Chapter IV: Part II: ◆ ◆ ◆ (4)

“Totally engrossed by their impatience to rescue the prisoner, my companions were hastening forwards without paying any attention to the stranger; but a thought, which passed through my mind like a flash of light, made me conceive, how important it was to examine him. I flattered myself, that I should discover in him that same Luprian, whom the unfortunate had mentioned, and who in all probability was her gaoler. Should my conjecture prove correct, I considered this meeting as a great step towards her deliverance: I therefore grasped him firmly by the arm, and dragged him towards the lamp, in order that I might examine my prize.

“I beheld a miserable creature, enveloped in the ragged habit of a monk, and whose bloodless cheeks, sunk eyes, and emaciated limbs would have excited my deepest compassion, had I not had good cause to harbour suspicions, that compassion was a sentiment, of which he was but little deserving.

—“Art thou Luprian?” said I in a thundering voice.

“He sank at my feet, and stammered out an avowal.

—“Wretch!” I continued; “what motive could induce thee to confine an unfortunate woman in yonder subterraneous dungeon?”—

“He was silent for a few moments; then suddenly starting from the ground—“You know that she _is_ confined there,” said he with a furious look, “and knowing that, you know enough to destroy me! Ask me no more questions; I will answer none!”—

“He threw himself sullenly upon the heap of ruins, and maintained an obstinate silence. Unwilling to own that I knew no more than his name, I first endeavoured to terrify him into a disclosure of this mystery; and finding my threats produce no effect, I had recourse to persuasion, painting in as strong colours as possible the cruelty of suffering the unfortunate to remain longer in her prison, and exhorting him to atone in some degree for his faults towards his captive, by being himself the instrument to effect her release. In the mean while my companions had fallen to work with their spades and mattocks; but large pieces of stone frequently fell into the dungeon below; and the cries of the sufferer, who dreaded being crushed beneath their weight, convinced them, how dangerous was this mode of procuring her deliverance, and finally compelled them to desist from the attempt.

“What was now to be done? While we agitated this question, Luprian stood with his arms folded, silent and thoughtful, as if He too had been resolving some difficult point; at length he threw himself on his knees before us; and on condition that his life and liberty should be secured to him, he made a proposal, which he swore to fulfil conscientiously.

—“No one but myself,” said he, “can enable you to set that captive free, and it is in my power to show you such means as are most sure and speedy. You see how rotten is this vault, and you may judge from the faint murmur of her complaints, how deep her dungeon is sunk into the ground. It will at any rate be long, ere you can force your way to her; and from her extreme weakness it is unlikely, that she should live till your arrival, even should she escape the imminent danger of having her brains dashed out by some fragment of the crumbling roof. But only speak one word to assure me of life and forgiveness, and I will immediately furnish you with explanations, which (should you refuse my offer) this dagger shall enable me to take with me to the grave.”—

“The naked steel, which Luprian now pointed towards his bosom, inspired us with no alarm. It would have been easy to wrest the weapon from his grasp; but our impatience to assist the unfortunate captive compelled us to give the required promise. Her complaints had now again ceased to be audible; and we felt, that not a moment was to be lost, if we meant to find her still in existence.

“As soon as we had solemnly engaged not to attempt either his life or freedom, Luprian resigned his dagger to one of the Monks, and informed us, that in order to accomplish our object it would be necessary to quit the vault, and seek a different entrance to the lady’s dungeon, which was well known to him. Accordingly we followed him for some time, till we arrived at a remote part of the Convent ruins.

—“Here,” said he, stopping before a ruined wall, from which he removed a few loose stones, and showed us a narrow flight of stairs; “here you must descend, and these steps will conduct you to the place, of which you are in search. Now then I have performed my promise, and require the performance of yours: permit me to retire.”—

“I hastily seized a torch from one of the Monks, and was hastening down the staircase, without giving myself a moment’s reflection: but the more prudent Abbot detained me, gave the torch to Luprian, and commanded him to finish the work which he had begun, before he claimed the reward of his services.

