When Madeline came down to breakfast next morning she looked very ill. There was a wild light in her eyes and a feverish flush upon her face. Quite unsuspicious of the real cause of the change in her, Forster attributed it to the indisposition of the night before, and began to wonder if the sudden change in her habits was going to tell upon her health.
It certainly was a great change to be transported from the wild excitement of public life to the monotonous existence of a quiet house like his; but when he had asked her to give up the stage, he had thought he was lifting from her shoulders a load of which she would gladly be free. He had wished his wife to take her ease and enjoy her days, not to toil wearily as if for her daily bread. But now he began to think that he had been totally wrong. While he had been working away with unconscious happiness in the City, his beautiful wild bird had been beating her breast against the bars of her gilded cage, and pining for that freedom which to all gifted beings is so dear. These thoughts and many more of the same strain passed through Forster’s mind, while he made his way to the City. Long before he reached his office he had decided how to act.
‘I will speak to Madeline to-night,’ he said to himself, and hear her views. Something must be done to make her contented.’
Meanwhile Madeline, left with Miss Forster, walked about the room in new restlessness. She looked out of the window; it was a damp, dark day; she looked at her watch, it was past ten o’clock. In an hour she had promised to meet the man, and by this time she had settled in her mind that she must go.
What he could want with her she could not tell, and she had not paused to inquire. That he meant her no good she knew, but it was useless to anticipate the evil, till she knew its nature.
She went upstairs with a heavy heart, and returned, greatly to Miss Forster’s surprise, in walking costume.
The little boy, confident of his reception, came bounding in and clung affectionately to her skirts. She kissed him fondly, but told him he could not go with her that morning.
‘Not at all? May I not go a little way, mamma?’
‘Not even a little way, darling; I must go alone to-day.’
There was such a strange ring in her voice that Miss Forster looked up in some amazement, while the child clung closer to Madeline, and ardently kissed the cold, pale cheek.
‘Mamma is going to see a doctor,’ he said; ‘is it not so, mamma?’
“No, dear.’
‘Then where are you going alone, on such a cold wet day?’
Madeline flushed uneasily, and impatiently put the child from her.
‘You should not ask so many questions,’ she said; ‘it is rude!’ Then, noting the little crestfallen face, she hurriedly caught him up again and kissed him, while her own eyes filled with tears.
‘Hush, do not mind, I was wrong; but I did not mean to pain you, darling—no, no—notyou!’
During the enacting of this scene Miss Forster had still remained in the room. Up to this moment she had said nothing; but her eyes had followed all her sister-in-law’s movements, and watched her face with peculiar interest. When Madeline had put down the boy, and was about to leave the room, she spoke.
‘The carriage has not come round,’ she said.
Madeline started, and turned. She had ignored the presence of her sister-in-law; and that lady noticed that the sudden recollection of it brought another uncomfortable flush to the pale cheek, and caused another anxious look about the room.
‘I—I have not ordered the carriage,’ she said.
‘Indeed?’
No question had been asked, therefore Madeline was not bound to reply; but feeling that she must say something, she stammered rather awkwardly—
‘I am going to walk. I prefer it to-day, as my head is bad, but I shall not be long away.’ Then, as if in dread of further questioning, she hurried from the room.
It was certainly a most inclement morning, but Madeline, being suitably clad, did not heed the weather. After walking a short distance, she hailed a passing hansom and drove to the park gate, close to the Albert Memorial; here she alighted, and crossing to the footpath sank wearily upon one of the seats to watch for the Frenchman’s arrival.
She had not sat long when she saw him.
Previous to her coming, Gavrolles, as we must continue to call him, had been parading theatrically round the memorial for a quarter of an hour, to the great admiration of several idle nursemaids. He did not at first see Madeline. He was smoking a cigar, glancing with careless interest at the somewhat tawdry designs, and keeping a cat-like eye on the figures which were moving about the park.
Another turn round the monument; then his eye fell upon Madeline, who still retained her seat close by. In a moment the whole man seemed to change. He smiled, tossed away his cigar, and advanced gallantly towards her. He raised his hat, then cordially extended his right hand.
‘Good morning,’ he exclaimed in French; ‘charmed to see you abroad so early! May I so far presume upon your friendship as to walk with you a very little way around the park?’
