to efface in her embraces the injurious impressions, to which his too
easy heart had given way during their separation. Spite and Envy had not
neglected the opportunity of calumniating one of Amabel’s noblest
actions. Her frank and guileless nature had prevented her from making it
a secret, that the admirable William Tell had been the first love of her
innocent heart; and her voluntary forsaking her family, in order that
she might share the fate of that gallant prisoner (a circumstance of
which all Altdorf had been an eye-witness) had found that
misinterpretation, which Calumny is always so eager to bestow on those
heroic actions, of which she feels herself incapable.
Fortunately the heart of Edmund Bloomberg was not more prone to jealous
doubts, than open to conviction. Nothing more than the sight of his
excellent brother, and the relation of the true circumstances of the
case, was necessary to make him feel the folly of suspecting the
integrity of such a man. He requested his lovely wife to forgive his
unjust suspicions; and the temporary separation of their hearts seemed
to have renewed his former love with such violence, that he could not
resolve to tear himself away from her, in spite of his earnest desire to
participate with his friends in the glorious attempt to rescue Helvetia
from her chains.
Yet was not Edmund entirely idle. His wife’s anxiety respecting the
Damsels of Sargans had formerly induced him to make enquiries respecting
their fate; but Wolfenrad (whose sole view was to remove the husband, in
order that the unprotected wife might fall a prey during his absence)
had taken care to direct his search, where he well knew that it must be
fruitless. Edmund at length discovered the trick, and incensed at having
been sent on such a wild-goose-chase, he hastened back accompanied by a
band of well-armed companions, determined to revenge the insult. His
vengeance was complete, and now at Amabel’s request he again resumed his
search after the Damsels of Sargans: nor was it long before he
ascertained, that report had said no more than the truth, when she
asserted that Amalberga was a captive in the dungeons of Rassburg, and
that Emmeline had really perished among the flames. To rescue the one
and to revenge the other now formed the only subject of the
conversations, which passed between Gertrude, Amabel, and her husband.
The more they discussed the circumstances, the more dreadful did the
fate of the two sisters appear, and the more difficult of execution did
they find their plans respecting them. They were conscious, that without
some powerful supporter, their strength was insufficient for the
undertaking; and Amabel’s thoughts immediately suggested to her the
names of two young knights, to whom at a former period the Damsels of
Sargans had been by no means indifferent, and who (she doubted not)
would still feel so much interest about them, as to forward her wish to
avenge the death of the one and procure the deliverance of the other.
On enquiry, it appeared, that but few hopes could be grounded upon the
aid of Count Herman of Werdenberg. Suspicions, injurious to Emmeline’s
character, had made him resolve to conquer his passion for her: but to
eradicate her from his heart had not been found a task so easy, as he
imagined; and at length he had quitted Germany, tormented by his
unsatisfied love, and by anger at himself for not having succeeded in
overcoming it. He was at this time in England, whence his relations had
solicited his return most earnestly, but in vain.
But little as was to be expected from Count Herman, so much the more was
to be hoped from the noble Eginhart of Torrenburg, and it was resolved
that Edmund should hasten to him without delay: it was not long before
he returned accompanied by the youthful hero.
There are reasons, which it is unnecessary to disclose, which make it
particularly painful to me to trace the name of Torrenburg, and to
recollect how closely his fate is interwoven with that of Amalberga of
Sargans: but it must be done, and I will not complain. Yes, there ought
to be now no sacrifice too difficult for my heart to make: there _shall_
be none!
Eginhart of Torrenburg, who had formerly been as closely bound to Helen
of Homburg through motives of policy, as he was now attached by
affection and his own choice to the lovely Amalberga, was at length free
from his engagements to the former, and at liberty to bestow his hand
according to the dictates of his heart.
