Chapter V: Part II: ◆ ◆ ◆ (5)

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.

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_PART THE SIXTH._

THE SISTERS WITHOUT A NAME.

_Written by the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald._

Above a century has passed away, since the last heroines of that family, to whose annals I am preparing to add, quitted the scene of human action. I say, the _last_, because no accounts exist of their successors; but during that long and vacant period, who knows, but that many excellent persons may have acted in a manner which did credit to their ancestors, though no written or traditional memorial remains to communicate to posterity their virtues and their woes, their trials and their victories? My heart delights in the tale, which records examples of heroic excellence; and I have frequently censured the indolence of cotemporary writers, for suffering this period to remain a blank. Lest I should deserve that censure myself, which I have not scrupled to inflict upon others, I now take up my pen, and proceed to execute a task, which (should I live to finish it) will, I trust, rescue from oblivion some circumstances well-deserving to be remembered. What I shall set down will be truth, pure unadorned truth. A just cause demands not the aid of ornament; and should these leaves ever meet the eye of persons, who may think themselves more nearly interested in their contents than others, let them not for an instant suspect, that one syllable is either inserted or retrenched upon _their_ account, or with a view to produce any other sentiment in their bosoms, than a conviction of the truth. It is not before _their_ tribunal, that I plead the cause of two unfortunates, but before that of the whole world: I write not for them, whose prejudices may perhaps make them refuse to peruse more than a few pages of this narrative, and who may close their eyes obstinately against the light, which shews them that, which they are unwilling to see. No; I write for impartial judges, and will state my case with as pure and rigid fidelity, as were I stating it to the ear of Heaven.

In the tranquil vales, which border the lakes of Thun and of the Four Cantons, those lakes where Helvetian Liberty first threw her fetters away, still do the families exist of those best friends of their native country, the Melthals, the Forests, the Bernsdorfs, and the Tells. Their different branches have spread themselves on all sides, and almost form a little nation of their own; whose sons and daughters, even in a land where honour, bravery, and truth are so universal, still distinguish themselves from their compatriots by the superiority of their virtues. It were an easy task for me to point out many Williams, Walters, and Henrics, many Gertrudes and Amabels in this amiable community, so perfectly have the good qualities of their fore-fathers been inherited by their children: but at present I shall only mention the inhabitants of one particular house, which sheltered the infancy of the heroines of my tale.

’Twas the peaceful cottage of a younger William and a younger Amabel, the descendants of that Tell, who offered up the tyrant Gessler as a sacrifice to the insulted liberties of Helvetia: here among a crowd of blooming sons and daughters two lovely girls were remarked, whose appearance made it evident, that their origin was not the same with that of their play-mates. It is true, that they called themselves their sisters, and were persuaded, that in fact they were so; but yet the truth was quite otherwise. The real children of the family were healthy and strong like the generality of their kindred; but these two girls were fair and delicate, and rather resembled beautiful exotic plants surrounded by meadow flowers, to which they condescended to allow the honour of a common origin: and however they might themselves esteem the merits of these simple children of nature, to all other eyes it was plain, that their own perfections were far superior.

I have entitled this narrative “the Sisters without a Name,” for it was long before they knew the family, from which they sprung; and when it was at length revealed to them, they found, that their rights were in the possession of strangers. Nay, at the moment that I am writing, they are still denied the privilege of calling themselves by the name of an illustrious House, whose dignity would be disgraced by the inferior station, in which they are at present compelled to exist.

In the early and happiest period of their lives, the Sisters were totally unconscious of the magnitude of their claims, and their minds encouraged no wish to be greater than they were. Happy in the humble sphere for which they believed themselves ordained, happy in the shades of their mountains, in the tranquillity of their flowery vallies and glassy lakes, they considered the scenes which surrounded them, and which appeared to them so enchanting, as a beautiful specimen of the whole world; nor did they ever trouble their heads with a thought, whether beyond those mountains, and on the outside of those vallies, there existed objects which were deserving of a wish to be acquainted with. This fortunate unconsciousness was assiduously preserved in their minds by those, to whose care they were confided; and on winter-evenings, when William Tell had collected all his children around him (among whom the Sisters were still reckoned) the stories, with which he entertained them, always respected some hero or heroine of ancient Helvetia; so that nothing was made known to them except the country which gave them birth, and they were led to consider nothing as of importance but what related to that country, because of that country alone had they ever been told any thing important. In the same manner were they instructed respecting the concerns of human life: every illustration was selected from the lower or middling classes of society and the manners and customs of the great would have been totally unknown to them, had it not been for an old man, over whose head near a century had past, and who was a member of the happy family, in which the Sisters resided. This good father would often take the two girls apart from their playmates, and recount to them particulars of the ancient Houses of Carlsheim, Torrenburg, and Homburg. Mary and Rosanna (so were the Sisters called, while under Tell’s roof) listened to him with the greatest interest, and each selected a heroine from among the Helens, Emmelines, and Uranias, as the object of her peculiar admiration.

