‘It is impossible,’ cried Madeline, impetuously. ‘I hate the stage. Rather than return to it I would die.’
It was now Forster’s turn to be amazed.
‘Hate the stage!’ he echoed. ‘Ah, you do not mean what you say.’
‘But I do mean it. When I first acted it was for my guardian’s sake—to make him happy, and, perhaps, rich. But I never loved the life, and now—I sicken at it. Oh, James!’ she continued, in deepening agitation, ‘do not think me foolish or ungrateful. I am quite, quite happy here with you. Yes, when we are alone together, when we are away from the world and all its feverish tumult, I am more than happy—I am at peace. Don’t think otherwise. You ask me to go back into the world; it is the world that makes me miserable. If we should go away together—far from London, far from the wicked city—to some green country place, where none could know us, none could care for us, then, I think, I should be at peace indeed.’ As she spoke, she threw herself into his arms, for he had risen as if to implore her to be calm, and laid her head upon his breast.
‘Then you are not unhappy?’
‘I don’t know—I cannot tell!’ she sobbed. ‘I think it is my disposition—never quite contented, never restful. When I was a child, I was a trouble to those who loved me; and afterwards—afterwards everything seemed to go wrong with me. But oh! do not think that I am ungrateful—that I do not love you as you deserve. I do! I do! I do!’
And as she clung to him sobbing, she repeated her protestations again and again. He too was strongly moved, and tried in vain to calm her.
‘It is like you to reproach yourself,’ he said tenderly. ‘My loving, unselfish darling!’
‘But I am selfish,’ she said. ‘I am not good, like you, James. It would have been better, far better, if we had never met.’
‘Don’t say that, Madeline!’