Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

than all these efforts ceased, and for a time, she was, perhaps, one of the very happiest creatures in existence.

  And so she might have continued, perhaps, if Rupert could have contemplated the situation in which they now stood to each other, with the same satisfaction as herself; but the first intoxicating joy of the explanation being over, he began to feel that if she had not courage enough to ask her father’s consent to their union, and influence enough to obtain it, the consciousness of her devoted affection was rather a misery than a blessing.... and it can scarcely be denied that he was right in thinking so.

  Up to this period, Madame Odenthal knew nothing of the explanation which had taken place between her son and Gertrude, beyond what her own sagacity had enabled her to discover. They both knew her too well, not to be aware, that they should be throwing a heavy load upon her conscience, by confiding to her the secret of their attachment; and their discretion certainly saved her, for some time, from a very painful embarrassment.

  She could not, however, long remain blind to the marked change which had taken place in them both, nor could she long doubt the cause of it.

  The affectionate discretion which prevented their avowing their mutual attachment to her, did not go the length of carefully concealing it; and the firmness of character which her son had displayed during all the misery she now felt sure he must have endured at Paris, convinced her that he would require no lecturing from her to prevent his returning all the generous kindness of the baron, by inducing his daughter to leave him; and she, therefore, felt herself justified in letting matters go on without any interference on her part, till the death of Gertrude’s aged father should leave his daughter at liberty to act for herself.

  But this very rational resolution was now shaken by the painful change which she witnessed in her son; and no sooner did she become aware of this, than she became fully as miserable as the lovers themselves.

  To her son, however, she gave no hint either that she read his heart, or was aware of the ravages which the state of it had caused both in his mental and bodily health; but she could no longer retain the same reserve with Gertrude; and notwithstanding the obvious and very sad impossibility that either could help the other, the confidence thus established between them was certainly in some degree a relief to both.

  Yet it would be difficult to imagine anything much more sad than the conversations they held together, when all the other inhabitants of the castle had retired for the night. The very perfect accordance, moreover, which existed between them on the subject of all their melancholy discussions, only served, in their case, to increase the pain of them. Had either of them sincerely differed from the other on any one point, it could scarcely have failed to be a comfort; but not only was there no contrariety of opinion, but there was scarcely a shade of difference between them; for the strong sense of duty which led both to resolve that the tranquil happiness of the old man’s life should not be disturbed, was equally firm in both.

  “Were we not so perfectly of the opinion that this unhappy love must be conquered,” said Madame Odenthal, “these most melancholy, but most dear moments of confidence, my dearest Gertrude, would soon degenerate into a conspiracy, and a conspiracy against one who has been the fondest of fathers to you, and the most generous of benefactors to me. Let us thank Heaven, dearest, that no selfish feeling has been powerful enough to beguile us into such sin!”

  And this feeling did sustain them both; and the proud old man dozed on in his easy chair, firmly persuaded, that not even the “Almanack de Gotha” itself recorded many names, the dignity of which was sustained with such unspotted purity as his own.

  Had the passive courage of Rupert been as well sustained as that of Gertrude, the destiny of both might have been very different. But it was not so. And yet neither his mother nor Gertrude could accuse him of failing in the promise he had given, of urging the latter no more to pledge herself to any engagement for the future. But ere many months had passed over them, so painful a change became evident in Rupert, as to suggest to them both the most terrible idea that could enter the mind of either. Health, both of mind and body, was evidently failing him.

  It is only by degrees that such a fact is in any case considered as likely to become permanent by those watching it at the commencement; and both the loving hearts which were so tenderly devoted to him, were long sustained by the persuasion that accidental cold, and consequent fever, were the causes of the symptoms which alarmed them, in which persuasion they were strengthened by the assurances of the invalid himself, who, although he confessed that he was not quite well, reiterated his assurances that he should soon be better.

  CHAPTER XLVII.

  WHILE everything was thus apparently stationary at Schloss Schwanberg, an important change took place in the family of their nearest and most estimable neighbour, Count Steinfeld.

  His wife, who though not a very brilliant, was a very amiable woman, died from a fever caught by some imprudent exposure to cold, after active exercise. Her son and his wife, who had been now absent for more than a year, were suddenly recalled, but arrived only in time to attend her funeral.

  The only persons admitted to see them during the first month or two which followed this melancholy event, were their neighbours at Schloss Schwanberg, and Gertrude’s society became a blessing of no small importance to poor Lucy; for she had lost much of her former gaiety since they parted, having become a mother, and lost her child, just as she was made aware that life had better pleasures to bestow than any which could be welcomed by laughter.

  She was now much more sedate, without being at all less agreeable; for her quick faculties and charming good humour were only the more endearing, from being no longer displayed in the perpetual garb of jesting.

  The return of Adolphe seemed, for a time, to produce a very salutary effect on the health of Rupert; and the having remarked this, caused Gertrude to promote, by every means in her power, an almost daily intercourse between the two families, and this intercourse certainly proved a most essential advantage to both parties. The truly sorrowing widower, who was still almost a young man, having some family arrangements to settle with the brother of his deceased wife, was prevailed upon to change the scene by transacting the business in person, at the distant residence of this brother; and Count Adolphe and his young wife were left in occupation of the family mansion, which being “a world too wide” for the reduced household, was greatly benefited by the frequent visits of the Schwanberg party.

