Had he only secured for himself the 2000l.he might have been saved from ruin, but now even that was denied him—that which had already cost him so much. To obtain the consent of the trustees he had made false statements of his position in Melbourne, and of the merchants whom he affirmed were ready to receive him as a partner.
Mrs. Franklyn had herself proved at first his greatest difficulty. She was a woman who thought only of self; she had been a widow for six years, and during that time had saved from her income several hundred pounds, which in the first happy days of her marriage she had made over to Arthur, and afterwards regretted the generous impulse. She had concealed from him the fact that her property was vested in the power of trustees, and when the hundreds in the Melbourne bank were being transferred to her husband's name she had said laughingly, "There is nothing to thank me for, Arthur, what is mine is yours now."
Arthur Franklyn would never have made a good lawyer, even had he continued to follow his profession; but he knew well enough that his power over the property of his intended wife should have been secured before their marriage, and this he dared not attempt to do in an open and straightforward manner, because his own affairs were in a state of hopeless insolvency.
Not only so, but he quickly discovered that he had a rival in the affections of the lady he wished to marry, and that rival was money. To ask her the question whether her property was at her own disposal was one he dared not venture upon. With his usual want of prudence, therefore, he determined to chance it, and trust to his own power of persuasion to obtain money when he wanted it, even should there be trustees looming in the distance.
And now, just as all difficulties had been overcome, and his most sanguine hopes realised, comes this terrible destruction to all his schemes.
"Had Louisa only lived another day," he said to himself, "all might have been well; but now—ruin, poverty, and disgrace are all that are left for me and my children." Yet even at this critical moment, had he been truthful and candid instead of trusting with his usual self-sufficiency that he should overcome this difficulty as he had done others before—had he made a confidant of his brother-in-law, and told him the whole truth, what a terrible amount of sorrow and remorse he might have been spared.
But no, he could not so humiliate himself to his first wife's relations. What! own his real position, and ask for help and sympathy after boasting of the style in which he and Fanny had lived, and of the superior education he had given his children?
No, never! Something he must do to prevent this, but what?
Is there an evil spirit at hand ready to answer such a question from the man or woman who hesitates to follow the right path?
Alas! too often yes. At least, it was so in the case of Arthur Franklyn; at this moment an evil suggestion arose in his mind from which he recoiled with a shudder. Ah! had he then fallen on his knees and prayed for power to resist the fearful temptation that now presented itself, that power would have been given him, and by peaceful sleep the nerves which were overwrought after the exciting events of the day would have been calmed and soothed.
But Arthur Franklyn had yet to learn the weakness and treachery of his own heart, through a fiery ordeal which he was now about to prepare for himself.
A gas burner projected from the wall on either side of the dressing-table; one of these only he had lighted on entering, and shrinking from the glare, he had lowered it nearly out while pacing the room in an agony of thought.
Now he approached the dressing-table, turned the one gas burner on full, and lighted the other. Then he started back at the reflection of his own face in the glass; pale and haggard, eyes aflame with excitement, and lips reddened and parched with fever. For a moment fear made him pause—only for a moment. Flinging sober thought to the winds, he drew a chair to the table, pushed aside pincushion, toilet-cover, and ornaments, and took from his pocket a pencil and two letters.
For at least an hour he continued to write on scraps of paper torn from his pocket-book.
The dawn of a May morning was stealing through the staircase windows as Arthur Franklyn descended cautiously to the hall. On a table, near the entrance, as he well remembered, stood an inkstand and pens; these he carried upstairs and re-entered his room, in which the gas still burnt brightly, and closed the door carefully, to exclude the fast-increasing light of day. He was white now even to the lips as he again seated himself at the table, and drew from his breast coat pocket a document on which he signed, two names with different pens.
Even in the midst of his evident excitement his hand was firm. Then he dashed down the pen, to the great detriment of the toilet-cover, turned off the gas, and threw himself on the bed dressed as he was, to try and lose in the sleep of forgetfulness for a time a memory of what he had done.
The old school-bell for breakfast woke him next morning from a heavy sleep, and also awoke in him painful memories of olden times, when a happy innocent lad, he had so often answered its summons.
He rose hastily, bathed his face, and battled for a time with the emotions that overpowered him. Strange to say, the memories of his youthful days strengthened, his determination to carry out what he had last night begun.
"Could he allow the children of his lost Fanny to starve in poverty, or to feel that their father could support them no longer?"
No! impossible! he must carry it through—she, his second wife, would have done it had she lived; no one would be injured, the money was his morally, and if not quite legally, that was of no consequence.
This decision produced a kind of calm, like the effects of an opiate, so that when he appeared at breakfast the haggard look of excitement was gone; the pale, calm face created a feeling of sympathy, more especially in the warm heart of Kate Marston, whom Fanny's children had already learnt to love.
During the day when he attended the inquest he listened with almost stoical indifference to a detail of the circumstances attending his wife's death. He answered the questions put to him by the coroner calmly and truthfully; not even the examination of the medical man, from whose evidence he learnt that apost-mortemexamination had taken place, could rouse in him the slightest interest.
Yet the pale and sorrowful expression of his face excited the sympathy of those present, especially while being questioned by the coroner.
"You were then not aware that your wife was suffering from disease of the heart, Mr. Franklyn?"
"No," he replied, "not in the least; she never gave me reason to suppose that such was the case, even by a hint."
"And I believe you hurried to the station on the day of the occurrence?"
A kind of spasm passed over the face of Arthur Franklyn, and his lips quivered as he replied—
"I have reason to remember that we did so, owing to my watch being five minutes too fast."
"We will not pain you with any further questions, Mr. Franklyn," said the coroner; and Arthur bowed as he moved to give place to Mrs. John Armstrong, feeling conscious that he did not deserve the sympathy too evident in the looks of those around him.
What did they know of the terrible results to him of that hurried run to the train? What could any one know of the one absorbing thought which seemed to banish all others from his mind, and make him speak and move like a man in a dream?
Nothing, not a shadow of the truth; and yet, while conscious that, like the somnambulist, he was steadily making his way to certain destruction, all power to stop his downward progress seemed to have deserted him; he had taken the first false step, and the result appeared inevitable.
During that sad week, in the darkened rooms, with the coffin containing the lifeless form of his second wife occupying the room which once belonged to Fanny Halford, he still wore that look of forced submission which is so much like despair.
