AT MEADOW FARM.
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--
"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
facade 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, it
_is_ Mr. 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 about _her_, 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.