James Forster, of the great City firm of Forster and Forster, found
himself at the early age of thirty-five a rich and prosperous man, with
plenty of leisure and a simple taste for imaginative literature and the
fine arts. He was a widower, his wife having died ten years previously
in the first year of their marriage, leaving him an only son; and his
fine mansion in Cromwell Road, South Kensington, was presided over by
his spinster sister Margaret, his elder by some five years.
The cares of business sat lightly on this good man’s shoulders, and he
could at any moment have retired with a large independence; but early
habits and inclination kept him to the office, long after his daily
presence there was unnecessary, and he wished to remain there until his
son was old enough to take his place. His office hours, however, were
very short, and when they were over he assiduously cultivated the
society of painters and men of letters. Many a struggling artist had
cause to bless his liberality. The walls of his house were decorated
with some of the finest paintings of the period; and he loved nothing
better than to add to his collection by discovering genius, and paying
liberally for its works, long before the trumpet of fame had given those
works a price in the market.
Although himself a strict man of business, he loved Bohemian society
and Bohemian ways, always holding good-humouredly that it was the
prerogative of artists and authors to play pranks denied to plain men
like himself. His admiration for genius was quite simple and boy-like.
In certain departments of literature, particularly in that of early
English poetry, he had an almost special knowledge, gained in the
course of his acquisition of a fine old-fashioned library; and nothing
delighted him more than to communicate informally to the ‘Megatherium’
or to ‘Notes and Queries’ occasional notes and correspondence on the pet
subjects of his study.
He had known White for years, and been his staunchest helper and
benefactor. Poor White, the best and kindliest fellow in the world,
had neither the art of making money nor the knack of keeping it when it
came; so that he was generally neck deep in difficulties, and would have
sunk often in the quagmire of bankruptcy had no helping hand been near.
As a painter he was not a genius; yet Forster bought his pictures, very
often commissioning and paying for them long before they had taken shape
on the easel. So that the gentle Bohemian had been heard more than once
to exclaim that, in the course of his long heavenward pilgrimage, he had
encountered only one guardian angel, and that angel was James Forster.
The day after the interview described in a recent chapter, White and
Forster sat alone dining at a quiet table in the Junior Athenæum Club,
of which the merchant was a member.
‘I am glad she has told you,’ said Forster quietly. ‘Yes, I have asked
her to become my wife.’
White did not speak for some minutes, and his expression was very sad
and scared.
‘I am very sorry,’ he murmured at last. ‘I can’t tell how sorry I am.
I--I don’t know what to say, upon my soul. It is such an honour--such a
surprise too--and you, God knows you are the best man in the world. But
it can’t be. You had it from her own lips. She will never marry.’
White’s eyes were full of tears, and he gulped down a glass of wine in
extreme emotion.
‘After all,’ he added eagerly, not meeting the other’s eyes, ‘she’s
only a poor girl, and it wouldn’t be right for a man in your position to
marry an actress.’
‘I never loved a woman before,’ returned the merchant, ‘and I know I
shall never love again. My first marriage was not altogether a happy
one, and I was driven more than led into it; but, thank God, I did my
duty, and I have my boy. But I’m a lonely man--you don’t know how
lonely, and I thought--I thought this might have been.’
‘I wish to God it could, I do with all my soul.’
‘I am sure of that.’
‘And oh, my dear Forster,’ cried White, almost sobbing, ‘don’t fancy
that my dear girl doesn’t value you at your worth. She knows how good
you are. She knows what a friend you have been to us all, but--but----’
‘But she does not love me. Well, I could hardly dare to expect it.’
‘It’s not that. I swear it’s not that. As I’m a living man I believe she
worships the very ground you tread on. “Dear Guardian,” she said to me
last night, “I never was so happy and proud, and yet I never was so sad.
Tell him how grateful I am, how gladly I would die to serve him--but as
for marriage, you know it can never be.”’
‘Do you know that?’ asked Forster, looking keenly at his companion.
White’s face was pale as death.
‘I do know it.’
‘She will never marry?’
‘Never.’
I think I understand,’ said Forster, with a sigh of relief. ‘She has
made up her mind to devote herself to her noble profession, and she
believes, perhaps wisely, that a great artist should be free of
all domestic ties. But do you think I am one of those idiots, those
miserable moneybags, who account the profession of an actress a
degradation? She should never leave the stage, unless of her own wish
and will. She should be encouraged, helped as far as a plain fellow like
myself could help her--in all the aspirations of her art. I should glory
in her success, and triumph in her triumph--I should indeed.’
White looked at the bright open face of Forster, and fairly wrung his
hands in despair.
‘I wish it were possible,’ he groaned. ‘For her sake, even more than
yours.’
Forster leant over the table, and continued in rapid, eager tones.
‘If she loves another man, tell me, and I shall be satisfied. I don’t
want to know his name, but if he is poor let me make him rich. More
than anything in the world, even more than my own happiness, I seek her
welfare. I love her, White, and mine is not a selfish love.’
‘You are wrong, dear friend. She loves no one else. Poor child! She has
never known what love is, and she never will know it.’