On the day of the funeral, when the playground voices at Englefield Grange were silent and subdued, when the children of his first wife shed tears of childish sorrow by the coffin of the second, when his father-in-law and Henry looked with pitying eyes for the last time at the shrouded form of Louisa Franklyn, still beautiful even in death, Arthur showed no sympathy, no change in face or manner; not even when he saw Kate Marston weeping over the little Albert, the motherless boy of her lost Fanny.
Indeed, Mrs. Halford's death had been too recent for any in that house to look with indifference so soon after on the insignia and trappings of woe. Arthur alone seemed callous and indifferent, while all around were in tears. Yet although they pitied him, not one in that family circle could have guessed his secret.
In the midst of all these exciting events and mournful surroundings Henry Halford did not forget that the appointed day for his ordination was drawing near. He avoided all reference to it, however, although Arthur Franklyn had more than once missed him, and knew that an efficient substitute had been provided to take his place in the schoolroom during his absence at the bishop's examination.
A week's respite from school duties occurring at Whitsuntide, Henry had previously promised to spend that time with his friend Horace Wilton. He had hesitated, in consequence of recent events, to speak of leaving home till after the funeral, and still felt reluctant to desert Arthur while he remained at the Grange. From one of the children, however, the matter became known to Arthur on the Friday evening before Whit-Sunday. Henry had tempted his brother-in-law to a walk round the garden, and was speaking to him of his approaching ordination, and other matters connected with it, when they were joined by Mabel.
The little girl had become very fond of her uncle, and as she clung to his arm while they slowly paced the garden walk she listened to the conversation between the gentlemen with great interest.
Presently, in a pause, Mabel said—
"Uncle Henry, are you not going to Oxford tomorrow?"
"Well, my dear," he replied, "I have not quite made up my mind; the truth is, Arthur," he added, turning to his brother-in-law, "my friend Horace Wilton has invited me to spend a few days with him during Whitsuntide."
"Then why not go?" said Arthur; "the change will be of benefit to you, and brace up your nerves for the ordeal on Sunday week."
"It seems so ungracious to leave you in your trouble for the gratification of myself; perhaps, however, I may run down to Oxford to-morrow and return on Monday."
"No, Henry, pray do not shorten your visit on my account; I shall very likely be in London nearly all next week—go in, Mabel," he added, observing his little daughter's earnest face; and as she obeyed, Henry replied earnestly to his remark: "Indeed, Arthur, you ought not to think of leaving us yet—you require a week or two longer of perfect rest before returning to business. I suppose there is nothing that requires immediate attention?" he asked, without a shadow of suspicion that the question would inflict a pang on the heart of his brother-in-law.
Controlling himself, he replied, "Nothing more important than examining poor Louisa's papers. I have put off the ordeal for a week, I had not sufficient fortitude even to think of it. But it must be done very shortly, and her desk and other matters are at our apartments in London. I shall perhaps only stay a few days this time, but I must rouse myself soon and return to business for the sake of my children."
"Then shall I find you at the Grange on my return?" said Henry.
"I shall no doubt remain in town at least a week," replied Arthur, "therefore you need not put off your visit on my account; and there is the summons to tea," he exclaimed as Mabel reappeared. "Your uncle and I are coming presently, my dear; go in and tell Miss Marston," and then, in a low hurried voice as soon as they were alone, he said: "Henry, pray don't speak of my visit to London before your father or Kate; I could not endure to discuss the subject with them."
Henry promised to be silent, yet wondering at the request. To him no relief could be greater than to unburden his heart to a true friend in any pressing anxiety. But Arthur's anxiety was not of a nature to be confided to another, and as they walked to the house he inwardly resolved that he would escape as quickly as possible from the scrutiny of the anxious eyes at the Grange, and from the memories which were revived by its associations, and rendered more painful by recent sad events.
Arthur Franklyn had not been in a mood to call upon Mr. Armstrong during that sad week, nor, indeed, to pay visits anywhere. But he wrote an appropriate letter, saying all that was necessary of grateful thanks for the kindness and sympathy he had experienced, especially from Mrs. John Armstrong.
Perhaps, on the whole, this was a more satisfactory proceeding in Mr. Armstrong's estimation, but Cousin Sarah was disappointed. She had been introduced to Mr. Henry Halford at the inquest, by his brother-in-law, and the half-hour during which she had conversed with him confirmed her good opinion of his manners and character.
Cousin Sarah was a few years older than Edward Armstrong; they had known each other from children, and in spite of the pride which had grown out of his increased wealth and aristocratic connexions, he had still a great deference for cousin Sarah's opinions. She possessed that very rare quality, plain common sense, and notwithstanding her homeliness she had intellectual tastes sufficient to enable her to appreciate knowledge and learning in its higher developments, as seen in her cousin Edward and Henry Halford. That a man of such intellectual power as Edward Armstrong could prefer for his daughter's husband the weak-minded captain whose history had been told to her to the intellectual young schoolmaster, because the former was rich and the latter poor, was to her a mystery.
Cousin Sarah, with all her good sense, had yet to learn the hardening, withering effects on the human heart which a love of gold produces.
She was brave, however, and she determined before she left Kilburn to bring the matter face to face with Edward Armstrong, and plead the cause of the young girl whom she was convinced by various signs was really attached to the intellectual young schoolmaster.
She had quickly discovered Mrs. Armstrong's opinion on the subject, and when she mentioned her wish to be alone with cousin Edward, she found in Mary's mother a strong ally. Soon after dinner, on this the last evening of her visit, cousin Sarah found herself alone in the drawing-room at Lime Grove, with a man who prided himself upon his indomitable will and unbending opinions.
But she was not daunted. There were two strong points in her favour, and upon these she rested her hopes of success. One was Edward Armstrong's love for his daughter, and the other his often acknowledged confidence in cousin Sarah's judgment. She sat at work near the open window. May was passing into June, and the open country which still held sway near Lime Grove seemed redolent of summer. The sun, still high above the horizon, was tinting the fleecy clouds that softened his brightness with crimson and gold, and from myriads of little throats came the warbling songs of joyous birds waking the echoes with their sweet melody.
"So you leave us to-morrow, cousin Sarah," said Mr. Armstrong, laying down his newspaper, and placing himself at the window near which she sat.
"Yes," she said, "and I do so with great reluctance; it has been a most happy fortnight excepting that sad affair in the train, but I shall never forget your kindness and your wife's."
"I don't forget your care and attention to my poor father," he replied, in a tone of deep emotion; "no kindness on our part can ever repay that, Sarah."
There was silence for a few moments, and then Mr. Armstrong spoke again:—
"I suppose you will leave Jack with perfect confidence?"
"Yes, quite; he seems very happy, and I think he will try to do well and get on in his business. He is delighted at the prospect of spending his monthly holiday here as you have proposed."
