Chapter I: Part 1

FEUDAL TYRANTS, Volume IV.

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FEUDAL TYRANTS;

OR,

_The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans_.

A ROMANCE.

_TAKEN FROM THE GERMAN._

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

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BY M. G. LEWIS,

AUTHOR OF

_The Bravo of Venice, Adelgitha, Rugantino, &c._

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VOL. IV.

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_SECOND EDITION_.
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The portals sound, and pacing forth
With stately steps and slow,
High potentates, and dames of regal birth,
And mitred fathers in long order go.

— GRAY.

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London:

Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-Street, Soho,

FOR J. F. HUGHES, WIGMORE STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
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1807

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FEUDAL TYRANTS,

&c. &c. &c.

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_PART THE SEVENTH._

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CONTINUATION OF

“THE SISTERS WITHOUT A NAME.”

_Written by the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald._

Oh! noble Elizabeth! you to whom these leaves are more particularly addrest, have you had resolution sufficient to read thus far? will you possess sufficient presence of mind to enable you to continue the perusal of this writing, now that I have placed before you the most important and most cruel transactions, which have occurred throughout your whole life, and by which your whole life has been embittered? and will you, when at length you reach the conclusion of my painful narrative, magnanimously sacrifice your long-cherished prejudices; and daring to gaze steadily on the light of truth, will you learn to excuse and to pity, to regret and to forgive?

Before I relate the transactions, which followed the fatal interview between Ida and her lover on your bridal day, I must request your patient attention, while I relate those incidents of Henry of Montfort’s earlier days, which I believe to be still unknown to you. It is thus only, that I can enable you to form a correct and unbiassed judgment of the case.

Henry’s father stood already on the brink of the grave, when his son was born: he died, while Henry was still an infant. His wife soon followed him. The care of the little orphan now devolved upon an uncle, who would have been much better pleased, if the deceased Count of Montfort had died without progeny, and had left him the undivided inheritance of his fertile and extensive domains.

By his brother’s will this uncle was appointed guardian to the young orphan, and destined to be his representative, till Henry should attain the age of twenty-one. This limitation of his power was by no means to Count Egbert’s taste. He would willingly have disputed the legitimacy of Henry’s birth; but the acknowledged virtue of the late Countess made it impossible to fix any suspicions upon her character. However, by dint of solicitations, of powerful protection at Vienna, and (above all) of considerable sums of money distributed among the Emperor’s favourites, he contrived to get his nephew’s claims set aside till after his own decease; though the decree, which thus established Count Egbert’s succession to the inheritance, positively excluded any children which he might have, and regulated, that they should only succeed to the estates of Montfort, in case of Henry’s dying without heirs.

Though Count Egbert was already advanced in years, and was still a bachelor, nevertheless he was highly offended at the restriction thus established against his lineal descendants, in case it should ever please Heaven to bestow upon him such blessings. The sight of the child became hateful to him; and in hopes of at once relieving himself from its presence, and of removing an obstacle to his contracting a suitable marriage, he gave his little nephew in charge to one of his servants, whom he believed capable of executing any villainy; at the same time telling him—“To do with the brat whatever he thought would be most conducive to his master’s interests.”—Some little remains of conscience prevented his declaring his wishes in more express terms; but what he said, was quite sufficient to make his meaning very far from ambiguous.

Count Egbert’s servant was a native of Switzerland. He gave his lord to understand, that he perfectly comprehended him, and made no difficulty of taking a solemn oath, that he would punctually obey his injunctions as exprest above. After an absence of some weeks he returned without the child; his reward was ample; and he immediately employed it in securing a kind protection for the orphan Henry, whom he had neither murdered, nor abandoned to chance and the wide world, but had concealed him in a shepherd’s-cottage near the Lake of the Four Cantons, in order the more effectually to secure him against the malice of his unnatural uncle. The shepherd died, and bequeathed the child, to the care of his master, the venerable Melthal. Count Egbert’s servant (who occasionally visited those parts in order to inquire after the safety of him, whom he had rescued from destruction) was greatly rejoiced to find him under the protection of old Melthal, who was universally esteemed to be one of the wisest and best of mortals. He scrupled not to confide to him the secret of Henry’s birth, and they arranged together the means of establishing him in his rights at a future period. The servant paid the debt of nature soon after this discovery, and the mystery of Henry’s rank and claims remained in the sole possession of Melthal.

He spared no expence in rendering the boy’s education equal to his future hopes; and aware, that in all probability resolution and valour would be the only means of reinstating him fully in the possession of his rights, at an early period of life he sent the orphan away from his retired and peaceful vallies, and took measures for his being brought up to a life of arms.

Melthal frequently forsook his cottage to visit the young Henry, who now began to give tokens of a real inclination for his profession, and was more distinguished in the Emperor’s army, than any other youth of the same age: but he never invited Henry to return his visit among the mountains of Switzerland. Now, however, that the old man was sinking under the weight of years, and began to feel that distant journeys were more than his debilitated frame could bear, he determined to send for the son of his adoption, that he might declare to him his real origin, and bestow a blessing on him, before they should part for ever. The young man obeyed the call: his arrival was honoured by a rural festival; and the young people of those happy vallies rejoiced in the acquisition of such a youth, who (as they supposed) was returned home in order to pass the remainder of his life among them, as their friend and fellow citizen.

