In a private room at an hotel near the London Bridge terminus of the South-Eastern Railway sat a party of five at breakfast.
The lady is a stranger, but we have met Arthur Franklyn and his two daughters before. Clara and Mabel have grown since we last saw them watching by the dying bed of their dear mother; indeed, Clara at the age of fifteen has the appearance and manners of a woman.
Between the sisters sits a boy of eleven, in whose dark eyes and delicate features can be traced a much stronger resemblance to those of his lost mother than in either of his sisters.
Arthur Franklyn looks more aged during the two years that have elapsed since his wife's death than might have been expected, and his face has a careworn expression, which greatly changes his appearance.
The door opens, and a respectable-looking woman enters the room, leading by the hand a beautiful little boy of about three years and a half old. The child runs towards his father, who lifting him on his knee, exclaimed—"What, come to have breakfast with papa, Ally?"
"Yes, papa; may I?"
"No, let him go to nurse, Arthur," said a fretful voice; "he's too young to breakfast with us after such a fatiguing journey. I wonder you wish me to be troubled with all the children at once."
Arthur Franklyn looked annoyed.
"Anything for peace," he said, as he placed the boy on the floor; and yet his heart misgave him as he saw the piteous look on the face of poor Fanny's youngest born, as the little one struggled to keep back the tears.
"Ally shall have breakfast with Clara," said the young girl, rising from her chair and casting a look of defiance at her stepmother; then lifting the little boy in her arms, she added, "papa, please send my teacup and plate by nurse," and she turned from the room as she spoke, little Albert clinging to her neck, his bright curls mixing with her dark hair in pleasing contrast.
"I'll fetch a tray, sir," said nurse, as she followed her young mistress to the stairs, and said—
"Oh! Miss Clara, I'm so sorry you've left the table; it will only make matters worse, and cause unhappiness between your papa and Mrs. Franklyn."
"I could not help it, nurse. Why should she interfere, and it vexes me so to see papa give way to her; he has a right to have his own children with him, I should think."
Nurse sighed; she had not forgotten her promise to the dying mother, that she would take care of her little Albert, and Mr. Franklyn for once was firm in opposing his wife's wishes to leave the nurse behind in Australia.
The first Mrs. Franklyn, soon after Clara's birth, had engaged as nurse Jane Simmons, an emigrant, who had been delighted to find in her young mistress the daughter of a gentleman who resided at Kilburn near her own native home. For nearly fifteen years, therefore, she had been the much-loved nurse of Mr. Franklyn's children, and during his widowhood they were almost entirely under her care.
Jane knew her master's character well; she was not surprised, therefore, when he told her about twelve mouths after his first wife's death that he intended to marry a lady of large property, and begged her to prepare his girls for the change. It was not, however, a very easy matter; indeed, Clara expressed herself in strongly rebellious terms, and Mabel shed many bitter tears at the prospect of having a stepmother.
A less sensible woman might have encouraged this rebellion, but Jane reminded them of what their mother would have said—not only that it was a duty they owed to their father to treat his wife with respect, but also for the memory of their mother to endeavour to increase his happiness.
Under such influence the children of Fanny Franklyn were ready to receive their stepmother with respect and even affection. But the lady Arthur Franklyn had chosen to supply the place of his lost wife, possessed none of her qualities to endear her to his children.
A native of Australia, a childless widow, who at the death of her husband became mistress of a large fortune, handsome, stylish, and accomplished, whatever could Arthur Franklyn wish for beyond this. So he thought with his usual impulsiveness, but he soon found his mistake. Mrs. Franklyn was very unfit to manage a high-spirited girl like Clara, and far too selfish and harsh in her treatment of the little gentle Mabel, whom her father often found in tears of real distress. Altogether Arthur Franklyn felt that he would have to pay dearly for the money brought him by his second wife.
He was at last obliged to humble himself to his eldest daughter to obtain peace.
"Clara," he said one day when he found her alone in the drawing-room, "you appear to resent my second marriage; do you know that anxiety for my children is the sole reason for my marrying again."
"Oh! papa," said Clara, "how can that be? Mrs. Franklyn isn't in the least like our own dear mamma, and I shall never be able to love her."
"Clara," he said, "when I married your stepmother I was on the brink of ruin; you and your brother and sister would have been turned out of doors homeless and penniless; by my second marriage I obtained property which has saved you all. Clara, cannot you love your father well enough to forgive him for placing another in the position of your dear mother for the sake of her children?"
"Papa, O papa!" said Clara, "oh! I did not know all this;" and she threw her arms round his neck as she said, "you must forgive me, papa, and I will try to behave properly to my new mamma; I will indeed."
"Thank you, my daughter," he replied, as he pressed her to his heart, and thought with pain of her dead mother; "but, Clara, you must not mention to any one what I have told you of my affairs."
"Papa, I will not," she said, and Mr. Franklyn knew he could trust his eldest daughter.
This appeal to Clara, although not quite truthful, for a time brought peace, but new troubles were arising to show her father that a deviation from a straightforward and honourable path is sure, sooner or later, to bring its own punishment.
He had led the present Mrs. Franklyn to believe that his position was that of a man of independent means, and the ready cash she had at her bankers was given up to him with perfect confidence. But when he asked her to touch her capital on the plea of wishing to obtain a partnership in a lucrative business, difficulties arose which could only be overcome by a visit to England. Mrs. Franklyn had never yet drawn any but the interest of her money, and on examining her late husband's will it was found that to touch the capital without the consent of her trustees was out of her power.
One of these trustees resided in England. Mrs. Franklyn would not allow her husband to go alone. Indeed it would have been useless for him to do so, but he was only too glad of an opportunity to take his children to England and leave them in the care of their grandfather and uncle.
While they were discussing the matter came the news that Mrs. Halford, after several months of pain and suffering, had followed her daughter to the grave; yet this did not deter Arthur Franklyn from his purpose.
"There is Kate Marston still at Englefield Grange," he said to himself; "and she is quite as clever a manager as poor Fanny's mother was. If I get Louisa's money into my own hands, as I hope to do, I can pay the old gentleman handsomely for my children; and they are better away from their stepmother. I don't quite like parting with my little Al, but I suppose I must," and the father sighed at the memory of early days at Englefield Grange.
And now they are in England and at breakfast at the hotel, where Mrs. Franklyn's serenity has been disturbed by the appearance of little Albert.
"Clara will entirely spoil that child if you allow her to indulge him in this manner, Arthur."
"Never mind now, my dear," was the reply, "we have no time to discuss the subject. What do you wish me to do about a house or apartments? that is the first thing."
"I thought you talked of taking a house furnished," she said. "I hope not in London, however, it appears so noisy and crowded, and almost sunless, even on a May morning."
"There are some beautiful spots in the suburbs, Louisa, and I was going to propose that we have an open carriage, and drive down to Kilburn if you have no objection. We are sure to find furnished houses in that direction, and I should like to be near the children's relations. We can put off business till to-morrow."
Mrs. Franklyn readily agreed to this arrangement. Certainly it was a drawback to have all those children with her in the carriage, but that would not be for long, and perhaps they would remain at Englefield Grange, at least until Arthur had chosen a house.
