The Child Wife

Indeed there was once he came near, and perhaps would have done so, but for the mediation of Maynard, who, although younger than the Count, was of less irascible temperament.

Roseveldt was not without reason, as every American who has crossed in a Cunard ship in those earlier days may remember. The super-loyal Canadians were usually in the ascendant, and with their claqueries and whisperings made it very uncomfortable for their republican fellow-passengers – especially such republicans as the scene upon the Jersey shore had shown Maynard and Roseveldt to be. It was before the establishment of the more liberal Inman line; whose splendid ships are a home for all nationalities, hoisting the starry flag of America as high as the royal standard of England.

Returning to our text; that men may cross the Atlantic in the same cabin, and dine at the same table, without speaking to one another, there was an instance on board the Cambria. The individuals in question were Sir George Vernon and Captain Maynard.

At every meal their elbows almost touched; for the steward, no doubt by chance, had ticketed them to seats side by side.

At the very first dinner they had ever eaten together a coldness had sprung up between them that forbade all further communication. Some remark Maynard had made, intended to be civil, had been received with a hauteur that stung the young soldier; and from that moment a silent reserve was established.

Either would have gone without the salt, rather than ask it of the other!

It was unfortunate for Maynard, and he felt it. He longed to converse with that strangely interesting child; and this was no longer possible. Delicacy hindered him from speaking to her apart; though he could scarce have found opportunity, as her father rarely permitted her to stray from his side.

And by his side she sat at the table; on that other side where Maynard could not see her, except in the mirror!

That mirror lined the length of the saloon, and the three sat opposite to it when at table.

For twelve days he gazed into it, during the eating of every meal; furtively at the face of Sir George, his glance changing as it fell on that other face reflected from the polished plate in hues of rose and gold. How often did he inwardly anathematise a Canadian Scotchman, who sat opposite, and whose huge shaggy “pow” interposed between him and the beautiful reflection!

Was the child aware of this secondhand surveillance? Was she, too, at times vexed by the exuberant chevelure of the Caledonian, that hindered her from the sight of eyes gazing affectionately, almost tenderly, upon her?

It is difficult to say. Young girls of thirteen have sometimes strange fancies. And it is true, though strange, that, with them, the man of thirty has more chance of securing their attention than when they are ten years older! Then their young heart, unsuspicious of deception, yields easier to the instincts of Nature’s innocency, receiving like soft plastic wax the impress of that it admires. It is only later that experience of the world’s wickedness trains it to reticence and suspicion.

During those twelve days Maynard had many a thought about that child’s face seen in the glass – many a surmise as to whether, and what, she might be thinking of him.

But Cape Clear came in sight, and he was no nearer to a knowledge of her inclinings than when he first saw her, on parting from Sandy Hook! Nor was there any change in his. As he stood upon the steamer’s deck, coasting along the southern shore of his native land, with the Austrian by his side, he made the same remark he had done within sight of Staten Island.

“I have a presentiment that child will yet be my wife!”

And again he repeated it, in the midst of the Mersey’s flood, when the tender became attached to the great ocean steamer, and the passengers were being taken off – among them Sir George Vernon and his daughter – soon to disappear from his sight – perhaps never to be seen more.

What could be the meaning of this presentiment, so seemingly absurd? Sprung from the gaze given him on the deck, where he had first seen her; continued by many a glance exchanged in the cabin mirror; left by her last look as she ascended the steps leading to the stage-plank of the tender – what could be its meaning?

Even he who felt it could not answer the question. He could only repeat to himself the very unsatisfactory rejoinder he had often heard among the Mexicans, “Quien sabe?”

He little thought how near that presentiment was of being strengthened.

One of those trivial occurrences, that come so close to becoming an accident, chanced, as the passengers were being transferred from the steamer to the “tug.”

The aristocratic ex-governor, shy of being hustled by a crowd, had waited to the last, his luggage having been passed before him. Only Maynard, Roseveldt, and a few others still stood upon the gangway, politely giving him place.

Sir George had stepped out upon the staging, his daughter close following; the mulatto, bag in hand, with some space intervening, behind.

