Майн Рид
The Child Wife
Chapter Fifty One.
Under the Deodara
The birthday of Blanche Vernon did not terminate the festivities at her father’s house.
On the second day after, there was a dinner-party of like splendid appointment, succeeded by dancing.
It was the season of English rural enjoyment, when crops had been garnered, and rents paid; when the farmer rests from his toil, and the squire luxuriates in his sports.
Again in Vernon Hall were noble guests assembled; and again the inspiring strains of harp and violin told time to the fantastic gliding of feet.
And again Maynard danced with the baronet’s daughter.
She was young to take part in such entertainments. But it was her father’s house, and she was an only daughter – hence almost necessitated at such early age to play mistress of the mansion.
True to her promise, she had read the romance, and declared her opinion of it to the anxious author.
She liked it, though not enthusiastically. She did not say this. Only from her manner could Maynard tell there was a qualification. Something in the book seemed not to have satisfied her. He could not conjecture what it was. He was too disappointed to press for an explanation.
Once more they were dancing together, this time in a valse. Country-bred as she was, she waltzed like a coryphée. She had taken lessons from a Creole teacher, while resident on the other side of the Atlantic.
Maynard was himself no mean dancer, and she was just the sort of partner to delight him.
Without thought of harm, in the abandon of girlish innocence, she rested her cheek upon his shoulder, and went spinning round with him – in each whirl weaving closer the spell upon his heart. And without thought of being observed.
But she was, at every turn, all through the room, both she and he. Dowagers, seated along the sides, ogled them through their eye-glasses, shook their false curls, and made muttered remarks. Young ladies, two seasons out, looked envious – Lady Mary contemptuous, almost scowling.
“The gilded youth” did not like it; least of all Scudamore, who strode through the room sulky and savage, or stood watching the sweep of his cousin’s skirt, as though he could have torn the dress from her back!
It was no relief to him when the valse came to an end.
On the contrary, it but increased his torture; since the couple he was so jealously observing, walked off, arm-in-arm, through the conservatory, and out into the grounds.
There was nothing strange in their doing so. The night was warm, and the doors both of conservatory and drawing-room set wide open. They were but following a fashion. Several other couples had done the same.
Whatever may be said of England’s aristocracy, they have not yet reached that point of corruption, to make appearances suspicious. They may still point with pride to one of the noblest of their national mottoes: – “Honi soit qui mal y pense.”
It is true they are in danger of forsaking it; under that baleful French influence, felt from the other side of the Channel, and now extending to the uttermost ends of the earth – even across the Atlantic.
But it is not gone yet; and a guest admitted into the house of an English gentleman is not presupposed to be an adventurer, stranger though he be. His strolling out through the grounds, with a young lady for sole companion, even upon a starless night, is not considered outré– certainly not a thing for scandal.
Sir George Vernon’s guest, with Sir George’s daughter on his arm, was not thinking of scandal, as they threaded the mazes of the shrubbery that grew contiguous to the dwelling. No more, as they stopped under the shadow of gigantic deodara, whose broad, evergreen fronds extended far over the carefully kept turf.
There was neither moon nor stars in the sky; no light save that dimly reflected through the glass panelling of the conservatory.
They were alone, or appeared so – secure from being either observed or overheard, as if standing amidst the depths of some primeval forest, or the centre of an unpeopled desert. If there were others near, they were not seen; if speaking, it must have been in whispers.
Perhaps this feeling of security gave a tone to their conversation. At all events, it was carried on with a freedom from restraint, hitherto unused between them.
“You have travelled a great deal?” said the young girl, as the two came to a stand under the deodara.
“Not much more than yourself Miss Vernon. You have been a great traveller, if I mistake not?”
“I! oh, no! I’ve only been to one of the West India islands, where papa was Governor. Then to New York, on our way home. Since to some of the capital cities of Europe. That’s all.”
“A very fair itinerary for one of your age.”
“But you have visited many strange lands, and passed through strange scenes – scenes of danger, as I’ve been told.”
“Who told you that?”
