She was perfectly ignorant of all, that had passed during her captivity. She had given her gaoler’s assertions implicit credit, and firmly believed, that the few persons whom she loved were numbered among the dead.—With what joy did she hear from Helen’s lips the assurance, that Amalberga was alive and happy, and that she herself was indebted for her release to no other than Herman of Werdenberg!—In truth, she had hitherto been resolved to discourage the attachment of this unknown warrior; but this resolution only lasted, till she discovered his real name. Present gratitude and former affection now gave him a double interest in her heart: yet did it not so totally overpower all other feelings, as to determine her to forget entirely the injustice of his former conduct. She was resolved to put him to a severe trial; she was besides not quite certain, that his ancient prejudices might not still have some influence over him; but a few conversations with the Knight were sufficient to efface every suspicion on this subject. He frequently visited his unknown mistress at the Convent-grate, where (the better to elude a discovery) she never appeared without a veil: with every visit his attachment evidently increased in strength; yet even in her presence he frequently bestowed a sigh upon the rejected Emmeline, whom he never mentioned but in terms of interest and compassion. This conduct was not without its advantage, and when he was soon after compelled to fulfill his vow of assisting in the crusade against the infidel Albigese, he did not depart without hopes of being welcome at his return.
During his absence the meeting took place between Emmeline and her beloved sister. Helen had at length gained such perfect mastery over her feelings, as to endure without agony the presence of Torrenburg and the happy Amalberga; and she and Urania were the delighted witnesses of a scene, which appeared rather calculated for the regions of light beyond the grave, than for the habitation of wretched mortality. Amalberga, clasped in the arms of that sister, whom she had so long numbered with the dead; Torrenburg, Urania, and Helen, the spectators of and the partners in their joy; and then the relation of Emmeline’s cruel sufferings; and then the description of Amalberga’s unclouded happiness; and then the brilliant prospects for the future which displayed themselves to both, and which for this time were no illusions.... No, I will not trust my feeble pen with the description!
The report soon circulated through the country, that the lost daughter of Count Donat was still in existence. The sisters shared the inheritance amicably, like two lovers dividing some scarce and delicious fruit, each anxious that the other should receive a full proportion. From every quarter of the free and happy Helvetia thronged the ancient friends of the family of Sargans to congratulate the co-heiresses. At length came also Herman of Werdenberg in quest of his unknown mistress, whom he understood to be resident at Sargans; he returned from his expedition, crowned with glory, and rewarded by the Pope with absolution from his sins; a favour, of which the pious warrior stood but little in need. Count Torrenburg proffered him the hand of his sister, of the rich heiress of Sargans, of her whose beauty had formerly fascinated his eyes; but his heart was now possest by the poor and friendless stranger, and the hand of the rich heiress was respectfully declined. Indignation at this refusal was the reason assigned by Amalberga for the non-appearance of her sister; the stranger however was not equally invisible, though her veil was not yet laid aside; and her consent to become his bride soon repaid him for his constancy. It was not till the espousals had taken place, that she revealed to him her real name, which Herman now grown wiser heard without repugnance; for his early prejudices had at length lost their influence in his bosom, and Emmeline’s past sufferings left him no doubt respecting the purity of her future conduct. He believed, that he had plighted his faith to a needy friendless orphan; and the orphan in giving him her hand made him the powerful Lord of Upper-Carlsheim, of Ortenstein, and of many other fruitful territories. Happy were their days; happy was she through him, and he through her! He had found once more the long-lost jewel, of whose value he was so long unconscious; he had found the attachments of his early youth and of his maturer manhood, the choice both of his heart and of his head, and had found them all united in the person of his adored Emmeline!
And Helen was the spectatress of their felicity, nay is so still at the moment that I trace these lines! Dear as they were to her, so dear to her are still the sisters and their worthy husbands!—Lo! how in this world every thing passes away; God be thanked for it, even our passions pass away, as well as the rest. Tranquil age succeeds the impetuosity and hurry of youth; the summer, whose every day was disturbed by tempests, is replaced by the mild and mellow autumn.—Much as it had suffered, bitter as had been its disappointments, cruel as had been its sacrifices, even the heart of Helen at length was at rest.
