The Child Wife

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.”