Gavrolles was anartiste, and, with anartiste’seye, he saw at a glance that the tactics of the newest thing in journalism furnished an admirable means of carrying out his designs. The affair was soon arranged. A few whispers at the Club, a few significant looks and intonations, a few anonymous lines to the editors of the society journals, and the thing was complete. It was a neck-to-neck race between Lagardère and the Yahoo as to which should use the poison first.
Gavrolles bought the ‘Plain Speaker,’ and grinned diabolically. He bought the ‘Whirligig,’ and positively beamed with malignant delight.
‘Ah, madame!’ he murmured to himself, ‘what will you say for yourselfnow?’
In the aesthetic circle of which he was so brilliant an ornament, and where the scandal was soon the topic of passing conversation, Gavrolles assumed an aspect of lofty indignation, and affected to deplore the public taste which could find pleasure in journalism sobrutale. Pressed by his intimates for an explanation of the innuendoes, he would smile sadly, pass his thin fingers through his hair, and profess his determination to ‘compromise no one.’ There were subjects, he said, in which a woman’s honour was concerned, and which he could not discuss; there were secrets which it was a man’s duty to lock firmly in his breast, lest the happiness of another should suffer—ah, yes! And the lean young gentlemen and limp young ladies looked at their plaster of Paris idol with increased adoration.
About this time, it should be noted, Gavrolles was sincerely inspired by the Divine Muse. He wrote a great many verses, which he would read aloud to himself, with much gesticulation, in the privacy of his lodging. Sometimes he even entertained his aesthetic admirers with a selection from these splendid inspirations. Ponto was spellbound, sent a little article to the ‘Megatherium’ as a sort of puff preliminary, expressing a hope that these new ‘adumbrations of an august poesy’ would soon be published in post octavo, on rough paper with blunt type, like the divine ‘Parfums de la Chair.’ As a specimen of the new work (which, he took occasion to say, posterity would remember when Racine, Molière, and Lamartine were all forgotten, and only Gautier, Baudelaire, and Gavrolles remembered) he quoted at full length the priceless pearl of loveliness, the ‘ballade’ entitled ‘Diane: Chute d’un Ange.’
One morning, as this great cosmic creature was sipping his coffee and turning over the leaves of a new book by Zola (not without much superfine disgust, for he held that eccentric writer in very genuine dislike), a gentleman was announced, and before Gavrolles could utter a word the gentleman entered. One glance at his face sufficed. The Frenchman had seen it already once or twice before, and hated it cordially.
‘My name is Sutherland,’ said the new comer, quietly closing the door behind him. ‘Possibly you remember me?’
Gavrolles rose smiling, though his cheek was a little pale, his mouth a little venomous. ‘Ah! yes,’ he remembered well Monsieur Sutherland, who had been introduced to him by that ‘drôle’ of a Crieff. He was delighted to make his acquaintance. If he could serve him in any way, he would be enraptured.
‘Your rapture will diminish, perhaps,’ said Sutherland, paying no attention to the hand which waved him to a chair, ‘when I tell you what brings me here.’
‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Gavrolles, rather nervously, for his visitor’s manner was not encouraging.
‘You have alluded to our second meeting. Pray do you remember our first?’
‘Ourfirst, Monsieur?’
He did remember, only too well for his mental comfort, and even as he spoke the drearysalle à mangerin the little French town arose before him, and he faced again the powerful figure with the stern eyes and the firm square jaw.
‘It was a few years ago, in France. You had then in your company a young lady whom you called your wife, and to whom, suspecting the nature of your connection with her, I offered my assistance. I afterwards saw you again, when this lady was still in your power, and you were using her as the decoy of a gambling hell.’
Gavrolles was now livid. He saw that his visitor meant mischief, and with an execration he sprang up as if to move to the door. But Sutherland blocked the way with an ominous scowl.
‘Keep your seat! I have not yet done with you!’
‘Monsieur, this outrage——’
‘Bah! do not trouble yourself to seem indignant. You shall hear me out.5
‘I shall do nothing of the kind!’
‘If you attempt to leave this room,’ said Sutherland calmly, ‘I shall thrash you within an inch of your life!’
As he spoke he held in the air a riding-whip, which he appeared to have provided for the purpose.
‘Robber! assassin!’ cried Gavrolles, and he put the table between himself and his visitor.
