Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  That the old gentleman’s predominating feeling at the moment was that of anger against his unlucky secretary, is certain; but as he set himself to reflect upon the next step he had to make in the performance of the extremely disagreeable commission he had undertaken, the idea of having to announce to his petted favourite, the beautiful Arabella, that the offer of her lovely self, and her eighty thousand pounds sterling, had been refused by his penniless secretary in the most decided manner possible, perfectly overwhelmed him. How could he do it? how was he to pronounce the words necessary to convey this insulting truth? He! he who had never uttered an uncivil word to any lady in his life!

  It is highly probable that in the course of this long life he had never had so harassing an affair to discuss with a lady before in any way; and the more he thought of it, the more intolerably disagreeable it became.

  At length his spirits sunk so completely under the idea of what was before him, that he suddenly resolved to escape it, by commissioning his daughter to perform the task for him. He felt, indeed, that there certainly were some objections to thrusting his daughter into the secret confidence of the beautiful Arabella (especially as that young lady had particularly objected to anything of the kind); but every consideration gave way, before the dreadful idea of having to face the beautiful Miss Arabella under such circumstances; and having finally made up his mind that Gertrude was really and truly the most proper person to perform this terrible office — because Gertrude always did know how to do everything a great deal better than anybody else — he set off to look for her in the library, fully determined that if he did not find her there, he would follow her into her own room, or even into that of Madame Odenthal, rather than not relieve himself of the heavy burthen which so grievously tormented him.

  Fortunately, however, Gertrude was in the library, and so was Madame Odenthal likewise. The reason for this departure from her recently-arranged manner of passing her mornings was, that she was expecting the arrival of Lucy; it having been agreed between them when they parted the preceding night, that she should return in the morning, for the purpose of finishing the perusal of a newly-arrived English novel that they had been reading aloud to each other.

  Rupert also was in the room. On leaving the presence of the angry baron, he had naturally betaken himself to his usual resort, and had already seated himself in his accustomed nook in the recess of a large bow-window, before he became aware that Gertrude and his mother were in the room. They had recently parted at the breakfast-table, and no salutation was exchanged between them, save a slight bow; but as the new arrangement respecting the solitary occupation of the room by Rupert had been only tacitly established, they neither of them thought it necessary to retreat, and each of the trio very quietly addressed themselves to their respective occupations.

  But this delusive tranquillity was of very short endurance; for scarcely had they all placed themselves in the position they intended to occupy, than the door of the room was thrown open with considerable violence, and the Baron von Schwanberg entered.

  Gertrude looked up, and greeted him with a smile; Madame Odenthal respectfully bowed her head; but Rupert rose from his seat, and seemed uncertain whether to stay or go.

  “Soh! you have taken refuge here, have you? Base, ungrateful boy! But I think that you will not dare to tell this young lady of your most insolent and infamous conduct!”

  Such were the words with which the furious old gentleman assailed the startled ears of his daughter, her greatly shocked dame de compagnie, and the very indignant, but at the same time very miserable, Rupert.

  Gertrude was the only one of the trio who appeared to retain the faculty of speech; but she felt extremely indignant as well as astonished, and with a degree of spirit which she might not have displayed if she had herself been the person who had offended, she rose, and with a rapid step approaching her father, she laid her hand upon his arm, and said, “My dear father, you are using language which I am quite sure you will be sorry for when you recover your composure. Though I know nothing as to the cause of this vehement agitation, I will venture to say that you arc in some way or other mistaken. Rupert Odenthal cannot possibly have deserved the words you have addressed to him. He is neither base nor ungrateful.”

  “Not base! not ungrateful!” returned the baron, vehemently. “I have the very highest opinion of your judgment, Baroness Gertrude, but even you cannot form any accurate judgment concerning circumstances of which you are ignorant. Listen to what I have to tell you, Gertrude, and then you will find that upon this occasion, as upon every other, our opinions and feelings are exactly the same. I pity his very worthy and unhappy mother with all my heart; but nevertheless, she must submit to hear what it is absolutely necessary she should know, because I am not without hope that she may be able to make this very insolent young man repent, and reform his conduct.”

  This long speech, which was delivered with as much solemnity as indignation, was followed by a short pause, more solemn still; and then raising his right hand, and pointing with its fore-finger to the desperately embarrassed Rupert, the baron thus resumed: “That young man, Gertrude, has this day received the noblest proof of generous and devoted attachment that ever was bestowed upon a man. And how, think you, he has requited this? It has been requited by the deepest ingratitude, and the most bitter insult! But it is not by merely saying this, Gertrude, that I can give you a full and true idea of what his conduct has been.... it is absolutely necessary that I should state the particulars. This very presumptuous and most ungrateful young man has had the insolence to refuse the hand of that very beautiful and amiable young lady, the sister of the Countess Adolphe Steinfeld.”

  “Depend upon it, my lord baron,” interposed Madame Odenthal, eagerly, “there has been some mistake, — some foolish joke, perhaps. I am quite sure, Sir, that nothing approaching such a subject has ever passed between them.”

  The baron turned towards her with a grim smile and mocking bow. “I should have thought that you must have known me long enough by this time, Madame Odenthal, to be aware that I never mistake,” he said. “In the present case, the proof that I have not committed the very vulgar offence of blundering, is sufficiently clear, I presume, to satisfy even you. The amiable, lovely, and most generous young lady who has been thus unworthily treated by your ungrateful, and, I must say, very insolent son, has herself confided to me the secret of her noble and most generous affection for him. I presume you will confess there can be no mistake, when I tell you that she commissioned me to give your son the (doubtless unhoped-for) intelligence that she was willing to bestow upon him her hand in marriage. And what think you, madam, was the reply I received from your penniless son to this offer of a lovely bride, with a fortune of eighty thousand pounds sterling? The offer, too, being conveyed by ME. The answer, madam, was distinctly this; that he declined the proposal. You still look incredulous, Madame Odenthal. Let me refer you then to the insolent young man himself.”

  As he uttered these last words, the baron waved his hand majestically towards the offender, and then dropped into a chair with an air of mingled contempt and indignation.

  Why, or how, it came to pass that the eyes of Rupert and Gertrude met at that critical moment, for the first time since this extraordinary scene began, it is difficult to say. So it was, however; and thereupon the words of Claudio may be aptly quoted. He was quite right when he said, “Let every eye negotiate for itself, and trust no agent.”

  It might have been long, yea, very long, before the well-guarded secret of their respective hearts had been guessed at by either, had it not been for the gleam of light which seemed to flash at that moment both from, and to, the eyes of both.

  CHAPTER XLIII.

  GERTRUDE had changed colour so vehemently, and at the last change had become so suddenly pale, that the watchful Madame Odenthal became seriously alarmed for her; and with less of ceremony than she generally used when the baron was present, she left her place, threw a sustaining arm round Gertrude, a
nd led her from the room.

  “You see, young man, the light in which your conduct is considered by my daughter,” said the baron, solemnly; “it is evident that she is shocked, very deeply shocked, by your conduct. Let me hope that the high respect which I cannot doubt you feel for her, will induce you to conduct yourself in this matter with more propriety than you seemed disposed to do when you first answered me.”

  Rupert, who, in fact, scarcely heard what he said, replied by bowing his head, and mechanically saying, “Yes, Sir.”

  “Very well, that is just as it ought to be, Rupert,” returned the baron, very greatly relieved. “In the present state of affairs, by far the best arrangement will be, that you and your good and very condescending friend, Count Adolphe, should talk the matter over between you. Perhaps, my good Rupert, I was more displeased with you than you deserved, for it has just occurred to me, as very probable, that you might have thought your acceptance of this generous young lady’s proposal might have been displeasing to me, as tending to lessen the distance which ought for ever to remain impassable between persons in different stations of life; and I will not deny, that if such be the case, you ought, by no means, to be too severely blamed for your refusal. In short, Rupert, it strikes me that it will, for very many reasons, be much better than you should talk over this affair confidentially with your good friend, Count Adolphe, than that I should interfere any further in the business. And it may be as well, my good lad, that you should hint to him that I shall greatly prefer his speaking to his sister-in-law on the subject, to my interfering any further with so very delicate an affair.”

  How much of this speech was either heard or understood by Rupert, it might be difficult to say; for again his only reply was, “Yes, Sir.”

  But this answer, such as it was, appeared perfectly to satisfy his patron, who, no longer under the influence of the beautiful Arabella’s winning ways, began to see, in the very decided, not to say vehement, repugnance of Rupert to the proposal made him, more of prudence than he had himself manifested on the subject; for no sooner had he named the young Count as the most proper negotiator in the affair, than the idea that such a marriage must he extremely disagreeable to him, and to his noble family, occurred to him; so that on leaving the library (which he had entered with the decided intention of turning Rupert out of the house) he felt more disposed to favour him than ever, from the conviction, that his dread of offending him by for a moment forgetting his own inferiority, had been the real cause of his refusal.

  And Rupert, too, if his thoughts could truly be described as being occupied by anything but Gertrude, was meditating an immediate interview with Adolphe. As to the beautiful Arabella, he certainly gave her credit for every possible degree of absurdity, and of fancying that she was in love with him, and he in love with her, among the rest. But such thoughts occupied him scarcely for an instant, nor did he deem it possible that the notion of a marriage between them had originated with her, and it was to Adolphe to whom he attributed this preposterous scheme.

  He knew, and he knew with sincere pleasure, that this true and faithful friend was more than satisfied; he knew that he was happy in the choice he had made of the pretty, sweet-tempered Lucy; but he knew also that Adolphe’s attachment to himself had never changed from the first hour of their boyish companionship to the present time, and he could, therefore, easily understand the possibility of his wishing for such a family connection between them as might, in a great degree, insure their never being long asunder.

  Yet still it was difficult for him to comprehend how it was possible that Adolphe could so little appreciate his real character, as to believe him capable of uniting himself for life with such a woman as Arabella Morrison. But, notwithstanding this puzzling incongruity, it was upon Adolphe that his suspicion rested, and it was to Adolphe that he determined to address himself, for the purpose of being extricated from this very ridiculous dilemma.

  No sooner, therefore, did he cease to hear the departing footsteps of his massive patron, than he rushed from the library to the stables, and startled the tranquil steadiness of the German grooms, by his vehement demand for “a horse! a horse!” without a moment’s delay.

  Rupert was well beloved, and his vehemence was only greeted by a smile, while as little delay as possible was permitted to occur before he was in the saddle and galloping rapidly towards the friend whom he intended so very heartily to scold.

  All this was business-like and rational; yet, nevertheless, although he set his horse’s head in the right direction, and took care to keep it so, his own head was unceasingly running back to Gertrude, and to the strange and inexplicable expression of her face at the moment their eyes met.

  But it was in vain that he meditated upon it — and in vain that he strove to forget it; so that the business, by no means very pleasant in itself, upon which his rapid movements proved him to be so earnestly bent, was literally half-forgotten before he reached the presence of his friend.

  Luckily for the dispatch of this very important business, however, he found Count Adolphe alone, in the snug little room which was appropriated to the especial use of himself, his books, his cigar, and occasionally of his little wife also.

  “Welcome, dear Rupert!” said Adolphe, cordially, and with an extended hand.

  Rupert looked at him for a moment without accepting this ever-cordial hand.

  He seized upon it at last, however, and grasping it in his own, he exclaimed:

  “Adolphe! I thought my heart was as open to you as this kind hand has ever been to me.... But it is not so, it seems, for you have most lamentably mistaken me!”

  “As how, my dear fellow?” replied the Count, looking exceedingly puzzled. “I should he sorry to have mistaken you, Rupert,” he continued, “because it is a positive fact, that I think so highly of you as to make it impossible I should change my opinion, without your losing something in my esteem. I hope it will not be much, Rupert! But go on and state the case. In what have I mistaken you?”

  Rupert looked earnestly at him for a moment, as if to discover if there were any jest afoot; a solution which would not much have mended the matter, considering that his august patron, the baron, was one of the parties concerned in it.

  “Speak! Explain yourself, Rupert!” again exclaimed Adolphe, impatiently.

  “How is it possible, Adolphe,” replied Rupert, gently, but very gravely, “how can it have been possible that you, who know me so well, should so greatly have mistaken me?”

  “In what have I mistaken you, my good friend,” returned the Count Adolphe, with a good-humoured smile. “I declare to you, that, with the exception of your mother, I think I am less likely to mistake you than any living mortal.”

  “And I should have thought so too,” said Rupert, shaking his head, “if I had not just had such very painful proof of the contrary. How could you for a single moment persuade yourself that I could be tempted by my poverty to become the husband of Miss Morrison?”

  “But you give me credit for having much greater power of persuasion over myself than I really possess,” returned Adolphe, laughing. “I should as soon have thought,” he added, “of persuading myself to marry her, instead of Lucy, for the sake of her extra thousands sterling.”

  “Then this preposterous idea had not its origin with you?” said Rupert, extending a hand of reconciliation towards his friend.

  “It is a proof that I am of a very forgiving nature,” returned Adolphe, as he gave the offered hand a friendly grasp; “that I should so readily, and without any explanation too, accept this repentant fist of yours. But even now, I feel a good deal disposed to make a quarrel of it. How dare you, young Sir, accuse me in your heart of such a vast amount of witless wickedness, as would be required in order to conceive such an idea?”

  “Forgive me, Adolphe! I feel that you really have something to forgive,” returned Rupert. “I ought not, even for a moment, to have believed it possible. And yet, when I was told that such a marriage had been suggested, and h
ad been consented to by the young lady in question, how could I help falling into this error? No one knows so well as yourself my dependent condition, Adolphe; and I certainly believe that there is no one who would be more glad to change it, if it were possible. But I certainly was greatly annoyed when I fancied that you had hit upon such a means for achieving it.”

  “‘Well, Rupert, I forgive you, which goes further to prove my excessive amiability, than your innocence. I wonder now,” he continued, laughing, “whether you would have galloped over in the same state of furious indignation in order to quarrel with my wife, if you had happened to find out that within the last twenty-four hours she has actually been committing the sin for which you have been accusing me?”

  “Do you mean, Count Adolphe,” returned Rupert, looking greatly distressed, “that your charming wife was the person who wished to bring about a marriage between her sister and myself?”

  “Whether she ever wished this or not, I will not pretend to say. She likes you very much, and might, perhaps, have been vastly well pleased to have had you for a brother; but if any such ridiculous project ever entered her head, she had not courage sufficient to mention it to me. No. Her active imagination has been employing itself in another direction. But for anything I know, my dear Rupert, this may put you in as furious a rage as the other; for I well remember the time when you declared that a middle-aged matron on one side, and a young rustic, with a pitcher on her head, on the other, were both, or either of them, infinitely more attractive than the lady in question.”

  It really seemed as if this day had been set apart in the calendar, as the epoch at which poor Rupert Odenthal’s equanimity was to be tried in almost every possible manner.