beseech God to spare my life, that I might be enabled to instruct my
children in His holy love and fear, and teach them to atone for the
error of their parent. My prayer has in mercy been heard; the boon I
supplicated has been granted; and I trust, my beloved father, that if
these children should be admitted to your affections, you will find that
I have trained up two blessed intercessors for your forgiveness, when it
shall have pleased Heaven to have called your daughter to her account
before that dread tribunal where a sire’s curse will plead so awfully
against her. Recall then, oh, father! recall your dreadful malediction
from your poor repentant Ida! and send your blessing as an angel of
mercy to plead for her eternal rest. Farewell, my father, for ever! for
ever, farewell! By the cross, whose emblem her fevered lips now press;
by Him, who in His boundless mercy hung upon that cross, your daughter,
your once much loved Ida, implores you, supplicates you, not to let her
plead in vain!”
* * * * *
“My child, my child!” sobbed Burkhardt, as the letter dropped from his
hand, “may the Father of All forgive me as freely as I from the depths
of my wrung heart forgive you! Would that your remorseful father could
have pressed you to his heart, with his own lips have assured you of his
affection, and wiped away the tears of sorrow from your eyes! But he
will cherish these beloved remembrances of you, and will more jealously
guard them than his own life.”
Burkhardt passed the whole of the following day in his chamber, to which
the good Father Jerome alone was admitted, as the events of the
preceding day rendered a long repose absolutely necessary. The following
morning, however, he entered the hall, where Hermann and Ida were
impatiently waiting for him. His pale countenance still exhibited deep
traces of the agitation he had experienced; but having kissed his
children most affectionately, he smilingly flung round Ida’s neck a
massive gold chain, richly wrought, with a bunch of keys appended to it.
“We must duly install our Lady of the Castle,” said he, “and invest her
with her appropriate authorities.—But, hark! from the sound of the
porter’s horn it seems as if our hostess would have early calls upon her
hospitality. Whom have we here?” continued he, looking out up the
avenue. “By St. Hubert, a gay and gallant knight is approaching, who
shall be right welcome—that is, if my lady approve. Well, Willibald,
what bring you?—a letter from our good friend the Abbot of St. Anselm.
What says he?”
“I am sure that you will not refuse your welcome to a young knight,
who is returning by your castle to his home, from the Emperor’s
wars. He is well known to me, and I can vouch for his being a guest
worthy of your hospitality, which will not be the less freely
granted to him because he does not bask in the _golden_ smiles of
fortune.”
“No, no, that it shall not, my good friend; and if fortune frown upon
him, he shall be doubly welcome. Conduct him hither instantly, good
Willibald.”
The steward hastened to usher in the stranger, who advanced into the
hall with a modest but manly air. He was apparently about twenty-five
years of age; his person was such as might well, in the dreams of a
young maiden, occupy no unconspicuous place.
“Sir Knight,” said Burkhardt, taking him cordially by the hand, “you are
right welcome to my castle, and such poor entertainment as it can
afford. We must make you forget your wounds, and the rough usage of a
soldier’s life. But, soft, I already neglect my duty in not first
introducing our hostess,” added the aged knight, presenting Ida. “By my
faith,” he continued, “judging from my lady’s blushing smile, you seem
not to have met for the first time. Am I right in my conjecture?”
“We _have_ met, sir,” replied Ida, with such confusion as pleasantly
implied that the meeting was not indifferently recollected, “in the
parlour of the abbess of the Ursulines, at Munich, where I have
sometimes been to visit a much valued friend.”
“The abbess,” said the young knight, “was my cousin; and my good fortune
more than once gave me the happiness of seeing in her convent this lady.
But little did I expect that amongst these mountains the fickle goddess
would again have so favoured a homeless wanderer.”
“Well, Sir Knight,” replied Burkhardt, “we trust that fortune has been
equally favourable to us. And now we will make bold to ask your name;
and then, without useless and tedious ceremony, on the part of ourselves
and our hostess, bid you again a hearty welcome.”
“My name,” said the stranger, “is Walter de Blumfeldt; though humble, it
has never been disgraced; and with the blessing of Heaven, I hope to
hand it down as honoured as I have received it.”
* * * * *
Weeks, months rolled on, and Walter de Blumfeldt was still the guest of
the Lord of Unspunnen; till, by his virtues, and the many excellent
qualities which daily more and more developed themselves, he wound
himself around Burkhardt’s heart, which the chastened life of the old
knight had rendered particularly susceptible of the kindlier feelings.
Frequently would he now, with tears in his eyes, declare that he wished
he could convince each and all with whom his former habits had caused
any difference, how truly he forgave them, and desired their
forgiveness.
“Would,” said he one day, in allusion to this subject, “that I could
have met my old enemy, the Duke of Zähringen, and with a truly heartfelt
pleasure and joy have embraced him, and numbered him amongst my friends.
But he is gathered to his fathers, and I know not whether he has left
any one to bear his honours.”