You are already acquainted with the mutual attachment, to which this festival gave rise by the meeting of Ida and Henry under the assumed names of Rosanna Tell and Erwin Melthal. This attachment soon became public, and among others came to the knowledge of old Melthal. An union with the daughter of an Helvetian peasant (even though that peasant was William Tell, and though the maiden herself was the perfection of loveliness and virtue) threatened the destruction of all those exalted plans, which the old man had been so long meditating in favour of his adopted son; and he thought, nothing more would be necessary to make Henry break off this unsuitable connection, than to discover his noble origin to the youth, and to exhibit before him his great expectations in their full splendour. He soon found, that real love makes the heart consider all obstacles as trifles, and believe every thing is possible except abandoning the object, to whom its adoration is vowed.

Henry of Montfort continued to love that Rosanna, to whom Erwin Melthal had sworn eternal fidelity: Ida, Countess of Werdenberg, (to whom her real birth was discovered about the same period) preserved her attachment to the humble peasant, to whom Rosanna Tell had pledged her hand and her affections. Each had been sworn to secrecy; both concealed the painful mystery in their respective bosoms; but neither suffered a day to pass without repeating the assurance of fidelity beyond the grave, though both were secretly conscious, how mighty were the obstacles which opposed their keeping that assurance.

They were separated. The Emperor’s commands summoned Henry to the army; and the old Melthal thought, that in the present position of things a slight falsehood would be justified by the intention, with which it was fabricated.—Accordingly, a report was soon circulated, that his grandson Erwin had fallen at the siege of Bender. It obtained universal credit; and Ida, (for whose sole use the artifice had been designed) doubted not, that her lover had perished on the field of glory. _One_ person however (and that to his great mortification) was assured of the inaccuracy of the report. No sooner had Henry left Helvetia, than Melthal set out for the Castle of Montfort; he made known to the astonished Count, that his nephew was still in existence, and spared neither persuasions nor threats to induce the old usurper to reinstate the true heir in his rights and titles.

Threats and persuasions from the mouth of a man of sense and probity came with a force, that few villains however hardened are able to resist entirely. Count Egbert trembled in the presence of his venerable monitor; and he presumed not to give him such a reply, as he would willingly have done, had he followed his heart’s instigations. He answered him with fair promises and professions, the trusting to which cost the poor old man many a painful journey; till at length highly exasperated at having been made so long the dupe of his soft words and endless delays, he assumed a tone of such authority, as almost frightened the trembling usurper out of his senses, and made him solemnly swear to lose no time in acknowledging the claims of his nephew. Unluckily, this scene agitated Melthal so violently, that the consequence was an illness, which soon carried him to his grave. Count Egbert did not let slip so good an opportunity of annihilating the hopes of Henry; he easily persuaded the unconscious heirs of old Melthal to give up to him the papers, which attested his nephew’s birth, and which, (as they seemed to relate entirely to the Montfort family), they made no doubt, were (as he asserted) his own peculiar property and no concern of any other person’s.

Now then who was so happy as the crafty Egbert? in the full exultation of triumph he was persuaded, that the papers which he lost no time in committing to the flames, were the only proofs of his nephew’s existence. But in this respect he was deceived. When Henry departed for the army, Melthal charged him to seize the first favourable opportunity of laying his case before the emperor; for which purpose he furnished him with the authentic documents of his real birth, and those which fell into Count Egbert’s hands were nothing more valuable than mere copies. The favourable opportunity, of which Melthal had spoken, was not tardy in arriving. At the siege of Bender Henry behaved with such distinguished gallantry as to make it the general opinion, that if all his companions had performed their duty as well, the victory would have been wrested from the hands of the infidels.

The emperor was not the last to applaud his gallant demeanour. He commanded him to name a reward; and Henry demanded to be re-instated in those rights, to which he could establish his claim by proofs, that would set all doubt at defiance.

—“I do not wish,” said he, “that my uncle’s conduct towards me should undergo too nice an examination; nor during his lifetime do I insist, that my inheritance should be restored to me. I only demand for the present to be acknowledged as a descendant of the house of Montfort, and for the future to be protected in obtaining those advantages, to which I may be able to substantiate a lawful claim.—I am not desirous of expelling the old Count from the station, which he has so long occupied; I only demand, that when his death shall leave that station vacant, I may succeed to that, which in justice is my birth right.”—

The Emperor Albert, who was already aware that under the administrations of the debauched Venceslaus, and the careless Sigismund (his immediate predecessors) much partiality had taken place in settling the affairs of the Montfort family, and who besides wished most anxiously to serve his favourite in every point that was not repugnant to justice, heard the above declaration with pleasure, and praised the youthful warrior’s generosity. Albert himself was generous, and it delighted him, when others acted, as _he_ would have acted himself.

On the next day Henry was declared by the emperor to be a Count of Montfort, and was allotted a command suitable to his high rank and distinguished services. This change of name contributed to support the erroneous belief, that Erwin Melthal had never been heard of since the battle of Bender, and that in all probability he had fallen in the field. Ida therefore was sorrowing for his loss at the very moment, that he was hastening back to the beloved valley, crowned with laurels, and determined to share with her his honours and his happiness.

