After the death of Gavrolles, Forster seemed to resign himself more and more to melancholic prostration; and more than once when his wound was slowly healing, he avowed his regret that it was not to have a fatal termination. He would sit for days in a sort of mental stupor, scarcely looking up when spoken to, seldom or never uttering a word. On his return to England, instead of again occupying his house at Kensington, he took chambers near Bond Street for himself and his little son, and had the family mansion closed. His sister Margaret wished to remain with him, but at his strong desire she went away to dwell with some relations in the country. To tell the truth, he had not quite forgiven her the want of sympathy she had shown for the lost idol of his life.
The morning after his return from Mount Eden, Sutherland found Forster, sad, despairing, but convalescent, in his lonely chambers. The two had by this time become great friends, or more than friends; and Sutherland was welcomed with as bright a smile as the weary face could wear.
‘I have been looking over some old photographs,’ said Forster presently. ‘Strange! how they one and all fail to represent her I have lost. Here is one of “Imogen.” The features are there, but the soul is altogether wanting.’
Sutherland glanced over the pictures, which were lying on a small writing-table at Forster’s side; then he said quietly—
‘Do you think it wise to open up old wounds in this way? Can you not try to forget?’
‘Never, never!’ returned Forster, while his eyes filled with tears. ‘My only comfort, now, is to think of my darling—to wait and pray until, with God’s blessing, we meet again.’
‘Can you bear to speak of her, now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you bear to think it possible that, after all, you might yet meet—not up yonder in the heaven of the preacher, but here, on solid earth, in broad day?’
‘What do you mean!’ cried Forster, trembling violently. ‘Alas, she is dead! dead!’