But such ladies of those illustrious families, as had finished their lives in a cloister, were sure of obtaining the favour of the gentle serious Mary. She was not fourteen, when she made a pilgrimage to the Convent of Engelberg for the purpose of kissing the stone, on which Amalberga was kneeling, when surprised by Landenberg’s emissaries; and she frequently expressed a wish, that she might one day be permitted to take the veil in that Convent, which had so long given shelter to the heiress of Sargans.

The laughing Rosanna often added to this wish an assertion, that her sister hoped like Amalberga to exchange in due time the cloister for a bridal garland; but Mary’s conduct sufficiently proved, that her religious vocation was at that time no affectation. She was just sixteen, when William Tell was obliged to comply with her entreaties, and suffer her to reside at Engelberg. He seemed to consent to this step unwillingly: but he comforted himself with the reflection, that the rules of this House permitted no one to pronounce the irrevocable vow, who had not completed her twenty-fifth year; a period, before whose arrival a thousand accidents must necessarily have taken place, capable of shaking the most determined resolutions and the most ardent zeal.

Rosanna accompanied her sister to the Convent, and for a few days forced herself to be pleased and satisfied with the religious tranquillity of her new abode. But at length she could no longer conceal from herself, that nothing save Mary’s society could have made the manners of a convent endurable; and that in fact she was much better calculated for singing and dancing with her young companions on the village green, than for attending the Abbess and her Nuns to the midnight mass. She therefore endeavoured to give her occupations some variety by taking an active part in the internal arrangements of the Convent.

Rosanna was beautiful, but as yet no one had told her so. None of the neighbouring youths pleased her enough to make any impression upon _her_, and the consequence was, that her charms made but little impression upon _them_. With all her vivacity, there was a certain something in Rosanna’s manner, which kept the multitude in awe. Every one admired her, wished her well, was pleased to see her join in their amusements, but she produced no warmer sentiment. A kind of dignity, of which she was herself unconscious, prevented the young men from being as much at their ease with her, as with her companions, and kept even the least abashed of them at a distance: at length the society was increased by the arrival of a person, who only required to be seen, in order to inspire her with a wish to obtain from him something more than indifference, or mere dispassionate approbation.

The ancient friendship established between the families of William Tell and Henric Melthal was kept up by their descendants in all its original vigour. A son of that Alwyn Melthal, who played the chief part at the capture of Rassburg, was still alive, and nearly of the same age with that old relation of William Tell, whom I formerly mentioned. Both these venerable men were still fresh and hearty in spite of their advanced time of life; such is indeed the natural effect of breathing the pure mountain air, and living far from the vices and excesses of cities. The two families often met together, and their days of festivity were always observed in common.

Old Melthal had several children; but now it was rumoured, that one of them called Erwin (whom no one recollected to have ever heard of before) was just returned from foreign parts, and that a great feast was shortly to be given in honour of his safe arrival. Accordingly, the venerable chief of the Melthals made a tour through the neighbouring districts, for the purpose of inviting his relations and intimates to assemble on the green lawn before his house on an appointed day; thence to accompany his newly-arrived son to the old church on the banks of the Lake, and return thanks to Heaven for his prosperous return; and finally, to pass the remainder of the day and a good portion of the following night at his expence in various festivities and amusements.

Tell’s family was one of the first invited: the expectation of the approaching entertainment gave a look of joy to every countenance. In the great world, no one looks forward to a day marked out for some amusement with half this enthusiasm: the hurry of tiresome and expensive preparations; recollections, how often on similar occasions we have expected more amusement, than we received; the frequent recurrence of such pleasures, which robs them of the charm of novelty; the suggestions of mortified vanity or dissatisfied pride; all these combine to embitter the festivals of the great. But here in the land of innocence and gaiety, here where no one looks for any pleasure, but that which he is sure of finding; where pride and vanity have nothing to do; where every recollection is delightful, and the whole expence and preparation consist in a wreath of fresh-gathered flowers; here it is, that an invitation to a party of pleasure is really welcome, and seldom fails of justifying its name.

The sun was not yet risen, and the youths and damsels of Tell’s family were already on their road to Melthal’s cottage. Lots were cast among the girls to decide, who should have the honour to conduct the procession; the chance fell upon Rosanna. In consequence, she added to that which confined her locks, a second wreath of flowers which she hung round her arm, ready (as was the custom on such occasions) to crown the hero of the entertainment. It was a special privilege enjoyed by that company of young people, which arrived first at the place of rendezvous, that a similar garland to that, with which themselves were adorned, should ornament the head of the principal personage, whereas the garlands of the others could only be worn by relations of that particular family; and this privilege was one, which they valued highly.

Tell’s children, therefore, entreated their sister Rosanna to hasten forwards, in order that no one might arrive before them; and obliging as she ever was, she quickened her steps, though solely from the desire to comply with their wishes: for she little guessed the sort of youth, for whom her garland had been woven. She expected to see a person, who would be as indifferent to her as all those were, whom she had already seen; and it was a matter of little concern to her, whether she ornamented with her garland the locks of the young Melthal, or of one of her own relations.

