PART THE SECOND.
It affords the mind a melancholy pleasure to look back in the evening of life, and contemplate the path which conducted us to that place of shelter, where tranquillity awaits us, and which at length appears in sight. Yet in such a moment we obtain but an imperfect view of the scenes through which we past; and the sensations which we at the time experienced, have already lost much of their poignancy. The chillness of approaching night makes us almost forget our sufferings, while toiling under the heat of the mid-day sun; and our eye glides easily along the deep vallies in which we feared to lose our way, and over the lofty mountains which it cost us so much labour to ascend—The whole now seems blended together, and we perceive scarcely any thing but a level surface; for the distance of those objects which we have left behind, and the darkness growing deeper with every moment, delude our eyes, and hide from us almost every thing, which once inspired us with such well-founded terror.
Alas! the pleasures of our pilgrimage are lost to us, as well as its difficulties and its dangers! we no longer see the flowers of the vale, in which we loitered; we hear no more the murmur of the brook, whose clear streams refreshed us when fainting with fatigue and thirst! we retain of the whole but one sensation; that the whole is past!—and we wonder not a little, when the transient recollection of former events occasionally flits before us, how such trifles could have possest the power of affecting us with violence so extreme.
Such are our feelings in the decline of life; feelings which you too, beloved-ones, for whom I trace these lines, which you, my Amalberga, and you, my gentle Emmeline, will experience at the appointed hour. Alas! before that hour arrives, you must wander through a long and painful way, counting many a step of toil, and many a tear of sorrow: I feel it to be my duty once more to examine the road by which I have past myself; and by explaining to you the obstacles which impeded me in my progress, I hope to enable you to overcome those, which may present themselves before you in your own.
The spring of my life was bright and lovely. I was educated with the most illustrious young women of the age, and numbered the children of sovereigns among my play-mates. The daughters of the Count of Hapsburg lived with me like sisters; and even when Rudolf was elected Emperor, and their father’s elevation authorized them to expect to share the thrones of the first Sovereigns of Europe, still did our friendship continue in full force. What have innocence and inexperienced youth to do with dignity and grandeur? Things of this nature only furnished us with a subject for mirth; we past in review the Princes, both young and old, who solicited the good graces of the Emperor’s daughters; we discussed freely their merits and defects, portioned them out among our society, and amused ourselves with jesting at the unfortunate maiden, to whom the worst lot fell. The number of these illustrious suitors was seven; and as the Princesses with myself made exactly the same number, I necessarily came in for my share in this allotment.
Unfortunately, what at first was mere jesting at length became serious. The Duke of Saxony, who at his first arrival seemed to limit all his wishes to the possession of the Princess Matilda, (Rudolf’s eldest daughter,) began to imagine, that her companion Urania was the superior beauty of the two. As it was generally believed (both on account of the uniformity which prevailed in our society, and of our never being separated) that I was the sister of my friends, the Duke thought it a matter of very little consequence, to which of the Emperor’s daughters he paid his addresses; and he showed his election in my favour so plainly and so publicly, that Rudolf ordered me to quit his court. My removal was so sudden, that no step could be taken by the Duke in this important business: my father had fallen in the late popular commotions at Basle; I had never known my mother; I was consigned to the guardianship of an uncle, who had purchased considerable possessions in the neighbourhood of the Rhætian Alps, where he resided far from the tumult of the court in freedom and tranquillity.
Count Leopold Venosta received me with open arms. Painful as had been my separation from the friends of my childhood, still I was not insensible to the charm of being released from the chains of court etiquette, even though the chains which I had borne had been so light and easy. The air of liberty fanned my cheeks at every step I took; the peasants of Rhætia (who had now almost universally shaken off the fetters of their lordly masters) celebrated on all sides the feast of freedom, and invited the neighbouring inhabitants of the Valteline to participate in their happiness. Oh! what delightful scenes were these for a young and feeling heart!—and yet I had not sufficient experience to perceive their whole beauty and singularity.—Too often is liberty purchased dearly by the effusion of blood; and joy at obtaining the so long wished-for blessing is sullied by melancholy recollections of the means, by which that blessing was obtained. In this instance, it was the reward of temperance and industry, which had at length succeeded in their efforts to burst the chains of luxury and oppression. Knights and Monks, the former owners of these possessions, had long indulged without reflection or restraint every caprice of their voluptuous fancies, till they became the debtors of their own vassals; who in the mean while had been advancing silently towards their grand object through diligence in labour and propriety in morals, and now were able to set at defiance those, whose slaves and victims they had been so long. The impoverished libertines found themselves without resource; they were obliged to rest contented with bestowing angry looks on their enfranchised vassals, as often as accident brought them in their way, and with indulging their spleen in intemperate railing at (what they termed) the caprice of fortune.
But Count Leopold belonged not to the number of these reduced Lords. His opulence grew with every day; his possessions were increased by the purchase of those, which the debts of his neighbours compelled them to dispose of. Neither had the country reason to lament, that so much power was concentrated in his hands.
He allowed his vassals sufficient independence to prevent their sighing after a greater share of freedom; he parcelled out some of his estates into small farms, and bestowed them on the most industrious among his people; he even induced several of the inhabitants of the Valteline to settle upon his possessions, by allotting to them a portion of valuable but hitherto uncultivated land, which liberally replaced to them what little they abandoned in their own distracted country.
Oh! believe me, my children, the occupation renders us almost equal to the angels, when we employ our power in bidding some desart teem with harvest, and making it the habitation of happy creatures! I have witnessed many of these transformations, which the Princes of the earth could produce so often and so easily, had they but the inclination. It is in their power to copy the benevolence and might of the Creator; but they chuse rather to imitate his chastising justice, to convert the dwellings of men into heaps of stones, and to pour a deluge of blood over the smiling fruitful vallies.
Among the Lords of that part of Switzerland, whose chief possessions now belonged to my uncle, the Counts of Carlsheim held the most distinguished place. Ethelbert (the only remaining descendant of this family, at least as far as we knew) scarcely inherited from his father the tenth part of that property, which once belonged to his forefathers. Grief and vexation had bowed the young man to the ground; he sought to improve his fortune by entering into the service of foreign princes, failed in the attempt, and returned sorrowing to repair the ruined castles which still were his own, and to collect the fragments of his fallen greatness. He had no reason to reproach himself as the author of his distress; yet the consciousness of his situation and the feelings of wounded pride kept him in a constant state of humiliation, which became particularly painful at the sight of those, who had established their prosperity on the ruins of that of the house of Carlsheim.
