A few months later the following announcement appeared amongst the
‘Births, Deaths, and Marriages,’ on the first page of the ‘Times’:--
_On the 23rd, at Christ Church, Hampstead, James Forster, of Hampden
House, Cromwell Road, South Kensington, to Madeline, only daughter of
the late Fred. Hazelmere, Esq., of the Inner Temple._
Only a few of those who read this announcement were aware that the
lady in question was the young actress known under another name to the
audiences of the Theatre Royal Parthenon.
*****
It was a very quiet marriage. After the ceremony the newly married
couple drove to the cemetery, in the immediate neighbourhood, and
Madeline placed a fresh garland on White’s grave; then with a heavy
heart she returned to a quiet wedding breakfast, to which only a few
very intimate friends were invited, and in the afternoon departed with
her husband to Switzerland.
Long before that wedding day Madeline had discovered, by secret
inquisition of her own heart, that the tender respect she felt lor James
Forster was not yet love--not such love, at least, as blends the lives
of man and woman in perfect sympathy and joy; and she would have given
the world, therefore, if he had been content to remain what he had
been--her friend, her brother, her benefactor. But seeing clearly that
his happiness depended on the formation of a closer relationship, she,
by slow degrees, was reconciled to the possibility. What weighed with
her more than any other consideration was the thought of poor White’s
last injunction. He had wished this union--had, indeed, enjoined it upon
her--so that to shrink from fulfilling his fond request seemed selfish
and ungrateful, and the more so as she remembered so vividly the noble
and unselfish devotion of Forster during all the last years of poor
White’s earthly struggle.
So she consented, not without many secret tears and forebodings, for the
shadow of her first cruel experience was still upon her, and she could
not stifle the secret sense of shame.
Before finally yielding her hand, however, she questioned Forster again,
and more explicitly, concerning his secret interview with White, just
before the latter’s death.
‘You wish me to be your wife,’ she said, ‘but are you sure that you know
what you are asking? I feel quite an old woman, and I am not good enough
to be your wife. Sometimes, even now, the old restless fit is on me, the
old wicked wilfulness. I shall never bring happiness to any one, I am
sure.’
‘You are unjust to yourself. Dear Madeline, trust me. I will try to
deserve your trust.’
Do you know that there are some things, some thoughts and acts, which
seem to pollute the very air we breathe; to make the bright world
hateful; to chill the very heart within us, like the touch of death?
I feel like a girl who has been shrouded for the grave and who still
exists, but who will never have the wholesome, happy life of good
people. Do not ask me to marry. Choose some innocent girl, and give your
love to her.’
‘We cannot love as we will,’ said Forster, earnestly, ‘but as God wills;
and I have given my love to you. Dearest, it is just because you have
been unhappy that I yearn to bring you happiness; just because you have
been wronged that I long to make amends. You must leave these sorrowful
thoughts behind you; you must rise from the tomb of your dead grief, and
live anew.’
‘I cannot; it is too late.’
‘Yet you are so young, so beautiful; and I love you so much.’
‘I do not deserve such love.’
‘You deserve far more than I can bring you.’
‘Did Mr. White tell you what I had been? Do not turn away, but look me
in the face--you see I am not afraid. What did he say to you? Tell me
everything.’
‘He told me that you had been deceived by a villain, who afterwards
abandoned you. Dearest, he did you full justice--he knew that you were
innocent, an angel deluded by a devil.’
‘I was not innocent,’ returned Madeline, sadly. ‘I was to blame, and ah!
I was so ungrateful. If I had been innocent, do you think I should ever
have placed myself in that man’s power?’
‘You were very young, and it is an evil world. Do not speak of it again.
Bury the past, and become my honoured wife.’
‘You say that now; but some day, years hence, perhaps, the past would
rise like a ghost, and your life would be darkened by regret and shame.’
‘Never by shame! never!’
