The Child Wife

The Count, as he made this exclamation, drove the spur hard against the ribs of his horse, and broke off into a gallop, as if determined to take part in that struggle, however hopeless.

The younger man, seemingly inspired by the same impulse, rode rapidly after.

Then gallop was kept up until the spire of Vilagos came in sight, shooting up over the groves of olive and acacia embowering the Puszta village.

Outside on the skirts of the far-spreading town they could see tents pitched upon the plain, with standards floating over them – cavalry moving about in squadrons – infantry standing in serried ranks – here and there horsemen in hussar uniforms hurrying from point to point, their loose dolmans trailing behind them. They could hear the rolling of drums, the braying of bugles, and, away far beyond, the booming of great guns.

“Who goes there?” came the abrupt hail of a sentry speaking in the Magyar tongue, while a soldier in Honved dress showed himself in the door of a shepherd’s hut. He was the spokesman of a picket-guard concealed within the house.

“Friends!” answered the Austrian Count, in the same language in which the hail had been given. “Friends to the cause: Eljen Kossuth!”

At the magic words the soldier lowered his carbine, while his half-dozen comrades came crowding out from their concealment.

A pass to headquarters, obtained by the Count in Arad, made the parley short, and the two travellers continued their journey amidst cries of “Eljen Kossuth!”

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Broken Swords

In half an hour afterwards, Count Roseveldt and Captain Maynard – for it was they who were thus rapidly travelling – reached Vilagos, and passed on to the camp of the Hungarian army.

They halted near its centre, in front of the marquee occupied by its commander-in-chief. They had arrived just in time to witness a remarkable scene – none more so on military record.

Around them were officers of all ranks, and of every conceivable arm of service. They were standing in groups talking excitedly, now and then an individual crossing hastily from one to the other.

There was all the evidence of warlike preparation, but as if under some mysterious restraint. This could be read in scowling looks and mutinous mutterings.

In the distance was heard the continuous roaring of artillery.

They knew whence it came, and what was causing it. They knew it was from Temesvar, where Nagy Sandor, with his attenuated corps of heroes, was holding the large army of Rüdiger in check.

Yes, their brilliant and beloved comrade; Nagy Sandor, that splendid cavalry officer – before whom even the beau sabreur of France sinks into a second place – was fighting an unequal fight!

It was the thought of this that was causing the dark looks and angry mutterings.

Going up to a group of officers, the Count asked for an explanation. They were in hussar uniforms, and appeared to be more excited than the others.

One of them sprang forward, and grasped him by the hand, exclaiming:

“Roseveldt!”

It was an old comrade, who had recognised him.

“There’s some trouble among you?” said the Count, scarce staying to return the salutation. “What is it, my dear friend?”

“You hear those guns?”

“Of course I do.”

“It’s the brave Sandor fighting against no end of odds. And this scheming chemist won’t give us the order to go to his assistance. He stays inside his tent like some Oracle of Delphi. Dumb, too, for he don’t make a response. Would you believe it, Roseveldt; we suspect him of treason?”

“If you do,” responded the Count, “you’re great fools to wait for his bringing it to maturity. You should advance without his orders. For my part, and I can speak, too, for my comrade here, I shan’t stay here, while there’s fighting farther on. Our cause is the same as yours; and we’ve come several thousand miles to draw swords in it. We were too late for the Baden affair; and by staying here with you we may again get disappointed. Come, Maynard! We have no business at Vilagos. Let us go on to Temesvar!”

Saying this, the Count strode brusquely back toward his horse, still under the saddle, the captain keeping pace with him. Before they could mount, there arose a scene that caused them to stand by their stirrups, holding their bridles in hand.

The hussar officers, among whom were several of high rank, generals and colonels, had overheard the speeches of Roseveldt. The Count’s friend had made them acquainted with his name.

It needed not for them to know his title, to give influence to what he had said. His words were like red-hot cinders pitched into a barrel of gunpowder, and almost as instantaneous was the effect.

“Geörgei must give the order?” cried one, “or we shall advance without it. What say you, comrades?”

“We’re all agreed!” responded a score of voices, the speakers clutching at their sword-hilts, and facing toward the marquee of the commander-in-chief.