Madeline rose in silence, took no notice of his extended hand, and walked along by his side. She looked cold, haughty, and defiant; but in truth her heart was sinking terribly. As for Gavrolles, if he was a little disconcerted at first, he quickly regained his composure. As he drew back his rejected hand he smiled, and the smile seemed to say: ‘It is your turn now, Madame!Eh bien, enjoy your pride to the full; my time is at hand, and I mean to take advantage of it.’
‘Parbleu!he exclaimed, ‘how the place is deserted; and yet to my mind the morning is the pleasantest time of the day. See how fresh the flowers and the grass!—and the breeze is still sweet and cool with last night’s dew! It seems to bring new life to a man. Ah, yes; it is charming!’
He expanded his chest, he raised his hat to let the breeze play with his flowing locks of hair, then he gave a sidelong glance at Madeline, and met her eyes. She paused, and for the first time that day addressed him—
‘I cannot stay,’ she said quietly. ‘Why have you forced me to meet you here to-day?’
He shrugged his shoulders, he raised his hand in polite protestation.
‘Forced you!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ah, but you use hard words, my dear Madeline. I employ force to no one; certainly not to one so esteemed. If your memory is good, you must know that I merely asked an interview. You were gracious enough not only to grant it, but to name also our place of meeting.’
She looked him steadily in the face, and her lip curled contemptuously.
‘Will you oblige me by answering my question?’ Again he smiled, but while he did so his face was by no means pleasant to see.
‘I will make my best endeavours, madame.’
‘First, tell me this: when you went to that house last night were you certain of meeting me there?’
‘I most certainly hoped to have the pleasure of meeting you. I have lived in this strange world long enough to know that nothing is certain.’
‘Did you know that I had married an honourable man?’
‘I knew that; yes.’
‘And yet you made up your mind to thrust yourself upon me?’
He bowed profoundly. ‘My dear Madeline, your penetration is wonderful. I perceive you are one of the few beings in this stupid world fully capable of understanding me.’
‘Unfortunately for myself,’ Madeline continued, ‘I understand you sufficiently to know that you would not plan this meeting if there was no purpose to be obtained by it. What new injury do you wish to do menow?’
He gazed at her flushed face and muttered, ‘Ma foi, but she is charming!’ Then he added, aloud—
‘I merely wished to tell you, Madeline, something that you do not know.’
‘And that is——’
‘Only this—that although you have married an honourable man, as you say, you are nevertheless still my wife.’
He spoke quietly enough, but she recoiled as if he had struck her.
‘Your wife!’ she exclaimed. ‘Your wife, monsieur!’
A dark look passed over the Frenchman’s face. He bowed profoundly.
‘It is an honour which has been coveted by many, madame,’ he returned, ‘to be the wife of your humbleserviteur; but I am proud to say it has been reserved for one who is truly worthy of it. Yes, Madeline, I will own it—at one time I thought the position too elevated for you; but when I saw you nobly rising to fame, I said to myself, “After all, I was wrong. She is a splendid creature; she will adorn our world of Art; at the right moment I will reveal the truth, and claim her”—and so, my dear Madeline, I claim younow!’
He smiled, he held forth his hand; but Madeline recoiled again.
‘Do not touch me,’ she cried wildly.
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Eh bien—I have no wish to touch you,chère amie—but if you play the tragedy queen in the park you will gather a crowd about you, and that would not be pleasant foryou.
He spoke with quiet malignity; nevertheless Madeline knew that he spoke truly. She was utterly in his power, and for her own sake she dared not make a scene; whatever she said must be said quietly for fear of attracting attention. She cast a fearful glance around her, then, pale and trembling with disgust and shame, she turned again to the Frenchman.
‘This is another of your falsehoods. Why have you chosen to tell me it to-day?’
‘Mon Dieu!what a question! I do not choose to tell you a story. I came to claim my wife.’
‘It is false. I am not your wife.’
‘No? Then this little writing lies.’
As he spoke he drew forth a paper and waved it carelessly in the air.
‘Ah, my dear Madeline, there was once a time when you would joyfully have received the news I bring you to-day. You did not always scorn the thought of being madame my lady!’
‘You are right, monsieur,’ answered Madeline. ‘There was once a time when the news which you bring me today would have been welcome to me, but thank God that time has gone, and I am changed!’
‘Yes,’ he returned quietly, ‘you are changed, as you say; so also am I. At that period of my career to which you allude I was not perfect, and, pardon me for saying so, Madeline, neither were you. I confess with all humility that I told lies, and we both showed temper, but—nous avons changé tout cela!I come to-day to tell you the truth, and to offer you your rightful home.’
Again he moved as if to approach her. Again she shrank away.
