Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  On one point, however, and that certainly, a very important one, she made a report which he was glad to receive, although it went no further than to confirm the opinion he had already formed on the subject.

  “Yes, Adolphe!” was her prompt reply to the first question he asked her. “Yes! We make no mistake about that. Let Rupert love Gertrude as devotedly as heart can love, I feel perfectly certain that she requites him.”

  “Has she told him so?” demanded Adolphe, eagerly.

  “I did not ask her,” replied Lucy, with rather a quizzing smile. “First,” she continued, “because I did not think it was a discreet question to ask; and secondly, because I did not feel it to be necessary.”

  “You mean that you discovered the fact, without putting her to the embarrassment of confessing it,” returned her husband. “Then you were quite right to spare the question,” he added; “but would it not have been more honest, if you had given the second reason as number one?”

  “And so put my discretion in the background?” she rejoined. “When I have told you more, Sir husband, I think it very probable that you may accuse me of displaying rather too much, than too little discretion. All the intelligence I have to give you is, that I think I left Gertrude more easy at heart than I found her. For the rest, I do most earnestly, most humbly advise the most cautious avoidance, on our parts, of everything in the least degree approaching interference.”

  Adolphe looked at her with such an expression of comic surprise, that she laughed.

  “Thank Heaven!” he exclaimed. “It is, I assure you, Lucy, an immense comfort to see that your power of laughing has survived this mysterious visit. The profound gravity with which you uttered your humble advice rather frightened me. But now that the frigid solemnity of your aspect has begun to thaw a little, I hope we shall be able to understand each other. Alas! poor Gertrude!” he added, after the pause of a moment; “I suppose she has been imploring you not to repeat one single word of what she has said to you. God bless her, poor girl! She need not be afraid of me. I would help her if I could, though I do not know very well how to set about it; but, at any rate, she need not fear that I should betray her.”

  “Nor does she, Adolphe!” said Lucy, eagerly. “You have completely misunderstood me. The caution I enjoined was not dictated by her judgment, but by mine.”

  “And what indiscretion do you fear on my part, Lucy? Do you fancy, dearest, that I am likely to proclaim aloud to all who may be willing to listen, that I suspect the Baroness Gertrude von Schwanberg of being enamoured of her noble father’s librarian?”

  “Nonsense, Adolphe! You know I have no such fancy,” replied his wife, endeavouring to look more light-hearted than she felt. “All I meant was, that I think the misery of Gertrude would become incalculably greater than it is, if we either of us were to utter a word which, by being repeated to her father, might awaken his suspicion. Your affection for Rupert might (perhaps) lead you to speak of him to the baron as a man who would not disgrace any alliance. And that might prove quite enough to awaken a suspicion.”

  “Fear nothing of the kind, Lucy,” replied her husband. “I know the baron much too well to commit any such imprudence; BO be easy on that head, you dear, cautious, little soul! And tell poor Gertrude to he easy about it, also. It would be barbarous to let any unnecessary doubts and fears be added to her embarrassments. God knows there are few objects to which I would so readily devote myself as the bringing these two dear creatures together, as man and wife. Do make her understand this, Lucy, will you?”

  Lucy remained silent for a moment, and then she very demurely replied, “No, Adolphe. You must excuse me if I decline saying anything whatever on the subject to Gertrude. Nothing that I could say would add to the firm conviction which she has already of our true affection for her; and I am quite determined not to allude to the subject of her attachment in any way.”

  Adolphe looked at her stedfastly, and then performed one of those elongated, and very impertinent whistles, which indicate both disapproval and contempt.

  “Then I presume, dearly beloved wife,” he said, as soon as he thought proper to bring his very long whistle to a conclusion; “then I must presume that your confidential tête-à-tête together was so managed as to lead, if not to an absolute quarrel, at least, to a pretty decided estrangement.”

