August at the seaside, its sultry sunbeams softened by a breeze from the ocean, bringing health and vigour to worn-out frames, calmness and relief to overworked brains, and rest to the toilers in the battlefield of life. There is peace in the movement of the rippling waves, peace even in the sound as they dash lazily on the shore, and a feeling of rest in the aspect of the calm, smooth water, when its flowing tide is scarcely perceptible, and boats with their white sails are mirrored in its depths.
In the afternoon of a sultry day in August two gentlemen might be seen near the open window of a drawing-room in the Isle of Wight.
One of them is lying on a couch drawn close to the window, his pale face and delicate features plainly denoting a state of convalescence after a severe attack of illness. The eyes are large and bright, and the hair after a growth of six weeks just covers the head. The hands are thin and delicate, and the whole appearance and attitude betoken great weakness.
"Have you quite got over the fatigue of the journey, Arthur?" asks the other gentleman, in whom we recognise Henry Halford.
"Yes, quite," was the reply; "I am not so weak as I appear, Henry; I walked on the beach for a long distance this morning, and that accounts for my languid condition now. How are the little ones?"
"Quite well and happy, Arthur, and all send their love to papa and Clara. Where is she?"
"I sent her out with the nurse, she is assiduous in her attentions to me, and I am obliged to enforce the necessity of a walk sometimes. Dear child, I used to fear she would grow up forward and pert as well as precocious. These troubles seem to have sobered her, yet it very much interferes with the formation of a girl's character when she looks so womanly at sixteen as Clara does."
While Arthur Franklyn spoke, Henry could not avoid comparing the style of his present conversation to the light-hearted, jocular talk of olden times, proving that trouble had sobered the father as well as the daughter.
"Shall I leave you to have a little nap before dinner, Arthur?" he said.
"No, Henry, there are so many things on my mind that I wish to talk about, and you would answer no questions nor hear anything I had to say when we first arrived; but I have been here a week, and I feel so much stronger and better, there can be no possible objection now."
"I am half-afraid to allow you to excite yourself, Arthur; would it not be wiser to wait another week?"
"No, no, Henry, you cannot tell what a relief it will be to my mind to unburden my heart to you. We shall not be interrupted, for I desired nurse to keep Clara out till four o'clock; this anxiety retards my recovery."
"Well, my dear fellow, if it will really help you to get well I am ready to listen and answer questions, but remember you are not to excite yourself;" and Henry Halford drew a chair near his brother-in-law's couch and seated himself to listen.
"First then," said Arthur, "tell me one thing—did I rave about a carpet bag in my delirium?"
"Well, yes," said Henry, wonderingly; "I suppose it must have fallen with you into the river."
"Has it been found?"
"It was not brought to Englefield Grange for weeks after your accident; the bag and its contents are in a terrible condition from the action of the water."
"Were any papers amongst thedébris?"
"One, completely reduced to a pulp, the writing upon it scarcely legible; it appeared quite useless, so I burnt it!"
"Thank God!" and Arthur as he spoke closed his eyes, and clasped his hands, showing that the words were not a mere commonplace expression, but came direct from the heart.
Henry Halford looked at him in surprised silence. Presently Arthur startled him by rising suddenly and laying his hand on his brother's arm.
"Henry," he said, "don't shrink from me with horror; on that paper which you have destroyed I had forged my dead wife's name after her death."
"Arthur, my dear fellow," said Henry, "pray lie down and compose yourself; I feared you would get excited. If you will lie quiet for awhile we can talk about this paper by-and-by."
"You think my brain is becoming disturbed again," said Arthur, lying back quietly at Henry's bidding, "but indeed I am telling you the truth. I have not yet dared to utter a word to anyone on the subject, and if you will not listen to me I must carry the burden with me to my grave."
Quite convinced by the calm tones and the earnest words, Henry Halford placed his hand on the arm of his brother, and said, "Have you taken your burden to God, Arthur?"
"Ah, that is what dear Fanny would have said; but how could I venture to take my trouble there, when it is caused by sin, and is therefore my just punishment?"
"Arthur," said Henry, "while you were a boy at my father's school, did you not study your Bible sufficiently to know how ready God is to pardon and forgive?"
"I have forgotten Him for years, Henry, and He left me to myself to fall. But let me tell you all the circumstances. That document in the carpet bag, if I had taken it to Australia and negotiated it there, as I quite intended to do, would have no doubt led to my conviction as a forger; I can see it now clearly, and I must have been mad at the time to suppose I could so act and escape. The truth is, I married my second wife under false pretences; she supposed I was well off, and yet I had no income, and my debts in Melbourne amounted to more than 1000l.I could not, therefore, make any inquiries about Louisa's power over her fortune, from a dread of questions from her friends about myself. After our marriage she gave into my hands a few hundred pounds which she had in the bank; but when I stated to her that I required more to obtain a partnership in a firm, I discovered that her property was invested in the power of trustees, one of whom resided in England. I gladly availed myself of the opportunity for bringing over my children to visit their mother's relations, and proposed that if Louisa would agree to advance me 2000l.we could obtain the signature of her trustee in Australia, and forward the document by mail to England, so as to be ready for completion when we arrived.
"On the morning of poor Louisa's death all necessary arrangements had been made. Her trustee in England had signed the document, and her signature only in the presence of a witness was needed to complete it. Mr. Norton engaged to meet us at Englefield Grange on that evening to witness the signature, and you will remember he called, but I was unable even to speak to him."
