CHAPTER XXXV—MADELINE PREPARES FOR FLIGHT.

Pale as marble, like a woman to whom worldly phenomena can bring neither thought nor care, because she is doomed to an ignominious and cruel death, Madeline returned home. Entering the house, she fled up to her own room, and there, heartbroken and alone, remained face to face with her despair.

She did not weep—or pray. The sense of an arid and heart-burning oppression kept her eyes dry, and turned her heart, that might have been the fountain of pure prayer, to stone. She hated herself, the world, all that she had seen and known. God Himself seemed against her, for she knew her own innocence. Ah, yes! How she had tried, and tried, to be good, to be at peace; and it was all in vain. At every turn of her young life the evil shadow rose, pushing her down to some desolate abyss of shame.

As she sat thinking it all over, she seemed covered from head to foot with some horrible pollution. Though her spirit was pure, impurity was upon her, choking and stifling her with its abomination. She shuddered and moaned, praying for one thing only—that death might quickly come.

What should she say or do, when she saw the kind eyes harden into indignation, the kind lace darken with this last shame? Sooner or later, her husband must know the truth, if he did not know it already, if the malignant voices in the air had not already whispered it to him. She shrank in horror, thinking of how she could meet his gaze.

One thing now seemed certain to her—that the roof which covered her was no longer hers, that to remain with James Forster as his lawful wife was to live on in open adultery, which was not marriage. He himself> she knew, would be the first to recognise the infamy of that union; and then, even if he pitied her, as was faintly possible, how should she bear the scrutiny of the world, the worldly scorn of his sister’s cruel eyes?

As she sat despairing there came a soft knock at the door, which she had locked on entering; and the voice of her little step-son cried—

‘Mamma! mamma!’

She could not answer, she seemed choking; and now for the first time her eyes were dim and blind. The cry was repeated—

‘Mamma! mamma! open the door!’

Without stirring she at last found strength to speak.

‘Who is there?’

‘It is I, mamma! Let me in!’

‘Go away, dear; I am dressing.’

‘Papa has sent me for you. He has just come home, and is waiting to see you.’

Waiting to see her? She shuddered as if stabbed, and unconsciously made a gesture of supplication. Could he have heard the truth, or a whisper of the truth?

‘Mamma, do you hear? Will you not come?’

She forced herself to answer—

‘Yes, I am coming. Go away now, dear! I will be down directly.’

Then she heard the little feet pattering away. She rose and wearily paced up and down the room. Her heart felt dead within her, her whole life frozen in her veins. She looked in the glass, and was startled at her face; it was so ghastly in its set look of pain.

What could she do? She knew that if she did not go down Forster would be certain to come to seek her. At last she resolved in very desperation to answer his summons. She cared not what happened now; if the worst came, it must come sooner or later. Perhaps she might summon up courage to tell him the truth with her own lips.

She went slowly downstairs. In the lobby she saw the child, who ran to her and took her hand.

‘Papa is in the study. Come.’

And he tried to draw her along with him. She stooped and kissed him on the brow.

‘Wait for me in the drawing-room,’ she ‘said. ‘Is Aunt Margaret there?’

‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘You will bring papa?’

He bounded from her, and she walked slowly towards the study. The door was closed, and for a moment she paused, faltering, before she opened it; then she passed in, and saw her husband sitting reading by the fire.

He had a newspaper in his hand. At a glance she recognised Lagardère’s journal, the ‘Plain Speaker.’ The room swam round her; she felt as if she was about to faint.

But Forster looked up with a bright smile, and tossed down the journal.

‘Ah, my dear Madeline,’ he said. ‘You see I am home early again; I’m afraid I’m losing all my business habits. But good heavens!’ he continued, noticing her face, ‘how pale you look! Is anything the matter?’

‘Nothing; only—I have a bad headache.’

‘I am sorry for that. Not so bad, I hope, as to prevent you going out this evening? Serena, who can’t go, has sent me a box for the first night of “A Trip to Scarborough,” at the Parthenon. Talking of Serena, there is a most amusing “Verbal Phototype” of him in the “Plain Speaker.”’

