intention to me, or to any one—and as to her _ignorance_ of your
adresses.... Blessed St. Barnabas! she knew much more about them, than I
did myself!—Why, my lord, I have just discovered, that she has long kept
up a secret correspondence with the Lady Elizabeth; and I can bring you
the most undeniable proofs, that you would at this moment have been
happy in the possession of your bride, had it not been for Ida, for the
self created heiress of Torrenburg; who instigated her innocent friend
to refuse your hand; who fooled her into an imaginary passion for young
Montfort; and when she had entangled the poor Elizabeth too closely in
this intrigue to admit of her retreating with honour, who finally
persuaded her to adopt the disgraceful measure of an elopement.—Yet to
say truth, there is some excuse for Ida’s conduct, since she could not
but heartily wish to prevent a marriage so extremely detrimental to her
own views and interests.”—
Frederick heard every word with increasing amazement. In a voice of fury
he demanded, that the proofs, of which the Monk had spoken, should be
instantly produced.—Father Hilarius then gave Elizabeth’s letters into
his hand, accompanying them with some reflections on the danger of
teaching women the art of writing; at the same time reminding the Count,
how strenuously and how frequently he had represented to him, that in
the hands of so forward a girl as Ida, there could not possibly be a
more dangerous instrument than a pen; and that to leave her to the full
as ignorant as he found her, was an object most desirable both for the
Count and for herself.—But his remonstrances had been disregarded; Ida
was taught to write; and now see the blessed effects of it!
Elizabeth’s hand was not to be mistaken; and while the Count gazed upon
the writing so well known to him, the malicious Priest inflamed his
resentment still further by relating various passages of Ida’s early
life, to which he well knew how to give that colouring, which suited
best with his designs; he related, how during the time that she was
believed to be Tell’s grand-daughter, Ida had greatly shocked her
companions by her free and dissolute manners; he proceeded to state,
that in consequence her guardians had been obliged to separate her from
Constantia, lest the one should be perverted by the bad example of the
other; that regret at finding all his efforts to reclaim her in vain,
had broken the heart of her adopted father, and sent him with sorrow to
his grave: that she had carried on an intrigue with a man of low birth,
to whom she was still attached; and that in all probability it was her
intention to enrich this peasant with the valuable inheritance, which
she expected to derive from Count Frederick’s bounty.
—“And then” continued Father Hilarius, casting a malicious side-glance
upon Ida’s claims; “and then how easy will it be for the young fellow to
vamp up some fine story of an unexpected discovery, and of a
relationship to some illustrious family long concealed, and thus qualify
himself for assuming openly the proud name of _Count of Torrenburg_, in
right of his wife, her generous uncle’s heiress!”—
The Count bit his lip: yet after a long silence he answered, that Ida’s
parentage and claims admitted of no doubt; and that he wished most
heartily, that she were any other person, in order that in pronouncing
his judgement upon her conduct, she might have been entitled to less
consideration and respect.
—“But in spite of all her faults,” said he, “I cannot deal harshly with
a person, who is the daughter of my deceased friend, and of the woman
whom I once adored. Yet on the other hand, such mean artifices, such
acts of interested baseness, of such flagrant ingratitude, ought not to
escape without due punishment.—Ida has destroyed the happiness, which I
promised myself in marriage; it will be no more than a just vengeance,
if I destroy hers in return.—Should she fail to exculpate herself, she
shall either be immured for life within the walls of a Cloister, or give
her hand without delay to the old Count of Montfort, from whom I this
morning received proposals for her hand.”—
When he pronounced this sentence, the Count was standing in an open
balcony: as the last words fell from his lips, he saw Ida with her
attendants riding slowly towards the Castle. He hastily drew back; and
feeling, that he was at that time too much incensed to give her cause an
impartial hearing, he ordered Father Hilarius to fill his place—the
Friar exulted at this command: he knew well the generosity of his
patron’s nature, and dreaded that irresistible conviction, which ever
accompanies the pleading of injured innocence: he therefore heard with
Great satisfaction, that the cause was not to be tried by a judge, the
goodness of whose own heart would naturally incline him to the side of
mercy, justice, and compassion.
