FEUDAL TYRANTS, Volume IV.
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FEUDAL TYRANTS;
OR,
_The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans_.
A ROMANCE.
_TAKEN FROM THE GERMAN._
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
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BY M. G. LEWIS,
AUTHOR OF
_The Bravo of Venice, Adelgitha, Rugantino, &c._
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VOL. IV.
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_SECOND EDITION_.
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The portals sound, and pacing forth
With stately steps and slow,
High potentates, and dames of regal birth,
And mitred fathers in long order go.
— GRAY.
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London:
Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-Street, Soho,
FOR J. F. HUGHES, WIGMORE STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
──
1807
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FEUDAL TYRANTS,
&c. &c. &c.
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_PART THE SEVENTH._
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CONTINUATION OF
“THE SISTERS WITHOUT A NAME.”
_Written by the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald._
Oh! noble Elizabeth! you to whom these leaves are more particularly
addrest, have you had resolution sufficient to read thus far? will you
possess sufficient presence of mind to enable you to continue the
perusal of this writing, now that I have placed before you the most
important and most cruel transactions, which have occurred throughout
your whole life, and by which your whole life has been embittered? and
will you, when at length you reach the conclusion of my painful
narrative, magnanimously sacrifice your long-cherished prejudices; and
daring to gaze steadily on the light of truth, will you learn to excuse
and to pity, to regret and to forgive?
Before I relate the transactions, which followed the fatal interview
between Ida and her lover on your bridal day, I must request your
patient attention, while I relate those incidents of Henry of Montfort’s
earlier days, which I believe to be still unknown to you. It is thus
only, that I can enable you to form a correct and unbiassed judgment of
the case.
Henry’s father stood already on the brink of the grave, when his son was
born: he died, while Henry was still an infant. His wife soon followed
him. The care of the little orphan now devolved upon an uncle, who would
have been much better pleased, if the deceased Count of Montfort had
died without progeny, and had left him the undivided inheritance of his
fertile and extensive domains.
By his brother’s will this uncle was appointed guardian to the young
orphan, and destined to be his representative, till Henry should attain
the age of twenty-one. This limitation of his power was by no means to
Count Egbert’s taste. He would willingly have disputed the legitimacy of
Henry’s birth; but the acknowledged virtue of the late Countess made it
impossible to fix any suspicions upon her character. However, by dint of
solicitations, of powerful protection at Vienna, and (above all) of
considerable sums of money distributed among the Emperor’s favourites,
he contrived to get his nephew’s claims set aside till after his own
decease; though the decree, which thus established Count Egbert’s
succession to the inheritance, positively excluded any children which he
might have, and regulated, that they should only succeed to the estates
of Montfort, in case of Henry’s dying without heirs.
Though Count Egbert was already advanced in years, and was still a
bachelor, nevertheless he was highly offended at the restriction thus
established against his lineal descendants, in case it should ever
please Heaven to bestow upon him such blessings. The sight of the child
became hateful to him; and in hopes of at once relieving himself from
its presence, and of removing an obstacle to his contracting a suitable
marriage, he gave his little nephew in charge to one of his servants,
whom he believed capable of executing any villainy; at the same time
telling him—“To do with the brat whatever he thought would be most
conducive to his master’s interests.”—Some little remains of conscience
prevented his declaring his wishes in more express terms; but what he
said, was quite sufficient to make his meaning very far from ambiguous.
Count Egbert’s servant was a native of Switzerland. He gave his lord to
understand, that he perfectly comprehended him, and made no difficulty
of taking a solemn oath, that he would punctually obey his injunctions
as exprest above. After an absence of some weeks he returned without the
child; his reward was ample; and he immediately employed it in securing
a kind protection for the orphan Henry, whom he had neither murdered,
nor abandoned to chance and the wide world, but had concealed him in a
shepherd’s-cottage near the Lake of the Four Cantons, in order the more
effectually to secure him against the malice of his unnatural uncle. The
shepherd died, and bequeathed the child, to the care of his master, the
venerable Melthal. Count Egbert’s servant (who occasionally visited
those parts in order to inquire after the safety of him, whom he had
rescued from destruction) was greatly rejoiced to find him under the
protection of old Melthal, who was universally esteemed to be one of the
wisest and best of mortals. He scrupled not to confide to him the secret
of Henry’s birth, and they arranged together the means of establishing
him in his rights at a future period. The servant paid the debt of
nature soon after this discovery, and the mystery of Henry’s rank and
claims remained in the sole possession of Melthal.
He spared no expence in rendering the boy’s education equal to his
future hopes; and aware, that in all probability resolution and valour
would be the only means of reinstating him fully in the possession of
his rights, at an early period of life he sent the orphan away from his
retired and peaceful vallies, and took measures for his being brought up
to a life of arms.