‘I am neither,’ said Sutherland. ‘I am simply the friend of a lady whom it seems your determination to persecute and destroy. Nor is she the only one of your victims with whom I am acquainted. Have you forgotten Adèle Lambert?’
‘I know no such person.’
‘You are a liar!’ returned Sutherland dryly. ‘You know her—you betrayed her—only a few nights ago she struck you in the face.’
‘Leave my apartment—scoundrel!’
‘It is you who are the scoundrel. I have come to call you to an account.’
Gavrolles threw his arms in the air in savage desperation.
‘I don’t know you or your degraded companions. If we were not living in a country where the code of honour is unknown, you should answer with your life for this outrage. But there! You are a coward, and trade upon the immunity given by your absurd laws. You know that we cannot in England meet as gentlemen—that is why you venture so far.’
‘You are mistaken,’ returned Sutherland, still with the samesang-froid. ‘It would give me the greatest pleasure to rid the world of so consummate a reptile, but that is neither here nor there. To come to my business. You must give me forthwith y our promise to abandon your persecution of Mrs. Forster, and to leave England with out delay.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Oh yes, you do!’
‘Who is the lady?’ asked Gavrolles, with a sneer. ‘Pray be explicit. I know no person of the name you mention.’
‘I mean the wife of Mr. James Forster, of Kensington. Do not assume ignorance. I know the nature of your relations together.’
‘Pardon me, but in your capacity of bully, ofbandit, monsieur, you overrate my intelligence. I know the gentleman to whom you allude. I have not the pleasure of knowing his wife.’
‘Read those paragraphs.’
Sutherland drew from his breast pocket, and handed across the table, copies of the ‘Whirligig’ and the ‘Plain Speaker,’ with the passages concerning Madeline marked in pencil. Gavrolles glanced at them, and smiled curiously—then tossed them back across the table.
‘You understand those references?’
‘Completely,’ answered Gavrolles, with a mock bow. He was rapidly regaining his composure, and making ready to strike his strongest blow.
‘Yet you have the assurance to tell me that you are unacquainted with the lady whose name I have mentioned?’ Gavrolles bowed again.
‘Is she not the same with whom I saw you in company over there in France?’
‘And if she is?’
‘If she is, you are a liar on your own showing. You professed not to know her.’
‘I professed nothing of the kind. I said I did not knowMrs. Forster.’
‘She is the same person.’
‘Pardon me, that is impossible. She may be living under that gentleman’s roof, she may even be bearing his name—but she is nothis wife!’
It was now Sutherland’s turn to look astonished. Something in the man’s supercilious smile, in his growing audacity and self-possession, disconcerted him.
‘What!—do you actually insinuate——’
‘Nothing whatever, monsieur. I merely state a fact. But before we continue the conversation, may I ask you a question? Has the lady herself sent you here?’
‘No,’ returned Sutherland, with a heightened colour; ‘I came on my own responsibility.’
‘Oh!—a self-constituted champion, I presume?’
‘If you put it in that way, yes.’
‘You are a friend of hers, of course?’
‘I am so far her friend that I will not see her victimised by a scoundrel.’
‘Referring to me, monsieur?’ asked Gavrolles, with venomous politeness.
Gavrolles, now completely master of himself, leant over the table and looked straight into Sutherland’s eyes.
‘You are very impetuous, monsieur, and not too choice in your use of—what you call—Beelingsgate; but I should wish very much to give you a little piece of advice. Before you proceed any further in this affair I should recommend you to consult the lady herself.’
‘Why?’
‘It would be better—for the lady.’
There was no mistaking the threatening significance of the Frenchman’s tone; but, as he spoke, he took a cigarette from a box upon the table, lit it, and looked keenly through the smoke at Sutherland.
Seeing that he did not immediately reply, but seemed dubious and perplexed, Gavrolles airily continued—
‘I am content, you see, to take the lady’s opinion on the subject. If she sends you here as her accredited agent and defender, I will speak to you, as one gentleman to another. Even then, look you, I should be condescending, amiable. It is not every man who would permit a complete stranger to dictate to him on a matter concerning only himself and madame his wife.’
