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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed."

"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, pa.s.sed out at the gate as Old Tom sounded the first of his hundred and one strokes at nine o'clock.

No other words pa.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER XVIII.

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

Henry Halford had intended to return home from Oxford by the 11.40 train, but while saying a few hasty words of farewell to Captain Herbert at the door of the hotel, he discovered that his party were purposing to leave by the same train. He instantly decided to remain an hour or two longer in Oxford. After what had pa.s.sed that evening he felt it impossible to meet Miss Armstrong's friends as if nothing had happened.

No, he must wait till his return home, and then openly and honourably place the matter before Mr. Armstrong.