“As to all that sort of thing, my dear child,” returned the baron, “I shall by no means interfere, for I consider you to be a much better judge of such questions than it is possible for me to be. But there is another point, my beloved child, upon which I feel that it is my especial duty to speak. Though I am quite aware,” he continued, with great dignity, “though I am perfectly aware that persons of my rank are, generally speaking, much longer lived than the great majority of ordinary individuals, yet I am, nevertheless, not insensible to the fact, that I myself, in common, however, with emperors and kings, am growing old.
“Old is, indeed, a word,” he resumed, after allowing himself a short pause for reflection; “old is a word which ought properly to be only applied to persons of inferior station; at least, it does not recur to my memory, that I have ever heard such a phrase as ‘great old man,’ whereas ‘poor old man’ is perpetually repeated. But, nevertheless, though I am, I trust, in no way ungrateful to Providence for the many special blessings graciously bestowed on myself, and to the class whereunto I belong, it would partake of the nature of falsehood, were I to deny that I am conscious of increasing age. It is this consciousness, my beloved Gertrude, which causes me so cordially to approve the plan you now propose. I am perfectly aware that your position in life is such as to render the great retirement of my ancestral castle objectionable, if not varied by occasional absence, but I am fully aware also, my dear child, that I owe it to myself, and to my exalted station in life, not to expose my health to any unnecessary risk; and for that reason I am extremely well pleased that you should take advantage of the opportunity now offered you, of seeing Vienna, and all the splendour of the court and capital, without my risking my health to obtain it for you.”
Long as this speech was, Gertrude listened to every syllabic of it with pleasure, and a pleasure, too, that was quite unexpected. She knew her father’s unbounded indulgence too well, to expect any very vehement opposition to her wishes; but his declaring himself so cordially pleased by the scheme, was certainly beyond her hopes.
Having again embraced, and thanked him cordially for his ready acquiescence in her plan, she was about to leave him; but he stopped her, by saying, “You must not go yet, my dearest Gertrude; I have more to say to you, and that too, on a subject most important. You will, doubtless, easily guess my dear child, that I allude to the probability of your being addressed, it may be by many persons, with proposals of marriage. We must, doubtless, both of us, be aware that this subject has been made painful to us by the disgraceful conduct of an individual whose name has never, I believe, passed our lips since we turned away from the city which he disgraced by his residence; and I only allude to him now, in order to account for the wish which I am about to express to you, and that is, that you would make me a solemn promise not to receive, or listen to proposals of marriage from anyone, however high his rank, or however large his revenue, without first referring him to me. Will you consent to give me this promise, my dearest Gertrude?”
It was not till after a momentary silence, that this appeal was answered. The eyes of Gertrude, which had before been affectionately fixed on the face of the baron, now sought the ground, and her colour was again very perceptibly heightened.
“Do you fear to give me this promise, my dear child?” said the old gentleman, looking at her with great surprise.
“No, father! no!” said she, as if suddenly recovering from a fit of absent musing. “I have no such fear! and I do promise you, and very solemnly too, that I will not listen to any proposal of marriage from anyone, however high in rank, or however rich in fortune.”
“but do not mistake me, my dear child,” returned the fond father, drawing her tenderly towards him; “you must not suppose, Gertrude, that I am so unreasonable as to wish that you should always remain single; but whenever the important event of your marriage does take place, it must not only be with my consent, but with a very perfect assurance on my part that the individual is worthy, in all respects, of the honour and happiness to which he aspires.”
“I have given the promise, dear father, and I consider it as a very solemn one, that I will listen to no proposal of marriage.”
“Unless backed by my consent, my dear Gertrude, that is the condition upon which I ask for your promise; and depend upon it, my consent will be only given upon a full knowledge that the birth, fortune, and character of the individual are such as to justify his addressing my daughter.”
A silent kiss was the only answer given to this important assurance; and then she said, “I must leave you now, my dear, kind father, because I have promised my friend Lucy not to keep her in suspense, but to dispatch a messenger to her as soon as I had received your answer.”