After this, breakfast was quickly finished, a carriage ordered, and the young people, full of happiness, made hasty preparations for a delightful ride through wonderful London, of which they had heard so much.
On entering the room with her little brother before starting, Clara advanced to Mrs. Franklyn and said,—"Mamma, I did not mean to be rude when I left the breakfast-table this morning, but I am so fond of my little brother Ally, please forgive me."
"It is of no consequence, Clara, if you prefer to breakfast in the nursery you can always please yourself."
Clara turned away without a reply. She had not lost her power of self-control, yet she had great difficulty in repressing the tears or an angry reply. A feeling of mortification that she had so humbled herself for nothing arose in her heart. The time came when she remembered having done so with thankfulness.
What a delightful ride that was. Over London Bridge, with its crowds of vehicles, and its continued stream of passengers. Omnibuses, waggons, carts, carriages, every sort of conveyance delaying their progress through King William Street, Cheapside, Holborn, and Oxford Street, till they reached Hyde Park Corner, and turned up the Edgware Road.
Yet the frequent delays had been an advantage to them, especially at the Mansion House, with the Royal Exchange and the Bank in sight. Again before entering Newgate Street, the view of St. Paul's and the Post Office, and afterwards the grim prison itself, from which the street is named.
Arthur Franklyn could remember sufficient of London to enable him to point out objects of interest as they drove on, although the Holborn Viaduct and the Thames Embankment were not then in existence. But when they at last approached Kilburn, so many recollections crowded upon him that he became silent, scarcely replying to the eager inquiries of the children till the carriage stopped at the gate of Englefield Grange.
"I will go in alone first, Louisa," he said hurriedly. "I must prepare my aged father-in-law for such a large party."
He was gone before she could raise an objection, and in a few moments a strange servant opened the door, and, startled by his pale face, showed him into a small reception room, and went to call Mr. Henry.
He stood listening to the old familiar sounds; the clock had just struck twelve, and the eager voices in the playground at the back brought to his memory the time when he had been as happy and as eager as those he now listened to, and a little dark-eyed girl would stand watching for him at the garden gate with a flower, or a bon-bon, or a something which she had brought for "dear Arty." So deep, so painful were these memories, that when the door opened, and he turned his white face to meet his brother-in-law, the family likeness was so strong that he could only hold out his hand and say, "Henry, I know it is Henry!" and then burst into a violent fit of sobbing.
At first Henry Halford felt quite bewildered. He had not reached his eighth birthday when Arthur and Fanny sailed for Australia, yet a sudden flash of recognition, added to the letter received from Arthur that morning, recalled his brother-in-law to his memory.
"It is Arthur Franklyn," he exclaimed; "my dear sister's husband," and for a few moments Henry Halford was himself too much overcome to speak, or do more than press the hand of his brother-in-law as he held it.
"Everything here reminded me so strongly ofher," said Arthur, at last rousing himself, and already ashamed of the impulse, which, like all his other impulses, was so evanescent. "My wife and the children are at the door," he added. "How is the dear old father? I came in alone to prepare him, and the old place and its memories knocked me over."
"You need not fear bringing them in," said Henry, as Arthur rubbed at his face and tried to remove all traces of his emotion. "My father is in feeble health, but his mind and memory are clear. He will be overjoyed to see the children."
A few minutes longer, and then the greyheaded old man had fondly welcomed his daughter's children, and kindly greeted her successor.
Mrs. Franklyn showed herself at her best, and won the good opinion of both father and son.
It was arranged that they should all stay and partake of the schoolroom dinner to give the horses a rest, and then Kate Marston made her appearance.
She was not slow to recognise Arthur, who was a few years younger than herself. The sixteen years had changed them both, but Arthur more than Kate Marston.
Old Dr. Halford was the first to remark this with the plain-speaking of age, which is almost childlike in its character.
"You are as comely as ever, Arthur," said the old-fashioned gentleman, "but you have changed more in the sixteen years than Kate."
"No wonder, uncle," exclaimed Kate, "only think of all he has gone through, besides having the care of these motherless children. I have nobody to be anxious for but myself; no husband for me, thank you." And while she spoke, with a deep blush on the still fresh complexion, and a bright smile, Arthur could not help owning to himself that Time had dealt very gently with Kate Marston.
"She has been anxious enough about me and my dear lost wife," said the old gentleman, in a querulous voice, "so you must not listen to Kate when she lays claim to a selfishness she does not possess. But really, Arthur, you are not looking at all well. You must comfort him, my dear," he added, addressing Mrs. Franklyn. "So much can be done by a second wife to soften down old memories in her husband's heart."
"I hope I shall be able to do so," said the lady, in a gentle tone, which pleased the old man, and made Arthur say—
"I am not afraid, father; Louisa has already proved herself a kind and affectionate wife."
He longed to add, "and a mother to my children," but at this moment a summons to dinner made any further remark unnecessary.
When they returned to the little breakfast parlour, in which the old gentleman had dined alone, Kate Marston said—
"Arthur, if you and Mrs. Franklyn are going househunting, suppose you leave the children here for a few days, they would like it, I suppose."
"Oh yes, indeed we should," exclaimed Clara, answering for the rest, whose bright faces confirmed what she said; "and I can take care of Albert, and dress and wash him if I may."
"If you stay longer than another day I will send nurse with your clothes," said Arthur.
"Oh, have you the same nurse here in England, of whom poor Fanny spoke so highly in her letter to me?" said Henry.
"Did she speak of a nurse?" exclaimed Arthur, concealing his surprise that his brother-in-law should have had a letter about the boy; "then it must be the same, for she has been with us more than fourteen years."
"Then send her down here as soon as you like, for if you can spare the children for a week we shall be glad to have them."
To this Arthur readily acceded, and then, as the carriage was announced, he said to Dr. Halford: "This has been such a hurried visit, Doctor, and I have so much to hear and so much to tell; but we must come again as soon as we have fixed upon a house and spend a long day with you all. You have taken your degree at Oxford, Henry," he continued, turning to the window where the uncle was amusing the little nephew who had been left to his care by his dying sister; "and I suppose you are soon going up for ordination?"
"Not till Trinity," he replied. "You know I am obliged to be here as much as possible now my father is disabled; I took up my Master's degree in June last year."
There were quick farewells and fond embracing of the children as they rose to leave. "Good-by, papa—good-by, mamma," was echoed from one to the other as the carriage drove off; and then Louisa Franklyn turned to her husband and said, "Well, this is a comfort, Arthur: at last I shall have your society all to myself for a week without the constant trouble and anxiety of those children."
But Arthur Franklyn's recollections of the past were too strong just then to make him thankful to get rid of his children. "I'm afraid I shall have to pay dearly for Louisa's fortune if I do get it," was his very uncomplimentary reflection.
Mr. Armstrong was seated in his private room one afternoon two days after the arrival of Mr. Franklyn and his family at Englefield Grange.
So deeply was he absorbed in calculating the profit and loss of some recent speculations that a knock at the door startled him, and he answered, in an impetuous tone, "Come in!"
