The Romance of the Forest

A SURPRISE--AN ADVENTURE--A
MYSTERY.

The night passed without any alarm; Peter had remained upon his post,
and heard nothing that prevented his sleeping. La Motte heard him, long
before he saw him, most musically snoring; though it must be owned there
was more of the bass than of any other part of the gamut in his
performance. He was soon roused by the bravura of La Motte, whose
notes sounded discord to his ears, and destroyed the torpor of his
tranquillity.

God bless you, master! what's the matter? cried Peter, waking, are they
come?

Yes, for aught you care, they might be come. Did I place you here to
sleep, sirrah? Bless you, master, returned Peter, sleep is the only
comfort to be had here; I'm sure I would not deny it to a dog in such a
place as this.

La Motte sternly questioned him concerning any noise he might have heard
in the night; and Peter full as solemnly protested he had heard none; an
assertion which was strictly true, for he had enjoyed the comfort of
being asleep the whole time.

La Motte ascended to the trap-door and listened attentively. No sounds
were heard, and as he ventured to lift it, the full light of the sun
burst upon his sight, the morning being now far advanced: he walked
softly along the chambers, and looked through a window--no person was to
be seen. Encouraged by this apparent security, he ventured down the
stairs of the tower, and entered the first apartment. He was proceeding
towards the second, when suddenly recollecting himself, he first peeped
through the crevice of the door, which stood half open. He looked, and
distinctly saw a person sitting near the window, upon which his arm
rested.

The discovery so much shocked him, that for a moment he lost all
presence of mind, and was utterly unable to move from the spot. The
person, whose back was towards him, arose, and turned his head: La Motte
now recovered himself, and quitting the apartment as quickly and at the
same time as silently as possible, ascended to the closet. He raised the
trap-door, but, before he closed it, heard the footsteps of a person
entering the outward chamber. Bolts or other fastening to the trap there
was none; and his security depended solely upon the exact correspondence
of the boards. The outer door of the stone room had no means of defence,
and the fastenings of the inner one were on the wrong side to afford
security even till some means of escape could be found.

When he reached this room he paused, and heard distinctly persons
walking in the closet above. While he was listening, he heard a voice
call him by name, and he instantly fled to the cells below, expecting
every moment to hear the trap lifted and the footsteps of pursuit; but
he was fled beyond the reach of hearing either. Having thrown himself on
the ground at the furthest extremity of the vaults, he lay for some time
breathless with agitation. Madame La Motte and Adeline, in the utmost
terror, inquired what had happened. It was some time before he could
speak; when he did, it was almost unnecessary, for the distant noises
which sounded from above, informed his family of a part of the truth.

The sounds did not seem to approach; but Madame La Motte, unable to
command her terror, shrieked aloud: this redoubled the distress of La
Motte. You have already destroyed me, cried he; that shriek has informed
them where I am. He traversed the cells with clasped hands and quick
steps. Adeline stood pale and still as death, supporting Madame La
Motte, whom with difficulty she prevented from fainting. O! Dupras!
Dupras! you are already avenged! said he in a voice that seemed to burst
from his heart: there was a pause of silence. But why should I deceive
myself with a hope of escaping? he resumed; why do I wait here for their
coming? Let me rather end those torturing pangs by throwing myself into
their hands at once.

As he spoke, he moved towards the door; but the distress of Madame La
Motte arrested his steps. Stay, said she, for my sake, stay; do not
leave me thus, nor throw yourself voluntarily into destruction!

Surely, Sir, said Adeline, you are too precipitate; this despair is
useless, as it is ill-founded. We hear no person approaching; if the
officers had discovered the trap-door, they would certainly have been
here before now. The words of Adeline stilled the tumult of his mind:
the agitation of terror subsided; and reason beamed a feeble ray upon
his hopes. He listened attentively; and perceiving that all was silent,
advanced with caution to the stone room, and thence to the foot of the
stairs that led to the trap-door. It was closed: no sound was heard
above.

He watched a long time, and the silence continuing, his hopes
strengthened; and at length he began to believe that the officers had
quitted the abbey; the day, however, was spent in anxious watchfulness.
He did not dare to unclose the trap-door; and he frequently thought he
heard distant noises. It was evident, however, that the secret of the
closet had escaped discovery; and on this circumstance he justly founded
his security. The following night was passed, like the day, in trembling
hope and incessant watching.

But the necessities of hunger now threatened them. The provisions, which
had been distributed with the nicest economy, were nearly exhausted, and
the most deplorable consequences might be expected from their remaining
longer in concealment. Thus circumstanced, La Motte deliberated upon the
most prudent method of proceeding. There appeared no other alternative,
than to send Peter to Auboine, the only town from which he could return
within the time prescribed by their necessities. There was game, indeed,
in the forest; but Peter could neither handle a gun nor use a fishing
rod to any advantage.

It was therefore agreed he should go to Auboine for a supply of
provisions, and at the same time bring materials for mending the
coach-wheel, that they might have some ready conveyance from the forest.
La Motte forbade Peter to ask any questions concerning the people who
had inquired for him, or take any methods for discovering whether they
had quitted the country, lest his blunders should again betray him. He
ordered him to be entirely silent as to these subjects, and to finish
his business and leave the place with all possible dispatch.

A difficulty yet remained to be overcome--Who should first venture
abroad into the abbey, to learn whether it was vacated by the officers
of justice? La Motte considered that if he was again seen, he should be
effectually betrayed; which would not be so certain if one of his family
was observed, for they were all unknown to the officers. It was
necessary, however, that the person he sent should have courage enough
to go through with the inquiry, and wit enough to conduct it with
caution. Peter, perhaps, had the first; but was certainly destitute of
the last. Annette had neither. La Motte looked at his wife, and asked
her if, for his sake, she dared to venture. Her heart shrunk from the
proposal, yet she was unwilling to refuse, or appear indifferent upon a
point so essential to the safety of her husband. Adeline observed in her
countenance the agitation of her mind, and, surmounting the fears which
had hitherto kept her silent, she offered herself to go.

