the credulity of young minds, and to warn the exulting girl against the
painful effect, which evil tidings would produce upon her mind with as
much facility and with still greater violence. They say, that Age often
possesses the gift of second-sight; it is at least certain, that what
Tell foreboded, happened but too soon. On a sudden, Rosanna’s Companions
greeted her arrival no more with chearful songs of encouragement and
hope; the name of the heroic Erwin now was never suffered to pass their
lips; when she enquired, whether no tidings of him had reached the
Valley, her question was evaded. At length the deep mourning, in which
the Melthal family appeared, made public the dreadful intelligence,
which her friends had so long concealed from her, and the relation of
which struck her senseless to the earth, as if it had been a flash of
lightning. Erwin had accompanied his sovereign to relieve the Fortress
of Bender, which was besieged by Sultan Amurath, and in an unsuccessful
attack upon the enemy’s camp had fallen as became a warrior. The whole
Valley was afflicted at his loss; the old Melthal was inconsolable.
Shortly afterwards he left his home to visit the Castle of a nobleman,
who had been long his patron and his friend, and he returned no more.
Death surprised him on his journey; and his children brought nothing
back but his bones, which they buried in his native land, that land
which through life he had ever loved so dearly!
It seemed, as if at this period every kind of misfortune had conspired
to ruin this once so happy Province. It was visited by continual storms,
such as had never before taken place within the memory of man: the
mountain-torrents deluged the country with unusual fury; nor was it
possible for the cultivators, industrious as they were, to bring their
ruined fields into order again, till a considerable time had elapsed.
The crops failed; prices rose; at length the distress became universal,
and it was soon followed by the twin-sisters of Death, Famine and
Disease.
Rosanna saw so many of the venerable fathers of the Valley sink into the
grave, and wept over the tombs of so many of her youthful friends, that
she could not but expect the lot soon to fall upon herself and her good
old grandfather. The first was as earnestly desired by Her, who
languished to embrace her Erwin in the land of shadows, as the latter
was looked forward to with terror. She anxiously wished to lengthen the
days of one, who was now almost her only friend, and she implored him to
retire for a while from a spot become so dangerous. It was not far from
Tell’s habitation to the Convent of Engelberg, and there the plague had
not as yet commenced its ravages. Mary obtained permission from the
Abbess to take possession of an uninhabited monastery, which made part
of the domains of Engelberg; and she now hastened like some benevolent
Angel to guide her sickening relations to the place of refuge, which she
had found for them, and where she proposed to be their nurse herself. As
many as were still capable of moving, blest her, and followed her to the
Monastery; Rosanna and Tell made part of the melancholy caravan, which
Death had taken care to prevent from being numerous. In defiance of the
extreme danger, Mary resided with them, and administered to their
necessities with her own hands. Her exertions were crowned with their
deserved success; she had the happiness of rescuing all her patients
from the grave, except the grey-headed Tell. Yet even He did not fall a
martyr to the plague; Mary’s unceasing efforts had relieved him from
that poisonous enemy; but the weight of near an hundred years prest him
down, and forbade his ever rising again from that bed, from whose side,
during the time of his most imminent danger, he had vainly entreated
Mary and her sister to retire and attend to their own preservation.
—“My children,” said he at length, when no doubt remained that the hour
of his death was at hand, “I feel, that we must part: and long as my
worldly course has lasted, still at its close does nothing press heavy
on my heart except the reflection, that I leave your fate and fortunes
undecided. Rosanna, have you communicated to your sister those
circumstances, which I thought fit to lay before you, in order that you
might be convinced, that an union with Erwin Melthal would be ill-sorted
and improper in every point of view?”—
Rosanna replied in the negative; she had of late found but few
opportunities, she said, of seeing her sister; and even when they were
together, the Lady Abbess (whose notions of decorum had been greatly
shocked at the share, which Mary had taken in the Chapel-scene) had
watched them with such vigilance, as effectually prevented any
confidential communications. She concluded her apology for having so
long neglected to obey his injunctions, by entreating him to suffer Mary
to retain the pleasing illusion that she had a right to his affection;
an illusion, with which she herself had parted so unwillingly.
