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

this way and that to see if I could see a house, or a cottage, or even a man, but not a soul of them was to be seen, and so I jogged on, near the value of a league, I warrant, and then I came to a track; oh! oh! says I, we have you now; this will do Ñ paths can’t be made without feet. However, I was out in my reckoning, for the devil a bit of a soul could I see, and, after following the track this way and that way, for the third of a league, I lost it, and had to find out another.”

“Is it impossible for you to speak to the point?” said La Motte: “omit these foolish particulars, and tell whether you have succeeded.”

“Well, then, Master, to be short, for that’s the nearest way after all, I wandered a long while at random, I did not know where, all through a forest like this, and I took special care to note how the trees stood, that I might find my way back. At last I came to another path, and was sure I should find something now, though I had found nothing before, for I could not be mistaken twice; so, peeping between the trees, I spied a cottage, and I gave my horse a lash, that sounded through the forest, and I was at the door in a minute. They told me there was a town about half a league off, and bade me follow the track and it would bring me there, so it did; and my horse, I believe, smelt the corn in the manger by the rate he went at. I inquired for a wheel-wright, and was told there was but one in the place, and he could not be found. I waited and waited, for I knew it was in vain to think of returning without doing my business. The man at last came home from the country, and I told him how long I had waited; for, says I, I knew it was in vain to return without my business.”

“Do be less tedious,” said La Motte, if it is in thy nature.”

“It is in my nature,” answered Peter, and if it was more in my nature, your Honour should have it all. Would you think it, Sir, the fellow had the impudence to ask a louis-d’or for mending the coach wheel! I believe in my conscience he saw I was in a hurry and could not do without him. A louis-d’or! says I, my Master shall give no such price, he sha’n’t be imposed upon by no such rascal as you. Whereupon, the fellow looked glum, and gave me a douse o’the chops: with this, I up with my fist and gave him another, and should have beat him presently, if another man had not come in, and then I was obliged to give up.”

“And so you are returned as wife as you went?”

“Why, Master, I hope I have too much spirit to submit to a rascal, or let you submit to one either: besides, I have bought some nails to try if I I can’t mend the wheel myself Ñ I had always a hand at carpentry.”

“Well, I commend your zeal in my cause, but on this occasion it was rather ill-timed. And what have you got in that basket?”

“Why, Master, I bethought me that we could not get away from this place till the carriage was ready to draw us, and in the mean time, says I, nobody can live without victuals, so I’ll e’en lay out the little money I have and take a basket with me.”

“That’s the only wife thing you have done yet, and this, indeed, redeems your blunders.”

“Why now, Master, it does my heart good to hear you speak; I knew I was doing for the best all the while: but I’ve had a hard job to find my way back; and here’s another piece of ill luck, for the horse has got a thorn in his foot.”

La Motte made inquiries concerning the town, and sound it was capable of supplying him with provision, and what little furniture was necessary to render the abbey habitable. This intelligence almost settled his plans, and he ordered Peter to return on the following morning and make inquiries concerning the abbey. If the answers were favourable to his wishes, he commissioned him to buy a cart and load it with some furniture, and some materials necessary for repairing the modern apartments. Peter stared: “What, does your Honour mean to live here?”

“Why, suppose I do?”

“Why then your Honour has made a wise determination, according to my hint; for your Honour knows I said” Ñ “Well, Peter, it is not necessary to repeat what you said; perhaps, I had determined on the subject before.”

“Egad, Master, you’re in the right, and I’m glad of it, for, I believe, we shall not quickly be disturbed here, except by the rooks and owls. Yes, yes Ñ I warrant I’ll make it a place fit for a king; and as for the town, one may get any thing, I’m sure of that; though they think no more about this place than they do about India or England, or any of those places.”

They now reached the abbey, where Peter was received with great joy; but the hopes of his mistress and Adeline were repressed, when they learned that he returned, without having executed his commission, and heard his account of the town. La Motte’s orders to Peter were heard with almost equal concern by Madame and Adeline; but the latter concealed her uneasiness, and used all her efforts to overcome that of her friend. The sweetness of her behaviour, and the air of satisfaction she assumed, sensibly affected Madame, and discovered to her a source of comfort, which she had hitherto overlooked. The affectionate attentions of her young friend promised to console her for the want of other society, and her conversation to enliven the hours which might otherwise be passed in painful regret.