"Yes, poor fellow, it will be a change for him; I am glad Maria thought of it."
With all cousin Sarah's bravery, she found some little difficulty in commencing the subject uppermost in her thoughts, but there occurred another pause, and then Edward Armstrong led the way to it himself.
"Do you think Mary is looking well, Sarah?" he said, "you told me last Sunday week that she appeared changed, but I have not yet had an opportunity to ask you in what way."
"I must tell you the truth, Edward; Mary is as pretty and graceful as ever, but there is a delicacy of complexion, and at times a sad look, which makes me fancy she is not quite happy."
"They have been telling you a fine tale, I suppose, about my cruelty in not allowing my daughter to marry a man who has not a sixpence to call his own;" and as he spoke cousin Sarah could detect the old boyish temper, and the will that would brook no opposition. "I thought the girl had more sense," he went on; "why, she has refused offers that were unexceptionable, all because of that boy,—you have seen him, Sarah."
"I do not consider Mr. Henry Halford a boy, Edward," she replied, for now the ice was broken the impetuous tone did not daunt her. "He told me on Wednesday that he was going up for ordination on Trinity Sunday, the rector of Kilburn having given him what he called a title to orders."
"Yes, yes, I daresay; however, that is of little importance to me, but what has been told you, Sarah, about this matter?"
"Mary has told me nothing, Edward; Mrs. Armstrong certainly described the splendid offers her daughter had refused, and acknowledged that her refusals were no doubt caused by her attachment to Henry Halford;" and cousin Sarah spoke in that calm, quiet manner which so often carries weight with it.
"Absurd nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Armstrong; "I thought my daughter was above such lovesick foolery, to refuse a man with 12,000l.a year, and the nephew of a duke, for a penniless schoolmaster, descended from nobody knows who."
"Have you no anxiety for your daughter's future happiness, Edward?"
"Happiness! There's no happiness in the world without money."
"Oh, Edward, how you are changed! money was not the source of your dear father's happiness, you never learnt that opinion from him; besides, your own wife was without fortune."
"Ah yes, I had the money, and I chose Maria St. Clair for that sweet character which has never changed; besides, she was well born and well connected, which the Halfords are not."
"Who gave you that information, Edward?"
"Why, I formed the opinion from my own judgment. Who would be a schoolmaster if he could help it?"
"At all events a schoolmaster is equal to a tradesman in position, and often far above one in education, but for once, cousin Edward, you have failed in your judgment. Henry Halford, you must own, is a gentleman, and a man of education, and Iknowthat both his parents are as well born and as well connected as your own wife."
"I may askyounow where you obtained that information?" said Mr. Armstrong, in a sneering tone.
"You remember my father's farm, Edward?"
"Of course I do," he replied wonderingly; "I am not likely to forget the pleasant old homestead where you and John and I spent so many happy days in our childhood."
"And you remember Englefield, the beautiful estate of Lord Rivers, about two miles distant from Holmwood Farm, which my father tenanted from his lordship?"
"You are bringing back childish memories, Sarah, that are painful yet pleasant, but what has all this to do with the Halfords?"
"Dr. Halford was tutor to the present Lord Rivers in his young days, and from that circumstance he named his house at Kilburn, Englefield Grange. I had a long talk with young Mr. Halford on Wednesday, when we were waiting in the inquest-room at the hotel for you and the coroner. Mr. Franklyn introduced us. I was speaking of the beautiful scenery between Farnham and Basingstoke, and he asked me if I knew Englefield, and so one thing led to another——"
"But this has nothing to do with Mr. Halford's birth or connexions."
"Indirectly it has, for during our conversation I discovered that Dr. Halford's father was for many years and till his death a surgeon in Basingstoke, with a first-rate practice; his two sisters are well married, and his brother is an army surgeon in India."
"You seem to have obtained from this young man the history of himself and his connexions, Sarah,"—was the scornful remark of Mr. Armstrong,—"rather an unusual topic for a gentleman to enter upon on a first introduction."
"It arose entirely from my remark about the country round Basingstoke, but I will own that when he mentioned Englefield and Lord Rivers I drew from him other facts for the sake of our dear Mary. I tell you candidly, Edward Armstrong, that I admire your daughter's good sense in preferring such a man as young Mr. Halford to one of those who think they can purchase a wife with gold, feeling sure that she will be given up by her parents to the highest bidder, like the articles in an auction-room."
Edward Armstrong felt rather startled by cousin Sarah's plain speaking, in which there was too much truth to be pleasant, yet he said in a kind of deprecatory tone—
"I have promised Mary not to force her into the acceptance of any offer again, and if she is determined to marry no one but the schoolmaster, she must remain single all her life, for she has expressed her determination not to marry him without my consent, and that she will never have."
"Mary possesses the real source of happiness," said cousin Sarah, "even if you continue to withhold that consent. My uncle's teachings during the week of her visit at Meadow Farm have not been thrown away."
Again Edward Armstrong was startled. He had been surprised at the gentle submission of his high-spirited daughter, and the unaltered love and respect she had shown to the father, whose love of gold had blighted her youthful hopes; but now he understood the cause, and across his memory passed the words he had read at his father's knee long before the demon of gold had hardened his heart—
"Godliness with contentment is great gain."
"Godliness with contentment is great gain."
After a few moments' pause he said in a softened tone, "I should be glad, and so I know would Maria, to keep our only daughter at home with us always, but it seems an unusual fate for a beautiful and accomplished girl such as she is, and with 20,000l.which I could give her on her wedding-day—I am sure I have no wish but for her happiness."
"Then consent to her marriage with Henry Halford; I could tell by certain signs when I mentioned her name that he still loves your daughter. Wait till after his ordination, and than give the young people 10,000l.to enable them to live independently of the school till Mr. Halford obtains a living."
"Not much chance of that, I expect."
Cousin Sarah smiled.
"I have one more little piece of information to give yon, Edward," she said; "when speaking of his ordination Mr. Halford told me that his father's old pupil, Lord Rivers, had promised that the first vacant living in his gift should be given to his tutor's son, if he took orders, after his ordination. The young man, however did not appear to put much faith in the promise, in consequence of the number of years that had elapsed since it was made, he the only surviving son, being his father's youngest child."
The entrance of the tea-tray put a stop to the conversation, but Cousin Sarah could observe in the manner of Mr. Armstrong towards his daughter an unusual tenderness, and now and then a wistful look, as if conscience were upbraiding him as the cause of the sad expression which at times passed over her face.
