The Romance of the Forest

there a heart that music cannot melt?
Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn!
Is there who ne'er the mystic transports felt
Of solitude and melancholy born?
He need not woo the Muse--he is her scorn.

BEATTIE.

Towards evening the captain, to avoid the danger of encountering a
Barbary corsair steered for the French coast, and Adeline distinguished
in the gleam of the setting sun the shores of Provence, feathered with
wood and green with pasturage. La Luc, languid and ill, had retired to
the cabin, whither Clara attended him. The pilot at the helm guiding the
tall vessel through the sounding waters, and one solitary sailor leaning
with crossed arms against the mast, and now and then singing parts of a
mournful ditty, were all of the crew, except Adeline, that remained upon
deck--and Adeline silently watched the declining sun, which threw a
saffron glow upon the waves and on the sails gently swelling in the
breeze that was now dying away. The sun at length sunk below the ocean,
and twilight stole over the scene, leaving the shadowy shores yet
visible, and touching with a solemn tint the waters that stretched wide
around. She sketched the picture, but it was with a faint pencil.

NIGHT

O'er the dim breast of Ocean's wave
Night spreads afar her gloomy wings,
And pensive thought, and silence brings,
Save when the distant waters lave;
Or when the mariner's lone voice
Swells faintly in the passing gale,
Or when the screaming sea-gulls poise
O'er the tall mast and swelling sail.
Bounding the grey gleam of the deep,
Where fancied forms arouse the mind,
Dark sweep the shores, on whose rude steep
Sighs the sad spirit of the wind.
Sweet is its voice upon the air,
At Evening's melancholy close,
When the smooth wave in silence flows!
Sweet, sweet the peace its stealing accents bear!
Blest be thy shades, O Night! and blest the song
Thy low winds breathe the distant shores along!

As the shadows thickened, the scene sunk into deeper repose. Even the
sailor's song had ceased; no sound was heard but that of the waters
dashing beneath the vessel, and their fainter murmur on the pebbly
coast. Adeline's mind was in unison with the tranquillity of the hour;
lulled by the waves, she resigned herself to a still melancholy and sat
lost in reverie. The present moment brought to her recollection her
voyage up the Rhone, when seeking refuge from the terrors of the Marquis
de Montalt, she so anxiously endeavoured to anticipate her future
destiny. She then, as now, had watched the fall of evening and the
fading prospect, and she remembered what a desolate feeling had
accompanied the impression which those objects made. She had then no
friends--no asylum--no certainty of escaping the pursuit of her enemy.
Now she had found affectionate friends--a secure retreat--and was
delivered from the terrors she then suffered--but still she was unhappy.
The remembrance of Theodore--of Theodore who had loved her so truly, who
had encountered and suffered so much for her sake, and of whose fate she
was now as ignorant as when she traversed the Rhone, was an incessant
pang to her heart. She seemed to be more remote than ever from the
possibility of hearing of him. Sometimes a faint hope crossed her that
he had escaped the malice of his persecutor; but when she considered the
inveteracy and power of the latter, and the heinous light in which the
law regards an assault upon a superior officer, even this poor hope
vanished, and left her to tears and anguish, such as this reverie, which
began with a sensation of only gentle melancholy, now led to. She
continued to muse till the moon arose from the bosom of the ocean, and
shed her trembling lustre upon the waves, diffusing peace, and making
silence more solemn; beaming a soft light on the white sails, and
throwing upon the waters the tall shadow of the vessel which now seemed
to glide along unopposed by any current. Her tears had somewhat relieved
the anguish of her mind, and she again reposed in placid melancholy,
when a strain of such tender and entrancing sweetness stole on the
silence of the hour, that it seemed more like celestial than mortal
music--so soft, so soothing, it sunk upon her ear, that it recalled her
from misery to hope and love. She wept again--but these were tears which
she would not have exchanged for mirth and joy. She looked round, but
perceived neither ship nor boat; and as the undulating sounds swelled on
the distant air, she thought they came from the shore. Sometimes the
breeze wafted them away, and again returned them in tones of the most
languishing softness. The links of the air thus broken, it was music
rather than melody that she caught, till, the pilot gradually steering
nearer the coast, she distinguished the notes of a song familiar to her
ear. She endeavoured to recollect where she had heard it, but in vain;
yet her heart beat almost unconsciously with a something resembling
hope. Still she listened, till the breeze again stole the sounds. With
regret she now perceived that the vessel was moving from them, and at
length they trembled faintly on the waves, sunk away at distance, and
were heard no more. She remained upon deck a considerable time,
unwilling to relinquish the expectation of hearing them again, and their
sweetness still vibrating on her fancy, and at length retired to the
cabin oppressed by a degree of disappointment which the occasion did not
appear to justify.

