Werdenberg. He blamed her for having suffered her prejudices to
interfere so much with the welfare of her daughters, and engaged to
repair the injury, which she had done them. Accompanied by the two
Prelates he hastened to the Convent of Zurich, and entreated his
new-found relations to make his abode their own. Deep was the emotion
exprest in his honest countenance, when he first saw the Sisters. In
them he beheld renewed in their most brilliant colours the charms of
their mother, whom he had loved so long and so dearly without success;
and he clasped them to his bosom with tears, which he vainly struggled
to conceal. The girls too felt their hearts attracted towards the
excellent man, and found no difficulty in considering him in every
respect as their father.
They followed him to his Castle with willingness, were grateful for the
kindness which he showed them, nor did it ever enter their thoughts,
that it was in his power to show them more: but the Bishop was extremely
surprised, that although the Count had acknowledged the validity of the
documents which testified their birth, and had adopted them as his
nieces, he made no mention of their being entitled to any part of his
inheritance, nor seemed to have it in his contemplation to bestow them
on proper bridegrooms.
—“The little eagerness,” said the Abbot, “which the Count shows for the
wedding of his nieces confirms the report, that he is thinking of one
for himself. I have already heard it whispered, that he is attached to a
young person, with whom we are both well acquainted. She is lovely and
virtuous; nobody can blame Count Frederick’s choice, though perhaps some
people may blame him for making at his time of life any choice at all.”—
—“I am sorry to hear this,” replied the Bishop; “should children spring
from this union, the claims of our wards will be completely
annihilated.”—
—“In which case will they be made unhappy?” said the Abbot (who thought
liberally on the subject, and to whom the lady, on whom the Count’s
choice was supposed to have fallen, was even more dear than Constantia
and her sister).—“Their rank is acknowledged; the sums left by their
mother in our charge are sufficient to secure them against absolute
want; their desires are moderate; neither will Frederick’s generosity
fail to provide for them in a manner suitable to their station. But to
expect that he should sacrifice the point, on which he grounds the
happiness of his whole future life, in order that his inheritance may
descend unimpaired to these unexpected newcomers, is really more than I
can possibly justify to myself.”—
This conversation was communicated to the Sisters: they heard it with
indifference. They were too little acquainted with the world to think
much about events, which might affect their future interests, and were
too grateful to their benefactor to wish for more favours from him, than
such as he could grant without injury to his own feelings. But had they
known on _whom_ their uncle’s choice had fallen, they would have offered
up their most fervent prayers for the success of his suit; and would
have looked forward to the wedding-day with as much heart-felt pleasure,
as to any which they had ever witnessed, while they were still the
daughters of old Tell and Inhabitants of the happy Vale of Rutelis.
In the circle of young women, with whom their near relationship to the
Count of Torrenburg necessarily brought them acquainted, none attracted
their affection so strongly, as the beautiful Elizabeth of March. The
interest, which Ida felt for this charming stranger was shortly
reciprocal: yet it is probable, that Constantia would in the end have
obtained the largest share of Elizabeth’s friendship and confidence, on
account of that winning softness of manner and gentleness of temper,
which made her a much more universal favourite than her gay and
thoughtless sister, had she not thought proper to retire for a while
from the world not long after the commencement of her acquaintance with
Elizabeth. In spite of Ida’s remonstrances, Constantia entreated her
uncle to suffer her to pass some time in the Convent of Zurich, and
easily obtained her request.
It seems, that lovely as were the Ladies of Werdenberg, and general as
was the admiration which they excited, still there was not so violent a
contest for the possession of their hands, as the good Bishop had
expected. It was known, that they were dowerless orphans; and as their
uncle’s marriage (though not publicly spoken of) was much circulated in
whispers, this event, which was likely to annihilate at once all the
lofty claims of the Sisters, made their admirers think it to the full as
prudent to confine their admiration for the present to their own
breasts. The gentle Constantia alone found in the young Count of
Thuringia one, who would have chosen her as his bride, had she been
still the daughter of the peasant Tell. Constantia on her side felt, how
generous was the youth’s conduct, and could not doubt the sincerity of
his love: her heart inclined her to listen to him: but she could not
consent to break her religious determinations so quickly and so lightly;
and she retired into the Convent, that she might at least weigh the
matter maturely, and try her suitor’s patience and perseverance a little
by the test of time.