The young clerk who obeyed the impatient command could only falter out, "A lady wishes to see you, sir," and the very next moment a middle-aged lady, with a youth of sixteen entered the room and stood before its irritable occupant.
Edward Armstrong rose from his chair too bewildered at first to recognise his visitor, whose attire, though good and expensive, could scarcely give her the right, in appearance to him at least, to be described as a lady.
"Cousin Edward, how glad I am to find you here," and Mrs. John Armstrong, as she spoke, advanced and seized her relation's hand in the demonstrative style he had learnt to consider a breach of good manners. He flushed deeply, but in the midst of his false shame and proud annoyance, he had presence of mind to return the warm hand-shake, and lead his cousin to a chair.
"I am very glad to see you, cousin Sarah. Sit down, my boy; why, is it really Jack? How you are grown, lad! When did you arrive in London?"
"About an hour ago," replied cousin Sarah, who detected beneath all those courteous inquiries ill-concealed annoyance. "We have come to London very unexpectedly on business, and at the Waterloo Station I felt so lost and bewildered that I could only take a cab and ask the man to bring us here; but if you will tell us where to find lodgings the cab is still waiting and we can go directly."
Now while cousin Sarah spoke there had been passing through Edward Armstrong's mind the memory of many happy days at his old home, in which the homely relative before him and her husband had loaded him with attentions and hospitalities. Could he hesitate to invite her and her son to his house at Kilburn? Had he any fear of the reception they would meet with from his wife and daughter?—No, not for a moment. Before the visitor had ceased speaking the foolish pride which exists so often in those who have risen from an inferior position was crushed down, and he said quickly and earnestly: "Sarah, what are you talking about? Do you think I should expect you to take lodgings? No, no, you must go down to Kilburn with me this afternoon, and then you can tell us the cause of this unexpected visit to London. I will have no refusal," he added, seeing her shake her head and attempt to speak. "Is your luggage in the cab? Stay, I'll send the man away, and manage all that for you." He sounded a gong as he spoke, and when one of the clerks appeared, he said, "Have this lady's boxes brought into the office, and pay the cab, Williams; it has come from the Waterloo Terminus."
"There is one box and a carpet bag," exclaimed Mrs. John, rising in haste.
"All right, Williams will manage. You'll remember, Williams, a box and a carpet bag," said Mr. Armstrong, as the young man turned away.
"Yes, sir," was the reply; and then Mr. Armstrong, turning to his cousin with a smile said—
"I'll find you apartments, Sarah, in my own house. What do you think Maria and Mary would say if I shut you up in dingy London lodgings after their pleasant visits at Meadow Farm? And now, tell me what has brought you to London so suddenly."
"Well, we've heard of a situation for Jack," she replied; "but, Edward, do listen to me for a moment, I never meant to intrude upon your lady-wife and fine house. Jack and I are too countrified and homely, but it's very kind of you to ask us," and the tears stood in the eyes of the sensitive woman as she spoke.
"Not another word, Sarah, I am sure of the warm welcome you will receive from my wife and Mary, and I should like to hear any one speak with disrespect of my father's relatives."
There was pride in the remark still, but Cousin Sarah passed it over, and entered at once into the matter that had brought her and Jack to London.
Mr. Armstrong listened with interest, and promised to make all necessary inquiries as to the standing and respectability of the firm in the house of business in which Jack had been offered an appointment.
"So you do not wish to be a farmer, Jack," said Mr. Armstrong, noticing with pleasure the refined face and erect bearing of the dark-eyed youth.
"No, sir," he replied, "I should prefer to be in a business."
"He is fond of figures, and his master at school speaks of him as a first-rate arithmetician," said the proud mother, "besides, Tom is just the boy for a farm, and one son will be enough to help his father for years to come, if he lives. Tom is a strong sturdy boy, who cares very little for books. But I'm taking up your time, Edward," she exclaimed, suddenly, "do you go to Kilburn every day?"
"Certainly I do," he replied laughing, "I generally leave here about five o'clock."
"And you must have business matters to finish, and I've been hindering you all this time; but if you will tell me how to get to Kilburn by-and-by, I'll take Jack out in the meantime and show him a little of London and the parks."
"I have very little more to attend to to-day," he replied, "but if you feel inclined to walk about for a while and return here by five o'clock, we can start together and reach home in time for dinner. If you lose yourselves call a cab and tell the man to bring you here."
Mr. Armstrong accompanied his visitors to the street entrance, treating them before his clerks with the most deferential and yet familiar politeness. As he returned to his counting-house he called one of his porters and said—
"Go to the livery stable, Milson, and tell them I shall leave Firefly till to-morrow, and order a carriage and pair to be here at five punctually, as I have friends who will accompany me to Kilburn this evening."
There was in Mr. Armstrong's manner a mixture of ostentatious pride with a real anxiety to show his visitors every attention and set them at their case. Plain and homely as they might appear in the eyes of his clerks, his manner and actions were intended to show that he considered these country cousins worthy of respect and attention.
Mary Armstrong stood at the window of her mother's dressing-room on the afternoon in which the arrival of visitors at Dover Street had caused such a commotion.
Nearly a year had passed since she made the discovery that her father had refused one offer for her, and she had refused another. More than once since then had the hand of the accomplished daughter of Mr. Armstrong been sought by men of wealth and position, but while it pained Mary to refuse them, she still held firm to her purpose.
Her father's displeasure was at times very hard to bear, but her patient and gentle endurance blunted the edge of his wrath, and often silenced him for very shame.
"You expect to induce me to give way at last, I suppose," he said one day, angrily, "but I never will consent to your marrying that parson fellow; you will be of age in a few months, I know, and then may do as you like, but you will find your name erased from my will if you do."
"Father, I will never marry without your consent, I have told you so often, and you cannot mistrust my word," was the gentle but firmly uttered reply, which silenced the angry father.
With all these excitements and anxieties, we cannot wonder that the nine or ten months which have passed away since she stood at the window in Park Lane, have changed her appearance.
Mary Armstrong, however, has lost nothing by this change. The face, though slightly thinner, still retains its delicate oval. The eyes are as large and bright, and the hair as glossy and luxuriant as ever. The rich colour on her check is softened down to the bloom of a peach, and the figure, though more fully developed, is still slender and graceful in every movement.
Mary Armstrong was happy in having a mother as her confidential friend; she was not likely to
"Let concealment like a worm i' the bud,Feed on her damask cheek;"
"Let concealment like a worm i' the bud,Feed on her damask cheek;"
and she possessed too much good sense to allow herself to become the victim of disappointed affection. She knew that the best remedy against such a disease was active employment of mind and body—consequently her books, her music, her studies were diligently followed, as well as more active domestic duties.
No day passed without a quick walk alone or a quieter one with her mother. The books she read were principally those requiring deep thought, and the study of languages was varied by scientific subjects. Poetry for a time she set aside, it too often touched upon a tender string, which she felt must not be allowed to vibrate, even her favourite Milton lay unnoticed on the shelf, its pages awoke memories too painful to be encouraged. Sometimes she would bring out her "Algebra" or "Euclid," and induce her father to work a few sums or problems with her during the evening.
