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 noblemanincog., 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 theélite. 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 wasde 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!
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 noblemanincog., 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 theélite. 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 wasde 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 theihazquietly attending his swine drove, and thecsikogalloping 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 regularsversusvolunteers. 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!”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!”
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 theihazquietly attending his swine drove, and thecsikogalloping 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 regularsversusvolunteers. 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!”
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 thebeau sabreurof 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!Wehave 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.“Geörgeimustgive 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 thedébrisof 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—whenthirteen 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 rebellionwithout 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!
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 thebeau sabreurof 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!Wehave 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.
“Geörgeimustgive 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 thedébrisof 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—whenthirteen 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 rebellionwithout 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 theélite, 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 thathewould 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 ofthem. 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, travellingincognito? 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 LondonTimes, 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.
“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 theélite, 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 thathewould 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 ofthem. 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, travellingincognito? 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 LondonTimes, 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?”“Therewassuch a fambly—about two weeks ago. They’vepaid their bill, and gone away.”The janitor laid emphasis on the paying of the bill. It washisbest 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 Yorkfarobank 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.They had arrived in London with little more than the clothes they stood in; and taken lodgings in that cheap, semi-genteel neighbourhood where almost every street, square, park, place, and terrace, has got Westbourne for its name.Toward this quarter Mr Swinton turned his face, after reaching the head of Bond Street; and taking a twopenny “bus,” he was soon after set down at the Royal Oak, at no great distance from his suburban domicile.“They’re gone!” he exclaimed, stepping inside the late taken apartments, and addressing himself to a beautiful woman, their sole occupant.It was “Fan,” in a silk gown, somewhat chafed and stained, but once more a woman’s dress! Fan, with her splendid hair almost grown again—Fan no longer disguised as a valet, but restored to the dignity of a wife!“Gone! From London, do you mean? Or only the hotel?” The question told of her being still in her husband’s confidence. “From both.”“But you know where, don’t you?”“I don’t.”“Do you think they’ve left England?”“I don’t know what to think. They’ve left the Clarendon on the 25th of last month—ten days ago. And who do you suppose has been there—back and forward to see them?”“I don’t know.”“Guess!”“I can’t.”She could have given a guess. She had a thought, but she kept it in her own heart, as about the same man she had kept other thoughts before. Had she spoken it, she would have said, “Maynard.”She said nothing, leaving her husband to explain. He did so, at once undeceiving her.“Well, it was Lucas. That thick-skulled brute we met in Newport, and afterwards in New York.”“Ay; better you had never seen him in either place. He proved a useless companion, Dick.”“I know all that. Perhaps I shall get square with him yet.”“So they’ve gone; and that, I suppose, will be the end of it. Well, let it be; I don’t care. I’m contented enough to be once more in dear old England!”“In cheap lodgings like this?”“In anything. A hovel here is preferable to a palace in America! I’d rather live in a London garret, in these mean lodgings, if you like, than be mistress of that Fifth Avenue house you were so delighted to dine in. I hate their republican country?”The sentiment was appropriate to the woman who uttered it.“I’ll be the owner of it yet,” said Swinton, referring not to the country, but the Fifth Avenue house. “I’ll own it, if I have to spend ten years in carrying out the speculation.”“You still intend going on with it then?”“Of course I do. Why should I give it up?”“Perhaps you’ve lost the chance. This Mr Lucas may have got into the lady’s good graces?”“Bah! I’ve nothing to fear from him—the common-looking brute! He’s after her, no doubt. What of that? I take it he’s not the style to make much way with Miss Julia Girdwood. Besides, I’ve reason to know the mother won’t have it. If I’ve lost the chance in any other way, I may thank you for it, madam.”“Me! And how, I should like to know?”“But for you I might have been here months ago; in good time to have taken steps against their departure; or, still better, found some excuse for going along with them. That’s what I could have done. It’s the time we have lost—in getting together the cash to buy tickets for two.”“Indeed! And I’m answerable for that, I suppose? I think I made up my share. You seem to forget the selling of my gold watch, my rings and bracelets—even to my poor pencil-case?”“Who gave them to you?”“Indeed! it’s like you to remember it! I wish I had never accepted them.”“And I that I had never given them.”“Wretch!”“Oh! you’re very good at calling names—ugly ones, too.”“I’ll call you an uglier still,coward!”This stung him. Perhaps the only epithet that would; for he not only felt that it was true, but that his wife knew it.“What do you mean?” he asked, turning suddenly red.“What I say; that you’re a coward—you know you are. You can safely insult a woman; but when a man stands up you daren’t—no, you daren’t say boo to a goose. Remember Maynard?”It was the first time the taunt had been openly pronounced; though on more than one occasion since the scenes in Newport, she had thrown out hints of a knowledge of that scheme by which he had avoided meeting the man named. He supposed she had only suspicions, and could know nothing of that letter delivered too late. He had taken great pains to conceal the circumstances. From what she now said, it was evident she knew all.And she did; for James, the waiter, and other servants, had imparted to her the gossip of the hotel; and this, joined to her own observation of what had transpired, gave the whole story. The suspicion that she knew it had troubled Swinton—the certainty maddened him.“Say that again!” he cried, springing to his feet; “say it again, and by G—, I’ll smash in your skull?”With the threat he had raised one of the cane chairs, and held it over her head.Throughout their oft-repeated quarrels, it had never before come to this—the crisis of a threatened blow.She was neither large nor strong—only beautiful—while the bully was both. But she did not believe he intended to strike; and she felt that to quail would be to acknowledge herself conquered. Even to fail replying to the defiance.She did so, with additional acerbity.“Say what again? Remember Maynard? I needn’t say it; you’re not likely to forget him!”The words had scarce passed from her lips before she regretted them. At least she had reason: for with a crash, the chair came down upon her head, and she was struck prostrate upon the floor!
