Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Pray do tell me some of them, mamma!” returned the child; “for I want very much to know all about it.”

  “One reason for my silence might perhaps be, that I know very little about it myself,” said the baroness; “and another certainly is, that I consider it very unlikely that you should ever find yourself in a situation to require the information you ask for.”

  “How can that be mamma?” said Gertrude, slightly knitting her beautiful brow; “is it not certain that I shall be my papa’s heiress?”

  “No, not quite certain,” returned her mother, carelessly; “for I may die before your father, and he might marry again, and have a son. But, even if this does not happen, there is very little danger, my dear, that you should ever be troubled about the management of the estate. Of course, you will marry, as other girls do, and there will be no more occasion for you to trouble yourself about the estate, than there is for me to do so.”

  There are no auditors in the world more amenable to the influence of common sense than children. There is neither fallacy nor puzzle in it, and there is always a sort of self-evident truth about it, which is to the mind what light is to the eye; and the statement that we believe what we see, is as correct respecting the one, as respecting the other.

  Gertrude troubled herself no more respecting the difficulties attending the management of her future dominions; but it was not very long before the idea suggested itself to her, that although she might never have much to do with the management of her estate herself, it would be proper for her to be very careful not to marry any one who was not well qualified to manage it for her.

  This task of selection, however, did not trouble her much; but, nevertheless, a tolerably firm resolution took root, almost unconsciously perhaps, in her young mind, that the said selection should be made by HERSELF.

  Her life, meanwhile, was one of almost unmixed enjoyment, for the wearisome dullness of her father was unfelt when she was galloping at his side, up hill and down dale, upon the very prettiest pony that ever carried a young heiress; and every hour passed with her mother was so enjoyable, that she only wondered how she could ever bear to leave her, even for a gallop; for when they were not talking together, or singing together, or drawing together, they were both reading, at no great distance apart, in the snug retreat afforded by the fine old library, where no chance visitors were ever permitted to enter, and from the threshold of which the magnificent master of the castle instinctively retreated, as if conscious that there was some quality in its atmosphere decidedly hostile to his constitution.

  Different people would have doubtless passed different judgments on the conduct of the baroness, respecting this reading portion of Gertrude’s education, had her system been made known. What was coarse and gross, was so repugnant to her own feelings, that she would no more have permitted anything of this nature to come in her daughter’s way, than she would have suffered poison to be mixed with her food; but she rather wished to encourage, than restrain the perusal of whatever argumentative works excited her interest, being deeply persuaded that TRUTH will make its way to the mind, wherever free discussion is permitted between herself and the blundering falsehoods by which she is perpetually assailed.

  Madame de Schwanberg’s idea on the subject was, that with a fair field, and no favour, there was no more danger that truth should be conquered in the strife, than that a six-foot grenadier should be overthrown by Tom Thumb.

  She had herself read much more widely and deeply than the majority of her sex, and her opinions upon many points still contested by mankind, were as firmly held as they were carefully formed; but she recognised no law which, in her opinion, could justify her insisting upon her daughter’s adopting her opinions; and Gertrude was in a fair way of profiting as largely by the baron’s polite liberality in the constant purchase of books, as her mother had been before her.

  But this is forestalling; for there are events of her childhood to be recorded, which occurred before the liberality of her parents, either in money or mind, enabled her to cater for herself in this particular.

  It would he doing great injustice to the paternal feelings of the Baron von Schwanberg to deny, that however constant he might be in theory, to his preference for a male heir, he had become, in practice, to be most fervently attached to his little daughter; and there was no page in the history of his country, that he now dwelt upon with so much pleasure, as that which recorded the greatness of MARIA TERESA. In short, if he had not changed his mind upon the superiority of a son to a daughter, he had, in a great degree, forgot to think about it; and in contemplating the beauty, the vivacity, and the high spirit of his heiress, he could find no room in his heart for any feelings but love and admiration.

  But, of all her accomplishments, he was decidedly most vain of her horsemanship. He was never weary of pointing out to all who would listen to him, the undaunted courage displayed by the little girl, when she accompanied him in the chase; and he believed, as firmly as that the earth was created by God, that the noble daring she displayed was derived from the untainted blood of her long descended line of ancestors.

  Such being his feelings on the subject, it may easily be supposed that he lost no opportunity of exhibiting her beauty, and her fearlessness on horseback, whenever he indulged his more aristocratic neighbours, by inviting them to hunt upon his land; and as the baroness had the most perfect confidence in the knowledge and discretion of her husband in all matters appertaining to the chase (the more perfect, perhaps, because unmixed with any suspicion of his superiority on any other subject); no objection was ever raised, on her part, to her daughter’s sharing in a pastime which she enjoyed with quite as much fervour as the baron himself.

  It happened soon after she had passed her twelfth birthday, that a grand hunt was proposed, in a direction not very frequently taken by the baron and his sporting friends, on account of the intervention of a stream that was not always easily fordable. But the young baroness having previously, with her father at her bridle-rein, tried her pony very successfully at the spot where they intended to cross, the party was arranged, and a gayer field had never been assembled at Schloss Schwanberg than that which left it upon this occasion. The weather was delicious. Every thing seemed to smile upon them; but, alas! “malignant Fate sat by, and smiled” too.