There was a sad gratification when after one of these occasions, her father closed the book, and as she rose and wished him good night, he drew her towards him, and said—
"Ah, if my daughter would only be guided by me in other matters, as she has been in her studies, I should have nothing left to wish for."
Poor Mary, the kind and gently expressed words cost her sleepless hours of anxious thought while trying to satisfy her conscience that she was acting rightly towards her father. Only at last, when she answered the question, "Ought I to marry a man alone for the sake of money or position?" with an emphatic "No," could she close her eyes in sleep. She was ready to give up Henry Halford—her unselfish affection made her hope not only that he was learning to forget her, but also that he might soon meet with some one to supply the place of his dear mother in his heart, but to marry any one else herself, she felt to be an impossibility.
More than once lately they had met and bowed to each other as mere passing acquaintances. Often on leaving church on a Sunday Mr. Armstrong had raised his hat to the amiable and stricken old man, who passed them leaning on the arm of his son, but farther approach to intimacy was felt to be impossible.
And so the months had passed, and now the early summer was decking gardens, orchard, and meadow with its sweetest blossoms. Through the open window at which Mary stood on this May afternoon of which we write came the fragrant perfume of lilac and May blossom. The birds were tuning their little throats for a chorus of song, and a stillness in the soft air seemed to produce a feeling in the heart of Mary of calm submission to the will of "Him who orders all things in heaven and earth."
Suddenly she started; a carriage was approaching, and instead of passing by as she expected, it drew up and stopped at the gate.
"Mamma," she said, entering her mother's room from the dressing-room, "there is a carriage at the gate, whose can it be?"
Mrs. Armstrong joined her daughter at the window. They saw with surprise Mr. Armstrong and a youth alight, and then turn to assist a lady.
"Who can it be, Mary?"
"Mamma! I can see her face, it is cousin Sarah; oh, how glad I am, shall we go down and receive her, mamma, and I suppose that is one of her sons."
The ladies were in the hall to receive the guest, who forgot her surprise at the appearance and style of the house, in her pleasure at meeting Mrs. Armstrong and Mary.
They both drew her into the drawing-room followed by Jack, who seemed more surprised at the cordial and even affectionate welcome his mother received from these elegant ladies than by the luxuriantly furnished room into which they had been taken. In fact poor Sarah was quite overcome by her reception, and when Mary offered to take her upstairs and to show Jack into her brother Edward's room, she said, "My dear, I never expected you would be so pleased to see such a homely old body as I am."
"But we are pleased to see you, cousin Sarah, and I don't forget how very nice it is to be homely as you call yourself at Meadow Farm—and is it Jack you have brought with you?"
"Yes, my dear, he has been offered a situation in London, and that is my reason for coming."
"I am very glad something has brought you here at last, cousin Sarah, and I'm sure mamma is also, we so often talk about you; but you want your box, I daresay—Oh, here it is," continued Mary, opening the door in answer to a knock; "and now I'll leave you, and when dinner is nearly ready I'll come for you, it wants twenty minutes to six."
Cousin Sarah, when left to herself, quietly opened her box, feeling glad that she had brought a best dress, in which she might venture to show herself amidst all this elegance. She glanced round the bedroom, so luxuriously furnished, with large Arabian bedstead and silken hangings, marble washstands, rich carpet, luxurious sofa, massive wardrobe and numerous mirrors, and said to herself, "all these are bought with Edward's money; but money does not bring happiness even to such a charming girl as Mary Armstrong. She is as beautiful as ever, I can see that, but there's a look in her sweet face that no young girl with all these comforts and luxuries around her ought to have; I'll find out what it means while I'm here, and see if I can't set matters straight."
Cousin Sarah dressed quickly, and then found her way to her son's room.
"I've put on my best suit, mother," he said; "why how rich cousin Armstrong must be; I never was in such a fine house in my life. I hope I shall behave properly at dinner."
Cousin Sarah laughed, but finding her son ready she turned towards the stairs and met Mary coming to fetch them. Mary Armstrong saw at a glance that with all Mrs. John Armstrong's homeliness she had natural good taste in dress. Her grey silk dress, though not very fashionable, was well made, and of rich material; while the real lace of which cap, collar and sleeves were made, might have excited the envy of a duchess.
Jack, too, in his new black suit, was a son of whom a mother might well feel proud, and Mary, passing by his mother, held out her hand, saying, pleasantly, "I must shake hands with you, cousin Jack; I have often heard cousin Sarah talk about you, but we never have met till to-day, and now I hope we shall be friends."
"There is no doubt of that," said his mother, coming to the rescue, for Jack seemed unable to speak, such a fairy vision as cousin Mary, in her pale blue silk and lace, was something new to the youth of sixteen, and so different to the buxom damsels on his father's farm, that he was for a time struck dumb.
Mr. Edward Armstrong led his father's niece into the dining-room with no little satisfaction at her appearance.
Mary took the shy youth under her care so effectually, that in a very short time his shyness had vanished, and he could reply to the remarks addressed to him with intelligence and ease.
She was amused to observe the strong likeness in the youth to her own father, and greatly interested in finding that he possessed the same mathematical and scientific tastes. This was discovered after dinner when Mr. Armstrong examined the boy, and delighted cousin Sarah by his commendations, not only of the correctness of his answers to various questions, but also for the intelligence and modesty with which they were given.
Jack never forgot that happy evening, everything around him was new, strange, and delightful.
The nicely furnished dining-room, the table glittering with plate and glass, the dinner itself, Mr. Armstrong's kind notice, the soft voice and manners of Mrs. Armstrong, of whom he felt a kind of awe, his fairy-like cousin, and last, but not least, the beautiful music and singing with which she entertained them, all combined to make this evening the happiest of the happy week he spent at Lime Grove.
On Sunday cousin Sarah and her son accompanied the family to church, and circumstances occurred which gave her the opportunity she sought in her anxiety about Mary.
Dr. Halford's boys occupied the two front seats in the gallery in front of the organ, and on each side the clock, for the church was very old-fashioned, Mr. Armstrong's family sat in a front seat of the side gallery, and under that gallery was the private pew of Dr. Halford's family.
Henry generally sat with his father, the boys being always under the supervision of two of the masters, but now the pew was occupied by poor Fanny's children.
On this Sunday, therefore, Mary saw with surprise and uneasiness, Mr. Henry Halford seated at the end of a pew occupied by the boys, and only one of the masters present.
She could not avoid seeing him, and she knew that her parents must have noticed him also.
The presence of two strangers in Mr. Armstrong's pew attracted for a few moments Henry Halford's looks towards them, to Mary's great discomposure; but when the service began these two young people seemed to remember that they were present to join in the sacred services of God's house, and not to look about them.
There was something in the manner, not only of Mr. Armstrong, but also of Mary and her mother, which directed cousin Sarah's eyes more than once to the gentleman seated with those superior-looking schoolboys, many of whom appeared older than her son. Jack also seemed so fascinated to watch them, that more than one glance from his mother was necessary to remind him of the place and the hour.
