to Minna, “hasten to the camp, ere it is yet too late! Under our
safe-guard you cannot have any danger to apprehend, and in the few
minutes, which I passed with him, I took care to make your situation so
well known to Count Donat, that you need not fear, lest the power of
your charms should produce an effect on his heart prejudicial to the
rights of your destined husband.”—
These assurances Guiderius failed not to strengthen with a variety of
others; Hilderic also exerted all his eloquence in support of his
superior; and their joint efforts were so successful, that Minna was
obliged to give a promise to follow them to the camp.
What line of conduct was it now most proper for me to adopt? My ideas
were too confused, my apprehensions too painful, to admit of my
observing a thousand contradictions in the Abbot’s statement, a thousand
trifling circumstances indicating some concealed design, which could not
have failed to strike any indifferent person. Besides, as Minna had now
promised to accompany the monks, it seemed impossible that I should
suffer her to set out without the sanction of a female’s presence, and
expose her beauty and innocence to the perils, which threatened them in
Count Donat’s camp. It was equally impossible for me to leave my poor
weak husband to himself, and resign him to the dangerous caprices of his
delirium, which during our absence would most probably return. Yet my
blood ran cold at the idea of remaining alone in the power of a
desperate man, who had so lately declared his intentions to destroy me;
intentions, which in his frenzy he would find but little difficulty in
carrying into effect. Part of our adherents had already hastened to the
camp, in hopes of avoiding Count Donat’s vengeance by a voluntary
surrender; the rest of them had either betaken themselves to flight, or
had sought various places of concealment, till the first storm should
have subsided. After Minna’s departure I should be left quite alone with
the frantic Ethelbert. I knew not what to resolve, and yet it was
necessary to resolve on something without delay.
At length it was settled, that accompanied by the fathers Mark and
Hilderic I should set forward with Minna, and throw myself at the feet
of our enemy. In the mean while the Abbot consented to watch over my
husband’s actions; a consent, which he seemed to give with evident
reluctance, though the great influence which he possest over the
maniac’s mind pointed him out as well suited for the employment.
We proceeded slowly, as those are accustomed to do, whose road conducts
them to certain sorrow. The learned Hilderic endeavoured to inspire the
trembling Minna with confidence, for which purpose he vainly exhausted
every argument of consolation, which religion or philosophy could
furnish. In the mean while, I was busied in trying to draw such
information out of the simple Mark, as might confirm either my hopes, or
my apprehensions. This man, both in conduct and inclinations, was in
truth the best among the brotherhood of Cloister-Curwald; but his
perception was so limited, that the world might have perished, without
his having the least suspicion of such an event taking place, or being
able to give the least account of it after it had happened. All that he
could produce to satisfy me, were repeated assurances, that he believed
the step which we were taking to be right and prudent; but as to what
had past between Guiderius and Count Donat, or what reception we might
reasonably expect from the latter, I found that father Mark was no less
ignorant than myself.
We drew near the conqueror’s tent. My heart beat violently: what was I
to expect from one, who had sworn to sacrifice me to the manes of his
mother! I endeavoured to muster up all my resolution; I threw back my
veil, and followed with desperate courage, whither the Monks conducted
us. Count Donat stood before me. I threw myself at his feet, and strove
to comprise in one imploring look all that I wished to ask of him, but
which terror prevented me from expressing in words.
Donat’s piercing eyes dwelt for some moments on my face in silence. He
then turned to one of the Friars of Curwald who stood behind him, and
asked, “if this was the person, whose beauty he had heard him praise so
highly?”
—“That is Urania Venosta,” answered the Monk, “Countess of Carlsheim and
Sargans.”—
Instantly the expression of Donat’s features changed, and the look of
satisfaction, which they had worn at first, was replaced by that of
aversion. He turned from me without speaking, and advanced to receive
Minna, who approaching slowly raised her veil, and sank on her knees
before him with that inexpressible grace, which accompanied even the
most trifling of her actions.
—“Mercy! mercy!” she exclaimed, while she extended towards him her hands
clasped in supplication; “mercy for the helpless and the innocent! Is it
possible, that the victorious Donat should stain the glory of his sword,
by directing it against trembling women, against an infirm father,
against a people who willingly submit themselves to his power?—Oh! be
that far from him!”—
Donat drew back a few steps, and gazed on her with a look, in which we
endeavoured vainly to read the sentiments of his bosom. No one could
guess from it, whether he suffered the fair suppliant to remain kneeling
through forgetfulness of every thing but her beauty, or from feeling the
same contempt for _her_ entreaties, with which he had treated mine.
