Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  His lady, on the other hand, was not only blessed with that excellent gift in woman — a gentle voice, but she was habitually, especially on matters of business, a succinct, rather than a verbose, speaker; and the value accorded respectively to their words by the doctor, might be fairly compared to that given to a huge copper penny-piece, and a tiny golden half-sovereign.

  In reply to this gentle hint respecting the “baron’s wishes,” she said nothing, but she made a slight movement with her head; and thereupon it was as well understood between them, that the baron was to make as much fuss as he liked, without let or hindrance of any kind, and that everything required for the comfort of the boy, should be furnished without any fuss at all — as if they had discussed the subject for an hour.

  The positive commands of the baron, aided by the persuasive urgency of his lady, caused the messenger dispatched for Father Alaric to perform his errand both fleetly and featly; but it was not till about half-an-hour after he had set off, that the slowpaced baron was made to recollect, that although the messenger he had sent was well mounted, those he had been sent to summon, were not likely to be mounted at all, and might therefore be some hours before they could reach the castle.

  How strictly the baroness thought it best to adhere to her resolution of not interfering in any way, was proved by her making no observation on the subject of their conveyance; and she only learnt the fact of its having been omitted, by Gertrude asking, “What carriage had been sent?”

  Fortunately, however, the baron had thought fit to repeat his visit to his daughter’s room soon after the messenger had been dispatched; and almost the first words she uttered after he entered, were, “You are a dear, good papa, for sending for the poor boy’s parents! What carriage have you sent for them? Not the great coach, I hope, it will be so long coming!”

  “Carriage! my dear child! Mercy on me! I never thought about a carriage. His uncle is only a village priest, my love, and his mother is of the same modest class. I don’t suppose they ever rode in a coach in their lives, Gertrude!”

  “But what difference does that make, papa? They can’t fly like the birds, you know, though they do not keep a coach. And if you do not send some carriage for them, it is quite clear that they won’t be here to-night. And do just think, papa, what a dreadful thing it would be for me, if I were ill, instead of this dear, good boy, and had to wait hours, and hours, and hours, before I could see mamma!”

  “My noble-hearted Gertrude!” exclaimed the baron, with great energy; “how exactly your generous feelings answer to my own! I was to blame in not coming to you before I dispatched my messenger. But in my haste to serve these poor people, I positively forgot what it was most essential to remember! Excuse my leaving you so abruptly, my dear girl; but you, at least, are aware, if nobody else is, that it is, and ought to be, my first object at this moment to obtain every assistance and comfort for the young hero who hazarded his own life to preserve that of my daughter.”

  There was just enough emphasis in the pronunciation of the word my, as might suggest the idea, that if the person saved had been any other man’s daughter, the saving part of the adventure might not have taken place; and a sort of half glance from the saucy bright eyes of Gertrude towards her mother, might have been received by a less discreet person, as a commentary upon it. But upon this occasion, as upon many similar ones, the baroness appeared to be rather short, or, perhaps, dim-sighted, for no glance whatever was vouchsafed in return.

  It is not improbable, that the baron might have lingered some time longer at the bed-side of this important daughter, (for he certainly felt inclined to dilate a little upon various points of his own conduct, all tending to prove that he was the most generous, as well as the most noble of men,) had not Gertrude sent him off by clapping her hands, and exclaiming, “Go! go! go! my dear, darling, noble baron of a papa, or these poor, dear belongings of your hero will be struggling about the road in the dark, before the carriage can reach them.”

  The baron obeyed in a moment, as, to say the truth, he was very apt to do, when the will of his daughter was made known to him by her own irresistible lips. He only lingered at the door for one moment, to say, “If anything could add to my happiness in witnessing your present safety, my beloved child, it would be, the perceiving that your high-born spirit is in exact accordance with my own, in the feelings of gratitude due to your preserver!”

  For about a minute after the door closed upon him, there was silence between the mother and daughter; and this, also, was apt to occur when the grandiose lord of the castle disappeared from before them, after having pronounced one of those high-sounding harangues which it was his delight to utter, and which it might have been somewhat amusing to them to hear, had not a sense of propriety, or, perhaps, even a feeling of duty, checked the mirth of both.

  It generally happened, however, after one of these decorous pauses, that the next words exchanged between them were of a purport, and in a tone, which might justify a laugh; and so it was now; for Gertrude broke the silence by exclaiming, as she half sat, and half lay upon her bed:

  “What a joke it is, mamma, to see me lying here, as if I too had dislocated a limb! Will you please to give me leave to get up? And will you please to give my respects to Madam Agatha, and tell her, when she makes her next visit, that I only got up, because I could not lie any longer in bed?”

  And without waiting for an answer, the wilful young lady was upon her feet in a moment, and, investing the said little feet in the silken slippers which stood in waiting for them, began frolicking about the room in a style that gave very satisfactory proof that she, at least, was not at all the worse for the morning’s adventure.

  CHAPTER VII.

  THE day was by this time drawing to its close, but there was still an hour of good driving light left, and the mother and daughter began to speculate upon the probability that the carriage might return before the hour at which the baroness usually retired to rest.

