Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  Had Rupert been less uniformly successful in concealing from his mother the secret which he still intended should lie for ever buried in his heart, he would doubtless have found more difficulty than he now experienced in leading her to talk, almost without reserve, upon the subject.

  So perfectly, indeed, was the good lady convinced that her son had never for a moment forgotten the distance between himself and the honoured heiress of his magnificent patron, that it had positively never occurred to her as a thing possible that he should love her, even as she too well knew the unfortunate heiress loved him. Had it been otherwise, no consideration whatever would have induced her to suffer their present manner of life to continue; for Madame Odenthal had a sensitive, nay, almost a timid, conscience; and not even the belief that she might ensure the life-long happiness of both, could have induced her to connive at keeping together those whom the “Almanack de Gotha” so evidently intended to keep asunder.

  But her mind was perfectly at ease on this point, Both her knowledge of Gertrude, and of her own woman’s heart, taught her to know that, as long as her son retained his indifference, there was no need for her to break up their comfortable establishment, in order to preserve her pupil from the danger of an unequal alliance. On the contrary, she thought, and certainly not without some show of reason, that her attachment was much more likely to wither quietly away, under the influence of Rupert’s blighting indifference, than if he were separated from her by any will but his own.

  Rupert, therefore, found his mother perfectly unprepared for the examination to which it was his purpose to submit her, and her early entrance into the library, on the morning following the dinner party which has been described, afforded him an excellent opportunity for the purpose.

  Madame Odenthal had entered the room in search of a volume which the young baroness had requested her to procure for her; and having impressed a loving mother’s kiss on the forehead of the young man as she passed him, was about to leave it, when he recalled her, by saying, “Are you vanishing again, mother, without bestowing a word upon me? Come! — sit down quietly with me for five minutes, and tell me what you thought of the party yesterday.”

  His mother immediately complied with the request, and placed herself near him at his writing-table.

  “The party was a very nice party. Did you not think so?” said she, smiling. “I am sure it was not the fault of Miss Morrison if you did not, for, most assuredly, Rupert, she looked beautiful with all her might. Did you not think so?”

  “Certainly, I did,” was his reply. “But she always does that, you know, so I am used to it, and quite hardened. But I saw, also, what is not quite of such constant recurrence, namely, a very evident approach to flirtation between your young baroness and the newly-imported Baron Nordorffe. I think you must have observed it, mother, as well as myself. Did you not?”

  “No, Rupert,” she gently replied; “I saw nothing of the sort. Flirtation cannot be performed as a solo, you know; and I am sure I saw nothing like flirtation in the manner of the Baroness Gertrude.”

  “Nay, mother, I did not mean to accuse her of the slightest impropriety,” said he, gravely; “but if flirtation is not to be named, I think you will not deny that the young man was very evidently captivated?”

  “Why, really, I think it did look a little like it, Rupert,” she returned; “but Gertrude’s manner is not calculated, I think, to give strangers much encouragement.”

  “At any rate, mother, she evidently gave this new man as much encouragement as was necessary,” said Rupert, somewhat sarcastically. “How much will you bet me, mother,” he added, “that the Baron Nordorffe does not propose for her before he leaves the country?”

  “I shall think him a very presumptuous man if he does,” was her reply. “I know little or nothing about him; but truly the heiress of Schwanberg — and such an heiress, too — deserves to be adored at a distance for at least a little while, before her fair self and her broad lands are asked for.”

  “You are as jealous of her greatness, my dear mother, as her father himself could be,” replied Rupert, with a faint Smile; “but, I presume,” he added, “that you would be rather more indulgent than the loving father himself in such a matter as this.”

  “You mean to insinuate, then, that Gertrude has shown herself as inflammable on her side as the Baron Nordorffe on his? You are of opinion that the Baroness Gertrude is enamoured of this new gentleman, are you?”

  “It may be so, mother,” replied Rupert, looking earnestly at her.

  “This may be your judgment respecting her,” replied Madame Odenthal, gravely, “but it is not mine, Rupert.”

  “Do not be angry with me, dear mother!” said he. “I did not mean to say anything offensive. But it certainly appeared to me that she was by no means displeased by the attentions of this young man.”

  “Displeased? And why should she be displeased, Rupert? There was nothing offensive in her attentions.”

  “Evidently not,” he replied. “But, nevertheless, it is very possible that you may be right, mother,” he added. “It is very possible that, notwithstanding all that has passed, she may still retain too tender a recollection of Count Hernwold, to permit her, be very soon, to receive the addresses of another.”

  There was certainly something extremely far from amiable in the tone with which these words were spoken, and good Madame Odenthal was, perhaps, more seriously displeased with her son at that moment than she had ever been with him before, since the hour of his birth. The words were decidedly ungracious words, and very unjust when applied to Gertrude.

  “I have never considered it as a part of my duty, as the salaried companion of the Baroness Gertrude, to explain to you, Rupert, or to any one else, what I considered to be real motives, and feelings, which induced her to receive the addresses of Count Hernwold,” she said, with more sternness of manner than was at all usual with her: “nor shall I enter upon the subject now. I certainly should have thought that the most indifferent observer in the world, if gifted with common capacity, and having known her so long as you have done, might give her credit for better reasons for accepting a man whose highest merit was having the manners and appearance of a man of fashion, than, to use a vulgar phrase, having fallen in love with him. It never occurred to you, I suppose, that her earnest desire to gratify the wishes of her father was the cause of this acceptance?”