“Nothing was left for him but to obey. He guided us down about fifty steps, and after reaching the foot of the stairs we had a subterraneous passage to traverse of the same length with that, which had led us from the grating to the ruined wall. It was terminated by an iron door strongly fastened on the outside, and which had we not detained Luprian, we should have found no little difficulty, and lost no little time, in opening. As I made this observation, I cast upon him an accusing glance; but the door unclosing left me no time to express in words my indignation at this proof of his intended treachery. We rushed eagerly into the dungeon, and found it to be a large vaulted cell, of which darkness had taken such complete possession, that the beams of our torches were insufficient to dissipate the gloom, and could only shed a faint glimmering around us. Its only recommendations were its loftiness and space. By holding our lights on high, we could discern (but with difficulty) the iron grating inserted in the roof, through which the complaints of the prisoner had so seasonably reached me. Exactly beneath it stood a loaf and a flask of wine, which Luprian had just let down into the dungeon; and in a corner of it stretched on a miserable pallet the object of our search lay fainting, as indeed we had suspected from her silence. With the assistance of one of the younger Monks I raised her from the ground, and bore her to the upper air, which we considered as the most likely means of bringing her to herself.

“This hope however proved vain. Animation was lost too completely to be so easily recalled. Above an hour had elapsed since our conveying her to the Abbot’s dwelling (where no means were neglected that could restore animation) before we had the least reason to flatter ourselves with hopes of her recovery. At length with inexpressible delight we saw her half unclose her eyes; but she instantly shut them again on account of the pain caused in them by the light, to which they were now quite unaccustomed.

“We gave her every possible assistance, and after some time she gained strength and recollection enough to enable her to comprehend the favourable change, which had taken place in her situation. Tears of joy, and her clasped hands raised in gratitude to Heaven, were her only answer. She strove to thank us for the service which we had rendered her; but emotion choaked her utterance, and to express her sense of our kindness by looks was not in her power, since the beams of the sun (who was now risen) were so painful to her eyes, that she had been obliged to cover her face with a thick veil to save herself from relapsing into insensibility.

“We therefore carefully excluded day-light from her chamber, and left her to repose. While she slept, we resolved to take the opportunity of making Luprian explain a business, which we conceived to be of some importance, and respecting which our curiosity was raised to the highest pitch by hearing some of the Monks assert their persuasion, that Luprian’s features were not unknown to them. The last Abbot of Curwald, who was supposed to have perished in the conflagration, had borne that name, and in spite of his pale countenance and meagre form they verily believed my prisoner to be no other. We were now all impatience to ascertain this point; but we found, that in order to effect our object we ought to have been more upon our guard. Occupied by the melancholy situation of the lady, which excited universal interest and compassion, not one of us had paid the least attention to her gaoler: now that we recollected him, he was not to be found. It appeared probable, that he had forsaken us immediately upon our entrance into the subterraneous dungeon, since no one remembered to have seen him since that time, nor indeed to have bestowed a thought upon him. We had now nothing left for it but to rail at our inattention, and to lay the blame upon each other. However, we did not think our loss of any material consequence, since we doubted not the lady’s ability to clear up the mystery; and at all events the captive was at liberty, and we had effected a good deed.

“She awoke, greatly strengthened by her refreshing slumber: her first request was to be removed from the society of men, and committed to the charge of persons of her own sex. We had already agreed with a respectable widow in one of the neighbouring villages, that the invalid should be taken to her house, as soon as she was able to bear the removal. The good woman soon made her appearance, and the stranger’s impatience to quit the Monastery was so extreme, that we judged her likely to suffer less detriment from the journey than from delay. The distance was not great; she was placed in an easy litter; and her nurse took such good care of her both during her removal and afterwards, that she was quickly pronounced out of all danger. Her eyes again became accustomed to day-light; her hearing was no longer hurt by the loudness of human voices, and she could speak without difficulty: yet has she never thought proper to disclose her name either to myself, or to the Abbot who visited her daily.—But let it still remain concealed; there is at least _one_ title, which after hearing the brief relation of her sufferings I know well to be her proper right; the title of the purest and most heroic of virtuous martyrs, a name which deserves to be engraved on marble, and employed to add sanctity to altars!

