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North American railyards Rhodes Digital Instant
Download
Author(s): Rhodes, Michael
ISBN(s): 9781627885409, 1627885404
Edition: Updated and expanded edition
File Details: PDF, 61.37 MB
Year: 2014
Language: english
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 NORTH AMERICAN
RAILYARDS
UPDATED AND EXPANDED EDITION
MICHAEL RHODES

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 First published in 2014 by Voyageur Press, an imprint Digital edition: 978-1-62788-540-9
of Quarto Publishing Group USA Inc., 400 First Avenue Hardcover edition: 978-0-76034-609-9
North, Suite 400, Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
© 2014 Quarto Publishing Group USA Inc.
Text and Photography © 2003, 2014 Michael Rhodes Rhodes, Michael, 1960-
North American railyards / Michael Rhodes. -- Updated
All photographs are by the author unless and expanded edition.
noted otherwise. pages cm
Summary: “An updated edition of the work first
All rights reserved. With the exception of quoting brief published in 2003, describing and illustrating more than
passages for the purposes of review, no part of this 100 working railyards throughout the United States
publication may be reproduced without prior written and Canada. Includes photos, system maps, and yard
permission from the Publisher. diagrams”--Provided by publisher.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
The information in this book is true and complete to ISBN 978-0-7603-4609-9 (hc)
the best of our knowledge. All recommendations are 1. Railroad yards--North America--History. 2. Railroad
made without any guarantee on the part of the author yards--North America--Pictorial works. I. Title.
or Publisher, who also disclaims any liability incurred in TF308.N75R46 2014
connection with the use of this data or specific details. 385.3’14--dc23
2014018319
We recognize, further, that some words, model names,
and designations mentioned herein are the property of Front cover: BNSF’s extensive carload yards at Laurel,
the trademark holder. We use them for identification Montana. A lengthy manifest departs to the east as a
purposes only. This is not an official publication. Montana Rail Link employee in her high-visibility vest
watches the cars.
Voyageur Press titles are also available at discounts in
bulk quantity for industrial or sales-promotional use. Frontis: This view of Roper Yard in Salt Lake City, Utah,
For details write to Special Sales Manager at Quarto taken from a highway on-ramp provides an expansive
Publishing Group USA Inc., 400 First Avenue North, view of operations at the former Denver Rio Grande &
Suite 400, Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA. Western facility.

To find out more about our books, visit us online at Title page: The hump and bowl at Union Pacific’s
www.voyageurpress.com. Davidson Yard in Fort Worth, Texas. Originally
constructed in 1971 by the Texas & Pacific Railroad,
Cover Designer: Simon Larkin the yard has been substantially rebuilt, most recently
Page Designer: Kim Winscher in 2007, when modern computer technology was
Layout Designer: Danielle Smith-Boldt installed. Formerly known as the Centennial Yard, the
yard was renamed in honor of former UP president Dick
Davidson. It has eight arrival tracks, 44 classification
Printed in China
tracks, and 12 departure tracks.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Back cover: The hump and bowl at Union Pacific’s
Davidson Yard in Fort Worth, Texas, are seen early in the
morning in October 2013.

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 CONTENTS
Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .6

Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .7

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .8

Chapter One
Burlington Northern Santa Fe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10

Chapter Two
Union Pacific . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .50

Chapter Three
Canadian Railroads . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .112

Chapter Four
CSX . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .152

Chapter Five
Norfolk Southern . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .190

Chapter Six
Other Railroads & Yards of Historical Significance . . . . . . . . . .228

References . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .252

Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .253

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 Preface
I t is 10 years since publication of North American
Railyards and there is perhaps no better time to revise
the book because of the seismic changes that are taking
from the traditional carload classification yard we have
come to recognize from designs of the last 100 years.
This huge infrastructure project, due to be completed
place across North America. In 2013, Hunter Harrison in 2015, should ease congestion along the busy Sunset
closed four of the five remaining Canadian Pacific Route, which was operating near capacity in 2013.
hump yards, while Wick Moorman authorized perhaps There are several other major new classification
the biggest classification yard project of the last two yards in the pipeline, while others are being significantly
decades: the expansion of Bellevue Yard in Ohio. The expanded. Union Pacific has plans for a 75-track
number of hump classification yards in North America traditional hump yard at Red Rock near Tucson and
now stands at 58. hopes to build a new yard near Hearne, Texas. Norfolk
Notable closures have taken place in Kansas City Southern has started a very significant expansion at
at Murray Yard and in Montreal where the Taschereau Bellevue, Ohio, and Canadian National has built a
hump yard, which once boasted 81 classification tracks completely new yard in Memphis and significantly
in a single bowl, has been almost completely given expanded Kirk Yard in Gary, Indiana. All in all, the
over to intermodal traffic. In February 2013, Norfolk humble classification yard was far from dead in 2013.
Southern announced the immediate end of carload It has been a pleasure to update this book,
classification at Schaeffers Crossing Yard in Roanoke, incorporating all the changes of the last decade. With
and the closure of Buckeye Yard in Columbus. another 20 trips to North America and the burgeoning
The rail industry is buoyant in North America with resource of the Internet, this volume now details in
growth in intermodal and especially coal transportation. words and pictures, not just the 58 remaining hump
The developments of the last decade reflect this with yards, but a total of 120 major yards throughout North
several new intermodal facilities opening, and the America, making it a definitive reference for the rail
biggest of them all at Santa Teresa, New Mexico, is fan interested in freight yards. Carload traffic is still a
currently under construction. Here, near El Paso, Union crucial aspect of railroad operations in North America,
Pacific is spending $400 million on a vast intermodal and as long as it is, the classification yard will remain at
classification yard. The track outline looks quite different the center of modern railroading.

The largest yard on the KCS is in Shreveport.

Here a flat yard with 30 classification tracks
is switched from the south end. Either side of
the yard are nine and 11 long receiving and
departure tracks. The site also has a car shop
and large KCS engine repair facility. The yard
is difficult to see from public places, with this
view taken from a wooded embankment to
the south of the complex. From left to right
there is an NS intermodal heading south after
knocking out a bad order car, then a pair of
KCS SW1500 switchers pulls a long string of
cars from the receiving tracks. On the left,
a pair of KCS AC4400CW locomotives is
building a 100-car departure by pulling strings
of cars from the classification bowl to make
their long distance manifest.

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 Acknowledgments
T he list of people who have helped with this book
and its previous edition over a 24-year period is
enormous. It’s not possible to list them all, but I would
particularly like to thank Bob Del Grosso, William W.
Kratville, Dave Norris, John Bennet, Mike Walker,
Harry Ladd, Carl Ardrey, Lynn Burshtin, Leslie Dean,
Woodrow M. Cunningham, William H. Demsey, and the
hundreds of yardmasters, switchers, and rail workers
who have let me photograph them at work and visit
their yards.
My thanks also go to Voyageur Press and to a
host of rail employees and rail fans who have both
knowingly and unknowingly helped with this book. I
have been amazed at the hospitality and kindness of
railway employees. I have been invited to join the local
Freemasons in one control tower, have been fed sizzling
hamburgers at a railroad barbecue at another yard, and
have been made welcome almost everywhere. Thanks
also to all the yardmasters who have given me coffee
and spared me their time to explain the operations of
their own yards so patiently.
The detailed revision you’re holding would not have
been possible without the help of many railroaders from
both the United States and Canada. Wick Moorman
from Norfolk Southern, Jack Koraleski from Union
Pacific, and Kirk Carroll from Canadian National
were all pivotal, as were many of their staff. The rail
fan community was also a great help, especially the
Richmond, Fredericksburg & Potomac Historical
Society, which allowed some pictures from their archive
to be used in this book. Thanks, too, to British Airways,
Avis, and Holiday Inn Express, not to mention countless
diners and restaurants that helped keep body and soul
together during thousands of miles of travel, all to
record the great American freight yards.
My thanks, as always, to my wife, Irene, who patiently
joined me on several “road trips” to gather new material
for this second volume.
To anyone I have omitted, I extend my apologies and
my gratitude for your help. Needless to say, any errors or
omissions are my own.

Many of the North American Railyards can be glimpsed from the air if one is fortunate to have a window seat and the appropriate flight path.
Indeed this book was conceived while circling above Minneapolis airport back in the 1980s. With my trusty Canon G15 in my pocket and
a window seat reserved, my luck was in on 11 October 2013 as flight AA3115 from O’Hare to Houston took off over first Bensenville yard,
then provided a perfect view of the bowl at Proviso. There was then a distant view of Clearing Yards. Looking south the hump at Proviso is in
operation and most of the 66 classification tracks are full of cars. To the right is the Global One intermodal yard and in the distance is the ex-
CNW engine house and the departure yard.

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 Introduction
T he humble classification yard has attracted little
attention in the railway press, and no publication
has ever documented the life and times of these
important railway facilities. The classification yard is
the focus of carload freight operations on any railroad.
This is nowhere more evident than in the United States,
where the vast majority of railroad traffic is freight. To
the freight railroad, a major classification yard is like the
grand terminus of the more glamorous passenger side
of operations.
Just like the ornate Union termini before them,
the classification yard is becoming an endangered
species for several reasons: mergers and consolidations
that have caused a decline in railroad traffic and the
elimination of duplicate functions; a decline in carload
traffic, paralleled by rapid expansion in intermodal
services; and the paving of much of the land needed for
the intermodal network, in order to allow parking for
road trailers.
The origins of the hump or summit yard date back
to the 1880s in Europe. As did France and Germany, the
British used gravity for classification in their Liverpool
“grid-iron,” which was fully operational in the late 1880s.
The first gravity-assisted classification yard in the
United States was probably built in 1890 at Honey Pot,
on the Sunbury Division of the Pennsylvania Railroad. often to stop at a gas station near or in town, where
By the first decade of the 1900s, several much larger and the relevant maps are invariably for sale. Both Rand
more ambitious schemes had been completed at famous McNally maps (www.randmcnally.com) and DeLorme
locations such as Enola, Pennsylvania, and Clearing in topographic atlases (www.delorme.com) are available
Chicago, and the proliferation of hump yards began. for sale online.
The size of such facilities often means that they This book had its origins in a delayed 1989 flight to
are located out of town and away from centers Minneapolis, Minnesota. As the Northwest Airlines 747
of population. Many big cities have only small circled the city in a holding “stack,” I looked down and
classification yards, because the remarshaling of freight saw the sprawling tracks of Northtown Yard, stretched
cars is often undertaken at focal points on a rail system, out for several miles to the north of town. Around this
perhaps where two or more major routes meet. time, the last of my native Britain’s classification yards
Sometimes, information about classification had closed for traffic as United Kingdom railroads
yards is hard to come by, and even their location can moved to predominantly unit trains and intermodal
be a mystery to many interested in railroads. This services. From over 40 large hump yards, the U.K. now
book aims to provide the reader with a listing of had none.
major classification yards in the United States. I have After my plane landed, I was pleased to persuade
attempted to present a clear idea of their layout and my host at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota,
operations, and also how best to find the various yards that a Saturday in Minneapolis would be a good idea.
and observe railway action in their vicinity. Even though I had been a resident of Rochester in the
Finding the various yards can be a challenge. The 1960s and was therefore used to American life, I was
reader is advised to refer to either Rand McNally street completely lost when it came to finding Northtown. US
maps if the yard is in a sizable city or to DeLorme maps do not give much prominence to railroads and
atlases if the yard is out in the countryside. It can be often fail to show them at all. Furthermore, asking a
difficult to obtain the appropriate street maps unless member of the general public for directions to a “freight
one is actually in the relevant area. The best way is yard” tends to elicit bemused stares rather than concise

