"My Father made them all."
"My Father made them all."
Presently she saw cousin Sarah making her way as usual to the farmyard, and although this locality had ceased to be a novelty, she hastily descended the stairs to join her.
"Why, Mary dearest, you are looking quite blooming this morning. I shall be afraid to spare you next week for fear of a relapse."
"Oh no, cousin Sarah, you need not fear; besides, I mean to come again very soon if you will have me."
"That I will, dearest, whenever you like; but come, there is the bell for prayers, and you must want your breakfast."
The morning of this day—to be so long remembered—passed away in watching, and sometimes helping cousin Sarah or the dairymaids in making butter or bread, pies or cakes, or in the garden till dinner.
"You promised me one more walk to Englefield," said Mary, as they rose from the early dinner; "we could go this afternoon, the weather is so delightful, almost like summer—unless you are busy."
"No, dear Mary, not too busy for a walk," she replied; "we can start at three o'clock if you like, and that will give us plenty of time to return before tea."
The sun was still high in the heavens when cousin Sarah and her young companion left the farm, and took the pathway across the fields, with the intention of returning home by the road.
Under the shadow of lofty trees in delicate spring verdure, which now and then separated other fields from the pastures of Meadow Farm, through narrow lanes bordered with hedges of budding May blossom to the boundary of Englefield Park, which joined more than one of the farm meadows, Mary and her cousin walked, talking pleasantly of past days. Not a word, however, nor a reference to cousin Sarah's interference with Mr. Armstrong on Mr. Henry Halford's behalf passed that lady's lips.
Mary, also, was equally reticent; the subject was connected with too much pain to be spoken of lightly. In fact, she was endeavouring, with the calm determination of a strong will, to overcome the faintest signs of hope, and to banish for ever the memory which that hope kept alive in her heart.
Just before crossing the stile which led to the old coach road, they came upon a break between the trees, through which could be seen the rising ground of the park, and on the hill at a distance the imposing façade of Englefield House. Mary Armstrong had seen it on many former occasions, but she did not the less feel inclined to stand still and gaze on its noble aspect and picturesque surroundings.
"It is a lovely spot, cousin Sarah," she said, after a few moments' silence. "And is Lord Rivers still living? I remember meeting him on horseback once when I was walking with dear grandfather. He stopped to speak with him, and they talked so pleasantly for several minutes; and when he heard who I was he asked so kindly after mamma and papa! Oh, look, cousin Sarah! there are some ladies and children on the terrace."
This terrace to which Mary directed her cousin's attention formed one of the modern additions to the right wing of the house. It was approached from the side windows of the drawing-room, and sheltered by a verandah, from the roof and supports of which hung a magnificent westeria, with its drooping flowers like bunches of grapes.
It was too far distant to distinguish the faces of the children, but as the little ones flitted about on the terrace it could be seen that they were following the movements of a white shaggy dog, whose sharp, shrill bark of pleasure sounded faintly across the park.
"They are the children of Lady Dora Lennard," said cousin Sarah, as they turned to continue their walk; "I heard that she was staying with the earl for a few days till they go to London for the season."
"Then Lord Rivers, whom I met two years ago, is still living, and these are his grandchildren, I suppose?"
"Yes, the children of his youngest daughter, who married Sir William Lennard, and retains her own title of Lady Dora. Lord Rivers is still a fine old man at the age of sixty."
"Is he so old as that, cousin Sarah? Why, he did not appear older than papa when I met him two years ago."
"And yet, Mary, he has aged considerably since the death of Lady Rivers about ten years ago. I have heard uncle say that in his young days he was one of the finest men in the county."
"He has a son to inherit the title and estates, I suppose?" said Mary.
"Yes, Lord Woodville; and another daughter, who has been married several years to a Scotch nobleman. She inherits her mother's delicate health, and seldom visits Englefield."
Thus talking the ladies walked on till they reached the stile, over which Mary stepped with the lightness and activity of youth, and then turned to assist her cousin; neither of them, however, was prepared for the surprise that awaited them.
To explain this surprise we must carry our readers to the station at Basingstoke. The coach road, which has been continued on to that station for the convenience of passengers, passes round a hill rising just above the line. On this hill stands the ruins of an old abbey, forming a picturesque and attractive object to travellers by rail.
