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 passed 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.
This gentleman was, as yet, in happy ignorance of the news in store for him. He welcomed his daughter home with undisguised pleasure, and listened to her lively and vivid descriptions of what she had seen and heard, and of the wonderful and delightful places she had visited with great interest.
Not once, however, did the name of Henry Halford escape her lips. She spoke in a general way of Charles Herbert's college friends who had met them in their walks and shown them the lions of Oxford, but not one was singled out for any particular description.
Mrs. Armstrong watched her daughter's countenance as she talked, and noticed a something in her manner and appearance that marked the change from girlhood to womanhood—a certain reticence on some points, unlike Mary's usual frankness and candour.
"Something has occurred," said the gentle mother to herself, "and Mary's wish to conceal it is painful to her natural frank truthfulness. But she will tell me by-and-by when we are alone."
Happy is the daughter who makes a confidante of her mother in preference to one of her own age and sex, and thrice happy is the mother who feels that she knows all that daughter has to confide—of course supposing that mother to be one who is anxious for her child's happiness, and able to give her good advice.
Perhaps, after all, mothers whose only ambition is to see their daughters married for the sake of riches and position, are not likely to gain their confidence on any subject.
Mrs. Armstrong would have been the very last to take an undue advantage of the girlish confidence of her daughter, although she trembled at the thought that what Mary might have to tell would be displeasing to her father.
With all Mr. Armstrong's habit of looking upon gentle, amiable women as inferior in intellect and deficient in mental strength, he would have been rather surprised to find that his wife understood his daughter's character better than himself.
Days passed, however, after her return from Oxford, before Mrs. Armstrong had any opportunity for discovering Mary's secret, and then it was only by accident that the truth came out.
One fine afternoon in July Mrs. Armstrong, with Mary and her three brothers, was returning home along the high road, in which stood their own house and Englefield Grange. They had passed the latter, which was less than a quarter of a mile from Lime Grove on the opposite side of the road, when Freddy exclaimed—
"O mamma, here comes Mr. Henry Halford."
And, regardless of ceremony, he started off at a rapid pace to meet him.
Taking the hand of his little pupil, who literally danced along by his side, Henry Halford advanced to greet Mrs. Armstrong and her daughter with the easy self-possession of a gentleman.
Yet there was a flush on his face as he shook hands with Mrs. Armstrong, which changed to paleness when he greeted Mary, and spoke to the boys, Edward and Arthur.
The latter had heard so much of Freddy's school and the masters, that they were earnest in their petitions to be allowed to stay at home and attend with their brother at Dr. Halford's. They had heard from Mary of Mr. Henry Halford's wonderful cleverness, and they now had eyes for no one else as he stood talking to their mother.
"Have you recovered from your fatigue at Oxford, Miss Armstrong?" was one of his first questions.
Mary saw her mother glance at her with surprise, but the commonplace question had set her at her ease, and she replied—"Yes, quite, thank you, Mr. Halford. It was a most delightful visit, yet I was glad to get home again."
While the two young people continued to talk of what had been seen and heard at Oxford, Mrs. Armstrong would now and then make some remark, and the boys listened with interest.
Yet as she did so across the mother's mind passed the memory of the dinner-party at Mr. Drummond's.
Were her fears about to be realised? Had these young people met at Oxford and formed an acquaintance fraught with disappointment to Mary and pain to herself in consequence of her husband's displeasure? Still as they talked she could see the clear grey eyes of the young tutor light up with a pleasure which made Mary droop her own and blush beneath his gaze.
And then another recollection flashed upon her Mary had not mentioned the fact of having met Henry Halford at Oxford. What did it all mean?
In her anxiety Mrs. Armstrong looked at her watch.
Henry Halford saw the action, and said, quickly—"I am keeping you standing while we talk, Mrs. Armstrong."
And then, to her astonishment, instead of taking his leave, he turned to walk with them towards their home.
Placing himself by Mrs. Armstrong's side, he continued to speak of various subjects so agreeably that she forgot her fears and began to account in her own mind for any attraction her daughter might feel to his society.
They had nearly reached home, when Mrs. Armstrong, hearing the sound of horse's feet, looked up quickly, and saw her husband alight from his horse and advance to meet them.
He seemed to recognise the stranger in a moment, and as Henry lifted his hat, Mr. Armstrong held out his hand.
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Halford," he said, as the gentlemen shook hands cordially. "I have often thought of our pleasant discussions at Mr. Drummond's that evening. I hope your father is well. Are you staying in our neighbourhood?" he added, scarcely allowing Henry time to reply respecting his father's health.
"I am a neighbour of yours, Mr. Armstrong," he replied, firmly. Henry Halford had decided upon what course to pursue with this gentleman, and was therefore prepared to act candidly and openly.
"A neighbour, Mr. Halford? then why have you not paid us a visit before this? I never give dinner-parties, but if at any time you and your father will join our family dinner-table at six o'clock, we shall be most happy to see you. Will you come in now?" he added, as Mrs. Armstrong moved to open the gate.
"Thank you, not to-day, Mr. Armstrong," he replied, "but I will not forget your kind invitation." And merely raising his hat in farewell to the ladies, and returning Freddy's warm adieu by lifting the boy and kissing him, Henry Halford turned towards his own home, feeling greatly elated. Was not this meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong full of hopefulness as to the result of a project on which he had made up his mind?
Mary escaped to her room to dress for dinner with every nerve quivering with excitement.
What would be the result of this meeting? Why had Henry Halford forced his company upon her mother? Was he going to ask her father about her, as she had read in books was the custom of gentlemen? And the young girl who had been kept so secluded from society, blushed at the recollection that if Henry Halford meant what he said on that evening in Christchurch Meadows, he must wish her to be his wife.
Mary Armstrong had never been joked about sweethearts and flirtation; to her mother there had always appeared a want of womanly delicacy and refinement in making such things a subject for ridicule, and Mary had grown to womanhood with the same innate refinement. She had no girl friends of her own age to tell her their tales of love and conquest, of discarded lovers, and contemptible treatment of honourable proposals, as conduct of which a woman might be proud. She had gained her ideas of love from poetry, and Milton's Eve before the fail was herbeau idéalof what a woman should be—
"For contemplation he and valour formed,For softness she, and sweet attractive grace;He for God only, she for God in him.... Though his eye sublime declaredAbsolute rule ... impliedSubjection, but required with gentle sway,And by her yielded."
"For contemplation he and valour formed,For softness she, and sweet attractive grace;He for God only, she for God in him.... Though his eye sublime declaredAbsolute rule ... impliedSubjection, but required with gentle sway,And by her yielded."
