Conrad, my whole soul is in a storm! I scarcely know, what I say ... what I write ... what I think ... in the present moment, I can only feel!—Yet ere I close my letter, learn thus much. Constantia is with me; yesterday I clasped her to my heart. Alas! for the gentle, innocent, suffering girl! Never did my bosom harbour against her one spark of ill-will: her intercourse would have been like balsam to the wounds of my heart, even while I hated Ida as the inflictor of those wounds. It was cruel in you, my good Abbot, to let me inhabit the same dwelling with her for so long, and yet keep me in ignorance, that such a blessing was so near me.
In truth, you have not dealt well with me throughout; neither yourself, Conrad, nor your confidante the Abbess of Zurich. The most secret recesses of my soul were known to you, while I believed them to be closed against all the world; you knew much, of which I would have purchased the knowledge with my whole wealth, and which you concealed from me far too long. I thought, that I acted without being observed: and you were busied in watching and numbering every step which I took. I cannot feel quite satisfied with your proceedings towards me; my heart involuntarily breaks out into reproaches and complaints. Yet neither complaints nor reproaches can now avail. The die is cast; I cannot avoid following the path, which is pointed out by duty—cannot, did I say?—No; let me not wrong my feelings: I would not, if I could!
Oh! that I could paint to you in colours sufficiently vivid the scenes, which followed my perusal of your manuscript!—the Abbess is ill.... I fear ill unto death!—I flew to her sick bed, and with the enthusiasm of my sensations forced her back from contemplating the fields of blessedness, to which she is already so near, that she needs but to close her eyes in order to behold the reflection of their glories! She smiled at what I said to her, and which must have appeared to her so trifling, so unworthy of a thought, when compared with those images by which her mind had just been occupied.—Her words inscribed themselves upon my heart in characters of flame: you will soon be informed of their effects.
Constantia was summoned—the Abbess joined our hands; we sank upon each other’s bosom. No explanation was necessary; no one spoke a word; we understood her ... we understood ourselves.
—“Now then,” said the invalid in a soft faltering voice, which seemed a middle tone between a mortal’s and a spirit’s: “now then nothing is wanting ... but the presence of Ida!”—
—“Of Ida,” I repeated, “and of her Henry!”—
And Henry came; came the next morning, as you had assured me that he would, and for that purpose which you mentioned. He has vindicated my cause like an hero, and has fully established my authority and my rights: he has knelt at my feet; he has offered me his hand. He has named love as the reward of his services, and has obtained the boon: how could I refuse the reward of love to the most pure, the most tender, the most unfortunate of lovers?
Constantia, Countess of Werdenberg, to Abbot Conrad.
Elizabeth’s letter must already have apprized you, my kind protector, of the favourable change, which has taken place in the situation of your wards. Count Henry has been here, and is again departed. He came by Ida’s command to offer his hand to Elizabeth: he is returned at Elizabeth’s desire to salute her rival as joint-heiress with myself of the rich domains of Torrenburg.