“I’ve read it. I’m not so young as to be denied reading the newspapers. They’ve spoken of you, and your deeds. Even had we never met, I should have known your name.”
And had they never met, Maynard would not have had such happiness as was his at that moment. This was his reflection.
“My deeds, as you please to designate them, Miss Vernon, have been but ordinary incidents; such as fall to the lot of all who travel through countries still in a state of nature, and where the passions of men are uncontrolled by the restraints of civilised life. Such a country is that lying in the midst of the American continent – the prairies, as they are termed.”
“Oh! the prairies! Those grand meadows of green, and fields of flowers! How I should like to visit them!”
“It would not be altogether a safe thing for you to do.”
“I know that, since you have encountered such dangers upon them. How well you have described them in your book! I liked that part very much. It read delightfully.”
“But not all the book?”
“Yes; it is all very interesting: but some parts of the story – ”
“Did not please you,” said the author, giving help to the hesitating critic. “May I ask what portions have the ill-luck to deserve your condemnation?”
The young girl was for a moment silent, as if embarrassed by the question.
“Well,” she at length responded, a topic occurring to relieve her. “I did not like to think that white men made war upon the poor Indians, just to take their scalps and sell them for money. It seems such an atrocity. Perhaps the story is not all true? May I hope it is not?”
It was a strange question to put to an author, and Maynard thought so. He remarked also that the tone was strange.
“Well, not all,” was his reply. “Of course the book is put forth as a romance, though some of the scenes described in it were of actual occurrence. I grieve to say, those which have given you dissatisfaction. For the leader of the sanguinary expedition, of which it is an account, there is much to be said in palliation of what may be called his crimes. He had suffered terribly at the hands of the savages. With him the motive was not gain, not even retaliation. He gave up warring against the Indians, after recovering his daughter – so long held captive among them.”
“And his other daughter – Zoë – she who was in love – and so young too. Much younger than I am. Tell me, sir, is also that true?”
Why was this question put? And why a tremor in the tone, that told of an interest stronger than curiosity?
Maynard was in turn embarrassed, and scarce knew what answer to make. There was joy in his heart, as he mentally interpreted her meaning.
He thought of making a confession, and telling her the whole truth.
But had the time come for it?
He reflected “not,” and continued to dissemble.
“Romance writers,” he at length responded, “are allowed the privilege of creating imaginary characters. Otherwise they would not be writers of romance. These characters are sometimes drawn from real originals – not necessarily those who may have figured in the actual scenes described – but who have at some time, and elsewhere, made an impression upon the mind of the writer.”
“And Zoë was one of these?”
Still a touch of sadness in the tone. How sweet to the ears of him so interrogated! “She was, and is.”
“She is still living?”
“Still!”
“Of course. Why should I have thought otherwise? And she must yet be young?”
“Just fifteen years – almost to a day.”
“Indeed! what a singular coincidence! You know it is my age?”
“Miss Vernon, there are many coincidences stranger than that.”
“Ah! true; but I could not help thinking of it. Could I?”
“Oh, certainly not – after such a happy birthday.”
“It was happy – indeed it was. I have not been so happy since.”
“I hope the reading of my story has not saddened you? If I thought so, I should regret ever having written it.”
“Thanks! thanks!” responded the young girl; “it is very good of you to say so.” And after the speech, she remained silent and thoughtful. “But you tell me it is not all true?” she resumed after a pause. “What part is not? You say that Zoë is a real character?”
“She is. Perhaps the only one in the book true to nature. I can answer for the faithfulness of the portrait. She was in my soul while I was painting it.”
“Oh!” exclaimed his companion, with a half suppressed sigh. “It must have been so. I’m sure it must. Otherwise how could you have told so truly how she would feel? I was of her age, and I know it!”
Maynard listened with delight. Never sounded rhapsody sweeter in the ears of an author.
The baronet’s daughter seemed to recover herself. It may have been pride of position, or the stronger instinct of love still hoping.
