accomplishment of her wishes. She sent a thousand prayers after her
husband for the good success of his expedition: she even went so far, as
to begin to make preparations for receiving the rescued Emmeline, whom
in fancy she already prest to her heart; and when this agreeable
occupation was finished, she turned her thoughts towards guessing at the
benevolent writer of the letter, which had induced the father to hasten
to preserve his child.
Poor simple Helen! it entered not into her thoughts (and it was not till
long after, that she made the discovery) that villainy often performs a
seemingly virtuous action, in order to forward its own unholy designs.
She knew not, that the author of that letter was Wolfenrad. It seems,
that those oppressors of Rhœtian and Helvetian liberty, the lord
governors and their assistants, carried on a very close though secret
understanding with some of the most potent noblemen, whose object it was
equally to bring the inhabitants of these unfortunate countries still
more beneath the yoke, and to build upon their subjection the fabric of
their own power and grandeur. Among the secret allies of Gessler and
Landenberg, Count Donat and the Abbot of Curwald were the most
distinguished; and Wolfenrad on account of his well-known skill in
penmanship was frequently employed by both the governors to carry on
their correspondence both with Curwald and Sargans.
Still the fact was, that neither of these parties meant honestly to each
other. Donat and the Abbot were determined only to go hand in hand with
the vice-regents so long, as it suited their own views; and _these_ on
the other side intended, as soon as they had derived as much benefit as
they could from the assistance of the Count and his ecclesiastical ally,
to excite a quarrel between them, and then join with the one in
plundering the other.
We have already seen, how imprudently Amabel had laid her secrets open
to Wolfenrad. Her letters to Emmeline passed through his hands, and he
missed not this opportunity to increase his knowledge of the affairs of
the Count of Carlsheim; and though Emmeline’s letters to Amabel were not
_confided_ to him, by one artifice or another he had not failed to
obtain a sight of them. Bloomberg’s simple wife observed indeed, that
the seal of Emmeline’s packet had been forced; but she little guest by
whom.
The contents of this letter immediately furnished him with the most
certain means for producing an irreconcileable hatred between Count
Donat and the potent Abbot of Curwald. The power of the latter was
beginning to appear dangerous to the Lord Governors; but they could
expect nothing but an accession of strength to themselves, while the
Count of Carlsheim and the Abbot were mutually weakening themselves in
feudal skirmishes. Such was Wolfenrad’s object in writing this
warning-letter, whose author was loaded with blessings by the
unsuspicious Helen, while waiting with a throbbing heart for the return
of her Lord.
The night arrived. She now thought no longer of attempting to open the
door of the mysterious chamber, which she had meant to attempt at this
hour, since a principal object of her wish to visit the Hermitage was
already accomplished. Besides, the design could not then have been
possibly executed, since every one in the Castle was still awake, and
waiting with impatience for Count Donat’s return.
It was almost morning, when some of her attendants rushed with looks of
terror into Helen’s apartment, and entreated her to ascend the upper
platform, whence she would discern towards the west indubitable marks of
some dreadful conflagration.
—“God preserve us from some mishap!” exclaimed Helen, while she followed
her women to the battlements; the whole quarter of the heavens towards
Curwald seemed one blaze of red!—“Oh! Donat, Donat, what hast thou done?