Henry silently assented, and Arthur went on. "I cannot describe to you the agonies of that night. The 2000l., part of which was to pay my debts, had slipped from my grasp; ruin to myself and my children stared me in the face. I had a little flask of brandy in my pocket, which we had brought with us on the journey. I am not accustomed to spirits, and the brandy I drank that night first exhilarated and then almost maddened me. In a kind of frenzy I sat for an hour imitating on scraps of paper Louisa's writing, and that of another, whose name I need not mention. And then, oh, Henry! I signed the two names on the document, and one of them was, to all appearance, the handwriting of the dead! During that dreadful week I kept up my courage with that fatal spirit. You all attributed my stupefied and callous manner to the shock of Louisa's death, and pitied and sympathised with me. I left you and came to London, with the determination to sail as quickly as possible to Australia, that I might obtain money on the deed, and turn it to account in some speculation which would enable me to refund the money and recover the document before it was sent to England. It was a wild scheme, such a one as Satan often uses to lead on his victims to their destruction. I can see that now; I was saved from farther sin by the accident, and painful as my punishment has been, I trust I am thankful for it."
"But," said Henry, "why did you not carry the paper in your pocket book?"
"Henry, I dared not risk it; I seemed to have the presentiment of an accident, and dreaded the discovery of the paper upon my person. When I found myself falling on that day of sorrows, and felt the carpet bag slip from my hand, I cannot describe my feelings; no wonder I raved about it in my delirium."
"It is a most painful history," said Henry, after a pause, "and you may well be thankful for the accident which saved you from further sin, and perhaps disgrace. I need not ask whether you have repented, Arthur, for indeed your act was a breach of the laws both of God and man. It was——"
"Don't hesitate, Henry, call it by its right name, 'forgery.' Truly, truly, have I repented in dust and ashes, and I can say like David, 'I abhor myself.'"
"Dear Arthur," said the young clergyman, as he saw the tears of real contrition stealing down the cheeks of his brother-in-law, "if such is your repentance, you can continue to use David's words in the Psalm, 'Make me to hear joy and gladness, that the bones which Thou hast broken may rejoice.'"
Henry Halford rose as he spoke, and gave the invalid a portion of the mixture which stood on the table, and after awhile Arthur revived, and could listen calmly to another subject.
"If you wish to relieve your mind still farther of all anxiety, Arthur," said his brother-in-law presently, "I have some letters in my pocket addressed to you. Would you like to open them? they may contain good news."
"Yes, oh yes; where are they?" he exclaimed eagerly.
Henry drew from his pocket three letters, and placing one in Arthur's hand, said—
"Suppose you begin with that, Arthur."
The invalid took the letter and opened it, Henry watching his countenance half in fear as he saw the flush and look of astonishment, and the rapid glance over its contents; but then laying it down he closed his eyes, as if unable to understand what he had read.
"Henry," he said presently, "read it to me; it is incomprehensible."
"No, Arthur, not quite," he replied, as he took up the letter; "and perhaps I can enlighten you. Mr. Norton called upon me a few days ago, and stated that the trustees had come to a decision respecting the payment of some money which you would have received had your wife lived, and have only been waiting for the consent of all parties. Mr. Norton wished me to inform you of their intention, but I advised him to write to you on the subject. He has done so, and this is the letter.
"Read it, Henry, read it; God has been too good to me in the midst of all my sinful conduct if the contents of that letter are true."
"He is wont to give us more than even we desire or deserve," said Henry, as he opened the letter.
"Lincoln's Inn, Aug. 12th, 18—."My Dear Sir,—I am desired by the trustees of the late Mrs. Louisa Franklyn's property to express their deep sympathy with you in the great loss you have sustained by her death, and also their hopes that you are recovering from the serious illness which has followed your accident."With respect to a deed which was not completed by Mrs. Franklyn at the time of her lamented death, I am directed to state that, in consequence of a certain clause in the will of the late Mr. Howard, your late wife's first husband, you are not entitled to claim any of her property, the heir-at-law being Mr. William Lynn Howard, the testator's nephew."In consideration of these circumstances the trustees of the late Mrs. Franklyn are willing, with the consent of Mr. William Lynn Howard, to make over to you the 2000l.which you could have legally claimed had Mrs. Franklyn lived a few hours longer to complete the legal document which only required her witnessed signature."On receipt of your reply accepting this proposal, the necessary papers will be forwarded for your signature."I remain, dear sir, faithfully yours,"E. Norton."
"Lincoln's Inn, Aug. 12th, 18—.
"My Dear Sir,—I am desired by the trustees of the late Mrs. Louisa Franklyn's property to express their deep sympathy with you in the great loss you have sustained by her death, and also their hopes that you are recovering from the serious illness which has followed your accident.
"With respect to a deed which was not completed by Mrs. Franklyn at the time of her lamented death, I am directed to state that, in consequence of a certain clause in the will of the late Mr. Howard, your late wife's first husband, you are not entitled to claim any of her property, the heir-at-law being Mr. William Lynn Howard, the testator's nephew.
"In consideration of these circumstances the trustees of the late Mrs. Franklyn are willing, with the consent of Mr. William Lynn Howard, to make over to you the 2000l.which you could have legally claimed had Mrs. Franklyn lived a few hours longer to complete the legal document which only required her witnessed signature.
"On receipt of your reply accepting this proposal, the necessary papers will be forwarded for your signature.
"I remain, dear sir, faithfully yours,
"E. Norton."
For a time there was silence between the two men, each being too much overcome to speak. At length Arthur Franklyn exclaimed—
"Oh, Henry, if I had only confided my circumstances to you, and waited and trusted, I might have been spared the recollection of this dreadful fall from rectitude and honour, which will leave a blot on my conscience to the end of my days."
