NEW ARRIVALS.
In a private room at an hotel near the London Bridge terminus of the
South-Eastern Railway sat a party of five at breakfast.
The lady is a stranger, but we have met Arthur Franklyn and his two
daughters before. Clara and Mabel have grown since we last saw them
watching by the dying bed of their dear mother; indeed, Clara at the age
of fifteen has the appearance and manners of a woman.
Between the sisters sits a boy of eleven, in whose dark eyes and
delicate features can be traced a much stronger resemblance to those of
his lost mother than in either of his sisters.
Arthur Franklyn looks more aged during the two years that have elapsed
since his wife's death than might have been expected, and his face has a
careworn expression, which greatly changes his appearance.
The door opens, and a respectable-looking woman enters the room, leading
by the hand a beautiful little boy of about three years and a half old.
The child runs towards his father, who lifting him on his knee,
exclaimed--"What, come to have breakfast with papa, Ally?"
"Yes, papa; may I?"
"No, let him go to nurse, Arthur," said a fretful voice; "he's too young
to breakfast with us after such a fatiguing journey. I wonder you wish
me to be troubled with all the children at once."
Arthur Franklyn looked annoyed.
"Anything for peace," he said, as he placed the boy on the floor; and
yet his heart misgave him as he saw the piteous look on the face of poor
Fanny's youngest born, as the little one struggled to keep back the
tears.
"Ally shall have breakfast with Clara," said the young girl, rising from
her chair and casting a look of defiance at her stepmother; then lifting
the little boy in her arms, she added, "papa, please send my teacup and
plate by nurse," and she turned from the room as she spoke, little
Albert clinging to her neck, his bright curls mixing with her dark hair
in pleasing contrast.
"I'll fetch a tray, sir," said nurse, as she followed her young mistress
to the stairs, and said--
"Oh! Miss Clara, I'm so sorry you've left the table; it will only make
matters worse, and cause unhappiness between your papa and Mrs.
Franklyn."
"I could not help it, nurse. Why should she interfere, and it vexes me
so to see papa give way to her; he has a right to have his own children
with him, I should think."
Nurse sighed; she had not forgotten her promise to the dying mother,
that she would take care of her little Albert, and Mr. Franklyn for once
was firm in opposing his wife's wishes to leave the nurse behind in
Australia.
The first Mrs. Franklyn, soon after Clara's birth, had engaged as nurse
Jane Simmons, an emigrant, who had been delighted to find in her young
mistress the daughter of a gentleman who resided at Kilburn near her own
native home. For nearly fifteen years, therefore, she had been the
much-loved nurse of Mr. Franklyn's children, and during his widowhood
they were almost entirely under her care.
Jane knew her master's character well; she was not surprised, therefore,
when he told her about twelve mouths after his first wife's death that
he intended to marry a lady of large property, and begged her to prepare
his girls for the change. It was not, however, a very easy matter;
indeed, Clara expressed herself in strongly rebellious terms, and Mabel
shed many bitter tears at the prospect of having a stepmother.
A less sensible woman might have encouraged this rebellion, but Jane
reminded them of what their mother would have said--not only that it was
a duty they owed to their father to treat his wife with respect, but
also for the memory of their mother to endeavour to increase his
happiness.
Under such influence the children of Fanny Franklyn were ready to
receive their stepmother with respect and even affection. But the lady
Arthur Franklyn had chosen to supply the place of his lost wife,
possessed none of her qualities to endear her to his children.
A native of Australia, a childless widow, who at the death of her
husband became mistress of a large fortune, handsome, stylish, and
accomplished, whatever could Arthur Franklyn wish for beyond this. So he
thought with his usual impulsiveness, but he soon found his mistake.
Mrs. Franklyn was very unfit to manage a high-spirited girl like Clara,
and far too selfish and harsh in her treatment of the little gentle
Mabel, whom her father often found in tears of real distress. Altogether
Arthur Franklyn felt that he would have to pay dearly for the money
brought him by his second wife.
He was at last obliged to humble himself to his eldest daughter to
obtain peace.
"Clara," he said one day when he found her alone in the drawing-room,
"you appear to resent my second marriage; do you know that anxiety for
my children is the sole reason for my marrying again."
"Oh! papa," said Clara, "how can that be? Mrs. Franklyn isn't in the
least like our own dear mamma, and I shall never be able to love her."
"Clara," he said, "when I married your stepmother I was on the brink of
ruin; you and your brother and sister would have been turned out of
doors homeless and penniless; by my second marriage I obtained property
which has saved you all. Clara, cannot you love your father well enough
to forgive him for placing another in the position of your dear mother
for the sake of her children?"
"Papa, O papa!" said Clara, "oh! I did not know all this;" and she threw
her arms round his neck as she said, "you must forgive me, papa, and I
will try to behave properly to my new mamma; I will indeed."
