Kitabı oku: «The Child Wife», sayfa 21
Chapter Sixty Two.
Unsociable Fellow-Travellers
The train by which Maynard travelled made stop at the Sydenham Station, to connect with the Crystal Palace.
The stoppage failed to arouse him from the reverie into which he had fallen – painful after what had passed.
He was only made aware of it on hearing voices outside the carriage, and only because some of these seemed familiar.
On looking out, he saw upon the platform a party of ladies and gentlemen.
The place would account for their being there at so late an hour – excursionists to the Crystal Palace – but still more, a certain volubility of speech, suggesting the idea of their having dined at the Sydenham Hotel.
They were moving along the platform, in search of a first-class carriage for London.
As there were six of them, an empty one would be required – the London and Brighton line being narrow gauge.
There was no such carriage, and therefore no chance of them getting seated together. The dining party would have to divide.
“What a baw!” exclaimed the gentleman who appeared to act as the leader, “a dooced baw! But I suppose there’s no help for it. Aw – heaw is a cawage with only one in it?”
The speaker had arrived in front of that in which Maynard sate —solus, and in a corner.
“Seats for five of us,” pursued he. “We’d better take this, ladies. One of us fellaws must stow elsewhere.”
The ladies assenting, he opened the door, and stood holding the handle.
The three ladies – there were three of them – entered first.
It became a question which of the three “fellaws” was to be separated from such pleasant travelling-companions – two of them being young and pretty.
“I’ll go,” volunteered he who appeared the youngest and least consequential of the trio.
The proposal was eagerly accepted by the other two – especially him who held the handle of the door.
By courtesy he was the last to take a seat. He had entered the carriage, and was about doing so; when all at once a thought, or something else, seemed to strike him – causing him to change his design.
“Aw, ladies!” he said, “I hope yaw will pardon me for leaving yaw to go into the smoking cawage. I’m dying for a cigaw.”
Perhaps the ladies would have said, “Smoke where you are;” but there was a stranger to be consulted, and they only said:
“Oh, certainly, sir.”
If any of them intended an additional observation, before it could have been made he was gone.
He had shot suddenly out upon the platform, as if something else than smoking was in his mind!
They thought it strange – even a little impolite.
“Mr Swinton’s an inveterate smoker,” said the oldest of the three ladies, by way of apologising for him.
The remark was addressed to the gentleman, who had now sole charge of them.
“Yes; I see he is,” replied the latter, in a tone that sounded slightly ironical.
He had been scanning the solitary passenger, in cap and surtout, who sate silent in the corner.
Despite the dim light, he had recognised him; and felt sure that Swinton had done the same.
His glance guided that of the ladies; all of whom had previous acquaintance with their fellow-passenger. One of the three started on discovering who it was.
For all this there was no speech – not even a nod of recognition. Only a movement of surprise, followed by embarrassment.
Luckily the lamp was of oil, making it difficult to read the expression on their faces.
So thought Julia Girdwood; and so too her mother.
Cornelia cared not. She had no shame to conceal.
But Louis Lucas liked the obscurity; for it was he who was in charge.
He had dropped down upon the seat, opposite to the gentleman who had shot his Newfoundland dog!
It was not a pleasant place; and he instantly changed to the stall that should have been occupied by Mr Swinton.
He did this upon pretence of sitting nearer to Mrs Girdwood.
And thus Maynard was left without a vis-à-vis.
His thoughts also were strange. How could they be otherwise? Beside him, with shoulders almost touching, sate the woman he had once loved; or, at all events, passionately admired.
It was the passion of a day. It had passed; and was now cold and dead. There was a time when the touch of that rounded arm would have sent the blood in hot current through his veins. Now its chafing against his, as they came together on the cushion, produced no more feeling than if it had been a fragment from the chisel of Praxiteles!
Did she feel the same?
He could not tell; nor cared he to know.
If he had a thought about her thoughts, it was one of simple gratitude. He remembered his own imaginings, as to who had sent the star flag to protect him, confirmed by what Blanche Vernon had let drop in that conversation in the covers.
And this alone influenced him to shape, in his own mind, the question, “Should I speak to her?”
His thoughts charged back to all that had passed between them – to her cold parting on the cliff where he had rescued her from drowning; to her almost disdainful dismissal of him in the Newport ball-room. But he remembered also her last speech as she passed him, going out at the ball-room door; and her last glance given him from the balcony!