"Then it will serve as a beacon and a warning to you in your future career, Arthur; when tempted and tried you will remember what this downfall has cost you, and with less confidence in yourself you will have to look to the 'Strong for strength.'"
"And yet, Henry, I would give worlds to recall the past two months. Oh, if I had only waited!"
"There is nothing more trying to the Christian in his path through life than being required to wait. 'Stand still' was the command of God to the Israelites when the Red Sea stretched before them, the mountains on either side, and Pharaoh's host was behind them. And in one place the prophet exclaims, 'Our strength is to sit still.' We often forget the truth of the poet's words, 'They also serve who only stand and wait.'"
"Henry," exclaimed Arthur presently, "mine has been a frivolous, useless life. I seem to have forgotten all the teachings of your dear mother in my boyhood, but they are coming back to me now. Is there not a verse in the Psalms about waiting? My dear lost Fanny would often remind me of it, when instead of waiting patiently for steady success in any undertaking, I put it aside and commenced something else. She would call it 'making haste to be rich.' O Henry, since my illness the memory of my carelessness about dear Fanny's health has caused me hours of bitter remorse."
"You must not indulge any longer in self-reproach, Arthur; it can do no good to recall the past excepting as a warning for the future, and mental anxiety will retard your recovery. The last two months have been very dark, but we must remember the Indian proverb, 'The darkest part of the night is just before the dawn.'"
"What is the text in the Psalms about waiting, Henry?"
"It occurs in the thirty-seventh—'Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for Him; He shall give thee the desires of thine heart.' And now you must try and sleep for a while till dinner is ready, and in the evening I will write a letter for you to Mr. Norton, and you can sign it."
Arthur obeyed; the conversation and the letter had produced excitement, and great exhaustion was the result. Henry sat and watched him till he fell into a calm and peaceful sleep, to which he had for months been a stranger.
A quiet step, a gentle movement, and as the door slowly opened Clara Franklyn appeared. Her uncle placed his finger on his lips and pointed to the couch. The womanly girl understood, and withdrew as noiselessly as she had entered.
Autumn of the year which had proved so full of changes to Arthur Franklyn passed into winter, and frost and snow ushered in the time when the angels sang their holy song of "Peace and goodwill to all men."
The red breast of the robin and the holly berries gleamed brighten the glistening snow, and the joyous notes of the sociable bird sounded clear and melodious through the keen frosty air, heralding the birth of another year. Winter gave place to the gentle and balmy air of spring, and April found Mary Armstrong revelling in the country delights at Meadow Farm, when the "sound of the singing of birds has come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land."
With all the firm will and patient endurance of Mary's character she had not a constitution of iron. The alternation of hopes and fears, caused by the various opinions expressed by others in opposition to her father respecting Mr. Halford's family, were at last more than she could bear.
Had the young people been entirely separated, Mary had strength of character sufficient to school her heart to forget Henry Halford. But Sunday after Sunday to have to recognise each other as mere distant acquaintance, and to be required to sit and listen to him with indifference, while others were never tired of showing or expressing their admiration of the talented young clergyman, was indeed an act of positive cruelty on the part of her father to which he seemed quite oblivious.
Mary appeared as submissive now as to his wishes in the past. She was loving and attentive as usual to his requests and his comforts, at times even gay and cheerful, and always contented. She might be a little changed, as cousin Sarah said; but what of that? She was a woman now, and not a child. Why should he notice such whims and fancies? So reasoned Mr. Armstrong. But this strain on the nerves could not last. One evening during dessert she suddenly fell back in her chair and fainted away. Then Mr. Armstrong was aroused to a sense of danger. Dr. West's opinion carried the day.
"Send your daughter into the country for a month, she wants change of air and scene; there is nothing the matter with her yet to cause alarm. Has she anything on her mind, friend Armstrong?" added the doctor, significantly.
"Some silly love affair, I suppose you mean," was the reply; "my daughter, Dr. West, is above giving way to such nonsense."
"Possibly so," said Dr. West; "I know Miss Armstrong well enough to understand that she possesses a strong amount of self-control; but, my dear sir, a young girl's nerves are not iron, so the sooner you send her into the country the better."
The proposal that she should pay a visit to cousin Sarah was hailed with such delight by Mary, that her father could not help saying to himself—
"I hope Sarah will not encourage any nonsensical talk about this young parson who seems to be turning the heads of all the young people in the parish, and the old ones too."
But other circumstances were occurring at the time our chapter commences which drew Mr. Armstrong's thoughts from his daughter's health to matters, in his opinion, of equal importance.
He had an office in the city now, as well as in Dover Street, and went more frequently to the former. One morning, when Mary had been absent a week, he was met on his arrival at the office by his head clerk with a very rueful face.
"Have you heard, sir, what has happened?" he asked.
"No," was the hasty reply; "I've not seen theTimesyet. Is there anything serious, Wilson?"
"I'm afraid it is, sir; Overton and Boyd have stopped payment."
Mr. Armstrong sank back into his chair as if a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, while every vestige of colour forsook his cheeks.
"I am sorry I told you so suddenly, sir," said Mr. Wilson; "will it affect you very greatly?"
Mr. Armstrong, though for a moment surprised out of his usual self-possession, quickly recovered himself and said, "Not to cause me any serious injury; Wilson, but I have several thousands in the hands of these bankers, and that is too much to lose."
"Indeed it is, sir; but perhaps the reports have been exaggerated, and there may be an official letter amongst your correspondence explaining matters more correctly."
Mr. Armstrong turned to his letters.
