AN UNEXPECTED JOURNEY.
Whatever impression might have been made by Mr. Henry Halford's cleverness on the mind of Mary Armstrong was destined to be obliterated by the most unlooked-for occurrence.
One evening, about a fortnight after Easter, Mr. Armstrong returned at an unusually early hour, and entered the library, where Mary and her mother were seated, with a look of anxiety on his face which surprised them both.
He held a letter in his hand, and his wife asked nervously—
"What is the matter, Edward? you have no bad news about the boys, I hope."
"No, no," he said hastily, "but I have had a letter from John Armstrong; my poor father, he says, is sinking fast, and wishes to see me once more."
"Oh, papa, when are you going?" cried Mary, "can I pack your carpet bag, or prepare anything for you? I suppose you will go this evening?"
"I should have gone direct from London, after sending you a telegram," he replied, "but my father wishes me to bring Mary; have you any objection, my dear?" he added, turning to his wife.
"No, indeed," she replied, "take her with you by all means; I remember how pleased the dear old gentleman was with his little granddaughter when we paid him a visit fifteen years ago."
Mary, who had risen when she offered to assist in preparing for her father's hasty departure, stood still during this conversation in silent astonishment. Rapid thoughts passed through her mind. Was she really going to see the dear old grandfather, of whom she had so often heard her mother speak, and beautiful Meadow Farm, the home of her father's childhood, and the house in which he was born?
So bewildered did she feel at the sudden news, that her mother had to say—
"Do you not wish to accompany your father, Mary?"
"Oh yes, yes, mamma, but it seems too good to be true."
"You must be quick, Mary, if you wish to go," said her father, looking at his watch; "I have ordered James to have the brougham at the door by half-past three, and the train starts from Waterloo at 4.30."
In a moment all was bustle and excitement. Slight refreshment was quickly prepared for the travellers. But Mary had still her useful fairies at her elbow, and when her father summoned her from the dining-room at the time appointed, she only detained him one moment to cling to her mother's neck and kiss her fondly.
Mrs. Armstrong stood at the door to see them off and wish them bon voyage. Then she returned to the library to rest after the hurried excitement, which fatigued her even more than a long walk.
This hasty summons which her husband had received carried her memory back to those early days of her married life when with her husband and her little daughter Mary, she had visited Mr. Armstrong's paternal home. She recalled the sweet country landscape, the apple-orchards in full blossom, the fragrant hayfields, the leafy woods surrounding Meadow Farm, then redolent with the delights of early summer.
She saw and heard again, in imagination, the crowing of cocks, the clucking of hens, the chirping chicks and lowing cattle, and the occasional "quack, quack" of ducks and geese, all of which sights and sounds greeted eye and ear from her bedroom window when she rose in the morning.
Even the journey by the old-fashioned stage-coach was not without interest; and how well she remembered the pride of her mother's heart as her little Mary, then scarcely three years old, excited the astonishment of the passengers by spelling from the coach window the letters upside down, which formed the name of the coach proprietor!
Again she recalled their amusement at one of Mary's childlike speeches, when they stopped to change horses on the road. Across the inn yard came a man with a wooden leg, carrying a pail of water. The child, who had never before seen this substitute for a human limb, almost screamed with excitement as she exclaimed—
"Oh, mamma, mamma, do look; there's a man with one leg, and a piece of stick for another!"
Even now she could smile at the memory of the child's remark, but it was soon lost as her thoughts turned to the time when she stood in the old hall at Meadow Farm to receive the welcome of her husband's father, a tall, noble-looking man, one of the olden times, whose dark eyes at the age of sixty-seven had not lost their sparkling intelligence. These eyes, with eyelashes and brows equally dark, contrasted pleasantly with the silvery white hair; and the face with its winter-apple colour, though bronzed by constant exposure to the weather, wore a refined dignity of which his son Edward could scarcely boast. The welcome awarded by this fine old yeoman to his son's wife had a mixture of deference and affection which deeply gratified the well-born daughter of the St. Clairs, and her father-in-law's love for his little fairy grandchild completely won her heart.
All this Mrs. Armstrong had described to Mary so vividly, that the young girl felt as if she already knew every nook and cranny of the old farm, as well as the face of the dear old gentleman who was her father's father. And yet she had not the slightest recollection of the visit so clearly remembered by her mother.
