Without attempting further to influence her conduct, let Elizabeth be permitted to act according to her own pleasure: I know her motives; I know that in the end we shall have reason to be satisfied with her. I am informed also, that she has already taken some such steps towards settling this important business as will bear but one interpretation. Letters have been received from her by our friend the Seneschal, a man whose superior for probity is not to be found in Zurich; in these letters Elizabeth explains the whole transaction, requests him to act as an impartial judge, and engages to obey his decision blindly. You know well the venerable Albert Reding, to whose justice the whole country refers every dispute of consequence; think you, he will decide to the disadvantage of innocence? Not that I have obtained my knowledge of these secret particulars from Albert himself, the delicacy of whose opinions on this species of confidence is extreme. In truth, he carries that delicacy so far, that he anxiously avoids mentioning the disputes between the Countess and her vassals, and endeavours, when others speak of them, to listen with a cold indifferent air: but I read plainly on his serious brow that he meditates deeply on the subject; he weighs the bequest of Count Frederick, and the situation of the unfortunate sisters, and I can prophecy to which side the balance will incline. He, who never yet gave an unfair judgment; he, who has never deserved to have an appeal made from his decision, cannot surely pronounce erroneously upon a business like this.
Your intention of laying before Elizabeth’s eyes the whole history of the rejected heiresses of Torrenburg is well imagined, and may produce a good effect: but what shall I say to you respecting your imprudence, in advising her to inspect the private annals of the house of Sargans? My good but inconsiderate friend, are you then ignorant of the part which your Abbey plays in these memorials of the days of yore? Is it adviseable, think you, to lay before the laity the transgressions of the church? Let us rejoice, that we walk ourselves in the paths of virtue, without endeavouring to make our own merits appear more shining, by contrasting them with the crimes of our predecessors.
Yet I know well, that so mean a design was far from the thoughts of my good Conrad; he has only erred through want of consideration. I shall immediately endeavour, if possible, to repair your fault; already must letters from me have reached the Abbess of Zurich, and I hope that Elizabeth will not be suffered to peruse a single line of the papers.
It is but a short time since these curious Memoirs were in my possession; and I can assure you (if, as I take for granted, you are not already conscious of it) they contain many circumstances, which for the honour of the Abbey of Curwald, and (with grief I write it) for that of some of my own ancestors, had better remain for ever unknown.
Elizabeth to Count Oswald
In vain do I strive to turn my thoughts from Montfort; the reflection “what is to become of him” occupies my mind incessantly. Alas! there was a time, when I loved him with such passion! when there was nothing which I would not have given to purchase for him one moment’s happiness! and now, oh! what a change! she, who once was ready to sacrifice for this Montfort every thing, even the affection of a warning brother, who saw deeper into the deceiver’s heart than herself; she now hesitates, by giving up a few superfluous miles of territory and some high-sounding empty titles, to rescue him from the very abyss of misery and ruin!—and all this change in her heart is produced by the sole reflection, that Montfort’s prosperity would now be shared no longer with herself. Oh! Elizabeth! Elizabeth! thou hast a groveling soul! thy passion for Henry, so falsely called heroic, was nothing better than mere self-love!
Chide me not, dear brother, for this want of resolution; I am conscious the expression of such feelings must be little expected by you after the temper of mind, in which you saw me when we parted: but you know not the dreadful contest between affection and duty, which has but lately been excited in my bosom—what! Henry imprisoned by his uncle, as a punishment for having bestowed his heart on the portionless Ida? Henry, commanded by the incensed Count de Montfort to purchase liberty by offering me his hand? What then, do I live to see my nuptial bed made the alternative of a dungeon? Oswald! Oswald! oh! what a humiliation for the proud Elizabeth, let what is required of him be refused or accepted by Henry!—as for myself, my resolution is fixed; but yet, through respect for you and your counsels, it has not been fixed till after mature deliberation. I will not have the appearance of acting either from an impulse of extravagant generosity, or from that spirit of refined vengeance, which induces us to crush our enemies under the load of obligations: no; I will do nothing but my duty. I have submitted the whole affair to the decision of an impartial judge: I will ascertain how much I ought to do for the Damsels of Werdenberg, and exactly that much will I do, without desiring to be thanked by any one. What would be my feelings, Oswald.... Heaven and Earth! what would be my feelings, were I to hear Montfort thank me for having kindly facilitated his union with his beloved Ida!
Elizabeth to Oswald.
My brother, we will in future chuse other subjects for discussion: Montfort and Ida ought now to hold a place no longer in my private thoughts, nor shall their names be ever again traced by my pen. To banish these spectres which haunt my mind so fearfully, and bury them for ever in oblivion, or at least only to remember them with contempt, surely I need but to recall that memorable day, when my dear exasperated brother forgave the lovesick-girl’s elopement, her elopement with this deceitful Montfort; when he promised still to acknowledge her as his sister, and condescended to make known to the traitor with his own lips, that Count Oswald would not disdain to honour and esteem him as his sister’s husband—and then let me remember, how Henry led the proud Elizabeth in triumph to the altar; and how at the very moment that he prepared to swear to her eternal constancy, the irrevocable word refused to pass his lips, because ... because among her attendants he discovered a face, whose features seemed to him more lovely than his bride’s.
Oh! when I recollect these circumstances, my brother! the Damsels of Werdenberg, the chosen friends of my bosom, were invited to place the nuptial garland on my brow, and the false-ones tore it in pieces, and trampled it under their feet. With what a look of horror and aversion did Henry throw away my hand! He affected to be suddenly indisposed too! oh! ’twas a mere pretence! his midnight flight from the Castle, and his consternation at hearing, that those perfidious girls were gone, ought to have left me no doubt upon the subject; yet I suspected nothing till the cruel news arrived, that Ida’s fate was as closely connected with Henry’s, as I once had flattered myself to have seen my own.