No doubt poets describe ideal characters not to be found in these fast days of practical utilitarianism. What is an ideal worth when compared with the real earthly good which money can produce? Yet money cannot produce happiness, with all its power; and the ruling god of the present day has caused more unhappiness in domestic life by its presence than by its absence. Mary Armstrong had formed her ownbeau idéalof what a husband ought to be, and certainly in the component parts of this ideal money had no place. She had never known the want of money, and was therefore ignorant of its value. She was to learn this lesson by bitter experience.
Very little remark was made at dinner on the evening of which we write respecting the meeting with Henry Halford.
Mrs. Armstrong avoided the subject as much as her daughter, but for very different reasons; and her brothers, who had not been at home from school long, were full of talk about their examinations and their prizes. But with the dessert Freddy made his appearance, and as usual took his place between his father's knees.
Presently Freddy looked up. "Papa," he said, "isn't Mr. Henry Halford a nice man?"
"Ah, yes, I saw him kiss you, Freddy, as if you were old friends; when have you seen him before to-day?"
"Oh, often, papa, and he kisses the other little boys too when we're in the playground, and he's so kind to us in the schoolroom."
"Schoolroom! what schoolroom? Who are you talking about, Freddy?"
"About Mr. Henry Halford, papa; he used to teach the little boys' class at our school—Dr. Halford's, you know, papa, where I go at Englefield Grange. Dr. Halford is Mr. Henry's father. He hasn't taught us since Easter, because he's been to Oxford learning to be a clergy man."
There was silence for a few moments. Mr. Armstrong glanced at his wife and daughter.
"Did you know this when we met the father and son at Drummond's?" he asked his wife.
"Of course I did," she replied.
"Why did you not mention it to me?"
Much as Mrs. Armstrong dreaded an angry word from her husband, she could not utter an untruth.
"I had my reasons," she said, calmly; "they cannot be explained now, I will tell you when we are alone."
"And did you know it, Mary?" asked her father, as he saw the flushed face on which blushes had fixed a colour that made his daughter look as if she were painted.
"Yes, papa," she replied, "if you remember I took Freddy to school in the winter, because mamma was not well enough to go herself."
Mrs. Armstrong saw the gathering clouds on her husband's brow, and turning to her boys, she said—
"Freddy, go up to the nursery, or into the garden, with your brothers for half an hour. I will send Morris for you when it is time for bed."
The boys obeyed, and Mary also rose to go, but her father stopped her.
"Sit down, Mary. I want to know why I have been kept in ignorance about these school people. Why did you and your mother hide the fact from me?"
"I did not hide it, papa. I thought you knew from Mr. Drummond who these gentlemen were. Why should I wish to conceal their names from you? I knew nothing of them except as schoolmasters until I went to Oxford."
"And how often have you met this young schoolmaster?" asked her father, with suppressed anger.
"Once when I took Freddy to school, and a second time when I dined with him at Mr. Drummond's. Until I met him at Oxford with his friend Charles Herbert he was a comparative stranger to me."
"And you met him there often?" said her father, his tones slightly softened by finding this schoolmaster a friend of his nephew Charles.
"Every day."
"Alone?"
"Once, by accident."
"And then he made love to you, I suppose."
"Papa!" There was a mixture of sorrow, distress, anger, and indignation in the tone in which Mary Armstrong repeated this word.
And then her memory recalled the words Henry Halford had uttered, the pressure of the hand, the inquiry whether he was forgiven. Was all this making love? Perhaps it was—perhaps he wished by speaking and acting as he did, to show her that he loved her. So tender was the young girl's conscience that she was about to tell her father all that had passed rather than feel conscious of having unwittingly deceived him. His angry words checked her.
"Well for you that this poverty-stricken schoolmaster has not dared to make love to my daughter. Going to be a parson, is he? and wants her money to make up the deficiency of a curate's pittance. No, no, Mary, no such half-starved husbands for you; and if you ever dare to marry without my consent, not a penny of money shall you have, even to save you from the workhouse!"
He rose as he spoke, his utterance inarticulate, and his features distorted with rage; then he left the room, banging the door after him.
Mrs. Armstrong leaned back in her chair, pale even to the lips; Mary had risen in terror when her father left the room; she now hastened to her mother, and leading her to the drawing-room, placed her in an easy-chair, and then fetched her a glass of wine. The calm and loving attention of her daughter restored quietness to her nerves, and then Mary knelt at her feet, and burying her face in the folds of her dress, she said—
"Mamma, I am afraid I have not been quite truthful in what I said this evening. Mamma, I have wanted to speak to you about something ever since I came back from Oxford; but I did not know how to begin, and I must now. If—if a gentleman tells you he should be too happy to attend to your every wish for his whole life, if he could only dare to hope such a thing were possible, is that making love?"
Mrs. Armstrong smiled, even in the midst of her fears; but as Mary did not raise her head, she said—
"Well, my dear, it depends. Many men would make such a remark merely as a compliment; but has any gentleman said this to you?"
"Yes, mamma."
"What gentleman, Mary?" How the mother dreaded the answer which she already guessed! It came at last, clear and distinct, for Mary raised her head to speak, but she did not look up.
"Mr. Henry Halford."
"Did you see much of him at Oxford, Mary?"
"Yes, mamma, he dined with uncle and aunt at the hotel several times, and they liked him very much."
"Was he very attentive to you?"
"No, mamma, not more than to other ladies."
"Did you walk out often alone?"
"Never but once, and that occurred because he went back to fetch a book for me, and the rest got a long way before us."
"Did nothing more pass between you?"
"Not much; when we were getting near the hotel he asked me to forgive what he had said and forget it."
"And what was your reply to this?"
"Mamma, I told him there was nothing to forgive."
"Then of course he understands that you would like him to attend to your every wish for your whole life—is that it, Mary?"
"Yes, mamma," in smothered tones.
"But you say this Mr. Henry Halford did not pay you more attentions than to other ladies. What has made my daughter so easily won?"
"O mamma!" and Mary raised her head now and looked fearlessly at her mother, "Mr. Henry Halford has not tried to win me. I should have told papa at once if he had asked me to be his wife; and I hope he wont now, for I am sure I should learn to love him if he did. I suppose it is not right to marry people who have no money, but, mamma, I could not marry any man, if he were the richest in the world, unless he were as clever and intellectual as Henry Halford, and I'm sure that's not very likely."
Mrs. Armstrong sighed. There was no doubt now as the state of her daughter's affections, or how it would end!
The appearance of the boys at the drawing-room window, and the sound of Mr. Armstrong's footsteps, roused mother and daughter. Mary, however, had scarcely reached the door, for she felt unable to meet him, when her father entered, and, as she tried to pass, caught her in his arms and kissed her fondly. Then he advanced to his wife and apologised for his roughness.
