A 518686 1837 SCIENTIA ARTES humi MILITI WWWWWWW LIBRARY VERITAS OF THE NIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN ATTITAITHTITUTIOUNTINUTTTTTTTTTTTTT PLURIBUS LITHIUTUNUM LOSOSODO m a 'S! QUAS QUAERIS-PENINSULAM AMOENAN CIRCUMSPICE MinniMTUi NI CUVALUUU....DU O .0.0.VOMOTO0.010.02. IIIIIIIII ..... ece WIG U NIT INUNWANAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW SWIVNIMUMMON LIITIL 828 Rollse 1792 AN P THE . Romance of the Foreft: INTERSPERSED ON 165265- INTERSPERSED WITH SOME PIECES OF POETRY. Ere the bat hath flown « His cloiſter'd Right ; ere to black Hecate's ſummons, “ The ſhard-born beetle, with his drowſy hums, “ Hath rung night's yawning peal, there ſhall be done 6 A deed of dreadful note.” MACBETH. IN THREE VOLUME S. VOL. II. THE SECOND EDITION. BY ANN RADCLIFFE, AUTHOR OF “ A SICILIAN ROMANCE,” &c. . LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. HOOKHAM AND J. CARPINTIR, NIW AND OLD BOND STRDIT. M.DCC.XCII. THE ROMANCE OF THE R E F O S T. CHAPTER VII. " When theſe prodigies Do ſo conjointly meet, let not men ſay, Theſe are their reaſons; they are natural; For I believe they are portentous things." JULIUS CÆSAR. > W HEN Adeline appeared at break- faſt, her harraſſed and languid counte- nance ſtruck Madame 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 VOL. II. B diſturbed WOL diſturbed dreams: ſhe was about to de- ſcribe them, but a ſtrong and involun- tary impulſe prevented her. At the ſame time, La Motte ridiculed her concern ſo unmercifully, that ſhe was almoſt aſha- med 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 in- formation to be communicated to her by Theodore. They had thus ſat for ſome time, 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, es - [ 3 ] - - --- - -- - - - -- -- -.- anxiety, till the Marquis entered the hall with La Motte, and ſome other per- ſons, ſoon after which Madame went to receive him, and Adeline reired to her own apartment. A meſſage from La Motte, however, foon called her to join the party, where the vainly hoped to find Theodore. The Marquis aroſe as ſhe approached, and, having paid her ſome general com- pliments, the converſation took a very lively turn. Adeline, finding it impoffi- ble to counterfeit cheerſulneſs, while her heart was finking with anxiety and diſ- appointment, took little part in it: Theo. dore was not once named. She would have aſked concerning him, had it been poſſible to inquire with propriety; but The was obliged to content herſelf with hoping, firſt, that he would arrive before dinner, and then before the departure of the Marquis. . Thus the day paſſed in expectation and diſappointment. The evening was now B 2 approach- S [ 4 ] approaching, and ſhe was condemned to remain in the preſence of the Marquis, appar ntly liſtening to a converſation, which, in truth, ſhe ſcarcely heard, while the opportunity was, perhaps, eſcaping that would decide her fate. She was ſuddenly relieved from this ſtate of tor- ture, and thrown into one, if poſſible, Itill more diſtreſſing. The Marquis inquired for Louis, and being informed of his departure, men- tioned that Theodore Peyrou had that morning ſet out for his regiment in a diſtant province. He lamented the loſs he ſhould ſuſtain by his abſence; and ex- prefied ſome very flattering praiſe of his talents. The ſhock of this intelligence overpowered the long-agitated ſpirits of Adeline; the blood forſook her cheeks, and a ſudden faintneſs came over her, from which ſhe recovered only to a con- ſciouſneſs of having betrayed her emo- tion, and the danger of relapfing into a fecond fit. She [5 ] She retired to her chamber, where, being once more alone, her oppreſſed heart found relief from tears, in whiclı fhe freely indulged. Heas crowded fi faſt upon her mind, that it was long ere fhe could arrange them ſo as to produce any thing like reatoning. She endea- voured to account for the abrupt depar- ture of Theodore. “Is it poſlille," ſaid ſhe, “ that he ſhould take an intereſt in “ my welfare, and yet leave me expoſed “ to the full force of a danger which 6 he himſelf foreſaw? Or am I to be- “ lieve that he has trified with my fim- • plicity for an idle frolic, and has no v or left me to the wondering apprehenfion “ he has raiſed ? Impoſſible! a counte. e nance ſo noble, and manners ſo ania- " ble, could never diſguiſe a heart ca- “ pable of forming ſo deſpicable a de- « ſign. No!-whatever is reſerved for “ me, let me not relinquith the pleaſure .66 of believing that he is worthy of my “ eſteem.” B 3 She [7 ] ment to che Marquis, and that of Louis to (wo of his ſuperior attendants ; Adeline, it was farther ſettled, ſhould give up her room to Monſieur and Madame La Motte, and remove to an inner chanber, where a ſmall bed, uſually occupied by Annette, was placed for her. · At fupper, the Marquis was leſs gay than uſual; he frequently addreſſed Ade- line, and his look and manner ſeemed to expreſs the tender intereſt which her in- diſpoſition, 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 cheerfulneſs was too thin to conceal the features of ſorrow; and her feeble fruiles only added a peculiar ſoftneſs to her air. The Marquis converſed with her on a variety of ſubjects, and diſplayed an ele- gant mind. The obſervations of Ade- line, which, when called upon, ſhe gave fimple and forceful, ſeemed to excite his admira- B 4 [ 8 ] admiration, which he ſometimes betrayed by an apparently inadvertent expreſſion. · Adeline retired early to her room, which adjoined on one ſide to Madame La Motte's, and on the other to the clo- fit 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 cir- cumſtances to give that air of melan- choly which ſeemed to reign in it. She was unwilling to go to bed, left the dreams that had lately purſued her ſhould return; and determined to fit up till the found herſelf oppreſſed by fleep, when it was probable her reſt would be profound. She placed the light on a ſmall table, and, taking a book, continued to read for above an hour, till her mind refuſed any longer to abſtract itſelf from its own Cares, and ſhe fat for ſome time leaning penſively on her arm. The wind was high, and as it whiſtled through [ 9 ] through the deſolate apartment, ans' ſhook the feeble doors, the often ſtarted, and formetimes even thought the heard fighs in the pasſes of the guſt; but The checked there illuſions, which the hour of the night and her own ine- lancholy iin iginition conſpired to raiſe. As ſhe ſat muling, her eyes fixed on the oppoſite wall, ſhe perceived the arras, wi-h which the room was bung, wave backwards and forwards; the continued to obſerve it for ſome minutes, and then roſe to examine it farther. I was moved by the wind, and the bluſhed at the mo- mentary fear it had excited: but ſhe ob- ſerved that the tapeſtry was niore ſtrongly agitated in one particular place than elſe. where, and a noiſe that ſeemed ſoinething more than that of the wind iſſued thence. The old bedstead, which La Motte had found in this apartment, had been re- moved to accommodate Adeline, and it was behind the place where this had ſtood, that the wind ſeemed to ruſh with B 5 particular [ 10 10 ] 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 diſcovered a ſmall door, whoſe looſened hinges admitted 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 : fhe inſtantly remem- bered 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 re- membrance of one through which the had pafled. Holding up the light to examine it more futly, ſhe was convin- ced by its ſtructure that it was part of the ancient foundation. A ſhattered caſe- ment, placed high from the floor, ſeem- ed to be the only opening to admit light. She obſerved a door on the oppoſite ſide of the apartment; and after ſome mo- ments u ments of heſitation, gained courage, and determined to purſue the inquiry, “A " myſtery feems to hang over theſe 66 chambers,” ſaid ſhe, “ which it is, “ perhaps, my lot to develope; I will, « at leaſt, fee to what that door leads.” She ſtepped forward, and having un- cloſed it, proceeded with faltering ſteps along a fuite of apartments, reſembling the firſt in ſtyle and condition, and ter- minating in one exactly like that where her dreain had repreſented the dying per- fon. The remembrance ſtruck ſo forcibly upon her imagination, that ſhe was in danger of fainting; and looking round the room, 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 chambers belong. ed, and that they had ſo long eſcaped B 6 detection. [ 12 I 2 ] detection. The caſements were all too high to afford any information from without. When ſhe was ſufficiently com- poſed to conſider the direction of the rooms, and the ſituation of the abbey, there appeared not a doubt that chey formed an interior part of the original building. As theſe reflections paffed over her mind, a ſudden gleam of moonlight fell upon fome object without the caſement. Being now fufficiently compoſed to wiſh to purſue the inquiry, and believing this object might afford her fome means of learning the fituation 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 before 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 wait- ing a returning gleam, but the obſcurity continued. As ihe went ſoftly back for m en 0 the [ 13 ] L-- -- --------- -- --- the light, her foot ſtumbled over ſome- thing on the floor, and while ſhe ſtooped to examine it, the moon again ſhone, ſo that ſhe could diſtinguiſh, through the cafenient, the eaſtern towers of the ab- bey. This diſcovery confirmed her for- mer conjectures concerning the interior ſituation of theſe apartments. The ob- ſcurity of the place prevented her diſco- vering what it was that had impeded her ſteps, but having brought the light for- ward, the perceived on the floor an old dagger : with a trembling hand ſhe took it up, and upon a cloſer view per- ceived that it was ſpotted and ſtained with ruſt. Shocked and ſurpriſed, he looked round the room for ſome object that might confirm or deſtroy the dreadful fufpicion which now ruſhed upon her mind; but the law only a great chair, with broken arms, that ſtood in one cor- ner of the room, and a table in à con- dition equally ſhattered, except that in another [ 14 ] another part lay a confuſed heap of things, which appeared to be old lum- ber. She went up to it, and perceived a broken bedſtead, with ſome decayed remnants of furniture, covered with duſt deed, as if they had not been moved for many years. Deſirous, however, of ex. amining 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 fome of the remaining lumber. Ade- line ſtarted aſide and ſaved herſelf, and when the noiſe it made had ceaſed, ſhe heard a ſmall ruſtling ſound, and as ſhe was about to leave the chamber, ſaw ſomething falling gently among the lum- ber. It was a ſmall roll of paper, tied with a ſtring, and covered with duft. Ade- line took it up, and on opening it per- ceived an handwriting. She attempted to read it, but the part of the manuſcript the [ 15 ] the looked at was ſo much obliterated, that ſhe found this difficult, though what few words were legible impreffed her with curioſity and terror, and induced her to return with it iminediately to her chamber. Having reached her own room, ſhe faftened the private door, and let the arras fall over it as before. It was now midnight. The ſtillneſs of the hour, in- terrupted only at intervals by the hollow fighings of the blaſt, heightened the ſo- lemnity of Adeline's feelings. She wiſhed ſhe was not alone, and before the pro- ceeded to look into the manuſcript, lif- tened whether Madame La Motte was. yet in her chamber : not the leaſt found was heard, and the gently opened the door. The profound filence within al- moſt convinced her that no perſon was there; but willing to be farther fatisfied, ſhe brought the light and found the room empty. The lateneſs of the hour made her wonder that Madame La Motte was not [ 16 ] not in her chamber, and ſhe proceeded 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 ſpeaking in his uſual tone. Being now fatisfied that all was well, the 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 66 promiſe.” “I do," replied the Marquis, “ and " I will abide by it. But we trifle. To- “ morrow I will declare myſelf, and I " Thall then know both what to hope and 6 how to act." Adeline trembled ſo exceſſively, that ſhe could ſcarcely ſup- port herſelf: ſhe wiſhed to return to her chamber; yet ſhe was too much inte- reſted in the words ſhe had heard, not to be anxious to have them more fully explained. . [ 17 ] e explained. There was an interval of ſilence, after which they converſed in a lower tone. Adeline remembered the hints of Theodore, and determined, if poſſible, 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, buç they were ſo low, that ſhe could only now and then diſtinguiſh a few words. 66 Her father, ſay you?" ſaid the Mar- quis. “Yes, my Lord, her father. I “6 am well informed of what I ſay.” Ade- line 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 " is no time to be loſt,” ſaid the Mar- quis, “ to-morrow then.”- She heard La Motte riſe, and, believing it was to leave the room, lhe hurried up the ſteps, and having reached her chainber, ſunk almot lifeleſs in a chair. [ 18 ] It was her father only of whom ſhe thought. She doubted not that he had purſued and diſcovered her retreat, and, though this conduct appeared very in- conſiſtent with his former behaviour in abandoning her to ſtrangers, lier fears fuggeſted that it would terminate in ſome new cruelty. She did not heſitate to pronounce this the danger of which The- odore had warned her; but it was ini- poſſible to ſurmiſe how he had gained his knowledge of it, or how he had be- come ſufficiently acquainted with her ſtory, except through La Motte, her apparent friend and protector, whom the was thus, though unwillingly, led to ſuf- pect of treachery. Why, indeed, ſhould La Motte conceal from her only his knowledge of her father's intention, un- leſs he deſigned to deliver her into his hands? Yet it was long ere the could bring herſelf to believe this concluſion - poſſible. To diſcover depravity in thoſe whom we have loved, is one of the moſt exquiſite [ 19 ] - - - - --- - 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 another yet more diftrefling, 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 66 human nature ?” cried ſhe. 6 Am I “ doomed to find every body deceitful?'' An unexpected diſcovery of vice in thoſe, whom we have admired, inclines us to extend our cenſure of the indivi- dual to the ſpecies; we henceforth con- temn appearances, and too haſtily con- clude 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 pro- tection. Her mind was now too much agitated, by her own intereſts, to permit he - - - - - - OV 1 OU [ 20 ] her to examine the manuſcripts, and the fat muſing in her chair, till ſhe heard the ſteps of Madame La Moite, when the retired to bed. La Motte foon after came up to his chamber, and Adeline, the mild, perſecuted Adeline, who had now paſſed two days of torturing anxie- ty, and one night of terrific viſions, en- deavoured to compoſe her mind to ſleep. İn the preſent ſtate of her ſpirits, the quickly caught alarm, and the had ſcarcely fallen into a ſlumber, when the 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 baſty knocking at the door of La Motte's chamber. La Motte, who had juſt fallen aſleep, was not eaſily to be rouled, but the knocking increaſed with ſuch violence, that Adeline, extremely terrified, aroſe and went to the door that opened from her chamber into his, with a deſign to : call [ 21 ] - - -- - Tour ne -- 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 Ma- daine 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 dreſ- ſed herſelf, as well as her trembling hands would permit, and went into the adjoining chamber, where ſhe found Ma- dame La Motte extremely ſurpriſed and terrified. The Marquis, in the mean time, told La Motte, with great agitation, that he recollected having appointed ſome per- fons to meet him upon buſineſs of im- portance, 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 alhy paleneſs of his countenance, [ 22 ] countenance, or expreſſing ſome appre- henſion that his Lordſhip was ill. The Marquis aſſured him he was perfectly well, but deſired that he might ſet out immediately. Peter was now ordered to call the other ſervants, and the Mar- quis, having refuſed to take any refreſh- ment, bade La Motte a hafty adieu, and, as ſoon as his people were ready, left the abbey. La Motte returned to his chamber, mu- fing on the abrupt departure of his gueſt, whoſe emotion appeared much too ſtrong to proceed from the cauſe aſſigned. He appeaſed the anxiety of Madame La Motte, and at the ſame time excited her ſurprize by acquainting her with the oc- caſion 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 tram- pling of horſes. It was the Marquis and his people, who juſt then paſſed at a little diſtance. Unable to diſtinguiſh who the perſons [ 23 ] perſons were, ſhe was alarmed by obferv. ing ſuch a party about the abbey at that hour, and, calling to inform La Motte of the circumſtance, was made acquaint- ed with what had paſſed At length ſhe retired to her bed, and her numbers were this night undifturbed by dreams. When ſhe aroſe in the morning, the obferved La Motte walking alone in the avenue below, and ſhe haſtened to ſeize the opportunity which now offered of pleading her cauſe. She approached him with faltering ſteps, while the pale- neſs and timidity of her countenance diſcovered the diſorder of her mind. Her firſt words, without entering upon any explanation, implored his compal- fion. La Motte ſtopped, and, looking ce ea any part of his conduct towards her me- rited the ſuſpicion which her requeſt im. plied. Adeline for a moment bluſhed that ſhe had doubted his integrity, but the [ 24 ] the words ſhe had overheard returned to her memory. “ Your behaviour, Sir,” ſaid ſhe, “I " acknowledge to have been kind and " generous, beyond what I had a right “ to expect, but" -and ſhe pauſed. She knew nöt how to mention what ſhe bluſh- ed to believe. La Motte continued to gaze on her in filent expectation, and at length deſired her to proceed and ex- plain 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 pa- “ rent, who has treated me with ſuch « cruelty as you was witneſs 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 in- tereſt his pity. “What reaſon have you. 66 to [ 25 ] “ to ſuppoſe, or, rather, how have you “ learned, that your father purſues you?" The queſtion confuſed Adeline, who bluſhed to acknowledgethat ſhe had over- heard his diſcourſe, and diſdained to in, vent, or utter a falſity: at length the confeſſed the truth. The countenance of La Motte inſtantly changed to a fa- vage fierceneſs, and, ſharply rebuking her for & conduct, to which he had been rather tempted by chance, than prompt- ed by deſign, he inquired what ſhe had overheard, that could ſo much alarm her. She faithfully repeated the ſub- ſtance 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? Examine " them, and you will find they do not “ juftify it.” · She now perceived, what the fervor of her fears had not permitted her to ob. VOL. II. ſerve [ 26 ] ſerve before, that the words, unconnect edly as ſhe heard them, imported little, and that her imagination had filled up the void in the ſentences, ſo as to ſuggeft the evil apprehended. Notwithſtanding this, her fears were little abated. “ Your so apprehenſions are, doubtleſs, now re- “ moved,” refumed La Motte; " but 66 to give you a proof of the ſincerity “ which you have ventured to queſtion, “ I will tell you they were juſt. You 66 ſeem alarmed, and with reaſon. Your “ father has diſcovered your reſidence, or and has already demanded you. It is “ true, that from a motive of compaſſion 66 I. have refuſed to reſign you, but I “ have neither authority to withhold, or “ means to defend you. When he « comes to enforce his demand, you “ will perceive this. Prepare yourſelf, 6 therefore, for the evil, which you ſee.is 66 inevitable." Adeline, for ſome time, could ſpeak only by her tears. At length, with a forti- [ 27 ] - - - - fortitude which deſpair had rouſed, The faid, “ d reſign myſelf to the will of “ Heaven!” La Motte gazed on her in 'filence, and a ſtrong emotion appeared on his countenance. He forbore, how- ever, to renew the diſcourſe, and with- drew to the abbey, leaving Adeline in che avenue, abſorbed in grief. A ſuinmons to breakfaſt haftened her to the parlour, where ſhe paſſed the morning in converſation with Madame La Motte, to whom ſhe told all her ap- prehenfions, and expreffed 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 approach- ing. Dinner; was ſcarcely over, when Adeline was ſurpriſed to fee che Mar, quis arrive. He entered the room with his uſual eaſe, and, apologizing for the C2 dif- [ 28 ] diſturbance he had occaſioned on the preceding night, repeated what he had before told La Motte. : The remembrance of the converſation The had overheard, at firſt gave Adeline fome confuſion, and withdrew her mind from a ſenſe of the evils to be apprehend- ed from her father. The Marquis, who was, as uſual, attentive to Adeline, ſeem- ed affected by her apparent indiſpoſition, and expreſſed much concern for that de- jection of fpirits, which, notwithſtanding every effort, her manner betrayed. When Madame La Motte withdrew, Adeline would have followed her, but thé Marquis entreated a few moment's attention, and led her back to her feat. La Motte immediately diſappeared. ; Adeline knew too well what would be the purport of the Marquis's diſcourſe, and his words foon increaſed the confu- fion which her fears had očcaſioned. While he was declaring the ardour of his paſſion in ſuch terms, as but too of - ten [ 29 ] . ten make vehemence paſs for fincerity; Adeline, to whom this declaration, if honourable, was diſtreſſing, and if dif- honourable, was Ihocking, interrupted him and thanked him for the offer of à diſtinction, which, with a modeſt, but determined air, ſhe ſaid ſhe muſt refuſe, She roſe to withdraw. “ Stay, too love- 66 ly Adeline!” ſaid he, " and if com- 16 paſſion for my ſufferings will not inte. G6 reſt you in my favour, allow a confi- 66 deration of your own dangers to do ſo.. " Monſieur La Motte has informed me, 46 of your misfortunes, and of the evil " that now threatens you; accept from 66 me the protection which he cannot 66 afforel." Adeline continued to move towards the door, when the Marquis threw him- ſelf at her feet, and, ſeizing her hand, impreſſed it with kiſſes. She ſtruggled to diſengage herſelf. “ Hear me, 5 charming Adeline! hear me,” cried the. Marquis; “ I exiſt but for you. 63. 6 Liften ir [ 30 ] “ Liſten to my entreaties and my fortune “ ſhall be yours. Do not drive me to “ deſpair by ill-judged rigour, or, be- " cauſe" . “ My Lord,” interrupted Adeline, with an air of ineffable dignity; and ſtill affecting to believe his propoſal honoura- ble, “ I am ſenſible of the generofity of “ your conduct, and alſo flattered by the 6 diſtinction you offer me. I will, there- « fore, ſay ſomething more than is ne- « ceſſary to a bare expreſſion of the de. « nial which I muſt continue to give. I “ can not beſtow my heart. You can not “ obtain more than my eſteem, to which, « indeed, nothing can ſo much contri- 6 bute as a forbearance from any ſimilar 66 offers in future.” . . She again attempted to go, but the Marquis prevented her, and, after ſome heſitation, again urged his fuit, though in terms that would no longer allow her to miſunderſtand him. Tears ſwelled into her eyes, but ſhe endeavoured to check 11 thein, [ 31 ] them, and with a look, in which grief and indignation ſeemed to ſtruggle for pre-eminence, 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 him- ſelf at her feet to implore forgiveneſs. But ſhe waved her hand in ſilence and hurried from the room. When the reached her chamber, the locked the door, and, finking into a chair, yielded to the forrow that preſſed at her heart. And it was not the leaſt of her forrow, to ſuſ- pect that La Motte was unworthy of her confidence; for it was almoſt impoſſible that he could be ignorant of the real de- ſigns of the Marquis. 'Madame La Motte, ſhe believed, was impoſed upon by a ſpecious pretence of honourable at-- tachment; and thus was the fpared the pang which a doubt of her integrity would have added. She threw a trembling glance upon the proſpect around her. On one ſide was C4 her [ 32 ] her father, whoſe cruelty had already been too plainly manifeſted; and on the other, the Marquis purſuing her with inſult and vicious paſſion. She reſolved to acquaint Madame La Motte with the purport of the late converſation, and, in the hope of her protection and ſympathy, The wiped away her tears, and was leav- ing the room juſt as Madame La Motte entered it. While Adeline related what had paſſed, her friend wept, and appear- ed to ſuffer great agitation. She endea- voured 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 Ma- daine, “ that our preſent circunſtances s oblige us to preſerve terms with the “ Marquis, and you will, therefore, ſuf- “ fer as little reſentment to appear in 66 your manner towards him as poſſible; “ in his preſence, and I doubt not this affair [ 33 ] .- ---.- - --------- - “: affair, will paſs over, without ſubject “ ing you to farther ſolicitation.”. « Ah, Madam!” ſaid Adeline, “how. “ hard is the taſk you afſign me! I.en-- “ treat you that I may never more be “ ſubjected to the humiliation of being: " in his preſence; that, whenever he rá viſits the abbey, I may be. ſuffered to: «. remain in my chainber." . " 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 de- “ pends upon the good-will of the Mar- « quis, which we muſt not wantonly: “ loſe; and ſurely ſuch a conduct as “ you propoſe would endanger this. Let " us uſe milder meaſures, and we ſhall « preſerve his friendſhip, without ſub- “ jeeting you to any ſerious evil. Ap- “ pear with your uſual complacence: . " the taſk is not ſo difficult as you ima.. << gine.” 65. Ades - - [ 34 ] Adeline fighed. “I obey you, Ma- « dam,” ſaid ſhe; “ it is my duty to “ do ſo; but I may be pardoned for ſay. « ingit is with extreme reluctance.” Madame La Motte promiſed to go im. mediately to her huſband, and Adeline departed, though not convinced of her ſafety, yet ſomewhat more at eaſe. She ſoon after ſaw the Marquis de- part, 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 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 feated himſelf, and addreſſed her: 56 What you have mentioned to Ma- * dame La Motte,” ſaid he, “ would “ give me much concern, did I confider “ the behaviour of the Marquis in a « light ſo ſerious as ſhe does. I know os that [ 35 ] nev 5* that young ladies are apt to miſcon- “ ftrue the unmeaning gallantry of fa- " fhionable manners, and you, Adeline, “ can never be too cautious in diſtin- út guiſhing between a levity of this kind, “ and a more ſerious addreſs.” Adeline was ſurpriſed and offended that La Motte ſhould think ſo lightly both of her underftanding and difpofi. tion as his ſpeech implied. “Is it pof- “ fible, Sir,” ſaid the, “ that you have “ been apprized of the Marquis's con- • duét ?”