The Romance of the Forest, interspersed with some pieces of poetry.

by Ann Ward Radcliffe

All this I have considered, said Adeline, and am prepared to encounter it, rather than enter into an engagement which at this time can be productive only of misery to us 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 tenderest affections; and I cannot but express all the anguish I feel—I cannot forbear to repeat every argument that may afford even the slightest possibility of altering your determination. But you, Adeline, you look with complacency upon a circumstance which tortures me with despair.

Adeline, who had long strove to support her spirits in his presence, while she adhered to a resolution which reason suggested, 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 occasioned. He drew his chair towards her, and taking her hand, again entreated her pardon, 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 honour me! Forgive me, Adeline; say but you forgive me, and whatever may be the pain of this separation, I will no longer oppose it.

You have given me some pain, said Adeline, but you have not offended me.—She then mentioned some further particulars concerning the convent. Theodore endeavoured to conceal the distress which the approaching separation occasioned him, and to consult with her on these plans with composure. His judgment by degrees prevailed over his passions, and he now perceived that the plan she 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 doubtless attend his trial. Astonished that he had not noticed this before, and shocked at the unwariness by which he might have betrayed her into so dangerous a situation, he became at once reconciled to the idea of leaving her in a convent. He could have wished to place her in the asylum of his own family: but the circumstances under which she must be introduced were so awkward and painful, and above all, the distance at which they resided would render a journey so highly dangerous for her, that he forbore to propose it. He entreated only that she would allow him to write to her; but recollecting that his letters might be a means of betraying the place of her residence to the Marquis, he checked himself: I must deny myself even this melancholy pleasure, said he, lest my letters should discover your abode; yet hew shall I be able to endure the impatience and uncertainty to which prudence condemns me! If you are in danger, I shall be ignorant of it; though, indeed, did I know it, said he with a look of despair, I could not fly to save you. O exquisite misery! 'tis now only I perceive all the horrors 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 arose from his chair, and walked with quick paces about the room. Adeline sat, overcome by the description which Theodore had given of his approaching situation, and by the consideration that she might remain in the most terrible suspense concerning his fate. She saw him in a prison—pale—emaciated, and in chains:—she saw all the vengeance of the Marquis descending upon him; and this for his noble exertions in her cause. Theodore, alarmed by the placid despair expressed in her countenance, threw himself into a chair by hers, 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 silence was interrupted by the arrival of the carriage at the inn, and Theodore, arising, went to the window that opened into the yard. The darkness of the night prevented his distinguishing the objects without, but a light now brought from the house showed him a carriage and four, attended by several servants. Presently he saw a gentleman, wrapped up in a roquelaure, alight and enter the inn, and in the next moment he heard the voice of the Marquis.

He had flown to support Adeline, who was sinking with terror, when the door opened, and the Marquis followed by the officers and several servants entered. Fury flashed from his eyes as they glanced upon Theodore, who hung over Adeline with a look of fearful solicitude—Seize that traitor, said he, turning to the officers; why have you suffered him to remain here so long?

I am no traitor, said Theodore with a firm voice and the dignity of conscious worth, but a defender of innocence, of one whom the treacherous Marquis de Montalt would destroy.

Obey your orders, said the Marquis to the officers. Adeline shrieked, held faster by Theodore's arm, and entreated the men not to part them. Force only can effect it, said Theodore, as he looked round for some instrument of defence; but he could see none, and in the same moment they surrounded and seized him. Dread every thing from my vengeance, said the Marquis to Theodore, as he caught the hand of Adeline, who had lost all power of resistance and was scarcely sensible of what passed; dread every thing from my vengeance; you know you have deserved it.

I defy your vengeance, cried Theodore, and dread only the pangs of conscience, which your power cannot inflict upon me, though your vices condemn you to its tortures.