[] THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST.

CHAPTER I.

‘"WHEN once ſordid intereſt ſeizes on the heart, it freezes up the ſource of every warm and liberal feeling; it is an enemy alike to virtue and to taſte—this it perverts, and that it annihilates. The time may come, my friend, when death ſhall diſſolve the ſinews of avarice, and juſtice be permitted to reſume her rights."’

[2] Such were the words of the Advocate Ne⯑mours to Pierre de la Motte, as the latter ſtept at midnight into the carriage which was to bear him far from Paris, from his creditors and the perſecution of the laws. De la Motte thanked him for this laſt inſtance of his kindneſs; the aſſiſtance he had given him in eſcape; and, when the carriage drove away, uttered a ſad adieu! The gloom of the hour, and the pecu⯑liar emergency of his circumſtances, ſunk him in ſilent reverie.

Whoever has read Guyot de Pitaval, the moſt faithful of thoſe writers who record the proceedings in the Parliamentary Courts of Paris, during the ſeventeenth century, muſt ſurely remember the ſtriking ſtory of Pierre de la Motte, and the Marquis Phillipe de Mon⯑talt: let all ſuch, therefore, be informed, that the perſon here introduced to their notice was that individual Pierre de la Motte.

As Madame de la Motte leaned from the coach window, and gave a laſt look to the walls of Paris—Paris, the ſcene of her former hap⯑pineſs, and the reſidence of many dear friends—the fortitude, which had till now ſupported her, yielded to the force of grief. ‘"Farewell all!"’ ſighed ſhe, ‘"this laſt look and we are ſeparated for ever!"’ Tears followed her words, and, ſinking back, ſhe reſigned herſelf to the ſtillneſs of ſorrow. The recollection of former times preſſed heavily upon her heart: a few [3] months before and ſhe was ſurrounded by friends, fortune, and conſequence; now ſhe was deprived of all, a miſerable exile from her native place, without home, without comfort—almoſt with⯑out hope. It was not the leaſt of her afflictions, that ſhe had been obliged to quit Paris, without bidding adieu to her only ſon, who was now on duty with his regiment in Germany: and ſuch had been the precipitancy of this removal, that had ſhe even known where he was ſtationed, ſhe had no time to inform him of it, or of the alteration in his father's circumſtances.

Pierre de la Motte was a gentleman, deſcended from an ancient houſe of France. He was a man whoſe paſſions often overcame his reaſon, and, for a time, ſilenced his conſcience; but, though the image of virtue, which Nature had impreſſed upon his heart, was ſometimes obſcured by the paſſing influence of vice, it was never wholly obliterated. With ſtrength of mind ſufficient to have withſtood temptation, he would have been a good man; as it was, he was always a weak, and ſometimes a vicious member of ſociety: yet his mind was active, and his imagination vivid, which, co-operating with the force of paſſion, often dazzled his judgment and ſubdued principle. Thus he was a man, infirm in purpoſe and viſionary in virtue: in a word, his conduct was ſuggeſted by feeling, rather than principle; and his virtue, ſuch as it was, could not ſtand the preſſure of occaſion.

[4] Early in life he had married Conſtance Va⯑lentia, a beautiful and elegant woman, attached to her family and beloved by them. Her birth was equal, her fortune ſuperior to his; and their nuptials had been celebrated under the auſpices of an approving and flattering world. Her heart was devoted to La Motte, and, for ſome time, ſhe found in him an affectionate huſband; but, allured by the gaieties of Paris, he was ſoon devoted to its luxuries, and in a few years his fortune and affection were equally loſt in diſſipation. A falſe pride had ſtill ope⯑rated againſt his intereſt, and withheld him from honourable retreat while it was yet in his power: the habits, which he had acquired, enchained him to the ſcene of his former pleaſure; and thus he had continued an expenſive ſtile of life till the means of prolonging it were exhauſted. He at length awoke from this lethargy of ſecu⯑rity; but it was only to plunge into new error, and to attempt ſchemes for the reparation of his fortune, which ſerved to ſink him deeper in deſtruction. The conſequence of a tranſaction, in which he thus engaged, now drove him, with the ſmall wreck of his property, into dangerous and ignominious exile.

It was his deſign to paſs into one of the Southern Provinces, and there ſeek, near the borders of the kingdom, an aſylum in ſome obſcure village. His family conſiſted of his wife, and two faithful domeſtics, a man and [5] woman, who followed the fortunes of their maſter.

The night was dark and tempeſtuous, and, at about the diſtance of three leagues from Paris, Peter, who now acted as poſtillion, having drove for ſome time over a wild heath where many ways croſſed, ſtopped, and acquainted De la Motte with his perplexity. The ſudden ſtopping of the carriage rouſed the latter from his reverie, and filled the whole party with the terror of purſuit; he was unable to ſupply the neceſſary direction, and the extreme darkneſs made it dangerous to proceed without one. During this period of diſtreſs, a light was per⯑ceived at ſome diſtance, and after much doubt and heſitation, La Motte, in the hope of ob⯑taining aſſiſtance, alighted and advanced towards it; he proceeded ſlowly, from the fear of un⯑known pits. The light iſſued from the window of a ſmall and ancient houſe, which ſtood alone on the heath, at the diſtance of half a mile.

Having reached the door, he ſtopped for ſome moments, liſtening in apprehenſive anxie⯑ty—no ſound was heard but that of the wind, which ſwept in hollow guſts over the waſte. At length he ventured to knock, and, having waited ſome time, during which he indiſtinctly heard ſeveral voices in converſation, ſome one within enquired what he wanted? La Motte anſwered, that he was a traveller who had loſt [6] his way, and deſired to be directed to the neareſt town. ‘"That,"’ ſaid the perſon, ‘"is ſeven miles off, and the road bad enough, even if you could ſee it: if you only want a bed, you may have it here, and had better ſtay."’

The ‘"pitileſs pelting"’ of the ſtorm, which, at this time, beat with encreaſing fury upon La Motte, inclined him to give up the attempt of proceeding farther till day-light; but, deſirous of ſeeing the perſon with whom he converſed, before he ventured to expoſe his family by calling up the carriage, he aſked to be admitted. The door was now opened by a tall figure with a light, who invited La Motte to enter. He followed the man through a paſ⯑ſage into a room almoſt unfurniſhed, in one corner of which a bed was ſpread upon the floor. The forlorn and deſolate aſpect of this apartment made La Motte ſhrink involuntarily, and he was turning to go out when the man ſuddenly puſhed him back, and he heard the door locked upon him: his heart failed, yet he made a deſpcrate, though vain, effort to force the door, and called loudly for releaſe. No anſwer was returned; but he diſtinguiſhed the voices of men in the room above, and, not doubting but their intention was to rob and murder him, his agitation, at firſt, overcame his reaſon. By the light of ſome almoſt-ex⯑piring embers, he perceived a window, but the hope, which this diſcovery revived, was quickly [7] loſt when he found the aperture guarded by ſtrong iron bars. Such preparation for ſecurity ſurprized him, and confirmed his worſt appre⯑henſions.—Alone, unarmed—beyond the chance of aſſiſtance, he ſaw himſelf in the power of people, whoſe trade was apparently rapine!—murder their means!—After revolving every poſſibility of eſcape, he endeavoured to await the event with fortitude; but La Motte could boaſt of no ſuch virtue.

The voices had ceaſed, and all remained ſtill for a quarter of an hour, when, between the pauſes of the wind, he thought he diſtinguiſhed the ſobs and moaning of a female; he liſtened attentively and became confirmed in his con⯑jecture; it was too evidently the accent of diſtreſs. At this conviction, the remains of his courage forſook him, and a terrible ſurmiſe darted, with the rapidity of lightning, croſs his brain. It was probable that his carriage had been diſcovered by the people of the houſe, who, with a deſign of plunder, had ſecured his ſervant, and brought hither Madame de la Motte. He was the more inclined to believe this, by the ſtillneſs which had, for ſome time, reigned in the houſe, previous to the ſounds he now heard. Or it was poſſible that the inha⯑bitants were not robbers, but perſons to whom he had been betrayed by his friend or ſervant, and who were appointed to deliver him into the hands of juſtice. Yet he hardly dared to doubt [8] the integrity of his friend, who had been en⯑truſted with the ſecret of his flight and the plan of his route, and had procured him the carri⯑age in which he had eſcaped. ‘"Such depra⯑vity,"’ exclaimed La Motte, ‘"cannot ſurely exiſt in human nature; much leſs in the heart of Nemours!"’

This ejaculation was interrupted by a noiſe in the paſſage leading to the room: it approached—the door was unlocked—and the man who had admitted La Motte into the houſe entered, lea⯑ding, or rather forcibly dragging along, a beau⯑tiful girl, who appeared to be about eighteen. Her features were bathed in tears, and ſhe ſeemed to ſuffer the utmoſt diſtreſs. The man faſtened the lock and put the key in his pock⯑et. He then advanced to La Motte, who had before obſerved other perſons in the paſſage, and pointing a piſtol to his breaſt, ‘"You are wholly in our power,"’ ſaid he, ‘"no aſſiſt⯑ance can reach you: if you wiſh to ſave your life, ſwear that you will convey this girl where I may never ſee her more; or rather conſent to take her with you, for your oath I would not believe, and I can take care you ſhall not find me again.—Anſwer quickly, you have no time to loſe."’

He now ſeized the trembling hand of the girl, who ſhrunk aghaſt with terror, and hurried her [...]owards La Motte, whom ſurprize ſtill kept ſilent. She ſunk at his feet, and with ſupplica⯑ting [9] eyes, that ſtreamed with tears, implored him to have pity on her. Notwithſtanding his preſent agitation, he found it impoſſible to con⯑template the beauty and diſtreſs of the object before him with indifference. Her youth, her apparent innocence—the artleſs energy of her manner forcibly aſſailed his heart, and he was going to ſpeak, when the ruffian, who miſtook the ſilence of aſtoniſhment for that of heſitation, prevented him. ‘"I have a horſe ready to take you from hence,"’ ſaid he, ‘"and I will di⯑rect you over the heath. If you return with⯑in an hour, you die: after then you are at liberty to come here when you pleaſe."’

La Motte, without anſwering, raiſed the lovely girl from the floor, and was ſo much re⯑lieved from his own apprehenſions, that he had leiſure to attempt diſſipating hers. ‘"Let us be gone,"’ ſaid the ruffian, ‘"and have no more of this nonſenſe; you may think yourſelf well off it's no worſe. I'll go and get the horſe ready."’

The laſt words rouſed La Motte, and per⯑plexed him with new fears; he dreaded to diſco⯑ver his carriage, leſt its appearance might tempt the banditti to plunder; and to depart on horſe⯑back with this man might produce a conſequence yet more to be dreaded. Madame La Motte, wearied with apprehenſion, would, probably, ſend for her huſband to the houſe, when all the former danger would be incurred, with the addi⯑tional [10] evil of being ſeparated from his family, and the chance of being detected by the emiſſaries of juſtice in endeavouring to recover them. As theſe reflections paſſed over his mind in tumultu⯑ous rapidity, a noiſe was again heard in the paſ⯑ſage, an uproar and ſcuffle enſued, and in the ſame moment he could diſtinguiſh the voice of his ſervant, who had been ſent by Madame La Motte in ſearch of him. Being now determined to diſcloſe what could not long be concealed, he exclaimed aloud, that a horſe was unneceſſary, that he had a carriage at ſome diſtance which would convey them from the heath, the man, who was ſeized, being his ſervant.

The ruffian, ſpeaking through the door, bid him be patient awhile and he ſhould hear more from him. La Motte now turned his eyes upon his unfortunate companion, who, pale and ex⯑hauſted, leaned for ſupport againſt the wall. Her features, which were delicately beautiful, had gained from diſtreſs an expreſſion of captiva⯑ting ſweetneſs: ſhe had

A habit of grey camlet, with ſhort ſlaſhed ſleeves, ſhewed, but did not adorn, her figure: it was thrown open at the boſom, upon which part of her hair had fallen in diſorder, while the light veil haſtily thrown on, had, in her confuſion, [11] been ſuffered to fall back. Every moment of farther obſervation heightened the ſurprize of La Motte, and intereſted him more warmly in her favour. Such elegance and apparent refine⯑ment, contraſted with the deſolation of the houſe, and the ſavage manners of its inhabitants, ſeem⯑ed to him like a romance of imagination, rather than an occurrence of real life. He endeavoured to comfort her, and his ſenſe of compaſſion was too ſincere to be miſunderſtood. Her terror gradually ſubſided into gratitude and grief. ‘"Ah, Sir,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"Heaven has ſent you to my relief, and will ſurely reward you for your protection: I have no friend in the world, if I do not find one in you."’

La Motte aſſured her of his kindneſs, when he was interrupted by the entrance of the ruffian. He deſired to be conducted to his family. ‘"All in good time,"’ replied the latter; ‘"I have taken care of one of them, and will of you, pleaſe St. Peter; ſo be comforted."’ Theſe comfortable words renewed the terror of La Motte, who now earneſtly begged to know if his family were ſafe. ‘"O! as for that matter they are ſafe enough, and you will be with them preſently; but don't ſtand parlying here all night. Do you chuſe to go or ſtay? you know the conditions."’ They now bound the eyes of La Motte and of the young lady, whom terror had hitherto kept ſilent, and then placing them on two horſes, a man mounted behind [12] each, and they immediately gallopped off. They had proceeded in this way near half an hour, when La Motte entreated to know whi⯑ther he was going? ‘"You will know that bye and bye,"’ ſaid the ruffian, ‘"ſo be at peace."’ Finding interrogatories uſeleſs, La Motte reſu⯑med ſilence till the horſes ſtopped. His con⯑ductor then hallooed, and being anſwered by voices at ſome diſtance, in a few moments the ſound of carriage wheels was heard, and, pre⯑ſently after, the words of a man directing Peter which way to drive. As the carriage approach⯑ed, La Motte called, and to his inexpreſſible joy, was anſwered by his wife.

‘"You are now beyond the borders of the heath, and may go which way you will,"’ ſaid the ruffian; ‘"if you return within an hour, you will be welcomed by a brace of bullets."’ This was a very unneceſſary caution to La Motte, whom they now releaſed. The young ſtranger ſighed deeply, as ſhe entered the carri⯑age; and the ruffian, having beſtowed upon Peter ſome directions and more threats, waited to ſee him drive off. They did not wait long.

La Motte immediately gave a ſhort relation of what had paſſed at the houſe, including an account of the manner in which the young ſtran⯑ger had been introduced to him. During this narrative, her deep convulſive ſighs frequently drew the attention of Madame La Motte, whoſe compaſſion became gradually intereſted in her [13] behalf, and who now endeavoured to tranquil⯑lize her ſpirits. The unhappy girl anſwered her kindneſs in artleſs and ſimple expreſſions, and then relapſed into tears and ſilence. Madame forbore for the preſent to aſk any queſtions that might lead to a diſcovery of her connections, or ſeem to require an explanation of the late ad⯑venture, which now furniſhing her with a new ſubject of reflection, the ſenſe of her own miſ⯑fortunes preſſed leſs heavily upon her mind. The diſtreſs of La Motte was even for a while ſuſpended; he ruminated on the late ſcene, and it appeared like a viſion, or one of thoſe improbable fictions that ſometimes are exhibited in a romance: he could reduce it to no princi⯑ples of probability, or render it comprehenſible by any endeavour to analize it. The preſent charge, and the chance of future trouble brought upon him by this adventure, occaſioned ſome diſſatisfaction; but the beauty and ſeeming in⯑nocence of Adeline, united with the pleadings of humanity in her favour, and he determined to protect her.

The tumult of emotions which had paſſed in the boſom of Adeline, began now to ſubſide; terror was ſoftened into anxiety, and deſpair into grief. The ſympathy ſo evident in the manners of her companions, particularly in thoſe of Ma⯑dame La Motte, ſoothed her heart and encou⯑raged her to hope for better days.

Diſmally and ſilently the night paſſed on, for [14] the minds of the travellers were too much oc⯑cupied by their ſeveral ſufferings to admit of converſation. The dawn, ſo anxiouſly watched for, at length appeared, and introduced the ſtrangers more fully to each other. Adeline de⯑rived comfort from the looks of Madame La Motte, who gazed frequently and attentively at her, and thought ſhe had ſeldom ſeen a counte⯑nance ſo intereſting, or a form ſo ſtriking. The languor of ſorrow threw a melancholy grace upon her features, that appealed immediately to the heart; and there was a penetrating ſweet⯑neſs in her blue eyes, which indicated an intel⯑ligent and amiable mind.

La Motte now looked anxiouſly from the coach window, that he might judge of their ſi⯑tuation, and obſerve whether he was followed. The obſcurity of the dawn confined his views, but no perſon appeared. The ſun at length tin⯑ted the eaſtern clouds and the tops of the higheſt hills, and ſoon after burſt in full ſplendour on the ſcene. The terrors of La Motte began to ſubſide, and the griefs of Adeline to ſoften. They entered upon a lane confined by high banks and over-arched by trees, on whoſe bran⯑ches appeared the firſt green buds of ſpring glittering with dews. The freſh breeze of the morning animated the ſpirits of Adeline, whoſe mind was delicately ſenſible to the beauties of na⯑ture. As ſhe viewed the flowery luxuriance of the turf, and the tender green of the trees, or [15] caught, between the opening banks, a glimpſe of the varied landſcape, rich with wood, and fading into blue and diſtant mountains, her heart expanded in momentary joy. With Adeline the charms of external nature were heightened by thoſe of novelty: ſhe had ſeldom ſeen the grandeur of an extenſive proſpect, or the mag⯑nificence of a wide horizon—and not often the pictureſque beauties of more confined ſcenery. Her mind had not loſt by long oppreſſion that elaſtic energy, which reſiſts calamity; elſe, however ſuſceptible might have been her original taſte, the beauties of nature would no longer have charmed her thus eaſily even to temporary re⯑poſe.

The road, at length, wound down the ſide of a hill, and La Motte, again looking anxi⯑ouſly from the window, ſaw before him an open champaign country, through which the road, wholly unſheltered from obſervation, extended al⯑moſt in a direct line. The danger of theſe cir⯑cumſtances alarmed him, for his flight might without difficulty be traced for many leagues from the hills he was now deſcending. Of the firſt peaſant that paſſed, he inquired for a road among the hills, but heard of none. La Motte now ſunk into his former terrors. Madame, not⯑withſtanding her own apprehenſions, endeavour⯑ed to re-aſſure him, but finding her efforts inef⯑fectual, ſhe alſo retired to the contemplation of her misfortunes. Often, as they went on, did [16] La Motte look back upon the country they had paſſed, and often did imagination ſuggeſt to him the ſounds of diſtant purſuits.

The travellers ſtopped to breakfaſt in a vil⯑lage, where the road was at length obſcured by woods, and La Motte's ſpirits again revived. Adeline appeared more tranquil than ſhe had yet been, and La Motte now aſked for an explana⯑tion of the ſcene be had witneſſed on the pre⯑ceding night. The inquiry renewed all her diſtreſs, and with tears ſhe entreated for the preſent to be ſpared on the ſubject. La Motte preſſed it no farther, but he obſerved that for the greater part of the day ſhe ſeemed to remem⯑ber it in melancholy and dejection. They now travelled among the hills and were, therefore, in leſs danger of obſervation; but La Motte avoid⯑ed the great towns, and ſtopped in obſcure ones no longer than to refreſh the horſes. About two hours after noon, the road wound into a deep valley, watered by a rivulet, and over-hung with wood. La Motte called to Peter, and or⯑dered him to drive to a thickly embowered ſpot, that appeared on the left. Here he alighted with his family, and Peter having ſpread the provi⯑ſions on the turf, they ſeated themſelves and par⯑took of a repaſt, which, in other circumſtances, would have been thought delicious. Adeline en⯑deavoured to ſmile, but the languor of grief was now heightened by indiſpoſition. The violent a⯑gitation of mind, and fatigue of body, which ſhe [17] had ſuffered for the laſt twenty-four hours, had overpowered her ſtrength, and, when La Mot⯑te led her back to the carriage, her whole frame trembled with illneſs. But ſhe uttered no com⯑plaint, and, having long obſerved the dejection of her companions, ſhe made a feeble effort to enliven them.

They continued to travel throughout the day without any accident or interruption, and, about three hours after ſunſet, arrived at Monville, a ſmall town where La Motte determined to paſs the night. Repoſe was, indeed neceſſary to the whole party, whoſe pale and haggard looks, as they alighted from the carriage, were but too obvious to paſs unobſerved by the people of the inn. As ſoon as the beds could be prepared, Adeline withdrew to her chamber, accompa⯑nied by Madame La Motte, whoſe concern for the fair ſtranger made her exert every effort to ſoothe and conſole her. Adeline wept in ſilence, and taking the hand of Madame, preſſed it to her boſom. Theſe were not merely tears of grief—they were mingled with thoſe which flow from the grateful heart, when, unexpectedly, it meets with ſympathy. Madame La Motte un⯑derſtood them. After ſome momentary ſilence ſhe renewed her aſſurances of kindneſs, and en⯑treated Adeline to confide in her friendſhip; but ſhe carefully avoided any mention of the ſubject, which had before ſo much affected her. Adeline at length found words to expreſs her ſenſe of [18] this goodneſs, which ſhe did in a manner ſo na⯑tural and ſincere, that Madame, finding her⯑ſelf much affected, took leave of her for the night.

In the morning, La Motte roſe at an early hour, impatient to be gone. Every thing was prepared for his departure, and the breakfaſt had been waiting ſome time, but Adeline did not ap⯑pear. Madame La Motte went to her chamber, and found her ſunk in a diſturbed ſlumber. Her breathing was ſhort and irregular—ſhe frequently ſtarted, or ſighed, and ſometimes ſhe muttered an incoherent ſentence. While Madame gazed with concern upon her languid countenance, ſhe awoke, and looking up, gave her hand to Madame La Motte, who found it burning with fever. She had paſſed a reſtleſs night, and, as ſhe now attempted to riſe, her head, which beat with intenſe pain, grew gid⯑dy, her ſtrength failed, and ſhe ſunk back.

Madame was much alarmed, being at once convinced that it was impoſſible ſhe could tra⯑vel, and that a delay might prove fatal to her huſband. She went to inform him of the truth, and his diſtreſs may be more eaſily imagined than deſcribed. He ſaw all the inconvenience and danger of delay, yet he could not ſo far diveſt himſelf of humanity, as to abandon A⯑deline to the care, or rather, to the neglect of ſtrangers. He ſent immediately for a phyſici⯑an, who pronounced her to be in a high fe⯑ver, [19] and ſaid, a removal in her preſent ſtate muſt be fatal. La Motte now determined to wait the event, and endeavoured to calm the tranſports of terror, which, at times, aſſailed him. In the mean while, he took ſuch pre⯑cautions as his ſituation admitted of, paſſing the greater part of the day out of the village, in a ſpot from whence he had a view of the road for ſome diſtance; yet to be expoſed to deſtruction by the illneſs of a girl, whom he did not know, and who had actually been for⯑ced upon him, was a misfortune, to which La Motte had not philoſophy enough to ſub⯑mit with compoſure.

Adeline's fever continued to increaſe during the whole day, and at night, when the phyſi⯑cian took his leave, he told La Motte, the e⯑vent would very ſoon be decided. La Mot⯑te received this intelligence with real concern. The beauty and innocence of Adeline had over⯑come the diſadvantageous circumſtances under which ſhe had been introduced to him, and he now gave leſs conſideration to the inconve⯑nience ſhe might hereafter occaſion him, than to the hope of her recovery.

Madame La Motte watched over her with tender anxiety, and obſerved with admiration her patient ſweetneſs and mild reſignation. Adeline amply repaid her, though ſhe thought ſhe could not. ‘"Young as I am,"’ ſhe would ſay, ‘"and deſerted by thoſe upon whom I [20] have a claim for protection, I can remem⯑ber no connection to make me regret life ſo much, as that I hoped to form with you. If I live, my conduct will beſt expreſs my ſenſe of your goodneſs;—words are but fee⯑ble teſtimonies."’

The ſweetneſs of her manners ſo much at⯑tracted Madame La Motte, that ſhe watched the criſis of her diſorder, with a ſolicitude which precluded every other intereſt. Adeline paſſed a very diſturbed night, and, when the phyſician appeared in the morning, he gave orders that ſhe ſhould be indulged with whatever ſhe liked, and anſwered the inquiries of La Motte with a frankneſs that left him nothing to hope.

In the mean time, his patient, after drinking profuſely of ſome mild liquids, fell aſleep, in which ſhe continued for ſeveral hours, and ſo profound was her repoſe, that her breath alone gave ſign of exiſtence. She awoke free from fever, and with no other diſorder than weak⯑neſs, which, in a few days, ſhe overcame ſo well, as to be able to ſet out with La Motte for B—, a village out of the great road, which he thought it prudent to quit. There they paſ⯑ſed the following night, and early the next morn⯑ing commenced their journey upon a wild and woody tract of country. They ſtopped about noon at a ſolitary village, where they took re⯑freſhments, and obtained directions for paſſing the vaſt foreſt of Fontanville, upon the borders [21] of which they now were. La Motte wiſhed at firſt to take a guide, but he apprehended more evil from the diſcovery he might make of his route, than he hoped for benefit from aſſiſtance in the wilds of this uncultivated tract.

La Motte now deſigned to paſs on to Lyons, where he could either ſeek concealment in its neighbourhood, or embark on the Rhone for Geneva, ſhould the emergency of his circum⯑ſtances hereafter require him to leave France. It was about twelve o'clock at noon, and he was deſirous to haſten forward, that he might paſs the foreſt of Fontanville, and reach the town on its oppoſite borders, before night-fall. Having depoſited a freſh ſtock of proviſions in the carri⯑age, and received ſuch directions as were neceſ⯑ſary concerning the roads, they again ſet forward, and in a ſhort time entered upon the foreſt. It was now the latter end of April, and the wea⯑ther was remarkably temperate and fine. The balmy freſhneſs of the air, which breathed the firſt pure eſſence of vegetation; and the gentle warmth of the ſun, whoſe beams vivified every hue of nature, and opened every floweret of ſpring, revived Adeline, and inſpired her with life and health. As ſhe inhaled the breeze, her ſtrength ſeemed to return, and, as her eyes wandered through the romantic glades that opened into the foreſt, her heart was gladdened with complacent delight: but when from theſe objects ſhe turned her regard upon Monſieur and [22] Madame La Motte, to whoſe tender attentions ſhe owed her life, and in whoſe looks ſhew now read eſteem and kindneſs, her boſom glowed with ſweet affections, and ſhe experienced a force of gratitude which might be called ſub⯑lime.

For the remainder of the day they conti⯑nued to travel, without ſeeing a hut, or meet⯑ing a human being. It was now near ſun-ſet, and, the proſpect being cloſed on all ſides by the foreſt, La Motte began to have apprehenſions that his ſervant had miſtaken the way. The road, if a road it could be called, which affor⯑ded only a ſlight track upon the graſs, was ſometimes over-run by luxuriant vegetation, and ſometimes obſcured by the deep ſhades, and Peter at length ſtopped uncertain of the way. La Motte, who dreaded being benighted in a ſcene ſo wild and ſolitary as this foreſt, and whoſe apprehenſions of banditti were very ſan⯑guine, ordered him to proceed at any rate, and, if he found no track, to endeavour to gain a more open part of the foreſt. With theſe or⯑ders, Peter again ſet forwards, but having pro⯑ceeded ſome way, and his views being ſtill con⯑fined by woody glades and foreſt walks, he be⯑gan to deſpair of extricating himſelf, and ſtop⯑ped for further orders. The ſun was now ſet, but, as La Motte looked anxiouſly from the window, he obſerved upon the vivid glow of the weſtern horizon, ſome dark towers riſing [23] from among the trees at a little diſtance, and ordered Peter to drive towards them. ‘"If they belong to a monaſtery,"’ ſaid he, ‘"we may probably gain admittance for the night."’

The carriage drove along under the ſhade of ‘"melancholy boughs,"’ through which the even⯑ing twilight, which yet coloured the air, diffu⯑ſed a ſolemnity that vibrated in thrilling ſenſati⯑tions upon the hearts of the travellers. Expec⯑tation kept them ſilent. The preſent ſcene re⯑called to Adeline a remembrance of the late ter⯑rific circumſtances, and her mind reſponded but too eaſily to the apprehenſion of new misfor⯑tunes. La Motte alighted at the foot of a green knoll, where the trees again opening to light, permitted a nearer, though imperfect view of the edifice.

CHAP II.

HE approached, and perceived the Gothic remains of an abbey: it ſtood on a kind of rude lawn, overſhadowed by high and ſpreading trees, which ſeemed coeval with the building, and diffuſed a romantic gloom around. The great⯑er part of the pile appeared to be ſinking into ruins, and that, which had withſtood the rava⯑ges of time, ſhewed the remaining features of the fabric more awful in decay. The lofty bat⯑tlements, thickly enwreathed with ivy, were half demoliſhed, and become the reſidence of birds of prey. Huge fragments of the eaſtern tower, which was almoſt demoliſhed, lay ſcat⯑tered amid the high graſs, that waved ſlowly to the breeze. ‘"The thiſtle ſhook its lonely head; the moſs whiſtled to the wind."’ A Gothic [25] gate, richly ornamented with fret-work, which opened into the main body of the edifice, but which was now obſtructed with bruſh-wood, remained entire. Above the vaſt and magnifi⯑cent portal of this gate aroſe a window of the ſame order, whoſe pointed arches ſtill exhibited fragments of ſtained glaſs, once the pride of monkiſh devotion. La Motte, thinking it poſ⯑ſible it might yet ſhelter ſome human being, ad⯑vanced to the gate and lifted a maſſy knocker. The hollow ſounds rung through the emptineſs of the place. After waiting a few minutes, he forced back the gate, which was heavy with iron work, and creaked harſhly on its hinges.

He entered what appeared to have been the chapel of the abbey, where the hymn of devo⯑tion had once been raiſed, and the tear of pe⯑nitence had once been ſhed; ſounds, which could now only be recalled by imagination—tears of penitence, which had been long ſince fixed in fate. La Motte pauſed a moment, for he felt a ſenſation of ſublimity riſing into terror—a ſuſ⯑penſion of mingled aſtoniſhment and awe! He ſurveyed the vaſtneſs of the place, and as he contemplated its ruins, fancy bore him back to paſt ages. ‘"And theſe walls,"’ ſaid he, ‘"where once ſuperſtition lurked, and auſterity anti⯑cipated an earthly purgatory, now tremble over the mortal remains of the beings who reared them!"’

The deepening gloom now reminded La [26] Motte that he had no time to loſe, but curioſity prompted him to explore farther, and he obey⯑ed the impulſe. As he walked over the broken pavement, the ſound of his ſteps ran in echoes through the place, and ſeemed like the myſteri⯑ous accents of the dead, reproving the ſacrile gi⯑ous mortal who thus dared to diſturb their pre⯑cincts.

From this chapel he paſſed into the nave of the great church, of which one window, more perfect than the reſt, opened upon a long viſta of the foreſt, through which was ſeen the rich colouring of evening, melting by imperceptible gradations into the ſolemn grey of upper air. Dark hills, whoſe outline appeared diſtinct upon the vivid glow of the horizon, cloſed the per⯑ſpective. Several of the pillars, which had once ſupported the roof, remained the proud effigies of ſinking greatneſs, and ſeemed to nod at every murmur of the blaſt over the fragments of thoſe that had fallen a little before them. La Motte ſighed. The compariſon between himſelf and the gradation of decay, which theſe columns ex⯑hibited, was but too obvious and affecting. ‘"A few years,"’ ſaid he, ‘"and I ſhall become like the mortals on whoſe reliques I now gaze, and, like them too, I may be the ſubject of meditation to a ſucceeding generation, which ſhall totter but a little while over the object they contemplate, ere they alſo ſink into the duſt."’

[27] Retiring from this ſcene, he walked through the cloiſters, till a door, which communicated with the lofty part of the building, attracted his curioſity. He opened this and perceived, acroſs the foot of the ſtair-caſe, another door,—but now, partly checked by fear, and partly by the recol⯑lection of the ſurprize his family might feel in his abſence, he returned with haſty ſteps to his carriage, having waſted ſome of the precious moments of twilight, and gained no informa⯑tion.

Some ſlight anſwer to Madame La Motte's inquiries, and a general direction to Peter to drive carefully on, and look for a road, was all that his anxiety would permit him to utter. The night ſhade fell thick round, which deep⯑ened by the gloom of the foreſt, ſoon rendered it dangerous to proceed. Peter ſtopped, but La Motte, perſiſting in his firſt determination, ordered him to go on. Peter ventured to remon⯑ſtrate, Madame La Motte entreated, but La Motte reproved—commanded, and at length re⯑pented; for the hind wheel riſing upon the ſtump of an old tree, which the darkneſs had prevented Peter from obſerving, the carriage was in an inſtant overturned.

The party, as may be ſuppoſed, were much terrified, but no one was materially hurt, and having diſengaged themſelves from their perilous ſituation, La Motte and Peter endeavoured to raiſe the carriage. The extent of this misfor⯑tune [28] was now diſcovered, for they perceived that the wheel was broke. Their diſtreſs was reaſonably great, for not only was the coach diſabled from proceeding, but it could not even afford a ſhelter from the cold dews of the night, it being impoſſible to preſerve it in an upright ſituation. After a few moment's ſilence, La Motte propoſed that they ſhould return to the ruins which they had juſt quitted, which lay at a very ſhort diſtance, and paſs the night in the moſt habitable part of them: that, when morn⯑ing dawned, Peter ſhould take one of the coach horſes, and endeavour to find a road and a town, from whence aſſiſtance ſhould be procured for repairing the carriage. This propoſal was op⯑poſed by Madame La Motte, who ſhuddered at the idea of paſſing ſo many hours of darkneſs in a place ſo forlorn as the monaſtery. Terrors which ſhe neither endeavoured to examine, or combat, overcame her, and ſhe told La Motte ſhe had rather remain expoſed to the unwhole⯑ſome dews of night, than encounter the deſo⯑lation of the ruins. La Motte had at firſt felt an equal reluctance to return to this ſpot, but having ſubdued his own feelings, he reſolved not to yield to thoſe of his wife.

The horſes being now diſengaged from the carriage, the party moved towards the edifice. As they proceeded, Peter, who followed them, ſtruck a light, and they entered the ruins by the flame of ſticks, which he had collected. [29] The partial gleams thrown acroſs the fabric ſeemed to make its deſolation more ſolemn, while the obſcurity of the greater part of the pile heightened its ſublimity, and led fancy on to ſcenes of horror. Adeline who had hitherto remained in ſilence, now uttered an exclamation of mingled admiration and fear. A kind of pleaſing dread thrilled her boſom, and filled all her ſoul. Tears ſtarted into her eyes:—ſhe wiſhed, yet feared, to go on;—ſhe hung upon the arm of La Motte, and looked at him with a ſort of heſitating interrogation.

He opened the door of the great hall, and they entered: its extent was loſt in gloom. ‘"Let us ſtay here,"’ ſaid Madame de la Motte, ‘"I will go no farther."’ La Motte pointed to the broken roof, and was proceeding, when he was interrupted by an uncommon noiſe, which paſſed along the hall. They were all ſilent—it was the ſilence of terror. Madame La Motte ſpoke firſt. ‘"Let us quit this ſpot,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"any evil is preferable to the feeling, which now oppreſſes me. Let us retire inſtantly."’ The ſtillneſs had for ſome time remained un⯑diſturbed, and La Motte, aſhamed of the fear he had involuntarily betrayed, now thought it neceſſary to affect a boldneſs, which he did not feel. He, therefore, oppoſed ridicule to the terror of Madame, and inſiſted upon proceeding. Thus compelled to acquieſce, ſhe traverſed the hall with trembling ſteps. They came to a [30] narrow paſſage, and Peter's ſticks being nearly exhauſted, they awaited here, while he went in ſearch of more.