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 Cars roll down the hump at Galesburg in 1995. At the time, the yard classified 1,600 cars per day but had the capacity to handle 2,500.

instructions. It is almost as if these vast facilities, often scale and operations, even though one or two of the
several miles long, are invisible. visits were disasters.
After several hours of driving around the city, we For example, Taylor Yard in Los Angeles was listed
finally found Northtown and spent an enjoyable hour as a major Southern Pacific yard in the excellent Train
in the tower. I am sure the yardmaster thought we were Watcher’s Guide to North American Railroads, published
crazy but harmless. He told us there was another hump in 1993. However, when I visited the site in March 1993,
yard in the Twin Cities at Pig’s Eye, but despite our best I found only a vast expanse of rubble. The yard had been
efforts, we never found it. completely demolished some time previous. A similar
When I returned to the United Kingdom, I started site greeted me at Toledo’s Walbridge Yard. Other yards
writing to the railroads and various historical societies, posed a different problem; for example, the facilities
to find out how many of these massive hump yards were at Yermo and Hinkle were almost impossible to track
left in North America and where they were. I have listed down without local knowledge, because no towns bear
some sources of help in the acknowledgments section, those names.
but one thing became evident: nobody had a clear Yet more problems arose in large cities because the
overview of the country’s railyards. street plans often omitted rail lines. I was left looking for
Not only that, but some yards, such as North gaps in the street pattern into which a large yard might
Platte, were mentioned by everybody with whom fit. One particularly difficult yard to track down was
I corresponded, while others were mentioned just Boyles Yard, in suburban Birmingham, Alabama, which
occasionally, with question marks next to them took more than five hours of driving to locate.
because their operational status was unknown. TRAINS Thus, what started as idle curiosity in 1989 became
Magazine was an excellent source of information, and a long-term project to document and visit as many of
material from several older books provided an excellent the American freight yards as possible; the result is this
historical profile of the yards in North America. In the book. Updated information on yards that have been
end, though, it became clear that visiting the yards for rebuilt, downsized, or changed significantly since I
myself was the only way to get a clear picture of their visited them has also been included.

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 CHAPTER
1
Burlington
Northern Santa Fe
T he modern-day Burlington Northern Santa Fe (BNSF) is one of the big
two western railroads, and in 2002 it still had eight active hump yards.
One of these was equipped with state-of-the-art Dowty retarders (Hobson
Yard in Lincoln), while the other seven used the more traditional rail-
brake technology.
When, in 1970, four independent railroads merged to form the
Burlington Northern (BN), several major construction projects helped
consolidate freight switching in big cities. The largest of these projects
was the 1970s construction of the Northtown Yard in Minneapolis. When
BN merged with the Santa Fe in the mid-1990s, the tracks owned by BNSF
linked nearly 20 hump yards, but this involved significant duplication
of services, which the merger has since consolidated. The Santa Fe had
possessed hump yards at only four locations (Barstow, Pueblo, Argentine,
and Corwith) and was known more for its intermodal traffic than for
carload freight.
Santa Fe did, however, bring one very major innovation to the
marshaling yard scene in the form of Dowty retarders (see photo, page
66). These small “dash pots” driven by compressed air were invented in
England in the 1950s and first installed at Goodmayes Yard in Essex. They
went on to be used in yards at Bescot (Birmingham), Tinsley (Sheffield),
and Scunthorpe. They were used around the world in yards from Vienna
to Shenyang, but never caught on in the United States. As Dale Harrison,
Santa Fe’s special projects engineer, reported in 1981, this was probably
because of their cost, heavy maintenance burden, and a general lack of
familiarity with the technology in the United States (US Department of
Transportation, Railroad Classification Yard Technology: Proceedings of the
Second Workshop, 1981). To assess the technology, Santa Fe had installed
three bowl tracks in its Oklahoma Yard with the equipment. The trials were
clearly a success as BNSF went on to install the system at Hobson Yard.
(It was also used by Union Pacific at their Livonia Yard and in the rebuild
of Roseville Yard near Sacramento. Canadian National installed these
retarders in their rebuilt Memphis Yard.)
Since the merger, the BNSF has closed Cicero Yard in Chicago,
converting the site into a massive intermodal facility. BNSF has also
expanded the Galesburg Yard to act as the eastern focal point for all carload
traffic and has concentrated all switching in Kansas City on a totally rebuilt
Argentine Yard.

A manifest from Barstow to Los Angeles winds down the famous Cajon Pass in 2011. The
four high-horsepower BNSF locomotives need all their dynamic braking to slow this 100-plus
car manifest.

11

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 Burlington Northern Santa Fe

Cicero Yard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

Corwith Yard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

Galesburg Yard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
GALESBURG, ILLINOIS

Northtown Yard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA

Gavin Yard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
MINOT, NORTH DAKOTA

Hobson Yard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
LINCOLN, NEBRASKA

Lindenwood Yard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI

Argentine Yard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
KANSAS CITY, KANSAS

Murray Yard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI

Springfield Yard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
SPRINGFIELD, MISSOURI

Memphis Yard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE

Cherokee Yard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
TULSA, OKLAHOMA

Pasco Yard. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
PASCO, WASHINGTON

Interbay Yard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

Barstow Yard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
BARSTOW, CALIFORNIA

Other BNSF Yards . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

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 Cicero Yard
Chicago, Illinois

However, drastic changes had occurred in the nearly

two decades since BN had been created. In 1988, the
terminal at Cicero was already handling 1,500 trailer
lifts each day. The gradual conversion to an intermodal
trailers-on-flatcars (TOFC) and containers-on-flatcars
(COFC) terminal was evident by the mid-1980s and
continued until the hump closed in 1997. A visit in 1995
This is the view looking west from the hump tower. In May 1995,
revealed that only 400 cars each day were classified over
the 17 arrival tracks were still intact and had a good variety of
carload traffic, generally collected in local industry jobs that then are the hump.
assembled in Cicero for the long haul to places like Galesburg and By 1996, BNSF’s $8 million investment in increased
Northtown. To the left and right of the reception yard, the new trailers- intermodal facilities at both Corwith and Cicero was the
on-flatcars (TOFC) and containers-on-flatcars (COFC) facilities can be final death knell for the hump. The Chicago, Burlington
seen. Double-stack and auto-rack traffic also is seen encroaching on
& Quincy (CB&Q) facility was turned over entirely to
the reception yard—a sign of things to come at Cicero.
container freight. Carload classification was relocated to
Northtown, Galesburg, and Eola, Illinois. Some carload
traffic was transferred to the massive Clearing Yard just

T he hump at Cicero Yard finally closed in 1997, at the

end of October. This was quite a transformation for
a yard that had been one of the Burlington Northern’s—
a few miles away.
Finding the yard is not difficult. Cicero lies 7
miles due west of downtown Chicago, on the
and one of Chicago’s—busiest in 1970, when the railroad north side of Ogden Avenue. Road access is
was formed. The 250-acre site stretches 2.3 miles, and good, and two road overpasses formerly afforded good
its 17 reception tracks led to a 42-track classification views of activity in the complex. Traveling from Chicago,
bowl that handled 3,000 cars each day. these were right turns at Laramie Avenue and Austin
By 1987, the carload traffic had decreased in Boulevard, respectively. The first gave good views over
volume, but there were still daily manifest departures the neck of the old hump yard. The second was a good
to Galesburg, Seattle, Houston, Kansas City, Denver, spot to observe departures from the yard. By 2002,
Northtown (Minneapolis), and Laurel, Montana. This however, the transformation to an intermodal facility
volume translated into a throughput of 33,000 cars rendered all signs of the old hump yard invisible. The
per month over the hump. More than 20 switch jobs view from Laramie is unrecognizable from the images
were done each day in managing the yard and serving taken in 1995, and the Austin Boulevard Bridge has
local industry. been demolished.

A panorama of the hump bowl at

Cicero in May 1995 shows the yard still
busy with carload traffic. Through the
low clouds and gloom, the skyscrapers
of downtown Chicago are just visible
seven or eight miles away. The long,
low bridge across the 42 classification
tracks is Laramie Street. Beyond it,
about a mile farther away, is a metal
girder structure, Austin Boulevard.

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 Corwith Yard
Chicago, Illinois

W ith the merger of Burlington Northern and

Santa Fe in 1994–1995, BN gained two large,
mechanized classification yards—Argentine and
by Corwith into Chicago’s largest intermodal yard. It
remains frenetically busy, with up to 40 intermodal
departures per 24 hours.
Barstow—and several other flat yards. One of these, Corwith is located south of the Stevenson
the Corwith facility in Chicago, had been a traditional Expressway (Interstate 55) between Pulaski
hump classification yard until the late 1970s. Built in Road and Kedzie Avenue. Road access to
1958 at a cost of $20 million, it had a total capacity of Corwith is poor, providing little opportunity to view the
6,084 cars. Its single-track hump led to the classification yard from a public place. Official yard access is from
bowl containing 32 tracks. The entrance to the bowl was 38th Street. Turn west off Kedzie Avenue and pass
controlled by four retarders. In all, there were 70 miles under the railroad at the north end of the yard. The
of railroad tracks crammed onto the site. However, road curves to the left, where the main yard office
Santa Fe had transformed most of the land occupied is located.

Four Santa Fe Warbonnets reverse into the yard at Corwith in May 1995. This view is taken from the north end of the yard. The locomotives
will take a TOFC train west, one of more than 20 daily departures from Corwith, which was BNSF’s main intermodal depot in 1995. Since
then, the 250-acre site at Cicero has been transformed into a second and somewhat larger BNSF intermodal yard for the Chicago area.

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 Galesburg Yard
Galesburg, Illinois

By May 1995, BNSF’s plan to expand Galesburg into the major eastern classification yard for the new super railroad was well underway. Cars
roll over the hump into the 32 classification tracks, while the bulldozers have cleared and prepared land for another 16 classification tracks.
Compare this view with the picture on page 17 taken in 2002, when all the tracks are in use.

