As she spoke they entered the old farm kitchen. A space round the fire was partially hidden by a screen.
Mr. Armstrong led his daughter forward to the enclosed spot.
"Who is come, Sarah?" said the quavering voice of an old man.
"It is your son Edward. Father, how are you? This is my daughter, the little Mary of whom you were once so fond."
The old man looked up and grasped the hand of his son; then, as he saw Mary, he made an effort to rise.
"No, no, grandfather," she exclaimed, kneeling by his side and kissing his cheek; "you must try to forget I am taller and older than the little Mary you once knew."
"Thank God that I have lived to see you, my child," said the old man, laying his hand on her head, for Mary had thrown off her hat; "I thought you wouldn't bring her, Edward," continued the old man, in the tearful voice of excited old age. "But now you're come, my dear, we'll make you happy. You're like your mother, child. Dear me, how the time flies! Ah, well, I'm almost home now, and I feel like old Simeon, 'ready to depart in peace,'" and the voice had a choking sound as he paused as if for breath. Cousin Sarah approached.
"You must be quiet for a little while, uncle," she said, "and not excite yourself. I'm going to take Miss Armstrong upstairs for a few minutes till tea is ready, and Edward would like to go to his room, I daresay."
"Yes, yes, quite right, Sarah, I'll take care of myself," replied the old man. "I'm only a little overcome at first." And as they left the room he leaned back in his easy-chair and quietly watched the rosy country servant as she covered the table with a profusion of good things, such profusion as country people consider necessary to prove their hospitality.
Meanwhile Mary had followed cousin Sarah to a bedroom which, while it lacked many of the elegant luxuries of her own room at home, charmed her by its simplicity, cleanliness, and tasteful arrangements. The ceiling, across which appeared a large beam, was low, the floor uneven and only partially covered with a carpet. But through the lattice window the moonlight fell in diamond patterns on the floor, only broken by the shadow of the flickering rose-leaves that surrounded it. The dimity curtains, the quilt, the bed furniture, and the toilet covers were of snowy whiteness, and that peculiar fragrance of the country which is often found in country bedrooms pervaded the room.
Twilight still lingered, yet Mrs. John Armstrong carried a lighted candle which flared and flickered in the draught from the open window.
"I am sorry the window has not been closed, Miss Armstrong," she said, as she shaded the candle in her hand, and advanced to fasten the casement.
"Please call me Mary, cousin Sarah," said the young lady, earnestly; "and if you will put out the candle and leave the window curtains undrawn, I shall prefer the moonlight. Oh, what a pleasant window!" she added, as she looked out on the prospect so often described by her mother. "Did mamma sleep here?"
"No, your papa has the room in which she slept, it is larger than this; but you shall see it to-morrow, the window overlooks the orchard."
"Yes, I know," said Mary; "mamma has described it so often that I am sure I shall recognise it."
"Then Mrs. Armstrong remembers her visit to Meadow Farm?"
"Indeed she does with great pleasure, and I have been so longing to come here. I hope, however, that my coming has not excited dear grandfather too much," she added, anxiously; "but I did not expect to find him up from what cousin John said in the letter."
"Oh, did you not? Why, uncle has never kept his bed a whole day yet; he always comes down to dinner; strong, healthy men like he has been seldom live long after once they take to their beds."
Mary had been hastily making some slight alteration in her dress, and emptying her carpet bag with a quickness which surprised cousin Sarah; and seeing her ready they went downstairs together.
Mary Armstrong had never before seen a real farm-house kitchen, and she was not likely to forget the scene that presented itself as she entered.
A large roomy apartment, containing two oriel windows, with leaden casements and diamond window-panes. On one side a dresser and shelves, covered with pewter plates, old china bowls, and various articles of wedgwood and earthenware.
Through an opposite door she could see another large kitchen lighted by the blaze of a wood fire, in which servants were apparently busy, and the voices of men and women could be heard. She noticed as she followed her cousin to the screen that the window nearest the entrance door was uncovered, and that the floor of the old kitchen appeared to be formed of rough stones which she afterwards found was a mixture of lime and sand. But for the moonlight, which passed through the uncovered window and glittered like silver on the pewter plates, this part of the farm kitchen would have had a very desolate aspect. Once, however, inside the screen, how changed everything appeared! The portion enclosed was as large as many a London parlour, and entirely covered with a thick carpet. On the wide, open hearth lay a pile of coals and wooden logs, that sent a blaze and a sparkle up the chimney, while the glowing heat rendered the stone on which the carpet in front of the fire lay a far warmer resting-place for a cold foot than the thickest hearth-rug ever invented.
On a large round table in the centre, covered with a snowy cloth, were arranged china teacups of curious shape and rare value, the silver teapot, cream-jug, and sugar-dish of most antique patterns, in which the firelight gleamed and flickered, adding brightness to the good fare with which the table was loaded. Above the high mantelpiece hung various useful kitchen articles composed of tin, copper, and brass, all so carefully and brightly polished that the light from a lamp and the reflected blaze of the fire flashed from their surfaces with a glitter that illuminated the enclosed portion of the kitchen, making the outer part darker by contrast.
In the most protected corner of this pleasant enclosure, and near the glowing fire, sat old Mr. Armstrong with his son by his side, cheering the old man by his pleasant conversation. Mary, as she entered, thought she had never seen her father to so much advantage. The tender, deferential manner of the son to the aged father was a new phase in his character which charmed his youthful daughter. Mrs. John Armstrong took her seat at the tea-table, while her husband rose with a native politeness to place a chair for Mary, which made her forget that his dress was the homely garb of a farmer.
"Give up your seat to your daughter, Edward, and let Mary sit by me."
The change was quickly made, and then the old gentleman said—
"Ah, my dear, I can see you more plainly now in the light of the lamp; there is a look of the little child I remember so well, although you are grown so tall and womanly."
"Do you not think Mary is like her mother, uncle?" said cousin Sarah; "and yet she has a look sometimes that reminds me of Edward."
"Never mind whom she resembles," said the old man; "if my granddaughter is, as I hear from her father, a dutiful and affectionate daughter, that is of far more value than her personal appearance."
How pleasantly that evening passed! Mary played a game of chess with the old gentleman, whose mind was still clear, notwithstanding his eighty-two years, and delighted him by her quick intelligence, and perhaps not less by finding that he could beat her after a well-matched contest.
When Mary laid her head on her pillow that night in the pretty white bedroom, as she called it, she felt that there could be found much more real happiness in a country life than in all the gaieties and frivolities of a London season.
But Mary had yet to learn the real foundation of the peace and harmony which seemed to surround the residents at Meadow Farm like a halo, and even to make her sleep more sweetly in her white-curtained bed than she had ever done even in the richly furnished rooms and luxurious couches at her aunt Elston's, in Portland Place, after an evening spent in gaiety and excitement.