‘What do you mean?’ cried Sutherland, now thoroughly startled. ‘You cannot mean that——’
‘If you will permit me,’ said Gavrolles, now thoroughly master of the situation, ‘I will explain; but bear in mind, monsieur, you have forced this avowal upon me by your brutal English violence. Otherwise, I should never have spoken. You have been good enough, Monsieur Sutherland, to say that I am a liar.Au contraire, I do not lie. When we first met, I said the young lady in my company was my wife. It was the truth. A little while ago, I said there was no such person as Mrs. Forster. It was the truth. Why? do you ask. Because a lady cannot bear the name of a second husband, when her first husband is alive.’
There was no mistaking the supreme assurance of the man; he spoke with the strength of a settled conviction. Sutherland looked at him in amaze, as the full horror of the situation dawned upon his bewildered mind.
‘You thought me a commonplace seducer,’ continued the Frenchman, loftily; ‘on the contrary, I am anartisteand a man of honour. I took that lady in honourable marriage. Afterwards, a cruel series of events drew us asunder, that was all.’
‘You deserted her,’ cried Sutherland. ‘You left her to starve or die!’
‘Unfortunately, we did not agree; she was violent, and I—I will confess it—I was violent too.Eh bien! At the time of which I speak I was heavily in debt, and had to escape my creditors. I asked her to accompany me, and she refused. A brief separation was necessary. Alas! Little did I dream that in so short a space of time she would forget her lawful husband, and contract a bigamous union with another man.’
He paused a moment, then he concluded—
‘Now, monsieur, the champion of madame, I hope you are satisfied. In any case, there is the door.’
As he spoke he sat down in his chair beside the fire as if intimating that the interview had come to an end.
Sutherland stood perplexed, and watched him for some moments in silence. Then putting on his hat, he said in a low voice—
‘Your tale is plausible, but I do not believe it. In any case you proclaim yourself a scoundrel. If it were not for your victim’s sake, for the fear of creating a scandal, I think I should carry out my promise, and thrash you. However, I shall postpone your punishment for the present. But remember, if the lady we have been discussing comes to grief through your malignity, if these calumnies grow, and any evil happens to her through them or you, you will have to settle accounts withme!’
So saying he left the room, and rapidly descended the stairs into the street.
No sooner had he gone than Gavrolles, who with assumedsang-froidhad with difficulty concealed a savage ferocity, sprang wildly up, crossed the room, and took from a sideboard an oblong mahogany box, which he opened with a small key. Inside was a set of delicately finished duelling pistols, with cartridges to match.
And now, with eyes flashing, mouth foaming, all his body working in epileptiform rage, Gavrolles took up one of the weapons, and evoked an imaginary opponent in the air.
‘You would thrash me, you would profane me with a blow!’ he hissed aloud. ‘Ah, ruffian! bandit! devil! dog of an Englishman! if I had you before me—thus!—in my own country, I would put a bullet through your heart. Come again, with your bulldog face, and I shall be prepared!’
With these words the cosmic creature put the pistol back in its case, and proceeded to dress himself for his usual morning promenade.
Meanwhile Sutherland was pursuing his way along the streets, in a brown study—or shall we rather say a black one—as expressed in a face of the blackest gloom. So! His ideal heroine, the idol he had set up in his heart as a type of all-patient and suffering woman, was a guilty creature, one who, to entrap an honourable man, had represented herself as single, whereas she knew that her husband lived! It was scarcely credible, yet the tale, as he had said, seemed plausible enough, and the Frenchman seemed to have the courage of conviction.
A man less satisfied in his own mind of the superiority of the weaker sex over the stronger would doubtless have withdrawn from all interference in an affair so suspicious; but Sutherland, perhaps because he was a bachelor with very little practical experience of female baseness, took an optimistic view of womankind. He could scarcely conceive the idea of an utterly impure and wicked woman, though he had the strongest possible belief in the impurity and wickedness of men. He was thoroughly inexperienced, impartial, and ideal. Having decided in his own mind that women are the victims of a social conspiracy (a terrible social truth, although one which he lacked the worldly philosophy to formulate truly), he never hesitated for a moment to battle upon their side, with all the deep enthusiasm and moral pugnacity of his nature. So there is little occasion for wonder in the fact that the more he thought over the matter the deeper grew his conviction that Madeline was a martyr and Gavrolles an even blacker scoundrel than he had at first believed.
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 ifhepitied 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.’
‘Youwill go, of course,’ said Madeline eagerly. ‘Miss Forster will go with you.*
‘No; I shall remain with you.’
‘Youmustgo!’
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 Iwishit, 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.
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.
