spoken by her hostess, she had not caught.
"I think I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Armstrong once before, when she brought her little brother to school," was the remark which made Mary turn and look at her companion.
There was a smile on the face she had called plain, but it did not now deserve such an epithet. The rough, dark hair, which in its disorder she had likened to a "pussy-cat's tail in a rage," was now arranged in shining wavy curls across the broad forehead; the dark eyebrows almost meeting over the nose gave character to the face, and a look in the deep blue eyes, although Mary Armstrong had quickly recognised her companion as Henry Halford, made her ask herself if she had really ever seen them before. So changed was the face, so expressive the glance, so winning the smile, that Mary could only stammer out with a blushing face—
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Halford; I did not at first recognise you, but I do now."
They entered the dining-room as she said this, and during the slight commotion occasioned by placing every one with due regard to the varied requirements which make the position of a hostess so difficult, Mary could only recall with shame and wonder her satirical description of Henry Halford.
The silence that generally pervades the company at the commencement of dinner enabled Mary to recover herself and look round for the home faces.
Her mother, who had been taken into dinner by Mr. Drummond, was seated nearly opposite to her at his right hand. At the moment of this discovery she observed her bow to some one on Mary's side of the table. Her surprise at this caused her to lean forward slightly. What friend of her mother's could be dining with Mr. Drummond?
A gentleman with white hair, and a pale, handsome face, was returning the recognition. Mary was fairly puzzled, but she had conquered the confusion caused by Mr. Henry Halford's unexpected appearance, and when the conversation became general she could talk to her companion with ease and intelligence.
Mary could hear her father's voice, but she could not see him, as he sat at the same side of the table as herself by Mrs. Drummond.
Presently Henry Halford spoke.
"Are you acquainted with that gentleman at the head of the table on Mrs. Drummond's left hand?" he asked, under cover of many voices.
Mary shook her head. She had observed that he and her father were already in earnest conversation across the table, but he was a total stranger to her.
"No, I am not," she replied; "all here are strangers to me, excepting Mr. and Mrs. Drummond and my own parents."
"Then you do not know my father, to whom your mamma bowed just now. I saw you lean forward to discover who had been so honoured by Mrs. Armstrong's notice."
"Is that gentleman your father, Mr. Halford?" said Mary, simply. "I think he is a very handsome old man; that silvery white hair always looks to me beautiful when accompanied with dark eyebrows and eyes."
"My father would feel extremely flattered if he heard your opinion of him, Miss Armstrong," said Henry Halford.
"I am not flattering," replied Mary, "I am only giving my opinion, and you have not told me the name of that gentleman opposite. He looks clever."
"Why, really, Miss Armstrong, I shall begin to be afraid of your opinion about myself if you are so quick at reading character. That gentleman is Professor Logan, whose address at the Royal Society has made such a stir in the scientific world."
"Oh, I am so glad to meet him!" she exclaimed. "I know he must be clever because papa is talking to him so earnestly, and I read his address at the Royal Society in theTimes."
"Did you, indeed, Miss Armstrong?" said Henry, in a tone of surprise.
"Certainly I did, and with very great interest. Is there anything very wonderful in that, Mr. Halford?"
Henry Halford hesitated to reply; he looked earnestly at the young lady who could read an address on the most abstruse sciences with "great interest." He had heard young ladies spoken of rather contemptibly as "pedants" and "blue-stockings." Was this gentle, simple-speaking girl by his side one of these? Or if not, did she belong to the frivolous, half-educated young ladies, who think of nothing but dress, or lovers, or husbandsin futuro? Although Mary had spoken of him as unused to ladies' society with some truth, yet he had seen and heard enough to judge of them as belonging to a sex inferior in strength both mentally and physically, and in those days of which we write his judgment was not far wrong.
"I will put a few questions to this young lady who expresses her interest in abstruse subjects," he said to himself. "Perhaps after all it is merely a smattering of knowledge which she possesses, and a wish to be thought a 'blue.' Are you fond of scientific subjects, Miss Armstrong?" he asked, with something akin to satire in the tone of his voice.
But Mary Armstrong did not detect it; she replied unaffectedly—
"I think I am, at least so far as I can understand them, and that is not to a very great extent; but arithmetic is a science, is it not? and I am very fond of that; and I like the study of thorough-bass quite as well as the practical part of music."
"I am rather surprised to hear a young lady say she is fond of arithmetic," replied Henry Halford, rather amused, and doubtful still. "How far have you penetrated into the mysteries of calculation?—to Practice, perhaps?"
Mary now detected a shadow of satire.
"A little beyond Practice," she replied, with a smile. "I begin to feel afraid to tell you how far, you appear so surprised that a girl should learn boys' studies, but my father wished me to do so."