Were there no gentler means?—Emmeline, my poor Emmeline, where art thou
at this moment?”—
Helen’s fears were but too well-founded. Donat, in doing what he thought
it right to do, had done it in his usual manner. Wolfenrad’s letter had
given him some hints of the midnight revels, which were frequently
carried on between the inhabitants of the adjacent Convents of Curwald
and St. Roswitha. He made enquiries of the neighbouring peasants, who
were no friends of these ecclesiastical libertines; their report
confirmed the truth of Wolfenrad’s assertions; and an old man (who
declared himself particularly well informed respecting these disgraceful
secrets) added—“that on that very night there was to be a superb
entertainment given to celebrate the conversion of a Nun, who was the
last admitted.”—
—“You may easily guess, valiant knight,” continued the old man, “what
they mean by her _conversion_. I suppose the lady (I saw her brought
into the Convent myself, and she seemed to be an angel of innocence and
beauty) was a little violent at first; and so they have at last
succeeded in taming her stern morality, as many another has been tamed
in the same way before her.”—
—“Good heavens!” exclaimed one of the least depraved among Count Donat’s
knights; “are such things spoken of in these parts so openly, and yet is
Justice silent, and does the Bishop of Coira take no notice of such
abominations?”—
—“Oh! the Lord have mercy on me, Sir Knight,” answered the old man,
“such things are not talked of _openly_, or so many fathers would not
plunge their children into yonder abyss of infamy! I warrant you, the
parents of this converted damsel little thought, when they sent her to
St. Roswitha, that they were placing the sweet creature in Satan’s own
claws. But when one is speaking to gallant warriors like yourselves, who
are able, and perhaps willing to help us, one must be open-hearted. I
see that you are all well-armed, and yonder tall gentleman with his
eye-brows bent so sternly and his hands clenched seems to feel for what
we poor country-folks must suffer under the dominion of these voluptuous
Monks, who make us contribute the chief part of our hard-earned gains to
the support of their luxury. As to the Bishop of Coira.... I am afraid,
you are in the right about him! The notice which _he_ takes.... Aye;
were old Hugo of Werdenberg still bishop indeed.... But the present
Bishop.... Well! well! he and his boon-companion, the Abbot of St. Gall,
make a pair of worthies indeed!”—
While his knights were carrying on this discourse with the peasants,
their Lord, whom fury had almost deprived of his senses, was considering
what was to be done: the resolution which he took was worthy of his
character, was worthy of no one but himself. Entrance into either of the
two convents was demanded in vain; every other proposal which his
attendants suggested, was rejected as incompetent to effect his object;
at length his commands were obeyed, and by midnight St. Roswitha’s
Sanctuary was enveloped in flames. It’s true, that a spark of paternal
love still glimmered in his heart for the unfortunate Emmeline; but the
idea, that in all probability _she_ also had been _converted_ after the
fashion of the sisterhood, soon extinguished it, and he resolved to hide
her and his shame together in the ashes of St. Roswitha. Impressed with
this idea—“Drive them back into the flames!” roared the inhuman Donat,
whenever either Friar or Nun tried to rescue themselves from the
conflagration, without deigning to examine whether Emmeline might not be
one of those unfortunates. The number of monks, whom the flames
compelled to attempt their escape from St. Roswitha at this undue time
of night, confirmed the reports of the mode of life practised in the
convents; and the dresses of the Nuns, who had been arrayed for the
feast, proclaimed how little their hearts were estranged from worldly
vanities. The fire continued to spread; it now caught the adjacent Abbey
of Curwald, and before day-break there remained of both the Sanctuaries
and their infamous inhabitants nothing but heaps of smoaking ruins[2].
Footnote 2:
Some historians date the burning of Cloister-Curwald several years
later than the period adopted in this narrative.
Such was the cause of those flames, whose reflexion on the sky excited
so much consternation at Sargans: Helen’s heart had not throbbed with
sad forebodings without necessity. In the course of the morning Donat
returned home, and returned without Emmeline!
Helen flew to meet him, and eagerly enquired, where was his daughter?
His answer was a short and cold narrative of the dreadful transaction,
which had just taken place, and the consequence was, that overpowered
with horror Helen fell senseless at the monster’s feet. When she
recovered, her first words were to ask, where he had placed Emmeline,
(for she doubted not, that previous to firing the Convent he had
provided for his daughter’s safety,) and unfortunately her question was
so worded, that it betrayed her more intimate knowledge of the business,
than was by any means suspected by Donat. This discovery converted his
unfeeling coldness into a degree of fury, that nearly approached
delirium. He seized her roughly by the arm, and demanded, in a voice of
thunder, how she came to be so well acquainted with his affairs? The
unfortunate knew no other way of extricating herself from this dilemma,
than repeating what she had heard mentioned by one of her attendants
respecting Wolfenrad’s letter, which (she confest) had so strongly
excited her anxiety about Emmeline, that she had not scrupled to piece
the fragments again together. The storm of rage was now diverted from
Helen to the woman, who had given her mistress this intelligence, and
who had it in her power to disclose much more important secrets, if she
had thought proper.