Both words and look, once more rising into recollection, caused him to repeat the mental interrogatory, “Should I speak to her?”
Ten times there was a speech upon his tongue; and as often was it restrained.
There was time for that and more; enough to have admitted of an extended dialogue. Though the mail train, making forty miles an hour, should reach London Bridge in fifteen minutes, it seemed as though it would never arrive at the station!
It did so at length without a word having been exchanged between Captain Maynard and any of his quondam acquaintances! They all seemed relieved, as the platform appearing alongside gave them a chance of escaping from his company!
Julia may have been an exception. She was the last of her party to get out of the carriage, Maynard on the off side, of course, still staying.
She appeared to linger, as with a hope of still being spoken to. It was upon her tongue to say the word “cruel”; but a proud thought restrained her; and she sprang quickly out of the carriage to spare herself the humiliation!
Equally near speaking was Maynard. He too was restrained by a thought – proud, but not cruel.
He looked along the platform, and watched them as they moved away. He saw them joined by two gentlemen – one who approached stealthily, as if not wishing to be seen.
He knew that the skulker was Swinton; and why he desired to avoid observation.
Maynard no more cared for the movements of this man – no more envied him either their confidence or company. His only reflection was:
“Strange that in every unpleasant passage of my life this same party should trump up – at Newport; in Paris; and now near London, in the midst of a grief greater than all!”
And he continued to reflect upon this coincidence, till the railway porter had pushed him and his portmanteau into the interior of a cab.
The official not understanding the cause of his abstraction, gave him no credit for it.
By the sharp slamming of the back-door he was reminded of a remissness: he had neglected the douceur!
Chapter Sixty Three.
“It is sweet – so sweet.”
Transported in his cab, Captain Maynard was set down safely at his lodgings in the proximity of Portman Square.
A latch-key let him in, without causing disturbance to his landlady.
Though once more in his own rooms, with a couch that seemed to invite him to slumber, he could not sleep. All night long he lay tossing upon it, thinking of Blanche Vernon.
The distraction, caused by his encounter with Julia Girdwood, had lasted no longer than while this lady was by his side in the railway carriage.
At the moment of her disappearance from the platform, back into his thoughts came the baronet’s daughter – back before his mental vision the remembrance of her roseate cheeks and golden hair.
The contretemps had been disagreeable – a thing to be regretted. Yet, thinking over it, he was not wretched; scarce unhappy. How could he be, with those tender speeches still echoing in his ears – that piece of paper in his possession, which once again he had taken out, and read under the light of his own lamp?
It was painful to think “papa would never sanction her seeing him again.” But this did not hinder him from having a hope.
It was no more the mediaeval time; nor is England the country of cloisters, where love, conscious of being returned, lays much stress on the parental sanction. Still might such authority be an obstruction, not to be thought lightly of; nor did Maynard so think of it.
Between the proud baronet and himself, he had placed a barrier he might never be able to remove – a social gulf that would separate them for ever!
Were there no means of bridging it? Could none be devised?
For long hours these questions kept him awake; and he went to sleep without finding answer to them.
During the same hours was she, too, lying awake – thinking in the same way.
She had other thoughts, and among them fears. She had yet to face her father!
Returning, as she had done to her own room, she had not seen him since the hour of her shame.
But there was a morrow when she would have to meet him – perhaps be called upon for a full confession.
It might seem as if there was nothing more to be told. But the necessity of having to comfort her father, and repeat what was already known, would of itself be sufficiently painful.
Besides, there was her after-action – in the surreptitious penning of that little note. She had done it in haste, yielding to the instinct of love, and while its frenzy was upon her.
Now in the calm quiet of her chamber, when the spasmodic courage of passion had departed, she felt doubtful of what she had done.
It was less repentance of the act, than fear for the consequences. What if her father should also learn that? If he should have a suspicion and ask her?
She knew she must confess. She was as yet too young, too guileless, to think of subterfuge. She had just practised one; but it was altogether different from the telling of an untruth. It was a falsehood even prudery itself might deem pardonable.
But her father would not, and she knew it. Angry at what he already knew, it would add to his indignation – perhaps strengthen it to a storm. How would she withstand it?
She lay reflecting in fear.