Ida had scarcely divested herself of her bridal robes, when a procession
entered her chamber composed of the chief officers of the Count’s
household, and headed by the reverend Father Hilarius. The formal manner
of their entrance, and the gravity which reigned in every countenance,
were alone sufficient to communicate to her mind some degree of
confusion and alarm.—How greatly were these emotions increased, when the
Chaplain began his examination, which was preceded by a terrible
description of her guardian’s anger, and which consisted of questions so
artfully worded, that taken by surprize and bewildered as she was, she
found herself constrained either to return no answers at all, or such as
were apparently to her disadvantage.—Sensible of this at length, she
entreated, that time might be allowed her for recollection: the greatest
part of her auditors were well inclined to the poor suppliant, and felt
for her the most sincere compassion. The Monk therefore did not dare to
act towards her with all the harshness, to which his heart prompted him;
the further examination of this affair was postponed to three hours
after sunrise of the next day, and Ida was left alone.
It was midnight.—Ida sat weeping, while a variety of unpleasant images
crowded before her imagination, and retraced the many singular and
painful transactions, of which that day had been a witness.
Interesting as had been the events which took place at the Castle of
March, still her mind was most occupied by those more recent ones,
which surprized her at her return home.—“Her guardian Elizabeth’s
rejected bridegroom.”—“Herself accused of having broken off his
marriage.”—“_Some_ offences laid to her charge, which were totally
incomprehensible.”—“_Others_, of which she was conscious, that her
unguarded conduct had made her but too liable to be suspected.”—“The
Count’s violent resentment.”—“His threats.”—“Expulsion from the Castle
of Torrenburg.”—“The only choice, allowed her, the cloister for life,
or an union with the decrepit Count Egbert.”—Poor, poor Ida! how wilt
thou find a clue to guide thy bewildered steps aright through such a
labyrinth of dangers!
Buried in these melancholy reflections, she heard not the door unlocked,
by which her apartments communicated with the public gallery.—At length
a hand gently removed the handkerchief, with which she had covered her
face. She looked up, and beheld Father Hilarius.
—“Alas! my dear child,” said the Friar, “what avails your
weeping?—believe me, your affairs are not in so ill a state, as you may
imagine; though I cannot but confess, that appearances are greatly
against you. Your secret correspondence with Elizabeth has been
intercepted: I have tried in vain to convince your guardian, that you
were ignorant of his having any concern in the affair. Then he looks on
your presence at the marriage, as a personal and designed affront. It
appears indeed from one of her letters, that your friend herself was in
great doubt, whether you would accept her invitation. At the very time
of her giving it, she pointed out the inconveniences of your coming; she
warned you, that you would incur your uncle’s anger.... And yet in
defiance of this warning, you went!—As to the confusion, which your
presence produced at the wedding, of that we can make out nothing; you
either _will_ not, or _can_ not explain the mystery; one thing only I
can collect from your account, which is, that you have made a number of
enemies there, who will spare no pains to injure you, and to prevent
your innocence from being made clear to the Count.—For that you _are_
innocent, I have no manner of doubt; and I will venture to assert, that
in process of time.... But time indeed, Heaven help us! that is exactly
what is refused you—the punishment of your supposed offences will be
immediate! the old Count of Montfort arrived here not an hour ago; and
your guardian is determined, that to-morrow shall decide the destiny of
your future life. Of your guilt he is thoroughly persuaded, and you will
be compelled to-morrow to give your hand to Count Egbert, if he will
condescend to accept it; or if the old man thinks that your conduct has
now made you unworthy of such an honour, you will be immediately
confined for life in the Convent of the Grey Penitents near Count
Frederick’s Thuringian Castle.”—
—“And what then must be done?” cried Ida, wringing her hands in fear and
agony.—“How can I escape so dreadful a destiny?”—
—“Escape?” repeated the Monk.—“Ha! right! right! my dear child, it was
surely Heaven, that inspired you with the thought!—Yes! you must escape;
you must fly from the Castle of Torrenburg!”—
—“Escape? fly?”—repeated the bewildered Ida; “and whither must I go?”—
“To a retreat,” replied the Monk, “where you may wait in security, till
your uncle’s resentment is appeased, and your innocence can be made
clear to him.—But you shall know more, as we go along. I know a secret
passage, by which you may quit the Castle unobserved. Follow me, for you
have not a moment to lose!—Nay, come, come! away!”—
Thus saying, he caught the lamp from the table with one hand, and
grasping Ida’s arm with the other, he drew her from the
chamber.—Bewildered, terrified, she had not presence of mind sufficient
to form a resolution; and her exhausted frame was unable to resist the
force, with which he urged her forwards, as she followed him through the
long galleries, rather passively submitting, than wilfully consenting to
his design.
