A slight smile welcomed Clara, for Mrs. Franklyn's eyes were opened with the brightness of death, and wandered round the room as if in search of some one. Clara understood her.

"Mamma darling, I have telegraphed for papa; he will soon be here." A look of thankfulness pa.s.sed over the pale face, and the eyelids closed over the glistening eyes as if to wait in patience for her husband's arrival. For a time all was still. To aid the sufferer's breath nurse had left the door open, and the ticking of the hall clock could be heard distinctly. Clara, to conceal her agitated feelings, knelt by the bed and buried her face in the bedclothes. At length at the sound of the doctor's knock she started up and took her stand by her mother's pillow.

Dr. Moore came prepared with stimulants. Sarah had told him what had happened, but he no sooner cast his eyes upon his patient than he knew her danger. No skill on earth could save her now. However, he administered a few teaspoonfuls of his remedy, which seemed to revive her as well as to stay the bleeding from the lungs. She seemed about to speak, when the doctor said--

"Not a word, my dear lady, not a movement; there is nothing so important now as quietness and rest." He placed his fingers on her pulse as he spoke, and felt the feeble fluttering which so often betokens the approach of death. For some time no one spoke. The invalid lay with closed eyes almost motionless. Through the open window came the balmy freshness of a summer evening air, and the sound of the rippling of the waves, as the dark tide of the Yarra flowed onward towards the sea.

Presently a loud, tremulous knock sounded through the hall, and in a few moments, pale and trembling with emotion, the husband and father entered the room. The state of the bed, the death-like face of his wife, and the silence overpowered him so completely, that but for the doctor's arm he would have fallen to the ground. "Is she dead?" he asked, for while in the train he had brought himself to believe that his daughter's telegram was merely caused by a child's fear and exaggeration; his wife's death-like appearance, therefore, was a shock for which he was quite unprepared.

The invalid's eyes opened, and rested with loving pity on her husband.

"I have lived to say good-by, darling," she said in a faint voice.

"Thank G.o.d--I must speak, doctor," she continued--"I have been saving my strength for a few last words."

"f.a.n.n.y, my darling wife, I cannot lose you. Oh! I did not expect this, doctor. Can nothing be done?" Clara had moved to allow him to approach the pillow. He stooped and kissed the pale brow. Then seating himself on a chair by her side, he took her hand in his and buried his face in the pillow to conceal his agony.

"Don't grieve, Arthur," said his wife, in whispered tones; "it has been hard to think of leaving you and the dear children, but I have learnt submission to our heavenly Father's will, and you must seek consolation from Him."

Mabel had slidden from the bed when her father appeared, and the two girls now stood by him, as if by their presence they could console him and share his sorrow. For a few moments there was silence, while their mother lay with closed eyes. The sound of Mabel's hardly restrained sobs aroused her.

"Do not weep, darling," she said; "you have both a father on earth to protect you, and a Father in heaven, more powerful than an earthly parent, to guide and comfort you. Never forget the lessons I have taught you of His love and tenderness to motherless children.--Arthur," she continued, "if you do not care to return to England again yourself, send my children to my home, will you?"

"I promise you, darling, I will indeed," replied the stricken husband; "Australia will be a spot of desolation after you are gone."

Again there was a silence. The doctor administered another stimulant, but no one spoke.

Presently the nurse whispered, "Shall I take the young ladies away, doctor?"

Dr. Moore glanced at them, but the white stern face of Clara Franklyn showed a power of endurance and strength to support her sister as well as herself through the last trying scene. He shook his head, but the invalid had heard the whisper. She opened her eyes and looked fondly at her girls.

"Let them stay, nurse. Dear James, I wish he could have been sent for.

Give him his mother's dying love, and----" But the voice failed.

"Kiss me once more," she said, feebly, and the girls came near to kiss the pallid face which would soon be hidden from them for ever. Mabel, unable to bear the painful excitement, clung to nurse, who placed her arm round the child and drew her from the bed. Mrs. Franklyn glanced at her as she did so.

"You will stay with my children, nurse, and take care of my little Albert."

"Trust me, dear mistress," she replied; but she could not say what her heart dictated, that she would never leave them till they were grown to be men and women. Her opinion of Mr. Franklyn made that impossible.

