HUSBAND AND WIFE.
"Mamma, you will be better and more quiet here than in that noisy Bourke Street. I am so glad papa has taken such a pleasant house for us, and I know you will soon get well." And little Mabel as she spoke shook and arranged her mother's pillow and drew up the blind, that she might look out upon the pleasant view over the waters of the Yarra.
Mr. Franklyn had taken a house in a suburb of Melbourne noted for its beautiful scenery and wild and picturesque landscapes.
In this suburb at a walking distance, or reached easily by train from Melbourne, are situated the Botanical Gardens, laid out in park-like luxuriance. A beautiful stone bridge crosses the dark, deep waters of the Yarra, while painted skiffs and gaudy pleasure-boats skim over its smooth surface and add brightness to the scene.
The country beyond resembles the south of France and the shores of the Mediterranean; vines trained on poles, grapes hanging from verandahs, the blue sky, the pure clear air, and the bright sunshine remind the traveller of beautiful Italy.
Added to this, at the spot we describe, grow trees that retain their verdure during the whole year, white and green parrots and other birds of gaudy plumage flit from branch to branch. Sunrise also in Australia presents a sky of splendour never seen in England; even the colours of the sea-weed which the Yarra brings inland in its course are rich and varied.
Not far from the window opening to the ground on a verandah, near to which Mrs. Franklyn's couch had been drawn, spread what appeared to be a large lake, nine miles in circumference, surrounded by pleasant walks and shady trees.
To strangers it has the appearance of an artificial lake, and they are much surprised to hear that it is merely the reservoir from which the city of Melbourne and the surrounding neighbourhoods are supplied with water.
Altogether this suburb of Melbourne on the banks of the Yarra is one of the most beautiful spots in Australia.
To the pale invalid in her chair, however, all earthly spots had lost their charm, excepting one little island in the Atlantic, in which stood the home of her youth; and as she looked out on the beauty of an approaching Australian summer, and thought of the home she might never see again, she answered her little daughter's words with a sigh.
"Are you unhappy here, mamma?" asked the child.
"No, darling," she replied, "it was merely a longing for home that made me sigh. I know that heaven is the home on which my heart should rest, and yet I should like to see your uncle Henry and my dear parents once more."
"Mamma," said the child, "I heard the doctor tell papa that if you got stronger in this beautiful place, he could take you to England in March, and then you would have no winter, for when we arrived in England it would be midsummer."
Mrs. Franklyn smiled at the prospect described by her child. Her husband had mentioned this opinion of the doctor to her, and in his usual sanguine way he had promised to make early arrangements for them to leave in March. But she knew also that more than one of his speculations had failed, and therefore, unless "something would turn up," as he termed a successful speculation, he would be too much involved in debt to attempt to leave Melbourne.
A feeling of resignation had at length been granted to Dr. Halford's daughter, only disturbed now and then by old memories which could not be quite overcome, more especially as now, when the beauty of Australian scenery was spoken of in her presence, her thoughts would revert to a lovely English landscape—hill and dale, field and meadow, flowers and foliage, which could be seen from the windows of her own dear home in England.
But Fanny Franklyn, as she now lay helpless on the couch, knew well that for her was prepared a home in the skies, and that the dear friends for whose presence she longed could only expect to meet her there. She looked very lovely even now that Death had set his seal on those delicate features. The dark eyes, though sunken, were still large and bright; the pale face looked fairer by contrast to the dark pencilled eyebrows and eyelashes; and the hectic flush on the cheek would have reminded her brother Henry of some words of the great preacher Henry Melvill.
He had heard him once when quite a youth preach a sermon at a church in London on behalf of the Brompton Hospital for diseases of the lungs, in which the preacher, during one of his eloquent bursts of oratory, exclaimed, "And consumption, that flings its brilliant mockery in the mother's eyes."
Poor mother, she had indeed heard of her daughter's serious illness, and yearned with all a mother's love to be near her to tend to her slightest wish. But half the globe stretched between them, and Mrs. Halford consoled herself with the thought that Fanny had a kind husband and loving children, who must be able to supply the place of a mother. But Mrs. Halford did not know all. Fanny, while able to write, had concealed from her mother the real nature of the disease which left no hope of recovery. Yes, her husband was kind, gentle, loving, and earnest in his endeavours to provide for all her wants; yet, as we know, there was in his character a weakness of principle, and want of attention to steadiness of purpose, which made his position always precarious. At the birth of her youngest boy, eighteen months before the time of which we write, he had made a venture in the mercantile world which had failed, and for a time ruin stared them in the face.
The anxiety Fanny suffered in her then delicate state of health, added to a cold which attacked her at the time, was too much for a frame already weakened by the relaxing climate of Melbourne. For with all its bright skies and its clear atmosphere, Australian air is not suited to those who require a bracing climate. It has its periods of scorching heat, and the fair faces of Australian girls lack the roses which adorn the cheeks of their sisters in England.
Perhaps if Fanny Franklyn could have visited her home during the first appearance of failing health her life might have been spared, but this was not to be; and at last her husband had been aroused to the fact that, although he could not spare her to go alone to her home in England, he must spare her to God.
Now that it was too late, Arthur Franklyn, acting as usual on impulse, expressed to the doctor his eager anxiety to take his dying wife to England.
"Cannot I take her home before the autumn, doctor?" he said; "we should arrive in England about April or May, just as the summer is beginning. I could start next week even, if you think she is strong enough for the voyage."
"Too soon, my dear sir; Mrs. Franklyn must not be in England before May at the earliest, and it is now the commencement of November. We must try and help her through the Australian summer if we can, and then if all is well you can start for England in February or March."
But as the doctor left Mr. Franklyn, he said to himself, almost angrily—
"What is the use of talking about going to England now? she'll never live to see March again, or even February, it's too late. What's the man been about not to see his wife's danger? I'm afraid he's got too many irons in the fire to do much good."
And yet when he now entered the drawing-room, and with gentle step approached the couch, no voice could be more subdued, no words kinder.
"I have been talking to Dr. Moore about taking you to England in the autumn, darling; he says we can leave here in February so as to arrive there about May. Does not the prospect make you feel better already?"
Fanny raised her eyes to his and smiled, but she shook her head and said faintly—
"I never expect to see England again."
"Nonsense, dear! why, you are looking more like yourself to-day than I have seen you for weeks. You must not give up, and Dr. Moore seems to have greater hopes than ever. This is certainly a very pleasant spot," he continued, turning to the window, quite unconscious that this sudden announcement respecting a visit to England had agitated his wife. Her thoughts went back to the old days at Kilburn, when, a bright and happy girl, she had been wooed and won by one of her father's old pupils.
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 anticipation 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 Fanny 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 passenger 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 assembled 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.
Fanny 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. Fanny 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 Fanny 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, Fanny, 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 Fanny, 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, Fanny 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 Fanny and the children still kept her in the nursery, had, on the evening of which we write, assisted 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 passed, 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.
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 passed 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 God—I must speak, doctor," she continued—"I have been saving my strength for a few last words."
"Fanny, 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 God 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.