Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  La Luc, with his daughter, accompanied his son on horseback to the next town, which was about eight miles from Leloncourt, and there again enforcing all the advice he had formerly given him respecting his conduct and pursuits, and again yielding to the tender weakness of the father, he bade him farewell. Clara wept, and felt more sorrow at this parting than the occasion could justify; but this was almost the first time she had known grief, and she artlessly yielded to its influence.

  La Luc and Clara travelled pensively back, and the day was closing when they came within view of the lake, and soon after of the chateau. Never had it appeared gloomy till now; but now Clara wandered forlornly through every deserted apartment where she had been accustomed to see her brother, and recollected a thousand little circumstances which, had he been present, she would have thought immaterial, but on which imagination now stamped a value. The garden, the scenes around, all wore a melancholy aspect, and it was long ere they resumed their natural character and Clara recovered her vivacity.

  Near four years had elapsed since this separation, when one evening, as Madame La Luc and her niece were sitting at work together in the parlour, a good woman in the neighbourhood desired to be admitted. She came to ask for some medicines, and the advice of Madame La Luc. “Here is a sad accident happened at our house, Madame,” said she; “I am sure my heart aches for the poor young creature.” — Madame La Luc desired she would explain herself, and the woman proceeded to say, that her brother Peter, whom she had not seen for so many years, was arrived, and had brought a young lady to her cottage, who she verily believed was dying. She described her disorder, and acquainted Madame with what particulars of her mournful story Peter had related, failing not to exaggerate such as her compassion for the unhappy stranger and her love of the marvellous prompted.

  The account appeared a very extraordinary one to Madame; but pity for the forlorn condition of the young sufferer induced her to inquire farther into the affair. “Do let me go to her, Madam,” said Clara, who had been listening with ready compassion to the poor woman narrative: “do suffer me to go — she must want comforts, and I wish much to see how she is.” Madame asked some farther questions concerning her disorder, and then, taking off her spectacles, she rose from her chair and said she would go herself. Clara desired to accompany her. They put on their hats and followed the good woman to the cottage, where, in a very small, close room, on a miserable bed, lay Adeline, pale, emaciated, and unconscious of all around her. Madame turned to the woman, and asked how long she had been in this way, while Clara went up to the bed, and taking the almost lifeless hand that lay on the quilt, looked anxiously in her face. “She observes nothing,” said she, “poor creature! I wish she was at the chateau, she would be better accommodated, and I could nurse her there.” The woman told Madame La Luc, that the young lady had lain in that state for several hours. Madame examined her pulse, and shook her head. “This room is very close,” said she.— “Very close indeed,” cried Clara, eagerly; “surely she would be better at the chateau, if she could be moved.”

  “We will see about that,” said her aunt. “In the mean time let me speak to Peter; it is some years since I saw him.” She went to the outer room, and the woman ran out of the cottage to look for him. When she was gone, “This is a miserable habitation for the poor stranger,” said Clara; “she will never be well here: do, Madam, let her be carried to our house; I am sure my father would wish it. Besides, there is something in her features, even inanimate as they now are, that prejudices me in her favour.”

  “Shall I never persuade you to give up that romantic notion of judging people by their faces,” said her aunt. “What sort of a face she has is of very little consequence — her condition is lamentable, and I am desirous of altering it; but I wish first to ask Peter a few questions concerning her.”

  “Thank you, my dear aunt,” said Clara; “she will be removed then.” Madame La Luc was going to reply; but Peter now entered, and, expressing great joy at seeing her again, inquired how Monsieur La Luc and Clara did. Clara immediately welcomed honest Peter to his native place, and he returned her salutation with many expressions of surprise at finding her so much grown. “Though I have so often dandled you in my arms, Ma’amselle, I should never have known you again. Young twigs shoot fast, as they say.”

  Madame La Luc now inquired into the particulars of Adeline’s story, and heard as much as Peter knew of it, being only that his late master found her in a very distressed situation, and that he had himself brought her from the Abbey to save her from a French Marquis. The simplicity of Peter’s manner would not suffer her to question his veracity, though some of the circumstances he related excited all her surprise, and awakened all her pity. Tears frequently stood in Clara’s eyes during the course of his narrative, and when he concluded, she said, “Dear Madam, I am sure when my father learns the history of this unhappy young woman he will not refuse to be a parent to her, and I will be her sister.”

  “She deserves it all,” said Peter, “for she is very good indeed.” He then proceeded in a strain of praise, which was very unusual with him.— “I will go home and consult with my brother about her,” said Madame La Luc, rising: “she certainly ought to be removed to a more airy room. The chateau is so near, that I think she may be carried thither without much risk.”

  “Heaven bless you! Madam,” cried Peter, rubbing his hands, “for your goodness to my poor young lady.”

  La Luc had just returned from his evening walk when they reached the chateau. Madame told him where she had been, and related the history of Adeline and her present condition. “By all means have her removed hither,” said La Luc, whose eyes bore testimony to the tenderness of his heart. “She can be better attended to here than in Susan’s cottage.”

  “I knew you would say so, my dear father,” said Clara: “I will go and order the green bed to be prepared for her.”

