This reply was not received, till the Count of Torrenburg had been presented to Elizabeth as the man, to whom her hand was destined. The repugnance, with which she listened to his declaration, was too visible to escape his notice; but as her parents gave him the most solemn assurances, that her heart (though not yet disposed in his favour) was still free from any other attachment, he persisted in his addresses. He persuaded himself, that his assiduities must in the end make him master of her affections, if once her hand became his property; and he looked forward with impatience to the nuptial-day, which was already fixed, and at no great distance.
Ida’s reply arriving at this critical moment, produced a rejoinder from her friend, which put her in no slight embarrassment; for the greatest part of it was totally unintelligible to her. Of Elizabeth’s former letters she had frequently failed in decyphering the words; but in the present epistle, even where she had overcome that difficulty, the sense frequently appeared to her as obscure as ever.
—“Ah! my sweet friend! how precious should I esteem your last advice, could I but be certain, that in giving it you were prompted by no motive but affection for Me. You cannot be ignorant, that all mystery is now laid aside; the dreaded bridegroom is arrived; and doubtless you must have been made aware of his intentions, long before my parents thought proper to communicate them to myself. When therefore you counsel me to shun this marriage by flight, can I avoid apprehending lest interest.... Ah! forgive me these suspicions, dear Ida! I will not doubt the sincerity of your friendship.—Yet flight is difficult, dangerous, disgraceful; Henry himself is unwilling to resort to this clandestine means of rescue! On the other hand, this hated Bridegroom.... Why do they tell me of his wealth and power? What are they to me? What are the domains of Carlsheim, Torrenburg, and Sargans, when balanced against Henry’s heart?—I know not what to do!—Once more, dear Ida! but once more advise me! Lay aside every interested motive, which might prompt your counselling me to flight; assure me, that friendship alone dictates your decision; and then if you still bid me trust my fate to Henry, I will throw myself into his arms, and bid adieu to the Castle of March.... alas! perhaps for ever!”—
Again and again did Ida read this letter, and still found herself as far as ever from understanding it. She would gladly have submitted it to some more learned head than her own; but her sister was absent, and prudence forbade her communicating it to the chaplain. Above all, the line which contained the three difficult words “Torrenburg,” “Carlsheim,” and “Sargans” set all her skill at defiance; and she could not but fancy, that were she once mistress of the meaning of that one line, it would make the rest of the letter quite intelligible.—And then what harm could there be in showing a stranger that single passage? The reader would certainly be able to gain but little information from it; and arguing thus, she cut the passage out of the letter, and hastened to request Father Hilarius to give her the interpretation.
Father Hilarius (whose activity was quite indefatigable, when exerted to find out what could injure his enemies, among whom he numbered the innocent Ida) already suspected the secret correspondence between his pupil and Elizabeth. The subject of it, however, was still unknown to him; but now the whole was as clear as day-light. He read what was shown to him, guest the remainder, and malicious pleasure sparkled in his eyes. To put the matter beyond a doubt, he pretended, that it was impossible to understand the meaning of a passage so detached, and demanded a sight of the whole epistle. This, however, was refused him: upon which he declared it to be his opinion, that “the difficult words in question must be Greek; for his part, he could make neither head nor tail of them.”—
Ida went away out of all patience! However, as she could not discover, that her friend’s situation had undergone any material alteration since her last letter, she at length determined at all events to send her the same answer: accordingly the messenger was despatched with a note containing only——“Flight! instant flight.”—
Ida’s belief, that the bands of love once formed could never be broken (together with other romantic notions, which she had imbibed among the Helvetian mountains, respecting justice and injustice, liberty of the heart, and suitability in marriage) must plead her excuse for the rash advice, which in the simplicity of her nature she gave her friend; advice, which afterwards operated to her prejudice so strongly, that it nearly ruined her reputation and her whole happiness in life. She counselled Elizabeth to take that step which (had she been herself the heroine of the adventure) she would herself undoubtedly have taken: this was the utmost extent of her error; this, and no more!
The advice was given; the advice was followed. A few days elapsed, and she heard, that the whole country was in an uproar. The beautiful Elizabeth of March had eloped with Henry of Montfort; and her brother Oswald, assisted by the forces of the Count of Torrenburg, had set forward in pursuit of the fugitives.
Ida was delighted to find, that her advice had been carried into execution with so much success: she only feared, lest the lovers should be overtaken by their pursuers, among whom she grieved to hear her uncle numbered; she was still ignorant, how deeply he was interested in this affair, and concluded that he was actuated to take a part in it by the friendship, which had so long subsisted between himself and the old Count of March.
Her prayers and wishes were half accomplished, half rejected. The lovers were overtaken: but Count Oswald of March was fondly attached to his sister; some well-disposed persons kindly interfered; Count Frederick voluntarily resigned his pretensions; and it was finally resolved, that the errors of love should be pardoned, and the fugitives united in a public and customary manner. In truth, no one could deny, that Henry was a much more suitable partner for the blooming Elizabeth, than her destined bridegroom, the age-stricken Count of Torrenburg.