“Listen?” said their leader, an old general, with steel-grey moustaches sweeping back to his ears. “You hear that? Those are the guns of Rüdiger. Too well do I know their accursed tongues. Poor Sandor’s ammunition is all spent. He must be in retreat?”

“We shall stop it!” simultaneously exclaimed a dozen. “Let us demand the order to advance! To his tent, comrades! to his tent!”

There could be no mistaking which tent; for, with the cry still continuing, the hussar officers rushed toward the marquee – the other groups pouring in, and closing around it, after them.

Several rushed inside; their entrance succeeded by loud words, in tones of expostulation.

They came out again, Geörgei close following. He looked pale, half-affrighted, though it was perhaps less fear than the consciousness of a guilty intent.

He had still sufficient presence of mind to conceal it.

“Comrades!” he said, with an appealing look at the faces before him, “my children! Surely you can trust to me? Have I not risked my life for your sake – for the sake of our beloved Hungary? I tell you it would be of no use to advance. It would be madness, ruin. We are here in an advantageous position. We must stay and defend it! Believe me, ’tis our only hope.”

The speech so earnest – so apparently sincere – caused the mutineers to waver. Who could doubt the man, so compromised with Austria?

The old officer, who led them, did.

“Thus, then!” he cried, perceiving their defection. “Thus shall I defend it!”

Saying this, he whipped his sabre from its sheath; and grasping it hilt and blade, he broke the weapon across his knee – flinging the fragments to the earth!

It was the friend of Roseveldt who did this.

The example was followed by several others, amidst curses and tears. Yes; strong men, old soldiers, heroes, on that day, at Vilagos, were seen to weep.

The Count was again getting into his stirrup, when a shout, coming from the outer edge of the encampment, once more caused him to keep still. All eyes were turned toward the sentry who had shouted, seeking the explanation. It was given not by the sentinel, but something beyond.

Far off, men mounted and afoot were seen approaching over the plain. They came on in scattered groups, in long straggling line, their banners borne low and trailing. They were the débris of that devoted band, who had so heroically held Temesvar. Their gallant leader was along with them, in the rear-guard – still contesting the ground by inches, against the pursuing cavalry of Rüdiger!

The old soldier had scarce time to regret having broken his sword, when the van swept into the streets of Vilagos, and soon after the last link of the retreating line.

It was the final scene in the struggle for Hungarian independence!

No; not the last! We chronicle without thought. There was another – one other to be remembered to all time, and, as long as there be hearts to feel, with a sad, painful bitterness.

I am not writing a history of the Hungarian war – that heroic struggle for national independence – in valour and devotedness perhaps never equalled upon the earth. Doing so, I should have to detail the tricks and subterfuges to which the traitor Geörgei had to resort before he could deceive his betrayed followers, and, with safety to himself, deliver them over to the infamous enemy. I speak only of that dread morn – the 6th day of October – when thirteen general officers, every one of them the victor in some sternly contested field, were strung up by the neck, as though they had been pirates or murderers!

And among them was the brave Damjanich, strung up in spite of his shattered leg; the silent, serious Perezel; the noble Aulich; and, perhaps most regretted of all, the brilliant Nagy Sandor! It was in truth a terrible taking of vengeance – a wholesale hanging of heroes, such as the world never saw before! What a contrast between this fiendish outpouring of monarchical spite against revolutionists in a good cause, and the mercy lately shown by republican conquerors to the chiefs of a rebellion without cause at all!

Maynard and Roseveldt did not stay to be spectators of this tragical finale. To the Count there was danger upon Hungarian soil – once more become Austrian – and with despondent hearts the two revolutionary leaders turned their faces towards the West, sad to think that their swords must remain unsheathed, without tasting the blood of either traitor or tyrant!

Chapter Twenty Eight.

A Tour in Search of a Title

“I’m sick of England – I am!”

“Why, cousin, you said the same of America!”

“No; only of Newport. And if I did, what matter? I wish I were back in it. Anywhere but here, among these bulls and bull-dogs. Give me New York over all cities in the world.”

“Oh! I agree with you there – that do I – both State and city, if you like.”

It was Julia Girdwood that spoke first, and Cornelia Inskip who replied.

