THE HUMBLE COMPANION.
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.