The Romance of the Forest

re not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The season's difference, as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind.

SHAKSPEARE.

La Motte arranged his little plan of living. His mornings were usually
spent in shooting or fishing, and the dinner, thus provided by his
industry, he relished with a keener appetite than had ever attended him
at the luxurious tables of Paris. The afternoons he passed with his
family: sometimes he would select a book from the few he had brought
with him, and endeavoured to fix his attention to the words his lips
repeated:--but his mind suffered little abstraction from its own cares,
and the sentiment he pronounced left no trace behind it. Sometimes he
conversed, but oftener sat in gloomy silence, musing upon the past, or
anticipating the future.

At these moments, Adeline, with a sweetness almost irresistible,
endeavoured to enliven his spirits, and to withdraw him from himself.
Seldom she succeeded; but when she did, the grateful looks of Madame La
Motte, and the benevolent feelings of her own bosom, realized the
cheerfulness she had at first only assumed. Adeline's mind had the happy
art, or, perhaps, it were more just to say, the happy nature, of
accommodating itself to her situation. Her present condition, though
forlorn, was not devoid of comfort, and this comfort was confirmed by
her virtues. So much she won upon the affections of her protectors, that
Madame La Motte loved her as her child, and La Motte himself, though a
man little susceptible of tenderness, could not be insensible to her
solicitudes. Whenever he relaxed from the sullenness of misery, it was
at the influence of Adeline.

Peter regularly brought a weekly supply of provisions from Auboine, and,
on those occasions, always quitted the town by a route contrary to that
leading to the abbey. Several weeks having passed without molestation,
La Motte dismissed all apprehension of pursuit, and at length became
tolerably reconciled to the complexion of his circumstances.

As habit and effort strengthened the fortitude of Madame La Motte, the
features of misfortune appeared to soften. The forest, which at first
seemed to her a frightful solitude, had lost its terrific aspect; and
that edifice, whose half demolished walls and gloomy desolation had
struck her mind with the force of melancholy and dismay, was now beheld
as a domestic asylum, and a safe refuge from the storms of power.

She was a sensible and highly accomplished woman, and it became her
chief delight to form the rising graces of Adeline, who had, as has been
already shown, a sweetness of disposition, which made her quick to repay
instruction with improvement, and indulgence with love. Never was
Adeline so pleased as when she anticipated her wishes, and never so
diligent as when she was employed in her business. The little affairs of
the household she overlooked and managed with such admirable exactness,
that Madame La Motte had neither anxiety nor care concerning them. And
Adeline formed for herself in this barren situation, many amusements
that occasionally banished the remembrance of her misfortunes. La
Motte's books were her chief consolation. With one of these she would
frequently ramble into the forest, where the river, winding through a
glade, diffused coolness, and with its murmuring accents invited repose:
there she would seat herself, and, resigned to the illusions of the
page, pass many hours in oblivion of sorrow.

Here too, when her mind was tranquillized by the surrounding scenery,
she wooed the gentle muse, and indulged in ideal happiness. The delight
of these moments she commemorated in the following address:

TO THE VISIONS OF FANCY.

Dear, wild illusions of creative mind!
Whose varying hues arise to Fancy's art,
And by her magic force are swift combined
In forms that please, and scenes that touch the
heart:
Oh! whether at her voice ye soft assume
The pensive grace of sorrow drooping low;
Or rise sublime on terror's lofty plume,
And shake the soul with wildly thrilling woe;
Or, sweetly bright, your gayer tints ye spread,
Bid scenes of pleasures steal upon my view,
Love wave his purple pinions o'er my head,
And wake the tender thought to passion true.
O! still----ye shadowy forms! attend my lonely hours,
Still chase my real cares with your illusive powers!