They will be less likely to offend me, said she, than a man--Shame would
not suffer La Motte to accept her offer; and Madame, touched with the
magnanimity of her conduct, felt a momentary renewal of all her former
kindness. Adeline pressed her proposal so warmly, and seemed so much in
earnest, that La Motte began to hesitate. You, Sir, said she, once
preserved me from the most imminent danger, and your kindness has since
protected me: do not refuse me the satisfaction of deserving your
goodness by a grateful return of it. Let me go into the abbey; and if,
by so doing, I should preserve you from evil, I shall be sufficiently
rewarded for what little danger I may incur, for my pleasure will be at
least equal to yours.

Madame La Motte could scarcely refrain from tears as Adeline spoke; and
La Motte sighing deeply, said, Well, be it so; go, Adeline, and from
this moment consider me as your debtor. Adeline staid not to reply, but
taking a light, quitted the cells. La Motte following to raise the
trap-door, and cautioning her to look, if possible, into every apartment
before she entered it. If you should be seen, said he, you must
account for your appearance so as not to discover me. Your own presence
of mind may assist you, I cannot--God bless you!

When she was gone, Madame La Motte's admiration of her conduct began to
yield to other emotions. Distrust gradually undermined kindness, and
jealousy raised suspicions. It must be a sentiment more powerful than
gratitude, thought she, that could teach Adeline to subdue her fears.
What, but love, could influence her to a conduct so generous! Madame La
Motte, when she found it impossible to account for Adeline's conduct
without alleging some interested motives for it, however her suspicions
might agree with the practice of the world, had surely forgotten how
much she once admired the purity and disinterestedness of her young
friend.

Adeline, mean while, ascended to the chambers: the cheerful beams of the
sun played once more upon her sight, and reanimated her spirits; she
walked lightly through the apartments, nor stopped till she came to the
stairs of the tower. Here she stood for some time, but no sounds met her
ear, save the sighing of the wind among the trees, and at length she
descended. She passed the apartments below without seeing any person,
and the little furniture that remained seemed to stand exactly as she
had left it. She now ventured to look out from the tower: the only
animate objects that appeared were the deer quietly grazing under the
shade of the woods. Her favourite little fawn distinguished Adeline, and
came bounding towards her with strong marks of joy. She was somewhat
alarmed lest the animal, being observed, should betray her, and walked
swiftly away through the cloisters.

[Illustration 02]

She opened the door that lead to the great hall of the abbey, but the
passage was so gloomy and dark that she feared to enter it, and started
back. It was necessary, however, that she should examine further,
particularly on the opposite side of the ruin, of which she had hitherto
had no view: but her fears returned when she recollected how far it
would lead her from her only place of refuge, and how difficult it would
be to retreat. She hesitated what to do; but when she recollected her
obligations to La Motte, and considered this as perhaps her only
opportunity of doing him a service, she determined to proceed.

As these thoughts passed rapidly over her mind, she raised her innocent
looks to heaven, and breathed a silent prayer. With trembling steps she
proceeded over fragments of the ruin, looking anxiously around, and
often starting as the breeze rustled among the trees, mistaking it for
the whisperings of men. She came to the lawn which fronted the fabric,
but no person was to be seen, and her spirits revived. The great door of
the hall she now endeavoured to open; but suddenly remembering that it
was fastened by La Motte's orders, she proceeded to the north end of the
abbey, and, having surveyed the prospect around as far as the thick
foliage of the trees would permit, without perceiving any person, she
turned her steps to the tower from which she had issued.

Adeline was now light of heart, and returned with impatience to inform
La Motte of his security. In the cloisters she was again met by her
little favourite, and stopped for a moment to caress it. The fawn seemed
sensible to the sound of her voice, and discovered new joy; but while
she spoke, it suddenly started from her hand, and looking up, she
perceived the door of the passage, leading to the great hall, open, and
a man in the habit of a soldier issue forth.

With the swiftness of an arrow she fled along the cloisters, nor once
ventured to look back; but a voice called to her to stop, and she heard
steps advancing quick in pursuit. Before she could reach the tower, her
breath failed her, and she leaned against a pillar of the ruin, pale and
exhausted. The man came up, and gazing at her with a strong expression
of surprise and curiosity, he assumed a gentle manner, assured her she
had nothing to fear, and inquired if she belonged to La Motte. Observing
that she still looked terrified and remained silent, he repeated his
assurances and his question.

I know that he is concealed within the ruin, said the stranger; the
occasion of his concealment I also know; but it is of the utmost
importance I should see him, and he will then be convinced he has
nothing to fear from me. Adeline trembled so excessively, that it was
with difficulty she could support herself--she hesitated, and knew not
what to reply. Her manner seemed to confirm the suspicions of the
stranger, and her consciousness of this increased her embarrassment: he
took advantage of it to press her further. Adeline at length, replied
that La Motte had some time since resided at the abbey. And does still.
Madam, said the stranger; lead me to where he may be found--I must see
him, and--

Never, Sir, replied Adeline; and I solemnly assure you it will be in
vain to search for him.

That I must try, resumed he, since you, Madam, will not assist me. I
have already followed him to some chambers above, where I suddenly lost
him; thereabouts he must be concealed, and it's plain therefore they
afford some secret passage.

Without waiting Adeline's reply, he sprung to the door of the tower. She
now thought it would betray a consciousness of the truth of his
conjecture to follow him, and resolved to remain below. But upon further
consideration, it occurred to her that he might steal silently into the
closet, and possibly surprise La Motte at the door of the trap. She
therefore hastened after him, that her voice might prevent the danger
she apprehended. He was already in the second chamber when she overtook
him: she immediately began to speak aloud.

