Rapidly as Maurice travelled from Edinburgh to London, the distance seemed interminable to his impetuous spirit. Multitudes of arguments were driven through his mind in long array, and he was impatient to prove their power in persuading Madeleine to return. Was it possible that she could refuse to see their force? If calm reasoning, if entreaties and prayers failed to move her, he would test the potency of a threat,—she should learn that he had vowed never to return to his paternal home, never to forgive those who had driven her forth by their cruelty, until she had proclaimed their pardon by again taking up her abode at the ChÂteau de Gramont. Madeleine, who shrank from all strife, who moved in an atmosphere of harmony, which seemed to envelop her wherever she went, would not lift her hand to sever the sacred bond of union between father and son, grandmother and grandchild. Whatever anguish it might cost her to yield, however great her sacrifice, she would endure the one and accept the other rather than become the instrument that, with fatal blow, struck such an unholy severance.

Maurice vividly pictured to himself his approaching interview under a tantalizing variety of circumstances. Now he imagined that he saw Madeleine only in the presence of her new friends,—that she was cold and reserved, and allowed him no opportunity of uttering a word that could reach her ear alone. Now he fancied she had granted him a private interview,—that she was sitting by his side, but resolute, unconvinced, unmoved, while he besieged her with arguments, appealed to her with all the passionate fervor that convulsed his soul, portrayed in darkest colors the fearful results of her inflexibility. Now he painted her overwhelmed by his reasoning, melted by his application, terrified by that terrible menace, and finally consenting to his petition.

It was past ten o'clock when the train reached the London terminus. The loquacious Edinburgh housekeeper had informed him that Lady Vivian was the guest of Lady Augusta Langdon. The lateness of the hour forbade a visit that night; yet, after having engaged a room at Morley's hotel, he could not help strolling in the direction of Grosvenor Square, and was soon searching for the number he had written upon his tablets. It was easily found, and Maurice stood before one of the most sumptuous of the magnificent edifices which adorn that aristocratic locality. The windows were thrown open, and the richly embroidered lace curtains drawn back, for the evening was more than usually sultry. He crossed to the opposite side of the street, and took up a position which enabled him to distinguish forms moving about the spacious drawing-room. With what straining eyes and breathless anxiety he scrutinized them! Now he saw a lady of noble carriage walking to and fro,—that might be Lady Langdon; by and by he caught sight of a gaunt, ungainly figure, and recognized Lady Vivian. Who would have believed that a glimpse of that angular, unsymmetrical form could ever have called such radiance to the eyes of a young and handsome man?—could have kindled such a glow upon his cheeks?—could have quickened his pulses with so joyful a motion?

Not long after, a group of young ladies clustered together, just beneath the chandelier, to examine some object which one of them held in her hand; and now the heart of Maurice throbbed so tumultuously that its beats became audible. He had singled out one maiden whose height and graceful proportions distinguished her from her companions,—Madeleine! Her face was turned from him; but surely that statuesque outline, that slender, flexible throat, that exquisitely-shaped head, about which he thought he traced the coronal braid that usually crowned her noble brows,—these could belong to Madeleine only! Could he fail to recognize them anywhere or at any distance? The longer he gazed the more certain he became that it was she herself,—that she was found at last! How eagerly he watched to see her turn, and render "assurance doubly sure" by revealing her lovely countenance! She remained some time in the same position; then the little group dispersed, and she glided away, but not in the direction of the window. The eyes of Maurice never moved from the place where she had disappeared, though he was conscious of attracting the attention of passers-by, and now and then a whispered comment of derision fell upon his ear.

Several equipages drove up to Lady Langdon's door, and her guests gradually departed. Soon after the drawing-room was deserted, the lights were extinguished, the windows closed. Other lights brightened the casements above. Still Maurice remained riveted to the spot, unreasonably hoping to behold Madeleine for one fleeting moment again. By and by, one window after another grew dark; but not until the last light went out could he force himself to turn away and retrace his steps to the hotel.

"Will the dawn never come?" How often that question rises involuntarily to the lips, through the long night of expectation that precedes a wished-for day! Time—that is, the sense of its duration—is but another word for state,—state of mind. The length or briefness of the hour is so completely governed by the mood of one's spirits that it becomes easy for those who have learned this truth from experience to conceive a thousand years but as a day to the blessed,—a day of torture, an age to the miserable; and to comprehend that time itself can have no existence, and its computation must be replaced by state in the eternal hereafter where we shall live in the spirit only.