‘I am not fit to make connections, I am not fit to have friends; it is
better for such women as I to be alone in the world, and then, if shame
comes, it falls only on the one who has the most right to suffer. It is
this thought that reconciles me to the death of my dear guardian. I am
alone in the world now, and can bring harm to no one.’
To a man like Forster it was terrible to hear her talk so. He was
willing to forget the past, and he saw no dark cloud looming in the
future. He had set his heart on making Madeline his wife, and he would
never rest until his object had been attained. ‘She hesitates to take
the plunge,’ he said to himself, ‘but once she has taken it all will be
well.’ So he pleaded and pleaded, until at length Madeline was brought
to consent.
*****
It was a short honeymoon, but to Madeline, at least, it was a tolerably
happy one. She had refused to take a maid with her, and he had consented
to dispense with the services of a valet, so they spent their days in
happy unconcern, roaming about among the Swiss mountains, travelling
from one picturesque village to another, and living in little quaint
rustic inns, whose primitive accommodation would have made Miss Forster
turn cold with dismay.
It was just the kind of life which Madeline loved. After all, the
unnatural atmosphere of town smoke and footlights had not left much
taint upon her; she felt once more the little girl who, with tangled
hair and disordered dress, had raced like a young untrained colt about
the marshes of Grayfleet.
But the pleasures of the honeymoon were not destined to continue.
Forster, though a rich man, could never be spared long from the
office--so at the end of a month he told his young wife that the two
must turn their faces towards home. ‘That’s the penalty of marrying a
City man,’ he said; ‘things always seem to go wrong when I’m away; and
though I grumble about the office a good deal, I think, after all, I
like it.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘I shall have to leave you a good deal alone, my darling.’
‘Never mind that. While you are away I’ll be thinking what I can do to
make you comfortable when you come home again.’
‘You’ll do no such thing, my dear. I’ll not have my Madeline made a
drudge. You’ll enjoy yourself as you do now, and my sister is quite
willing to look after things a bit. She’s used to it, and doesn’t mind.’
‘Miss Forster?’
‘Yes, Margaret.’
‘Is she going to live with us?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so. You see she has lived with me for years, and
it never occurred to me that you would wish her to go. She will be very
useful to you, Madeline; besides, she’ll be company for you while I’m
away.’
To this Madeline said nothing. She felt she had no right to object to
this arrangement, but she was sorry it had been made. However, for her
husband’s sake she resolved to make the best of it, and to look upon
Miss Forster henceforth as an affectionate sister and friend.
One afternoon, about a month after the wedding-day, a carriage and
pair drove up to the door of Forster’s town house, the large handsomely
furnished mansion in South Kensington, and Forster, alighting, handed
out his bride.
‘Welcome home, my darling,’ he said, giving her hand a tender pressure.
Madeline’s heart bounded at the touch, and, with flushed cheek and
sparkling eyes, she ran up the steps to the open door. On the threshold
stood Miss Forster, with a distant smile and a cordial ‘how do you do?’
Madeline held forth both her hands, but the lady’s stately figure became
more stately as she coldly placed her fingers in one of the palms, and
graciously led the way into the house. Somewhat chilled at so cold a
greeting, Madeline followed her through a stately hall into a handsomely
furnished room. Madeline sat down, and Miss Forster paused before her.
‘If you will be so good as to give me your keys,’ she said politely,
‘your maid shall unpack your things. James asked me to engage one for
you, and I hope she will give satisfaction.’
With a nod and a smile Madeline handed over the keys, and Miss Forster
retired.
Madeline sighed, leaned back in her chair, and looked around her.