The almoſt expiring light flaſhed faintly upon the walls of the paſſage, ſhewing the receſs more horrible. Acroſs the hall, the greater part of which was concealed in ſhadow, the feeble ray ſpread a tremulous gleam, exhibiting the chaſm in the roof, while many nameleſs objects were ſeen imperfectly through the duſk. Adeline with a ſmile, inquired of La Motte, if he believed in ſpirits. The queſtion was ill-timed, for the preſent ſcene impreſſed its terrors upon La Motte, and, in ſpite of endeavour, he felt a ſuperſtitious dread ſtealing upon him. He was now, perhaps, ſtanding over the aſhes of the dead. If ſpirits were ever permitted to reviſit the earth, this ſeemed the hour and the place moſt ſuitable for their appearance. La Motte remaining ſilent, Adeline ſaid, ‘"Were I in⯑clined to ſuperſtition"—’She was interrupted by a return of the noiſe, which had been lately heard. It ſounded down the paſſage, at whoſe entrance they ſtood, and ſunk gradually away. Every heart palpitated, and they remained liſ⯑tening in ſilence. A new ſubject of apprehenſion ſeized La Motte:—the noiſe might proceed from banditti, and he heſitated whether it would be ſafe to proceed. Peter now came with the light: Madame refuſed to enter the paſſage—La Motte was not much inclined to it; but [31] Peter, in whom curioſity was more prevalent than fear, readily offered his ſervices. La Motte, after ſome heſitation, ſuffered him to go, while he awaited at the entrance the reſult of the enquiry. The extent of the paſſage ſoon concealed Peter from view, and the echoes of his footſteps were loſt in a ſound, which ruſhed along the avenue, and became fainter and faint⯑er, till it ſunk into ſilence. La Motte now called aloud to Peter, but no anſwer was re⯑turned; at length, they heard the ſound of a diſtant footſtep, and Peter ſoon after appeared, breathleſs, and pale with fear.

When he came within hearing of La Motte, he called out, ‘"An pleaſe your honour, I've done for them, I believe, but I've had a hard bout. I thought I was fighting with the de⯑vil."—’ ‘"What are you ſpeaking of?"’ ſaid La Motte.

‘"They were nothing but owls and rooks after all,"’ continued Peter; ‘"but the light brought them all about my ears, and they made ſuch a confounded clapping with their wings, that I thought at firſt I had been beſet with a legion of devils. But I have drove them all out, maſter, and you have nothing to fear now."’

The latter part of the ſentence, intimating a ſuſpicion of his courage, La Motte could have diſpenſed with, and, to retrieve in ſome degree his reputation, he made a point of proceeding [32] through the paſſage. They now moved on with alacrity, for, as Peter ſaid, they had ‘"nothing to fear."’

The paſſage led into a large area, on one ſide of which, over a range of cloiſters, appeared the weſt tower, and a lofty part of the edifice; the other ſide was open to the woods. La Motte led the way to a door of the tower, which he now perceived was the ſame he had formerly entered; but he found ſome difficulty in ad⯑vancing, for the area was overgrown with brambles and nettles, and the light, which Peter carried, afforded only an uncertain gleam. When he uncloſed the door, the diſmal aſpect of the place revived the apprehenſions of Madame La Motte, and extorted from Adeline an inquiry whither they were going. Peter held up the light to ſhew the narrow ſtair-caſe that wound round the tower; but La Motte, obſerving the ſecond door, drew back the ruſty bolts, and entered a ſpacious apartment, which, from its ſtile and condition, was evidently of a much later date than the other part of the ſtructure: though deſolate and forlorn, it was very little impaired by time; the walls were damp, but not decayed; and the glaſs was yet firm in the windows.

They paſſed on to a ſuit of apartments re⯑ſembling the firſt they had ſeen, and expreſſed their ſurpriſe at the incongruous appearance of this part of the edifice with the mouldering walls [33] they had left behind. Theſe apartments con⯑ducted them to a winding paſſage, that received light and air through narrow cavities, placed high in the wall; and was at length cloſed by a door barred with iron, which being with ſome difficulty opened, they entered a vaulted room. La Motte ſurveyed it with a ſcrutinizing eye, and endeavoured to conjecture for what purpoſe it had been guarded by a door of ſuch ſtrength; but he ſaw little within to aſſiſt his curioſity. The room appeared to have been built in mo⯑dern times upon a Gothic plan. Adeline ap⯑proached a large window that formed a kind of receſs raiſed by one ſtep over the level of the floor; ſhe obſerved to La Motte that the whole floor was inlaid with Moſaic work; which drew from him a remark, that the ſtyle of this apart⯑ment was not ſtrictly Gothic. He paſſed on to a door, which appeared on the oppoſite ſide of the apartment, and, unlocking it, found him⯑ſelf in the great hall, by which he had entered the fabric.

He now perceived, what the gloom had be⯑fore concealed, a ſpiral ſtair-caſe, which led to a gallery above; and which, from its preſent condition, ſeemed to have been built with the more modern part of the fabric, though this alſo affected the Gothic mode of architecture: La Motte had little doubt that theſe ſtairs led to apartments, correſponding with thoſe he had paſſed below, and heſitated whether to explore [34] them; but the entreaties of Madame, who was much fatigued, prevailed with him to defer all farther examination. After ſome deliberation, in which of the rooms they ſhould paſs the night, they determined to return to that which opened from the tower.

A fire was kindled on a hearth, which it is probable had not for many years before afforded the warmth of hoſpitality; and Peter having ſpread the proviſion he had brought from the coach, La Motte and his family, encircled round the fire, partook of a repaſt, which hun⯑ger and fatigue made delicious. Apprehenſion gradually gave way to confidence, for they now found themſelves in ſomething like a human habitation, and they had leiſure to laugh at their late terrors; but, as the blaſt ſhook the doors, Adeline often ſtarted, and threw a fearful glance around. They continued to laugh and talk cheerfully for a time; yet their merriment was tranſient, if not affected; for a ſenſe of their peculiar and diſtreſſed circumſtances preſſed upon their recollection, and ſunk each individual into langour and penſive ſilence. Adeline felt the forlornneſs of her condition with energy; ſhe reflected upon the paſt with aſtoniſhment, and anticipated the future with fear. She found herſelf wholly dependent upon ſtrangers, with no other claim than what diſtreſs demands from the common ſympathy of kindred beings; ſighs ſwelled her heart, and the frequent tear ſtarted [35] to her eye; but ſhe checked it, ere it betrayed on her cheek the ſorrow, which ſhe thought it would be ungrateful to reveal.

La Motte, at length, broke this meditative ſilence, by directing the fire to be renewed for the night, and the door to be ſecured: this ſeemed a neceſſary precaution, even in this ſo⯑litude, and was effected by means of large ſtones piled againſt it, for other faſtening there was none. It had frequently occurred to La Motte, that this apparently forſaken edifice might be a place of refuge to banditti. Here was ſolitude to conceal them; and a wild and exten⯑ſive foreſt to aſſiſt their ſchemes of rapine, and to perplex, with its labyrinths, thoſe who might be bold enough to attempt purſuit. Theſe ap⯑prehenſions, however, he hid within his own boſom, ſaving his companions from a ſhare of the uneaſineſs they occaſioned. Peter was or⯑dered to watch at the door, and, having given the fire a rouſing ſtir, our deſolate party drew round it, and ſought in ſleep a ſhort oblivion of care.

The night paſſed on without diſturbance. Adeline ſlept, but uneaſy dreams fleeted before her fancy, and ſhe awoke at an early hour: the recollection of her ſorrows aroſe upon her mind, and yielded to their preſſure, her tears flowed ſilently and faſt. That ſhe might indulge them without reſtraint, ſhe went to a window that looked upon an open part of the foreſt; all was [36] gloom and ſilence; ſhe ſtood for ſome time viewing the ſhadowy ſcene.

The firſt tender tints of morning now appeared on the verge of the horizon, ſtealing upon the darkneſs;—ſo pure, ſo fine, ſo aetherial! it ſeemed as if Heaven was opening to the view. The dark miſts were ſeen to roll off to the weſt, as the tints of light grew ſtronger, deepening the obſcurity of that part of the hemiſphere, and involving the features of the country below; meanwhile, in the eaſt, the hues became more vivid, darting a trembling luſtre far around, till a ruddy glow, which fired all that part of the Heavens, announced the riſing ſun. At firſt, a ſmall line of inconceivable ſplendour emerged on the horizon, which quickly expanding, the ſun appeared in all his glory, unveiling the whole face of nature, vivifying every colour of the landſcape, and ſprinkling the dewy earth with glittering light. The low and gentle reſponſes of birds, awakened by the morning ray, now broke the ſilence of the hour; their ſoft warbling riſing by degrees till they ſwelled the chorus of univerſal gladneſs. Adeline's heart ſwelled too with gratitude and adoration.

The ſcene before her ſoothed her mind, and exalted her thoughts to the great Author of Na⯑ture; ſhe uttered an involuntary prayer: ‘"Fa⯑ther of good, who made this glorious ſcene! I reſign myſelf to thy hands: thou wilt ſup⯑port [37] me under my preſent ſorrows, and pro⯑tect me from future evil."’

Thus confiding in the benevolence of God, ſhe wiped the tears from her eyes, while the ſweet union of conſcience and reflection rewarded her truſt; and her mind, lofing the feelings which had lately oppreſſed it, became tranquil and compoſed.

La Motte awoke ſoon after, and Peter prepa⯑red to ſet out on his expedition. As he mounted his horſe, ‘"An' pleaſe you, Maſter,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I think we had as good look no farther for an habitation till better times turn up; for nobody will think of looking for us here; and when one ſees the place by day light, its none ſo bad, but what a little patching up would make it comfortable enough."’ La Motte made no reply, but he thought of Peter's words. Du⯑ring the intervals of the night, when anxiety had kept him waking, the ſame idea had occurred to him; concealment was his only ſecurity, and this place afforded it. The deſolation of the ſpot was repulſive to his wiſhes; but he had only a choice of evils—a foreſt with liberty was not a bad home for one, who had too much reaſon to expect a priſon. As he walked through the apartments, and examined their condition more attentively, he perceived they might eaſily be made habitable; and now ſurveying them under the cheerfulneſs of morning, his deſign ſtrength⯑ened; and he muſed upon the means of accom⯑pliſhing [38] it, which nothing ſeemed ſo much to obſtruct as the apparent difficulty of procuring food.

He communicated his thoughts to Madame La Motte, who felt repugnance to the ſcheme. La Motte, however ſeldom conſulted his wife till he had determined how to act; and he had already reſolved to be guided in this affair by the report of Peter. If he could diſcover a town in the neighbourhood of the foreſt, where proviſions and other neceſſaries could be pro⯑cured, he would ſeek no farther for a place of reſt.

In the mean time, he ſpent the anxious inter⯑val of Peter's abſence in examining the ruin, and walking over the environs; they were ſweetly romantic, and the luxuriant woods, with which they abounded, ſeemed to ſequeſter this ſpot from the reſt of the world. Frequently a natu⯑ral viſta would yield a view of the country, ter⯑minated by hills, which retiring in diſtance, fa⯑ded into the blue horizon. A ſtream, various and muſical in its courſe, wound at the foot of the lawn, on which ſtood the abbey; here it ſilently glided beneath the ſhades, feeding the flowers that bloomed on its banks, and diffuſing dewy freſhneſs around; there it ſpread in broad expanſe to-day, reflecting the ſylvan ſcene, and the wild deer that taſted its waves. La Motte obſerved every where a profuſion of game; the pheaſants ſcarcely flew from his approach, [39] and the deer gazed mildly at him as he paſſed. They were ſtrangers to man!

On his return to the abbey, La Motte aſ⯑cended the ſtairs that led to the tower. About half way up, a door appeared in the wall; it yielded, without reſiſtance, to his hand; but, a ſudden noiſe within, accompanied by a cloud of duſt, made him ſtep back and cloſe the door. After waiting a few minutes, he again opened it, and perceived a large room of the more modern building. The remains of tapeſtry hung in tat⯑ters upon the walls, which were become the reſi⯑dence of birds of prey, whoſe ſudden flight on the opening of the door had brought down a quantity of duſt, and occaſioned the noiſe. The windows were ſhattered, and almoſt without glaſs; but he was ſurpriſed to obſerve ſome re⯑mains of furniture; chairs, whoſe faſhion and condition bore the date of their antiquity; a broken table, and an iron gate almoſt conſumed by ruſt.

On the oppoſite ſide of the room was a door, which led to another apartment, proportioned like the firſt, but hung with arras ſomewhat leſs tattered. In one corner ſtood a ſmall bed⯑ſtead, and a few ſhattered chairs were placed round the walls. La Motte gazed with a mix⯑ture of wonder and curioſity. ‘"'Tis ſtrange,"’ ſaid he, ‘"that theſe rooms, and theſe alone, ſhould bear the marks of inhabitation; per⯑haps, ſome wretched wanderer, like myſelf, [40] may have here ſought refuge from a perſe⯑cuting world; and here, perhaps, laid down the load of exiſtence: perhaps, too, I have followed his footſteps, but to mingle my duſt with his!"’ He turned ſuddenly, and was about to quit the room, when he perceived a ſmall door near the bed; it opened into a cloſet, which was lighted by one ſmall window, and was in the ſame condition as the apartments he had paſſed, except that it was deſtitute even of the remains of furniture. As he walked over the floor, he thought he felt one part of it ſhake beneath his ſteps, and, examining, found a trap door. Curioſity prompted him to explore far⯑ther, and with ſome difficulty he opened it. It diſcloſed a ſtaircaſe which terminated in dark⯑neſs. La Motte deſcended a few ſteps, but was unwilling to truſt the abyſs; and, after wonder⯑ing for what purpoſe it was ſo ſecretly con⯑ſtructed, he cloſed the trap, and quitted this ſuit of apartments.

The ſtairs in the tower above were ſo much decayed, that he did not attempt to aſcend them: he returned to the hall, and by the ſpiral ſtair⯑caſe, which he had obſerved the evening before, reached the gallery, and found another ſuit of apartments entirely unfurniſhed, very much like thoſe below.

He renewed with Madame La Motte his for⯑mer converſation reſpecting the abbey, and ſhe exerted all her endeavours to diſſuade him from [41] his purpoſe, acknowledging the ſolitary ſecurity of the ſpot, but pleading that other places might be found equally well adapted for concealment and more for comfort. This La Motte doubt⯑ed: beſides, the foreſt abounded with game, which would at once, afford him amuſement and food, a circumſtance, conſidering his ſmall ſtock of money, by no means to be overlooked: and he had ſuffered his mind to dwell ſo much upon the ſcheme, that it was become a favourite one. Adeline liſtened in ſilent anxiety to the diſcourſe, and waited the iſſue of Peter's report.

The morning paſſed, but Peter did not re⯑turn. Our ſolitary party took their dinner of the proviſion they had fortunately brought with them, and afterwards walked forth into the woods. Adeline, who never ſuffered any good to paſs unnoticed, becauſe it came attended with evil, forgot for a while the deſolation of the abbey in the beauty of the adjacent ſcenery. The pleaſantneſs of the ſhades ſoothed her heart, and the varied features of the landſcape amuſed her fancy; ſhe almoſt thought ſhe could be con⯑tented to live here. Already ſhe began to feel an intereſt in the concerns of her companions, and for Madame La Motte ſhe felt more; it was the warm emotion of gratitude and af⯑fection.

The afternoon wore away, and they returned to the abbey. Peter was ſtill abſent, and his ab⯑ſence now began to excite ſurprize and appre⯑henſion. [42] The approach of darkneſs alſo threw a gloom upon the hopes of the wanderers: ano⯑ther night muſt be paſſed under the ſame forlorn circumſtances as the preceding one; and, what was ſtill worſe, with a very ſcanty ſtock of pro⯑viſions. The fortitude of Madame La Motte now entirely forſook her, and ſhe wept bitterly. Adeline's heart was as mournful as Madame's, but ſhe rallied her drooping ſpirits, and gave the firſt inſtance of her kindneſs by endeavouring to revive thoſe of her friend.

La Motte was reſtleſs and uneaſy, and, leav⯑ing the abbey, he walked alone the way which Peter had taken. He had not gone far, when he perceived him between the trees, leading his horſe. ‘"What news, Peter?"’ hallooed La Motte. Peter came on, panting for breath, and ſaid not a word, till La Motte repeated the queſtion in a tone of ſomewhat more authority. ‘"Ah, bleſs you, Maſter!"’ ſaid he, when he had taken breath to anſwer, ‘"I am glad to ſee you; I thought I ſhould never have got back again: I've met with a world of mis⯑fortunes."’

‘"Well, you may relate them hereafter; let me hear whelher you have diſcover⯑ed—"’

‘"Diſcovered!"’ interrupted Peter, ‘"Yes, I am diſcovered with a vengeance! If your Honour will look at my arms, you'll ſee how I am diſcovered."’

[43] ‘"Diſcoloured! I ſuppoſe you mean,"’ ſaid La Motte. ‘"But how came you in this condition?"’

‘"Why, I'll tell you how it was, Sir; your Honour knows I learned a ſmack of boxing of that Engliſhman that uſed to come with his maſter to our houſe."’

‘"Well, well—tell me where you have been."’

‘"I ſcarcely know myſelf, Maſter; I've been where I got a ſound drubbing, but then it was in your buſineſs, and ſo I don't mind. But if ever I meet with that raſcal again!"—’

‘"You ſeem to like your firſt drubbing ſo well, that you want another, and unleſs you ſpeak more to the purpoſe, you ſhall ſoon have one."’

Peter was now frightened into method, and deavoured to proceed: ‘"When I left the old Abbey,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I followed the way you di⯑rected, and, turning to the right of that grove of trees yonder, I looked 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—paths can't be made without feet. How⯑ever, I was out in my reckoning, for the devil a bit of a ſoul could I ſee, and, after follow⯑ing [44] 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 ſuc⯑ceeded."’

‘"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 man⯑ger 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 buſi⯑neſs. The man at laſt came home from the country, and I told him how long I had wait⯑ed; [45] 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 wiſe 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 can't mend the wheel myſelf—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 car⯑riage [46] was ready to draw us, and in the mean time, ſays I, nobody can live without victu⯑als, ſo I'll e'en lay out the little money I have and take a baſket with me."’

‘"That's the only wiſe 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 found 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 or⯑dered 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"—’

[47] ‘"Well, Peter, it is not heceſſary 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—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 unea⯑ſineſs, 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.

[48] The obſervations and general behaviour of Adeline already beſpoke a good underſtanding and an amiable heart, but ſhe had yet more—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 ten⯑derneſs, 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 cap⯑tivations of her beauty were heightened by the grace and ſimplicity of her manners, and con⯑firmed by the intrinſic value of a heart

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 [49] 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, vi⯑gorous."’ ‘"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 ex⯑tract 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—I can no longer de⯑ceive 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 be⯑fore, for the night, and the wanderers reſigned themſelves to repoſe.

[50] 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 con⯑cerning 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:—It belonged, to⯑gether with a large part of the adjacent foreſt, to a nobleman, who now reſided with his fa⯑mily 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 [51] 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 be⯑lieved. 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 faſ⯑tened 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, aban⯑doned 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 con⯑gratulated 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—the ſolitary bed—the number and connection of the rooms, were circumſtances that united to confirm his opinion. This, however, he concealed in his own breaſt, [52] for he already perceived that Peter's account had not aſſiſted in reconciling his family to the ne⯑ceſſity of dwelling at the abbey.

But they had only to ſubmit in ſilence, and whatever diſagreeable apprehenſion might in⯑trude 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, endea⯑voured to reconcile herſelf to that, which no effort of underſtanding could teach her to avoid, and which, an indulgence in lamentation, could only make more intolerable. Indeed, though a ſenſe of the immediate inconveniences to be endured at the abbey, had made her oppoſe the ſcheme of living there, ſhe did not really know how their ſituation could be improved by re⯑moval: yet her thoughts often wandered towards Paris, and reflected the retroſpect of paſt times, with the images of weeping friends left, perhaps, for ever. The affectionate endearments of her only ſon, whom, from the danger of his ſitua⯑tion, and the obſcurity of hers, ſhe might rea⯑ſonably fear never to ſee again, aroſe upon her memory and overcame her fortitude. ‘"Why—why was I reſerved for this hour?"’ would ſhe ſay, ‘"and what will be my years to come?"’

Adeline had no retroſpect of paſt delight to give emphaſis to preſent calamity—no weeping [53] friends—no dear regretted objects to point the edge of ſorrow, and throw a ſickly hue upon her future proſpects: ſhe knew not yet the pangs of diſappointed hope, or the acuter ſting of ſelf⯑accuſation; ſhe had no miſery, but what pati⯑ence could aſſuage, or fortitude overcome.

At the dawn of the following day Peter aroſe to his labour: he proceeded with alacrity, and, in a few days, two of the lower apartments were ſo much altered for the better, that La Motte began to exult, and his family to perceive that their ſituation would not be ſo miſerable as they had imagined. The furniture Peter had already brought was diſpoſed in theſe rooms, one of which was the vaulted apartment. Madame La Motte furniſhed this as a ſitting room, preferring it for its large Gothic Window, that deſcended almoſt to the floor, admitting a proſpect of the lawn, and the pictureſque ſcenery of the ſur⯑rounding woods.

Peter having returned to Auboine for a farther ſupply, all the lower apartments were in a few weeks not only habitable, but comfortable. Theſe, however, being inſufficient for the accommo⯑dation of the family, a room above ſtairs was prepared for Adeline; it was the chamber that opened immediately from the tower, and ſhe preferred it to thoſe beyond, becauſe it was leſs diſtant from the family, and the windows front⯑ing an avenue of the foreſt, afforded a more ex⯑tenſive [54] proſpect. The tapeſtry, that was de⯑cayed, and hung looſely from the walls, was now nailed up, and made to look leſs deſolate; and, though the room had ſtill a ſolemn aſpect, from its ſpaciouſneſs and the narrowneſs of the windows, it was not uncomfortable.

The firſt night that Adeline retired hither, ſhe ſlept little: the ſolitary air of the place af⯑fected her ſpirits; the more ſo, perhaps, becauſe ſhe had, with friendly conſideration, endeavoured to ſupport them in the preſence of Madame La Motte. She remembered the narrative of Peter, ſeveral circumſtances of which had impreſſed her imagination in ſpite of her reaſon, and ſhe found it difficult wholly to ſubdue apprehenſion. At one time, terror ſo ſtrongly ſeized her mind, that ſhe had even opened the door with an in⯑tention of calling Madame La Motte; but, liſtening for a moment on the ſtairs of the tower, every thing ſeemed ſtill; at length, ſhe heard the voice of La Motte ſpeaking cheerfully, and the abſurdity of her fears ſtruck her forcibly; ſhe bluſhed that ſhe had for a moment ſubmitted to them, and returned to her chamber wondering at herſelf.

CHAPTER III.

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

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

Peter regularly brought a weekly ſupply of proviſions from Auboine, and, on thoſe occaſi⯑ons, always quitted the town by a route con⯑trary to that leading to the abbey. Several weeks having paſſed without moleſtation, La Motte diſmiſſed all apprehenſion of purſuit, and at length became tolerably reconciled to the com⯑plection of his circumſtances. As habit and ef⯑fort ſtrengthened the fortitude of Madame La Motte, the features of miſfortune appeared to ſoften. The foreſt, which at firſt ſeemed to her a [57] frightful ſolitude, had loſt its terrific aſpect; and that edifice, whoſe half demoliſhed walls and gloomy deſolation had ſtruck her mind with the force of melancholy and diſmay, was now beheld as a domeſtic aſylum, and a ſafe refuge from the ſtorms of power.

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

Here too, when her mind was tranquilized by the ſurrounding ſcenery, ſhe wooed the gentle [58] muſe, and indulged in ideal happineſs. The delight of theſe moments ſhe commemorated in the following addreſs

Madame La Motte had frequently expreſſed curioſity concerning the events of Adeline's life, and by what circumſtances ſhe had been thrown into a ſituation ſo perilous and myſterious as that in which La Motte had found her. Adeline had given a brief account of the manner in which ſhe had been brought thither, but had always with tears intreated to be ſpared for that time from a particular relation of her hiſtory. Her [59] ſpirits were not then equal to retroſpection, but now that they were ſoothed by quiet, and ſtrengthened by confidence, ſhe one day gave Madame La Motte the following narration.

[65] ‘"No, my dear,"’ ſaid Madame La Motte, ‘"they are intereſting to me; they illuſtrate lit⯑tle traits of character, which I love to ob⯑ſerve. You are worthy of all my regards, and from this moment I give my tendereſt pity to your misfortunes, and my affection to your goodneſs."’

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

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

The ſympathy which ſuch uncommon misfor⯑tune excited, Madame La Motte now expreſſed without reſerve, and this expreſſion of it, ſtrengthened the tye of mutual friendſhip. Ade⯑line felt her ſpirit relieved by the diſcloſure ſhe had made to Madame La Madame La Motte; and the latter acknowledged the value of the con⯑fidence, by an increaſe of affectionate attentions.

CHAPTER IV.

LA Motte had now paſſed above a month in this ſecluſion; and his wife had the pleaſure to ſee him recover tranquillity and even cheerful⯑neſs. In this pleaſure Adeline warmly parti⯑cipated; and ſhe might juſtly have congratulated herſelf, as one cauſe of his reſtoration; her cheerfulneſs and delicate attention had effected what Madame La Motte's greater anxiety had failed to accompliſh. La Motte did not ſeem regardleſs of her amiable diſpoſition, and ſome⯑times thanked her in a manner more earneſt than was uſual with him. She, in her turn, con⯑ſidered him as her only protector, and now felt towards him the affection of a daughter.

[75] The time ſhe had ſpent in this peaceful re⯑tirement had ſoftened the remembrance of paſt events, and reſtored her mind to its natural tone; and when memory brought back to her view her former ſhort and romantic expecta⯑tions of happineſs, though ſhe gave a ſigh to the rapturous illuſion, ſhe leſs lamented the diſappointment, than rejoiced in her preſent ſe⯑curity and comfort.

But the ſatisfaction which La Motte's cheer⯑fulneſs diffuſed around him was of ſhort conti⯑nuance; he became ſuddenly gloomy and re⯑ſerved; the ſociety of his family was no longer grateful to him; and he would ſpend whole hours in the moſt ſecluded parts of the foreſt, devoted to melanoholy and ſecret grief. He did not, as formerly, indulge the humour of his ſadneſs, without reſtraint, in the preſence of others; he now evidently endeavoured to con⯑ceal it, and affected a cheerfulneſs that was too artificial to eſcape detection.

His ſervant Peter, either impelled by curio⯑ſity or kindneſs, ſometimes followed him, un⯑ſeen, into the foreſt. He obſerved him fre⯑quently retire to one particular ſpot, in a remote part, which having gained, he always diſap⯑peared, before Peter, who was obliged to follow at a diſtance, could exactly notice where. All his endeavours, now prompted by wonder and invigorated by diſappointment, were unſucceſs⯑ful, [76] and he was at length compelled to endure the tortures of unſatisfied curioſity.

This change in the manners and habits of her huſband was too conſpicuous to paſs unob⯑ſerved by Madame La Motte, who endeavoured, by all the ſtratagems which affection could ſug⯑geſt, or female invention ſupply, to win him to her confidence. He ſeemed inſenſible to the influence of the firſt, and withſtood the wiles of the latter. Finding all her efforts inſufficient to diſſipate the glooms which overhung his mind, or to penetrate their ſecret cauſe, ſhe deſiſted from farther attempt, and endeavoured to ſub⯑mit to this myſterious diſtreſs.

Week after week elapſed, and the ſame un⯑known cauſe ſealed the lips and corroded the heart of La Motte. The place of his viſitation in the foreſt had not been traced. Peter had frequently examined round the ſpot where his maſter diſappeared, but had never diſcovered any receſs, which could be ſuppoſed to conceal him. The aſtoniſhment of the ſervant was at length raiſed to an inſupportable degree, and he communicated to his miſtreſs the ſub⯑ject of it.

The emotion, which this information excited, ſhe diſguiſed from Peter, and reproved him for the means he had taken to gratify his curioſity. But ſhe revolved this circumſtance in her thoughts, and comparing it with the late altera⯑tion in his temper, her uneaſineſs was renewed, [77] and her perplexity conſiderably increaſed. After much conſideration, being unable to aſſign any other motive for his conduct, ſhe began to at⯑tribute it to the influence of illicit paſſion; and her heart, which now out-ran her judgment, confirmed the ſuppoſition, and rouſed all the torturing pangs of jealouſy.

Comparatively ſpeaking, ſhe had never known affliction till now: ſhe had abandoned her deareſt friends and connections—had relinquiſhed the gaieties, the luxuries, and almoſt the ne⯑ceſſaries of life;—fled with her family into exile, an exile the moſt dreary and comfortleſs; ex⯑periencing the evils of reality, and thoſe of apprehenſion, united: all theſe ſhe had patiently endured, ſupported by the affection of him, for whoſe ſake ſhe ſuffered. Though that affection, indeed, had for ſome time appeared to be aba⯑ted, ſhe had borne its decreaſe with fortitude: but the laſt ſtroke of calamity, hitherto with⯑held, now came with irreſiſtible force—the love, of which ſhe lamented the loſs, ſhe now believed was transferred to another.

The operation of ſtrong paſſion confuſes the powers of reaſon, and warps them to its own particular direction. Her uſual degree of judge⯑ment, unoppoſed by the influence of her heart, would probably have pointed out to Madame La Motte ſome circumſtances upon the ſubject of her diſtreſs, equivocal, if not contradictory to her ſuſpicions. No ſuch circumſtances appeared [78] to her, and ſhe did not long heſitate to decide, that Adeline was the object of her huſband's at⯑tachment. Her beauty out of the queſtion, who elſe, indeed, could it be in a ſpot thus ſecluded from the world?

The ſame cauſe deſtroyed, almoſt at the ſame moment, her only remaining comfort; and, when ſhe wept that ſhe could no longer look for happineſs in the affection of La Motte, ſhe wept alſo, that ſhe could no longer ſeek ſolace in the friendſhip of Adeline. She had too great an eſteem for her to doubt, at firſt, the integrity of her conduct, but, in ſpite of reaſon, her heart no longer expanded to her with its uſual warmth of kindneſs. She ſhrunk from her confidence; and, as the ſecret broodings of jealouſy cheriſhed her ſuſpicions, ſhe became leſs kind to her, even in manner.

Adeline, obſerving the change, at firſt at⯑tributed it to accident, and afterwards to a tem⯑porary diſpleaſure, ariſing from ſome little inadvertency in her conduct. She, therefore, increaſed her aſſiduities; but, perceiving, contrary to all expectation, that her efforts to pleaſe failed of their uſual conſequence, and that the reſerve of Madame's manner rather increaſed than abated, ſhe became ſeriouſly uneaſy, and reſolved to ſeek an explanation. This Madame La Motte as ſe⯑dulouſly avoided, and was for ſome time able to prevent. Adeline, however, too much inte⯑reſted in the event to yield to delicate ſcruples, [79] preſſed the ſubject ſo cloſely, that Madame, at firſt agitated and confuſed, at length invented ſome idle excuſe, and laughed off the affair.

She now ſaw the neceſſity of ſubduing all ap⯑pearance of reſerve towards Adeline; and though her art could not conquer the prejudices of paſſion, it taught her to aſſume, with tolera⯑ble ſucceſs, the aſpect of kindneſs. Adeline was deceived, and was again at peace. Indeed, confidence in the ſincerity and goodneſs of others was her weakneſs. But the pangs of ſtifled jea⯑louſy ſtruck deeper to the heart of Madame La Motte, and ſhe reſolved, at all events, to obtain ſome certainty upon the ſubject of her ſuſpi⯑cions.

She now condeſcended to a meanneſs, which ſhe had before deſpiſed, and ordered Peter to watch the ſteps of his maſter, in order to diſco⯑ver, if poſſible, the place of his viſitation! So much did paſſion win upon her judgment, by time and indulgence, that ſhe ſometimes ventured even to doubt the integrity of Adeline, and after⯑wards proceeded to believe it poſſible that the ob⯑ject of La Motte's rambles might be an aſſigna⯑tion with her. What ſuggeſted this conjecture was, that Adeline frequently took long walks alone in the foreſt, and ſometimes was abſent from the abbey for many hours. This circum⯑ſtance, which Madame La Motte had at firſt attributed to Adeline's fondneſs for the pictureſ⯑que [80] beauties of nature, now operated forcibly upon her imagination, and ſhe could view it in no other ligh:, than as affording an opportunity for ſecret converſation with her huſband.

Peter obeyed the orders of his miſtreſs with alacrity, for they were warmly ſeconded by his own curioſity. All his endeavours were, how⯑ever, fruitleſs; he never dared to follow La Motte near enough to obſerve the place of his laſt retreat. Her impatience thus heightened by delay, and her paſſion ſtimulated by difficulty, Madame La Motte now reſolved to apply to her huſband for an explanation of his con⯑duct.

After ſome conſideration, concerning the manner moſt likely to ſucceed with him, ſhe went to La Motte, but when ſhe entered the room where he ſat, forgetting all her concerted addreſs, ſhe fell at his feet, and was, for ſome moments, loſt in tears. Surprized at her atti⯑tude and diſtreſs, he inquired the occaſion of it, and was anſwered, that it was cauſed by his own conduct. ‘"My conduct! What part of it, pray?"’ inquired he.

‘"Your reſerve, your ſecret ſorrow, and frequent abſence from the abbey."’

‘"Is it then ſo wonderful, that a man, who has loſt almoſt every thing, ſhould ſome⯑times lament his misfortunes? or ſo criminal to attempt concealing his grief, that he muſt [81] be blamed for it by thoſe, whom he would ſave from the pain of ſharing it?"’

Having uttered theſe words, he quitted the room, leaving Madame La Motte loſt in ſur⯑prize, but ſomewhat relieved from the preſſure of her former ſuſpicions. Still, however, ſhe purſued Adeline with an eye of ſcrutiny; and the maſk of kindneſs would ſometimes fall off, and diſcover the features of diſtruſt. Adeline, without exactly knowing why, felt leſs at eaſe and leſs happy in her preſence than formerly; her ſpirits drooped, and ſhe would often, when alone, weep at the forlornneſs of her condition. Formerly, her remembrance of paſt ſufferings was loſt in the friendſhip of Madame La Motte; now, though her behaviour was too guarded to betray any ſtriking inſtance of unkindneſs, there was ſomething in her manner which chilled the hopes of Adeline, unable as ſhe was to analyſe it. But a circumſtance, which ſoon occurred, ſuſpended, for a while, the jealouſy of Madame La Motte, and rouſed her huſband from his ſtate of gloomy ſtupefaction.

Peter, having been one day to Auboine, for the weekly ſupply of proviſions, returned with intelligence that awakened in La Motte new apprehenſion and anxiety.

‘"Oh, Sir! I've heard ſomething that has aſtoniſhed me, as well it may,"’ cried Peter, ‘"and ſo it will you, when you come to know it. As I was ſtanding in the blackſmith's [82] ſhop, while the ſmith was driving a nail into the horſe's ſhoe (by the bye, the horſe loſt it in an odd way, I'll tell you, Sir, how it was)"—’

‘"Nay, prithee leave it till another time, and go on with your ſtory."’

‘"Why then, Sir, as I was ſtanding in the blackſmith's ſhop, comes in a man with a pipe in his mouth, and a large pouch of tobacco in his hand"—’

‘"Well—what has the pipe to do with the ſtory?"’

‘"Nay, Sir, you put me out; I can't go on, unleſs you let me tell it my own way. As I was ſaying—with a pipe in his mouth—I think I was there, your Honour!"’

‘"Yes, yes."’

‘"He ſets himſelf down on the bench, and, taking the pipe from his mouth, ſays to the blackſmith—Neighbour, do you know any body of the name of La Motte hereabouts?—Bleſs your Honour, I turned all of a cold ſweat in a minute!—Is not your Honour well, ſhall I fetch you any thing?"’

‘"No—but be ſhort in your narrative."’

