kind of greedy satisfaction, and at his father with scorn. I trembled,
and turned to my uncle; but sadness and confusion marked his features—he
was stamped as with disgrace, and quailed beneath my eye; though
presently he rallied, drew a chair near, and was kinder than ever. He
told me that he was going up to town on the morrow, and that Vernon was
to accompany him; he asked me if there was anything he could do for me,
and testified his affection by a thousand little attentions. Vernon said
nothing, and took leave of me so coldly, that I thought his manner
implied that he expected to see me in the morning. Thinking it right to
indulge him, I rose early; but he did not come down till long after Sir
Richard, who thanked me for my kindness in disturbing myself on his
account. They went away immediately after breakfast, and Vernon’s formal
adieu again struck me with wonder. Was it possible that he was indeed
going to marry another? This doubt was all my comfort, for I was
painfully agitated by the false position in which I had entangled
myself, by the mystery that enveloped my actions, and the falsehood
which my lips perpetually implied, if they did not utter.

I was habitually an early riser. On the third morning after the
departure of my relations, before I rose, and while I was dressing, I
thought that pebbles were thrown at my window; but my mind was too
engrossed to pay attention, till at last, after my toilette had been
leisurely completed, I looked from my window, and saw Vernon below, in
the secluded part of the park which it overlooked. I hurried down, my
heart palpitating with anxiety.

“I have been waiting for you these two hours,” he said angrily; “did you
not hear my signal?”

“I know of no signal,” I replied; “I am not accustomed to clandestine
appointments.”

“And yet you can carry on a clandestine engagement excellently well! You
told Sir Richard that you did not love me—that you should be glad if I
married another.”

An indignant reply was bursting from my lips, but he saw the rising
storm and hastened to allay it. He changed his tone at once from
reproach to tender protestations.

“It broke my heart to leave you as I did,” he said, “but I could do no
less. Sir Richard insisted on my accompanying him—I was obliged to
comply. Even now he believes me to be in town. I have travelled all
night. He half-suspected me, because I refused to dine with him to-day;
and I was forced to promise to join him at a ball to-night. I need not
be there till twelve or one, and so can stay two hours with you.”

“But why this hurried journey?” I asked. “Why do you come?”

He answered by pleading the vehemence of his affection, and spoke of the
risk he ran of losing me for ever. “Do you not know,” he said, “that my
father has set his heart upon your marrying my brother?”

“He is very good,” I replied disdainfully. “But I am not a slave, to be
bought and sold. My cousin Clinton is the last person in the world whom
you need fear.”

“Oh, Ellen, how much do you comfort—transport me, by this generous
contempt for wealth and rank! You ask why I am here—it were worth the
fatigue, twice ten thousand times told, to have these assurances. I have
trembled—I have feared—but you will not love this favoured of
fortune—this elder son!”

I cannot describe Vernon’s look as he said this. Methought envy, malice,
and demoniac exultation were all mingled. He laughed aloud—I shrunk from
him dismayed. He became calmer a moment after.

“My life is in your hands, Ellen,” he said;—but why repeat his glossing
speeches, in which deceit and truth were so kneaded into one mass, that
the poison took the guise of the wholesome substance, while the whole
was impregnated with destruction. I felt that I liked him less than
ever; yet I yielded to his violence. I believed myself the victim of a
venial but irreparable mistake of my own. I confirmed my promises, and
pledged my faith most solemnly. It is true that I undeceived him as much
as I could with regard to the extent of my attachment; at first he was
furious at my coldness, then overwhelmed me with entreaties for
forgiveness—tears even streamed from his eyes—and then again he
haughtily reminded me that I forfeited every virtue of my sex, and
became a monument of falsehood, if I failed him. We separated at last—I
promised to write every day, and saw him ride away with a sensation as
if relieved from the infliction of the torture.

A week after this scene—my spirits still depressed, and often weeping my
dear father’s death, which I considered the root of every evil—I was
reading, or rather trying to read, in my dressing-room, but in reality
brooding over my sorrows, when I heard Marianne’s cheerful laugh in the
shrubbery, and her voice calling me to join her. I roused myself from my
sad reverie, and resolved to cast aside care and misery, while Vernon’s
absence afforded me a shadow of freedom; and, in fulfilment of this
determination, went down to join my young light-hearted cousin. She was
not alone. Clinton was with her. There was no resemblance between him
and Vernon. His countenance was all sunshine; his light-blue eyes
laughed in their own gladness and purity; his beaming smile, his
silver-toned voice, his tall, manly figure, and, above all, his
open-hearted engaging manners, were all the reverse of his dark
mysterious brother. I saw him, and felt that my prejudices had been
ridiculous; we became intimate in a moment. I know not how it was, but
we seemed like brother and sister—each feeling, each thought, being laid
bare to the other. I was naturally frank, but rendered timid by
education; so that it charmed me doubly when the unreserve of another
invited me to indulge in the unguarded confidence of my disposition. How
speedily the days now flew! they contained but one drawback, my
correspondence with my cousin—not that I felt myself unfaithful towards
him; my affection for my new-found relation did not disturb my
conscience—that was pure, undisguised, sisterly. We had met from across
the ocean of life—two beings who formed a harmonized whole; but the
sympathy was too perfect, too untinged by earthly dross, to be compared
with the selfish love given and exacted by Vernon. Yet I feared that his
jealousy might be awakened, while I felt less inclined than ever to
belie my own heart; and with aversion and hesitation penned letters
containing the formula of affection and engaged vows.

Sir Richard came down to Beech Grove. He was highly pleased to see the
cordial friendship that subsisted between his son and me.

“Did I not tell you that you would like him?” he said.

“Every one must,” I replied; “he is formed to win all hearts.”

“And suits you much better than Vernon?”

I did not know what to answer; it was a tender string that he touched;
but I resolved not to feel or think. Sir Richard’s were all flying
visits; he was to leave us in the evening. He had, during the morning, a
long conversation with Clinton; and immediately after he sought for an
opportunity to talk to me.

“Ellen,” he said, “I have not been a wise but I am a fond father. I have
done Clinton many injuries, of which he, poor fellow, is wholly
unconscious; and I have wished to compensate for all in giving him a
wife worthy of him. His temper is generous; his spirit clear and noble.
By my soul, I think he has every virtue under heaven; and you alone
deserve him. Do not interrupt me, I beseech you; hear me this once. I
confess that ever since you became my ward this has been my favourite
project. There have been several obstacles; but the most serious ones
seem to vanish. You have seen each other, and I flatter myself have each
discovered and appreciated the good qualities of the other. Is it so,
Ellen? I know not whence my fears arise, and yet they intrude
themselves. I fear, while I have been endeavouring to secure my boy’s
happiness, I may have been adding to the ruin already heaped on his head
by my means. I have talked with him to-day. He has no disguise in his
nature, and he avows that he loves you. I know that this confession
would come better from himself; but your fortune, your beauty, make him
fear to be misinterpreted. Do not mistake—he is wholly unaware of my
intention of speaking to you. I see your distress, dear Ellen; have
patience but for one word more—do not trifle with Clinton’s feelings, as
sometimes—forgive me—it has appeared to me that you have trifled with
Vernon’s—do not foster hopes not to be fulfilled. Be frank, be honest,
despite the bashfulness and coquetry of your sex.”

After these words, fearful of having offended—overcome by more agitation
than I could have imagined him capable of feeling—my uncle drew me
towards him, pressed me convulsively to his bosom, and then rushed from
the room.

I cannot describe the state in which he left me—a spasm of pain passed
through my frame; I became sick and faint, till a flood of tears
relieved my bursting heart. I wept long—I sobbed in agony—I felt the
veriest wretch that ever trod the earth.

My uncle had rent the veil that concealed me from myself. I loved
Clinton—he was the whole world to me—all the world of light and joy, and
I had shut myself out from him for ever. And he also was my victim. I
beheld his dear face beaming with hope; I heard his thrilling voice
harmonized by love; and saw the fearless cordiality of his manners,
which bespoke his confidence in my sympathy; while I knew that I held a
poisoned dagger which I was about to plunge into his heart. Sometimes I
thought to treat him coldly, sometimes—oh! I cannot tell the various
imaginations that haunted me—some self-sacrificing, others wicked and
false—all ended in one way. My uncle departed; we were left together,
our full hearts beating to respond to each other without any division or
reserve. I felt that every moment might cause Clinton to open his soul
to me, and to seek in mine for a feeling too truly and too fondly alive
there, but which was sinful and fatal to both. To prevent his
confession, my own preceded it. I revealed to him my engagement to
Vernon, and declared my resolve not to swerve from my faith. He
commended me. I saw despair at losing me painted in his countenance,
mingled with horror at supplanting his brother; and alarm that he, the
elder born, gifted by fortune with every blessing, should be suspected
of the intention of stealing the sole remaining good, which Vernon had
won by his diligence, perhaps by his deserts. Forbid it, Heaven! I saw
in the clear mirror of his expressive countenance the struggle of
passion and principle, and the triumph of honour and virtue exalted over
the truest love that ever warmed man’s breast.