"All right, Wilson, I daresay there is; don't wait, I'll call you if I find that any letters require attention."
Left to himself, Mr. Armstrong quickly opened letter after letter. Yes, there it was, from Overton and Boyd. Obliged from a sharp run on the bank to suspend payment; hoped to be able to recover themselves in a few days, and so on.
Edward Armstrong laid the notice on one side, looked over his other letters, wrote a few particulars on each, then sounded the gong for Mr. Wilson, who quickly made his appearance.
"Answer these letters, Wilson," he said; "two or three have evidently heard of this stoppage, and are alarmed for the safety of their money. I have written cheques to the amount of the debts of these parties, which you can enclose to them."
The clerk took the letters and left the room, and then Mr. Armstrong put on his hat and went out to ascertain the effect of this stoppage of Overton and Boyd on the corn exchange and elsewhere.
During the day many persons looked in at the office to ask the opinion of Mr. Armstrong, and to give him details of the present and probable consequences likely to result from this disastrous bank failure. Before the hour came for closing the office it was evident that a panic had arisen in the City, threatening destruction and ruin to more than one long-established house of business.
Mr. Armstrong, as he entered his splendidly furnished house at Kilburn, felt thankful for the absence of his daughter. At the same time he hastened to his dressing-room, anxious to remove, if possible, the pale and haggard look of his face before meeting his wife at dinner.
But the quick eye of affection was not to be deceived. Mrs. Armstrong waited till the dinner was removed, and the wine and dessert placed on the table.
The April evenings were cold enough for a fire, and the wife, whose mental powers her husband considered so inferior, soon proved herself a true comforter.
"Come and sit by the fire, Edward," she said, placing a tempting arm-chair near it; "you look anxious, dearest, has anything happened in the City to trouble you?"
"I do not wish to annoy you with business matters, darling," was the reply; "go and make yourself comfortable in the drawing-room, I will come to you presently;" and her husband as he spoke placed his elbows on the table and rested his forehead on his hands.
Mrs. Armstrong rose and advanced to where her husband sat; placing her arm across his shoulders she said—
"Edward, I am sure there is something wrong. I know I am not clever enough to advise you in business matters, but if you will only tell me what grieves you it will lose half its bitterness and relieve your mind."
"Maria my dearest wife," said Edward Armstrong, rising and throwing himself into the easy-chair she had placed for him, "my troubles are about money; do you care to hear about them?"
"I care to hear anything," she said, "if telling me will relieve your mind."
"Then I will tell you the worst at once. Overton and Boyd have stopped payment, and the 20,000l.which I placed with them was to have been Mary's marriage portion."
"And will she lose it all?"
"I fear so. The bank talk of recovering themselves, but I doubt if they will."
"Do you think this will trouble Mary?"
"I cannot say; at all events it will interfere with her future prospects. She will have nothing but the 1000l.left by her grandfather. What man worth anything would marry her with that paltry sum for a marriage portion?"
"You married me with less, Edward, and Mary is quite as attractive as I was, and I know one to whom Mary's little dowry of a thousand pounds would be a fortune."
Mr. Armstrong did not reply, and his wife, thinking she had said enough, rose and left him to himself.
No greater trial could have happened to this man than the loss of money. Year after year his wealth had increased; loss, at least to any great amount, had been unknown to him. Arrogance, ambition, self-sufficiency, and pride had grown with his growing wealth. His ambitious schemes for his daughter had more of the ostentatious display of wealth than paternal love. And now—now when he had treated with scorn the offer of the young schoolmaster—now she had nothing for her dowry beyond a paltry 1000l.;—he had no hope that Overton and Boyd would recover themselves. He could not, without some injury to his business, draw out another 20,000l.for his daughter's marriage portion; and was it likely, even if he gave his consent, that the young parson would be anxious to marry his daughter with not more for her dowry than the young man's sister had taken to her husband? No, it was out of the question. So admired, so flattered and sought after, as the young curate of Kilburn undoubtedly was, Mary with her paltry thousand pounds would stand a poor chance.
So reasoned the money-getting man of the world, while the deepest mortification added poignancy to the loss he had sustained.
"I can never give my consent now," he said to himself; "indeed, it will never be asked when the loss I have met with is known. So hard as I have worked all my life to enable me to purchase a position for my only daughter, and this is the end!"
And yet this 20,000l.was to Edward Armstrong but as a mere bauble compared to the wealth which he really possessed. A love of money, a thirst for wealth, grows upon the man of riches, till like the horse-leech he cries "Give, give," and is never satisfied.
The days of that anxious week passed away, but still the panic in the City gained ground. One firm after another sunk under the crash. Only men of ample means such as Mr. Armstrong could battle with the waves and weather the storm, but even he had great difficulty in doing so.
Reports spread respecting his losses, which, however, in the City did not injure his credit. Westward their influence was felt with greater results.
He usually rode Firefly when proceeding to his office in Dover Street, and on more than one occasion he had encountered those who had either asked him for the hand of his daughter or courted his acquaintance. Now they passed him by with scarcely a recognition. And so the time passed on, till one morning about a fortnight after the reports that Overton and Boyd had stopped payment.
The affair had exceeded the time of the proverbial "nine days' wonder," and it was only in the City or to those deeply interested that the good news became really known. Overton and Boyd had recovered from the shock, and were ready to meet all demands.