  “I shall not like to go to bed, Gertrude, till I see the mother of this dear boy sitting beside him,” said she.

  “And I shall not like to go to bed to-night till you do, mamma,” replied the young lady, with somewhat of the accent of spoilt-child pertinacity.

  But Gertrude was only partially spoilt, not thoroughly; the spoiling stopped short of the heart, though the head sometimes showed symptoms of giddiness from it; and when, upon the present occasion, she saw her mother looking pale and harassed, upon her reiterating her wish to remain watching, she instantly changed her tone, and said, “Don’t look so grave, dearest mamma! I am ready to go to bed again this moment, if you wish it.”

  It was therefore alone that the very anxious baroness awaited the return of the carriage. The baron’s noble feelings kept him in very unusual activity till his usual hour of retiring to rest; but having eaten his supper, and inhaled the last breath of his beloved pipe, he announced to his lady that it was his intention to retire to his own apartment.

  “Of course, my dear, you will retire to yours,” he added. “I have given orders that several servants shall remain up all night, or, at least, till the carriage returns with the relatives of the heroic boy who has insured my gratitude for life; and the gratitude of You Schwanberg can neither slumber nor sleep, whatever his eyes may do. But I mean not for a moment to insinuate that I wish for any watchfulness on your part. On the contrary, I rather wish to make it evident that the gratitude of the Baron von Schwanberg is sufficient, without the aid of any other human being, to repay whatever obligations may have been, or can be, bestowed upon him. Good night, my dear lady! Good night!”

  The obedient baroness returned the salutation, and retired.

  Gertrude had already been fast asleep for an hour or two; and when at length Teresa, in obedience to her instructions, gave her mistress notice that the baron’s personal attendant had left him snoring; she quickly took her way to the sick boy’s bed-side, and having dismissed the watchers, who by the baron’s orders were hanging about h
im — retaining only her faithful Agatha as her companion — she prepared to pass the hours which might yet intervene before the arrival of his mother, in watching his feverish slumbers, and administering the medicines which had been prepared by Dr. Nieper for his use.

  Notwithstanding the promptitude with which the suggestion of Gertrude had been obeyed, night had ceased to be at odds with morning before the carriage returned. For the roads of the short cut, which had been ventured upon by the coachman, had never been intended, in their best days, for the accommodation of so dignified a visitor as a four-wheeled carriage; and they were now so much the worse for the wear, that the frightened pair, in whose honour it was sent, had to trust to their feet more than once in the course of their trajet, in order to save their bones from the danger of an overturn.

  It was not much past three in the morning, however, when the equipage and its anxious passengers arrived at Schloss Schwanberg.

  Notwithstanding the sleepy propensities which generally prevail at that hour, there were enough watchers ready to conduct the expected guests to the chamber where they were so impatient to be.

  The baroness, who had been much too anxious for their arrival, to have enjoyed any repose deserving the names of sleep, heard the approach of the carriage, and was standing outside the door of the sick boy’s room, as the priest and his sister reached it.

  The baroness, being wrapped in a very simple white dressing-gown, with her usual night-gear on her head, suggested no idea to her visitors, as she extended a welcoming hand to each, but that of a sweetly kind-looking attendant, who was attentively awaiting their arrival, with friendly anxiety, but without weariness or impatience. Their address to her, therefore, was perfectly unrestrained and unceremonious. “How is he?” said the priest, fixing his mild, anxious eyes upon her face.

  And, “Is he alive?” said the pale mother, with an almost convulsive pressure of the hand that welcomed her.

  “More quiet. Much more quiet,” replied the baroness, at once perceiving, and rejoicing at their mistake; for the wearisome parade of her proud husband, had for years made her rank a burthen to her, and it was a positive relief to be thus addressed as a woman, and not as a sovereign “Lady Baroness” And those whispered words, accompanied by a kindly return of the pressure her own hand had received, were followed by her saying, “Now you are come to bless his eyes whenever he opens them, I feel confident, quite confident, that all will go well.”

  The trio then entered the room together, and the effect of the first glance exchanged between the mother and the son was very painful, for it was quite evident that he did not know her.

  As the fact that the poor boy had become delirious was already known by every one who had approached him for many hours past, there was nothing in this which could justify the increased alarm which seemed to seize upon the baroness and her servants; but the agony of the mother, at finding herself stared at by him as a stranger, was so great, that it was impossible to witness it without sympathy; and not only the gentle Madame de Schwanberg herself, but her handmaids also, were soon weeping for company.

  As for the good priest, though he had certainly visited more sick beds than his companions, and might therefore be expected to witness even this most painful symptom of fever with more philosophy, he seemed as much overpowered as the rest; and when he kneeled down, and took from his bosom the well-worn book from whence he was wont to draw the doctrines of resignation and hope, his tears flowed so abundantly, that he could scarcely articulate.