They were seated in a handsome apartment – one of a suite in the Clarendon Hotel, London.

“Yes,” pursued the first speaker; “there one has at least some society; if not the élite, still sufficiently polished for companionship. Here there is none – absolutely none – outside the circle of the aristocracy. Those merchants’ wives and daughters we’ve been compelled to associate with, rich as they are, and grand as they deem themselves, are to me simply insufferable. They can think of nothing but their Queen.”

“That’s true.”

“And I tell you, Cornelia, if a peeress, or the most obscure thing with ‘Lady’ tacked to her name, but bows to one of them, it is remembered throughout their life, and talked of every day among their connections. Only think of that old banker where mamma took us to dine the other day. He had one of the Queen’s slippers framed in a glass case, and placed conspicuously upon his drawing-room mantelshelf. And with what gusto the old snob descanted upon it! How he came to get possession of it; the price he paid; and his exquisite self-gratulation at being able to leave it as a valued heirloom to his children – snobbish as himself! Faugh! ’Tis a flunkeyism intolerable. Among American merchants, one is at least spared such experience as that. Even our humblest shopkeepers would scorn so to exhibit themselves!”

“True, true!” assented Cornelia; who remembered her own father, an humble shopkeeper in Poughkeepsie, and knew that he would have scorned it.

“Yes,” continued Julia, returning to her original theme, “of all cities in the world, give me New York. I can say of it, as Byron did of England, ‘With all thy faults, I love thee still!’ though I suspect when the great poet penned that much-quoted line, he must have been very tired of Italy and the stupid Countess Guiccioli.”

“Ha – ha – ha!” laughed the Poughkeepsian cousin, “what a girl you are, Julia! Well, I’m glad you like our dear native New York.”

“Who wouldn’t, with its gay, pleasant people, and their cheerful give and take? Many faults it has, I admit; bad municipal management – wholesale political corruption. These are but spots on the outward skin of its social life, and will one day be cured. Its great, generous heart, sprung from Hibernia, is still uncontaminated.”

“Hurrah! hurrah!” cried Cornelia, springing up from her seat and clapping her little hands. “I’m glad, cousin, to hear you speak thus of the Irish!”

It will be remembered that she was the daughter of one.

“Yes,” said Julia, for the third time; “New York, of all places, for me! I’m now convinced it’s the finest city in the world!”

“Don’t be so quick in your conclusions, my love! Wait till you’ve seen Paris! Perhaps you may change your mind!”

It was Mrs Girdwood who made these remarks, entering the room at the conclusion of her daughter’s rhapsody.

“I’m sure I won’t mother. Nor you neither. We’ll find Paris just as we’ve found London; the same selfishness, the same social distinctions, the same flunkeyism. I’ve no doubt all monarchical countries are alike.”

“What are you talking about, child? France is now a republic.”

“A nice republic, with an Emperor’s nephew for its President – or rather its Dictator! Every day, as the papers tell us, robbing the people of their rights!”

“Well, my daughter, with that we’ve got nothing to do. No doubt these revolutionary hot-heads need taming down a little, and a Napoleon should be the man to do it. I’m sure we’ll find Paris a very pleasant place. The old titled families, so far from being swept off by the late revolution, are once more holding up their heads. ’Tis said the new ruler encourages them. We can’t fail to get acquainted with some of them. It’s altogether different from the cold-blooded aristocracy of England.”

The last remark was made in a tone of bitterness. Mrs Girdwood had been now several months in London; and though stopping at the Clarendon Hotel – the caravanserai of aristocratic travellers – she had failed to get introduction to the titled of the land.

The American Embassy had been polite to her, both Minister and Secretary – the latter, noted for his urbanity to all, but especially to his own countrymen, or countrywomen, without distinction of class. The Embassy had done all that could be one for an American lady travelling without introductions. But, however rich and accomplished, however beautiful the two girls in her train, Mrs Girdwood could not be presented at Court, her antecedents not being known.

It is true a point might have been strained in her favour; but the American ambassador of that day was as true a toad-eater to England’s aristocracy as could have been found in England itself, and equally fearful of becoming compromised by his introductions. We need not give his name. The reader skilful in diplomatic records can no doubt guess it.