Helen (alas for that poor Helen!) had been carried off on her bridal-day
by that fierce terrific tyrant, Donat, Count of Carlsheim and Sargans:
force had compelled her to become his wife! Angels of innocence, where
were you then lingering, that you gave the unfortunate no warning-sign
of the danger, into which she was on the brink of falling? Yet scarcely
can I decide, which would have been the harder fate; to become the
victim of Count Donat, or with a heart glowing with love to be delivered
into the arms of a husband, whose soul was in secret devoted to another,
and whose hand was only given to the wretched Helen from motives of
honour and respect for his plighted word.
Instead of the expected bride, the news of her being carried off reached
the Castle of Torrenburg, where the wedding was to have been celebrated.
Though love had no share in his concern on this occasion, compassion for
the unfortunate girl, and the insult thus offered to himself, made the
young Count immediately place himself at the head of his vassals, and
hasten to rescue the intended victim from Donat’s clutches.
Helen, who had been compelled to assent to this unhallowed union at the
Castle of Upper Halbstein, was now ordered to follow her unamiable Lord
to another of his fortresses situated southwards among the Rhœtian Alps.
She received the command with joy, for at the Castle of Sargans she
hoped at least to receive the consolations of friendship. Her
step-daughters had been the play-fellows of Helen’s childhood during
several weeks; and since their separation occasional letters and
messages conveyed by third persons had frequently assured her, that she
still lived in the remembrances of her early friends. In their embraces
she hoped to find some alleviation of her sufferings: she flattered
herself also, that the station which she was now to fill in their house,
would give her frequent opportunities of making the situation of the
poor girls more happy than it had been hitherto; and this reflexion
prevented her from feeling herself quite miserable.
Cruel fate decreed, that her journey, which was made in company with her
husband and under the protection of a numerous retinue, should be
interrupted by the arrival of the Count of Torrenburg and his forces. It
was now, that for the first time she saw the bridegroom, whom fortune
had destined never to be hers; for whose character she had ever been
taught to entertain the highest admiration; and whose sight (for oh!
there never yet was man more formed to captivate the soul of woman) was
sufficient to make her feel, how near her happiness had been, and how
completely it was now lost to her for ever.
Torrenburg’s valour forced Count Donat to seek his safety in flight, and
the trembling Helen was brought before the conqueror. Helen (who
believed herself to be no less dear to her destined bridegroom, than He
was dear to Her) for a few moments forgot her duty; but melancholy
reflexion soon made her tear herself away from the embraces of the
beloved warrior, and she commanded him to leave her.
—“My rescue comes too late!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony;
“I am Count Donat’s wife, and must remain so, though it should break my
heart! Oh! Eginhart, restore me to my husband, and forget the
unfortunate, whom fate has separated from you for ever.”—
Tears stood glittering in the warrior’s eyes. He advanced, as if he
would have detained her, but she peremptorily forbade his nearer
approach. She hastened to her palfrey, and giving the reins to the
animal, she soon reached the valley, whither Donat and his vassals had
directed their flight.
Helen’s conduct on this occasion, which might well have been termed a
difficult effort, if virtue and duty did not make every effort easy, was
rewarded by her stern husband with coldness, with sarcasms, with
reproaches. She arrived at Sargans; and here was Helen destined to find
the disappointment of her last poor promised pleasure, the society of
her two friends.
Count Donat held out to her as a mark of his complaisance and of his
consideration for her happiness, that he had ordered the only one of his
daughters who remained to him (for the other had unaccountably
disappeared) to quit the Castle. In vain did Helen implore him to recall
Emmeline of Sargans from the Sanctuary of St. Roswitha: he was deaf to
her entreaties, and she was left a prey to solitude and despair.