One of these, a gentleman who had just left the station, paused for some moments to examine the singular appearance of the old ruins, and while thus engaged a voice at his elbow startled him.
"Curious old place, sir."
"Yes," was the reply; "what does it belong to?"
"It be the remains of an old abbey, sir, as was built in the time of Henry VIII. It were partly destroyed by Cromwell's armies," continued the old man, who had a cottage near, and often picked up a gratuity for his information from passengers. "There's nought but the ruins of the chapel left, and they seem strong enough to stand again wind and weather for hundreds of years to come. Why, sir, I remembers that there arch with all the moss and ivy a-covering it when I was a boy, and I'm nearly fourscore now."
"What was the name of the old abbey?" asked the gentleman.
"I don't know, sir; but them ruins are part of the chapel called the Chapel of the Holy Ghost. It's a wonderful name."
For nearly ten minutes the gentleman listened with great interest to the old countryman's account, then suddenly remembering the object of his visit in this part of the world, he looked at his watch, and exclaimed—
"I fear I must be satisfied with what I have heard for the present, for I have still some distance to walk. Pray excuse my leaving you so suddenly," he added, as he placed a silver coin in the old man's hand, "and thank you very much for your information."
The gentleman raised his hat to the homely countryman with such true politeness, that the old man stood with uncovered head for some moments while the wind scattered his white locks, watching the stranger's departure.
"He be a true genelman, he be; us doan't get much o' they foine manners hereabouts, 'cepting wi' the reel gentry."
At a turn of the ascent leading from the station to the coach road appeared a board fastened to a tree, and upon it the representation of a hand with the finger pointing, and the words "To Meadow Farm." This information was at the time of which we write very little needed to tell the residents in the locality the whereabouts of the old homestead, yet it still remained in its half-decayed state, fastened to the trunk of a tree.
Decayed as it might be, it was very useful to the railway traveller, who, following its friendly finger, turned into the high road a few minutes after Mary and her cousin Sarah had entered it from the fields by climbing the stile.
At a bend in the road the gentleman came suddenly in sight of the two ladies as they advanced towards him—not near enough, however, for him to discover whether they were strangers or acquaintances.
Perhaps the change from winter to spring attire in Mary Armstrong's dress, and her unexpected appearance at such a distance from Meadow Farm, caused an impression that the younger lady was a stranger, and of the elder he had no recollection.
Yet a something familiar in their appearance made him look at them earnestly, and as they drew nearer neither the plain cotton gown nor the coarse straw hat could disguise the graceful movements and dignified carriage of Mary Armstrong. It seemed as if the recognition was simultaneous, for at the moment the stranger made the discovery, Mary exclaimed, with a deep flush, "Cousin Sarah, there is a young clergyman coming towards us exactly like Mr. Henry Halford!" And the nas the flush faded to paleness, she added, in a suppressed voice, "Cousin Sarah, itisMr. Halford."
Even as she spoke Henry advanced hastily to meet them—not, however, with his usual self-possession.
"Mrs. John Armstrong," he exclaimed, as he held out his hand to that lady, and bowed nervously to Mary, "I am glad to have met you. I am on my way to pay a visit to Meadow Farm."
"I am very happy to hear such good news, Mr. Halford; we will turn and walk back with you."
"Oh, pray do not let me deprive you of your walk," he replied, glancing at Mary, who was too greatly surprised and mystified to speak.
"We have had our walk," said cousin Sarah, "and were thinking of returning home by another road, which is longer than the way we came. It will be pleasanter for you than the dusty road, Mr. Halford, to return through the fields, and Mary is looking tired already."
"Miss Armstrong appears to me much improved in health," he said, placing himself by cousin Sarah as they turned with him to retrace their steps, and looking inquiringly at Mary, as if asking her to confirm the truth of his remark.
With an effort at self-control to steady her voice, she said with a smile, "Appearances are not fallacious in my case, Mr. Halford; my health is much better than when I left home."
Yet the efforts of the young people to regain their accustomed ease signally failed. Mary was confused and agitated by Henry Halford's presence in that locality, and he from his eager anxiety to account for it.
He turned to cousin Sarah, and plunged at once into the object of his visit.
"When I had the pleasure of meeting you, Mrs. Armstrong, last summer," he said, "you kindly expressed a hope that I would visit you at Meadow Farm. I travelled yesterday in the train with Mr. Armstrong, and as he entrusted me with a message for his daughter, I thought that instead of writing I would take advantage of your kind invitation, and bring the message myself."