“Dear Sabby!” she said, “do you think he will suspect it?”
The question was to the coloured attendant, who, having a tiny couch in the adjoining ante-chamber, sate up late by her young mistress, to converse with and comfort her.
“’Speck what? And who am to hab de saspicion?”
“About the note you gave him. My father, I mean.”
“You fadda! I gub you fadda no note. You wand’in in your ’peach, Missy Blanche!”
“No – no. I mean what you gave him – the piece of paper I entrusted you with.”
“Oh, gub Massa Maynar! Ob coas I gub it him.”
“And you think no one saw you?”
“Don’t ’tink anyting ’bout it. Satin shoo nobody see dat Sabby, she drop de leetle billydou right into de genlum’s pocket – de outside coat pocket – wha it went down slick out ob sight. Make you mind easy ’bout dat, Missy Blanche. ’Twan’t possible nob’dy ked a seed de tramfer. Dey must ha hab de eyes ob an Argoos to dedect dat.”
The over-confidence with which Sabby spoke indicated a doubt.
She had one; for she had noticed eyes upon her, though not those of an Argus. They were in the head of Blanche’s own cousin, Scudamore.
The Creole suspected that he had seen her deliver the note, but took care to keep her suspicions to herself.
“No, missy, dear,” she continued. “Doan trouble you head ’bout dat ’ere. Sabby gub de note all right. Darfore why shed you fadda hab ’spicion ’bout it?”
“I don’t know,” answered the young girl. “And yet I cannot help having fear.”
She lay for a while silent, as if reflecting. It was not altogether on her fears.
“What did he say to you, Sabby?” she asked at length.
“You mean Massa Maynar?”
“Yes.”
“He no say much. Da wan’t no time.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Wa, yes,” drawled the Creole, nonplussed for an answer – “yes; he say, ‘Sabby – you good Sabby; you tell Missy Blanche dat no matter what turn up, I lub her for ebba and ebba mo.’”
The Creole displayed the natural cunning of her race in conceiving this passionate speech – their adroitness in giving tongue to it.
It was a fiction, besides being commonplace. Notwithstanding this, it gave gratification to her young mistress, as she intended it should.
And it also brought sleep to her eyes. Soon after, resting her cheek upon the pillow, whose white case was almost hidden under the loose flood of her dishevelled hair, she sank into slumber.
It was pleasant, if not profound. Sabby, sitting beside the bed, and gazing upon the countenance of the sleeper, could tell by the play of her features that her spirit was disturbed by a dream.
It could not be a painful one. Otherwise would it have contradicted the words, that in soft murmuring came forth from her unconscious lips:
“I now know that he loves me. Oh! it is sweet – so sweet!”
“Dat young gal am in lub to de berry tops ob her toe nails. Sleepin’ or wakin’ she nebba get cured ob dat passion – nebba?” And with this sage forecast, the Creole took up the bedroom candlestick, and silently retired.
Chapter Sixty Four.
A Painful Promise
However light and sweet had been her slumber, Blanche Vernon awoke with a heaviness on her mind.
Before her, in her sleep, had been a face, on which she loved to look. Awake, she could think only of one she had reason to fear – the face of an angry father.
The Creole confidante, while dressing her, observed her trepidation, and endeavoured to inspire her with courage. In vain.
The young girl trembled as she descended the stair in obedience to the summons for breakfast.
There was no need yet. She was safe in the company of her father’s guests, assembled around the table. The only one missing was Maynard.
But no one made remark; and the gap had been more than filled up by some fresh arrivals – among them a distinguished foreign nobleman.
Thus screened, Blanche was beginning to gain confidence – to hope her father would say nothing to her of what had passed.
She was not such a child as to suppose he would forget it. What she most feared was his calling her to a confession.
And she dreaded this, from a knowledge of her own heart. She knew that she could not, and would not, deceive him.
The hour after breakfast was passed by her in feverish anxiety. She watched the gentlemen as they went off, guns in hand, and dogs at heel. She hoped to see her father go along with them.
He did not; and she became excitedly anxious on being told that he intended staying at home.
Sabina had learnt this from his valet.
It was almost a relief to her when the footman, approaching with a salute, announced that Sir George wished to see her in the library.
She turned pale at the summons. She could not help showing emotion, even in the presence of the servant.
But the exhibition went no further; and, recovering her proud air, she followed him in the direction of the library.