“Quite right, my dear, quite right; I do not wonder that she should be anxious for my decision. It will be no trifling addition to the consequence of the young Countess von Steinfeld, that she should be accompanied to court by the daughter and heiress of Baron von Schwanberg. But I wish that your note should convey to her the assurance, that I know no other chaperone to whom I would so willingly trust you.”
This message was Worth another kiss, and it was paid; but Gertrude had still to be detained a few minutes, while the baron inquired whether Madame Odenthal had been made acquainted with this intended excursion?
“Oh, no, papa!” replied Gertrude, with great sincerity; “I had no wish to name it to her, till I had your permission to consider myself as one of the party.”
“You were quite right, my dear, as, in fact, you always are, Gertrude; a pre-eminence, under the blessing of heaven, we owe to your so decidedly inheriting these qualities of my character which are to be considered as the special mark of the race from which I have sprung. Pew daughters, especially while still so young, have ever accorded so perfectly in opinion with a father, as you do with me. That this is the effect of the immediate intervention of Providence, it would be a sin to doubt; and it is one of those especial manifestations of the Virgin’s favour, for which I have instructed Father Alaric to return especial thanks.
Now, then, leave me, my noble Gertrude, and let Madame Odenthal be made to understand that I wish for, and expect, her immediate presence here.”
Had not Gertrude known her father as thoroughly as in truth she did, it is probable that she might have been tempted to relieve her over-full heart, by communicating to her ever-loved Madame Odenthal the expedition which she had in view; but this would have been defrauding the baron of his promised share in the business. The contrast between his vast conceptions of his own magnificence, and the miniature nature of the nutriment with which he fed it, was often very ludicrous.
The being the first to whom all news was communicated, and all gossip reported, ranked very high among the privileges which he enjoyed; and the having to announce to Madame Odenthal the news of Gertrude’s proposed excursion, made him feel much as a pompous Minister of State might do, if announcing to the cabinet news that was not only important, but of which he was the sole repository.
Gertrude’s first care was, as she had truly said it would be, to dispatch a note to her friend Lucy, communicating the very satisfactory result of her petition to her father; and having done this, and ascertained that Madame Odenthal was still with the baron, she turned her steps towards the library.
CHAPTER LIII.
IT is probable that the Baroness Gertrude expected to find Rupert alone in the library, and if so, she was neither disappointed nor surprised. He was seated in his accustomed chair, and at his accustomed table, but in all other respects, he was as unlike the Rupert of former days, as the bright sun rising amidst the radiant splendour of a summer morning, is to the same orb when sinking into the clouds and darkness of a winter night.
As she opened the door, he started, and turned round, and for a moment remained without rising, probably in order to ascertain, beyond the reach of doubt, that no one accompanied, or was immediately about to follow her. But, before she had advanced three steps into the room, the m
etamorphosed Rupert was at her feet.
“You have seen him, my Gertrude? You have told him of your wish?” he said, looking in her face with an aspect as nearly approaching adoration as “any mortal mixture of Earth’s mould” could reasonably wish to inspire.
“Yes, dearest Rupert!” she replied. “Leave has been asked, and granted — most kindly granted; and, so far, all is well. But I almost begin to doubt my own courage, Rupert! How can I bear to leave you all?... My poor, dear father! He is getting both old and infirm; and how do I know — how do I ever dare to hope, with such sanguine security, that I shall ever see him again? How can I leave him? How can I leave you all?”
As she uttered this, her head drooped dejectedly on her breast, and she burst into tears.
“You should not attempt it, my beloved Gertrude,” he replied, “were your friend Lucy less devoted to you, or even if she were less urgent in her entreaties that you should accompany her. Everybody, as she truly says, has been remarking that you do not look well, Gertrude; and change of air and scene, you know, is universally considered as beneficial to the health. Lucy will he a true sister to you, and my friend Adolphe, who does not yet know how much of his ‘Almanack de Gotha’ adventure he owes to you, will he all kindness! Think of all this, sweet love, and of fifty other reasons besides, if we had but time to rehearse them, and you will become better reconciled to the excursion.”