"Will the dawn never come?" Maurice repeated hundreds of times as that night dragged its leaden, lagging feet with the slow movement of centuries.

The dim, late London morning came at last to bring with it a new perplexity. It would be a breach of etiquette to call upon Lady Vivian at too early an hour; yet, how was Maurice to curb the headlong rush of his impatience until the prescribed period for ceremonious visits arrived? A stranger in London, it might be supposed that the numberless noteworthy objects by which he was environed might have diverted his attention; but one engrossing thought so completely filled his whole being that it rendered him blind to all the marvels of art or beauties of nature. Yet to remain imprisoned at the hotel was out of the question. He concluded to spend his morning in Hyde Park, chiefly because it was not far distant from Grosvenor Square. But the attractions of the noble park, through which he listlessly sauntered, and of the adjacent Kensington Gardens, to which he unconsciously extended his rambles, were entirely lost upon the abstracted wanderer. Grand old trees, romantic walks, delicious flowers, had no existence for him; the whole world was one great, hueless, formless void, in which he beheld nothing but the spectral image mirrored in his own soul.

He had decided not to pay his visit until after one o'clock; but, before the sun reached its meridian, he absolved himself from the propriety of waiting, and, with rapid steps, once more took his way to Lady Langdon's residence.

The door was opened by a solemn footman.

"Is Lady Vivian at home?"

"Not at home, sir."

"Is Mademoiselle de Gramont—I mean the young lady who accompanied Lady Vivian—at home?"

"Not at home, sir."

"Can you tell me when I shall be likely to find them?"

"Her ladyship gave no orders on the subject, sir."

Maurice stood perplexed, and hesitating.

"Your card, if you please, sir," suggested the demure domestic.

"No, I will call again by and by."

Maurice walked directly back to the park. His suspense was intolerable; he could only endure it for another hour, and then returned to Lady Langdon's.

The same staid attendant reappeared at his knock.

"Has Lady Vivian returned?"

"Not returned, sir."

"Can you tell me when I may depend upon seeing her? I call upon a matter of great importance."

The stately footman looked as though he were pondering upon the propriety of making any satisfactory answer to this question.

Maurice repeated the inquiry with such an anxious intonation, such a perturbed air, that the stolid domestic, accustomed to behold only the conventional composure which allows no pulse to betray its beating, was moved out of the even tenor of his way by astonishment.

"Lady Vivian went with my lady and a large party to Hampton Court. Their ladyships will probably spend the day."

"The day!" exclaimed Maurice, in an accent of consternation.

The footman evidently thought that he had proffered more than sufficient information, and made a dignified attempt to put a close to the interview, by extending his hand, and saying, "I will see that your card reaches her ladyship."

"No, there is no need of my leaving a card: I shall return. At what hour does Lady Langdon dine?"

"At seven, sir."

"I will take the liberty of calling after dinner."

The footman looked as though he decidedly thought it was a liberty, and Maurice turned slowly away from the closing door.

What could be done to shorten the endless hours that stretched their weary length between that period and evening? Hampton Court! What was to prevent his going to Hampton Court? He might meet Lady Vivian and Madeleine, there; nothing was more likely, since they were to spend the day. His spirits revived as he signalled an empty cab, and requested to be driven as rapidly as possible to Hampton Court. He took no note of the length of time occupied in reaching his destination: it was a relief to be in motion, and to know that every moment brought him nearer a locality where the lost one might be found.

Was he more likely to encounter her in the palace or in the grounds? he asked, internally, as he sprang out of the cab. He would try the palace first. He strode through its magnificent apartments, one after another, without noticing their gorgeous grandeur, without glancing at their superb decorations, without wasting a look upon the wondrous products of brush, or chisel, or loom. His disconcerted guide paused before each world-renowned master-piece in vain; Maurice hurried on, and silenced him by saying that he was in search of a friend.

Neither Lady Vivian nor Madeleine was to be seen. They were doubtless rambling in the beautiful pleasure-grounds.

Maurice took his way through noble avenues of trees,—through groves, gardens, conservatories,—without letting his eyes dwell upon any object but the human beings he passed. Still no Madeleine. He made the tour of the palace the second time, and then traversed the grounds once more. The result was the same. Lady Vivian must have returned home.

It was growing late. He reËntered his cab, and ordered the driver to take him to Morley's Hotel; paid the exorbitant price which the man, knowing he had to deal with a stranger, demanded, and took refuge in his chamber, without remembering that he had not broken his fast since morning, until a waiter knocked at the door to know if he would dine.