Altogether it was a most perplexing position, and Mary was glad to see her father rise quickly when the service ended, as if anxious to avoid a meeting with the schoolmaster and his son, but he failed in the attempt.
Henry Halford, remembering that his nieces now required attention as well as his aged father, left the boys to be marshalled home by the assistant, and hastened to the lower door to meet them.
Another surprise therefore awaited Mary. On reaching the church entrance they met face to face Old Doctor Halford, supported on one side by the arm of his son, and on the other by a tall handsome girl, apparently about eighteen years of age. Mary did not at first notice another younger girl, dressed in exactly the same manner, who walked behind Dr. Halford and his supporters, with a boy nearly as tall as herself.
The usual formal courtesies passed between them as they met; but the sudden shock at seeing, as she thought, a strange young lady on such friendly terms with the doctor and his son, deprived Mary for a moment of self-possession. Recovering herself with an effort she returned the notice of the gentlemen, and hurried on to join her mother with an aching at her heart.
Cousin Sarah had seen the fair face turn white even to the lips, and she drew Mr. Armstrong forward, leaving Mary with her mother and Jack.
"Who is that very pleasing looking young man, Edward?" was her first question.
"What young man?" was the half-irritated reply.
"I am speaking of the gentleman we met just now, who was supporting, I suppose, his aged father; Edward, he reminded me of dear uncle."
Edward Armstrong winced. The good and intelligent old yeoman, his own father, was in position and education far inferior to Dr. Halford, and yet he despised the latter because he was a schoolmaster and poor. He at last replied with an effort,—"Father and son are schoolmasters, and the son is going to be a parson."
"But they are as much gentlemen as your wife is a lady, Edward; I can tell by your manner that you dislike them, but why?"
"Why?" he asked impetuously, "because they are poor, and the son had the audacity to ask me for Mary."
"And you refused him."
"Of course I did; do you suppose I was fool enough to give up to him the money I have worked so hard for, as my daughter's marriage portion? and no doubt that was all he wanted."
"Does Mary know of this?"
"Unfortunately she does, although I kept it from her as long as I could; but it slipped out in some way."
"Ah! then now I can understand what has changed her so much," said cousin Sarah, quietly.
With a startled expression Mr. Armstrong turned and looked at the speaker.
"What!" he exclaimed, but, before she could reply, Mrs. Armstrong, Mary, and Jack joined them. Cousin Sarah noticed at a glance that Mary had recovered her colour, but there was a quivering of the lip very painful to see.
On reaching home Mary hastily escaped to her room. She stood for a moment, with her hands clasped and her eyes uplifted, asking for help and strength; realising Montgomery's description of prayer:—
"The upward glancing of the eye,When none but God is near."
"The upward glancing of the eye,When none but God is near."
"I must expect it," she said to herself; "I ought to have been prepared. How can I be so selfish—so dog in the manger like; I cannot be his wife myself, and ought I to object to his choosing any one else? But ah! it is very painful to think of," and then as she sunk into a chair the restrained tears burst forth unchecked.
In a few minutes she remembered the visitors; the tears had relieved her, and hastily preparing for an early dinner she bathed her eyes, controlled her feelings, and joined the rest in the drawing-room. So like herself did she seem that no stranger would have discovered the traces of tears, but the keen anxious eyes of the mother and cousin Sarah were not to be deceived. Mrs. Armstrong, however, knew too well what had happened to distress her patient and much loved daughter, and for her sake made no remark on her looks.
The three years of Mr. Armstrong's residence at Kilburn had produced great changes in this suburb which bid fair after a time to destroy its rural aspect. The London and North-Western Company had opened a station, and around it a town of bricks and mortar had risen with almost as much rapidity as at Bayswater. Lime Grove and Englefield Grange, however, were at least a mile from the station, and for the present, therefore, safe from the invasion of the pickaxe and the hod.
A few days after the arrival of cousin Sarah and her son at Kilburn, Mr. Armstrong proposed that they should accompany him to town to make the necessary arrangements for leaving Jack in London. Inquiries had been made, and interviews had taken place with the head of the firm, who had offered a situation to the youth, and his friends were as anxious to place him in such a respectable house as the firm were to receive him.
"Mary, my dear," said her father while at breakfast one morning, "you can drive us to the station in the pony carriage if you like."
"I should like to do so, papa;" she replied, and glancing at her mother she added, "the ponies will not be too tired for mamma's drive when they return, I suppose."
Mr. Armstrong laughed. "Certainly not," he said, "after a mile to the station and back, unless you intend to take them a twenty miles' journey."
"Twenty miles, papa! no, indeed, not more than four," she replied.
"Six miles altogether; well, the sturdy little animals will manage that I daresay without very great fatigue or inconvenience; so ring at once, and order the pony carriage to be ready in half an hour."
"I have not yet seen this pony carriage, Mary," said cousin Sarah.
"No," she replied, "you have been such business people since you arrived in London, going off in the morning by the omnibus, and returning with papa in the evening, so I have had no opportunity to offer to drive you; and even this morning you are going on matters of business."
"I shall enjoy the drive all the same," said cousin Sarah, "and so, I am sure, will Jack."
"You can come and meet us at the station by the 5.20 train this afternoon, Mary," said her father, with a smile; "another two miles wont hurt the ponies. I have not yet ventured upon the expense of an open carriage," he continued, addressing cousin Sarah, "principally because the doctor advises walking exercise for Maria. Besides, till my elder boys are out in the world I am unwilling to increase my expenses. I must have a groom for the saddle horses, and Mary can drive a pony carriage without the expense of coachman and footman."
"A very wise arrangement," replied cousin Sarah, "but," she added, rising, "I think it is time to get ready, if you will excuse us, Mrs. Armstrong." She had not yet been able to address her cousin Edward's lady-wife by her Christian name.
Mrs. John Armstrong, while dressing for a drive on that pleasant May morning, recalled a statement made by Mary that her father had bought this pony carriage as a present to herself.
"He is trying to bribe that dear girl into forgetting the superior young man we met on Sunday, but she never will," was cousin Sarah's reflection.
The spirited white ponies and pretty low carriage attracted all eyes as they trotted along the Kilburn Road lashing their tails and shaking their fat sides as if eager to perform their work to the best of their ability. After setting down her companions at the door of the station Mr. Armstrong dismissed his daughter; and, although foolishly proud of the admiring gaze cast upon her by passengers, he more than once regretted not having listened to his wife's suggestion:—"Had you not better let the groom drive you, Edward? I do not like the idea of my daughter acting the part of coachman to a railway station; it is all very well in country roads."
Mr. Armstrong laughed at his wife's scruples, but he afterwards saw the justice of her remark—at least in those days before young ladies had acquired the habits of independence which so distinguish them in the present day.
One, however, of the party had greatly enjoyed his drive; Jack would have felt no surprise at any admiration his cousin Mary excited. He watched her as she skilfully turned her ponies out of the station-yard, and then, while following his mother and Mr. Armstrong into the station, he said to himself, "I don't believe there's another girl in London so clever and so pretty as cousin Mary."