Henry Halford flushed deeply. The straightforward simplicity of the young lady whom he wished to prove a pedant or a "blue" baffled him, and made him feel ashamed of his satire.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Armstrong," he said. "It is such an unusual thing in the present day to meet with young ladies who really care for any studies beyond music and singing, and what are called the fine arts, that I was a little incredulous; pray show me I am forgiven by telling me what advance you have made in these studies, which you consider belong to boys."
There was an earnestness and sincerity in the young man's voice which could not be mistaken.
Mary replied candidly, but without the slightest appearance of ostentation—
"Mr. Halford, papa himself taught me algebra after I had studied every rule in arithmetic, and the first book of Euclid. That is the extent of my knowledge—nothing so very wonderful, after all."
"And thepons asinorum, Miss Armstrong?"
"Yes," she replied, "even thepons asinorum."
There was a look of respect, mingled with surprise, on Henry Halford's face; for once he had met with a young lady who had evidently some pretensions to mental strength without being proud of it.
By degrees he managed to discover that, owing to her father's wise decision, she had not been allowed to learn music without studying thorough-bass, or drawing unless accompanied with the study of perspective. But as, without asking direct questions, he contrived to draw her out by adopting a conversational tone, he found to his delight that this scientific young lady was far more deeply interested in poetry and literature.
Mrs. Armstrong watched the fair face of her daughter as it lighted up with pleasure at the poetical remarks of her companion, who criticised her favourite authors with so much clearness and justice.
She was not sorry when Mrs. Drummond gave the signal for leaving the table. She could read in the gentleman a growing interest and admiration of her daughter, which made her uneasy; not a little increased by a remark of Mr. Drummond's—
"Mr. Henry Halford and your daughter are getting on famously together. I know that her education has been solid as well as accomplished, and he appears to have found out that fact."
"Is that Dr. Halford's son?" asked Mrs. Armstrong; she remembered her daughter's description of him as plain, but the young man so earnestly conversing with Mary on a favourite topic was as usual giving to that face the flashings of intellect, the expressive smile, and, it must be owned, a too evident admiration of the fair girl by his side, which made him unmistakably handsome.
"Yes; did you not know it?" was Mr. Drummond's reply. "And a really clever fellow he is too; he has lately matriculated at Oxford. His father wishes him to be a clergyman, and I have no doubt he will come off with 'flying colours.'"
No wonder Mrs. Armstrong was relieved when the signal came to remove her daughter from such dangerous company.
But Mary very soon restored her mother's peace of mind by the absence of all consciousness when she referred to Mr. Henry Halford.
On entering the drawing-room the mother noticed with anxiety the deep flush that so generally made Mary's face too brilliant. She watched her as she wandered alone to a distant table and took up a book, after examining several, and seated herself to read. She walked over to her and said, "You are interested in your book, Mary."
"Yes, mamma; Mr. Henry Halford has been talking about Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' and he has explained to me a great deal of those learned terms and classical references which make some pages of the book so difficult to understand, and I mean to read it through again; you know how fond I am of Milton."
"Yes, dear," said her mother, "but you cannot do so now in Mrs. Drummond's drawing-room."
"No, mamma, of course not; I was only glancing over a few pages to try how much I could remember of Mr. Henry Halford's explanations. Oh, mamma, you cannot imagine how clever he is."
"No doubt, and I hear he is at Oxford studying for the Church. But, Mary, do you remember your description of Dr. Halford's son? In my opinion he is anything but plain, and his hair——"
"Oh, mamma, pray don't refer to what I once said;" and Mrs. Armstrong knew that the flush on Mary's cheek as she spoke arose from shame at her foolish words, nothing more. "I hardly looked at him that morning, but now that I have heard him speak with so much animation and cleverness I consider Mr. Henry Halford handsome; don't you, mamma?"
This simple admission satisfied the anxious mother; she agreed readily with her daughter's remark, and a servant advancing with tea and coffee put a stop to the conversation.
Presently the gentlemen made their appearance.
Mary noticed that her father and Mr. Henry Halford were eagerly discussing scientific subjects with Professor Logan as they entered.
Even as they stood with a cup of coffee in the hand of each, the subject was being carried on with great earnestness.
At last one of Mr. Drummond's nieces approached the piano, at her aunt's request, and struck a few chords.
A sudden pause, and then the rich tones of the singer hushed the scientific controversy. Even those who had no natural appreciation of harmonious sounds were attracted to listen; among these ranked Henry Halford.
To a singer with less confidence the silence would have been fatal, but Edith Longford was not likely to fail from nervousness, and there is nothing so calculated to steady the nerves of a performer in any subject as a perfect knowledge of what he is about.
As the soft melodious tones ceased, Henry Halford contrived to whisper to Miss Armstrong a question, intended to try whether the young girl, whose conversation had so interested him at dinner, could bear the praise of another without jealousy.