Our gaiety was flown; our laughter stilled. We talked sadly and
seriously together, neither lamenting our fate nor acknowledging our
sufferings; tamed to endurance, and consoling each other by such
demonstrations of affection as were permitted to our near relationship.
We read clearly each other’s hearts, and supported each other in the
joint sacrifice; and this without any direct acknowledgment. Clinton
talked of returning to the Continent; I of my seclusion and tranquillity
at Beech Grove. The time was distant—two years was an eternity at our
age—before Vernon could claim my hand; and we did not advert to that
fatal consummation. We gave up each other; and that single misery
sufficed without a more cruel addition. I was calm, pale, and tearless.
I had brought it all on myself, and must submit. I could not cast aside
the younger son to select the elder; and if in my secret thoughts I
cherished a hope to induce Vernon to forego his claims, that very
circumstance would the more entirely divide me from Clinton. As my
brother-in-law, I might see him—in some sort, our fortunes were shared;
but as a rival to Vernon, a stream of blood separated us for ever.

The hours of sad sympathy which we passed were very dear to us. We knew
that they were brief. Clinton had fixed the day and hour of his
departure—each moment it drew nearer. We should never meet again till
after my marriage; but till the hour of separation, for two short days,
we were all in all to each other, despite the wall of adamant which was
raised between us. We tried each to pretend to think and talk of
indifferent subjects; and we _never_ spoke of that nearest our
hearts;—but how superfluous are words as interpreters between lovers! As
we walked or rode, and spent hours in each other’s society, we exchanged
thoughts more intimately during long periods of absolute silence, than
Vernon with his vehemence and eloquence could have conceived. Had we
spoken folio volumes, we could have said no more. Our looks—the very
casting down of our eyes and mutual tacit avoidance, told our resolve to
fulfil our duties and to conquer our love; and yet how, by a glance or a
faltering word, when the future was alluded to, did we promise never to
forget, but to cherish mutual esteem and tenderness as all that was left
of the paradise from which we were so ruthlessly driven! Now and then a
playful expression on his part, or a blush on mine, betrayed more
feeling than we considered right; the one was checked by a sigh, the
other by an assumption of indifference.

I had been spending many hours in tears and anguish, when, resolved to
overcome my weakness, and to recover an appearance of serenity before my
cousin returned from his ride, I went into Marianne’s schoolroom and
took up a book. The exhaustion of weeping had calmed me; and I thought
of my kinsman—his endearing qualities, and of the tie between us, with
softened feelings. As I indulged in reverie, my head resting on my hand,
my book falling from my fingers, my eyes closed, I passed from the
agitated sense of life and sorrow into the balmy forgetfulness of sleep.
Clinton had wished to make a portrait of me, yet had not ventured to ask
me to sit—he came in at this moment; Marianne, whispering, told him not
to disturb me. He took her drawing materials, and made a hasty sketch,
which genius and love united to render a perfect likeness. I awoke and
saw his work; it was beyond our contract; I asked him for it; he felt
that I was right, and gave it. This sacrifice on his part proved that he
did not palter with his sense of right. On the morrow we were to part;
and he would preserve no memorial beyond a remembrance which he could
not destroy.

That morrow came. Clinton asked me and his sister to walk through the
park with him, to join his chariot at the farther lodge. We consented;
but, at the moment of going, Marianne, who knew nothing certainly, but
who darkly guessed that all was not right, excused herself. I joined him
alone. There was something in his person and manner that so promised
protection and tenderness, that I felt it doubly hard to be torn from
him. A dignified reserve, foreign to his usual nature, founded on a
resolve to play only the brother’s part, checked me somewhat; yet I
loved him the more for it; while I would have laid down my existence so
that it had only been permitted us to throw aside the mask but for one
short hour, and to use the language of nature and troth. It could not
be; and our conversation was upon indifferent subjects. When we
approached the lodge, we found that the chariot had not come, and we
retreated a little, and sat down on a turfy bank; then Clinton said a
few words, the only ones that at all revealed the agitation he was
enduring.

“I have a little more experience than you, Ellen,” he said; “and,
besides, I am haunted by strange presentiments; we seem to know what we
ought to do, and what we are to do, and act accordingly—yet life is a
strange, wild thing. I wish to ensure for you a friend more willing and
active than Sir Richard. I have a sister to whom I am fondly attached;
she is now on the Continent, but I shall hasten to her, and entreat her
to afford you a friendship you so richly deserve. You will love Lady
Hythe for her own sake as well as for mine.”

I was desirous of thanking him for this mark of kindness, but my voice
failed me, and I burst into tears, overcome by the excess of anguish
that deluged my heart I tried to conceal my tears—I could not.

“Do not, Ellen, dear Ellen, I beseech you—command yourself.”

Clinton spoke in a voice so broken, so full of misery, that he inspired
me at once with fear and courage. The tread of a horse roused us—a horse
at swift gallop. I raised my eyes, and uttered a shriek; for, reining in
the animal with a sudden strong pull, Vernon halted close to us. The
most violent passions convulsed his countenance. He threw himself from
the horse, and, casting the bridle from him, came up. What he meant to
say or do I cannot tell; perhaps to conceal the workings of his
heart—and the quick departure of Clinton would have smoothed all; but I
saw the barrel of a pistol peep from the pocket of his coat. I was
seized with terror—I shrieked aloud. Clinton, terrified at my alarm,
would have supported me, but Vernon pushed him rudely away.

“Dare not to approach or touch her, as you value your life!” he cried.

“My life! you talk idly, Vernon. I value her security—one moment of
peace to her—far more.”

“You confess it!” exclaimed Vernon; “and you, too, false and treacherous
girl! Ha! did you think to betray me, and be unpunished? Do you think,
if I so chose it, that I would not force you to look on till the blood
of one of the brothers flowed at your feet? But there are other
punishments in store for you.”

The expressions of menace used towards myself restored my courage, and I
exclaimed, “Beware that you do not break the tie that binds us—at least,
that bound us a moment ago—perhaps it is already broken.”

“Doubtless,” he cried, grinding his teeth with rage, “it is broken, and
a new one created to bind you to the elder son. Oh yes! you would fain
cast aside the poor, miserable beggar, who has vainly fawned on you, and
madly loved—you would take the rich, the honourable, and honoured Sir
Clinton! Base, hollow-hearted fool!”

“Vernon,” said Clinton, “whatever your claims are on our cousin, I
cannot stand by and see her insulted. You forget yourself.”

“The forgetfulness, sir, is on your part; proud in your seniority, to
rival your brother, to drive him from his all, has been a May-game for
you; but know, proud fool, or villain—take which name you will—your hour
is passed by—your reign at an end! Your station is a fiction, your very
existence a disgrace!”

Clinton and I both began to think that Vernon was really mad—a suspicion
confirmed by his violent gestures. We looked at each other in alarm.

“Stay!” exclaimed the infuriated man, seizing my arm with a fierce
grasp; while, fearful to induce Clinton’s interference, I yielded.
“Stay, and listen to what your lover is—or shall I wound your delicate
ears? There are soft phrases and silken words to adorn that refuse of
the world—a bastard!”

“Vernon, dare not!—beware, sir, and begone!”

Clinton’s face crimsoned; his voice, his majestic indignation almost
forced the ruffian to quail; he threw my arm from him.

“Take him, fair Ellen! it is true you take what I say—a natural son. Do
you think that my information is not correct? Ask our father, for he is
yours, Clinton, and our mother is the same; you are the first-born of
Richard Gray and Matilda Towers; but I am the eldest son of Mr. and Mrs.
Gray.”

It could not have been that Vernon would have acted this cowardly and
foolish part had he not been driven by a kind of madness. In truth, Sir
Richard had, to quench his hopes for ever, with that carelessness of
truth—his fatal propensity—affirmed that Clinton and I were acknowledged
lovers; and he came goaded by worse than jealousy—by a spirit of hatred
and revenge. Seeing us together, obviously engaged by the most
engrossing feelings, his temper, which had been worked into fury during
his journey, burst forth beyond the bounds he had prescribed for
himself. I have called him a serpent, and such he was in every respect;
he could crawl and coil, and hide his wily advance; but he could erect
his crest, dart out his forked tongue, and infix the deadly venom, when
roused as he now was. Clinton turned alternately pale and red.

“Be it as you will,” he said; “my fortunes and yours are of slight
moment in comparison to Ellen’s safety. If there is any truth in this
tale of yours, there will be time enough to discover it and to act upon
it. Meanwhile, dear cousin, I see they have brought my chariot to the
lodge. You cannot walk home—get into it; it will drive you to the house,
and come back for me.”

I looked at him inquiringly.

“Do not fear to be deserted by me,” he said, “or that I shall do
anything rashly. Vernon must accompany me to town—to our father’s
presence, there to expiate this foul calumny, or to prove it. Be assured
he shall not approach you without your leave. I will watch over him, and
guard you.”