Her heart again sank as she entered. She saw that her father was alone, and by his serious look she knew she was approaching an ordeal.
It was a strange expression, that upon Sir George’s face. She had expected anger. It was not there. Nor even severity. The look more resembled one of sadness.
And there was the same in the tone of his voice as he spoke to her.
“Take a seat, my child,” were his first words, as he motioned her to a sofa.
She obeyed without making answer.
She reached the sofa not an instant too soon. She felt so crushed in spirit, she could not have kept upon her feet much longer.
There was an irksome interlude before Sir George again opened his lips. It seemed equally so to him. He was struggling with painful thoughts.
“My daughter,” said he, making an effort to still his emotion, “I need not tell you for what reason I’ve sent for you?”
He paused, though not for a reply. He did not expect one. It was only to gain time for considering his next speech.
The child sate silent, her body bent, her arms crossed over her knees, her head drooping low between them.
“I need not tell you, either,” continued Sir George, “that I overheard what passed between you and – ”
Another pause, as if he hated to pronounce the name.
“This stranger, who has entered my house like a thief and a villain.”
In the drooping form before him there was just perceptible the slightest start, followed by a tinge of red upon her cheek, and a shivering throughout her frame.
She said nothing, though it was plain the speech had given pain to her.
“I know not what words may have been exchanged between you before. Enough what I heard last night – enough to have broken my heart.”
“O father!”
“’Tis true, my child! You know how carefully I’ve brought you up, how tenderly I’ve cherished, how dearly I love you!”
“O father!”
“Yes, Blanche; you’ve been to me all your mother was; the only thing on earth I had to care for, or who cared for me. And this to arise – to blight all my fond expectations – I could not have believed it?”
The young girl’s bosom rose and fell in convulsive undulations, while big tear-drops ran coursing down her cheeks, like a spring shower from the blue canopy of heaven.
“Father, forgive me! You will forgive me!” were the words to which she gave utterance – not in continued speech, but interrupted by spasmodic sobbing.
“Tell me,” said he, without responding to the passionate appeal. “There is something I wish to know – something more. Did you speak to – to Captain Maynard – last night, after – ”
“After when, papa?”
“After parting from him outside, under the tree?”
“No, father, I did not.”
“But you wrote to him?”
The cheek of Blanche Vernon, again pale, suddenly became flushed to the colour of carmine. It rose almost to the blue irides of her eyes, still glistening with tears.
Before, it had been a flush of indignation. Now it was the blush of shame. What her father had seen and heard under the deodara, if a sin, was not one for which she felt herself accountable. She had but followed the promptings of her innocent heart, benighted by the noblest passion of her nature.
What she had done since was an action she could have controlled. She was conscious of disobedience, and this was to be conscious of having committed crime. She did not attempt to deny it. She only hesitated through surprise at the question.
“You wrote a note to him?” said her father, repeating it with a slight alteration in the form.
“I did.”
“I will not insist on knowing what was in it. From your candour, my child, I’m sure you would tell me. I only ask you to promise that you will not write to him again.”
“O father!”
“That you will neither write to him, nor see him.”
“O father!”
“On this I insist. But not with the authority I have over you. I have no faith in that. I ask it of you as a favour. I ask it on my knees, as your father, your dearest friend. Full well, my child, do I know your honourable nature; and that if given, it will be kept. Promise me, then, that you will neither write to nor see him again!”
Once more the young girl sobbed convulsively. Her own father – her proud father at her feet as an intercessor! No wonder she wept.
And with the thought of for ever, and by one single word, cutting herself off from all communication with the man she loved – the man who had saved her life only to make it for ever after unhappy!
No wonder she hesitated. No wonder that for a time her heart balanced between duty and love – between parent and lover!
“Dear, dear child!” pursued her father, in a tone of appealing tenderness, “promise you will never know him more – without my permission.”
Was it the agonised accents that moved her? Was it some vague hope, drawn from the condition with which the appeal was concluded?
Whether or no, she gave the promise, though to pronounce it was like splitting her heart in twain.
Chapter Sixty Five.
Spies
The friendship between Kossuth and Captain Maynard was of no common character. It had not sprung out of a mere chance acquaintance, but from circumstances calculated to cause mutual respect and admiration.
