The Romance of the Forest by Ann Radcliffe (free biff chip and kipper ebooks TXT) 📕

From mountain-cliffs and forest’s green,

And failing slow on silent wings

Along the glimm’ring 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 Heav’ns’ ¾therial blue,

Wasted on Spring’s light airs you come,

With blooms, and flow’rs, 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 ev’ning 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 pow’r!

Then Memory wakes the magic smile,

Th’ impassion’d voice, the melting eye,

That won’t 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 Ñ

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 the found herself on the sea sands over which the woods impended. Her breath was now exhausted Ñ 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. Ñ 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 sounds 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 Ñ 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 a sailor’s habit pursuing, while he renewed the call. Impelled by terror, she fled along the sands, but her steps were short and trembling Ñ those of her pursuer’s 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 lest, 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 upon his features, she distinguished M. Verneuil! Ñ 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 on 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 surprize 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 the 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 Ñ 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 or 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. Ñ “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 surprized 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?” Ñ “I am,” said Adeline; “M. la Motte has informed you” Ñ “No,” replied Louis, with a deep sigh, “not my father.” Ñ He paused. Ñ “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!” Ñ He checked himself. Ñ “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 Ñ how to soften Ñ This task is too severe. Alas! my poor friend!”

“Who 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 suspence,” said Adeline, who had a wild idea that it was Theodore he would speak of. Louis still hesitated. “Is it Ñ O is it? Ñ I conjure you tell me the worst at once,” said she, in a voice of agony. “I can bear it Ñ indeed I can.”

“My unhappy friend!” exclaimed Louis, “O Theodore!” Ñ “Theodore!” faintly articulated Adeline, “he lives then!” Ñ “He does,” said Louis, “but” Ñ He stopped. Ñ “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.” Ñ Louis resumed his seat, and, endeavouring to assume a collected air, said, “He is living, Madam, but he is a prisoner, and Ñ for why should I deceive you? I fear he has little to hope in this