“Lucy, dear,” said Adolphe, as they sipped their evening coffee, “do you remember telling me, at least a year ago, I think it was, that you fancied the Baroness Gertrude was a little bit, or so, inclined to fall in love with my friend Odenthal?”
“Yes, husband,” replied Lucy, very demurely; “I remember it very particularly well.”
“But, as you have never said anything about it since, I presume you have changed your mind.”
“I don’t very clearly see why that should follow,” returned Lucy, rather gravely. “But, I believe, I was only in jest when I said it.”
“So I remember thinking at the time. But tell me, Lucy, has no such idea about either of them ever come into your head since?”
“Why do you ask me?” was her rejoinder.
“Don’t be mysterious, my dear, unless you have pledged your word to be so,” returned her husband.
“I have certainly pledged my word to nothing in any degree connected with the subject; and if I have ever thought of it since, it has not been in the way of a jest, Adolphe,” was her grave reply.
Her husband remained silent for a minute or two, and then said, “My dear Lucy, if you have ever had any confidential conversation with the Baroness Gertrude respecting her feelings towards Rupert, or his towards her, let me very earnestly beg you to believe that I would not for the world be the means of leading you to betray it.”
“I am quite sure you would do no such thing,” returned his wife. “But I, on my side, am in no more danger of committing such treachery, than you are of tempting me to do it; for I never heard Gertrude allude to Rupert at all in any of the many tête-à-tête conversations which we have had together... so decidedly, indeed, has this been the case, Adolphe, that I own to you I have sometimes thought that she would not trust herself to talk of him.”
“God grant it may be so!” cried Adolphe, fervently.
“What can you mean, dear husband?” exclaimed Lucy, with surprise. “Would you wish the Baroness Gertrude to fall in love with Rupert Odenthal?”
“I might form such a wish, Lucy, and very rationally, too, in my opinion (provided he returned her love), for I do not believe the whole world can contain any man more worthy of her. I know him well, Lucy, and I know of no fine quality which he does not possess, nor of any evil one which he does.”
“Oh, Adolphe! what a dreadful misfortune it is that their respective stations should place them so far asunder!” exclaimed Lucy, with very genuine feeling. “As I have received no confidence,” she added, “I shall betray none by telling you, that in my heart I do believe Gertrude loves him.”
“And I do believe in mine that he loves her!” returned Adolphe, with great energy; “and if we are both of us right in our conjectures, my dear wife, I know of no deed that I should consider it more righteous to perform than the removing all the doubts, difficulties, and obstacles which impede their becoming man and wife.”
Lucy joyfully clapped her hands on hearing these very unexpected words, and bestowed a nod and smile of unmistakable approbation on her husband. But her glee did not last long; for after the meditation of a few minutes, every one of which, as they passed, caused her to look graver and graver, she heaved a very heavy sigh, and exclaimed, in a voice which sounded very like a groan, “Oh, Adolphe! the baron! the baron!”
Adolphe prefaced his reply, by seizing with one hand a piece of crumpled paper on which some idle characters had been scrawled, and then thrown aside, and with the other a volume of Tennyson’s poems, which lay upon the table.
“Now, Lucy!” said he, almost solemnly, “look on this paper and on that. “Which of these articles do you consider as the best deserving of preservation?”
Lucy looked puzzled for a moment, but her bright eye kindled as he went on. “That worn-out morsel of transmuted rag,” said he, pointing to the crumpled paper, “may serve, not unaptly, to represent our right good friend the baron; and this,” he added, taking the Tennyson volume in his hand, “as fitly represents our ardent-minded, philosophical Rupert. Now, Lucy, if you were obliged to decide that one of these two objects must of necessity be thrown aside and forgotten, in order to preserve the other in the highest possible preservation, the choice between them being left wholly to you, how should you decide?”
“I doubt not I should say on this occasion, as I should on most others, Adolphe....You must decide for me. And as usual, dear husband, I should do so with very little fear that your fiat would run counter to my wishes.”