Clinton spoke aloud, and Vernon became aware that he must yield to this
arrangement, and satisfied that he had divided us. Clinton led me to his
carriage.

“You will hear soon from some one of us, Ellen,” he said; “and let me
implore you to be patient—to take care of yourself—to fear nothing. I
can make no remark—affirm, deny nothing now; but you shall not be kept
in suspense. Promise me to be patient and calm.”

“And do you,” I said at last, commanding my trembling voice, “promise
not to be rash; and promise not to leave England without seeing me
again.”

“I promise not to leave England for any time without your leave. Oh,
trust me, my dear cousin; it is not in such storms as these that you
shall be ashamed of me; one sentiment may subdue me, but poverty,
disgrace, and every angry passion I can master.”

Vernon did not dare interrupt us. He felt that he had destroyed his
carefully woven web through his own rashness, and gnawed his lips in
silent rage. I looked at him once, and turned away my eyes in contempt.
I got into the chariot; it drove me to the house, and went back to take
Clinton up to town. Thus we were separated, as we intended; and yet, how
differently! Hope was reborn in my heart, out of the very ashes of its
despair.

Two mortal days passed, and I was still in my solitude, receiving no
intelligence, except, indeed, such as was contained in a letter from
Vernon. In this he demanded me as a right, and fiercely insisted that I
should keep my faith with him; but he did not allude to the scene in the
park, nor to his strange assertions there. I threw the letter from me as
unworthy of notice or thought. The third morning brought me one from my
uncle. I tore it open with uncontrollable impatience: these were the
contents:—

    “Clinton, my dear Ellen, insists that I should join you at Beech
    Grove; but I cannot persuade myself to do so till I have your
    leave—till I have confessed my villainy, and besought your
    forgiveness, in addition to that of my noble-hearted boy, whom I
    devoted to ruin before his birth, and who has pardoned me. It is a
    hateful subject—unfit for your ears, my gentle, virtuous girl, and I
    must hurry it over. When I first knew Miss Towers, I had no idea of
    marrying her; for she was poor and of humble birth. We loved each
    other, and she was willing to become mine on my own terms. Our
    intercourse was betrayed to her parents; and to appease them, and
    please Matilda, I declared that we were married. My assertion was
    credited; Matilda assumed my name, and all the world, all her little
    world, was deceived; while at the same time I declared to my father
    that she was merely my mistress. He did not believe me. Thus I
    became entangled. A little before the birth of our second boy my
    father died, and my grandfather offered me two thousand a year on
    condition that I would secure the whole estate to my eldest son. I
    loved Matilda; my fears were dissipated by my father’s death, and by
    this acknowledgment of my union by my grandfather. I married her;
    and, three days after Vernon’s birth, signed the settlement of
    entail. Such is my story. Lady Gray’s character necessitated the
    concealment from every human being of the period when the marriage
    was celebrated. My noble, beloved Clinton assumed the elder son’s
    place. I dared not reveal the truth; nay, I fancied that I benefited
    him by allowing him to fill this false position till my death. He
    has undeceived me; but he has not cursed me. From the moment I saw
    you, I designed that you should repair my faults towards him, as you
    alone could. I believed that you were formed for each other; I was
    not mistaken there. I meant to acknowledge all before your marriage,
    but I believed that if once your affections were engaged, you would
    not reject my son from base and worldly-minded considerations. Am I
    not right also in this? Meanwhile, Clinton was abroad, and I became
    uneasy at observing the pains which Vernon took to ingratiate
    himself with you, and the intimacy which you encouraged. I forbade
    him to remain with you at Beech Grove—he defied me. Then I tried to
    entice him away from you; and, as a last bribe, disclosed the secret
    of his birth: he, in return, promised to leave the field open to
    Clinton. You know the rest. He never meant to give you up; he was my
    heir, and he grasped at your fortune besides—shall he succeed?
    Clinton is all kindness, and soothing angelic goodness—but he
    insists on no longer filling a situation to which he has no claim,
    and—is gone abroad. He fears to leave you exposed to Vernon’s
    violence, and has made me promise to go down to Beech Grove, and to
    prevent his brother from seeing you without your free and entire
    consent. As I have said, I cannot prevail on myself to visit you
    till you are in full possession of all the facts. Now they are in
    your hands. You may expect me to-morrow. Do not fear Vernon; I will
    take care that he shall not commit further outrage on you, nor
    injure the interest which I fondly trust that you preserve for my
    godlike, my beloved Clinton.”

I read and reread this letter a thousand times; my soul was in tumults.
At first I could only think of the facts that it contained, and proudly
and joyfully determined to compensate to Clinton, as I believed I could,
for every evil; and then again I read the letter, and many parts of it
filled me with wonder and dismay. Clinton was gone abroad—against his
promise—without a word; and there was something so indelicate in the way
in which my uncle espoused his cause. It was strange—unlike any conduct
I had expected on my dear cousin’s part. Of course he would write—and
yet he was gone, and no letter came! And then I dreaded to see Sir
Richard, the wrongful, penitent father: the total indifference which he
displayed to moral principle—not founded, like Vernon’s, on selfishness,
but on weakness of character and natural callousness to truth—revolted
me. Where was my own dear father? He had thrown me from the sacred
shelter of his virtue into a system of dissimulation and guilt, which
even Clinton, I thought, deserting me as he did, did not redeem. I
struggled with these feelings, but their justice confounded and overcame
me. Yet, even in the midst of these disquieting reflections, a deep
sense of happiness pervaded my soul. The mystery, the tyranny which had
enveloped me, was brushed away like a spider’s web. I was free—I might
follow the dictates of my feelings, and it was no longer sin to love him
to whom my heart was irrevocably given. The hours of the day flew on,
while I lived as in a dream, absorbed by wonder, hope, doubt, and joy.
At length, at six in the evening, a carriage drove up the avenue; a kind
of terror at the expectation of seeing my uncle seized me, and I
retreated hastily to my own room, gasping for breath. In a few minutes
my servant tapped at my door; she told me that it was Lady Hythe who had
arrived, and delivered me a letter. The letter was from Clinton; it was
dated the same day, in London. I pressed it passionately to my lips and
heart, and devoured its contents with eagerness. “At length, dear
Ellen,” he wrote, “I am satisfied; I was long uneasy on your account. I
besought my father to go down to you, yet even that did not content
me—for you did not so much need protection as sympathy and true
disinterested friendship. My thoughts turned towards my earliest and
dearest friend, my sister Caroline. She was on the Continent—I set out
immediately to meet her, to tell everything, and to ask her advice and
assistance. Fortune befriended me—I found her at Calais—she is now with
you. She is my better self. Her delicacy of character, her accurate
judgment and warm heart, joined to her position as a woman, married to
the best and most generous fellow breathing, render her the very person
to whom I can intrust your happiness. I do not speak of myself—fortune
cannot overcome my spirits, and my way is clear before me. I pity my
father and family; but Caroline will explain to you better than I can my
views and hopes. Adieu, dear cousin! Heaven bless you as you deserve!
Your fortitude, I am sure, has not deserted you; yet I am very anxious
to hear that your health has not suffered by my brother’s violence.
Caroline will write to me, and rejoice me by telling me of your
well-being.”

I hurried down immediately to welcome Clinton’s sister; and from that
moment my perplexities and sorrows vanished. Lady Hythe was a feminine
likeness of Clinton; the same active kindness of heart, gentleness of
temper, and adorable frankness. We were friends and sisters on the
instant, and her true affection repaid me for every suffering; none of
which I should have experienced had she been in England on my arrival.
Clinton had told her of his love, but left me to reveal my own
sentiments, detailing only the artifices and jealousy of Vernon. I was
without disguise, for we were all one family, with the same objects,
hopes, and pleasures. We went up to town immediately, and there I saw
Clinton, and we exchanged our reserved, sad intercourse for a full
acknowledgment of every thought and feeling.

The only piece of prudence that Sir Richard had practised was placing
Clinton in the army, and purchasing promotion for him. He was so beloved
by his fellow-officers that, on the discovery of his unfortunate birth,
they all united in giving him the support of their friendship and good
opinion. Clinton resolved, therefore, to enter at once on active
service, and to follow up his profession with energy. Two years were to
elapse before I could marry, and he expressed a wish that we should
neither of us consider ourselves under any engagement. How vain are such
words! Heaven designed us for each other, and the mere phrase of
engagement or freedom could not affect a tie founded on affection,
esteem, or, beyond this, the passion that caused us to find happiness in
each other only. He went with his regiment to Ireland, and we were a
good deal divided during the two years that elapsed before I was
twenty-one. I continued to reside with Lady Hythe, and enjoyed with her
that peace of mind which true friendship affords.