Clara, after giving her mother what she well knew was a farewell kiss, felt her firmness giving way, and she clung to her father's arm and leaned her head upon his shoulder to hide the tears.

Dr. Moore was still unwilling to excite the invalid by sending the two girls away, yet he felt that the scene was becoming too painful for them. He stood at the foot of the bed, obedient to Mrs. Franklyn's gentle words--

"Don't go, doctor."

A long pause followed her words to the nurse, and for some moments it seemed as if the dying mother had ceased to breathe. Suddenly the dark eyes opened.

"Raise me, Arthur," she said, faintly.

With gentle hand he lifted her head and laid it on his breast.

"Arthur, it has come. How dark it is! Dear husband, meet me in heaven, it is all light there."

One sigh, then all was still.

Dr. Moore approached. Arthur turned upon him a startled look.

"Is she gone?" he exclaimed. "Oh, darling wife," he continued, kissing the pale face frantically, "oh, forgive me that I never loved you or valued you as I ought."

Dr. Moore removed his arm from the helpless head, and whispering, "Be calm for the sake of your children," drew him gently from the bed.

Arthur Franklyn glanced round the room. Nurse had led the weeping girls away, he was alone; and hastily leaving the bed of death, he rushed into the drawing-room, and, throwing himself on his knees, gave way to those bitter tears which shake manhood to its very centre. His unchastened spirit rebelled against G.o.d for depriving him of the wife of his youth in this unexpected manner, forgetting that his own blindness and thoughtless indifference had failed to discover what was plain to every one else. Alas! there is no feeling more painful than remorse for neglect or unkindness to those who are gone, because there can be no recompense made, or regret and sorrow expressed to them on this side the grave.

CHAPTER XXI.

MOTHER AND SON.

There is something in the old Saxon word "mother" which seems to convey more of love and dignity, and to command a greater amount of respect, than any of its subst.i.tutes in other languages.

Perhaps its constant use in the old Saxon translation of the Bible has thrown a halo of sanct.i.ty over the homely word, for no names in Scripture have been more honoured than those of the mothers of holy men.

In our own biographies of great and good men, how often to the mother's influence over her boy, from even the days of infancy, can be traced the high principles, the n.o.ble character, and the great worth of the man!

Most truly has it been said that the future of a child depends upon the training of the first five years of his life. It is therefore to mothers that this period of a boy's history is by Nature entrusted, and upon them chiefly rests the responsibility of laying the foundation of a high-principled, n.o.ble, and truthful character.

Another saying, that mothers love their sons better than their daughters, is not always true, especially in such a case as Mrs.

Halford's, when only one son and one daughter live to grow up.

And yet it is doubtful whether she would have parted so easily with her son had he proposed to place half the globe between himself and his family, for very dear was her clever and talented son to the almost childless mother.

The old adage--

"My son is my son till he gets him a wife, My daughter's my daughter all the days of her life,"

seemed reversed to Mrs. Halford, for f.a.n.n.y had been completely lost to her mother since her marriage.

She was also strongly impressed with the idea that Henry would continue to a.s.sist in carrying on the school, even after his ordination, and then marry some amiable girl who would live with them at Englefield Grange, and to be to her as a daughter in the place of f.a.n.n.y.

Such were some of Mrs. Halford's castles in the air, greatly augmented by observing with a mother's penetration that her son was admiring Miss Armstrong. Even while her own good sense told her that the daughter of Mr. Armstrong would never obtain her father's consent to a marriage with her son, still she had hope that in some way or other such a result was not impossible.

August of the year which had already been so full of changes and events had arrived.

The pupils were returning to Englefield Grange after the Midsummer vacation, and Mrs. Halford quickly noticed that little Freddy Armstrong was not amongst them.

She waited a fortnight, and then one afternoon at the tea-table spoke to her husband on the subject.

"Mr. Armstrong's little boy has not come back yet," she said, "had you not better send a note, James? They have perhaps forgotten the day on which the school reopened."

"No, my dear, it is not necessary. I received a very polite note from Mr. Armstrong in the holidays, telling me that he intended to send the boy with his brothers this quarter, and enclosing a cheque for the Midsummer amount."