It seemed, indeed,
probable that Mr. Buxton, who was singularly void of worldliness or
ambition for himself, would become worldly and ambitious for his son. His
hopes for Frank were all for honor and distinction here. Mrs. Buxton's
hopes were prayers. She was fading away, as light fades into darkness on a
summer evening. No one seemed to remark the gradual progress; but she was
fully conscious of it herself. The last time that Frank was at home from
college before her death, she knew that she should never see him again;
and when he gaily left the house, with a cheerfulness, which was partly
assumed, she dragged herself with languid steps into a room at the front
of the house, from which she could watch him down the long, straggling
little street, that led to the inn from which the coach started. As he
went along, he turned to look back at his home; and there he saw his
mother's white figure gazing after him. He could not see her wistful eyes,
but he made her poor heart give a leap of joy by turning round and running
back for one more kiss and one more blessing.
When he next came home, it was at the sudden summons of her death.
His father was as one distracted. He could not speak of the lost angel
without sudden bursts of tears, and oftentimes of self-upbraiding, which
disturbed the calm, still, holy ideas, which Frank liked to associate with
her. He ceased speaking to him, therefore, about their mutual loss; and it
was a certain kind of relief to both when he did so; but he longed for
some one to whom he might talk of his mother, with the quiet reverence of
intense and trustful affection.
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