  “Be patient, niece,” said Madame La Luc: “there is no occasion for such haste: some things are to be considered first; but you are young and romantic.” — La Luc smiled.— “The evening is now closed,” resumed Madame; “it will, therefore, be dangerous to remove her before morning. Early tomorrow a room shall be got ready, and she shall be brought here; in the mean time I will go and make up a medicine, which I hope may be of service to her.” — Clara reluctantly assented to this delay, and Madame La Luc retired to her closet.

  On the following morning Adeline, wrapped in blankets, and sheltered as much as possible from the air, was brought to the chateau, where the good La Luc desired she might have every attention paid her, and where Clara watched over her with unceasing anxiety and tenderness. She remained in a state of torpor during the greater part of the day, but towards evening she breathed more freely; and Clara, who still watched by her bed, had at length the pleasure of perceiving that her senses were restored. It was at this moment that she found herself in the situation from which we have digressed to give this account of the venerable La Luc and his family. The reader will find that his virtues and his friendship to Adeline deserved this notice.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Still Fancy, to herself unkind,

  Awakes to grief the soften’d mind,

  And points the bleeding friend.”

  Collins.

  Adeline, assisted by a fine constitution, and the kind attentions of her new friends, was in a little more than a week so much recovered as to leave her chamber. She was introduced to La Luc, whom she met with tears of gratitude, and thanked for his goodness in a manner so warm, yet so artless, as interested him still more in her favour. During the progress of her recovery, the sweetness of her behaviour had entirely won the heart of Clara, and greatly interested that of her aunt, whose reports of Adeline, together with the praises bestowed by Clara, had excited both esteem and curiosity in the breast of La Luc; and he now met her with an expression of benignity which spoke peace and comfort to her heart. She had acquainted Madame La Luc with such particulars of her story as Peter, either
through ignorance or inattention, had not communicated, suppressing only, through a false delicacy, perhaps, an acknowledgement of her attachment to Theodore. These circumstances were repeated to La Luc, who, ever sensible to the sufferings of others, was particularly interested by the singular misfortunes of Adeline.

  Near a fortnight had elapsed since her removal to the chateau, when one morning La Luc desired to speak with her alone. She followed him into his study, and then in a manner the most delicate he told her, that, as he found she was so unfortunate in her father, he desired she would henceforth consider him as her parent, and his house as her home. “You and Clara shall be equally my daughters,” continued he; “I am rich in having such children.” The strong emotions of surprise and gratitude for some time kept Adeline silent. “Do not thank me,” said La Luc; “I know all you would say, and I know also that I am but doing my duty. I thank God that my duty and my pleasures are generally in unison.” Adeline wiped away the tears which his goodness had excited, and was going to speak; but La Luc pressed her hand, and, turning away to conceal his emotion, walked out of the room.

  Adeline was now considered as a part of the family, and in the parental kindness of La Luc, the sisterly affection of Clara, and the steady and uniform regard of Madame, she would have been happy as she was thankful, had not unceasing anxiety for the fate of Theodore, of whom in this solitude she was less likely than ever to hear, corroded her heart, and embittered every moment of reflection. Even when sleep obliterated for a while the memory of the past, his image frequently arose to her fancy, accompanied by all the exaggerations of terror. She saw him in chains, and struggling in the grasp of ruffians, or saw him led, amidst the dreadful preparations for execution, into the field: she saw the agony of his look, and heard him repeat her name in frantic accents, till the horrors of the scene overcame her, and she awoke.

  A similarity of taste and character attached her to Clara, yet the misery that preyed upon her heart was of a nature too delicate to be spoken of, and she never mentioned Theodore even to her friend. Her illness had yet left her weak and languid, and the perpetual anxiety of her mind contributed to prolong this state. She endeavoured, by strong and almost continual efforts, to abstract her thoughts from their mournful subject, and was often successful. La Luc had an excellent library, and the instruction it offered at once gratified her love of knowledge, and withdrew her mind from painful recollections. His conversation too afforded her another refuge from misery.

  But her chief amusement was to wander among the sublime scenery of the adjacent country, sometimes with Clara, though often with no other companion than a book. There were indeed times when the conversation of her friend imposed a painful restraint, and, when given up to reflection, she would ramble alone through scenes, whose solitary grandeur assisted and soothed the melancholy of her heart. Here she would retrace all the conduct of her beloved Theodore, and endeavour to recollect his exact countenance, his air, and manner. Now she would weep at the remembrance, and then, suddenly considering that he had perhaps already suffered an ignominious death for her sake, even in consequence of the very action which had proved his love, a dreadful despair would seize her, and, arresting her tears, would threaten to bear down every barrier that fortitude and reason could oppose.

  Fearing longer to trust her own thoughts, she would hurry home, and by a desperate effort would try to lose, in the conversation of La Luc, the remembrance of the past. Her melancholy, when he observed it, La Luc attributed to a sense of the cruel treatment she had received from her father; a circumstance which, by exciting his compassion, endeared her more strongly to his heart; while that love of rational conversation, which in her calmer hours so frequently appeared, opened to him a new source of amusement in the cultivation of a mind eager for knowledge, and, susceptible of all the energies of genius. She found a melancholy pleasure in listening to the soft tones of Clara’s lute, and would often soothe her mind by attempting to repeat the airs she heard.