In Maynard, the illustrious Magyar saw a man like himself – devoted heart and soul to the cause of liberty.
True, he had as yet done little for it. But this did not negative his intention, fixed and fearless. Kossuth knew he had ventured out into the storm to shake a hand with, and draw a sword in, his defence. Too late for the battle-field, he had since defended him with his pen; and in the darkest hour of his exile, when others stood aloof.
In Kossuth, Maynard recognised one of the “great ones of the world” – great not only in deeds and thoughts, but in all the Divine attributes of humanity – in short, goodly great.
It was in contemplating Kossuth’s character, he first discovered the falsity of the trite phrase, “Familiarity breeds contempt.” Like most proverbs, true only when applied to ordinary men and things. The reverse with men truly great.
To his own valet Kossuth would have been a hero. Much more was he one in the eyes of his friend.
The more Maynard knew of him, the more intimate their relationship became, the less was he able to restrain his admiration.
He had grown not only to admire, but love him; and would have done for him any service consistent with honour. Kossuth was not the man to require more. Maynard was witness to the pangs of his exile, and sympathised with him as a son, or brother. He felt indignant at the scurvy treatment he was receiving, and from a people boastful of its hospitality!
This indignation reached its highest, when on a certain day Kossuth, standing in his studio, called his attention to a house on the opposite side of the street, telling him it was inhabited by spies.
“Spies! What kind of spies?”
“Political, I suppose we may call them.”
“My dear Governor, you must be mistaken! We have no such thing in England. It would not be permitted for a moment – that is, if known to the English people.”
It was Maynard himself who was mistaken. He was but echoing the popular boast and belief of the day.
There were political spies for all that; though it was the supposed era of their first introduction, and the thing was not known. It became so afterward; and was permitted by this people – silently acquiesced in by John Bull, according to his custom when any such encroachment is made – so long as it does not increase the tax upon his beer.
“Whether known or not,” answered the ex-Governor, “they are there. Step forward to the window here, and I shall show you one of them.”
Maynard joined Kossuth at the window, where he had been for a time standing.
“You had better keep the curtain as a screen – if you don’t wish to be recognised.”
“For what should I care?”
“Well, my dear captain, this is your own country. Your coming to my house may compromise you. It will make you many powerful enemies.”
“As for that, Governor, the thing’s done already. All know me as your friend.”
“Only as my defender. All do not know you as a plotter and conspirator – such as the Times describes me.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the elect of a German revolutionary committee. “Much do I care about that! Such a conspirator. I’d be only too proud of the tide. Where is this precious spy?”
As Maynard put the question, he stepped on into the window, without thinking of the curtain.
“Look up to that casement in the second storey,” directed Kossuth; “the cottage nearly opposite – first window from the corner. Do you see anything there?”
“No; nothing but a Venetian blind.”
“But the laths are apart. Can you see nothing behind them? I do distinctly. The scoundrels are not cunning. They forget there’s a back light beyond, which enables me to take note of their movements.”
“Ah!” said Maynard, still gazing. “Now I see. I can make out the figure of a man seated or standing in the window.”
“Yes; and there he is seated or standing all day; he or another. They appear to take it in turns. At night they descend to the street. Don’t look any longer! He is watching us now; and it won’t do to let him know that he’s suspected. I have my reasons for appearing ignorant of this espionage.”
Maynard, having put on a careless look, was about drawing back, when a hansom cab drove up to the gate of the house opposite, discharging a gentleman, who, furnished with a gate-key, entered without ringing the bell.
“That,” said Kossuth, “is the chief spy, who appears to employ a considerable staff – among them a number of elegant ladies. My poor concerns must cost your government a good sum.”
Maynard was not attending to the remark. His thoughts, as well as eyes, were still occupied with the gentleman who had got out of the cab; and who, before disappearing behind the lilacs and laurels, was recognised by him as his old antagonist, Swinton! Captain Maynard did that he had before refused, and suddenly. He concealed himself behind the window curtain! Kossuth observing it, inquired why?
“I chance to know the man,” was Maynard’s answer. “Pardon me, Governor, for having doubted your word! I can believe now what you’ve told me. Spies! Oh! if the English people knew this! They would not stand it!”
“Dear friend! don’t go into rhapsodies! They will stand it.”