A rough breeze was on the Mersey, with a strong quick current; and by some mischance the hawser, holding the two boats together, suddenly gave way. The anchored ship held her ground, while the tug drifted rapidly sternward. The stage-plank became slewed, its outer end slipping from the paddle-box just as Sir George set foot upon the tender. With a crash it went down upon the deck below.

The servant, close parting from the bulwarks, was easily dragged back again; but the child, halfway along the staging, was in imminent danger of being projected into the water. The spectators saw it simultaneously, and a cry from both ships proclaimed the peril. She had caught the hand-rope, and was hanging on, the slanted plank affording her but slight support.

And in another instant it would part from the tender, still driving rapidly astern. It did part, dropping with a plash upon the seething waves below; but not before a man, gliding down the slope, had thrown his arm around the imperilled girl, and carried her safely back over the bulwarks of the steamer!

There was no longer a coldness between Sir George Vernon and Captain Maynard; for it was the latter who had rescued the child.

As they parted on the Liverpool landing, hands were shaken, and cards exchanged – that of the English baronet accompanied with an invitation for the revolutionary leader to visit him at his country-seat; the address given upon the card, “Vernon Park, Sevenoaks, Kent.”

It is scarce necessary to say that Maynard promised to honour the invitation, and made careful registry of the address.

And now, more than ever, did he feel that strange forecast, as he saw the girlish face, with its deep blue eyes, looking gratefully from the carriage-window, in which Sir George, with his belongings, was whirled away from the wharf.

His gaze followed that thing of roseate hue; and long after it was out of sight he stood thinking of it.

It was far from agreeable to be aroused from his dreamy reverie – even by a voice friendly as that of Roseveldt!

The Count was by his side; holding in his hand a newspaper.

It was the Times of London, containing news to them of painful import.

It did not come as a shock. The journals brought aboard by the pilot – as usual, three days old – had prepared them for a tale of disaster. What they now read was only its confirmation.

“It’s true!” said Roseveldt, pointing to the conspicuous capitals:

THE PRUSSIAN TROOPS HAVE TAKEN RASTADT!

THE BAVARIAN REVOLUTION AT AN END!

As he pointed to this significant heading, a wild oath, worthy of one of Schiller’s student robbers, burst from his lips, while he struck his heel down upon the floating wharf as though he would have crushed the plank beneath him.

“A curse!” he cried, “an eternal curse upon the perjured King of Prussia! And those stupid North Germans! I knew he would never keep his oath to them?”

Maynard, though sad, was less excited. It is possible that he bore the disappointment better by thinking of that golden-haired girl. She would still be in England; where he must needs now stay.

This was his first reflection. It was not a resolve; only a transient thought.

It passed almost on the instant, at an exclamation from Roseveldt once more reading from the paper:

“Kossuth still holds out in Hungary; though the Russian army is reported as closing around Arad!”

“Thank God?” cried Roseveldt; “we may yet be in time for that!”

“Should we not wait for our men? I fear we two could be of slight service without them.”

The remembrance of that angelic child was making an angel of Maynard!

“Slight service! A sword like yours, and mine! Pardonnes moi! Who knows, cher capitaine, that I may not yet sheathe it in the black heart of a Hapsburg? Let us on to Hungary! It is the same cause as ours.”

“I agree, Roseveldt. I only hesitated, thinking of your danger if taken upon Austrian soil.”

“Let them hang me if they will. But they won’t, if we can only reach Kossuth and his brave companions, Aulich, Perezel, Dembinsky, Nagy, Sandor, and Damjanich. Maynard, I know them all. Once among these, there is no danger of the rope. If we die, it will be sword in hand, and among heroes. Let us on, then, to Kossuth!”

“To Kossuth!” echoed Maynard, and the golden-haired girl was forgotten!

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Fifth Avenue House

The Newport season was over. Mrs Girdwood had returned to her splendid mansion in the Fifth Avenue, soon to receive a visitor, such as even Fifth Avenue houses do not often entertain – an English lord – Mr Swinton, the nobleman incog., had accepted her invitation to dinner.

It was to be a quiet family affair. Mrs Girdwood could not well have it otherwise, as the circle of her acquaintance fit to meet such a distinguished guest was limited. She had not been long in the Fifth Avenue house – only since a little before the death of her late husband, the deceased storekeeper, who had taken the place at her earnest solicitations.