  “Then you will presume to make a great blunder, my dearly-beloved husband,” replied Lucy; “and if you were to out-whistle all the railroads in Europe, and America to boot, you would not persuade me to doubt for a moment the propriety of the resolution I have taken. So far from there being any estrangement between us, I do assure you, Adolphe, that we never parted more affectionately, nor with a more earnest wish to meet again, than we did to-day. Nevertheless, I am quite resolved that for the future I will most scrupulously avoid any allusion whatever to the attachment which you and I have agreed in thinking existed between her and your friend, Rupert Odenthal.”

  “And pray, Mrs. Mystery, have you any objection to telling me whether it is your present opinion that we have been mistaken on this point?” said Adolphe.

  “No, husband. I cannot say that anything which has passed between Gertrude and myself this morning has led to that conclusion,” she replied. “But the subject is one,” she added, “that ought not to be discussed between us. I have too much respect for her, and I might say too much reverence for her rectitude, and her judgment, to wish to influence her. She must judge entirely for herself, Adolphe; and I have a very firm persuasion that she will finally decide upon doing what is wisest and best both for herself and Rupert. I should be vastly delighted to congratulate them on their marriage.... but till the proper time for this arrives, she shall never hear the subject alluded to by me.”

  “Well, my dear, I daresay you are right, though I do not quite comprehend your tactics,” replied Adolphe, with his usual good-humoured gaiety of tone. “But at any rate,” he added more gravely, “nothing can have passed between you and Gertrude, which should prevent poor dear Rupert from having the comfort and consolation of opening his heart freely to me on the subject. That we are right in our conjectures respecting the important fact of Gertrude’s attachment to him, you do not, with all your caution and mystery, deny. This, of itself, is quite sufficient to justify my talking with him freely on the subject.”

  Lucy was in general a ready, as well as a rapid speaker, and by no means in the habit of leaving anyone who addressed her, to wait long for a reply. But now she sat silent, with her eyes riveted upon her husband, and a considerable augmentation of colour on her fair cheeks.

  Adolphe fixed his eyes upon her in return, for a minute or two, with a puzzled look; but, as she said nothing, he rose from his chair with a great bound, exclaiming, “Well! At least I shall have the satisfaction now, of talking to Rupert on the subject without any fear of deluding him into false hopes. I daresay he will call before the day is over. Au revoir! chère amie.”

  And having said these words, he quietly turned himself towards the door.

  He did not reach it, however, before the hand of Lucy had seized upon his arm. “My dear, dear Adolphe!” she exclaimed, looking very coaxingly in his face. “If you were not the best-tempered man in the world, as well as the most exemplary of husbands, I could not dare to make the petition I am about to do.... For I really feel that my interfering between you and your dearest friend, must appear to be an act of most detestable presumption. And yet, Adolphe, that is exactly what I am going to do. I am going to beg and entreat you, to say nothing whatever to Rupert on the subject of his attachment to Gertrude.”

  “You are coming out in a perfectly new character, Lucy,” replied her husband, looking considerably more grave than was usual with him.

  “Because I venture to give you advice, Adolphe?” she replied, dropping the arm she had seized upon, and looking still more solemn than he did himself.

  “No!” he returned quickly, and throwing his arm round her. “I do not mean that, Lucy, I should like t
o have your advice now, and always. But what puzzles me is your air of mystery. It is so unlike you.”

  “And in what does this mystery consist?” she replied. “I will tell you, Adolphe. It consists solely in my having nothing to tell you! Confess the truth!” she added, laughing; “you fancied that after a tête-à-tête with Gertrude, I must come home full of matter, and be able to tell you exactly on what terms these lovers stood together. Lover s I do certainly believe they are, but beyond that I know nothing; nor will I ever hint a wish to Gertrude, that she should confide to me anything that she may wish to conceal. So upon this point, dearest, you will always find me quite as mysterious as I am at present. For my own part, I am thankful that it is so! There is no way of keeping a secret so effectual, as carefully avoiding the knowledge of it.”