Alas! that beloved valley was no longer to be recognised! dreadful storms had laid it waste; the mountain-torrents had deluged the country; and when he at length with difficulty had reached Tell’s habitation, he found it silent and empty—the dreadful pestilence, which had more than decimated the unfortunate inhabitants of those quarters, had raged with peculiar fury in the house of Tell; but he was informed, that a remnant of the family had taken refuge (so at least it was rumoured) in the Convent of Engelberg. Thither Henry repaired without loss of time, but he found no one capable of giving him either present comfort or future hope. His apprehensions were converted into despair, when in reply to his enquiries Tell’s humble grave was pointed out to him, and when he beheld near it two smaller graves, which (he was assured) contained the bodies of two of the old man’s grand-daughters. It is probable, that this assurance was given not without foundation, for several of the grand-children of Tell had followed him to Engelberg, and had there fallen a prey to the inveteracy of the prevalent disease.

The wretched Henry was thoroughly convinced, that the bones of Ida and Constantia rested within those smaller graves. He knelt beside them; he watered them with his tears, and abandoned himself to the most violent emotions of anguish, which love and despair ever excited in the heart of man. It was long, before he attained any degree of composure; and he employed the first hour, in which his heart was sensible of a melancholy resignation, in hastening to the Convent, and requesting to know every particular respecting the death of the lovely sisters. He wished also to enquire, why they had interred in the open church-yard the bodies of those angels, whose virtues should have obtained for their tomb the most distinguished spot to be found within the Convent’s sanctuary.

The high-sounding title of “Count Henry of Montfort” obtained for him an easy admission into the Convent-parlour; but he derived no benefit from his visit to Engelberg. The old Abbess, who had superintended the Convent during Constantia’s residence, had paid the debt of nature. The present superior was totally ignorant of the history of the sisters; and she could not help secretly suspecting, that the young-warrior’s understanding was not quite as sound as it should have been, when with considerable impetuosity he demanded as a matter of right, that the grand-daughters of a common peasant, who had conferred on the institution neither wealth nor honour, should be alloted a tomb in the Chapel of St. Engeltruda!

Henry was at length made to understand, that Ida’s remains appeared to be sacred relics in no eyes but those of her lover: the only comfort, which he now felt himself capable of enjoying, was to honour _her_ in death, whom in life he had adored so truly: accordingly the greatest part of the wealth, which he had earned in the Turkish wars, was expended in raising a stately monument to Ida’s memory in the Chapel of Engelberg. He burned with impatience to see (united with those of the fair sisters) his own name engraved on the monument’s white marble, as being that of the person by whose directions it was raised; and he declared, that his heart could never taste repose, till the work should be completed, and till the bones of Mary and Rosanna Tell (for such he still thought them) were removed to the honourable burial-place provided for them by his affection. While the tomb was erecting, nothing could persuade him to quit the holy place even for a day; and the whole neighbourhood was lost in astonishment at the homage, which the Count of Montfort thought it necessary to pay to the relics of Tell’s daughters.

Nothing was able to rouse him from that dangerous melancholy, to which he abandoned himself without reserve, till the emperor’s commands necessitated his attendance. He arrived at Grans, and found, that while he had been giving up everything for the indulgence of unavailing sorrow, his exalted protector had not been equally unmindful of his favourite’s worldly interests. The old Count of Montfort had been summoned to the imperial court; where he was made so fully aware of the favourable posture of Henry’s affairs, and was so thoroughly convinced, that to deny the authenticity of his claims would be fruitless, that his nephew no sooner made his appearance, than he came towards him with open arms, and embraced him as his relation and his presumptive heir. He was then preparing to offer some excuse for past transactions, which in their very nature were totally inexcuseable; but the young Count interrupted his apologies, freely forgave him, and in presence of the emperor assured his uncle, that he might depend upon his burying his wrongs in silence and oblivion.

Still, when the arrangements respecting Henry’s succession to the Lordship of Montfort came under consideration, Count Egbert earnestly insisted, that two or three clauses should be introduced, in order that the future heirs of his body might not be left entirely destitute. Henry could not conceal a smile, while he acceded to this proposal, and the rest of the company indulged themselves without scruple in a loud burst of laughter; for the old man was still unprovided with either wife or children, though there was scarcely to be found in all Germany a lady of beauty, birth, and fortune, whom he had not honoured with the offer of his hand and heart.

On the other hand, Henry, whose age would have suited much better with such proposals, seemed not to bestow a thought upon the subject: amidst the throng of lovely women who graced the court, his heart remained cold as the marble, which covered the imagined ashes of his loved and lamented Rosanna. But the emperor was not equally indifferent, respecting his young friend’s contracting some honourable engagement.

—“Montfort,” said he, “I flatter myself, that I have omitted no means of substantiating your claims, which lay in my imperial power: but fraud and avarice will frequently suggest such ingenious expedients for eluding the execution of justice, that (should I die before your uncle) you might still find it no easy task to obtain possession of your inheritance. While therefore I am still in existence and able to serve you, unite yourself by marriage with some powerful family, whose connection may support your claims, when death shall have deprived you of my favour and protection.—Your enemies then will not dare to dispute your rights. Tell me, Henry; is the indifference, with which you seem to look on the beauties of my court, real or affected?—If your heart has not as yet made its choice, suffer me to mention to you the bride of _my_ selection.”—

Henry’s reply assured him with great truth, that there existed not a woman, who possest any interest in his affections.