‘It is not the truth,’ she returned vehemently; ‘I refuse to believe you! You told me the truth once, but you are lying to me to-day!’
Again his face darkened, but when he spoke his voice was as sweet as it had been before.
‘Your judgment is harsh,chérie, but I have without doubt deserved it—that being so, I bear it with patience. I say to you that I lied to you before; therefore I must not expect you to believe me now. Before I could not prove the truth of my statement, but that is all changed at last!’
Again he produced his slip of paper; this time he held it out before Madeline’s eyes. In a dazed, troubled way she looked at it. She saw at a glance that it was the certificate, real or forged, of the marriage between Auguste Belleisle and Madeline Hazel mere. Therefore she completely lost her self control, and did what, under the circumstances, it was most injudicious that she should do—she allowed the Frenchman to see that she was afraid.
‘I will not—I cannot—believe it,’ she cried. ‘If it is so, why did you tell me that wicked falsehood, when I did not know you well enough to doubt your word?’
‘I will tell you, dearest. When I induced you to fly with me from the school I was poor—miserably poor, and I believed I was eloping with a lady who would become possessed of a fortune when she was of age. Ah! forgive me, but I was wicked, corrupt! Then I said to myself, “She is a charming girl; she will become the victim of fortune-hunters; she evidently adores me, and I care for her; the fortune must be mine!” Afterwards you repented of your mad folly. I knew you did so too late—in spite of your wishes I married you. Shortly after our marriage you yourself informed me,chérie, that you were poor. I felt that I had been befooled, and I grew enraged. Still, as I could not easily rid myself of my wife, I resolved to make her useful. I did so. You fell into my plans until you discovered them; then you showed temper, and threatened to become dangerous. I wondered for a second time what I should do with you. I determined to try a bold stroke, and succeed or fail. I succeeded. I told you a lie,mon ange, and in your charming innocence you believed it to be the truth. You asked for no proofs, which was lucky for me, since I could produce none. You believed that you had been my mistress. I knew that you were bound to me by a nearer and a dearer tie.’
He paused and looked at her. Her face was ghastly, her eyes wildly fixed; she shivered through all her frame.
‘Madame, you are not well.’
Again she shrank away. He smiled and nodded.
‘Mon ange, I know I have done wrong, but you must forget and forgive. I came to make amends. Since those days of which I have spoken I also have changed. I am no longer a penniless, nameless Frenchman. I have risen to a position which henceforth I hope to adorn. The divine Muse has entered into my soul. Art is now my adored mistress; the great men and women of the land are pleased, so to speak, to prostrate themselves before me. I offer you a position which thousands would give their lives to fill.Bien!I care nothing for them. I accept their adulation, but I am willing to place you beside me and say to the world, “This charming creature is my wife!”’
What wonderful self-sacrifice!—what condescension!
He stood as if expecting her to fall in ecstasy at his feet. She simply stared at him in dumb amazement, till, disgusted at her silence, Gavrolles, who had all his wits about him, spoke again.
‘Mon Dieu, but am I not generous!’ he said. ‘I say to you, “Come to me, my wife;” while you think, “Alas! it is too late. I have taken to myself another husband.” Well, that shall make no difference to me. I take the blame of that, since it was I who deceived you. Yes,mon ange, I forgive you from my soul! *
She looked at him in deepening horror, while she said in a hollow voice—
‘What of my husband, monsieur?’
‘Parbleu, I had no thought of him. What is he?—a common tradesman, I believe; a dull creature, incapable of comprehending the splendours of a nature like mine; there is no poetry in his soul. He adds up his accounts now; he will add them up when you are gone—that is all!’
Madeline’s face grew even whiter, but her eyes flashed fire.
‘Take care,’ she cried, ‘take care. Say what you like of me, do what you can to me, but don’t dare to put a slight onhim.’
It was now the Frenchman’s turn to be astonished. For a moment the lackadaisical look of condescension passed completely from his eyes.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked sharply.
‘Only this, monsieur, that the gentleman whom you are pleased to denounce as commonplace is as far above you as the sun is above the earth. That after you had tried to destroy me it was he who nobly put out his hand to save me. That sooner than let you bring disgrace and sorrow to him I will make a sacrifice of myself, perhaps of you!’
‘Parbleu, but you are heroic,’ sneered the Frenchman.
