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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 20,000_l._ 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 20,000_l._ 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 G.o.d of this world, who blinds the eyes of his votaries, be called in the Bible, "arising from the dead."

Time pa.s.sed 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 a.s.surances 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-cla.s.s carriage, and a.s.sisted him to enter, even as the guard's whistle sounded and the train moved.

Mr. Armstrong, without noticing whether any other pa.s.sengers 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 pa.s.senger 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-pa.s.senger 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 not _all_ true; 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 the _Times_, 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."

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

GIPSY DORA.

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 n.o.bleman'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 inst.i.tution, one or two Dissenting chapels, and the High Street, with its princ.i.p.al shops, differ very little from those of other similar market towns.

Its princ.i.p.al 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."