"We are most happy to see you, Mr. Halford," replied cousin Sarah, "and I hope you will be able to spend a few days or a week with us now you have found your way here."
"I fear not," he replied, "but if the result of my message is favourable, I shall gladly remain with you till to-morrow."
"Are they all well at home, Mr. Halford?" said Mary, in a constrained voice, and addressing him to conceal the emotion which his mysterious words excited.
"I believe so, Miss Armstrong; from your papa's replies to my inquiries for his family, my impression is that Mrs. Armstrong and your brothers are quite well."
Just at this moment the gable roofs of Meadow Farm appeared in sight in the distance, and cousin Sarah endeavoured to break through the restraint under which the young people were evidently trying to disguise their feelings, by calling their attention to surrounding objects.
The attempt was successful, Mary's unnatural reserve vanished when in sight of the old farm. She could point out the varied features of the landscape, direct Henry Halford's attention to the fields and meadows surrounding the farm, now in their delicate spring verdure, and excite his interest by explaining that Meadow Farm obtained its name from these rich cornfields and pasture-lands through which they passed.
Before they reached the pleasant homestead Mary had to a certain degree recovered her self-possession; while Henry, when shown to his room to refresh himself after his journey, felt his hopes of a favourable reception of his message raised to almost a certainty. Mary at once escaped to her room. Much as she loved her cousin Sarah, she could not open her heart to her as she did to her mother, and she longed to be alone.
What could this visit mean? What message could her father possibly have to send to her by such a messenger?
He and Mr. Halford must have been on very friendly terms in the railway carriage to talk abouther, or even to talk on any subject. Could it be possible that her father had changed his mind respecting Mr. Halford? And at the thought, the blush that covered the young girl's face would have relieved that gentleman from any further anxiety, had he seen it, and known the emotions from which it arose.
Cousin Sarah, although at first surprised at the appearance of the young clergyman on his way to the farm, had no such perplexing doubts. She recalled her conversation with Mr. Armstrong, and therefore readily accounted for this visit. "Mr. Halford can only have been sent for one purpose," she said to herself, "and I must contrive an opportunity for him to deliver his message to Mary before we meet at the tea-table; until that is done the young people will not be at ease in each other's society." Full of this determination, she hastily removed her walking dress and descended the stairs; yet with all her quickness Henry Halford had found his way down before her, and now stood looking out over garden and orchard to the distant prospect from the garden entrance.
He turned quickly at the sound of footsteps, and as Mrs. John Armstrong advanced he said—
"This is truly a country landscape, Mrs. Armstrong, and your gardens and orchards promise great things from their present appearance."
"Are you too tired to walk through the garden?" she asked. "Our spring flowers are in great profusion this year."
"No, indeed," he replied, "it will be a pleasure to do so."
But as they passed down the steps cousin Sarah saw him cast a hasty glance behind him, as if hoping for and expecting another companion.
She opened the gate for him to pass through, and then said—
"Will you excuse me one moment, Mr. Halford? I can soon overtake you if you walk on slowly." The next moment he was alone. Hastily returning to the house, she ascended the stairs to Mary's bedroom. Her knock brought Mary to the door.
"My dear," she said, "Mr. Halford is in the garden alone, pray do not allow him to feel himself neglected; will you join him while I tell cousin John and the boys that he is here, and get the tea ready."
"Certainly I will, cousin Sarah," she replied, with a slight blush as she followed her cousin downstairs, feeling ill-concealed agitation at the prospect of being informed of her father's message. On entering the garden she saw the tall, manly figure, slowly pacing the centre path in front of her, as if in deep thought; yet the usually self-possessed Mary Armstrong had not the courage to hasten her steps.
Presently, however, her dress was caught by a currant bush, and the rustling sound caused the gentleman to turn, expecting to see cousin Sarah. A few steps brought him to her side, and then Mary's natural ease came to her aid.
"My cousin is detained by household duties, Mr. Halford; she has sent me to supply her place, and to show you the wonders of Meadow Farm."
He greeted her with one of those smiles which so greatly improved his features as he replied—
"I am glad of any circumstances which have obliged Mrs. Armstrong to send me such a substitute."