T he original Galesburg Yard, a CB&Q facility built

in the 1940s, contained two hump yards. BN began
modernizing the yard in 1982 and completed the new,
With the merger of BN and Santa Fe, Galesburg
assumed increased importance as the key yard at the
eastern end of the empire. In 1995, a new retarder
automated Galesburg hump yard in October 1984. It system was installed, and another eight classification
covered 943 acres and cost $80 million. tracks were added. An additional eight classification
Five arrival and departure roads were placed tracks followed in 1996, bringing the bowl up to
alongside the hump bowl, which had 32 classification 48 roads. Two more arrival and departure roads, each
tracks. Hump shunting was effected by drawing 7,500 feet long, also were added.
back arrivals from their road to a single shunting Even with this expansion, in order to cope
lead. Although this is by no means the most efficient with increased throughput and a larger number of
layout for a yard, up to 1,600 cars were classified every destinations for freight cars, further expansion was to
24 hours. Forty manifest trains passed through the come. In 1997, a $24.5 million scheme aimed to add
yard every day, and BNSF management argued that 14 more classification tracks and two more arrival and
the theoretical hump capacity was 2,500 cars per day. departure roads, bringing the yard to 62 tracks and into
This was partly because, at 4,000 feet, the classification the top three yards on the BNSF, along with Northtown
tracks were unusually long. and Argentine.

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 Galesburg has a sizable engine house, home to nearly 200 BNSF units. It also acts as a servicing and fueling point for road power from other
railroads. Here, a KCS locomotive heads up a newly arrived lash-up, which awaits refueling.

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 BNSF No. 6104 draws autoracks out of the classification bowl at Galesburg. On the right are the 16 new tracks added in 1995. Several BNSF
locomotives are employed on pullout duty on this chilly morning.

Things never stand still in railroading for long, and number of arrivals. In these days of satellite imagery, it
further rebuilding took place in 2004. The 14 extra is fascinating to note the two retarders, installed in the
classification tracks were removed to allow expansion of 1997 expansion, lying adjacent to the current hump on
the receiving yard in order to accommodate 8,500-foot derelict ground.
trains. This was crucial as longer manifests had been The yard lies about 3 miles southwest of the
obstructing the crossings to the north of the yard, which town center and is easy to view. To reach the
was originally designed for the more conventional long overpass that crosses the exit from the
“mile-long manifests” of the 1980s and 1990s. The yard classification bowl, exit US Highway 34 at Main Street.
now has 48 classification tracks in the bowl, eight Head south into Galesburg, and after a mile or so,
long receiving tracks to the west of the bowl, and before crossing the railroad, turn right onto
eight departure tracks running north from the bowl. Henderson. Travel for nearly 3 miles and you will reach
An additional three long “run-through” tracks have a T-junction where a left turn leads you across the yard.
also been added to the eastern fringes of the yard, and Traffic is light on the overpass, and there is room for
these are used to stage block loads of grain or coal that parking. It is important to note that through traffic,
have a crew change in Galesburg. The yard dispatches including large numbers of intermodal trains, bypasses
an average of 19 trains each day, receiving a similar the yard.

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 In 2002, BNSF introduced train packs for their yard crews. Here, an engineer is seen with his train controller suspended around his neck as he
drives his locomotive from the front walkway. These new train packs have been used in Europe for more than a decade and greatly increase
productivity in and around yards.

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Other documents randomly have
different content
both distrust and pride. They immediately quitted the abbey together, and the
Marquis beckoned his attendants to follow at a distance. La Motte forbad his son
to accompany him, but Louis observed he took the way into the thickest part of
the forest. He was lost in a chaos of conjecture concerning this affair, but
curiosity and anxiety for his father induced him to follow at some distance.
In the mean time the young stranger, whom the Marquis addressed by the name
of Theodore, remained at the abbey with Madame La Motte and Adeline. The
former, with all her address, could scarcely conceal her agitation during this
interval. She moved involuntary to the door whenever she heard a footstep, and
several times she went to the hall door, in order to look into the forest, but as
often returned, checked by disappointment; no person appeared. Theodore
seemed to address as much of his attention to Adeline as politeness would allow
him to withdraw from Madame La Motte. His manners so gentle, yet dignified,
insensibly subdued her timidity, and banished her reserve. Her conversation no
longer suffered a painful constraint, but gradually disclosed the beauties of her
mind, and seemed to produce a mutual confidence. A similarity of sentiment soon
appeared; and Theodore, by the impatient pleasure which animated his
countenance, seemed frequently to anticipate the thought of Adeline.
To them the absence of the Marquis was short, though long to Madame La Motte,
whose countenance brightened when she heard the trampling of horses at the
gate.
The Marquis appeared but for a moment, and passed on with La Motte to a
private room, where they remained for some time in conference; immediately
after which he departed. Theodore took leave of Adeline—who, as well as La
Motte and Madame, attended them to the gates—with an expression of tender
regret, and often, as he went, looked back upon the abbey, till the intervening
branches entirely excluded it from his view.
The transient glow of pleasure diffused over the cheek of Adeline disappeared
with the young stranger, and she sighed as she turned into the hall. The image of
Theodore pursued her to her chamber; she recollected with exactness every
particular of his late conversation—his sentiments so congenial with her own—his
manners so engaging—his countenance so animated—so ingenious and so noble,
in which manly dignity was blended with the sweetness of benevolence; these,
and every other grace, she recollected, and a soft melancholy stole upon her
heart. I shall see him no more, said she. A sigh that followed, told her more of
her heart than she wished to know. She blushed, and sighed again; and then
suddenly recollecting herself, she endeavoured to divert her thoughts to a
different subject. La Motte's connection with the Marquis for sometime engaged
her attention; but, unable to develop the mystery that attended it, she sought a
refuge from her own reflections in the more pleasing ones to be derived from
books.
During this time, Louis, shocked and surprised at the extreme distress which his
father had manifested upon the first appearance of the Marquis, addressed him
upon the subject. He had no doubt that the Marquis was intimately concerned in
the event which made it necessary for La Motte to leave Paris, and he spoke his
thoughts without disguise, lamenting at the same time the unlucky chance, which
had brought him to seek refuge in a place, of all others, the least capable of
affording it—the estate of his enemy. La Motte did not contradict this opinion of
his son's, and joined in lamenting the evil fate which had conducted him thither.
The term of Louis's absence from his regiment was now nearly expired, and he
took occasion to express his sorrow that he must soon be obliged to leave his
father in circumstances so dangerous as the present. I should leave you, Sir, with
less pain, continued he, was I sure I knew the full extent of your misfortunes; at
present I am left to conjecture evils which perhaps do not exist. Relieve me, Sir,
from this state of painful uncertainty, and suffer me to prove myself worthy of
your confidence.
I have already answered you on this subject, said La Motte, and forbad you to
renew it: I am now obliged to tell you, I care not how soon you depart, if I am to
be subjected to these inquiries. La Motte walked abruptly away, and left his son
to doubt and concern.
The arrival of the Marquis had dissipated the jealous fears of Madame La Motte,
and she awoke to a sense of her cruelty towards Adeline. When she considered
her orphan state—the uniform affection which had appeared in her behaviour—
the mildness and patience with which she had borne her injurious treatment, she
was shocked, and took an early opportunity of renewing her former kindness. But
she could not explain this seeming inconsistency of conduct, without betraying
her late suspicions, which she now blushed to remember, nor could she apologize
for her former behaviour, without giving this explanation.
She contented herself, therefore, with expressing in her manner the regard which
was thus revived. Adeline was at first surprised, but she felt too much pleasure at
the change to be scrupulous in inquiring its cause.
But notwithstanding the satisfaction which Adeline received from the revival of
Madame La Motte's kindness, her thoughts frequently recurred to the peculiar
and forlorn circumstances of her condition. She could not help feeling less
confidence than she had formerly done in the friendship of Madame La Motte,
whose character now appeared less amiable than her imagination had
represented it, and seemed strongly tinctured with caprice. Her thoughts often
dwelt upon the strange introduction of the Marquis at the abbey, and on the
mutual emotions and apparent dislike of La Motte and himself; and under these
circumstances, it equally excited her surprise that La Motte should choose, and
that the Marquis should permit him, to remain in his territory.
Her mind returned the oftener, perhaps, to this subject, because it was connected
with Theodore; but it returned unconscious of the idea which attracted it. She
attributed the interest she felt in the affair to her anxiety for the welfare of La
Motte, and for her own future destination, which was now so deeply involved in
his. Sometimes, indeed, she caught herself busy in conjecture as to the degree of
relationship in which Theodore stood to the Marquis; but she immediately
checked her thoughts, and severely blamed herself for having suffered them to
stray to an object which she perceived was too dangerous to her peace.

CHAPTER VII

Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings.