. “ It is very poffible, and very cer- “ tain," replied La Motte with ſome afperity; “ and very poffible, alſo, that “ I may ſee this affair with a judgement « leſs diſcoloured by prejudice than you " do. But, however, I ſhall not dif- " pute this point. I ſhall only requeſt, " that, fince you are acquainted with “ the emergency of my circumſtances, “ you will conform to them, and not, " by an ill-timed reſentment, expoſe me C.6 56. tu - - - - - - - : [ 36 ] " to the enmity of the Marquis. He is - now my friend, and it is neceſſary to “ my fafety that he ſhould continue “ 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 coni- “ plaiſance.” Adeline thought the termi rudeneſs a harſh one, as La Motte ap- plied it, but ſhe forebore from any ex- preſſion of diſpleaſure. " I could have “ wilhed, Sir,” ſaid ſhe, “ for the pri- “ vilege of retiring whenever the Mar- " quis appeared; but ſince you believe “ this conduct would affect your intereſt, “ I ought to ſubmit.” “ This prudence and good-will de- “ light me,'' ſaid La Motte, “ and ſince “ you wiſh to ſerve me, know that you 66 cannot more effectually do it, than by s treating the Marquis as a friend.” The word friend, as it ſtood connected with the Marquis, founded diffonantly to Adeline's ear; ſhe heſitated and looked at . [ 37 ] at La Motte. “ As jour friend, Sir," faid ſhe; “ I will endeavour 10”-treat him as mine, ſhe would have ſaid, but ſhe found it impoflible to finiſh the ſen. tence. She entreated his protection fion " What protetion I can afford is " your's,"faid La Motte, “but you know " how deſtitute I am both of the right " and the means of reſiſting him, and is alſo how much I require protection " myfelf. Since he has diſcovered your « retreat, he is probably not ignorant of “ the circumſtances which detain me 66 here, and if I oppoſe him, he may « betray me to the officers of the law, « as the ſureſt method of obtaining pof- “ ſeſſion of you. We are encompaſſed « with dangers," continued La Motte; 56 would I could ſee any method of ex- « tricating ourſelves!” « Quit this abbey,” ſaid Adeline, " and ſeek an aſylum in Switzerland or “ Germany; you will then be freed o from [ 38 ] “ from farther obligation to the Marquis “ and from the perfecution you dread.. “ Pardon me for thus offering advice, Os 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 66 your's.” “ Your plan is reafonable,” ſaid La " Morte, “ had I money to execute 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 "6 the Marquis. He may do much, “ ſhould your father even adopt. defpe. rate meaſures. But why do I talk "6 thus? Your father may ere this have 66 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 o this; --... ---- - -- -- - - [ 39 ] " 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 doubt, that ſhe was unable to expreſs her ſenſe of it. When the could ſpeak, ſhe uttered her gratitude in the moſt lively terms. “ Are you fin. “ cere in theſe expreſſions?” ſaid La Motte. " Is it poſſible I can be leſs than fin- “ cere?” replied Adeline, weeping at the ſuggeſtion of ingratitude.-“ Senti- ments are eaſily pronounced,” ſaid La Motte, “ though they may have no “ connection with the heart; I believe " then to be ſincere ſo far only as they • influence our actions.” " What mean you, Sir?” ſaid Ade- line with ſurpriſe. ." I mean to inquire, whether, if an - “ opportunity ſhould ever offer of thus “ proving your gratitude, you would “ adhere to your ſentiments?” « Name [ 40 ] w 66 Name one that I ſhall refu:fe,” ſaid Adeline with energy. “ If, for inſtance, the Marquis ſhould 66 hereafter avow a ſerious paſſion for “ you, and offer you his hand, would no “ petty reſentment, no lurking prepor- *“ ſeſſion 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 Mar- « quis I can never love, nor, to ſpeak " ſincerely, ever eſteem. I confeſs the. " peace of one's whole life is too much " to facrifice even to gratitude."-La Motte looked difpleaſed.' " 'Tis as I 6 thought," ſaid he;. " theſe delicate • ſentiments make a fine appearance in 66 ſpeech, and render the perſon who " utters them infinitely amiable; but « bring them to the teſt of action, and 6 they diffolve into air, leaving only the 66 wreck of vanity behind." This [ 41 ] This unjuſt ſarcaſm brought tears to - her eyes. “Since your ſafety, Sir, de- “ pends upon my conduct,” ſaid ſhe, “ reſign me to my father. I am willing “ to return to him, ſince my ſtay here o inuſt involve you in new misfortunes. « Let me not prove myſelf unworthy of os the protection I have hitherto experi- rs enced, by preferring my own welfare “ to yours. When I am gone, you will “ have no reaſon to apprehend thé Mar- " quis's difpleaſure, which you may pro- 56 bably incur if I ſtay here : for I feel - it impoſſible that I could even conſent " to receive his addreſſes, however ho- « nourable 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, Ade- “ line, though you are ready to ſacrifice “ yourſelf to my ſafety, I will not ſuffer " you to do ſo. I will not yield you to “ your [ 42 ] " your father, but upon compulkon, “ Be ſatisfied, therefore, upon this point, “ The only return I aſk, is a civil de- « portment 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 poflible, to her chamber, eager to ſeek in ſleep a refuge from ſorrow. CHAP [ 43 ] ] CHAPTER IX. “ Full many a melancholy night “ He watched the now return of light, " And fought the powers of ſleep; “ To ſpread a momentary calm « O’er his fad couch, and in the balm « Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to ſteep." WARTON, THE MS. found by Adeline, the preceding night, had ſeveral times oc- curred to her recollection 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 now took it from the drawer in which - it had been depoſited, and intending only to look curſorily over the few firſt pages, ſat down with it by her bed-lide, She [ 44 ] She opened it with an eagerneſs of ir quiry, which the diſcoloured and almoſt obliterated ink but Nowly gratified. The firſt words on the page were entirely loſt, but thoſe that appeared to comnience the narrative were as follow : “Oh! ye, whoever ye are, whoni “ 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 iny ſufferings, may one day draw es pity from the feeling heart. Yet ſtay your tears--your pity now 6 is uſeleſs : long ſince have the pangs 66 of miſery ceaſed; the voice of com- “ plaining is paſſed away. Ii is weak. 66 neſs to wiſh for compaſſion which can- 66 not be excited till I ſhall ſink in the 66. repoſe { 45 ] * repoſe of death, and taſte, I hope, < the happineſs of eternity! ** Know then, that on the night of the 5.twelfth cf October, in the year 1642, “ I was arreſted on the road to Caux, rs and on the very ſpot where a column 65 is erected to the memory of the im- * mortal Henry, by four ruffians, who, " after diſabling my ſervant, bore me ~ through wilds and woods to this abbey. 66 Their demeanour was not that of com- “ mon banditti, and I ſoon perceived “ they were employed by a ſuperior “ power to perpetrate ſome dreadful pur- s poſe. Entreaties and bribes were “ vainly offer«d them to diſcover their “ employer and abandon their deſign: - they would not reveal even the leaſt « circumſtance of their intentions. . “ But when, after a long journey, " they arrived at this edifice, their baſe ~ empioyer was at once revealed, and “ his horrid ſcheme but too well under- “ ſtood. What a moment was that ! " All [ 46 ] 6 All the thunders of Heaven ſeemed “ launched at this defenceleſs head! Q “ 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 impof- fible to procure a light from below, with- out diſcovering that ſhe was yet up; a circumſtance which would excite ſur. prize, and lead to explanations ſuch as ſhe did not wiſh to enter upon. Thus compelled to ſuſpend the inquiry, which ſo many attendant circumſtances had ren- dered awfully intereſting, ſhe retired to her humble bed. What ſhe had read of the MS. awak- ened a dreadful intereſt in the fate of the writer, and called up terrific images to her mind. “ In theſe apartments !”- ſaid ſhe, and ſhe ſhuddered and cloſed her eyes. At length, ſhe heard Madame La Motte enter her chamber, and the | phan- [ 47 ) phantoms of fear beginning to diffipate, Jeft her to repoſe. In the morning ſhe was awakened by Madame La Motte, and found, to her difappointinent, that ſhe had ſlept ſo much beyond her uſual time, as to be unable to renew the peruſal of the MS. - La Motte app: ared uncommonly gloomy, and Madame wore an air of me- lancholy, which Adeline attributed to the concern ſhe felt for her. Breakfaſt was ſcarcely over, when the ſound of horſes feet announced the arrival of a {tranger; 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 haftening to her chamber ; but the Mar- quis 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, reminded her of her promiſe. She ſum- moned all her ſpirits to her aid, but ad- vanced, re [ 48 ] vanced, notwithſtanding, in viſible emo- tion, while the Marquis addreſſed her as uſual, the ſame eaſy gaiety playing upon his countenance, and directing his man- ner. Adeline was ſurpriſed and ſhocked at this careleſs confidence, which, however, by awakening her pride, communicated to her an air of dignity that abaſhed him. He ſpoke with heſitation, 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 pre- as ſence of her friends.” “But ſhe ſaid this 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 [ 49 ] She ſat for ſome time in ſilence, and trembling expectation. “ I am ſenſible," ſaid the Marquis at length, “ that the - conduct to which the ardour of my " paſſion lately betrayed me, has in- " jured 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 6 fortune, will ſufficiently prove the fin- “ cerity of my attachment, and atone “ for the tranſgreſſion which love only • prompted.” After this ſpecimen of common place verboſity, which the Marquis ſeemed to conſider as a prelude to triumph, he at- tempted to impreſs a kiſs upon the hand of Adeline, who, withdrawing it haſtily, faid, “ You are already, my Lord, ac- “ quainted with my ſentiments upon this “ ſubject, and it is almoſt unneceſſary “ for me now to repeat, that I cannot ac- « cept the honour you offer me." VOL. II. D 66 Ex- [ 50 ] nex “ Explain yourſelf, lovely Adeline ! .“ I am ignorant that till now, I ever " made you this offer.” 6 Moſt true, Sir,” faid Adeline," and - you do well to remind me of this, “ fince, 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 Marquis, with a look, in which offended pride ſtruggled to conceal itſelf; 66 do not ſuffer an ex- :66 travagant reſentment to operate againſt 66 your true intereſts; recollect the dan- gers that ſurround you, and conſider 66 the value of an offer, which may afford 66 you at leaſt an honourable afylum.” “My misfortunes, my Lord, what- “ ever they are, I have never obtruded “ upon you; you will, therefore, excuſe “ my obſerving, that your preſent men- « tion of them conveys a much greater “ appearance of inſult than compaſſion.” The Marquis, though with evident con- fufion, was going to reply; but Ade- line [ 51 ) line would not be detained, and retired to her chamber. Deſtitute as ſhe was, her heart revolted from the propoſal of the Marquis, and ſhe determined never to accept it. To her diſlike of his gene- ral diſpoſition, and the averſion excited by his late offer, was added, indeed, the influence of a prior attachment, and of a remembrance, which ſhe found it im- poſſible to eraſe from her heart. The Marquis ſtayed to dine, and, in conſideration of La Motte, Adeline ap- peared at table, where the former gazed upon her with ſuch frequent and ſilent earneſtneſs, that her diſtreſs became in- ſupportable, and when the cloth was drawn, the inſtantly retired. Madame La Motte ſoon followed, and it was not till evening that ſhe had an opportunity of returning to the MS. When Mon- fieur 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 : D2 « The [ 52 ] .“ The ruffians unbound me from my 56 horſe, and led me through the hall up " the ſpiral ſtaircaſe of the abbey : refif- " tance was uſeleſs, but I looked around 56 in the hope of ſeeing ſome perſon leſs " obdurate than the men who brought “ me hither; ſome one who might be « ſenſible to pity, or capable, at leaſt, 66. of civil treatment. I looked in vain; o no perſon appeared : and this circum- “ ſtance confirmed my worſt apprehen- - ſions. The ſecrecy of the buſineſs « foretold a horrible concluſion. Hav- « ing paſſed ſome chambers, they s ſtopped in one hung with old tapeſtry. " I inquired why we did not go on, and 66 was told, I ſhould ſoon know. « At that moment, I expected to ſee 66 the inſtrument of death uplifted, and “ filently recommended myſelf to God. " But death was not then deſigned for “ me; they raiſed the arras, and diſco- 66 vered a door, which they then opened. 66 Seizing my arms, they led me through “ a ſuite . [ 53 ) as a ſuite of diſmal chambers beyond. “ Having reached the fartheſt of theſe, “ they again ſtopped: the horrid gloom “ of the place ſeemed congenial to mur- “ der, and inſpired deadly thoughts. “ Again I looked round for the inſtru- “ ment of deſtruction, and again I was “ reſpited. I fupplicated to know what “ was deſigned me; it was now unnecef- “ fary to aſk who was the author of the “ deſign. They were filent to my queſ. « tion, but at length told me, this cham- “ ber was my priſon. Having ſaid this, «s and ſet down a jug of water, they left 66 the room, and I heard the door barred “ upon me. " O found of deſpair! O moment of • unutterable anguith! The pang of “ death itſelf is, ſurely, not ſuperior to 66 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 D 3 " than [.54 ] " than any, perhaps, which certainty “ could give-1 fink beneath the"- Here ſeveral pages of the manuſcript were decayed with damp and totally ille- gible. With much difficulty Adeline made out the following lines : - Three days have now paſſed in fo- “ litude and ſilence: the horrors of " death are ever before my eyes; let me “ endeavour to prepare for the dreadful so change! When I awake in the morn- “ ing I think I ſhall not live to ſee ano- “ ther night; and, when night returns, « that I muſt never more uncloſe my eyes “ on morning. Why am I brought hi- " ther-why confined thus rigorouſly- 66 but for death! Yet what action of my “ life has deſerved this at the hand of a “ fellow creature?-04- se si * “O my children ! O friends far dif- ** tant ! I ſhall never ſee you more- 66 never [ 55 ] ** never more receive the parting look of 66 kindneſs — never beſtow a parting “ bleſſing !-Ye know not my wretched 6 ſtate-alas ! ye cannot know it by hu. or man means. Ye believe me happy, or 66 ye would fly to my, relief. I know that « what I now write cannot avail me, yet " there is comfort in pouring forth ny 6 griefs; and I bleſs that man, leſs ſavage " than his fellows, who has ſupplied me w theſe means of recording them. Alas! ." he knows full well, that from this in- “ dulgence 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 write, give a tear to my ſuffer- “ings : I have wept often for the diſ- “ treffes 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 D4 preſent [ 56 ] - pretént. She was for ſome time unable 10 proceed, and fat in mufing ſorrow. “ In theſe very apartinents," fuid ſhe, “ this poor ſufferer was confined-here " he”-Adeline fiarted, and thought ſhe heard a found; but the ſtillneſs of night was undiſturbed.-" In theſe very cham- “ bers," ſaid ſhe, “ theſe lines were "s written - theſe lines, from which he " then derived a comfort in believing " they would hereafter be read-by foine “ pirying eye : this time is now come. “ Your miſeries, O injured being ! are “ lamented, where they were endured. • Here, where you ſuffered, I weep for “ your ſufferings?” Her imagination was now ſtrongly im- preſſed, and to her diſtempered ſenſes the ſuggeſtions of a bewildered mind ap- peared with the force of reality. Again the ſtarted and liſtened, and thought llic heard “ Here" diſtinctly repeated by a terror of the thought, however, was but inomen- [ 57 ] momentary, ſhe knew it could not be convinced that her fancy had deceived her, the took up the MS. and again be- gan to read. ó For what am I reſerved! Why this « delay? If I am to die — why not " quickly? Three weeks have I now " paſſed within theſe walis, during which “ time, no lock of pity has ſoftened my " afflictions; no voice, ſave my own, has “ met my ear. The countenances of the " ruffians who atrend me, are ſtern and “ inflexible, and their filence is obfti- “ nate. This ſtillneſs is dreadful! O, ye, who have known what it is to live in the “ depths of folitude, who have paſſed « your dreary days without one found 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 fiiilneſs! All « around me is dead; and do I really D 5 o exiſt, [ 58 ] " exift, or am I but a ſtatue ? Is this a « viſion? Are theſe things real? Alas, I sam bewildered ! this death-like and • perpetual ſilence this diſmal chain- “ ber-the dread of farther ſufferings- “ have diſturbed my fancy. O for ſome “ friendly breaſt to lay my weary head o on! ſome cordial 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 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 remains. “ Another day is gone, and yet I live; “ at this time to-morrow night my fuf- “ ferings may be ſealed in death. I will “ continue my journal nightly, till the “ hand [ 59 ] “ 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 fell faſt. “Unhappy man!” ſhe exclaimed, or and was there no pitying foul to ſave " thee! Great God! thy ways are won- 66 derful !” While ſhe ſat muſing, her fancy, which now wandered in the re- gions of terror, gradually ſubdued reaſon. There was a glaſs before her upon the table, and the feared to raiſe her looks towards it, left ſome other face than her own ſhould meet her eyes : other dread- ful ideas, and ſtrange images of fantaſtic thought now croſſed her mind. A hollow ſigh ſeemed to paſs near her. “ Holy Virgin, protect me!” cried ſhe, and threw a fearful glance round the room ; “ this is ſurely ſomething more 56 than fancy.” Her fears ſo far over- D6 came ro [ 60 ] came her, that ſhe was ſeveral times upon the point of calling up part of the 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 caſe- ments of her lonely chamber, the again thought the heard a ſigh. Her imagina- tion refuſed any longer the control of rea- ſon,and, turning her eyes, a figure, whoſe exact form ſhe could not diſtinguiſh, ap- peared to paſs along an obſcure part of the chamber : a dreadful chillneſs came over her, and the ſat fixed in her chair. At length a deep ſigh ſomewhat relieved her oppreffed fpirits, and her ſenſes ſeemed to return. All remaining quiet, after fome time ſhe began to queſtion whether her fancy had not deceived her, and the ſo far con- quered her terror as to deſiſt from calling Madame La Motte : her mind was, however, ſo much diſturbed, that ſhe did not [ 61 ] 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 cheerful ſun-beams played upon the caſe- ments, and diſpelled the illuſions of darkneſs : her mind, ſoothed and invigo- rated by ſleep, rejected the myſtic and turbulent promptings of imagination. She aroſe refrefhed and thankful ; but, upon going down to breakfaſt, this tran- fient gleam of peace fled upon the ap- pearance of the Marquis, whoſe frequent viſits at the abbey, after what had paſſed, not only diſpleaſed, but alarmed her. She ſaw that he was determined to perſe- vere in addreſſing her, and the boldneſs and inſenſibility of this conduct, while it excited her indignation, increaſed her diſguſt. In pity to La Motte, fhe en- though ſhe now thought that he required too much from her complaitance, and began [ 62 ] 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 opportunity 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 haftily diſappeared. She proceeded to her chamber, ruminating upon this ſignal, and the cautious. man- ner in which Peter had given it. But her thoughts foon 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 eLL [ 63 ] to purſue a milder plan : but when ſhe conſidered his character, this appeared improbable, and ſhe relapſed into her former fears. Her reſidence at the ab. bey was now become painful, from the perſeverance of the Marquis, and the conduct which La Morte obliged her to adopt ; yet ſhe could not think without dread of quitting it to return to her fa- ther. The image of Theodore often intruded upon her buſy thoughts, and brought with it a pang, which his ſtrange depar- ture occaſioned. She had a confuſed notion, that his fate was ſomehow con- nected 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 ſub- jects, and gratify the curioſity ſo ſtrongly excited on the preceding night, ſhe now took up the MS. but was hindered from open- [ 64 ] norn. opening it by the entrance of Madame La Motte, who came to tell her the Mar- quis was gone. They paſſed their morn- ing together in work and general conver- ſation ; 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 66 heard from him," ſaid La Motte ; 66 but there is good reaſon, as I am in. “ formed by the Marquis, to believe he os 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, and now ſee that 6 reſiſtance will deſtroy you, without “ ſerving me; I am, therefore, con- 6 tented to return to my father, and thus “ ſpare you farther calamity.” This is a raſh determination," re- plied La Motte; “ and if you purſue it, “ I fear you will ſeverely repent. I “ ſpeak [ 65 ] “ ſpeak to you as a friend, Adeline, and - deſire you will endeavour to liſten to “ me without prejudice. The Marquis, “ I find, has offered you his hand. I “ know not which circumſtance moſt “ excites my ſurprize, that a man of his rank and conſequence ſhould folicit a “ marriage with a perſon without for- “ tune, or oſtenſible connections ; 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 con- “ duct, 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 offering you this advice but your “ advantage. It is neceſſary, however, 56 to ſay, that, ſhould your father not in- “ fiſt upon your removal, I know not & how long my circumſtances may ena- 6 ble [ 66 ) « ble me to afford even the humble pic- “ cance you receive here. Still you are « filent." The anguiſh which this ſpeech excited, ſuppreſſed her utterance, and ſhe con- tinued to weep. At length ſhe ſaid, « Suffer me, Sir, to go back to my fa- " ther; I ſhould, indeed, make an ill “ return for the kindneſs you mention, e could I wiſh to ſtay, after what you “ now tell me, and to accept the Mar- “ quis, I feel to be impoſſible.” The remembrance of Theodore arofe to her mind, and ſhe wept aloud. La Motte ſat for ſome time muſing. “ Strange infatuation!” ſaid he; “ Is it s poſſible that you can perfiſt in this " heroiſm of romance, and prefer a fa. " ther ſo inhuman as yours, to the Mar- " quis de Montalt! A deſtiny ſo full of 6c danger to a life of fplendour and de- 6 light!" 66 Pardon nie,” ſaid Adeline; “ a “ marriage with the Marquis would be “ [plen- [ 67 ) “ ſplendid, but never happy. His cha- “ racter, excites my averſion, and I en- “ treat, Sir, that he may no more be: “ mentioned.” CHAP: [68] Thay watch? CHAPTER X. atraid ne: “ Nor are thoſe empty hear ed, whoſe low found “ Reverbs no hollowneſs." LEAR, not un Adelin Yes, 1 hall be to ſerve “could I ened yo "For Speak "rupted. THE converſation related in the laſt chapter was interrupted by the entrance of Peter, who, as he left the room, looked fignificantly at Adeline and almoſt beck- oned. She was anxious to know what lie meant, and ſoon af er went into the hall, where ſhe found him loitering. The mo. ment he ſaw her, he made a ſign of filence, and beckoned her into the recefs. “ Well, Peter, what is it you would “ fay?” 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. "Well, it was rould" "I do, "Well, Chark Ma'mfe [ 69 ] meant. " Yes, Ma’mſelle, that is what “ I have wanted all day long. I have " watched and watched for an opportu- “ nity, and looked and looked, till I was 66 afraid my maſter himſelf would fee 66 me: but all would not do ; you would 66 not underſtand.” Adeline entreated he would be quick. 6. Yes, Ma'am ; but I'm ſo afraid we « ſhall be ſeen : but I would do much so to ſerve ſuch a good young lady, for I " could not bear to think of what threat- “ ened you, without telling you of it.” « For God's fake,” ſaid Adeline, “ ſpeak quickly, or we ſhall be inter- “ rupted.” “ Well, then ; but you muſt firſt pro- “ miſe by the Holy Virgin never to ſay “ it was I that told you. My maſter "s would” “ I do, I do!” ſaid Adeline. “ Well, then--on Monday evening as « I hark! did not I hear a ſtep? Do, so Ma’mſelle, juſt ſtep this way to the o cloiſ. [ 70 ] « 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 *6 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 ſaying, Ma'm- “ ſelle, Monday night, when the Mar- " quis ſept here, you know he fat 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 Adeline impatiently, “what is this dan- “ ger which you ſay threatens me? Be " quick, or we ſhall be obſerved.” “ Danger enough, Ma'mfelle," re- plied Peter, “ if you knew all; and “ when you do, what will it fignify, for “ you can't help yourſelf. But that's “ nei- [ 21 ] « neither here nor there: I was reſolved " to tell you, though I may repent it.” " Or rather you are reſolved not to - tell me,” ſaid Adeline; “ for you 66 have made no progreſs towards it. 66 But what do you mean? You was “ ſpeaking of the Marquis.” " Huſh, Ma'am ; not ſo loud. The 66 Marquis, as I ſaid, ſat up very late, 66 and my maſter ſat up with him. One 66 of his men went to bed in the oak ss room, and the other ſtayed to undreſs “ his Lord. So as we were ſitting to- 66 gether-Lord have mercy! it made * my hair ſtand on end ! I tremble yet. " So as we were ſitting together,- but 56 as ſure as I live yonder is my maſter : :56 I caught a glimpſe of him between “ the trees, if he ſees me it is all over 66.with us. I'll tell you another time.” So ſaying, he hurried into the abbey, leaving Adeline in a ſtate of alarm, cu- riofity, and vexation. She walked out into the foreſt, ruminating upon Peter's words, [ 72 ] 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 af- ford her ſome degree of intelligence on the ſubject of her fears. When ſhe re- tired, 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 fome great affliction ; and when Adeline, no- ticing this, entreated to know the cauſe of her dejection, tears ſtarted into her eyes, and ſhe abruptly left the room. This behaviour of Madame La Motte concurred with Peter's diſcourſe, to alarm [ 73 ) alarm Adeline, who ſat penſively upon her bed, given up to reflection, till the was rouſed by the ſound of a clock which ſtood in the room below, and which now ſtruck twelve. She was preparing for reft, when ſhe recollected the MS. and was unable to conclude the night without reading it. The firſt words ſhe could diſtinguiſh were the following: - Again I return to this poor conſola- “ tion-again I have been permitted to “ ſee another day. It is now midnight! 