“You are surprised, holy Lady, to hear the cold and serious Herman speak with such enthusiasm; but let it not injure me in your opinion. The rescued prisoner perhaps was once beautiful, but now she is so no longer. Sorrow and confinement have robbed her person of every charm, which could inspire the voluptuary’s heart with passion: yet were I ever to love again, my soul should be devoted to the perfection of female virtue, not of female loveliness. Emmeline, the enchanting Emmeline, with all her train of charms and graces, perhaps, I may in time cease to remember; but never, oh! never shall I forget the form of my pale emaciated captive, sinking into the grave the victim of her principles; never while he has breath, shall that interesting countenance fade from the recollection of Herman of Werdenberg!

“But I have wandered widely from the object of this long discourse; I came hither to make a request, to which all that I have said is but an introduction: the health of this noble persecuted creature, of my friend, my sister, my preserved one, is now almost re-established. She begins to consider, what it will hereafter be most expedient for her to do; and as she says, that she has no relation in the world to whom she dares confide her interests, she has condescended to ask my advice respecting her future proceedings. We both agreed, that a convent is the most proper retreat for her in her present circumstances; and on my mentioning to her that, which is under your direction, holy Mother, she received the proposal with rapture.

—“Oh! surely,” she exclaimed, “my mind cannot yet be quite itself again, or I could not have hesitated a moment respecting my choice.—Helen of Homburg!—the Convent of Zurich!—Heavenly powers, how could I have forgotten those dear dear names so long?”—

“She then enquired eagerly, whether Urania Venosta still lived within these walls; and when I answered in the affirmative, she discovered such strong emotion, as her gentle despondent manners had little led me to expect her being capable of feeling. She clasped her hands in ecstacy; a shower of tears rolled down her pale cheeks, while she sank on her knees, and returned thanks to Heaven; she then entreated me to leave her without delay, and prepare a reception for her in your Convent. I would willingly have first ascertained, whether she was already known to you; but her impatience would not admit of my postponing my journey for an instant, and I was compelled to depart unsatisfied.

“Now then may I hope, that my request will not be rejected? Shall I be authorised to assure my friend of a welcome reception within these walls? Speak but one gracious word, and a few hours will be sufficient to bring her to your feet. Conducted by the good Abbot she has followed my steps hither, and I need only your permission to deliver her up to your protection,”—

It is superfluous to say, that Herman’s request was granted with readiness; but how great was the emotion, which his narrative had excited in his auditress, how ardent her impatience for the arrival of the unhappy lady! She was unable to restrain her tears, and a thousand joyful exclamations escaped her lips, whose import was unintelligible to Herman.

—“Am I right,” said he, “in supposing, that my friend is not unknown to you?”—

—“Heaven grant, that it may prove so,” answered the Abbess, while she hastily wiped away her tears. “But as yet you have allowed me so little insight into her history, that I scarcely dare give credit to my hopes. Oh! furnish me with more light; tell me every thing that you know about her; and prevent my nourishing the sweet but deceitful dreams, which now occupy my fancy. Alas! alas! it is impossible that they should be verified; in pity then destroy them at once, before these fond hopes have time to take such root in my heart, that to tear them out again would almost break it.”—

—“All that I know respecting this stranger,” answered Herman, “is, that she was immured by her friends in the Convent of St. Roswitha several months before the fatal conflagration. It was not long, before she became acquainted with the manners, which prevailed in this polluted Sanctuary. Luprian, the unworthy Abbot of Curwald, who even under the protecting roof of her father had insulted her by a declaration of his passion, renewed his persecution with increased ardour in a place, which was completely under his dominion. Much time was not suffered to elapse, before her resistance was punished by confinement in the cell, whence I released her: yet she was occasionally compelled to return to the Convent, in order that her virtue might be assailed by art, flattery, and every power of the most refined seduction, as well as by severity and persecution.