A few days after the occurrence related in the preceding chapter, as Adeline was
alone in her chamber, she was roused from a reverie by a trampling of horses
near the gate; and on looking from the casement she saw the Marquis de Montalt
enter the abbey. This circumstance surprised her, and an emotion, whose cause
she did not trouble herself to inquire for, made her instantly retreat from the
window. The same cause, however, led her thither again as hastily; but the
object of her search did not appear, and she was in no haste to retire.
As she stood musing and disappointed, the Marquis came out with La Motte, and
immediately looking up, saw Adeline and bowed. She returned his compliment
respectfully, and withdrew from the window, vexed at having been seen there.
They went into the forest, but the Marquis's attendants did not, as before, follow
them thither. When they returned, which was not till after a considerable time,
the Marquis immediately mounted his horse and rode away.
For the remainder of the day La Motte appeared gloomy and silent, and was
frequently lost in thought. Adeline observed him with particular attention and
concern: she perceived that he was always more melancholy after an interview
with the Marquis, and was now surprised to hear that the latter had appointed to
dine the next day at the abbey.
When La Motte mentioned this, he added some high eulogiums on the character
of the Marquis, and particularly praised his generosity and nobleness of soul. At
this instant, Adeline recollected the anecdotes she had formerly heard concerning
the abbey, and they threw a shadow over the brightness of that excellence which
La Motte now celebrated. The account, however, did not appear to deserve much
credit; a part of it, as far as a negative will admit of demonstration, having been
already proved false; for it had been reported that the abbey was haunted, and
no supernatural appearance had ever been observed by the present inhabitants.
Adeline, however, ventured to inquire whether it was the present Marquis of
whom those injurious reports had been raised? La Motte answered her with a
smile of ridicule: Stories of ghosts and hobgoblins have always been admired and
cherished by the vulgar, said he: I am inclined to rely upon my own experience,
at least as much as upon the accounts of these peasants; if you have seen any
thing to corroborate these accounts, pray inform me of it, that I may establish
my faith.
You mistake me, Sir, said she, it was not concerning supernatural agency that I
would inquire; I alluded to a different part of the report, which hinted that some
person had been confined here by order of the Marquis, who was said to have
died unfairly; this was alleged as a reason for the Marquis's having abandoned
the abbey.
All the mere coinage of idleness, said La Motte; a romantic tale to excite wonder:
to see the Marquis is alone sufficient to refute this; and if we credit half the
number of those stories that spring from the same source, we prove ourselves
little superior to the simpletons who invent them. Your good sense, Adeline, I
think, will teach you the merit of disbelief.
Adeline blushed and was silent; but La Motte's defence of the Marquis appeared
much warmer and more diffuse than was consistent with his own disposition, or
required by the occasion: his former conversation with Louis occurred to her, and
she was the more surprised at what passed at present.
She looked forward to the morrow with a mixture of pain and pleasure: the
expectation of seeing again the young chevalier occupying her thoughts, and
agitating them with a various emotion:—now she feared his presence, and now
she doubted whether he would come. At length she observed this, and blushed
to find how much he engaged her attention. The morrow arrived—the Marquis
came—but he came alone; and the sunshine of Adeline's mind was clouded,
though she was able to wear her usual air of cheerfulness. The Marquis was
polite, affable, and attentive: to manners the most easy and elegant, was added
the last refinement of polished life. His conversation was lively, amusing,
sometimes even witty, and discovered great knowledge of the world; or, what is
often mistaken for it, an acquaintance with the higher circles, and with the topics
of the day.
Here La Motte was also qualified to converse with him, and they entered into a
discussion of the characters and manners of the age with great spirit and some
humour. Madame La Motte had not seen her husband so cheerful since they left
Paris, and sometimes she could almost fancy she was there. Adeline listened, till
the cheerfulness which she had at first only assumed became real. The address
of the Marquis was so insinuating and affable, that her reserve insensibly gave
way before it, and her natural vivacity resumed its long-lost empire.
At parting, the Marquis told La Motte he rejoiced at having found so agreeable a
neighbour. La Motte bowed. I shall sometimes visit you, continued he, and I
lament that I cannot at present invite Madame La Motte and her fair friend to my
chateau; but it is undergoing some repairs, which make it but an uncomfortable
residence.
The vivacity of La Motte disappeared with his guest, and he soon relapsed into
fits of silence and abstraction. The Marquis is a very agreeable man, said
Madame La Motte. Very agreeable, replied he. And seems to have an excellent
heart, she resumed. An excellent one, said La Motte.
You seem discomposed, my dear; what has disturbed you?
Not in the least—I was only thinking, that with such agreeable talents and such
an excellent heart, it was a pity the Marquis should—
What? my dear, said Madame with impatience. That the Marquis should—should
suffer this abbey to fall into ruins, replied La Motte.
Is that all? said Madame with disappointment.—That is all, upon my honour, said
La Motte, and left the room.
Adeline's spirits, no longer supported by the animated conversation of the
Marquis, sunk into languor, and when he departed she walked pensively into the
forest. She followed a little romantic path that wound along the margin of the
stream and was overhung with deep shades. The tranquillity of the scenes which
autumn now touched with her sweetest tints, softened her mind to a tender kind
of melancholy; and she suffered a tear, which she knew not wherefore had stolen
into her eye, to tremble there unchecked. She came to a little lonely recess
formed by high trees; the wind sighed mournfully among the branches, and as it
waved their lofty heads scattered their leaves to the ground. She seated herself
on a bank beneath, and indulged the melancholy reflections that pressed on her
mind.
O! could I dive into futurity and behold the events which await me! said she; I
should perhaps, by constant contemplation, be enabled to meet them with
fortitude. An orphan in this wide world—thrown upon the friendship of strangers
for comfort, and upon their bounty for the very means of existence, what but evil
have I to expect? Alas, my father! how could you thus abandon your child—how
leave her to the storms of life—to sink, perhaps, beneath them? alas, I have no
friend!
She was interrupted by a rustling among the fallen leaves; she turned her head,
and perceiving the Marquis's young friend, arose to depart. Pardon this intrusion,
said he, your voice attracted me hither, and your words detained me: my offence,
however, brings with it its own punishment; having learned your sorrows—how
can I help feeling them myself? would that my sympathy or my suffering could
rescue you from them!—He hesitated.—Would that I could deserve the title of
your friend, and be thought worthy of it by yourself!
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—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?—But—he paused. Adeline,
raising her eyes, saw him gazing upon her with intense and eager anxiety, and
her looks were again fixed upon the ground. I have pained you, said Theodore,
by an improper request. Can you forgive me, and also when I add, that it was an
interest in your welfare which urged my inquiry?
Forgiveness, Sir, it is unnecessary to ask; I am certainly obliged by the
compassion you express. But the evening is cold, if you please we will walk
towards the abbey. As they moved on, Theodore was for some time silent. At
length, It was but lately that I 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, surprised: 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—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—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 to-
morrow 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 to-morrow an explanation which appeared to be so important,
but to follow La Motte and inform him of his danger immediately. It is not with La
Motte I would speak, replied Theodore; I know of no danger that threatens him—
but he approaches, be quick, lovely Adeline, and promise to meet me.
I do promise, said Adeline, with a faltering voice; I will come to the spot where
you found me this evening, an hour earlier to-morrow. Saying this, she withdrew
her trembling hand, which Theodore had pressed to his lips in token of
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—
in these solitary woods it is quite outre.
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 swollen 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—Say—
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—receive this assurance:—as
the son of my best benefactors, you are entitled to——
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—and——
You distress me, interrupted Adeline; this is a conversation which I ought not to
hear. I am above disguise, and therefore assure you that, though your virtues will
always command my esteem, you have 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—far
from you. Do not deny me the poor consolation of believing this!
I shall not require such a monitor to remind me of you, said Adeline with a smile;
your excellent parents and your own merits have sufficient claim upon my
remembrance. Could I see your natural good sense resume its influence over
passion, my satisfaction would equal my esteem for you.
Do not hope it, said Louis, nor will I wish it; for passion here is virtue. As he
spoke he saw La Motte turning 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—farewell! and peace
attend you. I will think of you with the affection of a sister.—He sighed deeply
and pressed her hand; when La Motte, winding round another projection of the
ruin, again appeared. 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 recollected the tenderness
of Theodore's manner, and several little circumstances which seemed to indicate
that his heart was not unconcerned in the event. Again she was inclined to doubt
whether he had not obtained her consent to this meeting upon some groundless
suspicion; and she almost determined not to go: yet it was possible Theodore's
assertion might be sincere, and her danger real; the chance of this made her
delicate scruples appear ridiculous; she wondered that she had for a moment
suffered them to weigh against so serious an interest, and blaming herself for the
delay they had occasioned, hastened to the place of appointment.
The little path which led to this spot, was silent and solitary, and when she
reached the recess Theodore had not arrived. A transient pride made her
unwilling he should find that she was more punctual to his appointment than
himself; and she turned from the recess into a track which wound among the
trees to the right. Having walked some way without seeing any person or hearing
a footstep, she returned; but he was not come, and she again left the place. A
second time she came back, and Theodore was still absent. Recollecting the time
at which she had quitted the abbey, she grew uneasy, and calculated that the
hour appointed was now much exceeded. She was offended and perplexed; but
she seated herself on the turf, and was resolved to wait the event. After
remaining here till the fall of twilight in fruitless expectation, her pride became
more alarmed; she feared that he had discovered something of the partiality he
had inspired; and believing that he now treated her with purposed neglect, she
quitted the place with disgust and self-accusation.
When these emotions subsided, and reason resumed its influence, she blushed
for what she termed this childish effervescence of self-love. She recollected, as if
for the first time, these words of Theodore: I fear you are deceived, and that
some danger is near you. Her judgment now acquitted the offender, and she saw
only the friend. The import of these words, whose truth she no longer doubted,
again alarmed her. Why did he trouble himself to come from the chateau, on
purpose to hint her danger, if he did not wish to preserve her? And if he wished
to preserve her, what but necessity could have withheld him from the
appointment?
These reflections decided her at once. She resolved to repair on the following day
at the same hour to the recess, whither the interest which she believed him to
take in her fate would no doubt conduct him in the hope of meeting her. That
some evil hovered over her she could not disbelieve, but what it might be she
was unable to guess. Monsieur and Madame La Motte were her friends, and who
else, removed as she now thought herself, beyond the reach of her father, could
injure her? But why did Theodore say she was deceived? She found it impossible
to extricate herself from the labyrinth of conjecture, but endeavoured to
command her anxiety till the following evening. In the mean time she engaged
herself in efforts to amuse Madame La Motte, who required some relief after the
departure of her son.
Thus oppressed by her own cares and interested by those of Madame La Motte,
Adeline retired to rest. She soon lost her recollection: but it was only to fall into
harassed slumbers, such as but too often haunt the couch of the unhappy. At
length her perturbed fancy suggested the following dream.
She thought she was in a large old chamber belonging to the abbey, more
ancient and desolate, though in part furnished, than any she had yet seen. It was
strongly barricadoed, yet no person appeared. While she stood musing and
surveying the apartment, she heard a low voice call her; and looking towards the
place whence it came, she perceived by the dim light of a lamp a figure stretched
on a bed that lay on the floor. The Voice called again; and approaching the bed,
she distinctly saw the features of a man who appeared to be dying. A ghastly
paleness overspread his countenance, yet there was an expression of mildness
and dignity in it, which strongly interested her.
While she looked on him his features changed, and seemed convulsed in the
agonies of death. The spectacle shocked her, and she started back; but he
suddenly stretched forth his hand, and seizing hers, grasped it with violence: she
struggled in terror to disengage herself; and again looking on his face, saw a
man who appeared to be about thirty, with the same features, but in full health,
and of a most benign countenance. He smiled tenderly upon her, and moved his
lips as if to speak, when the floor of the chamber suddenly opened and he sunk
from her view. The effort she made to save herself from following awoke her.—
This dream had so strongly impressed her fancy, that it was some time before
she could overcome the terror it occasioned, or even be perfectly convinced she
was in her own apartment. At length, however, she composed herself to sleep;
again she fell into a dream.
She thought she was bewildered in some winding passages of the abbey; that it
was almost dark, and that she wandered about a considerable time without being
able to find a door. Suddenly she heard a bell toll from above, and soon after a
confusion of distant voices. She redoubled her efforts to extricate herself.
Presently all was still; and at length wearied with the search, she sat down on a
step that crossed the passage. She had not been long here when she saw a light
glimmer at a distance on the walls; but a turn in the passage, which was very
long, prevented her seeing from what it proceeded. It continued to glimmer
faintly for some time and then grew stronger, when she saw a man enter the
passage habited in a long black cloak like those usually worn by attendants at
funerals, and bearing a torch. He called to her to follow him, and led her through
a long passage to the foot of a staircase. Here she feared to proceed, and was
running back, when the man suddenly turned to pursue her, and with the terror
which this occasioned she awoke.
Shocked by these visions, and more so by their seeming connection, which now
struck her, she endeavoured to continue awake, lest their terrific images should
again haunt her mind: after some time, however, her harassed spirits again sunk
into slumber, though not to repose.
She now thought herself in a large old gallery, and saw at one end of it a
chamber door standing a little open and a light within: she went towards it, and
perceived the man she had before seen, standing at the door and beckoning her
towards him. With the inconsistency so common in dreams, she no longer
endeavoured to avoid him, but advancing, followed him into a suit of very ancient
apartments hung with black and lighted up as if for a funeral. Still he led her on,
till she found herself in the same chamber she remembered to have seen in her
former dream: a coffin covered with a pall stood at the further end of the room;
some lights and several persons surrounded it, who appeared to be in great
distress.
Suddenly she thought these persons were all gone, and that she was left alone;
that she went up to the coffin, and while she gazed upon it, she heard a voice
speak, as if from within, but saw nobody. The man she had before seen, soon
after stood by the coffin, and lifting the pall, she saw beneath it a dead person,
whom she thought to be the dying chevalier she had seen in her former dream;
his features were sunk in death, but they were yet serene. While she looked at
him, a stream of blood gushed from his side, and descending to the floor the
whole chamber was overflowed; at the same time some words were uttered in a
voice she heard before; but the horror of the scene so entirely overcame her, that
she started and awoke.
When she had recovered her recollection, she raised herself in the bed, to be
convinced it was a dream she had witnessed; and the agitation of her spirits was
so great, that she feared to be alone, and almost determined to call Annette. The
features of the deceased person, and the chamber where he lay, were strongly
impressed upon her memory, and she still thought she heard the voice and saw
the countenance which her dream represented. The longer she considered these
dreams, the more she was surprised; they were so very terrible, returned so
often, and seemed to be so connected with each other, that she could scarcely
think them accidental; yet why they should be supernatural, she could not tell.
She slept no more that night.