For a few moments they moved on side by side in silence, each too agitated to speak. At length Henry Halford determined to plunge at once into the matter. Why should he hesitate? Was there a possibility that after all he might be mistaken? The thought gave him courage. If such a possibility existed, it must be discovered quickly, for to remain at Meadow Farm under the ban of a refusal was out of the question.
"Miss Armstrong," he said, "do you remember the subjects we discussed when we met three years ago at Mr. Drummond's dinner-party?"
He! Henry Halford remembered that day. How the heart of the patient, enduring, and obedient daughter bounded with joy at the thought! but she did not reply, for her companion gave her no opportunity, as he continued—
"We have a very different and far more pleasant subject to discuss now, and we need not refer to the past. I am well aware that your father with his great wealth could reasonably expect a splendid settlement for his only daughter, and therefore I was not surprised when he refused the offer of a man in my position, and without even——"
"Oh, pray do not go on, Mr. Halford," said Mary, interrupting him. "I cannot endure to think that——" She paused suddenly, and added, "Forgive me, I must not presume to pass judgment on the conduct of my own father."
"I entreat you to excuse me for referring to it," he said; "not for worlds would I utter a word to pain you; and, indeed, Mr. Armstrong has made ample amends for any pain his refusal may have cost me; he yesterday gave me not only permission unasked to write to his daughter, but also promised to agree to whatever her decision might be. I could not wait for an answer to a letter, so I have come myself to plead my own cause."
There was a pause, and the two walked on in silence for some moments. Although in a measure prepared for the object of Mr. Halford's visit, Mary Armstrong was taken by surprise at hearing of this wonderful change in her father. Henry Halford, in referring to his letter, and the refusal which followed, had touched upon a tender string. Shame, regret, and a loss of confidence in her father, had resulted from her discovery of the circumstances, and to hear it spoken of by Henry Halford caused her double pain. She was about to say, when she so abruptly paused, "I cannot bear to think that he has acted so cruelly to you," but the reflection that by so saying she should not only too openly show her interest in himself, but blame her father, made her conclude her reply as we have described.
The contrast presented to her by Henry Halford's description of her father's behaviour to him now, also added to the confusion of her ideas, and she literally had not power to speak.
"You are silent, Miss Armstrong," he said at last. "Do you remember what I once said to you in Christchurch Meadows at Oxford? Nearly three years have passed since then, and I am quite as ready now to devote my life to your future happiness as then. Only answer me one question: shall I go back to Kilburn at once, and tell Mr. Armstrong that I have asked his daughter to be my wife, and that her decision is 'No'?"
"I am not prepared to decide yet, Mr. Halford," said Mary, with an effort controlling herself, "for after all my father's objections, this sudden change has taken me by surprise." Yet as she spoke, with the consciousness of those earnest eyes looking into her face, her voice faltered, and the changing colour and tightened breath too plainly evinced deep emotion. It gave the young man courage as he gazed, he raised her hand and placed it on his arm, saying with a smile and a gentle pressure of the captive hand—
"And now Mr. Armstrong's objections are all removed, do any remain on the part of his daughter?"
Another pause, and then the straightforward candid character of the young girl asserted itself. She glanced modestly in the face of her companion, and said with a smile—
"I did not suppose you would think such a question necessary, Mr. Halford."
A summons to tea interrupted the conversation, and as they turned to retrace their steps, he could only say as he pressed the hand that rested on his arm—"My darling, you have made me so happy."
Cousin Sarah met them at the garden gate, and said—
"We have made no stranger of you, Mr. Halford. Mary is always so happy in the portioned-off corner of our farm kitchen, that I think you also will prefer it to the best parlour."
"Indeed I shall," was the reply.
"Perhaps you will be as well pleased with this apartment as with the beauties of the gardens and orchards," she added, with a smile.
"I fear I have monopolised Miss Armstrong's attention too much on another subject," he replied, smiling also, "but as I am about to accept your kind invitation to remain till to-morrow, I shall hope to become better acquainted with this pleasant spot before I leave."
When Mary seated herself at the tea-table, cousin Sarah required no words to tell her what her father's message had been. It was not so much the brilliant colour in the young girl's cheeks, or the brightness of her eyes which attracted notice, as the expression of calm happiness which had replaced a sad, and at times a constrained look in her face, showing to those interested in her how firm a control she had exerted over herself.