“But I won’t!” cried Maynard, in a frenzy of indignation. “If I can’t reach the head of this fiendish conspiracy, I’ll punish the tool thus employed. Tell me, Governor, how long since these foul birds have built their nest over there?”
“They came about a week ago. The house was occupied by a bank clerk – a Scotchman, I believe – who seemed to turn out very suddenly. They entered upon the same day.”
“A week,” said Maynard, reflecting. “That’s well. He cannot have seen me. It’s ten days since I was here – and – and – ”
“What are you thinking of, my dear captain?” asked Kossuth, seeing that his friend was engaged in deep cogitation.
“Of a revanche– a revenge, if you prefer having it in our vernacular.”
“Against whom?”
“That scoundrel of a spy – the chief one. I know him of old. I’ve long owed him a score on my own account; and I am now doubly in his debt on yours, and that of my country – disgraced by this infamy!”
“And how would you act?”
Maynard did not make immediate answer. He was still reflecting.
“Governor!” he said, after a time, “you’ve told me that your guests are followed by one or other of these fellows?”
“Always followed; on foot if they be walking; in a cab if riding. It is a hansom cab that follows them – the same you saw just now. It is gone; but only to the corner, where it is kept continually on the stand – its driver having instructions to obey a signal.”
“What sort of a signal?”
“It is made by the sounding of a shrill whistle – a dog-call.”
“And who rides in the hansom?”
“One or other of the two fellows you have seen. In the day time it is the one who occupies the blinded window; at night the duty is usually performed by the gentleman just returned – your old acquaintance, as you say.”
“This will do!” said Maynard, in soliloquy.
Then, turning to Kossuth, he inquired:
“Governor! have you any objection to my remaining your guest till the sun goes down, and a little after?”
“My dear captain! Why do you ask the question? You know how glad I shall be of your company.”
“Another question. Do you chance to have in your house such a thing as a horsewhip?”
“My adjutant, Ihasz, has, I believe. He is devoted to hunting.”
“Still another question. Is there among Madam’s wardrobe half a yard of black crape? A quarter of a yard will do.”
“Ah!” sighed the exile, “my poor wife’s wardrobe is all of that colour. I’m sure she can supply you with plenty of crape. But say, cher capitaine! what do you want with it?”
“Don’t ask me to tell you, your Excellency – not now. Be so good as to lend me those two things. To-morrow I shall return them; and at the same time give you an account of the use I have made of them. If fortune favour me, it will be then possible to do so.”
Kossuth, perceiving that his friend was determined on reticence, did not further press for an explanation.
He lit a long chibouque, of which some half-dozen – presents received during his captivity at Kutayah, in Turkey – stood in a corner of the room. Inviting Maynard to take one of them, the two sate smoking and talking, till the light of a street-lamp flashing athwart the window, told them the day was done.
“Now, Governor!” said Maynard, getting up out of his chair, “I’ve but one more request to make of you – that you will send out your servant to fetch me a cab.”
“Of course,” said Kossuth, touching a spring-bell that stood on the table of his studio.
A domestic made appearance – a girl, whose stolid German physiognomy Maynard seemed to distrust. Not that he disliked her looks; but she was not the thing for his purpose.
“Does your Excellency keep a man-servant?” he asked. “Excuse me for putting such a question?”
“Indeed, no, my dear captain! In my poor exiled state I do not feel justified. If it is only to fetch a cab, Gertrude can do it. She speaks English well enough for that.” Maynard once more glanced at the girl – still distrustingly. “Stay!” said Kossuth. “There’s a man comes to us in the evenings. Perhaps he is here now. Gertrude, is Karl Steiner in the kitchen?”
“Ya,” was the laconic answer.
“Tell him to come to me.”
Gertrude drew back, perhaps wondering why she was not considered smart enough to be sent for a hackney.
“He’s an intelligent fellow, this Karl,” said Kossuth, after the girl had gone out of the room. “He speaks English fluently, or you may talk to him in French; and you can also trust him with your confidence.”
Karl came in.
His looks did not belie the description the ex-governor had given of him.
“Do you know anything of horses?” was the first question, put to him in French.
“I have been ten years in the stables of Count Teleky. His Excellency knows that.”
“Yes, captain. This young man has been groom to our friend Teleky; and you know the count’s propensity for horseflesh.”
Kossuth spoke of a distinguished Hungarian noble; then, like himself, a refugee in London.