In fact it was whispered that the grand mansion had caused his death. It was too splendid for comfort – it required a complete change in his habits; and perhaps he was troubled about the expense, which was wholesale, while he had been all his life accustomed to the retail.

From whatever cause, his spirits sank under its lofty ceilings, and after wandering for three months through the spacious apartments, listening to his own lonely tread, he lay down upon one of its luxurious couches and died!

It was more cheerful after his demise; but as yet unvisited by the élite. Mr Swinton was the first of this class who was to stretch his limbs under the Girdwood mahogany; but then he was at the head of it. A good beginning, reflected widow Girdwood.

“We shall have no one to meet you, my lord. We are too busy in preparing for our voyage to Europe. Only the girls and myself. I hope you won’t mind that.”

“Pway madam, don’t mention it. Yaw own intewesting family; just the sort of thing I take pleasyaw in. Nothing baws me more than one of those gweat pawties – gwand kwushes, as we call them in England.”

“I’m glad of it, my lord. We shall expect you then on next Tuesday. Remember, we dine at seven.”

This brief dialogue occurred in the Ocean House at Newport, just as Mrs Girdwood was getting into the hack to be taken to the New York boat.

Tuesday came, and along with it Mr Swinton, entering the Fifth Avenue mansion at 7 p.m., punctual to his appointment. The house was lit up brilliantly, and in the same style was the guest got up, having dressed himself with the greatest care. So, too, the hostess, her daughter, and niece.

But the dining party was not yet complete; two others were expected, who soon came in.

They were Mr Lucas and his acolyte, also returned to New York, and who, having made Mrs Girdwood’s acquaintance at Newport, through the medium of Mr Swinton, were also included in the invitation.

It made the party compact and in proportion; three ladies, with the same number of gentlemen – the set of six – though perhaps in the eyes of the latter their hostess was de trop. Lucas had conceived thoughts about Julia, while his friend saw stars in the blue eyes of Cornelia. All sorted together well enough; Mr Swinton being of course the lion of the evening. This from his being a stranger – an accomplished Englishman. It was but natural courtesy. Again, Mrs Girdwood longed to make known how great a lion he was. But Mr Swinton had sworn her to secrecy.

Over the dinner-table the conversation was carried on without restraint. People of different nations, who speak the same language, have no difficulty in finding a topic. Their respective countries supply them with this. America was talked of; but more England. Mrs Girdwood was going there by the next steamer – state-rooms already engaged. It was but natural she should make inquiries.

“About your hotels in London, Mr Swinton. Of course we’ll have to stop at an hotel. Which do you consider the best?”

“Clawndon, of cawse. Clawndon, in Bond Stweet. Ba all means go there, madam.”

“The Clarendon,” said Mrs Girdwood, taking out her card-case, and pencilling the name upon a card. “Bond Street, you say?”

“Bond Stweet. It’s our fashionable pwomenade, or rather the stweet where our best twadesmen have their shops.”

“We shall go there,” said Mrs Girdwood, registering the address, and returning the card-case to her reticule.

It is not necessary to detail the conversation that followed. It is usually insipid over a dinner-table where the guests are strange to one another; and Mrs Girdwood’s guests came under this category.

For all that, everything went well and even cheerfully, Julia alone at times looking a little abstracted, and so causing some slight chagrin both to Lucas and Swinton.

Now and then, however, each had a glance from those bistre-coloured eyes, that flattered them with hopes for the future.

They were dread, dangerous eyes, those of Julia Girdwood. Their glances had come near disturbing the peace of mind of a man as little susceptible as either Louis Lucas or Richard Swinton.

The dinner-party was over; the trio of gentlemen guests were taking their departure.

“When may we expect you in England, my lord?” asked the hostess, speaking to Mr Swinton apart.

“By the next steamaw, madam. I wegwet I shall not have the pleasyaw of being your fellaw passengaw. I am detained in this countwy by a twifle of business, in connection with the Bwitish Government. A gweat baw it is, but I cannot escape it.”