—“Well then!” resumed the emperor, “take my advice, and offer your hand to the beautiful Elizabeth of March, the jewel of all our German maidens: in her you will find united youth, charms, spirit, sense, piety, and virtue; besides a thousand other excellent qualities, which are seldom to be met with but in men. Her family too is sufficiently powerful to secure you against the attacks of malignity and violence, to which you will probably be exposed after my death; an event, which increasing infirmities make me believe to be at no great distance.”—

Henry had frequently seen and admired the noble Elizabeth. In truth, it was considered among the young courtiers almost as a total want of taste, and as a proof of a cold insensible heart, to see Elizabeth and feel nothing warmer than admiration. Henry (who could make no reasonable objection to the match proposed, and who was unwilling to confess the fruitless passion, which devoured his heart, for one who had long since rested in the grave) could only assert the improbability of his obtaining Elizabeth’s hand in preference to many suitors so much more distinguished than himself; especially as it was reported, that her hand was already destined to the youthful Richard of Ulmenhorst, her father’s ward and near relation.

—“Tell not me,” interrupted the emperor, “of those reports, and of your own consciousness of your demerits. Go to the Castle of March; become acquainted with Elizabeth’s virtues, as well as with her charms. I am certain, that you will love her; I flatter myself, that _she_ too will love _you_; and what pleasure would it give me, dear Henry, could I see your hands united, before I close my eyes in this world for ever!”—

An interest so warm, and expressions so condescending in the mouth of a sovereign, could not but produce the desired effect. Montfort obeyed, and visited the Castle of March. He beheld Elizabeth; he investigated her character; she inspired him with esteem, with admiration ... but not with love.—yet it was soon evident ... (will the Countess of Torrenburg ever pardon my assertion?) that Elizabeth had not seen Henry with the same indifference. He felt, that he was preferred; he could not but confess, that the possession of such an angel must be an inestimable treasure; and though the remembrance of Rosanna rendered his heart incapable of any warmer sentiment than friendship, still since that beloved one was lost to him for ever, he resolved not to let his folly throw away the blessing, which offered itself to his acceptance. He determined to fulfill the emperor’s injunctions, and to offer his hand to the only woman, who was worthy to fill Ida’s place in his heart. But he hesitated so long, and took so much time before he made his declaration, that Elizabeth’s parents had already promised her in the most solemn and positive manner to the rich and powerful Count of Torrenburg. In consequence, Montfort was given to understand (though with every possible mark of esteem) that his absence from the Castle of March would be acceptable to its owner.

Grieved and vexed at his having so long delayed to explain himself, Henry departed; the heart of Elizabeth accompanied him. Count Egbert had never seemed very anxious for his nephew’s marriage, nor had given himself any trouble, in order to forward his views upon Elizabeth: the fact was, that in spite of the ill success of his former matrimonial speculations, he was at that moment totally engrossed by a new scheme of the same nature; and the person, to whom his views were now directed, was no other than ... the Lady Ida of Werdenberg. He was not only enchanted by her personal charms, but he also took it into his consideration, that after the Count of Torrenburg’s death she would possess very plausible claims upon the valuable domains of Carlsheim and Sargans; claims, which (as the possibility of his own death was an idea, which never by any accident was suffered to enter into his calculations) this silly old man proposed to enforce in their fullest extent.

He had already given the Count of Torrenburg some hints of the honour, which he had it in contemplation to confer upon his family. The Count in return gave him to understand, that if his niece had no objection to the match, he should not oppose it: and as the old dotard thought himself irresistible in spite of former disappointments (which might have taught him better) he was on the very point of surprizing Ida with the agreeable intelligence, that she had made a conquest of his heart. It was at this juncture, that the news reached him of his destined uncle’s being on the brink of marriage with the Lady Elizabeth of March.

Nothing could be more contrary to his plans, than this intelligence; Count Frederick of Torrenburg might have children, and then there would be an end of all his claims in right of his bride, whom he loved not merely as the beautiful Ida of Werdenberg, but as the future co-heiress of Carlsheim and Sargans. Now then he had nothing more at heart, than to break off this inconvenient marriage. To accomplish this, no better means suggested itself, than to persuade his nephew to a renewal of his addresses to the intended bride; and since her hand was no longer to be obtained by the ordinary methods of solicitation, he resolved to have recourse to a little innocent artifice, which (he doubted not) would soon bring the young people to a proper understanding. Aware, that Henry was not likely to enforce his suit with as much eagerness as the nature of the case required, the uncle in his zeal for his nephew’s advantage, or rather for the success of his own interested views, resolved to examine himself into the state of Elizabeth’s inclinations, and to place Henry’s attachment to her in the most favourable light. He found the unhappy girl in tears; the day was already fixed, on which her hand was to be united with that of the dreaded Count of Torrenburg. It was no difficult task to make her confess her disinclination to her antient bridegroom, and her preference for the blooming Montfort, on whom her heart had long fixed its affections irrevocably. She also listened without any _very_ marked signs of repugnance to the proposal of an elopement. Her heart and her reason both assured her, that to avoid the union which she so much detested, flight was the only resource left her: her friend Ida had advised her adopting it without delay; and now the same proposal was made to her from a quarter the most unexpected. Elizabeth was at length persuaded by the pressing entreaties of Count Egbert to summon to her aid the youth, who (as she was assured by his uncle) burned for her with the most ardent affection, and to whom her union with his rival would undoubtedly give a mortal wound.