"You know, Maria dearest," he said, "that I am only anxious to prevent your clever and accomplished daughter from making an unsuitable marriage."
"I know it, Edward," replied his wife; "but we must be careful not to make her unhappy for life, as I should have been hadmyfriends objected toyou."
Mr. Armstrong made no reply. He knew too well the truth of his wife's remark, and exerted himself through the evening to make Mary forget his angry words. She appreciated and understood the effort, but he could see by her swollen eyelids how much he had wounded and pained his hitherto dutiful daughter.
When Mr. Henry Halford parted from Mr. Armstrong and his family at the gates of Lime Grove, he felt as if walking on air. After such a kind reception and cordial invitation from the father of Mary Armstrong, there could be nothing to fear of disappointment.
He reached home in a very short space of time, and looked so bright and joyous as he met his mother in the hall, that she said to him, "Why, Henry, you appear as if you had heard good news; where have you been?"
"Only for a walk, mother; but on my way home I met Mrs. Armstrong and the young people, and they have given me a cordial invitation to come in and see them as often as I like."
"I thought you disliked going out to dinner and paying visits, Henry?"
"So I do as a rule, but there is no rule without an exception; and Mr. Armstrong's family forms that exception."
Mrs. Halford stood for a moment contemplating her son's bright and lively mood with real surprise. Truly he presented an exception to the rule which generally governed him. For once the sedate, studious youth had assumed a gay and lightsome manner, which completely changed his appearance. Suddenly she remembered hearing Dr. Halford speak of the young lady he and her son had met at Mr. Drummond's dinner-party—the only and elder sister of little Freddy Armstrong. Determining to question her husband respecting this young lady, she readily allowed Henry to go on to his study without another word.
But once seated in this sanctum, so exclusively his own, Henry Halford's thoughts took a more serious turn. What he was about to do appeared more formidable on reflection than during the first few minutes of his walk home, when every difficulty seemed swept from his path.
On his return from Oxford, although, if possible, more earnest in his wish to obtain Mary Armstrong as a wife when he had made for her a home, the wish seemed hopeless. He had met her father and mother but once; he was not a visitor at their house, and till his terms at Oxford were ended he had no profession, excepting that of usher in his father's school.
Report said the woman he loved would be rich; how could he ask for her in his present penniless condition? So reasoned common sense. But then arose a thousand arguments in favour of asking for her now. If Mary Armstrong really loved him she would wait years for him. Might not he ask her father's permission to discover if such were the case? After all, it might be only for three years; and as soon as he was ordained had not his father's old pupil promised him a living for his son? And even if that failed, his father would make him a partner in the school, which he knew would be his at his death.
Thus reflecting he made up his mind to the venture, and seated himself at his desk to commence a letter to Mr. Armstrong.
But he found the task too full of difficulties to be hurried over. Two sheets of paper had been filled and thrown aside as unsuitable, and the summons to tea came before he had finished his third attempt. Carelessly pushing the spoiled sheets into his desk and locking it, he arose to join his friends at the tea-table, saying to himself, "I will write my letter to-morrow; it must not be done in a hurry." With this resolve he entered the little breakfast parlour, where we once heard a letter read which so faithfully portrayed his own characteristics. Kate Marston, who was pouring out the tea, looked at him earnestly.
"Why, aunt Clara," she said, "Henry looks as grave as a judge. I expected to see him come into the room like a sunbeam from your description."
"Well, Katey," said her cousin, "clouds must cover the sunbeams sometimes; and have you forgotten the poet's words?—'O man, thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.'"
"You can defend yourself, at all events, Henry," she replied; "and you know how completely you can silence me when you quote poetry. I never could learn to repeat a line of poetry in my life."
There was a pause, during which Henry, who sat opposite the window, appeared to be absorbed in the prospect of garden, fields, and meadows, thick summer foliage, and the distant blue hills of Highgate and Harrow which met his view. But the eyes were not "with the heart, for that was far away,"—in the meadows of Christ Church, Oxford, with a fair young girl leaning on his arm.
Persons who have the power of concentrating the mind on one particular subject at a time are spoken of as absent, and many curious incidents are related of talented men and their strange doings during these fits of abstraction. But it is to this very power of concentration that we owe our greatest statesmen, lawyers, poets, and warriors. The discovery of the power of steam, the inventions in science, art, mechanics, and medicine, which have given to the world its luxuries, its comforts, its advantages, and its power of alleviating suffering and pain, can all be attributed to that concentration of thought on one subject, which alone can give the mind a power to grasp it in all its completeness. The subject, however, so absorbing to Henry Halford might in one respect be called trivial; and yet that subject which involves the future happiness or misery of two individuals for life, can scarcely deserve such a name.
The probable success of his letter to Mr. Armstrong was the least important of his thoughts at this moment. Would it insure the happiness of the girl he loved? and was he justified in proposing mere possibilities as a basis for that happiness? were some of the questions he asked himself.
A smart blow with the palm of her hand on his shoulder, and his cousin Kate's words, "Uncle has spoken to you twice, Henry. What are you thinking about so deeply?" aroused him from his reverie.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he exclaimed, with a flushed face, "did you ask me a question?"
"Yes, Henry; I asked where you met Mr. Armstrong yesterday."
"Outside his own gate. He had just arrived from town on horseback. He treated me most affably, and said he should be glad to see you and myself to join their six o'clock dinner at any time without a special invitation, as he never gives dinner-parties."
There was a pause for some minutes, and then Mrs. Halford remarked—
"You met Miss Armstrong and her mother at Mr. Drummond's in March, James?"
"Yes, I remember the young lady's bright, intelligent face. Drummond told me her father has interfered greatly in the education of his daughter, teaching her the advanced rules of arithmetic, and even algebra and Euclid, and other subjects most unusual in the education of girls."
"I should imagine such knowledge would deprive a girl of all softness and refinement," remarked Mrs. Halford.
"It has not done so in Miss Armstrong's case," said Henry, quickly; "I saw enough of her at Mr. Drummond's to discover that."
"And you have seen her since at Oxford?" said his mother.
"Yes, almost every day for nearly a week; and I can assure you I never met a more lady-like, accomplished girl in my life, in spite of what is said of her father's eccentric plans in her education."
Kate Marston noticed the rising colour as it deepened in her cousin's cheek. She glanced at her aunt, and in that glance knew that the mother's suspicions confirmed her own.
"I think you told me, James, that Miss Armstrong's marriage portion will be very considerable," remarked Mrs. Halford.
