The Romance of the Forest

ail awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,
And woo the weary to profound repose!

BEATTIE.

Adeline meanwhile, and Peter, proceeded on their voyage without any
accident, and landed in Savoy, where Peter placed her upon the horse,
and himself walked beside her. When he came within sight of his native
mountains, his extravagant joy burst forth into frequent exclamations,
and he would often ask Adeline if she had ever seen such hills in
France. No, no, said he, the hills there are very well for French hills,
but they are not to be named on the same day with ours. Adeline, lost in
admiration of the astonishing and tremendous scenery around her,
assented very warmly to the truth of Peter's assertion, which encouraged
him to expatiate more largely upon the advantages of his country; its
disadvantages he totally forgot; and though he gave away his last sous
to the children of the peasantry that ran barefooted by the side of the
horse, he spoke of nothing but the happiness and content of the
inhabitants.

His native village, indeed, was an exception to the general character of
the country, and to the usual effects of an arbitrary government; it was
flourishing, healthy, and happy; and these advantages it chiefly owed to
the activity and attention of the benevolent clergyman whose cure it
was.

Adeline, who now began to feel the effects of long anxiety and fatigue,
much wished to arrive at the end of her journey, and inquired
impatiently of Peter concerning it. Her spirits thus weakened, the
gloomy grandeur of the scenes which had so lately awakened emotions of
delightful sublimity, now awed her into terror; she trembled at the
sound of the torrents rolling among the cliffs and thundering in the
vale below, and shrunk from the view of the precipices, which sometimes
overhung the road and at others appeared beneath it. Fatigued as she
was, she frequently dismounted to climb on foot the steep flinty road,
which she feared to travel on horseback.

The day was closing when they drew near a small village at the foot of
the Savoy Alps; and the sun, in all his evening splendour, now sinking
behind their summits, threw a farewell gleam athwart the landscape so
soft and glowing as drew from Adeline, languid as she was, an
exclamation of rapture.

The romantic situation of the village next attracted her notice. It
stood at the foot of several stupendous mountains, which formed a chain
round a lake at some little distance, and the woods that swept from
their summits almost embosomed the village. The lake, unruffled by the
lightest air, reflected the vermeil tints of the horizon with the
sublime on its borders, darkening every instant with the falling
twilight.

When Peter perceived the village, he burst into a shout of joy. Thank
God, said he, we are near home; there is my dear native place: it looks
just as it did twenty years ago: and there are the same old trees
growing round our cottage yonder, and the huge rock that rises above it.
My poor father died there, Ma'mselle. Pray Heaven my sister be alive! it
is a long while since I saw her. Adeline listened with a melancholy
pleasure to these artless expressions of Peter, who in retracing the
scenes of his former days seemed to live them over again. As they
approached the village, he continued to point out various objects of his
remembrance. And there too is the good pastor's chateau; look,
Ma'mselle, that white house with the smoke curling, that stands on the
edge of the lake yonder. I wonder whether he is alive yet: he was not
old when I left the place, and as much beloved as ever man was; but
death spares nobody!

[Illustration 07]

They had by this time reached the village, which was extremely neat,
though it did not promise much accommodation. Peter had hardly advanced
ten steps before he was accosted by some of his old acquaintance, who
shook hands, and seemed not to know how to part with him. He inquired
for his sister, and was told she was alive and well. As they passed on,
so many of his old friends flocked round him, that Adeline became quite
weary of the delay. Many whom he had left in the vigour of life were now
tottering under the infirmities of age, while their sons and daughters,
whom he had known only in the playfulness of infancy, were grown from
his remembrance, and in the pride of youth. At length they approached
the cottage, and were met by his sister, who having heard of his
arrival, came and welcomed him with unfeigned joy.

On seeing Adeline, she seemed surprised, but assisted her to alight; and
conducting her into a small but neat cottage, received her with a warmth
of ready kindness which would have graced a better situation. Adeline
desired to speak with her alone, for the room was now crowded with
Peter's friends; and then acquainting her with such particulars of her
circumstances as it was necessary to communicate, desired to know if she
could be accommodated with lodging in the cottage. Yes, Ma'mselle, said
the good woman, such as it is, you are heartily welcome: I am only sorry
it is not better. But you seem ill Ma'mselle; what shall I get you?

