Then Madeline went back to the home that was home no longer, and thought day and night of the beloved dead.
It was many weeks after these sad events that Forster came one day to St. John’s Wood, and found Madeline still sitting in the shadow of her great grief; but she had found one sweet comfort in looking over her guardian’s papers and placing them in order with her loving hand, for she remembered one lifelong dream of the poor Bohemian—to see his beloved plays arranged together and published in book form; and she thought to herself that the world should know what a beautiful genius it had lost, when it saw the creatures of his imagination gathered together for the first time.
When Forster came they talked for some time of the proposed publication. An old friend of White, eminent as a critic and a dramatic poet, was to revise the work, and prepare it with a short biography, and at the end of the book were to be printed a few last memorials, and some obituary verses by members of the Bohemian Club, to which White had belonged.
Presently, however, Forster changed the subject, and spoke of the wish which was still nearest his heart. Then, when Madeline turned away as if shocked and pained, he took her hand and said earnestly—
‘It was his wish, do not forget that. He knew I loved you, and he joined our hands together.’
‘No, no!’ said Madeline. ‘Do not speak of it—he knew it was impossible—he could not wish it.’
‘Madeline, he did wish it, with all his heart. Listen to me, my darling! That day before he joined our hands together he asked to speak to me alone—do you remember?
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know what he wished to say?’