"Something fabulous, according to Drummond's account; that is, if she marries a man of whom her father approves;" and the father as he spoke looked at his son. "Drummond told me that the ambition of Mr. Armstrong is to marry his daughter to a man of wealth and position, but if both are not attainable he will give her money enough to purchase the latter. He heard him say once that such a girl as his daughter would be an ornament to society in the highest circles in the kingdom."
"Would Mr. Armstrong sacrifice his daughter's wishes to gratify sinful pride and mistaken ambition?" asked Henry, indignantly; "it seems to me an impossibility that any father could act thus." He drank off the contents of his teacup and left the room without waiting for a reply.
Again in his little study, he closed the door and locked it, opened his desk with impulsive eagerness, took out a sheet of writing-paper, and drew his chair to the table.
"I cannot believe any man could be so cruelly unkind to his only daughter," he said to himself. "Would he force her to marry a man she did not love, even if by so doing he could make her a countess? Does the acquisition of money so harden a parent's heart? I cannot, I will not believe it. I will try Mr. Armstrong before I can credit anything so base in human nature. He will no doubt answer my letter; and if he refuses to allow me to address his daughter, he will of course give me his reasons for doing so."
And so the young heart, ignorant of the world, as is the case with most men of studious habits, and with the trust in human nature which seldom outlives a few years of worldly experience, commenced a letter to a man who would, while reading it, sneer at the noble expressions of true-hearted affection it contained, and perhaps treat the writer with contemptuous silence. Nevertheless the letter was written and posted before Henry Halford slept that night.
We will follow it to its destination in London, and intrude upon Mr. Armstrong's private room at his office in Dover Street, to which it was addressed.
Several letters were lying on the table when he entered the room on this morning of which we write, followed by his clerk. Still talking to him while opening them rapidly, he came upon the unknown hand and glanced at the signature, pausing in the midst of an important commission to the clerk to do so. "What could Mr. Henry Halford write to him about? excepting——" and at the thought that followed he flushed with anger. But a question from the gentlemanly young man who stood so patiently waiting his commands, recalled him to the business in hand. Laying the letter at a distance on the table, he opened the rest, and after a few brief directions, yet still so clear as to leave no room for a mistake, the clerk was dismissed. Then Mr. Armstrong, after writing in pencil various notes on the business letters before him, pushed them on one side and took up Henry Halford's long and closely written epistle.
We will read it with him:—
"Englefield Grange, July 4th, 18—."Dear Sir,—Your very kind and cordial invitation this afternoon makes it imperative on me to address you with reference to a certain subject before I accept it. It is probable that after I have candidly explained the cause of my hesitation you may forbid me to enter your house, yet I should prefer even that sentence to any clandestine or concealed proceedings."Since Mrs. Armstrong placed her youngest son under my father's care I have had the pleasure of seeing your daughter several times; only twice, however, until the week of her visit to Oxford."I will confess to my admiration of Miss Armstrong even on the two former occasions, more especially while in her society at Mrs. Drummond's; but many considerations made me resist the inclination to call at your house and become better acquainted with the young lady."At Oxford, however, I met your daughter with my friend Captain Herbert, who was my fellow-student some years ago at Dr. Mason's, though older than myself. I was surprised to find that my friend Charles Herbert was your daughter's cousin and Mrs. Armstrong's nephew; Colonel Herbert kindly invited me to his hotel during their visit to Oxford, and I there met your daughter, and saw and conversed with her frequently during the week of her stay."I need not enlarge upon the personal attractions, the unusual talents, and the sweet character which make Miss Armstrong so charming, for these must be well known to yourself. But I ask to be allowed to seek to win her affections with the sanction of her parents and under their own roof."I ask this with great hesitation, because I am not yet in a position to offer your daughter such a home as I could wish, and shall eventually obtain for her. In two years I hope to be ordained, and my father's friend, Lord Rivers, has already promised him a living for his son."If I can succeed in gaining the affections of your daughter, she will not mind waiting the time I have named. We are both young, and I would wait as Jacob did for Rachel, so great is the love I bear her."I will only add that if you kindly grant me your consent, it will give me increased energy to prepare for my profession, and to make every effort to shorten the period of my probation, in the hope that the great happiness of making your charming daughter my cherished wife may eventually be mine."I remain, dear Sir,"Very faithfully yours,"Henry Halford."
"Englefield Grange, July 4th, 18—.
"Dear Sir,—Your very kind and cordial invitation this afternoon makes it imperative on me to address you with reference to a certain subject before I accept it. It is probable that after I have candidly explained the cause of my hesitation you may forbid me to enter your house, yet I should prefer even that sentence to any clandestine or concealed proceedings.
"Since Mrs. Armstrong placed her youngest son under my father's care I have had the pleasure of seeing your daughter several times; only twice, however, until the week of her visit to Oxford.
"I will confess to my admiration of Miss Armstrong even on the two former occasions, more especially while in her society at Mrs. Drummond's; but many considerations made me resist the inclination to call at your house and become better acquainted with the young lady.
"At Oxford, however, I met your daughter with my friend Captain Herbert, who was my fellow-student some years ago at Dr. Mason's, though older than myself. I was surprised to find that my friend Charles Herbert was your daughter's cousin and Mrs. Armstrong's nephew; Colonel Herbert kindly invited me to his hotel during their visit to Oxford, and I there met your daughter, and saw and conversed with her frequently during the week of her stay.
"I need not enlarge upon the personal attractions, the unusual talents, and the sweet character which make Miss Armstrong so charming, for these must be well known to yourself. But I ask to be allowed to seek to win her affections with the sanction of her parents and under their own roof.
"I ask this with great hesitation, because I am not yet in a position to offer your daughter such a home as I could wish, and shall eventually obtain for her. In two years I hope to be ordained, and my father's friend, Lord Rivers, has already promised him a living for his son.
"If I can succeed in gaining the affections of your daughter, she will not mind waiting the time I have named. We are both young, and I would wait as Jacob did for Rachel, so great is the love I bear her.
"I will only add that if you kindly grant me your consent, it will give me increased energy to prepare for my profession, and to make every effort to shorten the period of my probation, in the hope that the great happiness of making your charming daughter my cherished wife may eventually be mine.
"I remain, dear Sir,
"Very faithfully yours,
"Henry Halford."