Adeline, who had been long struggling with fatigue and indisposition,
now yielded to their pressure. She said she was indeed ill; but hoped
that rest would restore her, and desired a bed might be immediately
prepared. The good woman went out to obey her, and soon returning showed
her to a little cabin, where she retired to a bed whose cleanliness was
its only recommendation.

But notwithstanding her fatigue, she could not sleep; and her mind, in
spite of all her efforts, returned to the scenes that were passed, or
presented gloomy and imperfect visions of the future.

The difference between her own condition and that of other persons,
educated as she had been, struck her forcibly, and she wept. They, said
she, have friends and relations, all striving to save them not only from
what may hurt, but what may displease them; watching not only for their
present safety, but for their future advantage, and preventing them even
from injuring themselves. But during my whole life I have never known a
friend; have been in general surrounded by enemies, and very seldom
exempt from some circumstance either of danger or calamity. Yet surely I
am not born to be for ever wretched; the time will come when----She
began to think she might one time be happy; but recollecting the
desperate situation of Theodore,--No, said she, I can never hope even
for peace!

Early the following morning the good woman of the house came to inquire
how she had rested; and found she had slept little, and was much worse
than on the preceding night. The uneasiness of her mind contributed to
heighten the feverish symptoms that attended her, and in the course of
the day her disorder began to assume a serious aspect. She observed its
progress with composure, resigning herself to the will of God, and
feeling little to regret in life. Her kind hostess did every thing in
her power to relieve her, and there was neither physician nor apothecary
in the village, so that nature was deprived of none of her advantages.
Notwithstanding this, the disorder rapidly increased, and on the third
day from its first attack she became delirious, after which she sunk
into a state of stupefaction.

How long she remained in this deplorable condition she knew not; but on
recovering her senses she found herself in an apartment very different
from any she remembered. It was spacious and almost beautiful, the bed
and every thing around being in one style of elegant simplicity. For
some minutes she lay in a trance of surprise, endeavouring to recollect
her scattered ideas of the past, and almost fearing to move lest the
pleasing vision should vanish from her eyes.

At length she ventured to raise herself, when she presently heard a soft
voice speaking near her, and the bed curtain on one side was gently
undrawn by a beautiful girl. As she leaned forward over the bed, and
with a smile of mingled tenderness and joy inquired of her patient how
she did. Adeline gazed in silent admiration upon the most interesting
female countenance she had ever seen, in which the expression of
sweetness, united with lively sense and refinement, was chastened by
simplicity.

Adeline at length recollected herself sufficiently to thank her kind
inquirer, and begged to know to whom she was obliged, and where she was?
The lovely girl pressed her hand, 'Tis we who are obliged, said she. Oh!
how I rejoice to find that you have recovered your recollection! She
said no more, but flew to the door of the apartment, and disappeared. In
a few minutes she returned with an elderly lady, who approaching the bed
with an air of tender interest, asked concerning the state of Adeline;
to which the latter replied as well as the agitation of her spirits
would permit, and repeated her desire of knowing to whom she was so
greatly obliged. You shall know that hereafter, said the lady; at
present be assured that you are with those who will think their care
much overpaid by your recovery; submit, therefore, to every thing that
may conduce to it, and consent to be kept as quiet as possible.

Adeline gratefully smiled and bowed her head in silent assent. The lady
now quitted the room for a medicine; having given which to Adeline, the
curtain was closed and she was left to repose. But her thoughts were too
busy to suffer her to profit by the opportunity:--she contemplated the
past and viewed the present; and when she compared them, the contrast
struck her with astonishment: the whole appeared like one of those
sudden transitions so frequent in dreams, in which we pass from grief
and despair, we know not how, to comfort and delight.