She wrote to Henry, and declared herself ready to throw herself upon his protection. This important step was taken by Elizabeth through anxiety and affection, approved of by Ida out of friendship and ignorance of the world, and advised by the old hypocrite Count Egbert for the sake of his own private interest. As to Henry himself, he was perfectly ignorant of all that was going forward, till he received Elizabeth’s letter: but what man with the feelings of humanity alive in his bosom would have disobeyed the voice of an angel like Elizabeth, pleading for aid, and confessing her attachment? compassion, esteem, admiration, and gratitude, all united to produce a sentiment in his heart which, if not love, was at least very like it; a sentiment, which doubtless would soon have been love itself, had not unfortunately.... Oh! lady, you for whom I trace these lines, and for whose decision (when my task is done) I shall wait with such anxiety, this is a chasm, which I leave to be filled up by _you_!

Elizabeth disappeared—the lovers were overtaken—the Count of Torrenburg, when the circumstances were all made known to him, resigned his pretensions with a good grace. The entreaties of Elizabeth’s brother, and some little apprehension lest her reputation should suffer injury by this elopement, induced her parents to withdraw their opposition to her union with young Montfort. The marriage-day arrived: Ida flew to congratulate her friend; and instead of the enamoured bridegroom and the happy bride, she beheld Erwin Melthal stretched pale and senseless at the feet of the alarmed and astonished Elizabeth. As Elizabeth saw Henry’s colour change, she sprang towards him, and clasped his hand. Hastily he drew it back with a look of horror, sank on the ground, and closed his eyes as if to eternal slumber.

She now turned to Ida, who (supported by her sister) appeared more dead than living: she demanded the meaning of this extraordinary scene. Terror and astonishment sealed up the lips of Ida; and Constantia also was silent through doubt, whether an explanation just then would be adviseable.

—“A strange instance of love at first sight!” whispered to her next neighbour, a virgin aunt of Elizabeth’s aged forty-seven.

—“And mutual too, as it seems!” replied the plump dowager, to whom this audible whisper had been addrest.

Ha! at those words how high swelled the proud bosom of Elizabeth! How fiery was the glance like lightning, which she threw upon Ida, as she turned away! How contemptuous was the look, with which she eyed young Montfort, in whom the care of his servants had just produced some faint signs of returning animation. Her impetuous spirit had always rendered her too susceptible of sudden and violent passion, and (to confess the truth) had already betrayed her into the commission of many a hasty and ill-judged action. Without waiting for further explanation she rushed out of the chapel, while her eyes flashed fire as she went. She was followed by all those, who envied the sisters; and who were now resolved to devote a day, long destined to happiness, to the nourishment of suspicion and resentment; and who were prepared to use their utmost arts to render the wounds lately given to love and friendship incurable.

I will not attempt to describe the state of Ida’s mind. Constantia (who, though not more able to unravel the mystery of these unexpected occurrences, was yet more collected than her sister) judged it prudent for them to withdraw as soon as possible from the curious gaze of the by-standers. Accordingly, she conducted the bewildered Ida to her apartment, and then hastened to that of the bride, in order that, she might at once offer explanations and receive them in return. She had not yet sufficiently recovered from her first astonishment to conceive, how strong an impression to her sister’s prejudice the scene, which had just taken place, must have made upon Elizabeth: much less did she suppose it possible, that her friend could act so unjustly as to show resentment against herself for an action, which (even if wrong) had at any rate been committed by another.

Her surprise therefore was great, when she was refused admittance to Elizabeth, with every mark of harshness and indignation.—She returned sorrowing from her fruitless embassy; and she had scarcely regained her own apartment, before a Chamberlain made his appearance there to inform the sisters in the name of the Lord of the Castle, that in consequence of Elizabeth’s sudden indisposition, and of the late confusion (the cause of which was too well known to them to make any explanation on that head necessary) it would be adviseable for them immediately to quit a house, in which certainly no bridal ceremony would be celebrated at present.

In the mean while, Henry on opening his eyes cast his first glances eagerly towards the spot, where he fancied, that the spirits of Tell’s grand-daughters had appeared to him; they were no longer to be seen. He was now confirmed in his visionary notions, and implicitly believed, that he had really seen an apparition.—He inquired for Elizabeth: the answer was, that she had quitted the chapel evidently in displeasure; very little reflection was necessary to make him aware, that the singular part which he had just been playing, made it necessary for him to hasten to his bride without delay, and explain the cause of his mysterious behaviour. While approaching her chamber, he considered with himself, whether it would, or would not, be adviseable to inform her of the vision, which had just appeared to him, and to lay open to her the secret history of his early life! His deliberations, however, were quite superfluous; for he was denied admittance to Elizabeth with no less positiveness and contempt, than had been shown on Constantia’s application.