For the first time in her life Mary had knelt at family prayer.
The old clock in the kitchen had scarcely finished striking nine when cousin Sarah rose, and taking from a shelf a large old-fashioned Bible and book of family prayers, placed them on the table before Edward Armstrong.
"Do you not read yourself, father?" he asked.
"No, my son, I have not been able to do so for some years; John always supplies my place; but now you are here you must officiate."
To Mary all this was new. Except at church she had never seen her father with a Bible in his hand, and she wondered whether he had been accustomed to this in his childhood.
Edward Armstrong possessed one accomplishment which is not always sufficiently appreciated, he read well; and the beautiful chapter which his father requested him to read sounded to Mary as something she had never before heard—the 15th chapter of St. Luke, and the story of the prodigal son.
The prayer also which followed was new to her. It seemed so suited to the time and place and persons assembled, that she could follow every petition as if it came from her own heart. No wonder Mary Armstrong after this could sleep peacefully.
The sunbeams of an April morning aroused her at an early hour next morning. She sprung out of bed and drew back the window-curtains. What a charming prospect met her view! Close beneath her lay stretched a large and well-kept garden, old-fashioned paths bordered with box, and flower-beds of various geometrical shapes, in which crocus and snowdrop, wallflower, and polyanthus spread themselves in picturesque confusion.
Nearer the house the lilac buds were just bursting into flower, and around her windows the monthly roses mingled their delicate pink leaves with the dark green ivy that covered the wall.
Beyond stretched field and meadow in early spring verdure. In the furrows of an adjacent field men were already busily employed in sowing seeds, and from a distance could be heard the lowing of cattle, the clucking of hens as they led their chirping broods, the quacking of ducks and geese, the peculiar note of the guinea-fowl, and above them all Chanticleer's shrill but familiar crow. Mary turned from the window with a hasty determination to obtain a closer inspection of these pleasant rural sights and sounds. Dressing herself quickly she descended the stairs, and found every one in the house up and busy except her father and grandfather, although it was not yet half-past six o'clock.
Mrs. John Armstrong came forward with surprise to greet the London lady, who could leave her room at such an early hour.
"What, up already, Mary?" she said, "I did not expect to see you till nine o'clock."
"I rise early at home always," she replied; "papa often leaves for London at half-past eight, and I breakfast with him."
"Ah, yes, I forgot that you live at some distance from London now, and therefore our country manners and ways are not quite new to you."
"It is very pleasant country where we live, but not so rural as this," said Mary; and then, as she observed her cousin take some barley from a bin in the outer kitchen, she exclaimed, "Oh, cousin Sarah, if you are going to feed the chickens, do let me go with you, I am longing to see the farmyard, and I can carry something for you."
"Of course you shall go, my dear; I shall be glad to have you. Ned and Jack are away at school now in Southampton, and I miss their help very much."
Mary was soon loaded with a basket containing provision for the farmyard pensioners, and while they walked she asked many questions about her cousins John and Edward, boys of eleven and fifteen, cousin Sarah's only surviving children. But the strange farmyard scenes soon occupied all Mary's attention. Never in her life had she seen so many geese, ducks, chickens, and pigeons, and until they were all fed and satisfied nothing else could be attempted.
At length Mary was at liberty to look round her. The farmyard was surrounded by barns, stables for horses and cattle, waggon-sheds, hen and pigeon-houses, rabbit-hutches, and a pond in the centre, by no means small, for the ducks and geese, near which stood their comfortable nests.
"The man is going to feed the pigs, Mary," said her cousin; "their sties are at the back of the stables, opening into a field."
She led the way from the farmyard as she spoke, and as they drew near the spot Mary heard a most unmelodious sound, half-grunting, half-squeaking, with which the little hungry animals greeted their keeper. There appeared about a hundred little pigs in a portion of the field adjoining the sties, and railed in from the other part by wooden palings and hurdles. At intervals, close to the fence, stood troughs, and the moment their keeper appeared in sight there arose such a perfect yell and growl of grunting and squealing that Mary could not attempt to speak.
The little animals, who varied in age from six weeks to three months, were beautifully clean and white, and when Mary saw them looking through holes in the palings, and many of them standing on their hind-legs to put their noses over, she could scarcely speak for laughing.
"I thought pigs were such heavy, stupid things," she said at last, "but these are lively enough."
"They be lively enough when they be'es hungry," said the man, as he entered the enclosure and drove them back into their houses while he and his helper filled their troughs.
"You can come and see them fed another morning," said cousin Sarah, "but I must go in and prepare breakfast now. Will you amuse yourself in the garden till you hear the bell ring, and gather some flowers for the table?"
"Yes, I should like it of all things;" and Mrs. John Armstrong led Mary to the garden gate and left her.
Mary wandered down the dew moistened paths, now and then gathering flowers as she passed. In her mind, while looking at the ungainly little beasts in the field, had arisen a memory of words in the parable she had heard read the evening before—"and he sent him into the fields to feed swine." Her knowledge of Oriental customs enabled her to understand the deep degradation of such employment, not only to the Jew, but to the natives of other Eastern countries. And yet, after all, the prodigal's father received him again with open arms.
She was walking still in deep thought when her father's step aroused her.
"What is the subject of my daughter's thoughts?" he said as he placed his arm round her.
Mary avoided a direct reply. Not even to her father could she open her heart on the real subject of her thoughts. But she described with so much vivacity the scenes she had lately visited, not forgetting the greedy pigs, that her father was quite amused.
The eight o'clock bell summoned the whole household to prayers, and when Mary entered the farm kitchen she found the screen drawn back and about twenty farm-servants, male and female, waiting to join in the morning devotions.
Her grandfather was absent, but her father conducted the service as on the previous evening. And when she seated herself at the breakfast-table the glow of health on her cheek was not brighter than the glow of pleasure in her heart as she thought of a whole family kneeling and asking God to guide and keep them through the day from danger and sin.
Mr. Edward Armstrong was obliged to return to London on the day after his arrival, and finding his father so much better than he expected he did so with less regret. "You can leave your daughter for a few days longer, Edward," said his father; "I have hardly had time to renew my acquaintance with her, and it is not possible that I shall ever see her again in this world."
"Would you like to stay for a week, Mary?" asked her father.
"Yes, papa, very much, if dear mamma can spare me for so long."
"There is no doubt of that, my dear," he replied, "especially if she thinks your stay will be agreeable to your grandfather."
And so Mary Armstrong remained at Meadow Farm for a week, a period which in after-life was never forgotten. The loving affection of the kind old man was returned by her in attention to his every wish. So much, indeed, had this visit cheered and revived him, that on fine afternoons, when persuaded by Mary, he would lean on her strong young arm, and walk about the garden and fields of the farm.
