Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  This discovery put a very speedy stop to the literary labours of the young Count. The original idea of such an undertaking probably owed its birth to the notion that Rupert might be led to take such an interest in it as to conquer the languor which seemed to have taken possession of his mind, as well as of his body. But it took a very short time to convince the ambitious young author that if he laboured at all, he must labour alone; and, worse still, that if he submitted a deeply meditated page of the most original thinking to his friend, he would have forgotten the beginning, before he reached the conclusion of it.

  Adolphe’s literary enthusiasm was by no means ardent enough to resist such a check as this; and the enterprise was quietly abandoned without a word being spoken to explain, or even to announce this change of purpose. But the employment which had been furnished by preparing notes and references for this mighty undertaking, had sufficed, while it lasted, to keep Count Adolphe’s mind so constantly occupied, as to render it a very easy matter for him to keep his promise to Lucy; for not only had it prevented his dwelling upon the much-changed aspect of his friend, but it so far occupied Rupert himself, as very naturally to suggest the idea that his condition was improving, and that whatever might be his malady, whether of mind or body, he was better.

  But scarcely had the ambitious young author resigned himself to his disappointment, and recommenced his former habits of reading, instead of writing, than it really seemed as if this change had wrought a sudden and most complete cure in the health of his friend. If he had been better before, he was well now; and so sudden and so striking was the improvement, that he positively began to think that he must himself have been in some degree the cause of the heavy oppression of spirits under which his sensitive friend had been suffering.

  “Lucy! I do believe I have found out the real source of Rupert’s malady, and what is infinitely more important, I think he is cured!”

  “l am very glad of it,” replied Lucy, with a heightened colour, and a happy smile.

  “Nay, my dear, I don’t see why you need blush about it,” returned Adolphe; “though perhaps, when I have told you all, you may be of opinion that I have cause to blush, though you have none. I have made no secret to you of the book-writing vision which has passed over me, but you do not know the whole history of it. To the best of my recollection, this nervous malady (for such it certainly was) began to show itself immediately after my father left home, and it was very soon after this, if you remember, that Rupert first began to droop, and show evident symptoms; first, of declining spirits, and then of declining health. You may remember this, but you cannot remember, because I took care that you should know nothing about it, that just at the very same time I was brooding by day, and dreaming by night, of my ridiculous project of writing a book. Did I ever talk to you about it in my sleep, Lucy?”

  “Certainly not,” she replied; “or if you did, my dear,” she added, “it must have been in a very gentle voice, for it never waked me.”

  “I am thankful to hear it,” resumed Adolphe, very solemnly; “for had it been otherwise, I might have brought a nervous fever upon you, as well as upon poor Rupert.”

  “But how is it possible, Adolphe, that your notion of writing a book could have given Rupert a nervous fever?” she replied. “It might have produced that effect upon yourself; but I really doubt if his sympathy could have gone to such an extent as to cause him a nervous fever.”

  “That is only because you don’t know to what an excess I tormented him, poor fellow!” replied her husband. “The proof that I am right, Lucy, may be found in the fact, that when I ceased to expatiate on my grand theories, and set him to work on the matter-of-fact process of looking out books for me, and marking any particular passages which he thought might be useful, he almost immediately began to look better.”

  “Really!” said Lucy, gravely. “That is very remarkable.”

  “Decidedly, it is very remarkable,” rejoined her husband; “and so remarkable, that it seems strange you should not have observed it. Did you not observe that the last time we dined at Schwanberg he was vastly more cheerful and conversable than we have lately seen him?”

  “Yes, I did perceive it,” returned Lucy; “and if I did not say anything about it, the reason, probably, was, that I thought his improved looks, and greater cheerfulness, might be only accidental. It might have been produced, you know, merely by the circumstance of our dining there.”

  “It was more likely to have been produced by the circumstance of my having ceased to plague him about my confounded book,” said Adolphe. “But, my dear child, the improvement you remarked then, is not worth mentioning in comparison to what you may see now. And I can explain the reason of that, too; though the doing so, gives a painful pinch to my vanity. But the real truth is, Lucy, that I announced to him in good set terms, a few days ago, that I had abandoned my writing scheme altogether; and I give you my word of honour, that I have never seen a melancholy expression upon his features since.”

  “Well, Adolphe!” replied his wife, with every appearance of being perfectly satisfied, “I am sure you will easily forgive and forget the pinch to your vanity, and only remember the comfort of seeing poor, dear Rupert look like himself again.”

  CHAPTER LI.

  THE return of the widower Count von Steinfeld to his paternal mansion was still delayed; and as a beautiful autumn was beginning to fade into something very like gloomy winter, both Count Adolphe and his young wife began to think that the wide old house, with its multitude of useless rooms and long galleries, would be but a melancholy winter residence; and the more so, as Lucy was not in very strong health, and quite unable to enjoy the riding and walking, which constitute so large a proportion of country amusement. The old Count was at Vienna, and as he had more than once expressed a very earnest wish that they should join him there, Adolphe began to think that it would be both dutiful and agreeable to comply with his request.