Influenced by these sentiments, did Ethelbert most studiously avoid all intercourse with my uncle. On none of those occasions, which usually bring knights and noblemen together, did he ever appear, if there was the slightest probability of Count Leopold’s being present; and in spite of all my uncle’s endeavours to form an acquaintance with this young warrior, (for whom more reasons than one induced him to feel a lively interest,) still would his efforts in all likelihood have failed of success, had not a circumstance occurred, which absolutely enjoined their meeting, and which was the first link of a connexion which ... dare I say it?... which should never have been formed. Yet the ordinations of eternal Wisdom ought not to be censured: I press my finger on my lip, and am silent.
In the bosom of a tranquil valley situated near the Rhine rose the walls of a monastery, which in point of wealth was only inferior to the monks of Saint Basil in Solothurn, and to the valuable endowments and extensive possessions of the Great Lady of Zurich. Since time immemorial had this district belonged to the Lords of Carlsheim; and they were so conscious of its worth, that when they sold the rest of their estates beyond the power of redemption, they had only parted with this as a pledge. My uncle had already entered without success into various negociations with Count Werner (Ethelbert’s father) on this subject; and after the old man’s death, he had found his son equally determined never to relinquish entirely his right to “the jewel of the land,” for such was the popular name of the Cloister in the Wood. Various means were proposed to my uncle (several by the monks themselves) for subduing the obstinacy of the original possessor: but Leopold’s tender conscience thought some unjust, and some unfeeling, and every thing remained as it was.
—“Let us not,” he always answered, when prest upon this subject, “let us not rob this young man of the flattering hope, that by means of his claims on this delightful territory he may one day be enabled to get a firm footing in the land of his once opulent inheritance! I will not be the man who deprives him of it; far more willingly would I lend him my aid towards realizing his expectations, were I assured that he is really the character for which I take him. In the mean while, let him continue to feast his imagination with the hope of one day enjoying the treasures said to be buried in the Abbey of Curwald, and with the rest of those chimæras which have been painted to me in such brilliant colours for the purpose of seducing me to seize that by force of arms, to which without Ethelbert’s voluntary agreement I can never possess a satisfactory right.”—
It is but too certain, that no means were left untried, which might exasperate my uncle against Ethelbert of Carlsheim; who on his side suffered many an interested adviser to assail his ear with similar representations. Things were carried to such a length, that feudal war would certainly have been declared, and the dwellings of tranquillity must have been deluged with an ocean of blood, had not Count Venosta’s generosity induced him to give way on all possible occasions.
To talk over calmly these and similar circumstances with Ethelbert in person, such was my uncle’s object in endeavouring to throw himself in his way; and the obstinate care, with which the latter avoided every explanation, might as well be ascribed to a sentiment of false pride which made him feel humiliated by Count Venosta’s superior wealth, or to the insinuations of ill-disposed advisers, as to envy, or malignity, or any other bad feature in his character. Count Leopold and myself had always made it a rule to consider Ethelbert’s actions in the most favourable light. It is true, we had both been long the inhabitants of a court, the proper atmosphere of suspicion and mistrust; but on our first arrival among the frank and honest children of Helvetia, we dismissed those enemies of rural peace for ever, and determined to be open-hearted with those whose hearts were so open to us.
The circumstance which at length brought my uncle and Count Ethelbert together, was a dispute between the monks of Curwald and their Abbot; and which at last was carried to such a pitch, that it became necessary to refer it to the cloister’s liege-lord. But who was this same liege-lord? was it Leopold, who was in actual possession of the revenue, or Ethelbert, in whom the legal right still vested? The monks appealed from one to the other over and over again, and at length it became absolutely necessary that a meeting should take place between them, in order that the business might be finally adjusted.
My uncle had never forbidden my interference in matters, which did not exactly fall within the province of women; nor indeed would it have been in my power to remain inactive on this occasion, in which the honour and welfare of those persons who (after my uncle) were most dear to me, were very deeply implicated.
Christian, the persecuted Abbot of Curwald, was my father-confessor; the Prior Matthias, who shared with him the unmerited hatred of the monks, had been my instructor in botany, one of my most favourite studies, and which the Rhætian mountains afforded me every means of cultivating with success. I knew the excellence of both these men, and exerted all the powers of female persuasion, which consist in tears and entreaties, to keep my uncle steady in the interests of my venerable friends. I was too anxious about the issue of this affair to suffer Count Venosta to go alone to the place, which had been appointed for the interview between him and his rival. Report had informed me, that Ethelbert appeared disposed to protect the persecutors of innocence; I resolved, that he should be made thoroughly aware of the real state of the case; nor could I suppose, that any thing more could be requisite in order to obtain the decision, which I so ardently desired to hear pronounced. I was still to learn, that it is possible to act in opposition to a principle, of whose justice we are thoroughly convinced.
They say, that Female Innocence, forgetful of herself while she is occupied with the interests of others, was never known to supplicate without success. My uncle had exerted all his powers of argument without producing conviction in the bosom of the Count of Carlsheim. He was silent, and I was now permitted to advance a few representations on the subject. I spoke not much; but I spoke with force and feeling, and I flattered myself, that I could read in Ethelbert’s radiant eyes, that what I said had not totally failed of its effect. He answered not; but he cast on me a look so full of expression, that I felt my cheeks covered with blushes, hastily let fall my veil, and retreated towards my uncle:
—“Count Venosta,” said Ethelbert at length, “here is my hand! decide the business according to your own pleasure. So fair and virtuous a Damsel would never support the cause of guilt! the discontented monks shall keep their superior—and if the Abbot wishes to secure their obedience for ever, let him only request his powerful advocate to exert upon them the same powers of persuasion, which she has just now employed upon me, and he cannot fail to obtain his object. Methinks the Man might make himself Lord of the whole universe, would he but use this means, and though loaded with crimes might steal himself into Paradise, covered by the protecting mantle of such a saint.—”
These compliments seemed to me not less free than flattering. A look too of my uncle’s informed me, that they were by no means to his taste, and I quitted the room embarrassed and uneasy.
I had the satisfaction to see my friends justified and reinstated in their dignities, in defiance of their numerous foes; but I had also the mortification to experience some consequences of my well-intended interference, which were by no means agreeable. The first was a very severe remonstrance from Count Venosta respecting the ardour, or the importunity as he termed it, with which I had prest my suit upon Ethelbert.
—“Had Urania been a simple Alpine shepherdess,” said my uncle, “who, concealed, among her native mountains, had never heard of the insolent expectations, which men ground upon the slightest demonstration of female good-will towards them, I might, perhaps, find some excuse for the free tone with which she spoke to a stranger, and the tender expression which she infused into her supplicating looks; but Urania, educated in a Court, should have been more upon her guard. Handsome as are his features, the Count of Carlsheim’s bold and ardent gaze was such as by no means gave me a favourable opinion of his delicacy; and still less was I pleased by the liberty which he took of addressing you in a strain of flattery so undisguised. Hitherto I have been disposed to entertain a favourable opinion of the young man; but I confess, what I have seen of him to-day has shaken my goodwill not a little.”—
I only answered Count Leopold’s warning speech by a respectful silence; and I afterwards reproached myself for the manner in which I had acted, though I was unconscious what I had done, for which I deserved to be reproached. My heart was innocent; my intention was pure; the consequences of the step which I had taken, however, soon convinced me that I had really committed an error.