Mary Armstrong drove Cousin Sarah and her father to the station next morning, for the first time since the sad death of Louisa Franklyn. Warmhearted and loving farewells had taken place before leaving the house, for Cousin Sarah had endeared herself to every one of the family, servants included, by her gentle ways, and quiet yet unreserved manners.
To Mrs. Armstrong she had become a true friend and comforter about Mary, although no opportunity occurred for her to hear what had passed between Cousin Sarah and her husband.
A few words only on the morning she left, while dressing for her journey, gave the loving mother hope.
"I repeated to Cousin Edward all I had heard of Mr. Halford, of his parents and connexions, and of his hopes about the Church, but I could obtain no promise that he would alter his mind on the subject. I think it would be unwise to say anything to Mary, and perhaps excite hopes only to be disappointed."
To this advice Mrs. Armstrong readily agreed, and when the elegant and refined lady and her homely sensible cousin kissed each other with real undisguised affection the latter said—
"We have done all we can, Cousin Maria, and we must leave the result to God, He will order all things for the best."
No word passed respecting the conversation which had taken place between Cousin Sarah and Edward Armstrong. Not even to his wife could the money-loving husband confess how much that conversation had roused his conscience.
And so the merry month of May gave place to leafy June, with its roses and lilies, its long days and short nights, and the perfume of new-mown hay.
With the first Sunday in June came the Whit-Sunday which reminds us of the day when the converts of early Christian times wore white garments, after the first baptismal rite, as a token of purity—fit emblem of that pure and holy Spirit which descended upon the apostles on the day of Pentecost.
The rector of Kilburn, whose long and faithful ministration had endeared him to his parishioners, was on that day assisted by a stranger. Henry Halford's place in the gallery with the boys being occupied by another of the masters.
Both these circumstances Mary noticed, but no idea arose in her mind that they were connected with Mr. Henry Halford's movements. When they left the church, however, Mary saw the gentleman, whom she now knew to be Mr. Franklyn, supporting his aged father-in-law on one side, with Clara on the other, and followed by Kate Marston and three other children, the youngest a beautiful little boy nearly four years old.
The dejected looks of the father, and the deep mourning worn by the children, brought tears to her eyes. For Mary, in her innocence, could only think of the second Mrs. Franklyn as a second mother to Fanny's children, and to her mind, therefore, they were doubly motherless.
Mrs. Armstrong had remained at home on the Sunday morning, and as Mary walked towards the gate leaning on her father's arm, she was surprised to see him leave her, and advancing towards the group accept the offered hand of Mr. Franklyn.
Not being aware of the slight acquaintance, Arthur turned to the old gentleman and introduced his father-in-law, Dr. Halford. Mary could not help noticing a certain dignity and reserve in his manner as he returned Mr. Armstrong's recognition. But Arthur was slow to observe these shades of manner, and quite ignorant of any motive for reserve, he introduced his children by name, as well as Kate Marston, without discovering in the least that he was making three of the party very uncomfortable.
"We are walking too slowly for you and Miss Armstrong," said the old gentleman gently, "I trust Mrs. Armstrong is well."
"Not quite well enough to attend church this morning on account of the heat, thank you," said Mr. Armstrong, glad of the opportunity to escape, "but not otherwise indisposed."
And then after the usual polite salutations, Mr. Armstrong and his daughter left the mournfully attired group, and hastened towards home.
"I must be polite to the people with whom I have been so unfortunately mixed up, Mary," said her father, "and I feel for the poor man, left with all those motherless children. I hear he is well off, besides inheriting his second wife's fortune; otherwise it would be a sad burden upon the poor old grandfather to have to support them upon school keeping."
"The youngest is a beautiful little boy," said Mary, quite unable to reply to her father's speech.
"Yes, I noticed a fat, rosy child, led by a lady in mourning; is she the wardrobe-keeper?"
"No papa," said Mary, and with all her efforts she could not restrain a slight tone of indignation, "that lady is Mrs. Halford's niece."
Mr. Armstrong would have questioned his daughter a week previously as to the source of her information, but a recollection of Cousin Sarah kept him silent.
On the way home they overtook Mr. Drummond, and while he and her father talked, Mary walked by his side meditating with surprise on the events of the morning—the earnest looks of Mr. Franklyn's eldest girl, the evident restraint in the manner of Kate Marston and Dr. Halford, and, above all, the absence of Henry Halford.
Suddenly a thought struck her—she knew he had taken his M. A. degree, she had seen his name in theTimes—was he gone up for ordination, and where? All this was at present unknown to her, and she could only console herself with the recollection that theTimeswould have every particular about the ordinations whenever they took place, and Henry Halford's name was sure to be mentioned if he were among the candidates.
Mary told her mother of the encounter in the churchyard, and the absence of Henry Halford, without any comment.
Mrs. Armstrong listened with interest to her description of the children, and especially about the little boy. She thought well of this meeting to a certain extent, but she said not a hopeful word to her daughter.
"I must rouse myself to attend to business, doctor," said Arthur Franklyn, while at breakfast the morning after meeting Mr. Armstrong in the churchyard. "I may be absent a week or more, can I leave the children with you for that time? I shall feel such perfect comfort in the reflection that they are under your roof, and managed so kindly by Kate."
"Of course they can stay, my dear Arthur," said the old gentleman tremulously, "it is a great comfort to me to have dear Fanny's children here. I have only one regret, that is, that her dear mother did not live to see her grandchildren. Clara reminds me greatly of her grandmother;" and he looked fondly at the young girl whose womanly appearance and manners had so startled Mary Armstrong.
"Would you like to stay with us a little longer, my child?" continued the old man, laying his hand on Clara's shoulder as she sat in her usual place by his side.
"Oh yes, grandpapa, I should indeed, we all should be glad to stay;" and she looked at her sisters and brothers as she spoke. Mabel assented timidly; the gentle little girl was becoming daily more dear to Kate Marston, who at the same time lavished upon her cousin Fanny's youngest child, Albert, the tenderest fondness.
Albert seemed to consider himself required in some way to answer Clara's questioning look, so he said—
"Me too, grandpa, me stay with you and Kate."
"Papa, am I to go to school in England?" asked James.
"Yes, my boy, certainly, and if grandpapa consents you shall stay and be a pupil at Englefield Grange."
"Oh, jolly!" said the boy, "it's ever so much better being here than at my school in Melbourne. Oh! I shall be happy, especially when uncle Henry comes home."
And so it was settled that during their father's absence his children should remain at Kilburn under their grandfather's roof.