66 My ſolitary lamp burns beſide me; as the time is awful, but to me the filence 16. of noon is as the ſilence of midnight: “ a deeper gloom is all in which they “ differ. The ſtill, unvarying hours “ are numbered only by my ſufferings ! Great God! when ſhall I be releaſed! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 6 But whence this ſtrange confine. 66 ment? I have never injured him. If VOL. II. 66 death [ 74 ] read the promp failed * Los her w “ death is deſigned me, why this delay; 66 and for what but death am I brought “ hither? This abbey-alas !”-Here the MS. was again illegible, and for fe. veral 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 endeavour to ", avenge them. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * “ Once more is night returned to me. ". Another day has paſſed in ſolitude and " miſery. I have climbed to the caſe. « ment, thinking the view of nature would “ refreſh my ſoul, and ſomewhat enable “ me to ſupport theſe afflictions. Alas! “ even this ſmall comfort is denied me, " the window's open towards inner parts “ of this abbey, and admit only a por- 66. tion of that day which I muſt never 66 more ia the The fea [ 75 ] « more fully behold. Laſt night! laſt 6 night ! O ſcene of horror !". * *. Adeline fhuddered. She feared to read the coming ſentence, yet curioſity- prompted her to proceed. Sill 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 66. been committed:” The idea thrilled her with horror. She recollected the dagger which had impeded her ſteps ſtance ſerved to confirm her moſt terrible conjectures. She wiſhed to examine it, . but it lay in one of theſe chambers, and The feared to go in queſt of it. " Wretched, wretched victim !" ſhe exclaimed, “could no friend reſcue thee " from deſtruction ! O that I had been " near! yet what could I have done to 6.ſave thee? Alas! nothing. I forget so that even now, perhaps, I am like thee " abandoned to dangers, from which I E 2 « have [ 76.]. 66 have no friend to ſuccour me. Too " ſurely I gueſs the author of thy miſe. “ ries!” She ſtopped, and thought ſhe heard a figh, ſuch as on the preceding night had paſſed along the chamber. Her blood was chilled and the fat mo. tionleſs. The lonely ſituation of her room, remote from the reſt of the family, (lhe was now in her own appartment, from which Madame La Motte had re- moved) who were almoſt beyond call, ſtruck ſo forcibly upon her imagination, that ſhe with difficulty preſerved herſelf from fainting. She ſat for a conſidera- ble time, but all was ſtill. When ſhe was ſomewhat recovered, her firſt deſign was to alarm the family; but farther reflec- tion withheld her. She endeavoured to compoſe her ſpi- rits, and addreſſed a ſhort prayer to that Being who had hitherto protected her in every danger. While ſhe was thus em- ployed, her mind gradually became ele- vated and re-aſſured; a ſublime compla- cency [ 77 ] cency filled her heart, and ſhe ſat down once more to purſue the narrative. . Several lines that immediately follow- ed were obliterated. * * * * * * * * * * - * He had told me I thould not be " permitted to live long, not more than " three days, and bade mechuſe whether 66 I would die by poiſon or the ſword. .66 O the agonies of that moment ! “ Great God! thou ſeeft my ſufferings ! " I often viewed, with a momentary “ hope of eſcaping, the high grated " windows of my priſon, all things within the compaſs of poſſibility I was " reolved to try, and with an eager def. -66 peration I climbed towards the caſe- “ ments, but my foot flipped, and fall- 166 ing back to the floor, I was ſtunned " by the blow. On recovering, the firſt 56 ſounds. I heard were the ſteps of a per- of ſon entering my priſon. A recollec- * tion of the paſt returned, and deplora- 46 ble was my condition. I ſhuddered E 3 CIU as " at [ 78 ] fome tie ie AA " at what was to come The ſame man “ approached; he looked at me at firſt “ with pity, but his countenance foon " recovered its natural ferocity. Yet “ he did not then come to execute the " purpoſe of his employer: I am re- • ſerved to another day-Great God, " thy will be done !” Adeline could not go on. All the circumſtances that ſeemed to corrobo. rate the fate of this unnhappy man, crowded upon her mind; the reports concerning the abbey-the dreams, which had forerun her diſcovery of the private apartments the fingular manner in which ſhe had found the MS. and the apparition, which ſhe now belived the had really ſeen. She blamed herſelf for having not yet mentioned the diſco- very of the manuſcript and chambers to La Motte, and reſolved to delay the diſ- cloſure no longer than the following morning. The immediate cares that had occupied her mind, and a fear of lo- her minimhappy oncernin not tions fing ( 79 ) fing the manuſcript before ſhe had read it, had hitherto kept her filent. * Such a combination of circumſtances the believed could only be produced by ſome ſupernatural power, operating for the retribution of the guilty. Theſe re- flections filled her mind with a degree of awe, which the lonelineſs of the large old chamber in which the lat, and the hour of the night foon heightened into terror. She had never been ſuperſtitious, but circumſtances ſo uncommon had hitheto conſpired in this affair, that the could not believe them accidental. Her ima. gination wrought upon by theſe reflec. tions, again became ſenſible to every im. preſſion, the feared to look round, left The ſhould again fee fome dreadful phan. tom, and the almoſt fancied the heard voices ſwell in the ſtorm, which now ſhook the fabric. ſo as to avoid diſturbing the family, but they became ſo painful, that even the E 4 dread [ 80 ] dread of La Motte's ridicule had hardly power to prevent her quitting the cham- ber. 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 ſoothe herſelf to compoſure. « What 66 have I to fear?" ſaid ſhe, “I am at 6 leaſt innocent, and I thall not be py- - nifhed for the crime of another.". A violent guſt of wind that now ruſhed through the whole ſuit of apart- ments, thook the door that led from her .late bedchamber to the private rooms fo forcibly, that Adeline, unable to re- main 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 ob- ſerving it in indeſcribable terror, till be lieving it was ſwayed by the wind, ſhe made a ſudden effort to overcome her feelings, and ſtooped to raiſe it. At that [ 81 1 that inſtant, ſhe thought ſhe heard a voice. She ſtopped and liſtened, but every thing was ſtill; yet apprehenfion ſo far overcame her, that ſhe had no power, either to examine; or to leave the chamber. In a few moments the voice returned; ſhe was now convinced ſhe had not been deceived; for, though low, ſhe heard it diftinctly, and was almoſt ſure it re- peated her own name. So much was her fancy affected, that ſhe even thought it was the ſame voice ſhe had heard in her dreanis. This conviction entirely ſubdued the ſmall remains of her courage, and, ſinking into a chair, The loſt all. recollection. How long the remained in this ſtate ſhe knew not, but when the recovered, ſhe exerted all her ſtrength, and reached the winding ſtaircaſe, where the called aloud. No one heard her, and ſhe haſ. tened, as faſt as her feebleneſs would per- mit, to the chamber of Madame La E 5 Motte. [ 82 ] Motte. She tapped gently at the door, and was anſwered by Madame, who was alarmed at being awakened at ſo unuſual an hour, and believed that ſome danger threatened her huſband. When ſhe un- derſtood that it was Adeline, and that ſhe was unwell, The quickly came to her relief. The terror that was yet viſible in Adeline's countenance excited her inqui- ries, and the occaſion of it was explain- ed 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 intereſted for the agitation he witneffed, reproved Adeline for ſuf- fering her fancies to overcome her.rea. ſon She now mentioned the diſcovery The had made of the inner chambers and the manuſcript, circumſtances, which rouſed the attention of La Motte ſo much, that he deſired to ſee the MS. and reſolved to go immediately to the apart- ments deſcribed by Adeline. 3 Ma. ( 83 ) 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 at- tend with a light, and inſiſted that Ma- dame La Motte and Adeline ſhould ac- company him; Madame deſired to be excuſed, and Adeline, at firſt, declar. ed ſhe could not go; but he would be obeyed. They aſcended the tower, and en- tered the firſt chamber 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 che arras which con- cealed the door. La Motte lifted the arras, and opened the door; but Ma- dame La Motte and Adeline entreated to go no farther -- again he called to them to follow. All was quiet in the firſt Ć 84 ] firſt chamber; he expreſſed his ſurpriſe that the rooms ſhould ſo long have re- mained undiſcovered, and was proceed- ing to the ſecond, but ſuddenly ſtopped. “ We will defer our examination till to. “ morrow,” ſaid he, “the damps of " theſe apartments are unwholeſeme at any time ; but they ſtrike one more “ ſenſibly at night. I am chilled. Peter, “ remember to throw open the windows “ early in the morning, that the air may « circulate.” " Lord bleſs your honour," ſaid Pe. ter, “ don't you ſee, I can't reach them? “ Beſides, I don't believe they are made 66 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 his ſpeech, had been looking at- (tentively at the high windows, which, if he had ſeen them at firſt, he had certainly not [ 85 ) not obſerved ; now interrupted the elo- quence 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, atteinpted to ridicule the dif- covery and fears of Adeline, till the, with a ſeriouſneſs that checked him, entreated he would defift. 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 Pe- ter, whom ſhe had ſome hopes of ſeeing as ſhe went down ſtairs; he, however, did not appear, and the proceeded to the ſitting room, where ſhe found La Motte, apparently much disturbed. Adeline aſked him ff he had looked at the MS. 6c I have [ 86 ] « 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 wonder, that after « you had ſuffered its terrors to impreſs « your imagination, you fancied you ſaw " ſpectres, and heard wonderous noiſes." Adeline thought La Motte did not chuſe to be convinced, and ſhe, there- fore, forbore reply. During breakfaſt, The often looked at Peter, (who waited) with anxious inquiry; and, from his countenance, was ſtill more aſſured, that he had ſomething of importance to com- municate. In the hope of fome conver- ſation with him, ſhe left the room as ſoon as poſſible, and repaired to her favourite avenue, where ſhe had not long remain- ed when he appeared. “God bleſs you! “ Ma’amſelle,” ſaid he, “ I'm ſorry I • frightened you ſo laſt night.” “ Frighted me,” ſaid Adeline; “ how 56 was you concerned in that ?" He I . - - - - L - - L [ 87 ] He then informed her, that when he thought Monfieur and Madame La Motte were aſleep, he had ſtole to her chamber door, with an intention of giv- ing her the ſequel of what he had begun in the morning; that he had called ſeve- ral times as loudly as he dared, but re- ceiving no anſwer, he believed ſhe was aſleep, or did not chuſe to ſpeak with him, and he had, therefore, left the door. This account of the voice ſhe had heard relieved Adeline's ſpirits ; fhe was even ſurpriſed that ſhe did not know it, till remembering the perturbation of her mind for ſome time preceding, this fur- priſe diſappeared. She entreated Peter to be brief in ex- \ plaining 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 “ places, I don't know what I am ſay. 66 ing." 66 Be [ 88 ] 6 Be it ſo;" ſaid Adeline, « only rea 6 member that we may be obſerved." " Yes, Ma'amſelle, I'm as much .66 afraid of that as you'are, for I believe " I ſhould be almoſt as ill off; however, 66 that is neither here nor there, but I'm “ ſure, if you ſtay in this old abbey 66 another night, it will be worſe for 66 you; for as I ſaid before, I know all 66. about it:”. " What mean you, Peter ?”. .Why, about this ſcheme that's go. 66. ing on:", .What, then, is my father?” .66. Your father,” interrupted Peter'; " Lord bleſs you, that is all fudge, to “ frighten you; your father, nor nobody " elfe has ever ſent after you; I dare ſay, 66 he knows no more of you than the « Pope does-not he.” Adeline looked diſpleaſed. “You trifle,” ſaid ſhe, “ if “ you have any thing to tell, ſay it 6. quickly; I am in haſte.". 6. Bleſs [ 39 ] 66 Bleſs you, young Lady, I meant no 66 harm, I hope you're not angry; but " I'm ſure you can't deny that your fa- " ther is cruel. But, as I was ſaying, 66 the Marquis de Montalt likes you; 6 and he and my maſter (Peter looked “ round) have been laying their heads “ together about you." Adeline turned pale-ſhe comprehended a part of the truth, and eagerly entreated him to pro- ceed. • They have been laying their heads .together about you This is what .66 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 truſt- 66 ed to tell again. I warrant now your “ maſter is cloſe enough with you. “ Upon which I was piqued, and re- « ſolved 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 66 on't; [ 90 ] 6 on't; and I winked. Do you ſo ? " ſays he, then you are cloſer than I " thought for. She is a fine girl, ſays r he, meaning you, Ma'amfelle ; but “ ſhe is nothing but a poor foundling “ after all—fo it does not much fignify." “ I had a inind to known farther what he " meant-fo I did not knock him down. “ By ſeeming to know as much as he, I “ at laſt made him diſcover all, and he si told me but you look pale, Ma'am- 66 ſelle, are you ill ? “ No," ſaid Adeline, in a tremulous accent, and ſcarcely able to ſupport her. felf, “ 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 pretended he would marry “ you, and all would not do. As for " marriage, ſays I, I ſuppoſe the knows “ the Marchioneſs is alive; and I'm ſure 66 ſhe is not one for his turn upon other " terms." « The [ 91 ] The Marchioneſs is really living “ then !” ſaid Adeline. - O yes, Ma'amſelle! we all know « that, and I thought you had known it - 100.-- 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 hè, “ you know your maſter has agreed to se 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 belive it, ſaid I; I'll never be- “ lieve 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 « you'd known all, elle I ſhould not “ have ſaid a word about it. However, you may ſoon ſatisfy yourſelf by going es to the parlour door, as I have done ; 66 they're nev [ g2 ) " they're in conſultation about it now, “ I dare ſay.” “ You need not repeat any more of “ this converſation,” faid Adeline; but “ tell me the reſult of what you litaiu « from the parlour." " Why, Ma'amſelle, when he faid so this, I took him at his word and went " to the door, where, fure enough, I « heard my maſter and the Marquis talk- “ ing about you. They ſaid a great « deal, which I could make nothing of; " but, at laſt, I heard the Marquis ſay, 6. You know the terms; on theſe terms " only will I conſent to bury the paſt in "ob.-ob---oblivion that was the 66 word. Monſieur La Motte then told - the Marquis, if he would return to " the abbey upon ſuch a night, meaning “ this very night, Ma’amſelle, every " thing ſhould be prepared according 66 to his wiſhes ; Adeline ſhall then be 66 yours, my Lord, ſaid he,-you are 66 already acquainted with her chamber." At [ 93 ] At theſe words, Adeline claſped her hands and raiſed her eyes to Heaven in filent deſpair.-Peter went on. “When " I heard this, I could not doubt what 5. Jacques had ſaid._Well, ſaid he, 66 what do you think of it now?" 6. Why, that my maſter's a raſcal, ſays " I."-" It's well you don't think mine “ one too, ſays he."-"Why, as for os that matter, ſays I” Adeline, in- terrupting 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 66 we made haſte back to the kitchen.” “ She was not preſent at this conver- 66 fation then?” ſaid Adeline. “ No, 66 Ma'amſelle, but my maſter has told so her of it I warrant.” Adeline was almoſt as much ſhocked by this ap- parent perfidy of Madame La Motte, as by a knowledge of the deſtruction that threatened her. After .muſing a few [ 94 ) " man " mafi I can is his be * Y Mercat “ YOU! 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 af. “ fiſt me to eſcape ?” " Ah, Ma'amnſelle! ſaid he, 6 how 66 can I aſſiſt you; beſides, where can " we go? I have no friends about here, " no more than yourſelf. « O!" replied Adeline, in extreme emotion, “ we fly from enemies ; ſtran- " gers may prove friends : affiſt me but " to eſcape from this foreſt, and you “ will claim my eternal gratitude : I “ have no fears beyond it.” 66 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 different from any “ life I had ever lived before. But theſe “ ghoſts that haunt the abbey, I am no 66 more a coward than other men, but I 66 don't like them: and then there is ſo “ many [ 95 ] s many ſtrange reports abroad; and my “ maſter-I thought I could have ſerved “ him to the end of the world, but now 6 I care not how ſoon I leave him, for r his behaviour to you, Ma’amſelle." “ You conſent, then, to aſſiſt me in “ eſcaping?” ſaid Adeline with eager. neſs. 6 Why as to that, Ma'amſelle, I ". would willingly if I knew where to “ go. To be ſure, I have a fiſter 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, 6. if I was once beyond this foreſt, I “ would then endeavour to take care of “ myſelf, and repay you for your kind- as neſs." "O! as for that, Madam” " Well, well, Peter, let us conſider how “. we may eſcape. This night, ſay you, " this night--the Marquis is to return?" " Yes, [ 96 ) « Yes, Ma’amſelle, to-night about 66 dark. I have juſt thought of a ſcheme: “ My maſter's horſes are grazing in the “ foreſt, we may take one of them, and 66 ſend it back from the firſt ſtage : but « how ſhall we avoid being feen? be- '“ fides, 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 conie, and then there is no chance. “ If they miſs us both at the ſame time 6. too, they'll gueſs how it is, and ſet off «s directly. Could not you contrive to go firſt and wait for me till the hurly. 6 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 fagacity. She inquired if he knew of any place in the neighbourhood of the abbey, where the could remain con- cealed [ 97 ] - .. cealed 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 nobody goes near: but “ they ſay it's haunted, and, perhaps, “ you would not like to go there.” Ade- line, 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 apprehenſion. “Where is " this place?” ſaid the; “if it will con- “ ceal mé, I ſhall not heſitate to go.”. " It is an old tomb that ſtands in the " thickeſt part of the foreſt about a quar- “ ter of a mile off the neareſt way, and « almoſt a mile the other. Whin my " maſter uſed to hide himſelf ſo much in -6 the foreſt, I have followed bin ſome- " where thereabouts, but I did not find “ out the tomb till t'other day. How- " ever, that's neither here nor there; if “ you dare venture to it, Ma’amfelle, I'll “ Thew you the neareſt way.” So ſaying, Voi, II. F he [ 98 ] he pointed to a winding path on the right. Adeline, having looked round, without perceiving any perſon near, di- rected Peter to lead her to the tomb. They purſued the path, till turning into a gloomy romantic part of the foreſt, al. moſt impervious to the rays of the ſun, they came to the ſpot whither Louis had formerly traced his father. The ſtillneſs and folemnity of the ſcene ſtruck awe upon the heart of Adeline, who pauſed, and ſurveyed it for ſome time in filence. At length, Peter led her - into the interior part of the ruin, to which they deſcended by ſeveral ſteps. 66 Some old abbot,” ſaid he, “ was for. '« merly 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 6 head to walk ; he was not murdered, 56 ſurely?” “ I hope not,” ſaid Adeline. - That's [ 99 ] " That's more than can be ſaid for all 6 that lies buried at the abbėy though, « and” - Adeline interrupted him; “ Hark ! ſurely, I hear a noiſe;" ſaid The: “ Heaven protect us from diſco- 66 very!” They liſtened, but all was ſtill, and they went on. Peter opened a low door, and they entered upon a dark paffage, frequently obſtructed by looſe fragments of ſtone, and along which they moved with caution. " Whither “ are we going?” ſaid Adeline.- “ I ſcarcely know myſelf,” ſaid Peter, “ for I never was ſo far before ; but the “ place ſeems quiet enough.” Some- thing obſtructed his way; it was a door, which yielded to his hand, and diſco- vered 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 fighed as the ſurveyed it. " This is a frightful ſpot," ſaid ſhe; . F2 “ tur L - - [ 100 ] (6 but if it will afford me a ſhelter, it is a “ palace. Remember, Peter, that my " peace and honour depend upon your 66 faithfulneſs; be both diſcrete and re- “ folute. In the duſk of the evening I 66 can paſs from the abbey with leaſt “ danger of being obſerved, and in this 6 cell I will wait your arrival. As ſoon 66 as Monſieur and Madame La Motte « are engaged in ſearching the vaults, “ you will bring here a horſe ; three " knocks upon the tomb ſhall inform me " of your arrival. For Heaven's fake “ be cautious, and be punctual.” .66 I will, Ma'amſelle, let come what 66 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 ſaw [ ] TOI 101 tions, forlorn, deſtitute, 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 ſenſa- tions, and the ſenſe of her immediate danger was for a while abſorbed in the grief occaſioned by a diſcovery of ſuch guilt in others. At length ſhe rouſed all her fortitude, and turning towards the abbey, endea. voured to await with patience the hour of evening, and to ſuſtain 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 emo- tions: having reached the abbey, ſhe therefore paſſed on to her chamber. Here ſhe endeavoured to direct her atten- tion to indifferent ſubjects, but in vain; F 3 the [ 102 102 ) the danger of her ſituation, and the fe- vere diſappointment ſhe had received, in the character of thoſe whom ſhe had ſo much eſteemed, and even loved, preſſed hard upon her thoughts. To a generous mind few circuinſtances are more afflict- ing than a diſcovery of perfidy in thoſe whom we have truſted, even though it may fail of any abſolute inconvenience to ourſelves. The behaviour of Madame La Motte in thus, by concealment, con- {piring to her deſtruction, particularly ſhocked her. " How has my imagination deceived “ me!” ſaid ſhe; “ what a picture did « it draw of the goodneſs of the world ! “ And muſt I then believe 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 ( 103 ) 10 s oppoſe his will,” ſaid ſhe, “elſe the " would warn me of my danger, and « affiſt me to eſcape from it. No-I " will never believe her capable of con- " fpiring 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 ſo- phiſticate. She perceived not, that by aſcribing the conduct of Madame La Motte to cerror, the only ſoftened the degree of her guilt, imputing it to a mo. tive leſs depraved, but not leſs ſelfiſh. She remained in her chamber till ſum- moned to dinner, when, drying her tears, The deſcended with faltering ſteps and a palpitating heart to the parlour. When The faw La Motte, in ſpite of all her ef- forts, ſhe trembled and grew pale : The could not behold, even with apparent in. difference, the man who ſhe knew had deſtined her to deſtruction. He ob- ſerved her emosion, and inquiring if the F 4 was [ 104 ] was ill, ſhe ſaw the danger to which her agitation expoſed her. Fearful leſt La Motte ſhould ſuſpect its true cauſe, ſhe rallied all her ſpirits, and, with a look of complacency, anſwered ſhe was well. . During dinner ſhe preſerved a degree of compoſure, that effectually concealed the varied anguiſh of her heart. When ſhe looked at La Moote, terror and in- dignation were her predominant feel- ings; but when ſhe regarded Madame La Motte, it was otherwiſe ; gratitude for her former tenderneſs had long been confirmed 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 prevent thought, by aſſuming a fictitious and unnatural gaiety : he laughed and talked, and threw off frequent bumpers of wine : it was the mirth of deſperation. Madame became alarmed, and would have re- ſtrained him, but he perſiſted in his li- bations bations to Bacchus till reflection ſeemed' Madame La Motte, fearful that in the careleſſneſs of the preſent moment he might betray himſelf, withdrew with Adeline to another room. Adeline recol- Jected the happy hours ſhe once paſſed with her, when confidence baniſhed rer ſerve, and ſympathy and eſteem dictated the ſentiments of friendſhip :- now thoſe hours were gone for ever; ſhe could no longer unbofom her griefs to Madame La Motte; no longer even eſteem her. Yet, notwithſtanding all the danger to which fhe was expoſed by the criminal filence of the latter, ſhe could not converſe with her, conſciouſly for the laſt time, without feeling a degree of ſorrow, which wiſ- dom may call weakneſs, but to which benevolence will allow a ſofter name. Madame La Motte, in her converſa- tion, appeared to labour under an almoſt equal oppreſlion with Adeline : her F 5 thoughts [ 106 ] thoughts were abſtracted from the ſubject of diſcourſe, and there were long and fre- quent 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 con- duct: The ſuppreſſed her emotions, but they at length compelled her to with- draw from the preſence of Madame La Motte. СНАР. [ 10% ] CHAPTER X. - - - Thou! to whom the world unknown With all its ſhadowy ſhapes is ſhown ;} Who ſeeſt appallid th' unreal ſcene, While fancy lifts the veil between ; Ah, Fear! ah, frantic Fear! I ſee, I ſee thee near! I know thy hurry'd ſtep, thy haggard eye! Like thee I ſtart, like thee diſorder'd fly! COLLINS. - - - - ADELINE anxiouſly watched from her chamber window the ſun ſet behind the diſtant hills, and the time of her de- parture draw nigh: it ſet with uncom- mon ſplendour, and threw a fiery gleam athwart the woods, and upon ſome ſcat- tered fragments of the ruins, which ſhe could not gaze upon with indifference. * Never, probably, again ſhall I ſee the F6 66 fun [ 108 ] 61 ſun link below thoſe hills," ſaid ſhe, 66 or illumine this ſcene! Where ſhall I 66 be when next it ſets-where this time os to-morrow? ſunk, perhaps, in miſery!" She wept to the thought. “ A few 6 hours," reſumed Adeline, - and the 66 Marquis will arrive a few hours, and " this abbey will be a ſcene of confuſion 66 and tumult : every eye will be in or ſearch of me, every receſs will be ex. “ plored.” Theſe reflections inſpired her with new terror, and increaſed her impatience to be gone. Twilight gradually came on, and the now thought it ſufficiently dark to ven- ture forth; but, before ſhe went, the kneeled down and addreſſed himſelf to Heaven. She implored ſupport and protection, and committed herſelf to the care of the God of niercies. Having done this, ſhe quitted her chamber, and paſſed with cautious ſteps down the wind- ing ſtaircaſe. No perſon appeared, and ſhe proceeded through the door of the tower nov [ 109 ] tower into the foreſt. She looked around; the gloom of 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 fitted by, gamboling in the twilight; and often, as ſhe looked back towards the abbey, thought the diſtinguiſhed, amid the deepening gloom, the figures of men. Having proceeded ſome way, ſhe ſud- denly heard the feet of horſes, and foon after a ſound of voices, among which fhe diſtinguiſhed that of the Marquis : they feemed to come from the quarter ſhe was approaching, and evidently ad- vanced. Terror for ſome minutes ar- reſted her ſteps ; ſhe ſtood in a ſtate of dreadful heſitation : to proceed was to run into the hands of the Marquis; to return [ II 110 ] return was to fall into the power of La Motte. After remaining for ſome time uncer- tain whither to fly, the ſounds ſuddenly took a different direction, and the party wheeled towards the abbey. Adeline had a ſhort ceſſation of terror. She now un- derſtood that the Marquis had paffed 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 dark- neſs of the place; at length the deter- mined 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 ſound broke the ſilence of [ 1 ] of the hour. The ſtate of her mind can only be imagined, by conſidering 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 imagination almoſt overcame her. While ſhe yer looked around, ſhe ſaw lights moving at a diſtance ; 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 The ſaw proceeded from people in ſearch of her; who, ſhe feared, not finding her at the abbey, might di- rect their ſteps towards the tomb. Her place of refuge now ſeemed too near her [ T12 112 ] her enemies to be ſafe, and ſhe would have fled to a more diſtant 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 her- ſelf in the cell, when ſhe obſerved the lights fuddenly diſappear. All was foon 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 ftone. 