"Thank you, my daughter," he replied, as he pressed her to his heart,
and thought with pain of her dead mother; "but, Clara, you must not
mention to any one what I have told you of my affairs."
"Papa, I will not," she said, and Mr. Franklyn knew he could trust his
eldest daughter.
This appeal to Clara, although not quite truthful, for a time brought
peace, but new troubles were arising to show her father that a deviation
from a straightforward and honourable path is sure, sooner or later, to
bring its own punishment.
He had led the present Mrs. Franklyn to believe that his position was
that of a man of independent means, and the ready cash she had at her
bankers was given up to him with perfect confidence. But when he asked
her to touch her capital on the plea of wishing to obtain a partnership
in a lucrative business, difficulties arose which could only be overcome
by a visit to England. Mrs. Franklyn had never yet drawn any but the
interest of her money, and on examining her late husband's will it was
found that to touch the capital without the consent of her trustees was
out of her power.
One of these trustees resided in England. Mrs. Franklyn would not allow
her husband to go alone. Indeed it would have been useless for him to do
so, but he was only too glad of an opportunity to take his children to
England and leave them in the care of their grandfather and uncle.
While they were discussing the matter came the news that Mrs. Halford,
after several months of pain and suffering, had followed her daughter to
the grave; yet this did not deter Arthur Franklyn from his purpose.
"There is Kate Marston still at Englefield Grange," he said to himself;
"and she is quite as clever a manager as poor Fanny's mother was. If I
get Louisa's money into my own hands, as I hope to do, I can pay the old
gentleman handsomely for my children; and they are better away from
their stepmother. I don't quite like parting with my little Al, but I
suppose I must," and the father sighed at the memory of early days at
Englefield Grange.
And now they are in England and at breakfast at the hotel, where Mrs.
Franklyn's serenity has been disturbed by the appearance of little
Albert.
"Clara will entirely spoil that child if you allow her to indulge him in
this manner, Arthur."
"Never mind now, my dear," was the reply, "we have no time to discuss
the subject. What do you wish me to do about a house or apartments? that
is the first thing."
"I thought you talked of taking a house furnished," she said. "I hope
not in London, however, it appears so noisy and crowded, and almost
sunless, even on a May morning."
"There are some beautiful spots in the suburbs, Louisa, and I was going
to propose that we have an open carriage, and drive down to Kilburn if
you have no objection. We are sure to find furnished houses in that
direction, and I should like to be near the children's relations. We can
put off business till to-morrow."
Mrs. Franklyn readily agreed to this arrangement. Certainly it was a
drawback to have all those children with her in the carriage, but that
would not be for long, and perhaps they would remain at Englefield
Grange, at least until Arthur had chosen a house.
After this, breakfast was quickly finished, a carriage ordered, and the
young people, full of happiness, made hasty preparations for a
delightful ride through wonderful London, of which they had heard so
much.
On entering the room with her little brother before starting, Clara
advanced to Mrs. Franklyn and said,--"Mamma, I did not mean to be rude
when I left the breakfast-table this morning, but I am so fond of my
little brother Ally, please forgive me."
"It is of no consequence, Clara, if you prefer to breakfast in the
nursery you can always please yourself."
Clara turned away without a reply. She had not lost her power of
self-control, yet she had great difficulty in repressing the tears or an
angry reply. A feeling of mortification that she had so humbled herself
for nothing arose in her heart. The time came when she remembered having
done so with thankfulness.
What a delightful ride that was. Over London Bridge, with its crowds of
vehicles, and its continued stream of passengers. Omnibuses, waggons,
carts, carriages, every sort of conveyance delaying their progress
through King William Street, Cheapside, Holborn, and Oxford Street, till
they reached Hyde Park Corner, and turned up the Edgware Road.
Yet the frequent delays had been an advantage to them, especially at the
Mansion House, with the Royal Exchange and the Bank in sight. Again
before entering Newgate Street, the view of St. Paul's and the Post
Office, and afterwards the grim prison itself, from which the street is
named.
Arthur Franklyn could remember sufficient of London to enable him to
point out objects of interest as they drove on, although the Holborn
Viaduct and the Thames Embankment were not then in existence. But when
they at last approached Kilburn, so many recollections crowded upon him
that he became silent, scarcely replying to the eager inquiries of the
children till the carriage stopped at the gate of Englefield Grange.
"I will go in alone first, Louisa," he said hurriedly. "I must prepare
my aged father-in-law for such a large party."
He was gone before she could raise an objection, and in a few moments a
strange servant opened the door, and, startled by his pale face, showed
him into a small reception room, and went to call Mr. Henry.
He stood listening to the old familiar sounds; the clock had just struck
twelve, and the eager voices in the playground at the back brought to
his memory the time when he had been as happy and as eager as those he
now listened to, and a little dark-eyed girl would stand watching for
him at the garden gate with a flower, or a bon-bon, or a something which
she had brought for "dear Arty." So deep, so painful were these
memories, that when the door opened, and he turned his white face to
meet his brother-in-law, the family likeness was so strong that he could
only hold out his hand and say, "Henry, I know it is Henry!" and then
burst into a violent fit of sobbing.