Each time that Walter had offered to depart, Burkhardt had found some
excuse to detain him; for it seemed to him that in separating from his
young guest he should lose a link of that chain which good fortune had
so lately woven for him. Hermann, too, loved Walter as a brother; and
Ida fain would have imagined that she loved him as a sister; but her
heart more plainly told her what her colder reasoning sought to hide.
Unspunnen, who had for some time perceived the growing attachment
between Walter and Ida, was not displeased at the discovery, as he had
long ceased to covet riches; and had learnt to prize the sterling worth
of the young knight, who fully answered the high terms in which the
Prior of St. Anselm always spoke of him. Walking one evening under the
shade of that very avenue where he had first encountered Hermann and
Ida, he perceived the latter, at some little distance, in conversation
with Walter. It was evident to Burkhardt that the young knight was not
addressing himself to a very unwilling ear, as Ida was totally
regardless of the loud cough with which Burkhardt chose to be seized at
that moment; nor did she perceive him, until he exclaimed, or rather
vociferated,—
“Do you know, Walter, that, under this very avenue, two pilgrims, bound
to some holy shrine, once accosted me; but that, in pity to my sins and
forlorn condition, they exchanged their penitential journey for an act
of greater charity, and have ever since remained to extend their kind
cares to an aged and helpless relative. One, however, of these
affectionate beings is now about to quit my abode, and to pass through
the rest of this life’s pilgrimage with a helpmate, in the person of the
fair daughter of the Baron de Leichtfeldt, and thus leave his poor
companion with only the tedious society of an old man. Say, Sir Knight,
will thy valour suffer that such wrong be done; or wilt _thou_ undertake
to conduct this forsaken pilgrim on her way, and guide her through the
chequered paths of this variable life? I see by the lowliness with which
you bend, and the colour which mantles in your cheek, that I speak not
to one insensible to an old man’s appeal. But soft, soft, Sir Knight, my
Ida is not yet canonized, and therefore cannot afford to lose a hand,
which inevitably must occur if you continue to press it with such very
ardent devotion. But what says our pilgrim; does she accept of thy
conduct and service, Sir Knight?”
Ida, scarcely able to support herself, threw herself on Burkhardt’s
neck. We will not raise the veil which covers the awful moment that
renders a man, as he supposes, happy or miserable for ever. Suffice it
to say that the day which made Hermann the husband of the daughter of
the Baron de Leichtfeldt, saw Ida the wife of Walter de Blumfeldt.
* * * * *
Six months had passed rapidly away to the happy inhabitants of
Unspunnen, and Burkhardt seemed almost to have grown young again. He was
one of the most active in the preparations which were necessary in
consequence of Walter suggesting that they should spend Ida’s birthday
in a favourite retreat of his and hers. This chosen spot was a beautiful
meadow, in front of which meandered a small limpid stream; at the back
was a gorgeous amphitheatre of trees, the wide-spreading branches of
which cast a refreshing shade over the richly enamelled grass.
In this beauteous retreat were Burkhardt, Walter, and his Ida passing
the sultry hours of noon, when Walter, who had been relating some of his
adventures at the court of the Emperor, and recounting the magnificence
of the tournaments, turning to his bride, said,—
“But what avails all that pomp, my Ida. How happy are we in this
peaceful vale! we envy neither princes nor dukes their palaces or their
states. What say you, my Ida, could you brook the ceremony of a court,
and the pride of royalty? Methinks even the coronet of a duchess would
but ill replace the wreath of blushing roses on your head.”
“Gently, my good husband,” replied Ida, laughing; “they say, you know,
that a woman loves these vanities too dearly in her heart ever to
despise them. Then how can you expect so frail a mortal as your poor
wife to hold them in contempt? Indeed, I think,” added she, assuming an
air of burlesque dignity, “that I should make a lofty duchess, and wear
my coronet with most becoming grace. And now, by my faith, Walter, I
recollect that you have this day, like a true and gallant knight,
promised to grant whatever boon I shall ask. On my bended knee,
therefore, I humbly sue that if you know any spell or magic wile, to
make a princess or a duchess for only a single day, that you will
forthwith exercise your art upon me; just in order to enable me to
ascertain with how much or how little dignity I could sustain such
honours. It is no very difficult matter, Sir Knight: you have only to
call in the aid of Number Nip, or some such handy workman of the woods.
Answer, most chivalrous husband, for thy disconsolate wife rises not
until her prayer is granted.”
“Why, Ida, you have indeed craved a rare boon,” replied Walter; “and how
to grant it may well puzzle my brain till it becomes crazed with the
effort. But, let me see, let me see,” continued he musingly; “I have
it!—Come hither, love, here is your throne,” said he, placing her on a
gentle eminence richly covered with the fragrant wild thyme and the
delicate harebell; “kings might now envy you the incense which is
offered to you. And you, noble sir,” added he, addressing Burkhardt,
“must stand beside her Highness, in quality of chief counsellor. There
are your attendants around you; behold that tall oak, he must be your
Highness’s pursuivant; and yonder slender mountain ashes, your trusty
pages.”