“I am sorry,” answered Mrs Girdwood. “It would have been so pleasant for us to have had your company on the voyage. And my girls too, I’m sure they would have liked it exceedingly. But I hope we’ll see you on the other side.”

“Undoubtedly, madam. Indeed, I should be vewy misewable to think we were not to meet again. You go diwect to London, of cawse. How long do you pwopose wemaining there?”

“Oh, a long time – perhaps all the winter. After that we will go up the Rhine – to Vienna, Paris, Italy. We intend making the usual tour.”

“You say you will stop at the Clawndon?”

“We intend so, since you recommend it. We shall be there as long as we remain in London.”

“I shall take the libawty of pwesenting my wespects to you, as soon as I weach England.”

“My lord! we shall look for you.”

The drawing-room door was closed, the ladies remaining inside. The three gentlemen guests were in the entrance hall, footman and butler helping them to hat and surtout. Though they had not come in, all three went out together.

“Where now?” asked Lucas, as they stood upon the flags of the Fifth Avenue. “It’s too early to go to bed.”

“A vewy sensible obsawvation, fwiend Lucas!” said Swinton, inspired by a free potation of the widow’s choice wines. “Where do yaw say?”

“Well, I say, let’s have some sport. Have you got any money upon you, Mr Swinton?”

Mr Lucas was still ignorant that his companion was a lord.

“Oh, yas – yas. A thousand of your demmed dollars, I believe.”

“Excuse me for putting the question. I only asked in case you might require a stake. If you do, my little pile’s at your service.”

“Thanks – thanks! I’m weady for spawt – stake all pawvided.”

Lucas led the way, from the Fifth Avenue to Broadway, and down Broadway to a “hell;” one of those snug little establishments in an off-street, with supper set out, to be eaten only by the initiated.

Swinton became one of them. Lucas had reasons for introducing him. His reflections were:

“This Englishman appears to have money – more than he knows what to do with. But he didn’t drop any of it in Newport. On the contrary, he must have increased his capital by the plucking of certain pigeons to whom I introduced him. I’m curious to see how he’ll get along with the hawks. He’s among them now.”

The introducer of Swinton had an additional reflection suggested by the remembrance of Julia Girdwood.

“I hope they’ll get his dollars – clear him out, the cur – and serve him right too. I believe he’s a devilish schemer.” The wish had jealousy for its basis.

Before the gambler proclaimed his bank closed for the night, the false friend saw the realisation of his hopes.

Despite his customary astuteness, the ex-guardsman was not cunning in his cups. The free supper, with its cheap champagne, had reduced him to a condition of innocence resembling the pigeons he was so fain to pluck, and he left the hawks’ nest without a dollar in his pocket!

Lucas lent him one to pay for the hack that carried him to his hotel; and thus the two parted!

Chapter Twenty Six.

Eljen Kossuth!

An autumn sun was just rising over the plains of the yellow Theiss, when two travellers, issuing from the gates of the old fortified city of Arad, took their way toward the village of Vilagos, some twenty miles distant.

It is scarce necessary to say they were on horseback. Men do not journey afoot on the plains of the “Puszta.”

Their military costume was in keeping with the scene around. Not as it would have been in its normal and usual state, with the ihaz quietly attending his swine drove, and the csiko galloping after his half-wild colts and cattle. For Arad was now the headquarters of the Hungarian army, and the roads around it hourly echoed the tread of the Honved, and hoofstroke of the hussar.

The patriot force of less than thirty thousand men had moved upon Vilagos, there to meet the Austro-Russian advance, of just four times their number; Geörgei the commanding general on one side, and Rüdiger on the other.

The two horsemen had reached Arad but the night before, coming from the West. They had arrived too late to go out with the patriot troops, and seemed now hurrying on to overtake them.

Though in uniform, as we have already said, it was not that belonging to any branch of the Hungarian service. No more did it resemble any one of the varied military costumes worn by the allied enemy. Both were habited very much alike; in simple undress frocks of dark-blue cloth, with gold-lace pantaloons of brighter blue, and banded forage-caps.

With Colt’s revolver pistols – then an arm scarce known – worn in a holstered waistbelt, steel sabres hanging handy against their thighs, and short Jäger rifles slung, en bandolier; behind them, the dress looked warlike enough; and, on whatever side, it was evident the two travellers intended fighting.