Madame La Motte had frequently expressed curiosity concerning the events
of Adeline's life, and by what circumstances she had been thrown into a
situation so perilous and mysterious as that in which La Motte had found
her. Adeline had given a brief account of the manner in which she had
been brought thither, but had always with tears entreated to be spared
for that time from a particular relation of her history. Her spirits
were not then equal to retrospection; but now that they were soothed by
quiet, and strengthened by confidence, she one day gave Madame La Motte
the following narration.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I am the only child, said Adeline, Of Louis de St. Pierre, a chevalier
of reputable family, but of small fortune, who for many years resided at
Paris. Of my mother I have a faint remembrance: I lost her when I was
only seven years old, and this was my first misfortune. At her death, my
father gave up housekeeping, boarded me in a convent, and quitted Paris.
Thus was I, at this early period of my life, abandoned to strangers. My
father came sometimes to Paris; he then visited me, and I well remember
the grief I used to feel when he bade me farewell. On these occasions,
which wrung my heart with grief, he appeared unmoved; so that I often
thought he had little tenderness for me. But he was my father, and the
only person to whom I could look up for protection and love.

In this convent I continued till I was twelve years old. A thousand
times I had entreated my father to take me home; but at first, motives
of prudence, and afterwards of avarice, prevented him. I was now removed
from this convent, and placed in another, where I learned my father
intended I should take the veil. I will not attempt to express my
surprise and grief on this occasion. Too long I had been immured in the
walls of a cloister, and too much had I seen of the sullen misery of its
votaries, not to feel horror and disgust at the prospect of being added
to their number.

The Lady Abbess was a woman of rigid decorum and severe devotion: exact
in the observance of every detail of form, and never forgave an offence
against ceremony. It was her method, when she wanted to make converts to
her order, to denounce and terrify, rather than to persuade and allure.
Hers were the arts of cunning practised upon fear, not those of
sophistication upon reason. She employed numberless stratagems to gain
me to her purpose, and they all wore the complexion of her character.
But in the life to which she would have devoted me, I saw too many forms
of real terror, to be overcome by the influence of her ideal host, and
was resolute in rejecting the veil. Here I passed several years of
miserable resistance against cruelty and superstition. My father I
seldom saw; when I did, I entreated him to alter my destination; but he
objected that his fortune was insufficient to support me in the world,
and at length denounced vengeance on my head if I persisted in
disobedience.

You, my dear Madam, can form little idea of the wretchedness of my
situation, condemned to perpetual imprisonment, and imprisonment of the
most dreadful kind, or to the vengeance of a father, from whom I had no
appeal. My resolution relaxed--for some time I paused upon the choice of
evils--but at length the horrors of the monastic life rose so fully to
my view, that fortitude gave way before them. Excluded from the cheerful
intercourse of society--from the pleasant view of nature--almost from
the light of day--condemned to silence--rigid formality--abstinence and
penance--condemned to forgo the delights of a world which imagination
painted in the gayest and most alluring colours, and whose hues were,
perhaps, not the less captivating because they were only ideal--such was
the sate to which I was destined. Again my resolution was invigorated:
my father's cruelty subdued tenderness, and roused indignation. Since he
can forget, said I, the affection of a parent, and condemn his child
without remorse to wretchedness and despair--the bond of filial and
parental duty no longer subsists between us--he has himself dissolved
it, and I will yet struggle for liberty and life.

Finding me unmoved by menace, the Lady Abbess had now recourse to more
subtle measures: she condescended to smile, and even to flatter; but
hers was the distorted smile of cunning, not the gracious emblem of
kindness; it provoked disgust, instead of inspiring affection. She
painted the character of a vestal in the most beautiful tints of
art--its holy innocence--its mild dignity--its sublime devotion. I
sighed as she spoke. This she regarded as a favourable symptom, and
proceeded on her picture with more animation. She described the serenity
of a monastic life--its security from the seductive charms, restless
passions, and sorrowful vicissitudes of the world--the rapturous
delights of religion, and the sweet reciprocal affection of the
sisterhood.