Yet she looked forward to the future with a trembling anxiety that
threatened to retard her recovery, and which when she remembered the
words of her generous benefactress, she endeavoured to suppress. Had she
better known the disposition of the persons in whose house she now was,
her anxiety, as far as it regarded herself, must in a great measure have
been done away; for La Luc, its owner, was one of those rare characters
to whom misfortune seldom looks in vain, and whose native goodness,
confirmed by principle, is uniform and unassuming in its acts. The
following little picture of his domestic life, his family, and his
manners, will more fully illustrate his character. It was drawn from the
life, and its exactness will, it is hoped, compensate for its length.

THE FAMILY OF LA LUC.

But half mankind, like Handel's fool, destroy,
Through rage and ignorance, the strain of joy;
Irregularly wild, the passions roll
Through Nature's finest instrument, the soul:--
While men of sense, with Handel's happier skill,
Correct the taste and harmonize the will;
Teach their affections like his notes to flow,
Nor raised too high, nor ever sunk too low;
Till every virtue, measured and refined,
As fits the concert of the master mind,
Melts in its kindred sounds, and pours along
Th' according music of the moral song.

CAWTHORNE.

In the village of Leloncourt, celebrated for its picturesque situation
at the foot of the Savoy Alps, lived Arnaud La Luc, a clergyman
descended from an ancient family of France, whose decayed fortunes
occasioned them to seek a retreat in Switzerland, in an age when the
violence of civil commotion seldom spared the conquered. He was minister
of the village, and equally loved for the piety and benevolence of the
Christian, as respected for the dignity and elevation of the
philosopher. His was the philosophy of nature, directed by common sense.
He despised the jargon of the modern schools, and the brilliant
absurdities of systems which dazzled without enlightening, and guided
without convincing their disciples.

His mind was penetrating; his views extensive; and his systems, like his
religion, were simple, rational, and sublime. The people of his parish
looked up to him as to a father; for while his precepts directed their
minds, his example touched their hearts.

In early youth La Luc lost a wife whom he tenderly loved. This event
threw a tincture of soft and interesting melancholy over his character,
which remained when time had mellowed the remembrance that occasioned
it. Philosophy had strengthened, not hardened, his heart; it enabled him
to resist the pressure of affliction, rather than to overcome it.

Calamity taught him to feel with peculiar sympathy the distresses of
others. His income from the parish was small, and what remained from the
divided and reduced estates of his ancestors did not much increase it;
but though he could not always relieve the necessities of the indigent,
his tender pity and holy conversation seldom failed in administering
consolation to the mental sufferer. On these occasions the sweet and
exquisite emotions of his heart have often induced him to say, that
could the voluptuary be once sensible of these feelings, he would never
after forego the luxury of doing good. Ignorance of true pleasure, he
would say, more frequently than temptation to that which is false, leads
to vice.

La Luc had one son and a daughter, who were too young when their mother
died to lament their loss. He loved them with peculiar tenderness, as
the children of her whom he never ceased to deplore; and it was for some
time his sole amusement to observe the gradual unfolding of their infant
minds, and to bend them to virtue. His was the deep and silent sorrow of
the heart: his complaints he never obtruded upon others, and very seldom
did he even mention his wife. His grief was too sacred for the eye of
the vulgar. Often he retired to the deep solitude of the mountains, and
amid their solemn and tremendous scenery would brood over the
remembrance of times past, and resign himself to the luxury of grief. On
his return from these little excursions he was always more placid and
contented. A sweet tranquillity, which arose almost to happiness, was
diffused over his mind, and his manners were more than usually
benevolent. As he gazed on his children, and fondly kissed them, a tear
would sometimes steal into his eye: but it was a tear of tender regret,
unmingled with the darker qualities of sorrow, and was most precious to
his heart.

On the death of his wife he received into his house a maiden sister, a
sensible, worthy woman, who was deeply interested in the happiness of
her brother. Her affectionate attention and judicious conduct
anticipated the effect of time in softening the poignancy of his
distress; and her unremitted care of his children, while it proved the
goodness of her own heart, attracted her more closely to his.

It was with inexpressible pleasure that he traced in the infant features
of Clara the resemblance of her mother. The same gentleness of manner
and the same sweetness of disposition soon displayed themselves; and as
she grew up, her actions frequently reminded him so strongly of his lost
wife as to fix him in reveries, which absorbed all his soul.