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 re- @cſs, and no found foretold his approach. Her [ 113 ) 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 ſucceeding moment ſhe heard three ſtrokes of a whip; her heart beat, and for ſome moments her agitation was ſuch, that ſhe made no ef- fort to quit the cell. The ſtrokes were repeated : ſhe now rouſed her ſpirits, and, ſtepping forward, aſcended to the foreſt. She called “ Peter;" for the deep gloom would not perinit her to diſ- tinguilh either man or horſe. She was quickly anſwered, “ Huſh ! Ma’amſelle, “ our voices will betray lis.” They [ 114 ] They mounted and rode off as faſt as the darkneſs would permit. Adeline's heart revived at every ſtep they took. She inquired what had paſſed at the abbey, and how he had contrived to get away. “ Speak ſoftly, Ma’amſelle ; « 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 fat off on a full gallop, and continued the 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 diſcovered. - 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 arrived, and Monſieur La " Moite then found out yoù was fled. 66 Upon [ 115 ] “ Upon this a great rout there was, and “ he talked a great deal with the Mar- so quis.” " Speak louder,” ſaid Adeline ; “ I cannot hear you.” - I will, Ma'amſelle." 6 Oh Heavens!” interrupted Ade- line, “ 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 Mar- quis'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 : fhe. endeavoured to ſoften the man to pity, and pleaded with all the genuine elo- quence of diſtreſs; but he underſtood his intereſt too well to yield even for a mo- ment to the compaffion, which, in ſpite of him [ 116 ] himſelf, her artleſs fupplication inſpired. - She now reſigned herſelf to deſpair, and, in paſſive filence, ſubmitted to her fate. They continued thus to travel, till a ſtorm of rain, accompanied by thun- der and lightning, drove them to the covert of a thick grove. The man be. lieved 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 ſat off on full gallop ; and having continued to travel for about two hours, they came to the borders of the foreſt, and, ſoon after, to a high lonely wall, which Adeline could juſt diſtinguiſh by the moon-light, which now ſtreamed through the parting cloud. Here they ſtopped ; the man dif- mounted, and having opened a ſmall door in the wall, he unbound Adeline, who ſhrieked, though involuntarily and in vain, as he took her from the horſe. The door opened upon a narrow paſſage, dimly [ 117 ] 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 magnificent ſaloon, ſplendidly illuminated, and fitted up in the moſt airy and elegant taſte. The walls were painted in freſco, re- preſenting ſcenes from Ovid, and hung above with ſilk drawn up in feftoons and richly fringed. The ſofas were of a ſilk to ſuit the hangings. From the centre of the ceiling, which exhibited a ſcene from the Armida of Taffo, deſcended a ſilver lamp of Etruſcan form : it diffuſed a blaze of light, that, reflected from large pier glaſſes, completely illuminated the ſaloon. Buſts of Horace, Ovid, Ana- creon, Tibullus, and Petronius Arbiter, adorned the receſſes, and ſtands of flow- ers, placed in Etruſcan vaſes, breathed the moſt delicious perfume. In the mid- dle of the apartment ſtood a ſmall table, ſpread with a collation of fruits, ices, and liquors. No perſon appeared. The whole [ 118 ] whole ſeemed the work of enchantment, and rather reſembled the palace of a fairy than any thing of human conformation. Adeline was aſtoniſhed, and inquired where ſhe was, but the man refuſed to anſwer her queſtions, and, having deſired her to take 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 charnt 66 to lure me to deſtruction : She en- deavoured, with a hope of eſcaping, to open the windows, but they were all faſtened : ſhe next attempted ſeveral doors, and found them alſo ſecured. Perceiving all chance of eſcape was re- moved, ſhe remained for ſome tiine given up to ſorrow and reflection ; but was at length drawn from her reverie by the notes of ſoft muſic, breathing ſuch dulcet and [ 119 ] 1. and entrancing ſounds, as ſuſpended grief, and waked the ſoul to tenderneſs and penſive pleaſure. Adeline liſtened in ſurprize, and inſenſibly became ſoothed and intereſted; a tender melancholy ſtole upon her heart, and ſubdued every harſher feeling : but the moment the ſtrain ceaſed, the enchantment diffolved, and the returned to a ſenſe of her fitu- ation. Again the muſic founded “ Muſic ſuch as charmeth ſleep" And again ſhe gradually yielded to its ſweet magic. A female voice, accom- panied by a lute, a hautboy, and a few other inſtruments, now gradually ſwelled into a tone ſo exquiſite, as raiſed atten- tion into ecſtacy. It funk by degrees, and touched a few fimple notes with pa- thetic ſoftneſs, when the meaſure was fuddenly changed, and in a gay and airy melody Adeline diſtinguiſhed the follow- ing words : SONG. as ( 120 ) - SON G.. Life's a varied, bright illuſion, · Joy and forrow-light and ſhade.; .. Turn from forrow's dark fuffufion, Catch the pleaſures ere they fade. Fancy paints with hués unreal,- Smile of bliſs, and ſorrow's mood; If they both are but ideal, Why reject the ſeeming good ? Hence! no more! 'tis Wiſdom calls ye, Bids ye court Time's preſent aid ; The future truſt not-hope enthrals ye, “Catch the pleaſures ere they fade.'*. The muſic ceaſed, but the ſound ſtill vibrated on her imagination, and the was ſunk in the pleaſing languor they had inſpired, when the door opened, and the Marquis de Montalt appeared. He approached the ſofa where Adeline fat, and addreſſed her, but ſhe heard not his voice-lhe had fainted. He endeavour- ed to recover her, and at length ſuc- ceeded; but when ſhe uncloſed her eyes, and again beheld him, the relapſed into a ſtate [ TI 121 ) a ſtate of infenfibility, 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 leſt them to prepare her for his re-appearance. When Ade- line perceived that the Marquis was gone, and that ſhe was in the care of women, her ſpirits gradually returned ; ſhe looked at lier attendants, and was furpriſed to ſee ſo much elegance and beauty. Some endeavour ſhe made to intereſt their pity, but they ſeemed wholly in- ſenſible to her 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 preſence. It was with the utmoſt difficulty that Adeline forbore to ex- preſs the diſdain which was riſing to her lips, and that ſhe liſtened to their dif- courſe in filence. But ſhe ſaw the in- VOL. II. con- G [ 122 I 22 ) convenience and fruitleſſneſs of oppofi- tion, and the commanded 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, which ſhe haftily withdrew, and turning from him with a look of un- utterable diſtreſs, burſt into tears. He was for ſome time filent, 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 forrow yielded to indignation, and the reproached him with his conduct. He pleaded that he had long loved and lought her upon honourable terms, and his offer of thoſe terms he began to re- peat, [ 123 ] peat, but, raiſing his eyes towards Ade line, he ſaw in 'her looks the contempt which he was conſcious he deſerved. For a moment he was confuſed, and ſeemed to underſtand both that his plan was diſcovered and his perſon deſpiſed; but ſoon 'refuming' his uſual command of feature, he again preffed his fuit, and ſolicited her love. A little reflection fhewed Adeline the danger of 'exafpe- rating his pride, by an avowal of the contempt which his pretended offer of marriage excited'; and ſhe thought it not improper, upon an 'occafion in which the honour and peace of her life was concerned, to yield fomewhat to the policy of diffimulation. She ſaw that her only chance of eſcaping his deſigns depended upon delaying them, and the now wiſhed hini to believe her ignorant that the Marchioneſs was living, and that his offers were deluſive. He obſerved her pauſe, and, in the eagerneſs to turn her heſitation to his G 2 advan- no [ 124 ] advantage, renewed his propoſal with increaſed vehemence. -- " To-morrow “ Thall unite us, lovely Adeline; to- “ morrow you ſhall conſent to become " the Marchionefs de Montalt. You os will then return 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 66 ſituation? Do I not make you the 66 moſt honourable propoſals ?”- Ade- line ſhuddered : " If you wiſh I ſhould s eſteem you, my Lord, endeavour, if s poſſible, to make nie forget by what so means I came into your power; if “ your views are, indeed, honourable, < prove them ſo by releaſing me from my confinement.” - Can you then wiſh, lovely Adeline, 66 to fly from him who adores you?" re- plied the Marquis, with a ſtudied air of tenderneſs. " Why will you exact ſo . .. ſevere [ 125 ] is ſevere a proof of my diſintereſtedneſs, a “ diſintereſtedneſs which is not conſiſtent c with love ? No, charming Adeline, « let me at leaſt have the pleaſure of be- “ holding you, till the bonds of the so church ſhall remove every obſtacle tu os my love. To-morrow”_ Adeline ſaw the danger to which the was now expoſed, and interrupted him. 6. Deſerve my eſteem, Sir, and then you 55 will obtain it : as a firſt ſtep towards " which, liberate me from a confine- « ment 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 in- " tereſt in iny happineſs?” Thus did Adeline, to whom the arts and the prac- tice of diffimulation 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-pre- ſervation, ſhe uſed them with reluctance, G 3 W Ci and [ 126 ] and almoſt with abhorrence; for her mind was habitually impregnated with the love of virtue, in thought, word, and action, and; while her end' in uſing them was certainly good, fhe ſcarcely thought that end could juſtify the means . . The Marquis perfifted 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 folitary and defolate ruin to a gay " and ſplendid villa, where every luxury “ is at your command, and where every "s perſon ſhall be obedient to your wiſhes." “ My firſt wiſh is to go hence,” ſaid Adeline ; “ I entreat, I conjure you, “ my Lord, no longer to detain me. I " am a friendleſs and wretched orphan, of expoſed to many evils, and, I fear, “ abandoned to misfortune : I do not “ will to be rude; but allow me to ſay, [ 127 ] o ſay, that no miſery can exceed that I “ ſhall feel in remaining here, or, in- “ deed, in being any where purſued by " the offers you make me !” Adeline had now forgot her policy : tears pre- vented her from proceeding, and the turned away her face to hide her emo- tion. . " By Heaven! Adeline, you do me « wrong,” ſaid the Marquis, riſing from his feat, and ſeizing her hand; “ I love, “ I adore you; yet you doube my paſ- “ fion, and are inſenſible to my vows. “ Every pleaſure poſſible to be enjoyed " within theſe walls you ſhall partake, 66 but beyond them you ſhall not go.” She diſengaged her hand, and in ſilent anguiſh walked to a diftant part of the ſaloon ; deep ſighs burſt from her heart, and, almoſt fainting, the leaned on a window frame for ſupport. The Marquis followed her; “ Why " thus obſtinately perſiſt in refuſing to “ be happy ?” ſaid he; “ recollect 66 the G4 [ 128 ) " the propoſal I have made you, and " accept it, while it is yer 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 an- fwer only by tears ; ſhe deſpaired of ſoftening his heart to pity, and feared to exaſperate his pride by diſdain. He now led her, and the ſuffered him, to a feat near the banquet, at which he prefi- ed her to partake of a variety of confec- tionaries, particularly of ſome liquors, of which he himſelf drank freely : Ade- line accepted only of a peach. And now the Marquis, who inter- preted her filence into a ſecret com- pliance with his propoſal, reſumed all his guity 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 founded the moſt ten- der and impaſſioned airs; but its effect on [ 129 ] on Adeline was now loft, her mind being too much embarraſſed and diſtreſſed by the preſence of the Marquis, to admit even the foothings of harmony. A ſong was now heard, written with that ſort of impotent art, by which fome voluptuous poets believe they can at once conceal and recommend the principles of vice. Adeline received it with contempt and diſpleaſure, and the Marquis, perceiving its effect, preſently made a ſign for ano- ther compoſition, which, adding the force of poetry to the charms of muſic, might withdraw her mind from the preſent ſcene, and enchant it in tweet delirium. ' G5 : SONG [ 130 ] SONG OF A SPIRIT.. In the fightleſs air I dwell, T.Y.Diab SILA TU?? On the floping fun-beams play;"..binail Delve the cavern's inmoft cell, , aries, apres Where never yet did day-light ftray: Dive beneath the green ſea waves, i ": 5 mil And gambof in the briny deeps; Skim ev'ry ſhore that Neptune laves, From Lapland's plains to India's ſteeps. Oft I mount with rapid force. "?. Ja Above the wide earth's ſhadowy zone; Follow the day-ſtar's flaming courſe Through realms of ſpace to thought unknown: And liften oft celeſtial ſounds l ist Thit ſwell the air unheard of men,.. As I watch my nightly rounds , O'er woody ſteep, and filent glen. Under the fhade of waving trees, . . On the green bank of fountain clear,.. At penfive eve I fit at eafe, While dying muſic murmurs near. And oft, on point of airy clift, That hangs upon the weſtern mainga I watch the gay tints paffing ſwift, And twilight veil the liquid plain, Thens [ 131 ) Then, when the breeze has ſunk away, And ocean ſcarce is heard to lave, For me the ſea-nymphs ſoftly play Their dulcet ſhells beneath the wave. Their dulceţ ſhells! I hear them now, Slow ſwells the ſtrain upon mine ear; Now faintly falls--nov warbles low, Till rapture melts into a tear, The ray that filvers o'er the dew, And trembles through the leafy ſhade; And tints the ſcene with ſofter hue, po Calls me to rove the lonely glade;. , .. Or hie me to ſome ruin'd' tower," * Faintly ſhewn by moon-light gleam, Where the lone wanderer owns iny power In ſhadows dire that ſubſtance ſeem; . In thrilling ſounds that murmur woe,' And pauſing ſilence make more dread; In muſic breathing from below is is Sad folemn ſtrains, that wake the dead. Unſeen I move--unknown am fear'd!' Fancy's wildeſt dreams I weave; . And oft by bards, my voice is heard To die along the gales of eve. G6 When [ 132 ] When the voice ceaſed, a' mournful ſtrain, played with exquiſité expreſfion, founded from a diſtant horn; ſometimes the notes floated on the air in ſoft un- dulations-now they ſwelled into full and ſweeping melody, and now died faintly into filence: when again they roſe and trembled in founds ſo fweetly tender, as drew tears from Adeline, and exclamations of rapture from the Marquis. He threw his arm round her, and would have preſſed her towards him, but ſhe liberated herſelf from his embrace, and with a look, on which was impreffied the firm dignity of virtue, yet touched with forrow, ſhe awed him to forbearance. Conſcious of a ſupe- riority, which he was aſhamed to ac- knowledge, and endeavouring to deſpiſe the influence which he could not refift, he ſtood for a moment the Nave of virtue, though the votary of vice. Soon, however, he recovered his confidence, and began to plead his love; when Ade- line, [ 133 ] line, no longer animated by the ſpirit ſhe had lately ſhewn, and finking beneath the langourand fatigue which the various and violent agitations of her mind produced, entreated he would leave her to repoſe.. 19. The paleneſs of her countenance, and the tremulous tone of her voice, were too expreſſive to be miſunderſtood; and the Marquis, bidding her remember to-morrow, 'with ſome heſitation, with- drew. The moment the was alone, The yielded to the burſting anguiſh of her heart, and was ſo abſorbed in grief, that it was ſome time before the 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 fol- lowed them for ſome time in ſilence, till, prompted by deſperation, ſhe again endeavoured to awaken their compaf- fion: but again the praiſes of the Mare quis were repeated, and perceiving that all [ 134 ) all attempts to intereft them in her fa- vour were in vain, the diſmiſſed them.. She ſecured the door through which they had departed, and then, in the languid hope of diſcovering fome means of eſcape, the ſurveyed her chamber. The airy elegance with which it was fitted up, and the luxurious accommo- dations with which it abounded, feemed deſigned to faſcinate the imagination, and to ſeduce the heart. The hangings were of ſtraw-coloured filk, adorned with a variety of landſcapes and hiſtori- cal paintings, the ſubjects of which par- took of the voluptuous character of the owner; the chimney-piece, of Parian marble, was ornamented with ſeveral repofing figures from the antique. The bed was of filk the colour of the hang- ings, richly fringed with purple and fil- ver, 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 folid filver. [ 135 ] ſilver. · China vaſes, filled with perfume, ſtood in ſeveral of the receffes, 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 thefe 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 in, effectual; at length ſhe gave up the at. tempt. A door next attracted her no. tice, which ſhe found was not faftened; it opened upon a dreffing cloſet, to which the defcended by a few ſteps: two win. dows appeared, ſhe haftened 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 [ 136 ] She returned to lock the door of the clo. ſet, to prevent a ſurprize, which, how. ever, 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 window, which deſcended to the floor, was ſo near the ground, that ſhe might jump from it with eaſe: almoſt in the moment fhe perceived this, ſhe ſprang forward and alighted fafely in an extenſive garden, reſembling more an Engliſh pleaſure ground, than a ſeries of French parterres. Thence ſhe had little doubt of eſca- ping, 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 flept on the lawns and ſpangled the flow- erets, yet heavy with rain-drops, afforded her a diſtinct view of the ſurrounding ſce- nery. She followed the direction of the high [ 137 ) to high wall that adjoined the chateau, till it was concealed from her ſight by a thick wilderneſs, ſo entangled with boughis and obfcured by darkneſs, that the fi ared 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-beains dancing upon the waters, that with gentle undulation played along the ſhore, exhibited a ſcene of tranquil beauty, which would have foothed an heart leſs agitated than was that of Adeline: The ſighed as the tran- ſiently ſurveyed it, and paſſed haſtily on in ſearch of the garden wall, from which The had now ſtrayed a confiderable way. After wandering for ſome time through alleys and over lawns, without meeting with any thing like a boundary to the grounds, ſhe again found herſelf at the lake, and now traverſed its border with the footſteps of deſpair: -tears rolled down her cheeks. The ſcene around exhibited only images of peace and de- light; [ 138 ] light; 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 wind. ings of the ſhore, till an opening in the woods conducted her up a gentle aſcent: the path now wound along the ſide of a hill, where the glooin was ſo deep, that it was with ſome difficulty ſhe found her way: ſuddenly, however, the avenue opened to a lofty grove, and the per- ceived a light iffue from a receſs at ſome diſtance. . . . . She pauſed, and her firſt impulſe was to retreat, but liſtening and hearing no found, 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 receſs, that ſhe might ſecretly obſerve the per- ſon, before ſhe ventured to enter it. Her emotion increaſed as ſhe approached, and having [ 139 ] having 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 countenance was fluſhed with drinking. While ſhe gazed, fixed to the ſpot by terror, he looked up towards the caſe- ment; the light gleamed full upon her face, but the ſtayed not to learn whether he had obſerved her, for, with the ſwift- neſs of ſound, the left the place and ran, without knowing whether ſhe was pur- ſued. Having gone a conſiderable way, fatigue, at length, compelled her to ſtop, and the threw herſelf upon the turf, al- 'moſt fainting with fear and languor. She knew if the Marquis detected her in an attempt to eſcape, he would, probably, burft 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 [ 140 1 She watched, and liſtened, in trembling expectation, but no human form met her eye, no found her ear; in this ſtate the re- mained a conſiderable time. She wept, and the tears ſhe fed relieved her oppref- fed heart. “Omy 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 fill to truſt 56 and be deceived? ---Peter too, could. “ he be treacherous?” She wept again, and then returned to a ſenſe of her preſent danger, and to a confideration of the means of eſcaping it-but no means appeared.. . To her imagination the grounds were boundleſs; ſhe had wandered from lawn.. to lawn, and from grove to grove, with- out perceiving any termination to the place; the garden wall ſhe could not find, but ſhe reſolved neither to return to the chateau, nor to relinquish her ſearch.. As [ 141 ] 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 pur. ſued her, and the heard her name re- peated, while ſhe in vain endeavoured to quicken her pace. Suddenly the ſound of purſuic turned, and ſunk away in a different direction : the pauſed to take breath; the looked around and no perſon appeared. She now proceeded fowly along the avenue, and had almoſt reached its termination, when the faw the ſame figure emerge from the woods and dart acroſs the avenue; it inſtantly purſued her and ap- proached. A voice called her, but ſhe was gone beyond its reach, for ſhe had ſunk [ 142 ] funk ſenſeleſs upon the ground: it was long before ſhe revived, when ſhe did, ſhe found herſelf in the arms of a ſtran- ger, and made an effort to diſengage herſelf. - Fear nothing, lovely Adeline,” ſaid he, “ fear nothing: you are in the arms «c of a friend, who will encounter any « hazard for your fake; who will pro, 6 tect 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 was Theodore who ſpoke. Joy was her firſt emotion; but, recollecting his former abrupt departures at a time ſo critical to her ſafety, and that he was the friend of the Marquis, a thou- fand mingled ſenſations ſtruggled in her breaſt, and overwhelmed her with mil- : truſt, apprehenſion, and diſappointment. Theodore raiſed her from the ground, and while he yet ſupported her, " Let us " immediately fly from this place,” ſaid he; [ 143 ] 6 ſhall go wherever you direct, and con- 6 vey you to your friends." This laſt ſentence touched her heart: " Alas, I " have no friends!” ſaid ſhe, “ nor do 6 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; 66 fuffer 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 Theo- dore, ſupporting her with his arm, hur- ried her along the avenue: they conti- nued 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 garden wall; but he was alſo aware, that in the interme- diate ſpace ſeveral paths wound from re- mote [ 144 ] mote parts of the grounds into the walk he was to paſs, from whence the Mar, quis's people might iſſue and intercept him. He, however, concealed his ap- prehenſions from Adeline, and endea- voured to ſoothe and ſupport her fpirits. At length they reached the wall, and Theodore 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 your- “ ſelf yet a little longer,” ſaid he," and " you will be in ſafety.” He held the ladder while ſhe aſcended; the top of the wall was broad and level, and Ade- line, having reached it, remained there till Theodore followed and drew the lad- der to the other ſide. When they had deſcended, the car- riage appeared in waiting, but without the driver. Theodore feared to call, left his [ 145 ) his voice ſhould betray him; he there- fore, 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 hiin, they returned to the vehicle, which foon drove furiouſly 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 ſympa- thy expreſſed in the tone of his voice and manner, proved that his happineſs, on this occaſion, almoſt equalled her own. As reflection gradually ſtole upon her mind, anxiety ſuperſeded joy: in the tu- mult of the late moments, ſhe thought only of eſcape; but the circumſtances of her preſent ſituation now appeared to her, and the became ſilent and penſive : The had no friends to whom ſhe could fly, and was going with a young Chevalier, almoſt a ſtranger to her, the knew not VOL. II. H whither. 