‘"La Motte! La Motte!" ſaid the black⯑ſmith, "I think I've heard the name."—"Have you?" ſaid I, "you're cunning then, for there's no ſuch perſon hereabouts, to my know⯑ledge."’

[83] ‘"Fool! why did you ſay that?"’

‘"Becauſe I did not want them to know your Honour was here; and if I had not managed very cleverly, they would have found me out. "There is no ſuch perſon, hereabouts, to my knowledge," ſays I,"—"Indeed!" ſays the blackſmith, "you know more of the neigh⯑bourhood than I do then."—"Aye," ſays the man with the pipe, "that's very true How came you to know ſo much of the neighbour⯑hood? I came here twenty-ſix years ago, come next St. Michael, and you know more than I do. How came you to know ſo much?"’

‘"With that he put his pipe in his mouth, and gave a whiff full in my face. Lord! your Honour, I trembled from head to foot. "Nay, as for that matter," ſays I, "I don't know more than other people, but I'm ſure I never heard of ſuch a man as that."—"Pray," ſays the black⯑ſmith, ſtaring me full in the face, "an't you the man that was enquiring ſome time ſince about St. Clair's Abbey?"—"Well, wha [...] of that?" ſays I, "what does that prove?"—"Why, they ſay, ſomebody lives in the abbey now," ſaid the man, turning to the other; "and [...] for aught I know, it may be this ſame L [...] Motte."—"Aye, or for aught I know ei⯑ther," ſays the man with the pipe, getting up from the bench, "and you know more of this [84] than you'll own. I'll lay my my life on't, this Monſieur La Motte lives at the abbey."—"Aye," ſays I, "you are out there, for he does not live at the abbey now."’

‘"Confound your folly!"’ cried La Motte, ‘"but be quick—how did the matter end?"’

‘"My maſter does not live there now," ſaid I.—"Oh! oh!" ſaid the man with the pipe; "he is your maſter, then? And pray how long has he left the abbey—and where does he live now?" "Hold," ſaid I, "not ſo faſt—I know when to ſpeak and when to hold my tongue—but who has been inquiring for him?"’

‘"What! he expected ſomebody to inquire for him?" ſays the man.—"No," ſays I, "he did not, but if he did, what does that prove?—that argues nothing." With that he looked at the blackſmith, and they went out of the ſhop together, leaving my horſe's ſhoe undone. But I never minded that, for the moment they were gone, I mounted and rode away as faſt as I could. But in my fright, your Honour, I forgot to take the round about way, and ſo came ſtraight home."’

La Motte, extremely ſhocked at Peter's in⯑telligence, made no other reply than by curſing his folly, and immediately went in ſearch of Madame, who was walking with Adeline on the banks of the river. La Motte was too much agitated to ſoften his information by preface. ‘"We are diſcovered!"’ ſaid he, ‘"the King's [85] officers have been inquiring for me at Au⯑boine, and Peter has plundered upon my ruin."’ He then informed her of what Peter had re⯑lated, and bade her prepare to quit the abbey.

‘"But whither can we fly?"’ ſaid Madame La Motte, ſcarcely able to ſupport herſelf. ‘"Any where!"’ ſaid he, ‘"to ſtay here is cer⯑tain deſtruction. We muſt take refuge in Switzerland, I think. If any part of France would have concealed me, ſurely it had been this!"’

‘"Alas, how are we perſecuted!"’ rejoined Madame. ‘"This ſpot is ſcarcely made com⯑fortable, before we are obliged to leave it, and go we know not whither."’

‘"I wiſh we may not yet know whither,"’ re⯑plied La Motte, ‘"that is the leaſt evil that threatens us. Let us eſcape a priſon, and I care not whither we go. But return to the abbey immediately, and pack up what move⯑ables you can."’ A flood of tears came to the relief of Madame La Motte, and ſhe hung upon Adeline's arm, ſilent and trembling. Adeline, though ſhe had no comfort to beſtow, endea⯑voured to command her feelings and appear com⯑poſed. ‘"Come,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"we waſte time; let us lament hereafter, but at preſent prepare for flight. Exert a little of that fortitude, which is ſo neceſſary for our preſervation. Adeline does not weep, yet [86] her ſtate is as wretched as your own, for I know not how long I ſhall be able to pro⯑tect her."’

Notwithſtanding her terror, this reproof touched the pride of Madame La Motte, who dried her tears, but diſdained to reply, and looked at Adeline with a ſtrong expreſſion of diſpleaſure. As they moved ſilently toward the abbey, Adeline aſked La Motte if he was ſure they were the king's officers, who inquired for him. ‘"I cannot doubt it,"’ he replied, ‘"who elſe could poſſibly inquire for me? Beſides the behaviour of the man, who mentioned my name, puts the matter beyond a queſtion."’

‘"Perhaps not,"’ ſaid Madame La Motte: ‘"let us wait till morning ere we ſet off. We may then find it will be unneceſſary to go."’

‘"We may, indeed; the king's officers would probably by that time have told us as much."—’La Motte went to give orders to Peter. ‘"Set off in an hour,"’ ſaid Peter. ‘"Lord bleſs you, maſter! only conſider the coach wheel; it would take me a day at leaſt to mend it for your Honour knows I never mended one in my life."’

This was a circumſtance which La Motte had entirely overlooked. When they ſettled at the abbey, Peter had at firſt been too buſy in repair⯑ing the apartments, to remember the carriage, and afterwards, believing it would not quickly [87] be wanted, he had neglected to do it. La Motte's temper now entirely forſook him, and with many execrations ordered Peter to go to work immediately; but on ſearching for the ma⯑terials formerly bought, they were no where to be found, and Peter at length remembered, though he was prudent enough to conceal this circumſtance, that he had uſed the nails in re⯑pairing the abbey.

It was now, therefore, impoſſible to quit the foreſt that night, and La Motte had only to conſider the moſt probable plan of concealment, ſhould the officers of juſtice viſit the ruin before the morning; a circumſtance, which the thoughtleſſneſs of Peter in returning from Au⯑boine, by the ſtraight way, made not unlikely.

At firſt, indeed, it occurred to him, that, though his family could not be removed, he might him⯑ſelf take one of the horſes, and eſcape from the foreſt before night. But he thought there would ſtill be ſome danger of detection in the towns through which he muſt paſs, and he could not well bear the idea of leaving his family unpro⯑tected, without knowing when he could return to them, or whither he could direct them to follow him. La Motte was not a man of very vigorous reſolution, and he was, perhaps, rather more willing to ſuffer in company than alone.

After much conſideration, he recollected the trap-door of the cloſet belonging to the cham⯑bers above. It was inviſible to the eye, and [88] whatever might be its direction, it would ſe⯑curely ſhelter him, at leaſt, from diſcovery. Having deliberated farther upon the ſubject, he determined to explore the receſs to which the ſtairs led, and thought it poſſible, that for a ſhort time his whole family might be concealed within it. There was little time between the ſuggeſtion of the plan and the execution of his purpoſe, for darkneſs was ſpreading around, and, in every murmur of the wind, he thought he heard the voices of his enemies.

He called for a light and aſcended alone to the chamber. When he came to the cloſet, it was ſome time before he could find the trap⯑door, ſo exactly did it correſpond with the boards of the floor. At length, he found and raiſed it. The chill damps of long confined air ruſhed from the aperture, and he ſtood for a moment to let them paſs, ere he deſcended. As he ſtood looking down the abyſs, he recollected the report, which Peter had brought concerning the abbey, and it gave him an uneaſy ſenſation: But this ſoon yielded to more preſſing intereſts.

The ſtairs were ſteep, and in many places trembled beneath his weight. Having conti⯑nued to deſcend for ſome time, his feet touched the ground, and he found himſelf in a narrow paſſage; but as he turned to purſue it, the damp vapours curled round him and extin⯑guiſhed the light. He called aloud for Peter, but could make nobody hear, and after ſome [89] time, he endeavoured to find his way up the ſtairs. In this, with difficulty, he ſucceeded, and, paſſing the chambers with cautious ſteps, deſcended the tower.

The ſecurity, which the place he had juſt quitted ſeemed to promiſe, was of too much im⯑portance to be ſlightly rejected, and he deter⯑mined immediately to make another experiment with the light:—having now fixed it in a lan⯑thorn, he deſcended a ſecond time to the paſſage. The current of vapours occaſioned by the open⯑ing of the trap-door, was abated, and the freſh air thence admitted had began to circulate: La Motte paſſed on unmoleſted.

The paſſage was of conſiderable length, and led him to a door, which was faſtened. He pla⯑ced the lanthorn at ſome diſtance to avoid the current of air, and applied his ſtrength to the door. It ſhook under his hands, but did not yield. Upon examining it more cloſely, he per⯑ceived the wood round the lock was decayed, probably by the damps, and this encouraged him to proceed. After ſome time it gave way to his effort, and he found himſelf in a ſquare ſtone room.

He ſtood for ſome time to ſurvey it. The walls, which were dripping with unwholeſome dews, were entirely bare and afforded not even a window. A ſmall iron grate alone admitted the air. At the further end, near a low receſs, was another door. La Motte went towards it, [90] and, as he paſſed, looked into the receſs. Upon the ground within it, ſtood a large cheſt, which he went forward to examine, and, lifting the lid, he ſaw the remains of a human ſkeleton. Hor⯑ror ſtruck upon his heart, and he involuntarily ſtepped back. During a pauſe of ſome moments, his firſt emotions ſubſided. That thrilling curi⯑oſity, which objects of terror often excite in the human mind, impelled him to take a ſecond view of this diſmal ſpectacle.

La Motte ſtood motionleſs as he gazed; the object before him ſeemed to confirm the report that ſome perſon had formerly been murdered in the abbey. At length he cloſed the cheſt, and advanced to the ſecond door, which alſo was faſ⯑tened, but the key was in the lock. He turned it with difficulty, and then found the door was held by two ſtrong bolts. Having undrawn theſe, it diſcloſed a ſlight of ſteps, which he de⯑ſcended. They terminated in a chain of low vaults, or rather cells, that, from the manner of their conſtruction and preſent condition, ſeemed to have been coeval with the moſt ancient parts of the abbey. La Motte, in his then depreſſed ſtate of mind, thought them the burial places of the monks, who formerly inhabited the pile above; but they were more calculated for places of pe⯑nance for the living, than of reſt for the dead.

Having reached the extremity of theſe cells, the way was again cloſed by a door. La Motte now heſitated whether he ſhould attempt to [91] any farther. The preſent ſpot ſeemed to afford the ſecurity he ſought. Here he might paſs the night unmoleſted by apprehenſion of diſcovery, and it was moſt probable, that if the officers ar⯑rived in the night, and found the abbey vacated, they would quit it before morning, or, at leaſt, before he could have any occaſion to emerge from concealment. Theſe conſiderations re⯑ſtored his mind to a ſtate of greater compoſure. His only immediate care was to bring his family, as ſoon as poſſible, to this place of ſecurity, leſt the officers ſhould come unawares upon them; and, while he ſtood thus muſing, he blamed him⯑ſelf for delay.

But an irreſiſtible deſire of knowing to what this door led, arreſted his ſteps, and he turned to open it. The door, however, was faſtened, and, as he attempted to force it, he ſuddenly thought he heard a noiſe above. It now occurred to him, that the officers might already have arrived, and he quitted the cells with precipi⯑tation, intending to liſten at the trap-door.

‘"There,"’ ſaid he,‘" I may wait in ſecurity, and perhaps hear ſomething of what paſſes. My family will not be known, or, at leaſt, not hurt, and their uneaſineſs on my account, they muſt learn to endure."’

Theſe were the arguments of La Motte, in which, it muſt be owned, ſelfiſh prudence was more conſpicuous than tender anxiety for his wife. He had by this time reached the bottom [92] of the ſtairs, when, on looking up, he perceived the trap-door was left open, and aſcending in haſte to cloſe it, he heard footſteps advancing through the chambers above. Before he could aſcend entirely out of ſight, he again looked up and perceived through the aperture the face of a man looking down upon him. ‘"Maſter,"’ cried Peter;—La Motte was ſomewhat relieved at the ſound of his voice, though angry that he had occaſioned him ſo much terror.

‘"What brings you here, and what is the matter below?"’

‘"Nothing, Sir, nothing's the matter, only my miſtreſs ſent me to ſee after your Honour."’

‘"There's nobody there then,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"ſetting his foot upon the ſtep."’

‘"Yes, Sir, there is my miſtreſs and Ma⯑demoiſelle Adeline and"—’

‘"Well—well"’ ſaid La Motte briſkly—‘"go your ways, I am coming."’

He informed Madame La Motte where he had been, and of his intention of ſecreting him⯑ſelf, and deliberated upon the means of con⯑vincing the officers, ſhould they arrive, that he had quitted the abbey. For this purpoſe, he ordered all the moveable furniture to be conveyed to the cells below. La Motte himſelf aſſiſted in this buſineſs, and every hand was employed for diſpatch. In a very ſhort time, the habita⯑ble part of the fabric was left almoſt as deſolate as he had found it. He then bade Peter take [93] the horſes to a diſtance from the abbey, and turn them looſe. After farther conſideration, he thought it might contribute to miſlead them, if he placed in ſome conſpicuous part of the fabric an inſcription, ſignifying his condition, and mentioning the date of his departure from the abbey. Over the door of the tower, which led to the habitable part of the ſtructure, he, there⯑fore, cut the following lines.

After engraving theſe words with a knife, the ſmall ſtock of proviſions remaining from the week's ſupply (for Peter, in his fright, had returned unloaded from his laſt journey) was put into a baſket, and, La Motte having aſ⯑ſembled his family, they all aſcended the ſtairs of the tower and paſſed through the chambers to the cloſet. Peter went firſt with a light, and with ſome difficulty found the trap-door. Madame La Motte ſhuddered as ſhe ſurveyed the gloomy abyſs; but they were all ſilent.

[94] La Motte now took the light and led the way; Madame followed, and then Adeline. ‘"Theſe old monks loved good wine, as well as other people,"’ ſaid Peter, who brought up the rear, ‘"I warrant your Honour, now, this was their cellar; I ſmell the caſks already."’

‘"Peace,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"reſerve your jokes for a proper occaſion."’

‘"There is no harm in loving good wine, as your Honour knows."’

‘"Have done with this buffoonery,"’ ſaid La Motte, in a tone more authoritative, ‘"and go firſt."’ Peter obeyed.

They came to the vaulted room. The diſmal ſpectacle he had ſeen there, deterred La Motte from paſſing the night in this chamber; and the furniture had, by his own order, been con⯑veyed to the cells below. He was anxious that his family ſhould not perceive the ſkeleton; an object, which would, probably, excite a degree of horror not to be overcome during their ſtay. La Motte now paſſed the cheſt in haſte; and Madame La Motte and Adeline were too much engroſſed by their own thoughts, to give minute attention to external circumſtances.

When they reached the cells, Madame La Motte wept at the neceſſity which condemned her to a ſpot ſo diſmal. ‘"Alas,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"are we, indeed, thus reduced! The apart⯑ments above, formerly appeared to me a de⯑plorable [95] habitation; but they are a palace compared to theſe."’

‘"True, my dear,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"and let the remembrance of what you once thought them, ſoothe your diſcontent now; theſe cells are alſo a palace, compared to the Bicètre, or the Baſtille, and to the terrors of farther puniſhment, which would accompany them: let the apprehenſion of the greater evil teach you to endure the leſs: I am contented if we find here the refuge I ſeek."’

Madame La Motte was ſilent, and Adeline, forgetting her late unkindneſs, endeavoured as much as ſhe could to conſole her; while her heart was ſinking with the misfortunes, which ſhe could not but anticipate, ſhe appeared compoſed, and even cheerful. She attended Madame La Motte with the moſt watchful ſolicitude, and felt ſo thankful that La Motte was now ſecreted within this receſs, that ſhe almoſt loſt her per⯑ception of its glooms and inconveniences.

This ſhe artleſsly expreſſed to him, who could not be inſenſible to the tenderneſs it diſ⯑covered. Madame La Motte was alſo ſenſible of it, and it renewed a painful ſenſation. The effuſions of gratitude ſhe miſtook for thoſe of tenderneſs.

La Motte returned frequently to the trap door, to liſten if any body was in the abbey; but no ſound diſturbed the ſtillneſs of night; at [96] length they ſat down to ſupper; the repaſt was a melancholy one. ‘"If the officers do not come hither to night,"’ ſaid Madame La Motte, ſighing, ‘"ſuppoſe, my dear, Peter returns to Auboine to-morrow. He may there learn ſomething more of this affair; or, at leaſt, he might procure a carriage to convey us hence."’

‘"To be ſure he might,"’ ſaid La Motte peeviſhly, ‘"and people to attend it alſo. Peter would be an excellent perſon to ſhew the of⯑ficers the way to the abbey, and to inform them of what they might elſe be in doubt about, my concealment here."’

‘"How cruel is this irony!"’ replied Madame La Motte, ‘"I propoſed only what I thought would be for our mutual good; my judge⯑ment was, perhaps, wrong, but my intention was certainly right."’ Tears ſwelled into her eyes as ſhe ſpoke theſe words. Adeline wiſhed to relieve her; but delicacy kept her ſilent. La Motte obſerved the effect of his ſpeech, and ſomething like remorſe touched his heart, He approached, and taking her hand, ‘"You muſt allow for the perturbation of my mind,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I did not mean to afflict you thus. The idea of ſending Peter to Auboine, where he has already done ſo much harm by his blun⯑ders, teaſed me, and I could not let it paſs unnoticed. No, my dear, our only chance of ſafety is to remain where we are while our [97] proviſions laſt. If the officers do not come here to-night, they probably will to-morrow, or, perhaps, the next day. When they have ſearched the abbey, without finding me, they will depart; we may then emerge from this receſs, and take meaſures for removing to a diſtant country."’

Madame La Motte acknowledged the juſtice of his words, and her mind being relieved by the little apology he had made, ſhe became tolerably cheerful. Supper being ended, La Motte ſta⯑tioned the faithful, though ſimple Peter, at the foot of the ſteps that aſcended to the cloſet; there to keep watch during the night. Having done this, he returned to the lower cells, where he had left his little family. The beds were ſpread, and having mournfully bid each other good night, they laid down, and implored reſt.

Adeline's thoughts were too buſy to ſuffer her to repoſe, and when ſhe believed her companions were ſunk in ſlumbers, ſhe indulged the ſorrow which reflection brought. She alſo looked for⯑ward to the future with the moſt mournful ap⯑prehenſion. ‘"Should La Motte be ſeized, what was to become of her? She would then be a wanderer in the wide world; without friends to protect, or money to ſupport her; the proſpect was gloomy—was terrible!"’ She ſurveyed it and ſhuddered! The diſtreſſes too of Monſieur and Madame La Motte, whom ſhe [98] loved with the moſt lively affection, formed no inconſiderable part of her's.

Sometimes ſhe looked back to her father; but in him ſhe only ſaw an enemy, from whom ſhe muſt fly; this remembrance heightened her ſorrow; yet it was not the recollection of the ſuffering he had occaſioned her, by which ſhe was ſo much afflicted, as by the ſenſe of his un⯑kindneſs: ſhe wept bitterly. At length, with that artleſs piety, which innocence only knows, ſhe addreſſed the Supreme Being, and reſigned herſelf to his care. Her mind then gradually became peaceful and re-aſſured, and ſoon after ſhe ſunk to repoſe.

CHAP V.

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 ſound⯑ed diſcord to his ears, and deſtroyed the torpor of his tranquillity.

‘"God bleſs you, Maſter, what's the mat⯑ter?"’ 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."’

[100] 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 liſten⯑ed 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 ſar advanced; he walked ſoftly along the cham⯑bers, and looked through a window; no per⯑ſon was to be ſeen. Encouraged by this appa⯑rent ſecurity, he ventured down the ſtairs of the tower, and entered the firſt apartment. He was proceeding towards the ſecond, when, ſud⯑denly 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 him⯑ſelf, 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 be⯑fore he cloſed it, heard the footſteps of a perſon entering the outer chamber. Bolts, or other [101] faſtening to the trap there was none; and his ſe⯑curity depended ſolely upon the exact correſpon⯑dence of the boards. The outer door of the ſtone room had no means of defence; and the faſten⯑ings 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 fartheſt 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 unne⯑ceſſary, 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 diſ⯑treſs of La Motte. ‘"You have already de⯑ſtroyed me,"’ cried he; ‘"that ſhriek has inform⯑ed them where I am."’ He traverſed the cells with claſped hands and quick ſteps. Adeline [102] ſtood pale and ſtill as death, ſupporting Ma⯑dame La Motte, whom, with difficulty, ſhe prevented from fainting. ‘"O! Dupras! Du⯑pras! 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 theſe torturing pangs by throwing myſelf into their hands at once."’

As he ſpoke, he moved towards the door, but the diſtreſs of 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 tu⯑mult of his mind: the agitation of terror ſubſi⯑ded; 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 con⯑tinuing, his hopes ſtrengthened, and, at length [103] he began to believe that the officers had quitted the abbey; the day however was ſpent in anx⯑ious 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 diſco⯑very; and on this circumſtance he juſtly founded his ſecurity. The following night was paſſe I like the day, in trembling hope, and inceſſant watching.

But the neceſſities of hunger now threatened them. The proviſions which had been diſtribu⯑ted with the niceſt oeconomy, were nearly ex⯑hauſted, 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 alterna⯑tive, 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, or uſe a fiſhing rod to any advantage.

It was, therefore, agreed he ſhould go to Au⯑boine 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 [104] 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 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 fa⯑mily 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 da⯑red to venture. Her heart ſhrunk from the pro⯑poſal, yet ſhe was unwilling to refuſe, or appear indifferent upon a point ſo eſſential to the ſafety of her huſband. Adeline obſerved in her coun⯑tenance the agitation of her mind, and ſurmoun⯑ting 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 by the magnanimity of her conduct, felt a momentary renewal of all her former kindneſs. Adeline preſſed her propoſal ſo warmly, and [105] 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 ſtayed 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 ſhou'd be ſeen,"’ ſaid he, ‘"you muſt account for your appear⯑ance 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 [106] Love, could influence her to a conduct ſo generous!"’ Madame La Motte, when ſhe found it impoſſible to account for Adeline's con⯑duct, without alledging 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 the cham⯑bers: the cheerful beams of the ſun played once more upon her ſight, and re-animated her ſpirits; ſhe walked lightly through the apart⯑ments, 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 de⯑ſcended. She paſſed the apartments below, with⯑out 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 ap⯑peared, were the deer, quietly grazing under the ſhade of the woods. Her favourite little fawn diſtinguiſhed Adeline, and came bounding to⯑wards her with ſtrong marks of joy. She was ſomewhat alarmed leſt the animal, being obſer⯑ved, ſhould betray her, and walked ſwiftly away through the cloiſters.

She opened the door that led to the great hall of the abbey, but the paſſage was ſo gloomy and dark, that ſhe feared to enter it, and ſtarted [107] back. It was neceſſary, however, that ſhe ſhould examine farther, particularly on the op⯑poſite 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 oppor⯑tunity 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 ſecu⯑rity. In the cloiſters ſhe was again met by her [77] little favourite, and ſtopped for a moment to ca⯑reſs 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 ſurprize 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 re⯑peated 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 her⯑ſelf—ſhe heſitated, and knew not what to reply. Her manner ſeemed to confirm the ſuſpicions of the ſtranger, and her conſciouſneſs of this in⯑creaſed her embaraſſment: he took advantage of [109] to preſs her farther. Adeline, at length, re⯑plied, that ‘"La Motte had ſome time ſince re⯑ſided at the abbey."’ ‘"And does ſtill, Ma⯑dam,"’ ſaid the ſtranger; ‘"lead me to where he may be found—I muſt ſee him, and"—’

‘"Never, Sir,"’ replied Adeline, ‘"and I ſo⯑lemnly 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 af⯑ford 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 re⯑main below. But upon farther conſideration, it occurred to her, that he might ſteal ſilently into the cloſet, and poſſibly ſurprize 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 immedi⯑ately began to ſpeak aloud.

This room he ſearched with the moſt ſcru⯑pulous care, but finding no private door, or other outlet, he proceeded to the cloſet; then it was, that it required all her fortitude to con⯑ceal her agitation. He continued the ſearch. [110] ‘"Within theſe chambers, I know he is con⯑cealed,"’ 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 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 Ade⯑line, 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 remem⯑brance 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 [111] pleaſure, and the walls echoed only to the ac⯑cents 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 re⯑ſumed his wonted 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 of⯑ficers 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, contain⯑ing an account of your flight from Paris, reached me at Peronne, where I was then upon duty with my regiment. He men⯑tioned, that you was 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 farther intelligence of you, I paſſed ſome weeks of very painful ſolicitude. At the concluſion of the campaign, I obtained [112] 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 diſ⯑covery 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 father's 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 conjecture, for I remembered to have heard you often repeat them.’

[113] ‘"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 re⯑counted 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 aſ⯑ſiſtance of my landlord, I found my way hi⯑ther, and, having ſearched every viſible part of the fabric, I began to credit Peter's aſſer⯑tion: your appearance, however, deſtroyed this fear, by proving that the place was ſtill inhabited, for you diſappeared ſo inſtantane⯑ouſly, 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 cot⯑tage near the border of the foreſt.’

‘"I came early this morning to renew my in⯑quiries, and hoped that, believing yourſelf [114] 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 prece⯑ding 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 obvi⯑ous deſire of concealment, might excite a curi⯑oſity amongſt the people of Auboine, and lead to a diſcovery of his true circumſtances. However, for the preſent he determined to diſmiſs all pain⯑ful thoughts, and endeavour to enjoy the com⯑fort 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 ani⯑mated 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 [115] 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, af⯑ter 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 [116] careleſſneſs, what were the reports circulated by the country people? ‘"O! Sir,"’ replied 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 were ſtrong reaſons to believe he came unfairly to his end."’

La Motte ſighed. ‘"They farther ſaid,"’ continued Louis, ‘"that the ſpectre of the de⯑ceaſed had ever ſince watched nightly among the ruins: and to make the ſtory more won⯑derful, 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 be⯑lieving the perſon confined here was mur⯑dered?"’

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

‘"True,"’ ſaid La Motte, recollecting him⯑ſelf, ‘"they only ſaid he came unfairly to his end."’

[117] ‘"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 arri⯑ved; that there was ſtrange privacy and myſ⯑tery obſerved while he was here, and that the abbey has never ſince been inhabited by its owner. There ſeems, however, to be no⯑thing in all this that deſerves to be remem⯑bered."’ 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 re⯑ſumed 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 blun⯑ders and his ſon's inquiries might lead to a diſ⯑covery of his reſidence. He revolved this in his mind for ſome time, but at length a thought ſtruck him, that the latter of theſe circumſtan⯑ces 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 re⯑ſidence [118] of the perſon you ſought in ſome diſ⯑tant 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 com⯑mand of countenance, ſo far as to deſcribe ſome dreadful apparition, I think theſe cir⯑cumſtances, together with the diſtance of the Abbey, and the intricacies of the foreſt, could intitle me to conſider this place as my caſtle."’

Louis agreed to all that his father had propo⯑ſed, and on the following day executed his com⯑miſſion with ſuch ſucceſs, that the tranquility of the abbey may be then ſaid to have been en⯑tirely 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 circum⯑ſtance 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 miſ⯑took for kindneſs to herſelf, and ſhe exerted her [119] whole attention in an endeavour to become wor⯑thy 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 ac⯑quaint 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 wonder⯑ful 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 ac⯑cuſtomed herſelf to long walks in the foreſt, and the deſign Madame had formed of watching her ſteps, had been fruſtrated by the late cir⯑cumſtances, and was now entirely overcome by her ſenſe of its difficulty and danger. To em⯑ploy 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 con⯑cerning the greateſt part of her ſuſpicions.

[120] To Louis, however ſhe related the myſterious change in his father's temper. He liſtened to her account with very earneſt attention, and the ſurprize and concern impreſſed upon his countenance ſpoke how much his heart was in⯑tereſted. 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 mo⯑ther gave a brief relation, with great apparent intereſt. So much pity did he expreſs for her condition, and ſo much indignation at the un⯑natural conduct of her father, that the appre⯑henſions which Madame La Motte began to form, of his having diſcovered her jealouſy, yielded to thoſe of a different kind. She per⯑ceived that the beauty of Adeline had already faſci⯑nated 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 pro⯑motion and the fortune ſhe hoped to ſee one day enjoyed by her ſon. On theſe ſhe reſted all [121] 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 indif⯑ference, 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 indigna⯑tion 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 diſ⯑tance. La Motte continued to walk ſtraight for⯑ward, and ſeemed ſo deeply wrapt in thought, that he looked neither to the right or 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 [122] 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 far⯑ther ſhould be done, he obſerved, through the gloom, an object at ſome diſtance, but the deep ſhadow that fell around prevented his diſtin⯑guiſhing 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; per⯑haps, 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 in⯑formed you, that the active virtues, the ad⯑herence to the golden rule, "Do as you [123] would be done unto,' could alone deſerve the favour of a Deity, whoſe glory is bene⯑volence."’

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 per⯑ceiving him, and immediately diſappeared. Louis, though unuſed to fear, felt at that mo⯑ment an uneaſy ſenſation, but almoſt it imme⯑diately ſtruck him that this was La Motte him⯑ſelf. 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 arch-way 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 dark kind of paſſage, when, recollecting that this place might be the haunt of banditti, his danger alarmed him, and he retreated with precipitation.

He walked toward 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. Not⯑withſtanding this, his belief of it ſtrengthened, and he entered the abbey under as full a con⯑viction [124] 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 acquaincing his mother with his late adventure, and of in⯑quiring 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 for⯑merly 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.

[125] ‘"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 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, gra⯑dually 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 flow⯑ers, whoſe tints glowed more vivid through the dew drops that hung on their leaves.

She wandered on without noticing the diſ⯑tance, 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 ſeated her⯑ſelf [126] 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 tender⯑neſs of her heart, ſhe ſung the following words:

A diſtant echo lengthened out her tones, and ſhe ſat liſtening to the ſoft reſponſe, till re⯑peating 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 atten⯑tion, 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 ad⯑vanced; but, obſerving her timid looks and re⯑tiring 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; [128] believing that ſhe was intereſted on this point, no farther than as it concerned the ſafety of La Motte, ſhe indulged, without ſcruple, the re⯑membrance 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 ſtra⯑tagem 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 inju⯑rious to his character. Upon farther deliberation, therefore, ſhe reſolved not to mention this little circumſtance to La Motte; well knowing, that though his danger might be imaginary, his ap⯑prehenſions 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 ob⯑ſerved Madame La Motte to be more than uſually reſerved. La Motte entered the room ſoon after her, and made ſome trifling obſerva⯑tions 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 ſuf⯑fered [129] Adeline thus to flatter herſelf. Her con⯑verſation 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.

‘"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 ſurprizing,"’ purſued Madame La Motte.

‘"Is it, indeed, ſurprizing, Madam, for thoſe who have loſt their laſt friend to be unhappy?"’

Madame La Motte's conſcience acknowledged the rebuke, and ſhe bluſhed. ‘"Well,"’ re⯑ſumed ſhe, after a ſhort pauſe, ‘"that is not your ſituation, Adeline;"’ looking earneſtly at La Motte. Adeline, whoſe innocence pro⯑tected her from ſuſpicion, did not regard this circumſtance; but, ſmiling through her tears, ſaid, ſhe rejoiced to hear her ſay ſo. During [130] this converſation, La Motte had remained ab⯑ſorbed 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 forgot 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 toward the door, when Louis, who was pacing the room in apparent agitation, [131] gently took her hand, ſaying, ‘"Here is ſome unhappy miſtake,"’ and would have led her to the ſeat; but her ſpirits were too much de⯑preſſed to endure longer reſtraint; and, with⯑drawing 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, Ma⯑dam,"’ 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 has 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, with⯑out preſumption, affirm they cannot deceive me."’

‘"You have, no doubt, good reaſons for this aſſertion, and I perceive, by your admi⯑ration of this artleſs innocent, ſhe has ſuc⯑ceeded in her deſign of entrapping your heart."’

‘"Without deſigning it, ſhe has won my ad⯑miration, which would not have been the caſe, had ſhe been capable of the conduct you mention."’

[132] 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 beha⯑viour,"’ 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

[133] 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, per⯑ceiving nothing of which ſhe could accuſe her⯑ſelf, ſhe became more ſatisfied; deriving her beſt comfort from the integrity of her inten⯑tions. In the moment of accuſation, innocence may ſometimes be oppreſſed with the puniſh⯑ment 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 them, 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, con⯑trary 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 [134] 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, un⯑informed 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 re⯑main 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 ſoon now took occaſion to lament that depreſſion of ſpirits, [135] 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 re⯑proof, 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, ‘"no⯑thing could give me ſo much ſatisfaction as to ſee that chearfulneſs renewed; the ſame cauſe of ſorrow exiſted at that time, yet you was then chearful."’

‘"That I was then cheerful,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"you might, without flattery, have attributed to yourſelf; your preſence revived me, and [136] 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 con⯑verſation 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 da⯑ring 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 [137] 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 explana⯑tion, that there was little probability of recover⯑ing it, however ill-founded might be the cauſe of her diſlike. At length, ſhe reaſoned, or ra⯑ther, perhaps, perſuaded herſelf into tolerable compoſure; for to reſign a real good with con⯑tentment, is leſs an effort of reaſon than of tem⯑per.

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 center, round which the human affections move, for whatever motive con⯑duces 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 belong⯑ing [138] to La Motte were few, but well choſen; and Adeline could find pleaſure in reading them more than once. When her mind was diſcom⯑poſed 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 con⯑vent; their beauties, therefore, ſhe was capable of taſting, and they often inſpired her with en⯑thuſiaſtic delight.

At the decline of day, ſhe quitted her cham⯑ber to enjoy the ſweet evening hour, but ſtrayed no farther 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 rhe ſcene around, ſhe cloſed the book, and yielded to the ſweet complacent me⯑lancholy 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 fol⯑lowing ſtanzas:

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 mo⯑ther's behaviour is too myſterious to be ac⯑counted 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."’

[141] Adeline thanked him for his 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 re⯑peatedly 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 inex⯑preſſible concern; but to compel her to an ex⯑planation would only increaſe this diſpleaſure, inſtead of removing it. Let me beg of you not to attempt it."’

‘"I ſubmit to your judgement,"’ 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, per⯑ceived the ſentiments of his heart. A mind more fraught with vanity than her's would have taught her long ago to regard the attentions of Louis, as the reſult of ſomething more than well⯑bred [142] gallantry. She did not appear to notice his laſt words, but remained ſilent, and involunta⯑rily quickened her pace. Louis ſaid no more, but ſeemed ſunk in thought; and this ſilence re⯑mained uninterrupted, till they entered the abbey.

CHAPTER VI.

NEAR a month elapſed without any remark⯑able occurrence: the melancholy of La Motte ſuffered little abatement; and the behaviour of Madame to Adeline, though ſomewhat ſoftened, was ſtill far from kind. Louis, by numberleſs little attentions, teſtified his growing affection for Adeline, who continued to treat them as paſſin civilities.

It happened, one ſtormy night, as they were pre⯑paring for reſt, that they were alarmed by a tram⯑pling of horſes near the abbey. The ſound of ſeve⯑ral voices ſucceeded, and a loud knocking at the great gate of the hall ſoon after confirmed the alarm. La Motte had little doubt that the officers of juſtice had at length diſcovered his retreat, and the per⯑turbation of fear almoſt confounded his ſenſes; he, however, ordered the lights to be extinguiſh⯑ed, and a profound ſilence to be obſerved, un⯑willing [144] to neglect even the ſlighteſt poſſibility of ſecurity. There was a chance, he thought, that the perſons might ſuppoſe the place unin⯑habited, and believe they had miſtaken the object of their ſearch. His orders were ſcarcely obey⯑ed, when the knocking was renewed, and with increaſed violence. La Motte now repaired to a ſmall grated window in the portal of the gate, that he might obſerve the number and appear⯑ance of the ſtrangers.