Mary's fortune was safe, but the alarm and the changed manners of his sunshine friends had taught her father a deep lesson. When the notice arrived he was alone in the private room of his office in Dover Street. He had been schooling himself to endure the loss of money and friends patiently. More than once during that terrible fortnight the words he had heard read by his father sounded in his ears, "Riches make themselves wings; they fly away;" "The love of money is the root of all evil." And now the certainty that he had, after all, lost nothing, caused a revulsion of feeling scarcely endurable.
He sat for some time resting his head on his hands, and his elbows on the table, absorbed in thought.
"Those sunshine friends," he said to himself, "who turned their backs upon the corn merchant when they thought he was poor, shall never know that my position is unaltered. And these are the men to either of whom I would have given my cherished daughter! My losses are known at Kilburn, no doubt, and the schoolmaster and his son are of course congratulating themselves on the escape of the latter." And as Edward Armstrong thus thought there passed over his mind recollections of the holy truths, tho Christian principles, and the first sermon from 1st Cor. xiii. 13: "The greatest of these is charity," which he had heard from the lips of the schoolmaster's son.
Was he different from these sunshine friends? could he possibly love his daughter still, when, as was supposed, not only her fortune, but great part of her father's wealth had disappeared with the commercial crash?
It was impossible, he could not believe it. True, he had done so himself, but then it was under most peculiar circumstances. There was nothing of romance in the commencement of the acquaintance which had arisen between young Halford and his daughter. Should he try him? should he endeavour to find out whether it was money or Mary herself that he sought for? Yes, he would do it, and if he proved that the latter alone had actuated him to write that letter after Mary's visit to Oxford, then he should have the 20,000l.after all.
"Poor darling," he said to himself, as he thought of her patient endurance and filial obedience, "she had nearly lost all I could give her. It is not too late to make amends, at least if the young parson is really worthy of such a superior and accomplished girl as my daughter. Better secure the 20,000l.to her at once than risk its loss by-and-by."
Edward Armstrong had been roused from a false security in riches by a prospect of their loss. He felt that he had been like the man in the parable, who had said, "I will pull down my barns, and build greater;—soul take thine ease."
But from this he had been painfully aroused; he would endeavour to discover whether the young people cared for each other still. The glamour which the acquisition of wealth had thrown around the man of business was removed. His ambition now appeared as mockery, his pride a disgrace, and his conduct to his daughter refined cruelty. Well may the awakening of the human heart from the influence of the god of this world, who blinds the eyes of his votaries, be called in the Bible, "arising from the dead."
Time passed on, and Mrs. Armstrong received a letter from Mary expressing a wish to return home the following week. "Something must be done quickly if done at all," said Mr. Armstrong to himself as Rowland drove him to the station in Mary's pony carriage on that morning. Not even to Mrs. Armstrong had he given a hint of his intentions.
During the day he received from the bank additional assurances that the money in their possession was safe. Owing to the delay in the settlement in some matter of business he left his office in the City rather later than usual, and arrived on the platform of the station at Euston Square just as the train was about to start. A porter rushed forward, opened a first-class carriage, and assisted him to enter, even as the guard's whistle sounded and the train moved.
Mr. Armstrong, without noticing whether any other passengers were in the carriage, seated himself next the door, feeling rather disturbed and out of breath from his hasty movements. After wiping his face with his pocket-handkerchief, for the April day was rather warm, he raised his head and faced the only passenger in the carriage beside himself, who sat directly opposite to him.
A sudden flush rose to his brow almost as vivid as that which had covered the face of his fellow-passenger at Mr. Armstrong's entrance.
A bow of recognition was followed by a start of surprise, as Mr. Armstrong held out his hand and said, "Allow me to shake hands with you, Mr. Halford, once more, for the sake of old acquaintance." Henry became pale with surprise; what could it mean? It was a moral impossibility for him to resent the pride and neglect of the past three years in the father of Mary Armstrong, yet he was too completely puzzled to feel at his ease.
Mr. Armstrong, however, asked so many questions respecting Arthur Franklyn and the young people his children, with such real interest and kindness, that he very soon found himself quite at home with a gentleman who could, if he liked, make himself so agreeable. This train started from Euston at the same hour as the one in which poor Mrs. Franklyn had travelled on that fatal afternoon, and did not stop till it reached Kilburn; Mr. Armstrong knew therefore that he and his companion would be alone the whole way. Still there was no time to lose, and yet Mr. Armstrong scarcely knew how to commence the subject for which there now seemed such an excellent opportunity. At last he said, "You have missed my daughter from church, Mr. Halford, I daresay?"
"I have done so," he replied: "I hope Miss Armstrong is well;" and his companion detected a want of steadiness in the voice when he spoke, for in very truth Mary's non-appearance had made him anxious.
"She was quite well when we heard from her last. She has been away for change of air, which Dr. West thought she required, at my old home in Hampshire with Mrs. John Armstrong, whom I think you met last summer."
"I had great pleasure in making the acquaintance of that lady," said Henry; "she spoke of persons and places connected with my father's early days which greatly interested me."
"Yes, so she told me;" and Mr. Armstrong glancing from the window saw that they were nearing the station.
"Mr. Halford," he exclaimed suddenly, "forgive me for being so abrupt, but you once asked me for the hand of my daughter; are you still of the same mind on the subject?"
Astonishment, perplexity, added to a thrill of hope, for a few moments deprived Henry Halford of the power of speech; at last he said in a tone of deep feeling—
"Mr. Armstrong, nothing could ever change the love I bear for your daughter."
"My dear young friend," said the father, who noticed the painful excitement under which he spoke, "believe me I do not ask from idle curiosity; if my daughter is willing to listen to your proposals now I will not say you nay, and you are at liberty to write and ask her. The address is Meadow Farm, near Basingstoke."
