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.