This room he searched with the most scrupulous care; but finding no
private door, or other outlet, he proceeded to the closet: then it was
that it required all her fortitude to conceal her agitation. He
continued the search. Within these chambers I know he is concealed, said
he, though hitherto I have not been able to discover how. It was hither
I followed a man, whom I believe to be him, and he could not escape
without a passage; I shall not quit the place till I have found it.

He examined the walls and the boards, but without discovering the
division of the floor, which indeed so exactly corresponded, that La
Motte himself had not perceived it by the eye, but by the trembling of
the floor beneath his feet. Here is some mystery, said the stranger,
which I cannot comprehend, and perhaps never shall. He was turning to
quit the closet, when, who can paint the distress of Adeline, upon
seeing the trap-door gently raised, and La Motte himself appeared! Hah!
cried the stranger, advancing eagerly to him. La Motte sprang forward,
and they were locked in each other's arms.

The astonishment of Adeline, for a moment, surpassed even her former
distress; but a remembrance darted across her mind, which explained the
present scene, and before La Motte could exclaim My son! she knew the
stranger as such. Peter, who stood at the foot of the stairs, and heard
what passed above, flew to acquaint his mistress with the joyful
discovery, and in a few moments she was folded in the embrace of her
son. This spot, so lately the mansion of despair, seemed metamorphosed
into the palace of pleasure, and the walls echoed only to the accents of
joy and congratulation.

The joy of Peter on this occasion was beyond expression: he acted a
perfect pantomime--he capered about, clasped his hands--ran to his young
master--shook him by the hand, in spite of the frowns of La Motte; ran
every where, without knowing for what, and gave no rational answer to
any thing that was said to him.

After their first emotions were subsided, La Motte, as if suddenly
recollecting himself, resumed his wanted solemnity: I am to blame, said
he, thus to give way to joy, when I am still, perhaps surrounded by
danger. Let us secure a retreat while it is yet in our power, continued
he; in a few hours the king's officers may search for me again.

Louis comprehended his father's words, and immediately relieved his
apprehensions by the following relation:--

A letter from Monsieur Nemours, containing an account of your flight
from Paris, reached me at Peronne, where I was then upon duty with my
regiment. He mentioned that you were gone towards the south of France,
but as he had not since heard from you, he was ignorant of the place of
your refuge. It was about this time that I was dispatched into Flanders;
and being unable to obtain further intelligence of you, I passed some
weeks of very painful solicitude. At the conclusion of the campaign I
obtained leave of absence, and immediately set out for Paris, hoping to
learn from Nemours where you had found an asylum.

Of this, however, he was equally ignorant with myself. He informed me
that you had once before written to him from D----, upon your second
day's journey from Paris, under an assumed name, as had been agreed
upon; and that you then said the fear of discovery would prevent your
hazarding another letter. He therefore remained ignorant of your abode,
but said he had no doubt you had continued your journey to the
southward. Upon this slender information I quitted Paris in search of
you, and proceeded immediately to V----, where my inquiries concerning
your further progress were successful as far as M----. There they told
me you had staid some time, on account of the illness of a young lady; a
circumstance which perplexed me much, as I could not imagine what young
lady would accompany you. I proceeded, however, to L----; but there all
traces of you seemed to be lost. As I sat musing at the window of the
inn, I observed some scribbling on the glass, and the curiosity of
idleness prompted me to read it. I thought I knew the characters, and
the lines I read confirmed my conjectures, for I remembered to have
heard you often repeat them.

Here I renewed my inquiries concerning your route, and at length I made
the people of the inn recollect you, and traced you as far as Auboine.
There I again lost you, till upon my return from a fruitless inquiry in
the neighbourhood, the landlord of the little inn where I lodged, told
me he believed he had heard news of you, and immediately recounted what
had happened at a blacksmith's shop a few hours before.

His description of Peter was so exact, that I had not a doubt it was you
who inhabited the abbey; and as I knew your necessity for concealment,
Peter's denial did not shake my confidence. The next morning, with the
assistance of my landlord, I found my way hither, and having searched
every visible part of the fabric, I began to credit Peter's assertion:
your appearance, however, destroyed this fear, by proving that the place
was still inhabited, for you disappeared so instantaneously that I was
not certain it was you whom I had seen. I continued seeking you till
near the close of day, and till then scarcely quitted the chambers
whence you had disappeared. I called on you repeatedly, believing that
my voice might convince you of your mistake. At length I retired to pass
the night at a cottage near the border of the forest.

I came early this morning to renew my inquiries, and hoped that,
believing yourself safe, you would emerge from concealment. But how was
I disappointed to find the abbey as silent and solitary as I had left it
the preceding evening! I was returning once more from the great hall,
when the voice of this young lady caught my ear, and effected the
discovery I had so anxiously sought.

This little narrative entirely dissipated the late apprehensions of La
Motte; but he now dreaded that the inquiries of his son, and his own
obvious desire of concealment, might excite a curiosity amongst the
people of Auboine, and lead to a discovery of his true circumstances.
However, for the present he determined to dismiss all painful thoughts,
and endeavour to enjoy the comfort which the presence of his son had
brought him. The furniture was removed to a more habitable part of the
abbey, and the cells were again abandoned to their own glooms.

The arrival of her son seemed to have animated Madame La Motte with new
life, and all her afflictions were, for the present, absorbed in joy.
She often gazed silently on him with a mother's fondness, and her
partiality heightened every improvement which time had wrought in his
person and manner. He was now in his twenty-third year; his person was
manly and his air military; his manners were unaffected and graceful,
rather than dignified; and though his features were irregular, they
composed a countenance which, having seen it once, you would seek it
again.