But how were her sentiments changed, when at the head of her company she arrived on the brow of a little hill, and looked down upon Melthal’s cottage! There sat the old man on a stone bench before the door; and near him stood a youth, whose countenance was illumined by the rosy light of the rising sun, and whose figure excelled in manly beauty every thing that she had ever seen, nay that she had ever thought or dreamt of.—She started back.

—“What!” said she to herself; “can this be a son of the old Henric Melthal? No, no! ’tis certainly some angel, or some saint or martyr at the least. In truth, I never saw one of the beings, to whom those names are applied; but I have been told much respecting such supernatural Existences, and surely if they ever deign to visit the earth in human form, they must needs resemble yonder youth.”—

Erwin Melthal appeared to be in earnest conversation with his father: but no sooner was he aware of the approaching guests, than he hastened towards them, and delivered a welcome with such unaffected grace and easy dignity, that Rosanna’s delight and astonishment were raised to the very highest pitch.

Tell’s family was in fact the first arrived, and Rosanna’s garland was without a competitor for the honour of adorning Erwin’s head; an honour, which she now no longer looked upon as a matter of indifference, and which she could not have consented to make over to one of her companions without some little movements of jealousy and dissatisfaction.

She approached the stranger, while her cheeks were suffused with blushes, and her hand trembled, as she drew the garland from her arm. He stood before her like some well grown cedar, and bowed down his head a little to be crowned by the lovely stranger. She hesitated, retired a few steps, and looked anxiously round to her female companions, as if she would willingly have given up her office to one of them: while Erwin, either out of respect and admiration at the heavenly vision which now stood manifest before him, or from the more earthly consideration of the difference between her stature and his own, sank upon one knee before her, and in this attitude was crowned by her trembling hands.

It was an established custom, that the conductress of the first company that arrived, on these occasions should be the partner of the king of the festival during the whole of the day. Rosanna, who loved to enjoy the earliest breath of morning and the glories of the rising sun, had already frequently obtained this privilege without its causing her much emotion; but now when she reflected, that for a whole day she should be by the side of Erwin Melthal; that she should kneel on the same step with him at church; should join at the same time and almost in the same breath with him in the most solemn offices of devotion; should blend her voice with his in prayers and anthems; and that at table, in the dance, at every kind of festivity, she should still have no associate but Erwin, all this was too much for her to conceive at once, and her feelings scarcely permitted her to breathe.

Still she only dared to express those feelings by looks and blushes: but Erwin, who felt the same, was not confined like her by the restraints of decorum. He made use of the privilege of his sex, and not only spoke, but spoke so plainly, that little as Rosanna was skilled in the language of love, which she then first heard from his lips, she still understood his meaning; and little as she ventured to answer, still before the entertainment concluded, she had left no doubt upon his mind, that their affection was mutual. The embarrassment, which took place at their first meeting; the gift of her garland; the religious ceremonies in which they had been engaged together, and in which each had stolen a little from that which was destined for Heaven, for the purpose of bestowing it on the other; all these circumstances and a thousand other trifles, which occurred in the course of the entertainment, assured them, that an exchange of hearts had taken place, that their sentiments were sanctioned by the approbation of Heaven, and that every thing would turn out as they wished and expected.

From this day forwards Erwin’s leisure was totally engrossed by Rosanna. The habitations of Tell and Melthal were not so very distant, but that by setting out at the same time the lovers were certain to meet halfway, time enough to pass some hours together undisturbed: besides the intimate connection, which subsisted between the two families, furnished too many opportunities of intercourse, to admit of their often complaining of long absence from each other. The passion, which grew stronger in their bosoms with every hour, was carefully concealed from every one; not that they had any reason to apprehend censure from their superiors; but because secrecy seemed to give an additional charm to the correspondence of their hearts, and because the goal of their desires seemed to be still at a considerable distance.

The venerable Melthal, the youth’s great-grandfather, had caused him to be educated in a foreign country, and intended him for the profession of arms. Erwin had been long suffered to remain ignorant, both to what family he belonged, and to what country he owed his origin: but the good antient (whom the number of his years rather than any sensible infirmity made conscious, that the close of his existence could not be far removed) now thought proper to summon his grandson to a private conference, in which he disclosed to him many particulars of great importance.

