She glanced at him now as his tall figure stood out in full relief against the window, the strongly-marked profile clearly defined against the light. At three-and-forty Arthur Franklyn might still be spoken of as a handsome man; and although the light brown wavy hair had receded from the temples, there was not a line of grey visible. The blue eyes still twinkled with the humorous expression which spoke of light-heartedness and a keen sense of the ridiculous. In truth, he was one of those who are said to take things easy. Sanguine of success in everything he undertook, disappointment never troubled him for long. He could throw off the pressure of anxiety, and be as merry and light-hearted as if nothing had happened, while his poor wife was mourning in secret, or trembling for the consequences. She had quickly discovered the weak points in her husband's character, and felt that it could be said of him, "Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel."

The light-heartedness which made him a favourite in society caused him also to drive away all antic.i.p.ation of trouble from his mind. "Never meet troubles half-way" was a proverb which he preached so unwisely, that he not only had to meet troubles when they came, but actually increased their magnitude by foolishly shutting his eyes to their approach.

So had it been with his wife's illness; he saw her wasting away daily before his eyes, yet he closed them to the possibility that she might die. And now that he had finally decided to take her to England in February, her recovery seemed to him a certainty. He presently seated himself by her side, and spoke gently and kindly of the voyage, and recalled so many pleasant incidents of the old house at home, that in spite of herself f.a.n.n.y felt cheered.

"I shall look in at Bevans' this evening, love," he said as he rose to go out; "they know all about the English pa.s.senger ships, and I can get every information I require."

After transacting a little business at his office, Arthur Franklyn walked on into Melbourne to call at his friends the Bevans, who were always pleased to see him, and showed their liking for his company in a manner most flattering to a man of his character.

Hour after hour slipped away, and although a kind of uneasy feeling made him prepare more than once to say farewell, he allowed himself to be flattered into remaining to supper. His friends when inquiring for his wife had been told with animation that she was better, and that Dr.

Moore had given his permission for her to go to England in February or March, there was therefore every excuse for so kindly pressing him to stay.

The family of Mr. Bevan, a ship agent, consisted of himself, his wife, two sons in the business, and two daughters. They were in the midst of supper, and laughing heartily at one of Arthur Franklyn's jokes, when the door of the dining-room opened, and the servant entered, and advancing to Mr. Franklyn, offered him a missive not so well known then as now in either England or Australia--a telegraph message in its ominous-looking envelope. A sudden pause fell on those a.s.sembled round the table, as Arthur Franklyn opened and read aloud--

"Clara Franklyn to Mr. A. Franklyn.--Come directly, mamma is dying!"

He started up with impetuous haste, his face white even to the lips, and was quickly surrounded by the family hastening his departure, and trying to calm his agitation with words of hope. But like all those who are wilfully blind to the approach of danger, Arthur Franklyn became despairing and hopeless when it really arrived. Some one found a railway time-table.

"You will catch the 10.5, Franklyn, if you are quick," said one of the young men, as, half bewildered, he turned to shake hands with his friends.

"No, no, we'll dispense with that for once," said the old gentleman.

"Good-by, keep up a good heart, it may not be so bad as you imagine;"

and so they hurried him away, Mr. Bevan saying hastily to his eldest son, "Go with him to the station, Tom, he seems scarcely able to take care of himself."

"I hope he'll reach home in time," said Mrs. Bevan; "these sudden messages are dreadfully alarming."

While the train for which Arthur Franklyn was just in time is speeding on over the short distance to his home, we will precede him thither.

f.a.n.n.y Franklyn, when her husband kissed her on that evening before leaving home, although she felt that for her no journey to England would ever be realised, was still unwilling to damp his hopes by her own misgivings. The conversation had certainly excited her, but she did not seem weaker than usual when her eldest daughter appeared to attend her to bed. Clara Franklyn, during the decline of her mother's health, had become a clever little housekeeper, while Mabel installed herself as nurse. f.a.n.n.y could not but feel a certain degree of comfort in Clara's cleverness, yet the child of thirteen was already too precocious in manners and character, and the position of housekeeper was calculated to increase these characteristics. The mother also mourned over her own inability to continue the education of her two girls, who had hitherto never had any governess but herself.

Many changes had taken place in their style of living during the fourteen years of f.a.n.n.y Franklyn's marriage. After a successful speculation, instead of carefully laying up a reserve in case of losses or disappointments, Arthur Franklyn not only lived to the full extent of his income, but actually to the full amount of the money he possessed.

"I have plenty to last us for two or even three years," he would say, "and by that time I shall no doubt have another successful venture; so it's all right, f.a.n.n.y, don't you worry yourself. I mean you to have a house and servants, and every appliance suitable to my means. There is no other sure way of getting into society nowadays, and the more money you appear to have, the more likely people are to help you in the furtherance of your plans."

And f.a.n.n.y, during the early years of her married life, though not convinced, submitted to be made a fine lady, to be waited upon by a lady's-maid, to have a first-rate cook, housemaids, a nurse, and a nursery-maid. They resided in a luxuriously furnished house, they gave dinner parties, and soon drew around them a host of acquaintances who were ready to become friends with the rising young colonist and his family in the days of their prosperity. But this could not last long. By an unfortunate venture they lost house, furniture, servants, and sunshine friends, except some few who liked the genial company of the thoughtless speculator, and respected his wife. One thing, however, f.a.n.n.y was firm in, she would engage no expensive governess for her children, and from their earliest childhood she had taught them herself.

