Chapter Seventy Five.
A Statesman in Private Life.
Wrapped in a richly-embroidered dressing-gown, with tasselled cap set jauntily on his head—his feet in striped silk stockings and red morocco slippers—Swinton’s noble patron was seated in his library.
He was alone: soothing his solitude with a cigar—one of the best brand, from the vuelta-de-abajo.
A cloud upon his brow told that his spirit was troubled.
But it was only a slight ruffle, such as might spring from some unpleasantness. It was regret for the escape of Louis Kossuth, from the toils that had been set for him, and set according to his lordship’s own suggestions.
His lordship, along with other crown-commissioned conspirators, had expected much from the émeute at Milan. With all their cunning had they contrived that sham insurrection, in the hopes of getting within their jailors’ grasp the great leaders of the “nationalities.”
Their design was defeated by their own fears. It was a child whose teeth were too well grown to endure long nursing; and, before it could be brought to maturity, they were compelled to proclaim it a bastard.
This was shown by their sudden disarming of the Hungarian regiments, and the arrest of such of the compromised as had too rashly made appearance upon the spot.
There were shootings and hangings—a hecatomb. But the victims were among the less prominent men of revolutionary record; while the great chiefs succeeded in making good their escape.
Mazzini, the “untakeable,” got clear in a manner almost miraculous; and so too the gallant Turr.
Thanks to the electric wires, whose silent speech even kings cannot control, Kossuth was spared the humiliation of imprisonment.
It was the thought of this that shadowed the spirit of Swinton’s patron, as he sate reflecting upon the failure of the diabolical scheme.
His antipathy to the Magyar chief was twofold. He hated him diplomatically, as one whose doctrines were dangerous to the “divine right” of kings. But he had also a private spite against him; arising from a matter of a more personal kind. For words uttered by him of an offensive nature, as for acts done in connection with his employment of the spies, Kossuth had called him to account, demanding retraction. The demand was made in a private note, borne by a personage too powerful to be slighted. And it elicited a reluctant but still truckling apology.
There were not many who knew of this episode in the life of the ex-dictator of Hungary, so humiliating to the nobleman in question. But it is remembered by this writer; and was by his lordship, with bitterness, till the day of his death.
That morning he remembered it more bitterly than ever; for he had failed in his scheme of revenge, and Kossuth was still unharmed.
There was the usual inspiration given to the newspapers, and the customary outpouring of abuse upon the head of the illustrious exile.
He was vilified as a disturber, who dared not show himself on the scene of disturbance; but promoted it from his safe asylum in England. He was called a “revolutionary assassin!”
For a time there was a cloud upon his name, but not for long. To defend him once more appeared Maynard with his trenchant pen. He knew, and could tell the truth.
He did tell it, hurling back his taunt upon the anonymous slanderer, by styling him the “assassin of the desk.”
In fine, Kossuth’s character came out, not only unscathed, but, in the eyes of all true men, stood clearer than ever.
It was this that chafed the vindictive spirit of his lordship, as he sate smoking an “emperor.”
The influence of the nicotian weed seemed gradually to tranquillise him, and the shadow disappeared from his brow.
And he had solace from another source—from reflection on a triumph achieved; not in the fields of diplomacy or war, but the court of Cupid. He was thinking of the many facile conquests he had made—consoling himself with the thought, that old age has its compensation, in fame, money, and power.
More particularly was his mind dwelling on his newest and latest amourette, with the wife of his protégé, Swinton. He had reason to think it a success; and attributing this to his own powers of fascination—in which he still fancifully believed—he continued to puff away at his cigar in a state of dreamy contentment.
It was a rude disturber to his Sardanapalian train of thought, as a footman gliding into the room, placed a card in his hand that carried the name of “Swinton.”
“Where is he?” was the question curtly put to the servant. “Drawin’-room, your ludship.”
“You should not have shown him there, till you’d learnt whether it was convenient for me to receive him.”
“Pardon, your ludship. He walked right in ’ithout bein’ asked—sayin’ he wished very partickler to speak with your ludship.”
“Show him in here, then?” The flunkey made obeisance, and withdrew. “What can Swinton want now? I have no business with him to-day; nor any more, for that matter, if I could conveniently get rid of him. Walked straight in without being asked! And wishes particularly to speak with me! Rather cool that!”
His lordship was not quite cool himself, while making the reflection. On the contrary, a sudden pallor had shown itself on his cheeks, with a whiteness around the lips, as when a man is under the influence of some secret apprehension.
“I wonder if the fellow has any suspicion—”
His lordship’s reflection was stayed by the entrance of the “fellow” himself.