“This is but a poor fulfilment of the task you have undertaken, Sir
mummer,” said Ida, with a playful and arch affectation of
disappointment.
“Have patience for a brief while, fair dame,” replied Walter, laughing;
“for now I must awaken your Highness’s men-at-arms.”
Then, taking from his side a silver horn, he loudly sounded the
melodious reveille. As he withdrew the instrument from his lips, a
trumpet thrillingly answered to the call; and scarcely had its last
notes died away, when, from the midst of the woods, as if the very trees
were gifted with life, came forth a troop of horsemen, followed by a
body of archers on foot. They had but just entirely emerged, when
numerous peasants, both male and female, appeared in their gayest
attire; and, together with the horsemen and the archers, rapidly and
picturesquely ranged themselves in front of the astonished Ida, who had
already abdicated her throne, and clung to the arm of Walter. They then
suddenly divided, and twelve pages in richly-emblazoned dresses
advanced. After them followed six young girls, whose forms and features
the Graces might have envied, bearing two coronets placed on embroidered
cushions. In the rear of these, supporting his steps with his abbatial
staff, walked the venerable Abbot of St. Anselm, who, with his white
beard flowing almost to his girdle, and his benign looks that showed the
pure commerce of the soul which gave life to an eye the brightness of
which seventy years had scarcely diminished, seemed to Ida a being of
another world. The young girls then advancing, and kneeling before
Walter and his wife, presented the coronets.
Ida, who had remained almost breathless with wonder, could now scarcely
articulate,—
“Dear, dear Walter, what is all this pomp—what does—what _can_ it mean?”
“Mean! my beloved,” replied her husband; “did you not bid me make you a
duchess? I have but obeyed your high commands, and I now salute you,
_Duchess_ of Zähringen!”
The whole multitude then made the woods resound with the acclamation,—
“_Long live the Duke and Duchess of Zähringen!_”
Walter, having for some moments enjoyed the unutterable amazement of the
now breathless Ida, and the less evident but perhaps equally intense
surprise of Burkhardt, turning to the latter, said,—
“My more than father, you see in me the son of your once implacable
enemy, the Duke of Zähringen. He has been many years gathered to his
fathers; and I, as his only son, have succeeded to his title and his
possessions. My heart, my liberty, were entirely lost in the parlour of
the Abbess of the Ursulines. But when I learnt whose child my Ida was,
and your sad story, I resolved ere I would make her mine to win not only
her love, but also your favour and esteem. How well I have succeeded,
this little magic circle on my Ida’s finger is my witness. It will add
no small measure to your happiness to know that my father had for many
years repented of the wrongs which he had done you; and, as much as
possible to atone for them, entrusted the education of his son to the
care of this my best of friends, the Abbot of St. Anselm, that he might
learn to shun the errors into which his sire had unhappily fallen. And
now,” continued he, advancing, and leading Ida towards the abbot, “I
have only to beg your blessing, and that this lady, whom through
Heaven’s goodness I glory to call my wife, be invested with those
insignia of the rank which she is so fit to adorn.”
Walter, or, as we must now call him, the Duke of Zähringen, with Ida,
then lowly knelt before the venerable abbot, whilst the holy man, with
tears in his eyes, invoked upon them the blessings of Heaven. His
Highness then rising, took one of the coronets, and placing it on Ida’s
head, said,—
“Mayst thou be as happy under this glittering coronet, as thou wert
under the russet hood in which I first beheld thee.”
“God and our Lady aid me!” replied the agitated Ida; “and may He grant
that I may wear it with as much humility. Yet thorns, they say, spring
up beneath a crown.”
“True, my beloved,” said the duke, “and they also grow beneath the
peasant’s homely cap. But the rich alchemy of my Ida’s virtues will ever
convert all thorns into the brightest jewels of her diadem.”
FINIS.
MORRISON AND GIBB, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
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PATERSON’S
NEW ENGLAND NOVELS.
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Cloth, gilt top, 2s. each; ornamental paper cover, 1s. each.
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NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
1. THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES.
2. THE SCARLET LETTER.
9. MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE.
10. THE NEW ADAM AND EVE.
11. TWICE-TOLD TALES.
12. LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE.
13. THE SNOW IMAGE.
17. OUR OLD HOME.
18. TANGLEWOOD TALES.
20. THE BLITHEDALE ROMANCE.
21. TRUE STORIES FROM HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY.
22. A WONDER-BOOK FOR GIRLS AND BOYS.
A. S. HARDY.
14. BUT YET A WOMAN.
THEO. WINTHROP.
4. CECIL DREEME.
5. JOHN BRENT.
6. EDWIN BROTHERTOFT.
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O. W. HOLMES.
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8. PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE.
19. POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. (2s.)
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WASHINGTON IRVING.
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16. CHRISTMAS.
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Spelling and hyphenation were only made consistent when a
predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
End of Project Gutenberg's Tales and Stories, by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley