Had the astonishment of Count Hernwold been less on hearing this most unexpected declaration, it is probable that he would have interrupted the august speaker before he had concluded his harangue; but, for a moment, he really looked and felt as if he had been thunder-struck. He speedily recovered himself, however, sufficiently at least, to rise from his chair, which he almost threw across the room in the unbounded vehemence of his indignation, and to say: “I presume, Sir, that you trust to your age as your protection against my just indignation. I have every reason to be thankful to your creditors for the impatience of their demands upon you. Had it not been for this, I might have been the victim of the plot so infamously laid for entrapping me into a marriage with your daughter, under the scandalous pretence of her having a large fortune. Thank heaven, I have escaped! — and I shall thank you, perhaps, for giving me a lesson, which I am not likely to forget to the latest hour of my existence.”
Having pronounced these words with a vehemence that seemed for a moment positively to stun the astonished baron, he rushed out of the room, without deigning to close the door after him, and screamed the word “CORDON” in such an accent, as he passed the porte cochere, that the porter came forth from his lodge, and looked after him with a very strong persuasion that he had lost his senses.
The poor baron, meantime, sat for a few moments immovably fixed in his chair, and in a state of indescribable bewilderment. The intellect of the baron was not a very bright, and not a very rapid intellect; and he had to shut his eyes, and meditate very profoundly for a minute or two, before it occurred to him that the extraordinary scene he had just witnessed might... nay must, from the impossibility of finding any other cause, have been occasioned by his believing that he, the Baron von Schwanberg, intended to defraud him of the money he had proposed to borrow of him! Such a suspicion might certainly have been offensive to any gentleman; but upon the Baron von Schwanberg, it seemed to fall with a sort of preternatural violence sufficient to justify his following the base offender, and trampling him under his feet.
And, in truth, he rose from his chair, his face the colour of the crimson hangings that adorned his room, and his limbs trembling in every joint, but greatly more from rage than age.
It was, perhaps, fortunate for him that he felt conscious he could not stand, and he, therefore reseated himself; for, had he at that moment possessed the power of overtaking the man who had offended him, such a scene might have ensued as would not greatly have redounded to the credit of either of the noble gentlemen.
The first moments which followed his reseating himself were passed in a state of agitation much too violent for his mind, such as it was — poor old gentleman! — to decide upon the line of conduct which it would be best for him to pursue under the circumstances; and, in fact, the first symptom he gave of having, in some degree, recovered his startled wits, was his pulling the bell-rope which was ever and always attached to his own particular chair.
It was not, however, so much the act of ringing the bell which proved his recovery from bewilderment, as the use he made of the assistance it brought him.
“Desire Madame de Odenthal to come to me immediately,” was the command he gave.
And, accordingly, Madame de Odenthal appeared before him with as little delay as possible.
“Sit down, my good friend; I wish to speak to you,” were the words with which he greeted her.
Now, most assuredly, the Baron von Schwanberg had ever behaved with the most perfect civility to Rupert’s mother; nay, since, by the agency of Gertrude’s lace and velvet, he had made the remarkable discovery that her near approach to his own greatness had in some degree infected her with greatness also, he had often treated her with some small degree of ceremony and politeness; but he had never before called her his “good friend.”
She was immediately conscious that something extraordinary must have occurred to produce so remarkable an effect, and her woman’s wit immediately suggested the probability that this something was connected with the unexpected pecuniary difficulties with which she had been made acquainted.
She was too discreet, however, to utter a word of any kind, and silently obeyed his command, by placing herself in the chair to which he had pointed.
It would have been a great relief to the baron if she had been a little less profoundly respectful. If she would only have asked him what he was pleased to want, it would have been a help to him.
But after they had both sat profoundly silent for several seconds, the proud old man was obliged to commence the history of the insult to which he had been exposed, without the assistance of any preface whatever.
The first sound he uttered was again a groan; and then he began as follows:
“Did I not know, Madame de Odenthal, that it is impossible you should for a moment believe that I should mistake, misrepresent, or in any way exaggerate, any fact which I take the trouble of relating, I should doubt your power of receiving, as credible, the statement I am now about to make to you.”
“Indeed, Sir, you are right in thinking that your word cannot be doubted by me. Whatever you state as a fact, must, I know, be considered as such by you.”
“Considered? Considered so by me? Do you suppose I do not know a fact from a falsehood, my good woman? But this is only nonsense and idle talking. Listen to me, and you shall hear what you must believe to be credible, only because I state it.”
Madame Odenthal meekly bowed her head, and the baron resumed.
“Madame de Odenthal! I have been insulted! grossly insulted! HERE, in my own dwelling, where no man could mistake me for another, I have been insulted!”
And having said these terrific words, he again emitted a groan, which seemed not only to proceed from his mouth, but from his whole large person, so deep and so awful was the sound.
Madame Odenthal looked, and certainly felt, frightened; and would probably have both looked, and felt, more frightened still, had she not been aware of the magnifying medium through which the Baron von Schwanberg looked at everything which concerned himself.