—“One more campaign,” said Erwin to his mistress, the first time that he saw her after holding this conversation with old Melthal, “one more campaign under the Emperor’s banners, in whose service I am at present engaged; and then will I hasten back to lay my laurels at the feet of my Rosanna, confess my love for her, and fix my habitation with her in that quarter of the globe, which her fancy shall prefer. If she thinks proper still to reside in the shades of her native vallies, there too will I take up my abode: if she rather desires to see the world (which in truth has its charms and can show some scenes, with which even these enchanting solitudes must not come in competition) perhaps her happy Erwin may succeed in procuring for her there a situation better suited to her merits, than that which she must fill in the obscurity of these retired mountains.”—

—“Dear Erwin,” interrupted Rosanna, “speak no more of this; speak not of my merits, or of removing me to the great world! Ah! why must you needs yourself go thither? Is it not enough to make me hate that world, that it soon must rob me of your society? and alas! who knows, whether you will return from that wild tumult, which I only know by description, with sentiments as kind and as honest and true an heart, as you will bear away with you!”—

Poor Rosanna was bathed in tears, while she made these representations. She had had dreams, and omens, and forebodings, which promised nothing good, and which her lover soon banished by means, which every lover (the false as well as the true) equally practises on similar occasions. But Erwin was true as the truest; and his oaths were heard and registered in the Book of Eternity by the Angel, who suffers no perjury to escape unpunished.

There was one person in the world, with whom Rosanna had been too long accustomed to share all her joys and all her sorrows, all her hopes and all her fears, not to make her feel uneasy under the profound secrecy, which she had hitherto imposed on herself respecting her attachment: that person was Mary. In fact, she had already suffered some distant hints to escape her, that she had a secret to communicate; and at length she summoned up all her resolution, and (with Erwin’s approbation) set forward one morning for the Convent of Engelberg, determined to lay her whole heart open to her sister’s inspection.

Though Mary found her own felicity within the bounds of cloistered retirement, her notions were too liberal to make her consider it as improper, that Rosanna should seek for happiness in the arms of an affectionate husband. With folded hands and a countenance bright with tranquil joy, she piously invoked a blessing on her sister’s union with the honest-hearted Erwin; though she could not help lamenting with a sigh, that he should have adopted the profession of Blood! Before they separated, it was settled between the Sisters, that on an appointed day Rosanna should conduct her lover to the Convent, in order that Mary might become personally acquainted with her future brother.

This interview was not difficult to be procured; Mary had not yet pronounced her vows, and was left at perfect liberty to employ her time, as she thought proper. Yet partly from a wish to make the business no more public than could be avoided, and partly from a movement of religious enthusiasm which forcibly operated upon her imagination, Mary desired, that the meeting should not take place, till the evening was on the point of closing.

It was in autumn, and the weather proved gloomy. Mary had provided herself with a key of the Chapel, and it was in this awful place, that she received the lovers. A small porch, faintly lighted by the glimmerings of a distant lamp, witnessed their first meeting. Mary (who in spite of her extreme youth had already adopted the dignity and grave character appropriate to her destined station) spoke long and seriously to the warrior, respecting the sincerity of his attachment and the sacred nature of his engagement to Rosanna. His answers were such as she most desired to hear; and she now conducted them into the Chapel, where she had already placed two burning tapers before an altar consecrated to Saint Engeltruda.

—“Kneel,” said she, “kneel upon the stone, on which Amalberga was kneeling when seized by the sacrilegious Landenberg; kneel, and swear in the presence of God and of this chapel’s Patron-Saint, never even in thought to swerve from the strictest rules of eternal truth and unsullied virtue: so shall this place be cleansed from the pollution, which it contracted from the impure steps of the virgin’s ravisher!—May Landenberg’s fate be thine, Erwin, shouldst thou ever for one instant prove faithless to Rosanna!—Never may’st thou, Rosanna, find in the time of need such a preserver as Amalberga found in Eginhart, shouldst thou ever forget the man, to whom I now solemnly betroth thee in the face of listening Heaven.—Let nothing part you, but the grave!—And should hereafter either of you from inconstancy or caprice rend asunder the sacred bonds, with which I now unite your fates for ever, that instant shall my form (be I living, or be I dead) stand before you threatening and awful, and warn you to return to the paths of propriety and duty!—But peace, everlasting peace be with the bosoms of faith, and may the wings of angels overspread them and preserve them!”—

Erwin and Rosanna, as they gazed on the lovely form, which stood before them illuminated by the pale light of the consecrated tapers, fancied themselves in the presence of some celestial being. They thought, that in her words they heard the voice of her Patron-Saint; they swore fidelity while life should last, and Mary kissed and blessed them.

She then accompanied them to the Chapel-porch; and the betrothed or rather the espoused lovers (for as such they now considered themselves) bent their course homewards beneath a sky heavy with the dews of an autumnal evening. Not one syllable did they exchange, as they past along; a gentle pressure of the hand occasionally was the only manner, in which they gave token of their feelings. Yet was their joy not quite unclouded; a secret heaviness weighed down their hearts: melancholy forebodings forbade their abandoning themselves entirely to the delightful thought—“We are united for ever!”—

