To remain under that roof another night, when she knew the horrible
truth, was profanation. For some days she had hoped and prayed that her
enemy had lied when he claimed her as his lawful wife; and so, doubting
and fearing, avoiding Forster’s society on the plea of indisposition,
she had delayed and waited. Now, however, delay was impossible. That her
enemy meant mischief was proved by the fact that he had already breathed
these slanders into the air. She could not stay to face the anger of
the man she loved, or, worst of all, his sorrow. She would go at once,
without another hour’s delay.
Her resolve once made, its very intensity sustained her. She dried her
eyes, and quietly prepared to go forth on foot. At first she thought of
taking with her a portion of her wardrobe, and a few simple ornaments
which Forster had given her; but this thought was soon abandoned.
Keeping on the dress she wore, a plain robe of dark material, she drew
on a dark bonnet, and threw round her shoulders a shawl, the commonest
thing of the kind she possessed, but costly nevertheless. In her
impulsive haste she forgot the bracelets upon her hands.
She listened till all was still. Then she stole softly downstairs.
In the hall she hesitated. Should she leave him no message; no
intimation of her resolve? If she disappeared without a word of
explanation there would be a scandal, a hue and cry. Besides, it would
be so cruel. No; she could not go away without leaving a few written
words.
She passed along the lobby into the little study, and sitting down in
Forster’s chair tried to scribble some hurried lines. As she did so her
tears began to fall. She was sitting thus, in deep agitation, when a
footman entered to attend to the fire, and, after standing amazed for a
moment at the sight of his mistress, retired with a murmur of apology.
This intrusion brought her back to herself. After writing and destroying
several wild effusions, she wrote the following:--
_‘I am going away. Do not follow me or try to find me; by the time you
receive this I shall perhaps have done with this world for ever. Try to
forgive me. Indeed, indeed, I am grateful to you for all your goodness,
but when you learn the truth you will see that I could not stay. Kiss
your little boy for me. God bless him and you! ‘Madeline.’_
The paper was wet with tears, but she folded it up and inclosed it in an
envelope, which she addressed and left upon the study table.
Then, shuddering, she rose and left the room, drawing down her thick
veil over her face. In the lobby she met the same servant who had
surprised her in the study.
‘I am going out,’ she said, in reply to his amazed stare. ‘If your
master returns----’
‘Beg pardon, ma’am,’ exclaimed the man, ‘but you can’t think of it. It’s
pouring wet.’
‘I cannot help that. It is very important.’
Aghast at her persistence, the man opened the front door, and she saw
the gleam of the gas in the wet street and on the falling shafts of
rain. He was about to interfere once more, when she slipped by him, and
disappeared in the darkness.
‘And without an umbrella, too!’ he afterwards explained to his
fellow-servants. ‘She’s off her head, I think. I see the tears quite
plain in her eyes as she sat writing in master’s room. There’s something
wrong, I’m sure; but, after all, it’s no business ot mine.’
About half-past eleven o’clock Forster and his sister returned from
the theatre. On entering the house, Forster at once hurried upstairs
to Madeline’s boudoir, and found it empty, as well as the adjoining
bedroom. Then he hastened downstairs, thinking to find his wife there.
At the foot of the stairs he found Miss Forster, in low conversation
with one of the men-servants. Without noticing their agitated appearance
and demeanour, he inquired if Mrs. Forster was in the drawing-room.
The servant did not reply, but Margaret Forster, very pale, placed her
hand upon her brother’s arm.
‘Madeline is not there,’ she said, adding, with an emotion unusual to
her, while her eyes filled with tears, ‘Oh, James! my poor brother.’
Forster stood terrified.
‘Something has happened!’ he cried. ‘Madeline is ill? Where is she? For
God’s sake tell me!’
Then he turned to the servant.
‘Speak, you! Are you dumb? Where is your mistress?’
The man was about to make some blundering reply, when Miss Forster
interposed.
‘Madeline is not at home.’
‘Not at home!’ echoed Forster wildly.
‘Oh, James, keep calm! Perhaps she will soon come back; but she went out
two hours ago on foot quite alone, and has not yet returned.’
Gone out? And at such an hour, and on such a night. The thing seemed
utterly inconceivable, and Forster could not trust his ears. But the
servant on being pressed gave so circumstantial an account of what
had occurred, that doubt was no longer possible. He reserved his most
important piece of information till the last.
‘And please, sir, I think she left a letter for you, sir; leastways she
was writing one, and I see it lying afterwards on the study table.’
Without waiting to hear more, Forster rushed toward the study, while his
sister still remained questioning the servant. A few minutes afterwards
Miss Forster heard a cry and a fall, and on entering the study found
Forster lying on the hearth, insensible, with Madeline’s letter open in
his hand.