When Mr. Armstrong had read this letter hastily through, words cannot describe the angry passions that raged in his breast. What! the schoolmaster's son, an usher, a curatein futuro, with perhaps 80l.or 100l.a year to live upon! "What!" he thought, "give up my precious daughter to be a schoolmaster's wife, or rather drudge!—making rice puddings, mending stockings and shirts, and slaving for other people's children, and getting no thanks for it! Or perhaps in paltry comfortless apartments waiting upon her husband the curate, for whom she is often obliged to cook a dinner fit for him to eat, because the food obtained with such difficulty is spoiled by the lodging-house cooking. I've heard the misery of a curate's home described," continued the angry man, "less wages than a mechanic, and yet husband, wife, and children have to struggle to keep up appearances and to live in genteel poverty because the husband is a clergyman!"
Mr. Armstrong drew his desk towards him, and dashed off a coarse insulting letter to the daring aspirant for his daughter's hand, and with the effort the fierceness of his anger evaporated, conscience made itself heard. "Why should you insult this young man for acting as you did yourself?" said the stern voice; "he is a well-born, well-bred, intelligent gentleman, which you were not when you married Maria St. Clair." "But I had money," replied self, "and he has by his own account nothing to call his own." "He or his father must have had money to pay for a university education," suggested conscience; "besides, half of the boasted fortune you talk of giving your daughter would establish these young people for life, and make them happy if they love each other."
"I don't believe they do," was the next suggestion, "or at least there is no love on Mary's side. She is not one to give her affections so easily; the young man's letter proves that he is not sure of her, for he asks to be allowed to try and win her. Perhaps if the girl really loved him, I might be inclined to give up some of the fortune in store for her to make them happy. There's no harm done as yet on his own account, so I'll say nothing at home about his letter, but I wont send this," and he took up the sheet containing expressions of which in his cooler moments Mr. Armstrong felt thoroughly ashamed, and tore it into minute shreds; then lighting a taper, he reduced them to ashes in the fireplace. After this he seated himself and wrote as follows:—
"Dover Street, July 4th, 18—."Sir,—I have received your letter, and beg to thank you for your kind and complimentary opinion of my daughter, but I cannot favour your proposals. You are young to think of marriage, especially as you have not yet completed the profession which you intend to follow."I do not approve of long courtships, and therefore the idea of waiting an indefinite number of years for a living is out of the question. Added to these objections, I have other plans in view for my daughter, which I cannot set aside."Thanking you for the honour you have done our family by your proposal,"I remain, Sir,"Yours faithfully,"Edward Armstrong."
"Dover Street, July 4th, 18—.
"Sir,—I have received your letter, and beg to thank you for your kind and complimentary opinion of my daughter, but I cannot favour your proposals. You are young to think of marriage, especially as you have not yet completed the profession which you intend to follow.
"I do not approve of long courtships, and therefore the idea of waiting an indefinite number of years for a living is out of the question. Added to these objections, I have other plans in view for my daughter, which I cannot set aside.
"Thanking you for the honour you have done our family by your proposal,
"I remain, Sir,
"Yours faithfully,
"Edward Armstrong."
Mr. Armstrong sealed and addressed this letter with great inward satisfaction. He had effectually put a stop to any farther trouble on the part of Mr. Halford, who, he felt assured, was too honourable to act in opposition to the wishes of Mary's father.
Only one fear would at times during that day disturb Mr. Armstrong's equanimity: "Was he sure about the state of Mary's affections. They had been a week together at Oxford, had any unintentional word or look revealed the secret to each other?" He could not answer his own question satisfactorily, but he quieted his conscience by saying, "Ah, well, if there is a little passing fancy for this young man in Mary's heart, it will soon wear off; she has too much pride to encourage it when she finds he keeps away, as I know he will after my letter." Mr. Armstrong returned home in great good-humour, and made himself so agreeable that Mrs. Armstrong and Mary were quite ready to forget the roughness of the preceding evening.
No reference of any kind was made to Mr. Henry Halford in Mary's presence, but when Mr. Armstrong and his wife were alone, he said quietly and gently, but with a firmness she well knew she could not gainsay—
"Maria, my dear, I should like to send Freddy to school with his brothers next quarter; he is getting quite well and strong enough to be with older boys. I may as well tell you the truth," he added; "I don't wish him to continue at Dr. Halford's, for many reasons which I need not explain."
"Mamma, you will be better and more quiet here than in that noisy Bourke Street. I am so glad papa has taken such a pleasant house for us, and I know you will soon get well." And little Mabel as she spoke shook and arranged her mother's pillow and drew up the blind, that she might look out upon the pleasant view over the waters of the Yarra.
Mr. Franklyn had taken a house in a suburb of Melbourne noted for its beautiful scenery and wild and picturesque landscapes.
In this suburb at a walking distance, or reached easily by train from Melbourne, are situated the Botanical Gardens, laid out in park-like luxuriance. A beautiful stone bridge crosses the dark, deep waters of the Yarra, while painted skiffs and gaudy pleasure-boats skim over its smooth surface and add brightness to the scene.
The country beyond resembles the south of France and the shores of the Mediterranean; vines trained on poles, grapes hanging from verandahs, the blue sky, the pure clear air, and the bright sunshine remind the traveller of beautiful Italy.
Added to this, at the spot we describe, grow trees that retain their verdure during the whole year, white and green parrots and other birds of gaudy plumage flit from branch to branch. Sunrise also in Australia presents a sky of splendour never seen in England; even the colours of the sea-weed which the Yarra brings inland in its course are rich and varied.
Not far from the window opening to the ground on a verandah, near to which Mrs. Franklyn's couch had been drawn, spread what appeared to be a large lake, nine miles in circumference, surrounded by pleasant walks and shady trees.
To strangers it has the appearance of an artificial lake, and they are much surprised to hear that it is merely the reservoir from which the city of Melbourne and the surrounding neighbourhoods are supplied with water.
Altogether this suburb of Melbourne on the banks of the Yarra is one of the most beautiful spots in Australia.
To the pale invalid in her chair, however, all earthly spots had lost their charm, excepting one little island in the Atlantic, in which stood the home of her youth; and as she looked out on the beauty of an approaching Australian summer, and thought of the home she might never see again, she answered her little daughter's words with a sigh.
"Are you unhappy here, mamma?" asked the child.
"No, darling," she replied, "it was merely a longing for home that made me sigh. I know that heaven is the home on which my heart should rest, and yet I should like to see your uncle Henry and my dear parents once more."
"Mamma," said the child, "I heard the doctor tell papa that if you got stronger in this beautiful place, he could take you to England in March, and then you would have no winter, for when we arrived in England it would be midsummer."
Mrs. Franklyn smiled at the prospect described by her child. Her husband had mentioned this opinion of the doctor to her, and in his usual sanguine way he had promised to make early arrangements for them to leave in March. But she knew also that more than one of his speculations had failed, and therefore, unless "something would turn up," as he termed a successful speculation, he would be too much involved in debt to attempt to leave Melbourne.