‘What I am,’ continued Madeline, ‘I am; thanks to you, and you only. I have been dragged as low almost as the women who nightly walk the streets. Now you come to me and ask me to return to shame and degradation. Your wife I may be, as you say, but sooner than return to you and live with you—in honourable wedlock, as the world would call it—I would destroy myself. I expect no mercy from you. Well, you may do you worst—what that may be I neither know nor care.’
And before the Frenchman could utter a word she turned from him and walked swiftly away.
He did not attempt to follow her. This sudden and unexpected onslaught of his victim had found him quite unprepared, and he gazed after her with eyes full of perplexity and amazement. Then he, too, turned and walked away. He strolled slowly through the park in the direction of the Serpentine; having reached it, he paused on one of the bridges, leant over the parapet, and watched the swans. He felt in his pocket, threw them some broken biscuits, and watched them eat.
While so watching, he soliloquised. ‘As I suspected,’ he murmured, ‘she still possesses a spirit and a temper—-eh bien, it is for me to manage both. If this little piece of paper (touching the certificate) were genuine, if that spirited creature were indeed my wife, I should find my work easy. The law would give her to me, and there would be an end to the whole matter. I would place her again upon the stage; she would make me a rich man, while I could pursue my dream, mount rapidly up the ladder of fame, become the idol of mankind, and make my name immortal. But, alas! that cannot be. The charming creature detests me, and means to resist me. I dare not appeal to the law, for it would require more proofs of my sagacity than my charming Madeline does.Parbleu!what must I donow?’
He ran his thin fingers through his long hair; he gazed again meditatively at the water; he threw some more biscuits to the swans. Suddenly the perplexed look passed away from his face, which lit up into positive ecstasy.
‘The husband! 5 he cried. ‘Mon Dieu!but she adores the husband even more cordially than she detests me. Let me think of him; let my plans involve him, and my success is tolerably sure.’
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.
Forster’s study was the smallest room in the mansion, furnished very plainly but cosily, and shut off by two baize doors from the rest of the house. It contained, besides the ordinary furniture, a few favourite pictures in water-colour, and a small number of books, selected from the shelves of the library. Here Forster spent many a pleasant evening, following those studies in early English poetry and literature which were his chief recreation.
The couple entered and seated themselves. Madeline had her eyes fixed thoughtfully on the fire, but she was fully conscious that her husband, leaning back in his writing chair, had his eyes intently upon her face. What could it mean? What was coming? She waited and trembled.
‘My dear Madeline,’ he said at last, ‘I have been thinking about you all day long. That, of course, is nothing unusual, for I need not tell you that you are ever uppermost in my thoughts; but to-day I have been much troubled on your account.’
She started and looked at him. What did he mean? His face was curiously grave, and in his eyes there was the shadow of a great and wistful pain.
‘I am sorry you have been troubled,’ she said in a low sad voice, ‘and that I have been the cause.’
‘Nay, my dear, it is no fault of yours; but the truth is I am very anxious. Sometimes of late—not always, but sometimes—I have thought that you are a little disappointed, a little weary. All my wish, all the dream of my life, is to see you happy; and yet——’
He paused, and passed his hand across his eyes; for tears were there.
‘Do not think I am unhappy,’ she replied. ‘I am not. I am happier than I deserve.’
‘This is a dull house, I know,’ continued Forster, as if pursuing his own thoughts, ‘and Margaret, I am afraid, a somewhat dull companion. It is not at all the life which you have been accustomed to, and I do not wonder that you find it dull. Well, how shall we brighten it?’ Here his face was lit by a loving smile. ‘How shall I make my darling happy? I think I have discovered the way. Indeed, if I had not been a commonplace fool, I might have discovered it long before.’
Still more puzzled than ever, she kept her eyes fixed upon his face; then seeing him smile so brightly, so kindly, she drew near to him and kissed him.
‘Don’t cry, my darling!’
‘I can’t help it—you are so good to me!’
‘Not half so good as you deserve. Now listen—I have settled it. You shall return to the stage.’
She started in amazement.
‘No, no!’
‘But yes! Your divine gift shall not perish from want of use; you shall go back to the Art which you so love, and I—I shall be by, to rejoice in your happiness and your success.’
Instead of receiving the proposal with joy, as he had anticipated, Madeline rose, trembling and very pale.
‘Do not decide hastily,’ said Forster, gently, ‘but think it well over.’
‘It is quite unnecessary—I shall never act again; never! never!’
‘Madeline!’
‘I have disgraced you enough already.’