La Luc grew better during the voyage, his spirits revived, and when the
vessel entered that part of the Mediterranean called the Gulf of Lyons,
he was sufficiently animated to enjoy from the deck the noble prospect
which the sweeping shores of Provence, terminating in the far distant
ones of Languedoc, exhibited. Adeline and Clara, who anxiously watched
his looks, rejoiced in their amendment; and the fond wishes of the
latter already anticipated his perfect recovery. The expectations of
Adeline had been too often checked by disappointment permit her now to
indulge an equal degree of hope with that of her friend, yet she
confided much in the effect of this voyage.

La Luc amused himself at intervals with discoursing, and pointing out
the situations of considerable ports on the coast, and the mouths of the
rivers that, after wandering through Provence, disembogue themselves
into the Mediterranean. The Rhone, however, was the only one of much
consequence which he passed. On this object, though it was so distant
that fancy perhaps, rather than the sense, beheld it, Clara gazed with
peculiar pleasure, for it came from the banks of Savoy; and the wave
which she thought she perceived, had washed the feet of her dear native
mountains. The time passed with mingled pleasure and improvement as La
Luc described to his attentive pupils the manners and commerce of the
different inhabitants of the coast, and the natural history of the
country: or as he traced in imagination the remote wanderings of rivers
to their source, and delineated the characteristic beauties of their
scenery.

After a pleasant voyage of a few days, the shores of Provence receded,
and that of Languedoc, which had long bounded the distance, became the
grand object of the scene, and the sailors drew near their port. They
landed in the afternoon at a small town, situated at the foot of a woody
eminence, on the right overlooking the sea, and on the left the rich
plains of Languedoc gay with the purple vine. La Luc determined to defer
his journey till the following day, and was directed to a small inn at
the extremity of the town, where the accommodation, such as it was, he
endeavoured to be contented with.

In the evening, the beauty of the hour and the desire of exploring new
scenes, invited Adeline to walk. La Lac was fatigued, and did not go
out, and Clara remained with him. Adeline took her way to the woods that
rose from the margin of the sea, and climbed the wild eminence on which
they hung. Often as she went she turned her eyes to catch between the
dark foliage the blue waters of the bay, the white sail that flitted by,
and the trembling gleam of the setting sun. When she reached the summit,
and looked down over the dark tops of the woods on the wide and various
prospect, she was seized with a kind of still rapture impossible to be
expressed, and stood unconscious of the flight of time, till the sun had
left the scene, and twilight threw its solemn shade upon the mountains.
The sea alone reflected the fading splendour of the west; its tranquil
surface was partially disturbed by the low wind that crept in tremulous
lines along the waters, whence rising to the woods, it shivered their
light leaves, and died away. Adeline, resigning herself to the luxury of
sweet and tender emotions, repeated the following lines:--

SUNSET

Soft o'er the mountain's purple brow
Meek Twilight draws her shadows gray;
From tufted woods and valleys low,
Light's magic colours steal away.
Yet still, amid the spreading gloom,
Resplendent glow the western waves,
That roll o'er Neptune's coral caves,
A zone of light on Evening's dome.
On this lone summit let me rest,
And view the forms to Fancy dear,
Till on the Ocean's darken'd breast
The stars of Evening tremble clear;
Or the moon's pale orb appear,
Throwing her line of radiance wide,
Far o'er the lightly-curling tide,
That seems the yellow sands to chide.
No sounds o'er silence now prevail,
Save of the dying wave below,
Or sailor's song borne on the gale,
Or oar at distance striking slow.
So sweet! so tranquil! may my evening ray
Set to this world--and rise in future day!

