"Yes, his youngest and only surviving son, and I have no doubt clever and talented as a man."

"Is the living of Briarsleigh a valuable one, papa?"

Again the earl smiled.

"Why, Dora, you are taking as much interest in this young clergyman as you did in the marriage of his sister so many years ago."

Lady Dora did not blush as she had done when, at seventeen, her father had remarked her girlish interest in f.a.n.n.y Halford's marriage, but she replied--

"Papa, this is a very different matter. I have heard enough of late years to make me feel the greatest sympathy for curates. It seems quite shocking to think of a gentleman with refined manners and a university education being obliged to support himself and perhaps a wife and children on a less income than a mechanic, who has no appearance to keep up."

"Too true, Dora; and if you were to read the letters I have received from friends on behalf of curates situated as you have described, you would understand the difficulties in which owners of Church livings are placed. These gentlemen are equally talented, and as truly well born and bred as Dr. Halford's son, but I cannot give the living to all of them, and my promise to my old tutor is binding. I must not go from my word. I hope to pay the family a visit next week, and make the young man an offer of the living personally. I do not suppose he will belie the promise of his boyhood. And perhaps I may contrive to hear him preach at Kilburn on Sunday."

"I am very glad to hear your decision, papa," replied Lady Dora; "and at all events one curate will be saved from poverty and starvation."

"Well," replied the earl, laughing, "that is scarcely true in Henry Halford's case: he could still follow the profession of a schoolmaster, and secure a good income; but I do not think a clergyman can conscientiously perform both duties well or with comfort to himself."

"And what income will he have as rector of Briarsleigh?" she asked again.

"Seven hundred a year, Dora. And now, my dear, as we have to travel to-morrow, perhaps we had better say 'Good night.'"

And so, while Mr. Armstrong was mourning the loss of his daughter's marriage portion, the young "parson" he despised was about to obtain an income of his own. But of this good fortune neither he nor his young companion knew anything when they met in the train on its way to Kilburn.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

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--pa.s.sed away in watching, and sometimes helping cousin Sarah or the dairymaids in making b.u.t.ter 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 pa.s.sed 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 n.o.ble 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 t.i.tle 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 t.i.tle and estates, I suppose?" said Mary.

"Yes, Lord Woodville; and another daughter, who has been married several years to a Scotch n.o.bleman. 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 a.s.sist 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 pa.s.sengers, pa.s.ses 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 pa.s.sengers. "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--