She made eager inquiries after the friends she had left at Paris, and
learned that within the few months of her absence some had died and
others quitted the place. La Motte also learned that a very strenuous
search for him had been prosecuted at Paris; and, though this
intelligence was only what he had before expected, it shocked him so
much, that he now declared it would be expedient to remove to a distant
country. Louis did not scruple to say that he thought he would be as
safe at the abbey as at any other place; and repeated what Nemours had
said, that the king's officers had been unable to trace any part of his
route from Paris.

Besides, resumed Louis, this abbey is protected by a supernatural power,
and none of the country people dare approach it.

Please you, my young master, said Peter, who was waiting in the room, we
were frightened enough the first night we came here, and I myself, God
forgive me! thought the place was inhabited by devils, but they were
only owls, and such like, after all.

Your opinion was not asked, said La Motte, learn to be silent.

Peter was abashed. When he had quitted the room, La Motte asked his son
with seeming carelessness, what were the reports circulated by the
country people? O! Sir, replies Louis, I cannot recollect half of them:
I remember, however, they said that, many years ago, a person (but
nobody had ever seen him, so we may judge how far the report ought to be
credited)--a person was privately brought to this abbey, and confined in
some part of it, and that there was strong reasons to believe he came
unfairly to his end.

La Motte sighed. They further said, continued Louis, that the spectre of
the deceased had ever since watched nightly among the ruins: and to make
the story more wonderful, for the marvellous is the delight of the
vulgar, they added, that there was a certain part of the ruin from
whence no person that had dared to explore it, had ever returned. Thus
people, who have few objects of real interest to engage their thoughts,
conjure up for themselves imaginary ones.

La Motte sat musing. And what were the reasons, said he, at length
awaking from his reverie, they pretended to assign for believing the
person confined here was murdered?

They did not use a term so positive as that, replied Louis.

True, said La Motte, recollecting himself, they only said he came
unfairly to his end.

That is a nice distinction, said Adeline.

Why I could not well comprehend what these reasons were, resumed Louis;
the people indeed say, that the person who was brought here, was never
known to depart; but I do not find it certain that he ever arrived: that
there was strange privacy and mystery observed, while he was here, and
that the abbey has never since been inhabited by its owner. There seems,
however, to be nothing in all this that deserves to be remembered.--La
Motte raised his head, as if to reply, when the entrance of Madame
turned the discourse upon a new subject, and it was not resumed that
day.

Peter was now dispatched for provisions, while La Motte and Louis
retired to consider how far it was safe for them to continue at the
abbey. La Motte, notwithstanding the assurances lately given him, could
not but think that Peter's blunders and his son's inquiries might lead
to a discovery of his residence. He revolved this in his mind for some
time; but at length a thought struck him, that the latter of these
circumstances might considerably contribute to his security. If you,
said he to Louis, return to the inn at Auboine, from whence you were
directed here, and without seeming to intend giving intelligence, do
give the landlord an account of your having found the abbey uninhabited,
and then add, that you had discovered the residence of the person you
sought in some distant town, it would suppress any reports that may at
present exist, and prevent the belief of any in future. And if, after
all this, you can trust yourself for presence of mind and command of
countenance, so far as to describe some dreadful apparition, I think
these circumstances, together with the distance of the abbey and the
intricacies of the forest, could entitle me to consider this place as my
castle.

Louis agreed to all that his father had proposed, and on the following
day executed his commission with such success, that the tranquillity of
the abbey might be then said to have been entirely restored.

Thus ended this adventure, the only one that had occurred to disturb the
family during their residence in the forest. Adeline, removed from the
apprehension of those evils with which the late situation of La Motte
had threatened her, and from the depression which her interest in his
occasioned her, now experienced a more than usual complacency of mind.
She thought, too, that she observed in Madame La Motte a renewal of her
former kindness; and this circumstance awakened all her gratitude, and
imparted to her a pleasure as lively as it was innocent. The
satisfaction with which the presence of her son inspired Madame La
Motte, Adeline mistook for kindness to herself, and she exerted her
whole attention in an endeavour to become worthy of it.

But the joy which his unexpected arrival had given to La Motte quickly
began to evaporate, and the gloom of despondency again settled on his
countenance. He returned frequently to his haunt in the forest--the same
mysterious sadness tinctured his manner, and revived the anxiety of
Madame La Motte, who was resolved to acquaint her son with this subject
of distress, and solicit his assistance to penetrate its source.

Her jealousy of Adeline, however, she could not communicate, though it
again tormented her, and taught her to misconstrue with wonderful
ingenuity every look and word of La Motte, and often to mistake the
artless expressions of Adeline's gratitude and regard for those of
warmer tenderness. Adeline had formerly accustomed herself to long walks
in the forest, and the design Madame had formed of watching her steps,
had been frustrated by the late circumstances, and was now entirely
overcome by her sense of its difficulty and danger. To employ Peter in
the affair, would be to acquaint him with her fears; and to follow her
herself, would most probably betray her scheme, by making Adeline aware
of her jealousy. Being thus restrained by pride and delicacy, she was
obliged to endure the pangs of uncertainty concerning the greatest part
of her suspicions.

To Louis, however, she related the mysterious change in his father's
temper. He listened to her account with very earnest attention, and the
surprise and concern impressed upon his countenance spoke how much his
heart was interested. He was, however, involved in equal perplexity with
herself upon this subject, and readily undertook to observe the motions
of La Motte, believing his interference likely to be of equal service,
both to his father and his mother. He saw, in some degree, the
suspicions of his mother; but as he thought she wished to disguise her
feelings, he suffered her to believe that she succeeded.