Melthal frequently forsook his cottage to visit the young Henry, who now
began to give tokens of a real inclination for his profession, and was
more distinguished in the Emperor’s army, than any other youth of the
same age: but he never invited Henry to return his visit among the
mountains of Switzerland. Now, however, that the old man was sinking
under the weight of years, and began to feel that distant journeys were
more than his debilitated frame could bear, he determined to send for
the son of his adoption, that he might declare to him his real origin,
and bestow a blessing on him, before they should part for ever. The
young man obeyed the call: his arrival was honoured by a rural festival;
and the young people of those happy vallies rejoiced in the acquisition
of such a youth, who (as they supposed) was returned home in order to
pass the remainder of his life among them, as their friend and fellow
citizen.
You are already acquainted with the mutual attachment, to which this
festival gave rise by the meeting of Ida and Henry under the assumed
names of Rosanna Tell and Erwin Melthal. This attachment soon became
public, and among others came to the knowledge of old Melthal. An union
with the daughter of an Helvetian peasant (even though that peasant was
William Tell, and though the maiden herself was the perfection of
loveliness and virtue) threatened the destruction of all those exalted
plans, which the old man had been so long meditating in favour of his
adopted son; and he thought, nothing more would be necessary to make
Henry break off this unsuitable connection, than to discover his noble
origin to the youth, and to exhibit before him his great expectations in
their full splendour. He soon found, that real love makes the heart
consider all obstacles as trifles, and believe every thing is possible
except abandoning the object, to whom its adoration is vowed.
Henry of Montfort continued to love that Rosanna, to whom Erwin Melthal
had sworn eternal fidelity: Ida, Countess of Werdenberg, (to whom her
real birth was discovered about the same period) preserved her
attachment to the humble peasant, to whom Rosanna Tell had pledged her
hand and her affections. Each had been sworn to secrecy; both concealed
the painful mystery in their respective bosoms; but neither suffered a
day to pass without repeating the assurance of fidelity beyond the
grave, though both were secretly conscious, how mighty were the
obstacles which opposed their keeping that assurance.
They were separated. The Emperor’s commands summoned Henry to the army;
and the old Melthal thought, that in the present position of things a
slight falsehood would be justified by the intention, with which it was
fabricated.—Accordingly, a report was soon circulated, that his grandson
Erwin had fallen at the siege of Bender. It obtained universal credit;
and Ida, (for whose sole use the artifice had been designed) doubted
not, that her lover had perished on the field of glory. _One_ person
however (and that to his great mortification) was assured of the
inaccuracy of the report. No sooner had Henry left Helvetia, than
Melthal set out for the Castle of Montfort; he made known to the
astonished Count, that his nephew was still in existence, and spared
neither persuasions nor threats to induce the old usurper to reinstate
the true heir in his rights and titles.
Threats and persuasions from the mouth of a man of sense and probity
came with a force, that few villains however hardened are able to resist
entirely. Count Egbert trembled in the presence of his venerable
monitor; and he presumed not to give him such a reply, as he would
willingly have done, had he followed his heart’s instigations. He
answered him with fair promises and professions, the trusting to which
cost the poor old man many a painful journey; till at length highly
exasperated at having been made so long the dupe of his soft words and
endless delays, he assumed a tone of such authority, as almost
frightened the trembling usurper out of his senses, and made him
solemnly swear to lose no time in acknowledging the claims of his
nephew. Unluckily, this scene agitated Melthal so violently, that the
consequence was an illness, which soon carried him to his grave. Count
Egbert did not let slip so good an opportunity of annihilating the hopes
of Henry; he easily persuaded the unconscious heirs of old Melthal to
give up to him the papers, which attested his nephew’s birth, and which,
(as they seemed to relate entirely to the Montfort family), they made no
doubt, were (as he asserted) his own peculiar property and no concern of
any other person’s.
Now then who was so happy as the crafty Egbert? in the full exultation
of triumph he was persuaded, that the papers which he lost no time in
committing to the flames, were the only proofs of his nephew’s
existence. But in this respect he was deceived. When Henry departed for
the army, Melthal charged him to seize the first favourable opportunity
of laying his case before the emperor; for which purpose he furnished
him with the authentic documents of his real birth, and those which fell
into Count Egbert’s hands were nothing more valuable than mere copies.
The favourable opportunity, of which Melthal had spoken, was not tardy
in arriving. At the siege of Bender Henry behaved with such
distinguished gallantry as to make it the general opinion, that if all
his companions had performed their duty as well, the victory would have
been wrested from the hands of the infidels.
The emperor was not the last to applaud his gallant demeanour. He
commanded him to name a reward; and Henry demanded to be re-instated in
those rights, to which he could establish his claim by proofs, that
would set all doubt at defiance.