—“It must not be,” answered the expiring Tell; “it is necessary, that
both of you should be aware, that you are no grandchildren of mine. The
story of your birth is long; Rosanna is informed of all the
circumstances, and will relate them to you, my gentle Mary, at some hour
of leisure: at present learn from me such points, as are most essential.
“You and your sister are the sole remaining descendants of the younger
branch of the ancient and illustrious families of Carlsheim and Sargans.
That you have past so large a portion of your lives in obscurity, and
that your great expectations are still in so questionable a state, you
must accuse the superstitious obstinacy of the Countess, your deceased
mother. She was a daughter of the Count of Mayenfield, and her
extraordinary beauty made her the object of universal admiration. Among
her suitors were numbered the heads of the two families of Torrenburg
and Werdenberg, both equally descended from the united House of
Carlsheim and Sargans. The latter was accepted; the former was not only
rejected, but even held by your mother in the most absolute detestation.
On the contrary, the Count of Torrenburg (who is still alive, and whose
excellent heart never harboured resentment against any human being,) not
only forgave the slight, but continued on the most friendly terms with
his successful rival. He succeeded in expelling from his bosom his
unfortunate passion, bestowed his heart on another lady more capable of
estimating its worth, and his marriage was blest with two sons, as was
that of the Count of Werdenberg with two daughters. On this fortunate
occurrence taking place, the fathers entered into the most solemn
engagements to unite their children in marriage, and by this means blend
inseparably their mutual claims upon the inheritance of each other.
“My lovely girls, you were these daughters thus betrothed while in the
cradle: I cannot express to you the repugnance, with which your mother
entertained the idea, that she should one day hear you call the sons of
the Count of Torrenburg by the name of husband. The antipathy, which she
bore that family, was increased a thousandfold by the death of her
husband; on which event the great domains of your father (according to
the long-established customs of the Houses, to which you owe your
origin) fell to the only remaining male heirs of the Counts of Carlsheim
and Sargans, the Count of Torrenburg and his sons. The prospect of
recovering the whole of this inheritance by your union with those sons,
and the generous offers made by their father for her accommodation, had
no effect in softening her animosity: she felt, that it was less
disagreeable to lose every thing and sacrifice both herself and you,
than to depart in any degree from her obstinate resolution.
“Accordingly she quitted the Castle of Werdenberg in the greatest
privacy, and concealed herself in my humble habitation. I had been long
known to her, and in general had been honoured with her confidence; but
she carefully hid from me the real situation of her affairs and the true
motives of her conduct. She did not long survive the loss of her
husband; grief for his death and vexation at the good fortune of
Torrenburg rapidly destroyed her health. On her death-bed she demanded
from me a solemn oath, that I would adopt her orphan-daughters for my
own, and would bring them up according to the instructions, which after
her decease I should find conveyed in writing.
“That your prudent mother should prefer your being educated in the lap
of rural innocence and tranquillity, rather than in the tumult of the
great world, did not surprise me in the least, and I readily gave the
oath demanded. But when after her death I learned from her papers the
whole extent of my promise, and found myself enjoined to spread the
report of your death, and never to disclose your real names, unless
circumstances should give you a just claim to the inheritance of your
ancestors, my surprise was extreme; and gladly would I have called back
the oath, which your mother had carried with her into the grave, and
which therefore was irrevocable.
“As the case stood, no choice was left me, and I was compelled to obey
your mother’s injunctions respecting your education. It greatly
comforted me to find, that the secret of your real station was not
confined to myself. The deceased Countess mentioned in her will, that
the Bishop of Coira and the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald (both of them
related to her though but distantly) were aware of her design, and had
sanctioned it with their consent; and I concluded, that since her
determination had found favour in the eyes of such learned and
respectable persons, it must needs have claims to approbation, which my
own understanding was too short-sighted to discover.