It was the first great shock that Forster had ever felt during a life of quiet activity, marked from time to time by small and frequently ignoble troubles; and it struck him like a thunderbolt—to use the familiar but terribly expressive simile. When he came to himself, he was like a man mentally stupefied and physically decrepit. He read the letter over and over again, and wept over it; and the more he read it, the less he understood its true meaning. Only one thing was clear—that Madeline had left his house of her own freewill, with no intention of returning, and with no hint of any reason for her flight.
Despite his sister’s entreaties, he himself left the house in search of the fugitive. It was now long past midnight, and the rain was still falling heavily; but he buttoned his greatcoat round him, and rushed out into the street.
His first inquiries were of the policemen in the neighbourhood, but they could tell him nothing. He hastened then to the nearest cabstand, thinking that possibly Madeline might have hired a vehicle there; but he gained no information. Then he stood helpless under the dark sky, in the midst of the great city, uncertain which way to turn.
For he had not the slightest clue to guide him in his search. Madeline had no friends in the city to whom she might fly; none, certainly to his knowledge, and White himself had told him that she was a friendless orphan. The thought of White, however, brought up the recollection of Madame de Berny, who had been keeping house for White when he died, and who was still, thanks to Forster’s assistance, in possession of the old quarters, which she let in lodgings. It was just possible Madeline might have gone there.
The thought was enough. He hailed a hansom, and was driven rapidly to St. John’s Wood.
He was doomed to disappointment. When he had aroused the sleeping house, and scared Madame de Berny out of her wits by the sight of his haggard, spectral face, he found that the poor soul knew nothing. He hurried away with scarcely a word of explanation.
All that night he haunted the streets, seeking for a trace of any kind. Of course, it was in vain.
Long after daybreak he returned to his lonely house and found his sister awaiting him in deep anxiety.
She saw by one glance at his face that he had been unsuccessful. He walked into the study, threw himself into a chair; she followed him, and touched him softly on the shoulder. He looked up wildly, like a man whose wits are going.
‘You have heard nothing?’ she asked.
He shook his head in despair.
‘I feared you would not,’ she continued. ‘My dear James, you must have courage—you must look this terrible event in the face. May I speak to you? Do you think you can bear to talk of it, of her?’
‘What have you to say?’
His tone was irritable, almost querulous.
‘Only this, James—that you must not torture yourself unnecessarily. Remember there are others who love you—myself—your darling boy. If Madeline has left you, it is of her own freewill. I am not surprised that you have not found her; she doubtless provided well against that. She wished to leave you! Don’t forget that!’
‘Why should she wish it?’ he groaned.
‘Why do other wives leave their husbands? Theydoleave them, every day.’
There was something in her tone so significant, so ominous, that he could not misconceive her. He sprang up as if stung and faced her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I never thought Madeline quite happy in this house. I never thought she loved you as you deserved. If she is unworthy to bear your name——’
‘She is not unworthy! I will never believe it. I will not hear one word against her, even from you. Do you hear? not one word! I know you never cared for her, never treated her like a sister, and now you would poison my soul against her. I tell you I will not listen to you—never, never!’
Margaret Forster felt not a little indignant; her brow darkened, and the sympathetic dimness passed away from her cold grey eyes; but being truly mistress of the situation, she could afford to be, and was, magnanimous.
‘You are very unjust to me,’ she said, ‘but I shall think it is your trouble that speaks, and not yourself I have never been unkind to Madeline; on the contrary, I have treated her with the greatest affection and respect. If I have sometimes thought that she was scarcely conscious of the duties of a lady in her position, I have always silenced myself with the reflection that she was your choice. Yes, James, always No matter what I have feared, what I have seen, I have been silent for your sake.’
‘In the name of God,’ said Forster, impatiently, ‘cease to torture me. If you know anything to relieve my suspense, speak out. If not, leave me, leave me!’
As he spoke he sank again into his chair, hiding his face in his hands. She watched him for some moments in silence, sighing heavily and occasionally wiping her eyes, for she was genuinely affected; but with the firmness of a skilled surgeon, who sympathises with the patient whom it is impossible to spare, since a cruel operation is imperative, she at length spoke again.
‘You will hear sad truths sooner or later, James; it is better that you should hear them first from me. I want you to understand, once for all, that it is useless to waste your strength, to break your heart, over what is irrecoverable.’
‘Do you mean Madeline? I tell you I will find her. If I search the whole world I will find her.’