It was clear that he knew nothing, that he had heard nothing, read nothing—though the very journal which contained the poison had just left his hand. Madeline breathed again. There was at least to be a little respite.

‘But you do not look at all yourself,’ he continued, ‘and as the night is damp, you are perhaps better at home.’

‘Yes; I cannot go.’

‘I am so sorry, as Aram’s first nights are generally amusing, and you would have enjoyed yourself. What shall we do with the box? It is too late, I fear, to send it to any of your friends.’

‘You will go, of course,’ said Madeline eagerly. ‘Miss Forster will go with you.*

‘No; I shall remain with you.’

‘You must go!’

The tone was so strange, so full of entreaty, that Forster was startled. He gazed at his wife again with deep solicitude, and drew her gently to his side.

‘I should not think of going out and leaving you alone. My darling, you are far from well. You must see Dr. Quin to-morrow, and see if his advice is any use.’

As he spoke, he drew her down as if to kiss her fondly; but with a nervous shudder she disengaged herself from his arms.

‘No, no!’ she cried. ‘It is only a headache, and will pass away. You must go to the theatre with your sister; I shall be better—when you return.’

‘I would much rather remain with you.’

‘But I wish you to go—I—I should be wretched if you remained on my account.’

‘And I should be wretched there without you. I really will not go.’

‘Not if I wish it, James?’

‘Why should you wish it?’

She looked at him sadly, and turned away; for her heart was bursting at sight of his kind face, so gentle and so unsuspecting.

‘Why should you wish it? You know, dearest, I have no pleasure in anything of this kind unless you are with me. I would rather have a quiet evening at home in your company than go out alone to any entertainment, however amusing.’

‘I know that,’ she said in a low voice, ‘but to-night—I would rather be alone. When you are gone, and all is quiet, I shall lie down, and when you come back I shall be quite well. So go, for my sake—I wish you to be there.’ Seeing her so persistent, and thinking her wish was a mere whim which it would be unkind not to gratify, Forster at last assented, though with a very unwilling mind. He was really alarmed at his wife’s look and manner, and setting it down, in his loving solicitude, to some growing illness, he determined in his own mind to consult the family physician without delay.

Having extracted his promise, Madeline prepared to go. Before retiring, however, she took up the ‘Plain Speaker,’ and said—

‘May I take this with me? I may be able to read a little, and—and—I should like to read about Mr. Serena.’

Her hands shook like a leaf as she clutched the paper, her faced assumed an even ghastlier pallor. She moved tremulously to the door.

‘I shall not come down to dinner,’ she said.

‘No? Then let me send you something to your room.’

‘I could not touch a morsel, while my headache lasts. Don’t mind me, but go to the theatre and enjoy yourself. Good—good-bye!’

Not ‘good-night,’ but ‘good-bye.’ He did not notice the words then, but they recurred to him long afterwards, with an ominous and piteous sound. As she uttered them, she yielded to an irresistible impulse, and, quickly returning to his side, stooped over him and kissed him. As she did so, he felt a hot tear fall upon his cheek.

‘Madeline, my darling!’ he cried in astonishment, and stretched out his arms to embrace her, but before he could do so she was gone.

She fled back to her lonely room, and there, locked in and alone, she threw herself upon the bed and sobbed wildly. By the bedside lay the fatal journal, which she had carried with her, and which had now fallen from her lax and feeble hand.

An hour and a half passed away. At last she heard a knock at the bedroom door, and then Forster’s voice—

‘Madeline, are you asleep? May I come in?’

She waited, trembling, for a little time before she replied. Then she answered, not rising from the bed—

‘I am trying to rest. I thought that you had gone to the theatre.’

‘The carriage is at the dcor. How is your headache?’

‘A little better.’

‘Try to sleep, my darling. I shall come back very early.’

She heard him pass downstairs; then, rising from her bed, she listened eagerly. Presently she heard the front door open and close, and the carriage drive away. Her whole manner now changed, and she moved about her room, lifting one thing and another as if with a set determination.

She had resolved to leave James Forster’s house that night.