“Zoë,” she said. “It is a very beautiful name – very singular! I have no right to ask you, but I cannot restrain my curiosity. Is it her real name?”
“It is not. And you are the only one in the world who has the right to know what that is.”
“I! For what reason?”
“Because it is yours!” answered he, no longer able to withhold the truth. “Yours! Yes; the Zoë of my romance is but the portrait of a beautiful child, first seen upon a Cunard steamer. Since grown to be a girl still more attractively beautiful. And since thought of by him who saw her, till the thought became a passion that must seek expression in words. It sought; and has found it. Zoë is the result – the portrait of Blanche Vernon, painted by one who loves, who would be willing to die for her!”
At this impassioned speech, the baronet’s daughter trembled. But not as in fear. On the contrary, it was joy that was stirring within her heart.
And this heart was too young, and too guileless, either to conceal or be ashamed of its emotions. There was no show of concealment in the quick, ardent interrogatories that followed.
“Captain Maynard, is this true? Or have you spoken but to flatter me?”
“True!” replied he, in the same impassioned tone. “It is true! From the hour when I first saw you, you have never been out of my mind. You never will. It may be folly – madness – but I can never cease thinking of you.”
“Nor I of you?”
“Oh, heavens! am this be so? Is my presentiment to be fulfilled? Blanche Vernon! do you love me?”
“A strange question to put to a child!”
The remark was made by one, who had hitherto had no share in the conversation. Maynard’s blood ran cold, as, under the shadow of the deodara, he recognised the tall figure of Sir George Vernon!
It was not yet twelve o’clock. There was still time for Captain Maynard to catch the night mail; and by it he returned to London.
Chapter Fifty Two.
The Illustrious Exile
The revolutionary era had ended; tranquillity was restored; and peace reigned throughout Europe.
But it was a peace secured by chains, and supported by bayonets.
Manin was dead, Hecker an exile in transatlantic lands, Blum had been murdered – as also a score of other distinguished revolutionary leaders.
But there were two still surviving, whose names caused uneasiness to despotism from the Baltic to the Mediterranean – from the Euxine to the Atlantic.
These names were Kossuth and Mazzini.
Despite the influence used to blacken them – the whole power of a corrupted press – they were still sounds of magical import; symbols that at any day might stir up the peoples to strike one other blow for freedom. More especially was this true of Kossuth. Some rashness shown by Mazzini – a belief that his doctrines were too red– in other words, too far advanced for the time – stinted the confidence of the more moderate in the liberal party.
It was otherwise with the views of Kossuth. These had all along been strictly in accordance with conservatism – aiming only at national independence upon a presumed republican basis. Of the république rouge et démocratique talked of in France, he had never given assent to the rouge, and but partially to the démocratique.
If the future historian can ever find flaw in the character of Kossuth, it will be in the fact of his having been too conservative; or rather too national, and not enough developed in the idea of a universal propagandism.
Too much was he, as unfortunately most men are, a believer in non-interference; that sophism of international comity which permits the King of Dahomey to kill his subjects to his heart’s content, and the King of Viti-Vau to eat his, to the satisfaction of his stomach.
This limitation in the principles of the Magyar chief was the only thing in his character, known to the writer, that will exclude him from being considered truly, grandly great.
It may have been only assumed – it is to be hoped so – to contribute to the success of his noble purposes.
It certainly tended to this – by securing him the confidence of the more timid adherents of the revolutionary cause.
But there was another influence in his favour, and against the triumphant despots. All knew that the failure of the Hungarian revolution was due to causes over which Kossuth had no control – in short, to the blackest treachery on record. That with unerring genius, and all his soul’s energy, he had protested against the courses that led to it; and, to the last hour, had held out against the counsels of the wavering and the wicked. Not by his own consent, but by force, had he succumbed to them.
It was the knowledge of this that lent that magical influence to his name – every day growing stronger, as the story of Geörgei’s treason became better understood.
Expelled from his own land, he had sought an asylum in England.