11 ( 146 ) whither. She remembered how often ſhe had been deceived and betrayed where The truſted moſt, and her ſpirits ſunk : The remembered alſo the former attention which Theodore had ſhewn her, and dreaded left 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 recur- ring to her late ſituation at the abbey. 6. You would be much ſurpriſed,” ſaid he, « and, I fear, offended, that I did 6. not attend my appointment at the ab- " bey, after the alarming hints I had 66 given you in our laſt interview. That 56 circumſtance has, perhaps, injured me 66 in your eſteem, if, indeed, I was ever ſo 66 happy as to poffeſs it : but my deſigns “ were over-ruled by thoſe of the Mar- « quis de Montalt; and I think I may 5 venture to aſſert, that my diſtreſs up- " on [ 147 ] 6 on this occaſion was, at leaſt, equal to “ your apprehenſions.”. Adeline faid, “ She had been much 66 alarmed by the hints he had given “ her, and by his failing to afford farther • information, concerning the ſubject of “ her danger; and”- She checked the ſentence that hung upon her lips, for the perceived that ſhe was unwarily diſ- clofing 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 66 you," ſaid he, or with the circum- 66 ſtances that withheld me from the in- 66 terview I ſolicited; I am anxious to 66 exculpate myſelf.” Without waiting her reply, he proceeded to inform her, that the Marquis had, by ſome inexpli- cable means, learned, or ſuſpected, the ſubject of their laſt converſation, and, perceiving his deſigns were in danger of being counteracted, had taken effectual H2 means [ 148 ] means to prevent her obtaining farther intelligence of them. Adeline immedi- ately recollected that Theodore and her- ſelf had been ſeen in the foreſt 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, com- « manded me to prepare to attend my w regiment, and appointed the following “ morning for my journey. This ſudden as order gave me ſome ſurprize, but I was not long in doubt concerning the hot motive for it : a ſervant of the Mar- 66 quis, who had been long attached to « me, entered my room ſoon after I had 65 left his Lord, and expreſſing concern 66 at my abrupt departure, dropped ſome 5 hints reſpecting it, which excited my 6 ſurprize. I inquired farther, and was « confirmed in the fufpicions I had for so ſome [ 149 ] “ fome time entertained of the Mar- “ quis's deſigns upon you. 65 Jacques further informed me, that o our late interview had been noticed " and mentioned to the Marquis. His information had been obtained "s from a fellow ſervant, and it alarmed « me ſo much, that I engaged him to “ ſend me intelligence from time to time, os 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 66 villa of a nobleman ſome leagues dif. “ tant, and, notwithſtanding all the ex- cules I could offer, I was obliged to at- “ tend him. Thus compelled to obey, I “ paſſed a day of more agitation and “ anxiety than I had ever before expe- “ rienced. It was midnight before we H 3 66 re- [ 150 ] 66 menna “ teturned to the Marquis's chateau. I “ aroſe early in the morning to com- mence my journey, and reſolved to “ ſeek an interview with you before I “ left the province. 16 When I entered the breakfaſt room, 66 I was much ſurprized to find the Mar- “ quis there already, who, commending “ the beauty of the morning, declared : « his intențion of accompanying me as “ far as Chineau. Thus utiexpectedly “ deprived of my laſt hope, my counte- “ nance, I believe, expreſſed what I “ felt, for the ſcrutinizing eye of the “ Marquis inſtantly changed from ſeem- “ ing careleſſneſs to diſpleaſure. The “ diſtance from Chineau to the abbey was, at leaſt, twelve leagues; yet I « had once ſome intention of returning “ from thence, when the Marquis lhould 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 66 would ( 152 ) “ near the abbey, La Motte might dir. ~ cover me, and fruſtrate every attempt “ on my part to ſave you : yet I deter- ~ mined to encounter this riſk for the « chance of ſeeing you, and towards “ evening I was preparing to let out to " the foreſt, when Jacques arrived and “ informed me, that you was to be " brought to the chateau. My plan was 6 thus rendered leſs difficult. I learned " alſo, that the Marquis, by means of 84 thoſe refinements in luxury, with " which he is but too well acquainted, “ deſigned, now that his apprehenſioni “ of loſing you was no more, to ſeduce " you to his wiſhes, and in poſe' upon “ you by a fictitious marriage. Having s obtained information concerning the “ fituation of the room allotted you, I “ ordered a chaife 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 [ 153 ] « know not how words can expreſs niy « ſenſe of the obligations I owe you,” , “ generoſity.” " Ah! call it not generoſity," he re plied, " it was love." He pauled. Ade- line was ſilent. After ſome moments of expreſſive emotion, he reſumed : “ But “ pardon this abrupt declaration; yer “ why do I call it abrupt, ſince my ac. « tions have already diſcloſed what my “ lips have never, till this inſtant, ven- “ tured to acknowledge.” He pauſed again. Adeline was ſtill filent. “ Yes “ do me the juſtice to believe, that I am “ ſenſible of the impropriety of pleading “ my love at preſent, and have been “ furprized into this confeſſion. I pro- “ miſe alſo to forbear from a renewal of “ the ſubject, till you are placed in a os ſituation, where you may freely accept ~ or refuſe, the fincere regards I offer “ you. If I could, however, now be cer- « tain H 5 [ 154 ] va " tain 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 generous ſervice he had rendered her ; but ſhe was not yet acquainted with the timidity of love. “ Do you then," faid ſhe, in a tremulous voice, 6 believe " me ungrateful? It is impoſſible I can * conſider your friendly interference in “ my behalf without eſteeming you.” Theodore immediately 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. WO CHAP [ 155 ] CHAPTER XI. “ And Hope enchanted ſmild, and wav'd her “ golden hair ; “ And longer had the fung—but with a frown, " Revenge impatient roſe.” ODE TO THE PASSIONS. dat a mis when a Tem. THE dawn of morning now trem- bled through the clouds, when the tra- vellers ſtopped at a ſmall town to change horſes. Theodore entreated Adeline to alight and take ſome refreſhment, and to this ſhe at length conſented. But the people of the inn were not yet up, and it was ſome time before the knocking and roaring of the poſtillion could rouſe them. Having taken ſome Night refreſhment, Theodore and Adeline returned to the carriage. The only ſubject upon which H6 Theo- [ 156 ] -- - - - Theodore could have ſpoke with intereſt, delicacy forbade him at this time to re- new; and after pointing out ſome beau- tiful ſcenery on the road, and making other efforts to ſupport a converſation, he relapfed into ſilence. His mind, though ſtill anxious, was now relieved from the apprehenſion that had long oppreſſed it. When he firſt ſaw Adeline, her lovelineſs made a deep impreſſion on his heart : there was a ſentiment in her beauty, which his mind immediately acknow- ledged, and the effect of which, her man- ners and converſation had afterwards confirmed. Her charms appeared to him like thoſe fince ſo finely deſcribed by an Engliſh poet : “ Oh! have you feen, bath'd in the morning dew, “ The budding roſe its infant bloom diſplay ; " When firſt its virgin tints unfold to view, " It ſhrinks, and ſcarcely truſts the blaze of day? “ So foft, ſo delicate, ſo ſweet ſhe came, " Youth's damaſk glow juſt dawning on her cheek. • I gaz’d, I ſigh’d, I caught the tender flame, “ Felt the fond pang, and droop'd wi th alion so weak.” ners ( 157 ) A knowledge of her deſtitute condi- tion, and of the dangers with which ſhe was environed, had awakened in his heart the tendereſt touch of pity, and al- fifted the change of admiration into love. The diſtreſs he ſuffered, when compelled to leave her expoſed to theſe dangers, without being able to warn her of them, can only be imagined. During his reſi- dence with his regiment, his mind was the conſtant prey of terrors, which he faw no means of combating, but by re- turning to the neighbourhood of the ab- bey, where he might obtain early intelli- gence of the Marquis's ſchemes, and be ready to give his aſſiſtance to Adeline.. Leave of abſence he could not requeſt, without betraying his deſign where moſt he dreaded it ſhould be known, and, at length, with a generous raſhneſs, which, though it defied law, was impelled by virtue, he ſecretly quitted his regiment. The progreſs of the Marquis's plan he had obſerved, with trembling anxiety, till [ 158 ] till the night that was to decide the fate of Adeline and himſelf rouſed all his mind to action, and involved him in a tumult of hope and fear--horror and expectation. Never, till the preſent hour, had he ventured to believe the was in ſafety. Now the diſtance they had gained from the cha eau, without perceiving any pur- fuit, increaſed his beſt hopes. It was impoffible he could fit by the ſide of his beloved Adeline, and received afſurances of her gratitude and eſteem, without ven- turing to hope for her love. He con- gratulated himſelf as her preſerver, and anticipated ſcenes of happinefs when ne ſhould be under the protection of his fa- mily. The clouds of miſery and appre- henfion difippeared from his mind, and left it to the ſunſhine of joy. When a ſha low of fear would ſometimes return, or when he recollected, with compunc- tic , the circumſtances under which he had left his regiment, ſtationed, as it was, [ 159 ] was was, upon the frontiers, and in a time of war, he looked at Adeline, and her coun- tenance, with inſtantaneous magic, beamed peace upon his heart. But Adeline had a ſubject of anxiety from which Theodore was exempt; the proſpect of her future days was involved in darkneſs and incertitude. Again ſhe was going to claim the bounty of ſtran- gers—again going to encounter the un- certainty of their kindneſs; expoſed to the hardſhips of dependance, or to the difficulty of earning a precarious liveli- hood. Theſe anticipations obſcured the joy occaſioned by her eſcape, and by the affection which the conduct and avowal of Theodore had exhibited. The deli- cacy of his behaviour, in forbearing to take advantage of her preſent ſituation to plead his love, increaſed her eſteem, and flattered her pride. Adeline was loſt in meditation upon ftopped the carriage; and pointing to part [ 160 ] part of a road, which wound down the ſide of a hill they had paſſed, ſaid there were ſeveral horſemen in purſuit! The- odore immediately ordered him to pro. ceed with all poſſible ſpeed, and to ſtrike out of the great road into the firſt obſcure way that offered. The poſtillion cracked his whip in the air, and ſet off as if he was flying for life. In the mean while Theodore endeavoured to re-animate Adeline, who was finking with terror, and who now thought, if ſhe could only eſcape from the Marquis, ſhe could defy the future. Preſently they ſtruck into a bye lane, ſcreened and overſhadowed by thick trees; Theodore again looked from the window, but the cloſing boughs prevented his ſeeing far enough to determine whe- ther the purſuit continued. For his fake, Adeline endeavoured to diſguiſe her emo- tions. “ This lane," ſaid Theodore, “ will certainly lead to a town or vil- " lage, and then we have nothing to « apprea [ 161 ] Canne " apprehend; for though my fingle arm “ could not defend you againſt the num- 66 ber of our purſuers, I have no doubt 66 of being able to intereſt ſome of the “ inhabitants in our behalf.” Adeline appeared to be comforted by the hope this reflection ſuggeſted, and Theodore again looked back, but the windings of the road cloſed his view, and the rattling of the wheels overcame every other ſound. At length he called to the poſtillion to ſtop, and having lif- tened attentively, without perceiving any ſound of horſes, he began to hope they were now in ſafety. “Do you know " where this road leads ?” ſaid he. The poſtillion anſwered that he did not, but he ſaw ſome houſes between the trees at a diſtance, and believed it led to them. This was moſt welcome intelligence to Theodore, who looked forward and per- ceived the houſes. The poftillion ſet off, “ Fear nothing, my adored Adeline," [ 162 ] ſaid he, “ you are now ſafe ; I will part “ with you but with life.” Adeline ſighed, not for herſelf only, but for the danger to which Theodore might be ex- poſed. They had continued to travel in this manner for near half an hour, when they arrived at a ſmall village, and ſoon after ſtopped at an inn, the beſt the place af- forded. As Theodore lifted Adeline from the chaiſe, he again entreated her to diſmiſs her apprehenſions, and ſpoke with a tenderneſs, to which ſhe could reply only by a ſmile that ill concealed her anxiety. After ordering refreſh- ments, he went out to ſpeak with the landlord, but had ſcarcely left the room, when Adeline obſerved a party of horſe- men enter the inn-yard, and ſhe had no doubt theſe were the perſons from whom they fled. The faces of two of them only were turned towards her, but The thought the figure of one of the others not unlike that of the Marquis, Her [ 163 ) Her heart was chilled, and for ſome moments the powers of reaſon forſock her. Her firſt defign was to ſeek con- cealinent; but while ſhe conſidered the means, one of the ho ſemen looked up to the window near which ſhe ſtood, and ſpeaking to his companions, they en- tered the inn. To quit the room, with- out being obſerved, was impoffible; to remain there, alone and unprotected as ſhe was, would almoſt be equally dan- gerous. She paced the room in an agony of terror, often fecretly calling on Theo- dore, and often wondering he did not return. Theſe were moments of inde- ſcribable ſuffering. A loud and tumul- tuous found of voices now aroſe from a diſtant part of the houſe, and ſhe foon diſtinguiſhed the words of the diſpu- tants. " I arreſt you in the King's “ name,” ſaid one; “ and bid you, at " your peril, attempt to go from hence, “ except under a guard.” The [ 164 ] The next minute Adeline heard the voice of Theodore in reply. " I do not “ mean to diſpute the King's orders," ſaid he, “ and give you my word of “ honour not to go without you; but « firſt unhand me, that I may return to or that room; I have a friend there whom “ I wiſh to ſpeak with” To this pro- poſal they at firſt objected, conſidering it merely as an excuſe to obtain an oppor- tunity of eſcaping; but, after much al- tercation and entreaty, his requeſt was granted. He ſprang forward towards the room where Adeline remained, while a ferjeant and corporal followed him to the door, the two ſoldiers went out into the yard of the inn, to watch the win- dows of the apartment. With an eager hand he uncloſed the door, but Adeline haſtened not to meet him, for ſhe had fainted almoſt at the beginning of the diſpute. Theodore called loudly for aſſiſtance, and the mif- treſs of the inn ſoon appeared with her ſtock [ 165 ) fock of remedies, which were adminiſ- tered in vain to Adeline, who remained inſenſible, and by breathing alone gave figns of her exiſtence. The diſtreſs of Theodore was in the mean time height- ened by the appearance of the officers, who, laughing at the diſcovery of his pretended friend, declared they could wait no longer. Saying this, they would have forced him from the inanimate form of Adeline, over whom he hung in unut- terable anguilh, when fiercely turning upon them, he drew his ſword, and ſwore no power on earth ſhould force him away before the lady recovered. The men, enraged by the action and the determined air of Theodore, ex- claimed, “ Do you oppoſe the King's orders ?” and advanced to ſeize him, but he preſented the point of his ſword, and bade them at their peril approach. One of them immediately drew; Theo- dore kept his guard, but did not ad- vance. [ 166 ) vance. " I demand only to wait here 6 till the lady recovers,” ſaid he; “ you “ underſtand the alternative.” The man, already exaſperated by the oppoſition of Theodore, regarded the latter part of his ſpeech as a threat, and became deter- mined not to give up the point; he preſſed forward, and while his comrade called the men from the yard, Theodore wounded him ſlightly in the ſhoulder, and received himſelf the ſtroke of a ſabre on his head. The blood guſhed furiouſly from the wound; Theodore, ſtaggering to a chair, ſunk into it, juſt as the remainder of the party entered the room, and Adeline un- cloſed her eyes to ſee him ghaſtly pale, and covered with blood. She uttered an involuntary ſcream, and exclaiming, " they have murdered him," nearly re- lapſed. At the ſound of her voice he raiſed his head, and ſmiling, held out his hand to her. " I am nw much hurt," faid he faintly, 66 and thall ſoon be bet- 66 ter, [ 167 ] « ter, if indeed you are recovered.” She haſtened towards him, and gave her hand. “ Is nobody gone for a ſurgeon?” ſaid ſhe, with a look of agony. “ Do « not be alarmed," ſaid Theodore, “ I am not ſo ill as you imagine.” The room was now crowded with people, whom the report of the affray had brought together; among theſe was a man, who acted as phyſician, apothe- cary, and ſurgeon, to the village, and who now ſtepped forward to the aſſiſtance of Theodore. Having examined the wound, he de- clined giving his opinion, but ordered the patient to be immediately put to bed ; to which the officers objected, alledging, that it was their duty to carry him to the regiment. 66 That cannot be done “ without great danger to his life,” re- plied the doctor ; “ and”- - Oh! his life,” ſaid the ſerjeant; “ we have nothing to do with that; we “ muſt do our duty.” Adeline, who had [ 168 ) had hitherto ſtood in trembling anxiety, could now no longer be filent. “ Since “ the ſurgeon,” ſaid ſhe, “ has declared “ it his opinion, that this gentleman 6 cannot be re:moved in his preſent con- “ dition, without endangering his life, “ you will remember, that if he dies, “ yours will probably anſwer it.” “ Yes,” rejoined the ſurgeon, whe was unwilling to relinquiſh his patient, “ I declare before theſe witneſſes, that he « cannot be removed with ſafety: you .66 will do well, therefore, to conſider the “ conſequences. He has received a 46 very dangerous wound, which requires • the moſt careful treatment, and the “ event is even then doubtful ; but, if « he travels, a fever may enſue, and the 56 wound will then be mortal.” Theo- dore heard this ſentence with compoſure, but Adeline could with difficulty conceal the anguiſh of her heart : the rouſed all her fortitude to ſuppreſs the tears that ſtruggled [ 159 ] 0 Aruggled in her eyes ; and though ihe wiſhed to intereſt the humanity, or to awaken the fears of the men, 'in behalf of their unfortunate priſoner, lhe dared not to truſt her voice with utterance. From this internal ſtruugle ſhe was re- lieved by the compaſſion of the people who filled the room, and becoming cla- morous in the cauſe of Theodore, de- clared the officers would be guilty of murder if they removed him. " Why “ he muſt die at any rate,” ſaid the ſer- jeant, “ for quitting his poft, and draw- “ ing upon me in the execution of the 66 King's orders.” A faint ſickneſs came over the heart of Adeline, and ſhe leaned for ſupport againſt Theodore's chair, whoſe concern for himſelf was for a while ſuſpended in his anxiety for her. He ſupported her with his arm, and forcing a ſmile, ſaid in a low voice, which the only could hear, “ This is a miſrepre- .66 ſentation ; I doubt not, when the af- Vol. II. 66 fair le [ 170 ] « fair it inquired into, it will be ſettled « without any ſerious conſequences.” Adeline knew theſe words were uttered only to conſole her, and therefore did not give much credit to them, though Theodore continued to repeat ſimilar aſſurances of his ſafety. Meanwhile the mob, whoſe compaſſion for him had been gradually excited by the obduracy of the officer, were now rouſed to pity and indignation by the ſeeming certainty of his puniſhment, and the unfeeling manner in which it had been denounced. In a ſhort time they became ſo much en- raged, that, partly from a dread of far- ther conſequences, and partly from the ſhame which their charges of cruelty oc- caſioned, the ſerjeant conſented that he ſhould be put to bed, till his command- ing officer might direct what was to be done. Adeline's joy at this circumſtance overcame for a moment the ſenſe of her misfortunes, and of her ſituation. She ma [ 171 ) She waited in an adjoining room the ſentence of the ſurgeon, who was now engaged in examining the wound; and though the accident would in any other circumſtances have ſeverely afflicted her, ſhe now lamented it the more, becauſe The conſidered herſelf as the cauſe of it, and becauſe the misfortune, by illuſtrat- ing more fully the affection of her lover. drew him cloſer to her heart, and ſeemed, therefore, to ſharpen the poignancy of her affliction. The dreadful aſſertion that Theodore, ſhould he recover, would be puniſhed with death, the ſcarcely dared to conſider, but endeavoured to believe that it was no more than a cruel exaggeration of his antagoniſt. Upon the whole, Theodore's preſent danger, together with the attendant cir- cumſtances, awakened all her tender- neſs, and diſcovered to her the true ſtate of her affections. The graceful form, the noble, intelligent countenance, and I 2 the { 172 ] the engaging manners which ſhe had at firſt admired in Theodore, became after- wards more intereſting by that ſtrength of thought, and elegance of ſentiment, exhibited in his converſation. His con- duct, fince her eſcape, had excited her warmeſt gratitude, and the danger which he had now encountered in her behalf, called forth her tenderneſs, and heigh- tened it into love. The veil was removed from her heart, and ſhe ſaw, for the firſt time, its genuine emotions. The ſurgeon at length came out of Theodore's chamber into the room where Adeline was waiting to ſpeak with him. She inquired concerning the ſtate of his wound. “ You are a relation of the 66 gentleman's, I prefume, Madam; his s fiſter, perhaps.” The queſtion vexed and embarraſſed her, and, without an- fwering it, the repeated her inquiry. * Perhaps, Madam, you are more nearly b6 relate:1," purſued the ſurgeon, ſeem- ing alſo to diſregard her queſtion,“ per- “ haps [ 173 ] “ haps you are his wife.” Adeline bluſhed, and was about to reply, but he continued his ſpeech. “ The intereſt: 66 you take in his welfare is, at leaſt, verý “ flattering, and I would almoſt conſent 56. to exchange conditions with him, were “ Iſure of receiving ſuch tender com- és paſſion from ſo charming a lady." Saying this, he bowed to the ground. Adeline affuming a very reſerved air, faid, “ Now, Sir, that you have con- s cluded your compliment, you will, 66 perhaps, attend to my queſtion; I “ have inquired how you left your pas 66 tient." « That, Madam, is, perhaps, a queſ. 66 tion very difficult to be reſolved; and 6 it is likewiſe a very diſagreeable office " to pronounce ill: news-I fear he will 56 die.". The ſurgeon opened his ſnuff. box and prefented it to Adeline. “ Die!" The exclaimed in a faint voice, “ Die !" “ Do not be alarmed, Madam,” rea ſumed the ſurgeon, obſerving her. grow I 3: : pale, [ 174 ] pale, “ do not be alarmed. It is poſſible or that the wound may not have reached " the ," he ſtammered; " in that “ caſe the ---,” ſtammering again, “ is not affected; and if ſo, the interior « membranes of the brain are not « touched : in this caſe the wound may, “ perhaps, eſcape infiammation, and the “ patient may poſſibly recover. But if, " on the other hand, “ I beſeech you, Sir, to ſpeak intelli. “ gibly," interrupted Adeline, " and “ not to trifle with my anxiety. Do you “ really believe him in danger ?" “In danger ! Madam,” exclaimed the furgeon, “ in danger ! yes, certainly, in " very great danger.” Saying this, he walked away with an air of chagrin and diſpleaſure. Adeline remained for ſome moments in the room, in an exceſs of ſorrow, which ſhe found it impoffible to reſtrain, and then drying her tears, and 'endeavouring to compoſe her counte- nance, the went to inquire for the miſ- treſs [ 175 ] treſs of the inn, to whom ſhe ſent a waiter. After expecting her in vain for ſome time, the rang the bell, and ſent another meſſage fomewhat more preſſing. Still the hoſteſs did not appear, and Adeline, ac length, went herſelf down ſtairs, where the found her, ſurrounded by a number of people, relating, with a loud voice and various geſticulations, the particulars of the late accident. Per- ceiving Adeline, ſhe called out, “ Oh! “ here is Mademoiſelle herſelf,” and the eyes of the aſſembly were immediately turned upon her. Adeline, whom the crowd prevented from approaching the hoſteſs, now beckoned her, and was go. ing to withdraw; but'the landlaciy, eager in the purſuit of her ſtory, diſregarded the ſignal. In vain did Adeline endea- vour to catch her eye; it glanced every where but upon her, who was unwilling to attract the farther notice of the crowd by calling out." 66 It 14 [ 176 ) “ It is a great pity, to be fure, that - he ſhould be ſhot,” ſaid the landlady, " he's ſuch a handſome man; but they “ ſay he certainly will if he recovers. 