During the song he had not been able to resist the attraction of her presence. Although really occupied with the subject of dispute as he entered the room, Henry Halford's quick eye discovered at once the whereabouts of Mr. Armstrong's daughter, and he had gradually moved towards the table where she sat.
"Miss Longford plays and sings well, Miss Armstrong," were the words that made Mary start from a reverie. "I am quite ignorant of music theoretically, and I have no natural taste for the harmonies; but you can tell me whether my opinion is a correct one."
"I, Mr. Halford!" said Mary, recovering herself; "Miss Longford is far beyond me in music. I could not take the liberty of forming a judgment upon her, excepting that I know she sings and plays far better than I do."
"Generous and candid," said the young man to himself as a gentleman advanced to lead Mary to the piano. He followed them, and stood listening with surprise to the simple English ballad which Mary sang with real taste and feeling.
Henry Halford when alone in his room that night made a decision in his own mind on certain points; in some of these, had he remained firm and unshaken, our story would have ended here.
"Mary Armstrong is a very beautiful girl," were his first mental words, "full of intellectual knowledge, far beyond any young lady I have ever met. She is candid, plain-speaking, impervious to flattery, and generous to a rival—at least if Miss Longford is a rival. For my part, I consider Miss Armstrong's music far more pleasing. And then what a talented man her father is! no wonder, with such a teacher, his daughter should be so different from other girls. I have met many girls, but none like Miss Armstrong."
By a strange association of ideas, to which we are all subject, Easter and Oxford presented themselves to his mind, and the involuntary sigh that followed a recollection of the fact that in less than a week he should be miles away from Mary Armstrong, changed the whole current of his thoughts.
"How absurdly I am allowing my mind to dwell upon this young lady!" he said to himself. "A man so rich as her father will of course wish her to marry a man of wealth, and one equal in position to her mother's relations. I might lay claim to the latter qualification, but what shall I be at the end of my three years at Oxford? an usher in my father's school, or a curate with an income of perhaps 100l.a year or less. I will think of her no more!"
Whatever impression might have been made by Mr. Henry Halford's cleverness on the mind of Mary Armstrong was destined to be obliterated by the most unlooked-for occurrence.
One evening, about a fortnight after Easter, Mr. Armstrong returned at an unusually early hour, and entered the library, where Mary and her mother were seated, with a look of anxiety on his face which surprised them both.
He held a letter in his hand, and his wife asked nervously—
"What is the matter, Edward? you have no bad news about the boys, I hope."
"No, no," he said hastily, "but I have had a letter from John Armstrong; my poor father, he says, is sinking fast, and wishes to see me once more."
"Oh, papa, when are you going?" cried Mary, "can I pack your carpet bag, or prepare anything for you? I suppose you will go this evening?"
"I should have gone direct from London, after sending you a telegram," he replied, "but my father wishes me to bring Mary; have you any objection, my dear?" he added, turning to his wife.
"No, indeed," she replied, "take her with you by all means; I remember how pleased the dear old gentleman was with his little granddaughter when we paid him a visit fifteen years ago."
Mary, who had risen when she offered to assist in preparing for her father's hasty departure, stood still during this conversation in silent astonishment. Rapid thoughts passed through her mind. Was she really going to see the dear old grandfather, of whom she had so often heard her mother speak, and beautiful Meadow Farm, the home of her father's childhood, and the house in which he was born?
So bewildered did she feel at the sudden news, that her mother had to say—
"Do you not wish to accompany your father, Mary?"
"Oh yes, yes, mamma, but it seems too good to be true."
"You must be quick, Mary, if you wish to go," said her father, looking at his watch; "I have ordered James to have the brougham at the door by half-past three, and the train starts from Waterloo at 4.30."
In a moment all was bustle and excitement. Slight refreshment was quickly prepared for the travellers. But Mary had still her useful fairies at her elbow, and when her father summoned her from the dining-room at the time appointed, she only detained him one moment to cling to her mother's neck and kiss her fondly.
Mrs. Armstrong stood at the door to see them off and wish thembon voyage. Then she returned to the library to rest after the hurried excitement, which fatigued her even more than a long walk.
This hasty summons which her husband had received carried her memory back to those early days of her married life when with her husband and her little daughter Mary, she had visited Mr. Armstrong's paternal home. She recalled the sweet country landscape, the apple-orchards in full blossom, the fragrant hayfields, the leafy woods surrounding Meadow Farm, then redolent with the delights of early summer.
She saw and heard again, in imagination, the crowing of cocks, the clucking of hens, the chirping chicks and lowing cattle, and the occasional "quack, quack" of ducks and geese, all of which sights and sounds greeted eye and ear from her bedroom window when she rose in the morning.
Even the journey by the old-fashioned stage-coach was not without interest; and how well she remembered the pride of her mother's heart as her little Mary, then scarcely three years old, excited the astonishment of the passengers by spelling from the coach window the letters upside down, which formed the name of the coach proprietor!