On the Sunday he even ventured to the village church; and when congratulated by friends who wondered at the elegant graceful girl on whose arm he leaned, he would say with affectionate pride, "This is my granddaughter, Edward's eldest child."
In these walks the young girl opened her heart to the aged Christian, who had had a long life's experience in the "ways of wisdom," and had found her paths "paths of peace."
From him Mary Armstrong learnt those truths which were to be her comfort and guide in after days of sorrow and trial.
When her father came for her at the end of the week she felt the parting from her grandfather and cousins only softened by the thought that she was returning to her mother so dearly loved. At parting the good old gentleman gave her a Bible with marginal references, and a concordance, which she received with many tears, for she felt that never again on earth should she hear the loving voice that had first said to her, "This is the way, walk ye in it."
During the evening at Mr. Drummond's there had been very little opportunity for Mr. Armstrong to discover that the gentleman with white hair was the head of the school at which his little Freddy attended as a pupil. He had been greatly pleased with the gentle and refined manners of Dr. Halford and his son, and felt at once that they were both men of superior education. He had greatly appreciated their remarks on both literary and scientific subjects after the ladies had left the dinner-table; but, unfortunately, one of Mr. Armstrong's narrow-minded prejudices made him judge schoolmasters and clergymen with anything but Christian charity. Added to this they were proverbially poor, and poverty in his eyes was becoming almost a crime.
"What business," he would say, "has a man to educate his son to be a clergyman if he has not independent means, or a living ready for him? or even to be a schoolmaster, with fine notions about education, and not a penny in his pocket? Better by far make him a carpenter or a shoemaker, to work for his living without having to endure the torture of keeping up a genteel appearance upon poverty."
Mr. Armstrong had been unfortunate in his experience respecting schoolmasters and curates; and with the unbending obstinacy of his nature adhered to the opinion he had formed. The bare idea that Dr. Halford could be a schoolmaster, or that his son was studying at Oxford to become a curate, never occurred to him. His wife, who knew his prejudiced opinions too well, would not enlighten him on the subject, while speaking next morning of the great pleasure he had found in their society, although she wondered that the name had not reminded him of Freddy's school.
Mrs. Armstrong congratulated herself, as she remembered that Mary's father had been too much occupied at the dinner-table to notice the gentleman who sat by her side. "If any unpleasantness should arise from the attentions of that young man to my daughter," she said to herself, "I shall have to remove my little Freddy from school, and he is so happy there."
One afternoon, after the Easter holidays, Freddy brought home a little note, fortunately addressed to herself, containing the quarter's account. The sum was comparatively trifling, and she sent it herself the next day by Freddy. It had been made out to Mr. Armstrong; but she feared to show him the bill on which the name of Halford stood so conspicuously written.
Mrs. Armstrong was giving herself unnecessary anxiety. Henry Halford was already at Oxford absorbed in his books, and more than ever determined to ignore even the existence of a certain young lady with large grey eyes and bright brown hair, who had for a time dazzled his senses.
And Mary, did a thought of that pleasant dinner-party ever pass over her mind? Yes; for true to her promise she had read Milton's works with greater interest than ever; she had made notes of the explanations Mr. Henry Halford had given her so far as she could remember them, and perhaps a little feeling of disappointment arose in her heart that he had not sent the copy of "Paradise Lost," which he had offered to lend her, and which contained notes in the margin. Mary Armstrong owned to herself that she liked Mr. Henry Halford, both in manners and appearance; and, above all, for being so evidently clever and well-informed; but she was not likely to be easily won. The thought of marriage, as a possible event at some future time, would sometimes occur to her; butfallingin love implied a weakness, and the citadel of Mary Armstrong's heart was so well guarded by constant and active employment, a love of acquiring knowledge, and a mind well informed on the best subjects, that it would need a strong siege to make the citadel surrender. At present, therefore, Mary was free; and the spring months passed away; and June, with its roses, its blue skies and balmy air, arrived to gladden the earth.
The health of Mrs. Armstrong had greatly improved since her residence at Lime Grove. Freddy was also looking well and rosy; and letters from Edward and Arthur were full of the anticipation of the happiness in store for them during the Midsummer holidays.
One morning early in June a carriage drove up to the gate of Lime Grove, and to Mrs. Armstrong's great satisfaction she saw her sister, Mrs. Herbert, preparing to alight. The colonel and his wife had been abroad during the winter; and the sisters met in the hall with affectionate pleasure.
"Why, Mary," said her aunt, as her niece came forward to welcome her, "you are grown quite a woman; and you and your mother look so well, I am sure this place must agree with you."
"Yes, indeed it does, aunt," replied Mary, leading her to a chair; "but has it not made a change in mamma?"
"Wonderful!" said the lady, as she seated herself.
"Wont you take off your bonnet, Helen, and stay to lunch?" asked her sister.
"Yes, presently. I want a little talk first, and there is plenty of time."
"Let me send a message to the coachman to put up the horses, aunt," said Mary; "it's a long drive from town, and they must want rest."
Mrs. Herbert agreed to remain for an hour or two; the horses were safely stabled, and the servants desired to give the two men their dinners; all, indeed, was arranged according to Mary's wishes, for Mrs. Armstrong gave up every household management to her active, energetic daughter.
"Well, upon my word, Mary," said her aunt, after having been, as she said, carried upstairs by force of arms to remove her bonnet and shawl, and was now seated in a luxurious chair near an open window, "upon my word you manage to have your own way very decidedly."
"Perhaps I do," she replied, laughing; "but now, aunt, is it not more comfortable to feel you have nothing to do but talk or listen, instead of being obliged to interrupt a pleasant conversation to get ready for lunch in a great hurry?"
"Ah, yes, I daresay you are right, Mary; but now, before I tell you one cause of my visit I must hear all the news. Do you like your house as well as ever?"
"Yes, quite; indeed I may say, better, for the garden is repaying the money we laid out upon it last year, and we have obtained such a nice school for Freddy."
"Your flowers are beautiful, I can see so far," said Mrs. Herbert—and so of one thing and another the ladies continued to talk, till at last, after Mary's drawings had been examined, her German lessons described, as well as the beautiful grey mare her father had given her—Mrs. Herbert said, "When will Edward be at home, Maria?"
"Not before five; we dine at six. If you wish to see him you must stay to dinner."
"I would rather not do so; it will make my return home so late. Do you think I may venture to take Mary away for a week or ten days without asking her father's consent?"
"Oh, aunt, I'm afraid not," said Mary, "if you wish me to visit you in Park Lane."
"Only for a day or two, my dear. Your uncle and I are going to Oxford for a week on a special invitation from Charles, and in his letter he says I am to be sure and bring Mary."
"It is no use to look so anxiously at me, my dear," said Mrs. Armstrong; "I could not decide myself in such a matter; you must persuade your aunt to stay to dinner, and then she can ask your father herself."
