Pale as marble, like a woman to whom worldly phenomena can bring
neither thought nor care, because she is doomed to an ignominious and
cruel death, Madeline returned home. Entering the house, she fled up to
her own room, and there, heartbroken and alone, remained face to face
with her despair.
She did not weep--or pray. The sense of an arid and heart-burning
oppression kept her eyes dry, and turned her heart, that might have been
the fountain of pure prayer, to stone. She hated herself, the world,
all that she had seen and known. God Himself seemed against her, for
she knew her own innocence. Ah, yes! How she had tried, and tried, to be
good, to be at peace; and it was all in vain. At every turn of her young
life the evil shadow rose, pushing her down to some desolate abyss of
shame.
As she sat thinking it all over, she seemed covered from head to foot
with some horrible pollution. Though her spirit was pure, impurity was
upon her, choking and stifling her with its abomination. She shuddered
and moaned, praying for one thing only--that death might quickly come.
What should she say or do, when she saw the kind eyes harden into
indignation, the kind lace darken with this last shame? Sooner or later,
her husband must know the truth, if he did not know it already, if the
malignant voices in the air had not already whispered it to him. She
shrank in horror, thinking of how she could meet his gaze.
One thing now seemed certain to her--that the roof which covered her was
no longer hers, that to remain with James Forster as his lawful wife
was to live on in open adultery, which was not marriage. He himself>
she knew, would be the first to recognise the infamy of that union; and
then, even if _he_ pitied her, as was faintly possible, how should she
bear the scrutiny of the world, the worldly scorn of his sister’s cruel
eyes?
As she sat despairing there came a soft knock at the door, which she had
locked on entering; and the voice of her little step-son cried--
‘Mamma! mamma!’
She could not answer, she seemed choking; and now for the first time her
eyes were dim and blind. The cry was repeated--
‘Mamma! mamma! open the door!’
Without stirring she at last found strength to speak.
‘Who is there?’
‘It is I, mamma! Let me in!’
‘Go away, dear; I am dressing.’
‘Papa has sent me for you. He has just come home, and is waiting to see
you.’
Waiting to see her? She shuddered as if stabbed, and unconsciously made
a gesture of supplication. Could he have heard the truth, or a whisper
of the truth?
‘Mamma, do you hear? Will you not come?’
She forced herself to answer--
‘Yes, I am coming. Go away now, dear! I will be down directly.’
Then she heard the little feet pattering away. She rose and wearily
paced up and down the room. Her heart felt dead within her, her whole
life frozen in her veins. She looked in the glass, and was startled at
her face; it was so ghastly in its set look of pain.
What could she do? She knew that if she did not go down Forster would be
certain to come to seek her. At last she resolved in very desperation to
answer his summons. She cared not what happened now; if the worst came,
it must come sooner or later. Perhaps she might summon up courage to
tell him the truth with her own lips.
She went slowly downstairs. In the lobby she saw the child, who ran to
her and took her hand.
‘Papa is in the study. Come.’
And he tried to draw her along with him. She stooped and kissed him on
the brow.
‘Wait for me in the drawing-room,’ she ‘said. ‘Is Aunt Margaret there?’
‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘You will bring papa?’
He bounded from her, and she walked slowly towards the study. The door
was closed, and for a moment she paused, faltering, before she opened
it; then she passed in, and saw her husband sitting reading by the fire.
He had a newspaper in his hand. At a glance she recognised Lagardère’s
journal, the ‘Plain Speaker.’ The room swam round her; she felt as if
she was about to faint.
But Forster looked up with a bright smile, and tossed down the journal.
‘Ah, my dear Madeline,’ he said. ‘You see I am home early again;
I’m afraid I’m losing all my business habits. But good heavens!’ he
continued, noticing her face, ‘how pale you look! Is anything the
matter?’
‘Nothing; only--I have a bad headache.’
‘I am sorry for that. Not so bad, I hope, as to prevent you going out
this evening? Serena, who can’t go, has sent me a box for the first
night of “A Trip to Scarborough,” at the Parthenon. Talking of Serena,
there is a most amusing “Verbal Phototype” of him in the “Plain
Speaker.”’