The darkneſs of the night baffled his purpoſe; he could only perceive a groupe of men on horſe⯑back; but, liſtening attentively, he diſtinguiſhed a part of their diſcourſe. Several of the men contended, that they had miſtaken the place; till a perſon, who, from his authoritative voice, appeared to be their leader, affirmed, that the lights had iſſued from this ſpot, and he was po⯑ſitive there were perſons within. Having ſaid this, he again knocked loudly at the gate, and was anſwered only by hollow echoes. La Mot⯑te's heart trembled at the ſound, and he was unable to move.

After waiting ſome time, the ſtrangers ſeemed as if in conſultation, but their diſcourſe was con⯑ducted in ſuch a low tone of voice, that La Motte was unable to diſtinguiſh its purport. They withdrew from the gate, as if to depart, but he preſently thought he heard them amongſt the trees on the other ſide of the fabric, and ſoon became convinced they had not left the abbey. [145] A few minutes held La Motte in a ſtate of tor⯑turing ſuſpence; he quitted the grate, where Louis now ſtationed himſelf, for that part of the edifice which overlooked the ſpot where he ſup⯑poſed them to be waiting.

The ſtorm was now loud, and the hollow blaſts, which ruſhed among the trees, prevented his diſtinguiſhing any other ſound. Once, in the pauſes of the wind, he thought he heard diſtinct voices; but he was not long left to conjecture, for the renewed knocking at the gate again ap⯑palled him; and regardleſs of the terrors of Madame La Motte and Adeline, he ran to try his laſt chance of concealment, by means of the trap-door.

Soon after, the violence of the aſſailants ſeem⯑ing to increaſe with every guſt of the tempeſt, the gate, which was old and decayed, burſt from its hinges, and admitted them to the hall. At the moment of their entrance, a ſcream from Madame La Motte, who ſtood at the door of an adjoining apartment, confirmed the ſuſpicions of the principal ſtranger, who continued to ad⯑vance, as faſt as the darkneſs would permit him.

Adeline had fainted, and Madame La Motte was calling loudly for aſſiſtance, when Peter en⯑tered with lights, and diſcovered the hall filled with men, and his young miſtreſs ſenſeleſs upon the floor. A chevalier now advanced, and ſolicit⯑ing [146] pardon of Madame for the rudeneſs of his conduct, was attempting an apology, when per⯑ceiving Adeline, he haſtened to raiſe her from the ground, but Louis, who now returned, caught her in his arms, and deſired the ſtranger not to interfere.

The perſon, to whom he ſpoke this, wore the ſtar of one of the firſt orders in France, and had an air of dignity, which declared him to be of ſuperior rank. He appeared to be about for⯑ty, but, perhaps, the ſpirit and fire of his coun⯑tenance made the impreſſion of time upon his features leſs perceptible. His ſoftened aſpect and inſinuating manners, while, regardleſs of himſelf, he ſeemed attentive only to the condition of Adeline, gradually diſſipated the apprehen⯑ſions of Madame La Motte, and ſubdued the ſudden reſentment of Louis. Upon Adeline, who was yet inſenſible, he gazed with an eager admiration, which ſeemed to abſorb all the faculties of his mind. She was, indeed, an object not to be contemplated with indiffe⯑rence.

Her beauty, touched with the languid delicacy of illneſs, gained from ſentiment what it loſt in bloom. The negligence of her dreſs, looſened for the purpoſe of freer reſpiration, diſcovered thoſe glowing charms, which her auburn treſſes, that fell in profuſion over her boſom, ſhaded, but could not conceal.

[147] There now entered another ſtranger, a young Chevalier, who, having ſpoken haſtily to the elder, joined the general groupe that ſurrounded Adeline. He was of a perſon, in which ele⯑gance was happily blended with ſtrength, and had a countenance animated, but not haughty; noble, yet expreſſive of peculiar ſweetneſs. What rendered it at preſent more intereſting, was the compaſſion he ſeemed to feel for Adeline, who now revived and ſaw him, the firſt object that met her eyes, bending over her in ſilent anxiety.

On perceiving him, a bluſh of quick ſur⯑prize paſſed over her cheek, for ſhe knew him to be the ſtranger ſhe had ſeen in the foreſt. Her countenance inſtantly changed to the pale⯑neſs of terror, when ſhe obſerved the room crowded with people. Louis now ſupported her into another apartment, where the two Cheva⯑liers, who followed her, again apologized for the alarm they had occaſioned. The elder, turning to Madame La Motte, ſaid, ‘"You are, no doubt, Madam, ignorant that I am the proprietor of this abbey."’ She ſtarted: ‘"Be not alarmed, Madam, you are ſafe and welcome. This ruinous ſpot has been long abandoned by me, and if it has afforded you a ſhelter I am happy."’

Madame La Motte expreſſed her gratitude for this condeſcenſion, and Louis declared his ſenſe [148] of the politeneſs of the Marquis de Montalt, for that was the name of the noble ſtranger.

‘"My chief reſidence,"’ ſaid the Marquis, ‘"is in a diſtant province, but I have a chateau near the borders of the foreſt, and in return⯑ing from an excurſion, I have been benighted and loſt my way. A light, which gleamed through the trees, attracted me hither, and, ſuch was the darkneſs without, that I did not know it proceeded from the abbey till I came to the door."’ The noble deportment of the ſtrangers, the ſplendour of their apparel, and, above all, this ſpeech diſſipated every re⯑maining doubt of Madame's, and ſhe was giving orders for refreſhments to be ſet before them, when La Motte, who had liſtened, and was now convinced he had nothing to fear, entered the apartment.

He advanced towards the Marquis with a com⯑placent air, but as he would have ſpoke, the words of welcome faultered on his lips, his limbs trembled, and a ghaſtly paleneſs overſpread his countenance. The Marquis was little leſs agi⯑tated, and, in the firſt moment of ſurprize, put his hand upon his ſword, but, recollecting him⯑ſelf, he withdrew it, and endeavoured to obtain a command of features. A pauſe of agonizing ſilence enſued. La Motte made ſome motion towards the door, but his agitated frame refuſed to ſupport him, and he ſunk into a chair, ſilent and exhauſted. The horror of his countenance, [149] together with his whole behaviour, excited the utmoſt ſurprize in Madame, whoſe eyes in⯑quired of the Marquis more than he thought proper to anſwer: his looks increaſed, inſtead of explaining the myſtery, and expreſſed a mixture of emotions, which ſhe could not ana⯑lyſe. Meanwhile, ſhe endeavoured to ſoothe and revive her huſband, but he repreſſed her efforts, and, averting his face, covered it with his hands.

The Marquis, ſeeming to recover his pre⯑ſence of mind, ſtepped to the door of the hall where his people were aſſembled, when La Motte, ſtarting from his ſeat, with a frantic air, called on him to return. The Marquis looked back and ſtopped, but ſtill heſitating whether to proceed; the ſupplications of Ade⯑line, who was now returned, added to thoſe of La Motte, determined him, and he ſat down. ‘"I requeſt of you, my Lord,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"that we may converſe for a few moments by ourſelves."’

‘"The requeſt is bold, and the indulgence, perhaps, dangerous,"’ ſaid [...]e Marquis: ‘"it is more alſo than I will grant. You can have nothing to ſay, with which your family are not acquainted—ſpeak your purpoſe and be brief."’ La Motte's complection varied to every ſentence of this ſpeech. ‘"Impoſſible, my Lord,"’ ſaid he; ‘"my lips ſhall cloſe for ever, ere they pronounce before another [150] human being the words reſerved for you alone. I entreat—I ſupplicate of you a few moments private diſcourſe."’ As he pro⯑nounced theſe words, tears ſwelled into his eyes, and the Marquis, ſoftened by his diſtreſs, con⯑ſented, though with evident emotion and reluc⯑tance, to his requeſt.

La Motte took a light and led the Marquis to a ſmall room in a remote part of the edifice, where they remained near an hour. Madame, alarmed by the length of their abſence, went in queſt of them: as ſhe drew near, a curioſity, in ſuch circumſtances, perhaps not unjuſtifiable, prompted her to liſten. La Motte juſt then exclaimed—‘"The phrenzy of deſpair!"—’ſome words followed, delivered in a low tone, which which the could not underſtand—‘"I have ſuffered more than I can expreſs,"’ continued he; ‘"the ſame image has purſued me in my midnight dream, and in my daily wanderings. There is no puniſhment, ſhort of death, which I would not have endured, to regain the ſtate of mind, with which I entered this foreſt. I again addreſs myſelf to your com⯑paſſion."’

A loud guſt of wind, that burſt along the paſſage where Madame La Motte ſtood, over⯑powered his voice and that of the Marquis, who ſpoke in reply: but ſhe ſoon after diſtinguiſhed theſe words,—‘"To-morrow, my Lord, if you [151] return to theſe ruins, I will lead you to the ſpot."’

‘"That is ſcarcely neceſſary, and may be dangerous,"’ ſaid the Marquis. ‘"From you, my Lord, I can excuſe theſe doubts,"’ reſumed La Motte; ‘"but I will ſwear what⯑ever you ſhall propoſe. Yes,"’ continued he, ‘"whatever may be the conſequence, I will ſwear to ſubmit to your decree!"’ The riſing tempeſt again drowned the ſound of their voices, and Madame La Motte vainly endea⯑voured to hear thoſe words, upon which, pro⯑bably, hung the explanation of this myſterious conduct. They now moved towards the door, and ſhe retreated with precipitation to the apartment where ſhe had left Adeline, with Louis and the young Chevalier.

Hither the Marquis and La Motte ſoon fol⯑lowed, the firſt haughty and cool, the latter ſomewhat more compoſed than before, though the impreſſion of horror was not yet faded from his countenance. The Marquis paſſed on to the hall where his retinue awaited: the ſtorm was not yet ſubſided, but he ſeemed impatient to be gone, and ordered his people to be in readineſs. La Motte obſerved a ſullen ſilence, frequently pacing the room with haſty ſteps, and ſometimes loſt in reverie. Meanwhile, the Marquis, ſeating himſelf by Adeline, directed to her his whole attention, except when ſudden fits of abſence came over his mind and ſuſpended [152] him in ſilence: at theſe times the young Cheva⯑lier addreſſed Adeline, who, with diffidence and ſome agitation, ſhrunk from the obſervance of both.

The Marquis had been near two hours at the abbey, and the tempeſt ſtill continuing, Madame La Motte offered him a bed. A look from her huſband made her tremble for the conſequence. Her offer was, however, politely declined, the Marquis being evidently as impatient to be gone, as his tenant appeared diſtreſſed by his preſence. He often returned to the hall, and from the gates raiſed a look of impatience to the clouds. No⯑thing was to be ſeen through the darkneſs of night—nothing heard but the howlings of the ſtorm.

The morning dawned before he departed. As he was preparing to leave the abbey, La Motte again drew him aſide, and held him for a few moments in cloſe converſation. His impaſſioned geſtures, which Madame La Motte obſerved from a remote part of the room, added to her curioſity a degree of wild apprehenſion, derived from the obſcurity of the ſubject. Her endeavour to diſtinguiſh the correſponding words was baffled by the low voice in which they were uttered.

The Marquis and his retinue at length de⯑parted, and La Motte, having himſelf faſtened the gates, ſilently and dejectedly withdrew to his chamber. The moment they were alone, [153] Madame ſeized the opportunity of entreating her huſband to explain the ſcene ſhe had witneſſed. ‘"Aſk me no queſtions,"’ ſaid La Motte ſternly, ‘"for I will anſwer none. I have already forbade your ſpeaking to me on this ſubject."’

‘"What ſubject?"’ ſaid his wife. La Motte ſeemed to recollect himſelf—‘"No matter—I was miſtaken—I thought you had repeated theſe queſtions before."’

‘"Ah!"’ ſaid Madame La Motte, ‘"it is then as I ſuſpected: your former melancholy, and the diſtreſs of this night, have the ſame cauſe."’

‘"And why ſhould you either ſuſpect or inquire? Am I always to be perſecuted with conjectures?"’

‘"Pardon me, I meant not to perſecute you; but my anxiety for your welfare will not ſuffer me to reſt under this dreadful uncer⯑tainty. Let me claim the privilege of a wife, and ſhare the affliction which oppreſſes you. Deny me not."—’La Motte interrupted her, ‘"Whatever may be the cauſe of the emotions which you have witneſſed, I ſwear that I will not now reveal it. A time may come, when I ſhall no longer judge concealment neceſſary; till then be ſilent, and deſiſt from importunity; above all, forbear to remark to any one what you may have ſeen uncom⯑mon in me. Bury your ſurmiſe in your own boſom, as you would avoid my curſe and my [154] deſtruction."’ The determined air with which he ſpoke this, while his countenance was overſpread with a livid hue, made his wife ſhudder; and ſhe forbore all reply.

Madame La Motte retired to bed, but not to reſt. She ruminated on the paſt occurrence; and her ſurprize and curioſity, concerning the words and behaviour of her huſband, were but more ſtrongly ſtimulated by reflection. One truth, however, appeared; ſhe could not doubt, but the myſterious conduct of La Motte, which had for ſo many months oppreſſed her with anxiety, and the late ſcene with the Marquis, originated from the ſame cauſe. This belief, which ſeemed to prove how unjuſtly ſhe had ſuſpected Adeline, brought with it a pang of ſelf-accuſation. She looked forward to the morrow, which would lead the Marquis again to the abbey, with impatience. Wearied nature at length reſumed her rights, and yielded a ſhort oblivion of care.

At a late hour, the next day, the family aſ⯑ſembled to breakfaſt. Each individual of the party appeared ſilent and abſtracted, but very different was the aſpect of their features, and ſtill more the complection of their thoughts. La Motte ſeemed agitated by impatient fear, yet the ſullenneſs of deſpair overſpread his coun⯑tenance. A certain wildneſs in his eye at times expreſſed the ſudden ſtart of horror, and again [155] his features would ſink into the gloom of deſ⯑pondency.

Madame La Motte ſeemed harraſſed with anxiety; ſhe watched every turn of her huſband's countenance, and impatiently waited the arrival of the Marquis. Louis was compoſed and thoughtful. Adeline ſeemed to feel her full ſhare of uneaſineſs. She had obſerved the beha⯑viour of La Motte the preceding night with much ſurprize, and the happy confidence ſhe had hitherto repoſed in him, was ſhaken. She feared alſo, leſt the exigency of his circum⯑ſtances ſhould precipitate him again into the world, and that he would be either unable or unwilling to afford her a ſhelter beneath his roof.

During breakfaſt, La Motte frequently roſe to the window, from whence he caſt many an anxious look. His wife underſtood too well the cauſe of his impatience, and endeavoured to re⯑preſs her own. In theſe intervals, Louis at⯑tempted by whiſpers to obtain ſome informa⯑tion from his father, but La Motte always re⯑turned to the table, where the preſence of Ade⯑line prevented farther diſcourſe.

After breakfaſt, as he walked upon the lawn, Louis would have joined him, but La Motte preremptorily declared he intended to be alone, and ſoon after, the Marquis having not yet arrived, proceeded to a greater diſtance from the abbey.

[156] Adeline retired into their uſual working room with Madame La Motte, who affected an air of cheerfulneſs, and even of kindneſs. Feeling the neceſſity of offering ſome reaſon for the ſtriking agitation of La Motte, and of pre⯑venting the ſurprize, which the unexpected appearance of the Marquis would occaſion Ade⯑line, if ſhe was l [...]t to connect it with his beha⯑viour of the preceding night, ſhe mentioned that the Marquis and La Motte had long been known to each other, and that this unexpected meeting, after an abſence of many years, and under circumſtances ſo altered and humiliating, on the part of the latter, had occaſioned him much painful emotion. This had been height⯑ened by a conſciouſneſs that the Marquis had formerly miſinterpreted ſome circumſtances in his conduct towards him, which had cauſed a ſuſpenſion of their intimacy.

This account did not bring conviction to the mind of Adeline, for it ſeemed inadequate to the degree of emotion, the Marquis and La Motte had mutually betrayed. Her ſurprize was excited, and her curioſity awakened by the words, which were meant to delude them both. But ſhe forbore to expreſs her thoughts.

Madame proceeding with her plan, ſaid, ‘"The Marquis was now expected, and ſhe hoped whatever differences remained, would be perfectly adjuſted."’ Adeline bluſhed, and endeavouring to reply, her lips faltered. [157] Conſcious of this agitation, and of the obſervance of Madame La Motte, her confuſion increaſed, and her endeavours to ſuppreſs ſerved only to heighten it. Still ſhe tried to renew the diſ⯑courſe, and ſtill ſhe found it impoſſible to collect her thoughts. Shocked leſt Madame ſhould apprehend the ſentiment, which had till this moment been concealed almoſt from herſelf, her colour fled, ſhe fixed her eyes on the ground, and, for ſome time, found it difficult to reſpire. Madame La Motte inquired if ſhe was ill, when Adeline, glad of the excuſe, withdrew to the indulgence of her own thoughts, which were now wholly engroſſed by the expectation of ſeeing again the young Chevalier, who had ac⯑companied the Marquis.

As ſhe looked from her room, ſhe ſaw the Marquis on horſeback, with ſeveral attendants, advancing at a diſtance, and ſhe haſtened to ap⯑prize Madame La Motte of his approach. In a ſhort time, he arrived at the gates, and Ma⯑dame and Louis went out to receive him, La Motte being not yet returned. He entered the hall, followed by the young Chevalier, and accoſting Madame with a ſort of ſtately polite⯑neſs, inquired for La Motte, whom Louis now went to ſeek.

The Marquis remained for a few minutes ſilent, and then aſked of Madame La Motte ‘"how her fair daughter did?"’ Madame under⯑ſtood it was Adeline he meant, and having an⯑ſwered [158] his inquiry, and ſlightly ſaid that ſhe was not related to them, Adeline, upon ſome indication of the Marquis's wiſh, was ſent for. She entered the room with a modeſt bluſh and a timid air, which ſeemed to engage all his attention. His compliments ſhe received with a ſweet grace, but, when the younger Chevalier approached, the warmth of his manner ren⯑dered her's involuntarily more reſerved, and ſhe ſcarcely dared to raiſe her eyes from the ground, leſt they ſhould encounter his.

La Motte now entered and apologized for his abſence, which the Marquis noticed only by a ſlight inclination of his head, expreſſing at the ſame time by his looks, both diſtruſt and pride. They immediately quitted the abbey together, and the Marquis beckoned his attendants to follow at a diſtance. La Motte forbade his ſon to accompany him, but Louis obſerved he took the way into the thickeſt part of the foreſt. He was loſt in a chaos of conjecture concerning this affair, but eurioſity and anxiety for his father induced him to follow at ſome diſtance.

In the mean time, the young ſtranger, whom the Marquis addreſſed by the name of Theodore, remained at the abbey with Madame La Motte and Adeline. The former, with all her ad⯑dreſs, could ſcarcely conceal her agitation dur⯑ing this interval. She moved involuntarily to the door, whenever ſhe heard a footſtep, and ſeveral times ſhe went to the hall door, in order [159] to look into the foreſt, but as often returned, checked by diſappointment. No perſon ap⯑peared. Theodore ſeemed to addreſs as much of his attention to Adeline, as politeneſs would allow him to withdraw from Madame La Motte. His manners ſo gentle, yet dignified, inſenſibly ſubdued her timidity, and baniſhed her reſerve. Her converſation no longer ſuf⯑fered a painful conſtraint, but gradually diſ⯑cloſed the beauties of her mind, and ſeemed to produce a mutual confidence. A ſimilarity of ſentiment ſoon appeared, and Theodore, by the impatient pleaſure which animated his coun⯑tenance, ſeemed frequently to anticipate the thought of Adeline.

To them the abſence of the Marquis was ſhort, though long to Madame La Motte, whoſe countenance brightened, when ſhe heard the trampling of horſes at the gate.

The Marquis appeared but for a moment, and paſſed on with La Motte to a private room, where they remained for ſome time in confer⯑ence, immediately after which he departed Theodore took leave of Adeline, who, as well as La Motte and Madame, attended them to the gates, with an expreſſion of tender regret, and, often as he went, looked back upon the abbey, till the intervening branches intirely excluded it from his view.

The tranſient glow of pleaſure diffuſed over the cheek of Adeline diſappeared with the young [160] ſtranger, and ſhe ſighed as ſhe turned into the hall. The image of Theodore purſued her to her chamber; ſhe recollected with exactneſs every particular of his late converſation—his ſentiments ſo congenial with her own—his man⯑ners ſo engaging—his countenance ſo animated—ſo ingenuous and ſo noble, in which manly dignity was blended with the ſweetneſs of bene⯑volence—theſe, and every other grace, ſhe re⯑collected, and a ſoft melancholy ſtole upon her heart. ‘"I ſhall ſee him no more,"’ ſaid ſhe. A ſigh, that followed, told her more of her heart than ſhe wiſhed to know. She bluſhed, and ſighed again, and then ſuddenly recollecting her⯑ſelf, ſhe endeavoured to divert her thoughts to a different ſubject. La Motte's connection with the Marquis for ſome time engaged her attenti⯑on, but, unable to develope the myſtery that at⯑tended it, ſhe ſought a refuge from her own re⯑flections in the more pleaſing ones to be derived from books.

During this time, Louis, ſhocked and ſurprized at the extreme diſtreſs which his father had mani⯑feſted upon the firſt appearance of the Marquis, addreſſed him upon the ſubject. He had no doubt that the Marquis was intimately concerned in the event which made it neceſſary for La Motte to leave Paris, and he ſpoke his thoughts without diſguiſe, lamenting at the ſame time the unlucky chance, which had brought him to ſeek [161] refuge in a place, of all others, the leaſt capable of affording it—the eſtate of his enemy. La Motte did not contradict this opinion of his ſon's, and joined in lamenting the evil fate which had conducted him thither.

The term of Louis's abſence from his regi⯑ment, was now nearly expired, and be took oc⯑caſion to expreſs his ſorrow, that he muſt ſoon be obliged to leave his father in circumſtances ſo dangerous as the preſent. ‘"I ſhould leave you, Sir, with leſs pain,"’ continued he, ‘"was I ſure I knew the full extent of your misfor⯑tunes. At preſent I am left to conjecture evils, which, perhaps, do not exiſt. Relieve me, Sir, from this ſtate of painful uncertainty, and ſuffer me to prove myſelf worthy of your confidence."’

‘"I have already anſwered you on this ſub⯑ject,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"and forbade you to renew it. I am now obliged to tell you, I care not how ſoon you depart, if I am to be ſub⯑jected to theſe inquiries."’ La Motte walked abruptly away, and left his ſon to doubt and concern.

The arrival of the Marquis had diſſipated the jealous fears of Madame La Motte, and ſhe awoke to a ſenſe of her cruelty towards Adeline. When ſhe conſidered her orphan ſtate—the uni⯑form affection which had appeared in her beha⯑viour—the mildneſs and patience with which ſhe [162] had borne her injurious treatment, ſhe was ſhocked, and took an early opportunity of re⯑newing her former kindneſs. But ſhe could not explain this ſeeming inconſiſtency of conduct, without b etraying her late ſuſpicions, which ſhe now bluſhed to remember, nor could ſhe apelo⯑giſe for her former behaviour, without giving this explanation.

She contented herſelf, therefore, with expreſ⯑ſing in her manner the regard which was thus revived. Adeline was at firſt ſurprized, but ſhe felt too much pleaſure at the change to be ſcru⯑pulous in inquiring its cauſe.

But, notwithſtanding the ſatisfaction which Adeline received from the revival of Madame La Motte's kindneſs, her thoughts frequently re⯑curred to the peculiar and forlorn circumſtances of her condition. She could not help feeling leſs confidence than ſhe had formerly done in the friendſhip of Madame La Motte, whoſe character now appeared leſs amiable than her imagination had repreſented it, and ſeemed ſtrongly tinc⯑tured with caprice. Her thoughts often dwelt upon the ſtrange introduction of the Marquis at the abbey, and on the mutual emotions and ap⯑parent diſlike of La Motte and himſelf; and, under theſe circumſtances, it equally excited her ſurprize that La Motte ſhould chuſe, and that the Marquis ſhould permit him, to remain in his territory.

[163] Her mind returned the oftener, perhaps, to this ſubject, becauſe it was connected with Theo⯑dore; but it returned unconſcious of the idea which attracted it. She attributed the intereſt ſhe felt in the affair to her anxiety for the welfare of La Motte, and for her own future deſtination, which was now ſo deeply involved in his. Some⯑times, indeed, ſhe caught herſelf buſy in conjec⯑ture as to the degree of relationſhip in which Theodore ſtood to the Marquis, but ſhe imme⯑diately checked her thoughts, and ſeverely blamed herſelf for having ſuffered them to ſtray to an object, which ſhe perceived was too dangerous to her peace.

CHAP VII.

A Few days after the occurrence related in the preceding chapter, as Adeline was alone in her chamber, ſhe was rouſed from a reverie by a trampling of horſes near the gate, and, on looking from the caſement, ſhe ſaw the Marquis de Montalt enter the abbey. This circumſtance ſurprized her, and an emotion, whoſe cauſe ſhe [164] did not trouble herſelf to inquire for, made her inſtantly retreat from the window. The ſame cauſe, however, led her thither again as haſtily, but the object of her ſearch did not appear, and ſhe was in no haſte to retire.

As ſhe ſtood muſing and diſappointed, the Marquis came out with La Motte, and, imme⯑diately looking up, ſaw Adeline and bowed. She returned his compliment reſpectfully, and withdrew from the window, vexed at having been ſeen there. They went into the foreſt, but the Marquis's attendants did not, as before, follow them thither. When they returned, which was not till after a conſiderable time, the Mar⯑quis immediately mounted his horſe and rode away.

For the remainder of the day, La Motte ap⯑peared gloomy and ſilent, and was frequently loſt in thought. Adeline obſerved him with par⯑ticular attention and concern; ſhe perceived that he was always more melancholy after an interview with the Marquis, and was now ſur⯑prized to hear that the latter had appointed to dine the next day at the abbey.

When La Motte mentioned this, he added ſome high eulogiums on the character of the Mar⯑quis, and particularly praiſed his generoſity and nobleneſs of ſoul. At this inſtant, Adeline re⯑collected the anecdotes ſhe had formerly heard concerning the abbey, and they threw a ſhadow over the brightneſs of that excellence, which La [165] Motte now celebrated. The account, however, did not appear to deſerve much credit; a part of it, as far as a negative will admit of demonſtra⯑tion, having been already proved falſe; for it had been reported, that the abbey was haunted, and no ſupernatural appearance had ever been obſerved by the preſent inha⯑bitants.

Adeline, however, ventured to inquire, whe⯑ther it was the preſent Marquis of whom thoſe injurious reports had been raiſed? La Motte anſwered her with a ſmile of ridicule; ‘"Stories of ghoſts and hobgoblins have always been admired and cheriſhed by the vulgar,"’ ſaid he. ‘"I am inclined to rely upon my own ex⯑perience, at leaſt as much as upon the ac⯑counts of theſe peaſants. If you have ſeen any thing to corroborate theſe accounts, pray in⯑form me of it, that I may eſtabliſh my faith."’

‘"You miſtake me, Sir,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"it was not concerning ſupernatural agency that I would inquire: I alluded to a different part of the report, which hinted, that ſome perſon had been confined here, by order of the Mar⯑quis, who was ſaid to have died unfairly This was alledged as a reaſon for the Mar⯑quis's having abandoned the abbey."’

‘"All the mere coinage of idleneſs,"’ ſaid La Motte; ‘"a romantic tale to excite wonder: to ſee the Marquis is alone ſufficient to refute [166] this; and if we credit half the number of thoſe ſtories that ſpring from the ſame ſource, we prove ourſelves little ſuperior to the ſimple⯑tons who invent them. Your good ſenſe, Adeline, I think, will teach you the merit of diſbelief."’

Adeline bluſhed and was ſilent; but La Mot⯑te's defence of the Marquis appeared much war⯑mer and more diffuſe than was conſiſtent with his own diſpoſition, or required by the occaſion. His former converſation with Louis occurred to her, and ſhe was the more ſurpriſed at what paſſed at preſent.

She looked forward to the morrow with a mixture of pain and pleaſure; the expectation of ſeeing again the young Chevalier occupying her thoughts, and agitating them with a various emotion: now ſhe feared his preſence, and now ſhe doubted whether he would come. At length ſhe obſerved this, and bluſhed to find how much he engaged her attention. The morrow arrived—the Marquis came—but he came alone; and the ſunſhine of Adeline's mind was clouded, though ſhe was able to wear her uſual air of cheerfulneſs. The Marquis was polite, affable, and attentive: to manners the moſt eaſy and ele⯑gant, was added the laſt refinement of poliſhed life. His converſation was lively, amuſing, ſometimes even witty; and diſcovered great knowledge of the world; or, what is often miſ⯑taken [167] for it, an acquaintance with the higher circles, and with the topics of the day.

Here La Motte was alſo qualified to converſe with him, and they entered into a diſcuſſion of the characters and manners of the age with great ſpirit and ſome humour. Madame La Motte had not ſeen her huſband ſo cheerful ſince they left Paris, and ſometimes ſhe could almoſt fancy ſhe was there. Adeline liſtened, till the cheerfulneſs, which ſhe had at firſt only aſſumed, became real. The addreſs of the Marquis was ſo inſinuating and affable, that her reſerve inſen⯑ſibly gave way before it, and her natural vi⯑vacity reſumed its long loſt empire.

At parting, the Marquis told La Motte he re⯑joiced at having found ſo agreeable a neighbour. La Motte bowed. ‘"I ſhall ſometimes viſit you,"’ continued he, ‘"and I lament that I can⯑not at preſent invite Madame La Motte, and her fair friend to my chateau, but it is under⯑going ſome repairs, which make it but an un⯑comfortable reſidence."’

The vivacity of La Motte diſappeared with his gueſt, and he ſoon relapſed into fits of ſilence and abſtraction. ‘"The Marquis is a very agreeable man,"’ ſaid Madame La Motte ‘"Very agreeable,"’ replied he. ‘"And ſeems to have an excellent heart,"’ ſhe reſumed. ‘"An excellent one,"’ ſaid La Motte.

‘"You ſeem diſcompoſed, my dear; what has diſturbed you?"’

[168] ‘"Not in the leaſt—I was only thinking, that with ſuch agreeable talents, and ſuch an ex⯑cellent heart, it was a pity the Marquis ſhould"—’

‘"What? my dear,"’ ſaid Madame with im⯑patience: ‘"That the Marquis ſhould—ſhould ſuffer this abbey to fall into ruins,"’ re⯑plied La Motte.

‘"Is that all!"’ ſaid Madame with diſappoint⯑ment—‘"That is all, upon my honour,"’ ſaid La Motte, and left the room.

Adeline's ſpirits, no longer ſupported by the animated converſation of the Marquis, ſunk into languour, and, when he departed, ſhe walked penſively into the foreſt. She followed a little romantic path that would along the margin of the ſtream, and was overhung with deep ſhades. The tranquility of the ſcene, which autumn now touched with her ſweeteſt tints, ſoftened her mind to a teuder kind of melancholy, and ſhe ſuffered a tear, which, ſhe knew not where⯑fore, had ſtolen into her eye, to tremble there unchecked. She came to a little lonely receſs, formed by high trees; the wind ſighed mourn⯑fully among the branches, and as it waved their lofty heads ſcattered their leaves to the ground. She ſeated herſelf on a bank beneath, and in⯑dulged the melancholy reflections that preſſed on her mind.

‘"O! could I dive into futurity and behold behold the events which await me!"’ ſaid [169] ſhe; ‘"I ſhould, perhaps, by conſtant contem⯑plation, be enabled to meet them with forti⯑tude. An orphan in this wide world—thrown upon the friendſhip of ſtrangers for comfort, and upon their bounty for the very means of exiſtence, what but evil have I to expect! Alas, my father! how could you thus abandon your child—how leave her to the ſtorms of life—to ſink, perhaps, be⯑neath them? Alas, I have no friend!"’

She was interrupted by a ruſtling among the fallen leaves; ſhe turned her head, and perceiving the Marquis's young friend, aroſe to depart. ‘"Pardon this intruſion,"’ ſaid he, ‘"your voice attracted me hither, and your words detained me; my offence, however, brings with it its own puniſhment, having learned your ſor⯑rows—how can I help feeling them myſelf? would that my ſympathy, or my ſuffering, could reſcue you from them!"—’He heſitated ‘"—Would that I could deſerve the title of your friend, and be thought worthy of it by your⯑ſelf!"’

The confuſion of Adeline's thoughts could ſcarcely permit her to reply; ſhe trembled and gently withdrew her hand, which he had taken, while he ſpoke. ‘"You have, perhaps, heard, Sir, more than is true: I am, indeed, not happy, but a moment of dejection has made me unjuſt, and I am leſs unfortunate than I have repreſented. When I ſaid I had no [170] friend, I was ungrateful to the kindneſs of Monſieur and Madame La Motte, who have been more than friends—have been as parents to me."’

‘"If ſo, I honour them,"’ cried Theodore with warmth; ‘"and if I did not feel it to be pre⯑ſumption, I would aſk why you are unhappy?—But"—’He pauſed. Adeline, raiſing her eyes, ſaw him gazing upon her with intenſe and eager anxiety, and her looks were again fixed upon the ground. ‘"I have pained you,"’ ſaid Theodore, ‘"by an improper requeſt. Can you forgive me, and alſo when I add, that it was an intereſt in your welfare, which urged my inquiry?"’

‘"Forgiveneſs, Sir, it is unneceſſary to aſk. I am certainly obliged by the compaſſion you expreſs. But the evening is cold, if you pleaſe, we will walk towards the abbey."’ As they moved on, Theodore was for ſome time ſilent. At length, ‘"It was but lately that I ſo⯑licited your pardon,"’ ſaid he, ‘"and I ſhall now, perhaps, have need of it again; but you will do me the juſtice to believe, that I have a ſtrong, and, indeed, a preſſing reaſon to inquire how nearly you are related to Mon⯑ſieur La Motte."’

‘"We are not at all related,"’ ſaid Adeline; ‘"but the ſervice he has done me I can never re⯑pay, and I hope my gratitude will teach me never to forget it."’

[171] ‘"Indeed!"’ ſaid Theodore, ſurprized: and ‘"may I aſk how long you have known him?"’

‘"Rather, Sir, let me aſk, why theſe queſ⯑tions ſhould be neceſſary?"’

‘"You are juſt,"’ ſaid he, with an air of ſelf⯑condemnation, ‘"my conduct has deſerved this reproof; I ſhould have been more explicit."’ He looked as if his mind was labouring with ſome⯑thing which he was unwilling to expreſs. ‘"But you know not how delicately I am circum⯑ſtanced,"’ continued he, ‘"yet I will aver, that my queſtions are prompted by the ten⯑dereſt intereſt in your happineſs—and even by my fears for your ſafety."’ Adeline ſtarted. ‘"I fear you are deceived,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I fear there's danger near you."’

Adeline ſtopped, and, looking earneſtly at him, begged he would explain himſelf. She ſuſpected that ſome miſchief threatened La Motte; and Theodore continuing ſilent, ſhe re⯑peated her requeſt. ‘"If La Motte is concer⯑ned in this danger,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"let me en⯑treat you to acquaint him with it immedi⯑ately. He has but too many misfortunes to apprehend."’

‘"Excellent Adeline!"’ cried Theodore, ‘"that heart muſt be adamant that would injure you. How ſhall I hint what I fear is too true, and how forbear to warn you of your danger with⯑out"—’He was interrupted by a ſtep among the trees, and preſently after ſaw La Motte croſs [172] into the path they were in. Adeline felt confu⯑ſed at being thus ſeen with the Chevalier, and was haſtening to join La Motte, but Theodore detained her, and entreated a moment's atten⯑tion. ‘"There is now no time to explain my⯑ſelf,"’ ſaid he; yet what I would ſay is of the ‘"utmoſt conſequence to yourſelf."’