Engaged in the duties of his parish, the education of his children, and
in philosophic research, his years passed in tranquillity. The tender
melancholy with which affliction had tinctured his mind, was by long
indulgence become dear to him, and he would not have relinquished it for
the brightest dream of airy happiness. When any passing incident
disturbed him, he retired for consolation to the idea of her he so
faithfully loved, and yielding to a gentle, and what the world would
call a romantic, sadness, gradually reassumed his composure.
This was the secret luxury to which he withdrew from temporary
disappointment--the solitary enjoyment which dissipated the cloud of
care, and blunted the sting of vexation--which elevated his mind above
this world, and opened to his view the sublimity of another.

The spot he now inhabited, the surrounding scenery, the romantic
beauties of the neighbouring walks, were dear to La Luc, for they had
once been loved by Clara; they had been the scenes of her tenderness,
and of his happiness.

His chateau stood on the borders of a small lake that was almost
environed by mountains of stupendous height, which, shooting into a
variety of grotesque forms, composed a scenery singularly solemn and
sublime. Dark woods intermingled with bold projections of rock,
sometimes barren and sometimes covered with the purple bloom of wild
flowers, impended over the lake, and were seen in the clear mirror of
its waters. The wild and alpine heights which rose above, were either
crowned with perpetual snows, or exhibited tremendous crags and masses
of solid rock, whose appearance was continually changing as the rays of
light were variously reflected on their surface, and whose summits were
often wrapt in impenetrable mists. Some cottages and hamlets, scattered
on the margin of the lake or seated in picturesque points of view on the
rocks above, were the only objects that reminded the beholder of
humanity.

On the side of the lake, nearly opposite to the chateau, the mountains
receded, and a long chain of Alps was seen stretching in perspective.
Their innumerable tints and shades, some veiled in blue mists, some
tinged with rich purple, and others glittering in partial light, gave
luxurious and magical colouring to the scene.

The chateau was not large, but it was convenient, and was characterized
by an air of elegant simplicity and good order. The entrance was a small
hall, which opening by a glass door into the garden, afforded a view of
the lake, with the magnificent scenery exhibited on its borders. On the
left of the hall was La Luc's study, where he usually passed his
mornings; and adjoining was a small room fitted up with chemical
apparatus, astronomical instruments, and other implements of science. On
the right hand was the family parlour, and behind it a room which
belonged exclusively to Madame La Luc. Here were deposited various
medicines and botanical distillations, together with the apparatus for
preparing them. From this room the whole village was liberally supplied
with medicinal comfort; for it was the pride of Madame to believe
herself skilful in relieving the disorders of her neighbours.

Behind the chateau rose a tuft of pines, and in front a gentle
declivity, covered with verdure and flowers, extended to the lake, whose
waters flowed even with the grass, and gave freshness to the acacias
that waved over its surface. Flowering shrubs, intermingled with
mountain-ash, cypress, and ever-green oak, marked the boundary of the
garden.

At the return of spring it was Clara's care to direct the young shoots
of the plants, to nurse the budding flowers, and to shelter them with
the luxuriant branches of the shrubs from the cold blasts that descended
from the mountains. In summer she usually rose with the sun, and visited
her favourite flowers while the dew yet hung glittering on their leaves.
The freshness of early day, with the glowing colouring which then
touched the scenery, gave a pure and exquisite delight to her innocent
heart. Born amid scenes of grandeur and sublimity, she had quickly
imbibed a taste for their charms, which taste was heightened by the
influence of a warm imagination. To view the sun rising above the Alps,
tinging their snowy heads with light, and suddenly darting his rays over
the whole face of nature--to see the fiery splendour of the clouds
reflected in the lake below, and the roseate tints first steal upon the
rocks above--were among the earliest pleasures of which Clara was
susceptible. From being delighted with the observance of nature, she
grew pleased with seeing her finely imitated, and soon displayed a taste
for poetry and painting. When she was about sixteen she often selected
from her father's library those of the Italian poets most celebrated for
picturesque beauty, and would spend the first hours of morning in
reading them under the shade of the acacias that bordered the lake. Here
too she would often attempt rude sketches of the surrounding scenery;
and at length by repeated efforts, assisted by some instruction from her
brother she succeeded so well as to produce twelve drawings in crayon,
which were judged worthy of decorating the parlour of the chateau.

