Collected Works of Frances Trollope, page 467
The beautiful Arabella had reached the mature age of fifty-three, ere she finally consented to bind herself to one adorer, instead of remaining at liberty to receive the homage of many; nor did she marry then, without taking excellent good care of her darling money, keeping very nearly the whole of it at her own disposal, and bequeathing it, at last, to a frolicsome young gentleman of twenty-two, who assured her, that among his various whims and vagaries, the only one which was really a part of himself, was that which led him to prefer old ladies to young ones.
CHAPTER XLV.
BUT we must now resume the course of our narrative. The perfect and most happy understanding which, after long years of secrecy and suffering, was at last established between Rupert and Gertrude, for some time appeared perfectly sufficient to content the hearts of both; and no wonder that it should have been so, for the happiness it had brought to them both was in very bright contrast to the heavy hopeless gloom which had before enveloped them.
It had been mutually agreed between them, after a good deal of discussion, that Madame Odenthal should not be made acquainted with the secret of their attachment. This reserve, far from arising from any want of affection on the part of either of them towards this truly friendly mother and motherly friend, was the result of the most tender anxiety for her tranquillity. They both knew her too well, not to feel certain that were she made acquainted with their attachment, she could not fail to be unhappy, whether she kept their secret or betrayed it.
Such a confidence must, in fact, have placed her in a most embarrassing position. She was so implicitly trusted by the baron, that, to betray that trust by becoming an approving repository of such a secret, would doom her for ever, in her own eyes quite as much as in his, to the reproach of the very deepest treachery; while, on the other hand, if she returned their confidence, by betraying it to him, she must estrange herself for ever from all that was left her to love on earth.
All this was so obvious, that it took them not long to decide that neither of them could have any confidant, save the other.
Nor was there any great difficulty in strictly adhering to this resolution. Rupert was quite conscious that he had effectually succeeded hitherto in concealing from his mother all that he wished should be still concealed; and nothing, therefore, was necessary, but that he should persevere in the same line of conduct which he had so long and so successfully adopted.
“With Gertrude, indeed, the case was different; but, nevertheless, the difficulty was not much greater; for though the suffering girl had often been conscious that Madame Odenthal suspected her attachment — an idea which she chiefly derived, perhaps, from the fact of Rupert never being made the subject of conversation between them — the habit of silence concerning him, when they were tête-à-tête together, was sufficiently established to prevent any feeling of embarrassment from being created by its careful continuance.
For several months after the long-delayed explanation took place, by which the mutual affection of these dangerously-placed young people was made known to each other, they both thought that they had attained a degree of happiness which greatly exceeded what usually falls to the lot of human beings during this imperfect stage of their existence.
Little or nothing was changed in their usual manner of existence; yet each day, and almost each hour of the day, seemed bright with new happiness. Had they never known the dreary misery of loving, without daring to hope, almost without daring to wish for a return, they would not now have enjoyed the fulness of happiness which seemed to awaken them into a new state of existence. —
The very secrecy of this happiness seemed to increase its intensity. The sentiment which each was so delightfully conscious was reflected in the heart of the other, could not, they were quite certain, be understood by any but themselves; and, therefore, its being suspected by none, was a blessing inexpressibly precious.
The daily routine of their lives (totally as they were actually changed) seemed to go on without any variation; and, in fact, the very sharpest eye could have detected no alteration but one.
On returning from Paris, Gertrude had very discreetly made a law respecting the disposition of her time, which, according to the long-established habits of Rupert, prevented their ever occupying themselves in the garden at the same hour of the day. But this prudent regulation existed no longer; and they pruned trees, picked off dead leaves, and removed fading blossoms very often side by side, and even occasionally walked together from one end of the long shrubbery avenue to the other, without any qualms of conscience interfering on either side to prevent them.
It was during this very happy interval that the superb Arabella withdrew herself from the neighbourhood; and although her doing so was very decidedly a domestic blessing to her sister, and by no means very much regretted even by her sister’s good-natured husband, the suddenness of her retreat, as well as the mysterious manner of it, led to more gossiping in the neighbourhood than they either of them liked to encounter; and it was, therefore, speedily decided between them, that the wisest thing they could do, would be to see a little more of the world; the gay little Lucy assuring her husband that, after she had seen Paris and Vienna, and enjoyed a little dissipation at both, she should be ready to come home, and be quiet for the rest of her life.
Schloss Schwanberg relapsed again, and very speedily, into its former stately stillness after their departure. No more beautiful young ladies arrived to persuade the baron that he was still a most fascinating old gentleman; and the conclusion of his acquaintance with the fair Arabella, had annoyed him too severely to leave him with either courage or inclination to repeat the experiment of making himself agreeable.