Under these circumstances, the ambitious widow had to submit to a disappointment.

She found little difficulty in obtaining introductions to England’s commonalty. Her riches secured this. But the gentry! these were even less accessible than the exclusives of Newport – the J.’s, and the L.’s, and the B.’s. Titled or untitled, they were all the same. She discovered that a simple country squire was as unapproachable as a peer of the realm – earl, marquis, or duke!

“Never mind, my girls!” was her consolatory speech, to daughter and niece, when the scales first fell from her eyes. “His lordship will soon be here, and then it will be all right.”

His lordship meant Mr Swinton, who had promised to follow them in the “next steamaw.”

But the next steamer came with no such name as Swinton on its passenger list, nor any one bearing the title of “lord.”

And the next, and the next, and some half-dozen others, and still no Swinton, either reported by the papers, or calling at the Clarendon Hotel!

Could an accident have happened to the nobleman, travelling incognito? Or, what caused more chagrin to Mrs Girdwood to conjecture, had he forgotten his promise?

In either case he ought to have written. A gentleman would have done so – unless dead.

But no such death had been chronicled in the newspapers. It could not have escaped the notice of the retail storekeeper’s widow, who each day read the London Times, and with care its list of arrivals.

She became at length convinced, that the accomplished nobleman accidentally picked up in Newport, and afterwards entertained by her in her Fifth Avenue house in New York, was either no nobleman at all, or if one, had returned to his own country under another travelling name, and was there fighting shy of her acquaintance.

It was but poor comfort that many of her countrymen – travellers like themselves – every day called upon them; among others Messrs Lucas and Spiller – such was the cognomen of Mr Lucas’s friend, who, also on a tour of travel, had lately arrived in England.

But neither of them had brought any intelligence, such as Mrs Girdwood sought. Neither knew anything of the whereabouts of Mr Swinton.

They had not seen him since the occasion of that dinner in the Fifth Avenue house; nor had they heard of him again.

It was pretty clear then he had come to England, and was “cutting” them – that is, Mrs Girdwood and her girls.

This was the mother’s reflection.

The thought was enough to drive her out of the country; and out of it she determined to go, partly in search of that title for her daughter she had come to Europe to obtain; and partly to complete, what some of her countrymen are pleased to call, the “Ewropean tower.”

To this the daughter was indifferent, while the niece of coarse made no objection.

They proceeded upon their travels.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The Lost Lord

Ten days after Mrs Girdwood had taken her departure from the Clarendon Hotel, a gentleman presented himself to the door-porter of that select hostelry, and put the following inquiry:

“Is there a family stopping here, by name Girdwood – a middle-aged lady, with two younger – her daughter and niece; a negro woman for their servant?”

“There was such a fambly – about two weeks ago. They’ve paid their bill, and gone away.”

The janitor laid emphasis on the paying of the bill. It was his best evidence of the respectability of the departed guests.

“Do you know where they’ve gone?”

“Haven’t an idea, sir. They left no address. They ’pear to be Yankees – ’Mericans, I mean,” said the man, correcting himself, in fear of giving offence. “Very respectable people – ladies, indeed – ’specially the young ’uns. I dare say they’ve gone back to the States. That’s what I’ve heerd them call their country.”

“To the States! Surely not?” said the stranger, half questioning himself. “How long since they left the hotel?”

“About a fortnight ago – there or thereabout. I can look at the book and tell you?”

“Pray do!”

The Cerberus of the Clarendon – to an humble applicant for admission into that aristocratic establishment not much milder than he of the seven heads – turned into his box, and commenced examining the register of departures.

He was influenced to this civility by the aspect of the individual who made the request. To all appearance a “reg’lar gentleman,” was the reflection he had indulged in.

“Departures on the 25th,” spoke he, reading from the register: “Lord S – and Lady S – ; the Hon. Augustus Stanton; the Duchess of P – ; Mrs Girdwood and fambly – that’s them. They left on the 25th, sir.”

“The 25th. At what hour?”

“Well, that I can’t remember. You see, there’s so many goin’ and comin’. From their name being high up on the list, I d’say they went by a mornin’ train.”

“You’re sure they left no note for any one?”

“I can ask inside. What name?”

“Swinton – Mr Richard Swinton.”