Adeline quitted the heights, and followed a narrow path that wound to
the beach below: her mind was now particularly sensible to fine
impressions, and the sweet notes of the nightingale amid the stillness
of the woods again awakened her enthusiasm.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

Child of the melancholy song!
O yet that tender strain prolong!

Her lengthen'd shade when Evening flings,
From mountain-cliffs, and forests green,
And sailing slow on silent wings,
Along the glimmering West is seen;
I love o'er pathless hills to stray,
Or trace the winding vale remote,
And pause, sweet Bird! to hear thy lay
While moonbeams on the thin clouds float,
Till o'er the Mountain's dewy head
Pale Midnight steals to wake the dead.

Far through the heaven's ethereal blue,
Wafted on Spring's light airs you come,
With blooms, and flowers, and genial dew,
From climes where Summer joys to roam;
O! welcome to your long-lost home!
"Child of the melancholy song!"
Who lov'st the lonely woodland glade
To mourn, unseen, the boughs among,
When Twilight spreads her pensive shade,
Again thy dulcet voice I hail!
O pour again the liquid note
That dies upon the evening gale!
For Fancy loves the kindred tone;
Her griefs the plaintive accents own.
She loves to hear thy music float
At solemn Midnight's stillest hour,
And think on friends for ever lost,
On joys by disappointment crost,
And weep anew Love's charmful power!

Then Memory wakes the magic smile,
Th' impassion'd voice, the melting eye,
That wont the trusting heart beguile,
And wakes again the hopeless sigh.
Her skill the glowing tints revive
Of scenes that Time had bade decay;
She bids the soften'd Passions live--
The Passions urge again their sway.
Yet o'er the long-regretted scene
Thy song the grace of sorrow throws;
A melancholy charm serene,
More rare than all that mirth bestows,
Then hail, sweet Bird, and hail thy pensive tear!
To Taste, to Fancy, and to Virtue dear!

The spreading dusk at length reminded Adeline of her distance from the
inn, and that she had her way to find through a wild and lonely wood:
she bade adieu to the syren that had so long detained her, and pursued
the path with quick steps. Having followed it for some time, she became
bewildered among the thickets, and the increasing darkness did not allow
her to judge of the direction she was in. Her apprehensions heightened
her difficulties: she thought she distinguished the voices of men at
some little distance, and she increased her speed till she found herself
on the sea-sands over which the woods impended. Her breath was now
exhausted--she paused a moment to recover herself, and fearfully
listened: but instead of the voices of men, she heard faintly swelling
in the breeze the notes of mournful music.--Her heart, ever sensible to
the impressions of melody, melted with the tones, and her fears were for
a moment lulled in sweet enchantment. Surprise was soon mingled with
delight when, as the sound advanced, she distinguished the tone of that
instrument, and the melody of that well-known air, she had heard a few
preceding evenings from the shores of Provence. But she had no time for
conjecture--footsteps approached, and she renewed her speed. She was now
emerged from the darkness of the woods, and the moon, which shone
bright, exhibited along the level sands the town and port in the
distance. The steps that had followed now came up with her, and she
perceived two men; but they passed in conversation without noticing her,
and as they passed she was certain she recollected the voice of him who
was then speaking. Its tones were so familiar to her ear, that she was
surprised at the imperfect memory which did not suffer her to be assured
by whom they were uttered. Another step now followed, and a rude voice
called to her to stop. As she hastily turned her eyes she saw
imperfectly by the moonlight a man in sailor's habit pursuing, while he
renewed the call. Impelled by terror, she fled along the sands; but her
steps were short and trembling--those of her pursuer strong and quick.

She had just strength sufficient to reach the men who had before passed
her, and to implore their protection, when her pursuer came up with
them, but suddenly turned into the woods on the left, and disappeared.