  Upon the arrival of a letter in which this proposal was very strongly urged, and backed with the assurance, that he had just seen excellent apartments, amply sufficient to accommodate them, at no great distance from his own; the last shadow of reluctance at the idea of leaving the home he loved, seemed to vanish from the mind of Adolphe, and he said, “Lucy, I should like to go, and I should like to show you Vienna. Do you think you are well enough to undertake such a journey?”

  “Adolphe!” she replied, “if you really wish to go, how comes it that you have never told me so before? I quite agree with you in thinking that this grand old mansion will be much less agreeable in the winter than the summer. And as to the journey, I think it will do me a great deal of good. All the country is new to me, and I don’t want to travel through it full galop. Why did you not tell me before, Adolphe, that you wished to go?”

  “Because I knew that in that case you would have said yea, however much you might have preferred saying nay. It is only since the arrival of this last letter, that I began to think that you would really like it too.”

  “You are an accurate observer, my dear Adolphe. It is only since the arrival of this last letter, that I have really wished to go. You will not, I presume, be much surprised when I tell you that I have a very great affection for the Baroness Gertrude; and my affection for her will prove a great deal more constant than yours did; for I am quite sure that I shall never be cured of it, not even if the old baron, as in your case, were to quote the ‘Almanack de Gotha’ to me, in proof that I had no right to love her at all. In short, Adolphe, she is my only real sister, and if she were my twin, I do not think I could love her better. But you look as if you did not comprehend why this sisterly affection should influence my wishes respecting the going to Vienna, or remaining here.”

  “Then my looks are very honest looks, Lucy,” he replied, “and they speak the exact truth. I do not see what this very natural and praiseworthy affection has to do with our complying with my father’s request.”

  Lucy looked at him earnestly for a moment, to ascer
tain whether his total ignorance of her wishes were real, or feigned; but she speedily became convinced that there was no feigning in the matter, and that if she wished to be understood, she must explain herself distinctly.

  “The truth is, Adolphe,” she said at length, “that there is nothing in the world I should like so much as taking her with us.”

  “Take the Baroness Gertrude to Vienna, and leave the baron without her?” exclaimed Adolphe, in unfeigned astonishment. “My dearest Lucy! I should be delighted to let you have your wish gratified, if I believed it possible; but I feel about equally certain, that neither the father nor daughter would consent to the separation. I should have thought that you must have known as well as I do, that the baron was never separated from her for twenty-four hours together.”

  “Yes. I know,” replied Lucy, colouring; “I know perfectly well that they are devoted to each other. But, perhaps, you will not think me so unreasonable, when I tell you that Gertrude is in great want of the services of a really skilful dentist; and Vienna, you know, is famous in this respect. Madame Odenthal says, that her only chance of saving one of her beautiful front teeth, which has a very threatening spot upon it, is by going to Vienna, and having it properly attended to.”

  “Well, dear wife, I leave the whole affair entirely to you,” returned Adolphe; “I am sure I need not tell either you or Gertrude, that I should be delighted to have such an addition to our party. But when did you first form the wish of taking her with you, Lucy? Has this defect in her splendid teeth only been discovered now?”

  “You mean to allude to my indifference about going to Vienna at all?” returned Lucy. “But I can easily explain that, Adolphe. From your father’s first letter on the subject of our joining him, I thought he was inviting us to take up our abode in the same house with him, and I could not think of taking the liberty of proposing an additional guest. But this last letter says, you know, that he has seen apartments that will suit us; and as this, of course, indicates a distinct residence, I can have the great delight of my friend’s society, without producing any inconvenience to him.”

  “That is quite true, Lucy. And as houses are often said to be elastic in accordance to the wishes and will of the mistress, I have no doubt that you will find means to accommodate our fair friend, although my father’s letter only states that these apartments will suffice for us.”

  “Where there is a will, there is a way,” replied Lucy, gaily.

  “I have no doubt that we shall make ourselves exceedingly comfortable.”

  “And pray, my dear, do you mean to undertake the task of proposing this startling scheme to the baron?” he added.

  “Yes, Adolphe!” she very boldly answered. “I do not mean to insinuate that he is as much in love with me as he was with my sister Arabella,” she continued; “but nevertheless, I think I have influence enough to obtain his consent to it.”

  “I should not be at all surprised if he were to propose to go too,” rejoined her husband, with a very comic expression of dismay on his countenance.

  “Set your heart at ease on that point,” replied Lucy, laughing heartily; “if he were to hint at such a proposal, I would tell him candidly that you were of too jealous a disposition to make such a scheme desirable.”

  “And Rupert? what will reconcile poor Rupert to such a barbarous proposal?” said Adolphe, very gravely. “You are one of the kindest-hearted little angels in the world,” he added; “but surely you are very thoughtless!”

  “Remember our resolution, Adolphe,” returned his wife.

  “Remember that we agreed not to interfere in any way between them in reference to their supposed attachment. If the invitation I wish to give Gertrude is, for any reason, such as it would be painful to her to accept, be very sure that she has savoir faire enough to decline it, without betraying to me any secrets which she may wish to conceal.”