—“Rise!” said he at length in a stern voice, but whose sternness was
evidently assumed; “who are you?”—
—“Minna of Mayenfield.”—
—“And your companion?” he resumed, pointing to me.
—“Urania Venosta, my adopted mother, and the wife of your father, of
your father who shudders at your approach! Oh! Donat, think how dreadful
it is to be the cause of terror to a repentant father!—Mercy, Donat! Oh!
mercy for us all!”—
Donat raised the imploring girl without replying; he also motioned to me
to quit my kneeling posture, and then ordered his attendants to conduct
us into another tent.
Towards evening he visited us, and gave that answer in person, which we
had vainly solicited in the morning. Now that he had laid aside his
threatening casque and blood-stained armour, he appeared to be entirely
a different person. His manner was respectful to Minna, courteous to me.
He mentioned his father in terms rather of grief than anger; Lucretia’s
name, (which, as we had been informed, used to be constantly on his
lips) was not pronounced by him; and in the course of conversation he
once so far forgot his wrath, as to mention me by the title of “his
mother.”—
—“Oh! rejoice with me, dear Minna,” I exclaimed, while I prest the
Damsel of Mayenfield to my bosom; “it is now certain, that we are safe!
Heard you not, that Count Donat called me mother? See’st thou in him
that terrific conqueror, such as report described him? Oh! that
Ethelbert were but here to know, and love the real character of his so
dreaded son: all would be pardoned, all forgotten!”
—“That is possible,” answered Donat, who could not help smiling at the
unrestrained expression of my feelings; “the only person who has
anything to pardon is myself; and I cannot deny that beauty like
Urania’s may well excuse an act of injustice, even though it should be
monstrous as that, which was suffered by the poor Lucretia!”—
We saw, that at the recollection of Lucretia a cloud seemed to pass over
Donat’s countenance, though it soon disappeared again. We therefore lost
no time in mentioning to him the only request about which we were now
anxious, fearful lest he should alter his good dispositions towards us,
before they had produced the effect which was so earnestly desired.
We entreated him to suffer us to return to his anxious father, and
inform him, how unjustly he had doubted his son’s filial affection.
Donat hesitated, and inquired, why we were desirous of leaving him in
such haste?—Besides our wish to relieve Count Ethelbert from his
apprehensions without loss of time, we alleged as an excuse the
impropriety of our remaining in a camp without any other females.
—“Oh!” replied Donat, “this last reason can be none for your departure;
and if you have no better, I flatter myself, that I shall not lose your
company, till after I have been presented by you to-morrow to my
long-estranged father in the Castle of Sargans. You are not the only
ladies in my camp; I have a wife and sister with me, who will be
delighted to welcome you, and who (to confess the truth) pleaded with me
in your behalf most urgently, ere I was yet decided, what answer I
should make to your request.”—
It is impossible to express the various causes of satisfaction, which we
discovered in these few words. It is no trifling comfort for bashful
timid women to meet with persons of their own sex in a place, where they
expected to find only rude turbulent soldiers; and here we found two
benevolent beings, whose kind hearts had already induced them even
without knowing us to interest themselves in our behalf. But that which
above all seemed music to my ear, was the information, that one of these
unknown ladies was Count Donat’s wife. In the course of our
conversation, our conqueror’s eyes had frequently dwelt on Minna’s face
with an expression by no means equivocal; I was strongly inclined to
attribute his unexpected lenity entirely to my companion’s charms. Minna
was the betrothed of another. Donat was a tyrant. My heart foreboded
from these circumstances a long succession of difficulties and dangers;
all of which were banished as phantoms existing only in my imagination,
as soon as I understood, that Donat was already married, and that he
hesitated not to place the young creature, whom he looked upon with so
much interest, under the protection of his wife.
We were presented to the ladies, who composed Count Donat’s family. We
were graciously received: yet we could not help remarking, that the
behaviour of the young Countess of Carlsheim rather exprest that
condescension which is only used with inferiors, than the friendly
openness which marked our reception by Count Donat’s sister, who was
made known to us by the name of Adelaide, Lady of the Beacon-Tower.
Besides this, it must be confest that the appearance of the Countess
Mellusina (such was the name of Donat’s wife) was by no means such, as
prejudiced us in her favour. The best that could be said of her, was
that she was not ugly; and the haughty manners, which she thought proper
to assume, were but ill calculated to make her person appear to
advantage.—Oh! how different was Mellusina from the interesting Lady of
the Beacon-Tower!