Since that time Mr. Armstrong had more than once paid a visit to his paternal home, but delicate health and an increasing family prevented his wife from accompanying him, yet he never offered to take Mary. Once her mother had proposed to him to do so, but he repudiated the idea.
"No, Maria dear," he had said, "there are no women at Meadow Farm, or in the neighbourhood, who are fit associates for your daughter. By-and-by, when her manners are more formed, I shall have no objection."
But Mrs. Armstrong was not deceived by these excuses; she knew that as her husband's income increased, so did his pride. For eccentric persons are always inconsistent, and his strange notions about his daughter's education, and his refusal to allow her to ride on horseback after a certain hour, with other objections to practices which he called "aping the gentry," all arose from "the pride that apes humility."
Meanwhile, quite unaware of her mother's reflections or her father's opinions, Mary seated herself in a first-class carriage, her happiness in the prospect of the coming journey only clouded by the fact that her aged grandfather was approaching the borders of the grave.
They were alone in the carriage as far as Slough, and as the express train sped on the consciousness of this made her so uneasy that she could not help breaking the silence by saying—
"Papa, do you think my grandfather will remember me?"
"I think not, my daughter," he replied; "you were scarcely three years old when he saw you last, and now you are a woman."
"But I do hope he will be well enough to know who I am," she said. "I have heard mamma talk of grandpapa so often that I feel sure I shall recognise him when I see him, from her description."
"Your mother does talk to you, then, about her visit to Meadow Farm?"
"Yes, papa, often, and she says grandpapa was a fine, handsome old man when she saw him fifteen years ago."
There was a little feeling of gratification in Mr. Armstrong's heart at this proof that his lady-wife could so think of his father; she had often so spoken of him in conversation, but he had passed it by as the loving words of a wife who wished to prove that she did not look down with contempt on her husband's relations.
But in her remarks to Mary there could be no such motives, and it was in a tone of regret that he replied—
"Fifteen years will make a great difference in your grandfather's appearance, Mary, and I expect you will find him decrepit, and infirm at eighty-two years of age, and very much changed from the handsome old man your mother describes."
"I shall love him just the same, papa," she said firmly.
The early spring evening was closing in as Mr. Armstrong and his daughter drove to the gates of Meadow Farm. Mary could see, however, that her father's face was pale with anxiety, as he hastily alighted from the railway fly and turned to assist his daughter.
At the same moment she heard a pleasant voice exclaiming—
"You have brought your daughter, Edward; I am very glad, for uncle is longing to see her.—You are the image of your mother, Miss Armstrong," continued the speaker, with a sudden deference, as the tall, graceful girl held out her hand to the lady whom her father introduced as his cousin Sarah. "The men will bring in your luggage, Edward," she added; "come in at once and see uncle; he seems to have gained new life since we sent for you and—Mary."
The name came at last after a slight hesitation, for the bearing and manner of Mary Armstrong, though perfectly free from pride, threw a restraint upon her homely kinswoman, who remembered her only as a little child of three years.
Before they reached the house John Armstrong met them, and involuntarily removed his garden hat, when his cousin Edward asked him if he remembered his little playfellow Mary.
"I hope you do, cousin," said Mary, pleasantly, to put him at his ease, for this deferential treatment by her country cousins pained her greatly. "I have often heard mamma speak of cousin Sarah and cousin John, and I am so happy to be able to pay you a visit at last."
As she spoke they entered the old farm kitchen. A space round the fire was partially hidden by a screen.
Mr. Armstrong led his daughter forward to the enclosed spot.
"Who is come, Sarah?" said the quavering voice of an old man.
"It is your son Edward. Father, how are you? This is my daughter, the little Mary of whom you were once so fond."
The old man looked up and grasped the hand of his son; then, as he saw Mary, he made an effort to rise.
"No, no, grandfather," she exclaimed, kneeling by his side and kissing his cheek; "you must try to forget I am taller and older than the little Mary you once knew."
"Thank God that I have lived to see you, my child," said the old man, laying his hand on her head, for Mary had thrown off her hat; "I thought you wouldn't bring her, Edward," continued the old man, in the tearful voice of excited old age. "But now you're come, my dear, we'll make you happy. You're like your mother, child. Dear me, how the time flies! Ah, well, I'm almost home now, and I feel like old Simeon, 'ready to depart in peace,'" and the voice had a choking sound as he paused as if for breath. Cousin Sarah approached.
"You must be quiet for a little while, uncle," she said, "and not excite yourself. I'm going to take Miss Armstrong upstairs for a few minutes till tea is ready, and Edward would like to go to his room, I daresay."