Incensed at Count Donat’s ill-treatment of her, for which she considered
herself as indebted to Helen, Jutta resolved to disclose in her turn all
that she thought most likely to injure her mistress. Accordingly she
began an accusation, which among a thousand falsehoods contained some
truths, calculated to make Helen shudder as she listened to them.
The Countess (Jutta said) had some time before received a packet from an
unknown messenger, who afterwards quitted the Castle with all speed, and
whose arrival she ordered to be concealed from her husband. She had also
received several letters from the hands of the dying Bertha; after
reading which she had been frequently seen loitering about the door of
that chamber, which (on account of the strange noises frequently heard
within) was supposed to be haunted. Nay, on the night before last she
had actually tried to force back the locks, but had been scared away, by
hearing Jutta’s rosary fall on the ground, while she was watching her
Lady’s proceedings concealed behind St. Martin’s statue. She had
afterwards seen through the key-hole the Countess busily employed in
writing, and during the confusion which followed Count Donat’s arrival,
had found means to get the letters into her possession; which to confirm
her story Jutta was now ready to lay before him.
These heavy charges against Helen failed not to produce the effect
intended. Donat ordered the letters to be brought immediately: He was no
scholar; yet was he not so totally deficient in the knowledge of
writing, but that he could clearly decypher the addresses, which were
written in large characters. His eyes flashed fire, while he spelt the
names of “Eginhart of Torrenburg,” “the Abbot of Curwald,” and “Urania
Venosta, the widowed Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans.” These
directions would have been sufficient to condemn the poor Helen, even
had she been tried by a more impartial judge. It was certain, that these
three persons were her husband’s bitterest enemies; with what propriety
then could she be engaged in a secret correspondence with them? In
particular, what motive could she have for writing to the Count of
Torrenburg, who was her former lover, and had been so long her destined
bridegroom? Alas! poor Helen! appearances were sorely against thee! Nor
would Donat’s fury give him time to enquire further into the business.
In a paroxysm of rage he tore the letters into a thousand fragments, and
pronounced Helen to be in a secret correspondence with his implacable
foe, the Countess Urania for the purpose of betraying him to his
enemies; he asserted also, that she had been privy to the Abbot’s
designs upon his daughter, and had encouraged them in order to be
revenged on the father; and that she was still in love with the Count of
Torrenburg and meant to have fled to him from Sargans, an intention
which was sufficiently proved by her midnight efforts to obtain entrance
into that chamber, which concealed a private outlet from the Castle.
It’s true, that finding Emmeline had quitted that chamber of her own
accord, and thinking the knowledge of the secret passage might be of use
to himself on some future occasion, the Abbot had not mentioned to Count
Donat his suspicions, that such a passage existed; and the room had been
merely shut up from the report of its being haunted. But Wolfenrad had
learned this secret from the perusal of Amalberga’s letter to Emmeline,
and had communicated it to the Count, hoping thereby to increase the
merit of his services. Now then Donat had no doubt, that the noises,
which had been heard in that chamber, proceeded from no ghosts, but from
persons who were waiting to assist his wife in her projected flight.
Under the influence of these impressions, Helen was held convicted of
the most infamous designs, and condemned to suffer the most exemplary
chastisement. She was instantly confined in one of the strongest
dungeons, probably in that where Urania had shed so many tears; in the
mean while her tyrant with his confidents and those women of the Castle
who were most her enemies, sat in council to decide, what punishment
would be sufficiently severe to suit her crime.
I am in doubt as to Donat’s reasons for not immediately proceeding to
the last extremities with his wife: that sentiment towards her, which he
had chosen to dignify with the name of love, had long ago disappeared;
and his late atrocious act, which had proved the destruction of the
whole Orders of Curwald and St. Roswitha, had left him no scruples to
overcome. One murder more or less, what did that signify to a man, who
had arrived at so dreadful a height of guilt?—The most probable cause
for Donat’s moderation was, _fear_: Helen was the Count of Homburg’s
daughter; was niece to the Count of Mayenfield; and had been affianced
to the Count of Torrenburg, who it was well known, would not suffer her
to be injured with impunity. These considerations made Donat hesitate,
as to the course which he was now to pursue.
Donat past two days in resolving, whether it would not be possible to
bring Helen to confess herself guilty. This would justify him in the
eyes of her relations for any severity, which he might think proper to
inflict upon her; but when he considered his wife’s character, he saw
little prospect of persuading her to declare herself infamous. In the
mean while Helen was suffered to remain tranquil in her dungeon; and her
husband was still meditating how to avoid the vengeance of her friends,
when the Castle was unexpectedly attacked by enemies incensed upon a
different account. He might indeed have foreseen, that the Bishop of
Coira would not pass over the destruction of Cloister-Curwald in
silence; occupied however by his anger against Helen, Donat had bestowed
no thought upon the Bishop; and the avengers of the Monks of Curwald
were at the gates of Sargans, before any one had even bestowed a thought
on the possibility of such an attack.
Helen heard from her prison the noise of the assault, the shouts of the
victors, and the expiring groans of those who fell beneath their swords;
but her spirit was too much broken to enable her to guess at what was
passing, or to offer up prayers or wishes for the success of either
party. She lay almost in a state of insensibility, when the door of her
dungeon was thrown open. The Count of Carlsheim entered, snatched her
rudely from the earth, and more by gestures than speech, commanded her
attendance. She followed her conductor in silence, like a lamb to the
slaughter; he saw, that she was scarcely able to move through weakness,
and either out of compassion or cruelty compelled her to swallow a
cordial. She gradually recovered herself sufficiently to remark, that
her husband was habited like a pilgrim on the point of setting out on
some long journey, and that he guided her towards a part of the Castle
remote from the clamour of the combat. Here they found a domestic
waiting with a torch, who in a low voice and with few words assured his
Lord, that the passage was still safe. A door, artfully concealed in the
wall, was now unlocked, and Helen was commanded to ascend the
stair-case, which presented itself before her.
She was too wreak, too hopeless, to think it worth while to make any
reflections on Donat’s unaccountable conduct in regaining the upper
apartments of the fortress, (which, she was convinced, was already in
the enemy’s possession,) instead of employing these precious moments to
effect his escape. They now arrived at the door of that chamber, which
concealed the entrance to the subterraneous passages: the touch of a
single key was sufficient to make all the seven locks fly back. Donat
entered, and compelled his unhappy wife to follow him; he then took the
torch from the domestic, and commanded him to execute his orders without
delay, and then to provide for his own safety. The servant bowed, and
retired.
Now then Helen was at length in that very spot, which she had so
anxiously wished to visit, but not with such a companion. Donat paused
for a moment; and she could hear distinctly, that the domestic fastened
the door through which she had entered, not omitting a single lock. Her
tyrant left her no time for reflecting on the purpose for which she had
been conducted hither; he hastened to unclose the secret door which led
to Urania’s baths, dragged her through it, and then commanded her to
proceed, having first taken care to fasten the door after him.
Helen obeyed, and as she moved slowly forwards, through the
subterraneous passages, she observed that her husband occasionally
examined the side-walls with his hand or foot. At length he stopped
before a small door half sunk in the ground; he forced it open with a
violence which shook the whole cavern, and held his torch within, in
order to examine it.
—“Yes, yes!” said he, “this is it! Found in good time!—Helen, return! or
canst thou find the way through these vaults without assistance?”—
She dragged her feeble steps towards him: he grasped her arm, and dashed
her with violence down a few steps terminating in a small cave. She sank
on the ground with a shriek of pain, which her tyrant answered by a
burst of diabolical laughter.