Having gone through the fanfaron of a national welcome, in the shape of cheap receptions and monster meetings – having passed the entire ordeal, without succumbing to flattery, or giving his enemies the slightest cue for ridicule – this singular man had settled down in a modest suburban residence in the western district of London.
There in the bosom of his beloved family – a wife and daughter, with two sons, noble youths, who will yet add lustre to the name – he seemed only desirous of escaping from that noisy hospitality, by this time known to him to be nothing but the emptiest ostentation.
A few public dinners, cooked by such coarse caterers as the landlords of the London or Freemasons’ Tavern, were all of English cheer Kossuth ever tasted, and all he cared to claim. In his home he was not only permitted to purchase everything out of his own sadly attenuated purse, but was cheated by almost every tradesman with whom he had to deal; and beyond the ordinary extortion, on the strength of his being a stranger!
This was the sort of hospitality extended by England to the illustrious exile, and of which her Tory press have made so much boast! But that press has not told us how he was encompassed by British spies – by French ones also, in British pay – watched in his outgoings and incomings – tracked in his daily walks – his friends as well – and under constant incitement through secret agencies to do something that would commit him, and give a colourable chance for bringing his career to a close!
The outside world believed it had come to this; that the power of the great revolutionist was broken for ever, and his influence at an end.
But the despots knew better. They knew that as long as Kossuth lived, with character unattainted, scarce a king in Europe that did not need to sit trembling on his throne. Even England’s model queen, or rather the German prince who then controlled the destinies of the English nation, understood the influence that attached to Kossuth’s name, whilst the latter was among the most active of those secret agents who were endeavouring to destroy it.
The hostility of the royal family of England to the ex-dictator of Hungary is easily understood. It had a double source of inspiration: fear of the republican form, and a natural leaning to the alliance of kinship. The crowns of Austria and England are closely united in the liens of a blood-relationship. In the success of Kossuth would be the ruin of cousins-german and German cousins.
It was then the interest of all crowned heads to effect his ruin – if not in body, at least in reputation. His fame, coupled with a spotless character, shielded him from the ordinary dangers of the outlaw. The world’s public opinion stood in the way of their taking his life, or even consigning him to a prison.
But there was still the chance of rendering him innocuous – by blasting his reputation, and so depriving him of the sympathy that had hitherto upheld him.
For this purpose the press was employed – and notoriously the leading journal: that instrument ever ready, at a price, for purposes of oppression.
Openly and secretly it assailed him, by base accusations, and baser insinuations.
He was defended by a young writer, who had but lately made his appearance in the world of London, becoming known through the achievement of a literary triumph; and so successfully defended, that the Kossuth slanders, like curses, came back into the teeth of those who had uttered them.
In its long career of tergiversation, never had this noted newspaper been driven into such a position of shame. There was a whole day, during which it was chaffed on the Stock Exchange, and laughed at in the London clubs.
It has not forgotten that day of humiliation; and often has it given its antagonist cause to remember it. It has since taken ample revenge – by using its immense power to blast his literary reputation.
He thought not of this while writing those letters in defence of freedom and justice. Nor did he care, so long as this object might be attained.
It was attained. The character of the great Magyar came out stainless and triumphant – to the chagrin of suborned scribblers, and the despots who had suborned them.
Cleared in the eyes of the “nationalities,” Kossuth was still dangerous to the crowns of Europe – now more than ever.
The press had failed to befoul him. Other means must be employed to bring about his destruction.
And other means were employed. A plot was conceived to deprive him, not alone of his reputation, but his life. An atrocity so incredible, that in giving an account of it I can scarce expect to be believed!
It is nevertheless true.
Chapter Fifty Three.
A Kingly Scheme of Revolution
Once more met the conclave of crowned heads, by their representatives; no longer in the palace of the Tuileries, but in the mansion of an English nobleman.
This time the ex-dictator of Hungary was the subject of their deliberations.
“So long as he lives,” said the commissioner of that crown most nearly concerned, “so long will there be danger to our empire. A week, a day, a single hour, may witness its dissolution; and you know, gentlemen, what must follow from that?”