"I know not how to reply to you, Mr. Armstrong," said Henry, "but will you allow me to say that in my regard for Miss Armstrong I am not influenced by hopes of obtaining her fortune, which I hear is considerable?"
Mr. Armstrong placed his hand on the arm of the young clergyman, and said—
"Have you heard the rumour of my great losses, Mr. Halford?"
"I have heard something to that effect," he replied, "and I could almost wish to find it true, that I might prove my love for your daughter."
"Well, well, these reports are notalltrue; just write to Mary, and then we can talk about the other matter by-and-by. And here we are at the station; shall I offer you a seat in the pony carriage? it is no doubt waiting for me."
But after this exciting interview Henry wanted to be alone; he accompanied Mr. Armstrong to the station entrance, and then after a warm hand-clasp the two whom money had hitherto separated, parted as close friends.
That evening, when Mr. Armstrong joined his wife in the drawing-room, he seated himself in his easy-chair, took up theTimes, and appeared for a few minutes deep in its columns.
Presently he looked over the top of the paper and said, "I met young Halford in the railway carriage this afternoon, Maria, and I told him he might write to Mary if he liked."
"Edward! is it possible?" was the astonished reply.
"Is what possible?" he asked; "I suppose you thought it was impossible for me to change my opinion, but for once, dear wife, you are wrong; I have learnt the lesson lately that riches can take to themselves wings and fly away. In fact, I wanted an excuse to change my mind about that young parson long ago, but pride kept me back from doing him justice till now. I suppose there is no likelihood that Mary will refuse him after all, Maria? I should be sorry to expose the young man to such a result."
"I do not think Mary is so likely to change her opinion as her father," said Mrs. Armstrong, with a smile; "besides, she has right on her side."
At some little distance from Englefield, in a contrary direction to Meadow Farm, and closely bordering on Berkshire, can be seen from the railway a picturesque town situated on a hill, overlooking a river.
This part of Hampshire, lying to the north-east, is more varied by hill and dale, wood and glen, than the low-lying ground near the Channel, and not far distant from the rich and picturesque country which surrounds Farnham, in Surrey. Odiham Castle stands on a hill in the neighbourhood, and at a little distance the ruins of an old keep, called King John's house. Odiham Castle was used as a prison in the time of Edward III.; and David of Scotland, who was taken prisoner by Queen Philippa at Neville's Cross, while Edward laid siege to Calais, was for eleven years imprisoned in this castle.
The town of Briarsleigh overlooks from its high situation woods and meadows, and the extensively cultivated estates and parks of more than one nobleman's seat. It is built on a kind of high table-land, along which the old coach road runs for miles in both directions with only an occasional dip. At one end of the town, however, a steep winding lane leads down to the river.
The town itself has nothing to boast of beyond the old-fashioned church, which once formed part of a priory, built in the time of Henry I. Its square tower surmounted by a small steeple and a vane, can be distinguished for miles. The town hall, the modern literary institution, one or two Dissenting chapels, and the High Street, with its principal shops, differ very little from those of other similar market towns.
Its principal wealth arises from its agriculture, and the farms in the vicinity are remarkable for their rich pastures and produce. A stranger arriving at the entrance to Briarsleigh on a spring evening, with the sunset bathing the landscape in a golden misty sheen, would pause to gaze on a scene so fair; but on the evening of which we write, the bright landscape and the glowing sunset were unnoticed by the inhabitants of Briarsleigh Rectory. The lowered blinds, the stillness, and the absence of any living object near the picturesque building, told too plainly that it was the abode of death. Presently might be seen ascending the hilly lane towards the spot on which the church stood two men, evidently respectable farmers, who had stayed later than usual in the town on this the market day at Briarsleigh.
As they approached the house, a glance at its quiet aspect and lowered blinds diverted the thoughts of one from money and the market, and he exclaimed—
"So the old rector is gone at last, Martin."
"Eh! is he? How do you know?"
"Why, look, the blinds are down; besides I heard of his death two hours ago in the town."
"Ah, well, it's what we must all come to one day, and rector has lived out his time; why he must have been fourscore at least."
"Eighty-six, so they say," replied Martin, "and I believe it, too; for I can remember him all my life nearly, and that's forty year."
"Has he been rector of Briarsleigh so long as that?" asked the other.
"Ay, that he have, and a kind good parson he's been too. Lord Rivers gave him this living a'most the first thing he did when he come to the estate at the old lord's death, and that was afore I was born."
"I'm afeard we shan't get such another as Parson Wentworth, whoever it may be."
"Well, he wasn't much of a preacher in his best days," was the reply, "and the curate ain't much better, though he's a good young man, but his sermons send me to sleep. You know there's lots of us go to the Wesleyan chapel; you can hear sermons there that wake a man up, and no mistake, though I like the Church prayers best, I'll own that."
"I've been to them Wesleyans once or twice, and what their parson said was very fine, but he made too much noise about it; and I don't like their ways and their singing nohow."
"Well, I like Church ways best too, and I assure you, Martin, it's made me quite miserable lately when I've been at church to see such a lot of empty pews. Why, if it hadn't been for my lord's family, and the servants and labourers from Englefield, there wouldn't have been twenty-five people in the church."
"Yes, I know, and that's why I sticks to it. I'm only one, but if I go, my wife and the children goes too, and so we make up half a dozen amongst us. Poor old parson, the poor'll miss him, sure enough."
"Well, Martin," replied his companion, whose education as well as the number of his farm acres surpassed greatly those of his neighbour, "we must hope that if the new parson gets the people back to the church, he will be kind to his poor parishioners also."