CHAPTER VIII
 ...... 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.

When Adeline appeared at breakfast, her harassed and languid countenance

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
disturbed dreams: she was about to describe them, but a strong and involuntary
impulse prevented her. At the same time La Motte ridiculed her concern so
unmercifully, that she was almost ashamed to have mentioned it, and tried to
overcome the remembrance of its cause.
After breakfast, she endeavoured to employ her thoughts by conversing with
Madame La Motte; but they were really engaged by the incidents of the last two
days, the circumstance of her dreams, and her conjectures concerning the
information to be communicated to her by Theodore. They had thus sat for some
time, 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 concealed several people from her view, and
among these it was possible might be Theodore, who had not yet appeared: she
continued to look for him with great anxiety, till the Marquis entered the hall with
La Motte and some other persons, soon after which Madame went to receive
him, and Adeline retired to her own apartment.
A message from La Motte, however, soon called her to join the party, where she
vainly hoped to find Theodore. The Marquis arose as she approached, and,
having paid her some general compliments, the conversation took a very lively
turn. Adeline, finding it impossible to counterfeit cheerfulness while her heart was
sinking with anxiety and disappointment, took little part in it: Theodore was not
once named. She would have asked concerning him, had it been possible to
inquire with propriety; but she was obliged to content herself with hoping, first,
that he would arrive before dinner, and then before the departure of the Marquis.
Thus the day passed in expectation and disappointment. The evening was now
approaching, and she was condemned to remain in the presence of the Marquis,
apparently 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 torture, and thrown into one, if possible, still
more distressing.
The Marquis inquired for Louis, and being informed of his departure, mentioned
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 expressed
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
consciousness of having discovered her emotion, and the danger of relapsing into
a second fit.
She retired to her chamber, where being once more alone, her oppressed heart
found relief from tears, in which she freely indulged. Ideas crowded so fast upon
her mind, that it was long ere she could arrange them so as to produce any thing
like reasoning. She endeavoured to account for the abrupt departure of
Theodore. Is it possible, said she, that he should take an interest in my welfare,
and yet leave me exposed to the full force of a danger which he himself foresaw?
Or am I to believe that he has trifled with my simplicity for an idle frolic, and has
now left me to the wondering apprehension he has raised? Impossible! a
countenance so noble, and a manner so amiable, could never disguise a heart
capable of forming so despicable a design. No!—whatever is reserved for me, let
me not relinquish the pleasure of believing that he is worthy of my esteem.
She was awakened from thoughts like these by a peal of distant thunder, and
now perceived that the gloominess of evening was deepened by the coming
storm; it rolled onward, and soon after the lightning began to flash along the
chamber. Adeline was superior to the affectation of fear, and was not apt to be
terrified; but she now felt it unpleasant to be alone, and hoping that the Marquis
might have left the abby, she went down to the sitting-room: but the threatening
aspect of the heavens had hitherto detained him, and now the evening tempest
made him rejoice that he had not quitted a shelter. The storm continued, and
night came on. La Motte pressed his guest to take a bed at the abbey, and he at
length consented; a circumstance which threw Madame La Motte into some
perplexity as to the accommodation to be afforded him. After some time she
arranged the affair to her satisfaction; resigning her own apartment to the
Marquis, and that of Louis to two of his superior attendants; Adeline, it was
further settled, should give up her room to Monsieur and Madame La Motte, and
to remove to an inner chamber, where a small bed, usually occupied by Annette,
was placed for her.
At supper the Marquis was less gay than usual; he frequently addressed Adeline,
and his look and manner seemed to express the tender interest which her
indisposition, for she still appeared pale and languid, had excited. Adeline, as
usual, made an effort to forget her anxiety and appear happy: but the veil of
assumed cheerfulness was too thin to conceal the features of sorrow; and her
feeble smiles only added a peculiar softness to her air. The Marquis conversed
with her on a variety of subjects, and displayed an elegant mind. The
observations of Adeline, which, when called upon, she gave with reluctant
modesty, in words at once simple and forceful, seemed to excite his admiration,
which he sometimes betrayed by an inadvertent expression.
Adeline retired early to her room, which adjoined on one side to Madame La
Motte's, and on the other to the closet formerly mentioned. It was spacious and
lofty, and what little furniture it contained was falling to decay; but perhaps the
present tone of her spirits might contribute more than these circumstances to
give that air of melancholy which seemed to reign in it. She was unwilling to go
to bed, lest the dreams that had lately pursued her should return; and
determined to sit up till she found herself oppressed by sleep, when it was
probable her rest would be profound. She placed the light on a small table, and
taking a book, continued to read for above an hour, till her mind refused any
longer to abstract itself from its own cares, and she sat for some time leaning
pensively on her arm.
The wind was high, and as it whistled through the desolate apartment, and
shook the feeble doors, she often started, and sometimes even thought she
heard sighs between the pauses of the gust; but she checked these illusions,
which the hour of the night and her own melancholy imagination conspired to
raise. As she sat musing, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall, she perceived the
arras, with which the room was hung, wave backwards and forwards; she
continued to observe it for some minutes, and then rose to examine it further. It
was moved by the wind; and she blushed at the momentary fear it had excited;
but she observed that the tapestry was more strongly agitated in one particular
place than elsewhere, and a noise that seemed something more than that of the
wind issued thence. The old bedstead, which La Motte had found in this
apartment, had been removed to accommodate Adeline, and it was behind the
place where this had stood, that the wind seemed to rush with particular force:
curiosity prompted her to examine still further; 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; she instantly remembered
her dreams. The chamber was not much like that in which she had seen the
dying chevalier, and afterwards the bier; but it gave her a confused remembrance
of one through which she had passed. Holding up the light to examine it more
fully, she was convinced by its structure that it was part of the ancient
foundation. A shattered casement, placed high from the floor, seemed to be the
only opening to admit light. She observed a door on the opposite side of the
apartment; and after some moments of hesitation gained courage, and
determined to pursue the inquiry. A mystery seems to hang over these chambers,
said she, which it is perhaps my lot to develop; I will at least see to what that
door leads.
She stepped forward, and having unclosed it, proceeded with faltering steps
along a suite of apartments, resembling the first in style and condition, and
terminating in one exactly like that where her dream had represented the dying
person; the remembrance struck so forcibly upon her imagination, that she was
in danger of fainting; and looking round the room, 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
belonged, and that they had so long escaped detection. The casements were all
too high to afford any information from without. When she was sufficiently
composed to consider the direction of the rooms and the situation of the abbey,
there appeared not a doubt that they formed an interior part of the original
building.
As these reflections passed over her mind, a sudden gleam of moonlight fell upon
some object without the casement. Being now sufficiently composed to wish to
pursue the inquiry, and believing this object might afford her some means of
learning the situation of these rooms, she combated her remaining terrors; and in
order to distinguish it more clearly, removed 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 waiting a returning
gleam, but the obscurity continued. As she went softly back for the light, her foot
stumbled over something on the floor; and while she stooped to examine it, the
moon again shone, so that she could distinguish through the casement, the
eastern towers of the abbey. This discovery confirmed her former conjectures
concerning the interior situation of these apartments. The obscurity of the place
prevented her discovering what it was that had impeded her steps, but having
brought the light forward, she perceived on the floor an old dagger: with a
trembling hand she took it up, and upon a closer view perceived that it was
spotted and stained with rust.
Shocked and surprised, she looked round the room for some object that might
confirm or destroy the dreadful suspicion which now rushed upon her mind; but
she saw only a great chair with broken arms, that stood in one corner of the
room, and a table in a condition equally shattered, except that in another part lay
a confused heap of things, which appeared to be old lumber. She went up to it,
and perceived a broken bedstead, with some decayed remnants of furniture,
covered with dust and cobwebs, and which seemed indeed as if they had not
been moved for many years. Desirous, however, of examining further, she
attempted to raise what appeared to have been part of the bedstead; but it
slipped from her hand, and, rolling to the floor, brought with it some of the
remaining lumber. Adeline started aside and saved herself; and when the noise it
made had ceased, she heard a small rustling sound, and as she was about to
leave the chamber, saw something falling gently among the lumber.
It was a small roll of paper, tied with a string, and covered with dust. Adeline
took it up, and on opening it perceived a hand writing. She attempted to read it,
but the part of the manuscript she looked at was so much obliterated, that she
found this difficult, though what few words were legible impressed her with
curiosity and terror, and induced her to return with it immediately to her
chamber.
Having reached her own room, she fastened the private door, and let the arras
fall over it as before. It was now midnight. The stillness of the hour, interrupted
only at intervals by the hollow sighings of the blast, heightened the solemnity of
Adeline's feelings. She wished she was not alone, and before she proceeded to
look into the manuscript, listened whether Madame La Motte was yet in her
chamber:—not the least sound was heard, and she gently opened the door. The
profound silence within almost convinced her that no person was there; but
willing to be further satisfied, she brought the light and found the room empty.
The lateness of the hour made her wonder that Madame La Motte was not in her
chamber, and she 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 satisfied that all was well, she
turned towards her room, when she heard the Marquis pronounce her name with
very unusual emphasis. She paused. I adore her, pursued he, and by Heaven—He
was interrupted by La Motte, my Lord, remember your promise.
I do, replied the Marquis, and I will abide by it. But we trifle. To-morrow I will
declare myself, and I shall then know both what to hope and how to act. Adeline
trembled so excessively, that she could scarcely support herself: she wished to
return to her chamber; yet she was too much interested in the words she had
heard, not to be anxious to have them more fully explained. There was an
interval of silence, after which they 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, but they were so low that she
could only now and then distinguish a few words. Her father, say you? said the
Marquis. Yes, my Lord, her father. I am well informed of what I say. Adeline
shuddered at the mention of her father, a new terror seized her, and with
increasing eagerness she endeavoured to distinguish their words, but for some
time found this to be impossible. Here is no time to be lost, said the Marquis, to-
morrow then.—She heard La Motte rise, and believing it was to leave the room,
she hurried up the steps, and having reached her chamber, sunk almost lifeless in
a chair.
It was her father only of whom she thought. She doubted not that he had
pursued and discovered her retreat; and though this conduct appeared very
inconsistent with his former behaviour in abandoning her to strangers, her fears
suggested that it would terminate in some new cruelty. She did not hesitate to
pronounce this the danger of which Theodore had warned her; but it was
impossible to surmise how he had gained his knowledge of it, or how he had
become sufficiently acquainted with her story, except through La Motte, her
apparent friend and protector, whom she was thus, though unwillingly, led to
suspect of treachery. Why, indeed, should La Motte conceal from her only his
knowledge of her father's intention, unless he designed to deliver her into his
hands? Yet it was long ere she could bring herself to believe this conclusion
possible. To discover depravity in those whom we have loved, is one of the most
exquisite tortures to a virtuous mind, and the conviction is often rejected before
it is finally admitted.
The words of Theodore, which told her he was fearful she was deceived,
confirmed this most painful apprehension of La Motte, with another yet more
distressing, that Madame La Motte was also united against her. This thought, for
a moment, subdued terror and left her only grief; she wept bitterly. Is this human
nature? cried she. Am I doomed to find every body deceitful? An unexpected
discovery of vice in those whom we have admired, inclines us to extend our
censure of the individual to the species; we henceforth contemn appearances,
and too hastily conclude that no person is to be trusted.
Adeline determined to throw herself at the feet of La Motte on the following
morning, and implore his pity and protection. Her mind was now too much
agitated by her own interests to permit her to examine the manuscripts, and she
sat musing in her chair till she heard the steps of Madame La Motte, when she
retired to bed. La Motte soon after came up to his chamber; and Adeline, the
mild, persecuted Adeline, who had now passed two days of torturing anxiety, and
one night of terrific visions, endeavoured to compose her mind to sleep. In the
present state of her spirits she quickly caught alarm, and she had scarcely fallen
into a slumber when she was roused by a loud and uncommon noise. She
listened, and thought the sound came from the apartments below, but in a few
minutes there was a hasty knocking at the door of La Motte's chamber.
La Motte, who had just fallen asleep, was not easily to be roused; 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 him. She was stopped by the voice of the Marquis, which she now clearly
distinguished at the door. He called to La Motte to rise immediately; and Madame
La Motte endeavoured at the same time to rouse her husband, who at length
awoke in much alarm, and soon after joining the Marquis, they went down stairs
together. Adeline now dressed herself, as well as her trembling hands would
permit, and went into the adjoining chamber, where she found Madame La Motte
extremely surprised and terrified.
The Marquis in the mean time told La Motte, with great agitation, that he
recollected having appointed some persons to meet him upon business of
importance early in the morning, and it was therefore necessary for him to set off
for his chateau immediately. As he said this, and desired that his servants might