The three actors in this solemn and singular scene had not enveloped their secret in so impenetrable a veil, as they imagined; and this transaction was the means of their meeting with many severe reproofs from those, to whom they were in subjection. The youthful devotee had been watched by an inquisitive Nun; and the respectable office, which she had thought proper to perform on this occasion, was made known to the Abbess the next morning. Severe were the censures past by that good lady on Mary’s boldness, in assuming a character so ill adapted to her time of life. On the other hand, each of the lovers was closeted by the chief of their respective families; and many representations were laid before them in these private conferences, which seemed to make great impression on the minds of both, though they had not the smallest effect in diminishing their mutual attachment. At their next meeting Erwin revealed not to Rosanna one word of the conversation, which he had held with his grandfather Melthal; neither on _her_ side was Rosanna more communicative of the information, which she had gained from the old William Tell. They only confest to each other, that the main-topic of both these secret conferences had been reasons for their renouncing their so lately contracted union; and the question was exchanged—“Whether what each had heard, but which neither revealed, was of such force, as to authorize their breaking vows, which had been pronounced with such solemnity”—“No!”—uttered in a tone so positive, as to convey in it a renewal of all their former oaths, was the reply on both sides: yet they agreed to commit their cause to Heaven and Time, and to suffer, to hope, and to believe, what (in secret each was compelled to own) appeared then to be impossible.

That Erwin and Rosanna were mutually attached to each other, had been long suspected; but the fact was now made known throughout the Province, and the prejudice ran universally in favour of the lovers. The youths and damsels exclaimed loudly against the severity of the two fathers; and even the old people shook their heads, and let a few words escape them now and then about inexplicable obstinacy. They declared, that Melthal’s son and Tell’s daughter seemed to be formed for one another, that they ought to be united, and that united they would be some day or other, happen what might. Whenever they encountered the dejected lovers, they never failed to whisper some kind exhortations to be faithful, and to hope for better times; while on the other hand their young companions were anxious to furnish them with opportunities of meeting, and frequently in their village festivals the lovers suddenly found themselves encircled by the same chain of flowers, and heard every voice unite in singing the praise of their tender attachment and their wishes for its happy issue. A thousand ballads were made upon them, some plaintive, some gay, and they circulated from mouth to mouth with rapidity; for the love of Erwin and Rosanna was an affair, in which the whole Province felt itself interested.

This universal good-will, however, advanced their cause but little. When they were alone, each spoke of eternal fidelity and insurmountable difficulties; each made it evident, that a secret sorrow weighed heavy upon the heart; each found fault with the father of the other, and declared him to be extremely in the wrong; while the father of the speaker was asserted to be perfectly in the right, at the same time that to obey him was acknowledged to be impossible. As to the two old men, they took no steps towards an explanation. It was rather observed, that from this time forward they shunned each other’s society, and seemed by the mutual distance thus suddenly created between them, to give their children a hint of the conduct, which they expected them also to adopt.

Sooner than they were aware, chance relieved them from the troublesome employment of watching over the lovers. Erwin was unexpectedly summoned to join the Emperor’s army, and the orders were so pressing, as not even to permit his taking leave of his mistress. Yet as he past by it on his road, he said a short but fervent prayer in the Chapel of Engelberg; he commended himself and his fortunes to the protection of that Saint, who had heard his vows pronounced; and Mary being fortunately among the Nuns, and within reach of his eye, he implored her by signs to bear his melancholy greeting to her sister. Mary perfectly understood the meaning of those signs; though it was long, before an opportunity presented itself for complying with his wish. Ever since her culpable interference in unhallowed love-affairs, the virtuous Lady Abbess had caused a strict watch to be kept over Mary; and though Rosanna’s heart was full and greatly needed the consolations of a sister’s tenderness, she still hesitated to visit Engelberg. The secret, which the old Tell had revealed to her, was a dead weight upon her heart; she knew well, that it was her duty to make it immediately known to Mary, who was no less interested in it than herself; and she trembled to hear the decision, which (she doubted not) would be pronounced even by her truest friend and the partial favourer of her love, as soon as she should be made acquainted with the real nature of the case.

The useful art of penmanship, which a century before had been familiar in these parts, and practised by persons totally unconnected with learned pursuits, even by women, (as the annals of the Ladies of Sargans testify,) at the present period was fallen into neglect. With the exception of some few characters of distinguished merit, it was confined to the clergy, and alas! in this respect Erwin and Rosanna were completely laical: neither was it safe or prudent to confide their tender secrets to the discretion of chance messengers; and it necessarily followed, that the lovers were but seldom informed of the proceedings of each other. Common fame however occasionally brought the maid tidings of her warrior not less strange than satisfactory; and the girls of the Valley frequently were able to comfort their sorrowing companion with reports, which asserted Erwin’s heroism to be only equalled by his good fortune. Rosanna’s heart readily gave credit to assertions so flattering; and she was too well disposed to believe them, to require much proof of their veracity; nay, she sometimes was so completely fascinated by the illusions of Fancy, that she could not refrain from communicating her hopes to the venerable Tell.