Yes; dinner might assist in whiling away the time. But it helped less effectually than he had anticipated; for to dine without appetite is a tedious undertaking. His own busy thoughts supplied him with more than sufficient food, and precluded all sense of hunger.

Maurice had but a slight acquaintance with Lady Vivian. An evening visit certainly was not selon les regles; but all ceremony must give way before the urgency of his mission. He compelled himself to wait until nine o'clock before he again appeared in Grosvenor Square.

That imperturbable footman again! The very presence of the automaton chilled and dispirited the impatient visitor.

"Is Lady Vivian at home?"

"Her ladyship is indisposed and has retired, sir."

"Can I see Mademoiselle de Gramont?"

"Whom, sir?"

"The young lady who accompanies Lady Vivian."

"She is with Lady Vivian; but I will take your card, sir."

Maurice had no alternative and handed his card.

"Say that I earnestly beg to see her for a few moments."

Did he imagine that human machine could deliver a message which conveyed the suggestion that any one very earnestly desired anything in creation?

The viscount was ushered into the drawing-room. A long interval, or one Maurice thought long, elapsed before the messenger returned.

"The ladies will be happy to see you, sir, to-morrow, at two o'clock."

Another night and another morning to struggle through, haunted by the murderous desire of killing that which could never be restored,—time! But here, at least, was a definite appointment,—a fixed period when he should certainly see Madeleine; this was a great step gained.

He had heard some gentlemen, at the hotel, loud in praise of Charles Kean's impersonation of "King John," which was to be represented that evening, and the recollection of their encomiums decided him to visit the Princess' Theatre.

Our powers of appreciation are limited, governed, crippled or expanded, by the mood of the moment, and a performance, which might have roused him to a high pitch of enthusiasm at another time, now seemed dull and tedious. But duller and more tedious still was the night that followed. And when morning came, how was he to consume the hours between breakfast and two o'clock? He must go somewhere; must keep on his feet; must give his restless limbs free action. He bethought him of St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey. These majestic edifices were associated with the memory of those who had done with time, and might assist him in the time-annihilating process which was then his chief object. He was mistaken; he could not interest himself in monuments to the dead; he was too closely pursued by a living phantom. He walked through the aisles, the chapels, the crypt, with as much indifference as he had wandered through Hyde Park, and Kensington Gardens, and Hampton Court.

The appointed hour drew near, at last, and with rising excitement he ordered the coachmen to drive to Grosvenor Square, number ——. It was just two,—hardly two, perhaps. The inevitable footman received his card, with the faintest soupÇon of a grin, and conducted him to the drawing-room.

Lady Vivian entered a few moments afterwards. She was delighted to see him,—very flattered at his visit. When did he come to London? Would he make a long stay? How did he leave their friends in Brittany?

Maurice replied as composedly as possible to her inquiries, and then asked, "May I be allowed to see Mademoiselle de Gramont?"

"Mademoiselle de Gramont!" exclaimed Lady Vivian, raising her bushy eyebrows.

"Yes, she is with you. She is engaged as your humble companion,—is she not?"

"No, I have not the pleasure of her acquaintance."

If a bullet had passed through Maurice, he could not have sprung from his seat with a wilder bound, and hardly have dropped back more motionless.

Lady Vivian looked at him in amazement,—asked what had happened. Was he ill? Would he take anything? He had been very much fatigued, perhaps. He was so very pale! She felt quite alarmed; really it was distressing.

Making a desperate effort to recover from the stunning blow, he faltered out, "I heard that you made Mademoiselle de Gramont a proposition to"—

"To become my humble companion? Yes, I did so at the request of Count Damoreau. But she definitely declined, and I felt much relieved, for she was entirely too handsome for that position. Shortly afterward I heard of a young person who suited me much better. I thought it was a mistake of the footman's, last night, when he said you desired to see the young lady who accompanied me. It was somewhat singular to have one's humble companion included in a visit to one's self! Now I comprehend that you thought she was your cousin. I hope you are feeling better; your color is coming again."

Maurice was not listening. He had lost Madeleine anew. The agony of a second bereavement, the mystery that enveloped her fate, the dreadful uncertainty of tracing her, pressed upon him and rent his soul with fiercer throes than before. Muttering some hurried apology, he rose, staggered toward the door, and, to the amazement of the stoical footman, who was greatly scandalized thereby, the pertinacious stranger fairly reeled past him into the street.