All this was extremely favourable to the establishment of such a mode of life as Gertrude now looked forward to as the greatest happiness within her reach; and, in truth, so great was the happiness it brought, when compared with the misery she had long endured, that her enjoyment of it almost made her forget that she might be happier still.
The health of her father was excellent, for he, too, felt that the life he was now leading, suited him vastly better than either the brilliant splendours of Paris or the flattering fatigue of becoming the confidential friend of a beautiful Arabella.
To the final adventure, however, with that young lady, he never alluded. The reason for which, probably, being that, even he, would have found it impossible to discuss it with the degree of solemn dignity which ought to belong to everything in which he bore a part.
It was becoming very evident, also, to an eye as observant of his likings and dislikings as that of Gertrude, that he was growing every day more attached to his own arm-chair, and more reluctant to leave it. He had married so late in life, that, young as his daughter still was, he was an old man; and the habits of his whole life having been uniformly self-indulgent, he felt more disposed, than his still excellent health rendered necessary, to yield to these unsocial propensities.
It would be doing the excellent Gertrude much less than justice to suppose that she would have been likely, under any circumstances, to have resisted his daily increasing attachment to the stately solitude of his own abode, in order to procure amusement for herself elsewhere; but, as it happened, this very quiet and retired mode of life was precisely what she would have arranged for herself had her own enjoyment been the only object she had in view; and it would be difficult, perhaps, to imagine a situation in which lovers so imperatively separated by circumstances in one direction, could be so propitiously situated in another.
That there was a good deal of sympathy between the character of Rupert and that of Gertrude, in some respects, cannot be doubted. They could scarcely have loved each other so devotedly, had it been otherwise; but, had there been more still, they would have contemplated the happiness of their present condition with a greater equality of contentment.
The nature of Gertrude was as gentle as it was firm. During that most miserable period of her life which she had passed in Paris, even while believing it to be her duty to place herself in a condition more miserable still, the sweet gentleness of her temper had never given way. Not even Madame Odenthal, through all the dismal hours of that most wretched winter, so many of which had been passed by her tête-à-tête with poor Gertrude, had ever seen her give way to melancholy, or beheld her charming countenance disfigured by an aspect of discontent.
There had been, even then, through all the varied sorrows which pressed so heavily on her young heart, a patient sweetness, that had no mixture of complaint in its expression. And the same gentle philosophy might easily be recognised in her aspect now. While thankfully blessing the happy change from the anguish of thinking that she was doomed to pass her life in loving one who would never love her in return, she showed no symptom of lamenting that she was not happier still.
Nor was there the least mixture of affectation in this; she really was as contented, and happy as she appeared to be. Her first thought on waking was one of joy, for it brought the assurance of passing many hours of the coming day with Rupert, and the dearer assurance still, that Rupert loved her. And when she laid her head upon her pillow at night, the remembrance of that precious love, which had been seen by her, though by no one else, through every hour of the happy day, was the theme of her last waking thought.
But, alas! the case was widely different with Rupert. Ro sense of filial duty, no tender feeling of filial love, softened his heart, and enabled him to bear with the like resignation the dreadful impossibility of making the admirable creature, who so tenderly returned his love, the wife of his bosom, and the assured companion of his life.
He vainly pleaded to her, in the words of his own English church, “Those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder.” She could only shake her head, and say, “No Rupert! no! Those words cannot be applied to us! It cannot be the will of God that I should wound my father to the heart, and perhaps shorten his days, in order to ensure my own happiness. He gave me my life, dear Rupert, before you saved it. The first duty which heaven appoints us to perform, is that which we owe our parents. Let me not fail in that, for if I did, you would no longer see in me the same creature whom you have so long and faithfully loved. If I saw you do what would most deeply pain your mother, Rupert, should I still love you as perfectly as I do now? I do not think it.”
And Rupert, to do him justice, did not listen to such language as this without feeling the deference it deserved; and that, in truth, was much, for it was the outpouring of a most true, pure, and loving heart. But the being very fully aware that it was so, did not greatly improve his condition, or lessen his regret at feeling that she could not, and ought not, be his.
This state of things went on, with little or no variation, for above a year, during which time poor Gertrude would really have been very happy, if the state of Rupert would have permitted her to be so. But this he could not, or, at any rate, he did not do. He was certainly not himself at all aware how much pain his languid eye, his unelastic step, and the evidently depressed state of his spirits, occasioned her, or he would not have suffered these painful symptoms to be so very visible. Yet, not even the seeing all this, could for a moment shake her resolute determination, that her father should not be made the victim of his unbounded confidence in her.
It is true, that her firm spirit would sometimes droop, when meditating on the hapless obstacles which kept them asunder; but all this resolute firmness of spirit returned, when she remembered that the bare mention of such an union as that which could alone ensure Rupert’s happiness, would not only utterly, and as long as life was spared him, destroy his, but that the shock which such a proposal would occasion, might shorten the life which for so many years had been wholly occupied in loving, cherishing, and indulging her.