At length the day came when I completed my twenty-first year. Sir
Richard had wished to be present at our nuptials, but was unable from
ill-health. I went to him, and saw him for the first time since the
fatal discovery; for, on finding that I was happily placed with his
daughter, he had carefully avoided seeing me. His character, indeed, was
wholly changed. While carrying on a system of dissimulation, he had
appeared gay; he was extravagant; given up to pleasure, and spending
even beyond his large income, despite the ruin in which he knew that his
son would be involved on his death. He made him indeed a princely
allowance, as if that was to compensate to him; while, in fact, Clinton
was only thus habituated to expense. As soon as the discovery was made,
Sir Richard, by one of those inconceivable changes which sometimes occur
in the history of human nature, set his heart on saving a fortune for
his beloved boy. He thought that I might be fickle; he feared his own
death and the loss of power to benefit him. He gave up his establishment
in town—he let Beech Grove—he saved every farthing that he could, and
was enabled to settle twenty thousand pounds on Clinton on the day of
our marriage.

I went to see him in a little lodging at Camberwell, whither he had
retreated. He was emaciated and ill; his eyes brightened a little on
seeing Clinton and me together.

“I would fain live a little longer,” he said, “to increase my son’s
fortune; but God’s will be done—you will make him happy, Ellen.”

We were inexpressibly shocked. He had concealed his penurious style of
life and declining health all this time; and nothing but his illness,
and our insisting upon seeing him, caused him to betray it now. Our
first care after our marriage was to oblige him to take up his abode
with us; and we devoted ourselves to calming his remorse and smoothing
his path to the grave. He survived only four months; but he had the
comfort of knowing that Clinton was satisfied and happy; and that we
both from our hearts forgave the errors which he at last expiated so
dearly.

We never saw Vernon again; nor can I tell what has happened to him,
except that he lives the life of the rich in England, apparently
attended by prosperity. Lady Hythe stood between me and him, and
screened me from his violence and reproaches. He has never married. I
have never seen him since the day when, in the park at Beech Grove, he
unawares conferred on me every blessing of life, by releasing me from
the ties that bound me to him.

The happiness of Clinton and myself has been unclouded. I at last
persuaded him to give up his profession, and we live principally abroad.
Lord and Lady Hythe frequently visit us; and every event of our
lives—the unimportant events of domestic life—tends to increase our
prosperity, and the entire affection we cherish for each other.

                                 XVII.

                            _THE PILGRIMS._

THE twilight of one of those burning days of summer whose unclouded sky
seems to speak to man of happier realms, had already flung broad shadows
over the valley of Unspunnen; whilst the departing rays of a gorgeous
sunset continued to glitter on the summits of the surrounding hills.
Gradually, however, the glowing tints deepened; then grew darker and
darker; until they finally yielded to the still more sober hues of
night.

Beneath an avenue of lime-trees, which, from their size and luxuriance,
appeared almost coeval with the soil in which they grew, Burkhardt of
Unspunnen wandered to and fro with uneasy step, as if some recent sorrow
occupied his troubled mind. At times he stood with his eyes stedfastly
fixed on the earth, as if he expected to see the object of his
contemplation start forth from its bosom; at other times he would raise
his eyes to the summits of the trees, whose branches, now gently
agitated by the night breeze, seemed to breathe sighs of compassion in
remembrance of those happy hours which had once been passed beneath
their welcome shade. When, however, advancing from beneath them, he
beheld the deep blue heavens with the bright host of stars, hope sprang
up within him at the thoughts of that glory to which those heavens and
those stars, all lovely and beauteous as they seem, are but the faint
heralds, and for a time dissipated the grief which had so long weighed
heavily upon his heart.

From these reflections he was suddenly aroused by the tones of a manly
voice addressing him. Burkhardt advancing, beheld, standing in the light
of the moon, two pilgrims, clothed in the usual coarse and sombre garb,
with their broad hats drawn over their brows.

“Praise be to God!” said the pilgrim who had just before awakened
Burkhardt’s attention, and who, from his height and manner, appeared to
be the elder of the two. His words were echoed by a voice whose gentle
and faultering accents showed the speaker to be still but of tender
years.

“Whither are you going, friends? what seek you here, at this late hour?”
said Burkhardt. “If you wish to rest you after your journey enter, and
with God’s blessing, and my hearty welcome, recruit yourselves.”

“Noble sir, you have more than anticipated our petition,” replied the
elder pilgrim; “our duty has led us far from our native land, being
bound on a pilgrimage to fulfil the vow of a beloved parent. We have
been forced during the heat of the day to climb the steep mountain
paths; and the strength of my brother, whose youth but ill befits him
for such fatigues, began to fail, when the sight of your castle’s
towers, which the moon’s clear beams discovered to us, revived our
hopes. We resolved to beg a night’s lodging under your hospitable roof,
that we might be enabled, on to-morrow’s dawn, to pursue our weary way.”

“Follow me, my friends,” said Burkhardt, as he, with quickened step,
preceded them, that he might give some orders for their entertainment
The pilgrims rejoicing in so kind a reception, followed the knight in
silence into a high-vaulted saloon, over which the tapers that were
placed in branches against the walls cast a solemn but pleasing light,
well in accordance with the present feelings of the parties.

The knight then discerned two countenances, the pleasing impression of
which was considerably heightened by the modest yet easy manner with
which the youthful pair received their host’s kind attentions. Much
struck with their appearance and demeanour, Burkhardt was involuntarily
led back into the train of thoughts from which their approach had
aroused him; and the scenes of former days flitted before him as he
recollected that in this hall his beloved child was ever wont to greet
him with her welcome smile on his return from the battle or the chase;
brief scenes of happiness, which had been followed by events that had
cankered his heart, and rendered memory but an instrument of bitterness
and chastisement.

Supper was soon after served, and the pilgrims were supplied with the
greatest attention, yet conversation wholly languished; for his
melancholy reflections occupied Burkhardt, and respect, or perhaps a
more kindly feeling, towards their host and benefactor, seemed to have
sealed the lips of his youthful guests. After supper, however, a flask
of the baron’s old wine cheered his flagging spirits, and emboldened the
elder pilgrim to break through the spell which had chained them.

“Pardon me, noble sir,” said he, “for I feel it must seem intrusive in
me to seek the cause of that sorrow which renders you so sad a spectator
of the bounty and happiness which you liberally bestow upon others.
Believe me, it is not the impulse of a mere idle curiosity that makes me
express my wonder that you can thus dwell alone in this spacious and
noble mansion, the prey to a deeply-rooted sorrow. Would that it were in
our power to alleviate the cares of one who with such bounteous hand
relieves the wants of his poorer brethren!”

“I thank you for your sympathy, good pilgrim,” said the old noble, “but
what can it avail you to know the story of those griefs which have made
this earth a desert? and which are, with rapid pace, conducting me where
alone I can expect to find rest. Spare me, then, the pain of recalling
scenes which I would fain bury in oblivion. As yet, you are in the
spring of life, when no sad remembrance gives a discordant echo of past
follies, or of joys irrecoverably lost. Seek not to darken the sunshine
of your youth with a knowledge of those fierce, guilty beings who, in
listening to the fiend-like suggestions of their passions, are led
astray from the paths of rectitude, and tear asunder the ties of
nature.”

Burkhardt thus sought to avoid the entreaty of the pilgrim. But the
request was still urged with such earnest though delicate persuasion,
and the rich tones of the stranger’s voice awoke within him so many
thoughts of days long, long past, that the knight felt himself almost
irresistibly impelled to unburden his long-closed heart to one who
seemed to enter into its feelings with a sincere cordiality.

“Your artless sympathy has won my confidence, my young friends,” said
he, “and you shall learn the cause of my sorrow.

“You see me here, lonely and forsaken. But fortune once looked upon me
with her blandest smiles; and I felt myself rich in the consciousness of
my prosperity, and the gifts which bounteous Heaven had bestowed. My
powerful vassals made me a terror to those enemies which the protection
that I was ever ready to afford to the oppressed and helpless brought
against me. My broad and fertile possessions enabled me, with liberal
hand, to relieve the wants of the poor, and to exercise the rights of
hospitality in a manner becoming my state and my name. But of all the
gifts which Heaven had showered upon me, that which I most prized was a
wife, whose virtues had made her the idol of both the rich and the poor.
But she who was already an angel, and unfitted for this grosser world,
was too soon, alas! claimed by her kindred spirits. One brief year alone
had beheld our happiness.

“My grief and anguish were most bitter, and would soon have laid me in
the same grave with her, but that she had left me a daughter, for whose
dear sake I struggled earnestly against my affliction. In her were now
centred all my cares, all my hopes, all my happiness. As she grew in
years, so did her likeness to her sainted mother increase; and every
look and gesture reminded me of my Agnes. With her mother’s beauty I
had, with fond presumption, dared to cherish the hope that Ida would
inherit her mother’s virtues.

“Greatly did I feel the void that my irreparable loss had made; but the
very thought of marrying again seemed to me a profanation. If, however,
even for a single instant I had entertained this disposition, one look
at our child would have crushed it, and made me cling with still fonder
hope to her, in the fond confidence that she would reward me for every
sacrifice that I could make. Alas! my friends, this hope was built on an
unsure foundation! and my heart is even now tortured when I think on
those delusive dreams.