‘Disgraced me—God forbid! Madeline, you are my pride, my treasure—only honour can come to me through you. Don’t think I am such a Philistine as to underrate your gifts, or the art you delight to follow. When I persuaded you to adopt this quiet life, I thought it might be better for your peace of mind, for your health. I see that I was wrong. Genius like yours cannot be contented with the mere humdrum of an English home. I was selfish, dear. You shall be my Imogen again, and, as I said, I will share your happy triumphs.’
‘It is impossible,’ cried Madeline, impetuously. ‘I hate the stage. Rather than return to it I would die.’
It was now Forster’s turn to be amazed.
‘Hate the stage!’ he echoed. ‘Ah, you do not mean what you say.’
‘But I do mean it. When I first acted it was for my guardian’s sake—to make him happy, and, perhaps, rich. But I never loved the life, and now—I sicken at it. Oh, James!’ she continued, in deepening agitation, ‘do not think me foolish or ungrateful. I am quite, quite happy here with you. Yes, when we are alone together, when we are away from the world and all its feverish tumult, I am more than happy—I am at peace. Don’t think otherwise. You ask me to go back into the world; it is the world that makes me miserable. If we should go away together—far from London, far from the wicked city—to some green country place, where none could know us, none could care for us, then, I think, I should be at peace indeed.’ As she spoke, she threw herself into his arms, for he had risen as if to implore her to be calm, and laid her head upon his breast.
‘Then you are not unhappy?’
‘I don’t know—I cannot tell!’ she sobbed. ‘I think it is my disposition—never quite contented, never restful. When I was a child, I was a trouble to those who loved me; and afterwards—afterwards everything seemed to go wrong with me. But oh! do not think that I am ungrateful—that I do not love you as you deserve. I do! I do! I do!’
And as she clung to him sobbing, she repeated her protestations again and again. He too was strongly moved, and tried in vain to calm her.
‘It is like you to reproach yourself,’ he said tenderly. ‘My loving, unselfish darling!’
‘But I am selfish,’ she said. ‘I am not good, like you, James. It would have been better, far better, if we had never met.’
‘Don’t say that, Madeline!’
‘I must say it. I bring sorrow to all that love me.’
‘You have never brought sorrow to me. Only happiness, my dear!’
‘If I could believe that! But where another woman would have been contented, I have been ill at ease. I hate myself for it! I hate my life! But oh! I love you! You do not doubt it, dear?’
‘If I doubted it I should be a miserable man.’
‘Whatever happened, you would still believe it.’
‘Till my dying day. You have proved it,’
‘Have I, James?’
‘God knows you have. You are not like common women—you are greater and better, and it is your very affection which makes you reproach yourself. But let us speak again—calmly, seriously—of what I proposed. You want occupation—you want play for your noble powers; here, darling, you are like a bird in a golden cage. Let me persuade you to try your wings again, to end this dreary existence. I can easily arrange everything for your return to the profession.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘Never! never!’
‘But why?’
‘Have I not told you? Because I prefer to remain alone withyou.’
He pressed her still, suspecting that her determination was caused by solicitude on his account, or some secret fear of compromising him; but when he saw that she was firm he was pleased. In the secresy of his own mind he rather dreaded the step that he proposed; lest that step, if taken, might draw them further asunder, and in more than one way lead to misconstruction. He was far too little of a Philistine to despise the theatre, to undervalue a beautiful and much-neglected art; but he knew its decadence, and understood its baser ambitions. He preferred to keep the woman he loved to himself, to screen her from the contamination of mercenary speculators and the coarse admiration of the dregs of the public which unhappily fill our theatres. The excitements of the stage, he thought, were not beneficial to a nature so overwrought as that of his wife; itsmoralewas not edifying, its literature not spiritually ennobling, its successes were evanescent, its rewards too often achieved by ignoble means. All this he thought, yet did not say, for he honestly set his wife’s personal happiness above all considerations of prejudice; but when he heard her emphatic determination, a weight was taken from his mind.
So the interview ended, bringing the husband and wife more closely and tenderly together, but still leaving on the woman’s heart the sense of a nameless dread, which she dared not utter, and which he, of course, did not understand.
Calling at Sutherland’s rooms one morning, Crieff found him surrounded by a number of unwieldy volumes, dirty and dingy enough to have been picked up, as indeed they had been, in the uncleanest shop in Holywell Street. One of these volumes he was examining with considerable impatience when Crieff entered.
‘What have you got there?’ asked the journalist, peeping over his shoulder. ‘As I live, an old volume of the “Satyrnine Review.”’
‘Yes. I saw the rubbish ticketed up very cheap, and bought it. It is not a complete set, but sufficiently so for my purpose.’
And he threw the volume down among its fellows.
‘You’ll find some spicy writing there,’ said Crieff. ‘A little out of date now, of course, for the new society journals have killed the “Satyrnine,” but it used to be deucedly clever.’
‘Clever!’ echoed Sutherland. ‘During the whole of last evening, and for hours this morning, I have been searching these volumes in vain for one spark of insight, for a ray of pure talent. They are simply trash, and spiteful trash, which is the worst of all.’
‘Perhaps you expect too much, old fellow. The “Satyrnine” only professes to be smart.’
‘I hate that word, though it expresses well enough the journalism we speak of—the journalism of the “Satyr,” who now wears fine clothes and calls himself a gentleman, but is at the best a production of literature’s slimy deposits—a Faun, earth-grubbing, ugliness-loving, screeching at the mysteries of artistic sunlight and moonlight. Even your friend Lagardère’s style is better—it makes no hideous pretences.’
‘Come, I’m glad you see some merit in Lagardère, after all!’
‘But this rubbish’—here he touched the volume contemptuously with his foot—‘this rubbish, in its horrible baseness and unintelligence, has not even the redeeming quality of honesty. The writers are ignorant, but they are also vicious; uninstructed, but at the same time pertinacious. Who are these men? Does any one know them? I should be curious, for example, to see the goatfooted animal who wrote this article on Thackeray.’
‘Well, you see,’ answered Crieff, reflectively, ‘they rather make a point of working in the dark, keeping up a mystery, so to speak; but nowadays, when the journal has gone downhill, and spicier papers like the “Plain Speaker” have practically killed it, the “Satyrnines” are better known than they used to be.’
‘Are they persons of reputation?’
‘Well, no; of course not.’
‘Gentlemen?’
‘Some of them, perhaps,’ said Crieff, with a smile; ‘but for the most part just like the rest of us—a mixed breed. There’s our friend Gass, whom you met at Gavrolles’;he’sone. He has his finger in most journalistic pies, and writes on all sides to turn an honest penny.’
‘Humph!’ muttered Sutherland. ‘I once had a “Satyrnine Reviewer” pointed out to me at a party. He looked like a creature fresh from some large drapery establishment; dressed within an inch of his life, withpince-nezon nose, but goat-eared and goat-footed for all that—I am sure the animal couldn’t even spell. But turning from the men to the matter, what I have been most struck by in reading these wretched volumes is their utter want of the positively human qualities—veracity, reverence, generous aspiration. There is not a single public man of any nobility, either in politics or literature, who is not persistently gibbered at and reviled. Our present Liberal statesmen are insulted by the grossest personalities. Our great literary men are for the most part decried—when they are praised the reason is not far to seek. Thackeray, inspected by the Satyr, is “no gentleman.” * Dickens is an ignoramus. Browning is a dunce, ignorant even of grammar. Worse than this is the vicious determination to ignore any kind of modest merit. In the course of the long years over which these files extend, many men, now distinguished, have arisen. In no single instance has this representative journal been able to recognise the coming genius, or willing to help the struggling aspirant. The method has been to ignore new men as long as possible; then when ignorance could not be pleaded, to interpose every possible impertinence of interpretation between the men and the public; and finally, when they have been crowned, to insult them with a monkey’s gibbering interposition. For fatuousness, ignorance, ami dwarfish spitefulness—in a word, for all the old ear tidiness of the cloven foot—commend me to this “Satyrnine Review.”’
* See the ‘Roundabout Papers,’passim
‘Never mind,’ says the practised Crieff, cheerily. ‘Nemesis has come—the “Satyrnine” is done for. The curse of dulness is upon it. It once sold 20,000. The other day, when it was in the market, it could hardly find a purchaser. It lingers on with a country subscription among retrograde old rectors and blue-buskin’d village spinsters, but by-and-by the acidulous short paragraph system will conquer eventhem.’
Thereupon Crieff, whose life was one of hard work and bustling visits, was about to take his departure, when at Sutherland’s entreaty he promised to return for lunch; for Sutherland liked the little man, and found a curious fascination in his tittle-tattle concerning the world of art and letters.
Later in the day the two lunched together. For a wonder, it was an idle day with Crieff, and, once comfortably seated in an arm-chair, with a good cigar in his mouth, he seemed determined to enjoy himself. The two chatted pleasantly for some time; that is to say, the journalist, who was garrulous by nature and habit, chatted, and the other smoked, listened, and occasionally interpolated a remark.