"Yes, yes, quite right, Sarah, I'll take care of myself," replied the old man. "I'm only a little overcome at first." And as they left the room he leaned back in his easy-chair and quietly watched the rosy country servant as she covered the table with a profusion of good things, such profusion as country people consider necessary to prove their hospitality.
Meanwhile Mary had followed cousin Sarah to a bedroom which, while it lacked many of the elegant luxuries of her own room at home, charmed her by its simplicity, cleanliness, and tasteful arrangements. The ceiling, across which appeared a large beam, was low, the floor uneven and only partially covered with a carpet. But through the lattice window the moonlight fell in diamond patterns on the floor, only broken by the shadow of the flickering rose-leaves that surrounded it. The dimity curtains, the quilt, the bed furniture, and the toilet covers were of snowy whiteness, and that peculiar fragrance of the country which is often found in country bedrooms pervaded the room.
Twilight still lingered, yet Mrs. John Armstrong carried a lighted candle which flared and flickered in the draught from the open window.
"I am sorry the window has not been closed, Miss Armstrong," she said, as she shaded the candle in her hand, and advanced to fasten the casement.
"Please call me Mary, cousin Sarah," said the young lady, earnestly; "and if you will put out the candle and leave the window curtains undrawn, I shall prefer the moonlight. Oh, what a pleasant window!" she added, as she looked out on the prospect so often described by her mother. "Did mamma sleep here?"
"No, your papa has the room in which she slept, it is larger than this; but you shall see it to-morrow, the window overlooks the orchard."
"Yes, I know," said Mary; "mamma has described it so often that I am sure I shall recognise it."
"Then Mrs. Armstrong remembers her visit to Meadow Farm?"
"Indeed she does with great pleasure, and I have been so longing to come here. I hope, however, that my coming has not excited dear grandfather too much," she added, anxiously; "but I did not expect to find him up from what cousin John said in the letter."
"Oh, did you not? Why, uncle has never kept his bed a whole day yet; he always comes down to dinner; strong, healthy men like he has been seldom live long after once they take to their beds."
Mary had been hastily making some slight alteration in her dress, and emptying her carpet bag with a quickness which surprised cousin Sarah; and seeing her ready they went downstairs together.
Mary Armstrong had never before seen a real farm-house kitchen, and she was not likely to forget the scene that presented itself as she entered.
A large roomy apartment, containing two oriel windows, with leaden casements and diamond window-panes. On one side a dresser and shelves, covered with pewter plates, old china bowls, and various articles of wedgwood and earthenware.
Through an opposite door she could see another large kitchen lighted by the blaze of a wood fire, in which servants were apparently busy, and the voices of men and women could be heard. She noticed as she followed her cousin to the screen that the window nearest the entrance door was uncovered, and that the floor of the old kitchen appeared to be formed of rough stones which she afterwards found was a mixture of lime and sand. But for the moonlight, which passed through the uncovered window and glittered like silver on the pewter plates, this part of the farm kitchen would have had a very desolate aspect. Once, however, inside the screen, how changed everything appeared! The portion enclosed was as large as many a London parlour, and entirely covered with a thick carpet. On the wide, open hearth lay a pile of coals and wooden logs, that sent a blaze and a sparkle up the chimney, while the glowing heat rendered the stone on which the carpet in front of the fire lay a far warmer resting-place for a cold foot than the thickest hearth-rug ever invented.
On a large round table in the centre, covered with a snowy cloth, were arranged china teacups of curious shape and rare value, the silver teapot, cream-jug, and sugar-dish of most antique patterns, in which the firelight gleamed and flickered, adding brightness to the good fare with which the table was loaded. Above the high mantelpiece hung various useful kitchen articles composed of tin, copper, and brass, all so carefully and brightly polished that the light from a lamp and the reflected blaze of the fire flashed from their surfaces with a glitter that illuminated the enclosed portion of the kitchen, making the outer part darker by contrast.
In the most protected corner of this pleasant enclosure, and near the glowing fire, sat old Mr. Armstrong with his son by his side, cheering the old man by his pleasant conversation. Mary, as she entered, thought she had never seen her father to so much advantage. The tender, deferential manner of the son to the aged father was a new phase in his character which charmed his youthful daughter. Mrs. John Armstrong took her seat at the tea-table, while her husband rose with a native politeness to place a chair for Mary, which made her forget that his dress was the homely garb of a farmer.