It was an Austrian field-marshal who thus spoke.
“From that would follow an emperor without a crown – perhaps without a head!”
The rejoinder came from the joking gentleman who was master of the mansion in which the conspirators were assembled.
“But is it really so serious?” asked the Russian Grand Duke. “Do you not much overrate the influence of this man?”
“Not any, altesse. We have taken pains to make ourselves acquainted with it. Our emissaries, sent throughout Hungary, report that there is scarce a house in the land where prayers are not nightly put up for him. By grand couch and cottage-bed the child is taught to speak the name of Kossuth more fervently than that of Christ – trained to look to him as its future saviour. What can come of this but another rising – a revolution that may spread to every kingdom in Europe?”
“Do you include the empires?” asked the facetious Englishman, glancing significantly toward the Grand Duke.
“Ay, do I. And the islands, too,” retorted the field-marshal. The Russian grinned. The Prussian diplomatist looked incredulous. Not so the representative of France; who, in a short speech, acknowledged the danger. To his master a European revolution would have been fatal, at to himself.
And yet it was he, whose country had least to fear from it, who suggested the vile plan for its avoidance. It came from the representative of England!
“You think Kossuth is your chief danger?” he said, addressing himself to the Austrian.
“We know it. We don’t care for Mazzini, with his wild schemes on the Italian side. The people there begin to think him mad. Our danger lies upon the Danube.”
“And your safety can only be secured by action on the south side of the Alps.”
“How? In what way? By what action?” were questions simultaneously put by the several conspirators.
“Explain yourself, my lord,” said the Austrian, appealingly. “Bah! It’s the simplest thing in the world. You want the Hungarian in your power. The Italian, you say, you don’t care for. But you may as well, while you’re about it, catch both, and half a score of other smaller fish – all of whom you can easily get into your net.”
“They are all here! Do you intend giving them up?”
“Ha – ha – ha!” laughed the light-hearted lord. “You forget you’re in free England! To do that would be indeed a danger. No – no. We islanders are not so imprudent. There are other ways to dispose of these troublesome strangers, without making open surrender of them.”
“Other ways! Name them! Name one of them!” The demand came from his fellow-conspirators – all speaking in a breath.
“Well, one way seems easy enough. There’s a talk of trouble in Milan. Your white-coats are not popular in that Italian metropolis, field-marshal! So my despatches tell me.”
“What of that, my lord? We have a strong garrison at Milan. Plenty of Bohemians, with our ever faithful Tyrolese. It is true there are several Hungarian regiments there.”
“Just so. And in these lies the chance of revolutionary leaders. Your chance, if you skilfully turn it to account.”
“How skilfully?”
“Mazzini is tampering with them. So I understand it. Mazzini is a madman. Therefore let him go on with his game. Encourage him. Let him draw Kossuth into the scheme. The Magyar will be sure to take the bait, if you but set it as it should be. Send mutinous men among these Hungarian regiments. Throw out a hope of their being able to raise a revolt – by joining the Italian people. It will lure, not only Mazzini and Kossuth, but along with them the whole fraternity of revolutionary firebrands. Once in your net, you should know how to deal with such fish, without any suggestion from me. They are too strong for any meshes we dare weave around them here: Gentlemen, I hope you understand me?”
“Perfectly?” responded all.
“A splendid ideal,” added the representative from France. “It would be a coup worthy of the genius who has conceived it. Field-marshal, you will act upon this?”
A superfluous question. The Austrian deputy was but too happy to carry back to his master a suggestion, to which he knew he would gladly give his consent; and after another half-hour spent in talking over its details, the conspirators separated.
“It is an original idea!” soliloquised the Englishman, as he sat smoking his cigar after the departure of his guests. “A splendid idea, as my French friend has characterised it. I shall have my revanche against this proud refugee for the slight he has put upon me in the eyes of the English people. Ah! Monsieur Kossuth! if I foresee aright, your revolutionary aspirations will soon come to an end. Yes, my noble demagogue! your days of being dangerous are as good as numbered?”