"Would you like to go, Mary?" said her aunt.
"Oh yes, above all things, aunt. I went to Cambridge once with papa, but he says it is nothing to Oxford. We shall be able to visit the colleges, and the museum, and libraries. I've read about them; and to visit such ancient, antique places, will be a great treat."
"Charles seems to think," replied her aunt, "that there is nothing so likely to attract visitors to Oxford as the grand commemoration which takes place once in three years, and is to happen this year. I suppose, from what he says, that it will be a very gay and exciting time at Oxford."
"Can you manage without me, mamma?" asked Mary, suddenly.
"Certainly, darling; I would not deprive you of such a pleasure for a great deal."
"Then if aunt cannot stay I'll ask papa myself, and perhaps he will take me to Park Lane to-morrow, when he goes to town."
"I should like to have a decision to-day, my dear, that I may write to Charles and tell him when to expect us, so I suppose I must stay, for I intend to take you back with me this evening, Mary; and as it is daylight till ten o'clock, we need not mind being late."
This decision gave pleasure to both mother and daughter; and after luncheon Mary left the sisters to their pleasant afternoon chat, while she went to pack a box with various articles which she knew she should require for so long a visit.
"I don't think my father will refuse to grant me this great pleasure," she said to herself, "so I may as well have everything in readiness, and not keep aunt Helen waiting when his consent is obtained. If he does object to my going I can easily unpack my box again, and replace everything."
But Mary sighed at the prospect of a disappointment.
She was, however, not doomed to such a result. Mr. Armstrong could not resist the pleading eyes of his daughter when her aunt stated her wish, and readily gave his consent. As quickly as possible after they had dined, the carriage was brought to the door. Yet with all the delightful anticipations of the visit in store for her, Mary could not part from her mother without a feeling of regret which almost produced tears. She had so lately left her to visit her grandfather for a week, and as she kissed her she whispered—"Mamma, are you sure you can manage without me, and shall you feel lonely?"
"No no, dearest, don't be afraid, Morris will do all I require, and I shall amuse myself by thinking of your happiness, and of all you will have to tell me on your return."
Mr. Armstrong seemed to participate fully in his daughter's pleasure, and as he placed her in the carriage with her aunt, after kissing her affectionately, a deep feeling of pride rose in his heart. Mary was all he could wish her to be. He had superintended her education, and to himself alone he attributed all the good qualities she possessed.
"My daughter will attract notice in the society she meets at Colonel Herbert's," he said to himself. "I wish her to marry well, both as to position and money. She is not likely to make a foolish attachment. At all events, should such a thing arise I have influence enough with her to put a stop to it. Mary will not disobey me."
Meanwhile Colonel Herbert's open carriage was bowling along on its delicate springs towards London in the pleasant summer evening.
For some minutes the present and anticipated enjoyment kept Mary silent. At last her aunt made some remark which caused her to say—"I thought cousin Charles was at Windsor with his regiment."
"So he was a week ago, but he has taken advantage of leave of absence to visit an old friend at Oxford, who has lately obtained a fellowship, and he is so delighted with the place that he wishes us to participate in his pleasure."
"He is very kind to think of me," replied Mary, "and you could not have proposed for me a greater treat. When do you intend to start?"
"On Thursday, I hope, but I must write to Charles this evening that he may secure apartments at the Mitre Hotel. I believe that during the week of commemoration Oxford presents a very gay appearance, and every available room in the town is quickly hired at a fabulous rent. I have heard the scenes described, but while Charles was at the Woolwich Academy the grand days there in which he figured were my greatest attraction."
"Oh yes, aunt, I can quite understand a preference for the places where our own relations are studying. Those days when you took me to Woolwich while cousin Charles was a cadet were delightful."
And so the aunt and niece continued to talk till the carriage drove into Park Lane, and Colonel Herbert appeared to welcome the arrival of his niece.
"Well done, Helen," he said, as his wife led Mary in. "So you have succeeded in your expedition, and enticed the home bird from her nest?"
"Not without waiting for permission from head-quarters," she replied. "I was made to remain to dinner, for the young lady appeared resolute; she would not stir without her father's sanction, which, however, was most readily given."
"Quite right, Mary, there can be no hope of future happiness in any matter which opposes a parent's will."
"Take Miss Armstrong to her room, Annette," said Mrs. Herbert to the little French maid, who stood waiting to attend the young lady; and then she added in English—"I am going to write to Charles at once, Mary. Go with Annette, she will unpack your box, and do all you require."
Mary followed the tastefully yet neatly dressed French girl to a pleasant room overlooking the park, and soon delighted the young foreigner in a strange land by addressing her with ease in her own language.
Mary, after arranging her dress, and allowing her beautiful hair to pass through the agile fingers of the French girl, seated herself at the open window to watch with eager amusement the varied groups who still lingered or sauntered leisurely along in the cool evening air.
The summons for tea took her to the drawing-room, and the evening passed in listening to descriptions of her aunt's journey to the south of France, and of the beautifulchâteauoverlooking the blue waters of the Mediterranean in which they had lived.
"We often wished you and your mother were with us, Mary," said her uncle, "all the reading in the world about these lovely spots can never realise the scenes to the imagination of the reader in their full beauty. They must be seen to be understood."
"I hope I shall have that opportunity some day," said Mary. "Papa often talks about spending a few months on the Continent, although he dreads the thought of leaving the management of his business to others. But, aunt Helen, I should think some of the scenery in Wales or Scotland, and in England too, especially in the lake country, must be as beautiful as any place in foreign lands."
"England has a beauty of its own in its soft and picturesque scenery," said her uncle, "but in the glorious south the sunshine, the luxurious vegetation, and the clear air, which makes distant objects so sharply defined, render the scenery very unlike that of a northern landscape. Still, it is a fact that many English people go abroad to admire foreign countries who know nothing of the beauties in their own native land."
"I've heard papa make the same remark, uncle, and I shall always feel thankful to him for taking me so many pleasant trips through England, and if I ever have the good fortune to visit other countries I shall be able to make comparisons, and I don't think dear old England will lose much after all."
"Quite right, Mary, stand up for your own native land, and be thankful that you are not being suffocated with the heat in India, nor subject in England to earthquakes, tornados, or storms, such as destroy cities, and terrify so often the inhabitants of the torrid zone."
"Indeed I am thankful already, uncle, for I have heard Aunt Helen describe Indian storms, and the terrible heat, too often not to be glad I have a dear English home. Is the scenery round Oxford beautiful?" she asked after a pause.
"It is rather flat, but very picturesque on the banks of the Thames, which runs behind Christchurch Meadows, especially in summer. Have you never been in Oxfordshire, Mary?"
"No, uncle, but I have seen Windsor, that is the next county, so I suppose there is a similarity in the scenery."
"A little, perhaps, but I will leave you to judge for yourself. And now, suppose you give us a little music."