I formerly mentioned, that Count Frederick still resided on the spot,
which had once been the habitation of the antient Counts of Carlsheim
and Sargans. To this he had chiefly been induced by the beauty of the
situation: perhaps too his pride was secretly gratified by the
recollection, that his residence was the same with that, whence his
ancestors were accustomed to extend the sceptre of command over the
surrounding provinces, and to set at defiance the resentment of many a
sovereign prince, who possest much more lofty-sounding titles but much
less real power and strength.—Still the gloomy, half-ruined Castle of
Sargans was by no means a mansion suited to the taste of its modern
possessor. Accordingly he had levelled to the ground the remains of a
wing of this gigantic pile, which had formerly been destroyed by fire,
and had erected in its place a stately palace, at once noble in its
external form, and convenient in its interior accommodations. This was
called the Castle of Torrenburg; while the forsaken halls and towers of
Sargans were still distinguished by the name of the “Donat-Fortress,”
the two buildings were separated by courts of considerable extent; the
antient one was in a great measure suffered to go to ruin, except a few
apartments which were kept up for the accommodation of domestics, when
on solemn occasions the number of guests was too great to be received
within the walls of the Count’s own residence.
Superstition had not failed to extend her dominion over the
Donat-Fortress.—Traditions respecting the former Counts of Carlsheim and
Sargans, which had been handed down from father to son, and with which
you, Elizabeth, are already well acquainted, furnished subjects
sufficient for a thousand wonderful stories. In truth, the prejudice, in
favour of the opinion that the ruins were haunted, was so prevalent,
that not merely among the Count’s domestics, but even among the
inhabitants of the neighbouring villages numbers of ghost-seers were to
be found, who had beheld at sundry times (and with their own eyes) the
spirits of Ethelbert and Urania, of Donat, Helen, and other traditionary
personages, wandering among those abandoned halls and moss-grown towers;
and they augured either favourable or inauspicious events to the
reigning possessor, according as the vision represented a lady or a
Monk, an innocent wife or her haughty tyrant husband.
Ida’s character is naturally extremely timid, and she had not escaped
the contagion of superstitious terrors. It was therefore with no slight
emotion, that she found her conductor taking the way, which led to the
ruins.
—“Whither are you leading me?” said she frequently, as she followed him
with trembling steps.—“Whither are you leading me?” she again demanded
almost with a shriek; and as she snatched her hand from the Friar’s, her
blood froze in her veins at perceiving, that she had now past the last
of the separating courts, and stood before the massy walls and lofty
round towers of the Donat-Fortress, whose colossal portal seemed to
stretch wide its enormous jaws, as if for the purpose of devouring her.
Father Hilarius was now compelled to stop for a moment, and support his
fainting companion. She reclined her head against his shoulder; and when
she had in some degree recovered her spirits, she related to him, that
happening once to be standing in her balcony at midnight, she had seen
with her own eyes the apparitions of two Monks come out of the very
gate, before which they were at that moment standing; that they went up
to the old well in the corner, whose mouth is overgrown with moss and
weeds, and there they seemed to vanish; and that upon relating what she
had seen the next morning, the old portress had related to her a
terrible history of two Monks belonging to the Abbey of Curwald, who
were starved to death in a subterraneous dungeon by the order of one of
the tyrant-counts of Carlsheim; that their bones were buried in that
ruined well, in which Heaven’s retribution had ordained, that the
murderer himself should perish; and that ever since that time, the place
had been haunted by the ghosts of the two unfortunate Friars.