—“It is possible,” it was thus that the Countess exprest herself in her
last will; “it is possible, however trifling the probability seems at
present, that the family of Torrenburg may become extinct; or that it
may please Heaven to deprive it of male heirs, as it has been pleased to
deprive the family of Werdenberg. In that case, let the claims of my
daughters be advanced, and the documents produced, which are deposited
in the hands of the Bishop of Coira, and in the archives of
Cloister-Curwald: for the rights of these consolidated families are so
ordained, that the daughters can only lay claim to the inheritance of
their ancestors, in case no male heir should exist; a regulation, on
whose justice I am too little learned to give an opinion, and whose
effect I possess too little power to counteract.
“But as it is possible, that my orphan daughters may one day become the
heiresses of Sargans, care must be taken to prevent their adopting any
measure, which may make them blush at recollecting the obscurity, in
which they are to pass their early years. I desire therefore, that you
William Tell (whom I appoint their guardian) should not only bring them
up innocently and virtuously, but should make them mistresses of as many
elegant accomplishments, as circumstances will admit. Above all I
command you on no account to suffer them to contract a marriage
unsuitable to their illustrious birth. Unless a mother’s fondness
deceives me, they will be singularly beautiful. Providence ever watches
over the orphan’s destiny; and perhaps even in their humble station
their charms may attract the observant glance of some young nobleman.
Should such be the case, William Tell is at liberty to remove all
obstacles to such an union, by revealing to the lover the real name of
the parents of my daughters; and I also absolve him from his oath in so
far, as to authorize him to disclose to themselves the secret of their
illustrious origin, whenever they are sufficiently arrived at years of
discretion, to make such a disclosure necessary or useful.”—
—“Here is this important paper,” resumed Tell after a short pause, for
this long discourse had greatly exhausted him; “you will read it over
together at your leisure: but one thing more I must observe to you. The
Countess was no less averse to the seclusion of a convent than to
ill-assorted marriages.—In one place (which I have pointed out for
Mary’s observation by three crosses) she writes thus—“Be the veil the
last refuge of my children, and on no account must either of them be
suffered to assume it before her six-and-twentieth year. Then, if no
more inviting prospect presents itself, their real rank may be revealed
to the Superior, and the sums (which I leave for that purpose in the
hands of William Tell) appropriated to the endowment of the Convent, in
which they think proper to pronounce their vows.”—
—“I trust,” continued the old man, “that I have not abused the
confidence with which your noble mother honoured me. Anxiety to leave no
part of her commands unexecuted made me lose no time in hastening to the
Bishop of Coira and the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald, and requesting their
advice respecting your future education. I found them already fully
acquainted with the intentions of the deceased Countess; I also gathered
from some words which escaped them, that all the singular injunctions of
that lady’s will related to an old prophecy, by which the daughters of
Werdenberg were threatened with the most severe mortifications and
persecutions through the means of the family of Torrenburg. For my own
part, I cannot say, that I lay any great stress upon these old
traditions, and even look upon belief in them as little better than rank
superstition: nay, I am almost persuaded, that the very means taken to
avoid the dangers with which such prophecies menace us, frequently
produce their accomplishment, of which (unless I am much deceived) your
own history will furnish an additional proof. The two reverend
gentlemen, however, were quite of a different opinion from me on this
point; in truth, they received so ill a hint of this nature which
escaped me, that if I had not held my tongue in good time, I verily
believe, they would have excommunicated me as an arch-heretic. Luckily,
the business was not to decide, whether your mother’s opinions were
right, but whether her will should be obeyed; and on this head all three
were of the same way of thinking.
“Annually I made them a visit to lay before them my proceedings, and
receive instructions respecting your future conduct. At length they
died, both nearly at the same time, and were succeeded by Bishop
Sigisbert, and Abbot Conrad the Fourth, who also succeeded to the
knowledge of your secret. The latter of those prelates (as you probably
remember) once visited our cottage, as it seemed, by accident. He saw
you, and felt himself greatly interested in your welfare. I have
informed him of my illness, and also of the melancholy occurrences which
have lately taken place, and which render these vallies no longer a safe
retreat. In his answer, the good Abbot promises you his protection,
proposes to remove you to those scenes where your noble ancestors once
ruled, and engages (when the proper time shall be arrived) to support
your claims to the utmost of his power.