“You are a darling wife, Lucy; and my friend Rupert shall have a darling wife too, if we can but find out some good way of conquering the difficulties that surround him.”
“The only difficulty is the baron, dear Adolphe!” said Lucy, shaking her head in a very desponding style. “Your crumpled bit of paper does not represent him fairly. As far as his being rather useless goes, it might do very well; but you do not understand Gertrude as well as I do, if you fancy that she considers him as of little consequence, because he happens to be of little use. I do not believe that she would run the risk of making him unhappy during the few years of life which may remain to him, if she could ensure her own happiness by doing so to the end of a life as long as his own.”
“I daresay you are right, Lucy; I do believe that there is an immense fund of devoted affection, and heroic self-denial, in the heart of every tolerably good woman. But she is not the first, you know, who has felt the inconvenience of a divided duty. If she performs her part as a good daughter, in such a manner as to send Rupert to an early grave, I shall not very easily forgive her,” said Adolphe, somewhat sternly.
“Oh! as to that, my dear friend,” returned Lucy gaily, “men have died and worms have eaten them.... You know the rest.”
“I know the rest of your quotation, but you do not know the rest of my prophecy....” And then, discarding all playfulness of manner, Adolphe related to her very exactly what had passed between himself and Doctor Nieper.
She was both pained and surprised at this, and for the first time, began to feel that Adolphe was very gravely in earnest.
Nor was it without reason that he was so. He had made no blunder either in the judgment he had himself passed on the painfully altered appearances of his friend, nor in the interpretation which he had given both to the words and the manner of Doctor Nieper.
But no sooner was the warm-hearted Lucy awakened to the fact that Adolphe really believed the tranquillity, nay, it might be, the life of his friend was endangered by this apparently desperately hopeless attachment, than she at once set herself very seriously to consider whether some way might not be found, ere the mischief had gone too far to be repaired, by which a dénouement somewhat less terrible than death might be brought about.
No sooner had she expressed to Adolphe her ardent wish to make some effort, whether likely to be ultimately successful or not, by which a chance at least might be given of such hope for the future as might, in some degree cheer the present, than he eagerly accepted her proffered services.
“I am quite sure,” he hopefully exclaimed, “that it is not in the nature of gentle, soft-hearted woman, to be so sternly stubborn in their secrecy, as it is evident my friend Rupert intends to be. He thinks that it is his duty to bury this miserable, hopeless attachment in eternal silence, and if once persuaded that it is his duty to die, and ‘make no sign,’ he will do it.”
“He shall not do it if I can prevent it,” exclaimed Lucy, eagerly.
“Dear wife!” said Adolphe, fondly kissing her; “I would give my little finger to ensure to poor pale Rupert a life-long companion as dear to him as you are to me!”
“Then let me have a long talk with Gertrude,” said Lucy, very touch in earnest, as was evident from her eyes as well as her voice.
“You shall, dearest!” replied her husband. “I have great faith in you, for your heart is in this business, my dear wife. You will make your approaches gently. Lead her to say ten words about Rupert, and I will trust to your sagacity for ma
king out their meaning, assisted by the context you will find in her eyes.”
No time was lost in putting this scheme in action, and it was with right good will that la petite set about it.
The minds of the two friends could scarcely admit of comparison, they were so widely different both in strength and in tone; but the qualities of which the heart is considered as the home, had much more of sympathy. Lucy would have felt herself greatly more embarrassed had she been charged with a mission to discover Gertrude’s opinion on any of the multitude of abstract points on which human minds seem “agreed to differ,” (as if only for the purpose of displaying the endless variety of their fanciful workings) than she was now, that she had undertaken to dive into the depths of a woman’s heart, which has been so very often described as unfathomable. But she felt, or fancied, that the way was both short and direct.