Father Hilarius, who frequently made use of the deserted fortress, when
he had any secret business to transact, could have easily removed the
miraculous part of the appearances, which Ida had seen; but it did not
suit his plans to quiet her anxiety by letting her into the truth. He
contented himself with painting in the strongest colours the dangers,
which awaited her on her return to the Count’s abode; and with reminding
her, that her only chance of avoiding those dangers was an instantaneous
flight by means, whose terrors were merely imaginary.
The priest, in spite of all his seeming simplicity, was by no means
deficient in eloquence. His descriptions were so lively, and his
arguments came so home to her feelings, that Ida was soon convinced,
that she could meet with no ghost more terrible or more hideous than the
old Count of Montfort. She therefore resolved to follow her guide
without further remonstrance, and only requested that she might shut her
eyes, and clasp one of his hands with both of hers in the form of a
cross, which holy sign (she doubted not) would scare all evil spirits
away. To this he consented, and promised to inform her when she should
be arrived in a place of safety, and might relieve herself from this
voluntary loss of sight.
As they proceeded, the Monk lighted several torches of yellow wax, which
were fastened at intervals against the sides of a long passage, opening
into a large hall; he took the same precaution, as he ascended a lofty
marble staircase; and as soon as he entered a spacious saloon, he lost
no time in illuminating twelve large chandeliers of brass, which were
suspended from the roof.—He now desired Ida to open her eyes, and look
round her.
He could not have pitched upon a better method for dissipating Ida’s
fears of ghosts and goblins. Darkness is the mother of causeless terror;
with the return of light, courage and confidence return to the trembling
heart. The lamp, with which the Friar was still busied in lighting the
last chandelier, assured her, that there was nothing supernatural in the
light, by which she found herself surrounded; and her heart expanded
with the agreeable impression, produced upon her by this sudden and
unexpected splendour.
She had always pictured to herself the Donat-Fortress, as the residence
of crows, bats, and screech-owls, a gloomy chaos of dirt, and dust, and
fragments of moth-eaten furniture. How greatly then was she surprized to
find, that though everything in truth was faded and antiquated, yet
nothing could be more magnificent than the saloon, which she was then
examining. It was hung with tapestry richly wrought and adorned with
pictures, on whose frames gold and carving had been lavished most
profusely: and through the open door she looked out upon the illuminated
marble staircase, and down the long gallery, whose vista of lights
presented an object at once noble and agreeable. Father Hilarius advised
her to repose herself for a few minutes, and conducted her to an
elevated seat under a canopy, which seemed like a throne.
—“It was here,” said he “that the antient lords of the ten jurisdictions
were accustomed to receive the homage of their vassals, while that
anti-chamber was thronged with their knights and retainers; and it was
from yonder side-chambers, that crouds of the noblest dames and damsels
of the country looked out, and admired the magnificence of the powerful
Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans.”—
Ida would not cast a single glance towards the side-chambers, where the
dames and damsels of former days used to assemble, for in these there
were no torches; and she could not help fearing, lest she should
discover in them some inhabitant of the other world made visible by the
light of his own burning brimstone. She therefore continued to look
towards the illuminated gallery, and listened with pleased attention to
Father Hilarius, while he dwelt upon the brighter parts of the family
traditions, and by descriptions of splendid feasts and stately
tournaments, contrived to beguile the trembling girl of her terrors.
—“But we forget ourselves,” said the Monk at length, suddenly breaking
off his narration, “we must not suffer day-light to surprise us in these
untenanted apartments, where we should undoubtedly be sought after, and
then if found what would be the consequence? you would be consigned to
the arms of the decrepit Egbert, while I should be sent back to my
Convent with indignation by your uncle. Come, lady, come! follow me,
where peace and security await your arrival.”—
—“Lead on, good father!” replied Ida; “be you but my guide, and I will
not hesitate to follow.”—
—“Good!” said Hilarius; and then extinguishing some of the lights, he
took them from the chandeliers.—“Then take special care of these tapers;
they will be necessary for us on the way, by which we must escape. Now
then hasten onwards, and be alarmed at nothing, which you may encounter.