Mrs. Armstrong was ready to join her daughter in her morning excursion as she drove up to the gate, and when they were fairly off Mary said—
"Why, mamma, I believe these little animals are enjoying their work as much as we shall our ride. I have to keep a tight rein to prevent them from going too fast. No fear of fatigue on their part, I can see."
"I suppose you have perfect command over them, my dear," said Mrs. Armstrong, rather nervously.
"Oh yes, mamma, I hope what I said in joke has not alarmed you; they are the most docile little creatures in the world." And to prove her words and calm her mother's fears she checked the rapid trot, and for some distance allowed them to go at an easy pace.
When Mrs. Armstrong regained confidence in her daughter, Mary loosened her hold on the reins, to the great satisfaction of the spirited ponies, and when the groom took charge of them on their return to the Limes, they showed no signs of fatigue.
It wanted a very few minutes to five when cousin Sarah and her son met Mr. Armstrong at the Euston terminus. They were walking up and down the platform waiting for the train, which was being shunted from a siding, when they saw a lady and gentleman come hastily from the booking office.
"You have hurried me for nothing, Arthur," said the lady, almost gasping for breath, and yet angrily; "you see we are in plenty of time."
"My watch must be fast," he replied, "and I knew how important it was for us to catch this train in order to meet Mr. Norton at the appointed time."
"You might have waited till to-morrow," she said; "I cannot understand the motive for all this haste. But see, the passengers are taking their places; let us get into a carriage at once, for running so quickly has exhausted me."
Arthur Franklyn—for it was he—hastily assisted his wife into a first-class carriage, already occupied by Mr. Armstrong, cousin Sarah, and her son. Arthur placed his wife in the centre seat, and seated himself next her, near the window, and opposite Jack. The other corner, facing Mr. Armstrong, was the only vacant seat, the two centre divisions being now occupied by Mrs. Franklyn and cousin Sarah.
Kilburn was the first station at which this train usually stopped, and for some minutes after it started, no one spoke. Arthur almost turned his back on his wife, and looked out of the window with a very gloomy face. He was, in fact, brooding over her remark. "She thinks I have some motive for all this haste," he said to himself; "of course I have; does she suppose I should have chosen a woman so utterly selfish and proud, so unfit to be a mother to the children of my dear lost Fanny, if it had not been for her money? Of course I have a motive. I cannot tell her of my difficulties. And if I don't get a thousand pounds very quickly I shall be a ruined man."
Mrs. Franklyn on entering the carriage had thrown herself into the seat and leaned back with closed eyes. Cousin Sarah was attracted to watch her. The evident want of cordiality in the manner of husband and wife towards each other, the pain the latter appeared to suffer from the effects of hurrying to the station, and her husband's apparent indifference, aroused the pity of the warm-hearted countrywoman. She was about to ask her if she felt ill, when a sudden pallor spread over her face, she stretched out her arms and exclaimed convulsively, "Arthur, Arthur, save me!"
There was a sudden rush forward of both gentlemen, but cousin Sarah, had already caught the drooping figure in her arms as she exclaimed, "Open the windows, stop the train, she is dying!"
In the confined space of a first-class carriage little could be done; Arthur, pale as death, offered to relieve Mrs. John Armstrong of the insensible form which she supported on her bosom, but she refused to do so.
"Unfasten her dress," she exclaimed, "untie her bonnet." And while Arthur obeyed with trembling, almost useless fingers, he called upon his wife by name, lavishing upon her the most endearing terms in tones of the bitterest woe—how bitter none but himself knew. Was she dying? would she really die? Ah yes, Arthur Franklyn, less than five minutes have elapsed since you were disturbed from your gloomy reverie, and the woman whom you flattered into marriage for the sake of her money lies a lifeless corpse in the arms of a stranger!
Mr. Armstrong, who has been in vain endeavouring to attract the notice of the guard, looks once more from the window, and exclaims, "Thank God we are slackening speed, we are nearing the station;" but even as he utters the comforting words to the apparently heart-stricken husband he knows it is too late.
Presently the train enters the station. Again he looks out. A porter approaches running with the train. "A doctor! a medical man, quick!" he exclaimed; "a lady is ill, dying."
The train has come almost to a standstill. Mr. Armstrong jumps out even at the risk of his life. There is a running to and fro of porters. A crowding of passengers to the carriage door, and a general commotion as the eager inquiries for a doctor are passed from lip to lip.
"Go for Dr. White." "No, Dr. Harris is the nearest." But Mr. Armstrong had been already successful. Within a few steps of the carriage he left so hastily he came upon a gentleman alighting from the train, and looking with eager inquiry at the confusion on the platform.
"Dr. West! thank God you are here; come quickly, a lady is dying or dead in our carriage."
With hasty steps and a serious face the doctor followed Mr. Armstrong. Scarcely two minutes had elapsed, yet the porters were preparing to remove the lifeless burden from the arms of cousin Sarah, who still held her tenderly, for the train could no longer be delayed.
Roused from the shock which had at first stunned him, Arthur Franklyn hastened to relieve Mrs. John Armstrong of his wife, and gently setting aside the porters, he and Mr. Armstrong lifted her from the carriage to the ladies' waiting-room, and laid her on one of the couches.
The door was closed to all but the doctor and those who had been in the carriage with Arthur Franklyn and his wife, and then Dr. West prepared to examine the patient before uttering the so often dreaded words, "It is all over."
He saw the agonised look in the husband's countenance as he covered the face and straightened the limbs of his dead wife, and placing his hand on his arm he said—
"You are the husband of this lady, I presume?"
Arthur could only silently assent.
"My friend," he said gently, "nothing that I or any one else can do would avail now, your wife's sufferings are over in this world."
"Sufferings!" exclaimed Arthur, "in what way, doctor?"
"Has not this lady been afflicted for some time with disease of the heart?" asked Dr. West.
"I don't know; she has never complained to me. I have only been married six months."
"I fear there must be an inquest, then," replied the doctor; "where does your own medical man reside?"
"In Melbourne," replied Arthur, in agitated tones; "we only arrived in England last week. Doctor, will you do all that is necessary for me in this terrible matter? here is my card; we were on our way to visit a relative in Kilburn; you will find me at Englefield Grange tomorrow."
"Englefield Grange!" exclaimed Dr. West, "are you related to our good old friend Dr. Halford?"
"He is the father of my first wife, and my children are with him now."
"My dear sir," cried the doctor, "I will do my best for you in this sad affair, but we must secure the help of my friend Armstrong and this lady also," he added, turning to cousin Sarah, on whose cheeks tears of pity and sympathy were quietly stealing.
At this moment Mr. Armstrong, who had been called from the room by the station-master, entered quickly, and advancing to Arthur he said gently—"I am sorry to pain you, but it will be necessary to remove the poor lady to the hotel before the arrival of the next train."
"I must submit to whatever is necessary," he replied as the porters entered the room; "I feel too bewildered to act for myself."
Meanwhile Mary Armstrong, in obedience to her father's request, had driven to the station, and drew up to the entrance three or four minutes before the train was due. She heard it arrive, and looked for her father and his companions among the numbers who passed out of the station much too anxiously to notice the glances of admiration cast upon herself; and yet the passengers seemed to linger, and some were conversing with great seriousness, to judge by their faces.