She made her first step towards the point she had in view, by saying, “How is our friend Rupert to-day, my dear Gertrude?”
“Very well, I believe,” replied Gertrude, occupying herself as she spoke, in looking for some object which she had, or had not, dropped upon the carpet. “But I have scarcely seen him to-day. I think he has gone to assist Count Adolphe in I doing nothing,’ as you sometimes saucily describe their learned avocations.”
“Adolphe is uneasy about his health,” said Lucy, gravely; “and I must say I do not think he is looking well. Does not his mother feel uneasy at seeing him so evidently changed in appearance?”
“Changed in appearance?” repeated Gertrude, so evidently changed in appearance herself, as she repeated the words, that Lucy felt her doubts, if she had any, as completely solved, as if the most explicit declaration on the point she wished to elucidate, had been uttered by the pale and trembling lips of poor Gertrude. She had, indeed, been taken entirely by surprise. Had it been otherwise, she might perhaps in some degree have avoided so very decided a demonstration of her feelings. For one short moment she struggled to recover herself, but the effort was in vain, and she burst into tears.
The eyes of pretty Lucy were dim, too, as she looked into the face of her friend, and perceived how painfully her burning blushes completed the story which her tears began.
“Why should you turn your eyes away from me, my sweet Gertrude!” she exclaimed. “Love me only half as well as I love you, and you will find comfort and not suffering, from perceiving that I read your heart.”
“Spare me! spare me!” sobbed Gertrude.
“Spare you the comfort of knowing that your noble nature is understood by one whose greatest boast (next to possessing her husband’s love) is, that she believes herself beloved by you? Fie, Gertrude! Fie! I know that Nature has not endowed me with such talents as she has bestowed on you. But you should not shrink from my true love on that account.”
“Shrink from it?” said poor Gertrude, with clasped hands and streaming eyes. “Oh, Lucy! Lucy! could you but read all my heart as correctly as it seems you have read a part of it, you would know, that if my wretched, self-condemning spirit, could, or can, find comfort from anything, it must be from your indulgent affection. That you blame me, that you must blame me, for having in my heart of hearts so cruelly rebelled against the well-known and most earnest wishes of my dear, devoted father, is, I well know, as certain as that the light of heaven enables us to see each other! That you should still love me, Lucy, is indeed a balm to my heart, but I feel as if I had no right to apply it.”
“And why not, my beautiful baroness?” said Lucy, smiling affectionately at her. “Perhaps you think that you shall be fixing a very heavy responsibility on Adolphe and on me, by opening your heart to us; but you will be exonerated from this now, dearest, by my having taken the initiative, and confessed, that, notwithstanding all your admirable discretion, we have discovered your secret. And how could it have been otherwise, dear Gertrude? The obvious probability of such an attachment, thrown together as you have been for so many years, could scarcely fail to strike friends who know you both so thoroughly well as we do — How could it have been possible, dearest, that you should not love one another?”
“God forbid that my poor father should ever be so quick-sighted! I think it would kill him!” said Gertrude, with a groan.
“Fear nothing on that score,” returned Lucy, laughing. “I am quite sure,” she added, “that if I were to state the fact to him, he would think I was romancing.”
“Yes. You are quite right!” said Gertrude, hiding her face with both hands. “I have so constantly and so carefully. deceived him, and he has so frankly and so honourably believed my falsehoods, that it was certainly very nearly impossible that the truth could reach him. But what a picture is this giving of myself?” she added. “How can you fancy that you love me, Lucy?”
“There is no fancy in it, my dear friend,” replied Lucy, gravely. “You have had a very difficult destiny to contend with.
