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 f.a.n.n.y 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 circ.u.mstance 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 doc.u.ments would inevitably cause his utter ruin?

He had that day obtained from his lawyer a doc.u.ment signed by the two trustees of his wife's property, authorizing her to draw out 2000_l._ 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.

Had he only secured for himself the 2000_l._ 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 gla.s.s; 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 doc.u.ment 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y'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 circ.u.mstances 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 a _post-mortem_ examination 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 pa.s.sed 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y.

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 subst.i.tute 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."