Ethelbert of Carlsheim, he who, during whole years that my uncle sought to obtain his acquaintance, was never to be found; he, who even now that they were at length known to each other, seemed by no means eager to cultivate a closer intercourse with the family of Venosta, from the time of our first meeting presented himself before me almost every day. If I sought the neighbouring church, it always so happened that he had chosen exactly the same hour for paying his devotions—if I sat in my balcony, he was sure to ride past the Castle—at the rural feasts, for which among our vassals an excuse was never wanting, and from which I dared not absent myself through fear of mortifying the good people, Ethelbert’s hand was always offered to conduct me to the dance. At length it so chanced, that I was under the necessity of confessing that it was to him, that I owed the preservation of my life. One evening as I was proceeding towards the Castle in the twilight, a procession of villagers, returning from a wedding, happened to cross my path, accompanied by a variety of instruments which produced the most noisy and discordant sounds imagiable. The white banners fluttering before the eyes of my palfrey, and the clattering cymbals which stunned her ears, caused her to take fright and set off at full speed; and in all probability she would have dashed with me from the brow of a neighbouring precipice, to which she was hastening, had not Count Ethelbert fortunately heard my shrieks. He rescued me from my danger, and in return had the happiness (as he called it) to accompany me back to the Castle, and took an opportunity to make by the way a declaration of the most passionate affection.
Another time, late at night I was alarmed by a fire breaking out in my anti-chamber, and the flames spread with sufficient rapidity to make me swoon through terror. When I recovered, I found myself supported by Count Ethelbert, who advised me to save myself by flight from the threatening danger, and seemed perfectly ready to assist me in putting his advice in execution. However, as I had now regained my presence of mind sufficiently to see, that there was no absolute necessity for taking such a step, my flight extended no further than to my uncle’s chamber, whither I requested to be conveyed without delay.
Leopold received my preserver with marked coldness, and concluded his expressions of gratitude with enquiring—“by what strange though fortunate accident he had arrived there so speedily and so exactly at the time, when his assistance was most wanted?”—Ethelbert in his answer talked much of the good angels who watch over the favourites of Heaven, which my uncle heard without any great appearance of satisfaction; and as soon as the Count of Carlsheim had taken his departure, I received a very serious lecture respecting him. My uncle was inclined to believe, that the accident which had lately alarmed my palfrey, and the fire which had thrown me under Ethelbert’s protection, were both devices intended to bind me to him by the chains of gratitude. It was at least certain, that no sooner had my accident taken place, than the bridal procession disappeared; and the fire had done no other damage, than consuming part of the arras with which my anti-chamber was hung.
—“If the Count of Carlsheim is anxious to win your affections,” said my uncle, “why does he not take the straight road to obtain them? why does he not explain his views respecting you to me? there was a time, when I should not have refused you to him, and in which I intended to have done an act of justice by making him once more lord over the possessions of his ancestors, by giving him the hand of Urania, the future heiress of Carlsheim and Sargans.”—
I knew not, what intelligence or what observations could have induced Count Leopold (who was generally so much inclined to think well of every one) so soon to view Ethelbert’s actions in an unfavourable light. As for myself, I gave these accusations by no means implicit confidence; and I strove to find excuses for the conduct of a man, who every time that I saw him made a stronger impression on my heart, and who daily rendered it more difficult for me to suspect him of any thing wrong.
Ethelbert of Carlsheim was unfortunate, and had been deprived of the greatest part of those possessions, which ought to have been his birth right; this alone would have been a sufficient reason for my viewing him with interest; but how much was that interest increased by the discovery, that he employed the little power, which he still possest, in relieving the misfortunes of others; and that by the protection which he granted the opprest, he had himself incurred the animosity of many powerful foes? what could be more noble and more generous than such a proceeding, and how was it possible to suppose, that a man who could act thus, could ever deserve the most distant appearance of suspicion?
Edith, Countess of Mayenfield, was compelled to fly from her castle, by her bitter enemy the ambitious Abbot of St. Gall: she was a widow, and there were suspicions (and those no slight ones) that she was indebted for the removal of her husband to a present of wine from the cellar of this dignified prelate. Willingly would he have also sacrificed the unprotected lady, who was the more dangerous obstacle to the enjoyment of his hopes, inasmuch as she was daily expected to produce a child, which (if a son) would be entitled to the whole possessions of his deceased father.
Edith therefore was compelled to seek safety in flight; the time of her delivery was near; she was beset with enemies on all sides; nor could she doubt what would be the fate of herself and her offspring, should he fall into the Abbot’s hands. In this dreadful situation she summoned up all her courage, and under the protecting mantle of the night employed the only means of saving herself from destruction, which the severity of her fate had now left her. Her wearied horses refused to bear her further, and she was still far distant from the place, in which she hoped to find shelter and assistance. She doubted not, that the Abbot would pursue her; not a moment was to be lost; she quitted her litter, and resolved to prosecute her painful way on foot, unaccompanied except by her orphan daughter, the young and lovely Minna. She ordered her attendants to pursue their journey with as much diligence as possible, hoping by this artifice to lead her pursuers astray. As for herself, she determined to conceal herself in the depth of the forest, thinking she should find there some retired cottage, in which she might recover herself from anxiety and fatigue, and give birth in tranquil security to her unfortunate fatherless infant. As to being betrayed to her tyrant, she was too well acquainted with the honest and benevolent temper of the inhabitants of these mountains to harbour any apprehensions on that head.
The paths through which she wandered were solitary. At length the trampling of a steed was heard; and soon after a knight, unaccompanied, presented himself before the unfortunate lady, who, supported by the powerless hand of the youthful Minna, was scarcely able to prevent herself from sinking on the ground: this solitary knight was Count Ethelbert; he was returning from the chace, and had sent his attendants forward.
The Countess of Mayenfield found it unnecessary to represent to him, how much her situation required assistance, or to explain her name and the dangers which still menaced her. Before she had time to request his services, Ethelbert was already occupied in serving her: his pealing horn soon collected his attendants round him. A slight but easy litter was constructed with all diligence; and before an hour elapsed, the fugitives rejoiced to find themselves within the sheltering walls of a castle, whose strength was capable of defying the malice of their enemies, in case they should attempt to deprive them forcibly of their friendly retreat.