“Ida, with the fondest caresses, would dispel each care from my brow; in
sickness and in health she watched me with the tenderest solicitude; her
whole endeavour seemed to be to anticipate my wishes. But, alas! like
the serpent, which only fascinates to destroy, she lavished these
caresses and attentions to blind me, and wrap me in fatal security.

“Many and deep were the affronts, revenged indeed, but not forgotten,
which had long since caused (with shame I avow it) a deadly hatred
between myself and Rupert, Lord of Wädischwyl, which the slightest
occasion seemed to increase to a degree of madness. As he dared no
longer throw down the gauntlet, he found means, much harder than steel
or iron, to glut his revenge upon me.

“Duke Berchtold of Zähringen, one of those wealthy and powerful tyrants
who are the very pests of that society of whose rights they ought to be
the ready guardians, had made a sudden irruption on the peaceful
inhabitants of the mountains, seizing their herds and flocks, and
insulting their wives and daughters. Though possessed of great courage,
yet being not much used to warfare, these unhappy men found it
impossible to resist the tyrant, and hastened to entreat my instant
succour. Without a moment’s delay, I assembled my brave vassals, and
marched against the spoiler. After a long and severe struggle, God
blessed our cause, and our victory was complete.

“On the morning that I was to depart on my return to my castle, one of
my followers announced to me that the duke had arrived in my camp, and
wished an immediate interview with me. I instantly went forth to meet
him; and Berchtold, hastening towards me with a smile, offered me his
hand in token of reconciliation. I frankly accepted it, not suspecting
that falsehood could lurk beneath so open and friendly an aspect.

“‘My friend,’ said he, ‘for such I must call you; your valour in this
contest has won my esteem, although I could at once convince you that I
have just cause of quarrel with the insolent mountaineers. But, in spite
of your victory in this unjust strife, into which doubtless you were
induced to enter by the misrepresentations of those villains, yet as my
nature abhors to prolong dissensions, I would willingly cease to think
that we are enemies, and commence a friendship which, on my part, at
least, shall not be broken. In token, therefore, that you do not
mistrust a fellow-soldier, return with me to my castle, that we may
there drown all remembrance of our past dissensions.’

“During a long time I resisted his importunity, for I had now been more
than a year absent from my home, and was doubly impatient to return, as
I fondly imagined that my delay would occasion much anxiety to my
daughter. But the duke, with such apparent kindness and in such a
courteous manner, renewed and urged his solicitations, that I could
resist no longer.

“His Highness entertained me with the greatest hospitality and
unremitted attention. But I soon perceived that an _honest_ man is more
in his element amidst the toils of the battle than amongst the
blandishments of a Court, where the lip and the gesture carry welcome,
but where the heart, to which the tongue is never the herald, is
corroded by the unceasing strifes of jealousy and envy. I soon, too, saw
that my rough and undisguised manners were an occasion of much mirth to
the perfumed and essenced nothings who crowded the halls of the duke. I
however stifled my resentment, when I considered that these creatures
lived but in his favour, like those swarms of insects which are warmed
into existence from the dunghill, by the sun’s rays.

“I had remained the unwilling guest of the duke during some days, when
the arrival of a stranger of distinction was announced with much
ceremony; this stranger I found to be my bitterest foe, Rupert of
Wädischwyl. The duke received him with the most marked politeness and
attention, and more than once I fancied that I perceived the precedence
of me was studiously given to my enemy. My frank yet haughty nature
could ill brook this disparagement; and, besides, it seemed to me that I
should but play the hypocrite if I partook of the same cup with the man
for whom I entertained a deadly hatred.

“I resolved therefore to depart, and sought his Highness to bid him
farewell. He appeared much distressed at my resolution, and earnestly
pressed me to avow the cause of my abrupt departure. I candidly
confessed that the undue favour which I thought he showed to my rival,
was the cause.

“‘I am hurt, deeply hurt,’ said the duke, affecting an air of great
sorrow, ‘that my friend, and that friend the valiant Unspunnen, should
think thus unjustly, dare I add, thus meanly of me. No, I have not even
in thought wronged you; and to prove my sincerity and my regard for your
welfare, know that it was not chance which conducted your adversary to
my court. He comes in consequence of my eager wish to reconcile two men
whom I so much esteem, and whose worth and excellence place them amongst
the brightest ornaments of our favoured land. Let me, therefore,’ said
he, taking my hand and the hand of Rupert, who had entered during our
discourse, ‘let me have the satisfaction of reconciling two such men,
and of terminating your ancient discord. You cannot refuse a request so
congenial to that holy faith which we all profess. Suffer me therefore
to be the minister of peace, and to suggest that, in token and in
confirmation of an act which will draw down Heaven’s blessing on us all,
you will permit our holy Church to unite in one your far-famed lovely
daughter with Lord Rupert’s only son, whose virtues, if reports speak
truly, render him no undeserving object of her love.’

“A rage, which seemed in an instant to turn my blood into fire, and
which almost choked my utterance, took possession of me.

“‘What!’ exclaimed I, ‘what, think you that I would thus sacrifice,
_thus_ cast away my precious jewel! thus debase my beloved Ida? No, by
her sainted mother, I swear that rather than see her married to _his_
son, I would devote her to the cloister! Nay, I would rather see her
dead at my feet than suffer her purity to be sullied by such
contamination!’

“‘But for the presence of his Highness,’ cried Rupert wrathfully, ‘your
life should instantly answer for this insult! Nathless, I will well mark
you, and watch you, too, my lord; and if you escape my revenge, you are
more than man.’

“‘Indeed, indeed, my Lord of Unspunnen,’ said the duke, ‘you are much
too rash. Your passion has clouded your reason; and, believe me, you
will live to repent having so scornfully refused my friendly proposal.’

“‘You may judge me rash, my Lord Duke, and perhaps think me somewhat too
bold, because I dare assert the truth in the courts of princes. But
since my tongue cannot frame itself to speak that which my heart does
not dictate, and my plain but honest manner seems to displease you, I
will, with your Highness’s permission, withdraw to my own domain, whence
I have been but too long absent.’

“‘Undoubtedly, my lord, you have my permission,’ said the duke
haughtily, and at the same time turning coldly from me.

“My horse was brought, I mounted him with as much composure as I could
command, and I breathed more freely as I left the castle far behind.

“During the second day’s journey I arrived within a near view of my own
native mountains, and I felt doubly invigorated as their pure breezes
were wafted towards me. Still the fond anxiety of a father for his
beloved child, and that child his only treasure, made the way seem
doubly long. But as I approached the turn of the road which is
immediately in front of my castle, I almost then wished the way
lengthened; for my joy, my hopes, and my apprehensions crowded upon me
almost to suffocation. ‘A few short minutes, however,’ I thought, ‘and
then the truth, ill or good, will be known to me.’

“When I came in full sight of my dwelling, all seemed in peace; nought
exhibited any change since I had left it. I spurred my horse on to the
gate, but as I advanced the utter stillness and desertion of all around
surprised me. Not a domestic, not a peasant, was to be seen in the
courts; it appeared as if the inhabitants of the castle were still
asleep.

“‘Merciful Heaven!’ I thought, ‘what can this stillness forebode! Is
she, is my beloved child dead?’

“I could not summon courage to pull the bell. Thrice I attempted, yet
thrice the dread of learning the awful truth prevented me. One moment,
one word, even one sign, and I might be a forlorn, childless, wretched
man, for ever! None but a father can feel or fully sympathize in the
agony of those moments! none but a father can ever fitly describe them!

“I was aroused from this inactive state by my faithful dog springing
towards me to welcome my return with his boisterous caresses, and deep
and loud-toned expressions of his joy. Then the old porter, attracted by
the noise, came to the gate, which he instantly opened; but, as he was
hurrying forward to meet me, I readily perceived that some sudden and
painful recollection checked his eagerness. I leaped from my horse
quickly, and entered the hall. All the other domestics now came forward,
except my faithful steward Wilfred, he who had been always the foremost
to greet his master.

“‘Where is my daughter? where is your mistress?’ I eagerly exclaimed;
‘let me but know that she lives!’

“The faithful Wilfred, who had now entered the hall, threw himself at my
feet, and with the tears rolling down his furrowed cheeks, earnestly
pressed my hand, and hesitatingly informed me that my daughter _lived_:
was well, he believed, but—had quitted the castle.

“‘Now, speak more quickly, old man,’ said I hastily, and passionately
interrupting him. ‘What is it you can mean? my daughter lives; my Ida is
well, but she is _not here_. Now, have you and my vassals proved
recreants, and suffered my castle in my absence to be robbed of its
greatest treasure? Speak! speak plainly, I command ye!’

“‘It is with anguish, as great almost as your own can be, my beloved
master, that I make known to you the sad truth that your daughter has
quitted her father’s roof to become the wife of Conrad, the son of the
Lord of Wädischwyl.’

“‘The wife of Lord Rupert’s son! my Ida the wife of the son of him whose
very name my soul loathes!’