‘And if you do, what then?’
‘I will pray to her on my knees to return.’
‘Whether she is worthy or unworthy?’
‘Margaret, take care! I won’t hear one whisper against her.’
Margaret’s lips tightened, and her surgical manner increased.
‘If you will not listen to me,’ she said, ‘at least attend to what the world says. These papers were sent, under cover, tome, this morning. It is my duty, James, to bring them to your attention.’
So saying, she handed to him copies of the ‘Plain Speaker’ and the ‘Whirligig’; they had indeed been sent to her by an anonymous correspondent, who had taken the trouble to mark the obnoxious paragraphs very carefully in red ink.
Forster looked at them, and seemed to read them in a dazed, stupefied sort of way; and as he did so shudder after shudder ran through his frame. But he evinced less surprise than his sister had anticipated.
‘Of course, James, you understand these allusions? Do they refer in any way to your wife? In any case, can you explain them?’
‘Yes!he answered, looking up into her eyes.
‘They refer to Madeline?9
‘I believe so,’ he answered, rising; ‘and now—oh,
God!—I begin to see what has driven my darling away. She feared some infamous persecution; she dreaded these infernal slanders; she read these very words. But I will follow her. I will tell her——’
‘James, dear James, listen to me!’
‘Well, well!’
‘Are these insinuationstrue?Is there any foundation for the statement that—that when you married Madeline there was something dreadful, of which you knew nothing, in her past life?’
‘It is a lie!’ cried Forster, with strange energy. ‘She never deceived me—she is incapable of deceit—she is a martyr! Do you think thatIdoubt her? If you dream so, you little know either of us. She deceived me in nothing.’
‘But therewassome scandal, and you heard of it?’
‘Whatever there was,I knew, answered Forster, firmly; ‘but I will not discuss it—it is sacrilege!’
He made a movement as if to leave the room, but Margaret, who had not yet applied the knife to her own satisfaction, again restrained him.
‘Are you sure you knew everything?’ she demanded sadly. ‘Everything, I mean, before your marriage—and after?’
He turned eagerly and looked at her, for he saw, by her tone and by the expression of her face, that her words meant more than met the ear.
‘After our marriage?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, James. Did Madeline inform you that recently, on two separate occasions, she had meetings with a French gentleman—with the very man, I believe, referred to in these paragraphs?’
‘She had not! No, it is impossible!’
‘Then she did not tell you?’
‘No!’
‘But it is the truth!’
‘It is not the truth—I will never believe it.’
‘I repeat that it is my duty to make you do so,’ said Margaret Forster. ‘Dear James, you must believe it—better now than later on. There is no smoke without fire—no slander without some foundation in fact. May I tell you all I heard?’
She saw that he was at her mercy; and forthwith, in her zeal to protect him against any further machinations of an unworthy woman, she informed him that she had herself witnessed the meeting with Gavrolles at the Countess Aurelia’s, and had seen enough to shock and terrify her exceedingly. Then with a certain amount of nervousness, but no compunction, she admitted that, in duty to her brother, she had afterwards played the spy, and had watched from a distance, next day, the secret meeting at the Albert Memorial in Hyde Park.
Forster heard her out with a strange sickness of heart; and when she had finished he looked at her with a face so wistful, so sorrowful, that she could no longer restrain her tears.
‘Oh, James!’ she cried, ‘forget her! She was never worthy of your love. Think of those who do love you—and of your child!’
He answered her in a voice hollow but determined—
‘My first thought must be ofher. What you have told me confirms me in my opinion that she is sinless. Until I find her and ask her forgiveness, I shall not rest. O Madeline! my love! my wife!’
He rushed weeping from the room. Miss Forster remained spell-bound. ‘Find her, and ask her forgiveness?’ She could scarcely believe the evidence of her ears; the idea was so utterly preposterous.
Owing to the circumstances of the case, it was impossible to advertise for the fugitive in the public journals, in any such way as would lead to her discovery and discomfiture. She had gone away of her own freewill, and any mystery attached to her disappearance was of her own making. To awaken the hue and cry for her by name would have been to set all the bells of slander pealing, and Forster was determined to spare both himself and the woman he loved so utter a humiliation.
Nevertheless, he inserted in the ‘agony’ column of the ‘Times’ a brief appeal, signed ‘F.,’ and headed ‘Queen’s Gate,’ which the initiated only understood. Then he went to the head of a private inquiry office, conducted by a firm of ex-detectives, and secured his co-operation.