All this had disappeared, and yet the memory of the past increased Mary's happiness. She had submitted to her father's wishes, and subdued her own will to his. Neither by word or thought had she disobeyed him, except in refusing to marry those whom she could neither respect nor love. And now unasked he had given his consent from, as she fully believed, his own unbiassed opinion of Henry Halford's real character and real worth.
The summer of the year which had brought such happiness to Mary Armstrong was fading into autumn. At the door of the parish church at Kilburn appeared a goodly array of carriages, the coachmen wearing white favours indicating a wedding, and attracting a crowd of lookers-on.
A stranger passed, and observing the police endeavouring to force a passage though the crowd for the bride and bridegroom, whose carriage stood at the gates, also remained as a spectator, and inquired of those around him the name of the bridegroom.
"It's our curate, sir," said a respectable woman who stood near; "leastways he was our curate, but he's got a church of his own now down in Hampshire; it's been given him by a great lord. And the lady, sir, she's the daughter of a rich gentleman as lives here at Kilburn, and he's given her I can't tell how many thousand pounds for her fortune, and here they come, sir," she added, as the bells rang out a merry peal, and the congregation, hastening from the church, increased the crowd outside.
In a few minutes the bride appeared leaning on her husband's arm, the folds of her white satin dress swaying gracefully as she moved, and the bright hair glinting beneath the lace veil and orange blossoms, while the brilliant colour on her cheeks made more than one exclaim, "Doesn't she look beautiful!"
Henry Halford's tall, manly figure, dignified carriage, dark hair, and full whiskers formed a pleasing contrast to his fair bride, heightened not a little by his pale face. In fact the young clergyman could not yet realise his happiness and good fortune, but felt as if in a dream from which he must shortly awaken to the realities of life.
And yet the scene at the church was too real and too attractive in its surroundings to be mistaken for a vision by commonplace individuals who are not afflicted with vivid imaginations. Edward Armstrong could not conceal a feeling of exultation as he contemplated the brilliant company who had assembled to do honour to his daughter on her marriage.
As carriage after carriage drives up to receive them we will point out those whose names appear in our story.
Colonel Herbert and his son, their uniform contrasting with the bridesmaids' dresses of white and blue, while assisting them into the carriages form one great point of attraction to the crowd. Among the bridesmaids we can distinguish the womanly figure and handsome features of Clara Franklyn, to whom Charles Herbert is very attentive. She is accompanied by her sister Mabel, whose gentle and delicate features bear the same childlike expression, although she has reached her fifteenth year. Kate Marston and Arthur Franklyn are assisting the venerable Dr. Halford into another carriage. His health has, to a certain extent, improved since the happy results described in the last chapters have completed the happiness of his son, and placed him in a position even beyond his father's brightest hopes. He is now on his way to Lime Grove, to be present at the wedding breakfast, and with dear grandpapa and Kate Marston in the carriage are James and little Albert Franklyn, the latter, in his blue velvet dress and golden curls falling over the lace-collar, has attracted general admiration. James, a steady, quiet youth of thirteen, is looking forward to the time when he shall leave school, and become a clerk in his father's office. Quite as worthy of notice as any present are the two brothers of the bride, Edward and Arthur Armstrong—the former a manly youth of nineteen, whose dark eyes and hair and strongly marked features made his resemblance to his father very striking. In the latter, whose fair delicate face and tall slight figure prove that he is growing beyond his strength, can be too surely seen that a powerful intellect is chafing the slight frame which encloses it. The boy's studious habits had been encouraged by his father till he one day expressed a wish to enter the Church. Mr. Armstrong, at that time irritated with the discovery of his only daughter's predilection for a "parson," harshly forbade the boy to speak to him again on the subject.
That objection had been during the last few months removed, but with the father's consent came the doctor's cautious prohibition—
"Mr. Armstrong, your son's mind must lie fallow for a few years, till he has ceased growing and regained his strength. He is scarcely seventeen yet, time enough when he reaches twenty-one to send him to the university." And with a promise from his father that his wishes should then be gratified, Arthur was learning to wait patiently.
These two were making themselves popular among the ladies by their active and polite attentions, yet not more so than the gentleman who now lifts his little Albert into the carriage and kisses him fondly.