Something in White’s manner at last awoke the other’s suspicion and
wonder. The face of the poor fellow was so utterly forlorn, his
words and gestures so extraordinary, that Forster began to share his
agitation.
‘There is some mystery. Cannot I know it?’ ‘Impossible. But you are
right.’
‘Does it concern Madeline herself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Her friends and relations?’
‘No.’
‘For God’s sake, tell me--that is, if it can be told.’
White fell back in his chair, and let his hands drop heedlessly by his
side, ‘It cannot be told. My poor darling! It is something in her past
life.’
There he paused in despair. But Forster, himself trembling violently,
touched him on the arm.
‘Her past life? What is that to me? I know nothing of it, and I seek
to know nothing. If there is any page in her life she wishes me not to
read, let her close the book; I will never ask her to open it. I love
her too absolutely not to be content with what she is, the sweetest and
purest woman I have ever known.’
‘You think her pure? So she is, God knows.’
‘I think she is worthy to be a queen. I think I am not worthy to tie her
shoe-strings. But this does not prevent me loving her; it only makes my
love something like idolatry. Don’t think that it is mere infatuation. I
know my own mind well, and I shall never change.’
More followed in the same strain, but Forster did not succeed in
eliciting any further explanation.
So White remained the very picture of misery, and, with his eyes full
of tears, wrung the merchant’s hand again and again, uttering wild
professions of personal attachment.
Some hours later they parted. White, with somewhat unsteady steps, for
he had drunk liberally, made his way to his favourite club. Forster
walked rapidly to Piccadilly, and, entering an omnibus, rode in sad
reverie to South Kensington.
A footman in gorgeous livery admitted the plain man into his princely
home; and along a lobby hung with choice pictures, up a staircase
ornamented with some of the most perfect specimens of modern sculpture,
he found his way to the drawing-room, where his sister Margaret was
sitting in solitary state.
Margaret Forster was fresh and wholesome-looking like her brother,
but her forehead was lower, her lips thinner and tighter, her whole
expression colder, harder, and more respectable, and she wore much more
gorgeous apparel She adored her brother and his child, with the quiet
adoration of a frosty and impeccable well-dressed virgin. In matters of
religion she was very High Church, a staunch follower of the Rev. Father
Seraphin, of the Kensington Oratory, and there was scarcely a day in the
year on which she did not hear morning and evening mass.
‘You are late, James,’ she said as he entered. ‘I suppose you have
dined?’
‘Yes, at the club. I have just time to dress for the theatre. Will you
come and bring James? I have a box.’
‘What theatre, James?’
‘The Parthenon.’
‘What are they playing?’
‘Shakespeare’s “Cymbeline.”’
‘Why, James, you have seen that performance twice already to my
knowledge,’ said Margaret, lifting her eyebrows. ‘Is it so very good?’
‘So much so that I want you to see it again, and--and I want James to
see it. The new actress is charming. But there is no time to lose, and
the carriage will be at the door in half an hour.’
Margaret rose, smiling, well pleased at the attention of her brother,
and passed upstairs to prepare her little nephew. Left alone in the
drawing-room, Forster paced up and down in a somewhat gloomy brown
study, muttering again and again to himself, and pausing from time to
time to gaze into one of the great mirrors; he was not, however,
gazing at his own reflection, though he seemed to be doing so--he was
contemplating a visionary figure far away.
Later on in the evening, Forster, with his sister and his son, occupied
a box in the Parthenon. They arrived late, and when they entered
‘Imogen’ was in the middle of her first parting with ‘Posthumus,’ but
as she left the stage she glanced up and met Forster’s eyes. Margaret
Forster saw that look, and in a moment her suspicions were awakened. For
the rest of the evening she was busily engaged, not following the play,
but jealously watching her brother. As she did so, her face hardened and
her eyes grew cold as steel; for she had discovered his secret.
The play ended, the curtain descended, and in answer to the enthusiastic
applause of the audience Imogen came before the curtain. Then Margaret
Forster saw the actress glance up again with a smile of recognition.
They drove home and supped together in the great dining-room. Forster
was generally a water-drinker, but on this occasion he ordered
champagne, and pressed his sister to partake of it with him. The wise
virgin, who saw that something was coming, was not to be persuaded.
Presently Forster dismissed the footman in waiting; then, looking to
Margaret with a bright but somewhat nervous smile he asked--
‘Well, how did you like her?’
‘Miss Vere? I think she is rather pretty and acts intelligently.’
‘Intelligently! She is a genius. Do take some champagne.’
Margaret shook her head. She saw that her brother was excited, and
determined to keep cool. To try him, she changed the subject.
‘How pretty the Princess looked. I suppose the greyheaded gentleman with
her was her father, the King of Denmark?’
‘Yes--but Miss Vere! How beautifully she spoke those lines at the mouth
of the cave!’
‘I liked her best in the earlier portions of the play,’ returned
Margaret quietly. ‘I have a prejudice against seeing women dressed up
in male attire. I suppose she is a modest woman, but--by the way, James,
she seemed to recognise you? Do you know her?’