"I must make a home for them as soon as I can turn myself round," he said a few hours after, when talking the matter over with Kate Marston. "I have to settle the business which brought me to England, and to ascertain what claim I have on my wife's property."
"What! did you not do so before you married her?" asked Kate, in astonishment.
"No," he replied, "she was very reticent on the subject, and I did not like to question her, or indeed her friends—she appeared to have perfect control over her property. However, she may have left a will. At all events, I must go to the apartments I have taken for three months, and look over her papers. Unfortunately, her lawyer is in Australia, and he may have a will in his possession. But, dear Kate," he continued, with a shudder, "her death is so recent, and the money subject too painful to be talked about yet. I know you will take care of my children, and that is a great relief to my mind."
"Indeed, indeed I will," she replied in a tone of sympathy; the paleness and the shudder had not escaped her. Had she known the pangs of conscience which caused that shudder, horror instead of sympathy would have filled her heart.
And yet the conscience of Arthur Franklyn could only at times arouse him to doubt the rectitude of his own conduct. By fallacious arguments, and false reasoning with himself, he had acquired confused ideas of right and wrong. He had still at times the appearance of being under the effects of some powerful sedative; and at others the flashing eye and the flushed face would have denoted the presence of some strong stimulant to less unsuspecting people than the residents at the Grange.
Arthur Franklyn with all his faults had never given way to intemperance, therefore the brandy flask which he now carried in his pocket or kept locked up in his bedroom was more potent in its effects, leaving behind it, after the first moments of excitement, an opiate-like stupor and stolidity of manner, very unlike that of the bright and fascinating Arthur Franklyn of former times.
When he left the little breakfast-parlour, in which we first met three of the residents of Englefield Grange, Dr. Halford and Kate Marston were alone.
"Uncle," said the latter, "Arthur is very much changed since the death of his second wife."
"Well, my dear, perhaps he is, but it's very natural under the painful circumstances in which she died. I cannot be surprised at his marrying again; of course he wanted a companion, and a mother for his children. The lady he chose appeared to me very pleasing and agreeable, and perhaps her money was a great temptation, although I do not think a marriage for money alone can ever insure happiness."
Kate said nothing; she had seen enough of the second Mrs. Franklyn to create a doubt respecting her suitableness to be a second mother to any children, especially to one so high-spirited as Clara, and she could not tell her uncle of the difficulties already in the way respecting Louisa Franklyn's fortune.
Arthur came in presently with his carpet bag in his hand, to wish them farewell.
"I have said good-by to the children, Kate; I am glad I sent nurse to you; they are with her now, and seem quite happy; you will find her very useful."
"I have found her so already, Arthur," she replied, "and Clara manages her little brother famously, so make yourself quite comfortable about the children."
"Arthur is going, uncle," she said gently, for the old gentleman sat dozing in his arm-chair.
"Eh? what?" he said, "Arthur going? Good-by my son; God bless you and keep you in the right path."
A few more hasty farewells, and then Arthur Franklyn started at a quick pace to catch the four o'clock train to London, with the last words of his poor Fanny's father—"Keep you in the right path"—ringing in his tars.
The sad and sudden death and the inquest on Mrs. Franklyn had appeared in most of the daily and weekly papers, therefore when Arthur knocked at the door of the house in which he had taken apartments, the landlady met him with a doleful face.
"Oh, sir, is it true? have you lost your dear lady as we read in the papers?"
"I am sorry to say it is true," he replied as he entered, "and it will make a great change in my arrangements; however, you shall not be a loser, Mrs. Mills; and now if you will bring me some tea I shall be glad of a cup to refresh myself, I can't get over such a shock all at once."
"No, sir, I should think not; and indeed you're not looking at all well, and no wonder. Yes, sir," she added quickly, seeing a look of impatience pass over his face, "I'll go at once and see about your tea, it will be ready in no time."
Very glad indeed was Arthur Franklyn when, the tea being removed and his landlady's restless tongue banished from the room, he could feel himself alone. He first drew the table near the window, which he closed notwithstanding the heat; then he emptied his pockets of various letters, and at length drew forth an ominous-looking document tied with red tape, which he opened and spread on the table. Yes, there the name stood, clear and distinct, in his wife's handwriting, "Louisa Ellen Franklyn. Witness—Henry Halford."
For some minutes Arthur Franklyn seemed fascinated to the writing before him. He turned the leaf and read the legally worded document through. There was no hesitation necessary there, Louisa had intended him to have this two thousand pounds, her trustees had consented and signed. Morally it belonged to him if not quite legally; what moral law would be transgressed by claiming it? None. Then for the sake of his own credit, for the sake of his children, he was justified in this act. It would injure no one; the bulk of his wife's fortune might go to another, and virtually this two thousand pounds had been already taken from it and placed in the bank till the document before him should be properly signed. Yes, it was all right, and as he thus thought he folded it carefully, re-tied it and placed it in his pocket-book.
On a table near stood Louisa's desk—her keys had been given into his hands, with her rings and jewels and a few other articles found in the pocket of the deceased lady. He took the small bunch of keys from his own pocket, but as he rose to fetch the desk, there flashed across his memory the words of the old doctor, "God bless you, my son, and keep you in the right path."
Conscience awoke and made itself heard. "You are out of the right path already, Arthur Franklyn," said the small still voice. "All your false reasoning, all your absurd sophistry is vain; you have no right to that money, and if you claim it on the document in your possession, you know by what name the laws of your country will call you it you are found out; and even if you obtain the money undiscovered, you will never know another happy hour. Burn the paper, Arthur Franklyn, and throw off the power of the evil spirit that entices you."
The conscience-stricken man staggered to his seat; he drew the paper from his pocket, and forgetting for a moment that it was summer-time, he turned towards the empty fireplace. Then an impulse came upon him to tear the document to atoms, and throw from his mind the fearful incubus; but his hand was arrested by a sudden memory of his debts in Australia, which if not paid must, he knew, end in the disgrace of bankruptcy. Again the tempter reminded him of his children, his eldest daughter growing into womanhood; poverty, disgrace for her portion. No, no, it could not be, he must risk all. There was nothing to fear. He would arrange all matters of business in England, a few days or a week would suffice for that, and then he would return to Melbourne. Where he was so well known he could easily get the papers cashed by paying a good amount of interest. His children were safe for the present. He should be able to send over payment for their board. Yes, this plan must be adopted, it was the best and the only one; and with this resolution strong in his mind conscience was crushed, its voice silenced for a time, and Arthur Franklyn left to follow the downward road on which he had made the first false step.