Arthur Franklyn, while escorting the various lady visitors through the crowd, has lost none of the pleasing, attractive manner which made him so courted and flattered in Melbourne. And yet those who knew him in his gay and thoughtless days, can detect a calm steadiness of purpose in the still handsome face indicating a change, not, however, to his disadvantage. Arthur Franklyn had risen from his bed of sickness humbled and subdued. By the advice of his first wife's friends he devoted a portion of the 2000l., which so unexpectedly became his legally after his wife's death, to the liquidation of his debts in Melbourne.
Released from debt, and, above all, from the tortures of conscience and the consequences of his sin, he quickly recovered his health and spirits.
The remainder of the 2000l.he invested in a partnership with a rising firm in the city, and so steadily and cleverly have his business habits and tact been carried out, that the prospects of the firm are brighter than ever.
With relief from debt, that foe to peace of mind, a quiet conscience, and hopes of prosperity in business, his constitution, though greatly shaken, has recovered its elasticity, and the glow of health adds no little to the changed appearance of Arthur Franklyn.
He and his children still reside at Kilburn, indeed, now that they are about to lose Henry, neither Kate Marston nor her uncle can endure the thought of parting with them, and the children cling to her as to a second mother. Kate is still supreme manager of the domestic arrangements, in which she is willingly assisted by Clara, when not occupied with her sisters at their usual studies. A graduate of the university has been engaged to supply the place of Henry Halford, and the old Grange will subside into its usual routine when the bustle caused by this wedding shall be over.
Three carriages are still waiting for their occupants—Mr. Armstrong's and two others.
One of them bears on its panels the coronet of an earl, and on another may be seen the mitre of a bishop.
Mr. Armstrong's carriage is the first to draw up, and he himself appears in a vainly suppressed state of elation and excitement. His morning costume is faultless, and although a large sprinkling of white is observable in his dark hair, yet he bears his fifty-four years well. He had failed in his attempts to form an alliance with the aristocracy through his increasing wealth by the marriage of his daughter. Yet had he carried his point, such a marriage could scarcely have been attended with greatereclâtthan on the present occasion. This Mr. Armstrong now understood and acknowledged to himself without reservation. The bishop who had just married his daughter to Henry Halford, had been vice-principal of the young man's college at Oxford; the nobleman who had presented the living to his son-in-law—were both to be his guests at the wedding breakfast.
Lord Rivers had known the name of Armstrong from his boyhood. And the purse-proud merchant, who had been almost ashamed to acknowledge cousin Sarah before his clerks in Dover Street, stood back in surprise while the earl assisted that lady into his own carriage, where he had already placed Mrs. Armstrong. He then entered himself, and the carriage drove off on its way to Lime Grove.
Mr. Armstrong's own carriage was quickly filled with a party of young people; two juvenile bridesmaids, with their aunt Edith Longford, soon to be Mrs. Maurice, and Arthur and Freddy Armstrong, now a merry laughter-loving boy of eleven. There remained now only three gentlemen to accompany the bishop in his drive to Lime Grove, the rector of Kilburn, Horace Wilton, Henry's best man, and Mr. Armstrong. Perhaps the latter's foolish prejudices about clergymen were never more completely shaken than when he found himself seated in the bishop's carriage with that high church dignitary and the two gentlemen we have named. In fact, he wondered at himself that he could feel proud of the position. And now what can be said of the wedding breakfast, laid out in Mr. Armstrong's splendidly furnished dining-room? For this occasion Mrs. Herbert had obtainedcarte blanchefrom her sister to make any alterations she pleased, and the introduction of flowers and other ornaments, according to that lady's taste, had greatly improved the elegant appearance of the table and satisfied the hired waiters, who succumbed to that lady's superior knowledge at once and without a demur.
And what shall we say of the numerous yet select party who assembled around that elegant table? It was like all other wedding breakfasts, a medley of smiles and tears, of joyful hopes and sad regrets, painful memories and bright prospects. And yet there was something in the gathering round Mr. Armstrong's table which made it differ from similar associations. The preponderance of the clerical element did not cast a damper on the young and buoyant spirits then present. The bishop's genial, yet dignified manner, resembled that of the lamented Dr. Wilberforce. The rector, an old man approaching his eightieth year, belonged to the class of polished and refined gentlemen of olden times, who would take off their hats to the meanest of their female parishioners, or enter bareheaded the humblest cottage in the parish.