Presently Crieff’s face darkened, and, after looking keenly at his companion for a minute, he said, with a certain indignation—
‘I’m afraid I shall have to give up Lagardère, after all. He’s been at it again.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m almost afraid to tell you, old fellow, for fear of arousing the slumbering lion. Yet I think it’s only fair, as I fancy you take an interest in the lady.’
‘The lady?’
‘Yes. You remember the young actress who appeared at the Parthenon this summer? Ah, I see you do. Well, of course you know that she retired into private life—married Forster, the merchant, a rich man and a thoroughly good fellow.’
‘Yes, I heard of it, and—I was glad.’
‘And so was I. She was too good for the stage. Well, now, I’m afraid there’s something unpleasant brewing. Just read this!’
As he spoke Crieff drew from his pocket several newspapers, and handed one, with a certain page turned down to indicate a paragraph, to Sutherland.
The paper was the ‘Plain Speaker,’ edited by Lagardère. The paragraph was as follows:—
‘Does a talented young actress, who recently left the stage, and, in the words of the immortal “Vilikens and his Dinah” (why not, on this occasion, read “Diana”?), married a rich merchant who in London did dwell, recollect a certain boarding school somewhere in France, an infatuated male teacher, and an elopement? It is said that Luna was once caught tripping, to the great amusement of Pan and the Satyrs. Luna was another name for Diana.Verb. sap.’
As he read, the lace of Sutherland grew black as night, his fist clenched, and he uttered an angry exclamation.
‘Do you understand the reference?’ asked Crieff. ‘I don’t, but I think there is no doubt as to whom it points. But Lagardère is fond of reiteration. Read a little lower down.’
Further down, after a number of jaunty and not too grammatical paragraphs on various topics of the day, came the following—
‘When I was last in Paris, and the guest of Gambetta (it is a curious fact, by the way, that Gambetta has an exceedingly foul breath, and seldom or never changes his woollen shirt or washes his large feet), our talk turned on a volume which had just appeared, “Parfums de la Chair.” The title having a strong attraction for the not too clean Republican, he had bought the book. He admired it exceedingly. The affair is brought to my memory by the fact that the author is now in London. The other night, when we met at the house of a mutual friend, I asked him if he had ever been at Brussels, and visited professionally at a certain boarding school, and, if so, whether he had acquired there sufficient classical attainments to tell me if the goddess Diana had ever eloped with her music master, or appeared upon the public stage?’
Sutherland rose to his feet, crushing the paper between his clenched hands.
‘It is simply devilish,’ he cried. ‘O that I had the ruffian by the throat! I would choke him like a dog!’
‘I grant you it is horrible,’ said Crieff, ‘but what does it mean?’
‘Cannot you see? It is an infernal plot to ruin an unhappy woman.’
‘There is no doubt as to whom it points?’
‘None.’
‘Diana Vere was her stage name, you see? But is there any truth————’
‘Truth? Do you expect it from these vermin? Their end is calumny, torture their delight. If I were only her brother—even her friend!’
‘Eh, what would you do?’
‘Thrash this devil within an inch of his life!’
‘And if you did, he would only thank you for an excellent advertisement. That’s the worst of it; heliveson recriminations. I’m really very sorry; for Lagardère, I have always held, has his good points. He has really a kind heart, as has been repeatedly shown by his generosity to the sick and suffering. He got up that idea of supplying old toys to the sick children in the hospitals, and I know for a fact that he kept Potts Peters, the dramatist, from starvation. I don’t think he realises the mischief he does. He calls it “plain speaking,” another name for calumny.’
‘Damn him!’ said Sutherland between his set teeth.
‘With all my heart, but I’ll pity him too; for one act of true kindness atones for many sins of judgment. But I haven’t shown you all. The wasps are all at it. Look at this in the “Whirligig.”’
He handed another journal to Sutherland, who took it with trembling hands, and, glancing down a number of paragraphs similar to those in the ‘Plain Speaker,’ came upon the following:—
‘My dear Hubert, why will you pretend to omniscience? You are all very well when you are telling us of your escapades in Russia, and your sad experiences of theatrical mismanagement in St. Mary Axe, but you should really try to be correct in your classical gossip. Diana never bolted with a music master, and she was never at Brussels. The affair to which you allude took place at Rouen, and the gentleman was a teacher of languages. Try again, Hubert.’