After her departure, the friendship of Elizabeth and Ida acquired
strength daily; though their intercourse was much restricted by Count
Frederick’s evident dissatisfaction at it, which the unsuspecting Ida
attributed to some unaccountable antipathy conceived by her uncle
against her lovely friend. The fact was, that with all his excellent
qualities the Count was not without his weaknesses; among the chief of
which maybe reckoned suspicion, bigotry, and a fondness for mystery even
in the most innocent things. The last induced him carefully to conceal
the proposals which (under the seal of secrecy) he had laid before
Elizabeth’s father: the first, made him fancy, that Ida had fathomed his
purpose, and from interested motives had endeavoured to set her friend
against him; and his superstitious enthusiasm led him to believe that
the best means of obtaining Elizabeth’s heart and hand was to tell his
rosary more frequently than ever, and bestow enormous donations on the
Church. He gave much; he promised more; and those promises were not
breathed in inattentive ears. The Count’s domestic Priest and the
chaplain of the March family found, that their own advantage was
concerned in the accomplishment of Count Frederick’s wishes; and they
held many a secret and serious conference on the means of bringing about
this union. Besides the grand inducement of avarice, Father Hilarius (so
was the priest of Torrenburg named) had additional motives for action.
He looked on the Damsels of Werdenberg with all that aversion, which old
family-servants ever bear to new-comers; whom they generally consider as
intruders, and whom they fear, lest by _their_ influence their own
should be diminished. But with most invincible antipathy did the Monk
regard the gay and thoughtless Ida, who had sometimes indulged her mirth
at his expence, and whom he was determined to expel from her uncle’s
heart, whatever trouble it might cost him.
Elizabeth by this time had no secrets for Ida. She informed her, that
her parents had promised her hand to a powerful nobleman, and had
ordered her in the most peremptory manner to prepare for the reception
of her future husband, without even condescending to inform her of his
name or situation. However, she was in truth little curious respecting
him, for her heart was already bestowed upon another.
—“Yes!” said she to Ida, “I love Count Henry of Montfort, and have every
reason to believe, that I am beloved in return most sincerely. Be this
unknown bridegroom whom he may, he will find himself only an object of
aversion in the eyes of Elizabeth of March.”—
Ida, judging by her own attachment to the deceased Erwin, agreed, that
to banish from the heart the image of an adored lover was quite
impossible: and Elizabeth was so well-pleased with her friend’s mode of
reasoning, that she embraced her with redoubled affection. Ida advised
her by no means to give up Count Henry; and Elizabeth on the other hand
promised solemnly to follow that advice, which was so perfectly in
unison with her own inclinations.
—“I am grieved to think,” said Elizabeth, “that probably in future we
shall be suffered to meet but seldom! I have already received some
hints, that my parents suspect you of not giving me such counsels, as
they could wish; and yet in the present situation of my affairs it is so
necessary for me to possess some feeling heart, to whom I can apply for
sympathy and advice!—However, we shall still be able to correspond
privately; and those communications may be made in writing, which the
enemies of our friendship forbid us to impart in conversation.”—
Ida unluckily knew nothing of the art of writing on her first arrival at
the Castle of Torrenburg; and since that time she had made but little
progress under the tuition of Father Hilarius. She blushed, while she
confest this ignorance; however, on examination Elizabeth was of
opinion, that her friend was already sufficiently advanced to answer all
necessary purposes.
—“I shall require no circumstantial answers from you,” said she; “a
single expressive word will be enough to convey to me your opinion of my
situation, and guide me in my difficulties: a “yes” or “no” will in
general be sufficient to decide my conduct. On my side, I will take care
to write so large a hand that it can be easily read, and to express
myself in a manner that shall be intelligible only to yourself. Then if
you are _quite_ at a loss respecting any part of my letters, you may
show the isolated passage to your chaplain Father Hilarius. He is a
simple good kind of man, whose understanding is not keen enough to
pierce through our mystery, and who may easily be deceived by two young
girls with all their wits about them.”—
This “simple good kind of man,” as Elizabeth called him, the pious
Father Hilarius, was perfectly astonished at the diligence, with which
Ida now prosecuted her studies under his direction. Hitherto he had
found her a very inattentive pupil, and as long as his lessons lasted,
Ida was accustomed to yawn without intermission: on a sudden she was
seized with the greatest fondness for that, which hitherto had inspired
her with nothing but disgust: she even requested, that an additional
hour’s instruction might be allowed her every day; and as Father
Hilarius was not _quite_ so simple as the girls had imagined, he
concluded, that there must be some secret cause for this unexpected love
of literature. An epistolary intercourse, arising from some love-affair,
naturally suggested itself to his mind; and he determined to watch with
the eyes of an Argus, whether he could not make some discovery to the
prejudice of his detested pupil.
Ida soon received a pressing invitation to visit Elizabeth; the Count’s
permission was requested; but as he was now on the point of declaring
himself, and conceived that the presence of his lineal heiress could by
no means be advantageous to his suit, that permission was refused.
Elizabeth therefore had recourse to her pen, and Ida soon received the
following letter.
—“I told you, that I had every reason to think that he loved me: alas! I
fear, that I deceived myself. He knows my situation; knows, how I am
persecuted; and yet he offers no friendly advice for my relief, nay even
seems to decline every opportunity of visiting the Castle. He is at
present with his uncle, who is too closely connected with my parents to
favour an attachment, which would disappoint their views. Perhaps, he
even insists upon Henry’s giving up every thought of me!—The bridegroom
of my father’s choice has not yet revealed himself: I am still ignorant
of all, except that he is rich, powerful, and _old_; but I am threatened
with his speedy arrival, and have been assured, that the day in which I
am presented to him, shall be that of my nuptials.—Write to me, dear
Ida, and say, what course I should follow: the danger is urgent.”—
The messenger, who brought this letter, waited for an answer: it was
with infinite difficulty, that Ida contrived to scrawl the following
words.
—“Write to your Henry: if he loves you, he will hasten to your relief.”—
Several letters followed the foregoing; though Ida was frequently unable
to decypher whole sentences of Elizabeth’s, and Elizabeth was sometimes
completely at a loss to guess the meaning of Ida’s pot-hooks. But the
next letter of any consequence ran as follows—
—“Though he is the friend of my parents, my lover’s uncle is not my
enemy. He read the letter which I addrest to Henry, and permitted him to
obey it. Henry has done so: Henry is here, and says that he is come to
save me: but how?—Many a bold resolution presents itself to my thoughts,
but all are too desperate to be adopted without advice. Decide for me,
my friend; I will follow your judgment implicitly.”—
To this, Ida answered—“Fly with your Henry, and take refuge in his
uncle’s Castle. In _your_ situation, _I_ would not have hesitated to
follow Erwin through the world!”—
This reply was not received, till the Count of Torrenburg had been
presented to Elizabeth as the man, to whom her hand was destined. The
repugnance, with which she listened to his declaration, was too visible
to escape his notice; but as her parents gave him the most solemn
assurances, that her heart (though not yet disposed in his favour) was
still free from any other attachment, he persisted in his addresses. He
persuaded himself, that his assiduities must in the end make him master
of her affections, if once her hand became his property; and he looked
forward with impatience to the nuptial-day, which was already fixed, and
at no great distance.
Ida’s reply arriving at this critical moment, produced a rejoinder from
her friend, which put her in no slight embarrassment; for the greatest
part of it was totally unintelligible to her. Of Elizabeth’s former
letters she had frequently failed in decyphering the _words_; but in the
present epistle, even where she had overcome that difficulty, the
_sense_ frequently appeared to her as obscure as ever.
