...... My May of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf.
MACBETH.
Full oft, unknowing and unknown,
He wore his endless noons alone,
Amid th' autumnal wood:
Oft was he wont in hasty fit,
Abrupt the social board to quit.
WHARTON.
La Motte had now passed above a month in this seclusion; and his wife
had the pleasure to see him recover tranquillity and even cheerfulness.
In this pleasure Adeline warmly participated; and she might justly have
congratulated herself as one cause of his restoration; her cheerfulness
and delicate attention had effected what Madame La Motte's greater
anxiety had failed to accomplish. La Motte did not seem regardless of
her amiable disposition, and sometimes thanked her in a manner more
earnest than was usual with him. She, in her turn, considered him as her
only protector and now felt towards him the affection of a daughter.
The time she had spent in this peaceful retirement had softened the
remembrance of past events, and restored her mind to its natural tone:
and when memory brought back to her view the former short and romantic
expectations of happiness, though she gave a sigh to the rapturous
illusion, she less lamented the disappointment, than rejoiced in her
present security and comfort.
But the satisfaction which La Motte's cheerfulness diffused around him
was of short continuance; he became suddenly gloomy and reserved; the
society of his family was no longer grateful to him; and he would spend
whole hours in the most secluded parts of the forest, devoted to
melancholy and secret grief. He did not, as formerly, indulge the humour
of his sadness, without restraint, in the presence of others; he now
evidently endeavoured to conceal it, and affected a cheerfulness that
was too artificial to escape detection.
His servant Peter, either impelled by curiosity or kindness, sometimes
followed him unseen, into the forest. He observed him frequently retire
to one particular spot, in a remote part, which having gained, he always
disappeared, before Peter, who was obliged to follow at a distance,
could exactly notice where. All his endeavours, now prompted by wonder
and invigorated by disappointment, were unsuccessful, and he was at
length compelled to endure the tortures of unsatisfied curiosity.
This change in the manners and habits of her husband was too conspicuous
to pass unobserved by Madame La Motte, who endeavoured, by all the
stratagems which affection could suggest, or female invention supply, to
win him to her confidence. He seemed insensible to the influence of the
first, and withstood the wiles of the latter. Finding all her efforts
insufficient to dissipate the glooms which overhung his mind, or to
penetrate their secret cause, she desisted from further attempt, and
endeavoured to submit to this mysterious distress.
Week after week elapsed, and the same unknown cause sealed the lips and
corroded the heart of La Motte. The place of his visitation in the
forest had not been traced. Peter had frequently examined round the spot
where his master disappeared, but had never discovered any recess which
could be supposed to conceal him. The astonishment of the servant was at
length raised to an insupportable degree, and he communicated to his
mistress the subject of it.
The emotion which this information excited, she disguised from Peter,
and reproved him for the means he had taken to gratify his curiosity.
But she revolved this circumstance in her thoughts, and comparing it
with the late alteration in his temper, her uneasiness was renewed, and
her perplexity considerably increased. After much consideration, being
unable to assign any other motive for his conduct, she began to
attribute it to the influence of illicit passion; and her heart, which
now out-ran her judgment, confirmed the supposition, and roused all the
torturing pangs of jealousy.
Comparatively speaking, she had never known affliction till now: she had
abandoned her dearest friends and connexions--had relinquished the
gaieties, the luxuries, and almost the necessaries of life;--fled with
her family into exile, an exile the most dreary and comfortless;
experiencing the evils of reality, and those of apprehension, united:
all these she had patiently endured, supported by the affection of him
for whose sake she suffered. Though that affection, indeed, had for some
time appeared to be abated, she had borne its decrease with fortitude;
but the last stroke of calamity, hitherto withheld, now came with
irresistible force--the love, of which she lamented the loss, she now
believed was transferred to another.
The operation of strong passion confuses the powers of reason, and warps
them to its own particular direction. Her usual degree of judgment,
unopposed by the influence of her heart, would probably have pointed out
to Madame La Motte some circumstances upon the subject of her distress,
equivocal, if not contradictory to her suspicions. No such circumstances
appeared to her, and she did not long hesitate to decide, that Adeline
was the object of her husband's attachment. Her beauty out of the
question, who else, indeed, could it be in a spot thus secluded from the
world?
The same cause destroyed, almost at the same moment, her only remaining
comfort; and when she wept that she could no longer look for happiness
in the affection of La Motte, she wept also, that she could no longer
seek solace in the friendship of Adeline. She had too great an esteem
for her, to doubt, at first, the integrity of her conduct; but, in spite
of reason, her heart no longer expanded to her with its usual warmth of
kindness. She shrunk from her confidence; and as the secret broodings of
jealousy cherished her suspicions, she became less kind to her, even in
manner.
Adeline, observing the change, at first attributed it to accident, and
afterwards to a temporary displeasure arising from some little
inadvertency in her conduct. She, therefore, increased her assiduities;
but perceiving, contrary to all expectation, that her efforts to please
failed of their usual consequence, and that the reserve of Madame's
manner rather increased than abated, she became seriously uneasy, and
resolved to seek an explanation. This Madame La Motte as sedulously
avoided, and was for some time able to prevent. Adeline, however, too
much interested in the event to yield to delicate scruples, pressed the
subject so closely, that Madame, at first agitated and confused, at
length invented some idle excuse, and laughed off the affair.
She now saw the necessity of subduing all appearance of reserve towards
Adeline; and though her art could not conquer the prejudices of passion,
it taught her to assume, with tolerable success, the aspect of kindness.
Adeline was deceived, and was again at peace. Indeed, confidence in the
sincerity and goodness of others was her weakness. But the pangs of
stifled jealousy struck deeper to the heart of Madame La Motte, and she
resolved, at all events, to obtain some certainty upon the subject of
her suspicions.
She now condescended to a meanness which she had before despised, and
ordered Peter to watch the steps of his master, in order to discover, if
possible, the place of his visitation! So much did passion win upon her
judgment, by time and indulgence, that she sometimes ventured even to
doubt the integrity of Adeline, and afterwards proceeded to believe it
possible that the object of La Motte's rambles might be an assignation
with her. What suggested this conjecture was, that Adeline frequently
took long walks alone in the forest, and sometimes was absent from the
abbey for many hours. This circumstance, which Madame La Motte had at
first attributed to Adeline's fondness for the picturesque beauties of
nature, now operated forcibly upon her imagination, and she could view
it in no other light, than as affording an opportunity for secret
conversation with her husband.
Peter obeyed the orders of his mistress with alacrity, for they were
warmly seconded by his own curiosity. All his endeavours were, however,
fruitless; he never dared to follow La Motte near enough to observe the
place of his last retreat. Her impatience thus heightened by delay, and
her passion stimulated by difficulty, Madame La Motte now resolved to
apply to her husband for an explanation of his conduct.
After some consideration concerning the manner most likely to succeed
with him, she went to La Motte; but when she entered the room where he
sat, forgetting all her concerted address, she fell at his feet, and was
for some moments lost in tears. Surprised at her attitude and distress,
he inquired the occasion of it, and was answered, that it was caused by
his own conduct. My conduct! What part of it, pray? inquired he.
Your reserve, your secret sorrow, and frequent absence from the abbey.
Is it then so wonderful, that a man who has lost almost every thing
should sometimes lament his misfortunes? or so criminal to attempt
concealing his grief, that he must be blamed for it by those whom he
would save from the pain of sharing it?
Having uttered these words, he quitted the room, leaving Madame La Motte
lost in surprise, but somewhat relieved from the pressure of her former
suspicions. Still however, she pursued Adeline with an eye of scrutiny;
and the mask of kindness would sometimes fall off, and discover the
features of distrust. Adeline, without exactly knowing why, felt less at
ease and less happy in her presence than formerly; her spirits drooped,
and she would often, when alone, weep at the forlornness of her
condition. Formerly, her remembrance of past sufferings was lost in the
friendship of Madame La Motte; now, though her behaviour was too guarded
to betray any striking instances of unkindness, there was something in
her manner which chilled the hopes of Adeline, unable as she was to
analyze it. But a circumstance which soon occurred, suspended for a
while the jealousy of Madame La Motte, and roused her husband from his
state of gloomy stupefaction.
Peter, having been one day to Auboine for the weekly supply of
provisions, returned with intelligence that awakened in La Motte new
apprehension and anxiety.
Oh, Sir! I have heard something that has astonished me, as well it may,
cried Peter, and so it will you when you come to know it. As I was
standing in the blacksmith's shop, while the smith was driving a nail
into the horse's shoe (by the by, the horse lost it in an odd way, I'll
tell you, Sir, how it was)--
Nay, prithee leave it till another time, and go on with your story.
Why then, Sir, as I was standing in the blacksmith's shop, comes in a
man with a pipe in his mouth, and a large pouch of tobacco in his hand--
Well--what has the pipe to do with the story?
Nay, Sir, you put me out; I can't go on, unless you let me tell it my
own way. As I was saying--with a pipe in his mouth--I think I was there
your honour!
Yes, yes.
He sets himself down on the bench, and, taking the pipe from his mouth,
says to the blacksmith--Neighbour, do you know any body of the Name of
La Motte hereabouts!--Bless your honour, I turned all of a cold sweat in
a minute!--Is not your honour well! shall I fetch you any thing?
No--but be short in your narrative.
La Motte! La Motte! said the blacksmith, I think I've heard the
name.--Have you? said I, you're cunning then, for there's no such person
hereabouts, to my knowledge.
Fool!--why did you say that?
Because I did not want them to know your honour was here; and if I had
not managed very cleverly, they would have found me out. There is no
such person hereabouts, to my knowledge, says I.--Indeed! says the
blacksmith, you know more of the neighbourhood than I do then.--Aye,
says the man with the pipe, that's very true. How came you to know so
much of the neighbourhood? I came here twenty-six years ago, come next
St. Michael, and you know more than I do. How came you to know so much?
With that he put his pipe in his mouth, and gave a whiff full in my
face. Lord! your honour, I trembled from head to foot. Nay, as for that
matter says I, I don't know more than other people, but I'm sure I never
heard of such a man as that.--Pray, says the blacksmith, staring me full
in the face, an't you the man that was inquiring some time since about
St. Clair's abbey?--Well, what of that? says I, what does that
prove?--Why they say somebody lives in the abbey now, said the man,
turning to the other; and, for aught I know, it may be this same La
Motte.--Aye, or for aught I know either, says the man with the pipe,
getting up from the bench, and you know more of this than you'll own.
I'll lay my life on't, this Monsieur La Motte lives at the abbey.--Aye,
says I, you are out there, for he does not live at the abbey now.
Confound your folly! cried La Motte; but be quick--how did the matter
end?
My master does not live there now, said I.--Oh! oh! said the man with
the pipe; he is your master then? And pray how long has he left the
abbey--and where does he live now?--Hold, said I, not so fast--I know
when to speak and when to hold my tongue--but who has been inquiring for
him?
What! he expected somebody to inquire for him? says the man.--No, says
I, he did not, but if he did, what does that prove?--that argues
nothing. With that he looked at the blacksmith, and they went out of the
shop together, leaving my horse's shoe undone. But I never minded that,
for the moment they were gone, I mounted and rode away as fast as I
could. But in my fright, your honour, I forgot to take the round about
way, and so came straight home.
La Motte, extremely shocked at Peter's intelligence, made no other reply
than by cursing his folly, and immediately went in search of Madame, who
was walking with Adeline on the banks of the river. La Motte was too
much agitated to soften his information by preface. We are discovered!
said he, the king's officers have been inquiring for me at Auboine, and
Peter has blundered upon my ruin. He then informed her of what Peter had
related, and bade her prepare to quit the abbey.
But whither can we fly? said Madame La Motte, scarcely able to support
herself. Any where! said he: to stay here is certain destruction. We
must take refuge in Switzerland, I think. If any part of France would
have concealed me, surely it had been this!
Alas, how are we persecuted! rejoined Madame. This spot is scarcely made
comfortable, before we are obliged to leave it, and go we know not
whither.
I wish we may not yet know whither, replied La Motte, that is the least
evil that threatens us. Let us escape a prison, and I care not whither
we go. But return to the abbey immediately, and pack up what moveables
you can.--A flood of tears came to the relief of Madame La Motte, and
she hung upon Adeline's arm, silent and trembling. Adeline, though she
had no comfort to bestow, endeavoured to command her feelings and appear
composed. Come, said La Motte, we waste time; let us lament hereafter,
but at present prepare for flight; exert a little of that fortitude
which is so necessary for our preservation. Adeline does not weep, yet
her state is as wretched as your own, for I know not how long I shall be
able to protect her.
Notwithstanding her terror, this reproof touched the pride of Madame La
Motte, who dried her tears, but disdained to reply, and looked at
Adeline with a strong expression of displeasure. As they moved silently
toward the abbey, Adeline asked La Motte if he was sure they were the
king's officers who inquired for him. I cannot doubt it, he replied, who
else could possibly inquire for me? Besides, the behaviour of the man,
who mentioned my name, puts the matter beyond a question.
Perhaps not, said Madame La Motte: let us wait till morning ere we set
off. We may then find it will be unnecessary to go.
We may, indeed; the king's officers would probably by that time have
told us as much. La Motte went to give orders to Peter. Set off in an
hour! said Peter, Lord bless you, master! only consider the coach wheel;
it would take me a day at least to mend it, for your honour knows I
never mended one in my life.
This was a circumstance which La Motte had entirely overlooked. When
they settled at the abbey, Peter had at first been too busy in repairing
the apartments, to remember the carriage; and afterwards, believing it
would not quickly be wanted, he had neglected to do it. La Motte's
temper now entirely forsook him, and with many execrations he ordered
Peter to go to work immediately: but on searching for the materials
formerly bought, they were no where to be found; and Peter at length
remembered, though he was prudent enough to conceal this circumstance,
that he had used the nails in repairing the abbey.
It was now, therefore, impossible to quit the forest that night, and La
Motte had only to consider the most probable plan of concealment, should
the officers of justice visit the ruin before the morning; a
circumstance which the thoughtlessness of Peter, in returning from
Auboine by the straight way, made not unlikely.
At first, indeed, it occurred to him, that, though his family could not
be removed, he might himself take one of the horses, and escape from the
forest before night. But he thought there would still be some danger of
detection in the towns through which he must pass, and he could not well
bear the idea of leaving his family unprotected, without knowing when he
could return to them, or whither he could direct them to follow him. La
Motte was not a man of very vigorous resolution, and he was, perhaps,
rather more willing to suffer in company than alone.
After much consideration, he recollected the trap-door of the closet
belonging to the chambers above. It was invisible to the eye and
whatever might be its direction, it would securely shelter _him_, at
least, from discovery. Having deliberated further upon the subject he
determined to explore the recess to which the stairs led, and thought it
possible that for a short time his whole family might be concealed
within it. There was little time between the suggestion of the plan and
the execution of his purpose, for darkness was spreading around, and in
every murmur of the wind he thought he heard the voices of his enemies.
He called for a light, and ascended alone to the chamber. When he came
to the closet, it was some time before he could find the trap-door, so
exactly did it correspond with the boards of the floor. At length, he
found and raised it. The chill damps of long confined air rushed from
the aperture, and he stood for a moment to let them pass, ere he
descended. As he stood looking down the abyss, he recollected the report
which Peter had brought concerning the abbey, and it gave him an uneasy
sensation. But this soon yielded to more pressing interests.
The stairs were steep, and in many places trembled beneath his weight.
Having continued to descend for some time, his feet touched the ground,
and he found himself in a narrow passage; but as he turned to pursue it,
the damp vapours curled round him and extinguished the light. He called
aloud for Peter, but could make nobody hear, and after some time he
endeavoured to find his way up the stairs. In this, with difficulty, he
succeeded, and passing the chambers with cautious steps descended the
tower.