She had no breath to answer the inquiries of the strangers who supported
her, till a sudden exclamation, and the sound of her own name, drew her
eyes attentively upon the person who uttered them, and in the rays which
shone strong from his features she distinguished M. Verneuil! Mutual
satisfaction and explanation ensued; and when he learned that La Luc and
his daughter were at the inn, he felt an increased pleasure in
conducting her thither. He said that he had accidentally met with an old
friend in Savoy, whom he now introduced by the name of Mauron, and who
had prevailed on him to change his route and accompany him to the shores
of the Mediterranean. They had embarked from the coast of Provence only
a few preceding days, and had that evening landed in Languedoc on the
estate of M. Mauron. Adeline had now no doubt that it was the flute of
M. Verneuil, and which had so often delighted her at Leloncourt, that
she had heard on the sea.

When they reached the inn, they found La Luc under great anxiety for
Adeline, in search of whom he had sent several people. Anxiety yielded
to surprise and pleasure, when he perceived her with M. Verneuil, whose
eyes beamed with unusual animation on seeing Clara. After mutual
congratulations, M. Verneuil observed, and lamented, the very
indifferent accommodation which the inn afforded his friends, and M.
Mauron immediately invited them to his chateau with a warmth of
hospitality that overcame every scruple which delicacy or pride could
oppose. The woods that Adeline had traversed formed a part of his
domain, which extended almost to the inn; but he insisted that his
carriage should take his guests to the chateau, and departed to give
orders for their reception. The presence of M. Verneuil, and the
kindness of his friend, gave to La Luc an unusual flow of spirits; he
conversed with a degree of vigour and liveliness to which he had long
been unaccustomed, and the smile of satisfaction that Clara gave to
Adeline expressed how much she thought he was already benefited by the
voyage. Adeline answered her look with a smile of less confidence, for
she attributed his present animation to a more temporary cause.

About half an hour after the departure of M. Mauron, a boy who served as
waiter brought a message from a chevalier then at the inn, requesting
permission to speak with Adeline. The man who had pursued her along the
sands instantly occurred to her, and she scarcely doubted that the
stranger was some person belonging to the Marquis de Montalt, perhaps
the Marquis himself, though that he should have discovered her
accidentally, in so obscure a place, and so immediately upon her
arrival, seemed very improbable. With trembling lips and a countenance
pale as death she inquired the name of the chevalier. The boy was not
acquainted with it. La Luc asked what sort of a person he was; but the
boy, who understood little of the art of describing, gave such a
confused account of him, that Adeline could only learn he was not large,
but of a middle stature. This circumstance, however, convincing her it
was not the Marquis de Montalt who desired to see her, she asked whether
it would be agreeable to La Luc to have the stranger admitted. La Luc
said, By all means; and the waiter withdrew. Adeline sat in trembling
expectation till the door opened, and Louis de la Motte entered the
room. He advanced with an embarrassed and melancholy air, though his
countenance had been enlightened with a momentary pleasure when he first
beheld Adeline--Adeline, who was still the idol of his heart. After the
first salutations were over, all apprehensions of the Marquis being now
dissipated, she inquired when Louis had seen Monsieur and Madame La
Motte.

I ought rather to ask you that question, said Louis in some confusion,
for I believe you have seen them since I have; and the pleasure of
meeting you thus is equalled by my surprise. I have not heard from my
father for some time, owing probably to my regiment being removed to new
quarters.

He looked as if he wished to be informed with whom Adeline now was; but
as this was a subject upon which it was impossible she could speak in
the presence of La Luc, she led the conversation to general topics,
after having said that Monsieur and Madame La Motte were well when she
left them. Louis spoke little, and often looked anxiously at Adeline,
while his mind seemed labouring under strong oppression. She observed
this, and recollecting the declaration he had made her on the morning of
his departure from the abbey, she attributed his present embarrassment
to the effect of a passion yet unsubdued, and did not appear to notice
it. After he had sat near a quarter of an hour, under a struggle of
feelings which he could neither conquer nor conceal, he rose to leave
the room; and as he passed Adeline, said, in a low voice, Do permit me
to speak with you alone for five minutes. She hesitated in some
confusion, and then, saying there were none but friends present, begged
he would be seated.--Excuse me, said he, in the same low accent; what I
would say nearly concerns you, and you only. Do favour me with a few
moments' attention. He said this with a look that surprised her; and
having ordered candles in another room, she went thither.