He again rose to fetch Louisa's desk, and placing it on the table before him, eagerly examined its contents. Letters from friends, a banker's book, a cheque for seventy-four pounds which he had given her at the time of the transfer of her ready cash to his name, about fifty pounds in ready money, and at last a little packet of his own letters written before their marriage, carefully and neatly tied together, several little articles of jewellery, and others of no importance, but no will.
Arthur Franklyn as he made this discovery knew that all hope of his late wife's fortune was lost to him, unless she had left a will with her lawyers in Melbourne, and this appeared another urgent reason why he should return thither.
The money he had found, with the balance of a few hundreds still lying at the Australian bank in London, would pay his passage, and help him to carry out his plans. He replaced the various articles in the desk excepting the jewels and the money; her watch and chain he had left at his father-in-law's for Clara. But as he placed his hand on the packet of his own letters a pang of remorse shot through his heart, which almost threatened him with another attack of conscience. He hastily drew the flask from his pocket, and seizing a wineglass which stood on the sideboard filled it nearly to the brim with the so often fatal stimulant, and drank it off.
For a time it produced a false courage which enabled him to finish his search of the desk; and after closing and locking it he remained at the table and proceeded to sketch out his future movements, made a list of the boxes to be sent next day to Kilburn, and also of the articles he wished to take with him on his voyage. By this time the twilight of a June evening was fading into night; Arthur looked at his watch and rang the bell, it was nearly half-past nine. The landlady herself appeared with what she termed a nice little supper, to tempt Mr. Franklyn's appetite. She lighted the gas and uncovered the tray for his inspection, but the supper failed to produce the result she expected. Mr. Franklyn could eat nothing but a biscuit, and she left the room in great distress of mind to expatiate in the kitchen on the dreadful event which had "so altered the gentleman upstairs and quite took away his appetite."
Arthur Franklyn, totally unmindful of her sympathy, escaped to his bedroom soon after the clock struck ten. But there was no thought of Him on whom we are told to cast our burden. There arose in his heart no prayer for guidance in the right path. It might be said of him at this period of his life that "God was not in all his thoughts." To him in this hour of fierce temptation there was no solace but the fiery spirit, so valuable as a medicine, so dangerous as a stimulant. He took another supply before seeking his pillow, and sunk at once into an unhealthy sleep, from which he awoke in the morning unrefreshed and with a throbbing headache. During the next three days Arthur Franklyn, with a kind of unnatural energy, went through the tasks he had allotted to himself. From the lawyer to the banker's; from the West End to the City, in cabs and in omnibuses; to the shipping offices to secure a berth; to the railway station to send boxes to Kate Marston and his daughter, and to write letters in the evening—so passed the next three days.
One discovery he made while at the lawyer's office. From a remark made by Mr. Norton, to whom Henry Halford had introduced him, he found that gentleman had made a mistake, and here he took the second step in the downward path.
After expressing his regret and sympathy, Mr. Norton said—
"You are fortunate in one thing, Mr. Franklyn; I hear that Mrs. Franklyn signed her name to the document on the morning before she died at her own lawyer's, so the two thousand pounds are yours to all intents and purposes."
"It may be so," replied Arthur, languidly; "but I have been so upset and so full of business I have not had time to examine it."
"Well, do so, my dear sir, when you get home; no doubt you will find it all right."
This mistake of Mr. Norton's, which will be hereafter explained, sent Arthur from the lawyer's office in a tremble of excitement. He had nothing to fear now; all would end well, and he should overcome every difficulty.
The fact that he had spoken falsely to Mr. Norton, and helped to mislead that gentleman, he entirely overlooked.
And so the time passed on, and the morning of the Friday on which he was to sail for Melbourne rose in its summer brightness.
But the excitement, the at times clamorous voice of conscience, and the unusual amount of stimulant he took, were together combining to produce fever of the blood and irritation of the brain in Arthur Franklyn.
When he started in a cab from his lodgings his landlady remarked, "Well, if this rushing about every day don't soon kill that poor gentleman, he must be made of iron."
No idea of the truth entered her mind. To conceal his intention of leaving England it had been necessary for him to invent and prevaricate and deceive in a way that twelve months before he would have shrunk from with shame and disgust. But principles of truth, honour, and rectitude, without the foundation of religion and the fear of God, are never to be relied on. In the hour of fierce temptation they had proved to Arthur Franklyn no stronger than a broken reed.
He reached the landing-place just below London Bridge at about noon, wishing to get on board early, as the vessel was timed to sail at seven in the evening.
He had been unable to resist another supply of the fiery fluid, early as it was, consoling himself with the reflection, "When I am on board I shall get over this unnatural craving for stimulants, and give up taking it."
But he had taken it once too often. His boxes were all on board, and he carried in his hand a carpet bag, containing among other things the fatal document which had already worked him so much evil.
He alighted from the cab, paid the driver, and proceeded towards the Australian packet, which lay alongside the wharf at a little distance from the shore. A plank stretched across from the gangway of the vessel rested on land, and men with boxes and other packages were passing to and fro upon it. Arthur Franklyn waited till the way was clear, then he placed his foot on the plank and approached the vessel. A very small portion of this frail bridge passed over water, the shore end resting on rising ground, and to a man with clear head and steady step there could be no possible danger.
But Arthur Franklyn's head was not clear, neither was his step steady, and as he approached the middle of the plank many persons on the bridge and about the wharf saw him totter and turn pale.
Speechless from alarm, and fearful of hastening a catastrophe by a warning word, no one moved or spoke as he raised his foot to go forward. The next moment, amidst the screams and shouts of the lookers-on, Arthur Franklyn lost his balance and fell with his carpet bag into the water, which closed over him pitilessly, as if in his helpless condition every effort to save him would be useless.
There were running to and fro, cries for ropes, and many eager hands stretched out when he rose to the surface; but the drowning man had neither sense nor power to help himself or seize the offered aid.
By this time more than one swimmer was in the water diving for the drowning man. Minutes which seemed hours passed, and then amidst the crowds of excited spectators Arthur Franklyn's apparently lifeless body was drawn from the water, hastily placed in a cab, and carried off across London Bridge to Guy's Hospital.
But the carpet bag had sunk to the bottom, to be drawn up weeks after by the Thames' searchers; while in one corner, soaked into a pulp by the action of the water, lay the fatal document which had brought upon Arthur Franklyn such terrible results.
June again at Oxford, and the year for grand Commemoration is again attracting numbers to the famous old city.
Three years have passed since Charles Herbert walked down the High Street with his friend Horace Wilton on his way to the station to meet Mary Armstrong.