The observations and general behaviour of Adeline already bespoke a good understanding and an amiable heart, but she had yet more Ñ she had genius. She was now in her nineteenth year; her figure of the middling size, and turned to the most exquisite proportion; her hair was dark auburn, her eyes blue, and whether they sparkled with intelligence, or melted with tenderness, they were equally attractive: her form had the airy lightness of a nymph, and, when she smiled, her countenance might have been drawn for the younger sister of Hebe: the captivations of her beauty were heightened by the grace and simplicity of her manners, and confirmed by the intrinsic value of a heart

“That might be shrin’d in crystal, And have all its movements scann’d.”

Annette now kindled the fire for the night: Peter’s basket was opened, and supper prepared. Madame La Motte was still pensive and silent. “There is scarcely any condition so bad,” said Adeline, “but we may one time or other wish we had not quitted it. Honest Peter, when he was bewildered in the forest, or had two enemies to encounter instead of one, confesses he wished himself at the abbey. And I am certain, there is no situation so destitute, but comfort may be extracted from it. The blaze of this fire shines yet more cheerfully from the contrasted dreariness of the place; and this plentiful repast is made yet more delicious, from the temporary want we have suffered. Let us enjoy the good and forget the evil.”

“You speak, my dear,” replied Madame La Motte, “like one, whose spirits have not been often depressed by misfortune, (Adeline sighed) and whose hopes are, therefore, vigorous.” Long suffering,” said La Motte, has subdued in our minds that elastic energy, which repels the pressure of evil, and dances to the bound of joy. “But I speak in rhapsody, though only from the remembrance of such a time. I once, like you, Adeline, could extract comfort from most situations.”

“And may now, my dear Sir,” said Adeline. “Still believe it possible, and you will find it is so.”

“The illusion is gone Ñ I can no longer deceive myself.”

“Pardon me, Sir, if I say, it is now only you deceive yourself, by suffering the cloud of sorrow to tinge every object you look upon.”

“It may be so,” said La Motte, “but let us leave the subject.”

After supper, the doors were secured, as before, for the night, and the wanderers resigned themselves to repose.

On the following morning, Peter again set out for the little town of Auboine, and the hours of his absence were again spent by Madame La Motte and Adeline in much anxiety and some hope, for the intelligence he might bring concerning the abbey might yet release them from the plans of La Motte. Towards the close of day he was descried coming slowly on; and the cart, which accompanied him, too certainly confirmed their fears. He brought materials for repairing the place, and some furniture.

Of the abbey he gave an account, of which the following is the substance: Ñ It belonged, together with a large part of the adjacent forest, to a nobleman, who now resided with his family on a remote estate. He inherited it, in right of his wife, from his father-in-law, who had caused the more modern apartments to be erected, and had resided in them some part of every year, for the purpose of shooting and hunting. It was reported, that some person was, soon after it came to the present possessor, brought secretly to the abbey and confined in these apartments; who, or what he was, had never been conjectured, and what became of him nobody knew. The report died gradually away, and many persons entirely disbelieved the whole of it. But however this affair might be, certain it was, the present owner had visited the abbey only two summers, since his succeeding to it; and the furniture, after some time, was removed.

This circumstance had at first excited surprize, and various reports arose in consequence, but it was difficult to know what ought to be believed. Among the rest, it was said, that strange appearances had been observed at the abbey, and uncommon noises heard; and though this report had been ridiculed by sensible persons as the idle superstition of ignorance, it had fastened so strongly upon the minds of the common people, that for the last seventeen years none of the peasantry had ventured to approach the spot. The abbey was now, therefore, abandoned to decay.

La Motte ruminated upon this account. At first, it called up unpleasant ideas, but they were soon dismissed, and considerations more interesting to his welfare took place: he congratulated himself that he had now found a spot, where he was not likely to be either discovered or disturbed; yet it could not escape him that there was a strange coincidence between one part of Peter’s narrative, and the condition of the chambers that opened from the tower above stairs. The remains of furniture, of which the other apartments were void Ñ the solitary bed Ñ the number and connection of the rooms, were circumstances that united to confirm his opinion. This, however, he concealed in his own breast, for he already perceived that Peter’s account had not assisted in reconciling his family to the necessity of dwelling at the abbey.

But they had only to submit in silence, and whatever disagreeable apprehension might intrude upon them, they now appeared willing to suppress the expression of it. Peter, indeed, was exempt from any evil of this kind; he knew no fear, and his mind was now wholly occupied with his approaching business. Madame La Motte, with a placid kind of despair, endeavoured to reconcile herself to that,