A feeling of resignation had at length been granted to Dr. Halford's daughter, only disturbed now and then by old memories which could not be quite overcome, more especially as now, when the beauty of Australian scenery was spoken of in her presence, her thoughts would revert to a lovely English landscape—hill and dale, field and meadow, flowers and foliage, which could be seen from the windows of her own dear home in England.
But Fanny Franklyn, as she now lay helpless on the couch, knew well that for her was prepared a home in the skies, and that the dear friends for whose presence she longed could only expect to meet her there. She looked very lovely even now that Death had set his seal on those delicate features. The dark eyes, though sunken, were still large and bright; the pale face looked fairer by contrast to the dark pencilled eyebrows and eyelashes; and the hectic flush on the cheek would have reminded her brother Henry of some words of the great preacher Henry Melvill.
He had heard him once when quite a youth preach a sermon at a church in London on behalf of the Brompton Hospital for diseases of the lungs, in which the preacher, during one of his eloquent bursts of oratory, exclaimed, "And consumption, that flings its brilliant mockery in the mother's eyes."
Poor mother, she had indeed heard of her daughter's serious illness, and yearned with all a mother's love to be near her to tend to her slightest wish. But half the globe stretched between them, and Mrs. Halford consoled herself with the thought that Fanny had a kind husband and loving children, who must be able to supply the place of a mother. But Mrs. Halford did not know all. Fanny, while able to write, had concealed from her mother the real nature of the disease which left no hope of recovery. Yes, her husband was kind, gentle, loving, and earnest in his endeavours to provide for all her wants; yet, as we know, there was in his character a weakness of principle, and want of attention to steadiness of purpose, which made his position always precarious. At the birth of her youngest boy, eighteen months before the time of which we write, he had made a venture in the mercantile world which had failed, and for a time ruin stared them in the face.
The anxiety Fanny suffered in her then delicate state of health, added to a cold which attacked her at the time, was too much for a frame already weakened by the relaxing climate of Melbourne. For with all its bright skies and its clear atmosphere, Australian air is not suited to those who require a bracing climate. It has its periods of scorching heat, and the fair faces of Australian girls lack the roses which adorn the cheeks of their sisters in England.
Perhaps if Fanny Franklyn could have visited her home during the first appearance of failing health her life might have been spared, but this was not to be; and at last her husband had been aroused to the fact that, although he could not spare her to go alone to her home in England, he must spare her to God.
Now that it was too late, Arthur Franklyn, acting as usual on impulse, expressed to the doctor his eager anxiety to take his dying wife to England.
"Cannot I take her home before the autumn, doctor?" he said; "we should arrive in England about April or May, just as the summer is beginning. I could start next week even, if you think she is strong enough for the voyage."
"Too soon, my dear sir; Mrs. Franklyn must not be in England before May at the earliest, and it is now the commencement of November. We must try and help her through the Australian summer if we can, and then if all is well you can start for England in February or March."
But as the doctor left Mr. Franklyn, he said to himself, almost angrily—
"What is the use of talking about going to England now? she'll never live to see March again, or even February, it's too late. What's the man been about not to see his wife's danger? I'm afraid he's got too many irons in the fire to do much good."
And yet when he now entered the drawing-room, and with gentle step approached the couch, no voice could be more subdued, no words kinder.
"I have been talking to Dr. Moore about taking you to England in the autumn, darling; he says we can leave here in February so as to arrive there about May. Does not the prospect make you feel better already?"
Fanny raised her eyes to his and smiled, but she shook her head and said faintly—
"I never expect to see England again."
"Nonsense, dear! why, you are looking more like yourself to-day than I have seen you for weeks. You must not give up, and Dr. Moore seems to have greater hopes than ever. This is certainly a very pleasant spot," he continued, turning to the window, quite unconscious that this sudden announcement respecting a visit to England had agitated his wife. Her thoughts went back to the old days at Kilburn, when, a bright and happy girl, she had been wooed and won by one of her father's old pupils.
She glanced at him now as his tall figure stood out in full relief against the window, the strongly-marked profile clearly defined against the light. At three-and-forty Arthur Franklyn might still be spoken of as a handsome man; and although the light brown wavy hair had receded from the temples, there was not a line of grey visible. The blue eyes still twinkled with the humorous expression which spoke of light-heartedness and a keen sense of the ridiculous. In truth, he was one of those who are said to take things easy. Sanguine of success in everything he undertook, disappointment never troubled him for long. He could throw off the pressure of anxiety, and be as merry and light-hearted as if nothing had happened, while his poor wife was mourning in secret, or trembling for the consequences. She had quickly discovered the weak points in her husband's character, and felt that it could be said of him, "Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel."
The light-heartedness which made him a favourite in society caused him also to drive away all anticipation of trouble from his mind. "Never meet troubles half-way" was a proverb which he preached so unwisely, that he not only had to meet troubles when they came, but actually increased their magnitude by foolishly shutting his eyes to their approach.
So had it been with his wife's illness; he saw her wasting away daily before his eyes, yet he closed them to the possibility that she might die. And now that he had finally decided to take her to England in February, her recovery seemed to him a certainty. He presently seated himself by her side, and spoke gently and kindly of the voyage, and recalled so many pleasant incidents of the old house at home, that in spite of herself Fanny felt cheered.
"I shall look in at Bevans' this evening, love," he said as he rose to go out; "they know all about the English passenger ships, and I can get every information I require."
After transacting a little business at his office, Arthur Franklyn walked on into Melbourne to call at his friends the Bevans, who were always pleased to see him, and showed their liking for his company in a manner most flattering to a man of his character.
Hour after hour slipped away, and although a kind of uneasy feeling made him prepare more than once to say farewell, he allowed himself to be flattered into remaining to supper. His friends when inquiring for his wife had been told with animation that she was better, and that Dr. Moore had given his permission for her to go to England in February or March, there was therefore every excuse for so kindly pressing him to stay.
The family of Mr. Bevan, a ship agent, consisted of himself, his wife, two sons in the business, and two daughters. They were in the midst of supper, and laughing heartily at one of Arthur Franklyn's jokes, when the door of the dining-room opened, and the servant entered, and advancing to Mr. Franklyn, offered him a missive not so well known then as now in either England or Australia—a telegraph message in its ominous-looking envelope. A sudden pause fell on those assembled round the table, as Arthur Franklyn opened and read aloud—
"Clara Franklyn to Mr. A. Franklyn.—Come directly, mamma is dying!"
He started up with impetuous haste, his face white even to the lips, and was quickly surrounded by the family hastening his departure, and trying to calm his agitation with words of hope. But like all those who are wilfully blind to the approach of danger, Arthur Franklyn became despairing and hopeless when it really arrived. Some one found a railway time-table.