The Fellow of Balliol is now wandering in Christ Church meadows with another very old friend, whom he is vainly trying to persuade to remain at Oxford till after Commemoration.
"You have seen so little of the place, Reginald," said Horace; "and if you have decided to exchange into a regiment going to India, you should not miss being present for once on such an occasion."
"It's no use, Horace," was the reply, free from the "aw-aw" so detrimental to Reginald Fraser's speech when addressing ladies, or suffering from nervousness. "It's no use; I couldn't remain now after all you told me last evening about Miss Armstrong's visit; perhaps she may be at Oxford again this year, and I wouldn't meet her for the world. How strange it seems that you should be acquainted with her."
"It was scarcely a week's acquaintance," he replied; "and in all my visits since to the home of my friend Charles Herbert, in Park Lane, I have never met Miss Armstrong there, which is still more singular. But do you really consider your case hopeless?"
"Indeed I do, although, as I told you, Mr. Armstrong gave me every encouragement."
The young man paused, and then exclaimed, with a sudden effort—
"Wilton, I'll tell you all about it. I wanted to do so last night, but I thought an old bachelor like you would not care to listen to a love story."
Horace Wilton stifled a sigh. The man of thirty-five was generally supposed to be wedded to his books, and to avoid the society of women from choice.
The youthful undergraduates of the University would have wondered greatly had they been told some little of the romantic history attached to the erudite student's early days. Only a very few of his most intimate friends, Charles Herbert amongst the number, knew any of the circumstances. Yet, while reticent respecting his own experiences, his manner with his friends excited confidence, and in none more readily than Reginald Fraser, whom Horace had known from a child.
"I am quite ready to hear the whole story," he said, with a slight smile; "probably it will be a relief to you to confide in one upon whose silence you know you can safely rely."
"Indeed it will," said the weak-minded but amiable young officer. "You know our fellows would chaff me awfully if I talked to them as I did to you last night. But you know I felt sure of winning any girl if I could only muster up courage enough to pop the question, because of my money and all that. And when I'd got over what I thought was the worst bother, it was hard to be refused."
"And what was the worst bother?" asked his friend, with a smile.
"Well, I hardly know, but I spoke to Mr. Armstrong first; he invited me to dinner, and made me believe it was all right, and the next morning came a letter from him, advising me to wait a few months, and then write to Miss Armstrong. Oh, I say, old fellow, writing that letter was the worst bother, and no mistake. I declare I'd rather face the enemy on the field of battle than write another."
"Of course the young lady answered you?"
"Oh, yes; but I almost wish she hadn't, for her letter made me more wretched than ever; I knew it was all over then. It is a kind letter, though, and she tells me how sorry she is, and all that. You may read it if you like, if only to show you how clever she is."
And as he spoke he took the letter from his pocket-book.
Horace Wilton would have refused to avail himself of similar confidence from most of his young men acquaintances, but Reginald Fraser was associated with many of his youthful memories, and he could not grieve him by refusing. He therefore held out his hand for the letter which had caused Mary Armstrong so much pain to write, as well as tears of regret.
The character of the young girl with whom he had associated during that week at Oxford three years before presented itself clearly to his mind as he read—kind and regretful was the tone; yet the refusal, though couched in gentle and courteous words, was too plainly expressed and too decisive to admit of future change.
"Well," said Horace, as he folded the letter and returned it to its owner, "nothing can more completely destroy all hope of winning Miss Armstrong than this letter, kindly as it is written. But, Reginald, take my advice—do not grieve over what is inevitable. You are still young, and the change you contemplate to a foreign land may eradicate a little of thatmauvaise hontewhich places you at such a disadvantage in society, in spite of your wealth and position. But come," he added, rising from the seat they had occupied in Christ Church meadows, and looking at his watch, "we had better wend our way homewards, it is nearly five o'clock."
For some little distance the gentlemen were silent. Reginald spoke first.
"Wilton, I'm so glad I've told you all; I feel more easy on the subject already, and I hope, as you say, that going abroad will drive the nervousness out of me. But please don't ask me to stay; I'm awfully afraid of meeting any one acquainted with Miss Armstrong, for if her name should be mentioned I am certain to betray myself."
"You shall go to-morrow or the next day, if you wish, but on condition that you neither think nor speak of the subject again while you stay with me. When you were a little frightened boy at Eton, Reggie, you always did as I bid you!"
"Ah! yes, no wonder," he replied. "I have not forgotten the great boy who pretended to make me his fag because the other fellows shouldn't ill-use me. You were my best friend then, Wilton, and so you are now, and I mean to take your advice."
As the young man spoke Horace Wilton's memory flew back to the time when a small delicate boy of ten was committed to his care by one of the masters:—
"Wilton, I wish you would look after this little chap; he is evidently a nervous, timid child, and much to be pitied. He has never known a mother's care, and his father died about three years ago. I fear he has been harshly treated and neglected at the house of his maternal grandfather, who has never forgiven his daughter for marrying against his wishes."
The youth of seventeen had glanced at the fair, delicate child, who looked up at him with awe, not unmixed with alarm, and in his heart he formed a resolve that the boy thus placed in his care should be protected from the overbearing oppression to which a fag at a public school was in those days so frequently subjected.
Perhaps the rougher discipline might have tended to harden and strengthen the character of Reginald Fraser, and yet the cold neglect and harsh treatment he received in the house where his mother had once been the only and cherished daughter had increased the natural timidity of the boy. The highly nervous temperament which he inherited from his mother had developed into mental weakness and painful reserve, which even the experiences of a public school could not eradicate.
Some such reflections as these passed through the memory of Horace Wilton, and caused him to pause ere he replied—
"I do not forget old days, Reginald, and I am glad we have had this opportunity of talking over matters, but you must learn to rely upon a higher strength than your own if you wish to gain the power of bearing earthly disappointments with patience and submission."
Reginald Fraser, in his dread of meeting Mary Armstrong, or any one who knew her, evinced a nervous anxiety to leave Oxford by an early train the next day, but this very anxiety defeated his purpose.
It was increased by a letter from Henry Halford, which Horace on that morning had received, stating that he hoped to reach Oxford by the train which arrived there at 2.15.
Reginald had put off so many little matters to this last morning that he failed to be in time for the 12.30 express, and there was no other alternative than for him to remain with the new arrival till the evening, or leave by the 2.25. He chose the latter.
A desire, for which he could not at first account, that the young men should remain strangers to each other haunted Horace Wilton on that Saturday morning.
Suddenly, as the memory of a week so eventful to Mary Armstrong arose before him, a thought flashed across his mind that Henry Halford might be the successful rival who had unwittingly caused so much unhappiness to Reginald Fraser.