Horace Wilton, as we know, had not learned to regard with a cynical eye the happiness which he had himself so nearly grasped, and Frank Maurice found himself taking lessons in the present ordering of an event which was so soon to be realised in his own experience. As to the bridegroom, who, strange to say, is very often looked upon as the least important person present on such an occasion, an overflow of happiness kept him silent. It was not till called upon to return thanks in the name of his bride and himself, that the natural powers of eloquence and oratory possessed by Henry Halford astonished and delighted the wedding guests.
The speech scarcely occupied five minutes. His words were well chosen, and to the point; his allusions pleasant and in good taste; his quotations, in one or two instances classical, were suitable and attractive; while through all could be detected the oratorical powers of the speaker, although subdued and restrained to suit the room and the occasion. When the clear young voice ceased there was a burst of applause, hushed, however, in a moment, as Lord Rivers rose and exclaimed—
"Thank you, Mr. Henry Halford, for showing me that I have not made any mistake in my choice of a rector for Briarsleigh."
But the wedding chapter is extending itself beyond the prescribed limits. We must pass over the speeches and the toasts which followed. We, who know the love of mother and daughter in that hour, now so joyous with the voices and symbols of happiness, can understand how both are dreading the hour of parting.
It came at last; and when Mary, accompanied by her bridesmaids, hastened to the room to prepare for her journey, Mrs. Armstrong followed her upstairs, and seating herself in her own room waited nervously till her daughter was ready.
She heard the door open, and the young voices in gay conversation as they approached. Then she rose and stood near the door, to be quickly observed by her daughter.
"Mamma! oh, I'm so glad. Wait a few minutes, Kate and Clara." Then she turned, and throwing herself on her mother's bosom, she exclaimed, "Mother, dearest mother, how can I leave you? Who will take care of you when I am gone?"
The mother's arms closed around her child, and for some moments neither spoke, but the tears were silently flowing from Mrs. Armstrong's eyes, as she listened to the scarcely restrained sobs of her daughter.
A tear dropped on Mary's forehead; she raised her face quickly—
"Mamma, I am causing you unnecessary pain; pray forgive me. I cannot help it; I shall miss you so much."
"No, darling," said the mother, with a smile, as she wiped the tears which she tried to restrain; "you belong to your husband now; he will more than supply my place to you; besides, we shall not be so very far away from each other after all, and Martha will take care of me."
"That I will Miss—Ma'am, I beg your pardon," and the faithful old servant entered hastily as she spoke; "They are calling out for you, Mrs. Halford; the carriage is waiting."
"Once more, darling mother, good-by," said the young bride, who had started with a smile at the matronly title; and after one more kiss and fond embrace, the mother and daughter descended the stairs together. Mrs. Armstrong had nerved herself to witness her child's departure.
One more ordeal awaited Mary.
After kisses and farewells from the bridesmaids, and more formal adieus to the visitors, Mary turned to her father. Mr. Armstrong clasped his daughter to his heart, and as he fondly kissed her, whispered, "Forgive me, darling, for all the sorrow I have caused you." Controlling her emotion, she playfully placed her gloved hand on his lips, and exclaimed, "Hush, papa, it has made my happiness all the greater."
In a few moments the lawn beneath the lime trees was glittering with tarlatan, lace, and ribbons, as the juvenile portion of the company followed Mary and her husband to the gate. At length, after one last kiss had been given to the bride, to be succeeded by another, the rector of Briarsleigh's carriage drove off amid a shower of old slippers, only one of which reached its destination.
That evening, when alone, and reflecting on the events of the day, Edward Armstrong discovered that with all his self-confidence in his own superior judgment, he had during his life made more than one mistake.
In all his successes he had forgotten God, and worshipped riches and position. He had despised those possessing high, noble, and intellectual qualities, because they lacked those advantages which he so highly valued.
His prejudices and his pride had made him unkind to his only daughter, and only when at last alarmed by discovering that "riches can take to themselves wings," did he allow these foolish prejudices to be set aside. To his surprise he was now obliged to admit that the honours this day conferred upon him arose from his daughter's alliance with the family he had once despised for their profession and supposed poverty. To them he owed the presence of the bishop and the earl as his guests. While the family he had despised had been honouring God, he had been honouring gold; and as these facts became clear to his mind, the words of a text he had read when a child at his mother's knee came back on his memory with full force—"Them that honour Me I will honour, and they that despise Me shall be lightly esteemed."