"You will catch the 10.5, Franklyn, if you are quick," said one of the young men, as, half bewildered, he turned to shake hands with his friends.
"No, no, we'll dispense with that for once," said the old gentleman. "Good-by, keep up a good heart, it may not be so bad as you imagine;" and so they hurried him away, Mr. Bevan saying hastily to his eldest son, "Go with him to the station, Tom, he seems scarcely able to take care of himself."
"I hope he'll reach home in time," said Mrs. Bevan; "these sudden messages are dreadfully alarming."
While the train for which Arthur Franklyn was just in time is speeding on over the short distance to his home, we will precede him thither.
Fanny Franklyn, when her husband kissed her on that evening before leaving home, although she felt that for her no journey to England would ever be realised, was still unwilling to damp his hopes by her own misgivings. The conversation had certainly excited her, but she did not seem weaker than usual when her eldest daughter appeared to attend her to bed. Clara Franklyn, during the decline of her mother's health, had become a clever little housekeeper, while Mabel installed herself as nurse. Fanny could not but feel a certain degree of comfort in Clara's cleverness, yet the child of thirteen was already too precocious in manners and character, and the position of housekeeper was calculated to increase these characteristics. The mother also mourned over her own inability to continue the education of her two girls, who had hitherto never had any governess but herself.
Many changes had taken place in their style of living during the fourteen years of Fanny Franklyn's marriage. After a successful speculation, instead of carefully laying up a reserve in case of losses or disappointments, Arthur Franklyn not only lived to the full extent of his income, but actually to the full amount of the money he possessed.
"I have plenty to last us for two or even three years," he would say, "and by that time I shall no doubt have another successful venture; so it's all right, Fanny, don't you worry yourself. I mean you to have a house and servants, and every appliance suitable to my means. There is no other sure way of getting into society nowadays, and the more money you appear to have, the more likely people are to help you in the furtherance of your plans."
And Fanny, during the early years of her married life, though not convinced, submitted to be made a fine lady, to be waited upon by a lady's-maid, to have a first-rate cook, housemaids, a nurse, and a nursery-maid. They resided in a luxuriously furnished house, they gave dinner parties, and soon drew around them a host of acquaintances who were ready to become friends with the rising young colonist and his family in the days of their prosperity. But this could not last long. By an unfortunate venture they lost house, furniture, servants, and sunshine friends, except some few who liked the genial company of the thoughtless speculator, and respected his wife. One thing, however, Fanny was firm in, she would engage no expensive governess for her children, and from their earliest childhood she had taught them herself.
After many ups and downs caused by her husband's reckless speculations, which are, after all, a species of gambling, we find them now in a small pleasant house, plainly furnished, with but two servants. One of them, whose attachment to Fanny and the children still kept her in the nursery, had, on the evening of which we write, assisted her dear mistress to undress.
Something in the appearance of Mrs. Franklyn made the faithful woman call the two girls out of the room, and say—
"Don't leave your mamma, Miss Clara, I am going to put little Albert to bed, and then I'll come and take your place."
"I may stay too, nurse," said Mabel, "may I not? I've got an interesting book to read, and we wont talk."
"I do not intend to read," said Clara, in a tone of womanly importance. "I have my work to do, and I can watch and attend to mamma at the same time."
"Ah, well," said nurse to herself, as she left the room, "you're a sensible young lady after all, only a bit too precocious for your age, Miss Clara. Oh dear!" she sighed, "to think they're going to lose their mother, who has taught them to be so clever, and trained them in the right way! And then for the master to be so blind, and not to see that his wife is dying. Ugh! I don't like such light-hearted people; they shut their eyes to trouble till it's close upon them. He's gone out pleasuring to-night, and I don't like the looks of the dear mistress."
And at this thought nurse hastened her steps to the nursery, for it was past baby's bedtime, and she had left him in the care of the other servant.
Mrs. Franklyn watched her eldest daughter with a feeling of sadness, as she placed herself where she could see her mother's face, and near the window to obtain light for her work. The November evening of the Australian spring was as light as with us an evening in May; and although the sun was approaching the west, yet the venetian blind was lowered to keep out his rays.
Mabel, who had seated herself out of sight of her mother, soon became absorbed in her book; and as the sisters did not speak, Mrs. Franklyn was quite unaware of her presence.
The mind of the mother rested with anxiety on the future of her eldest girl. She knew too well that she must soon leave these dear ones to the mercy of the world, and a careless though loving father. Her husband was still in the prime of life, a man of personal and social attractions, likely to marry again, no doubt a rich woman, ostensibly to obtain a second mother for his children. James, a boy of eleven, now at school, and Mabel, could be easily managed; about her baby Albert she had written to her brother, Henry Halford, a letter, which in a great measure influenced him in his future conduct. But Clara—high-spirited, determined, self-sufficient, impatient of rebuke, and womanly beyond her age in both manners and appearance—what would she be without the loving, cautious guidance of her own mother?
These painful reflections agitated the invalid. More than once a violent fit of coughing had brought Clara to her side with a remedy. After awhile she sunk into a kind of doze. Nurse came to summon Mabel to bed, but the mother seemed to be sleeping so peacefully that the little girl left the room without saying good night.
Nearly an hour passed, and then the hall clock struck nine. Mrs. Franklyn started at the sound, although it seldom disturbed her at other times.
"Clara," she said faintly.
The child rushed to her bedside quickly.
"What is it, mamma?" and the tones were loving and tender.
"Is your father come home?"
"No, mamma. Shall I send for him?"
But instead of a reply a sudden and violent cough attacked the invalid. Clara, as she had often done, placed her arm under her mother's head and raised her gently.
This time the movement hastened the catastrophe. In a moment the blood burst from the invalid's mouth, covering quilt, sheets, and her night-dress with its ghastly stains.
Although ready to faint with terror, Clara laid her mother down gently on the pillow, and rushing to the bell pulled it so violently that both servants were in the room even before its tones had ceased vibrating.
"Run for Dr. Moore, run for your life, Sarah," cried nurse, as she approached the bed, and leaning over her mistress wiped the life-blood from her pallid lips. The dark eyes opened and the lips parted with a faint smile.
"Don't speak, dear mistress," she said softly; "Dr. Moore will soon be here."
The reply was a gentle movement of the head, which nurse readily understood to mean "too late."
Nurse looked round as the door softly opened, for Clara had disappeared, and saw Mabel in her dressing-gown hesitating to enter. She had been startled from sleep by the bell, and became wide awake when her sister entered with a candle, and opening her desk commenced writing on a half-sheet of paper.