—“I do not wish,” said he, “that my uncle’s conduct towards me should
undergo too nice an examination; nor during his lifetime do I insist,
that my inheritance should be restored to me. I only demand for the
present to be acknowledged as a descendant of the house of Montfort, and
for the future to be protected in obtaining those advantages, to which I
may be able to substantiate a lawful claim.—I am not desirous of
expelling the old Count from the station, which he has so long occupied;
I only demand, that when his death shall leave that station vacant, I
may succeed to that, which in justice is my birth right.”—
The Emperor Albert, who was already aware that under the administrations
of the debauched Venceslaus, and the careless Sigismund (his immediate
predecessors) much partiality had taken place in settling the affairs of
the Montfort family, and who besides wished most anxiously to serve his
favourite in every point that was not repugnant to justice, heard the
above declaration with pleasure, and praised the youthful warrior’s
generosity. Albert himself was generous, and it delighted him, when
others acted, as _he_ would have acted himself.
On the next day Henry was declared by the emperor to be a Count of
Montfort, and was allotted a command suitable to his high rank and
distinguished services. This change of name contributed to support the
erroneous belief, that Erwin Melthal had never been heard of since the
battle of Bender, and that in all probability he had fallen in the
field. Ida therefore was sorrowing for his loss at the very moment, that
he was hastening back to the beloved valley, crowned with laurels, and
determined to share with her his honours and his happiness.
Alas! that beloved valley was no longer to be recognised! dreadful
storms had laid it waste; the mountain-torrents had deluged the country;
and when he at length with difficulty had reached Tell’s habitation, he
found it silent and empty—the dreadful pestilence, which had more than
decimated the unfortunate inhabitants of those quarters, had raged with
peculiar fury in the house of Tell; but he was informed, that a remnant
of the family had taken refuge (so at least it was rumoured) in the
Convent of Engelberg. Thither Henry repaired without loss of time, but
he found no one capable of giving him either present comfort or future
hope. His apprehensions were converted into despair, when in reply to
his enquiries Tell’s humble grave was pointed out to him, and when he
beheld near it two smaller graves, which (he was assured) contained the
bodies of two of the old man’s grand-daughters. It is probable, that
this assurance was given not without foundation, for several of the
grand-children of Tell had followed him to Engelberg, and had there
fallen a prey to the inveteracy of the prevalent disease.
The wretched Henry was thoroughly convinced, that the bones of Ida and
Constantia rested within those smaller graves. He knelt beside them; he
watered them with his tears, and abandoned himself to the most violent
emotions of anguish, which love and despair ever excited in the heart of
man. It was long, before he attained any degree of composure; and he
employed the first hour, in which his heart was sensible of a melancholy
resignation, in hastening to the Convent, and requesting to know every
particular respecting the death of the lovely sisters. He wished also to
enquire, why they had interred in the open church-yard the bodies of
those angels, whose virtues should have obtained for their tomb the most
distinguished spot to be found within the Convent’s sanctuary.
The high-sounding title of “Count Henry of Montfort” obtained for him an
easy admission into the Convent-parlour; but he derived no benefit from
his visit to Engelberg. The old Abbess, who had superintended the
Convent during Constantia’s residence, had paid the debt of nature. The
present superior was totally ignorant of the history of the sisters; and
she could not help secretly suspecting, that the young-warrior’s
understanding was not quite as sound as it should have been, when with
considerable impetuosity he demanded as a matter of right, that the
grand-daughters of a common peasant, who had conferred on the
institution neither wealth nor honour, should be alloted a tomb in the
Chapel of St. Engeltruda!
Henry was at length made to understand, that Ida’s remains appeared to
be sacred relics in no eyes but those of her lover: the only comfort,
which he now felt himself capable of enjoying, was to honour _her_ in
death, whom in life he had adored so truly: accordingly the greatest
part of the wealth, which he had earned in the Turkish wars, was
expended in raising a stately monument to Ida’s memory in the Chapel of
Engelberg. He burned with impatience to see (united with those of the
fair sisters) his own name engraved on the monument’s white marble, as
being that of the person by whose directions it was raised; and he
declared, that his heart could never taste repose, till the work should
be completed, and till the bones of Mary and Rosanna Tell (for such he
still thought them) were removed to the honourable burial-place provided
for them by his affection. While the tomb was erecting, nothing could
persuade him to quit the holy place even for a day; and the whole
neighbourhood was lost in astonishment at the homage, which the Count of
Montfort thought it necessary to pay to the relics of Tell’s daughters.
Nothing was able to rouse him from that dangerous melancholy, to which
he abandoned himself without reserve, till the emperor’s commands
necessitated his attendance. He arrived at Grans, and found, that while
he had been giving up everything for the indulgence of unavailing
sorrow, his exalted protector had not been equally unmindful of his
favourite’s worldly interests. The old Count of Montfort had been
summoned to the imperial court; where he was made so fully aware of the
favourable posture of Henry’s affairs, and was so thoroughly convinced,
that to deny the authenticity of his claims would be fruitless, that his
nephew no sooner made his appearance, than he came towards him with open
arms, and embraced him as his relation and his presumptive heir. He was
then preparing to offer some excuse for past transactions, which in
their very nature were totally inexcuseable; but the young Count
interrupted his apologies, freely forgave him, and in presence of the
emperor assured his uncle, that he might depend upon his burying his
wrongs in silence and oblivion.