It so happened that Count Venosta also had dedicated this same day to the chace: the sport had enticed him to a distance from home. Midnight had long been past; and I still sat at my spinning wheel surrounded by my maidens, waiting with most anxious expectation for my uncle’s return. A thousand painful thoughts and confused images glanced across my imagination, in which, as usual, Count Ethelbert was not forgotten; suddenly the folding doors of my chamber were thrown open, and the object of my thoughts stood before me, almost breathless through haste and anxiety.
—“Dear lady,” said he, “I come to ask a boon of you. A guest of no mean rank has arrived at my castle, and there is no female there to bid her welcome: a litter waits at your door; suffer me to entreat that you will let it convey you to my residence.”—
—“Sir Knight, are you in your senses? This extraordinary request....”—
—“Is the boldest, the most unpardonable, that fancy can imagine: but judge by the want of preparation with which I propose it, how urgent is the necessity for its being gratified without delay.—”
The Count of Carlsheim had by no means chosen the most fortunate moment for obtaining any favour at all from me, much less one of so extraordinary a nature. In solitude I had reflected calmly and seriously on my uncle’s warning: the frightened palfrey, and the fire so easily extinguished, came into my head; and the uneasiness in which Count Venosta’s absence had obliged me to pass the last hours, by no means inclined me to view these circumstances so much to Ethelbert’s advantage as usual: at that moment I saw him with my uncle’s eyes; and of course this proposal appeared to me as nothing but a most bare-faced attempt on my lover’s part to betray me into his power.
—“You are offended?” said Ethelbert, who read displeasure strongly painted on my every feature; “well then! I must have recourse to a more eloquent pleader.”—
Saying this, he hastened into the anti-chamber, and returned with a little beautiful child, whose countenance expressed the deepest anxiety and sorrow, and whose blue eyes filled with tears strengthened the impression, which was made on me by her unexpected appearance.
—“Ah! dear good lady!” said the little mourner, while she sank on her knees before me, and kist my hand; “I entreat you, do what this knight requests of you! My mother and myself are alone in a gloomy castle, where there are none but stern-looking men, with great beards and heavy swords; and my mother is so very ill! and she asked so anxiously, ‘was there no lady who would comfort and assist her in her sickness!’ and then this knight who saved us from dying in the forest, answered, that he knew a lady whom he loved as his sister, and that he would bring her to my mother, if she could be persuaded to follow him; and then he took me along with him, that I might help to prevail on you to come and be kind to my poor mother: and now I am here, you will be prevailed on; I am sure of it, because you look on me so kindly! Come, dear good lady! Come!”—
I kist the pretty suppliant without thoroughly comprehending what it was that she requested me to do, and cast an inquiring look upon Ethelbert. He related his adventure with the Countess of Mayenfield in so interesting a manner, that it was impossible for me to hesitate a moment longer, as to what course I should pursue. Indeed, the history of this unfortunate lady was not unknown to me, when Ethelbert mentioned her name: her misfortunes had for some time been the general subject of conversation, and had already cost me many a sympathising tear, and many an ardent wish to find some means of giving her assistance.
I was deaf to all the suggestions of prudence, and threw myself into the litter, wishing that I could have given the horses wings, so eager was I to reach the illustrious sufferer. My nurse accompanied me; a discreet and benevolent woman, who was likely to be of much more use to the Countess than myself. So completely was I occupied by my anxiety for the poor lady, that I scarcely paid any attention to Ethelbert’s tender expressions of gratitude, or to the representations of my nurse, who hinted to me with some appearance of discontent, that I had acted with rather too much rashness in this business; she assured me, that her presence at the Castle of Carlsheim would be quite sufficient without my giving myself the trouble to go there; and she confest, that she thought Count Venosta would have good reason to be offended at finding on his return home, that I had quitted his house during his absence with a young knight, in spite of darkness and an heavy fall of snow.
We reached the Castle; the sight of us served to give new life to the exhausted lady, who surrounded by none but men had met with but sorry attendance. She embraced me, and called me by the tender name of sister. I soon confided her to the care of my nurse, and quitted her chamber for the purpose of making arrangements for her treatment; and I gave my directions in a tone of as much earnestness, as had I been in my uncle’s castle. Anxiety about the Countess made me take the whole business upon my own hands; I saw nothing extraordinary in what I was doing, and could by no means conceive, why Count Ethelbert’s people examined me with looks of such surprise; nor why he was himself always by my side, expressing the most excessive delight and satisfaction at every thing that I did, and loading me with such a profusion of thanks, that it was utterly impossible for me to ascribe them all to the interest, which he felt about his unfortunate guest.
Before day-break, Edith became the mother of a boy; and never did any other mother feel equal rapture with hers, when for the first time she prest him to her bosom. In this new-born babe she embraced not merely her child, but the future conqueror of her foes, and the preserver of her family. Nothing more than the birth of this boy was necessary to destroy every claim of the avaricious Abbot of St. Gall upon Mayenfield, and reduce him to the condition of a feudal dependent. Count Ethelbert on his part neglected not to spread abroad the news of the birth of a young Count of Mayenfield, and to invite through his heralds both friends and foes to convince themselves by their eyes of the existence of this infant nobleman.
Count Venosta had experienced no trifling anxiety on being informed of my midnight excursion, the motive of which no one was able to explain to his satisfaction. He determined to examine into the real nature of the transaction himself; accordingly the first sunbeams saw him cross the draw-bridge of Ethelbert’s castle, accompanied by his whole train of hunters, whom he had ordered to hold themselves prepared for a serious engagement, in case the nature of things should make it necessary to come to hostilities.
The Count of Carlsheim was already abroad, employed in business which regarded the adventure of the past night. My uncle found me sitting by the bed-side of the newly-delivered Countess, whose ardent thanks for the assistance, which I had afforded her, instantly removed every trace of anger from his brow; and the severe lecture which he intended to bestow on me, was softened into a gentle remonstrance against my acting in general with too much precipitation.
Ethelbert returned; he shared with my uncle and myself the office of presenting the new-born heir of Mayenfield at the baptismal fount, and we gave the child its father’s name, Ludolf. From motives of propriety, we were all anxious to remove the invalid (who earnestly entreated me not to abandon her) to my uncle’s castle; but she was at first too weak to bear the journey, and I was under the necessity of submitting for some time longer to act as the mistress of Count Ethelbert’s castle.
Now then affairs wore that appearance, which I am convinced it had always been my lover’s plan to give them. Doubtless had he thought proper, he might have contrived to show his fair guest all the duties of hospitality without any interference of mine: but he eagerly made use of the opportunity which presented itself, to draw me into a more intimate connection. He endeavoured to convince me by his reliance on my humanity of the esteem which he entertained for my character; and at the same time he hoped to inspire me with a favourable opinion of his own, by making me a daily witness of the noble treatment which he afforded to a stranger, who had no claim to his protection except her need of it, and who could make him no other return for his kindness, except the involving him in her own difficulties and dangers.