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?”
“Therewassuch a fambly—about two weeks ago. They’vepaid their bill, and gone away.”
The janitor laid emphasis on the paying of the bill. It washisbest 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 Yorkfarobank 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.
They had arrived in London with little more than the clothes they stood in; and taken lodgings in that cheap, semi-genteel neighbourhood where almost every street, square, park, place, and terrace, has got Westbourne for its name.
Toward this quarter Mr Swinton turned his face, after reaching the head of Bond Street; and taking a twopenny “bus,” he was soon after set down at the Royal Oak, at no great distance from his suburban domicile.
“They’re gone!” he exclaimed, stepping inside the late taken apartments, and addressing himself to a beautiful woman, their sole occupant.
It was “Fan,” in a silk gown, somewhat chafed and stained, but once more a woman’s dress! Fan, with her splendid hair almost grown again—Fan no longer disguised as a valet, but restored to the dignity of a wife!
“Gone! From London, do you mean? Or only the hotel?” The question told of her being still in her husband’s confidence. “From both.”
“But you know where, don’t you?”
“I don’t.”
“Do you think they’ve left England?”
“I don’t know what to think. They’ve left the Clarendon on the 25th of last month—ten days ago. And who do you suppose has been there—back and forward to see them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Guess!”
“I can’t.”
She could have given a guess. She had a thought, but she kept it in her own heart, as about the same man she had kept other thoughts before. Had she spoken it, she would have said, “Maynard.”
She said nothing, leaving her husband to explain. He did so, at once undeceiving her.
“Well, it was Lucas. That thick-skulled brute we met in Newport, and afterwards in New York.”
“Ay; better you had never seen him in either place. He proved a useless companion, Dick.”
“I know all that. Perhaps I shall get square with him yet.”
“So they’ve gone; and that, I suppose, will be the end of it. Well, let it be; I don’t care. I’m contented enough to be once more in dear old England!”
“In cheap lodgings like this?”
“In anything. A hovel here is preferable to a palace in America! I’d rather live in a London garret, in these mean lodgings, if you like, than be mistress of that Fifth Avenue house you were so delighted to dine in. I hate their republican country?”
The sentiment was appropriate to the woman who uttered it.
“I’ll be the owner of it yet,” said Swinton, referring not to the country, but the Fifth Avenue house. “I’ll own it, if I have to spend ten years in carrying out the speculation.”
“You still intend going on with it then?”
“Of course I do. Why should I give it up?”
“Perhaps you’ve lost the chance. This Mr Lucas may have got into the lady’s good graces?”
“Bah! I’ve nothing to fear from him—the common-looking brute! He’s after her, no doubt. What of that? I take it he’s not the style to make much way with Miss Julia Girdwood. Besides, I’ve reason to know the mother won’t have it. If I’ve lost the chance in any other way, I may thank you for it, madam.”
“Me! And how, I should like to know?”
“But for you I might have been here months ago; in good time to have taken steps against their departure; or, still better, found some excuse for going along with them. That’s what I could have done. It’s the time we have lost—in getting together the cash to buy tickets for two.”
“Indeed! And I’m answerable for that, I suppose? I think I made up my share. You seem to forget the selling of my gold watch, my rings and bracelets—even to my poor pencil-case?”
“Who gave them to you?”
“Indeed! it’s like you to remember it! I wish I had never accepted them.”
“And I that I had never given them.”
“Wretch!”
“Oh! you’re very good at calling names—ugly ones, too.”
“I’ll call you an uglier still,coward!”
This stung him. Perhaps the only epithet that would; for he not only felt that it was true, but that his wife knew it.
“What do you mean?” he asked, turning suddenly red.
“What I say; that you’re a coward—you know you are. You can safely insult a woman; but when a man stands up you daren’t—no, you daren’t say boo to a goose. Remember Maynard?”
It was the first time the taunt had been openly pronounced; though on more than one occasion since the scenes in Newport, she had thrown out hints of a knowledge of that scheme by which he had avoided meeting the man named. He supposed she had only suspicions, and could know nothing of that letter delivered too late. He had taken great pains to conceal the circumstances. From what she now said, it was evident she knew all.
And she did; for James, the waiter, and other servants, had imparted to her the gossip of the hotel; and this, joined to her own observation of what had transpired, gave the whole story. The suspicion that she knew it had troubled Swinton—the certainty maddened him.
“Say that again!” he cried, springing to his feet; “say it again, and by G—, I’ll smash in your skull?”
With the threat he had raised one of the cane chairs, and held it over her head.
Throughout their oft-repeated quarrels, it had never before come to this—the crisis of a threatened blow.
She was neither large nor strong—only beautiful—while the bully was both. But she did not believe he intended to strike; and she felt that to quail would be to acknowledge herself conquered. Even to fail replying to the defiance.
She did so, with additional acerbity.
“Say what again? Remember Maynard? I needn’t say it; you’re not likely to forget him!”
The words had scarce passed from her lips before she regretted them. At least she had reason: for with a crash, the chair came down upon her head, and she was struck prostrate upon the floor!