The Romance of the Forest by Ann Radcliffe (best romantic novels to read txt) 📖

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

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

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

“We are not at all related,” said Adeline; “but the service he has done me I can never repay, and I hope my gratitude will teach me never to forget it.”

“Indeed!” said Theodore, surprized: “and may I ask how long you have known him?”

“Rather, Sir, let me ask, why these questions should be necessary?”

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

Adeline stopped, and, looking earnestly at him, begged he would explain himself. She suspected that some mischief threatened La Motte; and Theodore continuing silent, she repeated her request. “If La Motte is concerned in this danger,” said she, “let me entreat you to acquaint him with it immediately. He has but too many misfortunes to apprehend.”

“Excellent Adeline!” cried Theodore, “that heart must be adamant that would injure you. How shall I hint what I fear is too true, and how forbear to warn you of your danger without” Ñ He was interrupted by a step among the trees, and presently after saw La Motte cross into the path they were in. Adeline felt confused at being thus seen with the Chevalier, and was hastening to join La Motte, but Theodore detained her, and entreated a moment’s attention. “There is now no time to explain myself,” said he; “yet what I would say is of the utmost consequence to yourself.”

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

“I do promise,” said Adeline, with a faltering voice; “I will come to the spot where you found me this evening, an hour earlier tomorrow.” Saying this, she withdrew her trembling hand, which Theodore had pressed to his lips in token of acknowledgement, and he immediately disappeared.

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

Sometimes too a remembrance of the tender interest he had expressed for her welfare, and of his correspondent look and air, would steal across her memory, awakening a pleasing emotion and a latent hope that she was not indifferent to him. From reflections like these she was roused by a summons to supper: the repast was a melancholy one, it being the last evening of Louis’s stay at the abbey. Adeline, who esteemed him, regretted his departure, while his eyes were often bent on her with a look, which seemed to express that he was about to leave the object of his affection. She endeavoured by her cheerfulness to reanimate the whole party, and especially Madame La Motte, who frequently shed tears.

“We shall soon meet again,” said Adeline, “I trust, in happier circumstances.” La Motte sighed. The countenance of Louis brightened at her words, “Do you wish it?” said he, with peculiar emphasis. “Most certainly I do,” she replied. “Can you doubt my regard for my best friends?”

“I cannot doubt any thing that is good of you,” said he.

“You forget you have left Paris,” said La Motte to his son, while a faint smile crossed his face, “such a compliment would there be in character with the place Ñ in these solitary woods it is quite outr�.”

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

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

“This declaration,” said Adeline, endeavouring to overcome the agitation it excited, “gives me inexpressible concern.”

“O, say not so!” interrupted Louis, “but give me some slender hope to support me in the miseries of absence. Say that you do not hate me Ñ Say” Ñ “That I do most readily say,” replied Adeline, in a tremulous voice; “if it will give you pleasure to be assured of my esteem and friendship Ñ receive this assurance: Ñ as the son of my best benefactors, you are entitled to” Ñ “Name not benefits,” said Louis, “your merits outrun them all: and suffer me to hope for a sentiment less cool than that of friendship, as well as to believe that I do not owe your approbation of me to the actions of others. I have long borne my passion in silence, because I foresaw the difficulties that would attend it, nay, I have even dared to endeavour to overcome it: I have dared to believe it possible, forgive the supposition, that I could forget you Ñ and” Ñ “You distress me,” interrupted Adeline; “this is a conversation which I ought not to hear. I am above disguise, and, therefore, assure you, that, though your virtues will always command my esteem, you have nothing to hope from my love. Were it even otherwise, our circumstances would effectually decide for us. If you are really my friend, you will rejoice that I am spared this struggle between affection and prudence. Let me hope also, that time will teach you to reduce love within the limits of friendship.”

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

When he recovered his voice, he said, “Adeline! when you look upon your little favourite and caress it, remember the unhappy Louis, who will then be far Ñ far from you. Do not deny me the poor consolation of believing this!”

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

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

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

As evening and the hour of appointment drew nigh, Adeline’s impatience increased; yet, when the time arrived, her resolution failed, and she faltered from her purpose. There was something of indelicacy and dissimulation in an appointed interview, on her part, that shocked her. She