Young La Luc played the flute, and she listened to him with exquisite
delight, particularly when he stood on the margin of the lake, under her
beloved acacias. Her voice was sweet and flexible, though not strong,
and she soon learned to modulate it to the instrument. She knew nothing
of the intricacies of execution; her airs were simple, and her style
equally so; but she soon gave them a touching expression, inspired by
the sensibility of her heart, which seldom left those of her hearers
unaffected.

It was the happiness of La Luc to see his children happy; and in one of
his excursions to Geneva, whither he went to visit some relations of his
late wife, he bought Clara a lute. She received it with more gratitude
than she could express; and having learned one air, she hastened to her
favourite acacias, and played it again and again till she forgot every
thing besides. Her little domestic duties, her books, her drawing, even
the hour which her father dedicated to her improvement, when she met her
brother in the library, and with him partook of knowledge, even this
hour passed unheeded by. La Luc suffered it to pass. Madame was
displeased that her niece neglected her domestic duties, and wished to
reprove her, but La Luc begged she would be silent. Let experience teach
her her error, said he, precept seldom brings conviction to young minds.

Madame objected that experience was a slow teacher. It is a sure one,
replied La Luc, and is not unfrequently the quickest of all teachers:
when it cannot lead us into serious evil, it is well to trust to it.

The second day passed with Clara as the first, and the third as the
second. She could now play several tunes; she came to her father and
repeated what she had learnt.

At supper the cream was not dressed, and there was no fruit on the
table. La Luc inquired the reason; Clara recollected it, and blushed.
She observed that her brother was absent, but nothing was said. Toward
the conclusion of the repast he appeared; his countenance expressed
unusual satisfaction, but he seated himself in silence. Clara inquired
what had detained him from supper, and learnt that he had been to a sick
family in the neighbourhood with the weekly allowance which her father
gave them. La Luc had intrusted the care of this family to his daughter,
and it was her duty to have carried them their little allowance on the
preceding day, but she had forgotten every thing but music.

How did you find the woman? said La Luc to his son. Worse, Sir, he
replied; for her medicines had not been regularly given and the children
had had little or no food to-day.

Clara was shocked. No food to-day! said she to herself; and I have been
playing all day on my lute, under the acacias by the lake! Her father
did not seem to observe her emotion, but turned to his son. I left her
better, said the latter; the medicines I carried eased her pain, and I
had the pleasure to see her children make a joyful supper.

Clara, perhaps, for the first time in her life, envied him his pleasure;
her heart was full, and she sat silent. No food to-day! thought she.

She retired pensively to her chamber. The sweet serenity with which she
usually went to rest was vanished, for she could no longer reflect on
the past day with satisfaction.

What a pity, said she, that what is so pleasing should be the cause of
so much pain! This lute is my delight, and my torment! This reflection
occasioned her much internal debate; but before she could come to any
resolution upon the point in question, she fell asleep.

She awoke very early the next morning, and impatiently watched the
progress of the dawn. The sun at length appearing, she arose, and
determined to make all the atonement in her power for her former
neglect, hastened to the cottage.

Here she remained a considerable time, and when she returned to the
chateau, her countenance had recovered all its usual serenity. She
resolved, however, not to touch her lute that day.

Till the hour of breakfast she busied herself in binding up the flowers
and pruning the shoots that were too luxuriant, and she at length found
herself, she scarcely knew how, beneath her beloved acacias by the side
of the lake. Ah! said she with a sigh, how sweetly would the song I
learned yesterday sound now over the waters! But she remembered her
determination, and checked the step she was involuntarily taking towards
the chateau.