“You are a man, Rupert, and a very wise one; and I (Heaven help me! ) am only a woman, and not wise at all. Nevertheless, I will really and truly try to behave as well as I can.”
Having said this, as cheerfully as her trembling voice could be made to utter it, she sat herself down on the sofa, and made Rupert place himself beside her.
“My dear father, and your dear mother, Rupert, are holding a conference, which, I daresay, will last a good while, so I think you must prepare to hear a little more of my moaning, because the opportunity is so favourable for it. Just think, dearest friend, of all that I must leave behind! What will become of me when I have no longer the power of seeing you, and hearing you repeat again and again that you have always loved me, even through the long years during which my morning and evening penance was ever and always the repetition of the killing words— ‘he loves me not?’ Who knows that I may not fall back into the same mournful monody? Perhaps, Rupert, I may repeat it from the mere force of habit — And who knows, dearest, but I may die, listening to my own wailing?”
She looked pale, and her eyes were full of tears; and yet there was something almost playful in the manner in which she thus exaggerated the doleful anticipations of the future. But, neither in jest nor earnest, would he permit them; but painted with so much touching energy, and so much tender truth, the improvement of their mutual condition since the blessed accident of Miss Arabella’s love-fit had opened the way to mutual confidence, that, before Madame Odenthal re-entered the library, he had brought her to confess that, notwithstanding her moanings, she was very much happier now than she had ever been before, during the whole course of her life.
Nor did her naturally firm spirit again fail her.
Madame Odenthal seemed, fortunately, very much to approve her taking this excursion. She had recognised so many excellent qualities in Lucy (which, with insular partiality, she was pleased to call “perfectly English”), that she declared she knew no one with whom she could see her set off on an excursion with more entire satisfaction.
“It is very right and fitting, my dear,” said the good woman, “that you should see a metropolis so celebrated for its beauty and fashion as Vienna; and I really think it is about equally fitting that your good father should not again be tempted to leave the peculiar habits of life to which he has been so long accustomed, and every variation from which is, I know, a source of positive suffering to him. He married a lady so very much younger than himself, that he was for many years considered to be a man much younger than he really was; and, naturally enough, he seemed to fall into the same pleasant mistake himself. But now, my dear Gertrude, he certainly begins to be conscious that he is an old man, and very evidently prefers staying at home, to going abroad.”
“And you, my dear maternal friend, will, I well know, contrive to make that home so happy to him, that he will not miss me so much as he would have done in former days, when our greatest mutual delight was riding together. I have heard him say repeatedly, within the last few months, that he did not think that he should ever mount again,” replied Gertrude.
“And what do you mean to do about Teresa, my dear?” said Madame Odenthal, with a look and voice that manifested considerable interest in the question. “Is it your intention to take her with you?”
“I rather think not,” replied Gertrude, carelessly. “I really do not think I shall want her. Madame de Steinfeld assures me that the old servant who has lived with her so long, is a most accomplished lady’s-maid.”
“Indeed, I think you have decided very wisely, my dear,” was Madame Odenthal’s reply. “Teresa,” she added, “is in many respects a very good servant, but I cannot deny that she is a great gossip, which is just the very most disagreeable thing that any visitor can take into a family.”
“Yes,” replied Gertrude, after the silence of a moment; “I certainly think she has a strong propensity to idle talking.”
At this point of the conversation, Gertrude took up a book which lay near, and soon appeared to be completely occupied by it. For a few minutes she was allowed to do so without interruption, but then Madame Odenthal called her attention, by saying, “Then I suppose, my dear, that you intend to dismiss Teresa before you leave home?”
Gertrude took a moment or two to think before she replied, and then she said, “No! I do not think I shall like to do that, Madame Odenthal, because I do not think she deserves its She has been a very good servant to me, and I scarcely know how I can send her away without injustice.”