“My wrath now knew no bounds; the torments of hell seemed to have
changed the current of my blood. In the madness of my passion I even
cursed my own dear daughter! Yes, pilgrim, I even cursed her on whom I
so fondly doted; for whose sake alone life for me had any charms. Oh!
how often since have I attempted to recall that curse! and these bitter
tears, which even now I cannot control, witness how severe has been my
repentance of that awful and unnatural act!

“Dreadful were the imprecations which I heaped upon my enemy; and deep
was the revenge I swore. I know not to what fearful length my unbridled
passion would have hurried me, had I not, from its very excess, sunk
senseless into the arms of my domestics. When I recovered, I found
myself in my own chamber, and Wilfred seated near me. Some time,
however, elapsed before I came to a clear recollection of the past
events; and when I did, it seemed as if an age of crime and misery had
weighed me down, and chained my tongue. My eye involuntarily wandered to
that part of the chamber where hung my daughter’s portrait. But this the
faithful old man—who had not removed it, no doubt thinking that to do so
would have offended me—had contrived to hide, by placing before it a
piece of armour, which seemed as though it had accidentally fallen into
that position.

“Many more days elapsed ere I was enabled to listen to the particulars
of my daughter’s flight, which I will, not to detain you longer with my
griefs, now briefly relate.—It appeared that, urged by the fame of her
beauty, and by a curiosity most natural, I confess to youth, Conrad of
Wädischwyl had, for a long time sought, but sought in vain, to see my
Ida. Chance at length, however, favoured him. On her way to hear mass at
our neighbouring monastery, he beheld her; and beheld her but to love.
Her holy errand did not prevent him from addressing her; and well he
knew how to gain the ear of one so innocent, so unsuspicious as my Ida!
Too soon, alas! did his flatteries win their way to her guiltless heart.

“My child’s affection for her father was unbounded; and readily would
she have sacrificed her life for mine. But when love has once taken
possession of the female heart, too quickly drives he thence those
sterner guests, reason and duty. Suffice it therefore to say she was
won, and induced to unite herself to Wädischwyl, before my return, by
his crafty and insidious argument that I should be more easily persuaded
to give them my pardon and my blessing, when I found that the step that
she had taken was irrevocable. With almost equal art, he pleaded too
that their union would doubtless heal the breach between the families of
Wädischwyl and Unspunnen; and thus terminate that deadly hatred which my
gentle Ida, ever the intercessor for peace, had always condemned. By
this specious of sophistry my poor child was prevailed upon to tear
herself from the heart of a fond parent, to unite herself with the son
of that parent’s most bitter enemy.”

The pain of these recollections so overcame Burkhardt, that some time
elapsed ere he could master his feelings. At length he proceeded.

“My soul seemed now to have but one feeling, _revenge_. All other
passions were annihilated by this master one; and I instantly prepared
myself and my vassals to chastise this worse than robber. But such
satisfaction was (I now thank God) denied me; for the Duke of Zähringen
soon gave me memorable cause to recollect his parting words. Having
attached himself with his numerous followers to my rival’s party, these
powerful chiefs suddenly invaded my domain. A severe struggle against
most unequal numbers ensued. But, at length, though my brave retainers
would fain have prolonged the hopeless strife, resolved to stop a
needless waste of blood, I left the field to my foes; and, with the
remnant of my faithful soldiers, hastened, in deep mortification, to
bury myself within these walls. This galling repulse prevented all
possibility of reconciliation with my daughter, whom I now regarded as
the cause of my disgrace; and, consequently, I forbade her name even to
be mentioned in my presence.

“Years rolled on; and I had no intelligence of her until I learned by a
mere chance that she had with her husband quitted her native land.
Altogether, more than twenty, to me long, long years, have now passed
since her flight; and though, when time brought repentance, and my anger
and revenge yielded to better feelings, I made every effort to gain
tidings of my poor child, I have not yet been able to discover any
further traces of her. Here therefore have I lived a widowed, childless,
heart-broken old man. But I have at least learned to bow to the
dispensations of an all-wise Providence, which has in its justice
stricken me, for thus remorselessly cherishing that baneful passion
which Holy Law so expressly forbids. Oh! how I have yearned to see my
beloved child! how I have longed to clasp her to this withered, blighted
heart! With scalding tears of the bitterest repentance have I revoked
those deadly curses, which, in the plenitude of my unnatural wrath, I
dared to utter daily. Ceaselessly do I now weary Heaven with my prayers
to obliterate all memory of those fatal imprecations; or to let them
fall on my own head, and shower down only its choicest blessings on that
of my beloved child! But a fear, which freezes my veins with horror,
constantly haunts me lest the maledictions which I dared to utter in my
moments of demoniac vindictiveness, should, in punishment for my
impiety, have been fulfilled.

“Often, in my dreams, do I behold my beloved child; but her looks are
always in sadness, and she ever seems mildly but most sorrowfully to
upbraid me for having so inhumanly cast her from me. Yet she must, I
fear, have died long ere now; for, were she living, she would not, I
think, have ceased to endeavour to regain the affections of a father who
once loved her so tenderly. It is true that at first she made many
efforts to obtain my forgiveness. Nay, I have subsequently learned that
she even knelt at the threshold of my door, and piteously supplicated to
be allowed to see me. But my commands had been so peremptory, and the
steward who had replaced Wilfred, after his death, was of so stern and
unbending a disposition, that, just and righteous as was this her last
request, it was unfeelingly denied to her. Eternal Heaven! she whom I
had loved as perhaps never father loved before—she whom I had fondly
watched almost hourly lest the rude breeze of winter should chill her,
or the summer’s heat should scorch her—she whom I had cherished in
sickness through many a livelong night, with a mother’s devotion, and
more than a mother’s solicitude, even _she_, the only child of my
beloved Agnes, and the anxious object of the last moments of her life,
was spurned from my door! from this door whence no want goes unrelieved,
and where the very beggar finds rest! And now, when I would bless the
lips that even could say to me ‘she lives,’ I can nowhere gather the
slightest tidings of my child. Ah, had I listened to the voice of
reason, had I not suffered my better feelings to be mastered by the
wildest and fellest passions, I might have seen herself, and perhaps her
children, happy around me, cheering the evening of my life. And when my
last hour shall come, they would have closed my eyes in peace, and, in
unfeigned sorrow have daily addressed to Heaven their innocent prayers
for my soul’s eternal rest.

“You now know, pilgrims, the cause of my grief; and I see by the tears
which you have so abundantly shed, that you truly pity the forlorn being
before you. Remember him and his sorrows therefore ever in your prayers;
and when you kneel at the shrine to which you are bound, let not those
sorrows be forgotten.”

The elder pilgrim in vain attempted to answer; the excess of his
feelings overpowered his utterance. At length, throwing himself at the
feet of Burkhardt, and casting off his pilgrim’s habits, he with
difficulty exclaimed,—

“See here, thine Ida’s son! and behold in my youthful companion, thine
Ida’s daughter! Yes, before you kneel the children of her whom you so
much lament. We came to sue for that pardon, for that love, which we had
feared would have been denied us. But, thanks be to God, who has
mollified your heart, we have only to implore that you will suffer us to
use our poor efforts to alleviate your sorrows, and render more bright
and cheerful your declining years.”

In wild and agitated surprise, Burkhardt gazed intently upon them. It
seemed to him as if a beautiful vision were before him, which he feared
even a breath might dispel. When, however, he became assured that he was
under the influence of no delusion, the tumult of his feelings
overpowered him, and he sank senselessly on the neck of the elder
pilgrim; who, with his sister’s assistance, quickly raised the old man,
and by their united efforts restored him, ere long, to his senses. But
when Burkhardt beheld the younger pilgrim, the very image of his lost
Ida, bending over him with the most anxious and tender solicitude, he
thought that death had ended all his worldly sufferings, and that heaven
had already opened to his view.

“Great God!” at length he exclaimed, “I am unworthy of these Thy
mercies! Grant me to receive them as I ought! I need not ask,” added he
after a pause, and pressing the pilgrims to his bosom, “for a
confirmation of your statement, or of my own sensations of joy. All, all
tells me that you are the children of my beloved Ida. Say, therefore, is
your mother dead? or dare I hope once more to clasp her to my heart?”

The elder pilgrim, whose name was Hermann, then stated to him that two
years had passed since his parent had breathed her last in his arms. Her
latest prayer was, that Heaven would forgive her the sorrow she had
caused her father, and forbear to visit her own error on her children’s
heads. He then added that his father had been dead many years.

“My mother,” continued Hermann, drawing from his bosom a small sealed
packet, “commanded me, on her deathbed, to deliver this into your own
hands. ‘My son,’ she said, ‘when I am dead, if my father still lives,
cast yourself at his feet, and desist not your supplications until you
have obtained from him a promise that he will read this prayer. It will
acquaint him with a repentance that may incite him to recall his curse;
and thus cause the earth to lie lightly on all that will shortly remain
of his once loved Ida. Paint to him the hours of anguish which even your
tender years have witnessed. Weary him, my son, with your entreaties;
cease them not until you have wrung from him his forgiveness.’

