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 ............