A ROMANCE OF THE FOREST

CHAPTER 19

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

Beattie.

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

NIGHT.

O’er the dim breast of Ocean’s wave
Night spreads afar her gloomy wings,
And pensive thought, and silence brings,
Save when the distant waters lave;
Or when the mariner’s lone voice
Swells faintly in the passing gale,
Or when the screaming sea-gulls poise
O’er the tall mast and swelling sail,

Bounding the gray gleam of the deep,
Where fancy’d forms arouse the mind,
Dark sweep the shores, on whose rude steep
Sighs the sad spirit of the wind.
Sweet is its voice upon the air
At Ev’ning’s melancholy close,
When the smooth wave in silence flows!
Sweet, sweet the peace its stealing accents bear!
Blest be thy shades, O Night! and blest the song
Thy low winds breathe the distant shores along!

As the shadows thickened the scene sunk into deeper repose. Even the sailor’s song had ceased; no sound was heard but that of the waters dashing beneath the vessel, and their fainter murmur on the pebbly coast. Adeline’s mind was in unison with the tranquillity of the hour: lulled by the waves, she resigned herself to a still melancholy, and sat lost in reverie. The present moment brought to her recollection her voyage up the Rhone, when seeking refuge from the terrors of the Marquis de Montalt, she so anxiously endeavoured to anticipate her future destiny. She then, as now, had watched the fall of evening and the fading prospect, and she remembered what a desolate feeling had accompanied the impression which those objects made. She had then no friends — no asylum — no certainty of escaping the pursuit of her enemy. Now she had found affectionate friends — a secure retreat

— and was delivered from the terrors she then suffered — but
still she was unhappy. The remembrance of Theodore — of Theodore
who had loved her so truly, who had encountered and suffered so much
for her sake, and of whose fate she was now as ignorant as when she
traversed the Rhone, was an incessant pang to her heart. She seemed to
be more remote than ever from the possibility of hearing of him.
Sometimes a faint hope crossed her that he had escaped the malice of
his persecutor; but when she considered the inveteracy and power of
the latter, and the heinous light in which the law regards an assault
upon a superior officer, even this poor hope vanished, and left her to
tears and anguish, such as this reverie, which began with a sensation
of only gentle melancholy, now led to. She continued to muse till the
moon arose from the bosom of the ocean, and shed her trembling lustre
upon the waves, diffusing peace, and making silence more solemn;
beaming a soft light on the white fails, and throwing upon the waters
the tall shadow of the vessel, which now seemed to glide along
unopposed by any current. Her tears had somewhat relieved the anguish
of her mind, and she again reposed in placid melancholy, when a strain
of such tender and entrancing sweetness stole on the silence of the
hour, that it seemed more like celestial than mortal music — so
soft, so soothing, it sunk upon her ear, that it recalled her from
misery to hope and love. She wept again — but these were tears which
she would not have exchanged for mirth and joy. She looked round, but
perceived neither ship or boat; and as the undulating sounds swelled
on the distant air, she thought they came from the shore. Sometimes
the breeze wasted them away, and again returned them in tones of the
most languishing softness. The links of the air thus broken, it was
music rather than melody that she caught, till, the pilot gradually
steering nearer the coast, she distinguished the notes of a song
familiar to her ear. She endeavoured to recollect where she had heard
it, but in vain; yet her heart beat almost unconsciously with a
something resembling hope. Still she listened, till the breeze again
stole the sounds. With regret she now perceived that the vessel was
moving from them, and at length they trembled faintly on the waves,
sunk away at distance, and were heard no more. She remained upon the
deck a considerable time, unwilling to relinquish the expectation of
hearing them again, and their sweetness still vibrating on her fancy,
and at length retired to the cabin oppressed by a degree of
disappointment which the occasion did not appear to justify.

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

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

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

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

SUNSET.

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

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

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

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

Her lengthen’d shade, when Ev’ning flings,
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 moon-beams 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’ Štherial 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 —
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 — she paused a moment to recover herself, and fearfully listened but instead of the voices of men, she heard faintly swelling in the breeze the notes of mournful music. — Her heart, ever sensible to the impressions of melody, melted with the tones, and her fears were for a moment lulled in sweet enchantment. Surprise was soon mingled with delight when, as the 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 — 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 — 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! — 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 — 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. — “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?” — “I am,” said Adeline; “M. la Motte has informed you” — “No,” replied Louis, with a deep sigh, “not my father.” — He paused. — “But I do indeed rejoice,” resumed he, “O! how sincerely rejoice! that you are in safety. Could you know, lovely Adeline, what I have suffered!” — He checked himself. — “I understood you had something of importance to say, Sir,” said Adeline; “you must excuse me if I remind you that I have not many moments to spare.”

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

“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 — O is it? — I conjure you tell me the worst at once,” said she, in a voice of agony. “I can bear it — indeed I can.”

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

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

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

— he is condemned to die.”

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

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

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

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

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

“O heavens! is it possible?” exclaimed Adeline — “is it possible that Theodore Peyrou is a relation of M. La Luc!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

La Luc received the account of his son’s condition with a distress that admitted neither of tears or complaint. He asked where Theodore was, and desiring to be conducted to him, he thanked Louis for all his kindness, and ordered post horses immediately.

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



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