All my friends still flourish; all who are dear to me still live, even the venerable Urania. My native land smiles all around in blessed peace; not one of those, who are near to my heart, has as yet been obliged to pay with his blood the price of precious Freedom! Guilt begins to be a stranger among our citizens; the dwellings of luxury and indolence are converted into sanctuaries of virtue and religion. The Monastery of Curwald has risen from its ashes with increased lustre; no Luprian, no Guiderius now rules there over proud voluptuous Monks; no sisters of Love[4] now inhabit the cells of the neighbouring Convent. The good Abbot John has admitted into his fraternity none but such men, as look on vice with no less detestation than himself; and their holy conduct has completely removed the stigma, which the remembrance of their abandoned predecessors had fixed upon the whole brotherhood of Cloister-Curwald.
4. Sorores Agapetæ.
In the subterraneous vaults of Sargans has Herman lately raised a splendid monument sacred to the sufferings of his wife. Thirty silver lamps blaze before it; an easy and unguarded entrance admits every one, who chooses to approach it; and there does many a pilgrim often loiter to hear with pious admiration the history of a still living saint.
Amalberga was desirous of opening the communication between the vaulted caverns and the south-western mountains, where the fugitive Monks established their hermitage: but hitherto all attempts to discover the outlet have been unsuccessful. The old Gertrude is no more; the Countess Urania’s age and infirmity forbids her visiting the Castle; and the directions, which her memory could furnish, are rendered of no avail, the vaults being completely altered in appearance by the falling-in of the roof. Researches made on the outside of the mountain have been equally fruitless, nor has even the Hermitage itself been discovered. Probably the holy Society has been dissolved by death: Fame will not hand down their good works to the admiration of after-ages, but that is of but little consequence; they stand inscribed in letters of flame in the book of the Everlasting!
Elizabeth, Countess of Torrenburg, to Count Oswald of March.
By this, my dear brother, you must be as well informed of the history of the Ladies of Sargans, as myself; I am impatient to know your opinion of these papers, and whether the effect which they have produced upon your mind is as strong, as that which during their perusal I experienced upon my own.—Yet that is impossible; my peculiar situation makes these annals inexpressibly interesting to me; and did not the parchments, from which I have copied them, bear unequivocal marks of their antiquity, I should suspect their having been written for the purpose of being laid before me. While I read, I was half tempted to believe, that the good old Abbot, who recommended them to my notice, had inserted all those passages, which apply so well to my own situation, in order to lead me unconsciously to the point, where he has been labouring to place me; and if this were the fact, how would he triumph in the success of his design! But the circumstances of these memoirs are alas! but too authentic; as to their antiquity I have such proofs of it, that I would boldly match them against the title-deeds of my domains, and other old documents of that period, at which these annals are stated to have been composed.
Nevertheless, feeling it to be of no slight importance to me to know, whether what I had read was authentic or a mere fabrication, I spared no pains to ascertain the fact. You are aware, that I became possest of these writings by little better than a piece of theft; and in truth there may be good reasons for not communicating to one of the laity these papers, which contain such frightful memorials of ecclesiastical guilt.—I could not therefore attack the Abbess on the subject directly; but as in hopes of pacifying me for my disappointment she had proposed to relate such particulars respecting the Ladies of Sargans, as were most worthy of my attention, (an offer, which I at first rejected out of obstinacy, and through vexation at the denial of my request) I now summoned her to perform her promise, for the purpose of comparing what I should hear from her with the particulars contained in the stolen parchments.
The Abbess bestowed upon me a few hours every day in that closet, where the portraits of the Ladies of Sargans had first attracted my attention to those models of virtue and patient suffering: her account of them did not greatly vary from that, which I had already obtained. I confess, that where-ever a clerical person would have appeared in rather an odious light, whether it was a Monk or a Nun, a Bishop or an Abbess, the good lady never failed to soften matters and wrap the transgressors up carefully in the veil of mystery; but those examples of misfortune and heroic self-command, which appeared so peculiarly applicable to myself, she confirmed most fully, and exactly as I had read them: nor can I decide, whether they made most impression on me while reading them alone and for the first time by the glimmerings of a midnight lamp, or when they were pronounced by the lips of this holy woman, this earthly saint, whose head within a few short years (too soon alas! for those who like me know her worth) will be crowned with wreaths of celestial glory.
Though scarcely in the autumn of her life, the excellent Abbess already stands upon the brink of her grave. A slow consumption insensibly destroys her noble powers, and the repetition of these adventures was a real sacrifice which she made to friendship. Her present state adds weight to her testimony. Think you, Oswald, that so near the transit from time to eternity, she would waste away her hours in relating tales, which she knew to be mere fabrications?—Impossible!