  “That is a truth, my dear, that I shall not venture to deny,” he replied, in his usual cheerful tone. “But the thing that puzzles me, Lucy, is not that you should be silent (though there is certainly something out of the common way in it), but that you should insist upon my being so likewise. I really think that the kindest thing I could do for my friend Rupert, would be the leading him to open his heart to me.”

  Lucy shook her head. “It might, perhaps, seem to be the kindest,” she replied, “but I am quite persuaded that it would not be the wisest. But as you have certainly the right to think yourself a better judge of this question than I can be, I will only ask you to indulge me in this whim, this notion of mine, for a very short time.”

  “And for how many days is this short time to last, Lucy?” he replied. “How long must I see this man, whom I love as if he were my brother, how long must I see him looking as miserable as he does now, and growing thinner and more hectic-looking every day, without giving him the consolation of knowing that I see no presumption in his love, and that I folly believe it is returned? For what length of time, Lucy, do you mean to insist upon my withholding this consolation from him?”

  “Insist!” repeated Lucy, again shaking her head. “That is not a pretty word, Adolphe! However, you are, upon the whole, very condescending, if not perfectly gracious, and I will be moderate and reasonable in my demands. Moreover, the delay I will ask from you shall be only conditional. All I ask is, that, just for the present, Rupert should be received here with the same cheerful welcome as heretofore; that no allusion should be made to his altered spirits, or his altered looks. Let this mode of treatment go on for a week or two, Adolphe! That is not very long, you know! If you will agree to this, on your part, I will agree on mine to withdraw all restriction on your confidential intercourse, provided that you do not perceive him to be improving in health and spirits. And in that case, perhaps, it may not be very long before he opens his heart to you.”

  “And in that case, Lucy, I shall be perfectly well contented, whether he opens his heart to me concerning this suspected love affair, or not. In the mean time, dear little wife, I readily subscribe to your conditions. Moreover, I will be honest enough to confess, that I think there is some wisdom in your counsel. If our surmises respecting their attachment be correct, we must confess, despite all our earnest wishes for its success, that it is a very thorny and difficult affair, and that, in good truth, our wishes and good-will cannot do much towards helping them.”

  Lucy put her loving arms round his neck, very unceremoniously pulled down his lofty head, and impressed a kiss upon his forehead.

  “If Gertrude does marry Rupert,” she said in a whisper, as if she were afraid the winds might hear it, “if she does, she will not have one quarter so charming a husband as I have.”

  CHAPTER L.

  EITHER from accident, or design, on the part of Gertrude, or on that of Lucy, or both, no long tête-à-tête meetings took place between them for some time; but, nevertheless, their intercourse was as frequent and as affectionate as ever.

  They often dined together, sometimes at the home of the one, and sometimes at that of the other; but it so happened, that Madame Odenthal was always of the party.

  As to the young men, their intimacy was in no degree less than heretofore; but, nevertheless, there seemed to be something fitful and capricious in the manner of it.

  It would, in truth, have been difficult for either of them, when within reach of the other, not to profit by the vicinity; for not only were they attached by the memory and the habits of many years of youthful friendship, but they had neither of them, as yet, ever met with any other man equally well qualified to satisfy both heart and intellect, as companion and friend.

  Neither hard reading nor deep thinking is greatly in fashion among noble Austrians; and such a young man as Adolphe Steinfeld, would probably have felt himself more at a loss to find a companion to suit him in the brilliant and crowded salons of Vienna, than in the remote seclusion of his father’s castle, for he found Rupert Odenthal within reach of him there.

  Improvements of all sorts are going on so rapidly in this busy little globe of ours, that we may reasonably hope to see these elegant salons, at no very distant date, becoming a little more intellectual, without becoming less graceful. A sprinkling of Lansdownes, Carlisles, and Lord Johns, would speedily cure the species of inanity which, if report says true, still lingers in the perfumed drawing-rooms of this imperial metropolis; but, as yet, a man, like Adolphe Steinfeld, who has passed his happiest hours in reading, thinking, and discussing with a kindred spirit, themes capable of transporting him, not only beyond the silken walls of a drawing-room, but a little, too, beyond the boundaries of this fair globe, called earth, is apt to prefer the forest to the Prater. And such, in fact, was very decidedly the case with Count Adolphe von Steinfeld.