  Till now, the hopeful opinion which Dr. Nieper had given of the boy’s case, had so effectually sustained the spirits of those who were left in attendance on him, that the notion of his dying had scarcely occurred to any of them after he had uttered it; for his judgment was held in high estimation at Schloss Schwanberg; but now all favourable predictions were forgotten, and there was no one present, who did not begin to think that they were watching at the bed of death. The feelings of the baroness were not only those of a woman, but of a mother; and the true sympathy with which she beheld the intense misery of the unhappy Madame Odenthal, produced so violent an effect upon her, that Teresa, who was beside her, and who had been terrified by the condition to which their alarm for Gertrude had reduced her in the morning, very properly used a little gentle violence to make her leave the room. It may be doubted, however, whether the remonstrances of her waiting-woman would have proved so effective, if the experienced old housekeeper had not whispered in her car,

  “My master will be so vexed if he finds that you are here! He will be sure to know all about it, if you stay longer.”

  The only reply of the baroness was a very slight nod, but she remained no longer in the room than was necessary for the arranging that every comfort and accommodation possible, under the circumstances, should be provided for her sorrowing guests; and when this was accomplished, she again took the hands of Madame Odenthal in her own, and having repeated the assurance she had before given, that the doctor would be with them by the break of day, she pressed the poor woman’s forehead with her lips, and left her.

  “Who is that sweet, kind-looking woman?” said Madame Odenthal, to one of the servants, as soon as the baroness had left the room.

  “Woman!” repeated the housemaid, with a look of dismay; “that is the Baroness von Schwanberg, the lady of the castle.”

  “The baroness? The lady of the castle?” repeated the good woman, with a look of dismay. “Oh dear! oh dear! what dreadful falsehoods people do tell! All the country round says, that though they are good and charitable, they are too proud to be spoken to. Why, if she was as poor as I am, she could not be more kind and gentle; and yet it is the saying of the whole country, that they are the very proudest.”

  “Pooh! pooh! old lady, you are talking nonsense,” said the sagacious Agatha. “There can only be one at a time, you know, that is the very proudest — and my lady is not that one, you may take my word for it.”

  As the Frau Odenthal was by no means a stupid woman, it is very possible that she might guess who the individual was, who had a right, in this matter, to be honoured with the superlative degree. She was much too discreet, however, to ask any further questions, but quietly sat herself down beside the bed on which her son lay, but with a curtain between them; for she thought, and, perhaps, with reason, that though it was evident he did not know her, yet there was a sort of restless, painful, puzzled look in his eye, when it met hers, which seemed to indicate that though not recognised as his mother, she was not wholly forgotten, and that her presence, if he were conscious of it, might disturb, though it could not soothe him.

  The priest, meanwhile, as is usual, I believe, with all the professional individuals of his communion, selected as convenient a corner as might be for the purpose of kneeling down; but in no outward respect does the reformed church differ more essentially from the unreformed than in such moments as these. It is difficult while watching a Roman priest under such circumstances, to believe that his thoughts even accompany, still less that they inspire, the words he mutters; and, if it be otherwise, who is there that will venture to deny that such service is a dangerous mockery? Nevertheless, Father Alaric was a very worthy man; and, if he “prayed the gods amiss,” it was the fault of his teaching and not of his character.

  The hours which followed till the day broke, and the doctor arrived, were as miserable for all the parties concerned as such hours always must be. Anxiety and weariness possessed them wholly, though not exactly in equal proportions throughout the group.

  The baron was habitually an early riser, but, upon this occasion, he quitted his room a full hour before his usual time; for having learned that the mother and uncle of the boy had arrived during the night, and also that Dr. Nieper was expected at daybreak, he was steadfastly determined, as it was well possible for a gentleman to be, that his noble sense of the service which had been rendered him should be made manifest to everybody in the most striking manner possible.

  And, assuredly, the doctor w
as a good deal surprised upon entering the sick boy’s room, to find that he had been preceded by this high and mighty personage.

  But his emotion upon this unexpected occurrence was as nothing when compared to that experienced by Father Alaric and his sister.

  The great object of the Baron von Schwanberg’s life had been to impress the whole country round with an idea of his greatness; nor had these unceasing efforts been in vain, for he was not only considered the greatest man in the neighbourhood, but as being probably one of the greatest in the empire — the Kaiser and his race excepted. When, therefore, his tall person, his brocaded dressing-gown, his embroidered cap, and his velvet slippers entered the room where the sick boy lay, the effect he produced was everything he could desire.

  The sleepy priest, who had been sitting humbly on a low straw chair, with his head resting on the back of another, started to his feet with a degree of agility which persons of his profession are seldom seen to exhibit; and, crossing His hands reverently upon his breast, bowed low his head, with a look that had more of veneration in it, than of mere respect from one man to another; but he did not venture to utter a syllable.

  The unwearying mother, who was still bending over her child, and soothing herself with the idea that he breathed more tranquilly, raised her eyes as the door opened, and beheld the overpowering spectacle with a degree of emotion that caused her pale cheek to become crimson.

  The two female servants who had been commanded by the baron to remain in the room, started from their respective attitudes of repose, and looked very considerably startled by this unexpected apparition. But the almost awful emotions caused by it were speedily relieved by the entrance of Dr. Nieper, who followed him into the room; for the baron had timed his visit well, assisted by the obedient watchfulness of his valet, and mounted the stairs as the doctor dismounted from his horse.