be called, La Motte could not help observing the ashy paleness of his
countenance, or expressing some apprehension 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 Marquis
having refused to take any refreshment, bade La Motte a hasty adieu, and as
soon as his people were ready left the abbey.
La Motte returned to his chamber, musing on the abrupt departure of his guest,
whose emotion appeared much too strong to proceed from the cause assigned.
He appeased the anxiety of Madame La Motte, and at the same time excited her
surprise by acquainting her with the occasion of the late disturbance. Adeline,
who had retired from the chamber on the approach of La Motte, looked out from
her window on hearing the trampling of horses. It was the Marquis and his
people, who just then passed at a little distance. Unable to distinguish who the
persons were, she was alarmed at observing such a party about the abbey at
that hour, and calling to inform La Motte of the circumstance, was made
acquainted with what had passed.
At length she retired to her bed, and her slumbers were this night undisturbed by
dreams.
When she arose in the morning, she observed La Motte walking alone in the
avenue below, and she hastened to seize the opportunity which now offered of
pleading her cause. She approached him with faltering steps, while the paleness
and timidity of her countenance discovered the disorder of her mind. Her first
words, without entering upon any explanation, implored his compassion. La
Motte stopped, and looking earnestly in her face, inquired whether any part of his
conduct towards her merited the suspicion which her request implied. Adeline for
a moment blushed that she had doubted his integrity, but 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 not how to
mention what she blushed to believe. La Motte continued to gaze on her in silent
expectation, and at length desired her to proceed and explain her meaning. She
entreated that he would protect her from her father. La Motte looked surprised
and confused. Your father! said he. Yes, Sir, replied Adeline; I am not ignorant
that he has discovered my retreat: I have every thing to dread from a parent who
has treated me with such cruelty as you was 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
interest his pity. What reason have you to suppose, or rather how have you
learned, that your father pursues you? The question confused Adeline, who
blushed to acknowledge that she had overheard his discourse, and disdained to
invent or utter a falsity: at length she confessed the truth. The countenance of La
Motte instantly changed to a savage fierceness, and, sharply rebuking her for a
conduct to which she had been rather tempted by chance than prompted by
design, he inquired what she had overheard that could so much alarm her. She
faithfully repeated the substance of the incoherent sentences that had met her
ear;—while she spoke, he regarded her with a fixed attention. And was this all
you heard? Is it from these few words that you draw such a positive conclusion?
Examine them, and you will find they do not justify it.
She now perceived, what the fervour of her fears had not permitted her to
observe before, that the words, unconnectedly as she heard them, imported
little, and that her imagination had filled up the void in the sentences, so as to
suggest the evil apprehended. Notwithstanding this, her fears were little abated.
Your apprehensions are, doubtless, now removed, resumed La Motte; but to give
you a proof of the sincerity which you have ventured to question, I will tell you
they were just. You seem alarmed, and with reason. Your father has discovered
your residence, and has already demanded you. It is true, that from a motive of
compassion I have refused to resign you, but I have neither authority to withhold
nor means to defend you. When he comes to enforce his demand, you will
perceive this. Prepare yourself, therefore, for the evil, which you see is inevitable.
Adeline for some time could speak only by her tears. At length, with a fortitude
which despair had roused, she said, I resign myself to the will of Heaven! La
Motte gazed on her in silence, and a strong emotion appeared in his
countenance. He forbore, however, to renew the discourse, and withdrew to the
abbey, leaving Adeline in the avenue, absorbed in grief.
A summons to breakfast hastened her to the parlour, where she passed the
morning in conversation with Madame La Motte, to whom she told all her
apprehensions, and expressed all her sorrow. Pity and superficial consolation
were all that Madame La Motte could offer, though apparently much affected by
Adeline's discourse. Thus the hours passed heavily away, while the anxiety of
Adeline continued to increase, and the moment of her fate seemed fast
approaching. Dinner was scarcely over, when Adeline was surprised to see the
Marquis arrive. He entered the room with his usual ease, and apologizing for the
disturbance he had occasioned on the preceding night, repeated what he had
before told La Motte.
The remembrance of the conversation she had overheard at first gave Adeline
some confusion, and withdrew her mind from a sense of the evils to be
apprehended from her father. The Marquis, who was, as usual, attentive to
Adeline, seemed affected by her apparent indisposition, and expressed much
concern for that dejection of spirits which, notwithstanding every effort, her
manner betrayed. When Madame La Motte withdrew, Adeline would have
followed her; but the Marquis entreated a few moments' attention, and led her
back to her seat. La Motte immediately disappeared.
Adeline knew too well what would be the purport of the Marquis's discourse, and
his words soon increased the confusion which her fears had occasioned. While he
was declaring the ardour of his passion in such terms as but too often make
vehemence pass for sincerity, Adeline, to whom this declaration, if honourable,
was distressing, and if dishonourable, was shocking, interrupted him and thanked
him for the offer of a distinction which, with a modest but determined air, she
said she must refuse. She rose to withdraw. Stay, too lovely Adeline! said he, and
if compassion for my sufferings will not interest you in my favour, allow a
consideration of your own dangers to do so. Monsieur La Motte has informed me
of your misfortunes, and of the evil that now threatens you; accept from me the
protection which he cannot afford.
Adeline continued to move towards the door, when the Marquis threw himself at
her feet, and seizing her hand, impressed it with kisses. She struggled to
disengage herself. Hear me, charming Adeline! hear me, cried the Marquis; I
exist but for you. Listen to my entreaties, and my fortune shall be yours. Do not
drive me to despair by ill-judged rigour, or, because—
My Lord, interrupted Adeline with an air of ineffable dignity, and still affecting to
believe his proposal honourable, I am sensible of the generosity of your conduct,
and also flattered by the distinction you offer me; I will therefore say something
more than is necessary to a bare expression of the denial which I must continue
to give. I can not bestow my heart. You can not obtain more than my esteem, to
which, indeed, nothing can so much contribute as a forbearance from any similar
offers in future.
She again attempted to go, but the Marquis prevented her; and, after some
hesitation, again urged his suit, though in terms that would no longer allow her
to misunderstand him. Tears swelled into her eyes, but she endeavoured to check
them; and with a look in which grief and indignation seemed to struggle for pre-
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 himself
at her feet to implore forgiveness. But she waved her hand in silence, and hurried
from the room. When she reached her chamber she locked the door, and, sinking
into a chair, yielded to the sorrow that pressed at her heart. And it was not the
least of her sorrow to suspect that La Motte was unworthy of her confidence; for
it was almost impossible that he could be ignorant of the real designs of the
Marquis. Madame La Motte, she believed, was imposed upon by a specious
pretence of honourable attachment; and thus was she spared 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 her
father, whose cruelty had already been but 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, she wiped away her tears, and was leaving
the room just as Madame La Motte entered it. While Adeline related what had
passed, her friend wept, and appeared to suffer great agitation. She
endeavoured to comfort her, and promised to use her influence in persuading La
Motte to prohibit the addressee of the Marquis. You know, my dear, added
Madame, that our present circumstances oblige us to preserve terms with the
Marquis, and you will therefore suffer as little resentment to appear in your
manner towards him as possible; conduct yourself with your usual ease in his
presence, and I doubt not this affair will pass over without subjecting you to
further solicitation.
Ah, Madam! said Adeline, how hard is the task you assign me! I entreat you that
I may never more be subjected to the humiliation of being in his presence,—that,
whenever he visits the abbey, I may be suffered to remain in my chamber.
This, said Madame La Motte, I would most readily consent to, would our situation
permit it. But you well know our asylum in this abbey depends upon the good-will
of the Marquis, which we must not wantonly lose; and surely such a conduct as
you propose would endanger this. Let us use milder measures, and we shall
preserve his friendship without subjecting you to any serious evil. Appear with
your usual complaisance: the task is not so difficult as you imagine.
Adeline sighed. I obey you, Madam, said she; it is my duty to do so: but I may be
pardoned for saying—it is with extreme reluctance. Madame La Motte promised
to go immediately to her husband; and Adeline departed, though not convinced
of her safety, yet somewhat more at ease.
She soon after saw the Marquis depart; and as there now appeared to be no
obstacle to the return of Madame La Motte, she expected her with extreme
impatience. After thus waiting near an hour in her chamber, she was at length
summoned to the parlour, and there found Monsieur La Motte alone. He arose
upon her entrance, and for some minutes paced the room in silence. He then
seated himself, and addressed her: What you have mentioned to Madame La
Motte, said he, would give me much concern, did I consider the behaviour of the
Marquis in a light so serious as she does. I know that young ladies are apt to
misconstrue the unmeaning gallantry of fashionable manners; and you, Adeline,
can never be too cautious in distinguishing 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 understanding and disposition as his speech implied. Is it possible, Sir, said
she, that you have been apprized of the Marquis's conduct?
It is very possible, and very certain, replied La Motte with some asperity; and
very possible, also, that I may see this affair with a judgment less discoloured by
prejudice than you do. But, however, I shall not dispute this point; I shall only
request that, since you are acquainted with the emergency of my circumstances,
you will conform to them, and not, by an ill-timed resentment, expose me to the
enmity of the Marquis. He is now my friend, and it is necessary to my safety 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
complaisance. Adeline thought the term rudeness a harsh one as La Motte
applied it, but she forbore from any expression of displeasure. I could have
wished, Sir, said she, for the privilege of retiring whenever the Marquis appeared;
but since you believe this conduct would affect your interest, I ought to submit.
This prudence and good-will delights me, said La Motte; and since you wish to
serve me, know that you cannot more effectually do it than by treating the
Marquis as a friend. The word friend, as it stood connected with the Marquis,
sounded dissonantly to Adeline's ear; she hesitated, and looked at La Motte. As
your friend, Sir, said she, I will endeavour to—treat him as mine, she would have
said, but she found it impossible to finish the sentence. She entreated his
protection from the power of her father.
What protection I can afford is yours, said La Motte; but you know how destitute
I am both of the right and the means of resisting him, and also how much I
require protection myself. Since he has discovered your retreat, he is probably
not ignorant of the circumstances which detain me here; and if I oppose him, he
may betray me to the officers of the law, as the surest method of obtaining
possession of you. We are encompassed with dangers, continued La Motte;
would I could see any method of extricating ourselves!
Quit this abbey, said Adeline, and seek an asylum in Switzerland or Germany; you
will then be freed from further obligation to the Marquis, and from the
persecution you dread. Pardon me for thus offering advice, which is certainly in
some degree prompted by a sense of my own safety, but which, at the same
time, seems to afford the only means of ensuring yours.
Your plan is reasonable, said La Motte, had I money to execute it. As it is, I must
be contented to remain here as little known as possible, and defend myself by
making those who know me my friends. Chiefly I must endeavour to preserve the
favour of the Marquis: he may do much, should your father even pursue
desperate measures. But why do I talk thus? your father may ere this have
commenced these measures, and the effects of his vengeance may now be
hanging over my head. My regard for you, Adeline, has exposed me to this; had I
resigned you to his will, I should have remained secure.
Adeline was so much affected by this instance of La Motte's kindness, which she
could not doubt, that she was unable to express her sense of it. When she could
speak, she uttered her gratitude in the most lively terms.—Are you sincere in
these expressions? said La Motte.
Is it possible I can be less than sincere? replied Adeline, weeping at the idea of
ingratitude.—Sentiments are easily pronounced, said La Motte, though they may
have no connection with the heart; I believe them to be sincere so far only as
they influence our actions.
What mean you, Sir? said Adeline with surprise.
I mean to inquire whether, if an opportunity should ever offer of thus proving
your gratitude, you would adhere to your sentiments?
Name one that I shall refuse, said Adeline with energy.
If, for instance, the Marquis should hereafter avow a serious passion for you, and
offer you his hand, would no petty resentment, no lurking prepossession for
some more happy lover prompt you to refuse it?
Adeline blushed, and fixed her eyes on the ground. You have, indeed, Sir, named
the only means I should reject of evincing my sincerity. The Marquis I can never
love, nor, to speak sincerely, ever esteem. I confess the peace of one's whole life
is too much to sacrifice even to gratitude.—La Motte looked displeased. 'Tis as I
thought, said he; these delicate sentiments make a fine appearance in speech,
and render the person who utters them infinitely amiable; but bring them to the
test of action, and they dissolve into air, leaving only the wreck of vanity behind.
This unjust sarcasm brought tears to her eyes. Since your safety, Sir, depends
upon my conduct, said she, resign me to my father: I am willing to return to him,
since my stay here must involve you in new misfortune: let me not prove myself
unworthy of the protection I have hitherto experienced, by preferring my own
welfare to yours. When I am gone, you will have no reason to apprehend the
Marquis's displeasure, which you may probably incur if I stay here; for I feel it
impossible that I could even consent to receive his addresses, however
honourable were his views.
La Motte seemed hurt and alarmed. This must not be, said he; let us not harass
ourselves by stating possible evils, and then, to avoid them, fly to those which
are certain. No, Adeline, 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 father but upon
compulsion. Be satisfied, therefore, upon this point. The only return I ask, is a
civil deportment towards the Marquis.
I will endeavour to obey you, Sir, said Adeline.—Madame La Motte now entered
the room, and this conversation ceased. Adeline passed the evening in
melancholy thoughts, and retired as soon as possible to her chamber, eager to
seek in sleep a refuge from sorrow.