Still, when the arrangements respecting Henry’s succession to the
Lordship of Montfort came under consideration, Count Egbert earnestly
insisted, that two or three clauses should be introduced, in order that
the future heirs of his body might not be left entirely destitute. Henry
could not conceal a smile, while he acceded to this proposal, and the
rest of the company indulged themselves without scruple in a loud burst
of laughter; for the old man was still unprovided with either wife or
children, though there was scarcely to be found in all Germany a lady of
beauty, birth, and fortune, whom he had not honoured with the offer of
his hand and heart.
On the other hand, Henry, whose age would have suited much better with
such proposals, seemed not to bestow a thought upon the subject: amidst
the throng of lovely women who graced the court, his heart remained cold
as the marble, which covered the imagined ashes of his loved and
lamented Rosanna. But the emperor was not equally indifferent,
respecting his young friend’s contracting some honourable engagement.
—“Montfort,” said he, “I flatter myself, that I have omitted no means of
substantiating your claims, which lay in my imperial power: but fraud
and avarice will frequently suggest such ingenious expedients for
eluding the execution of justice, that (should I die before your uncle)
you might still find it no easy task to obtain possession of your
inheritance. While therefore I am still in existence and able to serve
you, unite yourself by marriage with some powerful family, whose
connection may support your claims, when death shall have deprived you
of my favour and protection.—Your enemies then will not dare to dispute
your rights. Tell me, Henry; is the indifference, with which you seem to
look on the beauties of my court, real or affected?—If your heart has
not as yet made its choice, suffer me to mention to you the bride of
_my_ selection.”—
Henry’s reply assured him with great truth, that there existed not a
woman, who possest any interest in his affections.
—“Well then!” resumed the emperor, “take my advice, and offer your hand
to the beautiful Elizabeth of March, the jewel of all our German
maidens: in her you will find united youth, charms, spirit, sense,
piety, and virtue; besides a thousand other excellent qualities, which
are seldom to be met with but in men. Her family too is sufficiently
powerful to secure you against the attacks of malignity and violence, to
which you will probably be exposed after my death; an event, which
increasing infirmities make me believe to be at no great distance.”—
Henry had frequently seen and admired the noble Elizabeth. In truth, it
was considered among the young courtiers almost as a total want of
taste, and as a proof of a cold insensible heart, to see Elizabeth and
feel nothing warmer than admiration. Henry (who could make no reasonable
objection to the match proposed, and who was unwilling to confess the
fruitless passion, which devoured his heart, for one who had long since
rested in the grave) could only assert the improbability of his
obtaining Elizabeth’s hand in preference to many suitors so much more
distinguished than himself; especially as it was reported, that her hand
was already destined to the youthful Richard of Ulmenhorst, her father’s
ward and near relation.
—“Tell not me,” interrupted the emperor, “of those reports, and of your
own consciousness of your demerits. Go to the Castle of March; become
acquainted with Elizabeth’s virtues, as well as with her charms. I am
certain, that you will love her; I flatter myself, that _she_ too will
love _you_; and what pleasure would it give me, dear Henry, could I see
your hands united, before I close my eyes in this world for ever!”—
An interest so warm, and expressions so condescending in the mouth of a
sovereign, could not but produce the desired effect. Montfort obeyed,
and visited the Castle of March. He beheld Elizabeth; he investigated
her character; she inspired him with esteem, with admiration ... but not
with love.—yet it was soon evident ... (will the Countess of Torrenburg
ever pardon my assertion?) that Elizabeth had not seen Henry with the
same indifference. He felt, that he was preferred; he could not but
confess, that the possession of such an angel must be an inestimable
treasure; and though the remembrance of Rosanna rendered his heart
incapable of any warmer sentiment than friendship, still since that
beloved one was lost to him for ever, he resolved not to let his folly
throw away the blessing, which offered itself to his acceptance. He
determined to fulfill the emperor’s injunctions, and to offer his hand
to the only woman, who was worthy to fill Ida’s place in his heart. But
he hesitated so long, and took so much time before he made his
declaration, that Elizabeth’s parents had already promised her in the
most solemn and positive manner to the rich and powerful Count of
Torrenburg. In consequence, Montfort was given to understand (though
with every possible mark of esteem) that his absence from the Castle of
March would be acceptable to its owner.
Grieved and vexed at his having so long delayed to explain himself,
Henry departed; the heart of Elizabeth accompanied him. Count Egbert had
never seemed very anxious for his nephew’s marriage, nor had given
himself any trouble, in order to forward his views upon Elizabeth: the
fact was, that in spite of the ill success of his former matrimonial
speculations, he was at that moment totally engrossed by a new scheme of
the same nature; and the person, to whom his views were now directed,
was no other than ... the Lady Ida of Werdenberg. He was not only
enchanted by her personal charms, but he also took it into his
consideration, that after the Count of Torrenburg’s death she would
possess very plausible claims upon the valuable domains of Carlsheim and
Sargans; claims, which (as the possibility of his own death was an idea,
which never by any accident was suffered to enter into his calculations)
this silly old man proposed to enforce in their fullest extent.