“The day preceding the dreadful night, in which these dwellings of sin were purified by fire, had witnessed such a scene of temptation, as Luprian thought could not possibly fail of success. But it was defeated in a manner so disgraceful for the enemies of innocence, that spite and fury took the place of seduction and love. The heroine was compelled to endure a variety of the most cruel insults and injuries, and then was dragged back to her dungeon so exhausted with her sufferings, that she could scarcely be called alive.

“To her return to this prison was she indebted for existence. It was sunk so deep within the earth and so remote from the inhabited parts of the Convent, that she only had a slight suspicion from different circumstances, that something unusual was passing above her head. She was confirmed in this idea by several days elapsing without any nourishment being brought to her. She was reduced to the greatest extremity; and hunger would soon have put a period to her sufferings, when the prison-door was unlocked, and the Abbot entered. A cordial of great power, which he gave her, restored her strength sufficiently to enable her at length to comprehend the object of his visit. He first informed her of the events which had lately taken place, and then proceeded to propose to her the terms, on which she might obtain her liberty.

—“It is universally believed,” said he, “that I, as well as the rest of my Order, have fallen a prey to the flames; I encourage this opinion, since it enables me with security to quit a profession, for which I am ill calculated, and which I have always held in detestation. I acknowledge it, my passion for you has hitherto been such, as you ought not to have complied with; but I now come to declare sentiments so pure, that you may safely listen to them without doing the least injury to your honour. I have rescued the Abbey-treasure from the ruins; I have also secured such considerable funds in other countries, as will enable me to support the establishment of a temporal prince in any place which you may prefer, provided it be one where my person is not known. Nothing is wanting to complete my happiness, except the possession of your hand, and I trust, you will not be so blind to your own advantage, as to reject my honourable suit. But one choice is allowed you; either you must perish in this dungeon, whose existence is now a secret to every human being except myself; or else you must take a solemn oath upon the cross to share my flight from Germany, and become my wife, as soon as we are safe in some foreign climate. There is no time for deliberation; the success of my plans depends upon their speedy execution, and you must instantly and at once pronounce the sentence, which decides both _your_ fate and my own.—I wait your answer.”—

“That answer was such, as might have been expected from one, by whom the licentious Luprian was held in as much abhorrence, as virtue was held dear and idolized. She asserted the indissoluble nature of his vows to religion, and repaid his tender speeches with such scorn, that he left her with a threat never to repeat his offer, but to suffer her to perish of hunger without compassion or remorse. But the captive was too dear to him to permit his keeping that resolution. He tormented her with frequent visits, and desisted not from his fruitless endeavours to reconcile her to his plans; though to her great satisfaction he was latterly compelled to abstain from entering her dungeon. A suspicion existed, that considerable treasures were buried among the ruins of the Monastery; it was therefore judged prudent to place sentinels about them, and thus was the execrable Monk debarred all intercourse with his prisoner, except such as could be carried on by favour of the iron grating.

“Luprian now found it absolutely necessary for him to visit Italy, where he had deposited the chief part of his wealth. He entrusted the care of the lady to his sole Confident. As his absence was protracted longer than he had himself expected, she enjoyed some respite from his infamous addresses, and was not without hopes, that her entreaties and sufferings would at last induce his representative to take some steps towards effecting her deliverance. Those hopes however were continually disappointed. His heart was not more flexible than his associate’s; he remained immutably faithful to the trust reposed in him; and in answer to her enquiries respecting the transactions of the regions above her, he gave her such accounts of the successes of her enemies and of the destruction of all those who were dear to her, as almost extinguished her anxiety to escape from her dungeon. She saw, that nothing but sorrow would welcome her return to liberty, and the natural love of life struggled but faintly against the certainty of present sufferings, and the apprehension of those, which were still to come.