“Seems to me they inquired for that name, several times. Yes, the old lady did – the mother of the young ladies, I mean. I’ll see if there’s a note.”

The man slippered off towards the office, in the interior of the hotel; leaving Mr Swinton, for it was he, upon the door-mat.

The countenance of the ex-guardsman, that had turned suddenly blank, again brightened up. It was at least gratifying to know that he had been inquired for. It was to be hoped there was a note, that would put him on their trace of travel.

“No, not any,” was the chilling response that came out from the official oracle. “None whatever.”

“You say they made inquiries for a Mr Swinton. Was it from yourself, may I ask?” The question was put seductively, accompanied by the holding out of a cigar-case.

“Thank you, sir,” said the flattered official, accepting the offered weed. “The inquiries were sent down to me from their rooms. It was to ask if a Mr Swinton had called, or left any card. They also asked about a lord. They didn’t give his name. There wasn’t any lord – leastwise not for them.”

“Were there any gentlemen in the habit of visiting them? You’ll find that cigar a good one – I’ve just brought them across the Atlantic. Take another? Such weeds are rather scarce here in London.”

“You’re very kind, sir. Thank you!” and the official helped himself to a second.

“Oh, yes; there were several gentlemen used to come to see them. I don’t think any of them were lords, though. They might be. The ladies ’peared to be very respectable people. I d’say highly respectable.”

“Do you know the address of any of these gentlemen? I ask the question because the ladies are relatives of mine, and I might perhaps find out from some of them where they are gone.”

“They were all strangers to me; and to the hotel. I’ve been at this door for ten years, and never saw one of them before.”

“Can you recollect how any of them looked?”

“Yes; there was one who came often, and used to go out with the ladies. A thick-set gent with lightish hair, and round full face. Sometimes there was a thin-faced man along with him, a younger gent. They used to take the two young ladies a-ridin’ – to Rotten Row; and I think to the Opera.”

“Did you learn their names?”

“No, sir. They used to go and come without giving a card; only the first time, and I didn’t notice what name was on it. They would ask if Mrs Girdwood was in, and then go upstairs to the suite of rooms occupied by the fambly. They ’peared to be intimate friends.”

Swinton saw he had got all the information the man was capable of imparting. He turned to go out, the hall-keeper obsequiously holding the door.

Another question occurred to him.

“Did Mrs Girdwood say anything about coming back here – to the hotel I mean?”

“I don’t know, sir. If you stop a minute I’ll ask.”

Another journey to the oracle inside; another negative response.

“This is cursed luck!” hissed Swinton through his teeth, as he descended the hotel steps and stood upon the flags below. “Cursed luck!” he repeated, as with despondent look and slow, irresolute tread he turned up the street of “our best shopkeepers.”

“Lucas with them to a certainty, and that other squirt! I might have known it, from their leaving New York without telling me where they were going. They must have followed by the very next steamer; and, hang me, if I don’t begin to think that that visit to the gambling-house was a trap – a preconceived plan to deprive me of the chance of getting over after her. By the living G – it has succeeded! Here I am, after months spent in struggling to make up the paltry passage money! And here they are not; and God knows where they are! Curse upon the crooked luck!”

Mr Swinton’s reflections will explain why he had not sooner reported himself at the Bond Street hotel, and show the mistake Mrs Girdwood had made, in supposing he had “cut” them.

The thousand dollars deposited in the New York faro bank was all the money he had in the world; and after taking stock of what might be raised upon his wife’s jewellery, most of which was already under the collateral mortgage of the three golden globes, it was found it would only pay ocean passage for one.

As Fan was determined not to be left behind – Broadway having proved less congenial than Regent Street – the two had to stay in America, till the price of two cabin tickets could be obtained.

With all Mr Swinton’s talent in the “manipulation of pasteboard,” it cost him months to obtain them.

His friend Lucas gone away, he found no more pigeons in America – only hawks!

The land of liberty was not the land for him. Its bird of freedom, type of the falcon tribe, seemed too truly emblematic of its people – certainly of those with whom he had come in contact – and as soon as he could get together enough to pay for a pair of Cunard tickets – second-class at that – he took departure for a clime more congenial, both to himself and his beloved.