At first Henry Halford felt quite bewildered. He had not reached his
eighth birthday when Arthur and Fanny sailed for Australia, yet a sudden
flash of recognition, added to the letter received from Arthur that
morning, recalled his brother-in-law to his memory.
"It is Arthur Franklyn," he exclaimed; "my dear sister's husband," and
for a few moments Henry Halford was himself too much overcome to speak,
or do more than press the hand of his brother-in-law as he held it.
"Everything here reminded me so strongly of _her_," said Arthur, at last
rousing himself, and already ashamed of the impulse, which, like all his
other impulses, was so evanescent. "My wife and the children are at the
door," he added. "How is the dear old father? I came in alone to prepare
him, and the old place and its memories knocked me over."
"You need not fear bringing them in," said Henry, as Arthur rubbed at
his face and tried to remove all traces of his emotion. "My father is in
feeble health, but his mind and memory are clear. He will be overjoyed
to see the children."
A few minutes longer, and then the greyheaded old man had fondly
welcomed his daughter's children, and kindly greeted her successor.
Mrs. Franklyn showed herself at her best, and won the good opinion of
both father and son.
It was arranged that they should all stay and partake of the schoolroom
dinner to give the horses a rest, and then Kate Marston made her
appearance.
She was not slow to recognise Arthur, who was a few years younger than
herself. The sixteen years had changed them both, but Arthur more than
Kate Marston.
Old Dr. Halford was the first to remark this with the plain-speaking of
age, which is almost childlike in its character.
"You are as comely as ever, Arthur," said the old-fashioned gentleman,
"but you have changed more in the sixteen years than Kate."
"No wonder, uncle," exclaimed Kate, "only think of all he has gone
through, besides having the care of these motherless children. I have
nobody to be anxious for but myself; no husband for me, thank you." And
while she spoke, with a deep blush on the still fresh complexion, and a
bright smile, Arthur could not help owning to himself that Time had
dealt very gently with Kate Marston.
"She has been anxious enough about me and my dear lost wife," said the
old gentleman, in a querulous voice, "so you must not listen to Kate
when she lays claim to a selfishness she does not possess. But really,
Arthur, you are not looking at all well. You must comfort him, my dear,"
he added, addressing Mrs. Franklyn. "So much can be done by a second
wife to soften down old memories in her husband's heart."
"I hope I shall be able to do so," said the lady, in a gentle tone,
which pleased the old man, and made Arthur say--
"I am not afraid, father; Louisa has already proved herself a kind and
affectionate wife."
He longed to add, "and a mother to my children," but at this moment a
summons to dinner made any further remark unnecessary.
When they returned to the little breakfast parlour, in which the old
gentleman had dined alone, Kate Marston said--
"Arthur, if you and Mrs. Franklyn are going househunting, suppose you
leave the children here for a few days, they would like it, I suppose."
"Oh yes, indeed we should," exclaimed Clara, answering for the rest,
whose bright faces confirmed what she said; "and I can take care of
Albert, and dress and wash him if I may."
"If you stay longer than another day I will send nurse with your
clothes," said Arthur.
"Oh, have you the same nurse here in England, of whom poor Fanny spoke
so highly in her letter to me?" said Henry.
"Did she speak of a nurse?" exclaimed Arthur, concealing his surprise
that his brother-in-law should have had a letter about the boy; "then it
must be the same, for she has been with us more than fourteen years."
"Then send her down here as soon as you like, for if you can spare the
children for a week we shall be glad to have them."
To this Arthur readily acceded, and then, as the carriage was announced,
he said to Dr. Halford: "This has been such a hurried visit, Doctor, and
I have so much to hear and so much to tell; but we must come again as
soon as we have fixed upon a house and spend a long day with you all.
You have taken your degree at Oxford, Henry," he continued, turning to
the window where the uncle was amusing the little nephew who had been
left to his care by his dying sister; "and I suppose you are soon going
up for ordination?"
"Not till Trinity," he replied. "You know I am obliged to be here as
much as possible now my father is disabled; I took up my Master's degree
in June last year."
There were quick farewells and fond embracing of the children as they
rose to leave. "Good-by, papa--good-by, mamma," was echoed from one to
the other as the carriage drove off; and then Louisa Franklyn turned to
her husband and said, "Well, this is a comfort, Arthur: at last I shall
have your society all to myself for a week without the constant trouble
and anxiety of those children."
But Arthur Franklyn's recollections of the past were too strong just
then to make him thankful to get rid of his children. "I'm afraid I
shall have to pay dearly for Louisa's fortune if I do get it," was his
very uncomplimentary reflection.