The security which the place he had just quitted seemed to promise, was
of too much importance to be slightly rejected, and he determined
immediately to make another experiment with the light:--having now fixed
it in a lantern, he descended a second time to the passage. The current
of vapours occasioned by the opening of the trap-door was abated, and
the fresh air thence admitted had begun to circulate: La Motte passed on
unmolested.
The passage was of considerable length, and led him to a door which was
fastened. He placed the lantern at some distance, to avoid the current
of air, and applied his strength to the door. It shook under his hands,
but did not yield. Upon examining it more closely, he perceived the wood
round the lock was decayed, probably by the damps, and this encouraged
him to proceed. After some time it gave way to his effort, and he found
himself in a square stone room.
He stood for some time to survey it. The walls, which were dripping with
unwholesome dews, were entirely bare, and afforded not even a window. A
small iron grate alone admitted the air. At the further end, near a low
recess, was another door. La Motte went towards it, and, as he passed,
looked into the recess. Upon the ground within it stood a large chest,
which he went forward to examine; and, lifting the lid, he saw the
remains of a human skeleton. Horror struck upon his heart, and he
involuntarily stepped back. During a pause of some moments, his first
emotion subsided. That thrilling curiosity, which objects of terror
often excite in the human mind, impelled him to take a second view of
this dismal spectacle.
La Motte stood motionless as he gazed; the object before him seemed to
confirm the report that some person had formerly been murdered in the
abbey. At length he closed the chest, and advanced to the second door,
which also was fastened, but the key was in the lock. He turned it with
difficulty, and then found the door was held by two strong bolts. Having
undrawn these, it disclosed a flight of steps, which he descended. They
terminated in a chain of low vaults, or rather cells, that, from the
manner of their construction and present condition, seemed to be coeval
with the most ancient parts of the abbey. La Motte, in his then
depressed state of mind, thought them the burial places of the monks,
who formerly inhabited the pile above; but they were more calculated for
places of penance for the living, than of rest for the dead.
Having reached the extremity of these cells, the way was again closed by
a door. La Motte now hesitated whether he should attempt to proceed any
further. The present spot seemed to afford the security he sought. Here
he might pass the night unmolested by apprehension of discovery; and it
was most probable, that if the officers arrived in the night, and found
the abbey vacated, they would quit it before morning, or, at least,
before he could have any occasion to emerge from concealment. These
considerations restored his mind to a state of greater composure. His
only immediate care was to bring his family, as soon as possible, to
this place of security, lest the officers should come unawares upon
them; and while he stood thus musing, he blamed himself for delay.
But an irresistible desire of knowing to what this door led, arrested
his steps, and he turned to open it. The door, however, was fastened;
and as he attempted to force it, he suddenly thought he heard a noice
above. It now occurred to him that the officers might already have
arrived, and he quitted the cells with precipitation, intending to
listen at the trap-door.
There, said he, I may wait in security, and perhaps hear something of
what passes. My family will not be known, or at least not hurt, and
their uneasiness on my account they must learn to endure.
These were the arguments of La Motte, in which, it must be owned,
selfish prudence was more conspicuous than tender anxiety for his wife.
He had by this time reached the bottom of the stairs, when, on looking
up, he perceived the trap-door was left open; and ascending in haste to
close it, he heard footsteps advancing through the chambers above.
Before he could descend entirely out of sight, he again looked up, and
perceived through the aperture the face of a man looking down, upon him.
Master, cried Peter.--La Motte was somewhat relieved at the sound of his
voice, though angry that he had occasioned, him so much terror.
What brings you here, and what is the matter below?
Nothing, Sir, nothing's the matter, only my mistress sent me to see
after your honour.
There's nobody there then? said La Motte, setting his foot upon the
step.
Yes, Sir, there is my mistress and Mademoiselle Adeline, and--
Well--well--said La Motte briskly, go your ways, I am coming.
He informed Madame La Motte where he had been, and of his intention of
secreting himself, and deliberated upon the means of convincing the
officers, should they arrive, that he had quitted the abbey. For this
purpose he ordered all the moveable furniture to be conveyed to the
cells below. La Motte himself assisted in this business, and every hand
was employed for dispatch. In a very short time the habitable part of
the fabric was left almost as desolate as he had found it. He then bade
Peter take the horses to a distance from the abbey and turn them loose.