56 Poor gentleman! he will very likely s6 not ſuffer though, for the doctor ſays « he will never go out of this houſe " alive.” Adeline now ſpoke to a man who ſtood near, and deſiring he would tell the hoſteſs ſhe wilhed to ſpeak with her, left the place. In about ten minutes the landlady ap- peared. " Alas! Madamoiſelle," ſaid ſhe, “ your brother is in a ſad condition; “ they fear he won't get over it.” Ade- line inquired whether there was any other medical perſon in the town than the ſur- geon whom ſhe had ſeen. “Lord! Ma- 66 dain, this is a rare healthy place; we “ have little need of medicine people “ here; ſuch an accident never hap. “ pened in it before. The doctor has “ been here ten years, or thereabout'; " but there's very bad encouragement 65. for [ 177 ]' 66 « could reach them; it would, there “ fore, occafion them unneceſſary pain, “ and, moreover, a fruitleſs journey. " For your fake, Adeline, I could wiſh “ they were here; but a few days will “ more fully ſhew the conſequences of “ my wound : let us wait, at leaſt, till 56 then, and be directed by circum-' 66 ſtances." Adeline forbore to preſs the ſubject farther, and turned to one more immedi- ately intereſting. " I much wilh,” ſaid ſhe, “ that you had a more able ſur- “geon; [ 183 ) 2 prolonged, would be prejudicial to him, The left him to repoſe.' As ſhe turned out of the gallery, ſhe met the hoſteſs, upon whom certain words of Adeline had operated as a taliſman, transforming neglect and impertinence into officious civility. She came to in- quire whether the gentleman above ſtairs had every thing that he liked, for the was ſure it was her endeavour that he ſhould have. “I have got him a nurſe, “ Ma'amſelle, to attend him, and I dare 6 ſay ſhe will do very well; but I will “ look to that, for I ſhall not mind help- “ ing him myſelf ſometimes. Poor gen- “ tleman! how patiently he bears it ! “ One would not think now that he be- « lieves he is going to die; yet the doc- « tor told him fo himſelf, or, at leaſt as “ good.” Adeline was extremely ſhocked at this imprudent conduct of the fur- geon, and diſmiſſed the landlady, after ordering a ſlight dinner. Towards [ 184 ) Towards evening the ſurgeon again ? made his appearance, and, having paſſed, ſome time with his patient, returned to , the parlour, according to the deſire of : Adeline, to inform her of his conditions He anſwered Adeline's inquiries with great ſolemnity: “ It is impoſſible to « determine poſitively at preſent, Ma-. “ dam, but I have reaſon to adhere tos: 6. the opinion I gave you this morning.. “ I am not apt, indeed, to form opinions “ upon uncertain grounds." I will give “.you a ſingular inſtance of this : “. It is not above a fortnight fince I: 66. was ſent for to a patient at ſome leagues “ diſtance.. I was from home when the · 6. meſſenger arrived, and the caſe being.. urgent, before I could reach the pa-. « cient, another phyſician was conſulted, 56 who had ordered ſuch medicines as he 36 thought proper, and the patient had so been apparently relieved by them. . “ His friends were congratulating them. . 6ſelves upon his improvement when I ; « arrived,, [ 185 ] 66 arrived, and had agreed in opinion c with the phyſician, that there was no 6 danger in his cafe. Depend upon it, « faid I, you are miſtaken ; theſe medi- “ cines cannot have relieved him; the “ patient is in the utmoſt danger. The “ patient groaned, but my brother phy- 66 ſician perſiſted in affirming that the re- “ medies he had preſcribed would not w only be certain, but ſpeedy, ſome good 66 effect having been already produced “ by them. Upon this I loſt all pati- “ ence, and adhering to my opinion, “ that theſe effects were fallacious and - the caſe deſperate, I afſured the pa- 6 tient himſelf that his life was in the ut- “ moſt danger. I am not one of thoſe, “ Madam, who deceive their patients to “ the laſt moments; but you ſhall hear. « the concluſion " My brother playfician was, I ſup- “ poſe, enraged by the firmneſs of my is oppofition, and he aſſumed a moſt an-. 66. gry look, which did not in the leaſt « affect [ 186 ] “ affect me, and turning to the patient, « deſired he would decide, upon which “ of our opinions to rely, for he muſt « decline acting with me. The patient " did me the honour," purſued the ſur- geon, with a ſmile of complacency, and ſmoothing his ruffles, “ to think “ more highly of me than, perhaps, I " deferved, for he immediately diſmiſſed “ my opponent. I could not have be- “ lieved, ſaid he, as the phyſician left - the room, I could not have believed " that a man, who has been ſo many “ years in the profeſſion, could be ſo « wholly ignorant of it. " I could not have believed it either, o ſaid I.-I am aſtoniſhed that he was “ not aware of my danger, reſumed the 6 patient.--I am aſtoniſhed likewiſe, re- “ plied I-I was reſolved to do what I " could for the patient, for he was a man “ of underſtanding, as you perceive, and " I had a regard for him. I, therefore, 66 altered the preſcriptions, and myſelf o admi- [ 187 ] " adminiſtered the medicines ; but all 66 would not do, my opinion was veri- " fied, and he died even before the next 6 morning."-Adeline, who had been compelled to liſten to this long ſtory, fighed at the concluſion of it. “ I don't “ wonder that you are affected, Madam," ſaid the ſurgeon, “ the inſtance I have “ related is certainly a very affecting one. - It diſtreſſed me ſo much, that it was “ fome time before I could think, or “ even ſpeak concerning it. But you “ muſt allow, Madam,” continued he, lowering his voice and bowing with a look of ſelf-congratulation, " that this " was a ſtriking inſtance of the infallibi- "lity of my judgement." Adeline ſhuddered at the infallibility of his judgement, and made no reply. “ It “ was a ſhocking thing for the poor “ man,” reſumed the ſurgeon. It was, “ indeed, very ſhocking,” ſaid Adeline. " It affected me a good deal when it “ happened,” continued he. - " Un- “ doubtedly, Sir,” ſaid Adeline. [ 188 ] “ But time wears away the moſt pain- “ ful impreſſions." “ I think you inentioned it was about " a fortnight ſince it happened.” “Somewhere thereabouts,” replied the furgeon, without ſeeming to underſtand the obſervation. " And will you per- “ mit me, Sir, to aſk the name of the “ phyſician, who fo ignorantly oppoſed or you" “ Certainly, Madam, it is Lafance." “ He lives in the obſcurity he dean “ ſerves, no doubt,” ſaid Adeline. " Why no, Madam;, he lives in a : “ town of ſome note; at about the diſa « tance of four leagues from hence, and " affords one inſtance, among many “ others, that the public opinion is ge- «nerally, erroneous. You will hardly « believe it, but I aſſure you it is a fact, “ that this man comes into a great deal “ of practice, while I am ſuffered to re- “ main here, neglected, and, indeed, 66.very little known.” During [ 189 ] During his narrative, Adeline had been conſidering by what means the could diſ- cover the name of the phyſician, for the inſtance that had been produced to prove his ignorance, and the infallibility of his opponent, had completely ſettled her opinion concerning them both. She now, more than ever, wiſhed to deliver Theodore from the hands of the ſurgeon, and was .muſing on the poſſibility, when he, with ſo much ſelf-ſecurity, developed the means. She aſked him a few more queſtions, concerning the ſtate of Theodore's wound, and was told it was much as it had been, but that ſome degree of fever had come on. “ But I have ordered a “ fire to be made in the room,” conti- nued the ſurgeon, and ſome additional « blankets to be laid on the bed; theſe, 6 I doubt not, will have a proper effect. “ In the mean time, they muſt be care- “ful to keep from him every kind of “ liquid, except ſome cordial draughts, - which [190 ] " which I ſhall ſend. He will naturally 56 aſk for drink, but it muſt, on no ac- “ count, be given to him." 66 You do not approve, then, of the “ method, which I have ſomewhere heard " of,” ſaid Adeline, “ of attending to “ nature in theſe caſes." “ Nature, Madam!” purſued he, “ Nature is the inoſt improper guide in “ the world. I always adopt a method s directly contrary to what ſhe would " ſuggeſt ; for what can be the uſe of " Art, if ſhe is only to follow Nature? " This was my firſt opinion on ſetting “ out in life, and I have ever ſince ſtrictly « adhered to it. From what I have ſaid, « indeed, Madam, you may, perhaps, « perceive that my opinions may be de- “ pended on; what they once are, they « always are, for my mind is not of that us frivolous kind to be affected by cir- “ cumſtances.” i Adeline was fatigued by this diſcourſe, and impatient to impart to Theodore her [ 191 ] her diſcovery of a phyſician, but the ſur- geon ſeemed by no means diſpoſed to leave her, and was expatiating upon va- rious topics, and adducing new inſtances of his ſurpriſing ſagacity, when the waiter brought a meſſage that ſome perſon de- ſired to ſee him. He was, however, en- gaged upon too agreeable a topic to be eaſily prevailed on to quit it, andit was not till after a ſecond meſſage that he made his bow to Adeline, and left the room. The moment he was gone the ſent a note to Theodore, entreating his permiffion to call in the affiſtance of the phyſician. The conceited manners of the ſurgeon had by this time given Theodore a very unfavourable opinion of his talents, and the laſt preſcription had ſo fully con- firmed it, that he now readily conſented to have other advice. Adeline immedi- ately inquired for a meſſenger, but re- collecting that the reſidence of the phyfi- cian was ſtill a ſecret, ſhe applied to the hof- [ 192 ] hoſteſs, who being really ignorant of it, or pretending to be fo, gave her no in- formation. What farther inquiries ſhe made were equally ineffectual, and ſhe paſſed ſome hours in extrenie diſtreſs, while the diſorder of Theodore rather in- creaſed than abated. When ſupper appeared, ſhe aſked the boy who waited, if he knew a phyſician of the name of Lafance, in the neigh- bourhood. " Not in the neighbour- “ hood, Madam ; but I know Doctor " Lafance of Chancy, for I come from the 6 town.”-Adeline inquired farther, and received very ſatisfactory anſwers. But the town was at ſome leagues diſtance, and the delay this circumſtance muſt oc- caſion again alarmed her; fhe, however, ordered a meſſenger to be immediately diſpatched, and, having ſent again to in- quire concerning Theodore, retired to her chamber for the night. The continued fatigue ſhe had ſuffered for the laſt fourteen hours overcame anxi. [ 193 ) anxiety, and her harraſſed ſpirits ſunk to repoſe. She ſlept till late in the morn- ing, and was then awakened by the land- lady, who came to inforın her that Theo- dore was much worſe, and to inquire what ſhould be done. Adeline, finding that the phyſician was not arrived, im- mediately arote, and haſtened to inquire farther concerning Theodore. The hof- teſs informed her, that he had paſſed a very diſturbed night; that he had com- plained of being very hot, and deſireil that the fire in his room might be extin- guiſhed; but that the nurſe knew her duty too well to obey him, and had ſtrictly followed the doctor's orders. She added, that he had taken the cordial draughts regularly, but had, not- withſtanding, continued to grow worſe, and at laſt became light-headed. In the mean time the boy, who had been ſent for the phyſician, was ſtill abfent:- “ And no wonder,” continued the hof- teſs; “ why, only conſider, it's eight VOL. II. K - leagues [ 194 ] COL ** leagues off, and the lad had to find ~ the road, bad as it is, in the dark. “ But, indeed, Ma’amſelle, you might “s as well have truſted our doctor, for " we never want any body elſe, not we, " in the town here ; and if I might “ ſpeak my mind, Jaques had better " have been ſent off for the young gen- " tleman's friends than for this ſtrange « doctor that no body knows.” After aſking ſome farther queſtions concerning Theodore, the anſwers to which rather increaſed than diminiſhed her alarm, Adeline endeavoured to com- poſe her ſpirits, and await in patience the arrival of the phyſician. She was now more ſenſible than ever of the forlornneſs of her own condition, and of the danger of Theodore's, and earneſtly wiſhed that his friends could be informed of his fi- tuation; a wiſh which could not be gra- tified, for Theodore, who alone could acquaint her with their place of refi- dence, was deprived of recollection. When [ 195 ] When the ſurgeon arrived and per. ceived the ſituation of his patient, he expreſſed no ſurpriſe; but having aſked ſome queſtions, and given a few general directions, he went down to Adeline. After paying her his uſual compliments, he ſuddenly aſſumed an air of importance, “ I am ſorry, Madam,” ſaid he, “ that " it is my office to communicate diſa- « greeable intelligence, but I wiſh you as to be prepared for the event, which, " I fear, is approaching.” Adeline com- prehended his meaning, and though ſhe had hitherto given little faith to his judgement, ſhe could not hear him hint at the immediate danger of Theodore without yielding to the inquence of fear, She entreated him to acquaint her with all he apprehended; and he then pro- ceeded to ſay, that Theodore was, as he had foreſeen, much worſe this morning than he had been the preceding night; and the diſorder having now affected his head, there was every reaſon to fear it would K 2 [ 196 ] ces vith would prove fatal in a few hours. “The " worſt conſequences may enſue,” con- continued he; “if the wound becomes “ inflamed, there will be very little as chance of his recovery.” Adeline liſtened to this ſentence with a dreadful calmneſs, and gave no utter- ance to grief, either by words or tears. “ The gentleman, I ſuppoſe, Madam, “ has friends, and the ſooner you inform " them of his condition the better. If " they reſide at any diſtance, it is indeed 6 too late; but there are other neceſ- 66 fary- you are ill, Madam.” Adeline made an effort to ſpeak, but in vain, and the ſurgeon now called loudly for a glaſs of water; ſhe drank it, and a deep figh that ſhe uttered, ſeemed ſomewhat to relieve her opprefled heart: tears ſucceeded. In the mean time, the ſurgeon perceiving the was better, though not vell enough to liſten to his con- verſation, took his leave, and promiſed to return in an hour. The phyſician If ne was [ 197 ] was not yet arrived, and Adeline await- ed his appearance with a mixture of fear and anxious hope. About noon he came, and having been informed of the accident by which the fever was produced, and of the treat- ment which the ſurgeon had given it, he aſcended to Theodore's chamber: in a quarter of an hour he returned to the room where Adeline expected him. “ The gentleman is ſtill delirious,” ſaid he, “ but I have ordered him a com- “ poſing draught.” Is there any “ hope, Sir?” inquired Adeline. “ Yes, “ Madam, certainly there is hope; the " caſe at preſent is ſomewhat doubtful, “ but a few hours may enable me to “ judge with more certainty. In the “ mean time, I have directed that he « ſhall be kept quiet, and be allowed to “ drink freely of ſome diluting liquids.” He had ſcarcely, at Adeline's requeſt, recommended a ſurgeon, inſtead of the one at preſent employed, when the latter gen. K 3 [ 198 ) gentleman entered the room, and, pere ceiving the phyfician, threw a glance af mingled ſurpriſe and anger at Ade- line, who retired with him to another apartment, where ſhe diſmiſſed him with a politeneſs which he did not deign to return, and which he certainly did not deſerve. Early the following morning the ſure geon arrived, but either the medicines, or the criſis of the diſorder, had thrown Theodore into a deep ſleep, in which he remained for ſeveral hours. The phy- fician now gave Adeline reaſon to hope for a favourable iffue, and every pre- caution, was taken to prevent his being diſturbed. He awoke perfectly fenfible and free from fever, and his firſt words inquired for Adeline, who foon learned that he was out of danger. In a few days he was ſufficiently reco- vered to be removed from his chamber to a room adjoining, where Adeline met him with a joy, which ſhe found it im- poffible [ 199] poffible to repreſs ; and the obſervance of this lighted up his countenance with pleaſure : indeed Adeline, ſenſible to the attachment he had ſo nobly teſtified, and ſoftened by the danger he had en- countered, no longer attempted to diſ- guiſe the tenderneſs of her eſteem, and was at length brought to confeſs the in- tereſt his firſt appearance had impreſſed upon her heart. After an hour of affecting converſation, in which the happineſs of a young and mutual attachment occupied all their minds, and excluded every idea not in unifon with delight, they returned to a ſenſe of their preſent embarraſſments : Adeline recollecting that Theodore was arreſted for diſobedience of orders, and deſerting his poſt; and Theodore, that hę muſt ſhortly be torn away from Ade- line, who would be left expoſed to all the evils from which he had ſo lately reſcued her. This thought overwhelmed his heart with anguiſh; and, after a long K4 pauſe, MU [ 201 201 ] no ſort of introduction. At length, me entreated he would drop the ſubject, and the converſation for the remainder of the day was more general, yet ſtill intereſting. That ſimilarity of taſte and opinion, which had at firſt attracted them, every moment now more fully diſcloſed. Their diſcourſe was enriched by elegant litera. ture, and endeared by mutual regard. Adeline had enjoyed few opportunities of reading, but the books to which ſhe had acceſs operating upon a mind eager for knowledge, and upon a taſte pecu- liarly ſenſible of the beautiful and the elegant, had impreſſed all their excel- lencies upon her underſtanding. Theo. the qualities of genius, and from edu- cation all that it could beſtow; to theſe were added, a noble independency of which partook of a happy mixture of dignity and ſweetneſs. K 5 [ 20 202 ] In the evening, one of the officers, who, upon the repreſentation of the ſer- jeant, was ſent by the perfons employed to proſecute military criminals, arrived at the village, and entering the apart- immediately withdrew, informed him with an air of infinite importance, that lie ſhould ſet out on the following day for head-quarters. Theodore anſwered, that he was not able to bear the journey, and referred hini to his phyfician; but the officer replied, that he ſhould take no ſuch trouble, it being certain that the phyſician might be inſtructed what to ſay, and that he ſhould begin his journey on the morrow. “ Here has been delay “ enough,” faid he, “already, and you “ will have ſufficient buſineſs on your * hands when you reach head quarters; 65 for the ferjeant whom you have fe- “ verely wounded, intends to appear “ againſt you; and this, with the offence 6 you. [ 203 ] “ you have commited by deſerting your • poft—.” Theodore's eye's flaſhed fire, “Deſert- s ing!” ſaid he, riſing from his feat, and darting a look of menace at his ac- cuſer, “who dares to brand me with the or name of deſerter?” But inſtantly re- collecting how much his conduct had ap- peared to juſtify the accuſotion, he en- deavoured to ftifle his emotions, and, with a firm voice and compoſed manner, ſaid, that when he reached head-quarters, he ſhould be ready to anſwer whatever might be brought againſt him, but that till then he ſhould be filent. The boldneſs of the officer was repreſſed by the ſpirit and dignity with which Theodore ſpoke theſe words, and muttering a reply, that was ſcarcely audible, he left the room. Theodore fat muſing on the danger of his fituation: he knew that he had much to apprehend from the peculiar circum- ſtances attending his abrupt departure from his regiment, it having been ita- K 6 tioned [ 204 d as tioned in a garriſon town upon the Spaniſh frontiers, where the diſcipline was very ſevere; and from the power of his colonel, the Marquis de Montalt, whom pride and diſappointment would now rouſe to vengeance, and, probably, render inde- fatigable in the accompliſhment of his deſtruction. But his thoughts ſoon fled from his own danger to that of Adeline, and, in the confideration of this, all his fortitude forſook him: he could not ſup- port the idea of leaving her expoſed to the evils he forboded, nor indeed, of a ſeparation fo ſudden as that which now threatened him; and when ſhe again en- tered the room, he renewed his ſolicita- tions for a ſpeedy marriage, with all the arguments that tendernefs and ingenuity could ſuggeſt. Adeline, when ſhe learned that he was to depart on the morrow, felt as if be- reaved of her laſt comfort. All the hor- rors of his ſituation aroſe to her mind, and the turned from him in unutterable anguilh., [ 205 ] anguiſh. Conſidering her filence as a favourable preſage, he repeated his en- treaties that ſhe would conſent to be his, and thus give him a ſurety that their ſe- paration ſhould not be eternal. Adeline ſighed deeply to theſe words: “And who “ can know that our ſeparation would « not be eternal,” ſaid ſhe, “ even if I “ could conſent to the marriage you pro- “ poſe? But while you hear my deter- 66 mination, forbear to accuſe me of in- “ difference, for indifference towards " you would, indeed, be a crime, after " the ſervices you have rendered me.” " And is a cold ſentiment of gratitude 6c all that I muſt expect from you?” ſaid Theodore. “I know that you are going “ to diſtreſs me with a proof of your in- “ difference, which you miſtake for the “ ſuggeſtions of prudence; and that I « ſhall be reduced to look, without " reluctance, upon the evils that may " ſhortly await me. Ah, Adeline ! if “ you mean to reject this, perhaps, the os laſt [ 206 1 «« laſt propoſal which I can ever make " to you, ceaſe, at leaſt, to deceive yourſelf with an idea that you love “ me; that delirium is fading even “ from nay mind.” 66 Can you then ſo ſoon forget our « converſation of this morning?” replied Adeline; “ and can you think ſo lightly “ of me as to believe I would profeſs a “ regard, which I do not feel? If, in- “ deed, you can believe this, I ſhall do s6 well to forget that I ever made fuch " an acknowledgement, and you, that “ you heard it.” “ Forgive me, Adeline, forgive the 66 doubts and inconſiſtencies I have be- “ trayed : let the anxieties of love, and " the emergency of my circumſtances, « plead for me.” Adeline, ſmiling faintly through her tears, held out her hand, which he ſeized and preſſed to his lips. " Yet do not drive me to deſpair " by a rejection of my fuit," continued Theodore ; "think what I muſt ſuffer to " leave .. [ 207 ) so leave you here deftitute of friends and “ protection," 6 I am thinking how I may avoid a “ fituation ſo deplorable,” ſaid Adeline. “ They ſay there is a convent, which receives boarders, within a few miles, " and thither I wiſh to go.” " A convent !" rejoined Theodore, " would you go to a convent? Do you " know the perſecutions you would be “ liable to; and that if the Marquis « ſhould diſcover you, there is little pro- “ bability the ſuperior would refiſt his 66 authority, or, at leaſt, his bribes ?” 6 All this I have conſidered,” ſaid Adeline, “and am prepared to encoun- 66 ter it, rather than enter into an en- “ gagement, which at this time, can « be productive only of miſery to us 6 both.” " Ah, Adeline! could you think thus, “ if you truly loved? I ſee myſelf about “ to be ſeparated, and that, perhaps, • " for ever, from the object of my ten- 66 dereft [ 208 ] « dereſt affections and I cannot but 66 expreſs all the anguiſh I feel-I can. “ not forbear to repeat every argument 66 that inay afford even the ſlighteſt por- “ fibility of altering your determination. • But you, Adeline, you look with com- 66 placency upon a circumſtance which “ tortures me with deſpair.” Adeline, who had long tried to fup- port her ſpirits in his preſence, while ſhe adhered to a reſolution which reaſon ſug- geſted, but which the pleadings of her heart powerfully oppoſed, was unable longer to command her diſtreſs, and burſt into tears. Theodore was in the ſame moment convinced of his error, and ſhocked at the grief he had occafioned. He drew his chair towards her, and, taking her hand, again entreated her par- don, and endeavoured in the tendereſt accents to ſoothe and comfort her. - " What a wretch was I to cauſe you this “ diſtreſs, by queſtioning that regard " with which I can no longer doubt you ho- [ 109 ] " honour me! Forgive me, Adeline ; “ ſay but you forgive me, and, what- “ ever may be the pain of this ſepara- " tion, I will no longer oppoſe it.” « You have given me ſome pain,” faid Adeline, “but you have not offend- " ed me.”-She then mentioned ſome farther particulars concerning the con- vent. Theodore endeavoured to con- ceal the diſtreſs which the approaching feparation occafioned him, and to con- ſult with her on theſe plans with compo- ſure. His judgement by degrees pre- vailed over his paſſions, and he now per- ceived that the plan fhe ſuggeſted would afford her beſt chance of ſecurity. He conſidered, what in the firſt agitation of his mind had eſcaped him, that he might be condemned upon the charges brought againſt him, and that his death, ſhould they have been married, would not only deprive her of her protector, but leave her more immediately expoſed to the deſigns of the Marquis, who would, doubt. [ 21 [ 211 ] 46 patience and uncertainty to which prue “ dence condemns me! If you are in 66 danger, I ſhall be ignorant of it; “ though indeed, did I know it,” ſaid he with a look of deſpair, “ I could not 66 fly to ſave you. O exquiſite miſery ! 