‘"Promiſe, therefore, to meet me in ſome part of the foreſt at about this time to-mor⯑row evening, you will then, I hope, be con⯑vinced, that my conduct is directed, neither by common circumſtances, nor common re⯑gard."’ Adeline ſhuddered at the idea of making an appointment; ſhe heſitated, and at length entreated Theodore not to delay till to⯑morrow an explanation, which appeared to be ſo important, but to follow La Motte and inform him of his danger immediately. ‘"It is not with La Motte I would ſpeak,"’ replied Theodore; ‘"I know of no danger that threatens him—but he approaches, be quick, lovely Adeline, and promiſe to meet me."’

‘"I do promiſe,"’ ſaid Adeline, with a fal⯑tering voice; ‘"I will come to the ſpot where you found me this evening, an hour earlier to⯑morrow."’ Saying this, ſhe withdrew her trembling hand, which Theodore had preſſed to his lips in token of acknowledgment, and he immediately diſappeared.

La Motte now approached Adeline, who, fearing that he had ſeen Theodore, was in ſome [173] confuſion. ‘"Whither is Louis gone ſo faſt?"’ ſaid La Motte. She rejoiced to find his miſtake, and ſuffered him to remain in it. They walked penſively towards the abbey, where Adeline, too much occupied by her own thoughts to bear company, retired to her chamber. She rumi⯑nated upon the words of Theodore, and the more ſhe conſidered them, the more ſhe was perplexed. Sometimes ſhe blamed herſelf for having made an appointment, doubting whether he had not ſolicited it for the purpoſe of pleading a paſſion; and now delicacy checked this thought, and made her vexed that ſhe had preſumed upon having inſpired one. She recollected the ſerious earneſtneſs of his voice and manner, when he entreated her to meet him; and as they convin⯑ced her of the importance of the ſubject, ſhe ſhuddered at a danger, which ſhe could not com⯑prehend, looking forward to the morrow with anxious impatience.

Sometimes too a remembrance of the tender intereſt he had expreſſed for her welfare, and of his correſpondent look and air, would ſteal acroſs her memory, awakening a pleaſing emo⯑tion and a latent hope that ſhe was not indiffer⯑ent to him. From reflections like theſe ſhe was rouſed by a ſummons to ſupper: the repaſt was a melancholy one, it being the laſt evening of Louis's ſtay at the abbey. Adeline, who eſ⯑teemed him, regretted his departure, while his eyes were often bent on her with a look, which [174] ſeemed to expreſs that he was about to leave the object of his affection. She endeavoured by her cheerfulneſs to re-animate the whole party, and eſpecially Madame La Motte, who frequently ſhed tears. ‘"We ſhall ſoon meet again,"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"I truſt, in happier circumſtances."’ La Motte ſighed. The countenance of Louis brightened at her words, ‘"Do you wiſh it?"’ ſaid he, with peculiar emphaſis. ‘"Moſt cer⯑tainly I do,"’ ſhe replied. ‘"Can you doubt my regard for my beſt friends?"’

‘"I cannot doubt any thing that is good for you,"’ ſaid he.

‘"You forget you have left Paris,"’ ſaid La Motte to his ſon, while a faint ſinile croſſed his face, ‘"ſuch a compliment would there be in character with the place—in theſe ſolitary woods it is quite outré."’

‘"The language of admiration is not always that of compliment, Sir,"’ ſaid Louis. Ade⯑line, willing to change the diſcourſe, aſked, to what part of France he was going. He replied, that his regiment was now at Peronne, and he ſhould go immediately thither. After ſome men⯑tion of indifferent ſubjects, the family withdrew for the night to their ſeveral chambers.

The approaching departure of her ſon occu⯑pied the thoughts of Madame La Motte, and ſhe appeared at breakfaſt with eyes ſwoln with weep⯑ing. The pale countenance of Louis ſeemed to indicate that he had reſted no better than his [175] mother. When breakfaſt was over, Adeline retired for a while, that ſhe might not interrupt, by her preſence, their laſt converſation. As ſhe walked on the lawn before the abbey ſhe returned in thought to the occurrence of yeſterday evening, and her impatience for the appointed interview increaſed. She was ſoon joined by Louis. ‘"It was unkind of you to leave us,"’ ſaid he, ‘"in the laſt moments of my ſtay. Could I hope that you would ſometimes remember me, when I am far away, I ſhould depart with leſs ſorrow."’ He then expreſſed his concern at leaving her, and though he had hitherto arm⯑ed himſelf with reſolution to forbear a direct avowal of an attachment, which muſt be fruitleſs, his heart now yielded to the force of paſſion, and he told what Adeline every moment feared to hear.

‘"This declaration,"’ ſaid Adeline, endea⯑vouring to overcome the agitation is excited, ‘"gives me inexpreſſible concern."’

‘"O, ſay not ſo!"’ interrupted Louis, ‘"but give me ſome ſlender hope to ſupport me in the miſeries of abſence. Say that you do not hate me—Say"—’

‘"That I do moſt readily ſay,"’ replied Ade⯑line, in a tremulous voice; ‘"if it will give you pleaſure to be aſſured of my eſteem and friendſhip—receive this aſſurance:—as the ſon of my beſt benefactors, you are entitled to"—’

[176] ‘"Name not benefits,"’ ſaid Louis, ‘"your merits out run them all: and ſuffer me to hope for a ſentiment leſs cool than that of friendſhip, as well as to believe that I do not owe your approbation of me to the actions of others. I have long borne my paſſion in ſilence, becauſe I foreſaw the difficulties that would attend it, nay, I have even dared to en⯑deavour to overcome it: I have dared to be⯑lieve it poſſible, forgive the ſuppoſition, that I could forget you—and"—’

‘"You diſtreſs me,"’ interrupted Adeline; ‘"this is a converſation which I ought not to hear. I am above diſguiſe, and, therefore, aſſure you, that, though your virtues will always command my eſteem, you have no⯑thing to hope from my love. Were it even otherwiſe, our circumſtances would effectually decide for us. If you are really my friend, you will rejoice that I am ſpared this ſtruggle between affection and prudence. Let me hope alſo, that time will teach you to reduce love within the limits of friendſhip."’

‘"Never!"’ cried Louis vehemently: ‘"Were this poſſible, my paſſion would be unworthy of its object."’ While he ſpoke, Adeline's favourite fawn came bounding towards her. This circumſtance affected Louis even to tears. ‘"This little animal,"’ ſaid he, after a ſhort pauſe, ‘"firſt conducted me to you: it was wit⯑neſs to that happy moment when I firſt ſaw [177] you, ſurrounded by attractions too powerful for my heart; that moment is now freſh in my memory, and the creature comes even to wit⯑neſs this ſad one of my departure."’ Grief interrupted his utterance.

When he recovered his voice, he ſaid, ‘"Ade⯑line! when you look upon your little favourite and careſs it, remember the unhappy Louis, who will then be far—far from you. Do not deny me the poor conſolation of believing this!"’

‘"I ſhall not require ſuch a monitor to remind me of you,"’ ſaid Adeline with a ſmile; ‘"your excellent parents and your own merits have ſufficient claim upon my remembrance. Could I ſee your natural good ſenſe reſume its influence over paſſion, my ſatisfaction would equal my eſteem for you."’

‘"Do not hope it,"’ ſaid Louis, ‘"nor will I wiſh it—for paſſion here is virtue"’ As he ſpoke, he ſaw La Motte turn round an angle of the abbey. ‘"The moments are precious,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I am interrupted. O! Adeline, fare⯑well! and ſay, that you will ſometimes think of me."’

‘"Farewell,"’ ſaid Adeline, who was affected by his diſtreſs—‘"farewell! and peace attend you. I will think of you with the affection of a ſiſter."—’He ſighed deeply, and preſſed her hand; when La Motte, winding round another projection of the ruin, again appeared. Ade⯑line [178] left them together, and withdrew to her chamber, oppreſſed by the ſcene. Louis's paſſion and her eſteem were too ſincere not to inſpire her with a ſtrong degree of pity for his unhappy attachment. She remained in her chamber till he had quitted the abbey, unwil⯑ling to ſubject him or herſelf to the pain of a formal parting.

As evening and the hour of appointment drew nigh, Adeline's impatience increaſed; yet, when the time arrived, her reſolution failed, and ſhe faltered from her purpoſe. There was ſomething of indelicacy and diſ⯑ſimulation in an appointed interview, on her part, that ſhocked her. She recollected the tender⯑neſs of Theodore's manner, and ſeveral little circumſtances which ſeemed to indicate that his heart was not unconcerned in the event. Again ſhe was inclined to doubt, whether he had not obtained her conſent to this meeting upon ſome groundleſs ſuſpicion; and ſhe almoſt determined not to go: yet it was poſſible Theodore's aſſer⯑tion might be ſincere, and her danger real; the chance of this made her delicate ſcruples appear ridiculous; ſhe wondered that ſhe had for a moment ſuffered them to weigh againſt ſo ſerious an intereſt, and, blaming herſelf for the delay they had occaſioned, haſtened to the place of appointment.

The little path, which led to this ſpot, was ſilent and ſolitary, and when ſhe reached the [179] receſs, Theodore had not arrived. A tranſien pride made her unwilling he ſhould find that ſhe was more punctual to his appointment than himſelf; and ſhe turned from the receſs into a track, which wound among the trees to the right. Having walked ſome way, without ſeeing any perſon, or hearing a footſtep, ſhe returned; but he was not come, and ſhe again left the place. A ſecond time ſhe came back, and Theodore was ſtill abſent. Recollecting the time at which ſhe had quitted the abbey, ſhe grew uneaſy, and calculated that the hour appointed was now much exceeded. She was offended and perplexed; but ſhe ſeated herſelf on the turf, and was reſolved to wait the event. After remaining here till the fall of twilight in fruitleſs expectation, her pride became more alarmed; ſhe feared that he had diſcovered ſomething of the partiality he had inſpired, and believing that he now treated her with pur⯑poſed neglect, ſhe quitted the place with diſguſt and ſelf-accuſation.

When theſe emotions ſubſided, and reaſon reſumed its influence, ſhe bluſhed for what ſhe termed this childiſh efferveſcence of ſelf-love. She recollected, as if for the firſt time, theſe words of Theodore: ‘"I fear you are deceived, and that ſome danger is near you."’ Her judgment now acquitted the offender, and ſhe ſaw only the friend. The import of theſe words, whoſe truth ſhe no longer doubted, [180] again alarmed her. Why did he trouble him⯑ſelf to come from the chateau, on purpoſe to hint her danger, if he did not wiſh to preſerve her? And if he wiſhed to preſerve her, what but neceſſity could have withheld him from the appointment?

Theſe reflections decided her at once. She reſolved to repair on the following day at the ſame hour to the receſs, whither the intereſt, which ſhe believed him to take in her fate, would no doubt conduct him in the hope of meeting her. That ſome evil hovered over her ſhe could not diſbelieve, but what it might be, ſhe was unable to gueſs. Monſieur and Ma⯑dame La Motte were her friends, and who elſe, removed, as ſhe now thought herſelf, beyond the reach of her father, could injure her? But why did Theodore ſay ſhe was deceived? She found it impoſſible to extricate herſelf from the labyrinth of conjecture, but endeavoured to command her anxiety till the following evening. In the mean time ſhe engaged herſelf in efforts to amuſe Madame La Motte, who required ſome relief, after the departure of her ſon.

Thus oppreſſed by her own cares and inte⯑reſted by thoſe of Madame La Motte, Adeline retired to reſt. She ſoon loſt her recollection, but it was only to fall into harraſſed ſlumbers, ſuch as but too often haunt the couch of the unhappy. At length her perturbed fancy ſug⯑geſted the following dream.

[181] She thought ſhe was in a large old chamber belonging to the abbey, more ancient and de⯑ſolate, though in part furniſhed, than any ſhe had yet ſeen. It was ſtrongly barricadoed, yet no perſon appeared. While ſhe ſtood muſing and ſurveying the apartment, ſhe heard a low voice call her, and, looking towards the place from whence it came, ſhe perceived by the dim light of a lamp a figure ſtretched on a bed that lay on the floor. The voice called again, and, approaching the bed, ſhe diſtinctly ſaw the features of a man who appeared to be dying. A ghaſtly paleneſs overſpread his countenance, yet there was an expreſſion of mildneſs and dignity in it, which ſtrongly intereſted her.

While ſhe looked on him, his features changed and ſeemed convulſed in the agonies of death. The ſpectacle ſhocked her, and ſhe ſtarted back, but he ſuddenly ſtretched forth his hand, and ſeizing her's, graſped it with violence: ſhe ſtruggled in terror to diſengage herſelf, and again looking on his face, ſaw a man, who appeared to be about thirty, with the ſame features, but in full health, and of a moſt benign countenance. He ſmiled tenderly upon her and moved his lips, as if to ſpeak, when the floor of the chamber ſuddenly opened and he ſunk from her view. The effort ſhe made to ſave herſelf from following awoke her.—This dream had ſo ſtrongly impreſſed her fancy, that it was ſome time before ſhe could overcome the [182] error it occaſioned, or even be perfectly con⯑vinced ſhe was in her own apartment. At length, however, ſhe compoſed herſelf to ſleep; again ſhe fell into a dream.

She thought ſhe was bewildered in ſome winding paſſages of the abbey; that it was almoſt dark, and that ſhe wandered about a conſi⯑derable time, without being able to find a door. Suddenly ſhe heard a bell toll from above, and ſoon after a confuſion of diſtant voices. She re⯑doubled her efforts to extricate herſelf. Pre⯑ſently all was ſtill, and, at length, wearied with the ſearch, ſhe ſat down on a ſtep that croſſed the paſſage. She had not been long here, when ſhe ſaw a light glimmer at a diſtance on the walls, but a turn in the paſſage, which was very long, prevented her ſeeing from what it proceeded. It continued to glimmer faintly for ſome time and then grew ſtronger, when ſhe ſaw a man enter the paſſage, habited in a long black cloak, like thoſe uſually worn by attendants at funerals, and bearing a torch. He called to her to follow him, and led her through a long paſſage to the foot of a ſtaircaſe. Here ſhe feared to proceed, and was running back, when the man ſuddenly turned to purſue her, and with the terror, which this occaſioned, ſhe awoke.

Shocked by theſe viſions, and more ſo by their ſeeming connection, which now ſtruck her, ſhe endeavoured to continue awake, leſt their terrific images ſhould again haunt her [183] mind: after ſome time, however, her harraſſed ſpirits again ſunk into ſlumber, though not to repoſe.

She now thought herſelf in a large old gallery, and ſaw at one end of it a chamber door ſtand⯑ing a little open and a light within: ſhe went towards it, and perceived the man ſhe had be⯑fore ſeen, ſtanding at the door and beckoning her towards him. With the inconſiſtency ſo common in dreams, ſhe no longer endeavoured to avoid him, but advancing, followed him into a ſuite of very ancient apartments, hung with black, and lighted up as if for a funeral. Still he led her on, till ſhe found herſelf in the ſame chamber ſhe remembered to have ſeen in her former dream: a coffin, covered with a pall, ſtood at the farther end of the room; ſome lights, and ſeveral perſons ſurrounded it, who appeared to be in great diſtreſs.

Suddenly, ſhe thought theſe perſons were all gone, and that ſhe was left alone; that ſhe went up to the coffin, and while ſhe gazed upon it, ſhe heard a voice ſpeak, as if from within, but ſaw nobody. The man ſhe had before ſeen, ſoon after ſtood by the coffin, and, lifting the pall, ſhe ſaw beneath it a dead perſon, whom ſhe thought to be the dying Chevalier ſhe had ſeen in her former dream: his features were ſunk in death, but they were yet ſerene. While ſhe looked at him, a ſtream of blood guſhed from his ſide, and deſcending to the floor, the [184] whole chamber was overflowed; at the ſame time ſome words were uttered in the voice ſhe heard before; but the horror of the ſcene ſo entirely overcame her, that ſhe ſtarted and awoke.

When ſhe had recovered her recollection, ſhe raiſed herſelf in the bed, to be convinced it was a dream ſhe had witneſſed, and the agitation of her ſpirits was ſo great, that ſhe feared to be alone, and almoſt determined to call Annette. The features of the deceaſed perſon, and the chamber where he lay, were ſtrongly impreſſed upon her memory, and ſhe ſtill thought ſhe heard the voice and ſaw the countenance which her dream repreſented. The longer ſhe con⯑ſidered theſe dreams, the more ſhe was ſur⯑prized: they were ſo very terrible, returned ſo often, and ſeemed to be ſo connected with each other, that ſhe could ſcarcely think them acci⯑dental; yet, why they ſhould be ſupernatural, ſhe could not tell. She ſlept no more that night.

CHAPTER VIII.

WHEN Adeline appeared at breakfaſt, her harraſſed and languid countenance ſtruck Ma⯑dame La Motte, who inquired if ſhe was ill; Adeline, forcing a ſmile upon her features, ſaid ſhe had not reſted well, for that ſhe had had very diſturbed dreams: ſhe was about to de⯑ſcribe them, but a ſtrong and involuntary im⯑pulſe prevented her. At the ſame time, La Motte ridiculed her concern ſo unmercifully, that ſhe was almoſt aſhamed to have mentioned it, and tried to overcome the remembrance of its cauſe.

After breakfaſt, ſhe endeavoured to employ her thoughts by converſing with Madame La Motte; but they were really engaged by the incidents of the laſt two days; the circumſtance of her dreams, and her conjectures concerning the information to be communicated to her by Theodore. They had thus ſat for ſome time, [186] when a ſound of voices aroſe from the great gate of the abbey; and, on going to the caſement, Adeline ſaw the Marquis and his attendants on the lawn below. The portal of the abbey con⯑cealed ſeveral people from her view, and among theſe it was poſſible might be Theodore, who had not yet appeared: ſhe continued to look for him with great anxiety, till the Marquis entered the hall with La Motte, and ſome other perſons, ſoon after which Madame went to receive him, and Adeline retired to her own apartment.

A meſſage from La Motte, however, ſoon called her to join the party, where ſhe vainly hoped to find Theodore. The Marquis aroſe as ſhe approached, and, having paid her ſome ge⯑neral compliments, the converſation took a very lively turn. Adeline, finding it impoſſible to counterfeit cheerfulneſs, while her heart was ſinking with anxiety and diſappointment, took little part in it: Theodore was not once named. She would have aſked concerning him, had it been poſſible to inquire with propriety; but ſhe was obliged to content herſelf with hoping, firſt, that he would arrive before dinner, and then be⯑fore the departure of the Marquis.

Thus the day paſſed in expectation and diſap⯑pointment. The evening was now approaching, and ſhe was condemned to remain in the preſence of the Marquis, apparently liſtening to a con⯑verſation, which, in truth, ſhe ſcarcely heard, while the opportunity was, perhaps, eſcaping [187] that would decide her fate. She was ſuddenly relieved from this ſtate of torture, and thrown into one, if poſſible, ſtill more diſtreſſing.

The Marquis inquired for Louis, and being informed of his departure, mentioned that The⯑odore Peyrou had that morning ſat out for his regiment in a diſtant province. He lamented the loſs he ſhould ſuſtain by his abſence; and ex⯑preſſed ſome very flattering praiſe of his talents. The ſhock of this intelligence overpowered the long-agitated ſpirits of Adeline; the blood for⯑ſook her cheeks, and a ſudden faintneſs came over her, from which ſhe recovered only to a conſciouſneſs of having diſcovered her emotion, and the danger of relapſing into a ſecond fit.

She retired to her chamber, where, being once more alone, her oppreſſed heart found re⯑lief from tears, in which ſhe freely indulged. Ideas crowded ſo faſt upon her mind, that it was long ere ſhe could arrange them ſo as to produce any thing like reaſoning. She endeavoured to account for the abrupt departure of Theodore. ‘"Is it poſſible,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"that he ſhould take an intereſt in my welfare, and yet leave me expoſed to the full force of a danger, which he himſelf foreſaw? Or am I to believe that he has trifled with my ſimplicity for an idle and has now left me to the wondering apprehenſion he has raiſed? Impoſſible! a countenance no noble, and a manner ſo amia⯑ble, could never diſguiſe a heart capable of [188] forming ſo deſpicable a deſign. No!—whatever is reſerved for me, let me not relin⯑quiſh the pleaſure of believing that he is wor⯑thy of my eſteem."’

She was awakened from thoughts like theſe by a peal of diſtant thunder, and now perceived that the gloomineſs of evening was deepened by the coming ſtorm; it rolled onward, and ſoon af⯑ter the lightning began to flaſh along the cham⯑ber. Adeline was ſuperior to the affectation of fear, and was not apt to be terrified; but ſhe now felt it unpleaſant to be alone, and, hoping that the Marquis might have left the abbey, ſhe went down to the ſitting room; but the threaten⯑ing aſpect of the Heavens had hitherto detained him, and now the evening tempeſt made him re⯑joice that he had not quitted a ſhelter. The ſtorm continued, and night came on. La Motte preſ⯑ſed his gueſt to take a bed at the abbey, and he, at length conſented; a circumſtance which threw Madame La Motte into ſome perplexity, as to the accommodation to be afforded him; after ſome time, ſhe arranged the affair to her ſatis⯑faction: reſigning her own apartment to the Marquis, and that of Louis to two of his ſuperior attendants; Adeline, it was farther ſettled, ſhould give up her room to Monſieur and Ma⯑dame La Motte, and remove to an inner cham⯑ber, where a ſmall bed, uſually occupied by Annette, was placed for her.

[189] At ſupper the Marquis was leſs gay than uſual; he frequently addreſſed Adeline, and his look and manner ſeemed to expreſs the tender intereſt, which her indiſpoſition, for ſhe ſtill appeared pale and languid, had excited. Adeline, as uſual, made an effort to forget her anxiety, and appear happy; but the veil of aſſumed cheerful⯑neſs was too thin to conceal the features of ſor⯑row; and her feeble ſmiles only added a peculiar ſoftneſs to her air. The Marquis converſed with her on a variety of ſubjects, and diſplayed an elegant mind. The obſervations of Adeline, which, when called upon, ſhe gave with reluc⯑tant modeſty, in words at once ſimple and force⯑ful, ſeemed to excite his admiration, which he ſometimes betrayed by an inadvertent expreſ⯑ſion.

Adeline retired early to her room, which ad⯑joined on one ſide to Madame La Motte's, and on the other to the cloſet formerly mentioned. It was ſpacious and lofty, and what little furniture it contained was falling to decay; but, perhaps, the preſent tone of her ſpirits might contribute more than theſe circumſtances to give that air of melancholy, which ſeemed to reign in it. She was unwilling to go to bed, leſt the dreams that had lately purſued her ſhould return; and de⯑termined to ſit up till ſhe found herſelf op⯑preſſed by ſleep, when it was probable her reſt would be profound. She placed the light on a ſmall table, and, taking a book, continued to [190] read for above an hour, till her mind refuſed any longer to abſtract itſelf from its own cares, and ſhe ſat for ſome time leaning penſively on her arm.

The wind was high, and as it whiſtled through the deſolate apartment, and ſhook the feeble doors, ſhe often ſtarted, and ſometimes even thought ſhe heard ſighs between the pauſes of the guſt; but ſhe checked theſe illuſions, which the hour of the night and her own melancholy imagi⯑nation conſpired to raiſe. As ſhe ſat muſing, her eyes fixed on the oppoſite wall, ſhe perceived the ar⯑ras, with which the room was hung, wave backwards and forwards; ſhe continued to ob⯑ſerve it for ſome minutes, and then roſe to ex⯑amine it farther. It was moved by the wind; and ſhe bluſhed at the momentary fear it had excited: but ſhe obſerved that the tapeſtry was more ſtrongly agitated in one particular place than elſewhere, and a noiſe that ſeemed ſome⯑thing more than that of the wind iſſued thence. The old bedſtead, which La Motte had found in this apartment, had been removed to accom⯑modate Adeline, and it was behind the place where this had ſtood, that the wind ſeemed to ruſh with particular force; curioſity prompted her to examine ſtill farther; ſhe felt about the tapeſtry, and perceiving the wall behind ſhake under her hand, ſhe lifted the arras, and diſ⯑covered a ſmall door, whoſe looſened hinges ad⯑mitted [191] the wind, and occaſioned the noiſe ſhe had heard.

The door was held only by a bolt, having undrawn which, and brought the light, ſhe deſcended by a few ſteps into another chamber: ſhe inſtantly remembered her dreams. The chamber was not much like that in which ſhe had ſeen the dying Chevalier, and afterwards the bier; but it gave her a confuſed remem⯑brance of one through which ſhe had paſſed. Holding up the light to examine it more fully, ſhe was convinced by its ſtructure that it was part of the ancient foundation. A ſhattered caſement, placed high from the floor, ſeemed to be the only opening to admit light. She obſerved a door on the oppoſite ſide of the apartment; and after ſome moments of heſita⯑tion, gained courage, and determined to purſue the inquiry. ‘"A myſtery ſeems to hang over theſe chambers,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"which it is, perhaps, my lot to develope; I will, at leaſt, ſee to what that door leads."’

She ſtepped forward, and having uncloſed it, proceeded with faltering ſteps along a ſuite of apartments, reſembling the firſt in ſtyle and condition, and terminating in one exactly like that where her dream had repreſented the dying perſon; the remembrance ſtruck ſo forcibly upon her imagination, that ſhe was in danger of fainting; and looking round the room, [192] almoſt expected to ſee the phantom of her dream.

Unable to quit the place, ſhe ſat down on ſome old lumber to recover herſelf, while her ſpirits were nearly overcome by a ſuperſtitious dread, ſuch as ſhe had never felt before. She wondered to what part of the abbey theſe cham⯑bers belonged, and that they had ſo long eſcaped detection. The caſements were all too high to afford any information from without. When ſhe was ſufficiently compoſed to conſider the direction of the rooms, and the ſituation of the abbey, there appeared not a doubt that they formed an interior part of the original building.

As theſe reflections paſſed over her mind, a ſudden gleam of moonlight fell upon ſome ob⯑ject without the caſement. Being now ſuf⯑ficiently compoſed to wiſh to purſue the inqui⯑ry; and believing this object might afford her ſome means of learning the ſituation of theſe rooms, ſhe combated her remaining terrors, and, in order to diſtinguiſh it more clearly, re⯑moved the light to an outer chamber; but be⯑fore ſhe could return, a heavy cloud was driven over the face of the moon, and all without was perfectly dark: ſhe ſtood for ſome moments wai ing a returning gleam, but the obſcurity continued. As ſhe went ſoftly back for the light, her foot ſtumbled over ſomething on the floor, and while ſhe ſtooped to examine it, the moon again ſhone, ſo that ſhe could diſtinguiſh, [193] through the caſement, the eaſtern towers of the abbey. This diſcovery confirmed her former conjectures concerning the interior ſituation of theſe apartments. The obſcurity of the place prevented her diſcovering what it was that had impeded her ſteps, but having brought the light forward, ſhe perceived on the floor an old dag⯑ger: with a trembling hand ſhe took it up, and upon a cloſer view perceived, that it was ſpot⯑ted and ſtained with ruſt.

Shocked and ſurpriſed, ſhe looked round the room for ſome object that might confirm or deſtroy the dreadful ſuſpicion which now ruſhed upon her mind; but ſhe ſaw only a great chair, with broken arms, that ſtood in one corner of the room, and a table in a condition equally ſhattered, except that in another part lay a confuſed heap of things, which appeared to be old lumber. She went up to it, and perceived a broken bedſtead, with ſome decayed remnants of furniture, covered with duſt and cobwebs, and which ſeemed, indeed, as if they had not been moved for many years. Deſirous, howe⯑ver, of examining farther, ſhe attempted to raiſe what appeared to have been part of the bedſtead, but it ſlipped from her hand, and, rolling to the floor, brought with it ſome of the remaining lumber. Adeline ſtarted aſide and ſaved herſelf, and when the noiſe it made had ceaſed, ſhe heard a ſmall ruſtling ſound, and as [194] ſhe was about to leave the chamber, ſaw ſome⯑thing falling gently among the lumber.

It was a ſmall roll of paper, tied with a ſtring, and covered with duſt. Adeline took it up, and on opening it perceived an handwriting. She attempted to read it, but the part of the manuſcript ſhe looked at was ſo much obliterated, that ſhe found this difficult, though what few words were legible impreſſed her with curioſity and terror, and induced her to return with it immediately to her chamber.

Having reached her own room, ſhe faſtened the private door, and let the arras fall over it as before. It was now midnight. The ſtillneſs of the hour, interrupted only at intervals by the hollow ſighings of the blaſt, heightened the ſo⯑lemnity of Adeline's feelings She wiſhed ſhe was not alone, and before ſhe proceeded to look into the manuſcript, liſtened whether Madame La Motte was yet in her chamber: not the leaſt ſound was heard, and ſhe gently opened the door. The profound ſilence within almoſt con⯑vinced her that no perſon was there; but willing to be farther ſatisfied, ſhe brought the light and found the room empty. The lateneſs of the hour made her wonder that Madame La Motte was not in her chamber, and ſhe pro⯑ceeded to the top of the tower ſtairs, to hearken if any perſon was ſtirring.

She heard the ſound of voices from below, and, amongſt the reſt, that of La Motte [195] ſpeaking in his uſual tone. Being now ſatis⯑fied that all was well, ſhe turned towards her room, when ſhe heard the Marquis pronounce her name with very unuſual emphaſis. She pauſed. ‘"I adore her,"’ purſued he, ‘"and by heaven"—’He was interrupted by La Motte, ‘"My Lord, remember your promiſe."’

‘"I do,"’ replied the Marquis, ‘"and I will abide by it. But we trifle. To-morrow I will declare myſelf, and I ſhall then know both what to hope and how to act."’ Adeline trembled ſo exceſſively, that ſhe could ſcarcely ſupport herſelf: ſhe wiſhed to return to her chamber; yet ſhe was too much intereſted in the words ſhe had heard, not to be anxious to have them more fully explained. There was an interval of ſilence, after which they con⯑verſed in a lower tone. Adeline remembered the hints of Theodore, and determined, if poſ⯑ſible, to be relieved from the terrible ſuſpenſe ſhe now ſuffered. She ſtole ſoftly down a few ſteps, that ſhe might catch the accents of the ſpeakers, but they were ſo low, that ſhe could only now and then diſtinguiſh a few words. ‘"Her father, ſay you?"’ ſaid the Marquis. ‘"Yes, my Lord, her father. I am well in⯑formed of what I ſay."’ Adeline ſhuddered at the mention of her father, a new terror ſeized her, and with increaſing eagerneſs ſhe endeavoured to diſtinguiſh their words, but for ſome time found this to be impoſſible. ‘"Here [196] is no time to be loſt,"’ ſaid the Marquis, ‘"to-morrow then."—’She heard La Motte riſe, and, believing it was to leave the room, ſhe hurried up the ſteps, and having reached her chamber, ſunk almoſt lifeleſs in a chair.

It was her father only of whom ſhe thought. She doubted not that he had purſued and diſ⯑covered her retreat, and, though this conduct appeared very inconſiſtent with his former be⯑haviour in abandoning her to ſtrangers, her fears ſuggeſted that it would terminate in ſome new cruelty. She did not heſitate to pronounce this the danger of which Theodore had warned her; but it was impoſſible to ſurmiſe how he had gained his knowledge of it, or how he had become ſufficiently acquainted with her ſtory, except through La Motte, her apparent friend and protector, whom ſhe was thus, though un⯑willingly, led to ſuſpect of treachery. Why, indeed, ſhould La Motte conceal from her only his knowledge of her father's intention, unleſs he deſigned to deliver her into his hands? Yet it was long ere ſhe could bring herſelf to be⯑lieve this concluſion poſſible. To diſcover de⯑pravity in thoſe whom we have loved, is one of the moſt exquiſite tortures to a virtuous mind, and the conviction is often rejected before it is finally admitted.

The words of Theodore, which told her he was fearful ſhe was deceived, confirmed this moſt painful apprehenſion of La Motte, with [197] another yet more diſtreſſing, that Madame La Motte was alſo united againſt her. This thought, for a moment, ſubdued terror and left her only grief; ſhe wept bitterly. ‘"Is this human nature?"’ cried ſhe. ‘"Am I doomed to find every body deceitful?"’ An unexpected diſcovery of vice in thoſe, whom we have ad⯑mired, inclines us to extend our cenſure of the individual to the ſpecies; we henceforth contemn appearances, and too haſtily conclude that no perſon is to be truſted.

Adeline determined to throw herſelf at the feet of La Motte, on the following morning, and implore his pity and protection. Her mind was now too much agitated, by her own inte⯑reſts, to permit her to examine the manuſcripts, and ſhe ſat muſing in her chair, till ſhe heard the ſteps of Madame La Motte, when ſhe re⯑tired to bed. La Motte ſoon after came up to his chamber, and Adeline, the mild, perſecuted Adeline, who had now paſſed two days of tor⯑turing anxiety, and one night of terrific viſions, endeavoured to compoſe her mind to ſleep. In the preſent ſtate of her ſpirits, ſhe quickly caught alarm, and ſhe had ſcarcely fallen into a ſlumber, when ſhe was rouſed by a loud and uncommon noiſe. She liſtened, and thought the ſound came from the apartments below, but in a few minutes there was a haſty knocking at the door of La Motte's chamber.

[198] La Motte, who had juſt fallen aſleep, was not eaſily to be rouſed, but the knocking in⯑creaſed with ſuch violence, that Adeline, ex⯑tremely terrified, aroſe and went to the door that opened from her chamber into his, with a deſign to call him. She was ſtopped by the voice of the Marquis, which ſhe now clearly diſtinguiſhed at the door. He called to La Motte to riſe immediately, and Madame La Motte endeavoured at the ſame time to rouſe her huſband, who, at length awoke in much alarm, and ſoon after, joining the Marquis, they went down ſtairs together. Adeline now dreſſed her⯑ſelf, as well as her trembling hands would per⯑mit, and went into the adjoining chamber, where ſhe found Madame La Motte extremely ſurprized and terrified.

The Marquis, in the mean time, told La Motte, with great agitation, that he recollected having appointed ſome perſons to meet him upon buſineſs of importance, early in the morning, and it was, therefore, neceſſary for him to ſet off for his chateau immediately. As he ſaid this, and deſired that his ſervants might be called, La Motte could not help obſerving the aſhy paleneſs of his countenance, or expreſſing ſome appre⯑henſion that his Lordſhip was ill. The Mar⯑quis aſſured him he was perfectly well, but de⯑ſired that he might ſet out immediately. Peter was now ordered to call the other ſervants, and the Marquis, having refuſed to take any refreſh⯑ment, [199] bade La Motte a haſty adieu, and, as ſoon as his people were ready, left the abbey.

La Motte returned to his chamber, muſing on the abrupt departure of his gueſt, whoſe emotion appeared much too ſtrong to proceed from the cauſe aſſigned. He appeaſed the anxiety of Ma⯑dame La Motte, and at the ſame time excited her ſurprize by acquainting her with the occa⯑ſion of the late diſturbance. Adeline, who had retired from the chamber, on the approach of La Motte, looked out from her window on hearing the trampling of horſes. It was the Marquis and his people, who juſt then paſſed at a little diſtance. Unable to diſtinguiſh who the perſons were, ſhe was alarmed at obſerving ſuch a party about the abbey at that hour, and, cal⯑ling to inform La Motte of the circumſtance, was made acquainted with what had paſſed.

At length ſhe retired to her bed, and her ſlumbers were this night undiſturbed by dreams.

When ſhe aroſe in the morning, ſhe obſerved La Motte walking alone in the avenue below, and ſhe haſtened to ſeize the opportunity which now offered of pleading her cauſe. She ap⯑proached him with faltering ſteps, while the paleneſs and timidity of her countenance diſcov⯑ered the diſorder of her mind. Her firſt words, without entering upon any explanation, implo⯑red his compaſſion. La Motte ſtopped, and, looking earneſtly in her face, inquired whether any part of his conduct towards her merited the [200] ſuſpicion which her requeſt implied. Adeline for a moment bluſhed that ſhe had doubted his integrity, but the words ſhe had overheard re⯑turned to her memory.