After a few general paragraphs, one of which accused a certain royal personage of having aliaisonwith his cook, came another piece of mysterious gossip:—
‘If it is to become acause célèbre, no one will regret it more than myself; though I shall rejoice, too, if it brings the peccant fair one back to the stage. I am sorry for the husband, but it is really his own fault. A person so well known as an Art connoisseur ought to have seen at a glance that the picture was damaged—before he bought it.’
The italics were the writer’s.
Livid with horror and indignation, Sutherland held the newspaper to Crieff.
‘Who—who wrote this?’ he cried.
‘Yahoo, I suspect—the editor of the “Whirligig.”’
‘Who and what is he?’
‘Edgar Yahoo, the last descendant of the race of the Yahoos, for the history of which see Swift’s “Gulliver”; the only difference being that this Yahoo no longer waits upon the nobler animal, but delights in airing himself upon its back.’
‘Explain!’
‘Yahoo lays claim to be the founder of the new system of journalism. From childhood upward he has aspired to be the socialchiffonnierof his age. He rakes for garbage in the filth of the street and in the sewers. Don’t you remember the verses MacAlpine wrote about him?
Who prances on through Rotten Row
Upon his golden-footed hay?
Who prances, ambles, to and fro,
Always gay?
Who canters back along Mayfair,
Spreading foul odours on the air,
While all draw back to cry ‘Beware!
The Scavenger of Society!’
But, for Heaven’s sake, my dear Sutherland, don’t take this affair too seriously. It is very offensive, but no worse than they write of everybody, from the Queen downwards; and I dare say it will do the lady in question no real harm.’
Sutherland was pacing up and down the room, a prey to the most violent agitation. He wheeled round suddenly, and faced his companion.
‘Even while we speak, perhaps the poisoned arrows have shot home. I can see the poor child—for she is still a child—sickening under the shameless attack. I picture to myself a broken heart, a ruined home, and then——’
‘But suppose the insinuations are false?’
‘They may be false in essence, while having a certain foundation in fact. Remember the lines you yourself quoted to me when Lagardère was our theme on a former occasion—I mean the lines about “A lie which is half a truth.” Oh, it is horrible! horrible! I would rather live among the foulest of savages than among your literary Yahoos, your so-called human beings.’
Sutherland’s fears were right. When the poisoned arrows of slander and calumny are in the air, it is not long ere they reach their victim; and even as he spoke the cowardly work was complete.
That afternoon Madeline drove down to the Grosvenor Library, of which she was a member, to change some books. When she had made her choice of some new literature, and handed it to her footman to place in her carriage, she went upstairs to the ladies’ reading-room on the second floor.
The room was quite empty, and she strolled from table to table, turning over the new magazines, glancing at the journals. Presently she sat down, and began reading one of the theatrical papers, full of current gossip; for the old interest in histrionic affairs still clung to her, though she had abandoned all thoughts of returning to the stage.
Placing the theatrical paper aside after a few minutes, she took the next journal which came to her hand. It was the ‘Whirligig.’
Idly and listlessly she began glancing over its imbecile tittle-tattle. Suddenly her gaze was riveted. She had come upon the paragraph beginning ‘My dear Hubert.’
There was no mistaking the innuendo. That it referred to herself she could not doubt. Trembling like a leaf, she held the abominable journal in her hand, and almost by accident came upon the second paragraph.
She read on in horror, stung to the quick—
‘A person so well known as an Art connoisseur ought to have seen at a glance that the picture was damaged, before he bought it.’
It was real, then; all her horrible fear was justified. Her enemy had not threatened in vain.
The room swam round her as she sank back, half swooning in her chair. Fortunately there was no one to observe her, for her face was pale as marble, and she seemed like one about to die.
Presently, summoning all her strength, she looked round the room, and her eye fell upon the last number ol the ‘Plain Speaker.’ She remembered the paragraph beginning ‘My dear Hubert and knowing enough of the amenities of personal journalism to be aware that the reference was to a paragraph in Lagardère’s paper, she took that paper up and searched it for the poison.
She had not far to search. She came without delay on the allusions to Luna, Diana, Pan, and the Satyrs, and on the mysterious matter concerning a boarding school and a music master.
The paper fell from her hands, and a low moan broke from her lips. She felt that she was lost indeed.
More than an hour elapsed before Madeline descended to her carriage. Her first impulse had been to fly, to destroy herself, to put herself beyond the power of calumny and cruelty. But at last, conquering her first fear, she determined to return home, and face her fate.