And then as farmer Martin turned into his own gate, his companion left him with a friendly farewell, and stepped on quickly towards his own home, which, though the neighbouring farm, was at least a quarter of a mile farther by the road.
From the rectory of Briarsleigh with its shrouded windows, and the homely conversation of two of the parishioners, we must lead the reader to a far different scene.
On the evening of the second day after the death of the rector of Briarsleigh, a family party were seated at dinner in the dining-room at Englefield, to which we have introduced the reader in a former chapter.
Of the five persons then seated at breakfast, two only are present now, Lord Rivers and his youngest daughter, Lady Dora, now Lady Dora Lennard. Lady Mary Woodville, who has married a Scotch nobleman, inherits her mother's delicate constitution, and seldom visits Englefield. And that mother, Lady Rivers, whose gentle loving character had endeared her not only to her husband and children, but also to the lowliest worker on the estate, has passed away from earth. Even now, after ten years, the memory of the gentle lady lives in the hearts of those who could claim no nearer tie to her than that of friend or servant.
Lord Woodville, the heir, is in London with his brother-in-law, Sir William Lennard, and thither his father and sister purpose following him on the morrow. A few intimate friends and relatives by marriage are present on this occasion, making a pleasant gathering of eight.
Lady Dora is seated at the head of the table, opposite to the earl. She has the same bright dark eyes and brunette complexion which made her brother Robert once call her a gipsy. The face and form have a matronly dignity and appearance very different from the lively girl of seventeen who was so interested in the marriage of Fanny Franklyn; but the change is a decided improvement, and at thirty-three Lady Dora Lennard is a very handsome woman.
And the earl has changed since he paid a congratulatory visit to his old tutor on the marriage of his daughter; his hair is white as snow, but his eyes have lost none of their dark lustre, and the finely cut features still preserve their delicate outline, and even at the age of sixty his form has lost none of its stately bearing.
The dinner has been removed, and the dessert in its rich and delicate china of green and gold has been placed on the table. The wine-glasses, finger-glasses, and decanters; the silver knives and forks, the polished damask of the tablecloth, and the prisms of the chandelier drops above it, glitter and sparkle in the light of many wax tapers. In that sombre yet noble room, with its carved oak panellings, its many and richly draped windows, chairs of mahogany and ebony, and a thick handsome carpet, beyond the bordering of which appears the oaken floor; the dinner-table, the dresses of the ladies, and the men-servants in their gay livery, form a dazzling spot of brightness by contrast.
It would seem as if nothing could enhance that brightness, yet a few moments proved the contrary. The door opened, and three children entered the room—a girl of twelve, a boy of ten, and a little one of six, who escaping from the hand of her nurse, and disregarding her elder sister's remonstrance, bounded across the room to the side of grandpapa.
"Well, Gipsy," said the earl, as he lifted the little girl on his knee, "who sent for you?"
"Mamma did," she replied; and then added quickly, "Grandpapa, I'm not a gipsy; I saw real gipsies to-day, and they are ugly; they wear red cloaks and old frocks, and the little girl gipsies have no shoes or stockings. I don't be dressed like that."
A general laugh followed this speech; most certainly the little fairy in white lace, blue morocco shoes, and silk socks was very unlike the children she described, at least in dress. But well might she claim the pet title of "Gipsy Dora." The dark flashing eye, softened by its long eyelashes; the clear brunette complexion, through which the damask rose colour showed itself on the glowing cheek, and the long dark brown curls that fell round her dimpled shoulders, made her far more deserving of the name than her mother had ever been.
The sisters were dressed alike, but May, the elder, differed greatly from Dora in appearance; tall and slight, with blue eyes and fair hair, her gentle manner and delicate face showed a striking resemblance to the late Lady Rivers. The boy, who stood by his mother, his blue velvet tunic contrasting with her light silk dress, appeared a manly, spirited little fellow, yet neither so gipsy-like as one sister nor so fair as the other. So far as the change of conversation is concerned, we need only have introduced Gipsy Dora, excepting to add brightness to the picture in the earl's noble dining-room, which children on such occasions so often do.
"Papa," said Lady Dora, presently, "talking about gipsies reminds me of that morning so many years ago, when I read the notice of Miss Halford's marriage in the paper at Englefield Grange, and you gave me an imaginary cause for the origin of the word Englefield."
Lord Rivers smiled, but he did not reply.
"What was it, Rivers?" exclaimed an old squire, who with his wife and daughter were guests at the table. "I have often wondered myself at the singular title."
"Most likely from Engle, or angle, a corner," said the earl, demurely, "the corner of a field being no doubt the earliest possession of my ancestors."
"Papa, that is worse than your other definition," cried his daughter; and then with her usual vivacity she related the conversation in which Lord Rivers had suggested that his family were descended from the gipsies.
"At all events, Mary and Willie are not gipsies," said the earl, quietly.
He was thinking of the other subject referred to by his daughter—the marriage of Fanny Halford; and while those round the table were discussing the gipsy question with Lady Dora, his memory recalled the sad events that had occurred since that time in his own family, as well as in that of his old tutor. Many years had passed after the visit of congratulation which he had paid to the residents at Englefield Grange on the occasion of Fanny's marriage, before the earl visited Dr. Halford a second time. The health of Lady Rivers had rendered it necessary for her to reside in the south of France for years before her death, and on the return of Lord Rivers to England after that sad event he could not for a long period visit the friends of his youth who so well remembered the fair, gentle lady who became the earl's bride. He answered Dr. Halford's sympathising letter, but it was not till he read in theTimesthe notice of Fanny Franklyn's death that he visited his old tutor again, and witnessed with sincere regret the effects of sorrow in the change and wreck of the friend of his boyhood, Clara Marston.