He felt, that Elizabeth had some reason to think herself insulted; and instead of repaying her scorn with scorn, he lost no time in justifying himself in the eyes of his offended mistress.—A personal interview was denied him; the explanation therefore could only be conveyed in writing; but Henry was not sufficiently an adept in penmanship to permit his finishing so long an apology with as much expedition, as the nature of the case made desirable. He resolved therefore to employ a secretary; and as upon inquiry no ready writer was to be found in the whole Castle except the family Chaplain (whom I have already mentioned as the secret ally of Father Hilarius, and as being entirely in the Count of Torrenburg’s interests) he requested his assistance. He might have chosen from among a thousand, and yet could not have confided his affairs to a more improper instrument. However, Henry dictated, and the Friar wrote as follows.

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_Henry to Elizabeth._

You are offended, my beloved!—Nay, even to myself it scarcely appears credible, that when I stood with you before the altar, I should have withdrawn my hand from yours; that I should have hesitated to pronounce the words, which would have made you mine for ever; that when you looked upon me with eyes of love, I could have looked on any other than on _you_.—No; this never could have happened by natural means; the enemies of our love must have employed infernal arts to delude my senses and interrupt my happiness!—What past this evening in the Chapel must certainly have been produced by magic; no otherwise can I account for it!

Elizabeth, my heart was once another’s: my heart would _still_ have been another’s, had not death torn her from me. But my Rosanna has long been an angel in Heaven; the truth which I swore to her, and which (while she had life) I never would have violated, could not surely extend beyond the precincts of the grave. Surely that happy-one, to whom now all things must be known, must also know, in what degree I once loved _her_, and in what degree I now love Elizabeth: Surely, she cannot envy you, my beloved, the hand of your poor Henry; surely, she would not forsake her own mansions of peace and bliss, to forbid our union and destroy our hopes of happiness?

And yet, Elizabeth...! Mark, my beloved, and conceive my astonishment, my horror!—And yet, Elizabeth, I swear to you most solemnly, that this evening as you stood at the altar, I saw the form of the long-deceased Rosanna Tell approach, and place the myrtle wreath upon your forehead; while by her side stood a second apparition in a religious habit, the exact resemblance of Mary, Rosanna’s sister, who is buried with her in the same tomb!

But strange as this circumstance appears, let it not disturb your tranquillity, my Elizabeth, nor prevent an union, on which I depend for all the happiness of my future life. If the spirit of Rosanna _really_ appeared, she came not to destroy the bliss of the man who adored her, but to give her celestial sanction: but for my own part, I am persuaded, that this appearance was some illusion, some contrivance of those who envy us, some magical appearance produced by monastic arts in the night and secrecy of the Cloister.—

Beloved Elizabeth, admit me to your presence, and every point shall be explained most fully. At present I must break off, for the person (whose pen I employ to trace these lines) has taken offence at an expression which accidentally escaped me, and refuses any longer to render me his services.

* * * * *

In truth, Henry’s ecclesiastical secretary was greatly displeased at the words “monastic arts:” however, an apology and some pieces of gold not only brought the avaricious Monk into good-humour again, but even induced him to offer to be the bearer of his letter, in case the young Lord of Montfort should still think proper to send it, after hearing what he (the Monk) had to say upon the subject.

Henry gave him permission to speak, and promised to be attentive.

—“You believe then,” began Father Jacob, “that the form, whose appearance so greatly surprized you in the Chapel belonged to a deceased person?—Count of Montfort, it was the living Rosanna, Tell whom you beheld; Rosanna who has now exchanged that name for the more lofty one of Ida of Werdenberg—You start?—You believe what I tell you to be impossible?—Nay, Count, with all my heart! Number _me_ (if you like it) among those, who wish to impede you in the gratification of your new amours: it would be ill-breeding in me to force upon you the conviction of a truth, to which you are evidently so unwilling to give credit!”—

The crafty Friar rose, as if about to quit the apartment. It is superfluous to say, that Henry (whose head was now assailed by astonishment from a new quarter) did not suffer him to depart.—Father Jacob possest the whole of Ida’s history, except in so far as related to her adventure with Erwin Melthal: he refused to communicate any portion of his knowledge, till this hitherto unsuspected circumstance had been fully explained to him. This demand was complied with, every circumstance was confided to him; and with astonishing quickness he discerned in this narrative the means of attaining an object, which he and his honest ally, the keeper of Count Frederick’s conscience, had very nearly at heart, but which they had found themselves compelled to abandon in despair.

Montfort had finished.—And now the Monk exerted all his eloquence to convince his auditor of that, which Henry’s heart was already most anxious to believe; namely, that his first oaths of love ought to be the most binding; that it was no less necessary to keep his faith to Ida of Werdenberg than to Rosanna Tell; and that his giving that hand to Elizabeth, which he had sworn to give to another, would only serve to form an union unjust, sinful, abominable, and accursed.

Henry was quite of the Monk’s opinion, long before his oration came to an end. Of much more consequence did it now appear to him to renew his vows to the long-lost late-found Ida, than to appease the indignation of the offended Elizabeth. Joy and anxiety almost bereft him of understanding. The Monk was commissioned to procure for him an immediate interview with Ida; and when Father Jacob returned to him with the information, that an hour had already elapsed, since the Damsels of Werdenberg departed from the Castle, he forgot (in his impatience to rejoin his mistress) so completely all ideas of propriety, of consideration for the feelings of his bride, and of the misconstructions to which he was making his conduct liable, that without farther deliberation he sprang upon his courser, and pursued the way, which the Monk pointed out to him as that, by which he might the most speedily overtake the sisters. In the hurry of his enthusiastic affection, he forgot every thing else; he left no apology for the Count of March; no explanation for Elizabeth; he even neglected to remind the Monk to deliver his letter, or to desire him to clear up the mystery of his conduct.