She attended her father in the library at the usual hour, and learned
from his discourse with her brother on what had been read the two
preceding days, that she had lost much entertaining knowledge. She
requested her father would inform her to what this conversation alluded;
but he calmly replied, that she had preferred another amusement at the
time when the subject was discussed, and must therefore content herself
with ignorance. You would reap the rewards of study from the amusements
of idleness, said he; learn to be reasonable--do not expect to unite
inconsistencies.

Clara felt the justness of this rebuke, and remembered her lute. What
mischief has it occasioned! sighed she. Yes, I am determined not to
touch it at all this day. I will prove that I am able to control my
inclinations when I see it is necessary so to do. Thus resolving, she
applied herself to study with more than usual assiduity.

She adhered to her resolution, and towards the close of the day went
into the garden to amuse herself. The evening was still and uncommonly
beautiful. Nothing was heard but the faint shivering of the leaves,
which returned but at intervals, making silence more solemn, and the
distant murmurs of the torrents that rolled among the cliffs. As she
stood by the lake, and watched the sun slowly sinking below the Alps,
whose summits were tinged with gold and purple; as she saw the last rays
of light gleam upon the waters, whose surface was not curled by the
slightest air, she sighed, oh! how enchanting would be the sound of my
lute at this moment, on this spot, and when every thing is so still
around me!

The temptation was too powerful for the resolution of Clara: she ran to
the chateau, returned with the instrument to her dear acacias, and
beneath their shade continued to play till the surrounding objects faded
in darkness from her sight. But the moon rose, and shedding a trembling
lustre on the lake, made the scene more captivating than ever.

It was impossible to quit so delightful a spot; Clara repeated her
favourite airs again and again. The beauty of the hour awakened all her
genius; she never played with such expression before, and she listened
with increasing rapture to the tones as they languished over the waters
and died away on the distant air. She was perfectly enchanted--no!
nothing was ever so delightful as to play on the lute beneath her
acacias, on the margin of the lake, by moonlight!

When she returned to the chateau, supper was over. La Luc had observed
Clara, and would not suffer her to be interrupted.

When the enthusiasm of the hour was passed, she recollected that she had
broken her resolution, and the reflection gave her pain. I prided myself
on controlling my inclinations, said she, and I have weakly yielded to
their direction. But what evil have I incurred by indulging them this
evening? I have neglected no duty, for I had none to perform. Of what
then have I to accuse myself? It would have been absurd to have kept my
resolution, and denied myself a pleasure when there appeared no reason
for this self-denial.

She paused, not quite satisfied with this reasoning. Suddenly resuming
her inquiry, But how, said she, am I certain that I should have resisted
my inclinations if there had been a reason for opposing them? If the
poor family whom I neglected yesterday had been unsupplied to-day, I
fear I should again have forgotten them while I played on my lute on the
banks of the lake.

She then recollected all that her father had at different times said on
the subject of self-command, and she felt some pain.

No, said she, if I do not consider that to preserve a resolution, which
I have once solemnly formed, is a sufficient reason to control my
inclinations, I fear no other motive would long restrain me. I seriously
determined not to touch my lute this whole day, and I have broken my
resolution. To-morrow perhaps I may be tempted to neglect some duty, for
I have discovered that I cannot rely on my own prudence. Since I cannot
conquer temptation, I will fly from it.

On the following morning she brought her lute to La Luc, and begged he
would receive it again, and at least keep it till she had taught her
inclinations to submit to control.

The heart of La Luc swelled as she spoke. No, Clara, said he, it is
unnecessary that I should receive your lute; the sacrifice you would
make proves you worthy of my confidence. Take back the instrument; since
you have sufficient resolution to resign it when it leads you from duty,
I doubt not that you will be able to control its influence now that it
is restored to you.

Clara felt a degree of pleasure and pride at these words, such as she
had never before experienced; but she thought, that to deserve the
commendation they bestowed, it was necessary to complete the sacrifice
she had begun. In the virtuous enthusiasm of the moment the delights of
music were forgotten in those of aspiring to well-earned praise; and
when she refused the lute thus offered, she was conscious only of
exquisite sensations. Dear Sir, said she, tears of pleasure, swelling in
her eyes, allow me to deserve the praises you bestow, and then I shall
indeed be happy.