—“Can this lovely woman,” I said to Minna, as soon as we were left
alone, “can she be Lucretia’s daughter, and the sister of Count Donat? I
vainly endeavoured to find in that heavenly countenance a single
feature, which resembled her nearest relations.”—
Minna however maintained, that she could discover a strong likeness to
Count Donat; we at length determined, that early misfortune had
extinguished the brilliant fire of Lucretia’s eyes, which (on further
reflection I was compelled to own) had descended to her daughter; and
also that female delicacy prevented her superior stature and commanding
make (in both of which she was her brother’s very counterpart) from
inspiring that terrific awe, which at sight of Count Donat made every
beholder’s heart tremble.
The night, which succeeded a day, in which we had gone through so much,
and with success so unexpected, was past in a state of no trifling
anxiety. Finding ourselves obliged to accept the invitation prest upon
us most earnestly by Count Donat and the ladies (to remain with them
till the next morning, when the camp would be raised) we entreated, that
at least a messenger might be dispatched to assure Ethelbert, that his
fears were without foundation. Adelaide lost no time in causing Mark and
Hilderic to hasten back to the Castle, and relieve the Abbot from the
difficult task of watching over the actions of a man, who was by no
means fit to be trusted with himself; they were also commissioned to
request Guiderius to return without delay to the camp, and inform us, in
what manner our absence had affected the unfortunate Count of Carlsheim.
Gladly would Adelaide have accompanied the Friars, and thrown herself at
the feet of her wretched father, whom she had never seen. Her brother
however did not think proper to permit her departure; and she now shared
in our uneasiness at perceiving, that one hour after another stole away
without the arrival of any intelligence from the Castle.
Yet great as was my own anxiety, it was evidently far inferior to
Adelaide’s. Her evident agitation was so excessive, that I found some
difficulty in ascribing it entirely to the interest, which she felt
about a father, whom she had never seen, and for whom she had nothing to
fear, since his fate depended on her brother. She had suddenly left the
tent during supper without taking leave of us: it was already past
midnight; when, guiding her steps with a dark lanthorn, we saw her
return, under the pretence of paying us those compliments of the night,
which she had before omitted, and of talking over with us undisturbed
the circumstances of our mutual inquietude. But it was clear, that she
had not yet mentioned all her motives for visiting us at this unusual
hour. Somewhat lay concealed in her heart, which she longed to reveal;
unluckily she delayed the wished disclosure, till the opportunity was
lost. The curtain, which closed our tent, was suddenly withdrawn, and
Mellusina entered.
While her manner gave us to understand, that her presence was an honour
which she bestowed on us extremely against her own inclination, she
entreated permission to share our nocturnal conference. Adelaide
inquired with her accustomed gentleness, why her dear sister should
think it necessary to deprive herself of her night’s repose?
—“You have not the same cause that we have,” said she, “to watch away
the melancholy hours; sleep is not banished from _your_ eyes, by anxiety
for the fate of an husband and a father, and by those foreboding fears
of some misfortune having befallen him, which the long delay of our
messenger must needs excite.”—
—“Whatever may be the reason,” answered the Countess coldly, “I found it
impossible to sleep. The glimmering of your lamp attracted me hither,
and I was much surprised ... much rejoiced, I meant to say, ... at
finding that _you_, Adelaide, had arrived here before me!”—
Good heavens! how is it possible for any being possest of common
feeling, to intrude into a circle without any other object, than
disturbing the pleasure of those who are already assembled! Mellusina’s
situation must have been as unpleasant to herself, as her presence was
to us. She resisted with difficulty her inclination to slumber; and on
the other hand, we suffered under the most torturing impatience to see
her either departing, or asleep. It was more evident with every moment,
that matters of the utmost importance floated upon the lips of Adelaide,
and we waited with inexpressible anxiety for the moment, when she would
be at liberty to disclose them.
Thus did we mutually torment each other during more than half the night;
when suddenly we were startled by a circumstance, at once the most
unaccountable and the most impossible for me to forget.—It was almost
morning. We were all silent, for we had long exhausted the few
uninteresting topics, on which we could converse with Mellusina.
Adelaide had already made two or three movements, as if she would have
taken leave of us, and yet could not resolve to abandon all hopes of
finding an opportunity of speaking to us unobserved. The lights burned
faintly. Mellusina’s eyes at length closed; and to our great delight we
saw her head recline against her shoulder with a look, which convinced
us, that sleep had at last taken complete possession of her. Adelaide
drew nearer to us, and pressing her finger on her lip with an air of
caution, pointed with her other hand to the sleeping Mellusina. At that
moment * * * * *
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
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_Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-Street, Soho._
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Errata listed in volume IV have been applied to this volume.
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).