She clasped her hands, however, threw up her eyes, and listened to him altogether in a manner which led him to think that it was very probable the statement he had already made would have been too much for her, and that she might have fainted at his feet, had not her profound respect for him, acted as an antidote, if not positively as a restorative.
From this point, however, the discourse between them went on with a much nearer approximation to common sense, than was often to be found in the conversation of the baron, when either himself, or anything belonging to him, was the theme; and as no other themes possessed much interest for him, Madame Odenthal had great reason to be satisfied at the effect which her gentle commentaries on the actual state of his affairs produced.
As her genuine indignation at Count Hernwold’s conduct was quite as sincere as that of the baron himself, they had the advantage of standing side by side, instead of face to face, during the discussion which followed; and the consequence of this favourable position was, that before the baron returned her parting salutation, she had succeeded in convincing him that the best, and, in fact, the only way of punishing the recreant suitor as he deserved, was by making him clearly understand that the suspicions he had expressed respecting the state of the baron’s finances, were as false as they were sordid.
So soothing, in fact, and so delightful, was the picture she drew of the false noble’s discomfiture, upon discovering that the trifling embarrassment which the baron had mentioned to him, arose solely from the extreme liberality which he was accustomed to treat his tenants, that she carried with her, on leaving him, his full permission to write to Rupert, authorising him to apply to one or two notoriously wealthy individuals among his tenants, desiring them to accommodate him, by forestalling their rent-day by a few weeks.
This important point settled, the greatly comforted Madame Odenthal proposed to take her leave; but ere she had reached the door, she was recalled by the voice of the baron, w
ho fixing his eyes on her as she again approached him, said with a very piteous expression, and heaving a profound sigh— “But how shall I break this dreadful news to my unhappy daughter?”
The thoughtful, meditative, quietly observing Madame Odenthal, had never obtruded herself on the confidence of Gertrude, and no single syllable had ever passed between them which might justify the mother of Rupert in believing that the heart of the resolutely-silent heiress was too irrevocably his, to permit her ever being the wife of another, without much great and lasting misery. But nevertheless she did believe it.
Had the object of this secret preference been any other but her own son, the high moral rectitude of Madame Odenthal, as well as her fond, womanly heart, would have revolted against witnessing her union with another; but as it was, she felt that she could in no possible way interfere to prevent it, without a species of treachery, and breach of trust, which she could not contemplate for a moment, without rejecting it as impossible.
Respecting the feelings of Gertrude, she had no doubt; but the case was very different respecting the feelings of her son.
There certainly had been moments when neither his habitual reserve, nor the real wavering of his doubting and capricious heart, could prevent her suspecting that he had known Gertrude too long and too well, to see her become the wife of another, without suffering; but, either from the uncertainty in which she still remained as to his real feelings, or because her woman’s heart taught her to know, that let the sentiments of her son be what they might, the misery which threatened Gertrude outweighed a thousand-fold any that threatened him, she felt infinitely more pleased by this rupture on her account, than on his.
At the moment when the voice of the baron called her back, she was (perhaps unconsciously) hastening her steps, in order to enjoy the unhoped-for happiness of seeing Gertrude’s sweet face again turned towards her with a genuine smile; and she herself, good lady, was for one short moment in great danger of smiling too, as the words of the dismal-looking baron reached her ear.
But she had not been so long domesticated with the Baron von Schwanberg, without being able to check an ill-timed smile, and it was with a countenance of very suitable gravity, that she again approached his chair.
“How will she ever get over it?” resumed the baron, clasping his hands, and looking the very picture of woe.
Madame Odenthal gently shook her head, and looked very grave.
“Why do you not answer me?” cried the impatient and imperious baron. “How is it to be done? How is it to be broken to her?”
“If I might take the liberty of advising,” replied the dame de compagnie, in the gentlest of all possible voices, “I would say that it might be safer for her to learn this sudden and very startling information from me, than from your Lordship.”
“Safer?” repeated the baron, in an accent of great alarm. “Safer? Do you really think that this frightful news will endanger her health?.... Madame Odenthal! I will challenge the villain! My hand, old as it is, can still handle a sword! My child, my daughter, my heiress, shall not die unavenged.” Madame Odenthal deserved great credit for the manner in which she listened to this heroic burst of paternal feeling. For one short moment she very wisely remained silent, to give him time to recover himself, so that he might comprehend her words; and then she said, “No, my lord baron, I apprehend no danger to her life from this disclosure, nor even to her health; provided the intelligence be communicated with caution. Women are, of course, better able to judge than any man can be, how far a painful fact should be softened, or revealed by degrees. Let me undertake this painful task, Sir! Much, and deeply, as I feel upon this most extraordinary occasion, it is impossible but that you, Sir, must feel still more. I know that I can trust myself; and that should the news I bring affect her nerves, I am well experienced in the best and safest methods of restoring her.”
The poor baron looked very greatly relieved.