No! oh, no! What I have read, is true! The venerable Urania, on whose image my eye rests with such soft melancholy, and thou too, poor Adelaide, whose bitter fate beguiled me so often of my tears! you both once lived and suffered, you both once thought and acted, exactly as I have read and believed; and these examples of heroic patience, under afflictions far heavier than mine, shall serve me as guides in the conduct, which it now becomes me to pursue.
But for thee, generous Helen! for thee whose fortune so thoroughly resembles my own, from this moment thou shalt be the model, after which I will form my whole heart and character; and when my resolution staggers under the weight of human weakness, to thy portrait will I turn my eyes for comfort and support.
My brother, I am convinced beyond the power of doubting, that Helen herself, and no other, was the authoress of the concluding manuscript. Every page of it betrays marks of an interest, which none but an actor in the tale could be capable of feeling; and oh! how much has this persuasion increased in my eyes the value of the writing!
At my request the Abbess pointed out to me Helen’s picture; and such was my enthusiastic partiality, that I was weak enough to fancy a striking likeness between her features, and those which my mirror shows me. I made the observation to my venerable friend; she assented to it with a smile, and added, “that it was not in person alone, that I resembled Helen of Homburg.”—I started, and requested an explanation as to the parts of Helen’s history, which were so like my own. Again the idea of an imposition flitted across my mind; I believed, what had passed between myself and Ida to be a total secret in the Convent; and if the Abbess was acquainted with my story, it was still possible, that all which I had heard from her had been dictated by Abbot Conrad. Her answer, however, soon removed this suspicion.
—“Helen,” said she, “was not only fair, illustrious, benevolent, and pious, like Elizabeth, but she was also learned like Her. I understand, that the exercise of your pen is your favourite amusement; and there still exist writings of Helen, which are well-deserving your attention, and which I would willingly communicate to you, my dear Lady, had I not been positively enjoined to the contrary by superior orders.”—
The recollection of my treachery forced the colour into my cheeks. To prevent my confusion being remarked, I hastened to enquire—“why I was prohibited this pleasure, and who was my secret enemy?”—The Abbess shook her head, and confest, that the writings of ecclesiastical persons frequently contained circumstances improper to be made known to the laity, for fear of giving a shock to their orthodox opinions.
—“But only resolve,” she added smiling, “to become one of our Sisterhood, and when I die, I will bequeath you my station, and full permission to peruse all the manuscripts deposited in the spacious archives of this Convent.”—
Ah! my dear brother, were Montfort a Torrenburg and Ida an Amalberga, how easy would it be for me to take such a step! But the ill opinion which I entertain both of Henry and his mistress, and my still lively sense of the perfidy and injustice with which they repaid my affection, will perhaps make me yet longer hesitate to act, as would best become me, and to follow the glorious example of self-denial, set forth in Helen’s conduct.—Farewell, dear Oswald; my heart is sad, but loves you tenderly.
Elizabeth of Torrenburg to Count Oswald.
I have confided my secret history to the Abbess. In whom can I more properly confide, than in her who will soon stand before the Almighty’s throne, and before whose eyes all concealed things will soon be made manifest? To whom can I better apply for advice, than to a soul so near the boundaries of earthly being, that a ray of celestial light already illumines it, and enables her mental vision to see the things of this world in their proper likeness?
She is now informed of every thing; and I must acknowledge, I was frequently embarrassed by some questions, with which she every now and then interrupted my narrative.
—“Then you are certain, quite certain of having been the first object of Montfort’s affection?”—
—“I am to understand then, that the attachment between you was equally strong, and that his whole soul was as much devoted to you, as yours was to him?”—
“What? and could he really be so base as to desert you at the very foot of the altar, merely because at that moment he happened to be struck by the charms of one of your bridemaids? This seems to me very strange, my daughter; and me-thinks, it does not well harmonize with the acknowledged probity of Montfort’s former conduct.—If he had not loved you, to be sure he would not have persuaded you to fly with him from your brother’s Castle—and yet, if I recollect right, you mentioned, that his carrying you off prevented your being compelled to espouse the aged Count of Torrenburg, who was then as much the object of your aversion, as (when his virtues became, known to you) he was afterwards the object of your esteem?—You were young, amiable, in distress, partial to Montfort ... it is very possible, that love induced him to advise your flight; but then again it is also possible, that mere sympathy and compassion might have led him to give the very same counsel, and to take the very same step.”—
Such was the vexatious mode of arguing and of seeing things adopted by the Abbess. I recapitulated the strong reasons which I had to believe, that in offering me his hand Montfort was prompted by affection.——The Abbess acknowledged their force; but she added—“that it was very easy for that, which was at first nothing more than compassionate interest for the beautiful Elizabeth, to be in time converted into love.”—
This compliment so ill-timed put me more out of patience, than her humiliating questions and remarks. It was with difficulty, that I concealed my ill-humour, and hastily endeavoured to change the subject of our discourse.