He now inquired concerning Adeline; and listened to her little history,
of which his mother gave a brief relation, with great apparent interest.
So much pity did he express for her condition, and so much indignation
at the unnatural conduct of her father, that the apprehensions which
Madame La Motte began to form, of his having discovered her jealousy,
yielded to those of a different kind. She perceived that the beauty of
Adeline had already fascinated his imagination, and she feared that her
amiable manners would soon impress his heart. Had her first fondness for
Adeline continued, she would still have looked with displeasure upon
their attachment, as an obstacle to the promotion and the fortune she
hoped to see one day enjoyed by her son. On these she rested all her
future hopes of prosperity, and regarded the matrimonial alliance which
he might form as the only means of extricating his family from their
present difficulties. She therefore touched lightly upon Adeline's
merit, joined coolly with Louis, in compassionating her misfortunes, and
with her censure of the father's conduct mixed an implied suspicion of
that of Adeline's. The means she employed to repress the passions of her
son had a contrary effect. The indifference which she repressed towards
Adeline, increased his pity for her destitute condition; and the
tenderness with which she affected to judge the father, heightened his
honest indignation at his character.

As he quitted Madame La Motte, he saw his father cross the lawn and
enter the deep shade of the forest on the left. He judged this to be a
good opportunity of commencing his plan, and quitting the abbey, slowly
followed at a distance. La Motte continued to walk straight forward, and
seemed so deeply wrapt in thought, that he looked neither to the right
nor left, and scarcely lifted his head from the ground. Louis had
followed him near half a mile, when he saw him suddenly strike into an
avenue of the forest, which took a different direction from the way he
had hitherto gone. He quickened his steps that he might not lose sight
of him, but, having reached the avenue, found the trees so thickly
interwoven that La Motte was already hid from his view.

He continued, however, to pursue the way before him: it conducted him
through the most gloomy part of the forest he had yet seen, till at
length it terminated in an obscure recess, over-arched with high trees,
whose interwoven branches secluded the direct rays of the sun, and
admitted only a sort of solemn twilight. Louis looked around in search
of La Motte, but he was no where to be seen. While he stood surveying
the place, and considering what further should be done, he observed,
through the gloom, an object at some distance, but the deep shadow that
fell around prevented his distinguishing what it was.

In advancing, he perceived the ruins of a small building, which, from
the traces that remained, appeared to have been a tomb. As he gazed upon
it, Here, said he, are probably deposited the ashes of some ancient
monk, once an inhabitant of the abbey; perhaps, of the founder, who,
after having spent a life of abstinence and prayer, sought in heaven the
reward of his forbearance upon earth. Peace be to his soul! but did he
think a life of mere negative virtue deserved an eternal reward?
Mistaken man! reason, had you trusted to its dictates, would have
informed you, that the active virtues, the adherence to the golden rule,
Do as you would be done unto, could alone deserve the favour of a Deity
whose glory is benevolence.

He remained with his eyes fixed upon the spot, and presently saw a
figure arise under the arch of the sepulchre. It started, as if on
perceiving him, and immediately disappeared. Louis, though unused to
fear, felt at that moment an uneasy sensation, but it almost immediately
struck him that this was La Motte himself. He advanced to the ruin and
called him. No answer was returned; and he repeated the call, but all
was yet still as the grave. He then went up to the archway and
endeavoured to examine the place where he had disappeared, but the
shadowy obscurity rendered the attempt fruitless. He observed, however,
a little to the right, an entrance to the ruin, and advanced some steps
down a kind of dark passage, when, recollecting that this place might be
the haunt of banditti, his danger alarmed him, and he retreated with
precipitation.

He walked towards the abbey by the way he came; and finding no person
followed him, and believing himself again in safety, his former surmise
returned, and he thought it was La Motte he had seen. He mused upon this
strange possibility, and endeavoured to assign a reason for so
mysterious a conduct, but in vain. Notwithstanding this, his belief of
it strengthened, and he entered the abbey under as full a conviction as
the circumstances would admit of, that it was his father who had
appeared in the sepulchre. On entering what was now used as a parlour,
he was much surprised to find him quietly seated there with Madame La
Motte and Adeline, and conversing as if he had been returned some time.

He took the first opportunity of acquainting his mother with his late
adventure, and of inquiring how long La Motte had been returned before
him; when, learning that it was near half an hour, his surprise
increased, and he knew not what to conclude.

Meanwhile, a perception of the growing partiality of Louis co-operated
with the canker of suspicion to destroy in Madame La Motte that
affection which pity and esteem had formerly excited for Adeline. Her
unkindness was now too obvious to escape the notice of her to whom it
was directed, and, being noticed, it occasioned an anguish which Adeline
found it very difficult to endure. With the warmth and candour of youth,
she sought an explanation of this change of behaviour, and an
opportunity of exculpating herself from any intention of provoking it.
But this Madame La Motte artfully evaded; while at the same time she
threw out hints that involved Adeline in deeper perplexity, and served
to make her present affliction more intolerable.

I have lost that affection, she would say, which was my all. It was my
only comfort--yet I have lost it--and this without even knowing my
offence. But I am thankful that I have not merited unkindness, and,
though she has abandoned me, I shall always love her.

Thus distressed, she would frequently leave the parlour, and, retiring
to her chamber, would yield to a despondency which she had never known
till now.

One morning, being unable to sleep, she arose at a very early hour. The
faint light of day now trembled through the clouds, and gradually
spreading from the horizon, announced the rising sun. Every feature of
the landscape was slowly unveiled, moist with the dews of night and
brightening with the dawn, till at length the sun appeared and shed the
full flood of day. The beauty of the hour invited her to walk, and she
went forth into the forest to taste the sweets of morning. The carols of
new-waked birds saluted her as she passed, and the fresh gale came
scented with the breath of flowers, whose tints glowed more vivid
through the dew drops that hung on their leaves.