In fact, Father Jacob had other business upon his hands, than to extenuate Montfort’s offence in the eyes of Elizabeth. Immediately on the youth’s departure, he lost no time in transmitting the following letter to the family-priest of Torrenburg.

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_Father Jacob to Father Hilarius._

Before this letter can reach you, doubtless the occurrences of this evening will be already known to you: but learn from me some circumstances, which are as yet a secret to all but myself and the principal actors in them.—Erwin Melthal, that peasant youth on whose perfections and on whose attachment you have heard Ida dwell with such enthusiasm, proves to be no other than Henry of Montfort.—Elizabeth is still ignorant of this previous acquaintance, and must remain so: with the sisters she is likely to have no immediate intercourse, and by my management Henry has left the Castle of March in pursuit of Ida; though to gain time, I thought it prudent to give him a false direction, and he is now upon the road to the half-ruined Fortress, which the Count of Torrenburg possesses in Thuringia.

Let your patron lose no time in hastening hither—I will take care, that he shall find the family disposed to consider his renewed proposals as a most honourable and fortunate event; and I doubt not, in the first tumult of her passions, of disappointed love, violated friendship, and raging jealousy, Elizabeth may be easily persuaded to an union, which will make her mistress of that rival’s fate, to whose pernicious beauty she ascribes the loss of her own promised happiness.

Be assured, it will be greatly both for your advantage and for mine, that Elizabeth should become Count Frederick’s wife. He is advanced in years; it is highly improbable, that he should have children; and a rich bequest is already secured to our convent in the event of his dying without legitimate descendants. On the other hand, should he remain unmarried, there is every probability of his acknowledging the Damsels of Werdenberg as his heiresses; a step, which would ruin all our hopes for ever, but which (you may depend upon it) he will never be suffered to take, if the jealous and incensed Elizabeth becomes Countess of Torrenburg.

With regard to these hated girls, whose intrusion is so greatly adverse to our interests, no means must be neglected for expelling them from their guardian’s house and favour. As to Constantia, I look upon her as little dangerous, being (to judge by every appearance) entirely devoted to a religious life: it would therefore be unnecessary to molest her, were not her fate so closely connected with her sister’s, that it is impossible to separate the one from the other. But it is against Ida that all your skill must be directed.—Doubtless, Elizabeth’s letters are still in her possession—Seize them, either by art or violence, it matters not which: they must necessarily contain matter sufficient to convince Count Frederick, that it was by her advice, that her friend was persuaded to elope from him with young Montfort: he will look upon her as the traverser of his views upon Elizabeth, and that will be sufficient to banish her from his favour—this will be greatly confirmed by the appearance of the sisters at Elizabeth’s wedding, which he cannot but consider as highly disrespectful to himself and his feelings; but you must carefully conceal from him, that Ida confined in the solitude of Torrenburg Castle, and Constantia buried in the silence of her Convent, were both ignorant of the rejected lover’s name till after their arrival at the Castle of March. The Count is noble-minded; but he is proud, irascible, easily induced to believe the worst of those who surround him, and obstinate in retaining prejudices once received—these are the parts of his character, upon which it must be your care to work, till you have kindled a flame against Ida in his bosom, which all her tears will be unable to extinguish. On the other hand, you must assail Ida with terrors of her uncle’s indignation, and with threats of an immediate union with her superannuated admirer, Count Egbert: and when you have terrified her sufficiently to prevent her conduct from being regulated by her understanding, assure her, that there is no way of avoiding Count Frederick’s wrath and old Montfort’s marriage-bed, except flight from the Castle of Torrenburg.—That step once taken, Ida is ruined; Constantia may easily be convicted of participation in her sister’s actions; the ungrateful girls will be banished from their uncle’s favour irrevocably, and then the game will be all our own.—Farewell, and let me hear from you with all diligence.

* * * * *

The unconscious subject of these abominable artifices was in the mean while journeying homewards with a heavy heart, doubly afflicted by the injustice of her friend, and the supposed perfidy of her lover. She had ascertained no more before her departure from the Castle of March, than that the man, whom she had so long believed to be a peasant’s son, was Count Henry of Montfort; but it still remained unexplained, how Henry could have so totally forgotten his former vows, and have offered his hand to another. The more that she reflected, the less reason did there appear to doubt, that upon discovering his own noble origin he had abandoned all thoughts of an union with the low-born daughter of William Tell. In the opinion of love this fault was not to be excused; she in some degree obtained a forced tranquillity by resolving, that his conduct had rendered him totally unworthy of her; and that even should the inconstant Henry return to her chains, it would be beneath Ida of Werdenberg to accept that hand, which he had insolently withdrawn from the humble Rosanna Tell.