  The aged baron, indeed, had for some time been beginning to feel that it was more agreeable to receive visits, than to make them; but as Rather Alaric had been of late taken into as great favour as a backgammon player, as he still continued to be as a confessor, he was always at hand to assist his sister Odenthal in supplying the place both of his daughter and his secretary.

  But although Rupert never met his friend Adolphe without pleasure, the excitement caused by his return soon faded away; and though he frequently, as in days of yore, brought over some newly-arrived volume, or pungent pamphlet, upon which they might compare criticisms, and philosophise on the onward movement of the age, it was often evident to the quick eye of Adolphe, that his friend was no longer the same ardent thinker, or the same animated companion, that he was wont to be.

  Rupert could still talk, and talk well, on all the stirring themes which science and philosophy suggested, but it was not without effort that he did so; and this intimate and almost daily intercourse had not continued long, before Adolphe became convinced that his friend was suffering from some malady, either mental or bodily, or both.

  It chanced that our old acquaintance, Dr. Nieper, who was still the favourite Æsculapius of the neighbourhood, was making a professional visit to Lucy, when Rupert arrived to keep an appointment which he had made with Count Adolphe.

  It was more than a year since the doctor had last seen his former patient; and he was immediately struck by the alteration, by no means for the better, which had taken place in his appearance du
ring the interval.

  “What have you been doing with yourself, my young friend, since I had last the pleasure of seeing you?” said the sagacious doctor. “You look as if you had been making a campaign in Egypt, and that it had very particularly disagreed with you.”

  It was a very languid smile with which Rupert replied, “No, doctor, I have not been campaigning in Egypt. Perhaps I have not been campaigning enough, anywhere. I believe I am gradually growing into the condition of the poor grub commonly called a book-worm.”

  “Then I strongly recommend you to leave the Schwanberg library to tale care of itself for a little time, while you set forth upon a scamper either north, south, west, or east, to amuse yourself. I would not have taken so much trouble as I did some seven or eight years ago to keep you alive, after your heroic adventure with the little baroness in the river, if I had thought you would turn out nothing better than a grub.”

  While laughingly making this speech, Dr. Nieper had taken the hand of Rupert in his, and with an air of very easy indifference was carefully feeling his pulse.

  He made no observation, however, upon the condition in which he found it, and almost immediately afterwards took his leave. Rupert returned to the business upon which he and his friend had been engaged before this interruption, and which consisted in the examination of a very dusty collection of old coins which Adolphe had discovered in some out-of-the-way corner, and which he flattered himself the savoir of his friend Rupert might enable him to arrange; but Adolphe pushed the table aside, saying, “No, no, Rupert, if you are unwell, you shall not be teased by such tiresome work as this. Let us take a stroll up the long walk. It will do us both a great deal more good than poring over these dirty coins.”

  Rupert offered no opposition to the proposal, and the two young men set off upon their lounging excursion.

  This was certainly not the first time that Count Adolphe had been aware that his friend was looking unwell; but Rupert having replied to the affectionate inquiry on the subject which this observation led to, by saying, “I have had a bad cold, and that always makes one look half dead, I think,” had received the explanation as perfectly satisfactory, and contented himself afterwards by occasionally reiterating the usual formula so constantly repeated upon similar occasions. “Do take care of yourself, Rupert. You do not look as if you had got rid of that abominable cold yet.”

  But the words, and still more the manner, of Dr. Nieper had alarmed Adolphe; and he determined to take advantage of the next opportunity which presented itself, to learn the skilful practitioner’s real opinion.

  He did not wait long for this, for Lucy was still under his care; and having waylaid the good doctor as he was making his retreat, the young Count asked him, with some anxiety, whether he thought his friend Odenthal had any complaint more serious than the “bad cold” which he complained of.

  “If you had not asked me this question, Count Adolphe,” replied the Doctor, “I think I should have addressed something like it to you. It is some months since I last saw this very magnificent young fellow, and the change which has taken place in him startles me. He is decidedly suffering under the treacherous influence of low fever. Is it long since you first remarked this painful change in him?”

  “No, not long,” replied the Count. “When I did remark it, he told me that he had been suffering from a severe cold. Do you think, Dr. Nieper, that a cold is a malady of sufficient importance to account for the change which we both remark in him?”

  “A cold?” repeated the Doctor, shaking his head; “a cold is a sort of nick-name for a multitude of maladies, which would sound a good deal worse, if described more accurately. He may have had a cold, and this cold may have been neglected, and it may, though I don’t say it has, but it may have settled upon the chest, which would be quite enough to account for the very unsatisfactory state of his pulse. But it is just as likely that he may be suffering under the influence of some mental vexation, as from any other cause. It does sometimes happen, you know, at his age that young people worry themselves into fevers, without the help of any specific malady. Let it be what it nay, I trust he will do battle with it, and master it too, for he is one of the finest young men I ever saw.”

  Adolphe neither liked these threatening words, nor the tone in which they were spoken; for there was evidently some alarm, as well as much kindness, in the good man’s manner. He was determined, however, if there was any serious malady, he would find it out, and prevent its being neglected.

  “He shall have change of air and scene, if that will do him any good,” thought the kind-hearted Adolphe. “I would travel with him round the world, dear fellow! rather than lose him!”

  The intercourse between the two families was too frequent to leave any long interval before the young men again met; and then, although Rupert’s reply to his “How are you?” was a very prompt “Very well, thank you,” his appearance was by no means accordant with it.

  The dusty coins were again brought out, the occupation they were likely to offer being more favourable, in the young Count’s opinion, to the cross-examination to which he fully intended to submit him, than the absence of all employment for eyes and hands.

  Although the very happy husband of the pretty Lucy was as free from all lover-like admiration for the stately Gertrude as it was well possible for a man to be, he well remembered the time when he had thought her very charming; and although he equally remembered that Rupert was at that time very far from looking at her with the same admiring eyes as himself, he thought it by no means impossible, that during the years they had since passed together, the judgment of the man might have corrected the defective taste of the boy.

  “Mercy on him, if this unfortunate change has actually taken place!” mentally exclaimed Adolphe, as he recalled the result of his own adventure. “If the ‘Almanack de Gotha’ rejected me, how will it serve my unfortunate friend?”

  But the obvious difficulties attending such an attachment, by no means sufficed to convince Adolphe that it could not exist; moreover, he very modestly remembered that it was possible the young lady herself might be more inclined to throw over the ‘Almanack’ in this case than in his own; and if, indeed, Rupert Odenthal loved Gertrude, and was loved by her in return, it was not very improbable that the utter impossibility of obtaining the baron’s consent might occasion misery sufficient to break more hearts than one.

  Adolphe remembered, too, while ruminating on this very interesting possibility, that Lucy had long ago hinted a suspicion that Gertrude had feelings, even tenderer than a sister’s love, for this companion of her youth, who had first saved her life, and then, beyond all doubt, very materially contributed to embellish it; for no one knew better than Adolphe, no, not even Gertrude herself, how very delightful, and how very attaching a companion Rupert would be.

  “And must he die for it?” mentally exclaimed his friend, as this very probable state of things suggested itself.

  “Yet who is to find out the real state of the case? and how is it possible that we can give counsel, or aid of any kind, without being in their confidence?”

  But it was easier to see the truth of this, than to devise any plan by which the difficulty could be lessened. If this suspected attachment really existed, the impediments to any happy conclusion to such a romance were of much too stubborn a character to afford any reasonable hope of their yielding to any influence which could be put in action to remove them.

  The bare idea of attacking the baron on the subject, so vividly recalled the scene of his own dismissal, that his active imagination immediately painted to him the sort of indignation which was likely to ensue, upon Rupert Odenthal’s being proposed to him as a son-in-law, and he instantly decided that the experiment must not be made.

  If Rupert had been his own brother, Adolphe Steinfeld could not have shrunk from the idea of his being treated with indignity, more sensitively than he did now; and, at length, he decided that, by far the best remedy which could be applied, if further observation te
nded to confirm the notion of this attachment, would be absence. “I will carry him off!” he mentally exclaimed. “We will together traverse this pretty little globe of ours, from east to west; and it may be, that when we return, we shall find this high-born heiress safely united in holy wedlock to some noble You something, whose name glitters through half a dozen pages of the holy Almanack.”

  It was without the very slightest approach to satirical impertinence that La Fontaine’s well-known words,

  “On a souvent besoin d’un plus petit que soi,”

  occurred to him. He felt conscious that, intimate as he was with Rupert, he should be greatly at a loss how to set to work in order to discover whether he was right or wrong in the guess he had made respecting the greatly-altered condition of his Mend. “I know that, if I attempted to hint my suspicion to him, I should do it in so confoundedly awkward a manner, that I should be sure to give him pain, but not be so sure of obtaining his confidence,” thought Adolphe, as he meditated long and anxiously on the subject. But, having come to this conclusion, he went on a little further, and then it occurred to him that, although he might fail in arriving at an exact knowledge of the state of Rupert’s affections, by way of question and answer, Lucy might accomplish the same object, by means of her intimate intercourse with Gertrude.

  And then it was that the saucy quotation about “un plus petit” suggested itself. But, truly, there was no offence in it, according to his interpretation; and any mind which could have followed his, as he dwelt upon the tender tact and loving gentleness with which he knew his Lucy would perform such a task, if hoping to serve her friend thereby, would have found only what was endearing in the word petit, and nothing at all approaching the more contemptible characteristics of a mouse.

  CHAPTER XLVIII.

  THE languid eye and feverish cheek of poor Rupert would not easily have passed from the mind of his Mend, even if he had been surrounded by a host of the very gayest company; but, as it happened, he and his Lucy passed the evening of the day on which he had first felt seriously alarmed about him, in a perfectly undisturbed matrimonial tête-à-tête, and it was thus that the subject was discussed between them: —