Again she recalled their amusement at one of Mary's childlike speeches, when they stopped to change horses on the road. Across the inn yard came a man with a wooden leg, carrying a pail of water. The child, who had never before seen this substitute for a human limb, almost screamed with excitement as she exclaimed—
"Oh, mamma, mamma, do look; there's a man with one leg, and a piece of stick for another!"
Even now she could smile at the memory of the child's remark, but it was soon lost as her thoughts turned to the time when she stood in the old hall at Meadow Farm to receive the welcome of her husband's father, a tall, noble-looking man, one of the olden times, whose dark eyes at the age of sixty-seven had not lost their sparkling intelligence. These eyes, with eyelashes and brows equally dark, contrasted pleasantly with the silvery white hair; and the face with its winter-apple colour, though bronzed by constant exposure to the weather, wore a refined dignity of which his son Edward could scarcely boast. The welcome awarded by this fine old yeoman to his son's wife had a mixture of deference and affection which deeply gratified the well-born daughter of the St. Clairs, and her father-in-law's love for his little fairy grandchild completely won her heart.
All this Mrs. Armstrong had described to Mary so vividly, that the young girl felt as if she already knew every nook and cranny of the old farm, as well as the face of the dear old gentleman who was her father's father. And yet she had not the slightest recollection of the visit so clearly remembered by her mother.
Since that time Mr. Armstrong had more than once paid a visit to his paternal home, but delicate health and an increasing family prevented his wife from accompanying him, yet he never offered to take Mary. Once her mother had proposed to him to do so, but he repudiated the idea.
"No, Maria dear," he had said, "there are no women at Meadow Farm, or in the neighbourhood, who are fit associates for your daughter. By-and-by, when her manners are more formed, I shall have no objection."
But Mrs. Armstrong was not deceived by these excuses; she knew that as her husband's income increased, so did his pride. For eccentric persons are always inconsistent, and his strange notions about his daughter's education, and his refusal to allow her to ride on horseback after a certain hour, with other objections to practices which he called "aping the gentry," all arose from "the pride that apes humility."
Meanwhile, quite unaware of her mother's reflections or her father's opinions, Mary seated herself in a first-class carriage, her happiness in the prospect of the coming journey only clouded by the fact that her aged grandfather was approaching the borders of the grave.
They were alone in the carriage as far as Slough, and as the express train sped on the consciousness of this made her so uneasy that she could not help breaking the silence by saying—
"Papa, do you think my grandfather will remember me?"
"I think not, my daughter," he replied; "you were scarcely three years old when he saw you last, and now you are a woman."
"But I do hope he will be well enough to know who I am," she said. "I have heard mamma talk of grandpapa so often that I feel sure I shall recognise him when I see him, from her description."
"Your mother does talk to you, then, about her visit to Meadow Farm?"
"Yes, papa, often, and she says grandpapa was a fine, handsome old man when she saw him fifteen years ago."
There was a little feeling of gratification in Mr. Armstrong's heart at this proof that his lady-wife could so think of his father; she had often so spoken of him in conversation, but he had passed it by as the loving words of a wife who wished to prove that she did not look down with contempt on her husband's relations.
But in her remarks to Mary there could be no such motives, and it was in a tone of regret that he replied—
"Fifteen years will make a great difference in your grandfather's appearance, Mary, and I expect you will find him decrepit, and infirm at eighty-two years of age, and very much changed from the handsome old man your mother describes."
"I shall love him just the same, papa," she said firmly.
The early spring evening was closing in as Mr. Armstrong and his daughter drove to the gates of Meadow Farm. Mary could see, however, that her father's face was pale with anxiety, as he hastily alighted from the railway fly and turned to assist his daughter.
At the same moment she heard a pleasant voice exclaiming—
"You have brought your daughter, Edward; I am very glad, for uncle is longing to see her.—You are the image of your mother, Miss Armstrong," continued the speaker, with a sudden deference, as the tall, graceful girl held out her hand to the lady whom her father introduced as his cousin Sarah. "The men will bring in your luggage, Edward," she added; "come in at once and see uncle; he seems to have gained new life since we sent for you and—Mary."
The name came at last after a slight hesitation, for the bearing and manner of Mary Armstrong, though perfectly free from pride, threw a restraint upon her homely kinswoman, who remembered her only as a little child of three years.
Before they reached the house John Armstrong met them, and involuntarily removed his garden hat, when his cousin Edward asked him if he remembered his little playfellow Mary.
"I hope you do, cousin," said Mary, pleasantly, to put him at his ease, for this deferential treatment by her country cousins pained her greatly. "I have often heard mamma speak of cousin Sarah and cousin John, and I am so happy to be able to pay you a visit at last."