Constantia accompanied her sister for some part of her journey, but was at length unwillingly compelled to separate from her and return to her convent, attended by the vassals whom the Abbess of Zurich had sent for her protection. Ida reached her guardian’s Castle without meeting any adventure; but a mistake of her attendants occasioned her to go considerably out of her road, and this delay gave time for Father Jacob’s letter to precede her at the Castle of Torrenburg. Father Hilarius lost no time in searching for Elizabeth’s letters; he found them, and found them also such, as he wished. Some, which would have exculpated Ida, and made against Elizabeth, he committed to the flames, and then lost no time in communicating the rest to his patron.

Count Frederick had returned home on Elizabeth’s bridal day, which he intended to pass with his niece in silent melancholy. He had resolved to inquire into her character with more attention, than he had done hitherto; and as his late disappointment had made him give up all thoughts of marriage for himself, it was his intention to declare that the damsels of Werdenberg were his future heiresses, in case they should prove to deserve so great a distinction.

On his arrival he inquired for Ida; he was informed, that she was gone to the wedding of the young Countess of March.—He started in astonishment, and father Hilarius shook his head with a smile. Frederick enquired, how the girl could have ventured to take a step, which he could not but look upon as a marked token of disrespect? or if she were ignorant of his having payed his addresses to Elizabeth, why had not father Hilarius prevented her from unconsciously offering him this public affront? the worthy Chaplain shrugged his shoulders, and answered that—“Good-lack! he was too old and too simple to look after a young wanton girl with the devil (heaven bless us!) in her head.”—

—“She slipped away,” continued he, “without saying a word of her intention to me, or to any one—and as to her _ignorance_ of your adresses.... Blessed St. Barnabas! she knew much more about them, than I did myself!—Why, my lord, I have just discovered, that she has long kept up a secret correspondence with the Lady Elizabeth; and I can bring you the most undeniable proofs, that you would at this moment have been happy in the possession of your bride, had it not been for Ida, for the self created heiress of Torrenburg; who instigated her innocent friend to refuse your hand; who fooled her into an imaginary passion for young Montfort; and when she had entangled the poor Elizabeth too closely in this intrigue to admit of her retreating with honour, who finally persuaded her to adopt the disgraceful measure of an elopement.—Yet to say truth, there is some excuse for Ida’s conduct, since she could not but heartily wish to prevent a marriage so extremely detrimental to her own views and interests.”—

Frederick heard every word with increasing amazement. In a voice of fury he demanded, that the proofs, of which the Monk had spoken, should be instantly produced.—Father Hilarius then gave Elizabeth’s letters into his hand, accompanying them with some reflections on the danger of teaching women the art of writing; at the same time reminding the Count, how strenuously and how frequently he had represented to him, that in the hands of so forward a girl as Ida, there could not possibly be a more dangerous instrument than a pen; and that to leave her to the full as ignorant as he found her, was an object most desirable both for the Count and for herself.—But his remonstrances had been disregarded; Ida was taught to write; and now see the blessed effects of it!

Elizabeth’s hand was not to be mistaken; and while the Count gazed upon the writing so well known to him, the malicious Priest inflamed his resentment still further by relating various passages of Ida’s early life, to which he well knew how to give that colouring, which suited best with his designs; he related, how during the time that she was believed to be Tell’s grand-daughter, Ida had greatly shocked her companions by her free and dissolute manners; he proceeded to state, that in consequence her guardians had been obliged to separate her from Constantia, lest the one should be perverted by the bad example of the other; that regret at finding all his efforts to reclaim her in vain, had broken the heart of her adopted father, and sent him with sorrow to his grave: that she had carried on an intrigue with a man of low birth, to whom she was still attached; and that in all probability it was her intention to enrich this peasant with the valuable inheritance, which she expected to derive from Count Frederick’s bounty.

—“And then” continued Father Hilarius, casting a malicious side-glance upon Ida’s claims; “and then how easy will it be for the young fellow to vamp up some fine story of an unexpected discovery, and of a relationship to some illustrious family long concealed, and thus qualify himself for assuming openly the proud name of _Count of Torrenburg_, in right of his wife, her generous uncle’s heiress!”—

The Count bit his lip: yet after a long silence he answered, that Ida’s parentage and claims admitted of no doubt; and that he wished most heartily, that she were any other person, in order that in pronouncing his judgement upon her conduct, she might have been entitled to less consideration and respect.

—“But in spite of all her faults,” said he, “I cannot deal harshly with a person, who is the daughter of my deceased friend, and of the woman whom I once adored. Yet on the other hand, such mean artifices, such acts of interested baseness, of such flagrant ingratitude, ought not to escape without due punishment.—Ida has destroyed the happiness, which I promised myself in marriage; it will be no more than a just vengeance, if I destroy hers in return.—Should she fail to exculpate herself, she shall either be immured for life within the walls of a Cloister, or give her hand without delay to the old Count of Montfort, from whom I this morning received proposals for her hand.”—

When he pronounced this sentence, the Count was standing in an open balcony: as the last words fell from his lips, he saw Ida with her attendants riding slowly towards the Castle. He hastily drew back; and feeling, that he was at that time too much incensed to give her cause an impartial hearing, he ordered Father Hilarius to fill his place—the Friar exulted at this command: he knew well the generosity of his patron’s nature, and dreaded that irresistible conviction, which ever accompanies the pleading of injured innocence: he therefore heard with Great satisfaction, that the cause was not to be tried by a judge, the goodness of whose own heart would naturally incline him to the side of mercy, justice, and compassion.