—“Here, traitress!” he exclaimed; “here is the place of your punishment
and your perdition; and here is the last nourishment, which you shall
ever receive on this side the grave. I give it not out of compassion,
but that you may not perish in your present state of stupor, and thus
escape the sense of what I have doomed you to suffer.—Eat! revive to the
full consciousness of your misery; then die in agony, as others have
died here before you!”—
Thus saying, he placed by her side a loaf of bread and a small flask of
water, which he had brought with him in his pilgrim’s scrip. She was not
in a condition to make him any answer, and listened in morbid silence,
while he quitted the cave, flinging the door after him with violence,
and carefully barricading it on the outside to prevent her escape.
Nothing now animated the frame of Helen but mere animal life; and even
that was half extinguished by the shock which she had sustained the day
before and by long abstinence from all nourishment. She was scarcely
conscious of what had past, and it afterwards cost her no little
difficulty to recall the recollection of it. Instinct made her seize
eagerly the food, of which she had so long been deprived; and the
relief, which this afforded her, was the first thing, which brought her
to herself, and gave her spirits to ask the question—“What has happened
to me? Whither have I been conveyed?”—She thought, that she must be the
sport of some fantastic vision, and with the sensation of being totally
exhausted she closed her eyes, and endeavoured to end her dream.
A violent shock, which made the hollow ground tremble beneath her,
forced her to start up in terror; and she now had strength and
recollection sufficient to rush forward a few paces, which brought her
to the steps, down which Count Donat had so lately dashed her. An
instant after she was sensible of a second shock like that of an
earthquake, and which was accompanied by a noise so loud, that for a few
moments she was completely stunned. On recovering herself, she was
sensible of a strong current of air blowing into the cave: her heart
beat violently with hope and fear, while she thought it possible, that
the late earthquake might have forced the dungeon open. She hastened up
the steps, and with rapture ascertained by the touch that the door had
been driven from its fastenings, and that nothing prevented her from
quitting her prison. With as much speed, as her extreme weakness and the
total obscurity would permit, she hastened to profit by this
interposition of Providence. She crept along slowly and cautiously, when
on turning a corner she perceived a distant gleam of light. With
increased hopes she made the best of her way towards it, and found, that
it proceeded from Count Donat’s torch, as it lay half extinguished in
the rubbish, among which it had fallen.
Without giving herself time to guess, what motive could have induced her
husband to throw away his only guide through the gloom, or how he could
have found his way out of these intricate passages without its aid, she
caught it eagerly from the ground, cleared the wick from the dust with
which it was clogged, and made the flame burn brightly; while she
frequently cast a look of anxiety round her, lest some one should be
advancing to rob her of this invaluable prize. This apprehension made
her proceed with still greater exertion of speed; but she had not gone
far, before her way was barred by large heaps of stones and earth: she
fancied too, that she heard a faint murmur at no great distance, like
some one groaning. She stopped; she listened;—it struck her, that from
beneath a pile of stones, which seemed to have lately fallen down, there
came a voice, whose accents were familiar to her; but before she could
recover herself from the horror, which this idea occasioned her
sufficiently to ascertain the truth of her suspicions, a third shock,
similar to the two first, but if possible more violent and terrible,
overpowered her faculties so completely, that she sank upon the earth,
unable to move for several minutes. Fortunately her torch was not
extinguished by her fall. She rose; the way, so lately open before her,
was now completely blocked up by the earth, which had fallen in; and it
seemed to her in the first moments of terror, that she saw the roof
tottering above, and felt the ground giving way beneath her. Fear gave
her strength, and she fled hastily down a side passage, which accident
presented to her, nor rested, till she thought, that the place, which
she had reached, was not totally unknown to her. She stopped, and
looking down discovered lying on the earth, torn from its hinges, and
considerably shattered the low door of that dungeon, which Donat had
destined for her grave.
She now exerted her whole strength to pass onwards, without falling into
an enormous chasm, which had been formed by the late convulsion, and
which occupied almost the whole breadth of the passage. She shuddered,
as she remarked, that the earth had fallen into the dungeon, and would
infallibly have smothered her, had she remained there but a few minutes
longer.