—“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.