CHAPTER XXV.—MADELINE CHANGES HER NAME.

A few months later the following announcement appeared amongst the ‘Births, Deaths, and Marriages,’ on the first page of the ‘Times’:—

On the 23rd, at Christ Church, Hampstead, James Forster, of Hampden House, Cromwell Road, South Kensington, to Madeline, only daughter of the late Fred. Hazelmere, Esq., of the Inner Temple.

Only a few of those who read this announcement were aware that the lady in question was the young actress known under another name to the audiences of the Theatre Royal Parthenon.





It was a very quiet marriage. After the ceremony the newly married couple drove to the cemetery, in the immediate neighbourhood, and Madeline placed a fresh garland on White’s grave; then with a heavy heart she returned to a quiet wedding breakfast, to which only a few very intimate friends were invited, and in the afternoon departed with her husband to Switzerland.

Long before that wedding day Madeline had discovered, by secret inquisition of her own heart, that the tender respect she felt lor James Forster was not yet love—not such love, at least, as blends the lives of man and woman in perfect sympathy and joy; and she would have given the world, therefore, if he had been content to remain what he had been—her friend, her brother, her benefactor. But seeing clearly that his happiness depended on the formation of a closer relationship, she, by slow degrees, was reconciled to the possibility. What weighed with her more than any other consideration was the thought of poor White’s last injunction. He had wished this union—had, indeed, enjoined it upon her—so that to shrink from fulfilling his fond request seemed selfish and ungrateful, and the more so as she remembered so vividly the noble and unselfish devotion of Forster during all the last years of poor White’s earthly struggle.

So she consented, not without many secret tears and forebodings, for the shadow of her first cruel experience was still upon her, and she could not stifle the secret sense of shame.

Before finally yielding her hand, however, she questioned Forster again, and more explicitly, concerning his secret interview with White, just before the latter’s death.

‘You wish me to be your wife,’ she said, ‘but are you sure that you know what you are asking? I feel quite an old woman, and I am not good enough to be your wife. Sometimes, even now, the old restless fit is on me, the old wicked wilfulness. I shall never bring happiness to any one, I am sure.’

‘You are unjust to yourself. Dear Madeline, trust me. I will try to deserve your trust.’

Do you know that there are some things, some thoughts and acts, which seem to pollute the very air we breathe; to make the bright world hateful; to chill the very heart within us, like the touch of death? I feel like a girl who has been shrouded for the grave and who still exists, but who will never have the wholesome, happy life of good people. Do not ask me to marry. Choose some innocent girl, and give your love to her.’

‘We cannot love as we will,’ said Forster, earnestly, ‘but as God wills; and I have given my love to you. Dearest, it is just because you have been unhappy that I yearn to bring you happiness; just because you have been wronged that I long to make amends. You must leave these sorrowful thoughts behind you; you must rise from the tomb of your dead grief, and live anew.’

‘I cannot; it is too late.’

‘Yet you are so young, so beautiful; and I love you so much.’

‘I do not deserve such love.’

‘You deserve far more than I can bring you.’

‘Did Mr. White tell you what I had been? Do not turn away, but look me in the face—you see I am not afraid. What did he say to you? Tell me everything.’

‘He told me that you had been deceived by a villain, who afterwards abandoned you. Dearest, he did you full justice—he knew that you were innocent, an angel deluded by a devil.’

‘I was not innocent,’ returned Madeline, sadly. ‘I was to blame, and ah! I was so ungrateful. If I had been innocent, do you think I should ever have placed myself in that man’s power?’

‘You were very young, and it is an evil world. Do not speak of it again. Bury the past, and become my honoured wife.’

‘You say that now; but some day, years hence, perhaps, the past would rise like a ghost, and your life would be darkened by regret and shame.’

‘Never by shame! never!’

‘I am not fit to make connections, I am not fit to have friends; it is better for such women as I to be alone in the world, and then, if shame comes, it falls only on the one who has the most right to suffer. It is this thought that reconciles me to the death of my dear guardian. I am alone in the world now, and can bring harm to no one.’

To a man like Forster it was terrible to hear her talk so. He was willing to forget the past, and he saw no dark cloud looming in the future. He had set his heart on making Madeline his wife, and he would never rest until his object had been attained. ‘She hesitates to take the plunge,’ he said to himself, ‘but once she has taken it all will be well.’ So he pleaded and pleaded, until at length Madeline was brought to consent.





It was a short honeymoon, but to Madeline, at least, it was a tolerably happy one. She had refused to take a maid with her, and he had consented to dispense with the services of a valet, so they spent their days in happy unconcern, roaming about among the Swiss mountains, travelling from one picturesque village to another, and living in little quaint rustic inns, whose primitive accommodation would have made Miss Forster turn cold with dismay.

It was just the kind of life which Madeline loved. After all, the unnatural atmosphere of town smoke and footlights had not left much taint upon her; she felt once more the little girl who, with tangled hair and disordered dress, had raced like a young untrained colt about the marshes of Grayfleet.

But the pleasures of the honeymoon were not destined to continue. Forster, though a rich man, could never be spared long from the office—so at the end of a month he told his young wife that the two must turn their faces towards home. ‘That’s the penalty of marrying a City man,’ he said; ‘things always seem to go wrong when I’m away; and though I grumble about the office a good deal, I think, after all, I like it.’

‘I’m sure you do.’

‘I shall have to leave you a good deal alone, my darling.’

‘Never mind that. While you are away I’ll be thinking what I can do to make you comfortable when you come home again.’

‘You’ll do no such thing, my dear. I’ll not have my Madeline made a drudge. You’ll enjoy yourself as you do now, and my sister is quite willing to look after things a bit. She’s used to it, and doesn’t mind.’

