While Gavrolles, in a grotesque attitude, was soliloquising and feeding
the swans, Madeline was walking along the pavement of the principal
street in Knightsbridge. Her eyes rested upon the gaily decked shop
windows and the busy crowd about her, but her thoughts were still with
the man whom she had just left. Already she repented of her madness
in having defied him. Once or twice she paused with the intention of
returning to him and asking for pity, but her resolutions were no sooner
made than conquered; to expect mercy from that man was like looking for
water to flow from a stone.
She paused and looked blankly in at a shop window; as she did so she
felt herself touched lightly and timidly on the arm; and on looking down
she found that she had been accosted by a flower girl; a pale, little
creature, clad in miserable rags, with a face pinched and pallid from
starvation, who timidly held forth a bunch of half-withered violets.
Madeline looked down, and her eyes filled with tears; not with sorrow
for the child--they were tears of self-pity--for as she pressed some
silver into the child’s hand, she thought, ‘What would I give to change
places with you to-day?’
Thus recalled to herself, she looked at her watch. It was one o’clock;
at two she knew that Miss Forster would expect her to preside at the
luncheon table. She determined to hurry home, in order to have a
few minutes to compose herself before she was compelled to meet her
sister-in-law. She called a hansom, and ordered the man to drive to her
house. She stopped him at the street corner, however, and finished her
journey on foot.
To her intense relief she was able to gain her room without encountering
the lady whose presence seemed to inspire her with so much dread. Having
reached the room she shut herself in, sank down on an ottoman, and
stared despairingly before her.
‘His wife!’ Could it be that he had spoken truly, that she was really
bound by the sacred tie to the man who had done his best to ruin her?
Could it be that she had brought shame and disgrace on the man who had
been noble enough to shut out the past and to cleanse and purify her
with his unstained name? ‘My God,’ she murmured, I think I am accursed.
I am like a leper--a vile, unclean thing which contaminates all it
touches. I did sin, in a wild, impulsive, girlish way, but why should
that sin for ever drag me down? I have repented--I have tried to
atone--but for me there seems no mercy.’ Then came the question,
What must she do? Return to Monsieur Belleisle, whom the world would
doubtless call her lawful husband? Live with him in degradation as great
as any she had yet been made to bear?
‘No!’ she cried. ‘I would sooner, as I said to him, destroy my miserable
life!’
A gentle tap at the door aroused her. She opened it and admitted her
little step-son. It was a custom of the child to call at Madeline’s
room, and if he found her go down with her to lunch. He bounded in
in his usual light-hearted way, but on seeing her face his hilarity
received a check. He took her hand and kissed it, he looked up wistfully
into her eyes--
‘Mamma’s headache is no better,’ he said quietly, ‘Why do you think
that, darling?’
‘Why?--because you are so white--and because your eyes are all wet. Why
have you been crying, mamma; what is there to make you cry?’
‘Ah, what indeed?’ echoed Madeline, seizing up the child and clasping
him passionately in her arms. ‘But, remember, my pet, I spoke roughly to
you this morning--I have been away from you for hours; perhaps I thought
you would not be glad to see me back again.’
‘Ah, no! you would not think that,’ he said, pressing his rosy cheek
against her cold, pale face. ‘What would papa do? What should we all do
if mamma went away?’
She shuddered, but held the child closely to her as she descended to the
dining-room.
The meal was got through in oppressive silence. To be sure, the presence
of the servants acted as a barrier to anything like conversation; but
every one felt on this occasion that there was something more. Even the
child and the very servants seemed oppressed by that indescribable gloom
which all felt but none could understand. The luncheon over, Madeline
rose with a sigh of infinite relief, and ordered the carriage.
The rain had ceased to fall, but the sky still looked threatening,
and the drive did not prove to be a pleasant one. Still it seemed to
Madeline that anything would be better than sitting in the house all the
afternoon tormented by her own wretched thoughts. Presently, however, as
she was putting on her hat, the thought occurred to her that it might be
well for her to seek another interview with Belleisle. When, therefore,
she descended the stairs she merely kissed the child, who was standing
half expecting to be invited to go, and entered the carriage alone.
