CHRISTCHURCH MEADOWS.
The morning of Commemoration-day dawned in full summer splendour. At an
early hour Mrs. Herbert and Mary were conducted by Henry Halford and the
captain to the ladies' gallery of the Sheldonian Theatre, which on these
occasions bears the closest resemblance to a flower-garden.
Ladies in bonnets and dresses of every shade and colour are seated
closely together, no break occurring by the appearance of a figure in
black broadcloth, and a white tie, as from this gallery gentlemen are
entirely excluded. And here for many hours sat Mary Armstrong and her
aunt, enjoying with amused surprise the performances in the gallery
above them, where persons and subjects were named only to be received
with cheers or groans, as it best suited the ten or twelve hundred wild
spirits there assembled.
Perhaps in the time of which we write these said wild spirits were more
under the control of their own good sense than others have been lately,
and therefore were not above submitting to the rules of the university.
Most certainly when the dons entered, and the business of the day
commenced, they did suppress the noisy shouting, and treat their
superiors, in learning at least, with some deference; and although now
and then there would occur a little outbreak of mirth and drollery, the
Sheldonian Theatre had not yet aspired, as it has lately, to the dignity
of a "bear-garden."
Mary Armstrong therefore could listen with but little interruption to
the Latin oration and the delivery of the prize poem--the latter most
attractive to a girl of intellectual tastes. Indeed, all that took place
possessed for her the attraction of novelty, and tired as she felt, she
could not help saying to her aunt as they rose to leave the place--
"Oh, aunty, I'm sorry it's all over."
"Why, my dear child, you must be tired to death; it is nearly three
o'clock, and we've been here ever since half-past ten."
"Oh, aunt, have I kept you here all this time on my account? I'm so
sorry. I did not feel tired, and I forgot to think of you; why did you
not tell me?"
"Nonsense, dear Mary! it is not likely I should wish to spoil your
pleasure. But see, here are the gentlemen, and they have got a carriage
for us to ride to the hotel. How very thoughtful!"
Mary also acknowledged herself tired now the excitement was over, and
gladly seated herself in the carriage by her aunt, with a sense of
relief at not having to walk.
Yet after a rest she was quite ready to accompany her cousin and Henry
Halford to the afternoon service at Magdalen. Mary felt she could never
be too tired to enjoy the sweet choral services at this and other
college chapels.
After dinner the young people proposed a stroll in Christchurch meadows.
"With all my heart," said the colonel, "if I am not expected to join
you. I don't think I ever felt more tired after a day's march than I do
now. Take care of Mary, Charles," he added, "she mustn't overdo it."
"Oh, I don't feel tired, uncle," she replied, "at least, not
very--besides, this is our last day at Oxford, and I must have a
farewell walk."
"A walk wont hurt her," said Mrs. Herbert, who was lying on the sofa;
"young people have a reserve force of strength which enables them to
recover quickly from fatigue."
A very few minutes brought Henry Halford and his companions to the Long
Walk, in which many persons were already assembled.
The sun, still in full brightness, was approaching the west, and his
slanting rays glittered like golden bands of light through the summer
foliage. But neither Mary nor her friends seemed inclined for
promenading in a crowd, so they sauntered slowly away from the company
towards the river side. Here they found a seat, and were presently
joined by Charles's friend Wilton. For more than an hour they sat
talking over the events of the day, and other matters connected with
university life, to which Mary had very little to do but listen with
great interest.
Suddenly Horace Wilton rose, and exclaimed, "Here are my aunt and
cousin, Captain Herbert; will you allow me to introduce them to you?"
Mary Armstrong and Henry Halford also rose as the ladies approached, for
they recognised Mrs. Drummond and her niece Edith Longford, whose
musical powers had been a matter of discussion between them at the
dinner party.
A mutual and surprised recognition took place amidst sundry inquiries.
"How long have you been at Oxford?" "When did you arrive?" "What have
you seen?" and so on.
At length Mrs. Drummond suggested that they should retrace their steps
to the chief entrance, as the evening was becoming cool. The whole party
therefore returned towards the Long Walk.
As usual in such cases, each gentleman fell into companionship with the
one lady to whom at the time of moving he happened to be speaking.