On reflection, however, he dismissed from his mind any apprehension of awkwardness should the two gentlemen meet at the station, as each would be quite unconscious of the position in which they stood to each other, even if his own suspicions had any foundation.
As they walked to the station Horace said—
"I should like to introduce you to Mr. Halford if there is time, Reginald, but not against your wish."
"I shall be glad to know any of your friends," replied the young man, who was quite unacquainted with the fact that this friend of Wilton's had been associated with Mary Armstrong during her visit to Oxford. "Is this Mr. Halford an Oxford man?"
"Yes, he took his degree about a year ago, and is going up for ordination on Trinity Sunday. The rector of Kilburn had given him his title to orders."
"Kilburn!" exclaimed Reginald; "why, that is where Mr. Armstrong resides. Is he acquainted with the family?"
"I believe he has met some of them, but I do not imagine there is any great intimacy," replied Horace, inwardly blaming himself for having mentioned the name of Kilburn—"but here we are at the station."
Only just in time, however, for as the two gentlemen reached the platform, the train by which Henry Halford travelled came slowly into the station.
Amidst the numbers who alighted, Horace Wilton could not at first distinguish his friend; but Henry's quick eye singled him out almost immediately, and making his way through the crowd, he advanced towards him.
"How kind of you to come and meet me!" he exclaimed, as they shook hands. "How could you relinquish your beloved books for such a purpose?"
"I must not take more credit to myself than I deserve," he replied, with a laugh. "The truth is, I had to welcome the coming as well as speed the parting guest;" and as Wilton spoke he turned towards Reginald, who stood at a little distance, and said, "My friend, Captain Fraser,—Mr. Henry Halford."
The former advanced and bowed, but Henry, while returning the salutation, held out his hand, saying—
"I am sorry to hear you are a parting guest, Captain Fraser. I have heard of you so often from my friend Mr. Wilton, that I should have been glad of the opportunity to improve our acquaintance;" and while he spoke the unconscious rivals shook hands warmly with each other.
As usual when introduced to a stranger Reginald Fraser, though attracted by the genial manner and pleasant smile of his new acquaintance, suffered from an attack of nervousness which was greatly increased by the sound of the five minutes bell announcing the approach of the train for London.
"I—aw—am sorry—aw—I must—aw—leave you so soon," he stammered out, "but my train goes—aw—from the other side, and I—I have—aw—to cross the bridge."
"Oh, pray excuse me for detaining you," said Henry; "Wilton, do not leave your friend on my account," he added; "I will wait here, or walk on slowly while you see him off."
"No, no—aw—I could not—aw—allow you to do so," cried the young officer, with such painful nervousness that Henry Halford drew back in surprise, and Horace Wilton came to the rescue.
"We will not detain you any longer, Reginald," he said; "you have only just time to cross the bridge. Good-by, good-by," he added, as they hurriedly shook hands, while Henry, who had been taken aback by the young officer's manner, merely raised his hat in token of farewell. The two gentlemen stood for a few moments watching his progress till he was lost to sight among the passengers on the opposite platform. Then Horace Wilton took the arm of his friend, and as they left the station together Henry remarked—
"Your friend's manner is peculiar; does it arise from pride or nervousness?"
"Pride!" exclaimed his companion, "what in poor nervous Reginald Fraser? no, indeed, yet to-day he appeared worse than usual; I cannot account for it."
"This young officer, then, is identical with the timid child at Eton, of whom I have heard you speak," said Henry. "He has evidently not outgrown his nervous timidity. I hope I did not offend him by what I said."
"No, indeed, he is as amiable as ever, and not easily offended. This nervousness is constitutional, and is always less under control in the presence of a stranger."
"Will not this interfere with his duties as a soldier!"
"I think not, for Reginald is far from deficient in physical courage. I have told you of the harsh treatment he received in early childhood: I wonder the boy was not made an idiot."
"His grandfather intended to atone for this, I suppose, by leaving him all his wealth; I have been told he has done so; is this a fact?" asked Henry.
"It is a fact which, after the early training of the boy, might have proved a curse to his manhood instead of a blessing," and then to the young officer's unconscious rival Horace Wilton detailed his history, his position, his wealth, and all the circumstances with which the reader is already acquainted, save and except his hopes and aspirations respecting Mary Armstrong.
But while Horace Wilton carefully preserved from Henry Halford the secret which had been confided in him, he little imagined how much pain one incautious word of his had occasioned to his nervous friend Reginald Fraser.
It is said with truth that one distinguishing mark between men and women is that the latter possess quicker perception, and the former clearer judgment. In the almost feminine character of Reginald Fraser existed a keenness of perception which resembled what is termed instinct; and this instinctive power often caused him great mental pain from his extreme sensitiveness, more especially so because he concealed his opinions from those with whom he associated, even while these opinions increased an outward display of nervousness.
Something of all this occasioned the strange manner which had so surprised Henry Halford. The incautious mention of Kilburn by his friend had been like a stone cast into the water; it caused a tumult in the young man's mind which did not cease during the whole journey to London.
The fact that Wilton's friend resided at Kilburn had aroused in his heart new ideas, which had scarcely time to form themselves into a tangible shape before he was introduced to Henry Halford. As he encountered that genial, easy manner and smiling intellectual face, at once like a lightning flash came the firm conviction that the man before him was the cause of Mary Armstrong's refusal to himself.
He had therefore, as we know, met him with painful nervousness. Like one who walks in his sleep, he had crossed the bridge and waited for the train. Still absorbed with the same conviction he chose an empty first-class carriage, threw himself back on its cushions, and gave himself up to an hour of mental torture.
Mortification, regret, and a depreciation of his own qualities when compared to Henry Halford agitated him much more strongly than a feeling of jealousy, although this for a time so powerfully affected him that even the tears rushed to his eyes.
At length he regained control over himself. Other passengers entered the carriage, gentler thoughts arose in his heart—yes, he would give up all hope; if Mary Armstrong really loved another, could he not deny himself to secure her happiness?
Perhaps this young clergyman would have only his stipend as a curate to live upon, and should he with all his wealth wish to deprive him, not only of such a wife as Mary Armstrong would make him, but also of the fortune which her father proposed to give her?
No! The conflict was over, it had been a sharp discipline for the amiable but weak-minded young officer, but it was necessary; it had not only deepened the effect of Horace Wilton's advice, but when Reginald Fraser left the train at Paddington, he felt like one who has passed through a fierce conflict and gained strength by victory.