He had already given the Count of Torrenburg some hints of the honour,
which he had it in contemplation to confer upon his family. The Count in
return gave him to understand, that if his niece had no objection to the
match, he should not oppose it: and as the old dotard thought himself
irresistible in spite of former disappointments (which might have taught
him better) he was on the very point of surprizing Ida with the
agreeable intelligence, that she had made a conquest of his heart. It
was at this juncture, that the news reached him of his destined uncle’s
being on the brink of marriage with the Lady Elizabeth of March.
Nothing could be more contrary to his plans, than this intelligence;
Count Frederick of Torrenburg might have children, and then there would
be an end of all his claims in right of his bride, whom he loved not
merely as the beautiful Ida of Werdenberg, but as the future co-heiress
of Carlsheim and Sargans. Now then he had nothing more at heart, than to
break off this inconvenient marriage. To accomplish this, no better
means suggested itself, than to persuade his nephew to a renewal of his
addresses to the intended bride; and since her hand was no longer to be
obtained by the ordinary methods of solicitation, he resolved to have
recourse to a little innocent artifice, which (he doubted not) would
soon bring the young people to a proper understanding. Aware, that Henry
was not likely to enforce his suit with as much eagerness as the nature
of the case required, the uncle in his zeal for his nephew’s advantage,
or rather for the success of his own interested views, resolved to
examine himself into the state of Elizabeth’s inclinations, and to place
Henry’s attachment to her in the most favourable light. He found the
unhappy girl in tears; the day was already fixed, on which her hand was
to be united with that of the dreaded Count of Torrenburg. It was no
difficult task to make her confess her disinclination to her antient
bridegroom, and her preference for the blooming Montfort, on whom her
heart had long fixed its affections irrevocably. She also listened
without any _very_ marked signs of repugnance to the proposal of an
elopement. Her heart and her reason both assured her, that to avoid the
union which she so much detested, flight was the only resource left her:
her friend Ida had advised her adopting it without delay; and now the
same proposal was made to her from a quarter the most unexpected.
Elizabeth was at length persuaded by the pressing entreaties of Count
Egbert to summon to her aid the youth, who (as she was assured by his
uncle) burned for her with the most ardent affection, and to whom her
union with his rival would undoubtedly give a mortal wound.
She wrote to Henry, and declared herself ready to throw herself upon his
protection. This important step was taken by Elizabeth through anxiety
and affection, approved of by Ida out of friendship and ignorance of the
world, and advised by the old hypocrite Count Egbert for the sake of his
own private interest. As to Henry himself, he was perfectly ignorant of
all that was going forward, till he received Elizabeth’s letter: but
what man with the feelings of humanity alive in his bosom would have
disobeyed the voice of an angel like Elizabeth, pleading for aid, and
confessing her attachment? compassion, esteem, admiration, and
gratitude, all united to produce a sentiment in his heart which, if not
love, was at least very like it; a sentiment, which doubtless would soon
have been love itself, had not unfortunately.... Oh! lady, you for whom
I trace these lines, and for whose decision (when my task is done) I
shall wait with such anxiety, this is a chasm, which I leave to be
filled up by _you_!
Elizabeth disappeared—the lovers were overtaken—the Count of Torrenburg,
when the circumstances were all made known to him, resigned his
pretensions with a good grace. The entreaties of Elizabeth’s brother,
and some little apprehension lest her reputation should suffer injury by
this elopement, induced her parents to withdraw their opposition to her
union with young Montfort. The marriage-day arrived: Ida flew to
congratulate her friend; and instead of the enamoured bridegroom and the
happy bride, she beheld Erwin Melthal stretched pale and senseless at
the feet of the alarmed and astonished Elizabeth. As Elizabeth saw
Henry’s colour change, she sprang towards him, and clasped his hand.
Hastily he drew it back with a look of horror, sank on the ground, and
closed his eyes as if to eternal slumber.
She now turned to Ida, who (supported by her sister) appeared more dead
than living: she demanded the meaning of this extraordinary scene.
Terror and astonishment sealed up the lips of Ida; and Constantia also
was silent through doubt, whether an explanation just then would be
adviseable.
—“A strange instance of love at first sight!” whispered to her next
neighbour, a virgin aunt of Elizabeth’s aged forty-seven.
—“And mutual too, as it seems!” replied the plump dowager, to whom this
audible whisper had been addrest.
Ha! at those words how high swelled the proud bosom of Elizabeth! How
fiery was the glance like lightning, which she threw upon Ida, as she
turned away! How contemptuous was the look, with which she eyed young
Montfort, in whom the care of his servants had just produced some faint
signs of returning animation. Her impetuous spirit had always rendered
her too susceptible of sudden and violent passion, and (to confess the
truth) had already betrayed her into the commission of many a hasty and
ill-judged action. Without waiting for further explanation she rushed
out of the chapel, while her eyes flashed fire as she went. She was
followed by all those, who envied the sisters; and who were now resolved
to devote a day, long destined to happiness, to the nourishment of
suspicion and resentment; and who were prepared to use their utmost arts
to render the wounds lately given to love and friendship incurable.