66 'tis now only I perceive all the horrors 56 of confinement-'tis now only that I " underſtand all the value of liberty !" His utterance was interrupted by the violent agitation of his mind; he roſe from his chair, and walked with quick paces about the room. Adeline fat, overcome by the deſcription which The- odore had given of his approaching fitu- ation, and by the confideration that the mighe remain in the moſt terrible ſuf- penſe concerning his fate. She ſaw him in a priſon-pale-emaciated, and in chains :-The law all the vengance of the Marquis deſcending upon him; and this for his noble exertions in her cauſe. The- odore, alarmed by the placid deſpair ex- preſſed in her countenance, threw himſelf ce W into [ 212 ] into a chair by her's, and, taking her hand attempted to ſpeak comfort to her, but the words faltered on his lips, and he could only bathe her hand with tears. This mournful filence was interrupted by the arrival of the carriage at the inn, and Theodore, ariſing, went to the win- dow that opened into the yard. The darkneſs of the night prevented his diſ- tinguiſhing the objects without, but a light now brought from the houſe ſhew- ed him a carriage and four, attended by ſeveral ſervants. Preſently he ſaw a gen- tleman, wrapped up in a roquelaure, alight and enter the inn, and in the next moment he heard the voice of the Mar- quis. He had flown to ſupport Adeline, who was finking with terror, when the door opened, and the Marquis, followed by the officers and ſeveral ſervants, en- tered. Fury flaſhed from his eyes, as they glanced upon Theodore, who hung over Adeline with a look of fearful ſoli- OV [ 214 ] * I defy your vengeance," cried Theodore, “ and dread only the pangs 26 of conſcience which your power can. " not inflict upon me, though your vices “ condemn you to its tortures." - Take him inſtantly from the room, * and ſee that he is ſtrongly fettered,” ſaid the Marquis ; "he fliall foon know 166 what a criminal, who adds inſolence “ to guilt, may ſuffer.” — Theodore, exclaiming, “Oh Adeline ! farewell !” was now forced out of the room ; while Adeline, whoſe torpid ſenſes were rouſed by his voice and his laſt looks, fell at the feet of the Marquis, and with tears of agony implored compaſſion for The. odore : but her pleadings for his rival Yeemed only to irritate the pride and exaſperate the hatred of the Marquis. He denounced vengeance on his head, and imprecations too dreadful for the ſpirits of Adeline, whom he compelled to riſe ; and then, endeavouring to ſtifle the emotions of rage, which the preſence of ( 215 ) of Theodore had excited, he began to addreſs her with his uſual expreſſions of admiration. The wretched Adeline, who, regard- leſs of what he ſaid, ſtill continued to plead for her unhappy lover, was at length alarmed by the returning rage which the countenance of the Marquis expreſſed, and, exerting all her remain- ing ſtrength, ſhe ſprung from his graſp towards the door of the room ; but he ſeized her hand before ſhe could reach it, and, regardleſs of her ſhrieks, bring- ing her back to her chair, was going to ſpeak, when voices were heard in the paſſage, and immediately the landlord and his wife, whom Adeline's cries had alarmed, entered the apartment. The Marquis, turning furiouſly to them, demanded what they wanted; but not waiting for their anſwer, he bade them attend him, and quitting the room, The heard the door locked upon her. Adeline [ 216 ] Adeline now ran to the windows, which were unfaſtened, and opened into the inn-yard. Without, all was dark and ſilent. She called aloud for help, but no perſon appeared; and the windows were ſo high, that it was impoſſible to eſcape unaſliſted. She walked about the room in an agony of terror and diftrefs, now ſtopping to liſten, and fancying the heard voices diſputing below, and now quickening her ſteps, as ſuſpence in- creaſed the agitation of her mind. She had continued in this ſtate for near half an hour, when the ſudden- Jy heard a violent noiſe in the lower part of the houſe, which increaſed till all was uproar and confuſion. People paſſed quickly through the paſſages, and doors were frequently opened and ſhut. She called, but received no an- ſwer. It immediately occurred to her, that Theodore, having heard her ſcreams, had attempted to come to her aſſiſtance, and that the buſtle had been occaſioned by [ 217 ) now by the oppoſition of the officers. Know- ing their fierceneſs and cruelty, ſhe was ſeized with dreadful apprehenſions for the life of Theodore. . A confuſed uproar of voices now ſounded from below, and the ſcreams of women convinced her there was fighting; The even thought ſhe heard the claſhing of ſwords; the image of Theodore, dy- ing by the hands of the Marquis, now roſe to her imagination, and the terrors of ſuſpenſe became almoſt inſupportable. She made a deſperate effort to force the door, and again called for help; but her trembling hands were powerleſs, and every perſon in the houſe ſeemed to be too much engaged even to hear her. A loud ſhriek now pierced her ears, and, amidſt the tumult that followed, the clearly diſtinguiſhed deep groans. This confirmation of her fears deprived her of all her remaining ſpirits, and growing faint, ſhe ſunk almoſt lifeleſs into a chair near the door. The uproar gradually Vol. II. ſub- [ 218 ] fubfided till all was ſtill, but nobody re- turned to her. Soon after ſhe heard · voices in the yard, but ſhe had no power to walk acroſs the room, even to aſk the queſtions The wilhed, yet feared, to have anſwered. About a quarter of an hour elapſed, when the door was unlocked, and the hoſteſs appeared with a countenance as pale as death. “For God's ſake," ſaid Adeline, « tell me what has happened. 66 Is he wounded? Is he killed ?” “ He is not dead, Ma'amſelle, but- 56 He is dying then tell me where 6 he is let me go.” " Stop, Ma'amſelle,” cried the hoſteſs, «s you are to ſtay here ; I only want the 66 hartſhorn out of that cupbord there." Adeline tried to eſcape by the door, but the hoſteſs, puſhing her aſide, locked it, and went down ſtairs. Adeline's diſtreſs now entirely over- came her, and ſhe fat motionleſs, and fcarcely conſcious that the exiſted, till rouſed [ 219 ] rouſed by a ſound of footſteps near the door, which was again opened, and three men, whom ſhe knew to be the Mar- ' quis's ſervants, entered. She had ſuffi-' cient recollection to repeat the queſtions The had aſked the land-lady, but they an- ſwered only that ſhe muſt come with them, and that a chaiſe was waiting for her at the door. Still the urged her queſtions. " Tell me if he lives," cried ſhe. ' “ Yes, Ma’amſelle, he is alive, but he is “ terribly wounded, and the ſurgeon is " juſt come to him.” As they ſpoke they hurried her along the paſſage, and with- out noticing her entreaties and ſupplica- tions to know whither ſhe was going, they had reached the foot of the fairs, when her cries brought ſereral people to the door. To theſe the hoſteſs related, that the lady was the wife of a gentleman juſt arrived, who had overtaken her in her flight with a gallant; an account which the Marquis's ſervants corrobo- rated. 66'Tis the gentleman who has L 2 o juſt [ 220 ] in was “ juſt fought the duel,” added the hof- teſs, “ and it was on her account.” Adeline, partly diſdaining to take any notice of this artful ſtory, and partly from her deſire to know the particulars of what had happened, contented herſelf with repeating her inquiries ; to which one of the ſpectators at laſt replied, that the gentleman was deſperately: wounded. The Marquis's people would now have hurried her into the chaiſe, buť ſhe ſünk lifeleſs in their arms, and her condition ſo intereſted the humanity of the ſpecta- tors, that, notwithſtanding their belief of what had been ſaid, they oppoſed the ef- fort inade to carry her, ſenſeleſs as the was, into the carriage. She was at length taken into a room, and, by proper application, reſtored to her ſenſes. There the ſo earneſtly be- fought an explanation of what had hap- pened, that the hoſteſs acquainted her with ſome particulars of the late ren- counter. " When the gentleman that . 66 was [ 221 ] " was ill heard your ſcreais, Madam,” faid ſhe, “ he became quite outrageous, “ as they tell me, and nothing could “ pacify him. The Marquis, for they " ſay he is a Marquis, but you know “ beſt, was then in the room with mý “ huſband and I, and when he heard “ the uproar, he went down to ſee what “ was the matter ; and when he came “ into the room where the Captain was, " he found him ſtruggling with the ſer- “ jeant. Then the Captain was more “ outrageous than ever; and notwith- “ ſtanding he had one leg chained, and “ no fword, he contrived to get the ſer- " jeant's cutlaſs out of the ſcabbard, and " immediately flew at the Marquis, and « wounded him deſperately; upon which “ he was ſecured.”_" It is the Marquis “.then who is wounded,” ſaid Adeline ; " the other gentleman is not hurt?" “ No, not he,” replied the hoſteſs; “ but he will ſmart for it by and bye, “ for the Marquis ſwears he will do for L 3 « him." [ 222 ] " him.” Adeline, for a moment, forgot all her misfortunes and all her danger in thankfulneſs for the immediate eſcape of Theodore; and ſhe was proceeding to make ſome farther inquiries concerning him, when the Marquis's ſervants en- tered the room, and declared they could wait no longer. Adeline, now awakened to a ſenſe of the evils with which ſhe was threatened, endeavoured to win the pity of the hoſteſs, who, however, was, or af- fected to be, convinced of the truth of the Marquis's ſtory, and, therefore, in- ſenſible to all the could urge. Again ſhe addreſſed his ſervants, but in vain; they would neither fuffcr her to remain longer at the inn, or inform her whither ſhe was going; but, in the preſence of ſeveral perſons, already prejudiced by the inju- rious aſſertions of the hoſteſs, Adeline was hurried into the chaiſe, and her con- ductors mounting their horſes, the whole pilty was very ſoon beyond the village. Thus [ 223 ] Thus ended Adeline's thare of an ad- venture, began with a proſpect not only of ſecurity, but of happineſs; an adven- ture, which had attached her more cloſely to Theodore, and ſhewn him to be more worthy of her love; but which, at the ſame time, had diſtreſſed her by new dif. appointment, produced the impriſon- ment of her generous and now adored lover, and delivered both himſelf and her into the power of a rival, irritated by delay, contempt, and oppoſition. LA CHAI- [ 224 ] CHAPTER XII. “ Nor ſea, nor ſhade, nor ſhield, nor rock, nor cave, “ Nor filent deſarts, nor the fullen grave, " Where fiame-ey'd Fury means to frown--can “ fave." THE ſurgeon of the place, having examined the Marquis's wound, gave him an immediate opinion upon it, and ordered that he ſhould be put to bed : but the Marquis, ill as he was, had ſcarcely any other apprehenſion than that of loſing Adeline, and declared he ſhould be able to begin his journey in a few hours. With this intention, he had be- gan to give orders for keeping horſes in readineſs, when the ſurgeon perſiſting moſt ſeriouſly, and even paſſionately to exclaim, that his life would be the ſacri. fice of his raſhneſs, hê was carried to a bed- [ 225 ] bed-chamber, where his valet alone was permitted to attend him. This man, the convenient confidant of all his intrigues, had been the chief in- ſtrument in affifting his deſigns concern- ing Adeline, and was indeed the very perſon who had brought her to the Mar- quis's villa on the borders of the foreſt. To him the Marquis gave his farther di. rections concerning her; and, foreſee- ing the inconvenience, as well as the dan- ger of detaining her at the inn, he had ordered hiin, with ſeveral other ſervants, to carry her away immediately in a hired carriage. The valet having gone to ex. ecute his orders, the Marquis was left to his own reflections, and to the violence of contending paſſions. The reproaches and continued oppo- ſition of Theodore, the favoured lover of Adeline, exaſperated his pride, and rouſed all his malice. He could not for a moment conſider this oppoſition, which was in ſome reſpects ſucceſsful, 15 with, [ 226 ] without feeling an exceſs of indignation and inveteracy, ſuch as the proſpect of a ſpeedy revenge could alone enable him to ſupport. When he had diſcovered Adeline's eſcape from the villa, his ſurprize at firſt equalled his diſappointment; and, after exhauſting the paroxyſm of his rage up- on his doineſtics, he diſpatched them all different ways in purſuit of her, going himſelf to the abbey, in the faint hope, that, deſtitute as ſhe was of other fuc- cour, ſhe might have fled thither. La Motte, however, being as much ſurprized as himſelf, and ignorant of the route which Adeline had taken, he returned to the villa, impatient of intelligence, and found ſome of his ſervants arrived, without any news of Adeline, and thoſe who came afterwards were as ſucceſsleſs as the firſt. A few days after, a letter from the Lieutenant-Colonel of the regiment in- formed him, that Theodore had quitted his [ 227. ] f his company, and had been for ſome time abfent, nobody knew where. This information, confirming a ſuſpicion which had frequently occurred to him, that Theodore had been by ſome means or other, inſtrumental in the eſcape of Adeline, all his other paſſions became, for a time, ſubſervient to his revenge, and he gave orders for the immediate purſuit and apprehenſion of Theodore : but Theodore, in the mean time, had been overtaken and ſecured. . It was in conſequence of having för- merly obſerved the growing partiality between him and Adeline, and of intele ligence received from La Morte, who had noticed their interview in the foreſt, that the Marquis had reſolved to remove a rival fo dangerous to his love, and ſo likely to be informed of his deſigns. He had therefore told Theodore, in a man- ner as plauſible as he could, that it would be neceſſary for him to join the regi- ment; a notice which affected him only L 6 [ 228 ) as it related to Adeline, and which ſeemed the leſs extraordinary, as he had already been at the villa a much longer time than was uſual with the officers invited by the Marquis. Theodore, indeed, very well knew the character of the Marquis, and had accepted his invitation rather from an unwillingneſs to thew any diſreſpect to his Colonel by a refuſal, than from a ſanguine expectation of pleaſure. From the men who had apprehended Theodore, the Marquis received the in- formation, which had enabled him to purſue and recover Adeline; but, though he had now effected this, he was inter- nally a prey to the corroſive effects of diſappointed paſſion and exaſperated pride. The anguiſh of this wound was alınoſt forgotten in that of his mind, and every pang he felt ſeemed to increaſe his thirſt of revenge, and to recoil with new torture upon his heart. While he was in this ſtate, he heard the voice of the innocent Adeline imploring protec- tion; [ 230 ] When he heard the wheels of the car- riage that contained her drive off, he felt an agony of deſpair which almoſt over- came his reaſon. Even the ſtern hearts of the ſoldiers who attended him were not wholly inſenſible to his wretchedneſs, and by venturing to blame the conduct of the Marquis, they endeavoured to conſole their priſoner. The phyſician, who was juſt arrived, entered the room during this paroxyſm of his diſtreſs, and, both feeling and expreſſing much con- cern at his condition, inquired with ſtrong ſurprize why he had been thus precipitately removed to a room ſo very unfit for his reception ? Theodore explained to him the reaſon of this, of the diftreſs he ſuffered, and of the chains by which he was diſgraced ; and perceiving the phyſician liſtened to him with attention and compaſſion, he became deſirous of acquainting him with ſome farther particulars ; for which pur- pore [ 232 ] “ ſuffering angel”-deep ſobs interrupt- ed his voice, and the violence of his agi- tation would not allow him to proceed. The phyſician could only expreſs the · ſympathy he felt for his diſtreſs, and en- treat him to be more calmı, when a ſer- vant entered the room from the Marquis, who deſired to ſee the phyſician immedi- ately. After ſome time, he ſaid he would attend the Marquis; and having endea- voured to attain a degree of compoſure, which he found it difficult to affume, le wrung the hand of Theodore and quitted the room, promiſing to return before he left the houſe. He found the Marquis much agitated both in body and mind, and rather more apprehenſive for the conſequences of the wound than he had expected. His anxi- ety for Theodore now ſuggeſted a plan, by the execution of which he hoped he -might be able to ſerve him. Having felt his patient's pulſe, and aſked ſome queſtions, he aſſumed a very ſerious look, when [ 233 ] when the Marquis, who watched every turn of his countenance, deſired he would, without heſitation, ſpeak his opi- nion. “ I am ſorry to alarm you, my Lord, “ but here is ſome reaſon for apprehen- 66 fion: how long is it ſince you received 66 the wound ?" - .66 Good God! there is danger then !" cried the Marquis, adding ſome bitter execrations againſt Theodore.-" There “ certainly is danger," replied the phy- ſician; “ a few hours may enable me to " determine its degree." “ A few hours, Sir!” interrupted the Marquis ; " a few hours !” The phyſi- cian entreated him to be more calm. “ Confuſion !” cried the Marquis. “ A “ man in health may, with great compo- 6 fure, entreat a dying man to be calm. « Theodore will be broke upon the 66 wheel for it, however.” “You miſtake me, Sir,” ſaid the phy. ſicians, “ if I believed you a dying man, 6 or [ 235 ] fairs to ſettle, it would be as well to at- tend to them, for that it was iinpoſſible to ſay what might be the event. He then turned the diſcourſe and ſaid, he had juſt been with the young officer under arreſt, who, he hoped, would not be removed at preſent, as ſuch a proce- dure muſt endanger his life. The Mar- quis uttered a dreadful oath, and, curf- ing Theodore for having brought him to his preſent condition, ſaid, he ſhould depart with the guard thai very night. Againſt the cruelty of this ſentence, the phyſician rentured to expoſtulate; and endeavouring to awaken the Marquis to a ſenſe of humanity, pleaded earneſtly for Theodore. But theſe entreaties and ar- gunents ſeemed, by diſplaying to the Marquis a part of his own character, to rouſe his reſentment, and re-kindle all the violence of his paſſions. The phyſician at length withdrew in deſpondency, after promiſing, at the Marquis's requeſt, not to leave the inn. He [ 236 ] He had hoped, by exaggerating his danger, to obtain ſome advantages, both for Adeline and Theodore, but the plan had quite a contrary effect; for the ap- prehenſion of death, ſo dreadful to the guilty mind of the Marquis, inſtead of awakening penitence, increaſed his deſire of vengeance againſt the man, who had reduced him to ſuch a ſituation. He de. termined to have Adeline conveyed where Theodore, ſhould he by any acci- dent eſcape, could never obtain her; and thus to ſecure to himſelf, at leaſt, ſome means of revenge. He knew, however, that when Theodore was once ſafely con- veyed to his regiment, his deſtruction was certain ; for ſhould he even be ac- quitted of the intention of deſerting, he would be condemned for having affault- ed his ſuperior officer. The phyſician returned to the room where Theodore was confined. The violence of his diſtreſs was now fubfided into CIU 001 [ 273 ] into a ſtern deſpair, more dreadful than the vehemence which had lately poſſeſſed him. The guard, in compliance with his requeſt, having left the room, the phyſician repeated to him ſome part of his converſation with the Marquis. The- odore, after expreſſing his thanks, ſaid, he had nothing more to hope. For himſelf he felt little ; it was for his fa- mily, and for Adeline he ſuffered. He inquired what route ſhe had taken, and though he had no proſpect of deriving advantage from the information, deſired the phyſician to aſſiſt him in obtaining it; but the landlord and his wife either were, or affected to be, ignorant of the matter, and it was in vain to apply to any other perſon. The ſerjeant now entered with orders from the Marquis for the immediate de- parture of Theodore, who heard the meſ- fage with compoſure, though the phyfi. cian could not help expreſſing his indige nation at this precipitate removal, and his [ 238 ] his dread of the conſequences that might attend it. Theodore had ſcarcely time to declare his gratitude for the kindneſs of this valuable friend, before the ſoldiers entered the room to conduct him to the carriage in waiting. As he bade him farewell, Theodore Ripped his purſe into his hand, and turning abruptly away, told the ſoldiers to lead on ; but the phyſician ſtopped him, and refuſed the preſent with ſuch ſerious warmth, that he was compelled to reſume it: he wrung the hand of his new friend, and, being unable to ſpeak, hurried away. The whole party immediately ſet off, and the unhappy Theodore was left to the re- membrance of his paſt hopes and ſuffer- ings; to his anxiety for the fate of Ade- line; the contemplation of his preſent wretchedneſs, and the apprehenſion of what might be reſerved for him in future. For himſelf, indeed, he ſaw nothing but deſtruction, and was only relieved from total deſpair, by a feeble hope that ſhe, whom [ 239 ] whom he - loved better than himſelf, might one time enjoy that happineſs, of which he did not venture to look for a participation. CHAP. [ 240 ] CHAPTER XIII. “ Have you the heart? When your head did but ach, “ I knit my handkerchief about your brows, “ And with my hand at midnight held up your head; “ And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, “ Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time.” KING JOHN. “ If the midnight bell “ Did, with his iron tongue, and brazen mouth, “ Sound one unto the drowſy race of night ; “ If this ſame were a church-yard where we ſtand, " And thou poſſeſſed with a thoufand wrongs ; “Or if that ſurly fpirit melancholy, “ Had bak'd thy blood and made it heavy, thick ; “ Then, in deſpite of broad-eyed watchful day, “I would into thy boſom pour my thoughts." KING JOHN. MEANWHILE the perſecuted Ade- line continued to travel, with little inter- ruption, all night. Her mind ſuffered fuch a tumult of grief, regret, deſpair, and [ 241 ] and terror, that ſhe could not be ſaid to think. The Marquis's valet, who had placed himſelf in the chaiſe with her, at firft ſeemed inclined to talk; but her in- attention ſoon filenced him, and left her to the indulgence of her own miſery. They ſeemed to travel through obſcure lanes and bye-ways, along which the carriage drove as furiouſly as the darkneſs would permit: when the dawn appeared, ſhe perceived herſelf on the borders of a foreſt, and renewed her entreaties to know whither ſhe was going. The man replied he had no orders to tell, but ſhe would ſoon ſee. Adeline, who had hi. therto ſuppoſed they were carrying her to the villa, now began to doubt it; and as every place appeared leſs terrible to her imagination than that, her deſpair began to abate, and ſhe thought only of the devoted Theodore, whom ſhe knew to be the victim of malice and re- venge. Vol. II. M They [ 242 ) • They now entered upon the foreſt, and it occurred to her that ſhe was going to the abbey ; for though the bad no re- membrance of the ſcenery, through which ſhe paſſed, it was not the leſs probable that this was the foreſt of Fon- tanville, whole boundaries were by much too extenſive to have come within the circle of her former walks. This conjecture revived a terror, little inferior to that occaſioned by the idea of going to the villa, for at the abbey ſhe would be equally in the power of the Marquis, and alſo in that of her cruel enemy,La Motte. Her mind revolted at the picture her fan- cy drew, and as the carriage moved un- der the ſhades, ſhe threw from the window a look of eager inquiry for ſome object which might confirm, or deſtroy her pre- ſent ſurmiſe; ſhe did not long look, be- fore an opening in the foreſt ſhewed her the diſtant towers of the abbey—“I am, 66 indeed, loſt then !” ſaid ſhe, burſting into tears. They [ 243 ] They were ſoon at the foot of the lawn, and Peter was ſeen running to open the gate, at which the carriage ſtopped. When he ſaw Adeline, he looked fur- priſed and made an effort to ſpeak, but the chaiſe now drove up to the abbey, where, at the door of the hall, La Motte himſelf appeared. As he advanced to take her from the carriage, an univerſal trembling ſeized her; it was with the utmoſt difficulty ſhe ſupported herſelf, and for ſome moments ſhe neither ob- ferved his countenance, or heard his voice. He offered his arm to aſſiſt her into the abbey, which ſhe at firſt refuſed, but having tottered a few paces, was obliged to accept; they then entered the vaulted room, where, ſinking into a chair, a flood of tears came to her relief. La Motte did not interrupt the ſilence, which continued for ſome time, but paced the room in ſeeming agitation. When Adeline was ſufficiently recovered to notice external objects, the obſerved M 2 his [ 244 ) his countenance, and there read the tu- mult of his ſoul, while he was ſtruggling to aſſume a firmneſs, which his better feelings oppoſed. La Motte now took her hand, and would have led her from the room, but ſhe ſtopped, and, with a kind of deſpe- rate courage, made an effort to engage him to pity, and to ſave her. He inter- rupted her; “ It is not in my power," ſaid he, in a voice of emotion ; “ I am “ not maſter of myſelf, or my conduct; « inquire no farther—it is ſufficient for “ you to know that I pity you ; more I “ cannot do." He gave her no time to reply, but, taking her hand, led her to the ſtairs of the tower, and from thence to the chamber ſhe had fòrmerly occu. cupied. “ Here you muſt remain for the pre- 6 ſent,” ſaid he, “ in a confinement, “ which is, perhaps, almoſt as involun- 66 tary on my part as it can be on yours. “ I am willing to render it as eaſy as poſ- « fible, [ 245 ) « lible, and have, therefore, ordered « ſome books to be brought you." Adeline made an effort to ſpeak, but he hurried from the room, ſeemingly athamed of the part he had undertaken, and unwilling to truſt himſelf with her tears. She heard the door of the cham- ber locked, and then, looking towards the windows, perceived they were fecu- red: the door that led to the other apartments was also falenci. Such pre: paration for ſecurity locked her, and, hopeleſs as ſhe had long believed her- ſelf, ſhe now perceived her mind fink deeper in deſpair: When the tears the ſhed had ſomewhat relieved her, and her thoughts could turn from the ſubjects of her immediate concern, ſhe was thankful for the total ſecluſion allotted her, ſince it would ſpare her the pain ſhe muſt feel in the preſence of Monſieur and Ma- dame La Motte, and allow the unre- ſtrained indulgence of her own ſorrow and reflection ; reflection which, how- M3 ever [ 247 ] ti be my conduct,” and though they afford- ed her no hope, ſhe derived ſome com- fort, poor as it was, from the belief that he pitied her. . After ſome time ſpent in miſerable reflection and various conjee- tures, her long-agitated ſpirits ſeemed to demand repoſe, and ſhe laid down to ſleep. Adeline ſlept quietly for ſeveral hours, and awoke with a mind refreſhed and tranquillized. To prolong this tempo- rary peace, and to prevent, therefore, the intruſion of her own thoughts, the examined the books La Motte had ſent her; among theſe the found ſome that in happier times had elevated her minel and intereſted her heart'; their effect was now weakened, they were ſtill, however, able to foſten for a time the ſenſe of her misfortunes. But this Lethean medicine to a wounda ed mind was but a temporary bleſſing; the entrance of La Motte diſſolved the illuſions of the page, and awakened her M 4 . - [ 249 ) gerous labyrinth into which he was led, and perceived, as if for the firſt time, the progreſſion of his guilt; from this laby- rinth he weakly imagined farther guilt could alone extricate him. Inſtead of employing his mind upon the means of ſaving Adeline from deſtruction, and himſelf from being inſtrumental to it, he endeavoured only to lull the pangs of conſcience and to perſuade himſelf into a belief that he muſt proceed in the courſe he had begun. He knew himſelf to be in the power of the Marquis, and he dreaded that power more than the ſure, though diſtant puniſhment that awaits upon guilt. The honour of Ade- line and the quiet of his own conſcience he conſented to barter for a few years of exiſtence. He was ignorant of the preſent illneſs of the Marquis, or he would have per- ceived that there was a chance of eſcap- ing the threatened puniſhment at a price leſs enormous than infamy, and he would, M5 fer- [ 250 ] perhaps, have endeavoured to ſave Ade.. line and himſelf by flight. But the Mar- quis, foreſeeing the poſſibiliy of this, had ordered his ſervants carefully to conceal the circumſtance which detained him, and to acquaint La Motte that he Thould be at the abbey in a few days, ac the ſame time directing his valet to await him there. Adeline, as he expected, had neither inclination or opportunity to mention it, and thus La Motte remained ignorant of the circumſtance, which might have preſerved him from farther guilt, and Adeline from miſtry. . Moſt unwillingly had La Motte ac- quainted his wife with the action, which had made him abfolutely dependent upon the will of the Marquis, but the pertur- bation of his mind partly betrayed him : frequently in his ſleep he muttered in- coherent fentences, and frequently would ſtart from ſumber and cail, in paſſionate exclamation, upon Adeline. Theſe in- -Itances of a diſturbed mind had alarmed and [ 251 ] and terrified Madame La Motte, who watched while he ſlept and ſoon gathered from his words a confuſed idea of the Marquis's deſigns. She hinted her fufpicions to La Motte, who reproved her for having entertained them, but his manner, inſtead of repreſs- ing, increaſed her fears for Adeline; fears, which the conduct of the Marquis foon confirmed. On the night that he Slept at the abbey, it had occurred to her, that whatever ſcheme was in agita- tion would now most probably be diſcuf- fed, and anxiety for Adeline made her ſtoop to a meanneſs, u bich, in other cir. cumſtances, would have been deſpica- ble. She quitted her room, and, con- cealing herſelf in an apartment adjoining that in which ſhe had left the Marquis and her huſband, liſtened to their diſa courfe. It turned upon the ſubject the had expected, and diſclofed to her the full extent of their deſigns. Terrified for Adeline, and ſhocked at the guilty M6 weak [ 232 ] weakneſs of La Motte, ſhe was for ſome time incapable of thinking, or determin- ing how to proceed. She knew her huſ- band to be under great obligation to the Marquis, whoſe territory thus afforded him a ſhelter from the world, and that it was in the power of the former to betray him into the hands of his enemies. She believed alſo that the Marquis would do this, if provoked, yet ſhe thought, upon ſuch an occaſion, La Motte might find ſome way of appeaſing the Marquis, without ſubjecting himſelf to diſhonour. After ſome farther reflection, her mind became more compoſed, and ſhe returned to her chamber, where La Motte foon followed. Her fpirits, however, were not then in a ſtate to encounter either his diſpleaſure, or his oppoſition, which ſhe had too much reaſon to expect, whenever ſhe ſhould mention the ſubject of her concern; and the, therefore, reſolved not to notice it till the morrow. 