La Luc thought she had never resembled her mother so much as at this
instant, and tenderly kissing her, he for some moments wept in silence.
When he was able to speak, You do already deserve my praises, said he,
and I restore your lute as a reward for the conduct which excites them.
This scene called back recollections too tender for the heart of La Luc,
and giving Clara the instrument, he abruptly quitted the room.

La Luc's son, a youth of much promise, was designed by his father for
the church, and had received from him an excellent education, which,
however, it was thought necessary he should finish at an university.
That of Geneva was fixed upon by La Luc. His scheme had been to make his
son not a scholar only; he was ambitious that he should also be enviable
as a man. From early infancy he had accustomed him to hardihood and
endurance, and as he advanced in youth, he encouraged him in manly
exercises, and acquainted him with the useful arts as well as with
abstract science.

He was high-spirited and ardent in his temper, but his heart was
generous and affectionate. He looked forward to Geneva, and to the new
world it would disclose, with the sanguine expectations of youth; and in
the delight of these expectations was absorbed the regret he would
otherways have felt at a separation from his family.

A brother of the late Madame La Luc, who was by birth an Englishman,
resided at Geneva with his family. To have been related to his wife was
a sufficient claim upon the heart of La Luc, and he had therefore always
kept up an intercourse with Mr. Audley, though the difference in their
characters and manner of thinking would never permit this association to
advance into friendship. La Luc now wrote to him, signifying an
intention of sending his son to Geneva, and recommending him to his
care. To this letter Mr. Audley returned a friendly answer; and a short
time after, an acquaintance of La Luc's being called to Geneva, he
determined that his son should accompany him. The separation was painful
to La Luc, and almost insupportable to Clara. Madame was grieved, and
took care that he should have a sufficient quantity of medicines put up
in his travelling trunk; she was also at some pains to point out their
virtues, and the different complaints for which they were requisite; but
she was careful to deliver her lecture during the absence of her
brother.

La Luc, with his daughter, accompanied his son on horseback to the next
town, which was about eight miles from Leloncourt; and there again
enforcing all the advice he had formerly given him respecting his
conduct and pursuits, and again yielding to the tender weakness of the
father, he bade him farewell. Clara wept, and felt more sorrow at this
parting than the occasion could justify; but this was almost the first
time she had known grief, and she artlessly yielded to its influence.

La Luc and Clara travelled pensively back, and the day was closing when
they came within view of the lake, and soon after of the chateau. Never
had it appeared gloomy till now; but now Clara wandered forlornly
through every deserted apartment where she had been accustomed to see
her brother, and recollected a thousand little circumstances which, had
he been present, she would have thought immaterial, but on which
imagination now stamped a value. The garden, the scenes around, all wore
a melancholy aspect, and it was long ere they resumed their natural
character and Clara recovered her vivacity.

Near four years had elapsed since this separation, when one evening, as
Madame La Luc and her niece were sitting at work together in the
parlour, a good woman in the neighbourhood desired to be admitted. She
came to ask for some medicines, and the advice of Madame La Luc. Here is
a sad accident happened at our house, Madame, said she; I am sure my
heart aches for the poor young creature.--Madame La Luc desired she
would explain herself, and the woman proceeded to say that her brother
Peter, whom she had not seen for so many years, was arrived, and had
brought a young lady to her cottage, who she verily believed was dying.
She described her disorder, and acquainted Madame with what particulars
of her mournful story Peter had related, failing not to exaggerate such
as her compassion for the unhappy stranger and her love of the
marvellous prompted.