Be assured, there is no real danger.”—
Thus saying, he gave her a small basket, which already appeared to
contain some provisions, and in which he now deposited the tapers. These
preparations for a long journey through gloomy ways were by no means
calculated to preserve in Ida’s mind that temporary tranquillity, which
it had so lately recovered. An involuntary shuddering seized her; and as
he lighted her forwards, he assured her so often of his acting honestly
by her, that she began to suspect, that it must be his intention to
deceive her.
They at length reached the most remote quarter of the Donat-Fortress,
which by no means corresponded with the magnificence of those
apartments, by which she had approached it. Here nothing was to be seen
but winding staircases, narrow passages, low roofs, and gloomy vaulted
dungeons, without end or number, whose labyrinth bewildered her memory,
and whose aspect appalled her imagination. Most of them bore the
strongest marks of the ravages of time: and now they entered an immense
chamber, which according to the Monk’s account had at one period been
the bedroom of the Countess Urania, and of many of the ladies, her
successors.—A large vacant alcove still decorated with the remnants of
silken curtains, appeared to have once been intended to contain a bed,
and confirmed the assertion of Father Hilarius; an assertion, which the
other ornaments of the room seemed calculated to contradict. Swords,
spears, and coats of mail were fastened against the walls, and gave the
apartment more the appearance of a well-furnished armoury, than of a
lady’s bed chamber. Ida was on the point of asking the meaning of such
unusual decorations, when her conductor removed a part of the worm-eaten
tapestry, and opened a concealed door, through which she descried a
staircase descending to a far greater depth, than her eye could reach.
—“Here is our way,” said Hilarius, “tremble not, my child, but follow me
without hesitation.—A few hours will place you in safety.”—
Ida shrunk back, and weeping through extreme terror, inquired, whether
this was the only means of escaping?—The Friar, who had already found
out the quickest method of removing her apprehensions, descended part of
the staircase, and as he past, kindled some tapers fixed on the
balustrade. This experiment succeeded, as it had done before—Ida
ventured down a few steps, and the Monk returned to assist her to
descend the remainder; when suddenly springing past her, he rushed up
the staircase, and passing through the door, closed it after him with a
loud noise.
How the blood ran cold in the poor girl’s veins, when she found herself
forsaken by her guide; how she hastened after him, in hopes of inducing
him by entreaties to release her from this unexpected captivity; how she
shuddered at being able to discover no traces of the concealed door; and
how she at length sank down upon the steps in agony and despair, when
she found no answer returned to her shrieks for relief and mercy, all
this I need not describe to Elizabeth: her own good and tender heart
will make her feel for the situation of a young creature, by nature the
most fearful of her sex, exposed to all the horrors of night, solitude,
and silence, at the entrance of a chain of gloomy caverns, whose
existence till that moment had been unknown to her, and with whose
outlet she was totally unacquainted.
Though she received no answer, she was certain, that her entreaties for
help were not unheard by the unpitying Friar. She could plainly
distinguish his footsteps, as he hastened away from the chamber; and the
noise of closing doors and of bolts shooting back into their fastenings
left her no room to doubt her being totally abandoned.
Ida was herself unconscious, how much time elapsed, before she could
summon strength of mind sufficient to reflect, how it would be most
adviseable for her to conduct herself in this perilous situation.
Undoubtedly, before she could recover from the shock, a considerable
period must have elapsed; for when she at length looked around her, she
perceived, that the torches were on the point of expiring. The dread of
being left in total darkness recalled her to herself: she sprang from
the ground, and lost no time in kindling one of the tapers, with which
the Monk (who was far from wishing her destruction) had providently
supplied her basket.
—“He does not then desire my death?” said she, as she saw the flame rise
bright and cheerful, and a kind of doubtful joy infused itself into her
almost frozen heart.