I can by no means blame your father, however, for having established Rupert Odenthal as a member of his family. I cannot blame him for it, because he felt grateful for an immense service, and hoped to requite it by giving him a happy position in his family. But you must excuse me if I say that his doing so, would have been utterly inexcusable, had not his inveterate prejudice of rank and birth rendered him totally blind to the probable consequences which were likely to ensue — ...Likely? —
Oh, much more than likely; the consequences, Gertrude, were inevitable. If you do not shut the eyes of your judgment, in order to give your terrified conscience champ libre to torment you, it is impossible but you must perceive the truth of this. Why has Adolphe selected Rupert as the chosen friend of his life? Is it not from the same cause which has led you to select him as the chosen friend of yours? Is it not because their frequent intercourse enabled them to know each well, and is not your attachment the consequence of the same process? That process, under the circumstances in which your father placed you, was inevitable, I tell you; and you might as reasonably blame yourself for being wet under a shower-bath, or scorched in the midst of a fire, as for loving such a being as Rupert, while constantly associating with him. It may, according to your notions, be a misfortune, but you will never persuade me that it is a sin.”
Poor Gertrude’s eyes had been full of tears when Lucy began her harangue, but it was with a very sweet smile that she repaid her eloquence.
“Lucy!” she said, after the silence of a minute or two, “I may perhaps have done Rupert no more than justice; but I have done less to you.”
“How so, dear friend?” returned the young Countess, taking her hand, and looking at her very affectionately; “I would not hear your enemy say so,” she added, with a loving kiss. “In what have you done me less than justice?”
“I have never given you credit for one half so much eloquence as you have now displayed,” replied Gertrude. “But alas! alas!” she added; “how dare I trust my judgment upon such a theme? There is one point, however, upon which I am quite sure you are right. You cannot estimate the worth of Rupert Odenthal more highly than it deserves. My preference of him beyond all others whom I have known, may, therefore, he reasonably defended, and conscientiously excused. But I doubt if this can in any degree absolve me from the duty I owe to my dear father. I think, Lucy, that if I wore to marry Rupert Odenthal, I should break my father’s heart. I think it would kill him, Lucy;” and as she said this, tears again started to the eyes of Gertrude.
Lucy did not immediately answer her. It was, indeed, not easy to do it, if she expressed her opinion honestly, without doing more harm than good to the cause which she wished to advocate; for she really thought it by no means improbable that if the experiment were tried, the result might prove Gertrude to he right; the Countess Adolphe really thought it very possible that such an event might endanger the life of the baron.
In short, she fixed her eyes upon the carpet, and looked very grave; and as a further proof that her admired eloquence had failed her, she got up to take her leave.
Gertrude rose
too, and held out her hand. Lucy received it, and for a moment held it silently between her own, and then said, “I must leave you now, my dearest Gertrude, because I feel that my remaining with you must do you more harm than good. It is your own heart must be your counsellor, and it is a difficult case upon which that dear aching heart has to plead.:. for it is retained on both sides of the question. But I will not leave you without one other word; more, however, in the shape of commentary than of counsel. I think you are right in believing that the effect of hearing that you were attached to Rupert, might be very seriously injurious to the health of your father; but neither will I conceal from you, that the health of Rupert gives us great uneasiness. Dr. Nieper has seen him accidentally, at our house, and thinks him far from well. Your position, Gertrude, is a very difficult one, but we shall do each other no good by talking of it. I confess I see but one means of escaping from it... and that will not, most assuredly, be aided by discussing the subject with anyone. The only safety must be found in exactly a contrary course. Consult your own heart as well as your own conscience, Gertrude, and if both the lives which seem to hang on your decision can be cared for, as they ought to be, it must be achieved by the secret decision of your own heart, and your own judgment. You need no confidential advisers, Gertrude, and it is far better that you should have none.”
Lucy waited for no reply, but kissed the pale cheek of her friend, and left her.
CHAPTER XLIX.
LUCY had not set off on her charitable visit to Schloss Schwanberg, without giving her husband a hint that she intended to find out, if possible, the terms upon which his friend, and her friend, stood together; and he watched for her return with some impatience. But she brought him considerably less intelligence than he had hoped to receive.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 469