So highly she finished the piece, that the lurking lines of cunning
would, to an inexperienced eye, have escaped detection. Mine was too
sorrowfully informed. Too often had I witnessed the secret tear and
bursting sigh of vain regret, the sullen pinings of discontent, and the
mute anguish of despair. My silence and my manner assured her of my
incredulity, and it was with difficulty that she preserved a decent
composure.

My father, as may be imagined, was highly incensed at my perseverance,
which he called obstinacy; but, what will not be so easily believed, he
soon after relented, and appointed a day to take me from the convent. O!
judge of my feelings when I received this intelligence. The joy it
occasioned awakened all my gratitude; I forgot the former cruelty of my
father, and that the present indulgence was less the effect of his
kindness than of my resolution. I wept that I could not indulge his
every wish.

What days of blissful expectation were those that preceded my departure!
The world, from which I had been hitherto secluded--the world, in which
my fancy had been so often delighted to roam--whose paths were strewn
with fadeless roses--whose every scene smiled in beauty and invited to
delight--where all the people were good, and all the good happy--Ah!
then that world was bursting upon my view. Let me catch the rapturous
remembrance before it vanish! It is like the passing lights of autumn,
that gleam for a moment on a hill, and then leave it to darkness. I
counted the days and hours that withheld me from this fairy land. It was
in the convent only that people were deceitful and cruel; it was there
only that misery dwelt. I was quitting it all! How I pitied the poor
nuns that were to be left behind! I would have given half that world I
prized so much, had it been mine, to have taken them out with me.

The long wished for day at last arrived. My father came, and for a
moment my joy was lost in the sorrow of bidding farewell to my poor
companions, for whom I had never felt such warmth of kindness as at this
instant. I was soon beyond the gates of the convent. I looked around me,
and viewed the vast vault of heaven no longer bounded by monastic walls,
and the green earth extended in hill and dale to the round verge of the
horizon! My heart danced with delight, tears swelled in my eyes, and for
some moments I was unable to speak. My thoughts rose to heaven in
sentiments of gratitude to the Giver of all good!

At length I returned to my father: Dear Sir, said I, how I thank you for
my deliverance, and how I wish I could do every thing to oblige you!

Return, then, to your convent, said he in a harsh accent. I shuddered:
his look and manner jarred the tone of my feelings; they struck discord
upon my heart! which had before responded only to harmony. The ardour of
joy was in a moment repressed, and every object around me was saddened
with the gloom of disappointment. It was not that I suspected my father
would take me back to the convent; but that his feelings seemed so very
dissonant to the joy and gratitude which I had but a moment before felt
and expressed to him.--Pardon, Madam, a relation of these trivial
circumstances; the strong vicissitudes of feeling which they impressed
upon my heart, make me think them important, when they are, perhaps,
only disgusting.

No, my dear, said Madame La Motte, they are interesting to me; they
illustrate little traits of character, which I love to observe. You are
worthy of all my regards, and from this moment I give my tenderest pity
to your misfortunes, and my affection to your goodness.

These words melted the heart of Adeline; she kissed the hand which
Madame held out, and remained a few minutes silent. At length she said,
May I deserve this goodness! and may I ever be thankful to God, who, in
giving me such a friend, has raised me to comfort and hope!

My father's house was situated a few leagues on the other side of Paris,
and in our way to it we passed through that city. What a novel scene!
Where were now the solemn faces, the demure manners I had been
accustomed to see in the convent? Every countenance was here animated,
either by business or pleasure; every step was airy, and every smile was
gay. All the people appeared like friends; they looked and smiled at me;
I smiled again, and wished to have told them how pleased I was. How
delightful, said I, to live surrounded by friends!

What crowded streets! what magnificent hotels! what splendid equipages!
I scarcely observed that the streets were narrow, or the way dangerous.
What bustle, what tumult, what delight! I could never be sufficiently
thankful that I was removed from the convent. Again I was going to
express my gratitude to my father, but his looks forbad me, and I was
silent. I am too diffuse; even the faint forms which memory reflects of
passed delight are grateful to the heart. The shadow of pleasure is
still gazed upon with a melancholy enjoyment, though the substance is
fled beyond our reach.