‘Miss Forster?’

‘Yes, Margaret.’

‘Is she going to live with us?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so. You see she has lived with me for years, and it never occurred to me that you would wish her to go. She will be very useful to you, Madeline; besides, she’ll be company for you while I’m away.’

To this Madeline said nothing. She felt she had no right to object to this arrangement, but she was sorry it had been made. However, for her husband’s sake she resolved to make the best of it, and to look upon Miss Forster henceforth as an affectionate sister and friend.

One afternoon, about a month after the wedding-day, a carriage and pair drove up to the door of Forster’s town house, the large handsomely furnished mansion in South Kensington, and Forster, alighting, handed out his bride.

‘Welcome home, my darling,’ he said, giving her hand a tender pressure.

Madeline’s heart bounded at the touch, and, with flushed cheek and sparkling eyes, she ran up the steps to the open door. On the threshold stood Miss Forster, with a distant smile and a cordial ‘how do you do?’ Madeline held forth both her hands, but the lady’s stately figure became more stately as she coldly placed her fingers in one of the palms, and graciously led the way into the house. Somewhat chilled at so cold a greeting, Madeline followed her through a stately hall into a handsomely furnished room. Madeline sat down, and Miss Forster paused before her.

‘If you will be so good as to give me your keys,’ she said politely, ‘your maid shall unpack your things. James asked me to engage one for you, and I hope she will give satisfaction.’

With a nod and a smile Madeline handed over the keys, and Miss Forster retired.

Madeline sighed, leaned back in her chair, and looked around her. She was in the drawing-room of Hampden House, a spacious apartment, elegantly furnished in the most costly style. Her eyes, carelessly scanning the costly pictures which covered the walls, became suddenly fixed upon one. She leapt up from her seat, ran over to it, stood for a moment regarding it with tear-dimmed gaze. Then, raising herself on tiptoe, she pressed upon it her warm, ripe, trembling lips. It was a pretty little landscape, looking insignificant enough in its golden setting, but trebly dear to Madeline, for it was almost the last picture which poor White had painted. Saddened a little at the memory it brought her, she stood looking at it in a dream; she felt the tears roll slowly down her cheeks, the sobs contract her throat—she was growing almost hysterical, when a voice recalled her to herself.

‘Shall I show you to your rooms?’

She started, turned, and found herself face to face with her husband’s sister. Unable to hide her tears, she said, turning faintly—

‘Thank you, I think I should like to be alone. I feel rather tired and depressed to-day.’

Miss Forster said nothing, but quietly led the way out of the room.

Two of the best rooms in the house had been fitted up for Madeline’s special use, and as she walked into them she felt for the first time that day that she had really come home. Here, as elsewhere, there were splendid upholstery, splendid pictures, tastefully designed ceilings, and dim rose-coloured curtains to moderate the light; but besides all this Madeline saw some of the crude but well-loved pictures which brought to her the fond memory of her guardian; there was a little bookcase, containing his favourite volumes; and, above all, there were his favourite plays. She saw all this, but she saw more. Passing on through the sitting-room she looked into the dressing-room adjoining it. She found her dresses laid out, and a smart maid kneeling before a box which was half unpacked. The girl rose and asked which dress her mistress would wear for dinner, but Madeline said—

‘I don’t know; any one; will you leave me alone, please: and when I want you I will ring.’

The maid retired, and Madeline, left to herself, returned to the sitting-room. She took off her bonnet and cloak, and sat down in an easy chair close to a gipsy table on which stood a silver tray and some tea. She poured out a cup, and, while sipping it, looked with dubious eyes around her.

‘I ought to be happy,’ she said. ‘So I am; so I will be. He is so good and kind! I trust to God he will never be made to repent. If his sister knew—if the world knew—but why should they?—I cannot undo the past, but I can guide the future. Yes, I will bury my dead, as he said, and try to forget.’

A light tap upon the door. Madeline started up, but before she could speak the door opened and a tiny figure came in—a little bright-eyed boy, who ran forward with outstretched hands, and sprang with a joyful cry into her lap. She clasped him fondly in her arms, and kissed him eagerly.

‘My darling, you have come to bid me welcome home?’

‘Yes, mamma.’

‘Who sent you?’

‘Papa. Kiss me again, please. Papa says if I am good you are sure to love me.’

He held up his rosy lips and she kissed them again and again; then she caught him up in her arms and carried him to her dressing-room. She turned over the things in her unpacked boxes and produced some toys—these she gave to the child, embracing him the while.

‘Do you know why I brought these, dear?’

‘No, mamma, unless because, as papa says, you are so good.’

‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘it is because I love you, and I want you to love me.’

Late that night Madeline came quietly down from her room and entered the library. Forster was still there; he was smoking a cigar, and looking through a batch of letters which had accumulated during his absence.

‘Why, Madeline, can’t you sleep?’ he asked, as she came forward.

‘No, James, not till I have thanked you for all your goodness to me. Tell me, how can I repay you?’

‘By being happy in your home.’

Good advice, and for a time at least Madeline followed it. She was happy. Her husband was a good deal away, but she had always his boy to comfort her, and upon the child she lavished all the affection of her impulsive heart. There was one thing only in the house which chilled and repelled her; it was the presence of her husband’s sister.

Madeline had not been long in the house before she found that the cold eyes of Margaret Forster watched her continually in suspicious distrust, as if trying in vain to penetrate the mystery which shrouded the young girl’s life. But this Madeline soon forgot. Why should she fear Miss Forster? The past was buried; and as yet she had no idea that the future had its hidden mystery to disclose.