This was further manifest from their anxious glances cast ahead, and the way they pressed their horses forward, as if fearing to be too late for the field.

They were of different ages; one over forty, the other about twenty-five.

“I don’t like the look of things about Arad,” said the elder, as they checked up for a time, to breathe their horses.

“Why, Count?” asked his companion.

“There seems to be a bad electricity in the air – a sort of general distrust.”

“In what, or whom?”

“In Geörgei. I could see that the people have lost confidence in him. They even suspect that he’s playing traitor, and has thoughts of surrendering to the enemy.”

“What! Geörgei – their favourite general! Is he not so?”

“Of the old army, yes. But not of the new levies or the people. In my opinion, the worst thing that could have happened to them is his having become so. It’s the old story of regulars versus volunteers. He hates the Honveds, and Kossuth for creating them, just as in our little Mexican skirmish, there was a jealousy between West Pointers and the newly-raised regiments.

“There are thousands of donkeys in Hungary, as in the United States, who believe that to be a soldier a man must go through some sort of a routine training – forgetting all about Cromwell of England, Jackson of America, and a score of the like that might be quoted. Well, these common minds, running in the usual groove, believe that Geörgei, because he was once an officer in the Austrian regular army, should be the trusted man of the time; and they’ve taken him up, and trusted him without further questioning. I know him well. We were at the military school together. A cool, scheming fellow, with the head of a chemist and the heart of an alchemist. Of himself he has accomplished nothing yet. The brilliant victories gained on the Hungarian side – and brilliant have they been – have all been due to the romantic enthusiasm of these fiery Magyars, and the dash of such generals as Nagy Sandor, Damjanich, and Guyon. There can be no doubt that, after the successes on the Upper Danube, the patriot army could have marched unmolested into Vienna, and there dictated terms to the Austrian Empire. The emperor’s panic-stricken troops were absolutely evacuating the place, when, instead of a pursuing enemy, news came after them that the victorious general had turned back with his whole army, to lay siege to the fortress of Ofen! To capture an insignificant garrison of less than six thousand men! Six weeks were spent in this absurd side movement, contrary to the counsels of Kossuth, who had never ceased to urge the advance on Vienna. Geörgei did just what the Austrians wanted him to do – giving their northern allies time to come down; and down they have come.”

“But Kossuth was Governor – Dictator! Could he not command the advance you speak of?”

“He commanded it all he could, but was not obeyed. Geörgei had already sapped his influence, by poisoning the minds of the military leaders against him – that is, the factious who adhered to himself, the old regulars, whom he had set against the new levies and Honveds. ‘Kossuth is not a soldier, only a lawyer,’ said they; and this was sufficient. For all their talk, Kossuth has given more proofs of soldiership and true generalship than Geörgei and his whole clique. He has put an army of two hundred thousand men in the field; armed and equipped it. And he created it absolutely out of nothing! The patriots had only two hundred pounds weight of gunpowder, and scarce such a thing as a gun, when this rising commenced. And the saltpetre was dug out of the mine, and the iron smelted, and the cannon cast. Ay, in three months there was a force in the field such as Napoleon would have been proud of. My dear captain, there is more proof of military genius in this, than in the winning of a dozen battles. It was due to Kossuth alone. Alone he accomplished it all – every detail of it. Louis Kossuth not a general, indeed! In the true sense of the word, there has been none such since Napoleon. Even in this last affair of Ofen, it is now acknowledged, he was right; and that they should have listened to his cry, ‘On to Vienna!’”

“Clearly it has been a sad blunder.”

“Not so clearly, Captain; not so clearly. I wish it were. There is reason to fear it is worse.”

“What mean you, Count?”

“I mean, treason.”

“Ha!”

“The turning back for that useless siege looks confoundedly like it. And this constantly retreating down the right bank of the Theiss, without crossing over and forming a junction with Sandor. Every day the army melting away, becoming reduced by thousands! Sacré! if it be so, we’ve had our long journey for nothing; and poor liberty will soon see her last hopeless struggle on the plains of the Puszta, perhaps her last in all Europe! Ach!”