“Day after day crept away, during which the dreadful uniformity of her unhappy situation was uninterrupted, except by moments of utter despair, whose power frequently was on the point of subduing the poor prisoner; or else by those gleams of ungrounded hope, with which Providence strengthens and comforts those whom he means finally to preserve, in order that they may not quite sink beneath the burthen of their calamities. Luprian still returned not: the lady’s complaints seemed gradually to make their impression on the mind of his deputy. He occasionally suffered hints to escape him, that it would not be impossible to obtain his consent to her liberty: and at length at her earnest request he was induced to declare, that he was ready that instant to put an end to her sufferings, provided she would consent to share with him as his wife the enjoyment of that wealth, which the Abbot had placed in his custody.

“Here then her hopes again were disappointed. Vexation added bitterness to the manner, in which she indignantly rejected his infamous proposal: and the wretch, exasperated by her cutting expressions, swore, that he would put his plan in execution without her that very day, and would leave her to her fate. He kept his oath; and the captive must have perished, had not the Abbot fortunately returned at this identical moment. His expedition had been attended with nothing but disappointment. The wealth, which he had vested in foreign hands, had disappeared from a variety of causes, some through mischance, more through treachery; and he now only returned to find his associate fled, his treasure plundered, and his mistress as inflexible as ever. Vexation, poverty, and fatigue threw him on the bed of sickness. Many days frequently past, during which the captive was totally neglected; when at length her gaoler appeared, it was only to throw to her a loaf of that bread, of which he now could with difficulty procure a sufficiency for his own sustenance, and with every time to assure her, that this nourishment was the last, which she would ever receive from his hands. He spoke no longer of flight, or indeed of his passion for her; in truth, the former now seemed to be almost impracticable, for the rebuilding of the Monastery was begun; people were constantly employed in the neighbourhood of the dungeon’s entrance; and the outlets from the ruins were watched with more vigilance than ever. The sufferer frequently entreated him to promise, that he would at least reveal to some one the place of her confinement before his death; since in order to increase her terrors he never mist an opportunity of assuring her, that he had not many days to exist. But in vain did she represent to him, that when he should be in another world, her sufferings in this could by no means be to him of any advantage: he was deaf to her supplications. Bitter and contemptuous irony was his only answer; and it seemed as if he solely enabled her to support life, in order that he might still have a human being in his power to torment.

“It was about this time, that the vaults above her prison became an object of examination: they were completely clogged up with rubbish, except one narrow passage conducting to the grate. She had often determined on ending her sufferings by a voluntary death, and for several days persisted in refusing sustenance; but now that she frequently heard a noise above her head, and even once or twice caught the gleam of distant torches through the iron opening, her fearful resolutions were laid aside, and their place occupied by the hope, that accident perhaps might effect her deliverance.

“These hopes she concealed most sedulously from her tyrant; and so often had her sweetest dreams disappointed her, that despair still was able at times to regain his former influence over her mind. Yet she was now so accustomed to mark by some piteous sound, that there was a suffering creature buried in these caverns who implored assistance, that she continued her groans and cries, even when she had long given up the expectation of their reaching the ear of compassion. In truth, the workmen, during the intervals of their labours, had caught the faint murmurs of her complaints; but they put no other interpretations upon the sound, than such as were suggested by terror and superstition. Fortunately our enterprise necessarily brought us every day nearer the place of her seclusion; till at length some good Angel made me attentive to the cry of sorrow, and guided me to the performance of an action, which I shall never cease to consider as the most blessed and fortunate event of my whole life.”—

Herman of Werdenberg here ended his long narrative; the emotions which it had produced in Helen were so violent, that every similitude would fall short of expressing their strength.