And thus the evening passed away, and we cannot wonder if in Mary's dreams were mixed up various subjects which had made that day so different to the quiet studious scenes of home.
Next day they drove to the Kensington Museum, and afterwards spent a few hours at the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, the latter always a delight to Mary. And at a rather early hour she laid her head on her pillow full of joyous anticipations of the morrow's journey.
Could she have foreseen the result of this visit would she have shrunk from it? We cannot tell.
Brightly shone the sun over the towers and pinnacles of the glorious old city as the train sped along between Didcot and Oxford. Down the High Street towards the railway station two gentlemen were walking slowly, one of them wearing the Master of Arts gown and the trencher cap; the other, though in plain clothes, had the bearing and gait of a soldier.
Except the bright dark eyes and the clear olive skin there is very little in the tall manly figure and whiskered face to recall the Charley Herbert whom Edward Armstrong saved from an untimely death. His companion, who scarcely reaches to his shoulder, has no such personal attractions as his friend, but the keen eye, broad forehead, and intellectual, studious face, command at once respect and attention.
"At what time is the train due?" asked Charles Herbert, taking out his watch.
"12.30," was the reply.
"Oh, then we have plenty of time to drop in at Queen's and asked Maurice about the boatrace. Hollo, old fellow, where are you going?" and the young officer looked at the offered hand of his friend with surprise.
"I ought not to intrude upon your friends on the very moment of their arrival, Herbert, so I'll say good-by now."
"Nonsense! I want you to know them; come, along, Wilton; you are not going to escape me in this way; and here comes Maurice, the very man I want. Who is that tall fellow with him?" he added hastily, in a low tone, as the two undergraduates approached, one of them with a pleased recognition of Charles and his friend.
"I'll introduce you if you like," had been Mr. Wilton's reply, and as the four gentlemen met and exchanged a friendly greeting, Charles found himself returning the bow of the stranger, who was being named to him as "Mr. Henry Halford, of Queen's."
"I think we have met before, Mr. Herbert," said Henry, with a smile, "we were fellow pupils at Dr. Mason's."
"To be sure, I thought the name was familiar," exclaimed Charles, holding out his hand, "but how was I to recognise our famous Grecian as a tall undergrad. with whiskers; but I remember the face now." And then the two gentlemen stood talking over olden times until Horace Wilton reminded Charles Herbert that he had but a few minutes to spare if he wished to reach the station in time to meet his friends, and persisting in wishing him "Good-by," started him off.
Hasty promises were made to meet on the morrow, hasty farewells uttered, and then Charles Herbert found himself proceeding alone at a rapid rate towards the station.
He had, however, several minutes to wait on the platform before the train slowly drew up, and then from a window of a first-class carriage he recognised the bright, intelligent face of his cousin Mary.
In a few moments the door of the carriage was opened, and a proud, fond welcome from the son whom the mother had not seen for so many months almost brought tears in Mary's eyes.
"Are you tired? Shall we walk to the hotel, and leave the boxes for a porter to bring?" were the eager questions readily assented to at last, and then Charles Herbert, taking possession of his cousin's arm, led the way to his hotel.
Perhaps, to a stranger, no period of time at Oxford can be more fraught with interest than the week in which the yearly commemoration is held. The town no doubt appears more dull by contrast during the long vacation, but in full term time the streets seem redolent of learning; the grave don walking with stately step, as if conscious how far above all other is the power conferred by knowledge and mental superiority; the severe-looking proctor, with his black velvet-trimmed gown adding to his appearance of stern, gloomy determination to be the punisher of evildoers; the youthful freshman, who wears his new honours with shy pride, contrasted with the careless indifference of his more experienced companion, who, carrying a number of musty-looking volumes under his arm, seems quite unconscious that his gown is in rags, or that the cane is visible at one or more corners of his cap.
The yearly commemoration at Oxford certainly presents a scene of excitement scarcely equalled, from the peculiar features of the place, the period, and the principal actors.
It is preceded by that terrible time when the aspirants for honours, shivering and pale, sit writing answers to questions of alarming difficulty, or replying with painful nervousness to their seemingly stern examiners, who sit or stand before them with covered heads.
This is followed by sickening suspense till the list of names decides their fate. Then the scene changes; books are laid aside, learning seems for a time ignored. The long vacation is about to commence; all is pleasure and gaiety.
Happy fathers, proud mothers, brothers, sisters, and cousins, occupy every habitable part of Oxford outside the college walls, submitting to any inconvenience that they may be present during the exciting week.
On the day of Mary's arrival with her aunt and uncle, several of the men who had been going through a terrible ordeal in the schools might be seen with pale and anxious faces wending their way to different colleges. But as Mary entered the High Street at Magdalen Bridge, the colleges on either side of the road, and the steeples in the distance so occupied her attention that she scarcely noticed any other object.
"What college is that?" she asked, as the beautiful but antique outline of Magdalen first met her view.
"I am not quite up in the wonders of Oxford yet," he replied, "although I have been here a week; but I can tell you the names of those before you. This is Magdalen College. A little higher on the right is Queen's; the one opposite is University. That church with the spire is St. Mary's, the University Church; close to it All Soul's College, and——"
"Oh, stop," cried Mary, "if you have whole streets of colleges and churches in Oxford to describe, you must let me learn their names a few at a time, or I shall mix them all up together. Are those young men with caps and gowns clergymen?" she asked, suddenly.
"No, but what made you think so, Mary?"
"Because they have white ties, and others in the same dress have not."
"I am glad to be able to explain so far," he replied, laughing; "they have been passing their examination in the schools, and at such an occasion, I am told, the white tie is a customary appendage. But, Mary, if you are bent upon understanding all the unusual things you see at Oxford, I must provide you with a more experienced guide than myself. And here we are at the hotel," he added, as he stopped to wait for his parents, who were examining the buildings they passed with almost as much eagerness and interest as Mary.
They turned into the hotel together, and in a very short time, after taking a hasty lunch, they sallied forth in the bright sunshine, bent upon exploring the wonders of a city so famed in ancient lore.
"We may as well begin with Magdalen College," said Charles, as they walked down the High Street, but on reaching Queen's, he suddenly paused, and saying, "Wait for me a moment," darted into the quadrangle, and disappeared among the cloisters.
In a few moments he returned in the company of a gentlemanly-looking man, in cap and gown, whom he introduced to the colonel and Mrs. Herbert. Then turning to his cousin, he said—
"Mr. Maurice, my cousin Miss Armstrong has been already asking me so many questions about the manners, customs, and buildings of your famous university, that I shall be glad to place her in the charge of a more well-informed guide than myself."
The young man, who wore a bachelor's gown with its large sleeves, gladly but modestly accepted the charge so pleasantly made over to him. And Mary, though at first a little reserved, soon found it pleasant to have a companion who could answer her questions and give her unasked many interesting particulars. In the course of the afternoon they were joined by Mr. Wilton, Charles Herbert's friend, who proved himself a very valuable addition to the party.
And so Friday and Saturday passed away in sight-seeing, visits to the colleges, or attending afternoon service at New College and Magdalen; and yet Mary showed no signs of fatigue. Never in her life had she been more deeply interested; and although asShow Sundayapproached, the streets were filled with well-dressed people, her attention was not easily diverted. Sunday arrived, a bright June day, and in the evening a gathering took place in Christ Church meadows, singularly styledVanity Fair. Fair ladies are certainly present on these occasions, but who would apply to them the term vanity, although they have literally come out to see and to be seen?
Show Sunday, as the Sunday before commemoration is termed, certainly presents a show very seldom seen in any other locality in England.
The most dignified of Oxford's learned magnates are there, accompanied by the ladies of their families and distinguished visitors.
Strings of gownsmen, arm-in-arm, parade the Long Walk, observing with a sort of good-natured envy their more favoured fellows, on whose arms lean some of the fairest and noblest of England's daughters. And in almost every instance the promenaders of the gentler sex are attired in that simple elegance of style which marks the well-bred woman of polished society. Into this novel and attractive scene Mary Armstrong was led by her cousin and Frank Maurice, upon whose arm she leaned.
Her uncle and aunt had continued their walk to the water side, but Charles and his friend detained her after the second turn in the Long Walk for another stroll through the broad promenade beneath the lofty elm trees.
Charles Herbert felt proud of the slight, graceful figure, so becomingly attired, by whom he walked. The simple, white dress, lace mantle, and blue silk bonnet were attractive from their simplicity, and more than one gownsman, who raised his cap to Frank Maurice, cast admiring eyes on the fair, intellectual face and noble features of the young lady by his side. Presently two gownsmen turned into the walk, and as they approached, one of them said to the other—
"Why, Halford, here comes Wilton's tall friend with Maurice, and a lady on his arm."
The young man thus addressed started as his companion spoke; he had quickly recognised the young lady whom he had twice met, and now as they drew near, and Charles Herbert advanced to claim his acquaintance in a friendly manner, his face became pale as death. It flushed, however, and the consciousness of this restored his self-possession as Charles introduced his cousin, Miss Armstrong.
"I have met Miss Armstrong before," he said, with an effort; "my father resides at Kilburn, at a very short distance from the Limes."
For once Mary was at fault, so great was her surprise to see her dinner-table friend, and her little brother's tutor, at Oxford, in the costume of an undergraduate. But as the new-comers joined them in their walk, and entered into conversation, with her companions, she recovered herself, and took the first opportunity to address a few words to him.
The bells began to toll for evening service, and Frank Maurice, excusing himself to Mary and her cousin, wished them good evening and joined the gownsmen with whom Henry Halford had a few minutes before made his appearance.
"Whither shall we go this evening, Mary?" asked her cousin.
"I have no choice," she replied; "aunt talked of going to St. Mary's, but where are uncle and aunt gone?" she exclaimed, looking round in surprise.
Charles Herbert hesitated for a moment, and then, as the sudden thought occurred that Mary had met an old acquaintance, he said—
"Mr. Halford, if you will kindly take care of my cousin, I will go in search of my runaway relatives."
Henry Halford bowed, and as Charles quickly disappeared he offered his arm to Mary, and led her slowly on in the direction taken by her cousin.
For some minutes conflicting thoughts filled the minds of these two young people so suddenly thrown into each other's society.
"How very pale Mr. Halford looked when he met us just now!" said Mary Armstrong to herself. "What could be the cause? How strange that I should meet him here! and yet I remember now that mamma said Dr. Halford's son was going to Oxford. How nervous he seems! and so different from his manner at the dinner-table at Mr. Drummond's. Ah, how clever I thought him then! and after a university education I should feel absolutely afraid to talk with him. I expect he will end by taking a fellowship like Mr. Wilton. These clever men never marry;" and then a quick flash of thought that crimsoned the young girl's face passed through her mind: "yet I should like my husband to be even more clever and well informed than papa." The silence was becoming painful, and Mary was glad enough to be able to say—
"Oh, here they come at last; do you know my uncle and aunt, Mr. Halford?"
Before he could reply, the colonel and his wife drew near, and Charles quickly introduced the young gownsman, whom he had seen more than once, and of whom he had heard favourable accounts.
After a while Charles Herbert offered his arm to Mary, leaving his young friend to make his own way with his elders, which he did so successfully that they invited him to their hotel to dine on the following day.
Charles made the most of his time during the walk home with his cousin. He had a kind of brotherly affection for Mary, and her regard for him had all the elements of sisterly love; there was therefore perfect ease on both sides in their association with each other, which perhaps induced him to say to her on this evening words which created in her mind new ideas, and led to results he little anticipated.
Charles Herbert himself had no thought of marriage at present, and therefore never suspected that the trifling questions he put to Mary in a joking way would lead to serious thoughts on her part.
"So you and Mr. Halford are old friends. Mary?"
"No, Charles, I have only met him twice; the second time, three months ago at a dinner party."
"Well, he appeared considerably discomposed when he met you. Do you think uncle Armstrong would consider the future parson a suitable match for his daughter?"
"Oh, Charles, don't say such foolish things; does every young man want to marry a young lady when he talks pleasantly to her? if I thought so, I would never speak to any of them again."
The young officer laughed heartily as he replied, "Well, Mary, I wont tease you any more, but if Mr. Halford does take advantage of pleasant talk with you, and should make you an offer, remember I warned you."
Mary did not reply, and the conversation drifted into another subject.
But her cousin's playful remarks had excited new ideas, and when alone in her room that night she almost decided to avoid the society of the young man in whom she felt herself already interested. In about two years he would finish his terms, and with his acknowledged talents was it likely he would fail to pass for his degree, and obtain ordination? And then—he would be a clergyman, a curate perhaps with a hundred a year,—would her father consent to such a match for her? Some such thoughts as these for a time perplexed her, till at last she dismissed them as absurd. Mr. Henry Halford had never by word or look given her a right to imagine any such nonsense; and after all why should she allow herself to be influenced by the jokes of her cousin Charles?
But to dismiss thoughts of persons with whom we are constantly associated is not an easy matter, as Mary quickly discovered. In an early walk next day with her cousin and his friends they again encountered Henry Halford. He accompanied them to the afternoon service at New College, and soon proved himself as efficient a guide as Frank Maurice. At dinner he completely won the good opinion of Colonel Herbert, by making sensible remarks on various subjects with a modest unobtrusiveness so pleasing in a young man to his elders; and when they separated on that evening it was quite understood that Henry Halford was to consider himself one of their party during this visit to Oxford. Charles Herbert looked however in vain for any signs that these two young people, Henry Halford and Mary Armstrong, were, as he called it, "falling in love" with each other.
They appeared on most friendly terms; Henry rather reserved, but kind, attentive, and polite to the young lady, who treated him with easy familiarity totally unmixed with self-consciousness. There was no scheming to separate from the rest of the party, and Charles Herbert was at length forced to admit that his joking remarks to Mary had been ill-timed.
And yet in the heart of Henry Halford a struggle had commenced, which he could with difficulty maintain when in Mary's society. He also had secretly communed with himself after meeting her so suddenly on the Sunday evening in Christchurch meadows. His first impulse was to leave Oxford and return home at once, rather than again meet the girl whose presence had aroused all the former emotions which he had supposed were completely crushed. He tried to reason with himself on the folly of supposing that he could form a just estimate of a young lady's character in scarcely two interviews; and even if he had now the opportunity placed in his way of seeing her more frequently, could he venture to offer himself to Mr. Armstrong as a suitor for his only daughter? But this very hopelessness nerved him to remain in her society; he was not coxcomb enough to suppose such a sensible girl as Mary Armstrong in any danger from this association with him; and so he remained, firmly guarding his words and actions, that not one might be mistaken as a wish to gain her affections.
Yet the days passed pleasantly: very frequently the three young people sallied forth alone, Mrs. Herbert and the colonel not being able to endure so much fatigue; at other times they were punted up the river to Iffley, passing water-lilies and banks of forget-me-nots, while the gaudy dragon-fly, with its green and gold feathers glittering in the sun, flitted across from bank to bank.
The morning of Commemoration-day dawned in full summer splendour. At an early hour Mrs. Herbert and Mary were conducted by Henry Halford and the captain to the ladies' gallery of the Sheldonian Theatre, which on these occasions bears the closest resemblance to a flower-garden.
Ladies in bonnets and dresses of every shade and colour are seated closely together, no break occurring by the appearance of a figure in black broadcloth, and a white tie, as from this gallery gentlemen are entirely excluded. And here for many hours sat Mary Armstrong and her aunt, enjoying with amused surprise the performances in the gallery above them, where persons and subjects were named only to be received with cheers or groans, as it best suited the ten or twelve hundred wild spirits there assembled.
Perhaps in the time of which we write these said wild spirits were more under the control of their own good sense than others have been lately, and therefore were not above submitting to the rules of the university. Most certainly when the dons entered, and the business of the day commenced, they did suppress the noisy shouting, and treat their superiors, in learning at least, with some deference; and although now and then there would occur a little outbreak of mirth and drollery, the Sheldonian Theatre had not yet aspired, as it has lately, to the dignity of a "bear-garden."
Mary Armstrong therefore could listen with but little interruption to the Latin oration and the delivery of the prize poem—the latter most attractive to a girl of intellectual tastes. Indeed, all that took place possessed for her the attraction of novelty, and tired as she felt, she could not help saying to her aunt as they rose to leave the place—
"Oh, aunty, I'm sorry it's all over."
"Why, my dear child, you must be tired to death; it is nearly three o'clock, and we've been here ever since half-past ten."
"Oh, aunt, have I kept you here all this time on my account? I'm so sorry. I did not feel tired, and I forgot to think of you; why did you not tell me?"
"Nonsense, dear Mary! it is not likely I should wish to spoil your pleasure. But see, here are the gentlemen, and they have got a carriage for us to ride to the hotel. How very thoughtful!"
Mary also acknowledged herself tired now the excitement was over, and gladly seated herself in the carriage by her aunt, with a sense of relief at not having to walk.
Yet after a rest she was quite ready to accompany her cousin and Henry Halford to the afternoon service at Magdalen. Mary felt she could never be too tired to enjoy the sweet choral services at this and other college chapels.
After dinner the young people proposed a stroll in Christchurch meadows.
"With all my heart," said the colonel, "if I am not expected to join you. I don't think I ever felt more tired after a day's march than I do now. Take care of Mary, Charles," he added, "she mustn't overdo it."
"Oh, I don't feel tired, uncle," she replied, "at least, not very—besides, this is our last day at Oxford, and I must have a farewell walk."
"A walk wont hurt her," said Mrs. Herbert, who was lying on the sofa; "young people have a reserve force of strength which enables them to recover quickly from fatigue."
A very few minutes brought Henry Halford and his companions to the Long Walk, in which many persons were already assembled.
The sun, still in full brightness, was approaching the west, and his slanting rays glittered like golden bands of light through the summer foliage. But neither Mary nor her friends seemed inclined for promenading in a crowd, so they sauntered slowly away from the company towards the river side. Here they found a seat, and were presently joined by Charles's friend Wilton. For more than an hour they sat talking over the events of the day, and other matters connected with university life, to which Mary had very little to do but listen with great interest.
Suddenly Horace Wilton rose, and exclaimed, "Here are my aunt and cousin, Captain Herbert; will you allow me to introduce them to you?"
Mary Armstrong and Henry Halford also rose as the ladies approached, for they recognised Mrs. Drummond and her niece Edith Longford, whose musical powers had been a matter of discussion between them at the dinner party.
A mutual and surprised recognition took place amidst sundry inquiries. "How long have you been at Oxford?" "When did you arrive?" "What have you seen?" and so on.
At length Mrs. Drummond suggested that they should retrace their steps to the chief entrance, as the evening was becoming cool. The whole party therefore returned towards the Long Walk.
As usual in such cases, each gentleman fell into companionship with the one lady to whom at the time of moving he happened to be speaking. Horace Wilton therefore led the way with his aunt, Charles walked by the side of Edith Longford, evidently much pleased with her companionship, and Mary found herself alone with Henry Halford. In this lingering summer evening walk there was no occasion for a gentleman to offer his arm to the lady who accompanied him moving slowly by his side. Mary therefore felt herself free. She was, however, for some minutes silently occupied in contemplating the calm beauty of the sunset, which threw over the park-like enclosure of Christchurch Meadows a glow of crimson and gold. Behind them the rippling waters of the Thames dashed their tiny waves against the mossy banks. At a distance in front, the turrets and grey walls of the college glittered through the trees with the gleam of sunset. A thrush in a thicket close by was sweetly warbling his evening hymn of praise; and the scent of new-mown hay filled the air with its fragrance.
Strollers like themselves were wending their way homewards to pass the gate before Old Tom should sound out his one hundred and one sonorous notes, and the meadows were almost deserted in the precincts of the river. All this Mary noticed in silence on this never-to-be-forgotten evening.
Suddenly she exclaimed—
"Oh, Mr. Halford, I have left my book on the seat; is there time to go back for it? I meant to leave it at the library as we passed."
"I will fetch it for you, Miss Armstrong," he replied, "if you do not mind waiting here alone for a few minutes."