—“Surely, my good father,” would she say to him, “should Erwin return to me crowned with honour and renown; should he be really what Fame asserts, the favourite of his Emperor, what is more probable, than that the lowness of his origin should be sunk in the splendour of some new-acquired title, and his merits be rewarded by his elevation to some station of importance? and in that case, where would be the impropriety of my giving him my hand? and what obstacle would my mother’s injunctions oppose any longer to our union?”—

The old man on hearing such observations never failed to exclaim against the credulity of young minds, and to warn the exulting girl against the painful effect, which evil tidings would produce upon her mind with as much facility and with still greater violence. They say, that Age often possesses the gift of second-sight; it is at least certain, that what Tell foreboded, happened but too soon. On a sudden, Rosanna’s Companions greeted her arrival no more with chearful songs of encouragement and hope; the name of the heroic Erwin now was never suffered to pass their lips; when she enquired, whether no tidings of him had reached the Valley, her question was evaded. At length the deep mourning, in which the Melthal family appeared, made public the dreadful intelligence, which her friends had so long concealed from her, and the relation of which struck her senseless to the earth, as if it had been a flash of lightning. Erwin had accompanied his sovereign to relieve the Fortress of Bender, which was besieged by Sultan Amurath, and in an unsuccessful attack upon the enemy’s camp had fallen as became a warrior. The whole Valley was afflicted at his loss; the old Melthal was inconsolable. Shortly afterwards he left his home to visit the Castle of a nobleman, who had been long his patron and his friend, and he returned no more. Death surprised him on his journey; and his children brought nothing back but his bones, which they buried in his native land, that land which through life he had ever loved so dearly!

It seemed, as if at this period every kind of misfortune had conspired to ruin this once so happy Province. It was visited by continual storms, such as had never before taken place within the memory of man: the mountain-torrents deluged the country with unusual fury; nor was it possible for the cultivators, industrious as they were, to bring their ruined fields into order again, till a considerable time had elapsed. The crops failed; prices rose; at length the distress became universal, and it was soon followed by the twin-sisters of Death, Famine and Disease.

Rosanna saw so many of the venerable fathers of the Valley sink into the grave, and wept over the tombs of so many of her youthful friends, that she could not but expect the lot soon to fall upon herself and her good old grandfather. The first was as earnestly desired by Her, who languished to embrace her Erwin in the land of shadows, as the latter was looked forward to with terror. She anxiously wished to lengthen the days of one, who was now almost her only friend, and she implored him to retire for a while from a spot become so dangerous. It was not far from Tell’s habitation to the Convent of Engelberg, and there the plague had not as yet commenced its ravages. Mary obtained permission from the Abbess to take possession of an uninhabited monastery, which made part of the domains of Engelberg; and she now hastened like some benevolent Angel to guide her sickening relations to the place of refuge, which she had found for them, and where she proposed to be their nurse herself. As many as were still capable of moving, blest her, and followed her to the Monastery; Rosanna and Tell made part of the melancholy caravan, which Death had taken care to prevent from being numerous. In defiance of the extreme danger, Mary resided with them, and administered to their necessities with her own hands. Her exertions were crowned with their deserved success; she had the happiness of rescuing all her patients from the grave, except the grey-headed Tell. Yet even He did not fall a martyr to the plague; Mary’s unceasing efforts had relieved him from that poisonous enemy; but the weight of near an hundred years prest him down, and forbade his ever rising again from that bed, from whose side, during the time of his most imminent danger, he had vainly entreated Mary and her sister to retire and attend to their own preservation.

—“My children,” said he at length, when no doubt remained that the hour of his death was at hand, “I feel, that we must part: and long as my worldly course has lasted, still at its close does nothing press heavy on my heart except the reflection, that I leave your fate and fortunes undecided. Rosanna, have you communicated to your sister those circumstances, which I thought fit to lay before you, in order that you might be convinced, that an union with Erwin Melthal would be ill-sorted and improper in every point of view?”—

Rosanna replied in the negative; she had of late found but few opportunities, she said, of seeing her sister; and even when they were together, the Lady Abbess (whose notions of decorum had been greatly shocked at the share, which Mary had taken in the Chapel-scene) had watched them with such vigilance, as effectually prevented any confidential communications. She concluded her apology for having so long neglected to obey his injunctions, by entreating him to suffer Mary to retain the pleasing illusion that she had a right to his affection; an illusion, with which she herself had parted so unwillingly.

—“It must not be,” answered the expiring Tell; “it is necessary, that both of you should be aware, that you are no grandchildren of mine. The story of your birth is long; Rosanna is informed of all the circumstances, and will relate them to you, my gentle Mary, at some hour of leisure: at present learn from me such points, as are most essential.