  The gentleness of her manners, partaking so much of that pensive character which marked La Luc’s, was soothing to his heart, and tinctured his behaviour with a degree of tenderness that imparted comfort to her, and gradually won her entire confidence and affection. She saw with extreme concern the declining state of his health, and united her efforts with those of the family to amuse and revive him.

  The pleasing society of which she partook, and the quietness of the country, at length restored her mind to a state of tolerable composure. She was now acquainted with all the wild walks of the neighbouring mountains, and, never tired of viewing their astonishing scenery, she often indulged herself in traversing alone their unfrequented paths, where now and then a peasant from a neighbouring village was all that interrupted the profound solitude. She generally took with her a book, that if she perceived her thoughts inclined to fix on the one object of her grief, she might force them to a subject less dangerous to her peace. She had become a tolerable proficient in English while at the convent where she received her education, and the instruction of La Luc, who was well acquainted with the language, now served to perfect her. He was partial to the English; he admired their character, and the constitution of their laws, and his library contained a collection of their best authors, particularly of their philosophers and poets. Adeline found that no species of writing had power so effectually to withdraw her mind from the contemplation of its own misery as the higher kinds of poetry, and in these her taste soon taught her to distinguish the superiority of the English from that of the French. The genius of the language, more perhaps than the genius of the people, if indeed the distinction may be allowed, occasioned this.

  She frequently took a volume of Shakespear or Milton, and, having gained some wild eminence, would seat herself beneath the pines, whose low murmurs soothed her heart, and conspired with the visions of the poet to lull her to forgetfulness of grief.

  One evening, when Clara was engaged at home, Adeline wandered alone to a favourite spot among the rocks that bordered the lake. It was an eminence which commanded an entire view of the lake, and of the stupendous mountains that environed it. A few ragged thorns grew from the precipice beneath, which descended perpendicularly to the water’s edge; and above rose a thick wood of larch, pine, and sir, intermingled with some chesnut and mountain ash. The evening was fine, and the air so still, that it scarcely waved the light leaves of the trees around, or rimpled the broad expanse of the waters below. Adeline gazed on the scene with a kind of still rapture, and watched the sun sinking amid a crimson glow, which tinted the bosom of the lake and the snowy heads of the distant alps. The delight which the scenery inspired,

  “Soothing each gust of passion into peace,

  All but the swellings of the soften’d heart,

  That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind!”

  was now heightened by the tones of a French horn, and, looking on the lake, she perceived at some distance a pleasure boat. As it was a spectacle rather uncommon in this solitude, she concluded the boat contained a party of foreigners come to view the wonderful scenery of the country, or perhaps of Genevois, who chose to amuse themselves on a lake as grand, though much less extensive, than their own; and the latter conjecture was probably just.

  As she listened to the mellow and enchanting tones of the horn, which gradually sunk away in distance, the scene appeared more lovely than before, and finding it impossible to forbear attempting to paint in language what was so beautiful in reality, she composed the following.

  STANZAS.

  How smooth that lake expands its ample breast!

  Where smiles in soften’d glow the summer sky:

  How vast the rocks that o’er its surface rest!

  How wild the scenes its winding shores supply!

  Now down the western steep slow sinks the sun,

  And paints with yellow gleam the tufted woods;

  While here the mountain-shadows, broad and dun,

  Sweep o’er the chrystal mirror of the floods.


  Mark how his splendour tips with partial light

  Those shatter’d battlements! that on the brow

  Of yon bold promontory burst to sight

  From o’er the woods that darkly spread below.

  In the soft blush of light’s reflected power,

  The ridgy rock, the woods that crown its steep,

  Th’ illumin’d battlement, and darker tower,

  On the smooth wave in trembling beauty sleep.

  But lo! the sun recalls his fervid ray,

  And cold and dim the wat’ry visions fail;

  While o’er yon cliff, whose pointed craggs decay,

  Mild Evening draws her thin empurpled veil!

  How sweet that strain of melancholy horn!

  That floats along the slowly-ebbing wave,

  And up the far-receding mountains borne,

  Returns a dying close from Echo’s cave!

  Hail! shadowy forms of still, expressive Eve!

  Your pensive graces stealing on my heart,

  Bid all the fine-attun’d emotions live,

  And Fancy all her loveliest dreams impart.

  La Luc observing how much Adeline was charmed with the features of the country, and desirous of amusing her melancholy, which, notwithstanding her efforts, was often too apparent, wished to shew her other scenes than those to which her walks were circumscribed. He proposed a party on horseback to take a nearer view of the Glaciers; to attempt their ascent was a difficulty and fatigue to which neither La Luc, in his present state of health, nor Adeline, were equal. She had not been accustomed to ride single, and the mountainous road they were to pass made the experiment rather dangerous; but she concealed her fears, and they were not sufficient to make her wish to forego an enjoyment such as was now offered her.