It so chanced that Rupert one day entered the library while she was sitting there alone, and weeping bitterly, as she meditated on the perversity of a destiny which only left her the power of choosing between the misery of dooming the man she loved to the dreary, lingering suffering of a hopeless attachment, and that of endangering the life of her doting father, by stabbing him to the heart in the point where she knew him to be most susceptible.
When Rupert questioned her as to the cause of this vehement burst of feeling, she only begged him to forgive her weakness, without insisting upon her explaining the cause of it. But he could not be so silenced, and the scene ended by her opening her whole heart to him, and making him understand the bitter suffering of such an alternative.
This painful scene was so far useful, that it put an effectual stop to the pleadings which had so often wrung her heart, when the only reply she could make to them was, “Rupert! It is impossible!”
Before they parted she made him feel and fully understand why it was impossible; and he promised, with all the solemnity of fervent truth, that she should never hear any pleading from him again, a compliance with which might lead her to deem herself a parricide.
And the unhappy Rupert Odenthal not only made this promise sincerely, but he kept it faithfully.
CHAPTER XLVI.
IT is an excellent adage which says, “Never do wrong that right may come of it;” but it is sadly true, nevertheless, that by doing right at one moment, we may sometimes entail sad mischief on the future. There can be no doubt that the Baroness Gertrude acted according to her duty, when she resolutely refused to destroy her father’s happiness for the sake of promoting her own; and yet this resolute adherence to duty probably occasioned more suffering than it saved.
Moreover, it is probable, that during the melancholy discussions that have been described, and which terminated by Rupert’s pledging his word that he would not again urge her to avow her attachment to her father, there was one point upon which she would have been wiser, if she had yielded to his wishes.
Having promised that her father’s days should never be embittered by a knowledge of this attachment, Rupert had ventured to ask for her promise that she would he his wife after the death of her father; and she certainly showed more of weakness than of wisdom, when she answered him by a passionate flood of tears, and declared, that dearly as she loved him, she would rather that they should part that moment, never to meet again, than give a promise which might, by slow and treacherous degrees, lead to her wishing for an event, which it had been the morning and evening prayer of her life might be far, far from her!
This feeling was a very natural one, but it led her wrong.
By the encouragement she had already given, she had so cherished and strengthened the attachment she had inspired, that by refusing to permit any positive promise of becoming his wife to pass her lips, she deprived him of the best, if not the only source of courage and consolation which it was in her power to bestow.
The effect was very melancholy, and it was not long in showing itself.
From being a most persevering reader, and a writer too — for the mind of Rupert was of too active a nature not to seek this indulgence — he became the very idlest, and most objectless of men.
It was in vain that poor Gertrude endeavoured to check this growing malady (for such, in truth, it was), by endeavouring to lead him into literary discussion, and to amuse his mind by suggesting thoughts, and speculations, less melancholy than his own. All such efforts were utterly useless.
And yet it was evident that he endeavoured to rally the sinking energies of his character, and to be to her the same inspiring companion he had ever been. But such efforts were perfectly in vain; he was no longer master of himself, and his faculties.
His position was, in truth, a very cruel one.
During several years he had baffled, by the efforts of a naturally vigorous mind, and the courageous animal spirits of early youth, the painful effects arising from the conviction that the high-placed beauty whom he had dared to love, did not, and could not, condescend to love him in return; and if this utter hopelessness had continued for a year or two longer, he would doubtless have outlived, and probably forgotten, the ardent dream of these almost boyish days.
But ere this sort of oblivion, or anything approaching it, had come upon him, he had the doubtful happiness of believing that this first and only love was not unrequited.
The effect of this discovery was as decisive as it was inevitable. The world no longer contained anything which appeared to his feelings worth living for, unless Gertrude and her love were blended with it.
The happiness which ensued from the first mutual and frank avowal of an attachment so natural, yet so long concealed, was great indeed, and it would be difficult to say which young heart derived the highest and most perfect felicity from it. But, unfortunately, the position of the parties was such, as to render it impossible that this feeling of happiness could last.
As long as Gertrude had remained hopelessly convinced that the devoted affection which she had bestowed on Rupert was unreturned, she had found very rational, and, to a certain degree, very effectual consolation, in such a constant occupation of her time as left her with few idle moments in which to indulge meditation, or the untowardness of her destiny; which, while seeming to place her in a position in many respects so enviable, denied the only blessing that in her estimation was really worthy of the name.
Very persevering and very meritorious were the efforts by which she had thus sought to emancipate herself from this vile thraldom of unrequited love; and had the love remained unrequited, they would probably have been crowned with the success they deserved.
But no sooner did she discover her mistake, no sooner did she feel
“How sweet’s the love that meets return,”