She was in the drawing-room of Hampden House, a spacious apartment,
elegantly furnished in the most costly style. Her eyes, carelessly
scanning the costly pictures which covered the walls, became suddenly
fixed upon one. She leapt up from her seat, ran over to it, stood for
a moment regarding it with tear-dimmed gaze. Then, raising herself on
tiptoe, she pressed upon it her warm, ripe, trembling lips. It was a
pretty little landscape, looking insignificant enough in its golden
setting, but trebly dear to Madeline, for it was almost the last picture
which poor White had painted. Saddened a little at the memory it brought
her, she stood looking at it in a dream; she felt the tears roll slowly
down her cheeks, the sobs contract her throat--she was growing almost
hysterical, when a voice recalled her to herself.
‘Shall I show you to your rooms?’
She started, turned, and found herself face to face with her husband’s
sister. Unable to hide her tears, she said, turning faintly--
‘Thank you, I think I should like to be alone. I feel rather tired and
depressed to-day.’
Miss Forster said nothing, but quietly led the way out of the room.
Two of the best rooms in the house had been fitted up for Madeline’s
special use, and as she walked into them she felt for the first time
that day that she had really come home. Here, as elsewhere, there were
splendid upholstery, splendid pictures, tastefully designed ceilings,
and dim rose-coloured curtains to moderate the light; but besides
all this Madeline saw some of the crude but well-loved pictures which
brought to her the fond memory of her guardian; there was a little
bookcase, containing his favourite volumes; and, above all, there were
his favourite plays. She saw all this, but she saw more. Passing on
through the sitting-room she looked into the dressing-room adjoining it.
She found her dresses laid out, and a smart maid kneeling before a
box which was half unpacked. The girl rose and asked which dress her
mistress would wear for dinner, but Madeline said--
‘I don’t know; any one; will you leave me alone, please: and when I want
you I will ring.’
The maid retired, and Madeline, left to herself, returned to the
sitting-room. She took off her bonnet and cloak, and sat down in an easy
chair close to a gipsy table on which stood a silver tray and some tea.
She poured out a cup, and, while sipping it, looked with dubious eyes
around her.
‘I ought to be happy,’ she said. ‘So I am; so I will be. He is so good
and kind! I trust to God he will never be made to repent. If his sister
knew--if the world knew--but why should they?--I cannot undo the past,
but I can guide the future. Yes, I will bury my dead, as he said, and
try to forget.’
A light tap upon the door. Madeline started up, but before she could
speak the door opened and a tiny figure came in--a little bright-eyed
boy, who ran forward with outstretched hands, and sprang with a joyful
cry into her lap. She clasped him fondly in her arms, and kissed him
eagerly.
‘My darling, you have come to bid me welcome home?’
‘Yes, mamma.’
‘Who sent you?’
‘Papa. Kiss me again, please. Papa says if I am good you are sure to
love me.’
He held up his rosy lips and she kissed them again and again; then she
caught him up in her arms and carried him to her dressing-room.
She turned over the things in her unpacked boxes and produced some
toys--these she gave to the child, embracing him the while.
‘Do you know why I brought these, dear?’
‘No, mamma, unless because, as papa says, you are so good.’
‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘it is because I love you, and I want you to
love me.’
Late that night Madeline came quietly down from her room and entered the
library. Forster was still there; he was smoking a cigar, and looking
through a batch of letters which had accumulated during his absence.
‘Why, Madeline, can’t you sleep?’ he asked, as she came forward.
‘No, James, not till I have thanked you for all your goodness to me.
Tell me, how can I repay you?’
‘By being happy in your home.’
Good advice, and for a time at least Madeline followed it. She was
happy. Her husband was a good deal away, but she had always his boy to
comfort her, and upon the child she lavished all the affection of her
impulsive heart. There was one thing only in the house which chilled and
repelled her; it was the presence of her husband’s sister.
Madeline had not been long in the house before she found that the cold
eyes of Margaret Forster watched her continually in suspicious distrust,
as if trying in vain to penetrate the mystery which shrouded the young
girl’s life. But this Madeline soon forgot. Why should she fear Miss
Forster? The past was buried; and as yet she had no idea that the future
had its hidden mystery to disclose.