“You and your sister are the sole remaining descendants of the younger branch of the ancient and illustrious families of Carlsheim and Sargans. That you have past so large a portion of your lives in obscurity, and that your great expectations are still in so questionable a state, you must accuse the superstitious obstinacy of the Countess, your deceased mother. She was a daughter of the Count of Mayenfield, and her extraordinary beauty made her the object of universal admiration. Among her suitors were numbered the heads of the two families of Torrenburg and Werdenberg, both equally descended from the united House of Carlsheim and Sargans. The latter was accepted; the former was not only rejected, but even held by your mother in the most absolute detestation. On the contrary, the Count of Torrenburg (who is still alive, and whose excellent heart never harboured resentment against any human being,) not only forgave the slight, but continued on the most friendly terms with his successful rival. He succeeded in expelling from his bosom his unfortunate passion, bestowed his heart on another lady more capable of estimating its worth, and his marriage was blest with two sons, as was that of the Count of Werdenberg with two daughters. On this fortunate occurrence taking place, the fathers entered into the most solemn engagements to unite their children in marriage, and by this means blend inseparably their mutual claims upon the inheritance of each other.

“My lovely girls, you were these daughters thus betrothed while in the cradle: I cannot express to you the repugnance, with which your mother entertained the idea, that she should one day hear you call the sons of the Count of Torrenburg by the name of husband. The antipathy, which she bore that family, was increased a thousandfold by the death of her husband; on which event the great domains of your father (according to the long-established customs of the Houses, to which you owe your origin) fell to the only remaining male heirs of the Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans, the Count of Torrenburg and his sons. The prospect of recovering the whole of this inheritance by your union with those sons, and the generous offers made by their father for her accommodation, had no effect in softening her animosity: she felt, that it was less disagreeable to lose every thing and sacrifice both herself and you, than to depart in any degree from her obstinate resolution.

“Accordingly she quitted the Castle of Werdenberg in the greatest privacy, and concealed herself in my humble habitation. I had been long known to her, and in general had been honoured with her confidence; but she carefully hid from me the real situation of her affairs and the true motives of her conduct. She did not long survive the loss of her husband; grief for his death and vexation at the good fortune of Torrenburg rapidly destroyed her health. On her death-bed she demanded from me a solemn oath, that I would adopt her orphan-daughters for my own, and would bring them up according to the instructions, which after her decease I should find conveyed in writing.

“That your prudent mother should prefer your being educated in the lap of rural innocence and tranquillity, rather than in the tumult of the great world, did not surprise me in the least, and I readily gave the oath demanded. But when after her death I learned from her papers the whole extent of my promise, and found myself enjoined to spread the report of your death, and never to disclose your real names, unless circumstances should give you a just claim to the inheritance of your ancestors, my surprise was extreme; and gladly would I have called back the oath, which your mother had carried with her into the grave, and which therefore was irrevocable.

“As the case stood, no choice was left me, and I was compelled to obey your mother’s injunctions respecting your education. It greatly comforted me to find, that the secret of your real station was not confined to myself. The deceased Countess mentioned in her will, that the Bishop of Coira and the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald (both of them related to her though but distantly) were aware of her design, and had sanctioned it with their consent; and I concluded, that since her determination had found favour in the eyes of such learned and respectable persons, it must needs have claims to approbation, which my own understanding was too short-sighted to discover.

—“It is possible,” it was thus that the Countess exprest herself in her last will; “it is possible, however trifling the probability seems at present, that the family of Torrenburg may become extinct; or that it may please Heaven to deprive it of male heirs, as it has been pleased to deprive the family of Werdenberg. In that case, let the claims of my daughters be advanced, and the documents produced, which are deposited in the hands of the Bishop of Coira, and in the archives of Cloister-Curwald: for the rights of these consolidated families are so ordained, that the daughters can only lay claim to the inheritance of their ancestors, in case no male heir should exist; a regulation, on whose justice I am too little learned to give an opinion, and whose effect I possess too little power to counteract.

“But as it is possible, that my orphan daughters may one day become the heiresses of Sargans, care must be taken to prevent their adopting any measure, which may make them blush at recollecting the obscurity, in which they are to pass their early years. I desire therefore, that you William Tell (whom I appoint their guardian) should not only bring them up innocently and virtuously, but should make them mistresses of as many elegant accomplishments, as circumstances will admit. Above all I command you on no account to suffer them to contract a marriage unsuitable to their illustrious birth. Unless a mother’s fondness deceives me, they will be singularly beautiful. Providence ever watches over the orphan’s destiny; and perhaps even in their humble station their charms may attract the observant glance of some young nobleman. Should such be the case, William Tell is at liberty to remove all obstacles to such an union, by revealing to the lover the real name of the parents of my daughters; and I also absolve him from his oath in so far, as to authorize him to disclose to themselves the secret of their illustrious origin, whenever they are sufficiently arrived at years of discretion, to make such a disclosure necessary or useful.”—

—“Here is this important paper,” resumed Tell after a short pause, for this long discourse had greatly exhausted him; “you will read it over together at your leisure: but one thing more I must observe to you. The Countess was no less averse to the seclusion of a convent than to ill-assorted marriages.—In one place (which I have pointed out for Mary’s observation by three crosses) she writes thus—“Be the veil the last refuge of my children, and on no account must either of them be suffered to assume it before her six-and-twentieth year. Then, if no more inviting prospect presents itself, their real rank may be revealed to the Superior, and the sums (which I leave for that purpose in the hands of William Tell) appropriated to the endowment of the Convent, in which they think proper to pronounce their vows.”—