—“Ah! my sweet friend! how precious should I esteem your last advice,
could I but be certain, that in giving it you were prompted by no motive
but affection for Me. You cannot be ignorant, that all mystery is now
laid aside; the dreaded bridegroom is arrived; and doubtless _you_ must
have been made aware of his intentions, long before my parents thought
proper to communicate them to myself. When therefore you counsel me to
shun this marriage by flight, can I avoid apprehending lest
_interest_.... Ah! forgive me these suspicions, dear Ida! I will not
doubt the sincerity of your friendship.—Yet flight is difficult,
dangerous, disgraceful; Henry himself is unwilling to resort to this
clandestine means of rescue! On the other hand, this hated
Bridegroom.... Why do they tell me of his wealth and power? What are
they to _me_? What are the domains of Carlsheim, Torrenburg, and
Sargans, when balanced against Henry’s heart?—I know not what to
do!—Once more, dear Ida! but _once_ more advise me! Lay aside every
interested motive, which might prompt your counselling me to flight;
assure me, that friendship alone dictates your decision; and then if you
still bid me trust my fate to Henry, I will throw myself into his arms,
and bid adieu to the Castle of March.... alas! perhaps for ever!”—
Again and again did Ida read this letter, and still found herself as far
as ever from understanding it. She would gladly have submitted it to
some more learned head than her own; but her sister was absent, and
prudence forbade her communicating it to the chaplain. Above all, the
line which contained the three difficult words “_Torrenburg_,”
“_Carlsheim_,” and “_Sargans_” set all her skill at defiance; and she
could not but fancy, that were she once mistress of the meaning of that
one line, it would make the rest of the letter quite intelligible.—And
then what harm could there be in showing a stranger that single passage?
The reader would certainly be able to gain but little information from
it; and arguing thus, she cut the passage out of the letter, and
hastened to request Father Hilarius to give her the interpretation.
Father Hilarius (whose activity was quite indefatigable, when exerted to
find out what could injure his enemies, among whom he numbered the
innocent Ida) already suspected the secret correspondence between his
pupil and Elizabeth. The subject of it, however, was still unknown to
him; but now the whole was as clear as day-light. He read what was shown
to him, guest the remainder, and malicious pleasure sparkled in his
eyes. To put the matter beyond a doubt, he pretended, that it was
impossible to understand the meaning of a passage so detached, and
demanded a sight of the whole epistle. This, however, was refused him:
upon which he declared it to be his opinion, that “the difficult words
in question must be Greek; for _his_ part, he could make neither head
nor tail of them.”—
Ida went away out of all patience! However, as she could not discover,
that her friend’s situation had undergone any material alteration since
her last letter, she at length determined at all events to send her the
same answer: accordingly the messenger was despatched with a note
containing only——“Flight! instant flight.”—
Ida’s belief, that the bands of love once formed could never be broken
(together with other romantic notions, which she had imbibed among the
Helvetian mountains, respecting justice and injustice, liberty of the
heart, and suitability in marriage) must plead her excuse for the rash
advice, which in the simplicity of her nature she gave her friend;
advice, which afterwards operated to her prejudice so strongly, that it
nearly ruined her reputation and her whole happiness in life. She
counselled Elizabeth to take that step which (had she been herself the
heroine of the adventure) she would herself undoubtedly have taken: this
was the utmost extent of her error; this, and no more!
The advice was given; the advice was followed. A few days elapsed, and
she heard, that the whole country was in an uproar. The beautiful
Elizabeth of March had eloped with Henry of Montfort; and her brother
Oswald, assisted by the forces of the Count of Torrenburg, had set
forward in pursuit of the fugitives.
Ida was delighted to find, that her advice had been carried into
execution with so much success: she only feared, lest the lovers should
be overtaken by their pursuers, among whom she grieved to hear her uncle
numbered; she was still ignorant, how deeply he was interested in this
affair, and concluded that he was actuated to take a part in it by the
friendship, which had so long subsisted between himself and the old
Count of March.
Her prayers and wishes were half accomplished, half rejected. The lovers
were overtaken: but Count Oswald of March was fondly attached to his
sister; some well-disposed persons kindly interfered; Count Frederick
voluntarily resigned his pretensions; and it was finally resolved, that
the errors of love should be pardoned, and the fugitives united in a
public and customary manner. In truth, no one could deny, that Henry was
a much more suitable partner for the blooming Elizabeth, than her
destined bridegroom, the age-stricken Count of Torrenburg.
Ida was not long without hearing from her friend: this letter, (the last
which she ever received from Elizabeth,) induced her to take a step,
which filled up the measure of her mischances, and not only deprived her
of the favour of her deceived uncle, but totally ruined her in the
general opinion.
—“Ida! dear Ida! authoress of all my present happiness! How wise was
your advice! How perfectly has it succeeded! Yet a few days, and I shall
become the wife of Henry. Still I shall feel my pleasure incomplete,
unless I can thank you for it with an embrace on my bridal-day. Come
then, my friend! come to place the garland on my brow[5], and rejoice in
the work of your prudence! You will find your sister with me: it was
easy for her to obtain a dispensation from her Abbess. I rejoice, that
your uncle is now in a distant part of the country, as in the present
moment you would certainly have been refused permission to come to me.
As it is, resolve to brave the hazard of a few frowns at his return; he
will soon forget his displeasure at your witnessing my nuptials, being
totally ignorant of every thing which might seriously make him offended
with you, and which (you may be assured) shall never come to his
knowledge.—But though concealed from all others, the friendly part which
you have acted in this business, shall never be forgotten by the
grateful heart of your Elizabeth.
Footnote 5:
This alludes to a custom still preserved in many parts of Germany: the
bride wears a myrtle-wreath during the nuptial-ceremony, and it is
usual for her on the day after her marriage to present this wreath to
that female friend, to whom she is most attached.
“Then haste to me, my friend! I burn with impatience to make my Henry
known to you: he too is impatient to see the friend of his Betrothed,
the kind adviser, to whom the Happy-ones owe their happiness. I have
resolved, that this wished-for introduction shall take place at the
altar, before which I am to pronounce the nuptial vow. I confess, this
decision is in some degree dictated by selfish motives: were Henry to
see the lovely Ida of Werdenberg, before it is too late for him to
retract with honour, who knows but her charms might make him faithless
to the less fair Elizabeth?—Ah! dearest Ida, you are conscious, that I
do but jest; I know well the heart of my friend, and the honour of my
lover! Forgive then the fantastic humours of a girl already half wild
with her happiness, and refuse not to make by your presence that
happiness still greater.”—
A great part of this letter was as little understood by Ida as the
former one; however, she took good care not to employ the Chaplain to
explain the meaning. She doubted not his opposing her departure for the
Castle of March, since her uncle (though for what reason she could not
imagine) would disapprove of her visit; and in the Count’s absence she
was totally under the direction of Father Hilarius. Ida therefore
contented herself with understanding from the letter, that she was
invited to a wedding, at which the successful counsels which she had
given (together with other friendly services which she had rendered the
happy pair) would make _her_ an important personage; at which she should
meet her sister Constantia, and doubtless many other of her youthful
friends; and where she should exhibit her beauty to the best advantage,
and should dress, dance, sing, and laugh, as she had frequently done on
similar occasions on the blooming lawn of Rutelis. This was enough for
her to know, and to determine her proceedings. On the appointed day
Elizabeth sent a small body of attendants to wait for her friend in a
wood at no great distance from the Castle of Torrenburg. Ida failed not
to join them there; and without bidding adieu to Father Hilarius, she
very quietly set forward for the Castle of March.
She reached it in safety, and soon found herself clasped in the arms of
her delighted friend. There too she had the happiness of once more
embracing Constantia. The two Sisters past the intervening time between
their arrival and the wedding-day with Elizabeth in her apartment; where
(according to the custom of our times) on such occasions no man was
permitted to show himself, not even the bridegroom.