Alas! my dear brother, everyone seems to be in Montfort’s interests, and averse to mine. The decision of my venerable counsellor Albert Reding has just been communicated to me, and I find.... But I will not repeat to you, what he says: what do wealth and power, what do vassals and domains concern me now?—My peace is fled, my heart is broken!—
The Abbess was not easily persuaded to quit the subject: and at length she put some enquiries, which cut me to the very heart.—They regarded the friend and companion of my earliest youth, the worthy Richard of Ulmenhorst, whose love I had rejected, solely influenced by my partiality for Montfort. I was thrown into such confusion by this unexpected home-attack, that ... I set all politeness fairly at defiance, and without replying, abruptly spoke upon another subject.
We were sitting in the Abbess’s private closet; and I now compelled those portraits, which had at first excited my curiosity respecting the secrets of this Convent, to furnish me with an excuse (good or bad) for eluding questions, which I felt but little inclination to answer.
—“Holy Mother,” said I, “among all the histories respecting the Ladies of Sargans which you have related, there is one still unknown to me. You have always past over the picture, which represents two female pilgrims, bewildered among the barren wilds of a snow-covered mountain; a picture, which when I first entered this room, drew more of my attention, than any of its companions. I at first believed them to represent the unfortunate sisters, Emmeline and Amalberga; but I do not recollect to have heard (I had nearly said “to have read”) any circumstances in their history according with the scene before me. How anxiously they seem to be looking for the right path!—Good Mother, inform me, whether they found it, and what untoward accident brought them into their present distress? You really must make me better acquainted with their adventures, for my whole heart already speaks in their favour.”—
—“Does it in truth?” said the Abbess, smiling at my eagerness. “Oh! that good heart!—But look at the picture nearer; see whether you can find in the countenances nothing to justify your partiality, except the expression of distress?”—
I drew near, and examined the picture carefully; but I soon turned away again, and felt, that my cheeks were burning; in truth something till then unobserved struck me in the features, but the effect produced was by no means pleasing.
—“Well!” enquired the Abbess; “have you discovered any thing?”—
—“That general family-likeness,” I replied carelessly, “which is peculiar to the House of Sargans. But I entreat you, Mother, inform me, who do those figures represent?”—
—“Two innocent and unfortunate sisters,” was the Abbess’s answer, “driven from their proper station, and compelled even to conceal their very names by a succession of untoward circumstances, not by any fault of their own committing. I could tell you much respecting them, that perhaps would not appear to you uninteresting; but I am too weak to undertake the task at present. However, not to leave your curiosity quite unsatisfied, such an account of them as exists in our archives shall be looked out, and delivered to you in the course of this evening. Probably, you will find this narrative more instructive, and in every respect better worth your inspection, than those which I am compelled to withhold from you, since the latter were written by Females but little skilled in literature; while the history, of which I speak, was transmitted to posterity by the learned pen of an Abbot of Cloister-Curwald.”—
—“Of Curwald?” I repeated, with a smile of contempt and incredulity.
—“Nay, nay, good Countess,” said the Abbess with some warmth; “no prejudices, I implore you! The author of that manuscript, a copy of which I propose entrusting to you, was no Guiderius, no Luprian, believe me! No, daughter, he was one of the wisest and holiest men of the age, in which he lived; a man in short, whose virtues conferred honour on the rank of a prelate, and who was in fact, as well as in name, a true dignitary of the church.”—
I am now waiting in momentary expectation of receiving the promised manuscript. The situation, in which I exist at present, is such, as makes it necessary for me to seize every means of diverting the natural current of my thoughts into a different channel: it is to this necessity, that a great portion must be ascribed of the impatience, with which I look forward to the arrival of this narrative.
Elizabeth of Torrenburg to Count Oswald.
I have received the manuscript; I have read it, and have read it more than once.—I send it to you, my brother; read it, as I have done; feel, what I have felt; then will nothing surprise you which you may hear, respecting the actions of your sister
Elizabeth.