Ethelbert’s plan succeeded with me completely, and even my uncle began to view him in a more favourable light. Both were equally interested about the Countess, and swore to exert themselves to the utmost in endeavouring to reinstate her and her new-born son in the rights, which were still detained from them by the Abbot of St. Gall; the similarity of their objects naturally induced a sort of confidence between them; and Ethelbert lost no opportunity of turning this confidence to the best account. Perhaps he already reckoned himself on the point of obtaining that, which had long been the mark at which he aimed, though he had never acknowledged it in words; namely, the possession of my hand: but my uncle soon gave a fresh proof, that at present he by no means looked forward to, or desired a connection between the families of Carlsheim and Venosta.
The history of my nocturnal journey (many gave it the name of an elopement,) had not been kept a secret; the situation of the Countess’s affairs made it necessary for her to receive several strangers; they always found me at her side, saw that I acted as the mistress of Count Ethelbert’s house, and the remarks to which all this gave occasion were frequently by no means to my credit. Some asserted, that I was already betrothed to the Lord of Carlsheim; others fabricated out of facts and guesses such a story, as offended my feelings too severely to admit of my repeating it here, and which no sooner came to my uncle’s knowledge, than he resolved at all events to remove me from so unusual a situation. The invalid was now sufficiently recovered to bear the fatigue of a journey; and an abode in the house of the potent Count Venosta was likely to furnish her both with more consequence and security, than she could expect to find at the Castle of Carlsheim.
My uncle and Ethelbert looked gloomily; my heart was heavy and sad: the fair Edith of Mayenfield alone exprest in words, what no one else was willing to declare to the other.
—“Oh! Heaven,” she cried at taking leave of him, who had till then been her protector, while she prest mine and Ethelbert’s hands fast together, between her own “unite these two noblest souls, with which you ever blest humanity: this is the best recompense for such generosity and such disinterested friendship, as I have experienced from them both!”—
Edith’s expressive eyes were directed towards heaven; Ethelbert and myself blushed as we gazed on each other, without being able to pronounce a syllable. Methought, Ethelbert should have spoken on this occasion;—but he was silent.
The Countess was long our guest. Open feud was declared between her defenders and the obstinate Abbot of St. Gall, who was worsted in every skirmish without ever being entirely subdued. The contest was carried on for a considerable time: in the mean while my uncle (to whom age advanced with steps so lingering, that no one could easily have guest his years) discovered, that the charms of the fair widow were still of great power: yet perhaps it was I, to whom the idea first suggested itself, that an union between them would be productive of happiness on both sides. I soon observed, that my hints were far from disagreeable to either party; and I exulted in the hope of soon beholding my friend and my benefactor united in a new course of domestic happiness.
When I imparted my designs to Count Ethelbert, (who was now a frequent visitor at our castle) he listened to me with the greatest astonishment. His countenance at this moment assumed an expression, which I had never seen it wear before.
—“Lady!” said he, “am I awake, or dreaming?—An union, which must deprive you of your fairest expectations, and will put a stranger in possession of all those rights which ought to be your own, is such an union contrived by yourself?”—
—“And when did Count Ethelbert,” I answered with a look of surprise not inferior to his own, “when did Count Ethelbert discover the least trace of selfishness in my character? it is impossible, that such mean considerations should really hold a place in his bosom; or is this only intended as a trial of his friend?”—
He bit his lip, and was for some time silent. My eyes were fixed upon him steadily; and it was long, before he could recover himself sufficiently to assume a different air, and explain to me, that in an affair in which he had not personally the slightest concern, he could only be anxious about my interest; and he advanced many arguments to prove, that the most noble and generous soul might feel very differently on occasions which regarded his friend, than he would have felt in affairs, which only related to himself.
I believed every thing that Ethelbert told me; in fact he was soon after complaisant enough to allow, that my reasons were not entirely without weight, and at length even went so far as to declare that on consideration it appeared to him very possible, that an union between the Count Venosta and the widow of Ludolf of Mayenfield might be an advantageous event for all parties. He also promised, that as soon as the next expedition against the Abbot of St. Gall should have taken place, he would come to my assistance, and use every power of entreaty and persuasion to forward this connection, which I so ardently desired.
This expedition was directed against one of the Castles, which our common enemy detained from its rightful owner; on the morning appointed for its taking place, out forces set out before daybreak, in pursuit of a victory of which they reckoned themselves secure.
My friend and myself had already seen our heroes return victorious from their excursions too often, to make us think it necessary to accompany their departure with signs and expressions of anxiety. We had exactly ascertained the time, when we might expect them back, and had laid a plan (with the assistance of such warriors as were left behind) for receiving them with all the pageantry and honours of conquest. A procession of knights and ladies was intended to welcome them on their return, and at the head of the joyous band was to wave a banner adorned with mottos and emblems; this gorgeous ornament was to be embroidered by our own hands, and our needles were plyed with unwearied industry, in order that it might be finished at the appointed time.
While engaged at this delightful and now half completed task, infrequently termed the lovely Edith in jest “my most venerable aunt;” and in revenge she embroidered upon a vacant shield the united initials of Ethelbert and Urania. By degrees our discourse took a more serious turn. She declared to me her surprise at Ethelbert’s persisting in not publicly declaring his love for me, a circumstance which had long been the cause of much secret uneasiness and curiosity to myself. She assured me also, that she had no wish more ardent in becoming Countess of Vonosta, than to be authorized to insist on an explanation from the bashful knight (as she called the Count of Carlsheim,) and to become the instrument of accomplishing his happiness and mine.
It was at this moment, that a sudden noise in the court of the Castle interrupted our work and our discourse. We sprang from our seats: the trampling of horses would have led us to suppose, that our lovers were returned, had so speedy a termination of their business been possible. We bade our maidens hasten to enquire the news, and flew ourselves to the window in order to learn (if possible), with our own eyes, what had happened.
Instantly the Countess started back with a loud shriek, and fainted; nor was my own condition much better on beholding in the court a single warrior covered with blood, and holding two unmounted horses, whose trappings spoke too plainly the fate of their riders!
—“What has happened?” I cried from the balcony, in a voice half choaked by anxiety.
—“Ah! noble lady!” answered the messenger, “my lord your uncle ... the Count of Carlsheim too ... an ambuscade among the mountains ... both taken prisoners ... help! help for heaven’s sake!”—
Our people hastened to assist the soldier, who seemed to be desperately wounded, and could scarcely hold himself upright through loss of blood; the agony, which this news occasioned me, instead of overpowering me like my friend, gave me additional strength, and I lost not a moment in hastening to attempt the rescue of our knights. I directed the preparations myself, and before an hour had elapsed, all the warriors whom my uncle had left behind to protect the Castle, were completely armed and ready to set out. I determined to head them myself; and being accoutred in a light suit of armour, I hastened to bid farewell to my afflicted friend (whom I had committed to the care of her women), and to comfort her with the hope of my returning crowned with success.
—“What, Urania?” exclaimed Edith wringing her hands; “and do you too leave me?—Heavenly mercy! what will become of me! take me with you, Urania, or stab me before you go! foreboding terrors weigh down my heart! dreadful as my sufferings have been already, I feel that I have still much more to endure! Urania, we shall never meet again!”—
I prest my trembling friend to my heart with affection, recommended her the kindness of her attendants, and then hastened, where I was far less invited by courage and resolution than by urgent necessity and despair. We gave the reins to our coursers, flew over the plain, and soon reached the winding pass through the mountains, where our brave friends had been subdued by treachery and malice. Ah! what a dreadful sight! the place of combat floated with blood! various were the occasions presented to induce our pity to stop, in the hope of rescuing from death some of his yet lingering victims: but still more weighty considerations compelled us to close our ears against the cries of suffering humanity, and pursue our progress without delay. However, I failed not to leave some of my people behind to discharge those offices, which I would so much more gladly have fulfilled myself; and I charged them (in case any thing of importance could be learned from those who still survived) to lose no time in bringing me the information.
It was from them, that I learned the road, which the forces of the Abbot of St. Gall (whose number trebled ours) had taken with the captive knights. It was not yet evening, when I reached the fortress, which had been pointed out to me as the prison of my friends.
We prepared for storming the walls. I possest among my followers several experienced warriors, who supplied my want of intelligence in affairs of this nature, and who seemed to derive double strength from witnessing my resolution, the resolution of a distracted woman! It was not long, before we saw a white flag waved by the besieged; and soon after (having received our solemn promise for the security of his invaluable person) we beheld on the battlements the robber of my beloved friends, the oppressor of the unprotected innocent, in short the execrable Abbot of St. Gall.
I had taken off my helmet to cool my burning cheeks; and my ringlets still adorned with flowers, which in my haste I had forgotten to remove, streamed freely in the wind of evening: the Abbot therefore easily guest at my sex and name.
—“You are welcome, fair damsel of Sargans!” said the monk with a malicious smile; “the friends, of whom you are in pursuit, are no longer inmates of these walls: then forbear to persecute the innocent! lay aside that heavy armour, which so ill befits your sex, and enter to partake with us, poor monks, of a friendly though frugal entertainment!”—
I was already preparing to return the insulter such an answer, as his insolent speech demanded; but ere I had time to speak,—“treachery! treachery!”—was shrieked in my ears by an hundred voices. I looked round, and saw the glittering of hostile swords. My people were beaten back, and the ground was strewed with their corses—the soldiers of the perfidious Abbot had stolen upon us through secret passages, had taken my followers by surprise, and were hewing for themselves a way to me with their faulchions. Terror deprived me of my senses! what would have become of me in this dreadful moment of confusion and fear I know not, had not my faithful Gertrude, who had followed me to battle with undaunted courage, been close to my side; and ere I fell, she caught me in her arms. The loss of my helmet made it easy for me to be recognized by my pale and feminine features. She seized the casque of one of the Abbot’s soldiers, who happened to be struck down near us, and concealed my face with it; she then wrapped me in his cloak, on which the Abbot’s coat of arms was emblazoned; and under favour of this disguise she succeeded in extricating me from the throng, and in conducting me in safety towards the side, from which the combat seemed at that time to be retiring.
I recovered myself, and we hastened to seat ourselves on horseback. Gertrude convinced me that my presence was now quite unavailing, and that my being taken prisoner would be unavoidable, if I suffered the least delay. In truth, my nerves had been too much shaken by this last dreadful piece of treachery to admit of my adopting any other resource than flight, the woman’s constant refuge.
The darkness of the night enabled us to escape; and we arrived in safety at the castle, which (while unacquainted with my own want of strength and ability, and the power and perfidy of the foe with whom I had to deal) I had left with such sanguine hopes of victory. We were obliged to traverse the narrow pass through the mountains, where the fatal ambuscade had been stationed in the morning: as I hastened through it, methought the groans of dying men sounded in my ears, and my hair stood erect, and my blood ran cold, as I listened. Woman’s weakness re-assumed it’s rights; and she, who so lately had dared to trust herself among hostile faulchions, now trembled at a sound, at a shadow, which only existed in her over-heated imagination.
I reached the Castle more dead than alive. We found the Castle-gates closed. We called in vain for admittance; no signal was attended to; every thing within seemed to be silent as the grave: no glimmering of light was visible in the high-arched casements, and we were compelled to pass the night in a small ruined chapel at no great distance from the Castle.
Convinced, that nothing but the fear of being surprised by the enemy could have induced the Castle’s inhabitants to observe such obstinate discretion, we waited for morning with the utmost impatience and anxiety. Perhaps the enemy might pursue the fugitives hither, and make himself master of the Castle, before our vassals could be summoned to its defence? perhaps, it might already have been attacked, and might be at that very moment in possession of the foe? I had left the Countess of Mayenfield but ill-protected. My anxiety to rescue my uncle and Count Ethelbert had induced me to leave no one behind, except our women, the old seneschal, the warder, and a few domestics.
At break of day we again approached the Castle; we then perceived (what the extreme darkness of the night had before prevented our discovering) that the draw-bridge had not been raised. We crost it, and on approaching the gates had the satisfaction to see them opened for our admittance by the Seneschal. We were received by the weak old man with every appearance of alarm: the first questions which were asked on both sides related to our return unaccompanied, and to the ghastly appearance of the old man; but neither of us could restrain impatience sufficiently to give an answer. I hastened into the court yard, anxious to embrace my friend, and consult with her, what precautions should be taken for our future safety; but the first thing, which met my eyes on entering, was an heap of bleeding corses!
I started back in horror, and wished to ask, what dreadful events had taken place in my absence; but fear and agony choaked my words. Besides, I was soon summoned to the assistance of Gertrude, at whose feet the Seneschal (who probably had exhausted his little remaining strength in opening the gates) had now fallen senseless.
Yet while so many scenes of terror are reserved for my pen, why do I dwell with such minuteness on the first? I will not describe, how the whole shocking mystery gradually unfolded itself; I will rather state at once and briefly the total sum of my misfortune.
The only object which after the loss of Ethelbert and my uncle was still dear to me, my friend, my Edith, she too had been torn from me during my unfortunate expedition. Scarcely had I quitted her, when a troop of unknown enemies had forcibly gained entrance; had either slain or mortally wounded the few male inhabitants of the Castle; had confined the women in the upper apartments; and when they retired after their bloody work, had conveyed away with them the Countess of Mayenfield and her weeping children! The robbers closed the doors after them and fled, leaving the Castle in that fearful solitude, which had occasioned me so much anxiety and surprise. The Warder and the Seneschal were the only men, whose wounds had not already terminated their existence; but fainting through loss of blood they heard not the signals, which I made to obtain admittance. It was morning, before they were sufficiently recovered to examine into the circumstances of the former day; and while the first had dragged his feeble steps towards the Countess’s apartment, the other had sought the Castle-portal, with the intention of obtaining assistance from the neighbouring villagers.
The Countess’s women, with their hands still fettered, now threw themselves at my feet, and enquired, what was become of their beloved mistress, whom I had imprudently left behind under such inadequate protection. Grief for her loss overpowered our apprehensions of further danger; and had our foe thought proper to make use of the present opportunity, he would have found us an easy prey.
About mid-day, some peasants in the neighbourhood arrived, and brought with them the young Minna of Mayenfield, whom they had found weeping and bewildered among the mountains.
—“Oh! dear, dear lady!” she exclaimed, while she threw herself into my arms “my mother! oh! what have the villains done with my mother!”—
I could only answer with my tears. The child too was in such dreadful agitation, that it was long before I could obtain from her an explanation of the manner, in which the Countess had been conveyed away: as for herself, the ravishers became weary of her incessant tears and shrieks, and abandoned her among the mountains. How painful must the unhappy mother have felt this parting with her only daughter! nothing could have induced her to submit to it, except the threat of her persecutor to deprive her also of the baby at her bosom.
The evening was far advanced, before I could recover myself sufficiently to take some precautions for our security, and make such enquiries, as appeared to me highly necessary; the gates were carefully fastened; the draw-bridge was raised. As our strength was unequal to the task of burying the dead, we were obliged to throw the corses into a ruined well, situated in a back-corner in a remote part of the Castle: and this melancholy duty being performed, we employed ourselves in collecting every circumstance, which might assist us to guess at the authors of our late misfortune.
The Seneschal, before whose bed the consultation was held, produced many weighty reasons for asserting, that the Abbot of St. Gall (to whose account we were inclined to set down any wickedness) in the present instance was perfectly innocent. As to the person, at whose door he was disposed to lay the blame, he obstinately refused to give the least hint; but he made no scruple of avowing that he was not without suspicions.
The little Minna, who now never stirred a moment from my side, and to whom we were not paying the least attention, interrupted us to say,—“that she had never heard the Abbot of St. Gall speak, and that she was sure, that the voice of the chief robber was not unknown to her, though she could not recollect where she had heard it. She had even said as much, while in his power; but the only reward of her recollection had been a blow, which struck her senseless at his feet. Shortly after she had been forced from her mother’s arms, and left among the mountains.”—
—“Alas, my child,” said I, “you were probably deceived by some fancied resemblance!—But what must now be done? where is the messenger, who informed us yesterday of the fatal ambuscade?—Perhaps, he may be able to give us some insight into the author of this second attack.”—
—“Ah! would to God,” answered the old Seneschal, “that I had either examined that messenger more circumstantially, or at least had watched him closer! yet who could have imputed treachery to Dietrich, or suspect a man, who seemed to be at the point of death, of an intention to escape?”
—“To escape?” I exclaimed; “has Dietrich fled? when and how did this take place?”—
—“We were all busy in making preparations for binding up his wounds, of whose pain he complained bitterly, but which it seems none of us ever saw. We left him alone for a few moments, and in the meanwhile he disappeared. We sought him long, but he was not to be found; and we finished by conjecturing, that courage and fidelity had induced him to follow you in spite of his wounds, and to endeavour at contributing to his master’s rescue; though we doubted not from his apparently weak condition, that he must have died by the way.”—
—“And why should not your conjecture have been well-founded? Dietrich was ever one of Count Venosta’s most faithful servants.”—
The Seneschal assured me, that during the hostile attack which followed close on the heels of Dietrich’s disappearance, circumstances had occurred, which made him view the fellow’s escape in a very different light. He was proceeding to explain himself more clearly, when the sound of a trumpet threw us all into the most violent alarm! every one hastened to the place, where duty or inclination called them: the Warder ascended the watch-tower; my terrified damsels fled to conceal themselves; in the mean while, I and the little Minna descended to the lower battlements, in order to inform myself at once of the extent of my danger.
—“Almighty powers!” I exclaimed, on casting a fearful look on the plain before the fortress, which was now covered with warriors; “is it possible?—my uncle’s banner?—Count Ethelbert’s soldiers too!—surely this must be a dream!”—
Count Venosta now advanced before the rest, in order to answer in person the usual questions, which the Warder asked from the tower; but I had not patience enough to wait for the termination of this ceremony. The Castle-gates were thrown open; the draw-bridge was let down; and I already was clasped in the arms of my beloved uncle, ere I had yet convinced myself, that his delivery was real.
—“Yes! my dear child!” exclaimed Count Leopold, as soon as I had recovered myself from the first tumult of delight and astonishment; “yes! I am free, and knowest thou, to whom we are both indebted for life and all that we possess? ’tis to this hero, whose character I have so long mistaken, and from whom my suspicions have till now with-held the only gift, which is worthy to reward his merits!”—
—“What!” I replied—“Count Ethelbert? he, who was made prisoner at the same moment with yourself?”—
—“Heaven be thanked, that he escaped!” interrupted my uncle. “While the Abbot’s soldiers (after their successful ambuscade among the mountains) were conveying me to their lord, Count Ethelbert was employed in collecting his remaining vassals, whom he had left behind to protect his castle: with these he hastened to my succour, and this morning saw my deliverance effected. Oh! my Urania, help me to discharge my debts to this excellent man! none but yourself can do it!—Draw near, Count Ethelbert, and receive the hand of the sole heiress of all those possessions, of which your ancestors formerly were the lords; the hand of one, who boasts a still more precious title, the hand of that beloved-one, whom you have so long adored in secret.—Why advance you not? stretch forth your hand, and clasp that, which Urania has not hesitated to extend towards you.”—
Ethelbert was still silent for a moment: at length he advanced a few steps, his left hand placed on the hilt of his sword, his right upon his bosom.