Having quitted Paris, which I left with many sighs, and gazed upon till
the towers of every church dissolved in distance from my view, we
entered upon a gloomy and unfrequented road. It was evening when we
reached a wild heath; I looked round in search of a human dwelling, but
could find none; and not a human being was to be seen. I experienced
something of what I used to feel in the convent; my heart had not been
so sad since I left it. Of my father, who still sat in silence, I
inquired if we were near home; he answered in the affirmative. Night
came on, however, before we reached the place of our destination; it was
a lone house on the waste; but I need not describe it to you, Madam.
When the carriage stopped, two men appeared at the door, and assisted us
to alight: so gloomy were their countenances, and so few their words, I
almost fancied myself again in the convent; certain it is, I had not
seen such melancholy faces since I quitted it. Is this a part of the
world I have so fondly contemplated? said I.

The interior appearance of the house was desolate and mean; I was
surprised that my father had chosen such a place for his habitation, and
also that no woman was to be seen; but I knew that inquiry would only
produce a reproof, and was therefore silent. At supper, the two men I
had before seen sat down with us; they said little, but seemed to
observe me much. I was confused and displeased; which my father
noticing, frowned at them with a look which convinced me he meant more
than I comprehended. When the cloth was drawn, my father took my hand
and conducted me to the door of my chamber; having set down the candle,
and wished me good night, he left me to my own solitary thoughts.

How different were they from those I had indulged a few hours before!
then expectation, hope, delight, danced before me; now melancholy and
disappointment chilled the ardour of my mind, and discoloured my future
prospect. The appearance of every thing around conduced to depress me.
On the floor lay a small bed without curtains or hangings; two old
chairs and a table were all the remaining furniture in the room. I went
to the window, with an intention of looking out upon the surrounding
scene, and found it was grated. I was shocked at this circumstance, and
comparing it with the lonely situation and the strange appearance of the
house, together with the countenances and behaviour of the men who had
supped with us, I was lost in a labyrinth of conjecture.

At length I lay down to sleep; but the anxiety of my mind prevented
repose; gloomy unpleasing images flitted before my fancy, and I fell
into a sort of waking dream: I thought that I was in a lonely forest
with my father; his looks were severe, and his gestures menacing: he
upbraided me for leaving the convent, and while he spoke, drew from his
pocket a mirror, which he held before my face; I looked in it and saw,
(my blood now thrills as I repeat it) I saw myself wounded, and bleeding
profusely. Then I thought myself in the house again; and suddenly heard
these words, in accents so distinct, that for some time after I awoke I
could scarcely believe them ideal, Depart this house, destruction hovers
here.

I was awakened by a footstep on the stairs; it was my father retiring to
his chamber; the lateness of the hour surprised me, for it was past
midnight.

On the following morning, the party of the preceding evening assembled
at breakfast, and were as gloomy and silent as before. The table was
spread by a boy of my father's; but the cook and the housemaid, whatever
they might be, were invisible.

The next morning I was surprised, on attempting to leave my chamber, to
find the door locked; I waited a considerable time before I ventured to
call; when I did, no answer was returned; I then went to the window, and
called more loudly, but my own voice was still the only sound I heard.
Near an hour I passed in a state of surprise and terror not to be
described: at length I heard a person coming up stairs, and I renewed
the call; I was answered, that my father had that morning set off for
Paris, whence he would return in a few days; in the meanwhile he had
ordered me to be confined in my chamber. On my expressing surprise and
apprehension at this circumstance, I was assured I had nothing to fear,
and that I should live as well as if I was at liberty.

The latter part of this speech seemed to contain an odd kind of comfort;
I made little reply, but submitted to necessity. Once more I was
abandoned to sorrowful reflection: what a day was the one I now passed!
alone, and agitated with grief and apprehension. I endeavoured to
conjecture the cause of this harsh treatment; and at length concluded it
was designed by my father, as a punishment for my former disobedience.
But why abandon me to the power of strangers, to men, whose countenances
bore the stamp of villainy so strongly as to impress even my
inexperienced mind with terror! Surmise involved me only deeper in
perplexity, yet I found it impossible to forbear pursuing the subject;
and the day was divided between lamentation and conjecture. Night at
length came, and such a night! Darkness brought new terrors: I looked
round the chamber for some means of fastening my door on the inside, but
could perceive none; at last I contrived to place the back of a chair in
an oblique direction, so as to render it secure.

I had scarcely done this, and lain down upon my bed in my clothes, not
to sleep, but to watch, when I heard a rap at the door of the house,
which was opened and shut so quickly, that the person who had knocked,
seemed only to deliver a letter or message. Soon after, I heard voices
at intervals in a room below stairs, sometimes speaking very low, and
sometimes rising all together, as if in dispute. Something more
excusable than curiosity made me endeavour to distinguish what was said,
but in vain; now and then a word or two reached me, and once I heard my
name repeated, but no more.

Thus passed the hours till midnight, when all became still. I had lain
for some time in a state between fear and hope, when I heard the lock of
my door gently moved backward and forward; I started up and listened;
for a moment it was still, then the noise returned, and I heard a
whispering without; my spirits died away, but I was yet sensible.
Presently an effort was made at the door, as if to force it; I shrieked
aloud, and immediately heard the voices of the men I had seen at my
father's table: they called loudly for the door to be opened, and on my
returning no answer, uttered dreadful execrations. I had just strength
sufficient to move to the window, in the desperate hope of escaping
thence; but my feeble efforts could not even shake the bars. O! how can
I recollect these moments of horror, and be sufficiently thankful that I
am now in safety and comfort!

They remained some time at the door, then they quitted it, and went down
stairs. How my heart revived at every step of their departure! I fell
upon my knees, thanked God that he had preserved me this time, and
implored his further protection. I was rising from this short prayer,
when suddenly I heard a noise in a different part of the room, and on
looking round, I perceived the door of a small closet open, and two men
enter the chamber.

They seized me, and I sunk senseless in their arms; how long I remained
in this condition I know not; but on reviving, I perceived myself again
alone, and heard several voices from below stairs. I had presence of
mind to run to the door of the closet, my only chance of escape; but it
was locked! I then recollected it was possible that the ruffians might
have forgot to turn the key of the chamber door, which was held by the
chair; but here, also, I was disappointed. I clasped my hands in an
agony of despair, and stood for some time immoveable.

A violent noise from below roused me, and soon after I heard people
ascending the stairs: I now gave myself up for lost. The steps
approached, the door of the closet was again unlocked. I stood calmly,
and again saw the men enter the chamber; I neither spoke, nor resisted:
the faculties of my soul were wrought up beyond the power of feeling; as
a violent blow on the body stuns for awhile the sense of pain. They led
me down stairs; the door of a room below was thrown open, and I beheld a
stranger; it was then that my senses returned; I shrieked and resisted,
but was forced along. It is unnecessary to say that this stranger was
Monsieur La Motte, or to add, that I shall for ever bless him as my
deliverer.

Adeline ceased to speak; Madame La Motte remained silent. There were
some circumstances in Adeline's narrative, which raised all her
curiosity. She asked if Adeline believed her father to be a party in
this mysterious affair. Adeline, though it was impossible to doubt that
he had been principally and materially concerned in some part of it,
thought, or said she thought, he was innocent of any intention against
her life. Yet, what motive, said Madame La Motte, could there be for a
degree of cruelty so apparently unprofitable?--Here the inquiry ended;
and Adeline confessed she had pursued it till her mind shrunk from all
further research.

The sympathy which such uncommon misfortune excited, Madame La Motte now
expressed without reserve, and this expression of it strengthened the
tie of mutual friendship. Adeline felt her spirits relieved by the
disclosure she had made to Madame La Motte; and the latter acknowledged
the value of the confidence, by an increase of affectionate attentions.