“The sons of the Count of Torrenburg are dead; the Count himself is a
widower, but is not quite so far advanced in years as to make his
contracting a second marriage highly improbable. Still you have much to
expect from his known generosity of mind, and I cannot but flatter
myself, that you may look forwards to more fortunate times! Oh! with
what content could I lay my head down in my grave, were I but certain
that this hope will soon be realized! But alas! every thing shows itself
to me, as if still at a fearful distance! Every thing seems covered with
a gloomy veil of clouds. Many and many a bitter sigh must you heave,
many and many a painful step must you tread, ere you regain that
station, whence you have been degraded by maternal obstinacy and
superstitious prejudice.—Yet take courage, my children; an invisible
hand still guides the steps of the innocent, and you will find a
powerful friend and safe adviser in the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald.”—
Here the old man concluded; his adopted daughters were silent, and
wept.—All that they had heard, all the glorious prospects, which were
just presented before them, were unable to overpower the melancholy
conviction, that the hour was arrived, when they must close the eyes of
that venerable man, who had for so many years cherished them with all
the fondness of a father. In losing him, they foresaw too the loss of
those simple pleasures, which had made their childhood glide away so
gaily, and for which they feared to find the advantages of their new
situation but a sorry and incomplete exchange.
Tell visibly became weaker, that is, his body became so; but his mind
preserved its strength unimpaired, and to the last moment of sensibility
possest its gaiety and freedom. He had indeed got the better of that
illness, which at first confined him to a sick couch, but he sank under
the burthen of his years. His heart at length felt the arrow of death;
though in truth that metaphor is here inapplicable, for he felt no
wound, he endured no pain. His existence ended in a gradual peaceful
slumber; the lamp of his life was extinguished gently and imperceptibly.
Abbot Conrad arrived before the decease of Tell, for the purpose of
removing the Sisters: but they implored a short respite. Gladly would
they have remained Tell’s daughters all their lives; it was no light
blow, that could sever the bonds, by which they were connected with the
good old man; even Death was unable to effect this completely, and their
affection still followed him even beyond the grave. Neither was Conrad
anxious to remove them from the dying man: it was a blessed sight for
him to witness the gentle departure of a just spirit, and for once to
behold the so-dreaded form of Death arrayed in the peaceful appearance
of a beneficent Angel. Neither was it an uninteresting sight, to see two
girls in the bloom of youth and beauty turning away from the brilliant
prospects of the world, to dwell with their whole souls on one of the
most sorrowful and painful scenes, which can meet the eye of human
nature; to see two highly-born princesses weep at resigning for such
sounding titles the dearer-ones of daughters and sisters in the abode of
rustic innocence; and to hear them at the grave of their common ancestor
vow to their former play-mates, that they should ever hold their
relationship as the most close and precious, though the whole universe
should unite in endeavouring to efface the recollection of it from their
minds.
Tell’s children could not understand rightly, what their supposed
sisters meant by such assurances; and the Abbot thought it unnecessary
to explain to them a mystery, which their approaching separation from
the young Countesses of Werdenberg would soon make sufficiently clear.
The Abbot was obliged to be more communicative with the Domina of
Engelberg. He found no great difficulty in obtaining her permission,
that Mary (or Constantia, as she was now called, while Rosanna resumed
her baptismal name of Ida.... Yes, Elizabeth! Ida and Constantia were
their _real_ names!) that Mary should for a time make trial of a worldly
life, and should postpone her adoption of the veil till after the
unravelling of her destiny. Three conditions however were annexed to the
permission; first, that in case her call to a religious profession
should be confirmed, that she should pronounce her vows in no other
Convent than Engelberg; secondly, that in remembrance of her
cloister-duties she should always wear the habit of the Order; lastly,
that in case of the worst (by which the pious lady meant an union with
an earthly bridegroom) she should not assume a worldly dress till her
wedding-day, and should purchase the permission of renouncing the veil
by a handsome benefaction to the Convent of Engelberg. The abbot
understood the manners of the cloister, and agreed to these conditions
on behalf of his wards; who in the mean while heaved many a sigh, while
preparing for a journey, from which their hearts boded no good.
In the sphere in which they now moved, every thing appeared strange to
them, and consequently disagreeable, from their not being accustomed to
such manners and appearances. The splendour of Bishop Sigisbert’s court
(at which they now resided) was too dazzling to be pleasant to eyes,
which were only used to admire the simple charms of Nature; and when
compared with those scenes, in which their childhood had past so
happily, everything which now offered itself to their notice seemed
ridiculous and frequently disgusting.
The Bishop, who felt the greater interest in the welfare of his young
wards on account of their simplicity and want of relish for the
dissipations of the world, was soon obliged to consent to their retiring
from his court, and taking refuge in the tranquillity of a Convent at
Zurich. Here Constantia was perfectly at ease; but Ida, who had been
always accustomed to liberty, was but half satisfied with the restraints
of her abode. Nay, she would have found them insupportable, had not the
recollection of Erwin Melthal followed her to the Convent, and made
solitude and silence agreeable, by suffering her to indulge unrestrained
the melancholy of her heart. In truth, Ida had so little of that lofty
spirit, which should have been united with her lofty station, that the
remembrance of the son of an humble peasant, who had perished as an
undistinguished warrior, still was sacred to her affection; and often
did she assure Constantia, that were he still in existence, she would
rather have renounced her birth-right than the hope of being one day
called his wife.
—“I concealed my rank from Erwin,” said she, “that his love might not
take the alarm at hearing the proud title of the Countess of Werdenberg:
but I will not conceal the affection which I felt, and still feel for
this Erwin, this humble peasant’s son, this undistinguished warrior,
from any one, should any one hereafter think proper to demand my hand.
No! I will avow my passion openly and firmly; and doubtless this
confession will be enough to make my noble suitors abandon a girl, whose
folly sets so little value on illustrious birth and titles handed down
by a long line of ancestors.”—
Constantia was a little embarrassed in answering these declarations. Not
being in love, she could not easily reconcile the union of two such
names as Erwin Melthal, and Ida, Countess of Werdenberg: yet still she
could not efface from her memory the solemn vows, which had passed
between them; and in particular she could not but lay great stress upon
their having been affianced before the altar of St. Engeltruda; a
transaction, in which she had herself borne so principal a part. However
the sum of her reflections was (though the goodness of her heart made
her sigh, as she confest it) that it was fortunate, that Erwin’s death
had solved all the difficulties, which would otherwise have arisen; and
she could not but fancy, that in this event she saw the hand of
Providence, which had preserved from degradation the honour of the
illustrious House of Werdenberg.
In the mean while the Bishop and Abbot Conrad were consulting, how they
might best advance the interests of their young favourites. As they were
not influenced by the prejudices, which made the late Countess of
Werdenberg refuse all intercourse with the family of Torrenburg, and as
they laid no stress upon the before-mentioned prophecy, they soon agreed
to take the straight road (which indeed is always the best) and make the
generous Frederick of Torrenburg immediately acquainted with the
existence and adventures of his long-forgotten relations. The Count was
old, and without children; and it was not unlikely, that he would adopt
these orphans, and bring them up as the future heiresses of his domains.
Under this impression they set forward for his Castle, well provided
with letters and other documents to establish the veracity of their
assertions.
The Abbot has been heard to say, that when the Count was first informed
of the nature of their embassy, he started and turned pale; as the
Bishop proceeded and made the fact certain beyond the possibility of
dispute, this paleness gave place to a burning crimson, and when the
tale was finished, the Count sat for a few moments lost in silent
meditation; circumstances, from which the friends of the two Sisters
augured nothing good to their cause. The event however proved that they
were mistaken in imagining, that the generous Frederick would wilfully
close his eyes against a truth, because it was unpleasant to him; though
what made it so unpleasant to him, they were then at a loss to conceive.