Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  Moreover, she managed, with great dexterity, to interpose her own person between poor Gertrude and the servants, who were employed in picking up the said books; and even to apply a bottle of salts in a most judicious and effectual manner, without being observed by anybody save the grateful girl herself.

  Nor were either her kindness or her cleverness in vain. Gertrude was quite as anxious to conceal the weakness, for which she sometimes felt as if she hated herself, as Madame Odenthal could be, that it should be hid; and matters were so well managed between them, that Gertrude not only got out of the carriage, and mounted the castle steps very much as anybody else might have done, but she positively shook hands with Rupert before she attempted to totter through the hall, and get out of sight.

  A small parlour, which was appropriated to the use of Madame Odenthal, was the room nearest the door, and there the suffering and self-reproaching Gertrude took refuge; her watchful friend entering with her for a moment, and then returning to embrace her son, and to assure the baron that Gertrude was perfectly well, and only feeling a little over-fatigued by her journey.

  “I hope that is all, my good Madame Odenthal,” replied the baron, rather dolefully; “but neither of us can be very much surprised if she should appear a little overcome on returning to her home, when we remember all she has suffered since she left it!”

  As Madame Odenthal thought it would be best to avoid discussion on the nature and amount of the misery which Gertrude was enduring on account of leaving Paris, she only replied, “I think, my lord baron, that you will find the health and spirits of the Baroness Gertrude greatly improved after she has been for a few weeks restored to her favourite residence, and to her native air.”

  “Madame de Odenthal!” returned the baron very solemnly, but looking at her, nevertheless, with very condescending kindness; “Madame de Odenthal! I really believe that you are one of the most sensible and right-thinking females that ever was born. I cannot remember ever hearing you say a foolish thing in my life. I am not, indeed, altogether at a loss as to the cause of this peculiar superiority on your part; for the Baroness Gertrude herself (who you know, as well as I do, is never mistaken) pointed out to me the cause of it, several months ago. I shall, therefore, rest perfectly satisfied by what you say respecting my daughter’s health, and only observe, that if she and you both’ think it will be best for her, after her long journey, to retire to her own room, I shall say not a single word against her doing so, but only remark, that I shall he rather pleased than otherwise, if the people of my establishment can contrive to let me have my dinner somewhat before the hour at which it was ordered; for, although I am certainly not conscious of any weakness, either of body or of mind, I feel that my journey has rather increased my appetite.”

  Of course, the usual degree of attention and obedience was paid to the hint, and the dinner was hastened; but either in consequence of this change in the hour, or from some other cause, Gertrude did not appear at table; the message, however, by which she excused herself from doing so, and which was delivered by Madame Odenthal to the baron, concluded by a little whisper, hinting at the many subjects connected with business, which he would have to discuss with his secretary.’

  Nothing could have been more judicious than this message. The baron nodded his head as he listened, and he replied, “Just like her, Madame Odenthal! Quite right! Perfectly right!” And then he added, with a gracious little tap upon her shoulder, “There will be no objection whatever, to your taking your dinner with us, as usual, my good woman; but I should wish you to take the hint that the young baroness has given you, and must desire that I may be left alone with my secretary as soon as possible after the dinner is over.”

  The reply to this was, of course, received with the accustomed unite inclination of the head; and then the baron walked on with a stately step towards the dining-hall, too happy — much too happy — in finding himself restored to a position, far, far removed from all possible approach of equality, to suffer much annoyance even from the absence of his daughter.

  As the dinner was a very excellent dinner, and the baron’s appetite a very excellent appetite, the repast was by no means hurried, and by no means a very short one; so that, when Madame Odenthal returned to the quiet room where, at Gertrude’s earnest desire, she had left her, to take her repast alone, she was by no means surprised to find that she had already left it.

  Her first idea was that she should follow, and find her; but, as she mounted the great staircase, in order to reach the young lady’s morning sitting-room, she passed a window which commanded an extensive view of the gardens, and as she paused for a moment to regale her eyes with a view of many pleasant objects from which she had long been separated, she perceived the dress of Gertrude, rather than Gertrude herself, floating gently along, amidst the trees of a distant shrubbery.

  Tho meditation of a moment made her decide that she would not follow her. —

  “Poor young thing! She has great need of meditation,” thought she. “She has been miserably unhappy for months past, and if there be any chance of her being less so now, it must he in herself that she must seek for it. This is no case for advice, and, least of all, from me. My best hope is, that she shall never discover that I have guessed her secret. Were she aware of it, I must, and would, leave her, for it would be treason and treachery to listen to her!”

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  BUT although Madame Odenthal did not think it proper to follow poor Gertrude, I am conscious of no feeling which should prevent my doing so, or which should dictate my abstaining from inviting my gentle reader to go with me.

  The sheltered walk which she had chosen, in which to enjoy the luxury of being alone, was one that she had much frequented, and much loved, from her very earliest childhood; and it was, moreover, endeared to her, almost solemnly, by having been the favourite promenade of her mother.

  But the feeling which caused her to seek it now, proceeded not from any motive more sentimental than a very earnest desire to be alone.

  She had left Paris with a feeling of joy which amounted very nearly to happiness; and though her spirits sometimes drooped as she meditated on the probable difficulties which might be in store for her, there was a very comfortable conviction at her heart, that she could never again be so exceedingly miserable as while watching the preparation of the fine house in which she was to live with the Count Hernwold as her companion and her husband!

  There had been, too, a consciousness, not of happiness, certainly, but of something like enjoyment, in knowing that every mile she travelled brought her nearer and more near to Schloss Schwanberg — that haven of rest, where she so earnestly wished to be.

  But, alas! — the long journey accomplished, and the wished-for home opening its doors to receive her — how death-like was the pang which seized upon her heart!

  She had not fainted; no such moment of relief was even for a moment hers; but she felt lost, bewildered, and terrified, when her eyes fixed themselves, for one short moment, on the face of Rupert, and she remembered that the wild pleasure which throbbed at her heart as she did so, was still a sin!

  ‘ There is certainly nothing which so effectually strengthens our powers of endurance as the process of enduring. Gertrude was a much stronger-minded person now than before she had passed that dreadful night of self-condemnation, during which she had resolved to sacrifice herself, rather than betray the hopes and the confiding confidence of her father.

  What she had endured from that frightful hour, to the happy moment at which she learnt that she was again free, might give her a fair claim to the courage of martyrdom; and the reward she now reaped for having endured it with so much faithful resolution, was found in the quiet reasonableness with which she was able to compare her present situation, with that which it had been when she was the affianced wife of Count Hernwold.

  Yes! The difference was enormous! And even while tears rolled down her blushing cheeks, as she remembered the joyous feeling produced by the one s
hort glance which she had dared to fix upon Rupert, as he stood waiting for them on the steps of the castle, she fervently thanked Heaven for the happy change which had taken place in her condition.

  But her reverie did not end here.

  Never were truer words written than those of the immortal line, which says, “Sweet are the uses of adversity.” There is scarcely more difference between joy and sorrow than between the state of feeling into which Gertrude had been thrown when her conscience dictated to her, as a holy, filial duty, the compliance with her father’s wishes, and which had so nearly made her the wife of Count Hernwold, and that to which she was resolved to resign herself.

  And yet this latter, and comparatively happy state, involved the absolute necessity of abandoning every hope of being beloved by the only individual she had ever seen, who appeared to her capable of inspiring love in return!

  And she did resign herself to the deliberate conviction of Rupert’s indifference, with a degree of gentle firmness, and uncomplaining hopelessness, which proved plainly enough that the uses of adversity had been beneficial.

  “What should I say, what should I think, of any woman who declared that she had made up her mind to be miserable for life, because the man upon whom, unsolicited, she had fixed her affections, had not fixed his affections upon her in return?”

  This was the plain question she asked herself; and the answer was such as to be well qualified to restore her to such a degree of philosophic indifference as might last her through life, by way of an antidote to all moaning misery from unrequited love.

  This was decidedly a great step gained, and she felt it to be so.

  Her beautiful head was shaken back; her eye lost its heavy gloom; her thoughts betook themselves to the well-filled shelves of her noble library; and then she thought of the cottages, and the cottage children, and of all the good she might do among them; and, finally, as she bent her lightened steps towards the house, she looked cheerfully about her to the right and to the left, and decided upon multiplying her flowers, and upon making herself extremely learned about everything that concerned them.

  The last hours of this chequered day were far — very far — from being unhappy. On joining her father, she found him in excellent spirits, for Rupert had been a most agreeable companion. The young man himself was certainly in no unhappy frame of mind. My heroine, however much she might have been mistaken on other points, had made no blunder in attributing both great ability, and great elevation of character, to Rupert. He had loved, nay, he still loved, Gertrude with all the devotion of a high-minded and enthusiastic character; but he had seen, as clearly as he had seen the sun in the heavens, that he ought not to wish that she should love him in return.

  He knew the baron, and all his follies, well; but he knew, also, how much he owed him. All that he might be said to value in himself he had acquired by the kindly and confiding shelter which had been afforded him by this proud old man; and Rupert had not the bad courage to return all this, by seeking to undermine and destroy the dearest hope of his existence.

  If he had ever been certain that he could have won Gertrude by such domestic treachery, he could have seen no hope of happiness in his success; and although it certainly had been with an emotion of almost overwhelming pleasure that he discovered, by her treatment of his mother, that she did not, as he had most falsely imagined, share the overweening pride of her father, the joy occasioned by this discovery was neither assumed or lasting.

  He would, perhaps, have suffered more, had he hoped more.

  And then came the journey to Paris, and the acknowledged admiration of the brilliant world they found there.... And then, the acceptance of Count Hernwold’s proposals for her hand.

  And so ended, and closed for ever, what poor Rupert considered as the only possible romance of his life!

  The return of the family to Schloss Schwanberg was, however, not announced without causing him some slight emotion; and the intelligence of Gertrude’s broken engagement was not learned with quite as much philosophical indifference as he could himself - have wished. But he schooled himself into a very rational condition of spirits before the party arrived; and the very pleasant account which he had to report to the baron respecting the feelings and the conduct of his tenants, rendered their dinner a very pleasant one.

  Rupert and his mother had found time to exchange a few words before this dinner began; and when the baron and his secretary adjourned to the family drawing-room to take their coffee, they found Gertrude and her dame de compagnie already there; and the evening was passed in a way that was extremely satisfactory to the two young hearts, both of which had been tormented by anticipating embarrassments and difficulties which, happily, did not arise, to destroy the enjoyment of finding themselves (one and all of them) exactly where they most wished to be.

  Gertrude was the first who ventured, when the whole party were thus assembled together, to lead the conversation to the subject which, a short time before, had been so very painful, namely, the borrowing money from the tenants. But she was encouraged to break through all reserve upon the subject, by knowing that the negotiation had terminated in the most satisfactory manner possible; and she trusted, moreover, to the savoir faire of Rupert for detailing everything which it would be pleasant for her father to hear, and nothing which it would not.

  Her confidence was certainly not misplaced; for Rupert knew his patron well, and was as little likely to say anything which had any chance of being painful to him, as Gertrude herself could have been.

  In fact, the result of this conversation was the reverse of painful in every way; and not only was it gratifying to the old man. at the time it took place, but it opened the way to many pleasant feelings which he had never experienced before.

  He knew himself to be an immensely great man, and assuredly enjoyed the consciousness of being so not a little; but he really did not know that he was, moreover, a very kind and liberal one, into the bargain.

  But his prosperous tenants knew it, if he did not; and the lively description which Rupert gave of the delight, ay, and the gratitude also, with which his application to them had been received, awakened such a pleasant consciousness of this truth also, in the mind of the worthy baron, that he was evidently more touched at heart by it, than he had ever before been seen to be, by anything in which his daughter was not personally concerned.

  Gertrude watched all this with a sort of pleasure that was quite new to her; and when a quiet smile, having no reference whatever to his grandeur, softened his proud features as he listened to Rupert’s very graphic narrative, Gertrude was so touched by it, that she sprang from her chair, and impressed a kiss of very genuine fondness on his forehead.

  “It pleases you to hear all this, my dear child!” said her father, throwing his arm round her. “And so it does mo, Gertrude,” he added with great simplicity. “I am sure I don’t know how it has happened that it never came into my head before, that they might feel that sort of love for me that Rupert describes. I have never done anything for them except just not using them ill, but I really like to hear that they take it so kindly.”

  “But everybody else knows how justly, and how truly, you are beloved by these worthy people,” said Madame Odenthal, respectfully; “and that is the reason, my lord baron,” she added with a smile, “that I felt so very sure that there would be no difficulty in the way of Rupert when he applied to them.”

  “I remember it, I remember it, my good friend! Your conduct upon that occasion does you great honour!” returned the baron, with a degree of condescension that was almost affectionate. “You are a very excellent and a very valuable person, my good Madame de Odenthal; and both I and my daughter value you accordingly.”

  To this very flattering testimony of approval, Madame Odenthal made a most respectful reply; whereupon, the baron reiterated his compliment, and then added, with a sort of gay excitement, which was very unusual to him, “But there was one thing we talked about, my good friend, which you seem to have for
gotten, but I have not, Madame de Odenthal. I have not forgotten what I said about inviting these worthy people to dinner.... to dine at my own table, you know. Have you really forgotten this?”

  “No, indeed, Sir,” said she, “I have not forgotten it. I had too much pleasure at hearing you propose it. I knew perfectly well that it was not very likely, or rather, I believe, I might say it was impossible. But we must not be over-hasty, my good friend. It is quite out of the question that I should do anything of the kind, without first consulting the Baroness Gertrude. So now we will hear what she says to it.”

  “What is it, papa?” said Gertrude, who had placed herself in a chair beside him. “What is the question which I am to decide?”

  The baron rubbed his chin, and smiled with very perfect good humour; but yet he looked as if he were half-afraid that the frankly acknowledged pride of his nobly-born and nobly-minded daughter might be aroused, and shocked at the proposition he was about to make.

  He took courage, however, and said, “The question, Gertrude, is this. Will it, in your estimation, be in any way indecorous or improper, if I were, in consequence of the attachment and affection of the excellent men, my tenants, of whom we have been speaking, — would it, in your opinion, Gertrude, be in any degree wrong, if I were to invite them to dine with us.... at our own table, Gertrude?”

  “Wrong, dearest father?” she replied with considerable emotion. “Instead of its being wrong, I should consider it as one of the very best and most amiable acts that it would be possible for you to perform!”

  “Then it shall be done, Gertrude!” returned her father, rather solemnly. “I know,” he added, “what your feelings are on certain subjects, and that I shall run no risk of infringing the respect due to ourselves, if I have your sanction for doing what I propose.”