  “Set off, then, and make the proposal,” said Adolphe, seizing the bell-rope. “I am going to order the carriage for you at once, Lucy. You are such an impetuous, self-willed little creature, that it is lost labour to talk common sense to you. But I confess I shall feel considerable curiosity to learn the success of your enterprise. Shall we have a bet, Lucy? I will bet you five to one that the baroness declines your invitation. Will you take it?”

  “Yes!” she replied, promptly, but immediately added, with a considerable augmentation of colour, “no, I will not make any bet upon the subject. If Gertrude refuses to go with us, the disappointment will be quite mortification enough for me, without my losing a bet.”

  No farther time was lost in discussion. Horses, carriage, bonnet, and cloak were all promptly supplied, and the young Countess set off on her expedition.

  The reader is already too well aware of the sincere affection which subsisted between the Baroness Gertrude and the Countess Adolphe, for it to be at all necessary that I should describe at any great length the scene which passed between them upon this occasion. It was very soon evident to the kind-hearted Lucy that her friend was very well disposed to accept her invitation; but they neither of them forgot that whatever readiness there might be on the part of Gertrude, she was not sufficiently a free agent to give a definitive answer before she had consulted her father.

  “Go to him, then, immediately!” said the eager Lucy, “and let me know his reply before I return home.”

  Gertrude shook her head. She had been too long accustomed to the slow and ponderous movements of her father’s mind, to wish that her friend should remain waiting for the result.

  “But Adolphe will be so much disappointed if I return to him before the question is settled!” exclaimed Lucy. “Let me wait,” she added, coaxingly. “Here are books enough, without going beyond your sofa, Gertrude, to amuse me much longer than it is possible your father can detain you, whiles he is weighing the comparative advantages of saying yes or no.”

  But the Baroness Gertrude probably knew considerably better than her friend, the length of time which it was not only possible, but probable, her father might take before delivering his answer, or, at any rate, before there was the least chance of his having said all that he might wish to say on the subject. After fondly and very gratefully embracing her therefore, she saw her drive from the door, before she turned her anxious and not unembarrassed steps to the apartment where her father was sitting.

  Father Alaric and the backgammon-board were both ready for use before him, but both were immediately dismissed as soon as Gertrude made her appearance, the baron condescendingly bending his head to his anointed friend, as he hinted to him that if he wished for an interval of holy meditation in the chapel of the castle, he could not find a better opportunity for it; adding, “I will let you know, my good father, by the entrance of one of my people into the chapel, as soon as I find myself again at leisure to receive you.”

  CHAPTER LII.

  “I AM going to ask a very great favour of you, my dear father,” said Gertrude, bending over him, “but I feel quite sure you would grant it, if you could understand how much I wish for it.”

  “Then I am sure I shall not refuse it, my dear,” said the old gentleman, kissing her. “Sit down in your own place here, close to me, and tell me what it is.”

  “You arc always so kind to me, my dearest father,” resumed Gertrude, “that I do not much fear you will refuse me, but yet I think that it is possible you may feel surprised at my request, for it is one quite unlike any which I ever made you before. I want you, dear father, to consent to my going for a few weeks, or it may be for a month or two, to Vienna, with the Count and Countess Adolphe. She is very anxious that I should go with her, and I must confess that I do feel a very great wish to go.”

  “And it is very natural that you should wish to see such a metropolis as Vienna, my dear child,” replied the baron, who, to say the truth, was so constantly in the habit of admiring and approving every word his daughter uttered, that he would have experienced great difficulty in finding any fitting phrase which could have ex
pressed a different feeling.

  “I told our friend, Lucy, that I knew you were too kind to refuse me,” returned Gertrude, affectionately kissing his forehead. —

  “To be sure,” said the old man, pondering, “it will seem rather strange to me at first, Gertrude. But as you will be staying with the Count and Countess von Steinfeld, you will not require such a suite as was necessary when we made our excursion to Paris. You will not think it necessary to be attended by my secretary?”

  Poor Gertrude coloured violently; but it mattered not, for the eyes of the meditative baron were fixed upon the carpet while deciding in his own mind the equally important question as to the possibility of her also dispensing with the services of Madame Odenthal. But all his anxiety upon this really very important question was speedily removed by Gertrude’s laughing gaily, as she replied, “No, no! dear papa! I must have no suite of my own, you know, if, you trust me to the protection of our dear Countess.”

  “Then you do not wish to take Madame Odenthal with you, my dear?” said the baron, with very unwonted eagerness of manner.

  “It would be quite impossible to think of it,” replied his daughter, very gravely, and in a tone which plainly indicated that such a proposal would be a breach of etiquette. “If we decide, my dear father, that the Countess von Steinfeld is a proper chaperone for me, my taking any one else in the same capacity would not only be unnecessary, but uncivil.”

  “I daresay you are right, my dear. Ladies understand things of this nature very much better than gentlemen. Then you do not propose, my dear,” he continued, “to take any of my people with you, excepting your own maid?”

  “Nay, papa, I do not even propose to take her. I shall be waited upon entirely by that excellent person whom the Countess calls ‘Nurse Norris.’ I have taken a great affection for her. And besides, I do not think that there will be any room for Teresa.”