I will not attempt to describe the state of Ida’s mind. Constantia (who,
though not more able to unravel the mystery of these unexpected
occurrences, was yet more collected than her sister) judged it prudent
for them to withdraw as soon as possible from the curious gaze of the
by-standers. Accordingly, she conducted the bewildered Ida to her
apartment, and then hastened to that of the bride, in order that, she
might at once offer explanations and receive them in return. She had not
yet sufficiently recovered from her first astonishment to conceive, how
strong an impression to her sister’s prejudice the scene, which had just
taken place, must have made upon Elizabeth: much less did she suppose it
possible, that her friend could act so unjustly as to show resentment
against herself for an action, which (even if wrong) had at any rate
been committed by another.
Her surprise therefore was great, when she was refused admittance to
Elizabeth, with every mark of harshness and indignation.—She returned
sorrowing from her fruitless embassy; and she had scarcely regained her
own apartment, before a Chamberlain made his appearance there to inform
the sisters in the name of the Lord of the Castle, that in consequence
of Elizabeth’s sudden indisposition, and of the late confusion (the
cause of which was too well known to them to make any explanation on
that head necessary) it would be adviseable for them immediately to quit
a house, in which certainly no bridal ceremony would be celebrated at
present.
In the mean while, Henry on opening his eyes cast his first glances
eagerly towards the spot, where he fancied, that the spirits of Tell’s
grand-daughters had appeared to him; they were no longer to be seen. He
was now confirmed in his visionary notions, and implicitly believed,
that he had really seen an apparition.—He inquired for Elizabeth: the
answer was, that she had quitted the chapel evidently in displeasure;
very little reflection was necessary to make him aware, that the
singular part which he had just been playing, made it necessary for him
to hasten to his bride without delay, and explain the cause of his
mysterious behaviour. While approaching her chamber, he considered with
himself, whether it would, or would not, be adviseable to inform her of
the vision, which had just appeared to him, and to lay open to her the
secret history of his early life! His deliberations, however, were quite
superfluous; for he was denied admittance to Elizabeth with no less
positiveness and contempt, than had been shown on Constantia’s
application.
He felt, that Elizabeth had some reason to think herself insulted; and
instead of repaying her scorn with scorn, he lost no time in justifying
himself in the eyes of his offended mistress.—A personal interview was
denied him; the explanation therefore could only be conveyed in writing;
but Henry was not sufficiently an adept in penmanship to permit his
finishing so long an apology with as much expedition, as the nature of
the case made desirable. He resolved therefore to employ a secretary;
and as upon inquiry no ready writer was to be found in the whole Castle
except the family Chaplain (whom I have already mentioned as the secret
ally of Father Hilarius, and as being entirely in the Count of
Torrenburg’s interests) he requested his assistance. He might have
chosen from among a thousand, and yet could not have confided his
affairs to a more improper instrument. However, Henry dictated, and the
Friar wrote as follows.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Henry to Elizabeth._
You are offended, my beloved!—Nay, even to myself it scarcely appears
credible, that when I stood with you before the altar, I should have
withdrawn my hand from yours; that I should have hesitated to pronounce
the words, which would have made you mine for ever; that when you looked
upon me with eyes of love, I could have looked on any other than on
_you_.—No; this never could have happened by natural means; the enemies
of our love must have employed infernal arts to delude my senses and
interrupt my happiness!—What past this evening in the Chapel must
certainly have been produced by magic; no otherwise can I account for
it!
Elizabeth, my heart was once another’s: my heart would _still_ have been
another’s, had not death torn her from me. But my Rosanna has long been
an angel in Heaven; the truth which I swore to her, and which (while she
had life) I never would have violated, could not surely extend beyond
the precincts of the grave. Surely that happy-one, to whom now all
things must be known, must also know, in what degree I once loved _her_,
and in what degree I now love Elizabeth: Surely, she cannot envy you, my
beloved, the hand of your poor Henry; surely, she would not forsake her
own mansions of peace and bliss, to forbid our union and destroy our
hopes of happiness?
And yet, Elizabeth...! Mark, my beloved, and conceive my astonishment,
my horror!—And yet, Elizabeth, I swear to you most solemnly, that this
evening as you stood at the altar, I saw the form of the long-deceased
Rosanna Tell approach, and place the myrtle wreath upon your forehead;
while by her side stood a second apparition in a religious habit, the
exact resemblance of Mary, Rosanna’s sister, who is buried with her in
the same tomb!