  “Never!” replied Rupert, with emphasis.

  For a moment Madame Odenthal was silent, but she looked at him very earnestly, and with an expression that perplexed him, for it spoke (unintentionally) surprise and curiosity, not wholly unmixed with doubt.

  She waited in vain, however, for any further reply to her question, and, at length, said: “Let us not waste our time, Rupert, in idle speculations on the character of the Baroness Gertrude, which it is very evident you do not sufficiently comprehend to discuss with firmness; but I must confess that, great as your dulness appears to he on the subject, I could not have believed it possible that you should conceive her capable of retaining tender recollections of a man who has behaved to her father in the way which you know Count Hernwold has done?”

  And having said this, she rose with rather a rapid movement, and left the room.

  Her son remained very deeply absorbed in rumination.

  What was there in that last glance which she cast upon him, to cause so strange a revulsion of feeling?

  The countenance of Madame Odenthal was usually expressive of great gentleness, and she rarely parted from him without a kindly nod or smile, betokening affection. But now he could only remember her parting look as expressive both of anger and contempt.

  He knew his mother well. He knew that no mere difference of opinion could have caused her to bestow such a glance upon him. He felt that he had been unjust to Gertrude. But his mother’s words had accused him of more than that; she had spoken of dulness on his part, as well as of injustice.

  But it would he easier to follow the movements of a va
poury cloud, and attempt to explain why at one moment it took this form, and at another that, than to attempt any intelligible description of the flitting thoughts, which passed across the brain of Rupert, after his mother had closed the library door upon him.

  Perhaps it is impossible for any man to have been beloved as he had been, without a thought at some moment occurring to him, that was more or less tinctured with the truth. But, in his case, the impediments to his dwelling upon any such thoughts as deserving belief, were great indeed. The strong persuasion which had possessed him for years, that Gertrude inherited the absurd and very paltry pride of her father, had certainly gone far towards preventing his knowing, or even guessing, her to be the noble creature which she really was; and when at last this blundering delusion passed away, and he saw her with less of prejudice and more of truth, he had been struck with a feeling that almost resembled terror, from the idea of returning all the benefits he had received from his patron, by seeking to rob him of the treasure which he prized so dearly.

  It is true, that day by day, he felt more strongly that not to love her was impossible; and though this conviction involved the necessity of his passing a life un cheered by hope and unblest by affection, he screwed his courage very resolutely to the endurance of it, cheered by the reflection that he might reasonably hope for her companionship for years to come; for he instinctively felt that if her father’s authority did not interfere to force her inclination, she was not likely to be easily won.

  The announcement of her intended marriage when they were at Paris, was certainly a tremendous shock to him, for he had not expected it; but this young and highly intellectual man had not loved for a year or two under the firm conviction that he loved in vain, without being in a great degree prepared to endure such a shock, without sinking under it.

  And Rupert did not sink. He turned to the resources and consolations furnished by his own mind, and by the many opportunities afforded by his present position for enlarging his stores of knowledge, and increasing the sphere of his intelligence. Yet, nevertheless, as the preparations for the marriage of Gertrude proceeded, he felt conscious that it would be a great blessing if he could be out of sight of them; and, as we know, he paid a timely visit to his uncle Alaric.

  It is unnecessary to trace what his feelings might have been upon learning the rupture of this marriage. Not all his prudence could prevent his hailing the return of the family to Schloss Schwanberg as something very like a restoration to life; and the subsequent return of his friend Adolphe (accompanied by his WIFE), rendered the weeks which followed decidedly the happiest he had ever known.

  Par as he was from the truth respecting the real state of Gertrude’s affections, there was something in the steady sedateness with which she arranged and regulated her manner of life, which not unnaturally suggested the idea that she meant it to continue. Even the circumstance of her ceasing to make the library her morning sitting-room, and thereby leaving him in solitary possession of it, much as he would have wished to change this for the habits of the good old times (when the bright and highly cultivated intelligence of his beloved patroness had helped to pioneer his own active mind through the labyrinth of accumulated thought which was ranged around them); yet he found much to soften his regret at having lost this, in the idea naturally suggested by Gertrude’s punctual adherence to her new arrangement, which led to the obvious conclusion, that what had so evidently been planned with deliberation, was intended to be lasting.

  That the young and lovely Baroness Gertrude von Schwanberg should have deliberately taken the resolution of remaining single through life, was an idea that had certainly a good deal of improbability in it, and Rupert would have acknowledged this as readily as anyone; but nevertheless there was a feeling, rather than an opinion, which lay at the bottom of his heart, and which whispered incessantly, that it was at least possible.

  How much this soothing idea contributed to his enjoyment of the life he was now leading, it might be difficult to say; but it had received a rude shock while watching the attentions of the handsome and graceful Baron Nordorffe; and the very decidedly had temper in which his mother had found him on the following morning, was certainly attributed to this.

  But she little guessed, good lady, how much more than sufficient to cure this was the scolding which she had given him. That one word dulness, and the look which, quite unconsciously on her part, accompanied it, had done more towards making him feel it possible that he was beloved, than all the years that had passed over them, every day of which might have given ample proof of the fact, had he but read them right.

  CHAPTER XXXIX.

  THE evening of that day had been fixed upon by a noble lady in the neighbourhood for giving — not a ball, that was quite out of the question on so short a notice — but a dance, which she assured the Steinfeld family was in honour of the beautiful Miss Morrison; but nevertheless it may be doubtful if it would have been given at all, had not the highly distinguished Baron Nordorffe been in the country.

  But whatever might be the lady’s motive, the act was hailed as a benefaction by the whole neighbourhood.

  By no one, however, was the invitation more joyfully welcomed than by Madame Adolphe de Steinfeld. “How, then,” thought that lively lady, “I shall have the exceeding delight of once more seeing Arabella waltz with the hero of the hour! And if Gertrude is too well behaved to enjoy it with me, I will give her up at once, and she shall never be my particular friend again.”

  The day and the hour for this gaily anticipated amusement arrived accordingly, and in order to ensure herself from the possibility of disappointment, the laughter-loving Lucy commissioned her husband to arrange the first dance according to her especial will and pleasure. “Being a bride, I must, of course, dance with the dashing young son and heir of the mansion; and you, Adolphe, being a bridegroom, must, of course, dance with the not very beautiful eldest daughter. I am sorry for you, my dear,” she added, coaxingly, “but it cannot be helped. You may have free choice afterwards. But you must observe,” she continued, gravely, “that I make a particular point of Arabella’s dancing the first waltz with your friend Rupert. He is really a most charming person, besides the being your most intimate friend, and I like to show everybody that we all consider him as a person of first-rate consequence.”

  “That is very sweet of you, my pretty Lucy; but are you quite sure that your magnificent sister will approve your choice for her?”

  “Do not give yourself any anxiety on that point, my beloved,” replied his wife. “I should be excessively stupid if I had not found out by this time what my magnificent sister would approve, and what she would not. I know her better than you do as yet, Adolphe, dear, and I pledge you my word that she will not dislike dancing the first waltz with your friend Rupert — nor the last, either.”

  As the latter part of this speech was uttered very decidedly, avec intention (if I may borrow an expressive phrase from our faithful allies), it aroused a greater degree of attention on the part of Adolphe, than he was always in the habit of paying to the lively sallies of his pretty bride.

  “What do you mean, Lucy?” said he, very eagerly; “do you think your sister has fallen in love with Rupert Odenthal?”

  “Yes, husband,” replied Lucy, very demurely placing her hands before her, with the air of a dutiful child who is about to be questioned.

  “You think your sister Arabella has fallen in love with the baron’s librarian?”

  “Yes, husband,” repeated Lucy, with a modest little courtesy.

  “How can you talk such nonsense, my dear little angel!” said the fond husband, caressing her. “We never talk of unmarried ladies falling in love in our country, unless the parties are engaged to be married.”

  “That is a great deal better than our way,” replied Lucy, gravely; “but with us,” she added, “unmarried ladies very often do fall in love, without being able to manage the marrying part of the business at all to their satisfaction. But perhaps it is possible that ou
r sister Arabella may be more fortunate.”

  “Do you mean to say, Lucy, that you think my friend Rupert is in love with your sister?” said Adolphe, thoughtfully; adding, in a half whisper, “I don’t.”

  “No more do I,” rejoined Lucy, holding up her finger playfully, and mimicking his tone. “But a man may be heart-whole one day, and in love the next; you can’t deny that, Adolphe. My sister is very handsome, my good man, whatever you may think of the matter; and moreover, as I told you, my dear, when, you offered to me, she has rather more than double my fortune.”

  “Rupert will never marry for money, Lucy,” replied Adolphe, knitting his brow.

  “Don’t look so fierce, my dear,” replied his wife, laughing. “I really like Rupert excessively, and perhaps, though he is only a librarian, I should think him too good for my ridiculous sister.... Only, you know, Arabella is really very rich. She would be a great match for him, in that point of view, and giddy as you think me, I have always been taught to know, and remember, that as long as we remain in this wicked world, money is, and ever must be, a very good thing.”

  Madame Adolphe von Steinfeld uttered these words so gravely, as to make her husband laugh.

  “You may laugh, Adolphe, as much as you like,” she added; “but you cannot deny the truth of what I say. But let us be quite serious, both of us, for one minute. I am quite in earnest when I say that I should be very glad to see my sister Arabella many Rupert Odenthal. How tell me, quite in earnest, too, how you should like it?”

  Her husband did not immediately reply; but after a silence, during which his eyes were fixed on the floor, he said, “Your question is not an easy one to answer, Lucy. Trust me, I love you all the better for the feeling which would reconcile you to becoming the sister of a man both poor and lowly born, because he is my friend; and it seems like an ungrateful return for this, to say that I do not think your sister worthy of the happiness of becoming Rupert’s wife.”