CHAPTER XXXVII.—THE SEARCH.

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? They do leave 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, to me, 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 insinuations true? 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 that I doubt her? If you dream so, you little know either of us. She deceived me in nothing.’

‘But there was some 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 of her. 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 really wants a 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.