Louis sat for some moments silent, and seemingly in great perturbation
of mind. At length he said, I know not whether to rejoice or to lament
at this unexpected meeting, though, if you are in safe hands, I ought
certainly to rejoice, however hard the task that now falls to my lot. I
am not ignorant of the dangers and persecutions you have suffered, and
cannot forbear expressing my anxiety to know how you are now
circumstanced. Are you indeed with friends?--I am, said Adeline; M. La
Motte has informed you----No, replied Louis with a deep sigh, not my
father.--He paused.--But I do indeed rejoice, resumed he, O! how
sincerely rejoice! that you are in safety. Could you know, lovely
Adeline, what I have suffered!--He checked himself.--I understood you
had something of importance to say, Sir, said Adeline; you must excuse
me if I remind you that I have not many moments to spare.

It is indeed of importance, replied Louis; yet I know not how to mention
it--how to soften----This task is too severe. Alas! my poor friend!

Whom is it you speak of, Sir? said Adeline with quickness. Louis rose
from his chair and walked about the room. I would prepare you for what I
have to say, he resumed, but upon my soul I am not equal to it.

I entreat you to keep me no longer in suspense, said Adeline, who had a
wild idea that it was Theodore he would speak of. Louis still hesitated.
Is it--O! is it?--I conjure you tell me the worst at once, said she in a
voice of agony. I can bear it,--indeed I can.

My unhappy friend! exclaimed Louis. O! Theodore!--Theodore! faintly
articulated Adeline; he lives then!--He does, said Louis, but--He
stopped.--But what? cried Adeline, trembling violently; if he is living,
you cannot tell me worse than my fears suggest; I entreat you therefore
not to hesitate.--Louis resumed his seat and, endeavouring to assume a
collected air, said, He is living, Madame, but he is a prisoner;
and--for why should I deceive you? I fear he has little to hope in this
world.

I have long feared so, Sir, said Adeline in a voice of forced composure;
you have something more terrible than this to relate, and I again
entreat you will explain yourself.

He has every thing to apprehend from the Marquis de Montalt, said Louis.
Alas! why do I say to apprehend? His judgment is already fixed--he is
condemned to die.

At this confirmation of her fears, a death-like paleness diffused itself
over the countenance of Adeline; she sat motionless, and attempted to
sigh, but seemed almost suffocated. Terrified at her situation, and
expecting to see her faint, Louis would have supported her, but with her
hand she waved him from her, and was unable to speak. He now called for
assistance, and La Luc and Clara, with M. Verneuil, informed of
Adeline's indisposition, were quickly by her side.

At the sound of their voices she looked up, and seemed to recollect
herself, when uttering a heavy sigh she burst into tears. La Luc,
rejoiced to see her weep, encouraged her tears, which after some time
relieved her; and when she was able to speak, she desired to go back to
La Luc's parlour. Louis attended her thither; when she was better he
would have withdrawn, but La Luc begged he would stay.

You are perhaps a relation of this young lady, Sir, said he, and may
have brought news of her father?--Not so, Sir, replied Louis,
hesitating--This gentleman, said Adeline, who had now recollected her
dissipated thoughts, is the son of the M. La Motte whom you may have
heard me mention.--Louis seemed shocked to be declared the son of a man
that had once acted so unworthily towards Adeline, who, instantly
perceiving the pain her words occasioned, endeavoured to soften their
effect by saying that La Motte had saved her from imminent danger, and
had afforded her an asylum for many months.--Adeline sat in a state of
dreadful solicitude to know the particulars of Theodore's situation, yet
could not acquire courage to renew the subject in the presence of La
Luc; she ventured, however, to ask Louis if his own regiment was
quartered in the town.

He replied that his regiment lay at Vaceau, a French town on the
frontiers of Spain; that he had just crossed a part of the Gulf of
Lyons, and was on his way to Savoy, whither he should set out early in
the morning.

We are lately come from thence, said Adeline; may I ask to what part of
Savoy you are going?---To Leloncourt, he replied.--To Leloncourt! said
Adeline, in some surprise.--I am a stranger to the country, resumed
Louis; but I go to serve my friend. You seem to know Leloncourt.--I do
indeed, said Adeline.--You probably know then that M. La Luc lives
there, and will guess the motive of my journey?

O Heavens! is it possible? exclaimed Adeline--is it possible that
Theodore Peyrou is a relation of M. La Luc?

Theodore! what of my son? asked La Luc in surprise and
apprehension--Your son! said Adeline, in a trembling voice--your
son!--The astonishment and anguish depicted on her countenance increased
the apprehensions of this unfortunate father, and he renewed his
question. But Adeline was totally unable to answer him; and the distress
of Louis, on thus unexpectedly discovering the father of his unhappy
friend, and knowing that it was his task to disclose the fate of his
son, deprived him for some time of all power of utterance; and La Luc
and Clara, whose fears were every instant heightened by this dreadful
silence, continued to repeat their questions.

At length a sense of the approaching sufferings of the good La Luc
overcoming every other feeling, Adeline recovered strength of mind
sufficient to try to soften the intelligence Louis had to communicate,
and to conduct Clara to another room. Here she collected resolution to
tell her, and with much tender consideration, the circumstances of her
brother's situation, concealing only her knowledge of his sentence being
already pronounced. This relation necessarily included the mention of
their attachment, and in the friend of her heart Clara discovered the
innocent cause of her brother's destruction. Adeline also learned the
occasion of that circumstance which had contributed to keep her ignorant
of Theodore's relationship to La Luc; she was told the former had taken
the name of Peyrou, with an estate which had been left him about a year
before by a relation of his mother's upon that condition. Theodore had
been designed for the church, but his disposition inclined him to a more
active life than the clerical habit would admit of; and on his accession
to this estate he had entered into the service of the French king.

In the few and interrupted interviews which had been allowed them at
Caux, Theodore had mentioned his family to Adeline only in general
terms; and thus, when they were so suddenly separated, had, without
designing it, left her in ignorance of his father's name and place of
residence.

The sacredness and delicacy of Adeline's grief, which had never
permitted her to mention the subject of it even to Clara, had since
contributed to deceive her.

The distress of Clara, on learning the situation of her brother, could
endure no restraint; Adeline, who had commanded her feelings so as to
impart this intelligence with tolerable composure, only by a strong
effort of mind, was now almost overwhelmed by her own and Clara's
accumulated suffering. While they wept forth the anguish of their
hearts; a scene if possible, more affecting passed between La Luc and
Louis; who perceived it was necessary to inform him, though cautiously
and by degrees, of the full extent of his calamity. He, therefore, told
La Luc, that though Theodore had been first tried for the offence of
having quitted his post, he was now condemned on a charge of assault
made upon his general officer the Marquis de Montalt, who had brought
witnesses to prove that his life had been endangered by the
circumstance; and who, having pursued the prosecution with the most
bitter rancour, had at length obtained the sentence which the law could
not withhold, but which every other officer in the regiment deplored.

Louis added, that the sentence was to be executed in less than a
fortnight, and that Theodore being very unhappy at receiving no answers
to the letters he had sent his father, wishing to see him once more, and
knowing that there was now no time to be lost, had requested him to go
to Leloncourt and acquaint his father with his situation.

La Luc received the account of his son's condition with a distress that
admitted neither of tears nor complaint. He asked where Theodore was;
and desiring to be conducted to him, he thanked Louis for all his
kindness, and ordered post horses immediately.

A carriage was soon ready; and this unhappy father, after taking a
mournful leave of M. Verneuil, and sending a compliment to M. Mauron,
attended by his family set out for the prison of his son. The journey
was a silent one; each individual of the party endeavoured, in
consideration of each other, to suppress the expression of grief, but
was unable to do more. La Luc appeared calm and complacent; he seemed
frequently to be engaged in prayer; but a struggle for resignation and
composure was sometimes visible upon his countenance, notwithstanding
the efforts of his mind.