  Perhaps it was because he had of late found his friend Rupert less prone than formerly to kindle with him into animation, at coming in contact with new trains of thought, that Adolphe just at this time conceived the project of writing a book; and it was thus he announced the project to his friend.

  “Rupert!” said he, as that languid individual “dragged his long length” into the snug little parlour which Adolphe especially called his own—” Rupert! my dear fellow! I am very especially glad to see you at this moment, for I have just decided a question which has for some time been working in my brain— ‘To write, or not to write, that is the question.’ And I have, within the last ten minutes, made up my mind in the affirmative. Rupert! I am going to write a book.”

  “I am very glad to hear it,” replied Rupert, with a languid smile. “And what is the subject?”

  “The title is to be ‘East and West; or, Meditations on the Rays that are Gone, and the Rays that are to Come,’”

  “A very pregnant theme,” replied Rupert, gravely. “How do you mean to treat it?”

  “The answer must be rather long, and very pedantic,” rejoined Adolphe. “It must he treated traditionally, historically, critically, and prophetically.”

  Rupert looked at him earnestly, and something like a gleam of awakened interest seemed to flash across his countenance for a moment. “Comprehensive, beyond all question,” he returned, with a smile, somewhat less languid. “What subject is there, relative either to Earth or Heaven, which may not fairly find its place under such a title?”

  “True, Rupert! Perfectly true! And why should we not write it together? I should never have conceived such an idea, had not the Schwanberg library been within reach. The good old baron will trust me with his volumes more freely than I should trust him with the inferences I may chance to draw from them. The prophetic pages, Rupert, might make him wince a little.”

  “No!” replied the librarian, the transient gleam fading from his countenance, and a look of the deepest dejection taking its place. “If he believed in your prophecies at all, Adolphe, he would place their fulfilment at too distant a date for the chance of it to give him any annoyance.”

  The look and the words together made a nearer approach to the forbidden theme than anything which had passed between them before; and Adolphe thought that it would not be very difficult
, by pushing this allusion to the baron’s feelings a little further, to make poor Rupert lay before him the most sacred secret of his heart.

  But Lucy had so earnestly begged him not to do this, and, in fact, he had so explicitly promised her not to do it, that he very honourably resisted the temptation, and suffered the conversation to settle itself on the books which he should first wish to borrow.

  Count Adolphe was quite in earnest when he announced this intention of writing a book; and being in earnest, he was by no means likely to set about the undertaking negligently.

  It might he very truly said, in the most important sense of the phrase, that Rupert had taught Adolphe to read; and the result of this teaching was every year becoming more and more apparent, more and more decided.

  Count Adolphe was by nature a man of clear, vigorous, and healthy intellect; but had he passed the last ten winters of his young life in the salons and boudoirs of Vienna, he would not now have been contemplating a work stretching from east to west, and embracing such bold meditations on the days that are gone, on those days which are yet to come.

  As it was, however, he was by no means unfitted for the task. It may occasionally happen, that meditations fairly deserving the epithet of deep thinking, may arise spontaneously in a healthful and active brain, even when unaided; but such meditations are marvellously nourished and strengthened by the constant companionship of thoughtful books and thinking men; and Adolphe was in a great degree what the Schwanberg library and his friend Rupert had made him.

  And Rupert still proved himself the same ready helper now, and the same earnest and helpful friend; but he was no longer the same sympathising fellow-student; and though all the matériel for this great work was collected and arranged under his direction, and by his assistance, poor Adolphe very soon became aware, that though his learning, and even his reasoning powers, were present, yet that the spirit was absent.