“As you may suppose, I solemnly engaged to perform my mother’s request;
and as soon as our grief for the loss of so dear, so fond a parent,
would permit us, my sister and myself resolved, in these pilgrim’s
habits, to visit your castle; and, by gradual means, attempt to win your
affections, if we found you still relentless, and unwilling to listen to
our mother’s prayer.”

“Praise be to God, my son,” said Burkhardt, “at whose command the waters
spring from the barren rock, that He has bidden the streams of love and
repentance to flow once more from my once barren and flinty heart. But
let me not delay to open this sad memorial of your mother’s griefs. I
wish you, my children, to listen to it, that you may hear both her
exculpation and her wrongs.”

Burkhardt hid his face in his hands, and remained for some moments
earnestly struggling with his feelings. At length he broke the seal,
and, with a voice which at times was almost overpowered, read aloud the
contents.

“My beloved father,—if by that fond title your daughter may still
address you,—feeling that my sad days are now numbered, I make this last
effort, ere my strength shall fail me, to obtain at least your pity for
her you once so much loved; and to beseech you to recall that curse
which has weighed too heavily upon her heart. Indeed, my father, I am
not quite that guilty wretch you think me. Do not imagine that,
neglecting every tie of duty and gratitude, I could have left the
tenderest of parents to his widowed lonely home, and have united myself
with the son of his sworn foe, had I not fondly, most ardently, hoped,
nay, had cherished the idea almost to certainty, that you would, when
you found that I was a wife, have quickly pardoned a fault, which the
fears of your refusal to our union had alone tempted me to commit. I
firmly believed that my husband would then have shared with me my
father’s love, and have, with his child, the pleasing task of watching
over his happiness and comfort. But never did I for an instant imagine
that I was permanently wounding the heart of that father. My youth, and
the ardour of my husband’s persuasions, must plead some extenuation of
my fault.

“The day that I learnt the news of your having pronounced against me
that fatal curse, and your fixed determination never more to admit me to
your presence, has been marked in characters indelible on my memory. At
that moment it appeared as if Heaven had abandoned me, had marked me for
its reprobation as a parricide! My brain and my heart seemed on fire,
whilst my blood froze in my veins. The chillness of death crept over
every limb, and my tongue refused all utterance. I would have wept, but
the source of my tears was dried within me.

“How long I remained in this state I know not, as I became insensible,
and remained so for some days. On returning to a full consciousness of
my wretchedness, I would instantly have rushed to you, and cast myself
at your feet, to wring from you, if possible, your forgiveness; but my
limbs were incapable of all motion. Soon, too, I learned that the
letters which I dictated were returned unopened; and my husband at last
informed me that all his efforts to see you had been utterly fruitless.

“Yet the moment I had gained sufficient strength, I went to the castle,
but, unfortunately for me, even as I entered, I encountered a stern
wretch, to whom my person was not unknown; and he instantly told me that
my efforts to see his master would be useless. I used prayers and
entreaties; I even knelt upon the bare ground to him. But so far from
listening to me, he led me to the gate, and, in my presence, dismissed
the old porter who had admitted me, and who afterwards followed my
fortunes until the hour of his death. Finding that all my attempts were
fruitless, and that several of the old servants had been discarded on my
account, with a heart completely broken, I succumbed to my fate, and
abandoned all further attempt.

“After the birth of my son (to whose fidelity and love I trust this sad
memorial), my husband, with the tenderest solicitude, employed every
means in his power to divert my melancholy, and having had a valuable
property in Italy bequeathed to him, prevailed upon me to repair to that
favoured and beauteous country. But neither the fond attentions of my
beloved Conrad, nor the bright sunshine and luxurious breezes, could
overcome a grief so deeply rooted as mine; and I soon found that Italy
had less charms for me than my own dear native land, with its dark
pine-clad mountains.

“Shortly after we had arrived at Rome, I gave birth to a daughter;—an
event which was only too soon followed by the death of my affectionate
husband. The necessity of ceaseless attention to my infant in some
measure alleviated the intense anguish which I suffered from that most
severe loss. Nevertheless, in the very depth of this sorrow, which
almost overcharged my heart, Heaven only knows how often, and how
remorsefully, while bending over my own dear children in sickness, have
I called to mind the anxious fondness with which the tenderest and best
of fathers used to watch over me!

“I struggled long and painfully with my feelings, and often did I
beseech God to spare my life, that I might be enabled to instruct my
children in His holy love and fear, and teach them to atone for the
error of their parent. My prayer has in mercy been heard; the boon I
supplicated has been granted; and I trust, my beloved father, that if
these children should be admitted to your affections, you will find that
I have trained up two blessed intercessors for your forgiveness, when it
shall have pleased Heaven to have called your daughter to her account
before that dread tribunal where a sire’s curse will plead so awfully
against her. Recall then, oh, father! recall your dreadful malediction
from your poor repentant Ida! and send your blessing as an angel of
mercy to plead for her eternal rest. Farewell, my father, for ever! for
ever, farewell! By the cross, whose emblem her fevered lips now press;
by Him, who in His boundless mercy hung upon that cross, your daughter,
your once much loved Ida, implores you, supplicates you, not to let her
plead in vain!”

“My child, my child!” sobbed Burkhardt, as the letter dropped from his
hand, “may the Father of All forgive me as freely as I from the depths
of my wrung heart forgive you! Would that your remorseful father could
have pressed you to his heart, with his own lips have assured you of his
affection, and wiped away the tears of sorrow from your eyes! But he
will cherish these beloved remembrances of you, and will more jealously
guard them than his own life.”

Burkhardt passed the whole of the following day in his chamber, to which
the good Father Jerome alone was admitted, as the events of the
preceding day rendered a long repose absolutely necessary. The following
morning, however, he entered the hall, where Hermann and Ida were
impatiently waiting for him. His pale countenance still exhibited deep
traces of the agitation he had experienced; but having kissed his
children most affectionately, he smilingly flung round Ida’s neck a
massive gold chain, richly wrought, with a bunch of keys appended to it.

“We must duly install our Lady of the Castle,” said he, “and invest her
with her appropriate authorities.—But, hark! from the sound of the
porter’s horn it seems as if our hostess would have early calls upon her
hospitality. Whom have we here?” continued he, looking out up the
avenue. “By St. Hubert, a gay and gallant knight is approaching, who
shall be right welcome—that is, if my lady approve. Well, Willibald,
what bring you?—a letter from our good friend the Abbot of St. Anselm.
What says he?”

    “I am sure that you will not refuse your welcome to a young knight,
    who is returning by your castle to his home, from the Emperor’s
    wars. He is well known to me, and I can vouch for his being a guest
    worthy of your hospitality, which will not be the less freely
    granted to him because he does not bask in the _golden_ smiles of
    fortune.”

“No, no, that it shall not, my good friend; and if fortune frown upon
him, he shall be doubly welcome. Conduct him hither instantly, good
Willibald.”

The steward hastened to usher in the stranger, who advanced into the
hall with a modest but manly air. He was apparently about twenty-five
years of age; his person was such as might well, in the dreams of a
young maiden, occupy no unconspicuous place.

“Sir Knight,” said Burkhardt, taking him cordially by the hand, “you are
right welcome to my castle, and such poor entertainment as it can
afford. We must make you forget your wounds, and the rough usage of a
soldier’s life. But, soft, I already neglect my duty in not first
introducing our hostess,” added the aged knight, presenting Ida. “By my
faith,” he continued, “judging from my lady’s blushing smile, you seem
not to have met for the first time. Am I right in my conjecture?”

“We _have_ met, sir,” replied Ida, with such confusion as pleasantly
implied that the meeting was not indifferently recollected, “in the
parlour of the abbess of the Ursulines, at Munich, where I have
sometimes been to visit a much valued friend.”

“The abbess,” said the young knight, “was my cousin; and my good fortune
more than once gave me the happiness of seeing in her convent this lady.
But little did I expect that amongst these mountains the fickle goddess
would again have so favoured a homeless wanderer.”

“Well, Sir Knight,” replied Burkhardt, “we trust that fortune has been
equally favourable to us. And now we will make bold to ask your name;
and then, without useless and tedious ceremony, on the part of ourselves
and our hostess, bid you again a hearty welcome.”

“My name,” said the stranger, “is Walter de Blumfeldt; though humble, it
has never been disgraced; and with the blessing of Heaven, I hope to
hand it down as honoured as I have received it.”

Weeks, months rolled on, and Walter de Blumfeldt was still the guest of
the Lord of Unspunnen; till, by his virtues, and the many excellent
qualities which daily more and more developed themselves, he wound
himself around Burkhardt’s heart, which the chastened life of the old
knight had rendered particularly susceptible of the kindlier feelings.
Frequently would he now, with tears in his eyes, declare that he wished
he could convince each and all with whom his former habits had caused
any difference, how truly he forgave them, and desired their
forgiveness.

“Would,” said he one day, in allusion to this subject, “that I could
have met my old enemy, the Duke of Zähringen, and with a truly heartfelt
pleasure and joy have embraced him, and numbered him amongst my friends.
But he is gathered to his fathers, and I know not whether he has left
any one to bear his honours.”