She drove straight to Regent Street, made one or two trifling purchases,
then she ordered her coachman to take a few turns round the park.
The season was rapidly drawing to a close; many families had already
betaken themselves to the country, and most of those who lingered were
busily preparing to go. Still, in spite of this, there were still enough
people left to make a tolerable show in the Row, and Madeline had not
been ten minutes in the drive before she was greeted with many gracious
smiles and bows.
Suddenly, however, her heart gave a great throb, then seemed to stand
still, for her eyes rested upon the very form she sought. Could it be
possible? Yes, there he was on horseback, on a sorry hack sicklied o’er
with the shade of the livery stable, and accompanied by two young ladies
in green riding-habits and hats composed of peacocks’ feathers. The
three horses were walking, and the three riders seemed heedless of
everything but each other.
The great and cosmic creature was holding forth, while the two girls
were gazing upon him in rapt devotion.
Madeline felt her cheek grow crimson, for it seemed to her as if every
soul about her suddenly read her secret.
She bent forward to speak to her coachman, and met the Frenchman’s eye;
his face became suddenly irradiated, he politely lifted his hat as the
carriage passed him; but she felt herself utterly unable to make any
sign in return.
That day had passed wearily enough to James Forster. From the moment
he had entered the office he had been able to think of nothing but his
wife; so great was his anxiety and his eagerness to see her that he left
business two hours before his usual time, and hurried home. It was not
fair to her, he thought, that he should spend so many hours of the day
away from her side. He pictured her at home, sitting disconsolately
beside his lonely hearth. When he reached the house, however, he was
disenchanted. He went up to the drawing-room and found his sister prim
and neat as usual, working at some simple embroider work, and keeping
an eye upon the child, who played at her feet. She looked surprised to
see her brother at such an early hour.
‘Has anything happened, James?’ she said.
He laughed a little impatiently.
‘Why, Margaret, have I grown such a methodical old fellow that you must
imagine something has happened merely because I come home a couple
of hours before dinner time? No, nothing has happened. I hurried home
because I wanted to have a talk with Madeline. Where is she?’
‘Madeline is out.’
‘Out?’
‘Yes, she has been out all day.’
‘Why, where has she gone to?’
‘Really, James, I am not Madeline’s keeper. Since she didn’t choose to
tell me I thought it was not my duty to ask. I only know that she went
out walking all the morning, and that immediately after lunch she went
out driving. I have not seen her since.’
‘Why, I thought when she went out she generally took the boy?’
‘She has always taken him before, but she did not want him to-day. She
said it was necessary for her to go alone.’
Miss Forster concluded with a significant ‘Hem!’ which spoke volumes.
Forster made no reply; he turned away, went to his study, and sat there
to await his wife’s return.
One hour, two hours passed. She did not come. The first dinner bell
rang--he rose to go to his room, and as he was crossing the hall he
heard his wife’s knock at the door.
‘So late!’ he murmured. ‘Where can she have been at this hour?’
Then he thought of his sister’s peculiar manner when she had spoken to
him, and instead of waiting to see his wife come in he went straight up
to his room.
When he went down to dinner he found Madeline already at the table. Her
face was paler than it had been on the preceding night, and there was
the same strange, wild light in her eyes. Was it his fancy again, or did
she really shrink from him when he put his arms around her and kissed
her cold cheek? Why did she flush and look uneasily about the room when
he asked her innocently enough what interesting appointment she could
possibly have to keep her out all day? There was certainly something
the matter which he was faintly conscious of, but which he could not
possibly understand.
The dinner over, Forster rose and asked his wife to go with him to his
study. The request was a simple one, but Madeline started, her face grew
paler than before, and a sickening sense of dread seized her heart. She
filled a glass of water and drank off its contents; then with a courage
born only of despair she went with him.