At length two gentlemen paused at a little distance from the pony carriage, and Mary heard her mother's name mentioned, and then the ominous words, "Death in a railway carriage."
Too startled at first to decide what to do, Mary allowed the speakers to move forward, so that the opportunity for questioning them was lost. Then she checked her fears; she had only heard detached sentences which might mean nothing; yet as the train moved out of the station, and a few straggling passengers made their appearance, a dread of she knew not what fell upon her.
What could she do? To leave the ponies was impossible, and yet she must ascertain what had happened. So painful had the suspense become that she was about to send a boy for a railway porter, when she saw a gentleman enter the station yard and advance towards her.
He started and flushed as he recognised Miss Armstrong, and was about to pass with the usual formal recognition, when, to his utter amazement, she exclaimed—
"Oh, Mr. Halford, I am so glad to see you! there has been an accident or something; I heard the passengers speak of a death in one of the carriages. Papa and my cousins were to arrive by this train, and I have been waiting here for them more than twenty minutes."
"What do you wish me to do, Miss Armstrong?" asked Henry Halford, who with the most intense pleasure at the prospect of doing anything for the girl still so truly loved, yet shrunk from encountering Mr. Armstrong.
Mary understood his hesitation. "If you would kindly make inquiries for me, and if papa has arrived by this train, please tell him I am waiting. I should feel so much obliged if you will do this, Mr. Halford."
The earnest, anxious tones and the pleading voice were too much for Henry Halford. Without another word he entered the station.
Meanwhile after starting the train the porters had obtained a covered litter on which the lifeless form of Louisa Franklyn was carried from the waiting-room, followed by Mr. Armstrong, cousin Sarah, Jack, and Arthur Franklyn.
To avoid the stairs leading from the platform the men turned towards a side gate which opened nearer to the hotel. They had scarcely reached it when a gentleman, evidently in a state of excitement, approached the group and exclaimed—
"Pardon me, Mr. Armstrong, your daughter who is waiting for you in the pony carriage has been alarmed by the remarks of passengers, and she is becoming anxious on account of the delay in your appearance."
For a moment Mr. Armstrong had looked at the speaker with almost indignant surprise; but a flush of anxiety and shame spread over his face at the thought that he had literally forgotten his daughter, and allowed her to sit in her little carriage alone at a railway entrance.
His hasty reply was cordial and polite.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Halford; I am ashamed to say I had forgotten that my daughter was waiting for us."
"Come, Sarah," he added, "I must hasten to relieve poor Mary's fears; this gentleman will excuse us, I know."
"Oh, pray do not let me detain you," said Arthur, "but may I be allowed to call and thank you and this lady for your great help and sympathy?"
"Most certainly; here is my card," said Mr. Armstrong, hastily placing in the hands of Henry Halford's brother-in-law the cardboard invitation to visit his house, for which Henry would have given half he possessed.
He had drawn back in mute surprise during the conversation between Mr. Armstrong and Arthur, but no sooner had the movements of the former gentleman and his companions discovered Henry Halford to the stricken man than he started forward, and seizing his hand, told him what had happened, in a voice so choked with sobs and tears as to be scarcely audible.
Henry led him away to the hotel, to which the body of his dead wife had been carried, and calming down his excitement encouraged him to relate all that had occurred.
"And were Mr. Armstrong and his friends in the carriage with you?" asked Henry, in astonishment.
"Yes, we occupied all the seats but one, and the lady held my poor wife in her arms with the greatest tenderness. Is she Mrs. Armstrong?"
"No," exclaimed Henry, in a tone that savoured of indignation. "Mrs. Armstrong is a very different person. This lady to whom you refer is no doubt a relative from the country." He little thought that the relative of whom he spoke was his best friend.
After a while Arthur Franklyn became calm enough to walk with his brother-in-law to Englefield Grange, dreading the ordeal in which a detail of what had happened would involve him. Of other and more painful consequences to him which would result from his wife's death he could speak to no one, although he knew they would cause him a sleepless night.
Mr. Armstrong's first words as he and his two companions made their appearance relieved Mary of a certain dread. She could not control her fears that her father would be a little angry with her for sending a message by Mr. Henry Halford.
"My darling," he said, "I am so sorry! I forgot I had asked you to come for us; have you been waiting long?"
"Nearly half an hour; but, papa, what has happened?"
"I will tell you presently, Mary; drive home quickly, your mother will be getting anxious."
The sad story was soon told in a few words during the drive, and Mary became silent from awe and sympathy.
Presently her father asked,—"What brought Mr. Halford to the station, Mary?"
"I had not time to ask him," said Mary, gently, "neither had I any right to do so. The instant I saw him I begged him to go and find out what detained you."
"No doubt he came to meet his brother-in-law," said cousin Sarah. "I heard the gentleman whose wife has died so sadly speak of his father-in-law as Dr. Halford of Englefield Grange."
Mr. Armstrong did not notice this remark, and the silence at last became so painful to Mary, that she was about to break it by attracting notice to her ponies, who seemed by their rapid movements to look upon a journey of eight miles a day as merely an amusing pastime.
Cousin Sarah diverted her from her purpose by a sudden remark.
"Jack, my boy, you look pale; in the midst of the confusion and sorrow I almost forgot you were present."
"Oh, I'm all right, mother," he replied, "but I own I did feel queer at the time."
"Don't talk about the affair too strongly at home, Jack," said Mr. Armstrong, "at least not in the presence of Mrs. Armstrong."
At this moment Mary drew up her ponies at the gate. Mr. Armstrong and his companions entered the house, the painful event of the last hour occupying every thought, more especially from its connexion with the residents at Englefield Grange.
"Man is the creature of circumstances," is a remark that few will deny. Those, however, who remember that "not a sparrow falls to the ground without our heavenly Father's knowledge" name these said circumstances "providences." If even a sparrow cannot fall unnoticed, will not the great Creator trouble Himself about the movements and actions of His creatures in a higher state of being, and for whom Christ died?
It was a mysterious providence which in so sudden and painful a manner removed the second wife of Arthur Franklyn from the evil to come, but it led to important results, and influenced the future of more than one of the persons mentioned in our story.
Thependuleon the mantelpiece of the drawing-room pointed to ten minutes to six on the day of this sad occurrence, and Mrs. Armstrong, who had still some misgivings about Mary and her pony carriage, began to feel very anxious. She rose and entered the dining-room, where the parlourmaid was laying the cloth. "Margaret," she said, "I fear something has happened to detain your master and Miss Mary. Where is Rowland? send him at once to the station; they ought to have been home half an hour ago."
The girl turned to obey, but she had scarcely left the room, when Mrs. Armstrong saw the pony carriage drive to the gate, and hastened out to meet its occupants. "What has detained you? Oh, how glad I am to see you here safe and well!"
"Of course we are all safe and well," said her husband, in a cheerful voice, as he led her to the drawing-room, "but the fact is, a lady was taken ill in our railway carriage, and this caused some delay; so make yourself comfortable, dearest, while we get ready for dinner; you shall hear all about it by-and-by."