“You are right, my good woman! Quite right! Perfectly right!”
“Go then at once, and be sure to make her understand that her feelings shall be treated with the very greatest consideration on my part; and that I shall even be ready to allow her the interval of several hours to recover herself before we meet.” Madame Odenthal waited for no further orders, but glided out of the room with very considerable rapidity.
CHAPTER XXIX.
SHE found Gertrude, as she usually found her note, upon entering her morning sitting-room, with much goodly preparation made for sundry sorts of rational occupation.
There was a pretty little embroidering-frame on one side of the table, and an exquisitely perfect writing-desk on the other. A little work-box too, which might have served as pattern for that of a notable fairy queen, found room to display itself to great advantage, although the said table had also to accommodate a very miscellaneous and not very sparing collection of books.
There were among them, French reviews and English reviews, and rather a queer mixture of philosophical essays, and modern novels in German, French, and English. And in front of all this, on a sofa, precisely the same length as the table, as if they were formed to take care of one another, and resolved to let nobody in between them save their sovereign lady, sat the pale and heavy-eyed Gertrude, with a countenance indicating as little either of the activity or the intelligence which could have profited by all this elaborate preparation, as it is well possible to imagine.
She received her old friend, however, with a smile, though a languid one; and raising herself from the indolent position which she had chosen in defiance of all the elaborate preparations for industry which were before her, she said, “Have you seen my father yet, dear friend? Do you think he will come here this morning, to talk again about that weary house? Oh! I am so tired of it. And then, dear, kind man, he will ask, you know, whether I like the things; and the real truth is, I don’t like any of them! And besides, I happen to have a headache, this morning. Dear, dear Madame Odenthal! don’t you think I might take a drive with you in the Bois de Boulogne, instead of talking about the house? I do assure you, it will do my head good.”
“Yes, my dear, I do not see any reason why you should not do so. I will, if you please, ring and order the carriage directly.”
“Oh! thank you, dearest! it will be such a relief! I will get ready, instantly!”
And so saying, Gertrude pushed away her beautiful table, and stood up.
“Sit down again, my dear, for one moment, for I want to speak to you. We shall not lose time, for I have rang the hell, and it must take a few minutes, you know, before the carriage can come round.”
Gertrude reseated herself, poor girl! very meekly, saying, with a sigh, “And you, too, have something to say to me. You cannot think how I hate those words! It is what papa, and Teresa, and everybody says, when they are going to plague me about the house, and all the rest of it.”
The door was here opened by a servant, and the carriage ordered.
“Is it to come round directly, Madame?” inquired the man.
“We shall he ready in half-an-hour,” replied Madame Odenthal.
“Now then, begin!” said Gertrude, with another languid smile. “You must not keep the carriage waiting, you know; and you must remember the bonnets, and the hoots too, for I think I shall get out, and walk.”
“You shall do that, and everything else you like, if you will but listen to me patiently for a minute or two; but I cannot promise that my talk shall keep quite clear of the house.”
Gertrude looked at the cheerful face of her friend as she said this; and sighed to think how very little of sympathy there existed between them. She uttered no observation upon it, however, but prepared to listen, with the patience she had learned from necessity, to details concerning a future that her soul abhorred.
There was something in the subdued and patient expression of Gertrude’s pale face, that touched Madame Odenthal to the quick. To relieve her from the misery she was suffering, became her first object; and setting aside all dignit
y and decorum as completely as if she had never beheld the Baron von Schwanberg in her life, she seized the listless hands of Gertrude, which lay crossed upon the table, and pressed them almost passionately, as she exclaimed: “You are not going to have any fine house at all, my dearest Gertrude! You are not going to have either the house or the husband. Your father and Count Hernwold have had a tremendous quarrel, in which his Countship behaved most scandalously, and there is not the slightest chance that you will ever set eyes on him again.”
“Out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh,” is, for the most part, a saw carrying a very respectable degree of truth, with it; but on the present occasion it proved unsound. Tears, in like manner, are pretty generally considered as a proof of sorrow; but to this also, as a general law, the conduct of my heroine gave a very decided contradiction; for although the information thus communicated by her dame de compagnie was unquestionably of a nature to fill her heart with various feelings of one sort or another, she did not utter a single word; and although all foregone conclusions would lead to the supposition that the news she thus received must be very particularly agreeable to her, the feelings it produced were demonstrated only by a violent flood of tears. The loving friend, however, whose news had been thus strangely received, seemed in no way either offended or greatly surprised, by the effect they had produced; neither had she recourse to the ordinary formula usually resorted to on such occasions, consisting of the oft-repeated phrase, “Compose yourself!”
Madame Odenthal did not seem even to wish that she should compose herself; but after looking at her and her streaming tears with very evident gratification to her own feelings, for a minute or two, she gently walked round both the table and the sofa, and as all access to the young lady was precluded en face, she placed her hands upon her shoulders behind, and drawing her head back against her bosom, impressed once, twice, thrice, a loving kiss upon her forehead.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 453