—“Emmeline!” said she in that internal voice, which is only audible to the soul, “thou liv’st then, and I shall once more clasp to my bosom the poor forlorn orphan, the persecuted dove, the pious martyr of chastity and religion!—And Herman is your deliverer! that very Herman of Werdenberg, who once was unjust to your merits, and who now (if I may judge by every possible evidence) adores you with the warmest, purest affection, ever kindled in the bosom of a mortal! Oh! Helen, Helen, what unexpected joy! You will see two of the best of human beings made happy after long and cruel sufferings, and will yourself assist in forwarding their happiness! My own plans of worldly bliss have all been ruined; in reward for my not murmuring at their destruction, grant me, ye powers of mercy, that wisdom and that foresight, which may enable me to establish the felicity of my friend on the firmest foundations and with the least delay.”—

Herman was at a loss to comprehend the long silence of the Abbess, and the deep meditation, into which his narrative seemed to have plunged her. At length she recollected herself, and at her request he retired in search of the stranger, Helen having previously stipulated that he should not be present at their meeting. She was not certain, that in the first moments of emotion she should be sufficiently mistress of herself to conceal Emmeline’s name; and from what he had said, she collected, that it was not her friend’s intention at present to discover herself to her deliverer.

A few hours elapsed, before Emmeline appeared leaning on the good Abbot: Helen now was no longer surprised, that in her present situation she had not been recognized by her former lover. She was sadly, sadly changed. It was necessary to have been quite as lovely as Emmeline, in order not to have lost every charm of person during the long and cruel period of her captivity; it was necessary to have possest as wonderful a strength of mind as hers, in order to escape with her senses unimpaired from the fearful shipwreck of all that was then most dear to her. Ah! Herman, Herman! that youthful vivacity, which appeared to you so high a crime, and for which you so unjustly blamed the innocent girl, was now fled for ever; its place was supplied by a mild and serious look of resignation, whose melancholy it’s true was sometimes illumined by a benevolent smile; but the smile was but momentary, and its lustre soon faded away. Yet thus it was, that you wished her to be; and thus must Emmeline needs appear to you a thousand times more pleasing, than while she yet shone with all the brilliant powers of unfaded youth, vivacity, and beauty. Beautiful in truth was Emmeline no more; but Emmeline was still interesting beyond expression. A slight frail nymph-like form, so light that it seemed as if air could have sustained her; a face, robbed of its roseate colour, but so dazzling fair, that she resembled a marble statue; a countenance, from which a painter might have formed a portrait of Christian Humility, and to which the consciousness of heroic self-denial and of long abstraction from all earthly hopes and pleasures, had given a saint-like expression that was almost supernatural; such now was the once brilliant Emmeline of Sargans!

But Helen did not make these observations during the first moments of their meeting; she could attend to nothing but the joy of once more embracing her persecuted friend, whom she prest to her bosom with pleasure too great for utterance. Emmeline was more composed; it was long since she had seen Helen, who had never been to her more than a beloved play-fellow, whom she sometimes remembered with a wish to meet again, and sometimes quite forgot in contemplation of nearer interests and impending dangers: but much more was she to Helen. The sufferings of amiable persons, with whom we have ever had even the slightest acquaintance, give them an extraordinary value in our eyes; and they inspire us with an affection for them which rises to the highest pitch, if we feel that it is at all in our power to show them kindness, and to repair in some degree the past injustice of their fate.

What happened at this interview between the re-united friends; with what rapture Emmeline was received by the infirm Urania, whose life was now drawing towards its close; the recapitulation of what had past during their separation, and the plans which they arranged for the future; all this I shall pass over in silence, and shall only relate so much of the latter, as may be absolutely necessary. Time and grief had made alterations in Herman’s appearance scarcely less surprising than in Emmeline’s. His assumed name; his gentle manners softened by melancholy recollections and by compassion for the invalid, so different from the sternness and contempt with which he had ever treated her at the Bishop’s court; the dimness of her still-enfeebled sight; the darkened chamber, whose half-light only afforded her an indistinct view of her deliverer, when he visited her; these circumstances had contributed to conceal Herman from her knowledge, and she only entertained a suspicion, that the sound of his voice was not totally unknown to her. But she remarked his growing affection; and being unwilling to encourage it, she abstained from making those enquiries, which might perhaps have satisfied her curiosity, but which also might have led him to believe, that she was interested respecting him.

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.

Footnote 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!

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ELIZABETH OF TORRENBURG

[CONTINUED.]

_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.

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_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.

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_Elizabeth of Torrenburg to Count Oswald._