—“Count Venosta,” said he, “have I demanded of you the hand of the heiress of Sargans?”—
—“I understand; you allude to my intended union with the Countess of Mayenfield.—But fear not, that I need recall my words: when I have restored your paternal possessions, I shall still have enough remaining to confer a rich dowry on my wife.”—
—“I speak not of that: I only ask, have I ever entreated you to make me the lovely Urania’s husband?”—
—“No, and I can well guess the reason of your silence! your fortunes are fallen; your heart is proud; you dreaded a rejection: but surely now there can exist no difference between us. You are my preserver; I offer you in gratitude my dearest treasure, and you love Urania with too much passion to reject her hand.”—
—“Yes, Count Venosta; yes, I love her!—but my pride requires that all the world should know, that I became your nephew through your own free-will; without your having been moved to pity by lovesick entreaties, and without my having been obliged to enter into humiliating explanations.”—
—“My friend! my preserver! why pain me by recollecting at such a time ... but you shall be satisfied!—Now then, all the world may know, that I freely offer my niece’s hand to the Count of Carlsheim, supplicate him to accept it, and wait his answer with impatience.”—
—“And you, lady?” said Ethelbert. —“Urania! pronounce my doom!”—
I was silent; I blushed and cast down my eyes. Oh! this noble pride, which made him hesitate to accept the hand of the richest heiress in Helvetia, lest he should be suspected of having sought it through interested motives, would have gained him my heart, had it not already long been his! my uncle was the interpreter of my looks; I did not contradict him; my lover clasped me in his arms for the first time, and I heard myself called by the title, which was dearest to me in the world.
These moments were heavenly! alas! how soon were they interrupted by the most bitter recollections!—my uncle turned from the scene of our happiness, and enquired—“where he should find the Countess of Mayenfield!”—
Oh Heaven! what did I suffer at hearing that question! what did I suffer, when compelled to answer it! vainly should I attempt to describe Count Venosta’s situation, when informed of the loss of his beauteous Edith!
Men express grief and resentment in a different manner from us, helpless females. My narrative of Edith’s carrying off was followed not by idle complaints, but by active exertions to recover her. The wearied soldiery again seated themselves on horseback, and were ordered to scour the country round in pursuit of the ravishers. I was myself too much interested in the business to oppose my uncle’s orders; but Count Ethelbert, who retained more presence of mind than the rest, enquired, whither we should first direct our course in hopes of delivering the Countess?
—“Doubtless,” answered my uncle, “the place most likely to be converted into her prison must needs be the nearest fortress belonging to the perfidious Abbot; no one can doubt, that this misfortune is a work of his hand.”—
Here I interrupted him by stating, that I had heard the Seneschal very positively contradict this supposition; and I entreated, that before the expedition set out, the old domestic might be examined, as he seemed to possess more information on the subject, than he had yet imparted to me. Unfortunately, we found on enquiry, that shortly after my uncle’s arrival the Seneschal had expired of his wounds; and Count Venosta (who in the violence of his despair preferred acting upon uncertainties to remaining entirely idle) immediately entered upon his search after the unfortunate Edith. At the end of several months of fruitless enquiry, we were obliged to abandon all hopes of success.
It was during this period of anxiety, which seldom permitted my uncle and Ethelbert to lay aside their armour, that I received the name of Countess of Carlsheim. The ceremony was sad and solemn, prognosticating the days, which were so soon to follow it.
I was now the wife of my lover, and enjoyed that sort of happiness, which most women enjoy who marry a warrior-husband; I was the object of a wild tempestuous passion, whose expressions were sometimes so rough and violent, that they might have been mistaken for those of hatred. In truth, I had fancied, that the happiness of marriage was somewhat different; but alas! what girl does not fancy the same, and find at length that she has been deceived?
No information could be obtained respecting the Countess of Mayenfield. The Abbot of St. Gall persevered in asserting his claim to her possessions; and the deep melancholy, which took possession of my uncle, betrayed but too plainly, that his love for the dear lost-one was stronger, than he had dared to acknowledge either to her, or to himself.
—“My children,” said he one day to me and Ethelbert, “Edith is lost to me, and with her the joys of life! It was folly in me to expect on the brink of the grave, that I should be so singularly fortunate, as to feel my eyes closed by the hand of affection. I have suffered for that folly; I feel that my powers of life are hourly growing weaker, feel that the day of death is at hand. The few evening hours which remain, before the night of the grave closes around me, will I dedicate to solitude and repose. All that I possess is now your property; I only reserve for myself the pleasant vale of Munster, and the Castle of Upper Halbstein on the banks of the Rhine. I will hide myself in the distant shades of the first, when opprest by serious melancholy thoughts, and repair to the second, whenever more lively moments make me wish for the society and comfort of Ethelbert and his beloved Urania.”—
I opposed this determination of Count Leopold; but my husband did not second me. He saw, that this arrangement was greatly to his advantage; and I had already found on several occasions, that he was not quite so incapable of attention to his own interest, as I had formerly supposed. It by no means occurred to him, that Count Venosta proposed to do too much for us; on the contrary, he lost no time in giving solidity to my uncle’s kind declarations, and only appeared to lament, that the deed of gift had not included his whole property. The waving shades of the vale of Munster and the proud castle on the Rhine seemed to have acquired double charms in his eyes, since Leopold declared his intention of retaining them for himself; and their value was increased beyond bounds on Ethelbert’s being given to understand, that my uncle did not intend to leave them to us even at his death, but destined them for a bequest to that beloved woman, whom he could not resolve to give up all hopes of recovering.
Count Venosta (that honest open-hearted man, who withheld no sentiment from those, whom he looked on as his children) was amusing himself one day with the youthful Minna, whom the recollection of her mother rendered inexpressibly dear to him. Ethelbert remarked, as if by accident, that the child already had acquired the sedate appearance of the station, which she was hereafter to occupy.
—“What station?” asked my uncle with surprise.
Minna, who had been accustomed to hear her future lot pronounced by my husband almost daily, answered with her accustomed candour—“What other shelter can a poor orphan expect to find, except a cloister?”—
—“What?” exclaimed Count Leopold, while he prest her still closer to his bosom, “you poor? you an orphan, while Venosta lives? No, no, my child; I know too well, what I owe to the memory of your excellent mother! Let who will forsake you, never shall you be forsaken by me!”—
Count Ethelbert had never been partial to the Damsel of Mayenfield; from that day he began to hate her.
Minna too on her side seemed to harbour towards my husband a secret aversion; whose expressions she would have been unable to restrain, had he not also inspired her with sentiments of the most unbounded terror.
—“Ah! dear Countess!” she said to me one day, when she found me weeping at having made new discoveries of his evil dispositions, discoveries which almost every day afforded; “you know not yet, what a bad, bad man he is! Scarcely do I dare to tell it you; but that voice which I heard among my mother’s ravishers.... I am certain, quite certain, that voice was Count Ethelbert’s—I had then never heard it speak but so gently and so kindly.... But the first time that I heard him rage, I recollected it that instant. How could I have been deceived? Oh! I remember too well the terrible sound! But I have been silent till now, for I tremble when I but think of the cruel manner, in which he used me, when (while imploring him to take pity on my mother) I let fall, that I was sure of having heard his voice before.”—