"Oh, not in the least; thank you very much;" and she turned towards the river as he started at a rapid pace to fetch the book. Another summer evening beauty presented itself to her delighted eyes. Across the river glittered a silver band of light, and looking up Mary saw through the trees the full moon casting shadows of the quivering leaves on the turf beneath.
Almost unconsciously she continued walking towards the river, and in a few moments met Henry Halford returning hastily with the lost book in his hand. After many earnest thanks from Mary they hastened to overtake their companions, who were now out of sight; but some moments elapsed before Henry could recover breath to speak easily after his rapid movements.
Strange to say, amidst all his firm resolves a strong impulse was at this moment agitating every nerve, and seeming to impel him to discover whether this young girl, his verybeau idéalof what a woman should be, could return the love which he now knew was rising for her in his heart.
The twilight hour, the lonely walk, the expected separation on the morrow, all tended to strengthen the impulse; yet he did not speak. Mary walked on quickly, wondering at his silence, and anxious to overtake her friends, yet evidently feeling fatigued.
"You are tired, Miss Armstrong," he said at last; "will you take my arm?"
In silence Mary complied, and after walking rather quickly for a few minutes they came to a turn in the road, and saw their companions at some little distance before them.
"Oh, there they are," exclaimed Mary, slackening her speed; "we need not walk so fast now if we keep them in sight: I am so sorry you had to return for the book, Mr. Halford. I am afraid——"
"Don't, pray don't apologise, Miss Armstrong," was the reply that interrupted her in agitated tones. "I should only be too happy to attend to your every wish for my whole life, if I dared to encourage a hope that such a result was possible."
Was it true? Had she heard aright? What could he mean? What could she say in reply? Nothing. They walked on slowly in silence. How sweetly it accorded with her feelings at the moment! Those few words had shown her, as by a flash of lightning, the state of her own heart. Did it not re-echo the sentiments just uttered by her companion? Was it not happiness to be near him, hanging upon his arm, and conscious from his words of his thoughts respecting her? so talented, so clever, and so good, or he would not wish to be a clergyman.
During this visit to Oxford she had been conscious of a pleasure in his society, and a satisfaction in observing how readily he won the approbation of her friends; but now she could see more clearly the cause of these feelings, and in the first moment of gladness she had no dread of the future. Perfectly innocent of the world, she did not, as many would have done, laugh off the agitated words as a mere compliment. She had formed too high an estimate of the truthful character of Henry Halford to doubt him for one moment.
But Henry Halford already trembled at what he had done in a moment of impulse. Silently he led his companion to her friends, who had stopped at the entrance of the cloisters to wait for them. Together they crossed the quadrangle, Henry now and then joining in the conversation, and at last, to Mary's great delight, passed out at the gate as Old Tom sounded the first of his hundred and one strokes at nine o'clock.
No other words passed between these two till just before they reached the hotel, where the rest of the party were waiting to wish them good night.
"I will not intrude upon your family circle this evening, Miss Armstrong," said Henry Halford, "but I will call in to-morrow to say good-by;" and he added quickly, "If I have offended you by what I said just now, please forgive me and forget it."
"I am not offended, Mr. Halford," was the almost whispered reply, which caused the young man to press the little hand resting on his arm, and then turn quickly away to bid farewell, with stifled feelings, to those who stood waiting for him at the door of the hotel.
Mary escaped to her room, and closing the door, turned the key in the lock. To be troubled with Annette's French chatter at such a moment was more than she could bear even to contemplate.
Taking off her hat and gloves, she threw herself into the easy-chair and began to reflect. Had she compromised her womanly dignity by allowing Henry Halford to suppose she believed what might have been a compliment? No—impossible; he was too honourable and truthful, and too agitated while he spoke, to allow of such a fear. Besides, had he not, during the last few days, given her evident proofs of his preference and notice, made more apparent by the unmistakable efforts he made to conceal them? More than this, was not her own admiration of his talents and character leading to a feeling which made her listen for his footstep, and feel happy in his society? And as the young girl thought thus her cheek flushed even in her loneliness.
"Ah, well," she continued to herself, "there is nothing to be ashamed of; I know I should only be too proud if I am to be married some day to have such a clever, intellectual, well-informed man for my husband. Besides, he must be a good son to help his father as he does, especially as he is going to be a clergyman."
And so the young girl, who knew nothing of the world outside her own home, and who, at the age of eighteen, had never read a novel, sat raising an idol in her own heart to which she could offer that worship which in characters like Mary Armstrong often leads to an infringement of the first commandment.
A summons to tea aroused her. Hastily smoothing her hair, and with deft fingers making those little alterations which, as if by magic, add neatness to a lady's dress, she descended to the private room they occupied at the hotel.
As she entered, the light of the gas dazzled her eyes, and she could scarcely distinguish who were present.
Not so Mrs. Herbert, who exclaimed—
"Why, Mary dear, how flushed you are! I hope you have not taken cold."
"Am I flushed?" she replied, raising her hand to her cheek. "It is warm this evening, aunt, and we walked home quickly."
Her cousin Charles, who had observed the blush deepen as his mother spoke, quickly made a remark that turned the subject.
He had his own suspicions as to the cause of Mary's unusual colour, but he had no wish for the cause of those suspicions to suggest itself to others.
By degrees the conversation turned pleasantly on the events of the week, and the prospect of returning to her dear home with so much to tell her mother for a time diverted Mary's thoughts from a subject which was beginning to make itself all-absorbing.
Charles accompanied them next day by train as far as Slough, from thence he changed carriages for Windsor. Mary stayed with her uncle and aunt in Park Lane that night, and next day was driven home to Kilburn to be welcomed with the fondest expressions of love from her mother and brother Freddy. Equally warm, yet less demonstrative, was her father's greeting to his cherished daughter. How little he guessed that she was nurturing in her heart any sentiment likely to turn her father's love to a fierce anger, of which she had not supposed him capable!
Mary Armstrong's education, on which her father so prided himself, had been lacking in more ways than one. Among other mistakes in training their daughter, her parents had kept her from the society of girls of her own age. Pride on Mrs. Armstrong's part caused her to object to allow Mary to visit often at any houses except those of her own relatives. The same foolish pride of those days prevented those whom she met at her aunt's from inviting the daughter of a tradesman, especially while he resided at his place of business.
She had only one cousin, Charles Herbert; and therefore at the age of seventeen, when her father removed his family to Kilburn, she knew literally nothing of female society, or indeed of any society but that of her mother's relatives.
True, she could and did feel her mother to be her best confidential friend, yet it was not a favourable position for a young girl of her age to be thrown into society with nothing but the knowledge obtained from books to direct her conduct.
Accustomed to be candid and truthful in every action, she knew nothing of the conventional customs which would have condemned the readiness with which she admitted and trusted Henry Halford's first attempts at a more intimate acquaintance.