  It certainly was a very pretty sight; and the gay, blooming, fearless little Gertrude, making her spirited little pony pace daintily along, close to her father’s horse, was not the least attractive part of the spectacle.

  After about an hour’s riding, they reached the spot where they were to cross; and it was arranged between the baron and his friends, that they, and the servants, should all precede him and his precious charge, to prevent the possibility of frightening the pony by the unwonted sound of splashing hoofs behind him. They all made the passage without the slightest difficulty, the steep descent down the high bank beneath which the little river ran, being by far the greatest impediment to their progress. But Gertrude was far too good a horse-woman to mind this; and gathering up her reins in as scientific a manner as it was possible for the little hand to achieve, she reached the border of the stream as safely, and as gracefully too, as if she had been riding across her father’s lawn.

  “Now then, Gertrude,” said the baron, “put him to it. Let him step in.”

  Gertrude paused but a moment to gather up her long riding-dress, and obeyed. For the first few paces the little animal seemed to find no difficulty, and made none, but stepped as steadily forward as if conscious of the important duty he had to perform, and the necessity of being more than usually careful.

  The sheltering projection of the steep bank which they had just descended, so effectually impeded the current at the point where the road entered it, that its waters ran almost without a ripple; but having passed this shelter, Gertrude’s little steed stopped short, and neighed to his brethren who had preceded him, as if to consult them concerning his progress.

  It is true that he had crossed
at the same ford before, and had made no difficulty about it; but whether the largeness of the party of which he now made one had shaken his nerves, or that the stream ran deeper in consequence of more recent, or more abundant rain; in short, whatever the cause, he not only stood still, but shewed very evident symptoms of being frightened.

  Not so his high-spirited young reader. But if ignorance is bliss, it is not safety. It was evident that the pony was more aware of the real state of the case than Gertrude, or she would have patted him gently, and waited for her father, who followed her at the distance of a few feet; but instead of this, she gave her little favourite the sharpest touch of her whip that she had ever bestowed upon him, and in order to obey it, he made so great an effort that he was immediately taken off his feet, and the terrified baron had the misery of seeing his heiress floating down the stream, very evidently against her will. That it was against the pony’s will also, was equally evident; for though the action of his head and neck very plainly showed that he was endeavouring to obey the rein which Gertrude still held steadily in her hand, he was unable to do it. Her father’s first impulse was to follow her; but the powerful animal on which he was mounted had no intention of swimming, and strode resolutely onward to the bank, which the rest of the party had reached, without heeding either the heel or the hand of his rider.

  Meanwhile, more than one of the sportsmen who had crossed, turned their horses’ heads down the stream, in the hope of finding some point at which they might dash into the river, and by heading the pony and seizing his rein, be enabled to rescue the precious burden he was so evidently carrying to destruction. But this plan was more easily formed than executed. The bank on the side which the advanced party had reached rose rapidly, and the swimming pony had already passed the last point at which those who wished to rescue the young girl could possibly have reached the stream.

  At this terrible moment, when the thought had occurred to more than one of the party, that it was not the classic Tiber only which was destined to roll its waves over youth and beauty; it was it this terrible moment that the slight figure of a young lad was seen on the side of the river which they had just quitted, running with the swiftness of an antelope to some point which evidently he was desperately purposed to reach; and he had already outstripped the swimming pony, when he was seen to turn suddenly to a projecting ledge which overhung the river, and then hastily unclasping his belt, and divesting himself of the loose garment which would have impeded his purpose, he took a vigorous forward spring, which brought him within a few feet of the advancing pony and his helpless burden.

  After this plunge, the bold boy was for a moment lost to sight, and more than one of the gasping spectators of this frightful scene exclaimed, “He is gone!”

  He was not gone far, however, for, though he had sunk to a perilous depth beneath the surface of the water, he speedily rose again, and vigorously seizing the falling girl with his left arm, he swam with her, by the help of the right, to a little pebbly cove on the same side of the stream which he had just quitted, and the next moment she was lying, not dry, certainly, but high enough above the water to insure her for the present from any danger of being drowned.

  The scene which followed may he easily imagined. Not only the half-dead and half-bewildered father immediately set himself to discover the readiest mode of joining the dripping pair, who appeared lying side by side, and equally motionless, on the beach, but every individual of the party — masters and men — were evidently intent on the same object.

  It took not long to decide what was to be done.

  In the next moment the whole group were galloping back to the ferry, which they recrossed as rapidly as was consistent with their recently-acquired knowledge of its danger; and in a few minutes afterwards they reached a point of the cliff, down which they scrambled with no great difficulty, having dismounted, and consigned their steeds to the care of their servants; and then they very speedily reached the object of their anxiety.