‘"Your behaviour, Sir,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"I ac⯑knowledge to have been kind and generous, beyond what I had a right to expect, but"—’and ſhe pauſed. She knew not how to mention what ſhe bluſhed to believe. La Motte conti⯑nued to gaze on her in ſilent expectation, and at length deſired her to proceed and explain her meaning. She entreated that he would protect her from her father. La Motte looked ſurpriſed and confuſed. ‘"Your father!"’ ſaid he. ‘"Yes, Sir,"’ replied Adeline; ‘"I am not ignorant that he has diſcovered my retreat. I have every thing to dread from a parent, who has treated me with ſuch cruelty as you was wit⯑neſs of; and I again implore that you will ſave me from his hands."’

La Motte ſtood fixed in thought, and Adeline continued her endeavours to intereſt his pity. ‘"What reaſon have you to ſuppoſe, or, ra⯑ther, how have you learned, that your father purſues you?"’ The queſtion confuſed Ade⯑line, who bluſhed to acknowledge that ſhe had overheard his diſcourſe, and diſdained to invent, or utter a falſity: at length ſhe confeſſed the truth. The countenance of La Motte inſtantly changed to a ſavage fierceneſs, and, ſharply re⯑buking her for a conduct, to which ſhe had been [201] rather tempted by chance, than prompted by de⯑ſign, he inquired what ſhe had overheard, that could ſo much alarm her. She faithfully repea⯑ted the ſubſtance of the incoherent ſentences that had met her ear; while ſhe ſpoke, he regarded her with a fixed attention. ‘"And was this all you heard? Is it from theſe few words that you draw ſuch a poſitive concluſion? Exa⯑mine them, and you will find they do not juſtify it."’

She now perceived, what the fervor of her her fears had not permitted her to obſerve before, that the words, unconnectedly as ſhe heard them, imported little, and that her imagination had fil⯑led up the void in the ſentences, ſo as to ſuggeſt the evil apprehended. Notwithſtanding this, her fears were little abated. ‘"Your apprehenſions are, doubtleſs, now removed,"’ reſumed La Motte; ‘"but to give you a proof of the ſince⯑rity which you have ventured to queſtion, I will tell you they were juſt. You ſeem alar⯑med, and with reaſon. Your father has diſ⯑covered your reſidence, and has already de⯑manded you. It is true, that from a motive of compaſſion I have refuſed to reſign you, but I have neither authority to withhold, or means to defend you. When he comes to en⯑force his demand, you will perceive this. Prepare yourſelf, therefore, for the evil, which you ſee is inevitable."’

[202] Adeline, for ſome time, could ſpeak only by her tears. At length, with a fortitude which deſpair had rouſed, ſhe ſaid, ‘"I reſign myſelf to the will of Heaven!"’ La Motte gazed on her in ſilence, and a ſtrong emotion appeared in his countenance, He forbore, however, to re⯑new the diſcourſe, and withdrew to the abbey, leaving Adeline in the avenue, abſorbed in grief.

A ſummons to breakfaſt haſtened her to the parlour, where ſhe paſſed the morning in con⯑verſation with Madame La Motte, to whom ſhe told all her apprehenſions, and expreſſed all her ſorrow. Pity and ſuperficial conſolation was all that Madame La Motte could offer, though apparently much affected by Adeline's diſcourſe. Thus the hours paſſed heavily away, while the anxiety of Adeline continued to increaſe, and the moment of her fate ſeemed faſt approaching. Dinner was ſcarcely over, when Adeline was ſurprized to ſee the Marquis arrive. He en⯑tered the room with his uſual eaſe, and, apo⯑logizing for the diſturbance he had occaſioned on the preceding night, repeated what he had before told La Motte.

The remembrance of the converſation ſhe had overheard, at firſt gave Adeline ſome confuſion, and withdrew her mind from a ſenſe of the evils to be apprehended from her father. The Marquis, who, was, as uſual, attentive to Adeline, ſeemed affected by her [203] apparent indiſpoſition, and expreſſed much concern for that dejection of ſpirits, which, notwithſtanding every effort, her manner be⯑trayed. When Madame La Motte withdrew, Adeline would have followed her, but the Marquis entreated a few moment's attention, and led her back to her ſeat. La Motte imme⯑diately diſappeared.

Adeline knew too well what would be the purport of the Marquis's diſcourſe, and his words ſoon increaſed the confuſion which her fears had occaſioned. While he was declaring the ardour of his paſſion in ſuch terms, as but too often make vehemence paſs for ſincerity, Adeline, to whom this declaration, if honoura⯑ble, was diſtreſſing, and if diſhonourable, was ſhocking, interrupted him and thanked him for the offer of a diſtinction, which, with a modeſt but determined air, ſhe ſaid ſhe muſt refuſe. She roſe to withdraw. ‘"Stay, too lovely Ade⯑line!"’ ſaid he, ‘"and if compaſſion for my ſufferings will not intereſt you in my favour, allow a conſideration of your own dangers to do ſo. Monſieur La Motte has informed me of your misfortunes, and of the evil that now threatens you; accept from me the protec⯑tion which he cannot afford"’

Adeline continued to move towards the door, when the Marquis threw himſelf at her feet, and, ſeizing her hand, impreſſed it with kiſſes. She ſtruggled to diſengage herſelf. ‘"Hear [204] me, charming Adeline! hear me,"’ cried the Marquis; ‘"I exiſt but for you. Liſten to my entreaties and my fortune ſhall be yours. Do not drive me to deſpair by ill-judged ri⯑gour, or, becauſe"—’

‘"My Lord,"’ interrupted Adeline, with an air of ineffable dignity, and ſtill affecting to believe his propoſal honourable, ‘"I am ſenſible of the generoſity of your conduct, and alſo flattered by the diſtinction you offer me. I will, therefore, ſay ſomething more than is neceſſary to a bare expreſſion of the denial which I muſt continue to give. I can not be⯑ſtow my heart. You can not obtain more than my eſteem, to which, indeed, nothing can ſo much contribute as a forbearance from any ſimilar offers in future."’

She again attempted to go, but the Marquis prevented her, and after ſome heſitation, again urged his ſuit, though in terms that would no longer allow her to miſunderſtand him. Tears ſwelled into her eyes, but ſhe endeavoured to check them, and with a look, in which grief and indignation ſeemed to ſtruggle for pre-emi⯑nence, ſhe ſaid, ‘"My Lord, this is unworthy of reply, let me paſs."’

For a moment, he was awed by the dignity of her manner, and he threw himſelf at her feet to implore forgiveneſs. But ſhe waved her hand in ſilence and hurried from the room. When ſhe reached her chamber, ſhe locked the door, and, [205] ſinking into a chair, yielded to the ſorrow, that preſſed at her heart. And it was not the leaſt of her ſorrow, to ſuſpect that La Motte was un⯑worthy of her confidence; for it was almoſt im⯑poſſible that he could be ignorant of the real de⯑ſigns of the Marquis. Madame La Motte, ſhe believed, was impoſed upon by a ſpecious pre⯑tence of honourable attachment; and thus was ſhe ſpared the pang which a doubt of her inte⯑grity would have added.

She threw a trembling glance upon the proſ⯑pect around her. On one ſide was her father, whoſe cruelty had already been too plainly mani⯑feſted; and on the other, the Marquis purſuing her with inſult and vicious paſſion. She reſol⯑ved to acquaint Madame La Motte with the purport of the late converſation, and, in the hope of her protection and ſympathy, ſhe wiped away her tears, and was leaving the room juſt as Madame La Motte entered it. While Ade⯑line related what had paſſed, her friend wept, and appeared to ſuffer great agitation. She en⯑deavoured to comfort her, and promiſed to uſe her influence in perſuading La Motte to prohibit the addreſſes of the Marquis. ‘"You know, my dear,"’ added Madame, ‘"that our preſent circumſtances oblige us to preſerve terms with the Marquis, and you will, therefore, ſuffer as little reſentment to appear in your manner towards him as poſſible; conduct yourſelf with your uſual eaſe in his preſence, and I [206] doubt not this affair will paſs over, without ſubjecting you to farther ſolicitation."’

‘"Ah, Madam!"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"how hard is the taſk you aſſign me! I entreat you that I may never more be ſubjected to the humi⯑liation of being in his preſence, that, when⯑ever he viſits the abbey, I may be ſuffered to remain in my chamber."’

‘"This,’ ſaid Madame La Motte, ‘"I would moſt readily conſent to, would our ſituation permit it. But you well know our aſylum in this abbey depends upon the good-will of the Marquis, which we muſt not wantonly loſe; and ſurely ſuch a conduct as you pro⯑poſe would endanger this. Let us uſe milder meaſures, and we ſhall preſerve his friendſhip, without ſubjecting you to any ſerious evil. Appear with your uſual complacence: the taſk is not ſo difficult as you imagine."’

Adeline ſighed. ‘"I obey you, Madam,"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"it is my duty to do ſo; but I may be pardoned for ſaying—it is with extreme re⯑luctance."’ Madame La Motte promiſed to go immediately to her huſband, and Adeline depar⯑ted, though not convinced of her ſafety, yet ſomewhat more at eaſe

She ſoon after ſaw the Marquis depart, and, as there now appeared to be no obſtacle to the return of Madame La Motte, ſhe expected her with extreme impatience. After thus waiting near an hour in her chamber, ſhe was at length [207] ſummoned to the parlour, and there found Monſieur La Motte alone. He aroſe upon her entrance, and for ſome minutes paced the room in ſilence. He then ſeated himſelf, and addreſſ⯑ed her: ‘"What you have mentioned to Ma⯑dame La Motte,"’ ſaid he, ‘"would give me much concern, did I conſider the behaviour of the Marquis in a light ſo ſerious as ſhe does. I know that young ladies are apt to miſconſtrue the unmeaning gallantry of fa⯑ſhionable manners, and you, Adeline, can never be too cautious in diſtinguiſhing be⯑tween a levity of this kind, and a more ſe⯑rious addreſs."’

Adeline was ſuprized and offended that La Motte ſhould think ſo lightly both of her under⯑ſtanding and diſpoſition as his ſpeech implied. ‘"It is poſſible, Sir,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"that you have been apprized of the Marquis's con⯑duct?"’

‘"It is very poſſible, and very certain,"’ re⯑plied La Motte with ſome aſperity; ‘"and very poſſible, alſo, that I may ſee this af⯑fair with a judgment leſs diſcoloured by pre⯑judice than you do. But, however, I ſhall not diſpute this point. I ſhall only requeſt, that, ſince you are acquainted with the emer⯑gency of my circumſtances, you will con⯑form to them, and not, by an ill-timed reſentment, expoſe me to the enmity of the Marquis. He is now my friend, and it [208] is neceſſary to my ſafety that he ſhould con⯑tinue ſuch; but if I ſuffer any part of my family to treat him with rudeneſs, I muſt expect to ſee him my enemy. You may ſurely treat him with complaiſance."’ Ade⯑line thought the term rudeneſs a harſh one, as La Motte applied it, but ſhe forbore from any expreſſion of diſpleaſure. ‘"I could have wiſh⯑ed, Sir,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"for the privilege of retiring whenever the Marquis appeared; but ſince you believe this conduct would af⯑fect your intereſt, I ought to ſubmit."’

‘"This prudence and good-will delight me,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"and ſince you wiſh to ſerve me, know that you cannot more effectually do it, than by treating the Marquis as a friend."’ The word friend, as it ſtood con⯑nected with the Marquis, ſounded diſſonantly to Adeline's ear; ſhe heſitated and looked at La Motte. ‘"As your friend, Sir,"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"I will endeavour to"—’treat him as mine, ſhe would have ſaid, but ſhe found it impoſſible to finiſh the ſentence. She entreated his protection from the power of her father.

‘"What protection I can afford is your's,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"but you know how deſtitute I am both of the right and the means of re⯑ſiſting him, and alſo how much I require protection myſelf. Since he has diſcovered your retreat, he is probably not ignorant of the circumſtances which detain me here, and [209] if I oppoſe him, he may betray me to the officers of the law, as the ſureſt method of obtaining poſſeſſion of you. We are encom⯑paſſed with dangers,"’ continued La Motte; ‘"would I could ſee any method of extricating ourſelves!"’

‘"Quit this abbey,"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"and ſeek an aſylum in Switzerland or Germany; you will then be freed from farther obligation to the Marquis and from the perſecution you dread. Pardon me for thus offering advice, which is certainly, in ſome degree, prompted by a ſenſe of my own ſafety, but which, at the ſame time, ſeems to afford the only means of enſuring your's."’

‘"Your plan is reaſonable,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"had I money to excuſe it. As it is I muſt be contented to remain here, as little known as poſſible, and defending myſelf by making thoſe who know me my friends. Chiefly I muſt endeavour to preſerve the favour of the Marquis. He may do much, ſhould your father even purſue deſperate meaſures. But why do I talk thus? Your father may ere this have commenced theſe meaſures, and the effects of his vengeance may now be hanging over my head. My regard for you, Adeline, has expoſed me to this; had I reſigned you to his will, I ſhould have remained ſecure."’

Adeline was ſo much affected by this inſtance of La Motte's kindneſs, which ſhe could not [210] doubt, that ſhe was unable to expreſs her ſenſe of it. When ſhe could ſpeak, ſhe uttered her gratitude in the moſt lively terms. ‘"Are you ſincere in theſe expreſſions?"’ ſaid La Motte.

‘"Is it poſſible I can be leſs than ſincere?"’ replied Adeline, weeping at the idea of ingra⯑titude.—‘"Sentiments are eaſily pronounced,"’ ſaid La Motte, ‘"though they may have no connection with the heart; I believe them to be ſincere ſo far only as they influence our actions."’

‘"What mean you, Sir?"’ ſaid Adeline with ſurprize.

‘"I mean to inquire, whether, if an oppor⯑tunity ſhould ever offer of thus proving your gratitude, you would adhere to your ſen⯑timents?"’

‘"Name one that I ſhall refuſe,"’ ſaid Ade⯑line with energy.

‘"If, for inſtance, the Marquis ſhould here⯑after avow a ſerious paſſion for you, and offer you his hand, would no petty reſent⯑ment, no lurking prepoſſeſſion for ſome more happy lover prompt you to refuſe it?"’

Adeline bluſhed and fixed her eyes on the ground. ‘"You have, indeed, Sir, named the only means I ſhould reject of evincing my ſincerity. The Marquis I can never love, nor, to ſpeak ſincerely, ever eſteem. I con⯑feſs the peace of one's whole life is too much to ſacrifice even to gratitude."—’La Motte [211] looked diſpleaſed. ‘"'Tis as I thought,"’ ſaid he; ‘"theſe delicate ſentiments make a fine appearance in ſpeech, and render the perſon who utters them infinitely amiable; but bring them to the teſt of action, and they diſſolve into air, leaving only the wreck of vanity behind."’

This unjuſt ſarcaſm brought tears to her eyes. ‘"Since your ſafety, Sir, depends upon my conduct,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"reſign me to my father. I am willing to return to him, ſince my ſtay here muſt involve you in new mis⯑fortune. Let me not prove myſelf unworthy of the protection I have hitherto experienced, by preferring my own welfare to your's. When I am gone, you will have no reaſon to apprehend the Marquis's diſpleaſure, which you may probably incur if I ſtay here: for I feel it impoſſible that I could even conſent to receive his addreſſes, however honourable were his views."’

La Motte ſeemed hurt and alarmed. ‘"This muſt not be,"’ ſaid he; ‘"let us not harraſs ourſelves by ſtating poſſible evils, and then, to avoid them, fly to thoſe which are certain. No, Adeline, though you are ready to ſa⯑crifice yourſelf to my ſafety, I will not ſuffer you to do ſo. I will not yield you to your father, but upon compulſion. Be ſatisfied, therefore, upon this point. The only return [212] I aſk, is a civil deportment towards the Marquis."’

‘"I will endeavour to obey you, Sir,"’ ſaid Adeline.—Madame La Motte now entered the room, and this converſation ceaſed. Adeline paſſed the evening in melancholy thoughts, and retired, as ſoon as poſſible, to her chamber, eager to ſeek in ſleep a refuge from ſorrow.

CHAP. IX.

THE MS. found by Adeline, the preceding night, had ſeveral times occurred to her re⯑collection in the courſe of the day, but ſhe had then been either too much intereſted by the events of the moment, or too apprehenſive of interruption, to attempt a peruſal of it. She [213] now took it from the drawer in which it had been depoſited, and, intending only to look cur⯑ſorily over the few firſt pages, ſat down with it by her bed ſide.

She opened it with an eagerneſs of inquiry, which the diſcoloured and almoſt obliterated ink but ſlowly gratified. The firſt words on the page were entirely loſt, but thoſe that appeared to commence the narrative were as follows:

‘"O! ye, whoever ye are, whom chance, or misfortune, may hereafter conduct to this ſpot—to ye I ſpeak—to ye reveal the ſtory of my wrongs, and aſk ye to avenge them. Vain hope! yet it imparts ſome comfort to believe it poſſible that what I now write may one day meet the eye of a fellow-creature; that the words, which tell my ſufferings, may one day draw pity from the feeling heart.’

‘"Yet ſtay your tears—your pity now is uſeleſs: long ſince have the pangs of miſery ceaſed; the voice of complaining is paſſed away. It is weakneſs to wiſh for compaſſion which cannot be felt till I ſhall ſink in the repoſe of death, and taſte, I hope, the hap⯑pineſs of eternity!’

‘"Know then, that on the night of the twelfth of October, in the year 1642, I was arreſted on the road to Caux, and on the very ſpot where a column is erected to the memory of [214] the immortal Henry, by four ruffians, who after diſabling my ſervant, bore me through wilds and woods to this abbey. Their de⯑meanour was not that of common banditti, and I ſoon perceived they were employed by a ſuperior power to perpetrate ſome dreadful purpoſe. Entreaties and bribes were vainly offered them to diſcover their employer and abandon their deſign: they would not reveal even the leaſt circumſtance of their intenti⯑ons.’

‘"But when, after a long journey, they ar⯑rived at this edifice, their baſe employer was at once revealed, and his horrid ſcheme but too well underſtood. What a moment was that! All the thunders of Heaven ſeemed launched at this defenceleſs head! O fortitude! nerve my heart to"—’

Adeline's light was now expiring in the ſocket, and the paleneſs of the ink, ſo feebly ſhone upon, baffled her efforts to diſcriminate the letters: it was impoſſible to procure a light from below, without diſcovering that ſhe was yet up; a circumſtance, which would excite ſurprize and lead to explanations, ſuch as ſhe did not wiſh to enter upon. Thus compelled to ſuſpend the inquiry, which ſo many atten⯑dant circumſtances had rendered awfully intereſ⯑ting, ſhe retired to her humble bed.

What ſhe had read of the MS. awakened a dreadful intereſt in the fate of the writer, and [215] called up terrific images to her mind. ‘"In theſe apartments!"—’ſaid ſhe, and ſhe ſhud⯑dered and cloſed her eyes. At length, ſhe heard Madame La Motte enter her chamber, and the phantoms of fear beginning to diſſi⯑pate, left her to repoſe.

In the morning, ſhe was awakened by Ma⯑dame La Motte, and found, to her diſappoint⯑ment, that ſhe had ſlept ſo much beyond her uſual time, as to be unable to renew the peruſal of the MS.—La Motte appeared uncommonly gloomy, and Madame wore an air of melan⯑choly, which Adeline attributed to the concern ſhe felt for her. Breakfaſt was ſcarcely over, when the ſound of horſes feet announced the ar⯑rival of a ſtranger; and Adeline, from the oriel receſs of the hall, ſaw the Marquis alight. She retreated with precipitation, and, forgetting the requeſt of La Motte, was haſtening to her chamber; but the Marquis was already in the hall, and ſeeing her leaving it, turned to La Motte with a look of inquiry. La Motte called her back, and by a frown too intelligent, remin⯑ded her of her promiſe. She ſummoned all her ſpi⯑rits to her aid, but advanced, notwithſtanding, in viſible emotion, while the Marquis addreſſed her as uſual, the ſame eaſy gaiety playing upon his countenance and directing his manner.

Adeline was ſurprized and ſhocked at this careleſs confidence which, however, by awaken⯑ing her pride, communicated to her an air of [216] dignity that abaſhed him. He ſpoke with heſi⯑tation, and frequently appeared abſtracted from the ſubject of diſcourſe. At length ariſing, he begged Adeline would favour him with a few moments converſation. Monſieur and Madame La Motte were now leaving the room, when Adeline turning to the Marquis, told him, ‘"ſhe would not hear any converſation, except in the preſence of her friends."’ But ſhe ſaid it in vain, for they were gone; and La Motte, as he withdrew, expreſſed by his looks how much an attempt to follow would diſpleaſe him.

She ſat for ſome time in ſilence, and trem⯑bling expectation. ‘"I am ſenſible,"’ ſaid the Marquis at length, ‘"that the conduct to which the ardour of my paſſion lately betrayed me, has injured me in your opinion, and that you will not eaſily reſtore me to your eſteem; but, I truſt, the offer which I now make you, both of my title and fortune, will ſufficiently prove the ſincerity of my attachment, and atone for the tranſgreſſion which love only prompted."’

After this ſpecimen of common place verbo⯑ſity, which the Marquis ſeemed to conſider as a prelude to triumph, he attempted to impreſs a kiſs upon the hand of Adeline, who, withdraw⯑ing it haſtily, ſaid, ‘"You are already, my Lord, acquainted with my ſentiments upon this ſubject, and it is almoſt unneceſſary for [217] me now to repeat, that I cannot accept the honour you offer me."’

‘"Explain yourſelf, lovely Adeline! I am ignorant that till now, I ever made you this offer."’

‘"Moſt true, Sir,"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"and you do well to remind me of this, ſince, after having heard your former propoſal, I can liſten for a moment to any other."’ She roſe to quit the room. ‘"Stay, Madam,"’ ſaid the Mar⯑quis, with a look, in which offended pride ſtruggled to conceal itſelf; ‘"do not ſuffer an extravagant reſentment to operate againſt your true inte⯑reſts; recollect the dangers that ſurround you, and conſider the value of an offer, which may afford you at leaſt an honourable aſy⯑lum."’

‘"My misfortunes, my Lord, whatever they are, I have never obtruded upon you; you will, therefore, excuſe my obſerving, that your preſent mention of them conveys a much grea⯑ter appearance of inſult than compaſſion."’ The Marquis, though with evident confuſion, was going to reply; but Adeline would not be detained, and retired to her chamber. Deſtitute as ſhe was, her heart revolted from the propo⯑ſal of the Marquis, and ſhe determined never to accept it. To her diſlike of his general diſpoſi⯑tion, and the averſion excited by his late offer, was added, indeed, the influence of a prior at⯑tachment, [218] and of a remembrance, which ſhe found it impoſſible to eraſe from her heart.

The Marquis ſtayed to dine, and, in conſi⯑deration of La Motte, Adeline appeared at ta⯑ble, where the former gazed upon her with ſuch frequent and ſilent earneſtneſs, that her diſ⯑treſs became inſupportable, and when the cloth was drawn, ſhe inſtantly retired. Madame La Motte ſoon followed, and it was not till evening that ſhe had an opportunity of returning to the MS. When Monſieur and Madame La Motte were in their chamber, and all was ſtill, ſhe drew forth the narrative, and, trimming her lamp, ſat down to read as follows:

‘"The ruffians unbound me from my horſe, and led me through the hall up the ſpiral ſtair⯑caſe of the abbey: reſiſtance was uſeleſs, but I looked around in the hope of ſeeing ſome perſon leſs obdurate than the men who brought me hither; ſome one who might be ſenſible to pity, and capable, at leaſt, of civil treat⯑ment. I looked in vain; no perſon appear⯑ed: and this circumſtance confirmed my worſt apprehenſions. The ſecrecy of the bu⯑ſineſs foretold a horrible concluſion. Having paſſed ſome chambers, they ſtopped in one hung with old tapeſtry. I inquired why we did not go on, and was told, I ſhould ſoon know.’

[219] ‘"At that moment, I expected to ſee the in⯑ſtrument of death uplifted, and ſilently re⯑commended myſelf to God, but death was not then deſigned for me; the arras, and diſ⯑covered a door, which they then opened. Seizing my arms, they led me through a ſuite of diſmal chambers beyond. Having reached the fartheſt of theſe, they again ſtop⯑ped: the horrid gloom of the place ſeemed congenial to murder, and inſpired deadly thoughts. Again I looked round for the inſtrument of deſtruction, and again I was reſpited. I ſupplicated to know what was deſigned me; it was now unneceſſary to aſk who was the author of the deſign. They were ſilent to my queſtion, but at length told me, this chamber was my priſon. Having ſaid this, and ſet down a jug of water, they left the room, and I heard the door barred upon me.’

‘"O ſound of deſpair! O moment of unut⯑terable anguiſh! The pang of death itſelf is, ſurely, not ſuperior to that I then ſuffered. Shut out from day, from friends, from life—for ſuch I muſt foretell it—in the prime of my years, in the height of my tranſgreſſions, and left to imagine horrors more terrible than any, perhaps, which certainty could give—I ſink beneath the"—’

Here ſeveral pages of the manuſcript were decayed with damp and totally illegible. With [220] much difficulty Adeline made out the following lines:

‘"Three days have now paſſed in ſolitude and ſilence: the horrors of death are ever before my eyes, let me endeavour to prepare for the dreadful change! When I awake in the morning I think I ſhall not live to ſee another night; and, when night returns, that I muſt never more uncloſe my eyes on morning. Why am I brought hither—why confined thus rigorouſly—but for death! Yet what action of my life has deſerved this at the hand of a fellow creature?—Of— * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *’

‘"O my children! O friends far diſtant! I ſhall never ſee you more—never more re⯑ceive the parting look of kindneſs—never beſtow a parting bleſſing!—Ye know not my wretched ſtate—alas! ye cannot know it by human means. Ye believe me happy, or ye would fly to my relief. I know that what I now write cannot avail me, yet there is comfort in pouring forth my griefs; and I bleſs that man, leſs ſavage than his fel⯑lows, who has ſupplied me theſe means of recording them. Alas! he knows full well, that from this indulgence he has nothing to fear. My pen can call no friends to ſuccour me, nor reveal my danger ere it is too late. O! ye, who may hereafter read what I now [221] write, give a tear to my ſufferings: I have wept often for the diſtreſſes of my fellow creatures!"’

Adeline pauſed. Here the wretched writer appealed directly to her heart; he ſpoke in the energy of truth, and, by a ſtrong illuſion of fancy, it ſeemed as if his paſt ſufferings were at this moment preſent. She was for ſome [...] unable to proceed, and ſat in muſing [...] ‘"In theſe very apartments,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘" [...] ſufferer was confined—here [...]"—’Adeline ſtarted, and thought ſhe heard a ſound; but the ſtillneſs of night was undiſturbed.—‘"In theſe very chambers,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"theſe lines were written—theſe lines, from which he then derived a comfort in believing they would hereafter be read by ſome pitying eye: this time is now come. Your miſeries, O in⯑jured being! are lamented, where they were endured. Here, where you ſuffered, I weep for your ſufferings!"’

Her imagination was now ſtrongly impreſſed, and to her diſtempered ſenſes the ſuggeſtions of a bewildered mind appeared with the force of reality. Again ſhe ſtarted and liſtened, and thought ſhe heard ‘"Here"’ diſtinctly repeated by a whiſper immediately behind her. The terror of the thought, however, was but mo⯑mentary, ſhe knew it could not be; convinced that her fancy had deceived her, ſhe took up the MS. and again began to read.

[222] ‘"For what am I reſerved! Why this delay? If I am to die—why not quickly? Three weeks have I now paſſed within theſe walls; during which time, no look of pity has ſoft⯑ened my afflictions; no voice, ſave my own, has met my ear. The countenances of the ruffians who attend me, are ſtern and in⯑flexible, and their ſilence is obſtinate. This ſtillneſs is dreadful! O! ye, who have known what it is to live in the depths of ſolitude, who have paſſed your dreary days without one ſound to cheer you; ye, and ye only, can tell what now I feel; and ye may know how much I would endure to hear the accents of a human voice.’

‘"O dire extremity! O ſtate of living death! What dreadful ſtillneſs! All around me is dead; and do I really exiſt, or am I but a ſtatue? Is this a viſion? Are theſe things real? Alas, I am bewildered!—this death⯑like and perpetual ſilence—this diſmal cham⯑ber—the dread of farther ſufferings have diſturbed my fancy. O for ſome friendly breaſt to lay my weary head on! ſome cor⯑dial accents to revive my ſoul! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "I write by ſtealth. He who furniſhed me with the means, I fear, has ſuffered for ſome ſymptoms of pity he may have diſcovered for me; I have not ſeen [223] him for ſeveral days: perhaps he is inclined to help me, and for that reaſon is forbid to come. O that hope! but how vain. Never more muſt I quit theſe walls while life re⯑mains. Another day is gone, and yet I live; at this time to-morrow night my ſufferings may be ſealed in death. I will continue my journal nightly, till the hand that writes ſhall be ſtopped by death: when the journal ceaſes, the reader will know I am no more. Per⯑haps, theſe are the laſt lines I ſhall ever write" * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *’

Adeline pauſed, while her tears ſell faſt. ‘"Unhappy man!"’ ſhe exclaimed, ‘"and was there no pitying ſoul to ſave thee! Great God! thy ways are wonderful!"’ While ſhe ſat muſing, her fancy, which now wandered in the regions of terror, gradually ſubdued rea⯑ſon. There was a glaſs before her upon the table, and ſhe feared to raiſe her looks towards it, leſt ſome other face than her own ſhould meet her eyes: other dreadful ideas, and ſtrange images of fantaſtic thought now croſſed her mind.

A hollow ſigh ſeemed to paſs near her. ‘"Ho⯑ly Virgin, protect me!"’ cried ſhe, and threw a fearful glance round the room; ‘"this is ſurely ſomething more than fancy."’ Her fears ſo far overcame her, that ſhe was ſeveral times upon the point of calling up part of the [224] family, but unwillingneſs to diſturb them, and a dread of ridicule, withheld her. She was alſo afraid to move and almoſt to breathe. As ſhe liſtened to the wind, that murmured at the caſements of her lonely chamber, ſhe again thought ſhe heard a ſigh. Her imagination refuſed any longer the controul of reaſon, and, turning her eyes, a figure, whoſe exact form ſhe could not diſtinguiſh, appeared to paſs along an obſcure part of the chamber; a dreadful chillneſs came over her, and ſhe ſat fixed in her chair. At length a deep ſigh ſomewhat relieved her oppreſſed ſpirits, and her ſenſes ſeemed to return.

All remaining quiet, after ſome time ſhe be⯑gan to queſtion whether her fancy had not de⯑ceived her, and ſhe ſo far conquered her terror as to deſiſt from calling Madame La Motte: her mind was, however, ſo much diſturbed, that ſhe did not venture to truſt herſelf that night again with the MS.; but, having ſpent ſome time in prayer, and in endeavouring to compoſe her ſpirits, ſhe retired to bed.

When ſhe awoke in the morning, the cheer⯑ful ſun-beams played upon the caſements, and diſpelled the illuſions of darkneſs: her mind, ſoothed and invigorated by ſleep, rejected the myſtic and turbulent promptings of imagination. She aroſe refreſhed and thankful; but, upon going down to breakfaſt, this tranſient gleam of peace fled upon the appearance of the Marquis, [225] whoſe frequent viſits at the abbey, after what had paſſed, not only diſpleaſed, but alarmed her. She ſaw that he was determined to perſevere in addreſſing her, and the boldneſs and inſenſibility of this conduct, while it excited her indignation, increaſed her diſguſt. In pity to La Motte, ſhe endeavoured to conceal theſe emotions, though ſhe now thought that he required too much from her complaiſance, and began ſeriouſly to conſider how ſhe might avoid the neceſſity of continuing it. The Marquis behaved to her with the moſt reſpectful attention; but Adeline was ſilent and reſerved, and ſeized the firſt op⯑portunity of withdrawing.

As ſhe paſſed up the ſpiral ſtaircaſe, Peter entered the hall below, and, ſeeing Adeline, he ſtopped and looked earneſtly at her: ſhe did not obſerve him, but he called her ſoftly, and ſhe then ſaw him make a ſignal as if he had ſomething to communicate. In the next inſtant La Motte opened the door of the vaulted room, and Peter haſtily diſappeared. She proceeded to her chamber, ruminating upon this ſignal, and the cautious manner in which Peter had given it.

But her thoughts ſoon returned to their wonted ſubjects. Three days were now paſſed, and ſhe heard no intelligence of her father; ſhe began to hope that he had relented from the violent meaſures hinted at by La Motte, and that he meant to purſue a milder plan; but when [226] ſhe conſidered his character, this appeared im⯑probable, and ſhe relapſed into her former fears. Her reſidence at the abbey was now become painful, from the perſeverance of the Marquis, and the conduct which La Motte obliged her to adopt; yet ſhe could not think without dread of quitting it to return to her father.

The image of Theodore often intruded upon her buſy thoughts, and brought with it a pang, which his ſtrange departure occaſioned. She had a confuſed notion, that his fate was ſome⯑how connected with her own; and her ſtruggles to prevent the remembrance of him, ſerved only to ſhew how much her heart was his.

To divert her thoughts from theſe ſubjects; and gratify the curioſity ſo ſtrongly excited on the preceding night, ſhe now took up the MS. but was hindered from opening it by the entrance of Madame La Motte, who came to tell her the Marquis was gone. They paſſed their morning together in work and general con⯑verſation; La Motte not appearing till dinner, when he ſaid little, and Adeline leſs. She aſked him, however, if he had heard from her father? ‘"I have not heard from him,"’ ſaid La Motte; ‘"but there is good reaſon, as I am informed by the Marquis, to believe he is not far off."’

Adeline was ſhocked, yet ſhe was able to reply with becoming firmneſs. ‘"I have already, Sir, involved you too much in my diſtreſs, [227] and now ſee that reſiſtance will deſtroy you, without ſerving me; I am, therefore, con⯑tented to return to my father, and thus ſpare you farther calamity."’

‘"This is a raſh determination,"’ replied La Motte, ‘"and if you purfue it, I fear you will ſeverely repent. I ſpeak to you as a friend, Adeline, and deſire you will endeavour to liſten to me without prejudice. The Mar⯑quis, I find, has offered you his hand. I know not which circumſtance moſt excites my ſurprize, that a man of his rank and confequence ſhould ſolicit a marriage with a perſon without fortune, or oſtenſible con⯑nections; or that a perſon ſo circumſtanced ſhould even for a moment reject the advan⯑tages thus offered her. You weep, Adeline, let me hope that you are convinced of the abſurdity of this conduct, and will no longer trifle with your good fortune. The kindneſs I have ſhewn you muſt convince you of my regard, and that I have no motive for of⯑fering you this advice but your advantage. It is neceſſary, however, to ſay, that, ſhould your father not inſiſt upon your removal, I know not how long my circumſtances may enable me to afford even the humble pittance you receive here. Still you are ſilent."’

The anguiſh which this ſpeech excited, ſup⯑preſſed her utterance, and ſhe continued to weep. At length ſhe ſaid, ‘"Suffer me, Sir, [228] to go back to my father; I ſhould, indeed, make an ill return for the kindneſs you men⯑tion, could I wiſh to ſtay, after what you now tell me; and to accept the Marquis, I feel to be impoſſible."’ The remembrance of Theodore aroſe to her mind, and ſhe wept aloud.

La Motte ſat for ſome time muſing. ‘"Strange infatuation,"’ ſaid he; ‘"is it poſſible that you can perſiſt in this heroiſm of romance, and prefer a father ſo inhuman as your's, to the Marquis de Montalt! A deſtiny ſo full of danger to a life of ſplendour and delight!"’

‘"Pardon me,"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"a marriage with the Marquis would be ſplendid, but never happy. His character excites my averſion, and I entreat, Sir, that he may no more be mentioned."’

CHAPTER X.

THE converſation related in the laſt chapter was interrupted by the entrance of Peter, who, as he left the room, looked ſignificantly at Adeline and almoſt beckoned. She was anxious to know what he meant, and ſoon after went into the hall, where ſhe found him loitering. The moment he ſaw her, he made a ſign of ſilence and beckoned her into the receſs. ‘"Well, Peter, what is it you would ſay?"’ ſaid Adeline.

‘"Huſh, Ma'mſelle; for Heaven's ſake ſpeak lower: if we ſhould be overheard, we are all blown up."—’Adeline begged him to explain what he meant. ‘"Yes, Ma'mſelle, that is what I have wanted all day long. I have watched and watched for an opportunity, and looked and looked, till I was afraid my maſter himſelf would ſee me: but all would not do; you would not underſtand."’

Adeline entreated he would be quick. ‘"Yes, Ma'am, but I'm ſo afraid we ſhall be ſeen; [230] but I would do much to ſerve ſuch a good young lady, for I could not bear to think of what threatened you, without telling you of it."’

‘"For God's ſake,"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"ſpeak quickly, or we ſhall be interrupted."’

‘"Well, then; but you muſt firſt promiſe by the Holy Virgin never to ſay it was I that told you. My maſter would"—’

‘"I do, I do!"’ ſaid Adeline.

‘"Well, then—on Monday evening as I—hark! did not I hear a ſtep? do, Ma'mſelle, juſt ſtep this way to the cloiſters. I would not for the world we ſhould be ſeen. I'll go out at the hall door and you can go through the paſſage. I would not for the world we ſhould be ſeen."’—Adeline was much alarmed by Peter's words, and hurried to the cloiſters. He quickly appeared, and, looking cautiouſly round, reſumed his diſcourſe. ‘"As I was ſay⯑ing, Ma'mſelle, Monday night, when the Marquis ſlept here, you know he ſat up very late, and I can gueſs, perhaps, the reaſon of that. Strange things came out, but it is not my buſineſs to tell all I think."’

‘"Pray do ſpeak to the purpoſe,"’ ſaid Ade⯑line impatiently, ‘"what is this danger which you ſay threatens me? Be quick, or we ſhall be obſerved."’

‘"Danger enough, Ma'mſelle,"’ replied Pe⯑ter, ‘"if you knew all, and when you do, what [231] will it ſignify, for you can't help yourſelf. But that's neither here nor there: I was re⯑ſolved to tell you, though I may repent it."’

‘"Or rather you are reſolved not to tell me,"’ ſaid Adeline; ‘"for you have made no progreſs towards it. But what do you mean? You was ſpeaking of the Marquis."’

‘"Huſh, Ma'am, not ſo loud. The Mar⯑quis, as I ſaid, ſat up very late and my maſ⯑ter ſat up with him. One of his men went to bed in the oak room, and the other ſtayed to undreſs his Lord. So as we were ſitting together—Lord have mercy! it made my hair ſtand on end! I tremble yet. So as we were ſitting together,—but as ſure as I live yonder is my maſter: I caught a glimpſe of him between the trees, if he ſees me it is all over with us. I'll tell you another time."’ So ſaying, he hurried into the abbey, leaving Ade⯑line in a ſtate of alarm, curioſity, and vexation. She walked out into the foreſt, ruminating upon Peter's words, and endeavouring to gueſs to what they alluded; there Madame La Motte joined her, and they converſed on various topics till they reached the abbey.

Adeline watched in vain through that day for an opportunity of ſpeaking with Peter. While he waited at ſupper, ſhe occaſionally obſerved his countenance with great anxiety, hoping it might afford her ſome degree of intelligence on the ſubject of her fears. When ſhe retired, [232] Madame La Motte accompanied her to her chamber, and continued to converſe with her for a conſiderable time, ſo that ſhe had no means of obtaining an interview with Peter.—Madame La Motte appeared to labour under ſome great affliction, and when Adeline, noti⯑cing this, entreated to know the cauſe of her de⯑jection, tears ſtarted into her eyes, and ſhe ab⯑ruptly left the room.

This behaviour of Madame La Motte concur⯑red with Peter's diſcourſe, to alarm Adeline, who ſat penſively upon her bed, given up to reflec⯑tion, till ſhe was rouſed by the ſound of a clock which ſtood in the room below, and which now ſtruck twelve. She was preparing for reſt, when ſhe recollected the MS. and was unable to conclude the night without reading it. The firſt words ſhe could diſtinguiſh were the fol⯑lowing.

‘"Again I return to this poor conſolation—again I have been permitted to ſee another day. It is now midnight! my ſolitary lamp burns beſide me; the time is awful, but to me the ſilence of noon is as the ſilence of mid⯑night: a deeper gloom is all in which they dif⯑fer. The ſtill, unvarying hours are num⯑bered only by my ſufferings! Great God! when ſhall I be releaſed! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *’

[233] ‘"But whence this ſtrange confinement? I have never injured him. If death is de⯑ſigned me, why this delay; and for what but death am I brought hither? This abbey—alas!"—’Here the MS. was again illegible, and for ſeveral pages Adeline could only make out disjointed ſentences.

‘"O bitter draught! when, when ſhall I have reſt! O my friends; will none of ye fly to aid me; will none of ye avenge my ſufferings? Ah! when it is too late—when I am gone for ever, ye will endeavourto avenge them. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *’

‘"Once more is night returned to me. Ano⯑ther day has paſſed in ſolitude and miſery. I have climbed to the caſement, thinking the view of nature would refreſh my ſoul, and ſomewhat enable me to ſupport theſe afflicti⯑ons. Alas I even this ſmall comfort is denied me, the windows open towards other parts of this abbey, and admit only a portion of that day which I muſt never more fully behold. Laſt night! laſt night! O ſcene of horror!" * *’

Adeline ſhuddered. She feared to read the coming ſentence, yet curioſity prompted her to proceed. Still ſhe pauſed: an unaccountable dread came over her. ‘"Some horrid deed has been done here,"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"the reports of the peaſants are true. Murder has been [234] committed."’ The idea ſhrilled her with hor⯑ror. She recollected the dagger which had im⯑peded her ſteps in the ſecret chamber, and this circumſtance ſerved to confirm her moſt terri⯑ble conjectures. She wiſhed to examine it, but it lay in one of theſe chambers, and ſhe feared to go in queſt of it.

‘"Wretched, wretched victim!"’ ſhe ex⯑claimed, ‘"could no friend reſcue thee from deſtruction! O that I had been near! yet what could I have done to ſave thee? Alas! nothing. I forget that even now, perhaps, I am like thee abandoned to dangers, from which I have no friend to ſuccour me. Too ſurely I gueſs the author of my miſeries!"’ She ſtopped and thought ſhe heard a ſigh, ſuch as, on the preceding night, had paſſed along the chamber. Her blood was chilled and ſhe ſat motionleſs. The lonely ſituation of her room, remote from the reſt of the family, (for ſhe was now in her old apartment, from which Madame La Motte had removed) who were almoſt be⯑yond call, ſtruck ſo forcibly upon her imagina⯑tion, that ſhe with difficulty preſerved herſelf from fainting. She ſat for a conſiderable time, but all was ſtill. When ſhe was ſomewhat re⯑covered, her firſt deſign was to alarm the fa⯑mily; but farther reflection again withheld her.

She endeavoured to compoſe her ſpirits, and addreſſed a ſhort prayer to that Being who had hitherto protected her in every danger. While [235] ſhe was thus emploved, her mind gradually be⯑came elevated and re-aſſured; a ſublime com⯑placency filled her heart, and ſhe ſat down once more to purſue the narrative.

Several lines that immediately followed were obliterated.—

‘* * * * * * * * * * * * "He had told me I ſhould not be permitted to live long, not more than three days, and bade me chuſe whether I would die by poi⯑ſon or the ſword. O the agonies of that mo⯑ment! Great God! thou ſeeſt my ſufferings! I often viewed, with a momentary hope of eſcaping, the high grated windows of my pri⯑ſon—all things within the compaſs of poſſi⯑bility I was reſolved to try, and with an ea⯑ger deſperation I climbed towards the caſe⯑ments, but my foot ſlipped, and falling back to the floor, I was ſtunned by the blow. On recovering, the firſt ſounds I heard were the ſteps of a perſon entering my priſon. A re⯑collection of the paſt returned, and deplora⯑ble was my condition. I ſhuddered at what was to come. The ſame man approached; he looked at me at firſt with pity, but his countenance ſoon recovered its natural fero⯑city. Yet he did not then come to execute the purpoſes of his employer: I am reſerved to another day—Great God, thy will be done!"’

[236] Adeline could not go on. All the circumſtan⯑ces that ſeemed to corroborate the fate of this un⯑happy man, crowded upon her mind. The re⯑ports concerning the abbey—the dreams, which had forerun her diſcovery of the private apart⯑ments—the ſingular manner in which ſhe had found the MS. and the apparition, which ſhe now believed ſhe had really ſeen. She blamed her⯑ſelf for having not yet mentioned the diſcovery of the manuſcript and chambers to La Motte, and reſolved to delay the diſcloſure no longer than the following morning. The immediate cares that had occupied her mind, and a fear of loſing the manuſcript before ſhe had read it, had hi⯑therto kept her ſilent.

Such a combination of circumſtances ſhe be⯑lieved could only be produced by ſome ſuperna⯑tural power, operating for the retribution of the guilty. Theſe reflections filled her mind with a degree of awe, which the lonelineſs of the large old chamber in which ſhe ſat, and the hour of the night, ſoon heightened into terror. She had never been ſuperſtitious, but circumſtances ſo uncommon had hitherto conſpired in this affair, that ſhe could not believe them accidental. Her imagination, wrought upon by theſe reflections, again became ſenſible to every impreſſion, ſhe feared to look around, leſt ſhe ſhould again ſee ſome dreadful phantom, and ſhe almoſt fancied ſhe heard voices ſwell in the ſtorm, which now ſhook the fabric.

[237] Still ſhe tried to command her feelings ſo as to avoid diſturbing the family, but they became ſo painful, than even the dread of La Motte's ridi⯑cule had hardly power to prevent her quitting the chamber. Her mind was now in ſuch a ſtate, that ſhe found it impoſſible to purſue the ſtory in the MS. though, to avoid the tortures of ſuſpenſe, ſhe had attempted it. She laid it down again, and tried to argue herſelf into com⯑poſure. ‘"What have I to fear?"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"I am at leaſt innocent, and I ſhall not be pu⯑niſhed for the crime of another."’

The violent guſt of wind that now ruſhed through the whole ſuite of apartments, ſhook the door that led from her late bedchamber to the private rooms ſo forcibly, that Adeline, unable to remain longer in doubt, ran to ſee from whence the noiſe iſſued. The arras, which concealed the door, was violently agitated, and ſhe ſtood for a moment obſerving it in indeſ⯑cribable terror, till believing it was ſwayed by the wind, ſhe made a ſudden effort to overcome her feelings, and was ſtooping to raiſe it. At that inſtant, ſhe thought ſhe heard a voice. She ſtopped and liſtened, but every thing was ſtill; yet apprehenſion ſo far overcame her, that ſhe had no power, either to examine, or to leave the chambers.

In a few moments the voice returned, ſhe was now convinced ſhe had not been deceived, for, though low, ſhe heard it diſtinctly, and [238] was almoſt ſure it repeated her own name. So much was her fancy affected, that ſhe even thought it was the ſame voice ſhe had heard in her dreams. This conviction entirely ſubdued the ſmall remains of her courage, and, ſinking into a chair, ſhe loſt all recollection.

How long ſhe remained in this ſtate ſhe knew not, but when ſhe recovered, ſhe exerted all her ſtrength, and reached the winding ſtaircaſe, where ſhe called aloud. No one heard her, and ſhe haſtened, as faſt as her feebleneſs would permit, to the chamber of Madame La Motte. She tapped gently at the door, and was anſwered by Madame, who was alarmed at being awak⯑ened at ſo unuſual an hour, and believed that ſome danger threatened her huſband. When ſhe underſtood that it was Adeline, and that ſhe was unwell, ſhe quickly came to her relief. The terror that was yet viſible in Adeline's countenance excited her inquiries, and the occa⯑ſion of it was explained to her.

Madame was ſo much diſcompoſed by the relation that ſhe called La Motte from his bed, who, more angry at being diſturbed than inte⯑reſted for the agitation he witneſſed, reproved Adeline for ſuffering her fancies to overcome her reaſon. She now mentioned the diſcovery ſhe had made of the inner chambers and the manuſcript, circumſtances, which rouſed the attention of La Motte ſo much, that he deſired [239] to ſee the MS. and reſolved to go immediately to the apartments deſcribed by Adeline,

Madame La Motte endeavoured to diſſuade him from his purpoſe; but La Motte, with whom oppoſition had always an effect contrary to the one deſigned, and who wiſhed to throw farther ridicule upon the terrors of Adeline, perſiſted in his intention. He called to Peter to attend with a light, and inſiſted that Madame La Motte and Adeline ſhould accompany him; Madame La Motte deſired to be excuſed, and Adeline, at firſt, declared ſhe could not go; but he would be obeyed.

They aſcended the tower, and entered the firſt chambers together, for each of the party was reluctant to be the laſt; in the ſecond chamber all was quiet and in order. Adeline preſented the MS. and pointed to the arras which concealed the door: La Motte lifted the arras, and opened the door; but Madame La Motte and Adeline entreated to go no farther—again he called to them to follow. All was quiet in the firſt chamber; he expreſſed his ſurpriſe that the rooms ſhould ſo long have re⯑mained undiſcovered, and was proceeding to the ſecond, but ſuddenly ſtopped. ‘"We will defer our examination till to-morrow,"’ ſaid he, ‘"the damps of theſe apartments are un⯑wholeſome at any time; but they ſtrike one more ſenſibly at night. I am chilled. Peter, [240] remember to throw open the windows early in the morning, that the air may circulate."’

‘"Lord bleſs your honour,"’ ſaid Peter, ‘"don't you ſee, I can't reach them? Beſides I don't believe they are made to open; ſee what ſtrong iron bars there are; the room looks, for all the world, like a priſon; I ſuppoſe this is the place the people meant, when they ſaid, nobody that had been in ever came out."’ La Motte, who, during this ſpeech, had been looking attentively at the high windows, which, if he had ſeen them at firſt, he had certainly not obſerved; now in⯑terrupted the eloquence of Peter, and bade him carry the light before them. They all willingly quitted theſe chambers, and returned to the room below, where a fire was lighted, and the party remained together for ſome time.

La Motte, for reaſons beſt known to himſelf, attempted to ridicule the diſcovery and fears of Adeline, till ſhe, with a ſeriouſneſs that checked him, entreated he would deſiſt. He was ſilent, and ſoon after, Adeline, encouraged by the return of day-light, ventured to her chamber, and, for ſome hours, experienced the bleſſing of undiſturbed repoſe.

On the following day, Adeline's firſt care was to obtain an interview with Peter, whom ſhe had ſome hopes of ſeeing as ſhe went down ſtairs; he, however did not appear, and ſhe proceeded to the ſitting room, where ſhe found [241] La Motte, apparently much diſturbed. Adeline aſked him if he had looked at the MS. ‘"I have run my eye over it,"’ ſaid he, ‘"but it is ſo much obſcured by time that it can ſcarcely be decyphered. It appears to exhibit a ſtrange romantic ſtory; and I do not won⯑der, that after you had ſuffered its terrors to impreſs your imagination, you fancied you ſaw ſpectres, and heard wondrous noiſes."’

Adeline thought La Motte did not chuſe to be convinced, and ſhe, therefore, forbore re⯑ply. During breakfaſt, ſhe often looked at Peter, (who waited) with anxious inquiry; and, from his countenance, was ſtill more aſ⯑ſured, that he had ſomething of importance to communicate. In the hope of ſome converſa⯑tion with him, ſhe left the room as ſoon as poſſible, and repaired to her favourite avenue, where ſhe had not long remained when he ap⯑peared. ‘"God bleſs you! Ma'amſelle,"’ ſaid he, ‘"I'm ſorry I frighted you ſo laſt night."’

‘"Frighted me,"’ ſaid Adeline: ‘"how was you concerned in that?"’

He then informed her, that when he thought Monſieur and Madame La Motte were aſleep, he had ſtole to her chamber door, with an in⯑tention of giving her the ſequel of what he had begun in the morning; that he had called ſe⯑veral times as loudly as he dared, but receiving no anſwer, he believed ſhe was aſleep, or did not chuſe to ſpeak with him, and he had, [242] therefore, left the door. This account of the voice ſhe had heard relieved Adeline's ſpirits; ſhe was even ſurpriſed that ſhe did not know it, till remembering the perturbation of her mind for ſome time preceding, this ſurpriſe diſappeared.

She entreated Peter to be brief in explaining the danger with which ſhe was threatened. ‘"If you'll let me go on my own way, Ma'am, you'll ſoon know it; but if you hurry me, and aſk me queſtions, here and there, out of their places, I don't know what I am ſaying."’

‘"Be it ſo;"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"only remember that we may be obſerved."’

‘"Yes, Ma'amſelle, I'm as much afraid of that as you are, for I believe I ſhould be almoſt as ill off; however, that is neither here nor there, but I'm ſure, if you ſtay in this old abbey another night, it will be worſe for you; for, as I ſaid before, I know all about it."’

‘"What mean you, Peter?"’

‘"Why, about this ſcheme that's going on."’

‘"What, then, is my father?"—’ ‘"Your father,"’ interrupted Peter; ‘"Lord bleſs you, that is all fudge, to frighten you; your father, nor nobody elſe has ever ſent after you; I dare ſay, he knows no more of you than the Pope does—not he."’ Adeline looked [243] diſpleaſed. ‘"You trifle,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"if you have any thing to tell, ſay it quickly; I am in haſte."’

‘"Bleſs you, young Lady, I meant no harm, I hope you're not angry; but I'm ſure you can't deny that your father is cruel. But, as I was ſaying, the Marquis de Montalt likes you; and he and my maſter (Peter looked round) having been laying their heads together about you."’ Adeline turned pale—ſhe comprehended a part of the truth, and ea⯑gerly entreated him to proceed.

‘"They have been laying their heads together about you. This is what Jacques, the Marquis's man, tells me: Says he, Peter, you little know what is going on—I could tell all if I choſe it, but it is not for thoſe who are truſted to tell again. I warrant now your maſter is cloſe enough with you. Upon which I was piqued, and reſolved to make him believe I could be truſted as well as he. Perhaps not, ſays I, perhaps I know as much as you, though I do not chuſe to brag on't; and I winked.—Do you ſo? ſays he, then you are cloſer than I thought for. She is a fine girl, ſays he, meaning you, Ma'amſelle; but ſhe is nothing but a poor foundling after all—ſo it does not much ſig⯑nify." I had a mind to know farther what he meant—ſo I did not knock him down. By ſeeming to know as much as he, I at laſt [244] made him diſcover all, and he told me—but you look pale, Ma'amſelle, are you ill?"’

‘"No,"’ ſaid Adeline, in a tremulous accent, and ſcarcely able to ſupport herſelf, ‘"pray proceed."’

‘"And he told me, that the Marquis had been courting you a good while, but you would not liſten to him, and had even pre⯑tended he would marry you, and all would not do. As for marriage, ſays I, I ſuppoſe ſhe knows the Marchioneſs is alive; and I'm ſure ſhe is not one for his turn upon other terms."’

‘"The Marchioneſs is really living then!"’ ſaid Adeline.

‘"O yes, Ma'amſelle! we all know that, and I thought you had known it too."—"We ſhall ſee that, replies Jacques; at leaſt, I believe, that our maſter will outwit her."—I ſtared; I could not help it—"Aye, ſays he, you know your maſter has agreed to give her up to my Lord."’

‘"Good God! what will become of me?"’ exclaimed Adeline.

‘"Aye, Ma'amſelle, I am ſorry for you; but hear me out. When Jacques ſaid this, I quite forgot myſelf. I'll never believe it, ſaid I; I'll never believe my maſter would be guilty of ſuch a baſe action: he'll not give her up, or I'm no Chriſtian."—"Oh! ſaid Jacques, for that matter, I thought [245] you'd known all, elſe I ſhould not have ſaid a word about it. However, you may ſoon ſatisfy yourſelf by going to the parlour door, as I have done; they're in conſultation [...] it now, I dare ſay."’

‘"You need not repeat any more of this converſation,"’ ſaid Adeline; ‘"but tell me the reſult of what you heard from the parlour"’

‘"Why, Ma'amſelle, when he ſaid this, I took him at his word and went to the door, where, ſure enough, I heard my maſter and the Marquis talking about you. They ſaid a great deal, which I could make nothing of; but, at laſt, I heard the Marquis ſay, You know the terms; on theſe terms only will I conſent to bury the paſt in ob—ob—oblivion—that was the word. Monſieur La Motte then told the Marquis, if he would re⯑turn to the abbey upon ſuch a night, mean⯑ing this very night, Ma'amſelle, every thing ſhould be prepared according to his wiſhes; Adeline ſhall then be yours, my Lord, ſaid he,—you are already acquainted with her chamber."’

At theſe words, Adeline claſped her hands and raiſed her eyes to Heaven in ſilent deſpair.—Peter went on. ‘"When I heard this, I could not doubt what Jacques had ſaid.—"Well, ſaid he, what do you think of it now?"—"Why, that my maſter's a raſcal, ſays I."—"It's well you don't think mine one too, ſays [246] he,"—"Why, as for that matter, ſays I"—’Adeline, interrupting him, inquired if he had heard any thing farther. ‘"Juſt then,"’ ſaid Peter, ‘"we heard Madame La Motte come out from another room, and ſo we made haſte back to the kitchen."’

‘"She was not preſent at this converſation then?"’ ſaid Adeline. ‘"No, Ma'amſelle, but my maſter has told her of it, I warrant."’ Adeline was almoſt as much ſhocked by this apparent perſidy of Madame La Motte, as by a knowledge of the deſtruction that threatened her. After muſing a few moments in extreme agitation, ‘"Peter,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"you have a good heart, and feel a juſt indignation at your maſter's treachery—will you aſſiſt me to eſ⯑cape?"’

‘"Ah, Ma'amſelle!"’ ſaid he, ‘"how can I aſ⯑ſiſt you; beſides, where can we go? I have no friends about here, no more than your⯑ſelf."’

‘"O!"’ replied Adeline, in extreme emotion, ‘"we fly from enemies; ſtrangers may prove friends: aſſiſt me but to eſcape from this fo⯑reſt, and you will claim my eternal gratitude: I have no fears beyond it."’

‘"Why, as for this foreſt,"’ replied Peter, ‘"I am weary of it myſelf; though, when we firſt came, I thought it would be fine living here, at leaſt, I thought it was very differ⯑ent from any life I had ever lived before. But [247] theſe ghoſts that haunt the abbey, I am no more a coward than other men, but I don't like them: and then there is ſo many ſtrange reports abroad; and my maſter—I thought I could have ſerved him to the end of the world, but now I care not how ſoon I leave him, for his behaviour to you, Ma'amſelle."’

‘"You conſent, then, to aſſiſt me in eſcap⯑ing?"’ ſaid Adeline with eagerneſs.

‘"Why as to that, Ma'amſelle, I would wil⯑lingly if I knew where to go. To be ſure, I have a ſiſter lives in Savoy, but that is a great way off: and I have ſaved a little money out of my wages, but that won't carry us ſuch a long journey."’

‘"Regard not that,"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"If I was once beyond this foreſt, I would then endea⯑vour to take care of myſelf, and repay you for your kindneſs."’

‘"O! as for that, Madam"—’Well, well, ‘"Peter, let us conſider how we may eſcape. This night, ſay you, this night—the Mar⯑quis is to return?"’

‘"Yes, Ma'amſelle, to-night, about dark I have juſt thought of a ſcheme: My maſ⯑ter's horſes are grazing in the foreſt, we may take one of them, and ſend it back from the firſt ſtage: but how ſhall we avoid being ſeen? beſides, if we go off in the day-light, he will ſoon purſue and overtake us; and if you ſtay till night, the Marquis will be [248] come, and then there is no chance. If they miſs us both at the ſame time too, they'll gueſs how it is, and ſet off directly. Could not you contrive to go firſt and wait for me till the hurly-burly's over? Then, while they're ſearching in the place under ground for you, I can ſlip away, and we ſhould be out of their reach, before they thought of purſuing us."’

Adeline agreed to the truth of all this, and was ſomewhat ſurprized at Peter's ſagacity. She inquired if he knew of any place in the neigh⯑bourhood of the abbey, where ſhe could remain concealed till he came with a horſe. ‘"Why yes, Madam, there is a place, now I think of it, where you may be ſafe enough, for no⯑body goes near: but they ſay it's haunted, and, perhaps, you would not like to go there."’ Adeline, remembering the laſt night, was ſomewhat ſtartled at this intelligence; but a ſenſe of her preſent danger preſſed again upon her mind, and overcame every other apprehen⯑ſion. ‘"Where is this place?"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"if it will conceal me, I ſhall not heſitate to go."’

‘"It is an old tomb that ſtands in the thickeſt part of the foreſt about a quarter of a mile off the neareſt way, and almoſt a mile the other. When my maſter uſed to hide himſelf ſo much in the foreſt, I have followed him ſome⯑where thereabouts, but I did not find out the tomb till t'other day. However, that's nei⯑ther [249] here nor there; if you dare venture to it, Ma'amſelle, I'll ſhew you the neareſt way."’ So ſaying, he pointed to a winding path on the right. Adeline, having looked round, without perceiving any perſon near, directed Peter to lead her to the tomb: they purſued the path, till turning into a gloomy romantic part of the fo⯑reſt, almoſt impervious to the rays of the ſun, they came to the ſpot whither Louis had formerly traced his father.

The ſtillneſs and ſolemnity of the ſcene ſtruck awe upon the heart of Adeline, who pauſed and ſurveyed it for ſome time in ſilence. At length, Peter led her into the interior part of the ruin, to which they deſcended by ſeveral ſteps. ‘"Some old Abbot,"’ ſaid he, ‘"was formerly buried here, as the Marquis's people ſay; and it's like enough that he belonged to the abbey yonder. But I don't ſee why he ſhould take it in his head to walk; he was not murdered, ſurely?"’

‘"I hope not,"’ ſaid Adeline.

‘"That's more than can be ſaid for all that lies buried at the abbey though, and"—’Adeline interrupted him; ‘"Hark! ſurely, I hear a noiſe;"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"Heaven protect us from diſcovery!"’ They liſtened, but all was ſtill, and they went on. Peter opened a low door, and they entered upon a dark paſſage, frequently obſtructed by looſe fragments of ſtone, and along which they moved with cau⯑tion. [250] ‘"Whither are we going?"’ ſaid Adeline. ‘"—I ſcarcely know myſelf,"’ [...]aid Peter, ‘"for I never was ſo far before; but the place ſeems quiet enough."’ Something obſtructed his way; it was a door, which yielded to his hand, and diſcovered a kind of cell, obſcurely ſeen by the twilight admitted through a grate above. A partial gleam ſhot athwart the place, leaving the greateſt part of it in ſhadow.

Adeline ſighed as ſhe ſurveyed it. ‘"This is a frightful ſpot,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"but if it will af⯑ford me a ſhelter, it is a palace. Remem⯑ber, Peter, that my peace and honour de⯑pend upon your faithfulneſs; be both diſ⯑creet and reſolute. In the duſk of the even⯑ing I can paſs from the abbey with leaſt danger of being obſerved, and in this cell I will wait your arrival. As ſoon as Monſieur and Madame La Motte are engaged in ſearch⯑ing the vaults, you will bring here a horſe; three knocks upon the tomb ſhall inform me of your arrival. For Heaven's ſake be cau⯑tious, and be punctual."’

‘"I will, Ma'amſelle, let come what may."’

They re-aſcended to the foreſt, and Adeline, fearful of obſervation, directed Peter to run firſt to the abbey, and invent ſome excuſe for his abſence, if he had been miſſed. When ſhe was again alone, ſhe yielded to a flood of tears, and indulged the exceſs of her diſtreſs. She ſaw herſelf without friends, without relations, [251] deſtitute, forlorn, and abandoned to the worſt of evils. Betrayed by the very perſons, to whoſe comfort ſhe had ſo long adminiſtered, whom ſhe had loved as her protectors, and revered as her parents! Theſe reflections touched her heart with the moſt afflicting ſenſations, and the ſenſe of her immediate danger was for a while abſor⯑bed in the grief occaſioned by a diſcovery of ſuch guilt in others.

At length ſhe rouſed all her fortitude, and turning towards the abbey, endeavoured to await with patience the hour of evening, and to ſuſ⯑tain an appearance of compoſure in the preſence of Monſieur and Madame La Motte. For the preſent ſhe wiſhed to avoid ſeeing either of them, doubting her ability to diſguiſe her emotions: having reached the abbey, ſhe, therefore, paſ⯑ſed on to her chamber. Here ſhe endeavoured to direct her attention to indifferent ſubjects, but in vain; the danger of her ſituation, and the ſe⯑vere diſappointment ſhe had received, in the character of thoſe whom ſhe had ſo much eſ⯑teemed, and even loved, preſſed hard upon her thoughts. To a generous mind few circumſtan⯑ces are more afflicting than a diſcovery of per⯑fidy in thoſe whom we have truſted, even though it may fail of any abſolute inconvenience to our⯑ſelves. The behaviour of Madame La Motte in thus, by concealment, conſpiring to her de⯑ſtruction, particularly ſhocked her.

[252] ‘"How has my imagination deceived me!"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"what a picture did it draw of the goodneſs of the world! And muſt I then be⯑lieve that every body is cruel and deceitful? No—let me ſtill be deceived, and ſtill ſuffer, rather than be condemned to a ſtate of ſuch wretched ſuſpicion"’ She now endeavoured to extenuate the conduct of Madame La Motte, by attributing it to a fear of her huſband. ‘"She dare not oppoſe his will,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"elſe ſhe would warn me of my danger, and aſſiſt me to eſcape from it. No—I will never believe her capable of conſpiring my ruin. Terror alone keeps her ſilent."’

Adeline was ſomewhat comforted by this thought. The benevolence of her heart taught her, in this inſtance, to ſophiſticate. She per⯑ceived not, that by aſcribing the conduct of Madame La Motte to terror, ſhe only ſoftened the degree of her guilt, imputing it to a motive leſs depraved, but not leſs ſelfiſh. She remained in her chamber till ſummoned to dinner, when, drying her tears, ſhe deſcended with faltering ſteps and a palpitating heart to the parlour. When ſhe ſaw La Motte, in ſpite of all her ef⯑forts, ſhe trembled and grew pale: ſhe could not behold, even with apparent indifference, the man who ſhe knew had deſtined her to deſtruc⯑tion. He obſerved her emotion, and inquiring if ſhe was ill, ſhe ſaw the danger to which her agitation expoſed her. Fearful leſt La Motte [253] ſhould ſuſpect its true cauſe, ſhe rallied all her ſpirits, and, with a look of complacency, an⯑ſwered ſhe was well.

During dinner ſhe preſerved a degree of com⯑poſure, that effectually concealed the varied anguiſh of her heart. When ſhe looked at La Motte, terror and indignation were her pre⯑dominant feelings; but when ſhe regarded Ma⯑dame La Motte, it was otherwiſe; gratitude for her former tenderneſs had long been con⯑firmed into affection, and her heart now ſwelled with the bitterneſs of grief and diſappointment. Madame La Motte appeared depreſſed, and ſaid little. La Motte ſeemed anxious to pre⯑vent thought, by aſſuming a fictitious and un⯑natural gaiety: he laughed and talked, and threw off frequent bumpers of wine: it was the mirth of deſperation. Madame became alarmed, and would have reſtrained him, but he perſiſted in his libations to Bacchus till reflection ſeemed to be almoſt overcome.

Madame La Motte, fearful that in the care⯑leſſneſs of the preſent moment he might betray himſelf, withdrew with Adeline to another room. Adeline recollected the happy hours ſhe once paſſed with her, when confidence baniſhed reſerve, and ſympathy and eſteem dictated the ſentiments of friendſhip: now thoſe hours were gone for ever; ſhe could no longer unboſom her griefs to Madame La Motte; no longer even eſteem her. Yet, notwithſtanding all the [254] danger to which ſhe was expoſed by the cri⯑minal ſilence of the latter, ſhe could not con⯑verſe with her, conſciouſly for the laſt time, without feeling a degree of ſorrow, which wiſdom may call weakneſs, but to which bene⯑volence will allow a ſofter name.

Madame La Motte, in her converſation, appeared to labour under an almoſt equal op⯑preſſion with Adeline: her thoughts were ab⯑ſtracted from the ſubject of diſcourſe, and there were long and frequent intervals of ſilence. Adeline more than once caught her gazing with a look of tenderneſs upon her, and ſaw her eyes fill with tears. By this circumſtance ſhe was ſo much affected, that ſhe was ſeveral times upon the point of throwing herſelf at her feet, and imploring her pity and protection. Cooler reflection ſhewed her the extravagance and danger of this conduct: ſhe ſuppreſſed her emotions, but they at length compelled her to withdraw from the preſence of Madame La Motte.

CHAP. X.

ADELINE anxiouſly watched from her chamber window the ſun ſet behind the diſtant hills, and the time of her departure draw nigh: it ſet with uncommon ſplendour, and threw a fiery gleam athwart the woods, and upon ſome ſcattered fragments of the ruins, which ſhe could not gaze upon with indifference. ‘"Ne⯑ver, probably, again ſhall I ſee the ſun ſink below thoſe hills,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"or illumine this ſcene! Where ſhall I be when next it ſets—where this time to-morrow? ſunk, perhaps, in miſery!"’ She wept to the thought. ‘"A few hours,"’ reſumed Adeline, ‘"and the Marquis will arrive—a few hours, and this abbey will be a ſcene of confuſion [256] and tumult: every eye will be in ſearch of me, every receſs will be explored."’ Theſe reflections inſpired her with new terror, and increaſed her impatience to be gone.

Twilight gradually came on, and ſhe now thought it ſufficiently dark to venture forth; but, before ſhe went, ſhe kneeled down and addreſſed herſelf to Heaven. She implored ſup⯑port and protection, and committed herſelf to the care of the God of mercies. Having done this, ſhe quitted her chamber, and paſſed with cautious ſteps down the winding ſtaircaſe. No perſon appeared, and ſhe proceeded through the door of the tower into the foreſt. She look⯑ed around; the gloom of the evening obſcured every object.

With a trembling heart ſhe ſought the path pointed out by Peter, which led to the tomb; having found it, ſhe paſſed along forlorn and terrified. Often did ſhe ſtart as the breeze ſhook the light leaves of the trees, or as the bat flirted by, gamboling in the twilight; and of⯑ten, as ſhe looked back towards the abbey, thought ſhe diſtinguiſhed, amid the deepening gloom, the figures of men. Having proceeded ſome way, ſhe ſuddenly heard the feet of horſes, and ſoon after a ſound of voices, among which ſhe diſtinguiſhed that of the Marquis: they ſeemed to come from the quarter ſhe was ap⯑proaching, and evidently advanced. Terror for ſome minutes arreſted her ſteps; ſhe ſtood [257] in a ſtate of dreadful heſitation: to proceed was to run into the hands of the Marquis; to return was to fall into the power of La Motte.

After remaining for ſome time uncertain whither to fly, the ſounds ſuddenly took a dif⯑ferent direction, and wheeled towards the abbey. Adeline had a ſhort ceſſation of terror. She now underſtood that the Marquis had paſſed this ſpot only in his way to the abbey, and ſhe haſtened to ſecrete herſelf in the ruin. At length, after much difficulty, ſhe reached it, the deep ſhades almoſt concealing it from her ſearch. She pauſed at the entrance, awed by the ſolemnity that reigned within, and the utter darkneſs of the place; at length ſhe determined to watch without till Peter ſhould arrive. ‘"If any perſon approaches,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"I can hear them before they can ſee me, and I can then ſecrete myſelf in the cell."’