Horace Wilton therefore led the way with his aunt, Charles walked by the
side of Edith Longford, evidently much pleased with her companionship,
and Mary found herself alone with Henry Halford. In this lingering
summer evening walk there was no occasion for a gentleman to offer his
arm to the lady who accompanied him moving slowly by his side. Mary
therefore felt herself free. She was, however, for some minutes silently
occupied in contemplating the calm beauty of the sunset, which threw
over the park-like enclosure of Christchurch Meadows a glow of crimson
and gold. Behind them the rippling waters of the Thames dashed their
tiny waves against the mossy banks. At a distance in front, the turrets
and grey walls of the college glittered through the trees with the gleam
of sunset. A thrush in a thicket close by was sweetly warbling his
evening hymn of praise; and the scent of new-mown hay filled the air
with its fragrance.
Strollers like themselves were wending their way homewards to pass the
gate before Old Tom should sound out his one hundred and one sonorous
notes, and the meadows were almost deserted in the precincts of the
river. All this Mary noticed in silence on this never-to-be-forgotten
evening.
Suddenly she exclaimed--
"Oh, Mr. Halford, I have left my book on the seat; is there time to go
back for it? I meant to leave it at the library as we passed."
"I will fetch it for you, Miss Armstrong," he replied, "if you do not
mind waiting here alone for a few minutes."
"Oh, not in the least; thank you very much;" and she turned towards the
river as he started at a rapid pace to fetch the book. Another summer
evening beauty presented itself to her delighted eyes. Across the river
glittered a silver band of light, and looking up Mary saw through the
trees the full moon casting shadows of the quivering leaves on the turf
beneath.
Almost unconsciously she continued walking towards the river, and in a
few moments met Henry Halford returning hastily with the lost book in
his hand. After many earnest thanks from Mary they hastened to overtake
their companions, who were now out of sight; but some moments elapsed
before Henry could recover breath to speak easily after his rapid
movements.
Strange to say, amidst all his firm resolves a strong impulse was at
this moment agitating every nerve, and seeming to impel him to discover
whether this young girl, his very _beau ideal_ of what a woman should
be, could return the love which he now knew was rising for her in his
heart.
The twilight hour, the lonely walk, the expected separation on the
morrow, all tended to strengthen the impulse; yet he did not speak. Mary
walked on quickly, wondering at his silence, and anxious to overtake her
friends, yet evidently feeling fatigued.
"You are tired, Miss Armstrong," he said at last; "will you take my
arm?"
In silence Mary complied, and after walking rather quickly for a few
minutes they came to a turn in the road, and saw their companions at
some little distance before them.
"Oh, there they are," exclaimed Mary, slackening her speed; "we need not
walk so fast now if we keep them in sight: I am so sorry you had to
return for the book, Mr. Halford. I am afraid----"
"Don't, pray don't apologise, Miss Armstrong," was the reply that
interrupted her in agitated tones. "I should only be too happy to attend
to your every wish for my whole life, if I dared to encourage a hope
that such a result was possible."
Was it true? Had she heard aright? What could he mean? What could she
say in reply? Nothing. They walked on slowly in silence. How sweetly it
accorded with her feelings at the moment! Those few words had shown her,
as by a flash of lightning, the state of her own heart. Did it not
re-echo the sentiments just uttered by her companion? Was it not
happiness to be near him, hanging upon his arm, and conscious from his
words of his thoughts respecting her? so talented, so clever, and so
good, or he would not wish to be a clergyman.
During this visit to Oxford she had been conscious of a pleasure in his
society, and a satisfaction in observing how readily he won the
approbation of her friends; but now she could see more clearly the cause
of these feelings, and in the first moment of gladness she had no dread
of the future. Perfectly innocent of the world, she did not, as many
would have done, laugh off the agitated words as a mere compliment. She
had formed too high an estimate of the truthful character of Henry
Halford to doubt him for one moment.
But Henry Halford already trembled at what he had done in a moment of
impulse. Silently he led his companion to her friends, who had stopped
at the entrance of the cloisters to wait for them. Together they crossed
the quadrangle, Henry now and then joining in the conversation, and at
last, to Mary's great delight, passed out at the gate as Old Tom sounded
the first of his hundred and one strokes at nine o'clock.