"Give up your seat to your daughter, Edward, and let Mary sit by me."
The change was quickly made, and then the old gentleman said—
"Ah, my dear, I can see you more plainly now in the light of the lamp; there is a look of the little child I remember so well, although you are grown so tall and womanly."
"Do you not think Mary is like her mother, uncle?" said cousin Sarah; "and yet she has a look sometimes that reminds me of Edward."
"Never mind whom she resembles," said the old man; "if my granddaughter is, as I hear from her father, a dutiful and affectionate daughter, that is of far more value than her personal appearance."
How pleasantly that evening passed! Mary played a game of chess with the old gentleman, whose mind was still clear, notwithstanding his eighty-two years, and delighted him by her quick intelligence, and perhaps not less by finding that he could beat her after a well-matched contest.
When Mary laid her head on her pillow that night in the pretty white bedroom, as she called it, she felt that there could be found much more real happiness in a country life than in all the gaieties and frivolities of a London season.
But Mary had yet to learn the real foundation of the peace and harmony which seemed to surround the residents at Meadow Farm like a halo, and even to make her sleep more sweetly in her white-curtained bed than she had ever done even in the richly furnished rooms and luxurious couches at her aunt Elston's, in Portland Place, after an evening spent in gaiety and excitement.
For the first time in her life Mary had knelt at family prayer.
The old clock in the kitchen had scarcely finished striking nine when cousin Sarah rose, and taking from a shelf a large old-fashioned Bible and book of family prayers, placed them on the table before Edward Armstrong.
"Do you not read yourself, father?" he asked.
"No, my son, I have not been able to do so for some years; John always supplies my place; but now you are here you must officiate."
To Mary all this was new. Except at church she had never seen her father with a Bible in his hand, and she wondered whether he had been accustomed to this in his childhood.
Edward Armstrong possessed one accomplishment which is not always sufficiently appreciated, he read well; and the beautiful chapter which his father requested him to read sounded to Mary as something she had never before heard—the 15th chapter of St. Luke, and the story of the prodigal son.
The prayer also which followed was new to her. It seemed so suited to the time and place and persons assembled, that she could follow every petition as if it came from her own heart. No wonder Mary Armstrong after this could sleep peacefully.
The sunbeams of an April morning aroused her at an early hour next morning. She sprung out of bed and drew back the window-curtains. What a charming prospect met her view! Close beneath her lay stretched a large and well-kept garden, old-fashioned paths bordered with box, and flower-beds of various geometrical shapes, in which crocus and snowdrop, wallflower, and polyanthus spread themselves in picturesque confusion.
Nearer the house the lilac buds were just bursting into flower, and around her windows the monthly roses mingled their delicate pink leaves with the dark green ivy that covered the wall.
Beyond stretched field and meadow in early spring verdure. In the furrows of an adjacent field men were already busily employed in sowing seeds, and from a distance could be heard the lowing of cattle, the clucking of hens as they led their chirping broods, the quacking of ducks and geese, the peculiar note of the guinea-fowl, and above them all Chanticleer's shrill but familiar crow. Mary turned from the window with a hasty determination to obtain a closer inspection of these pleasant rural sights and sounds. Dressing herself quickly she descended the stairs, and found every one in the house up and busy except her father and grandfather, although it was not yet half-past six o'clock.
Mrs. John Armstrong came forward with surprise to greet the London lady, who could leave her room at such an early hour.
"What, up already, Mary?" she said, "I did not expect to see you till nine o'clock."
"I rise early at home always," she replied; "papa often leaves for London at half-past eight, and I breakfast with him."
"Ah, yes, I forgot that you live at some distance from London now, and therefore our country manners and ways are not quite new to you."
"It is very pleasant country where we live, but not so rural as this," said Mary; and then, as she observed her cousin take some barley from a bin in the outer kitchen, she exclaimed, "Oh, cousin Sarah, if you are going to feed the chickens, do let me go with you, I am longing to see the farmyard, and I can carry something for you."
"Of course you shall go, my dear; I shall be glad to have you. Ned and Jack are away at school now in Southampton, and I miss their help very much."
Mary was soon loaded with a basket containing provision for the farmyard pensioners, and while they walked she asked many questions about her cousins John and Edward, boys of eleven and fifteen, cousin Sarah's only surviving children. But the strange farmyard scenes soon occupied all Mary's attention. Never in her life had she seen so many geese, ducks, chickens, and pigeons, and until they were all fed and satisfied nothing else could be attempted.