CHAPTER IX

Full many a melancholy night

He watch'd the slow return of light,
And sought the powers of sleep;
To spread a momentary calm
O'er his sad 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 occurred 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-side.
She opened it with an eagerness of inquiry which the discoloured and almost
obliterated ink but slowly gratified. The first words on the page were entirely lost,
but those that appeared to commence the narrative were as follows:
O! ye, whoever ye are, whom chance or misfortune may hereafter conduct to this
spot—to you I speak—to you reveal the story of my wrongs, and ask you to
avenge them. Vain hope! yet it imparts some comfort to believe it possible that
what I now write may one day meet the eye of a fellow-creature; that the words
which tell my sufferings may one day draw pity from the feeling heart.
Yet stay your tears—your pity now is useless: lone since have the pangs of
misery ceased; the voice of complaining is passed away. It is weakness to wish
for compassion which cannot be felt till I shall sink in the repose of death, and
taste, I hope, the happiness of eternity!
Know, then, that on the night of the twelfth of October, in the year 1642, I was
arrested on the road to Caux,—and on the very spot where a column is erected
to the memory of the immortal Henry,—by four ruffians, who, after disabling my
servant, bore me through wilds and woods to this abbey. Their demeanour was
not that of common banditti, and I soon perceived they were employed by a
superior power to perpetrate some dreadful purpose. Entreaties and bribes were
vainly offered them to discover their employer and abandon their design; they
would not reveal even the least circumstance of their intentions.
But when, after a long journey, they arrived at this edifice, their base employer
was at once revealed, and his horrid scheme but too well understood. What a
moment was that! All the thunders of heaven seemed launched at this
defenceless head! O! fortitude! nerve my heart to——
Adeline's light was now expiring in the socket, and the paleness of the ink, so
feebly shone upon, baffled her efforts to discriminate the letters: it was
impossible to procure a light from below, without discovering that she was yet
up; a circumstance which would excite surprise, 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 rendered awfully interesting, she retired to
her humble bed.
What she had read of the MS. awakened 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 phantoms of fear beginning to dissipate, left her to
repose.
In the morning she was awakened by Madame La Motte, and found to her
disappointment that she had slept so much beyond her usual time as to be
unable to renew the perusal of the MS.—La Motte appeared uncommonly gloomy,
and Madame wore an air of melancholy, 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 stranger; and Adeline from the oriel recess of the hall
saw the Marquis alight. She retreated with precipitation, and, forgetting the
request of La Motte, was hastening to her chamber: but the Marquis was already
in the hall; and seeing her leaving it, turned to La Motte with a look of inquiry. La
Motte called her back, and by a frown too intelligent reminded her of her
promise. She summoned all her spirits to her aid, but advanced, notwithstanding,
in visible emotion; while the Marquis addressed her as usual, the same easy
gaiety playing upon his countenance and directing his manner.
Adeline was 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 presence of her friends. But she said it in vain, for
they were gone; and La Motte, as he withdrew, expressed by his looks how much
an attempt to follow would displease him.
She sat for some time in silence and trembling expectation. I am sensible, said
the Marquis at length, that the conduct to which the ardour of my passion lately
betrayed me, has injured me in your opinion, and that you will not easily restore
me to your esteem; but I trust the offer which I now make you, both of my title
and fortune, will sufficiently prove the sincerity of my attachment, and atone for
the transgression which love only prompted.
After this specimen of common-place verbosity, which the Marquis seemed to
consider as a prelude to triumph, he attempted to impress a kiss upon the hand
of Adeline, who, withdrawing it hastily, said, You are already, my Lord, acquainted
with my sentiments upon this subject, and it is almost unnecessary for me now
to repeat that I cannot accept the honour you offer me.
Explain yourself, lovely Adeline! I am ignorant that till now I ever made you this
offer.
Most true, Sir, said Adeline; and you do well to remind me of this, since, after
having heard your former proposal, I cannot 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; do not suffer an extravagant
resentment to operate against your true interests; recollect the dangers that
surround you, and consider the value of an offer which may afford you at least
an honourable asylum.
My misfortunes, my Lord, whatever they are, I have never obtruded upon you;
you will, therefore, excuse my observing, that your present mention of them
conveys a much greater appearance of insult than compassion. The Marquis,
though with evident confusion, was going to reply; but Adeline would not be
detained, and retired to her chamber. Destitute as she was, her heart revolted
from the proposal of the Marquis, and she determined never to accept it. To her
dislike of his general 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 impossible to erase from her heart.
The Marquis staid to dine, and in consideration of La Motte, Adeline appeared at
table, where the former gazed upon her with such frequent and silent
earnestness, that her distress became insupportable; and when the cloth was
drawn, she instantly retired. Madame La Motte soon followed, and it was not till
evening that she had an opportunity of returning to the MS. When Monsieur and
Madame La Motte were in their chamber, and all was still, she drew forth the
narrative, and trimming her lamp, sat down to read as follows:
The ruffians unbound me from my horse, and led me through the hall up the
spiral staircase of the abbey: resistance was useless; but I looked around in the
hope of seeing some person less obdurate than the men who brought me hither;
some one who might be sensible to pity, and capable at least of civil treatment. I
looked in vain; no person appeared: and this circumstance confirmed my worst
apprehensions. The secrecy of the business foretold a horrible conclusion. Having
passed some chambers, they stopped in one hung with old tapestry. I inquired
why we did not go on, and was told I should soon know.
At that moment I expected to see the instrument of death uplifted, and silently
recommended myself to God. But death was not then designed for me; they
raised the arras, and discovered a door, which they then opened. Seizing my
arms, they led me through a suite of dismal chambers beyond. Having reached
the furthest of these, they again stopped: the horrid gloom of the place seemed
congenial to murder, and inspired deadly thoughts. Again I looked round for the
instrument of destruction, and again I was respited. I supplicated to know what
was designed me; it was now unnecessary to ask who was the author of the
design. They were silent to my question, but at length told me this chamber was
my prison. Having said this, and set down a jug of water, they left the room, and
I heard the door barred upon me.
O sound of despair! O moment of unutterable anguish! The pang of death itself is
surely not superior to that I then suffered. Shut out from day, from friends, from
life—for such I must foretell it—in the prime of my years, in the height of my
transgressions, and left to imagine horrors more terrible than any, perhaps, which
certainty could give—I sink beneath the—
Here several pages of the manuscript were decayed with damp, and totally
illegible. With much difficulty Adeline made out the following lines:
Three days have now passed in solitude and silence: the horrors of death are
ever before my eyes, let me endeavour to prepare for the dreadful change! When
I awake in the morning I think I shall not live to see another night; and when
night returns, that I must never more unclose my eyes on morning. Why am I
brought hither—why confined thus rigorously—but for death! Yet what action of
my life has deserved this at the hand of a fellow-creature?—Of——
***************
***************
***************
O my children! O friends far distant! I shall never see you more—never more
receive the parting look of kindness—never bestow a parting blessing!—Ye know
not my wretched state—alas! ye cannot know it by human means. Ye believe me
happy, or ye would fly to my relief. I know that what I now write cannot avail me,
yet there is comfort in pouring forth my griefs; and I bless that man, less savage
than his fellows, who has supplied me these means of recording them. Alas! he
knows full well, that from this indulgence he has nothing to fear. My pen can call
no friends to succour me, nor reveal my danger ere it is too late. O! ye, who may
hereafter read what I now write, give a tear to my sufferings: I have wept often
for the distresses of my fellow-creatures!
Adeline paused. Here the wretched writer appealed directly to her heart; he
spoke in the energy of truth, and, by a strong illusion of fancy, it seemed as if his
past suffering were at this moment present. She was for some time unable to
proceed, and sat in musing sorrow. In these very apartments, said she, this poor
sufferer was confined—here he—Adeline started, and thought she heard a sound;
but the stillness of the night was undisturbed.—In these very chambers, said she,
these lines were written—these lines, from which he then derived a comfort in
believing they would hereafter be read by some pitying eye: this time is now
come. Your miseries, O injured being! are lamented where they were endured.
Here, where you suffered, I weep for your sufferings!
Her imagination was now strongly impressed, and to her distempered senses the
suggestions of a bewildered mind appeared with the force of reality. Again she