Each time that Walter had offered to depart, Burkhardt had found some
excuse to detain him; for it seemed to him that in separating from his
young guest he should lose a link of that chain which good fortune had
so lately woven for him. Hermann, too, loved Walter as a brother; and
Ida fain would have imagined that she loved him as a sister; but her
heart more plainly told her what her colder reasoning sought to hide.
Unspunnen, who had for some time perceived the growing attachment
between Walter and Ida, was not displeased at the discovery, as he had
long ceased to covet riches; and had learnt to prize the sterling worth
of the young knight, who fully answered the high terms in which the
Prior of St. Anselm always spoke of him. Walking one evening under the
shade of that very avenue where he had first encountered Hermann and
Ida, he perceived the latter, at some little distance, in conversation
with Walter. It was evident to Burkhardt that the young knight was not
addressing himself to a very unwilling ear, as Ida was totally
regardless of the loud cough with which Burkhardt chose to be seized at
that moment; nor did she perceive him, until he exclaimed, or rather
vociferated,—

“Do you know, Walter, that, under this very avenue, two pilgrims, bound
to some holy shrine, once accosted me; but that, in pity to my sins and
forlorn condition, they exchanged their penitential journey for an act
of greater charity, and have ever since remained to extend their kind
cares to an aged and helpless relative. One, however, of these
affectionate beings is now about to quit my abode, and to pass through
the rest of this life’s pilgrimage with a helpmate, in the person of the
fair daughter of the Baron de Leichtfeldt, and thus leave his poor
companion with only the tedious society of an old man. Say, Sir Knight,
will thy valour suffer that such wrong be done; or wilt _thou_ undertake
to conduct this forsaken pilgrim on her way, and guide her through the
chequered paths of this variable life? I see by the lowliness with which
you bend, and the colour which mantles in your cheek, that I speak not
to one insensible to an old man’s appeal. But soft, soft, Sir Knight, my
Ida is not yet canonized, and therefore cannot afford to lose a hand,
which inevitably must occur if you continue to press it with such very
ardent devotion. But what says our pilgrim; does she accept of thy
conduct and service, Sir Knight?”

Ida, scarcely able to support herself, threw herself on Burkhardt’s
neck. We will not raise the veil which covers the awful moment that
renders a man, as he supposes, happy or miserable for ever. Suffice it
to say that the day which made Hermann the husband of the daughter of
the Baron de Leichtfeldt, saw Ida the wife of Walter de Blumfeldt.

Six months had passed rapidly away to the happy inhabitants of
Unspunnen, and Burkhardt seemed almost to have grown young again. He was
one of the most active in the preparations which were necessary in
consequence of Walter suggesting that they should spend Ida’s birthday
in a favourite retreat of his and hers. This chosen spot was a beautiful
meadow, in front of which meandered a small limpid stream; at the back
was a gorgeous amphitheatre of trees, the wide-spreading branches of
which cast a refreshing shade over the richly enamelled grass.

In this beauteous retreat were Burkhardt, Walter, and his Ida passing
the sultry hours of noon, when Walter, who had been relating some of his
adventures at the court of the Emperor, and recounting the magnificence
of the tournaments, turning to his bride, said,—

“But what avails all that pomp, my Ida. How happy are we in this
peaceful vale! we envy neither princes nor dukes their palaces or their
states. What say you, my Ida, could you brook the ceremony of a court,
and the pride of royalty? Methinks even the coronet of a duchess would
but ill replace the wreath of blushing roses on your head.”

“Gently, my good husband,” replied Ida, laughing; “they say, you know,
that a woman loves these vanities too dearly in her heart ever to
despise them. Then how can you expect so frail a mortal as your poor
wife to hold them in contempt? Indeed, I think,” added she, assuming an
air of burlesque dignity, “that I should make a lofty duchess, and wear
my coronet with most becoming grace. And now, by my faith, Walter, I
recollect that you have this day, like a true and gallant knight,
promised to grant whatever boon I shall ask. On my bended knee,
therefore, I humbly sue that if you know any spell or magic wile, to
make a princess or a duchess for only a single day, that you will
forthwith exercise your art upon me; just in order to enable me to
ascertain with how much or how little dignity I could sustain such
honours. It is no very difficult matter, Sir Knight: you have only to
call in the aid of Number Nip, or some such handy workman of the woods.
Answer, most chivalrous husband, for thy disconsolate wife rises not
until her prayer is granted.”

“Why, Ida, you have indeed craved a rare boon,” replied Walter; “and how
to grant it may well puzzle my brain till it becomes crazed with the
effort. But, let me see, let me see,” continued he musingly; “I have
it!—Come hither, love, here is your throne,” said he, placing her on a
gentle eminence richly covered with the fragrant wild thyme and the
delicate harebell; “kings might now envy you the incense which is
offered to you. And you, noble sir,” added he, addressing Burkhardt,
“must stand beside her Highness, in quality of chief counsellor. There
are your attendants around you; behold that tall oak, he must be your
Highness’s pursuivant; and yonder slender mountain ashes, your trusty
pages.”

“This is but a poor fulfilment of the task you have undertaken, Sir
mummer,” said Ida, with a playful and arch affectation of
disappointment.

“Have patience for a brief while, fair dame,” replied Walter, laughing;
“for now I must awaken your Highness’s men-at-arms.”

Then, taking from his side a silver horn, he loudly sounded the
melodious reveille. As he withdrew the instrument from his lips, a
trumpet thrillingly answered to the call; and scarcely had its last
notes died away, when, from the midst of the woods, as if the very trees
were gifted with life, came forth a troop of horsemen, followed by a
body of archers on foot. They had but just entirely emerged, when
numerous peasants, both male and female, appeared in their gayest
attire; and, together with the horsemen and the archers, rapidly and
picturesquely ranged themselves in front of the astonished Ida, who had
already abdicated her throne, and clung to the arm of Walter. They then
suddenly divided, and twelve pages in richly-emblazoned dresses
advanced. After them followed six young girls, whose forms and features
the Graces might have envied, bearing two coronets placed on embroidered
cushions. In the rear of these, supporting his steps with his abbatial
staff, walked the venerable Abbot of St. Anselm, who, with his white
beard flowing almost to his girdle, and his benign looks that showed the
pure commerce of the soul which gave life to an eye the brightness of
which seventy years had scarcely diminished, seemed to Ida a being of
another world. The young girls then advancing, and kneeling before
Walter and his wife, presented the coronets.

Ida, who had remained almost breathless with wonder, could now scarcely
articulate,—

“Dear, dear Walter, what is all this pomp—what does—what _can_ it mean?”

“Mean! my beloved,” replied her husband; “did you not bid me make you a
duchess? I have but obeyed your high commands, and I now salute you,
_Duchess_ of Zähringen!”

The whole multitude then made the woods resound with the acclamation,—

“_Long live the Duke and Duchess of Zähringen!_”

Walter, having for some moments enjoyed the unutterable amazement of the
now breathless Ida, and the less evident but perhaps equally intense
surprise of Burkhardt, turning to the latter, said,—

“My more than father, you see in me the son of your once implacable
enemy, the Duke of Zähringen. He has been many years gathered to his
fathers; and I, as his only son, have succeeded to his title and his
possessions. My heart, my liberty, were entirely lost in the parlour of
the Abbess of the Ursulines. But when I learnt whose child my Ida was,
and your sad story, I resolved ere I would make her mine to win not only
her love, but also your favour and esteem. How well I have succeeded,
this little magic circle on my Ida’s finger is my witness. It will add
no small measure to your happiness to know that my father had for many
years repented of the wrongs which he had done you; and, as much as
possible to atone for them, entrusted the education of his son to the
care of this my best of friends, the Abbot of St. Anselm, that he might
learn to shun the errors into which his sire had unhappily fallen. And
now,” continued he, advancing, and leading Ida towards the abbot, “I
have only to beg your blessing, and that this lady, whom through
Heaven’s goodness I glory to call my wife, be invested with those
insignia of the rank which she is so fit to adorn.”

Walter, or, as we must now call him, the Duke of Zähringen, with Ida,
then lowly knelt before the venerable abbot, whilst the holy man, with
tears in his eyes, invoked upon them the blessings of Heaven. His
Highness then rising, took one of the coronets, and placing it on Ida’s
head, said,—

“Mayst thou be as happy under this glittering coronet, as thou wert
under the russet hood in which I first beheld thee.”

“God and our Lady aid me!” replied the agitated Ida; “and may He grant
that I may wear it with as much humility. Yet thorns, they say, spring
up beneath a crown.”

“True, my beloved,” said the duke, “and they also grow beneath the
peasant’s homely cap. But the rich alchemy of my Ida’s virtues will ever
convert all thorns into the brightest jewels of her diadem.”

                                 FINIS.

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 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Spelling and hyphenation were only made consistent when a
      predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

End of Project Gutenberg's Tales and Stories, by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley