There is something in the old Saxon word "mother" which seems to convey more of love and dignity, and to command a greater amount of respect, than any of its substitutes in other languages.
Perhaps its constant use in the old Saxon translation of the Bible has thrown a halo of sanctity over the homely word, for no names in Scripture have been more honoured than those of the mothers of holy men. In our own biographies of great and good men, how often to the mother's influence over her boy, from even the days of infancy, can be traced the high principles, the noble character, and the great worth of the man! Most truly has it been said that the future of a child depends upon the training of the first five years of his life. It is therefore to mothers that this period of a boy's history is by Nature entrusted, and upon them chiefly rests the responsibility of laying the foundation of a high-principled, noble, and truthful character.
Another saying, that mothers love their sons better than their daughters, is not always true, especially in such a case as Mrs. Halford's, when only one son and one daughter live to grow up.
And yet it is doubtful whether she would have parted so easily with her son had he proposed to place half the globe between himself and his family, for very dear was her clever and talented son to the almost childless mother.
The old adage—
"My son is my son till he gets him a wife,My daughter's my daughter all the days of her life,"
"My son is my son till he gets him a wife,My daughter's my daughter all the days of her life,"
seemed reversed to Mrs. Halford, for Fanny had been completely lost to her mother since her marriage.
She was also strongly impressed with the idea that Henry would continue to assist in carrying on the school, even after his ordination, and then marry some amiable girl who would live with them at Englefield Grange, and to be to her as a daughter in the place of Fanny.
Such were some of Mrs. Halford's castles in the air, greatly augmented by observing with a mother's penetration that her son was admiring Miss Armstrong. Even while her own good sense told her that the daughter of Mr. Armstrong would never obtain her father's consent to a marriage with her son, still she had hope that in some way or other such a result was not impossible.
August of the year which had already been so full of changes and events had arrived.
The pupils were returning to Englefield Grange after the Midsummer vacation, and Mrs. Halford quickly noticed that little Freddy Armstrong was not amongst them.
She waited a fortnight, and then one afternoon at the tea-table spoke to her husband on the subject.
"Mr. Armstrong's little boy has not come back yet," she said, "had you not better send a note, James? They have perhaps forgotten the day on which the school reopened."
"No, my dear, it is not necessary. I received a very polite note from Mr. Armstrong in the holidays, telling me that he intended to send the boy with his brothers this quarter, and enclosing a cheque for the Midsummer amount."
"Why did you not mention it, James?" she asked.
"I did not think it necessary, for I supposed you and Kate would hear of the new arrangement from Henry, as he is so friendly at Lime Grove."
The mother glanced at her son. In spite of his utmost efforts he could not conceal his agitation, yet he did manage to say—
"I have seen nothing of Mr. Armstrong's family for weeks, father."
"No, Henry, I daresay not," said his mother, quickly, "you are studying too closely to have time to spare for visiting. Besides, the loss of one little pupil is not a matter of great importance to us."
After a glance at Henry's pale face, Kate Marston took the first opportunity of turning the subject, and though by so doing she enabled her cousin to recover himself and join in the conversation, he very soon left the tea-table.
Mrs. Halford heard the door of his little study close on her son, but that did not deter her from her purpose. As soon as the tea was removed she rose and left the room.
Henry Halford, after leaving the tea-table and locking the door of his study, was for a few moments unable to touch a book. Resting his head on his hands, he gave himself up to reflection.
He had made a venture and failed; and deeply as he felt the mortification caused by Mr. Armstrong's letter, yet in his cooler moments he could clearly see that, in a worldly point of view, his proposal would appear an act of presumption.
He was still sitting in listless idleness, indulging in these painful thoughts, when a knock at the door startled him, and he impatiently exclaimed—
"Who is there?"
"I, your mother, Henry. I want to speak to you."
Without a moment's delay the lock was drawn back, and mother and son stood together in the room.
Mrs. Halford closed the door gently and locked it, and Henry, placing a chair near the table for his mother, seated himself and looked inquiringly at her.
"Mother," he exclaimed, suddenly, "you have guessed my secret."
"I know there must be something on your mind," she replied. "Close study has never before made you listless and unhappy."
"I fly to books to drown thought, they are my only relief."
"Would it not relieve you to confide in your mother, Henry?"
There was a pause.
"You used to tell me all your troubles when you were a child, and why not now?"
He raised his head, and the words burst forth impulsively—
"Mother, if I had told you weeks ago, instead of acting on impulse as I always do, I might have spared myself bitter mortification."
"In what way, my son? Explain yourself."
"You know I met Miss Armstrong at Oxford, mother, and on the evening before she left I said something to her under an impulse I could not resist, and now I regret it."
"On what account?"
"Because I have written to ask her father's consent to make her my wife, and he has refused me. Don't tell me I am a fool," he added, seeing her about to speak, "I know it now. What have I to offer as an equivalent to a young lady with such superior attractions and accomplishments as Mary Armstrong, setting aside the large fortune which her father can give her?"
"Does he write kindly?" asked the mother, whose heart ached for her son.
"Yes, and sensibly; here is the letter;" and he took Mr. Armstrong's letter from the desk and handed it to her.
She read it and returned it to him in silence.
"You will not allow this disappointment to interfere with your future intentions, Henry?"
"No, indeed," he replied, "I am throwing off the memory of my folly by degrees, and I own I am relieved by telling you all about it. I am not vain enough to suppose that Miss Armstrong will be influenced by the impulsive, unmeaning words I said to her, so there is no harm done. I have no doubt little Freddy was removed to prevent the possibility of any further intercourse. So ends my first and last dream of love."
"Better so, my son, better so, both for your sake and Miss Armstrong's. I quite agree with Mr. Armstrong about long courtship. You would not be in a position to marry for three or four years at the earliest, and not even then to such a girl as Miss Armstrong unless you had a living of some real value."
For nearly an hour Mrs. Halford remained with her son, listening to his account of the pleasant days at Oxford, and their result, and when at last she rose to go, he said—
"Please do not allow the subject to be spoken of by Kate, if you tell her, but I should like my father to know, and by-and-by I may be able to laugh over my folly as a thing of the past."
"No reference shall be made, Henry, I promise you," said Mrs. Halford, as her son rose to open the door for her with the family courtesy now so seldom seen.
He closed it after her, but without locking it. This little interview had done him good. A painful secret loses more than half its bitterness when it has been listened to with sympathising love by a true friend. And who such a true friend as a mother? She had purposely said very little to her son of her own opinion on the matter, but as she slowly ascended the stairs to be alone in her own room for a time, she said to herself—
"I will pay Mrs. Armstrong and her daughter a visit some day. I should like to become acquainted with this girl who has so fascinated my son."
