Some years ago, there lived in Szolnok a widow with her two daughters.
It was a long time since the lady had been made a widow, and yet she
still wore her weeds; and every year she grew paler and weaker, as she
drew nearer to her husband's grave. But two sweet buds still blossomed
beside the withered stem; and Ilka and Aniko grew more and more lovely
as their bridal-day approached,--for they each wore betrothal rings,
and their young bridegrooms were noble, handsome, and generous youths.
They were both in the army; and though far from their native land,
every month brought a letter from each, full of affection and of hope.
It was now two months, however, since news had come. "They are surely
coming home themselves," said Ilka and Aniko, and there was comfort in
the thought.
* * * * *
It was the last day of the year--that day of thanksgiving for the
past, and hope for the future, which we love to pass in the midst of
friends and family, while many a national song and warm greeting are
exchanged, as the bowl passes round the hospitable board.
But the last day of 1848 saw no wassail bowl in Szolnok, no hospitable
meetings to hail the new-born year.
All day and through the night the whistle of the train was heard, as
it came and went incessantly; and the arrivals and departures being
at uncertain hours, the terminus was crowded with people wearing
gloomy and anxious countenances, while the new-comers gazed perplexed
around them, ignorant whither to turn in the confused and unknown
town.
Beyond the terminus, heavy baggage-carts had overturned numerous
unclaimed wares; while, farther off, uncovered waggons stood about,
and great guns, chests bearing the Government seal, arms, vessels, and
articles of clothing, lay strewn unheeded all around.
Again the train came in with cold and anxious passengers, while outers
pressed into the vacant seats; and many who had waited all day in
vain, finding no places, were obliged once more to return weary and
disconsolate.
Armed and official men alighted from the nearest coaches, and again
the terminus was crowded. Women closely veiled and muffled, pale
trembling girls, and little children were there also, taking a hurried
farewell, or waiting anxiously for expected friends and relatives; and
many were the unheeded inquiries--an hundred questions put for every
answer.
And now the train was filled with military, whose wild songs chimed
strangely with the noise of the machinery.
Meanwhile, all was hurry and confusion within the town: each
individual seeming occupied by his especial grievances--each felt
alone among the thousands who surrounded them. The new-comers went
from house to house, asking lodgings and warmth from inmates more
wretched than themselves. Powerful magnates, whose palaces had been
scarcely large enough for their numerous guests and retinues, were
glad to find shelter on the earthen floor of a reed cottage; while
ancient enemies, whose feuds had made a kingdom too small to contain
them, now shared their broken fortunes in one room; and high-born
maidens, accustomed to every refinement, received with thankfulness
the benches proffered by strangers, who found a scarcely harder bed
upon the earthen floor.
On the other side of Szolnok, numerous vehicles pursued their course
in long unbroken lines, moving with difficulty on the frozen uneven
roads, and filled with men, women, and children--cold and anxiety
depicted in every countenance. Whole caravans passed on foot, in
miserable clothing, carrying empty sacks, and followed by carts loaded
with iron machines and broken weapons, on the tops of which women and
children lay huddled together in blankets and rugs. One or two
noblemen's calèches, with the windows drawn up, were obliged to follow
slowly in the rear of these creaking machines, which the badness of
the roads, or the steep banks, made it impossible to pass.
Thus closed the last day of the old year, and the first day of the new
was a weary repetition of similar scenes.
The trains moved again all day and all night, bringing more anxious
and gloomy countenances, baggage, coaches, and cannon. Those who had
arrived yesterday hastened on to-day, while the fresh comers again
sought shelter from house to house, and the lingerers still awaited
the next coaches--searching in vain for relatives, or friends, or
trunks.
On the opposite side of the Theiss, the carriages of the fugitives
seemed to have no end. Here and there a few mat-covered vehicles might
be seen, where a mother, hastening to join her husband's flight, had
brought her infant in its cradle; but the rest being mostly uncovered,
were exposed to the chill blast and the drifting snow, which seemed to
turn every face to stone.
Travellers were seen crossing the inhospitable waste from morning till
night, and all night again till morning; while the little inns, at the
distance of a day's journey on the puszta, were empty and deserted.
Troops of riders, and heavy cannon, pursued their doubtful path among
the hills, or, stopped up by the snow, were obliged to remain
stationary till chance should bring them assistance, or they should
perish in the cold.
And so it continued on the second, third, fourth, fifth day; on the
sixth the movement ceased, and all was silent. The train brought only
one or two passengers--taciturn and moody, like the rest. Clerks and
officials left their places and retired; the lingerers took their
lonely and sad way home; and the cannon, chests, and baggage, which
had not hitherto been removed, were left on the roads to the care of
fate.
* * * * *
The last fugitives had left the town with break of day: all was calm,
silently awaiting the mysterious future.
Towards noon, the beating of drums and the sound of the trumpet
announced the entrance of the Hungarian army. The troops had an hour's
rest, and received a hearty welcome from citizens who willingly shared
their last morsel with the national guards, after their many
vicissitudes, and days and nights of hardship and privation.
A hussar officer rode up to the widow's house. He was a handsome,
slender youth, whose raven hair and moustache formed a striking
contrast to the olive paleness of his complexion. He wore a double
gold cord on his crimson csako, and his breast was already decorated.
As he entered the house his dark eye flashed with pleasure, and all
his efforts to be serious could ill restrain a smile.
That smile betrayed him!
"Gejza!" exclaimed the widow and her daughters together; and then
there was a rush, and a mutual embrace--the first affectionate, the
next playful, and the last long and warm.
"I knew you would come," whispered Ilka, as he pressed her again and
again to his heart. "How long will you stay with us?"
"As long as we remain in Szolnok."
"And how long will that be?"
"Perhaps an hour."
"Only one hour! And when will you return?"
"Perhaps soon, perhaps--never."
Ilka clung weeping to her lover's neck, who drew her still closer to
his heart.
The other sister now approached, and gently chiding Ilka's tears, she
asked in a low, tremulous voice: "Where is Laszlo?"
"He will be here this evening, I believe."
"Why did he not come with you?"