After many ups and downs caused by her husband's reckless speculations, which are, after all, a species of gambling, we find them now in a small pleasant house, plainly furnished, with but two servants. One of them, whose attachment to f.a.n.n.y and the children still kept her in the nursery, had, on the evening of which we write, a.s.sisted her dear mistress to undress.

Something in the appearance of Mrs. Franklyn made the faithful woman call the two girls out of the room, and say--

"Don't leave your mamma, Miss Clara, I am going to put little Albert to bed, and then I'll come and take your place."

"I may stay too, nurse," said Mabel, "may I not? I've got an interesting book to read, and we wont talk."

"I do not intend to read," said Clara, in a tone of womanly importance.

"I have my work to do, and I can watch and attend to mamma at the same time."

"Ah, well," said nurse to herself, as she left the room, "you're a sensible young lady after all, only a bit too precocious for your age, Miss Clara. Oh dear!" she sighed, "to think they're going to lose their mother, who has taught them to be so clever, and trained them in the right way! And then for the master to be so blind, and not to see that his wife is dying. Ugh! I don't like such light-hearted people; they shut their eyes to trouble till it's close upon them. He's gone out pleasuring to-night, and I don't like the looks of the dear mistress."

And at this thought nurse hastened her steps to the nursery, for it was past baby's bedtime, and she had left him in the care of the other servant.

Mrs. Franklyn watched her eldest daughter with a feeling of sadness, as she placed herself where she could see her mother's face, and near the window to obtain light for her work. The November evening of the Australian spring was as light as with us an evening in May; and although the sun was approaching the west, yet the venetian blind was lowered to keep out his rays.

Mabel, who had seated herself out of sight of her mother, soon became absorbed in her book; and as the sisters did not speak, Mrs. Franklyn was quite unaware of her presence.

The mind of the mother rested with anxiety on the future of her eldest girl. She knew too well that she must soon leave these dear ones to the mercy of the world, and a careless though loving father. Her husband was still in the prime of life, a man of personal and social attractions, likely to marry again, no doubt a rich woman, ostensibly to obtain a second mother for his children. James, a boy of eleven, now at school, and Mabel, could be easily managed; about her baby Albert she had written to her brother, Henry Halford, a letter, which in a great measure influenced him in his future conduct. But Clara--high-spirited, determined, self-sufficient, impatient of rebuke, and womanly beyond her age in both manners and appearance--what would she be without the loving, cautious guidance of her own mother?

These painful reflections agitated the invalid. More than once a violent fit of coughing had brought Clara to her side with a remedy. After awhile she sunk into a kind of doze. Nurse came to summon Mabel to bed, but the mother seemed to be sleeping so peacefully that the little girl left the room without saying good night.

Nearly an hour pa.s.sed, and then the hall clock struck nine. Mrs.

Franklyn started at the sound, although it seldom disturbed her at other times.

"Clara," she said faintly.

The child rushed to her bedside quickly.

"What is it, mamma?" and the tones were loving and tender.

"Is your father come home?"

"No, mamma. Shall I send for him?"

But instead of a reply a sudden and violent cough attacked the invalid.

Clara, as she had often done, placed her arm under her mother's head and raised her gently.

This time the movement hastened the catastrophe. In a moment the blood burst from the invalid's mouth, covering quilt, sheets, and her night-dress with its ghastly stains.

Although ready to faint with terror, Clara laid her mother down gently on the pillow, and rushing to the bell pulled it so violently that both servants were in the room even before its tones had ceased vibrating.

"Run for Dr. Moore, run for your life, Sarah," cried nurse, as she approached the bed, and leaning over her mistress wiped the life-blood from her pallid lips. The dark eyes opened and the lips parted with a faint smile.

"Don't speak, dear mistress," she said softly; "Dr. Moore will soon be here."

The reply was a gentle movement of the head, which nurse readily understood to mean "too late."

Nurse looked round as the door softly opened, for Clara had disappeared, and saw Mabel in her dressing-gown hesitating to enter. She had been startled from sleep by the bell, and became wide awake when her sister entered with a candle, and opening her desk commenced writing on a half-sheet of paper.

"Clara, what is the matter?" and the startled child sat up in bed with a terrified fear in her face.

Clara turned her white face towards her. "Mamma is dying," she said, in a calm tone, that told of deep agitation under restraint; "I am sending a telegram to papa."

Before Mabel could realise the words, her sister had left the room, and meeting Sarah, she exclaimed--

"To Dr. Moore first, Sarah, and then to the railway station, and send this telegram. Say it is immediate, a case of life and death; anything to make them send it quickly."

While she stood talking, Mabel in her dressing-gown and slippers flew past them in her way to her mother's room, and entered as we have seen.

Quickly as Clara followed, she found Mabel already on the bed by her mother's side, holding her pale hand in hers, while nurse bathed the invalid's forehead with eau de Cologne, and wiped the pale lips from which the life-blood still oozed.