The account appeared a very extraordinary one to Madame; but pity for
the forlorn condition of the young sufferer induced her to inquire
further into the affair. Do let me go to her, Madame, said Clara, who
had been listening with ready compassion to the poor woman's narrative:
Do suffer me to go--she must want comforts, and I wish much to see how
she is. Madame asked some further questions concerning her disorder, and
then, taking off her spectacles, she rose from her chair, and said she
would go herself. Clara desired to accompany her. They put on their hats
and followed the good woman to the cottage, where, in a very small close
room, on a miserable bed, lay Adeline, pale, emaciated, and unconscious
of all around her. Madame turned to the woman, and asked how long she
had been in this way, while Clara went up to the bed, and taking the
almost lifeless hand that lay on the quilt, looked anxiously in her
face. She observes nothing, said she, poor creature! I wish she was at
the chateau, she would be better accommodated, and I could nurse her
there. The woman told Madame La Luc that the young lady had lain in that
state for several hours. Madame examined her pulse, and shook her head.
This room is very close, said she.--Very close indeed, cried Clara
eagerly; surely she would be better at the chateau, if she could be
moved.

We will see about that, said her aunt. In the mean time let me speak to
Peter; it is some years since I saw him. She went to the outer room, and
the woman ran out of the cottage to look for him. When she was gone,
This is a miserable habitation for the poor stranger, said Clara; she
will never be well here: do, Madame, let her be carried to our house; I
am sure my father would wish it. Besides, there is something in her
features, even inanimate as they now are, that prejudices me in her
favour.

Shall I never persuade you to give up that romantic notion of judging
people by their faces? said her aunt. What sort of a face she has is of
very little consequence--her condition is lamentable, and I am desirous
of altering it; but I wish first to ask Peter a few questions concerning
her.

Thank you, my dear aunt, said Clara; she will be removed then. Madame La
Luc was going to reply; but Peter now entered, and expressing great joy
at seeing her again, inquired how Monsieur La Luc and Clara did. Clara
immediately welcomed honest Peter to his native place, and he returned
her salutation with many expressions of surprise at finding her so much
grown. Though I have so often dandled you in my arms, Ma'mselle, I
should never have known you again: Young twigs shoot fast, as they say.

Madame La Luc now inquired into the particulars of Adeline's story; and
heard as much as Peter knew of it, being only that his late master found
her in a very distressed situation, and that he had himself brought her
from the abbey to save her from a French Marquis. The simplicity of
Peter's manner would not suffer her to question his veracity, though
some of the circumstances he related excited all her surprise and
awakened all her pity. Tears frequently stood in Clara's eyes during the
course of his narrative; and when he concluded, she said, Dear Madame,
I am sure when my father learns the history of this unhappy young woman
he will not refuse to be a parent to her, and I will be her sister.

She deserves it all, said Peter, for she is very good indeed. He then
proceeded in a strain of praise which was very unusual with him.--I will
go home and consult with my brother about her, said Madame La Luc,
rising: she certainly ought to be removed to a more airy room. The
chateau is so near, that I think she may be carried thither without much
risk.

Heaven bless you! Madam, cried Peter, rubbing his hands, for your
goodness to my poor young lady.

La Luc had just returned from his evening walk when they reached the
chateau. Madame told him where she had been, and related the history of
Adeline and her present condition.--By all means have her removed
hither, said La Luc, whose eyes bore testimony to the tenderness of his
heart: she can be better attended to here than in Susan's cottage.

I knew you would say so, my dear father, said Clara: I will go and order
the green bed to be prepared for her.

Be patient, niece, said Madame La Luc; there is no occasion for such
haste: some things are to be considered first; but you are young and
romantic.--La Luc smiled.--The evening is now closed, resumed Madame; it
will therefore be dangerous to remove her before morning. Early
to-morrow a room shall be got ready, and she shall be brought here; in
the mean time I will go and make up a medicine which I hope may be of
service to her.--Clara reluctantly assented to this delay, and Madame La
Luc retired to her closet.

On the following morning Adeline, wrapped in blankets and sheltered as
much as possible from the air, was brought to the chateau, where the
good La Luc desired she might have every attention paid her, and where
Clara watched over her with unceasing anxiety and tenderness. She
remained in a state of torpor during the greater part of the day, but
towards evening she breathed more freely; and Clara, who still watched
by her bed, had at length the pleasure of perceiving that her senses
were restored. It was at this moment that she found herself in the
situation from which we have digressed to give this account of the
venerable La Luc and his family. The reader will find that his virtues
and his friendship to Adeline deserved this notice.