And then, as she seated herself to reflect on what she had heard, her thoughts reverted to her own only daughter, whom she had not seen for nearly fifteen years. Mrs. Franklyn had written once only since the birth of little Albert, and although she spoke of being weaker than usual, and longing to visit England again and see them all, yet she was careful not to alarm her mother.
This reticence on Fanny's part, and her husband's lively and sanguine letters, removed all fear of anything serious about the health of the dearly-loved daughter. And yet at this very moment a letter from Fanny was on its way to England, in which she touched gently on the possibility that she might not live to reach England in the following spring, and enclosing one to her brother to be opened in case of her death.
This letter, however, which did not arrive till the end of October, was accompanied as usual by one from Arthur, written in good spirits, and attributing Fanny's illness and gloomy letters to nervousness.
But we must not anticipate the sorrowful news contained in our last chapter, which will reach Englefield Grange all too soon, and be the more bitterly mourned because almost unexpected.
At this particular time of which we write, Mrs. Halford could think of nothing but her son's disappointment, and the more she reflected on the subject the more indignant she felt.
On what could Mr. Armstrong base his objections to her son beyond the fact that his daughter was rich and her son poor? After all, a schoolmaster in Dr. Halford's position was at least equal to a tradesman, as Mr. Armstrong undoubtedly was. And if his wife could lay claim to good birth, she had been told that Mr. Armstrong was only the son of a Hampshire farmer. Whereas her son, Henry Halford, could boast that the ancestors of both his parents were quite equal in position to those of Mrs. Armstrong. She had seen that lady, and could trace in her not one spark of upstart pride, but the thorough good-breeding of a well-born gentlewoman. Besides all this, would not her son in a few years be a clergyman, and as such, to the honour of England be it said, admissible, on account of his education and the sacredness of his office, to any society?
What else then could influence Mr. Armstrong's refusal but a love of money and what it can buy? He had spoken in his letter of other plans in view for his daughter, and these no doubt were attempts on the father's part to purchase position for her, or to sacrifice her girlish affections for riches and a title.
So reflected Mrs. Halford, and she was not far wrong.
Like many men of strong prejudices, Mr. Armstrong had only overcome these prejudices to go into extremes.
The peculiar ideas which influenced him during his early married life had all disappeared with the increase of wealth. No talk now of "aping the gentry." Money and education had raised him to their level, and therefore far above schoolmasters and curates, or any such poverty-stricken members of society.
But Mrs. Halford's reflections were not made known to her son by even a hint. Had she been only a fond and foolish mother, she would have openly expressed her indignation at the treatment he had received, and aroused in him wounded pride and angry resentment, which would have unsettled his mind for his studies, and made him unfit to assist his father in the schoolroom.
Instead of this, her calm and quiet acquiescence in Mr. Armstrong's letter strengthened the young man in his purpose of overcoming the past and looking forward to the future.
Yet Mrs. Halford had not set aside the idea of paying Mrs. Armstrong a visit. For in her heart she did not despair of her son's ultimate success with Miss Armstrong. If that young lady deserved the opinion expressed of her by father and son, and was not quite indifferent towards the latter—well, it would certainly be difficult to make that discovery, however she would try.
For some weeks nothing occurred to give Mrs. Halford the opportunity she wished for, but it presented itself at last in a most singular manner. She had been seeking a new under-housemaid, and one morning a girl called upon her, whose manner and appearance pleased her so much, that after a little talk with her she decided to call upon her late mistress respecting her character.
What was that lady's surprise when the girl gave her the address of Mrs. Armstrong, Lime Grove!
At once she saw the way open before her, and sent the young woman with a message to ask if between twelve and one the next day would be convenient for a visit respecting the character of a servant.
Mrs. Armstrong had been very much interested in this young housemaid, who was not, however, sufficiently acquainted with her business, and on that account only she had parted with her.
It so happened that when the girl brought the message Mrs. Armstrong was engaged, otherwise she would have questioned her kindly respecting her new situation.
All, therefore, that could be done was to answer the message, which merely asked if Mrs. Armstrong could seea ladyabout Jane's character at the time named.
The reply in the affirmative gave Mrs. Halford the opportunity of paying an unexpected visit so far as her name went, but of this she was not aware when she presented herself next morning at the appointed time and sent in her card.
Mary and her mother were seated in the library, the former at the easel, the latter at work, when the servant entered.
"The lady about Jane's character, ma'am," she said, as she offered the card to her mistress.
Without reading it, Mrs. Armstrong laid it on the table by her side.
The next moment Mrs. Halford was ushered into the room.
Two of the three who then met so unexpectedly never forgot that meeting.
Although inwardly agitated, Mrs. Halford had self-possession enough to glance round the room as she entered. A young girl with bright golden hair, dressed in deep mourning, rose from her easel and bowed gracefully. She was about to reseat herself and resume her painting, when to her surprise she saw her mother advance towards the visitor, hold out her hand, and exclaim—
"How are you, Mrs. Halford? I am most happy to see you. Pray take a chair. I was not prepared for this unexpected pleasure; my housemaid told me it was a lady for the character of a servant. My daughter Mary," she added, seeing that young lady still standing by her easel, and Mrs. Halford looking earnestly at her.
With outward ease Mary Armstrong advanced to shake hands with the visitor, while every nerve quivered with surprise and excitement.
A sudden paleness was followed by a deep flush, which did not fade from her face while the interview lasted.
All this passed in a very few seconds, and then Mrs. Halford seated herself and referred to the object of her visit.
"I have come to inquire into the character of your late housemaid, Mrs. Armstrong, Jane Ford," she said. "I suppose she did not mention my name yesterday, when I sent her to ascertain if to-day at this hour would be convenient, but I sent in my card this morning."
"I must really plead guilty to not having read it," replied Mrs. Armstrong, "but I shall be glad to tell you all I can in Jane's favour, perhaps with double pleasure now I know the lady by whom she is likely to be engaged."
The ladies then entered at once into the various and usual inquiries made and replied to on such occasions. Well for Jane Ford that these two ladies did not belong to the class of mistresses who forget that young servants are human beings, endowed with the same feelings and tempers as themselves, that they also have likes and dislikes, affections and emotions, causes for joy or sorrow, all of which are apt to affect their natures more strongly, because in childhood they are often ill-trained, neglected, or exposed to bad example at home.
At all events, what passed so influenced Mrs. Halford, that she decided at once to engage the young woman of whom Mrs. Armstrong spoke so kindly.
During the conversation Mrs. Halford frequently allowed her eyes to wander towards the spot where Mary sat painting near the window, her beautiful profile defined in strong relief against the light.
Conscious of the glances cast upon her, the colour on Mary's cheeks deepened, but when Mrs. Halford rose and approached her to crave permission to examine the drawing, there was no want of well-bred ease in her manner of replies.
The conversation became general, and touched on other subjects, in which Mary joined readily; indeed, Mrs. Halford had introduced them to draw out this young girl whom her son so admired.
Nearly an hour passed, and then Mrs. Halford was reminded that she would soon be wanted at home for the dinner-hour, by the pendule on the mantelpiece chiming one o'clock.
As she rose in haste to take her leave, the door opened and Freddy entered. For a moment he did not recognise Mrs. Halford; but when she exclaimed—
"Why is my little Freddy still at home?" he came forward at once, and placing his little hand in hers, said, with childlike candour—
"Oh, Mrs. Halford, are you come to ask mamma to send me back to your school! I should like it so much! Dear Mary teaches me now," he added, with a look of affection at his sister, "but I've no boys to play with now. Edward and Arthur are gone back to school, and I don't care about playing alone."
"I persuaded Mr. Armstrong to keep Freddy at home till Easter," said Mrs. Armstrong in explanation; "he is rather too young to be with boys so much older than himself, at least at boarding-school, and his papa has a great objection to day schools as a rule."
"Many parents have that objection," was the gentle reply.
Mrs. Halford quite understood the apology for the removal of her boy from Dr. Halford which the mother's words were intended to convey. But she also by other signs made a greater discovery. Neither mother nor daughter knew anything of Henry's letter or of its reception.
"I hope Dr. Halford and your son are quite well. We have not seen Mr. Halford lately; I suppose he is constantly engaged in study, and has no time for visiting."
Just as Mrs. Armstrong commenced this inquiry, Mrs. Halford had turned to wish Mary good-by. She felt the hand she held quiver as the mother spoke, and the telltale blush could not all be ascribed to the suddenness of rising from her chair. She pressed the young girl's hand, and then turned to the mother.
"My husband and son are quite as well as usual, Mrs. Armstrong; and Henry is more wrapped up in his studies than ever. Thank you very much for so kindly inquiring for them, but Henry has given up all idea of visiting for the present."
And so the ladies parted, Mrs. Halford charmed with the young girl who had won her son's heart; and Mary, after accompanying her visitor to the door and giving her a last bow and smile as she passed into the road, went to her room to prepare for lunch.
Mechanically she made the necessary alterations, all her thoughts occupied with the tall, gentle lady, who in manner and words and face so strongly reminded her of her son, notwithstanding the silvery white hair and difference of years.
Nearly a year has passed since Mrs. Halford's visit, but no farther intercourse has taken place between the families at Englefield Grange and Lime Grove. Henry Halford had listened eagerly to his mother's description of that visit spoken of in a passing way at the tea-table in the evening, but only once did he venture a remark.
"Mrs. Armstrong and her daughter were in deep mourning," his mother said in the course of conversation. "I was not aware they had lost a near relative."
"They are in mourning for Mr. Armstrong's father," said Henry; "I saw his death in theTimesa few weeks ago, in his eighty-third year."
This year of Mary's life had indeed been an eventful one. The first meeting with Henry Halford, the second at Mr. Drummond's, the visit to Meadow Farm, and the happy week with her dear old grandfather, that never-to-be-forgotten time at Oxford, her father's angry suspicions and threats, and a few weeks afterwards the hasty summons of his father's death-bed—all these events, following each other so rapidly, were to be also deeply impressed on Mary's memory by future results.
To Englefield Grange in February of the following year came the overwhelming sorrow caused by the news of poor Fanny's death. So completely had Arthur Franklyn's light-hearted letters removed all anticipation of danger, that the shock was the more terrible, and poor Mrs. Halford's health for a time completely gave way.
Mr. Armstrong's family also saw a notice of it in the
Timesobituary, and Mary and her mother were both surprised when her father suggested that a message of condolence and kind inquiry should be sent to Englefield Grange. The messenger brought back a formal acknowledgment, and also the information that Mrs. Halford was dangerously ill.
How Mary grieved over the conviction that she could not go and offer her services to soothe and tend the mother of Henry Halford in her terrible griefs! She had never heard of Kate Marston, Henry's cousin, who had for so many years supplied to him and his parents the place of sister and daughter. In spite of what appeared to Mary something like neglect and indifference on the part of the schoolmaster's son, she would have been glad to show him and his family that no proud or resentful feeling on her part could raise a barrier between them as neighbours and acquaintance.
Mary Armstrong possessed a good share of what is called common sense. She had reflected deeply on the occurrences at Oxford, and she reasoned thus with herself:—
"I daresay Mr. Henry Halford is sorry for what he said to me at Oxford, or perhaps he meant nothing but a compliment. He is sensible enough not to think of being married till he is ordained, and so perhaps he keeps away for fear I should learn to love him;" and the young girl blushed as this thought arose in her heart, even when alone. "And besides, after what papa said that night in his passion, I am very, very glad he has not paid us a visit. I could not marry any man without papa's consent, but I hope he wont ask me to marry any one else. I shall be twenty next July, but that doesn't matter; I should like to stay at home always, and there is nothing very dreadful to me in the prospect of being an old maid."
And so the young girl schooled her heart to try to forget that she had met herbeau idéalof what a husband should be, and that her father had forbidden her to associate with him or to notice the family until their time of trouble called for neighbourly inquiries. How little poor Mary guessed that her father had effectually put a stop to any farther acquaintance, and that even this formal attention would have been withheld had he not supposed her to be quite indifferent to this schoolmaster's son who had presumed to ask him for the hand of his daughter! Perhaps Mr. Armstrong would have been very much surprised had he been told that another influence was at work in Mary's heart which would prevent her from disobeying her father by marrying against his wishes; an influence which had first made itself felt while listening to the teachings of her grandfather, and which would prove her support in the future through weary days of sorrow and trial.
During this twelve months other changes had also taken place; Charles Herbert's regiment had been ordered to Canada, and his mother in her loneliness petitioned Mr. Armstrong for his daughter's company. Sir James and Lady Elston had given up their house in Portland Place, and were now residing in the south of France on account of the old admiral's health.
"You see, Edward, I am quite alone now," said Mrs. Herbert when asking for Mary to be allowed to spend a month with them in Park Lane during the season; "and Mary has seen nothing of society yet, you have made her too much of a bookworm and a homebird."
"Not a bit of it," cried the colonel; "and for my part I do not see the necessity for Mary to acquire a knowledge of London society; however, we shall be glad to have her with us, Armstrong, for a time, and I don't think there is any danger of Mary's head being turned; she's much too sensible."
This conversation took place in Mr. Armstrong's office in Dover Street, and he was ready at once to accept the invitation, even before consulting the wishes of his wife and daughter. It was just what he wanted; the niece of Mrs. Herbert was sure to attract suitors at the house of Colonel Herbert, and soon put an end to this nonsense about the young parson. For in spite of his confidence in these young people he dreaded a chance meeting which might upset all his plans.
A few days after this interview Mary Armstrong stood at the window of her uncle's house in Park Lane, looking out over the Park, now radiant in the glorious beauty of a June morning. There had been a strange contest in Mary's heart at the proposal to spend a month with her aunt in London. She was very fond of her aunt Helen, and ready to accept the invitation with great delight. The house, the arrangements, the varied appliances of taste and refinement which belong to society when composed of the well-bred as well as the rich, were all congenial to Mary. At home the influence of her father was still too strong to allow Mrs. Armstrong to carry out her own refined tastes even at the dinner-table. The early habits at a farm-house were not so easily overcome, and the exquisite and tasteful style of Mrs. Herbert's table was not yet tolerated at Lime Grove. Good, solid, and in profusion, but plain and homely, and without flowers or other ornaments, was considered more suitable for a dinner-table than what Mr. Armstrong called useless trumpery or expensive nicknacks.
And yet, with all that could satisfy her most refined tastes, Mary Armstrong, as she stood at the open French window, sighed at the memory of home. The country lanes which still remained near Lime Grove, the broad high road which passed Englefield Grange as well as her father's house, and along which she and her little brother Freddy had walked to school on that cold morning that seemed now so long ago; the carriage drive home after that fascinating evening at Mr. Drummond's, even the meeting in the road when her father offered hospitality to Mr. Halford, which he was never to accept—all this was connected with the rural suburb surrounding her home. Still onward flew the rapid thoughts to a pleasant hotel at Oxford, and all the happy hours of that never-to-be-forgotten week, the strolls from college to college, from chapel to chapel, the soul-stirring music of the choirs, the boat excursions on the Thames beneath a June sky as bright as that now casting a radiant but somewhat misty glow upon the Park, and that last evening in Christ Church meadows beneath the moonlight, when those trivial words were uttered which had stirred in her girlish heart thoughts and feelings before unknown.
Very lovely she looked as she stood in the reflected sunlight from the Park. The pretty lilac-sprigged muslin, finished at the throat and wrists with lace collar and wristlets, bows from the throat down the front of lilac ribbon, and one of the same colour in her hair, were truly becoming to the fair face and bright brown tresses. The only ornaments she wore consisted of a silver brooch and the chain belonging to her watch.
So deeply were Mary's thoughts occupied, that her uncle and his friend had reached the centre of the room before she was aware of their presence. She started as her uncle said—
"Why, Mary, my dear, what a reverie!"
"I beg your pardon, uncle, I did not hear your approach. Good morning, Captain Fraser," she continued, turning to the visitor with a laugh, and holding out her hand. "I am not in general so easily alarmed; did you and uncle enter purposely on tiptoe?"
The young officer cast upon the speaker a look of unmistakable admiration, which deepened the flush on her cheek, but he did not possess the tact with which to relieve the young lady and place her at her ease with a retort as playful as her own.
Colonel Herbert was, however, more ready.
"Well, upon my word, Mary, you must have a very vivid imagination to picture to yourself a stout old fellow like me tripping along the carpet on tiptoe;" and her uncle's merry laugh restored Mary's self-possession at once. "But now," he continued, "let me tell you the object which brought us here. Would you like to join us in a canter this morning in the Row? Captain Fraser and I have just been inspecting Daisy, she has quite recovered from the effects of her journey by train, and I have desired the groom to bring her round in half an hour; can you be ready?"
"Oh yes, uncle, thank you, I shall be delighted, if aunt Helen approves."
"Aunt Helen is here to speak for herself;" and Mrs Herbert entered the room as she thus announced her presence.
"Of course I approve; go, darling, and dress quickly; an hour's ride will do you good after such a long practice."
"Mary was not practising when we entered the room," said her uncle, "but lost in contemplation of our London landscape—quite a compliment to Hyde Park I consider it."
"I am afraid I was making comparisons in my mind not very complimentary to the Park, uncle, but I shall enjoy my ride nevertheless." And the young girl ran gaily out of the room without waiting for a reply.
During the time the gentlemen had been in the room Captain Fraser had not spoken; indeed, in reply to Mary he had only bowed a silent good morning. Now, however, he entered into conversation with Mrs. Herbert, showing that he could make himself in a certain sense agreeable as a companion.
Mary had met him twice already during the few days she had been in Park Lane, but while the memory of a gentleman who could fascinate her with his conversation on intellectual and poetical subjects was still fresh, the style in which Captain Fraser made himself agreeable was not likely to attract Mary Armstrong.
"I'm afraid—aw—we alarmed—aw—Miss Armstrong this morning," said the young man, pulling violently at his whiskers as he spoke.
"My niece is not easily frightened, Captain Fraser."
"No—aw—not exactly frightened, but startled I mean—aw—just for a minute, and she turned it off—aw—and laughed as she spoke in such a captivating manner that—aw—there was nothing left for a fellah to say."
"But you should say something, and not allow young ladies to have it all their own way, Captain Fraser."
"Oh dear me—aw—I couldn't possibly; besides—aw—Mrs. Herbert, I don't think—aw—I ever saw a handsomer girl in my life—aw—than Miss Armstrong; but now I don't mind telling you, she's so clever—aw—that I'm half afraid to speak to her."
"Ah, well, you can get better acquainted with her this morning during your ride; she is perfectly at home on horseback, and a fearless rider."
"I believe that Miss Armstrong is clever in everything that she does," replied the young officer, with another firm tug at his whiskers.
The appearance of the young lady in equestrian attire, and the announcement that the horses were at the door, aroused the young man to offer his assistance. He escorted Mary to the entrance, and was ready and eager to be allowed to mount her; but he got so confused, and appeared so awkward about the matter, that Mary felt afraid to place her foot in his hand, and said quickly, "Thank you very much, Captain Fraser, but I am so used to be mounted by my uncle, pray do not trouble yourself to help me."
He drew back instantly to give place to Colonel Herbert, and looked so intensely miserable that Mary's kind heart pitied him, and she determined during her ride to endeavour by her attention to him to restore his self-appreciation.
But Mary made very little progress towards the completion of her object. She addressed her conversation almost entirely to him while walking their horses; she tried various topics, but none proved of any interest until a friend whom they met admired Mary's beautiful grey mare, who pranced, and tossed her head, and curved her sleek neck as if she knew that she carried her young mistress, and considered herself and her rider the most attractive objects in the Park.
This notice of Daisy by the colonel's friend loosened Captain Fraser's tongue, and for the remainder of the ride he entertained his companion with descriptions of the turf, and advice about the treatment of horses, which to Mary were as incomprehensible as if uttered in Sanscrit. But this subject, so familiar to the young officer, set him at his ease, and by the time he reached home the shy awkwardness of the morning had quite disappeared.
When he joined them in the evening, Mary, whom he had taken down to dinner, found his loquacity almost as painful to endure as his shyness. The long drawn out words, the constant repetition of "aw, aw," and the affected lackadaisical style of manner and speech, annoyed Mary even while it amused her. Indeed, at last nothing but the recollection that he was her uncle's guest could influence her to endure his society.
Gladly did she hail her aunt's signal to leave the dinner-table, and had she been alone would have openly expressed to Mrs. Herbert her opinion of their visitor. But quietly leaning back in her chair while the elder ladies talked, Mary Armstrong began to reflect. Had she any right to despise this young captain because he had peculiarities and foibles? She had heard her aunt say that Reginald Fraser had been motherless from his birth, and to his father's neglect might be attributed much that was disagreeable or affected in his manners, which in other respects she was obliged to acknowledge were those of a gentleman. "Would my dear grandfather have approved of my treating this young man with contempt?" she asked herself. "With all his plain country manners he was a true Christian gentleman, one of those who would not for the world say or do anything to pain or mortify another. Again, how would Henry Halford treat Reginald Fraser?" she asked herself. The answer was plain; she knew how he would have acted, for Mr. Henry Halford would not forget the advantages of his own happy home, and the careful training he had received from his own mother. Thus reasoning, Mary Armstrong decided that during her visit to Park Lane she would bear with this weak-minded young man, and treat him kindly in spite of his foibles.
But too much crooked policy exists in the world for straightforward conduct and honest intentions to meet with a due reward.
Mary's innocent, unsuspecting proceedings were mistaken by Captain Fraser for a growing attachment to himself.
During the month of her stay in Park Lane she had been associated with many men and women belonging to the best society, and more than one of the former had been attracted by the colonel's niece, and were ready to offer her a position in society quite sufficient to satisfy her father's pride.
But there was something in the manner of Mary Armstrong which repelled foolish flirtation, and completely prevented any attentions of a more honourable nature. These gentlemen were too greatly superior to Reginald Fraser for her to venture the kind of patronising notice she bestowed upon the tall, effeminate young soldier. And yet in her innocent ignorance of the world she was preparing for herself a bitter and unexpected trial.
On Mary's last evening at Park Lane no other visitor had been admitted excepting Captain Fraser, and after playing and singing,to him(as he thought), all the evening, she felt tired of his exclusive attention, and rose to retire, something in his manner of bidding her farewell made her say to herself as she ascended the stairs, "Well, I am glad that's over; I do not think I could endure Captain Fraser's society for another day; and then to think that he should have the impertinence to squeeze my hand! At all events, uncle and aunt can never accuse me of being rude to their visitor."
Poor Mary! had she been able to hear the conversation that took place in the drawing-room on that evening, great would have been her surprise and regret. Captain Fraser only stayed a few moments after Mary had left the room, and when he was gone Colonel Herbert returned to his wife with a serious face, and said—
"Well, Helen, what do you think Armstrong will say to this?"
"Do you suppose the young man is in earnest, Charles?" was Mrs. Herbert's reply in the form of a question.
"No doubt about it; why, after dinner he became quite eloquent, talked without any 'aw-aw,' and gave me quite a biography of himself and his family."
"I don't think Mary cares for him in the least," said Mrs. Herbert; "I'm afraid that young man we met at Oxford is the favoured one; and certainly, so far as intellectual and manly qualities are concerned, Reginald Fraser is not to be compared with young Halford for a moment."
"But, my dear Helen," replied her husband, "Charles told me before he left England that this Halford was a schoolmaster's son, and even after he has taken his degree can only hope to be a curate. Armstrong will never sanction such an intimacy."
"No, I'm sure of that: indeed, Mary has told me quite enough on the subject of her father's opinion of schoolmasters and curates to prove that she would have to relinquish all hope of being better acquainted with the Halfords, whatever her own wishes might be. But my impression is that she has no thought of marriage yet."
"Reginald seems to think she has encouraged his attentions, and is quite elated about it. Certainly, so far as money and position go, Armstrong could not hope for a better offer for his daughter. Why, the man has twelve thousand a year, and is the grand-nephew of a duke."
"And what does he intend to do? has he said anything to Mary?"
"No, I advised him not to do so until he had seen her father, and, poor fellow, he seemed glad enough of the respite. He's good and amiable, but not very wise, and he confessed to me that he dreaded popping the question more than undergoing a six hours' drill."
"Poor Mary," said Mrs. Herbert, "what a prospect for such a bright, intelligent, sensible girl as she is! I'm afraid Armstrong will never be able to resist the temptation of such an offer for his daughter."
"Not he, you may be sure; and Mary appears so completely under her father's control, that she will submit to his wishes without a word of complaint."
"And be miserable for life in spite of the money," said her aunt, with a shrug of the shoulders expressive of pity. How little Mrs. Herbert understood the character of Mary Armstrong will be seen in the sequel. On the morning of the next day Mary rose with the feeling that an incubus had been removed from her shoulders. At last she was set free from the unpleasant necessity of listening to the frivolous conversation of Captain Fraser. "How thankful I am that it is over!" she said to herself, while busily engaged after breakfast in packing her boxes with the assistance of Annette, who wasdesoléeat the approaching departure of Mademoiselle Marie.
Her task was scarcely finished when a message from her aunt summoned her to the drawing-room.
"Should you like to ride Daisy home to-day, my dear?" said Mrs. Herbert; "your uncle has business at Harrow, and he can accompany you as far as the Limes."
"Oh, indeed, aunt, it would be delightful; I shall enjoy it beyond everything. When does uncle propose to start?"
"At about twelve o'clock."
"I shall be ready, aunt dear; and will you send my boxes? Annette has been helping me to pack them. Oh, aunt Herbert," she continued, "you have been so kind, I shall never forget this pleasant visit."
A few hours later Colonel Herbert parted from his niece at the Limes after a hasty lunch, the latter quite unprepared for the consequences of her kind and innocent attentions to Reginald Fraser.
Reginald Fraser left Park Lane after the last evening of Mary Armstrong's visit full of determination to call upon her father on the following day.
In spite of the effeminate andnil admiraristyle of the young officer, he had many amiable qualities, and was not quite deserving of the title of a "good-natured fool," which his brother officers applied to him.
Motherless from his birth, an orphan before he had reached the age of four years, the almost neglected child was placed by his grandfather at a preparatory school for little boys. From this he passed to Eton, and after studying at the Woolwich Academy entered the Guards, and at the age of twenty-four obtained his company.
At Woolwich he had formed an acquaintance with Charles Herbert, and this young officer before starting for Canada had said to his mother—
"Mother, I wish you would look after that easy-going young fellow Fraser, he's got more money than he knows what to do with, and the sooner he finds a wife the better, or he'll get fleeced and no mistake."
Mrs. Herbert remembered this request of her son's, and while in Park Lane she encouraged the young officer to make their house his home.
This report of his wealth had already made him a welcome visitor at the houses of scheming mothers, and many well-born but worldly girls were ready tofall in lovewith his money and his possessions, while secretly despising the owner for the shyness and indifference with which he treated their advances to a better acquaintance. He had, however, been introduced to very few families when Mary Armstrong made her appearance at the house of his oldest friends, the Herberts, and it soon became evident to every one but the young lady herself, that Reginald Fraser, when he had summoned courage enough to do so, would offer himself and his possessions to Mary Armstrong.
Such indeed was his intention, or at least to make known his wishes to her father, when he left Park Lane on that July evening; but on reaching his quarters in St. James's Park, the official notice that his regiment was ordered to Windsor on the morrow upset all his plans.
Strange to say, he felt relieved at the thought of a few days' delay; he dreaded the ordeal, although he had for hours been screwing up his courage to make the venture, so painful to his natural shyness and reserve. A few days would not matter; perhaps it was best to leave Miss Armstrong to prepare the way for his visit by mentioning his name, and so on.
If Reginald Fraser could have foreseen what would happen during these few days he might have recalled the proverb, "Delays are dangerous," in time to escape a new and formidable difficulty.
Mary Armstrong had arranged to return home in time for the commencement of her brother's holidays. Not all the pleasant attractions in Park Lane could have induced her to allow the anxiety and care which their presence would cause, to devolve upon her mother.
For three days, however—days which afterwards were never forgotten, although their memory was rendered painful by contrast—Mary Armstrong enjoyed the loving society of her parents alone. After an early breakfast with her father, during the day till dinner she devoted herself entirely to her mother, relieving her as usual of all domestic supervision; sometimes walking with her, reading to her, or painting, while she worked and talked.
And yet how dissimilar were the causes which made both parents receive their daughter on her return home with a proud affection which almost surprised her!
Not perhaps exactly at the moment of her return, but after the first evening, when she described to them with sparkling eyes and eager delight the scenes she had witnessed, the places she had visited, and the company she had met.
There was no reticence of manner now; persons and conversations were spoken of with ease; and among other names, that of Reginald Fraser, Charles Herbert's friend.
"And what sort of a young man is Captain Fraser?" asked her mother.
"Well, mamma, he is tall and rather handsome, but I am afraid not very wise: he was at uncle's house every day, but he had scarcely ever a word to say for himself, except once, when I happened to speak about horses, and then his talk was far beyond my comprehension. I used to avoid him at first, till aunt told me he had been motherless from his birth, and was an orphan with few acquaintances in London, so I tried to amuse him and make him talk because he was aunt Helen's guest, but I must confess it was not a very pleasant occupation."
"But why did this task fall upon you, Mary?" asked her father; "were no other ladies present?"
"Oh yes, often; but they soon appeared to get tired of his society. I believe Captain Fraser is very amiable and good-tempered, but he is the shyest man I ever met."
"And who is this shy, reticent gentleman?" asked her father. "Is he worth all the trouble he gives to young ladies in society?"
"I suppose he is, papa, for aunt told me his great-uncle is a duke, and his grandfather, who died about six months ago, left him a beautiful estate in Westmorland, and twelve thousand a year."
After saying this in a tone of voice that showed how utterly indifferent she felt to the facts she had stated, Mary Armstrong without an effort turned the subject to one more pleasing to herself—the new music and songs she had brought home with her.
While she sat at the piano playing and singing those on which she wished to have her mother's opinion, thoughts were passing through the minds of her parents of a very opposite character.
"That young captain is no doubt the man I one day met riding with Herbert," said her father to himself, "a fine aristocratic-looking fellow. What a splendid match he would be for Mary! but I suppose it is too much to expect such a man as that to marry a corn merchant's daughter. How absurd all this nonsense is about high birth and good connexions! This sprig of nobility, who is lucky enough to possess riches in addition to his other attractions, will easily find a wife among the 'upper ten' in spite of not being very wise."
How different from these were the thoughts of the gentle mother!
"My Mary is not spoilt by this little peep into the world of fashion; and I doubt very much if even twenty thousand a year would tempt her to unite herself to a man who requires to be amused and has nothing to say for himself."
And so for two days Mary had her mother's gentle love and her father's unusually kind attentions all to herself. He had reasoned himself into the conviction that the young officer had been attracted by his daughter, although she was evidently not aware of it.
"I'll get Herbert to introduce me some day," he said to himself, "and then ask the captain down to dinner here. If such a position were offered to Mary, I do not suppose she would be fool enough to refuse, especially if supported by my authority. She seems to have forgotten that sentimental affair with the schoolmaster. I am very glad I settled him so completely in my reply to his letter. Maria tells me they have seen very little of the family since, excepting when the mother came for the character of a servant. And I can trust Mary; and—yes—well, the man himself; they are both above anything dishonourable."
Some such thoughts as these occupied the mind of Mr. Armstrong as he mounted his horse and rode slowly to town on the second morning after Mary's return to Lime Grove. How little he guessed that before they met at dinner his power over his daughter would be weakened by a painful discovery!
Mrs. Armstrong during the warm weather generally put off her walk till about four o'clock. The doctor had recommended walking exercise; and her husband to encourage this had delayed the purchase of an open carriage for his wife. The arrangement suited his purpose, and he was not far wrong in adhering to the old-fashioned opinion that walking is more truly conducive to health than driving.
Mrs. Armstrong enjoyed the country walk with Mary on the afternoon of which we write. The July day had been hot and sultry; but as they turned their steps homeward a pleasant breeze sprung up which was very exhilarating, and seemed to give Mrs. Armstrong additional strength.
As they passed Englefield Grange the schoolroom clock struck five, and almost at the same moment Mary saw coming towards them in an opposite direction an invalid chair, which she knew belonged to Mrs. Halford. More than once Mary and her mother had met the poor lady, now so completely a wreck of her former self, accompanied by Kate Marston, who in the midst of the tenderest care of her aunt could still manage to glance at the fair girl who had so fascinated her cousin Henry with genuine admiration.
Hitherto a kind inquiry respecting Mrs. Halford's health had been replied to by Kate with distant politeness; but to-day both mother and daughter saw with troubled surprise, that instead of her usual lady-friend, Mrs. Halford was accompanied by her son. Mrs. Armstrong intended to bow and pass on, for she had not forgotten her husband's angry remarks respecting the young man, nor her daughter's acknowledged admiration of his acquirements and talents.
To her astonishment, as they drew nearer, she saw the invalid lean forward and speak, and in a few moments the chair stopped, and Mrs. Halford held out her hand to Mrs. Armstrong, but her palsied head shook and her voice trembled as she said, "I am so glad to be able to speak to you again, Mrs. Armstrong; I am better, but I have been terribly shaken, as you can see."
All other emotions were lost in regret and sympathy, as Mrs. Armstrong for the first time saw the painful change which illness had made in the mother of Henry Halford; she pressed the offered hand, and spoke her commiserations in a tearful voice. The invalid, while she retained Mrs. Armstrong's hand, described her sufferings and sorrows, and spoke of her daughter's death; and her listener noticed with pain that not only the physical but the mental powers of Mrs. Halford had received a shock from which it was scarcely possible they could ever recover. Presently, as Mrs. Armstrong withdrew her hand and moved to glance at her daughter, the invalid said—
"I have my son with me now; he came home from Oxford last week. He looks pale, Mrs. Armstrong. Don't you think so?"
Mrs. Armstrong turned and bowed to Henry Halford.
She almost started at his white face and trembling lips as he raised his hat and said—
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Armstrong."
Then she turned and looked at her daughter. Never in her life had she seen her so pale.
Quickly recovering herself for the sake of the young people, she said in a cheering tone—
"Mr. Halford is perhaps studying too closely, so we must expect him to look pale and——"
"Yes, yes," interrupted the invalid, "but that is not all; he has never been well since your husband's reply to his letter about your daughter."
"Mother, mother, hush! you forget.—Forgive her, Mrs. Armstrong," he added, in a lower tone. "Her heart is broken about poor Fanny, she scarcely knows what she is talking about."
"But have any letters passed between you and Mr. Armstrong?" she asked with painful eagerness.
Mary had heard the invalid's words, and her pale cheeks flushed as she listened for Henry Halford's reply.
"One only from me," he said, "and Mr. Armstrong's answer, in which he refuses——" he stopped abruptly, and then said hurriedly, "But it is all past now. Pray excuse us, Mrs. Armstrong, it is time my mother was at home."
"Henry, I am very sorry, I did not mean it," exclaimed the poor broken-hearted mother, as she saw by her son's face and manner that he was painfully annoyed.
Mrs. Armstrong saw it also. She took the trembling hand in hers and said—
"Don't make yourself uneasy, my dear friend, it will all come right in time. We must trust and hope."
"Thank you, Mrs. Armstrong," said Henry, "you have helped me to trust and hope. I will never forget those words."
He took off his hat to the ladies as they turned to continue their walk, while the pallor which had so startled them had given place to the flush of hope which Mrs. Armstrong's words had excited.
For some moments neither mother nor daughter spoke, both were reflecting anxiously on what they had just heard. Mrs. Armstrong, although at first taken by surprise, could quite understand her husband's wish to conceal even from her the correspondence between himself and Henry Halford.
Her indignation at the evident pain it had caused to both mother and son made her utter those cheering words, which, however, she did not wish unsaid. She knew too well how bitterly her husband could write on a subject which irritated him, and she shrunk from the thought of what insults that letter might have contained.
But the daughter's feelings on the matter were far more intense and painful, not because Henry Halford had offered and been refused, not from any fear of what her father's letter might have said to cause pain, but from surprise and distress at the concealment.
Children whose parents are able to support parental authority have generally the greatest faith in their knowledge, their opinions, and their judgment.
"My father says so," "My mamma knows best," are often uttered or thought by young people; and on this account children who live entirely at home grow up narrow-minded, and under the influence of certain opinions which they consider right in contradistinction from all others.
Mary Armstrong had very narrowly escaped from such an influence, still her confidence in her father had been unbounded. He had taught her to be open, candid, straightforward, and truthful; and now she had found that while speaking of the schoolmaster as having forgotten the young lady to whom he had been so polite at Oxford, and now and then indulging in a joke about the impossibility of a student being able to love anything but his books, he had known of this young man's love for his daughter, and refused him without one word of reference to herself.
She had yet to learn the hardening effects produced by a growing love of money and the acquirement of wealth.
They had nearly reached the gate entrance to Lime Grove, when her mother said—
"Mary dear, what passed between you and Mr. Halford, while I was talking to his mother?"
"Only a few polite inquiries after my health, and remarks on the weather; indeed, I could scarcely make a commonplace reply, for his white face frightened me; but I understand it all now. Oh, mamma, I cannot tell you how distressed I feel at the discovery we have made, because it lowers my father in my estimation. Oh, if he had only told me!"
Mrs. Armstrong sighed as they entered the gate; she had tried for years to believe that her husband was the soul of honour; and though she could account for the concealment of Mr. Halford's letter from his daughter, yet she knew too well that he was not the strictly honourable man in many matters which he wished to appear.
Mother and daughter entered the dining-room on that memorable evening totally unprepared for the scene which was about to take place.
Mr. Armstrong appeared in the most exuberant spirits; he joked with his daughter, complimented his wife, and during dinner made himself altogether so very agreeable, that Mary's anger against him was fast fading from her heart, in which filial love had so long found a place.
The cloth had been removed, and the wine and dessert of summer fruit placed on the table in the style of olden times, before Mr. Armstrong ventured to refer to the subject which had so raised his spirits.
"I had a visitor in Dover Street to-day, Maria," he said, addressing his wife, "and I have asked him to dine with us to-morrow."
"Uncle Herbert, papa?" said Mary.
"No, my dear, but a friend of his who inquired very kindly after you."