She wandered on without noticing the distance, and, following the
windings of the river, came to a dewy glade, whose woods, sweeping down
to the very edge of the water, formed a scene so sweetly romantic, that
she sealed herself at the foot of a tree, to contemplate its beauty.
These images insensibly soothed her sorrow, and inspired her with that
soft and pleasing melancholy so dear to the feeling mind. For some time
she sat lost in a reverie, while the flowers that grew on the banks
beside her seemed to smile in new life, and drew from her a comparison
with her own condition. She mused and sighed, and then, in a voice whose
charming melody was modulated by the tenderness of her heart, she sung
the following words:

SONNET,

TO THE LILY.

Soft silken flower! that in the dewy vale
Unfold'st thy modest beauties to the morn,
And breath'st thy fragrance on her wandering gale,
O'er earth's green hills and shadowy valley borne.

When day has closed his dazzling eye,
And dying gales sink soft away;
When eve steals down the western sky,
And mountains, woods, and vales decay.

Thy tender cups, that graceful swell,
Droop sad beneath her chilly dew;
Thy odours seek their silken cell,
And twilight veils their languid hue.

But soon fair flower! the morn shall rise,
And rear again thy pensive head;
Again unveil thy snowy dyes,
Again thy velvet foliage spread.

Sweet child of Spring! like thee, in sorrow's shade,
Full oft I mourn in tears, and droop forlorn:
And O! like thine, may light my glooms pervade,
And Sorrow fly before Joy's living morn!

A distant echo lengthened out her tones, and she sat listening to the
soft response, till repeating the last stanza of the sonnet she was
answered by a voice almost as tender, and less distant. She looked round
in surprise, and saw a young man in a hunter's dress leaning against a
tree, and gazing on her with that deep attention which marks an
enraptured mind.

A thousand apprehensions shot athwart her busy thought; and she now
first remembered her distance from the abbey. She rose in haste to be
gone, when the stranger respectfully advanced; but, observing her timid
looks and retiring steps, he paused. She pursued her way towards the
abbey; and though many reasons made her anxious to know whether she was
followed, delicacy forbade her to look back. When she reached the abbey,
finding the family was not yet assembled to breakfast, she retired to
her chamber, where her whole thoughts were employed in conjectures
concerning the stranger. Believing that she was interested on this point
no further than as it concerned the safety of La Motte, she indulged
without scruple the remembrance of that dignified air and manner which
so much distinguished the youth she had seen. After revolving the
circumstance more deeply, she believed it impossible that a person of
his appearance should be engaged in a stratagem to betray a
fellow-creature; and though she was destitute of a single circumstance
that might assist her surmises of who he was, or what was his business
in an unfrequented forest, she rejected, unconsciously, every suspicion
injurious to his character. Upon further deliberation, therefore, she
resolved not to mention this little circumstance to La Motte; well
knowing, that though his danger might be imaginary, his apprehensions
would be real, and would renew all the sufferings and perplexity from
which he was but just released. She resolved, however, to refrain, for
some time walking in the forest.

When she came down to breakfast, she observed Madame La Motte to be more
than usually reserved. La Motte entered the room soon after her, and
made some trifling observations on the weather; and, having endeavoured
to support an effort at cheerfulness, sunk into his usual melancholy.
Adeline watched the countenance of Madame with anxiety; and when there
appeared in it a gleam of kindness, it was as sunshine to her soul: but
she very seldom suffered Adeline thus to flatter herself. Her
conversation was restrained, and often pointed at something more than
could be understood. The entrance of Louis was a very seasonable relief
to Adeline, who almost feared to trust her voice with a sentence, lest
its trembling accents should betray her uneasiness.

This charming morning drew you early from your chamber? said Louis,
addressing Adeline. You had, no doubt, a pleasant companion too? said
Madame La Motte, a solitary walk is seldom agreeable.

I was alone, Madam, replied Adeline.

Indeed! your own thoughts must be highly pleasing then.

Alas! returned Adeline, a tear spite of her efforts starting to her eye,
there are now few subjects of pleasure left for them.

That is very surprising, pursued Madame La Motte.

Is it, indeed, surprising, Madam, for those who have lost their last
friend to be unhappy?

Madame La Motte's conscience acknowledged the rebuke, and she blushed.

Well, resumed she, after a short pause, that is not your situation,
Adeline, looking earnestly at La Motte. Adeline, whose innocence
protected her from suspicion, did not regard this circumstance; but,
smiling through her tears, said, she rejoiced to hear her say so. During
this conversation, La Motte had remained absorbed in his own thoughts;
and Louis, unable to guess at what it pointed, looked alternately at his
mother and Adeline for an explanation. The latter he regarded with an
expression so full of tender compassion, that it revealed at once to
Madame La Motte the sentiments of his soul; and she immediately replied
to the last words of Adeline with a very serious air: A friend is only
estimable when our conduct deserves one; the friendship that survives
the merit of its object is a disgrace, instead of an honour, to both
parties.

The manner and emphasis with which she delivered these words, again
alarmed Adeline, who mildly said, she hoped she should never deserve
such censure. Madame was silent; but Adeline was so much shocked by what
had already passed, that tears sprung from her eyes, and she hid her
face with her handkerchief.

Louis now rose with some emotion; and La Motte, roused from his reverie,
inquired what was the matter: but before he could receive an answer he
seemed to have forgotten that he had asked the question. Adeline may
give you her own account, said Madame La Motte. I have not deserved
this, said Adeline rising; but since my presence is displeasing, I will
retire.

She moved towards the door; when Louis, who was pacing the room in
apparent agitation, gently took her hand, saying, Here is some unhappy
mistake--and would have led her to the seat: but her spirits were too
much depressed to endure longer restraint; and, withdrawing her hand,
Suffer me to go, said she; if there is any mistake, I am unable to
explain it. Saying this, she quitted the room. Louis followed her with
his eyes to the door; when turning to his mother, Surely, Madam, said
he, you are to blame: my life on it she deserves your warmest
tenderness.