"Clara, what is the matter?" and the startled child sat up in bed with a terrified fear in her face.
Clara turned her white face towards her. "Mamma is dying," she said, in a calm tone, that told of deep agitation under restraint; "I am sending a telegram to papa."
Before Mabel could realise the words, her sister had left the room, and meeting Sarah, she exclaimed—
"To Dr. Moore first, Sarah, and then to the railway station, and send this telegram. Say it is immediate, a case of life and death; anything to make them send it quickly."
While she stood talking, Mabel in her dressing-gown and slippers flew past them in her way to her mother's room, and entered as we have seen.
Quickly as Clara followed, she found Mabel already on the bed by her mother's side, holding her pale hand in hers, while nurse bathed the invalid's forehead with eau de Cologne, and wiped the pale lips from which the life-blood still oozed.
A slight smile welcomed Clara, for Mrs. Franklyn's eyes were opened with the brightness of death, and wandered round the room as if in search of some one. Clara understood her.
"Mamma darling, I have telegraphed for papa; he will soon be here." A look of thankfulness passed over the pale face, and the eyelids closed over the glistening eyes as if to wait in patience for her husband's arrival. For a time all was still. To aid the sufferer's breath nurse had left the door open, and the ticking of the hall clock could be heard distinctly. Clara, to conceal her agitated feelings, knelt by the bed and buried her face in the bedclothes. At length at the sound of the doctor's knock she started up and took her stand by her mother's pillow. Dr. Moore came prepared with stimulants. Sarah had told him what had happened, but he no sooner cast his eyes upon his patient than he knew her danger. No skill on earth could save her now. However, he administered a few teaspoonfuls of his remedy, which seemed to revive her as well as to stay the bleeding from the lungs. She seemed about to speak, when the doctor said—
"Not a word, my dear lady, not a movement; there is nothing so important now as quietness and rest." He placed his fingers on her pulse as he spoke, and felt the feeble fluttering which so often betokens the approach of death. For some time no one spoke. The invalid lay with closed eyes almost motionless. Through the open window came the balmy freshness of a summer evening air, and the sound of the rippling of the waves, as the dark tide of the Yarra flowed onward towards the sea.
Presently a loud, tremulous knock sounded through the hall, and in a few moments, pale and trembling with emotion, the husband and father entered the room. The state of the bed, the death-like face of his wife, and the silence overpowered him so completely, that but for the doctor's arm he would have fallen to the ground. "Is she dead?" he asked, for while in the train he had brought himself to believe that his daughter's telegram was merely caused by a child's fear and exaggeration; his wife's death-like appearance, therefore, was a shock for which he was quite unprepared.
The invalid's eyes opened, and rested with loving pity on her husband.
"I have lived to say good-by, darling," she said in a faint voice. "Thank God—I must speak, doctor," she continued—"I have been saving my strength for a few last words."
"Fanny, my darling wife, I cannot lose you. Oh! I did not expect this, doctor. Can nothing be done?" Clara had moved to allow him to approach the pillow. He stooped and kissed the pale brow. Then seating himself on a chair by her side, he took her hand in his and buried his face in the pillow to conceal his agony.
"Don't grieve, Arthur," said his wife, in whispered tones; "it has been hard to think of leaving you and the dear children, but I have learnt submission to our heavenly Father's will, and you must seek consolation from Him."
Mabel had slidden from the bed when her father appeared, and the two girls now stood by him, as if by their presence they could console him and share his sorrow. For a few moments there was silence, while their mother lay with closed eyes. The sound of Mabel's hardly restrained sobs aroused her.
"Do not weep, darling," she said; "you have both a father on earth to protect you, and a Father in heaven, more powerful than an earthly parent, to guide and comfort you. Never forget the lessons I have taught you of His love and tenderness to motherless children.—Arthur," she continued, "if you do not care to return to England again yourself, send my children to my home, will you?"
"I promise you, darling, I will indeed," replied the stricken husband; "Australia will be a spot of desolation after you are gone."
Again there was a silence. The doctor administered another stimulant, but no one spoke.
Presently the nurse whispered, "Shall I take the young ladies away, doctor?"
Dr. Moore glanced at them, but the white stern face of Clara Franklyn showed a power of endurance and strength to support her sister as well as herself through the last trying scene. He shook his head, but the invalid had heard the whisper. She opened her eyes and looked fondly at her girls.
"Let them stay, nurse. Dear James, I wish he could have been sent for. Give him his mother's dying love, and——" But the voice failed.
"Kiss me once more," she said, feebly, and the girls came near to kiss the pallid face which would soon be hidden from them for ever. Mabel, unable to bear the painful excitement, clung to nurse, who placed her arm round the child and drew her from the bed. Mrs. Franklyn glanced at her as she did so.
"You will stay with my children, nurse, and take care of my little Albert."
"Trust me, dear mistress," she replied; but she could not say what her heart dictated, that she would never leave them till they were grown to be men and women. Her opinion of Mr. Franklyn made that impossible. Clara, after giving her mother what she well knew was a farewell kiss, felt her firmness giving way, and she clung to her father's arm and leaned her head upon his shoulder to hide the tears.
Dr. Moore was still unwilling to excite the invalid by sending the two girls away, yet he felt that the scene was becoming too painful for them. He stood at the foot of the bed, obedient to Mrs. Franklyn's gentle words—
"Don't go, doctor."
A long pause followed her words to the nurse, and for some moments it seemed as if the dying mother had ceased to breathe. Suddenly the dark eyes opened.
"Raise me, Arthur," she said, faintly.
With gentle hand he lifted her head and laid it on his breast.
"Arthur, it has come. How dark it is! Dear husband, meet me in heaven, it is all light there."
One sigh, then all was still.
Dr. Moore approached. Arthur turned upon him a startled look.
"Is she gone?" he exclaimed. "Oh, darling wife," he continued, kissing the pale face frantically, "oh, forgive me that I never loved you or valued you as I ought."
Dr. Moore removed his arm from the helpless head, and whispering, "Be calm for the sake of your children," drew him gently from the bed.
Arthur Franklyn glanced round the room. Nurse had led the weeping girls away, he was alone; and hastily leaving the bed of death, he rushed into the drawing-room, and, throwing himself on his knees, gave way to those bitter tears which shake manhood to its very centre. His unchastened spirit rebelled against God for depriving him of the wife of his youth in this unexpected manner, forgetting that his own blindness and thoughtless indifference had failed to discover what was plain to every one else. Alas! there is no feeling more painful than remorse for neglect or unkindness to those who are gone, because there can be no recompense made, or regret and sorrow expressed to them on this side the grave.