"After me, papa? Who can it be? a lady or a gentleman?"
"Is there any gentleman friend of your uncle's who you think would be likely to inquire after you?"
"Well, papa, yes; several I met at Park Lane would ask for me, I daresay." Then suddenly she added, "Oh, perhaps it was Captain Fraser; he told me he should pay you a visit some day."
"Why did you not mention, this, Mary?"
"I forgot it, papa, till your remark reminded me of it. I never cared to remember Captain Fraser's sayings."
"You are not kind then, Mary, for he speaks of you in the highest terms. He has not forgotten you, most certainly."
"I am very sorry, papa," she replied, "but I cannot appreciate his praise as it deserves; he is so very effeminate and weak-minded, that had he not been the guest of uncle and aunt Herbert I should scarcely have been even civil to him."
There was a bitterness in Mary's manner and speech, occasioned by the discovery of the afternoon; for while her father spoke she could not help comparing the two young men, with very great loss to the subject of their present conversation.
All at once to Mary's memory arose the teachings of her dear grandfather. "I have no right to despise this young captain," she said to herself; "it is not his fault that he is so inferior to others in intellect;" and she was just about to speak kindly of his temper and disposition, when her father said, in a tone that startled her—
"You will have to be more than civil to Captain Fraser to-morrow, Mary, for he has asked me for the hand of my daughter, and I expect you to accept him."
"Father! What do you mean?"
The tone of voice, the calm yet determined utterance, startled Mr. Armstrong, yet he said firmly—
"I mean what I say, Mary. Here is a man connected with some of the highest of England's aristocracy, and in addition to personal advantages he possesses a noble estate and a rent-roll of 12,000l.a year. He comes forward honourably, and offers to marry my daughter, and make her mistress of all these honours and possessions, and she asks me what I mean!"
Mary did not reply, but with a will unbending as her father's she resolved that nothing should induce her to marry Reginald Fraser.
"Why do you not speak, Mary?" said her father at last, in a tone of voice that Mrs. Armstrong knew betokened an outburst of passion.
"Do not oblige Mary to decide to-night, Edward," said the gentle voice of his wife; "give her a few hours to think over the advantages of such a marriage, and——"
"No, mamma," interrupted Mary; and while she spoke her face was pale and her lips white, but her voice was clear and firm, "I do not require even a few minutes to decide. I have been associated with Captain Fraser daily for a month, and I could not marry him if he were fifty times more rich or more well connected than he is."
Mr. Armstrong rose from his chair, his face livid with passion.
"Do you dare to oppose my wishes? Am I to be defied by my own daughter? If you do not accept this gentleman who honours you by his preference, I swear——"
"Stop! stop, Edward!" and his wife's hand was placed on his arm, "why should you wish to force your child in a matter so important as marriage? Do not say anything now that you may afterwards regret."
The effort caused the gentle wife to sink back in her chair, faint with excitement.
Mary flew to her mother, and standing by her, she turned to her father, who said in a slightly subdued tone—
"I have a right to expect my own daughter to obey me when it is for her future good."
"No, my father," said Mary, who though deathly white was still calm, "you have lost that right. If you had told me of Henry Halford's letter to you openly and candidly, instead of concealing it and sending a refusal without one word of reference to me, I would then have given way to your wishes without a murmur, but now you cannot expect me to do so."
She assisted her mother to rise as she ceased speaking, and they left the room together in silence, Mr. Armstrong being too completely stunned by Mary's speech to utter a word in reply.
Surprise, not only at Mary's manner, but also at the discovery that she had by some means heard of Mr. Henry Halford's letter respecting herself, subdued for a time his rising anger, and presently he threw himself into an easy-chair and began to reflect.
Not for long, however, for Mary, after soothing her mother, and placing her on the sofa near the window, that the sweet calm of the summer evening might bring repose to her startled nerves, returned to the dining-room.
Mr. Armstrong scarcely noticed her approach till she threw herself on her knees by his chair, and exclaimed—
"Forgive me, my father, I forgot myself just now; I ought not to have spoken to you as I did; but why, oh! why did you not tell me of Mr. Henry Halford's letter?"
The words, the pleading tones for pardon, softened for a time the violent passions of the father; he placed his arm round his daughter, and said—
"My child, how could I consent to such a marriage for you, with nothing but poverty to look forward to, whether as the wife of a schoolmaster or a curate? The young man's letter proved that; and now you are mad enough to refuse an offer that even a duke's daughter might envy; why is this?"
"Papa, I could not marry to be ashamed of my husband; how could I honour and respect him if I found him inferior in knowledge to myself? Papa, if you intended me to marry only for money and position, why did you give me such a superior education? How do you suppose I could be satisfied with a man less clever than my own father? I know," she continued, changing her tone, "that Captain Fraser is good, and gentle; and amiable, but if you have seen him, and talked with him, you must know how far inferior he is in every way mentally to Mr. Henry Halford."
"And I suppose, then, you want me to consent to your marrying a man who expects me to advance sufficient money as your marriage portion to enable him to support his wife?"
"No, my father, I will never marry without your consent, and I do not expect you to give that consent to a man whom you treat as you would a beggar; but I want you to understand how impossible it is for me to accept any one else, even if he were as rich as Crœsus. Ah, papa," she continued, clinging to his arm, "suppose mamma's relations had treatedyouas you have treated Mr. Henry Halford!"
"But I had money, child."
"And can money make amends for the absence of everything else? are rich people always happy? Oh, papa," continued the young girl, who knew not with what a firm grasp the demon of gold had seized upon her father's heart, "you were not always like this; only promise me that I shall not be asked to marry a man just for money and position, and I shall not care about being married at all. I would rather live at home with you and dear mamma, for I am sure I shall never be happier anywhere else."
The pleading voice, the consciousness that he had not acted rightly respecting Henry Halford's letter, and that in many points his daughter's remarks were correct, softened the father. He drew her closely to his heart, and said—
"Mary, my child, although I cannot consent to your marriage with Mr. Henry Halford, yet I promise you that you shall not be troubled with any other suitors till you choose one for yourself of whom I can approve. And now," he continued, rising, "let us go to your mother."
But at this kindness on her father's part Mary felt her firmness giving way. Hastily returning his proffered kiss, she rushed upstairs to her room, and gave vent to her long-controlled feelings in a burst of tears.
Meanwhile Mr. Armstrong was cheering his wife's heart by relating what he had promised to Mary; and when she appeared on the announcement that tea was ready, there was a look of calm happiness on her face in spite of the reddened eyelids, which alone remained to bear testimony to the tears which had relieved her over-charged heart.