  Poor Gertrude was perfectly insensible, and for a few terrible moments her miserable father believed she was dead. But more than one of his truly-sympathizing companions, though not a little flurried by the scene they had witnessed, were, nevertheless, sufficiently in possession of their senses to perceive that the adventure, perilous as it unquestionably had been, was not likely to end in so tragical a manner.

  As there was no one present likely to quote Shakspeare, and exclaim, “Too much of water hast thou” — a very sensible individual of the party ventured to try the experiment of applying a little more; and as he did this very judiciously, by dashing from a drinking-horn, which he carried in his pocket, a pretty copious libation of the fluid in her face, it proved to be, like many other things, both bane and antidote, according to the mode of its application, for the beautiful eyes of the young Gertrude immediately opened at its startling touch.

  She first breathed a somewhat sobbing sigh, and then looked about her, very much as if she wanted to find out where she was, and not at all as if she intended to die before she had satisfied herself on this point.

  There were several stout-hearted gentlemen present upon that occasion, who were heard to declare more than once, in the course of their subsequent lines, that they never should forget the countenance of the Baron von Schwanberg at the moment he first perceived that his daughter was alive.

  Of all the party present, he had perhaps been the only one who had even for a moment hopelessly and completely believed that she was dead; and his agony under this conviction had been terrible to witness. His heavy, haughty, but very handsome face, had assumed a sort of livid paleness, which it was frightful to look at; and the features had such an expression of misery, so fixed and immovable, that he looked as if turned to stone. The transition from this condition to the full conviction that he still possessed the precious heiress bestowed on him by Heaven (expressly for the purpose of proving the absurdity of the Salique law), produced an effect which, for an instant, seemed to overpower him, and he caught hold of the branch of a neighbouring tree, to prevent himself from falling; but, in the next, he was sufficiently recovered to be on his knees beside his treasure; and it certainly must have been a hard heart which could have witnessed the embrace which followed, without emotion.

  I have not, perhaps, on the whole described the Baron von Schwanberg in very agreeable colours; but, dull as he might have been on some points, he was not dull enough to be insensible to the immensity of the obligation which he owed to the poor boy who had saved his daughter’s life, and who was still lying on the bank beside her, very nearly as pale as herself; for he had dislocated his ankle while dragging the young lady to land, among the unsteady pebbles and stones of which the river, sometimes a very powerful stream, had thrown up a tolerably steep ridge.

  With one arm still clasped round his daughter, he employed the other in trying to raise the pale lad, who certainly did not at first give any very certain indications that his own life might not be the sacrifice he was doomed to pay for having preserved that of another; but, though in great pain from his ankle, he was neither dead nor insensible, and was soon sufficiently recovered to reply to the questions kindly, and even anxiously, put to him by the baron, as to the distance to his home, and the best way of conveying him thither.

  The brave boy’s reply to the first question was agreeable to the noble questioner in more ways than one, for it conveyed the information that he was the nephew of a priest well known in the neighbourhood, and that a short cut across the country would speedily bring him to the good man’s home, which, for the present, was his own also, as well as that of his mother, who was sister to the worthy and much-respected ecclesiastic.

  “I am glad to hear it, with all my heart!” exclaimed the baron, with great energy. “Your uncle shall become my confessor in the place of old Father Ambrose, who has grown too infirm to come to the castle, and too deaf to hear me confess. He shall he pensioned, and your uncle shall be promoted; and so shall you, too, my young hero, you may tak
e the Baron von Schwanberg’s word for that.”

  And then followed a consultation among the numerous group which was now assembled round them, as to the best method of conveying the lamed boy to his home; and as it became perfectly evident, upon his attempting to stand, that he was totally incapable of walking, it was speedily decided that the carriage, which was already sent for to convey the uninjured but dripping Gertrude, should convey her preserver to the castle likewise; while another domestic was dispatched to the Unterthal dwelling of the priest, to inform both him and his sister that the young Rupert was safe, and that both of them would be welcome at the Schloss Schwanberg, if they would come thither to visit him.

  There might be traced in the well-pleased tone in which the baron said this, a self-approving consciousness that the invitation thus given must necessarily be so highly gratifying to the persons to whom it was addressed, as to be almost of itself a fitting reward for the service it was intended to acknowledge.

  But the Baron von Schwanberg was no niggard either in his gratitude or in the manner in which it was his intention to show it; and having paused for a moment after pronouncing these flattering words, he added, in a tone that had a good deal of solemnity in its earnestness, “Nor will their welcome to the castle of Schwanberg be the only proof given by its lord of his gratitude for, and his admiration of, the high courage and the noble impulse by which the life of his heiress has been preserved.”

  The pale-faced hero of the adventure, for pale he still was, and still suffering considerable pain, contrived nevertheless, to smile as he replied, with a disclaiming shake of the head, “There is nobody in the world, I believe, my Lord Baron, who would not have done just the same thing, if he had happened to have been by.”

  “It is well and highly becoming that you should say so, my good boy,” returned the baron, with a gracious nod; “but it would be quite the reverse of this, if I could either think or say so.”