started and listened, and thought she heard Here distinctly repeated by a whisper
immediately behind her. The terror of the thought, however, was but momentary,
she knew it could not be; convinced that her fancy had deceived her, she took up
the MS. and again began to read.
For what am I reserved? Why this delay? If I am to die—why not quickly? Three
weeks have I now passed within these walls, during which time no look of pity
has softened my afflictions; no voice, save my own, has met my ear. The
countenances of the ruffians who attend me are stern and inflexible, and their
silence is obstinate. This stillness is dreadful! O! ye, who have known what it is to
live in the depths of solitude, who have passed your dreary days without one
sound to cheer you; ye, and ye only, can tell what now I feel; and ye may know
how much I would endure to hear the accents of a human voice.
O dire extremity! O state of living death! What dreadful stillness! All around me is
dead; and do I really exist, or am I but a statue? Is this a vision? Are these
things real? Alas, I am bewildered!—this death-like and perpetual silence—this
dismal chamber—the dread of further sufferings have disturbed my fancy. O for
some friendly breast to lay my weary head 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
sufferings may be sealed in death. I will continue my journal nightly, till the hand
that writes shall be stopped by death: when the journal ceases, the reader will
know I am no more. Perhaps these are the last lines I shall ever write.
***************
***************
***************
Adeline paused, while her tears fell fast. Unhappy man! she exclaimed: and was
here no pitying soul to save thee! Great God! thy ways are wonderful! While she
sat musing, her fancy, which now wandered in the regions of terror, gradually
subdued reason. There was a glass before her upon the table, and she feared to
raise her looks towards it, lest some other face than her own should meet her
eyes: other dreadful ideas and strange images of fantastic thought now crossed
her mind.
A hollow sigh seemed to pass near her. Holy Virgin, protect me! cried she, and
threw a fearful glance round the room;—this is surely something more than
fancy. Her fears so far overcame her, that she was several times upon the point
of calling up a 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 casement of her lonely chamber,
she again thought she heard a sigh. Her imagination refused any longer the
control of reason, and, turning her eyes, a figure, whose exact form she could
not distinguish, appeared to pass along an obscure part of the chamber: a
dreadful chillness came over her, and she sat fixed in her chair. At length a deep
sigh somewhat relieved her oppressed spirits, and her senses seemed to return.
All remaining quiet, after some time she began to question whether her fancy
had not deceived her, and she so far conquered her terror as to desist from
calling Madame La Motte: her mind was, however, so much disturbed, that she
did not venture to trust herself that night again with the MS.; but having spent
some time in prayer, and in endeavouring to compose her spirits, she retired to
bed.
When she awoke in the morning, the cheerful sun-beams played upon the
casements, and dispelled the illusions of darkness: her mind soothed and
invigorated by sleep, rejected the mystic and turbulent promptings of
imagination. She arose refreshed and thankful; but upon going down to
breakfast, this transient gleam of peace fled upon the appearance of the Marquis,
whose frequent visits at the abbey, after what had passed, not only displeased,
but alarmed her. She saw that he was determined to persevere in addressing her:
and the boldness and insensibility of this conduct, while it excited her indignation,
increased her disgust. In pity to La Motte, she endeavoured to conceal these
emotions, though she now thought that he required too much from her
complaisance, and began seriously to consider how she might avoid the necessity
of continuing it. The Marquis behaved to her with the most respectful attention;
but Adeline was silent and reserved, and seized the first 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 hastily disappeared. She proceeded to her chamber, ruminating upon
this signal, and the cautious manner in which Peter had given it.
But her thoughts soon returned to their wonted subjects. Three days were now
passed, and she heard no intelligence of her father; she began to hope that he
had relented from the violent measures hinted at by La Motte, and that he meant
to pursue a milder plan: but when she considered his character, this appeared
improbable, and she relapsed into her former fears. Her residence at the abbey
was now become painful, from the perseverance of the Marquis and the conduct
which La Motte obliged her to adopt; yet she could not think without dread of
quitting it to return to her father.
The image of Theodore often intruded upon her busy thoughts, and brought with
it a pang which his strange departure occasioned. She had a confused notion that
his fate was somehow connected with her own; and her struggles to prevent the
remembrance of him served only to show how much her heart was his.
To divert her thoughts from these subjects, and gratify the curiosity so strongly
excited on the preceding night, she now took up the MS. but was hindered from
opening it by the entrance of Madame La Motte, who came to tell her the
Marquis was gone. They passed their morning together in work and general
conversation; La Motte not appearing till dinner, when he said little, and Adeline
less. She asked him, however, if he had heard from her father? I have not heard
from him, said La Motte; but there is good reason, as I am informed by the
Marquis, to believe he is not far off.
Adeline was shocked, yet she was able to reply with becoming firmness. I have
already, Sir, involved you too much in my distress, and now see that resistance
will destroy you, without serving me; I am therefore contented to return to my
father, and thus spare you further calamity.
This is a rash determination, replied La Motte; and if you pursue it, I fear you will
severely repent. I speak to you as a friend, Adeline, and desire you will
endeavour to listen to me without prejudice. The Marquis, I find, has offered you
his hand. I know not which circumstance most excites my surprise, that a man of
his rank and consequence should solicit a marriage with a person without fortune
or ostensible connexions, or that a person so circumstanced should even for a
moment reject the advantages just offered her. You weep, Adeline; let me hope
that you are convinced of the absurdity of this conduct, and will no longer trifle
with your good fortune. The kindness I have shown 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, to say, that should your father not insist
upon your removal, I know not how long my circumstances may enable me to
afford even the humble pittance you receive here. Still you are silent.
The anguish which this speech excited, suppressed her utterance, and she
continued to weep. At length she said, Suffer me, Sir, to go back to my father; I
should indeed make an ill return for the kindness you mention, could I wish to
stay after what you now tell me; and to accept the Marquis, I feel to be
impossible. The remembrance of Theodore arose to her mind, and she wept
aloud.
La Motte sat for some time musing. Strange infatuation! said he; is it possible
that you can persist in this heroism of romance, and prefer a father so inhuman
as yours, to the Marquis de Montalt! a destiny so full of danger, to a life of
splendour and delight!
Pardon me, said Adeline; a marriage with the Marquis would be splendid, but
never happy. His character excites my aversion, and I entreat, Sir, that he may no
more be mentioned.
CHAPTER X
 Nor are those empty hearted, whose low sound
Reverbs no hollowness.
LEAR.

The conversation related in the last chapter was interrupted by the entrance of
Peter, who, as he left the room, looked significantly at Adeline, and almost
beckoned. She was anxious to know what he meant, and soon after went into
the hall, where she found him loitering. The moment he saw her, he made a sign
of silence, and beckoned her into the recess. Well, Peter, what is it you would
say? said Adeline.
Hush, Ma'mselle; for heaven's sake speak lower; if we should be overheard, we
are all blown up.—Adeline begged him to explain what he meant Yes, Ma'mselle,
that is what I have wanted all day long: I have watched and watched for an
opportunity, and looked and looked till I was afraid my master himself would see
me; but all would not do, you would not understand.
Adeline entreated he would be quick. Yes Ma'm, but I'm so afraid we shall be
seen; but I would do much to serve such a good young lady, for I could not bear
to think of what threatened you, without telling you of it.
For God's sake, said Adeline, speak quickly, or we shall be interrupted.
Well then;—but you must first promise by the Holy Virgin never to say it was I
that told you; my master would—
I do, I do, said Adeline.
Well, then—on Monday evening as I—hark! did not I hear a step? do, Ma'mselle,
just step this way to the cloisters: I would not for the world we should be seen:
I'll go out at the hall door, and you can go through the passage. I would not for
the world we should be seen.—Adeline was much alarmed by Peter's words, and
hurried to the cloisters. He quickly appeared, and, looking cautiously round,
resumed his discourse. As I was saying, Ma'mselle, Monday night, when the
Marquis slept here, you know he sat up very late, and I can guess, perhaps, the
reason of that. Strange things came out, but it is not my business to tell all I
think.
Pray do speak to the purpose, said Adeline impatiently; what is this danger which
you say threatens me? Be quick, or we shall be observed.
Danger enough, Ma'mselle, replied Peter, if you knew all; and when you do, what
will it signify? for you can't help yourself. But that's neither here nor there; I was
resolved to tell you, though I may repent it.
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