You are very eloquent in her cause, Sir, said Madame, may I presume to
ask what interested you thus in her favour.

Her own amiable manners, rejoined Louis, which no one can observe
without esteeming them.

But you may presume too much on your own observations; it is possible
these amiable manners may deceive you.

Your pardon Madam; I may, without presumption, affirm they cannot
deceive me.

You have, no doubt, good reasons for this assertion, and I perceive, by
your admiration of this artless innocence, she has succeeded in her
design of entrapping your heart.

Without designing it, she has won my admiration, which would not have
been the case, had she been capable of the conduct you mention.

Madame La Motte was going to reply, but was prevented by her husband,
who, again roused from his reverie, inquired into the cause of dispute.
Away with this ridiculous behaviour, said he in a voice of displeasure;
Adeline has omitted some household duty, I suppose; and an offence so
heinous deserves severe punishment, no doubt: but let me be no more
disturbed with your petty quarrels; if you must be tyrannical, Madam,
indulge your humour in private.

Saying this, he abruptly quitted the room; and Louis immediately
following, Madame was left to her own unpleasant reflections. Her
ill-humour proceeded from the usual cause. She had heard of Adeline's
walk; and La Motte having gone forth into the forest at an early hour,
her imagination, heated by the broodings of jealousy, suggested that
they had appointed a meeting. This was confirmed to her by the entrance
of Adeline, quickly followed by La Motte; and her perceptions thus
jaundiced by passion, neither the presence of her son, nor her usual
attention to good manners, had been able to restrain her emotions. The
behaviour of Adeline in the late scene she considered as a refined piece
of art, and the indifference of La Motte as affected. So true is it
that:

...... Trifles, light as air,
Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong
As proofs of Holy Writ;

and so ingenious was she 'to twist the true cause the wrong way.'

Adeline had retired to her chamber to weep. When her first agitations
were subsided, she took an ample view of her conduct; and perceiving
nothing of which she could accuse herself, she became more satisfied,
deriving her best comfort from the integrity of her intentions. In the
moment of accusation, innocence may sometimes be oppressed with the
punishment due only to guilt; but reflection dissolves the illusion of
terror, and brings to the aching bosom the consolations of virtue.

When La Motte quitted the room, he had gone into the forest; which Louis
observing, he followed and joined him, with an intention of touching
upon the subject of his melancholy. It is a fine morning, Sir, said
Louis; if you will give me leave, I will walk with you. La Motte, though
dissatisfied, did not object; and after they had proceeded some way, he
changed the course of his walk, striking into a path contrary to that
which Louis had observed him take on the foregoing day.

Louis remarked that the avenue they had quitted was more shady, and
therefore more pleasant. La Motte not seeming to notice this remark, It
leads to a singular spot, continued he, which I discovered yesterday. La
Motte raised his head: Louis proceeded to describe the tomb, and the
adventure he had met with. During this relation, La Motte regarded him
with attention, while his own countenance suffered various changes. When
he had concluded, You were very daring, said La Motte, to examine that
place, particularly when you ventured down the passage: I would advise
you to be more cautious how you penetrate the depths of this forest. I
myself have not ventured beyond a certain boundary and am therefore
uninformed what inhabitants it may harbour. Your account has alarmed me,
continued he; for if banditti are in the neighbourhood, I am not safe
from their depredations:--'tis true, I have but little to lose, except
my life.

And the lives of your family, rejoined Louis.--Of course, said La Motte.

It would be well to have more certainty upon that head, rejoined Louis;
I am considering how we may obtain it.

'Tis useless to consider that, said La Motte; the inquiry itself brings
danger with it; your life would perhaps be paid for the indulgence of
your curiosity; our only chance of safety is by endeavouring to remain
undiscovered. Let us move towards the abbey.

Louis knew not what to think, but said no more upon the subject. La
Motte soon after relapsed into a fit of musing; and his son now took
occasion to lament that depression of spirits which he had lately
observed in him. Rather lament the cause of it, said La Motte with a
sigh. That I do most sincerely, whatever it may be. May I venture to
inquire, Sir, what is this cause?

Are then my misfortunes so little known to you, rejoined La Motte, as to
make that question necessary? Am I not driven from my home, from my
friends, and almost from my country? And shall it be asked why I am
afflicted? Louis felt the justice of this reproof, and was a moment
silent. That you are afflicted, Sir, does not excite my surprise,
resumed he; it would indeed be strange, were you not.

What then does excite your surprise?

The air of cheerfulness you wore when I first came hither.

You lately lamented that I was afflicted, said La Motte, and now seem
not very well pleased that I once was cheerful. What is the meaning of
this?

You much mistake me, said his son; nothing could give me so much
satisfaction as to see that cheerfulness renewed; the same cause of
sorrow existed at that time, yet you was then cheerful.

That I was then cheerful, said La Motte, you might, without flattery,
have attributed to yourself; your presence revived me, and I was
relieved at the same time from a load of apprehensions.

Why then, as the same cause exists, are you not still cheerful?

And why do you not recollect that it is your father you thus speak to?

I do, Sir, and nothing but anxiety for my father could have urged me
thus far: it is with inexpressible concern I perceive you have some
secret cause of uneasiness; reveal it, Sir, to those who claim a share
in all your affliction, and suffer them, by participation to soften its
severity. Louis looked up, and observed the countenance of his father
pale as death: his lips trembled while he spoke. Your penetration,
however, you may rely upon it, has, in the present instance, deceived
you: I have no subject of distress, but what you are already acquainted
with, and I desire this conversation may never be renewed.