Henry Halford was on this occasion absent at Oxford, and the earl renewed his promise that the first living in his gift that fell vacant should be his. Of Mrs. Halford's death he had been informed in a letter from the bereaved husband; since then, in the very midst of the excitement occasioned by the tragic end of the second Mrs. Franklyn, an account of which appeared in the papers, he had also read Henry Halford's name in the list of ordinations by the Bishop of London. Rapidly all these memories passed through his mind, and he started almost perceptibly when Squire Hartley exclaimed—
"You've heard of Parson Wentworth's death, I suppose, Rivers?"
Opposite to the squire sat another guest, a bluff old colonel, also a neighbour of the earl's, who exclaimed—
"Heard of a living in his gift having become vacant, squire! What an unnecessary question! Why, man, the parson died on Sunday, and this is Wednesday! I for one shouldn't like to have to read all the letters on the subject, which Rivers has no doubt by this time received."
The earl glanced at his daughter. Lady Dora rose, and, accompanied by the ladies and her children, left the three gentlemen to themselves.
Then the squire made another attempt to introduce the subject so abruptly interrupted, by saying—
"I suppose the living of Briarsleigh is not already given away?"
"No indeed," was the reply, "although you are correct in your surmises, colonel, respecting the letters I have received; but I never decide hastily on such matters. Come, squire, help yourself, and pass the decanter," added the earl, in a tone far less serious; "and tell me how you have arranged about Henley's farm."
This reference stirred up the squire to descant on a personal matter with great gusto, and changed the subject.
The gentlemen did not delay to join the ladies in the drawing-room; indeed, very little time elapsed before the visitors had taken their departure. A drive of four or five miles is not very pleasant after ten o'clock on a cold spring night even in a close carriage. And yet how often is a visit of this kind followed by a drive home of even more than ten miles during a night in winter!
Lady Dora had taken leave of her guests, and finding herself alone in the drawing-room with her father, she approached him as he stood with his back to the fire in true English fashion, and said—
"Papa, I believe I understand why you dismissed me so suddenly from the table this evening."
The earl smiled as he replied—
"Well, my daughter, and what is it you understand?"
"Your intentions, papa. You mean to give the living of Briarsleigh to the son of your old tutor."
"I have some thoughts of doing so, Dora—at least of making him the offer, although I have had more than one letter on the subject."
"Has Dr. Halford written to you?"
"No, my dear, he is not a man likely to do so; yet I know the doctor's son is ordained. I saw his name in the list of ordinations. The old rector of Kilburn has given him a title."
"Is this son the clever little boy you became acquainted with when you visited Dr. Halford after his daughter's marriage?"
"Yes, his youngest and only surviving son, and I have no doubt clever and talented as a man."
"Is the living of Briarsleigh a valuable one, papa?"
Again the earl smiled.
"Why, Dora, you are taking as much interest in this young clergyman as you did in the marriage of his sister so many years ago."
Lady Dora did not blush as she had done when, at seventeen, her father had remarked her girlish interest in Fanny Halford's marriage, but she replied—
"Papa, this is a very different matter. I have heard enough of late years to make me feel the greatest sympathy for curates. It seems quite shocking to think of a gentleman with refined manners and a university education being obliged to support himself and perhaps a wife and children on a less income than a mechanic, who has no appearance to keep up."
"Too true, Dora; and if you were to read the letters I have received from friends on behalf of curates situated as you have described, you would understand the difficulties in which owners of Church livings are placed. These gentlemen are equally talented, and as truly well born and bred as Dr. Halford's son, but I cannot give the living to all of them, and my promise to my old tutor is binding. I must not go from my word. I hope to pay the family a visit next week, and make the young man an offer of the living personally. I do not suppose he will belie the promise of his boyhood. And perhaps I may contrive to hear him preach at Kilburn on Sunday."
"I am very glad to hear your decision, papa," replied Lady Dora; "and at all events one curate will be saved from poverty and starvation."
"Well," replied the earl, laughing, "that is scarcely true in Henry Halford's case: he could still follow the profession of a schoolmaster, and secure a good income; but I do not think a clergyman can conscientiously perform both duties well or with comfort to himself."
"And what income will he have as rector of Briarsleigh?" she asked again.
"Seven hundred a year, Dora. And now, my dear, as we have to travel to-morrow, perhaps we had better say 'Good night.'"
And so, while Mr. Armstrong was mourning the loss of his daughter's marriage portion, the young "parson" he despised was about to obtain an income of his own. But of this good fortune neither he nor his young companion knew anything when they met in the train on its way to Kilburn.
Clear and bright rose the sun on the morning of the earl's dinner-party, and Mary Armstrong, who stood at the window looking out over field and meadow, orchard and garden, belonging to Meadow Farm, was conscious of a sense of happiness to which for months she had been a stranger. There are few in this cold, dark world of ours who have not experienced at times such a feeling, although unable to account for it, and yet at no period is it more likely to occur than in the season of spring.
As Mary Armstrong now gazed upon the scene before her, the dewdrops on field and meadow sparkling like diamonds in the sunshine, the delicate green foliage trembling in the morning breeze, orchard and garden fragrant and lovely with flowers, buds, and blossoms, the fleecy clouds streaking the pale blue of an April sky, and amid and around all, the song of joyous birds, the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, and other familiar sounds that betoken a farmyard; in the young girl's heart arose a calm feeling of happiness and trust, for she could say with the poet—