At length Mary was at liberty to look round her. The farmyard was surrounded by barns, stables for horses and cattle, waggon-sheds, hen and pigeon-houses, rabbit-hutches, and a pond in the centre, by no means small, for the ducks and geese, near which stood their comfortable nests.
"The man is going to feed the pigs, Mary," said her cousin; "their sties are at the back of the stables, opening into a field."
She led the way from the farmyard as she spoke, and as they drew near the spot Mary heard a most unmelodious sound, half-grunting, half-squeaking, with which the little hungry animals greeted their keeper. There appeared about a hundred little pigs in a portion of the field adjoining the sties, and railed in from the other part by wooden palings and hurdles. At intervals, close to the fence, stood troughs, and the moment their keeper appeared in sight there arose such a perfect yell and growl of grunting and squealing that Mary could not attempt to speak.
The little animals, who varied in age from six weeks to three months, were beautifully clean and white, and when Mary saw them looking through holes in the palings, and many of them standing on their hind-legs to put their noses over, she could scarcely speak for laughing.
"I thought pigs were such heavy, stupid things," she said at last, "but these are lively enough."
"They be lively enough when they be'es hungry," said the man, as he entered the enclosure and drove them back into their houses while he and his helper filled their troughs.
"You can come and see them fed another morning," said cousin Sarah, "but I must go in and prepare breakfast now. Will you amuse yourself in the garden till you hear the bell ring, and gather some flowers for the table?"
"Yes, I should like it of all things;" and Mrs. John Armstrong led Mary to the garden gate and left her.
Mary wandered down the dew moistened paths, now and then gathering flowers as she passed. In her mind, while looking at the ungainly little beasts in the field, had arisen a memory of words in the parable she had heard read the evening before—"and he sent him into the fields to feed swine." Her knowledge of Oriental customs enabled her to understand the deep degradation of such employment, not only to the Jew, but to the natives of other Eastern countries. And yet, after all, the prodigal's father received him again with open arms.
She was walking still in deep thought when her father's step aroused her.
"What is the subject of my daughter's thoughts?" he said as he placed his arm round her.
Mary avoided a direct reply. Not even to her father could she open her heart on the real subject of her thoughts. But she described with so much vivacity the scenes she had lately visited, not forgetting the greedy pigs, that her father was quite amused.
The eight o'clock bell summoned the whole household to prayers, and when Mary entered the farm kitchen she found the screen drawn back and about twenty farm-servants, male and female, waiting to join in the morning devotions.
Her grandfather was absent, but her father conducted the service as on the previous evening. And when she seated herself at the breakfast-table the glow of health on her cheek was not brighter than the glow of pleasure in her heart as she thought of a whole family kneeling and asking God to guide and keep them through the day from danger and sin.
Mr. Edward Armstrong was obliged to return to London on the day after his arrival, and finding his father so much better than he expected he did so with less regret. "You can leave your daughter for a few days longer, Edward," said his father; "I have hardly had time to renew my acquaintance with her, and it is not possible that I shall ever see her again in this world."
"Would you like to stay for a week, Mary?" asked her father.
"Yes, papa, very much, if dear mamma can spare me for so long."
"There is no doubt of that, my dear," he replied, "especially if she thinks your stay will be agreeable to your grandfather."
And so Mary Armstrong remained at Meadow Farm for a week, a period which in after-life was never forgotten. The loving affection of the kind old man was returned by her in attention to his every wish. So much, indeed, had this visit cheered and revived him, that on fine afternoons, when persuaded by Mary, he would lean on her strong young arm, and walk about the garden and fields of the farm.
On the Sunday he even ventured to the village church; and when congratulated by friends who wondered at the elegant graceful girl on whose arm he leaned, he would say with affectionate pride, "This is my granddaughter, Edward's eldest child."
In these walks the young girl opened her heart to the aged Christian, who had had a long life's experience in the "ways of wisdom," and had found her paths "paths of peace."
From him Mary Armstrong learnt those truths which were to be her comfort and guide in after days of sorrow and trial.
When her father came for her at the end of the week she felt the parting from her grandfather and cousins only softened by the thought that she was returning to her mother so dearly loved. At parting the good old gentleman gave her a Bible with marginal references, and a concordance, which she received with many tears, for she felt that never again on earth should she hear the loving voice that had first said to her, "This is the way, walk ye in it."