But strange as this circumstance appears, let it not disturb your
tranquillity, my Elizabeth, nor prevent an union, on which I depend for
all the happiness of my future life. If the spirit of Rosanna _really_
appeared, she came not to destroy the bliss of the man who adored her,
but to give her celestial sanction: but for my own part, I am persuaded,
that this appearance was some illusion, some contrivance of those who
envy us, some magical appearance produced by monastic arts in the night
and secrecy of the Cloister.—
Beloved Elizabeth, admit me to your presence, and every point shall be
explained most fully. At present I must break off, for the person (whose
pen I employ to trace these lines) has taken offence at an expression
which accidentally escaped me, and refuses any longer to render me his
services.
* * * * *
In truth, Henry’s ecclesiastical secretary was greatly displeased at the
words “monastic arts:” however, an apology and some pieces of gold not
only brought the avaricious Monk into good-humour again, but even
induced him to offer to be the bearer of his letter, in case the young
Lord of Montfort should still think proper to send it, after hearing
what he (the Monk) had to say upon the subject.
Henry gave him permission to speak, and promised to be attentive.
—“You believe then,” began Father Jacob, “that the form, whose
appearance so greatly surprized you in the Chapel belonged to a deceased
person?—Count of Montfort, it was the living Rosanna, Tell whom you
beheld; Rosanna who has now exchanged that name for the more lofty one
of Ida of Werdenberg—You start?—You believe what I tell you to be
impossible?—Nay, Count, with all my heart! Number _me_ (if you like it)
among those, who wish to impede you in the gratification of your new
amours: it would be ill-breeding in me to force upon you the conviction
of a truth, to which you are evidently so unwilling to give credit!”—
The crafty Friar rose, as if about to quit the apartment. It is
superfluous to say, that Henry (whose head was now assailed by
astonishment from a new quarter) did not suffer him to depart.—Father
Jacob possest the whole of Ida’s history, except in so far as related to
her adventure with Erwin Melthal: he refused to communicate any portion
of his knowledge, till this hitherto unsuspected circumstance had been
fully explained to him. This demand was complied with, every
circumstance was confided to him; and with astonishing quickness he
discerned in this narrative the means of attaining an object, which he
and his honest ally, the keeper of Count Frederick’s conscience, had
very nearly at heart, but which they had found themselves compelled to
abandon in despair.
Montfort had finished.—And now the Monk exerted all his eloquence to
convince his auditor of that, which Henry’s heart was already most
anxious to believe; namely, that his first oaths of love ought to be the
most binding; that it was no less necessary to keep his faith to Ida of
Werdenberg than to Rosanna Tell; and that his giving that hand to
Elizabeth, which he had sworn to give to another, would only serve to
form an union unjust, sinful, abominable, and accursed.
Henry was quite of the Monk’s opinion, long before his oration came to
an end. Of much more consequence did it now appear to him to renew his
vows to the long-lost late-found Ida, than to appease the indignation of
the offended Elizabeth. Joy and anxiety almost bereft him of
understanding. The Monk was commissioned to procure for him an immediate
interview with Ida; and when Father Jacob returned to him with the
information, that an hour had already elapsed, since the Damsels of
Werdenberg departed from the Castle, he forgot (in his impatience to
rejoin his mistress) so completely all ideas of propriety, of
consideration for the feelings of his bride, and of the misconstructions
to which he was making his conduct liable, that without farther
deliberation he sprang upon his courser, and pursued the way, which the
Monk pointed out to him as that, by which he might the most speedily
overtake the sisters. In the hurry of his enthusiastic affection, he
forgot every thing else; he left no apology for the Count of March; no
explanation for Elizabeth; he even neglected to remind the Monk to
deliver his letter, or to desire him to clear up the mystery of his
conduct.
In fact, Father Jacob had other business upon his hands, than to
extenuate Montfort’s offence in the eyes of Elizabeth. Immediately on
the youth’s departure, he lost no time in transmitting the following
letter to the family-priest of Torrenburg.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Father Jacob to Father Hilarius._
Before this letter can reach you, doubtless the occurrences of this
evening will be already known to you: but learn from me some
circumstances, which are as yet a secret to all but myself and the
principal actors in them.—Erwin Melthal, that peasant youth on whose
perfections and on whose attachment you have heard Ida dwell with such
enthusiasm, proves to be no other than Henry of Montfort.—Elizabeth is
still ignorant of this previous acquaintance, and must remain so: with
the sisters she is likely to have no immediate intercourse, and by my
management Henry has left the Castle of March in pursuit of Ida; though
to gain time, I thought it prudent to give him a false direction, and he
is now upon the road to the half-ruined Fortress, which the Count of
Torrenburg possesses in Thuringia.
Let your patron lose no time in hastening hither—I will take care, that
he shall find the family disposed to consider his renewed proposals as a
most honourable and fortunate event; and I doubt not, in the first
tumult of her passions, of disappointed love, violated friendship, and
raging jealousy, Elizabeth may be easily persuaded to an union, which
will make her mistress of that rival’s fate, to whose pernicious beauty
she ascribes the loss of her own promised happiness.