Nor had the husband, who had gained her hand by such unworthy means,
reason to be entirely satisfied with his situation. The Counts of
Torrenburg, Mayenfield, and Homburg, mortally offended at the carrying
off of Helen, like a deluge over-ran with their forces the territories
of Count Donat. His fortresses were forced and plundered one after
another, and they now advanced to attack the Castle of Sargans. But
Helen, whose only remaining consolation was derived from the most
punctilious discharge of her duties, came forth to throw herself at the
feet of her relations; and she implored for peace so fervently and so
earnestly, and she asserted with so much solemnity her belief, that
being once become the Count of Carlsheim’s wife, it was her duty to live
and die with him, (a duty, which she was resolved to fulfill, whatever
might be the consequences,) that her intercession was found
irresistible. Dearly was Helen beloved by her parents; earnestly did
they desire her happiness, which they well knew she never could find in
the arms of Donat: but it was by themselves, that she had been taught
the merit of sacrificing all other considerations to that of fulfilling
her duties; how then could they advise her now to break through the
rules, which they had themselves laid down for her?—Peace was granted,
and granted solely to Helen’s intercession. The ravisher was left in
possession of his unwilling bride; and her relations quitted his
territories, having first exacted from him the most solemn and dreadful
oath to recompense her for the happy station, of which he had deprived
her, by unchanging love and never-ceasing anxiety for her welfare.
Donat took the oath: how he kept it, is a secret to all save the
Almighty and Helen: but she has sworn in the presence of God to be
silent on this subject, and she will carry that dreadful secret with her
to the grave unpublished.
She was very—oh! _very_ miserable! On those days only, when her stern
husband was from home, had she any gleams of sunshine. On one of these
days an unknown messenger arrived, and desired to speak with the Lady
Emmeline of Sargans. He was informed, that she was not at the Castle,
and he was conducted to Helen. He brought letters from the Lake of Thun,
which he at length confided to her, though unwillingly, and only (as he
said) induced by the frank expression of her countenance.
—“But,” said he, “will you deliver them to the Lady Emmeline with your
own hands?”—
Helen, who lived at Sargans almost in a state of captivity, knew too
well that she was not authorised to give such a promise, and only
answered by a melancholy shake of the head. Her look, the suspicious
countenances of the attendants, and the well-known character of her
husband, alarmed the messenger, and made him suspect that his life was
in danger: he stole unperceived to the gate, and hastened away. The
packet was thus left in Helen’s possession. She knew, that it would be
impossible to deliver it into the hands of her, for whom it was
intended; she long sought for opportunities of doing so in vain; and at
length ennui, and her anxiety to obtain some further information
respecting the Sisters, which might possibly furnish her with the means
of alleviating their cruel destiny, induced her to open the letters.
They were from Amabel Melthal and the lost Amalberga. Heavens! what
unexpected discoveries did Helen make while perusing them; discoveries,
which had no slight connexion with her own situation! God be thanked,
that among other things they made it known to her, that nothing but duty
to his parents, and consideration for his plighted word, had induced
Eginhart of Torrenburg to offer her his hand, while every fond sentiment
of his heart had long been Amalberga’s. This discovery at first wounded
her to the very soul; but after a time she drew from it reasons for
being better satisfied with her fate, and she resolutely banished the
beloved youth from her memory, in which till then he had too frequently
occupied a place.
Determined to abstract herself entirely from every thing which regarded
herself, Helen now determined to consider the happiness of her two
friends as her only object in life. She endeavoured to make herself
mistress of every circumstance belonging to them. Mention was made in
one of Amabel’s letters of an old maid-servant at Sargans, called
Bertha, who had been Emmeline’s confidante during the latter days of her
abode at her father’s mansion; and in hopes of gaining some further
information Helen desired, that Bertha might be brought before her. She
was answered, that the old woman had been sick for several weeks, and
was now drawing near her end. To the great astonishment of the domestics
Helen immediately hastened to Bertha’s chamber, saying, that she would
go and comfort her in her last moments.
Helen had but little time allowed her to perform this charitable office:
yet that little she employed to the best advantage, and in return
Bertha’s gratitude rewarded her more amply, than she had hoped. Bertha,
who had fallen ill soon after Emmeline’s departure, had only had time to
forward the letter for Amabel; another packet, intended for the Countess
Urania Venosta, was still in her possession. She gave it to Helen, and
implored her to take care, that it reached its destination. That was not
in Helen’s power; she kept it for some time, in constant terror lest her
tyrant husband should discover it, and lest it should be the means of
drawing down on herself and Emmeline fresh anger and increased
sufferings. At length, she resolved at least to put the contents out of
Count Donat’s power to bury in oblivion: she broke the seal, and what
she read exalted her impatience to rescue the unfortunate writer to a
degree, that was almost too strong to admit of concealment.
What Helen suffered at this period is not to be expressed; perhaps her
own misfortunes had made her still more compassionate towards those of
others, than it was her nature otherwise to be. Three objects were now
never out of her thoughts for a moment. The first was, since the Count
of Torrenburg was now lost to her for ever, to make known to him the
present residence of Amalberga; but how to convey to him that
intelligence, she in vain sought to discover. The second was, if
possible, to rescue Emmeline from the detested Convent of St. Roswitha;
but alas! she had but little hopes of delivering others, while she was
herself a captive in the Castle of Sargans. The last was, to obtain
possession of the key to that chamber, in which was the secret entrance
to the subterraneous passages leading to the dwellings of the Anchorets.
The last seemed to afford her the most probable means of gratifying her
two former wishes; perhaps too, she was unconsciously desirous of
securing a means of escaping from the Castle, should she ever find such
a step necessary. It is at least certain, that in her eagerness to carry
her point, she took many steps, which prudence would not justify.
Frequently did she repair to that chamber; she found the door guarded by
seven locks. Frequently in the dead of the night, when all slept, or
seemed to sleep, did she try the house-keys, which were in her charge;
and when at length two of the locks shot back from their fastenings, she
sank on her knees, and thanked Heaven with a flood of tears. She doubted
not, that the rest of the locks would yield to her perseverance; but a
sudden noise at no great distance prevented her from pushing the attempt
farther that night, and she hastened back to her chamber with a heart
filled with delight and expectation.
Joy, at being so near the accomplishment of her wishes, prevented her
from sleeping during the remainder of the night, and she employed the
vacant hours in revolving her future plans.
—“If,” said she to herself, after giving the matter her most serious
consideration; “if I should be so fortunate as to obtain an entrance
into the mysterious chamber to-morrow night, I will hasten to the
subterraneous passage without losing a moment. A torch, and the clear
description of the way given in Amalberga’s letter will guide me to the
Hermitage to a certainty, and I need only use more than ordinary
diligence, in order to be back at the Castle before day-break; for
precious as liberty appears to me, I will not obtain it by improper
means. I am Donat’s wife, and privately to withdraw myself from his
protection were to commit an act of infidelity and treason against my
husband. I will content myself therefore with relating what I know to
the good hermits, and entreating them to take the best and speediest
means of rescuing Emmeline from her dangerous abode, and for placing the
fortunate Amalberga in the arms of Torrenburg!”—
On second thoughts, she reflected, that merely to give this intelligence
to the hermits would not be to do enough; it would also be necessary to
give some explanation to the Countess Urania respecting the letters
which she had opened, and by advising Torrenburg to make Amalberga his
wife, to render it clear to him, that she had herself forgotten the tyes
which once existed between them. Perhaps too, a threatening letter to
the Abbot of Curwald (should all other means fail) might have some
weight in inducing him to surrender Emmeline. In order that nothing
might delay her on the ensuing night, she rose instantly from her bed,
and began to write. But before her letters were concluded, it was
morning, and her attendants, or rather her jailors, entered the
apartment to wake her. They exprest no little surprise at finding her
already out of bed.
—“I presume, noble Lady,” said the eldest of them, “either some joyous
foreboding, or some prophetic dream has roused you from your couch so
early. Our Lord will return to-day; in truth, we knew this yesterday,
but we kept it to make our morning-greeting the more welcome, and also
through apprehension lest your joy at this intelligence should spoil
your night’s rest.”—
Helen only answered the speaker by one of those expressive glances, with
which the open-hearted repay words, which belie the secret mind. She was
well aware, that her women who had been so often the witnesses of her
sufferings, could not but know the nature of those feelings, which
Donat’s return was likely to excite in her bosom. Nor did she alone
tremble in the presence of the fierce Count of Carlsheim; every creature
that existed in the Castle listened to his name with terror, and nothing
but irony had dictated this speech of the insolent Jutta. Yet dared not
Helen find the least fault with any one of her female attendants, who
were chiefly composed of her husband’s former favourites, and the
meanest of whom had more influence with him still, than was allowed to
his unhappy wife.
The news of Donat’s return was soon confirmed: it was scarcely mid-day,
when she heard the drawbridge resounding beneath the hasty trampling of
his black steed. She hastened to receive him at the gate with that smile
of submissive duty, which she had accustomed herself always to wear in
his presence. He repulsed her offered hand with a furious look, and shut
himself up in his own chamber with such of his dependents, as were most
in his confidence. An hour elapsed; his chamber-door was thrown open,
and Donat rushed out again, to all appearance more incensed, if
possible, than before.
—“Arm! arm!” cried he with a voice of thunder, which resounded through
the whole fortress, and which soon collected all his soldiers around
him, who, wearied with the journey from which they were just returned,
were better fitted for repose than for a second expedition; “to horse,
and away this instant; business of importance summons us, and which
admits of no delay. Talk not of weariness, or exhausted strength! the
deed, which now demands your faulchions, could be executed, if your arms
were half useless; for I lead you not against stout warriors, but
cowardly monks, on whom I swear to be revenged before sun-set!”—
They were too well accustomed to obey Count Donat at the first motion of
his finger, to make any remonstrances. In a few minutes all were
mounted, and their horses galloped over the echoing draw-bridge into the
valley below, whence they disappeared from the eyes of those, who gazed
after them, with the rapidity of lightning.
The Castle-inhabitants looked on each other in silent astonishment. The
similarity of their present feelings produced a kind of confidence
between the Countess and her women; and one of them confessed to her,
her being almost certain, that she knew the cause of all this uproar.
She would however only impart thus much of her knowledge: on his return
homewards the Count had received a letter from one who was in the habit
of sending him intelligence, and this letter most probably contained the
spark, which had kindled such flames in the bosom of Count Donat; for as
soon as he had read it to his confidents, he tore it in a thousand
pieces, and trampled it under his feet. Besides this, in the midst of a
torrent of execrations he had been heard to mention the Abbot of Curwald
and his daughter Emmeline.
—“Emmeline and the Abbot?” exclaimed Helen delighted. “Is it possible,
that some benevolent Being should have opened his eyes to the miseries
of his daughter? Is it to rescue her, that he departed in such haste?
Ah! then why have I so long delayed to take the nearest and surest way
for effecting her deliverance? Had I but confest her danger to Count
Donat.... Surely the worst of men could not endure, that his child
should be overwhelmed in shame and ruin! The depravity of the Nuns of
St. Roswitha must have been concealed from Count Donat, or he never
would have made his daughter a member of their society!”—
These reflections, which were only half pronounced by Helen, were
totally unintelligible to her attendants, who continued to discuss what
had past, and to conjecture what was to follow; this occupied them so
entirely, that they did not perceive, that their mistress had left them.
She had hastened to her husband’s chamber, where she hoped to obtain
some insight into the circumstance, which at once both rejoiced and
alarmed her.
The fragments of the important letter still lay upon the floor; she
eagerly seized them, and having secured herself against interruption,
put them again together carefully. She learned from them the truth of
what she had just been told; the writer warned Count Donat to beware of
the Abbot’s artifices; discovered to him, that St. Roswitha’s Sanctuary
was little better than the harem of the Monks of Curwald; and that by
enclosing the Lady Emmeline within these sacrilegious walls, he had
delivered up his daughter to the passion of her licentious lover.
No wonder, that information like this should have given a deadly wound
to Count Donat’s pride: nor (in spite of his own excesses) was he so
totally lost to shame as to endure patiently, that his daughter should
become the prey of a libertine. He was almost frantic with rage, and for
the first time in his life he drew his sword to punish the insulters of
virtue.