No other words passed between these two till just before they reached
the hotel, where the rest of the party were waiting to wish them good
night.
"I will not intrude upon your family circle this evening, Miss
Armstrong," said Henry Halford, "but I will call in to-morrow to say
good-by;" and he added quickly, "If I have offended you by what I said
just now, please forgive me and forget it."
"I am not offended, Mr. Halford," was the almost whispered reply, which
caused the young man to press the little hand resting on his arm, and
then turn quickly away to bid farewell, with stifled feelings, to those
who stood waiting for him at the door of the hotel.
Mary escaped to her room, and closing the door, turned the key in the
lock. To be troubled with Annette's French chatter at such a moment was
more than she could bear even to contemplate.
Taking off her hat and gloves, she threw herself into the easy-chair and
began to reflect. Had she compromised her womanly dignity by allowing
Henry Halford to suppose she believed what might have been a compliment?
No--impossible; he was too honourable and truthful, and too agitated
while he spoke, to allow of such a fear. Besides, had he not, during the
last few days, given her evident proofs of his preference and notice,
made more apparent by the unmistakable efforts he made to conceal them?
More than this, was not her own admiration of his talents and character
leading to a feeling which made her listen for his footstep, and feel
happy in his society? And as the young girl thought thus her cheek
flushed even in her loneliness.
"Ah, well," she continued to herself, "there is nothing to be ashamed
of; I know I should only be too proud if I am to be married some day to
have such a clever, intellectual, well-informed man for my husband.
Besides, he must be a good son to help his father as he does, especially
as he is going to be a clergyman."
And so the young girl, who knew nothing of the world outside her own
home, and who, at the age of eighteen, had never read a novel, sat
raising an idol in her own heart to which she could offer that worship
which in characters like Mary Armstrong often leads to an infringement
of the first commandment.
A summons to tea aroused her. Hastily smoothing her hair, and with deft
fingers making those little alterations which, as if by magic, add
neatness to a lady's dress, she descended to the private room they
occupied at the hotel.
As she entered, the light of the gas dazzled her eyes, and she could
scarcely distinguish who were present.
Not so Mrs. Herbert, who exclaimed--
"Why, Mary dear, how flushed you are! I hope you have not taken cold."
"Am I flushed?" she replied, raising her hand to her cheek. "It is warm
this evening, aunt, and we walked home quickly."
Her cousin Charles, who had observed the blush deepen as his mother
spoke, quickly made a remark that turned the subject.
He had his own suspicions as to the cause of Mary's unusual colour, but
he had no wish for the cause of those suspicions to suggest itself to
others.
By degrees the conversation turned pleasantly on the events of the week,
and the prospect of returning to her dear home with so much to tell her
mother for a time diverted Mary's thoughts from a subject which was
beginning to make itself all-absorbing.
Charles accompanied them next day by train as far as Slough, from thence
he changed carriages for Windsor. Mary stayed with her uncle and aunt in
Park Lane that night, and next day was driven home to Kilburn to be
welcomed with the fondest expressions of love from her mother and
brother Freddy. Equally warm, yet less demonstrative, was her father's
greeting to his cherished daughter. How little he guessed that she was
nurturing in her heart any sentiment likely to turn her father's love to
a fierce anger, of which she had not supposed him capable!
Mary Armstrong's education, on which her father so prided himself, had
been lacking in more ways than one. Among other mistakes in training
their daughter, her parents had kept her from the society of girls of
her own age. Pride on Mrs. Armstrong's part caused her to object to
allow Mary to visit often at any houses except those of her own
relatives. The same foolish pride of those days prevented those whom she
met at her aunt's from inviting the daughter of a tradesman, especially
while he resided at his place of business.
She had only one cousin, Charles Herbert; and therefore at the age of
seventeen, when her father removed his family to Kilburn, she knew
literally nothing of female society, or indeed of any society but that
of her mother's relatives.
True, she could and did feel her mother to be her best confidential
friend, yet it was not a favourable position for a young girl of her age
to be thrown into society with nothing but the knowledge obtained from
books to direct her conduct.
Accustomed to be candid and truthful in every action, she knew nothing
of the conventional customs which would have condemned the readiness
with which she admitted and trusted Henry Halford's first attempts at a
more intimate acquaintance.