It was clear that he knew nothing, that he had heard nothing, read
nothing--though the very journal which contained the poison had just
left his hand. Madeline breathed again. There was at least to be a
little respite.
‘But you do not look at all yourself,’ he continued, ‘and as the night
is damp, you are perhaps better at home.’
‘Yes; I cannot go.’
‘I am so sorry, as Aram’s first nights are generally amusing, and you
would have enjoyed yourself. What shall we do with the box? It is too
late, I fear, to send it to any of your friends.’
‘_You_ will go, of course,’ said Madeline eagerly. ‘Miss Forster will go
with you.*
‘_No_; I shall remain with you.’
‘You _must_ go!’
The tone was so strange, so full of entreaty, that Forster was startled.
He gazed at his wife again with deep solicitude, and drew her gently to
his side.
‘I should not think of going out and leaving you alone. My darling,
you are far from well. You must see Dr. Quin to-morrow, and see if his
advice is any use.’
As he spoke, he drew her down as if to kiss her fondly; but with a
nervous shudder she disengaged herself from his arms.
‘No, no!’ she cried. ‘It is only a headache, and will pass away. You
must go to the theatre with your sister; I shall be better--when you
return.’
‘I would much rather remain with you.’
‘But I wish you to go--I--I should be wretched if you remained on my
account.’
‘And I should be wretched there without you. I really will not go.’
‘Not if I _wish_ it, James?’
‘Why should you wish it?’
She looked at him sadly, and turned away; for her heart was bursting at
sight of his kind face, so gentle and so unsuspecting.
‘Why should you wish it? You know, dearest, I have no pleasure in
anything of this kind unless you are with me. I would rather have
a quiet evening at home in your company than go out alone to any
entertainment, however amusing.’
‘I know that,’ she said in a low voice, ‘but to-night--I would rather be
alone. When you are gone, and all is quiet, I shall lie down, and when
you come back I shall be quite well. So go, for my sake--I wish you to
be there.’ Seeing her so persistent, and thinking her wish was a mere
whim which it would be unkind not to gratify, Forster at last assented,
though with a very unwilling mind. He was really alarmed at his wife’s
look and manner, and setting it down, in his loving solicitude, to some
growing illness, he determined in his own mind to consult the family
physician without delay.
Having extracted his promise, Madeline prepared to go. Before retiring,
however, she took up the ‘Plain Speaker,’ and said--
‘May I take this with me? I may be able to read a little, and--and--I
should like to read about Mr. Serena.’
Her hands shook like a leaf as she clutched the paper, her faced assumed
an even ghastlier pallor. She moved tremulously to the door.
‘I shall not come down to dinner,’ she said.
‘No? Then let me send you something to your room.’
‘I could not touch a morsel, while my headache lasts. Don’t mind me, but
go to the theatre and enjoy yourself. Good--good-bye!’
Not ‘good-night,’ but ‘good-bye.’ He did not notice the words then, but
they recurred to him long afterwards, with an ominous and piteous
sound. As she uttered them, she yielded to an irresistible impulse, and,
quickly returning to his side, stooped over him and kissed him. As she
did so, he felt a hot tear fall upon his cheek.
‘Madeline, my darling!’ he cried in astonishment, and stretched out his
arms to embrace her, but before he could do so she was gone.
She fled back to her lonely room, and there, locked in and alone, she
threw herself upon the bed and sobbed wildly. By the bedside lay the
fatal journal, which she had carried with her, and which had now fallen
from her lax and feeble hand.
An hour and a half passed away. At last she heard a knock at the bedroom
door, and then Forster’s voice--
‘Madeline, are you asleep? May I come in?’
She waited, trembling, for a little time before she replied. Then she
answered, not rising from the bed--
‘I am trying to rest. I thought that you had gone to the theatre.’
‘The carriage is at the dcor. How is your headache?’
‘A little better.’
‘Try to sleep, my darling. I shall come back very early.’
She heard him pass downstairs; then, rising from her bed, she listened
eagerly. Presently she heard the front door open and close, and the
carriage drive away. Her whole manner now changed, and she moved about
her room, lifting one thing and another as if with a set determination.
She had resolved to leave James Forster’s house that night.