—“My soul,” said Elizabeth in a firm voice, “I bequeath to him, who gave it! my body I bequeath to the grave; my wealth to the church; the domains of Torrenburg to its legitimate possessors; the recollection of Henry of Montfort to his beloved Ida; Richard of Ulmenhorst.... Richard, my friend of youth, and the truest of all lovers.... Richard, whom I ought never to have quitted for the sake of any Montfort.... Ah! to what consoling Angel shall I consign the noble Richard, that she may heal the wounds inflicted by my caprice on his honest suffering heart?—Constantia! friend of my bosom, be thou that Angel! thou art far more worthy of his love than the inconstant Elizabeth, who in resigning him, resigns every prospect of earthly happiness; who in sacrificing him, offers up to Heaven the greatest sacrifice, of which her nature is capable.—Be he thine, dear injured Constantia; accept from me his hand, his heart! my injustice to Ida I have repaired by the resignation of Henry; but I still owed thee a mighty sacrifice, to efface the memory of many a bitter hour occasioned by my obstinacy, my persecution, my self-will.—Now then I have done with the world for ever!—Beloved-ones! I bless you!—Pray for me, and farewell!”—
The Bishop (though greatly affected by this whole unexpected scene) thought it right to wait till the conclusion of the ceremony: But anxiety for Richard, whose indisposition had occasioned the bye-standers to remove him into the open air, furnished me with an excuse for leaving the chapel, which I seized with eagerness. To say the truth, I was far from satisfied with Elizabeth’s determination. I shall no doubt be severely censured by my more devout successors; yet I needs must confess, that in spite of my own vows (which I pronounced with the most heart-felt joy, and never have felt the slightest wish to retract) yet still I say, in spite of my own vows, I never have seen without a pang society deprived of a valuable member, and those talents buried within the solitude of the Cloister, which might have made its owner a blessing to the world at large.
When the first shock was past, Richard recovered his resolution, and endeavoured to conceal the agony of his feelings under the veil of seriousness and silence. A splendid entertainment was spread before us, at which none of the holy Sisters appeared; consequently, we were at liberty to communicate our sentiments on what had just past without restraint. ’Twas the most melancholy feast, at which I ever assisted; a feast, which I shall never forget, as long as I possess existence; it seemed to me Elizabeth’s funeral-feast! we soon rose from the table, on which the viands remained untouched, and we prepared for our departure; for we thought it vain to expect admission to the newly-profest Nun, and indeed in our present temper of mind that admission was scarcely to be wished—the Bishop, however, delivered it as his opinion, that propriety required us at least to give Elizabeth the option of seeing us. Accordingly, a message informed her of our approaching departure; her answer was, that she must decline all visits, except those of Constantia and of Richard of Ulmenhorst.
They obeyed her orders. Elizabeth received them with joy and tenderness. She doubted not the success of her proposal, and addrest Constantia as the heiress of Richard’s heart: but she was speedily undeceived. Richard declared, in terms so express as left no doubt of his decision, that since Elizabeth was lost to the world, no refuge was left for him but the Cloister; while on the other hand, Constantia confest, that her heart was no longer in her own power. After a long and unavailing discussion, Elizabeth dismist them, whether satisfied or displeased by the firmness of her two dearest friends, it may be difficult to say: but unless I am totally ignorant of the female mind, she could not help being flattered by Richard’s refusal to admit any rival to her in his heart, but God; and probably she was secretly not much incensed against Constantia for having bestowed her affections else-where.
Count Oswald, who had been by no means pleased by his sister’s endeavours to unite Richard and Constantia, now felt his hopes revive: he flattered himself, that he was the unknown object of Constantia’s choice; but in this belief he was mistaken. There was a young knight, who had offered her his heart and hand at a time, when she had nothing but a heart and hand to offer in return. Conradin, an ill-portioned brother of the Landgrave of Thuringia, would have loved her, had she been no other than Mary Tell; Conradin had been faithful to Constantia of Werdenberg under all the scorn and obloquy, under which she at one time laboured; and Conradin was now the man, for whom the wealthy Heiress of Sargans rejected every other. He deserved the inestimable treasure of a wife like Constantia; and she was well worthy to be the mistress of a heart, whose tenderness and generosity could only be excelled by her own.
It was long, before Elizabeth acquired sufficient firmness to receive the personal thanks of Ida and Henry for that felicity, of which she was herself the authoress; but on the day when she was consecrated as Domina of Zurich, this long-delayed interview took place. The impression, which it made upon her mind, will be best explained by the following letter.
Elizabeth to Constantia.
At length then this dreaded interview is over: I have seen Ida and her happy husband.—Wrong me not, Constantia, by suspecting, that resentment or pique has made me delay this meeting for so long; oh! no! it was the consciousness of my own weak heart!—Even Helen of Homburg could not at once resolve to witness the happiness of Eginhart and Amalberga; and alas! I am no faultless Saint like Helen!—the Cloister is the palace of enthusiasm, is the native land of visions; its inhabitants are only happy in proportion, as those visions are sweet and soothing. I had formed for myself a little circle of ideal companions, whom at my pleasure I could summon to dispel my solitude. My venerable friend, by the side of whose death-bed I formed the resolution of dedicating my life to the service of Heaven, was among the dearest of those apparitions. The hand of mortality had torn her from me; Enthusiasm restored her to my arms. I saw her, as if she had been still alive.... I spoke to her, and laid open the most secret folds of my heart.... I almost fancied, that at times I heard her reply in words of comfort.... Alas! the fatal sight of Ida and her Henry has dispelled all these visions, which were to me the source of so much happiness! it seemed like a flash of lightning, which penetrates through our closed eye-lids, and wakes us suddenly from some delightful dream.—Now nothing flits before me in my solitude, but those scenes of my melancholy life, in which Ida and Montfort bore so great a share.—Leave me, oh! leave me, ye cruel thoughts, which force me back to a world of sorrow; and thou, mild-spirit of my sainted friend, return, and by thy presence aid me to prepare for that state of bliss, which you already enjoy, and to which I feel that I am hastening.
The will of Heaven be done; but the moment of dissolution will be sweet and welcome!