—“I trust,” continued the old man, “that I have not abused the confidence with which your noble mother honoured me. Anxiety to leave no part of her commands unexecuted made me lose no time in hastening to the Bishop of Coira and the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald, and requesting their advice respecting your future education. I found them already fully acquainted with the intentions of the deceased Countess; I also gathered from some words which escaped them, that all the singular injunctions of that lady’s will related to an old prophecy, by which the daughters of Werdenberg were threatened with the most severe mortifications and persecutions through the means of the family of Torrenburg. For my own part, I cannot say, that I lay any great stress upon these old traditions, and even look upon belief in them as little better than rank superstition: nay, I am almost persuaded, that the very means taken to avoid the dangers with which such prophecies menace us, frequently produce their accomplishment, of which (unless I am much deceived) your own history will furnish an additional proof. The two reverend gentlemen, however, were quite of a different opinion from me on this point; in truth, they received so ill a hint of this nature which escaped me, that if I had not held my tongue in good time, I verily believe, they would have excommunicated me as an arch-heretic. Luckily, the business was not to decide, whether your mother’s opinions were right, but whether her will should be obeyed; and on this head all three were of the same way of thinking.

“Annually I made them a visit to lay before them my proceedings, and receive instructions respecting your future conduct. At length they died, both nearly at the same time, and were succeeded by Bishop Sigisbert, and Abbot Conrad the Fourth, who also succeeded to the knowledge of your secret. The latter of those prelates (as you probably remember) once visited our cottage, as it seemed, by accident. He saw you, and felt himself greatly interested in your welfare. I have informed him of my illness, and also of the melancholy occurrences which have lately taken place, and which render these vallies no longer a safe retreat. In his answer, the good Abbot promises you his protection, proposes to remove you to those scenes where your noble ancestors once ruled, and engages (when the proper time shall be arrived) to support your claims to the utmost of his power.

“The sons of the Count of Torrenburg are dead; the Count himself is a widower, but is not quite so far advanced in years as to make his contracting a second marriage highly improbable. Still you have much to expect from his known generosity of mind, and I cannot but flatter myself, that you may look forwards to more fortunate times! Oh! with what content could I lay my head down in my grave, were I but certain that this hope will soon be realized! But alas! every thing shows itself to me, as if still at a fearful distance! Every thing seems covered with a gloomy veil of clouds. Many and many a bitter sigh must you heave, many and many a painful step must you tread, ere you regain that station, whence you have been degraded by maternal obstinacy and superstitious prejudice.—Yet take courage, my children; an invisible hand still guides the steps of the innocent, and you will find a powerful friend and safe adviser in the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald.”—

Here the old man concluded; his adopted daughters were silent, and wept.—All that they had heard, all the glorious prospects, which were just presented before them, were unable to overpower the melancholy conviction, that the hour was arrived, when they must close the eyes of that venerable man, who had for so many years cherished them with all the fondness of a father. In losing him, they foresaw too the loss of those simple pleasures, which had made their childhood glide away so gaily, and for which they feared to find the advantages of their new situation but a sorry and incomplete exchange.

Tell visibly became weaker, that is, his body became so; but his mind preserved its strength unimpaired, and to the last moment of sensibility possest its gaiety and freedom. He had indeed got the better of that illness, which at first confined him to a sick couch, but he sank under the burthen of his years. His heart at length felt the arrow of death; though in truth that metaphor is here inapplicable, for he felt no wound, he endured no pain. His existence ended in a gradual peaceful slumber; the lamp of his life was extinguished gently and imperceptibly.

Abbot Conrad arrived before the decease of Tell, for the purpose of removing the Sisters: but they implored a short respite. Gladly would they have remained Tell’s daughters all their lives; it was no light blow, that could sever the bonds, by which they were connected with the good old man; even Death was unable to effect this completely, and their affection still followed him even beyond the grave. Neither was Conrad anxious to remove them from the dying man: it was a blessed sight for him to witness the gentle departure of a just spirit, and for once to behold the so-dreaded form of Death arrayed in the peaceful appearance of a beneficent Angel. Neither was it an uninteresting sight, to see two girls in the bloom of youth and beauty turning away from the brilliant prospects of the world, to dwell with their whole souls on one of the most sorrowful and painful scenes, which can meet the eye of human nature; to see two highly-born princesses weep at resigning for such sounding titles the dearer-ones of daughters and sisters in the abode of rustic innocence; and to hear them at the grave of their common ancestor vow to their former play-mates, that they should ever hold their relationship as the most close and precious, though the whole universe should unite in endeavouring to efface the recollection of it from their minds.

Tell’s children could not understand rightly, what their supposed sisters meant by such assurances; and the Abbot thought it unnecessary to explain to them a mystery, which their approaching separation from the young Countesses of Werdenberg would soon make sufficiently clear.