If it is your desire, of course I obey, said Louis; but, pardon me, Sir,
if--

I will not pardon you, Sir, interrupted La Motte; let the discourse
end here. Saying this, he quickened his steps; and Louis, not daring to
pursue, walked quietly on till he reached the abbey.

Adeline passed the greatest part of the day alone in her chamber, where,
having examined her conduct, she endeavoured to fortify her heart
against the unmerited displeasure of Madame La Motte. This was a task
more difficult than that of self-acquittance. She loved her, and had
relied on her friendship, which, notwithstanding the conduct of Madame,
still appeared valuable to her. It was true, she had not deserved to
lose it; but Madame was so averse to explanation, that there was little
probability of recovering it, however ill-founded might be the cause of
her dislike. At length she reasoned, or rather perhaps persuaded herself
into tolerable composure; for to resign a real good with contentment is
less an effort of reason than of temper.

For many hours she busied herself upon a piece of work which she had
undertaken for Madame La Motte; and this she did without the least
intention of conciliating her favour, but because she felt there was
something in thus repaying unkindness, which was suitable to her own
temper, her sentiments, and her pride. Self-love may be the centre
round which the human affections move; for whatever motive conduces to
self-gratification may be resolved into self-love; yet some of these
affections are in their nature so refined, that though we cannot deny
their origin, they almost deserve the name of virtue. Of this species
was that of Adeline.

In this employment, and in reading, Adeline passed as much of the day as
possible. From books, indeed, she had constantly derived her chief
information and amusement: those belonging to La Motte were few, but
well chosen; and Adeline could find pleasure in reading them more than
once. When her mind was discomposed by the behaviour of Madame La Motte,
or by a retrospection of her early misfortunes, a book was the opiate
that lulled it to repose. La Motte had several of the best English
poets, a language which Adeline had learned in the convent; their
beauties, therefore, she was capable of tasting, and they often inspired
her with enthusiastic delight.

At the decline of day she quitted her chamber to enjoy the sweet evening
hour, but strayed no further than an avenue near the abbey, which
fronted the west. She read a little; but finding it impossible any
longer to abstract her attention from the scene around; she closed the
book, and yielded to the sweet complacent melancholy which the hour
inspired. The air was still; the sun sinking below the distant hill,
spread a purple glow over the landscape, and touched the forest glades
with softer light. A dewy freshness was diffused upon the air. As the
sun descended, the dusk came silently on, and the scene assumed a solemn
grandeur. As she mused, she recollected and repeated the following
stanzas:

NIGHT.

Now Evening fades! her pensive step retires,
And Night leads on the dews and shadowy hours:
Her awful pomp of planetary fires,
And all her train of visionary powers.

These paint with fleeting shapes the dream of sleep,
These swell the waking soul with pleasing dread;
These through the glooms in forms terrific sweep,
And rouse the thrilling horrors of the dead!

Queen of the solemn thought--mysterious Night!
Whose step is darkness, and whose voice is fear!
Thy shades I welcome with severe delight,
And hail thy hollow gales, that sigh so drear!

When wrapt in clouds, and riding in the blast,
Thou roll'st the storm along the sounding shore,
I love to watch the whelming billows cast
On rocks below, and listen to the roar.

Thy milder terrors, Night, I frequent woo
Thy silent lightnings, and thy meteors' glare,
Thy northern fires, bright with ensanguine hue,
That light in heaven's high vault the fervid air.

But chief I love thee, when thy hold car
Sheds through the fleecy clouds a trembling gleam,
And shows the misty mountain from afar,
The nearer forest, and the valley's stream:

And nameless objects in the vale below,
That, floating dimly to the musing eye,
Assume, at Fancy's touch, fantastic show,
And raise her sweet romantic visions high.

Then let me stand amidst thy glooms profound,
On some wide woody steep, and hear the breeze
That swells in mournful melody around,
And faintly dies upon the distant trees.

What melancholy charm steals o'er the mind!
What hallow'd tears the rising rapture greet!
While many a viewless spirit in the wind
Sighs to the lonely hour in accents sweet!

Ah! who the dear illusions pleased would yield,
Which Fancy wakes from silence and from shades,
For all the sober forms of Truth reveal'd,
For all the scenes that Day's bright eye pervades!

On her return to the abbey she was joined by Louis, who, after some
conversation, said, I am much grieved by the scene to which I was
witness this morning, and have longed for an opportunity of telling you
so. My mother's behaviour is too mysterious to be accounted for, but it
is not difficult to perceive she labours under some mistake. What I have
to request is, that whenever I can be of service to you, you will
command me.

Adeline thanked him for this friendly offer, which she felt more
sensibly than she chose to express. I am unconscious, said she, of any
offence that may have deserved Madame La Motte's displeasure, and am
therefore totally unable to account for it. I have repeatedly sought an
explanation, which she has as anxiously avoided; it is better,
therefore, to press the subject no farther. At the same time, Sir,
suffer me to assure you, I have a just sense of your goodness. Louis
sighed, and was silent. At length, I wish you would permit me, resumed
he, to speak with my mother upon this subject; I am sure I could
convince her of her error.

By no means, replied Adeline: Madame La Motte's displeasure has given me
inexpressible concern; but to compel her to an explanation, would only
increase this displeasure, instead of removing it. Let me beg of you not
to attempt it.

I submit to your judgment, said Louis, but, for once, it is with
reluctance. I should esteem myself most happy if I could be of service
to you. He spoke this with an accent so tender, that Adeline, for the
first time, perceived the sentiments of his heart. A mind more fraught
with vanity than hers would have taught her long ago to regard the
attentions of Louis as the result of something more than well-bred
gallantry. She did not appear to notice his last words, but remained
silent, and involuntarily quickened her pace. Louis said no more, but
seemed sunk in thought; and this silence remained uninterrupted till
they entered the abbey.