She leaned againſt a fragment of the tomb in trembling expectation, and, as ſhe liſtened, no found broke the ſilence of the hour. The ſtate of her mind can only be imagined, by con⯑ſidering that upon the preſent time turned the criſis of her fate. ‘"They have now,"’ thought ſhe, ‘"diſcovered my flight; even now they are ſeeking me in every part of the abbey. I hear their dreadful voices call me; I ſee their eager looks."’ The power of imagi⯑nation almoſt overcame her. While ſhe yet looked around, ſhe ſaw lights moving at a diſ⯑tance; [258] ſometimes they glimmered between the trees, and ſometimes they totally diſappeared.

They ſeemed to be in a direction with the abbey; and ſhe now remembered, that in the morning ſhe had ſeen a part of the fabric through an opening in the foreſt. She had, therefore, no doubt that the lights ſhe ſaw pro⯑ceeded from people in ſearch of her; who, ſhe feared, not finding her at the abbey, might direct their ſteps towards the tomb. Her place of refuge now ſeemed too near her enemies to be ſafe, and ſhe would have fled to a more diſ⯑tant part of the foreſt, but recollected that Peter would not know where to find her.

While theſe thoughts paſſed over her mind, ſhe heard diſtant voices in the wind, and was haſtening to conceal herſelf in the cell, when ſhe obſerved the lights ſuddenly diſappear. All was ſoon after huſhed in ſilence and darkneſs, yet ſhe endeavoured to find the way to the cell. She remembered the ſituation of the outer door and of the paſſage, and having paſſed theſe ſhe uncloſed the door of the cell. Within it was utterly dark. She trembled violently, but entered; and, having felt about the walls, at length ſeated herſelf on a projection of ſtone.

She here again addreſſed herſelf to Heaven, and endeavoured to re-animate her ſpirits till Peter ſhould arrive. Above half an hour elapſed in this gloomy receſs, and no ſound foretold his [259] approach. Her ſpirits ſunk, ſhe feared ſome part of their plan was diſcovered, or interrupted, and that he was detained by La Motte. This conviction operated ſometimes ſo ſtrongly upon her fears, as to urge her to quit the cell alone, and ſeek in flight her only chance of eſcape.

While this deſign was fluctuating in her mind, ſhe diſtinguiſhed through the grate above a clattering of hoofs. The noiſe approached, and at length ſtopped at the tomb. In the ſuc⯑ceeding moment ſhe heard three ſtrokes of a whip; her heart beat, and for ſome moments her agitation was ſuch, that ſhe made no effort to quit the cell. The ſtrokes were repeated: ſhe now rouſed her ſpirits, and, ſtepping for⯑ward, aſcended to the foreſt. She called ‘"Pe⯑ter;"’ for the deep gloom would not permit her to diſtinguiſh either man or horſe. She was quickly anſwered, ‘"Huſh! Ma'amſelle, our voices will betray us."’

They mounted and rode off as faſt as the darkneſs would permit. Adeline's heart re⯑vived at every ſtep they took. She inquired what had paſſed at the abbey, and how he had contrived to get away. ‘"Speak ſoftly, Ma'am⯑ſelle; you'll know all by and bye, but I can't tell you now."’ He had ſcarcely ſpoke ere they ſaw lights move along at a diſtance; and coming now to a more open part of the foreſt, he ſet off on a full gallop, and continued the [260] pace till the horſe could hold it no longer. They looked back, and no lights appearing, Adeline's terror ſubſided. She inquired again what had paſſed at the abbey, when her flight was diſ⯑covered. ‘"You may ſpeak without fear of being heard,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"we are gone be⯑yond their reach I hope."’

‘"Why, Ma'amſelle,"’ ſaid he, ‘"you had not been gone long before the Marquis ar⯑rived, and Monſieur La Motte then found out you was fled. Upon this a great rout there was, and he talked a great deal with the Marquis."’

‘"Speak louder,"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"I cannot hear you."’

‘"I will, Ma'amſelle."—’

‘"Oh! Heavens!"’ interrupted Adeline, ‘"What voice is this? It is not Peter's. For God's ſake tell me who you are, and whither I am going?"’

‘"You'll know that ſoon enough, young lady,"’ anſwered the ſtranger, for it was indeed not Peter; ‘"I am taking you where my maſter ordered."’ Adeline, not doubting he was the Marquis's ſervant, attempted to leap to the ground, but the man, diſmounting, bound her to the horſe. One feeble ray of hope at length beamed upon her mind: ſhe en⯑deavoured to ſoften the man to pity, and plead⯑ed with all the genuine eloquence of diſtreſs; but he underſtood his intereſt too well to yield [261] even for a moment to the compaſſion, which, in ſpite of himſelf, her artleſs ſupplication in⯑ſpired.

She now reſigned herſelf to deſpair, and, in paſſive ſilence, ſubmitted to her fate. They continued thus to travel, till a ſtorm of rain, accompanied by thunder and lightning, drove them to the covert of a thick grove. The man believed this a ſafe ſituation, and Adeline was now too careleſs of life to attempt convincing him of his error. The ſtorm was violent and long, but as ſoon as it abated they ſet off on full gallop, and having continued to travel for about two hours, they came to the borders of the fo⯑reſt, and, ſoon after, to a high lonely wall, which Adeline could juſt diſtinguiſh by the moon-light, which now ſtreamed through the parting clouds.

Here they ſtopped; the man diſmounted, and having opened a ſmall door in the wall, he unbound Adeline, who ſhrieked, though invo⯑luntarily and in vain, as he took her from the horſe. The door opened upon a narrow paſ⯑ſage, dimly lighted by a lamp, which hung at the farther end. He led her on; they came to another door; it opened and diſcloſed a magni⯑ficent ſaloon, ſplendidly illuminated, and fitted up in the moſt airy and elegant taſte.

The walls were painted in freſco, repreſent⯑ing ſcenes from Ovid, and hung above with ſilk drawn up in feſtoons and richly fringed. The [262] ſofas were of a ſilk to ſuit the hangings. From the centre of the ceiling, which exhibited a ſcene from the Armida of Taſſo, deſcended a ſil⯑ver lamp of Etruſcan form: it diffuſed a blaze of light, that, reflected from large pier glaſſes, completely illuminated the ſaloon. Buſts of Ho⯑race, Ovid, Anacreon, Tibullus, and Petro⯑nius Arbiter, adorned the receſſes, and ſtands of flowers, placed in Etruſcan vaſes, breathed the moſt delicious perfume. In the middle of the apartment ſtood a ſmall table, ſpread with a col⯑lation of fruits, ices, and liquors. No perſon appeared. The whole ſeemed the works of enchantment, and rather reſembled the palace of a fairy than any thing of human conforma⯑tion.

Adeline was aſtoniſhed, and inquired where ſhe was, but the man refuſed to anſwer her queſtions, and, having deſired her to take ſome ſome refreſhment, left her. She walked to the windows, from which a gleam of moon-light diſcovered to her an extenſive garden, where groves and lawns, and water glittering in the moon-beam, compoſed a ſcenery of varied and romantic beauty. ‘"What can this mean!"’ ſaid ſhe: ‘"Is this a charm to lure me to de⯑ſtruction?"’ She endeavoured, with a hope of eſcaping, to open the windows, but they were all faſtened; ſhe next attempted ſeveral doors, and found them alſo ſecured.

[263] Perceiving all chance of eſcape was removed, ſhe remained for ſome time given up to ſorrow and reflection; but was at length drawn from her reverie by the notes of ſoft muſic, breath⯑ing ſuch dulcet and entrancing ſounds, as ſuſ⯑pended grief, and waked the ſoul to tenderneſs and penſive pleaſure. Adeline liſtened in ſur⯑prize, and inſenſibly became ſoothed and inte⯑reſted; a tender melancholy ſtole upon her heart, and ſubdued every harſher feeling: but the moment the ſtrain ceaſed, the enchantment diſſolved, and ſhe returned to a ſenſe of her ſi⯑tuation.

Again the muſic ſounded—‘"muſic ſuch as charmeth ſleep"’ and again ſhe gradually yielded to its ſweet magic. A female voice, accompa⯑nied by a lute, a hautboy, and a few other in⯑ſtruments, now gradually ſwelled into a tone ſo exquiſite, as raiſed attention into ecſtacy. It ſunk by degrees, and touched a few ſimple notes with pathetic ſoftneſs, when the meaſure was ſuddenly changed, and in a gay and airy melody Adeline diſtinguiſhed the following words:

The muſic ceaſed, but the ſound ſtill vibra⯑ted on her imagination, and ſhe was ſunk in the pleaſing languor they had inſpired, when the door opened, and the Marquis de Montalt ap⯑peared. He approached the ſofa where Ade⯑line ſat, and addreſſed her, but ſhe heard not his voice—ſhe had fainted. He endeavoured to recover her, and at length ſucceeded; but when ſhe uncloſed her eyes, and again beheld him, ſhe relapſed into a ſtate of inſenſibility, and having in vain tried various methods to reſtore her, he was obliged to call aſſiſtance. Two young women entered, and, when ſhe began to revive, he left them to prepare her for his re⯑appearance. When Adeline perceived that the Marquis was gone, and that ſhe was in the care of women, her ſpirits gradually returned; ſhe looked at her attendants, and was ſurpri⯑ſed to ſee ſo much elegance and beauty.

Some endeavour ſhe made to intereſt their pity, but they ſeemed wholly inſenſible to her [265] diſtreſs, and began to talk of the Marquis in terms of the higheſt admiration. They aſſured her it would be her own fault if ſhe was not happy, and adviſed her to appear ſo in his pre⯑ſence. It was with the utmoſt difficulty that Adeline forbore to expreſs the diſdain which was riſing to her lips, and that ſhe liſtened to their diſcourſe in ſilence. But ſhe ſaw the inconveni⯑ence and fruitleſſneſs of oppoſition, and ſhe com⯑manded her feelings.

They were thus proceeding in their praiſes of the Marquis, when he himſelf appeared, and, waving his hand, they immediately quitted the apartment. Adeline beheld him with a kind of mute deſpair, while he approached and took her hand, while ſhe haſtily withdrew, and turning from him with a look of unutterable diſtreſs, burſt into tears. He was for ſome time ſilent, and appeared ſoftened by her anguiſh. But again approaching, and addreſſing her in a gentle voice, he entreated her pardon for the ſtep, which deſpair, and, as he called it, love had prompted. She was too much abſorbed in grief to reply, till he ſolicited a return of his love, when her ſorrow yielded to indignation, and ſhe reproached him with his conduct. He pleaded that he had long loved and ſought her upon ho⯑nourable terms, and his offer of thoſe terms he began to repeat, but, raiſing his eyes towards Adeline, he ſaw in her looks the contempt which he was conſcious he deſerved.

[266] For a moment he was confuſed, and ſeemed to underſtand both that his plan was diſcovered and his perſon deſpiſed; but ſoon reſuming his uſual command of feature, he again preſſed his ſuit, and ſolicited her love [...] A little reflection ſhewed Adeline the danger of exaſperating his pride, by an avowal of the contempt which his pretended offer of marriage excited; and ſhe thought it not improper, upon an occaſion in which the honour and peace of her life was con⯑cerned, to yield ſomewhat to the policy of diſſi⯑mulation. She ſaw that her only chance of eſ⯑caping his deſigns depended upon delaying them, and ſhe now wiſhed him to believe her ignorant that the Marchioneſs was living, and that his of⯑fers were deluſive.

He obſerved her pauſe, and, in the eagerneſs to turn her heſitation to his advantage, renewed his propoſal with increaſed vehemence.—‘"To⯑morrow ſhall unite us, lovely Adeline; to⯑morrow you ſhall conſent to become the Marchioneſs de Montalt. You will then re⯑turn my love and"—’

‘"You muſt firſt deſerve my eſteem, my Lord."’

‘"I will—I do deſerve it. Are you not now in my power, and do I not forbear to take advantage of your ſituation? Do I not make you the moſt honourable propoſals?"—’Ade⯑line ſhuddered: ‘"If you wiſh I ſhould eſteem you, my Lord, endeavour, if poſſible, to [267] me forget by what means I came into your power; if your views, are, indeed, honour⯑able, prove them ſo by releaſing me from my confinement."’

‘"Can you then wiſh, lovely Adeline, to fly from him who adores you?"’ replied the Mar⯑quis, with a ſtudied air of tenderneſs. ‘"Why will you exact ſo ſevere a proof of my diſin⯑tereſtedneſs, a diſintereſtedneſs which is not con⯑ſiſtent with love? No, charming Adeline, let me at leaſt have the pleaſure of beholding you, till the bonds of the church ſhall remove every ob⯑cle to my love. To-morrow"—’

Adeline ſaw the danger to which ſhe was now expoſed, and interrupted him. ‘"Deſerve my eſteem, Sir, and then you will obtain it: as a firſt ſtep towards which, liberate me from a confinement that obliges me to look on you only with terror and averſion. How can I believe your profeſſions of love, while you ſhew that you have no intereſt in my happineſs?"’ Thus did Adeline, to whom the arts and the practice of diſſimulation were hitherto equally unknown, condeſcend to make uſe of them in diſguiſing her indignation and contempt. But though theſe arts were adopted only for the purpoſe of ſelf-preſervation, ſhe uſed them with reluctance, and almoſt with ab⯑horrence; for her mind was habitually impreg⯑nated with the love of virtue, in thought, word, and action, and, while her end in uſing [268] them was certainly good, ſhe ſcarcely thought that end could juſtify the means.

The Marquis perſiſted in his ſophiſtry. ‘"Can you doubt the reality of that love, which, to obtain you, has urged me to riſque your diſpleaſure? But have I not conſulted your happineſs, even in the very conduct which you condemn? I have removed you from a ſolitary and deſolate ruin to a gay and ſplendid villa, where every luxury is at your command, and where every perſon ſhall be obedient to your wiſhes."’

‘"My firſt wiſh is to go hence,"’ ſaid Ade⯑line; ‘"I entreat, I conjure you, my Lord, no longer to detain me. I am a friendleſs and wretched orphan, expoſed to many evils, and, I fear, abandoned to misfortune: I do not wiſh to be rude; but allow me to ſay, that no miſery can exceed that I ſhall feet in remaining here, or, indeed, in being any where purſued by the offers you make me!"’ Adeline had now forgot her policy: tears prevented her from proceeding, and ſhe turned away her face to hide her emotion.

‘"By Heaven! Adeline, you do me wrong,"’ ſaid the Marquis, riſing from his ſeat, and ſeiz⯑ing her hand; ‘"I love, I adore you; yet you doubt my paſſion, and are inſenſible to my vows. Every pleaſure poſſible to be enjoyed within theſe walls you ſhall partake, but be⯑yond them you ſhall not go."’ She diſen⯑gaged [269] her hand, and in ſilent anguiſh walked to a diſtant part of the ſaloon; deep ſighs burſt from her heart, and, almoſt fainting, ſhe leaned on a window-frame for ſupport.

The Marquis followed her; ‘"Why [...] obſtinately perſiſt in refuſing to be happy?"’ ſaid he; ‘"recollect the propoſal I have made you, and accept it, while it is yet in your power. To-morrow a prieſt ſhall join our hands—Surely, being, as you are, in my power, it muſt be your intereſt to conſent to this?"’ Adeline could anſwer only by tears; ſhe deſpaired of ſoftening his heart to pity, and feared to exaſperate his pride by diſdain. He now led her, and ſhe ſuffered him, to a ſeat near the banquet, at which he preſſed her to partake of a variety of confectionaries, par⯑ticularly of ſome liquors, of which he him⯑ſelf drank freely: Adeline accepted only of a peach

And now the Marquis, who interpreted her ſilence into a ſecret compliance with his pro⯑poſal, reſumed all his gaiety and ſpirit, while the long and ardent regards he beſtowed on Adeline, overcame her with confuſion and in⯑dignation. In the midſt of the banquet, ſoft muſic again ſounded the moſt tender and im⯑paſſioned airs; but its effect on Adeline was now loſt, her mind being too much embarraſſed and diſtreſſed by the preſence of the Marquis, to admit even the ſoothings of harmony. A [270] ſong was now heard, written with that ſort of impotent art, by which ſome voluptuous poets believe they can at once conceal and recom⯑mend the principles of vice. Adeline received it with contempt and diſpleaſure, and the Mar⯑quis, perceiving its effect, preſently made a ſign for another compoſition, which, adding the force of poetry to the charms of muſic, might withdraw her mind from the preſent ſcene, and enchant it in ſweet delirium.

[272]When the voice ceaſed, a mournful ſtrain, played with exquiſite expreſſion, ſounded from a diſtant horn; ſometimes the notes floated on the air in ſoft undulations—now they ſwelled into full and ſweeping melody, and now died faintly into ſilence: when again they roſe and trembled in ſounds ſo ſweetly tender, as drew tears from Adeline, and exclamations of rap⯑ture from the Marquis; he threw his arm round her, and would have preſſed her towards him, but ſhe liberated herſelf from his em⯑brace, and with a look, on which was impreſſed the firm dignity of virtue, yet touched with ſorrow, ſhe awed him to forbearance. Con⯑ſcious of a ſuperiority, which he was aſhamed to acknowledge, and endeavouring to deſpiſe the influence which he could not reſiſt, he ſtood for a moment the ſlave of virtue, though the votary of vice. Soon, however, he recovered his confidence, and began to plead his love; when Adeline, no longer animated by the ſpirit ſhe had lately ſhewn, and ſinking beneath the languor and fatigue which the various and vio⯑lent agitations of her mind produced, entreated he would leave her to repoſe.

The paleneſs of her countenance, and the tremulous tone of her voice, were too expreſ⯑ſive to be miſunderſtood; and the Marquis, bidding her remember to-morrow, with ſome heſitation, withdrew. The moment ſhe was alone, ſhe yielded to the burſting anguiſh of [273] her heart, and was ſo abſorbed in grief, that it was ſome time before ſhe perceived ſhe was in the preſence of the young women, who had lately attended her, and had entered the ſaloon ſoon after the Marquis quitted it: they came to conduct her to her chamber. She followed them for ſome time in ſilence, till, prompted by deſperation, ſhe again endeavoured to awaken their compaſſion: but again the praiſes of the Marquis were repeated, and perceiving that all attempts to intereſt them in her favour were in vain, ſhe diſmiſſed them. She ſecured the door through which they had departed, and then, in the languid hope of diſcovering ſome means of eſcape, ſhe ſurveyed her chamber. The airy elegance with which it was fitted up, and the luxurious accommodations with which it abound⯑ed, ſeemed deſigned to faſcinate the imagination, and to ſeduce the heart. The hangings were of ſtraw-coloured ſilk, adorned with a variety of landſcapes and hiſtorical paintings, the ſub⯑jects of which partook of the voluptuous cha⯑racter of the owner; the chimney-piece, of Parian marble, was ornamented with ſeveral repoſing figures from the antique The bed was of ſilk the colour of the hangings, richly fringed with purple and ſilver, and the head made in form of a canopy. The ſteps, which were placed near the bed to aſſiſt in aſcending it, were ſupported by Cupids, apparently of ſolid ſilver. China vaſes, filled with perſume, ſtood in ſe⯑veral [274] of the receſſes, upon ſtands of the ſame ſtructure as the toilet, which was magnificent, and ornamented with a variety of trinkets.

Adeline threw a tranſient look upon theſe various objects, and proceeded to examine the windows, which deſcended to the floor, and opened into balconies towards the garden ſhe had ſeen from the ſaloon. They were now faſtened, and her efforts to move them were ineffectual; at length ſhe gave up the attempt. A door next attracted her notice, which ſhe found was not faſtened; it opened upon a dreſſing cloſet, to which ſhe deſcended by a few ſteps: two windows appeared, ſhe haſtened towards them; one refuſed to yield, but her heart beat with ſudden joy when the other opened to her touch.

In the tranſport of the moment, ſhe forgot that its diſtance from the ground might yet deny the eſcape ſhe meditated. She returned to lock the door of the cloſet, to prevent a ſur⯑prize, which, however, was unneceſſary, that of the bed-room being already ſecured. She now looked out from the window; the garden lay before her, and ſhe perceived that the win⯑dow, which deſcended to the floor, was ſo near the ground, that ſhe might jump from it with eaſe: almoſt in the moment ſhe perceived this, ſhe ſprang forward and alighted ſafely in an extenſive garden, reſembling more an Engliſh [275] pleaſure ground, than a ſeries of French parterres.

Thence ſhe had little doubt of eſcaping, either by ſome broken fence, or low part of the wall; ſhe tripped lightly along, for hope played round her heart. The clouds of the late ſtorm were now diſperſed, and the moon⯑light, which ſlept on the lawns and ſpangled the flowerets, yet heavy with rain-drops, af⯑forded her a diſtinct view of the ſurrounding ſcenery: ſhe followed the direction of the high wall that adjoined the chateau, till it was con⯑cealed from her ſight by a thick wilderneſs, ſo entangled with boughs and obſcured by dark⯑neſs, that ſhe feared to enter, and turned aſide into a walk on the right; it conducted her to the margin of a lake overhung with lofty trees.

The moon-beams dancing upon the waters, that with gentle undulation played along the ſhore, exhibited a ſcene of tranquil beauty, which would have ſoothed an heart leſs agitated than was that of Adeline: ſhe ſighed as ſhe tranſiently ſurveyed it, and paſſed haſtily on in ſearch of the garden wall, from which ſhe had now ſtrayed a conſiderable way. After wan⯑dering for ſome time through alleys and over lawns, without meeting with any thing like a boundary to the grounds, ſhe again found her⯑ſelf at the lake, and now traverſed its border with the footſteps of deſpair:—tears rolled down her cheeks. The ſcene around exhibited only [276] images of peace and delight; every object ſeemed to repoſe; not a breath waved the foliage, not a ſound ſtole through the air: it was in her boſom only that tumult and diſtreſs prevailed. She ſtill purſued the windings of the ſhore, till an opening in the woods con⯑ducted her up a gentle aſcent: the path now wound along the ſide of a hill, where the gloom was ſo deep, that it was with ſome difficulty ſhe found her way: ſuddenly, however, the avenue opened to a lofty grove, and ſhe per⯑ceived a light iſſue from a receſs at ſome diſtance.

She pauſed, and her firſt impulſe was to re⯑treat, but liſtening and hearing no ſound, a faint hope beamed upon her mind, that the perſon to whom the light belonged, might be won to favour her eſcape. She advanced, with trembling and cautious ſteps, towards the re⯑ceſs, that ſhe might ſecretly obſerve the per⯑ſon, before ſhe ventured to enter it. Her emotion increaſed as ſhe approached, and hav⯑ing reached the bower, ſhe beheld, through an open window, the Marquis, reclining on a ſofa, near which ſtood a table, covered with fruit and wine. He was alone, and his coun⯑tenance was fluſhed with drinking.

While ſhe gazed, fixed to the ſpot by terror, he looked up towards the caſement; the light gleamed ſull upon her face, but ſhe ſtayed not to learn whether he had obſerved her, for, with the ſwiftneſs of ſound, ſhe left the place [277] and ran, without knowing whether ſhe was purſued. Having gone a conſiderable way, fatigue, at length, compelled her to ſtop, and ſhe threw herſelf upon the turf, almoſt fainting with fear and languor. She knew if the Mar⯑quis detected her in an attempt to eſcape, he would, probably, burſt the bounds which he had hitherto preſcribed to himſelf, and that ſhe had the moſt dreadful evils to expect. The palpitations of terror were ſo ſtrong, that ſhe could with difficulty breathe.

She watched and liſtened in trembling ex⯑pectation, but no form met her eye, no ſound her ear; in this ſtate ſhe remained a conſiderable time. She wept, and the tears ſhe ſhed re⯑lieved her oppreſſed heart. ‘"O my father!"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"why did you abandon your child? If you knew the dangers to which you have expoſed her, you would, ſurely, pity and relieve her. Alas! ſhall I never find a friend; am I deſtined ſtill to truſt and be deceived?—Peter too, could he be treache⯑rous?"’ She wept again, and then returned to a ſenſe of her preſent danger, and to a con⯑ſideration of the means of eſcaping it—but no means appeared.

To her imagination the grounds were bound⯑leſs; ſhe had wandered from lawn to lawn, and from grove to grove, without perceiving any termination to the place; the garden wall ſhe could not find, but ſhe reſolved neither to [278] return to the chateau, nor to relinquiſh her ſearch. As ſhe was riſing to depart, ſhe per⯑ceived a ſhadow move along at ſome diſtance; ſhe ſtood ſtill to obſerve it. It ſlowly advanced and then diſappeared, but preſently ſhe ſaw a perſon emerge from the gloom, and approach the ſpot where ſhe ſtood. She had no doubt that the Marquis had obſerved her, and ſhe ran with all poſſible ſpeed to the ſhade of ſome woods on the left. Footſteps purſued her, and ſhe heard her name repeated, while ſhe in vain endeavoured to quicken her pace.

Suddenly the ſound of purſuit turned, and ſunk away in a different direction: ſhe pauſed to take breath; ſhe looked around and no perſon appeared. She now proceeded ſlowly along the avenue, and had almoſt reached its termination, when ſhe ſaw the ſame figure emerge from the woods and dart acroſs the avenue; it inſtantly purſued her and approached. A voice called her, but ſhe was gone beyond its reach, for ſhe had ſunk ſenſeleſs upon the ground: it was long before ſhe revived, when ſhe did, ſhe found herſelf in the arms of a ſtranger, and made an effort to diſengage herſelf.

‘"Fear nothing, lovely Adeline,"’ ſaid he, ‘"fear nothing: you are in the arms of a friend, who will encounter any hazard for your ſake; who will protect you with his life."’ He preſſed her gently to his heart. ‘"Have you then forgot me?"’ continued he. She looked earneſtly at him, and was now convinced that it [279] was Theodore who ſpoke. Joy was her firſt emotion; but recollecting his former abrupt departure, at a time ſo critical to her ſafety, and that he was the friend of the Marquis, a thouſand mingled ſenſations ſtruggled in her breaſt, overwhelmed her with miſtruſt, appre⯑henſion and diſappointment.

Theodore raiſed her from the ground, and while he yet ſupported her, ‘"Let us immedi⯑ately fly from this place,"’ ſaid he; ‘"a car⯑riage waits to receive us; it ſhall go where⯑ever you direct, and convey you to your friends."’ This laſt ſentence touched her heart: ‘"Alas, I have no friends!"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"nor do I know whither to go."’ Theodore gently preſſed her hand between his, and, in a voice of the ſofteſt compaſſion, ſaid, ‘"My friends then ſhall be yours; ſuffer me to lead you to them. But I am in agony while you remain in this place; let us haſten to quit it."’ Adeline was going to reply, when voices were heard among the trees, and Theodore, ſupport⯑ing her with his arm, hurried her along the ave⯑nue: they continued their flight till Adeline, panting for breath, could go no farther.

Having pauſed a while, and heard no footſteps in purſuit, they renewed their courſe: Theodore knew that they were now not far from the gar⯑den wall; but he was alſo aware, that in the intermediate ſpace ſeveral paths wound from re⯑mote parts of the grounds into the walk he was [280] to paſs, from whence the Marquis's people might iſſue and intercept him. He, however, concealed his apprehenſions from Adeline, and endeavoured to ſoothe and ſupport her ſpirits.

At length they reached the wall, and Theo⯑dore was leading her towards a low part of it, near which ſtood the carriage, when again they heard voices in the air. Adeline's ſpirits and ſtrength were nearly exhauſted, but ſhe made a laſt effort to proceed, and ſhe now ſaw the ladder at ſome diſtance by which Theodore had deſcended to the garden. ‘"Exert yourſelf yet a little longer,"’ ſaid he, ‘"and you will be in ſafety."’ He held the ladder while ſhe aſ⯑cended; the top of the wall was broad and level, and Adeline, having reached it, remained there till Theodore followed and drew the ladder to the other ſide.

When they had deſcended, the carriage ap⯑peared in waiting, but without the driver. Theodore feared to call, left his voice ſhould betray him; he, therefore, put Adeline into the carriage, and went himſelf in ſearch of the poſtillion, whom he found aſleep under a tree at ſome diſtance; having awakened him, they re⯑turned to the vehicle, which ſoon drove furi⯑ouſly away. Adeline did not yet dare to believe herſelf ſafe, but after proceeding a conſiderable time without interruption, joy burſt upon her heart, and ſhe thanked her deliverer in terms of the warmeſt gratitude. The ſympathy ex⯑preſſed [281] in the tone of his voice and manner, pro⯑ved that his happineſs, on this occaſion, almoſt equalled her own.

As reflection gradually ſtole upon her mind, anxiety ſuperſeded joy: in the tumult of the late moments, ſhe thought only of eſcape, but the circumſtances of her preſent ſituation now ap⯑peared to her, and ſhe became ſilent and penſive: ſhe had no friends to whom ſhe could fly, and was going with a young Chevalier, almoſt a ſtranger to her, ſhe knew not whither. She re⯑membered how often ſhe had been deceived and betrayed where ſhe truſted moſt, and her ſpi⯑rits ſunk: ſhe remembered alſo the former at⯑tention which Theodore had ſhewn her, and dreaded leſt his conduct might be prompted by a ſelfiſh paſſion. She ſaw this to be poſſible, but ſhe diſdained to believe it probable, and felt that nothing could give her greater pain than to doubt the integrity of Theodore.

He interrupted her reverie, by recurring to her late ſituation at the abbey. ‘"You would be much ſurprized,"’ ſaid he ‘"and, I fear, of⯑fended, that I did not attend my appointment at the abbey, after the alarming hints I had given you in our laſt interview. That cir⯑cumſtance has, perhaps, injured me in your eſteem, if, indeed, I was ever ſo happy as to poſſeſs it: but my deſigns were over-ruled by thoſe of the Marquis de Montalt; and I think I may venture to aſſert, that my diſtreſs upon [282] this occaſion was, at leaſt, equal to your ap⯑prehenſions."’

Adeline ſaid, ‘"She had been much alarmed by the hints he had given her, and by his failing to afford farther information, concer⯑ning the ſubject of her danger; and"—’She checked the ſentence that hung upon her lips, for ſhe perceived that ſhe was unwarily betray⯑ing the intereſt he held in her heart. There were a few moments of ſilence, and neither party ſeemed perfectly at eaſe. Theodore, at length, renewed the converſation: ‘"Suffer me to acquaint you,"’ ſaid he, ‘"with the cir⯑cumſtances that withheld me from the inter⯑view I ſolicited; I am anxious to exculpate myſelf."’ Without waiting her reply, he proceeded to inform her, that the Marquis had, by ſome inexplicable means, learned or ſuſ⯑pected the ſubject of their laſt converſation, and, perceiving his deſigns were in danger of being counteracted, had taken effectual means to prevent her obtaining farther intelligence of them. Adeline immediately recollected that Theodore and herſelf had been ſeen in the fo⯑reſt by La Motte, who had, no doubt, ſuſpected their growing intimacy, and had taken care to inform the Marquis how likely he was to find a rival in his friend.

‘"On the day following that, on which I laſt ſaw you,"’ ſaid Theodore, ‘"the Marquis, who is my colonel, commanded me to pre⯑pare [283] to attend my regiment, and appointed the following morning for my journey. This ſudden order gave me ſome ſurprize, but I was not long in doubt concerning the motive for it: a ſervant of the Marquis, who had been long attached to me, entered my room ſoon after I had left his Lord, and expreſſing concern at my abrupt departure, dropped ſome hints reſpecting it, which excited my ſurprize. I inquired farther, and was con⯑firmed in the ſuſpicions I had for ſome time entertained of the Marquis's deſigns upon you.’

‘"Jacques farther informed me, that our late interview had been noticed and communicated to the Marquis. His information had been obtained from a fellow ſervant, and it alarmed me ſo much, than I engaged him to ſend me intelligence from time to time, concerning the proceedings of the Marquis. I now looked forward to the evening which would bring me again to your preſence with increaſed impatience: but the ingenuity of the Marquis effectually counteracted my endeavours and wiſhes: he had made an engagement to paſs the day at the villa of a nobleman ſome leagues diſtant, and, notwithſtanding all the excuſes I could offer, I was obliged to attend him. Thus compelled to obey, I paſſed a day of more agitation and anxiety than I had ever before experienced. It was midnight before [284] we returned to the Marquis's chateau. I aroſe early in the morning to commence my journey, and reſolved to ſeek an interview with you before I left the province.’

‘"When I entered the breakfaſt room, I was much ſurprized to find the Marquis there al⯑ready, who, commending the beauty of the morning, declared his intention of accompa⯑nying me as far as Chineau. Thus unexpec⯑tedly deprived of my laſt hope, my counte⯑nance, I believe, expreſſed what I felt, for the ſcrutinizing eye of the Marquis inſtantly changed from ſeeming careleſſneſs to diſplea⯑ſure. The diſtance from Chineau to the ab⯑bey was, at leaſt, twelve leagues; yet I had once ſome intention of returning from thence, when the Marquis ſhould leave me, till I recollected the very remote chance there would even then be of ſeeing you alone, and alſo, that if I was obſerved by La Motte, it would awaken all his ſuſpicions, and cau⯑tion him againſt any future plan I might ſee it expedient to attempt: I, therefore, pro⯑ceeded to join my regiment.’

‘"Jacques ſent me frequent accounts of the operations of the Marquis, but his manner of relating them was ſo very confuſed, that they only ſerved to perplex and diſtreſs me. His laſt letter, however, alarmed me ſo much, that my reſidence in quarters became intolera⯑ble; and, as I found it impoſſible to obtain [285] leave of abſence, I ſecretly left the regiment, and concealed myſelf in a cottage about a mile from the chateau, that I might obtain the earlieſt intelligence of the Marquis's plans. Jacques brought me daily information, and, at laſt, an account of the horrible plot which was laid for the following night.’

‘"I ſaw little probability of warning you of your danger. If I ventured near the abbey, La Motte might diſcover me, and fruſtrate every attempt on my part to ſave you: yet I determined to encounter this riſk for the chance of ſeeing you, and towards evening I was preparing to ſet out for the foreſt, when Jacques arrived and informed me, that you was to be brought to the chateau. My plan was thus rendered leſs difficult. I learned alſo, that the Marquis, by means of thoſe refinements in luxury, with which he is but too well acquainted, deſigned, now that his apprehenſion of loſing you was no more, to ſeduce you to his wiſhes, and impoſe upon you by a fictitious marriage. Having ob⯑tained information concerning the ſituation of the room allotted you, I ordered a chaiſe to be in waiting, and with a deſign of ſcaling your window, and conducting you thence, I entered the garden at midnight."’

Theodore having ceaſed to ſpeak, ‘"I know not how words can expreſs my ſenſe of the obligations I owe you,"’ ſaid Adeline, ‘"or my gratitude for your generoſity."’

[286] ‘"Ah! call it not generoſity,"’ he replied, ‘"it was love."’ He pauſed. Adeline was ſilent. After ſome moments of expreſſive emotion, he reſumed; ‘"But pardon this abrupt declara⯑tion; yet why do I call it abrupt, ſince my actions have already diſcloſed what my lips have never, till this inſtant, ventured to ac⯑knowledge."’ He pauſed again. Adeline was ſtill ſilent. ‘"Yet do me the juſtice to be⯑lieve, that I am ſenſible of the impropriety of pleading my love at preſent, and have been ſurprized into this confeſſion. I promiſe alſo to forbear from a renewal of the ſubject, till you are placed in a ſituation, where you may freely accept or refuſe, the ſincere regards I offer you. If I could, however, now be certain that I poſſeſs your eſteem, it would relieve me from much anxiety."’

Adeline felt ſurprized that he ſhould doubt her eſteem for him, after the ſignal and gene⯑rous ſervice he had rendered her; but ſhe was not yet acquainted with the timidity of love. ‘"Do you then,"’ ſaid ſhe, in a tremulous voice, ‘"believe me ungrateful? It is impoſſible I can conſider your friendly interference in my be⯑half without eſteeming you."’ Theodore im⯑mediately took her hand and preſſed it to his lips in ſilence. They were both too much agitated to converſe, and continued to travel for ſome miles without exchanging a word.