“I am afraid that she may say something reproachful and vexing, when you tell her that you are going to Vienna, but that you do not intend to take her with you,” replied Madame Odenthal. “I wish you would let me perform the task of telling her this.”
“You are very kind, my dear friend, to volunteer thus to per, form a task which, I am quite aware, must be disagreeable; and, I fear, it is very selfish in me to accept your offer. Nevertheless, I do accept it, and I confess it is a relief to me to be spared this task.”
“It shall be done at once, my dear Gertrude,” replied Madame Odenthal; “for the news of your intended departure will be sure to fly from Schloss Steinfeld to Schloss Schwanberg with wonderful rapidity; and it is far better that she should learn the whole arrangement from me, than that she should come to me to make inquiries concerning it.”
And, having said this, Madame Odenthal impressed a fond kiss upon the forehead of Gertrude, and left her.
The place chosen by the kind ambassadress as the scene of this interview, was the bed-room of the young baroness, for she knew that a bell rung from thence, would immediately bring Teresa. And so it proved.
“Is my lady here?” was the question by which the conversation opened, and it was certainly asked in a tone which seemed to imply that if she were not, Madame Odenthal’s right to ring the bell was a very doubtful one.
“No, Teresa. The baroness is not here,” replied the dame de compagnie, seating herself on the sofa which stood at the bottom of the bed; “it is I who wish to speak to you.”
“Well, ma’am,” returned the waiting-maid, assuming an attitude that seemed prepared either for going or staying, as the case might be.
“I rang for you, Teresa, that I might let you know that you must get ready a moderate-sized travelling-trunk, and fill it with all that will be most wanted for the baroness on her first arriving at Vienna, where she is going with the Count and Countess Adolphe von Steinfeld.”
“My lady going to Vienna, and not to tell me of it, herself!” exclaimed Teresa, with an aspect which very evidently threatened rebellion; “I don’t
believe a word of it!”
Madame Odenthal never forgot that she was the humble sister of the humble Father Alaric, and, moreover, the pensioned companion of the Baroness Gertrude; but she remembered also, that such authority had been delegated to her, as ought, if properly exercised, to keep the household in good order, without giving their young mistress the trouble of interfering in the matter; and it was, therefore, with the tone and manner of one who expected to be obeyed, that she replied to this uncivil speech, “Leave the room, Teresa.”
The waiting-maid was not without her good qualities, but a gentle temper was not one of them; and she signified her intention of remaining where she was, by stoutly saying, “I shall do no such thing.”
No person, holding the situation which Madame Odenthal filled in such an establishment as that of Schloss Schwanberg, could have retained her authority so long, and at the same time so smoothly, had she always been as ready to resent a hasty word, as she showed herself on the present occasion. “You will not only leave the room, but the house, Teresa, if you speak to me in that manner,” said Madame Odenthal, with great sternness. “I am to be left in charge of the household,” she added; “but I should scarcely accept the office, if the servants behaved as you are behaving now.”
“At any rate, you need not trouble yourself by any fears about my behaviour,” replied Teresa, with a saucy sneer; “for wherever my lady is, there, of course, I shall be too; and Vienna is far enough off for us both to snap our fingers at the other, without any danger to either of us.”
“But you are quite mistaken, Teresa,” replied Madame Odenthal, “if you suppose that your young lady intends to take you with her to Vienna. She has just told me that she shall do no such thing.”
“Then they must find bars, and bolts, and chains, too, if they intend to keep me here till she comes back. I don’t deserve to be treated so, and I won’t bear it,” returned the deeply-incensed waiting-maid, with a very alarming augmentation of colour; “and since you have chosen to make yourself the go-between, I advise you to tell my young lady.... But no! I will not send her any message at all. It is a great deal better that I should see her myself. She never used to treat me in this manner, and therefore I am quite sure that I have got some ill friend at court.”
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