Be assured, it will be greatly both for your advantage and for mine,
that Elizabeth should become Count Frederick’s wife. He is advanced in
years; it is highly improbable, that he should have children; and a rich
bequest is already secured to our convent in the event of his dying
without legitimate descendants. On the other hand, should he remain
unmarried, there is every probability of his acknowledging the Damsels
of Werdenberg as his heiresses; a step, which would ruin all our hopes
for ever, but which (you may depend upon it) he will never be suffered
to take, if the jealous and incensed Elizabeth becomes Countess of
Torrenburg.
With regard to these hated girls, whose intrusion is so greatly adverse
to our interests, no means must be neglected for expelling them from
their guardian’s house and favour. As to Constantia, I look upon her as
little dangerous, being (to judge by every appearance) entirely devoted
to a religious life: it would therefore be unnecessary to molest her,
were not her fate so closely connected with her sister’s, that it is
impossible to separate the one from the other. But it is against Ida
that all your skill must be directed.—Doubtless, Elizabeth’s letters are
still in her possession—Seize them, either by art or violence, it
matters not which: they must necessarily contain matter sufficient to
convince Count Frederick, that it was by her advice, that her friend was
persuaded to elope from him with young Montfort: he will look upon her
as the traverser of his views upon Elizabeth, and that will be
sufficient to banish her from his favour—this will be greatly confirmed
by the appearance of the sisters at Elizabeth’s wedding, which he cannot
but consider as highly disrespectful to himself and his feelings; but
you must carefully conceal from him, that Ida confined in the solitude
of Torrenburg Castle, and Constantia buried in the silence of her
Convent, were both ignorant of the rejected lover’s name till after
their arrival at the Castle of March. The Count is noble-minded; but he
is proud, irascible, easily induced to believe the worst of those who
surround him, and obstinate in retaining prejudices once received—these
are the parts of his character, upon which it must be your care to work,
till you have kindled a flame against Ida in his bosom, which all her
tears will be unable to extinguish. On the other hand, you must assail
Ida with terrors of her uncle’s indignation, and with threats of an
immediate union with her superannuated admirer, Count Egbert: and when
you have terrified her sufficiently to prevent her conduct from being
regulated by her understanding, assure her, that there is no way of
avoiding Count Frederick’s wrath and old Montfort’s marriage-bed, except
flight from the Castle of Torrenburg.—That step once taken, Ida is
ruined; Constantia may easily be convicted of participation in her
sister’s actions; the ungrateful girls will be banished from their
uncle’s favour irrevocably, and then the game will be all our
own.—Farewell, and let me hear from you with all diligence.
* * * * *
The unconscious subject of these abominable artifices was in the mean
while journeying homewards with a heavy heart, doubly afflicted by the
injustice of her friend, and the supposed perfidy of her lover. She had
ascertained no more before her departure from the Castle of March, than
that the man, whom she had so long believed to be a peasant’s son, was
Count Henry of Montfort; but it still remained unexplained, how Henry
could have so totally forgotten his former vows, and have offered his
hand to another. The more that she reflected, the less reason did there
appear to doubt, that upon discovering his own noble origin he had
abandoned all thoughts of an union with the low-born daughter of William
Tell. In the opinion of love this fault was not to be excused; she in
some degree obtained a forced tranquillity by resolving, that his
conduct had rendered him totally unworthy of her; and that even should
the inconstant Henry return to her chains, it would be beneath Ida of
Werdenberg to accept that hand, which he had insolently withdrawn from
the humble Rosanna Tell.
Constantia accompanied her sister for some part of her journey, but was
at length unwillingly compelled to separate from her and return to her
convent, attended by the vassals whom the Abbess of Zurich had sent for
her protection. Ida reached her guardian’s Castle without meeting any
adventure; but a mistake of her attendants occasioned her to go
considerably out of her road, and this delay gave time for Father
Jacob’s letter to precede her at the Castle of Torrenburg. Father
Hilarius lost no time in searching for Elizabeth’s letters; he found
them, and found them also such, as he wished. Some, which would have
exculpated Ida, and made against Elizabeth, he committed to the flames,
and then lost no time in communicating the rest to his patron.
Count Frederick had returned home on Elizabeth’s bridal day, which he
intended to pass with his niece in silent melancholy. He had resolved to
inquire into her character with more attention, than he had done
hitherto; and as his late disappointment had made him give up all
thoughts of marriage for himself, it was his intention to declare that
the damsels of Werdenberg were his future heiresses, in case they should
prove to deserve so great a distinction.
On his arrival he inquired for Ida; he was informed, that she was gone
to the wedding of the young Countess of March.—He started in
astonishment, and father Hilarius shook his head with a smile. Frederick
enquired, how the girl could have ventured to take a step, which he
could not but look upon as a marked token of disrespect? or if she were
ignorant of his having payed his addresses to Elizabeth, why had not
father Hilarius prevented her from unconsciously offering him this
public affront? the worthy Chaplain shrugged his shoulders, and answered
that—“Good-lack! he was too old and too simple to look after a young
wanton girl with the devil (heaven bless us!) in her head.”—