‘If she’s in London, we’ll find her, sir,’ said the chief, a jaunty, military-looking man, with a bald head and French moustache and imperial. ‘We’ll set to work at once. You say she’d no friends handy?’
‘None, that I am aware of.’
‘Equally sure, I suppose, that there ain’t a gentleman in the case? Excuse me. All in the way of business, you know.’
‘I am quite certain she is alone.’
‘Very good, sir. I’ll let you know the moment we hear anything of importance.’
Forster was going to leave the office, when he suddenly recollected, with a shudder, his sister’s insinuations as to the mysterious meetings with the Frenchman. With a deep sense of shame, while strongly expressing his own faith in his wife’s purity, he explained to the officer what had taken place. That functionary immediately pricked up his ears, for he saw a clue. Could Forster supply him with the Frenchman’s name? Forster could not, in the spur of the moment, but that afternoon he procured it from his sister (who had noted it carefully down for future use when at the Countess’s), and sent it on to the inquiry office.
A few days afterwards he was informed, quasi-officially, that the French gentleman in question, M. Gavrolles, was living quietly at his London lodgings, and, though watched day and night, appeared quite innocent of any knowledge of the fugitive’s whereabouts.
This, we may remark in parenthesis, was literally true. The news of Madeline’s flight, which had, of course, been bruited abroad despite all Forster’s precautions, had taken Gavrolles utterly by surprise. The cosmic creature felt himself circumvented, bewildered. His victim had escaped him for the time being, that was clear, and until she reappeared upon the scene he could do nothing whatever in the matter.
One morning, as the chief of the private inquiry office sat waiting for business, there was shown in a gentleman, who, after a brief conversation, proved to have come on the very same business already entrusted to the firm by Forster. He wished the strictest inquiry to be made concerning the whereabouts of the missing lady, until she was traced and discovered, when he was at once to receive intimation.
‘You’ll excuse me, sir,’ said the chief, looking very mysterious, ‘but may I ask, are you any relation to the lady?’
‘None whatever.’
‘A friend, perhaps?’
‘Scarcely that. I am interested deeply in her fate, however, and if you find out what has become of her I will pay you handsomely.’
The chief seemed to reflect deeply.
‘I don’t think you mean any harm, sir,’ he said presently, ‘and I can see you’re a real gentleman, but you see we have to be careful. Is Mr. Forster a friend of yours?’
‘No; I don’t think I ever saw him in my life.’
‘Then, of course, sir, you can’t owe him any grudge?’
‘Certainly not. All the harm I wish him is that he may recover his wife, and that they may be happily reconciled.’
The chief smiled.
‘Then I don’t mind telling you, sir,’ he said, ‘that we’re instructed already—by the husband. You can’t serve two masters, as the saying is, but if we can oblige you in any way, without breaking faith to our first employer, we’ll do it.’
‘You can keep me informed of your progress, and if you are successful——’
‘Let you know? Well, I think we can promise that. I’ll take down your name, if you please, sir.’
‘Edgar Sutherland,’ replied the gentleman, adding the address of his club.
‘Ah, sir,’ said the officer, ‘I’m sorry you’re not a friend of the poor gentleman’s. He reallywantsa friend. To see him coming here day after day, as white as a ghost, and his eyes all wild with crying, almost turned me over, old hand as I am; and the rummest thing of all is, he won’t hear a word, not as much as a whisper, against the lady—though it looks black about her, it really does. Good-morning, sir! We’ll be sure to let you know.’
Had Sutherland been asked why he occupied himself so closely with the fate of a woman almost a stranger to him, he could hardly have replied. His first chivalrous interest had grown into a sentimental fancy, that was all; and being a man of very determined prepossessions, especially where his great hobby concerning Womanhood was concerned, he had been led on and on, from one phase of feeling to another, till his interest in Madeline became very like a strong ideal passion. Like all the world, he had heard of her disappearance, and, learning her connection with Gavrolles, he had a pretty shrewd guess at its cause. So he had yielded to his overmastering interest and curiosity, and determined to make the matter a subject for private, but thorough, inquiry.
Before many days had passed he received a summons which caused him no little agitation. The chief wanted to see him at once. Madeline had been discovered, but under circumstances so dreadful that he scarcely dared to communicate them at all to her distracted husband.