Jack had recovered himself during the drive home, but he hastened at once to his room, and remained there till he heard his mother go downstairs, for he feared being questioned by Mrs. Armstrong after her husband's caution to him.
Although unaccustomed to give way to fine lady nervousness, Mr. Armstrong knew that his wife had not quite lost the natural timidity which once nearly cost Maria St. Clair her life.
But Mary knew her mother best: after the rest had left the drawing-room she placed her arm tenderly round her neck, and said, "Mamma darling, you need not wait for 'by-and-by,' I will tell you the worst at once. A poor lady who sat opposite cousin Sarah in the railway carriage was taken ill on the journey and died before they arrived at the station."
"Oh, how very shocking!" said Mrs. Armstrong. "Was she alone?"
"No, her husband was with her, but he appeared too stunned to do anything, so cousin Sarah held the poor dying lady in her arms till the train stopped, and then papa went to find a doctor."
"I am glad you have told me, my dear," said Mrs. Armstrong, "anything is better than suspense, and I should have pictured to myself all sorts of horrors."
"Yes, mamma, I knew that, or I should not have told you, but I must go and prepare for dinner; I have only three minutes, so it is well I changed my dress before I started for the station."
No one at the table noticed the effects on cousin Sarah of the shock she had received; yet she was a woman of warm deep feelings, railway travelling was a comparative novelty to her, and the terrible delay from the impossibility of stopping the train, added to the awe she felt when the poor woman died in her arms, had greatly shaken her nerves.
Very little, however, was said on the subject during dinner, but in the evening, when Mrs. Armstrong listened with painful interest to her description of what had occurred, she could perceive how acutely cousin Sarah felt the effects of the scene she had witnessed.
By degrees the conversation turned upon the persons mixed up with these sad circumstances, and then Mrs. Armstrong heard with surprise the name of the messenger Mary had sent to look for her father, and his close relationship to the husband of the lady so suddenly deprived of life.
"Mr. Henry Halford had but one sister living when we first became acquainted with his family," remarked Mrs. Armstrong, "and she died in Australia two years ago."
"This must be a second wife, then," said cousin Sarah, who had her own reasons for wishing to know all that could be learnt respecting Mr. Halford's family; "do you remember the name of Miss Halford's husband, Mary?"
"Here is his card," said Mr. Armstrong, looking up from his newspaper and throwing the harmless missive on the table as he spoke; "you will receive a visit from him to-morrow, no doubt; he asked to be allowed to call and thank me for my kindness, and so forth; so you can accept these thanks, cousin Sarah, they belong to you by right."
"Franklyn," said Mrs. Armstrong, taking up the card and reading it, "is that the name, Mary?"
"Yes, mamma," she replied, in a quiet voice, for her father held his paper on one side to look at her while she spoke. "I read a notice of Mrs. Franklyn's death in theTimes, and it also stated that she was the daughter of Dr. Halford of Englefield Grange."
Mr. Armstrong then continued his reading. Cousin Sarah had noticed the look of fierce inquiry on his face as his daughter spoke, and recalling Mary's troubled countenance and her father's remarks about the Halfords, she felt more than ever determined to interfere.
She made one remark, however, which brought a sudden flush to Mary's face—
"This Mr. Franklyn told Dr. West in my presence that he and his wife had recently arrived in England from Melbourne, and that they were on their way to visit the father of his first wife, Dr. Halford, at Englefield Grange, with whom his children were now staying, so no doubt this gentleman was the husband of Dr. Halford's daughter, and the father of the young people we saw on Sunday."
In spite of a look of disgust which passed over the countenance of Mr. Armstrong, his wife could not resist a few approving remarks about the young people referred to, till at length Mr. Armstrong exclaimed, "Come, Mary, give us a little music, we have heard quite enough of our unfortunate fellow-passenger and his antecedents; if he comes to-morrow you can treat him with politeness, and there the matter will end."
Mary rose hastily to obey, she was glad to turn her back on those present, for the explanation respecting the young visitors at Englefield Grange had lifted a weight from her heart and made her eyes brighter, and the colour on her cheeks deeper than they had been for months. Yes, she could sing now; and as Jack listened, and remembered that this was his last evening at the Limes, he inwardly resolved that when he was old enough, and had made a fortune like Cousin Armstrong, he would marry a wife exactly like Cousin Mary.
Altogether it had been a day of excitement; and when Mary entered her bedroom a feeling of hope—the foundation of which she could scarcely account for—seemed to fill her heart. She lay awake for some time, trying to realise certain causes from which this hope seemed to spring. Her meeting with Henry Halford at the station—the absence of displeasure in her father's manner, which she dreaded would follow her sudden impulse to send him as a messenger—above all, the discovery that she had mistaken one of Mr. Henry Halford's nieces for perhaps his intended wife—and last, but not least, an impression that Cousin Sarah was favourable to the Halfords, and in some way able to influence her father—these reflections, added to the certainty in her own mind that Henry Halford had taken his degree and would soon go up for ordination, seemed so full of hope that they acted with a soothing influence on the young girl's heart, till at length she slept.
Very different from the innocent hopes of Mary Armstrong were the reflections that haunted the chamber of Arthur Franklyn that night at Englefield Grange. The painful event of his second wife's sudden death, and the necessity for an inquest, had spread consternation over the household, and excited great sympathy.
To his surprise, no one sympathised with him more deeply than his eldest daughter, for he remembered how openly she had resented his second marriage. But to the memory of this resentment he now owed Clara's sympathy; remorse for having been at times rude and unkind to the woman who must have suffered so much to cause such a sudden death, filled the young girl's heart.
But even her gentle cares and attentions could not soothe the father's sorrow till he observed that this apparently great grief for his second wife created some little surprise among the relatives of Fanny Halford, who was the mother of his children.
On discovering this he roused himself, and as some excuse for his sorrow, acknowledged the fact of his having hurried her to the train.
"I feel almost as if I were Louisa's murderer," he said "for I remember now how she gasped for breath when we reached the platform."
"No, no, Arthur, do not think anything so painful," said Dr. Halford; "she had never spoken to you of her heart being diseased, or I am sure you would have been more careful, yet I can quite understand how the circumstance troubles you."
Troubled him! Yes, we must do Arthur Franklyn the justice to own that the recollection pained him greatly, but what was that memory compared to the fact that his wife's death before signing certain documents would inevitably cause his utter ruin?
He had that day obtained from his lawyer a document signed by the two trustees of his wife's property, authorizing her to draw out 2000l.for her husband's use.
On the strength of this he had taken furnished apartments for three months, and he and his wife were on their way to fetch the children from Englefield Grange on the day which had ended so fatally.
The lawyer, Mr. Norton, to whom Henry had introduced his brother-in-law, resided at Kilburn, and an arrangement had been made for him to meet his clients at the Grange and for Henry to witness Mrs. Franklyn's signature.
All this Arthur Franklyn remembered as he paced his bedroom long after midnight, and knew that the fortune, to obtain which he had married a second time, was lost to him for ever.