‘Yes.’
‘You cannot have met her in society?’
‘I was introduced to her by her guardian, White, the dramatic author. We
have been acquainted for some time.’
‘Indeed!’ said Margaret, more coldly than ever.
She drew back her chair, and rose to go. ‘I am very tired. I think I
will say good-night.’ ‘Don’t go yet,’ exclaimed Forster. ‘I--I want to
talk to you.’
‘Yes?’
‘About Miss Vere.’ Then he continued, nervously and hurriedly, ‘I have
not only a great respect for her, Margaret, but a stronger feeling.
I should have spoken to you concerning her before, but I had certain
reasons for keeping silence. Now I think you ought to know everything. I
have asked her to marry me.’
Margaret Forster gazed at her brother in horror. Her face went ghastly
pale, and she felt as if a sharp knife had stabbed her to the heart.
‘You cannot be serious!’ she cried.
‘Quite serious!’
‘My dear James, you are joking with me. I will never believe you capable
of such folly.’
‘You think it is folly to marry again?’
‘That is for you to determine, James; but whenever you marry, you will
at least marry a lady.’
Forster’s face darkened. ‘He knew his sister’s strong prepossessions on
certain subjects, but he hardly expected so decided an opposition,
‘Listen to me, Margaret,’ he said firmly; ‘and before we go further let
me beseech you, for my sake, to refrain from saying anything offensive
concerning Miss Vere. Understand me clearly. I love her--deeply,
passionately; and with a man at my age, love means the highest sort
of respect. She is as far my superior in every gift of nature as I,
perhaps, am hers in worldly position.’
He paused, but Margaret made no sign. She kept her cold eyes fixed upon
his face, as if fascinated by the horror of a degrading confession; but
her pulses temperately kept time, and her self-control was perfect.
Then he continued:--
‘I repeat, that I ought possibly to have consulted you earlier on
this subject, and I am not at all astonished at your surprise. I never
thought to have married a second time. My first experience, as you know,
was not encouraging, and since her death you have made my home very
happy. My dear Margaret, forgive me if I have seemed unkind, but setting
aside the reasons to which I have alluded, I thought it better not to
speak of this until I had spoken to Miss Vere. Well, I have spoken, and
I thought you ought to know the result. That is why I took you to the
theatre. That is why I have spoken.’
He paused again. This time his sister replied--
‘Of course, James, you are your own master. I have no right to object.’
‘That is not the question,’ he cried impatiently. ‘I should certainly
take no important step in life without consulting you. I am to
understand, then, that you object?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘To my marrying?’
‘No, James. To your marrying a person in Miss Vere’s position.’
Forster rose to his feet with an angry exclamation.
‘Her position is as good as mine. I am a clod, she is a genius.’
‘She is not a lady,’ returned Margaret, compressing her lips firmly.
‘Good heavens, what do you mean? There is not a whisper against her, she
is divinely gifted, all the world is raving about her. Not a lady! she
is a queen!’
Margaret smiled--a cold sickly smile of supreme feminine pity. Irritated
by the smile, and driven out of his usual reticence by the wine he had
taken at supper, Forster took a rapid turn round the room, and then,
turning back to his sister, cried in a voice broken with agitation--
II thought you above these shameful prejudices. The profession of an
actress is one of the noblest under the sun. The same insane bigotry
which still pursues theatrical performers persecuted until lately all
the arts, literature and painting more particularly. At the bottom of it
all is the Church--the Church which denied Adrienne Lecouvreur Christian
burial, and which from the beginning of time has been the enemy of
light, freedom, knowledge.’
He was going on in the same strain when his sister quietly interfered--
‘My dear James, how absurd! I am very fond of the theatre, as you know.’
‘But you despise those who act.’
‘Nothing of the kind. I only desire to see them in their proper place in
society.’
‘Where is that, pray?’
‘Among themselves--in their own artistic world. In point of fact, they
are much happier there.’
‘Stop a moment, Margaret,’ said Forster, with a short, excited laugh.
‘You speak of their world. What is mine? To what sphere do I belong?’
‘You? My dear James, you are a merchant and a gentleman.’
‘I am a _tradesman_, Margaret, received in certain circles because I
have so much money, rejected in others because I have neither the birth
nor the breeding of an aristocrat. The same measure you mete to Miss
Vere is meted to me--to you also--by those who affect to be our social
superiors. What nonsense it all is! What d--d nonsense!’
Margaret Forster shuddered. She had never before in her life heard her
brother swear, and his use of even so mild an oath showed the situation
to be desperate. She went up to him gently, and put her cheek for his
goodnight salute.
‘I think I had better go now,’ she said. ‘We are both tired, and if
you are really in earnest, we can talk it over to-morrow. Good-night,
James.’
‘Good-night,’ returned Forster, just touching her cheek with his lips.
‘But don’t go till you have heard me out, I have told you that I love
Miss Vere, and that I have proposed to her, but there is something
more.’
‘Yes?’
‘She has refused me--that is all.’