3 [ 253 ] On the morrow, ſhe told La Motte all he had uttered in his dreams, and mentioned other circumſtances, which convinced him it was in vain any longer to deny the truth of her apprehenſions. She then repreſented to him how pof- ſible it was to avoid the infamy into which he was about to plunge, by quit- ting the territories of the Marquis, and pleaded ſo warmly for Adeline, that La Motte, in ſullen filence, appeared to me- ditate upon the plan. His thoughts were, however, very differently engaged. He was conſcious of having deferved from the Marquis a dreadful puniſhment, and knew that if he exaſperated him by refuſing to acquiefce with his wiſhes, he had little to expect from flight, for the eye of juſtice and revenge would purſue him with indefatigable reſearch. La Motte meditated how to break this to his wife, for he perceived that there was no other method of counteracting her virtuous compaſſion for Adeline, and the [ 254 ] the dangerous conſequences to be ex- pected froin it, than by oppoſing it with terror for his ſafety, and this could be done only by ſhewing her the full extent of the evils that muſt attend the reſent- ment of the Marquis. Vice had not yet ſo entirely darkened his conſcience, but that the bluſh of ſhame ſtained his cheek, and his tongue faltered when he would have told his guilt. At length, finding it impoſſible to mention particulars, he told her that, on account of an affair, which no intreaties ſhould ever induce him to explain, his life was in the power of the Marquis. “You ſee the alterna- " tive,” ſaid he, “take your choice of “ evils, and, if you can, tell Adeline of s her danger, and facrifice my life to “ fave her from a ſituation, which many 66 would be ambitious to obtain.”-Ma- rible alternative of permitting the ſeduc- tion of innocence, or of dooming her huſband to deſtruction, ſuffered a diſtrac- tion [ 255 ) "CC tion of though, which defied all con- troul. Perceiving, however, that an op- poſition to the deſigns of the Marquis would ruin La Motte and avaił Adeline little, ſhe determined to yield and en- dure in ſilence. At the time when Adeline was plan. ning her eſcape from the abbey, the lig- nificant looks of Peter had led La Motte to ſuſpect the truth and to obſerve them more c!oſely. He had ſeen them ſepa- rate in the hall in apparent confufion, and had afterwards obferved them converfing together in the cloiſters. Circumſtances fo unuſual left him not a doubt that Adeline had diſcovered her danger, and was concerting with Peter ſome mcarrs of eſcape. Affecting, therefore, to be informed of the whole affair, he charged Peter with treachery towards himſelf, and · threatened him with the vengeance of the Marquis if he did not difcloſe all he- knew. The menace intimidated Peter, . and, ſuppoſing that all chance of affiſting Adeline S [ 256 ] Adeline was gone, he made a circumſtan- tial confeſſion, and promiſed to forbear acquainting Adeline with the diſcovery of the ſcheme. In this promiſe he was ſeconded by inclination, for he feared to meet the diſpleaſure, which Adeline, believing he had betrayed her, might expreſs. On the evening of the day, on which Adeline's intended eſcape was diſcover- ed, the Marquis deſigned to come to the abbey, and it had been agreed that he ſhould then take Adeline to his villa. La Motte had immediately perceived the advantage of permitting Adeline to re- pair, in the belief of being undiſcovered, to the tomb. It would prevent much diſturbance and oppoſition, and ſpare himſelf the pain he muſt feel in her pre- ſence, when ſhe ſhould know that he had betrayed her. A fervant of the Marquis might go, at the appointed hour, to the tomb, and wrapt in the diſ- guiſe of night, might take her quietly thence [ 257 ] thence in the character of Peter. Thus, without reſiſtance, ſhe would be carried to the villa, nor diſcover her miſtake till it was too late to prevent its conſe- quence. When the Marquis did arrive, La Motte, who was not ſo much intoxicated by the wine he had drank, as to forget his prudence, informed him of what had hap- pened and what he had planned, and the Marquis approving it, his ſervant was made acquainted with the ſignal, which afterwards betrayed Adelineto his power. A deep conſciouſneſs of the unworthy neutrality ſhe had obſerved in Adeline's concerns, made Madame La Motte anxi- ouſly avoid ſeeing her now that ſhe was again in the abbey. Adeline underſtood this conduct, and rejoiced that ſhe was fpared the anguiſh of meeting her as an enemy, whom ſhe had once conſidered as a friend. Several days now paſſed in ſoli. tude,in miſerable retroſpection,and dread- ful expectation. The perilous ſituation of Theo: [ 258 ] · Theodore was almoſt the conſtant ſub- ject of her thoughts. Often cid Me breathe an agonizing will for h's ſafety, and often look rond the iphire of poffi- bility in ſearch of hope: but hope had almoſt left the horizon of her proſpect, and when it did appear, it hovered only over the death of the Marquis, whoſe vengeance threatened moſt certain de- ſtruction. The Marquis, meanwhile, lay at the inn at Baux, in a ſtate of very doubtful recovery. The phyſician and ſurgeon, neither of whom he would diſmiſs, nor ſuffer to leave the village, proceeded upon contrary principles, and the good effect of what the one preſcribed, was frequently counteracted by the injudici- ous treatinent of the other. Humanity alone prevailed on the phyſician to con- tinue his attendance. The malady of the Marquis was alſo heightened by the impatience of his temper, the terrors of death, and the irritation of his paſſions, One 100 One moment he belived himſelf dying, another he could ſcarcely be prevented from attempting to follow Adeline to the abbey. So various were the fluctuations of his mind, and ſo rapid the ſchemes that ſucceeded each other, that his paſſions were in a continual ſtate of conflict. The phyſician attempted to convince him, that his recovery greatly depended upon tranquillity, and to prevail upon him to attempt, at leaſt ſome command of his feelings, but he was ſoon filenced, in hopeleſs diſguit, by the impatient anſwers of the Marquis. At length the ſervant who had car- ried off Adeline, returned, and the Mar- quis having ordered him into his cham- ber, aſked fo many queſtions in a breath, that the man knew not which to anſwer. At length he pulled a folded paper from his pocket, which he ſaid had been drop- ped in the chaiſe by Mademoiſelle Adie- line, and as he thought his lordſhip would like to ſee it, he had taken care of [ 260 ] it. The Marquis ftretched forth his hand with eagerneſs and received a note addreſſed to Theodore. On perceiving the ſuperſcription, the agitation of jealous rage for a moment overcame him, and he held it in his hand unable. to open it. He, however, broke the ſeal and found it to be a note of inquiry, written by Adeline to Theodore during his ill- neſs, and which, by ſome accident the had been prevented from ſending him. The tender ſolicitude it expreffed for his recovery ftung the ſoul of the Marquis, and drew from him a compariſon of her feelings on the illneſs of his rival and that of himſelf. “ She could be ſolici- 66 tous for his recovery," ſaid he, “but “ for mine, ſhe only dreads it.” As if willing to prolong the pain this little billet had excited, he then read it again. Again he curſed his fate and execrated his rival, giving himſelf up, as uſual, to the tranſports of his paſſion. He was going ( 261 ) going to throw it from him, when his eyes caught the feal, and he looked earneſtly at it. His anger ſeemed now to have ſubſided, he depoſited the note for ſome time, loſt in thought. After many days of hopes and fears, the ſtrength of his conſtitution overcame his illneſs, and he was well enough to write ſeveral letters, one of which he immediately ſent off to prepare La Morte for his reception. The ſame policy, which had prompted him to conceal his illneſs from La Motte, now urged him to ſay, what he knew would not happen, that he ſhould reach the abbey on the day after his ſervant. He repeated his injunction, that Adeline ſhould be ſtrictly guarded, and renewed his promiſes of reward for the future ſervices of La Motte.. La Motte, to whom each ſucceeding day had brought new ſurprize and per- plexity concerning the abſence of the Marquis, [ 263 ] the inquiry of Annette, which was of ſuch conſequence to her peace. It was about a week after the receipt of the Marquis's letter, that Adeline one day ſaw from her window a party of horſemen enter the avenue, and knew them to be the Marquis and his atten- dants. She retired from the window in a ſtate of mind not to be deſcribed, and, fioking into a chair, was for ſome time ſcarcely conſcious of the objects around her. When ſhe had recovered from the firſt terror, which his appear- ance excited, ſhe again tottered to the window; the party was not in fight, but ſhe heard the trampling of horſes, and knew that the Marquis had wound round to the great gate of the abbey. She ad. and protection, and her mind, being now ſomewhat compoſed, ſat down to wait the event. . La Motte received the Marquis with expreſions of ſurprize at his long ab. ſence, [ 266 ] Motte, left the abbey, and Adeline faw him depart with a mixture of ſurprize and thankfulneſs that almoſt overcame her. She had waited in momentary ex- pectation of being ſummoned to appear, and had been endeavouring to arm her- ſelf with reſolution to ſupport his pre- fence. She had liſtened to every voice that ſounded from below, and at every ſtep that croſſed the paſſage, her heart had palpitated with dread, left it ſhould be La Motte coming to lead her to the Marquis. This ſtate of ſuffering had been prolonged almoſt beyond her power of enduring it, when ſhe heard voices under her window, and riſing, ſaw the Marquis ride away. After giving way to the joy and thankfulneſs that ſwelled her heart, ſhe endeavoured to account for this circumſtance, which, confider- ing what had paſſed, was certainly very ſtrange. It appeared, indeed, wholly inquiry, ſhe quitted the ſubject, endea- vouring [ 267 ) vouring to perſuade herſelf that it could portend only good. The time of La Motte's uſual viſita- tion now drew near, and Adeline ex- pected it in the trembling hope of hear. ing that the Marquis had ceaſed his per. ſecution; but he was, as uſual, ſullen and filent, and it was not till he was... about to quit the room, that Adeline had the courage to inquire, when the Marquis was expected again? La Motte, opening the door to depart, replied, “ On the following day,” and Adeline, whom fear and delicacy embarrafled, ſaw ſhe could obtain no intelligence of Theodore but by a direct queſtion; ſhe looked earneſtly, as if ſhe would have ſpoke, and La Motte ſtopped, but ſhe bluſhed and was ſtill ſilent, till upon his again attempting to leave the room, the faintly called him back. " I would aſk,” ſaid ſhe, “ after that “unfortunate chevalier who has in- os curred the reſenrment of the Marquis N2 66 by [ 268 ] “ by endeavouring to ferve me. Has " the Marquis mentioned him?" " He has," replied La Motte ; " and " your indifference towards the Marquis " is now fully explained.” - Since I muſt feel reſentment towards « thoſe who injure me,” ſaid Adeline, " I may ſurely be allowed to be grate- 66 ful to thoſe who ſerve me. Had as the Marquis deſerved my eſteem, he 66 would, probably, have poflefſed it." « Well, well,” ſaid La Motte, “this 6young hero, this Theodore, who, it 66 feens, has been brave enough to lift « his arm againſt his Colonel, is taken care of, and, I doubt not, will ſoon 66 be ſenſible of the value of his quixo- “ tiſm.” Indignation, grief, and fear, Atruggled in the boſom of Adeline; The diſdained to give La Motte an opportu- nity of again prophaning the name of Theodore; yet the uncertainty under which the laboured, urged her to in- quire, whether the Marquis had heard [ 270 ] neſs and grief; the heard him, in a voice that thrilled her heart, called upon her name, and raiſe his eyes to Heaven in filent ſupplication : ſhe ſaw the an- guith of his countenance, the tears that fell flowly on his cheek, and remem- bering, at the ſame time, the generous conduct that had brought him to this abyſs of miſery, and that it was for her fake he ſuffered, grief reſolved itſelf into deſpair, her tears ceaſed to flow, and the ſunk filently into a ſtate of dreadful torpor. . On the morrow the Marquis arrived, and deparied as before. Several days then elapſed, and he did not appear, till one evening, as La Motte and his wife were in their uſual fitting room, he entered, and converſed for ſome time upon general ſubjects, from which, how- ever, he by degrees fell into a reverie, and, after a pauſe of filence, he roſe and drew La Motte to the window. “I - “ would ſpeak with you alone,” ſaid he, 66 if [ 271 ] « if you are at leiſure; if not, ſome other 6 time will do.” La Motte, aſſuring him he was perfectly ſo, would have conducted him to another room, but the Marquis propoſed a walk in the foreſt. They went out together, and when they had reached a ſolitary glade, where the ſpreading branches of the beech and oak deepened the ſhades of twilight, and threw a ſolemn obſcurity around, the Marquis turned to La Motte, and addreffed him: « Your condition, La Motte, is un- “ happy; this abbey is a melancholy “ reſidence for a man like you fond of « ſociety, and like you alſo qualified to " adorn it.” La Motte bowed." I 66 wiſh it was in my power to reſtore “ you to the world,” continued the Mar- quis; “ perhaps, if I knew the parti- 6. culars of the affair which has driven 06 you from it, I might perceive that “ my intereſt could effectually ſerve you. I think I have heard you hint N 4 66 ic [ 272 ] " it was an affair of honour." La Motte was filent. " I mean not to diſ- “ treſs you, however; nor is it common " curioſity that prompts this inquiry, 66 but a ſincere deſire to befriend you.. " You have already informed me of “ ſome particulars of your misfortunes. “ I think the liberality of your temper “ led you into expences which you af. « terwards endeavoured to retrieve by “ gaming." “ Yus, my Lord,” ſaid La Motte, « 'uis true that I diſſipated the greater " part of an affluent fortune in luxurious « indulgences, and that I afterwards 66 took unworthy means to recover it: es but I wiſh to be ſpared upon this ſub. “ ject. I would, if poſſible, loſe the « remembrance of a tranſaction which 6 muſt for ever ſtain my character, and - the rigorous effect of which, I fear, “ it is not in your power, my Lord, to w foften." ." You [ 273 ] “ You may be miſtaken on this point," replied the Marquis ; “my intereſt at 66 Court is by no means inconſiderable. “. Fear not from me any ſeverity of cen- " ſure; I am not at all inclined to judge “ harſhly of the faults of others. I well “ know how to allow for the emergency w of circumſtances; and, I think, La “ Motte, you have hitherto found me “ your friend.” " I have, my Lord.” 6 And when you recollect, that I " have forgiven a certain tranſaction of “ late date-a ", “ It is true my Lord; and allow " me to ſay, I have a juſt ſenſe of your “ generoſity. The tranſaction you al. - lude to is by far the worſt of my life; "s and what I have to relate cannot, " therefore, lower me in your opinion. " When I had diffipated the greateſt “ part of my property in habits of vo- “ luptuous pleaſure, I had recourſe, to “ gaming to ſupply the means of con- N 5 . “ tinuing [ 274 ] “ tinuing them. A run of good luck, “ for ſome time, enabled me to do this, “ and encouraging my moft ſanguine « expectations, I continued in the ſame ~ career of ſucceſs. “ Soon after this a ſudden turn of “ fortune deſtroyed my hopes, and re- “ duced me to the moſt deſperate ex- “ tremity. In one night my money was a lowered to the ſum of two hundred " louis. Theſe I reſolved to ſtake alſo, ." and with them my life; for it was " my reſolution not to ſurvive their “ loſs. Never ſhall I forget the horrors “ of that moment on which hung my “ fate, nor the deadly anguiſh that " ſeized my heart when my laſt ſtake ". was gone. I ſtood for ſome time in “ a ſtate of ſtupefaction, till rouſed to " a ſenſe of my misfortune, my paſſion « made me pour forth execrations on “ my more fortunate rivals, and act « all the frenzy of deſpair. During ' this paroxyſm of madneſs, a gentle- “man, [ 275 ] " man, who had been a filent obſerver “ of all that paſſed, approached me. “ – Your are unfortunate, Sir, ſaid he. " I need not be informed of that, Sir, " I replied. “ You have, perhaps, been ill uſed, “ reſumed he. Yes, Sir, I am ruined, “ and therefore, it may be ſaid, I am 66 ill uſed. “Do you know the people you have " played with ? « No; but I have met them in the " firſt circles. “ Then I am, probably, miſtaken, " ſaid he, and walked away. His laſt " words rouſed me, and raiſed a hope " that my money had not been fairly « loft. Withing for farther information, " I went in ſearch of the gentleman, « but he had left the room; I, how- “ ever, ſtified my tranſports, returned " to the table where I had loſt my “ money, placed myſelf behind the « chair of one of the perſons who had N 6 6 won [ 277 ] 66 ments attention, and allow him to 66 ſpeak with the gentleman his partner. .66 To the latter part of his requeſt I " heſitated, but, in the mean time, the « gentleman himſelf entered the room. “ His partner related to him, in few 66 words, what had paſſed between us, « and the terror that appeared in his “ countenance ſufficiently declared his “ conſciouſneſs of guilt. “ They then drew aſide, and remain. « ed a few niinutes in converſation to- “ gether, after which they approached “ me with an offer, as they phraſed it, 6 of a compromiſe. I declared, how. “ ever, againſt any thing of this kind, ss and ſwore, nothing leſs than the whole " ſum I had loſt ſhould content me. “ Is it not poſſible, Monſieur, that you 6 may be offered ſomething as ad. 66 vantageous as the whole? --- I did “ not underſtand their meaning, but 66 after they had continued for ſome vs time [ 278 ] “ time to give diſtant hints of the ſame “ fort, they proceeded to explain. 66 Perceiving their characters wholly « in my power, they wiſhed to ſecure “ my intereſt to their party, and, there. “ fore, informing me that they be. longed to an aſſociation of perſons, “ who lived upon the folly and inex- o perience of others, they offered me “ tunes were deſperate, and the propo- “ fal now made me would not only pro- • duce an immediate ſupply, but enable « me to return to thoſe ſcenes of difli- “ pated pleaſure, to which paſſion had " at firſt, and long habit afterwards « attached me. I cloſed with the offer, " and thus ſunk from diffipation into “ infamy.” La Motte pauſed, as if the recollec- tion of thoſe times filled him with re. morſe. The Marquis underſtood his feelings. “ You judge too rigorouſly “ of yourſelf,” ſaid he ; “ there are few " per [ 280 ) “ ſpection. It would be” tedious to re- “ late the particulars, which made us at « length ſo ſuſpected, that the diſtant « civility and cold reſerve of our ac- ¢ quaintance rendered the frequenting “ public aſſemblies both painful and 66 unprofitable. We turned our thoughts " to other modes of obtaining money, 65 and a ſwindling tranſaction, in which “ I engaged, to a very large amount, “ foon compelled me to leave Paris, “ you know the reſt, my Lord.” La Motte was now ſilent, and the Marquis continued for ſome time muſing. “ You perceive, my Lord,” at length reſumed La Motte, “ you perceive that “ my caſe is hopeleſs." " It is bad, indeed, but not entirely “ hopeleſs. From my ſoul I pity you. is Yet, if you ſhould return to the world, " and incur the danger of proſecution, “ I think my intereſt with the Miniſter 6 might ſave you from any ſevere pu- “ niſhment. You ſeem, however, to 66 have [ 281 ] “ have loſt your reliſh for ſociety, and, « perhaps, do not wiſh to return to it.”. " Oh! my Lord, can you doubt this? " —But I am overcome with the exceſs o of your goodneſs ; would to Hearen “ it were in my power to prove the gra- “ titude it inſpires." .“ Talk not of goodneſs," ſaid the Marquis ; “ I will not pretend that my 66 deſire of ſerving you is unalloyed by 65 any degree of ſelf-intreſt. I will not ss affect to be more than man, and truſt s me thoſe who do are leſs. It is in “ your power to teſtify your gratitude, « and bind me to your intereſt for “ ever." He pauſed, " Name but the “ means," cried La Motte," name " but the means, and if they are within “ the compaſs of poſſibility they ſhall « be executed.”. The Marquis was ſtill filent. “ Do you doubt my fincerity, © my Lord, that you are yet ſilent? Do “ you fear to repoſe a confidence in the " man whom you have already loaded 66 with [ 284 ] " There are, I repeat it," ſaid the Marquis, “people of minds ſo weak, " as to ſhrink from acts they have been « accuſtomed to hold wrong, however sc advantageous. They never ſuffer " themſelves to be guided by circum- “ ſtances, but fix for life upon a certain « ſtandard, from which they will, on SC no account, depart. Self preſervation 66 is the great law of nature; when a “ reptile hurts us, or an animal of prey " threatens us, we think no farther, but « endeavour to annihilate it. When my “ life, or what may be effential to my “ life, requires the ſacrifice of another, “ or even if ſome paffion, wholly un- 5 conquerable, requires it, I ſhould be 56 a mad-man to heſitate. La Motte, I " think I may confide in you—there ço are ways of doing certain things- 65 you underſtand me. There are times, “ and circumſtances, and opportunities " --you comprehend my meaning.” « Explain yourſelf, my Lord.” " Kind [ 285 ] - Kind ſervices that-in ſhort there *** are ſervices, which excite all our gra: 66 titude, and which we can never think repaid. It is in your power to place " me in ſuch a ſituation.” : - Indeed, my Lord ! name the “ means." " I have already named them. This “ abbey well ſuits the purpoſe; it is ſhut 6 up from the eye of obſervation; any " tranſaction may be concealed within " it's walls; the hour of midnight may “ witneſs the deed, and the morning 6 ſhall not dawn to diſcloſe it; theſe « woods tell no tales. Ah! La Motte, " am I right in truſting this buſineſs " with you; may I believe you are de- firous of ſerving me, and of perſev. 66 ing yourſelf?” The Marquis pauſed, and looked ſtedfaſtly at La Motte, whoſe countenance was almoſt concealed by the gloom of evening. “ My Lord, you may truſt me in any 66 thing; explain yourſelf more fully.” " What ( 286 ] " What ſecurity will you give me for 6 your faithfulneſs ?" “ My life, my Lord; is it not al- s ready in your power ?” The Marquis heſitated, and then ſaid, “ To-morrow, 66 about this time, I ſhall return to the “ abbey, and will then explain my “ meaning, if indeed, you ſhall not al- “ ready have underſtood it. You, in “ the mean time, will conſider your “ own powers of reſolution, and be “ prepared either to adopt the purpoſe " I ſhall ſuggeſt, or to declare you will " not.” La Motte made ſome confuſed reply. “ Farewell till to-morrow," ſaid the Marquis; “ remember that freedom " and affluence are now before you." He moved towards the abbey, and, mounting his horſe, rode off with his un attendants. La Motte walked ſlowly home, muſing on the late converſation.. :- END OF VOL. II. མི་ཁ་