After further consideration, he thought it might contribute to mislead
them, if he placed in some conspicuous part of the fabric an
inscription, signifying his condition, and mentioning the date of his
departure from the abbey. Over the door of the tower which led to the
habitable part of the structure, he therefore cut the following lines:
O ye! whom misfortune may lead to this spot,
Learn that there are others as miserable as yourselves.
P----L--M----a wretched exile, sought within these walls a refuge from
persecution on the 27th of April, 1658, and quitted them on the 12th of
July in the same year, in search of a more convenient asylum.
After engraving these words with a knife, the small stock of provisions
remaining from the week's supply (for Peter, in his fright, had returned
unloaded from his last journey) was put into a basket; and La Motte
having assembled his family, they all ascended the stairs of the tower,
and passed through the chambers to the closet. Peter went first with a
light, and with some difficulty found the trap-door. Madame La Motte
shuddered as she surveyed the gloomy abyss; but they were all silent.
La Motte now took the light and led the way; Madame followed, and then
Adeline. These old monks loved good wine as well as other people, said
Peter, who brought up the rear; I warrant your honour, now, this was
their cellar; I smell the casks already.
Peace, said La Motte, reserve your jokes for a proper occasion.
There is no harm in loving good wine, as your honour knows.
Have done with this buffoonery, said La Motte in a tone more
authoritative, and go first. Peter obeyed.
They came to the vaulted room. The dismal spectacle he had seen here,
deterred La Motte from passing a night in this chamber; and the
furniture had, by his own order, been conveyed to the cells below. He
was anxious that his family should not perceive the skeleton; an object
which would probably excite a degree of horror not to be overcome during
their stay. La Motte now passed the chest in haste; and Madame La Motte
and Adeline were too much engrossed by their own thoughts, to give
minute attention to external circumstances.
When they reached the cells, Madame La Motte wept at the necessity which
condemned her to a spot so dismal. Alas, said she, are we indeed thus
reduced! The apartments above formerly appeared to me a deplorable
habitation; but they are a palace compared to these.
True, my dear, said La Motte, and let the remembrance of what you once
thought them soothe your discontent now; these cells are also a palace
compared to the Bicêtre, or the Bastille, and to the terrors of further
punishment which would accompany them: let the apprehension of the
greater evil teach you to endure the less: I am contented if we find
here the refuge I seek.
Madame La Motte was silent, and Adeline, forgetting her late unkindness,
endeavoured as much as she could to console her; while her heart was
sinking with the misfortunes which she could not but anticipate, she
appeared composed, and even cheerful. She attended Madame La Motte with
the most watchful solicitude, and felt so thankful that La Motte was now
secreted within this recess, that she almost lost her perception of its
glooms and inconveniences.
This she artlessly expressed to him, who could not be insensible to the
tenderness it discovered. Madame La Motte was also sensible of it, and
it renewed a painful sensation. The effusions of gratitude she mistook
for those of tenderness.
La Motte returned frequently to the trap-door to listen if any body was
in the abbey; but no sound disturbed the stillness of night: at length
they sat down to supper; the repast was a melancholy one. If the
officers do not come hither to-night, said Madame La Motte, sighing,
suppose, my dear, Peter returns to Auboine to-morrow? He may there learn
something more of this affair; or, at least, he might procure a carriage
to convey us hence.
To be sure he might, said La Motte peevishly, and people to attend it
also. Peter would be an excellent person to show the officers the way to
the abbey, and to inform them of what they might else be in doubt about,
my concealment here.
How cruel is this irony! replied Madame La Motte. I proposed only what I
thought would be for our mutual good; my judgment was, perhaps, wrong,
but my intention was certainly right. Tears swelled into her eyes as she
spoke these words. Adeline wished to relieve her; but delicacy kept her
silent. La Motte observed the effect of his speech, and something like
remorse touched his heart. He approached, and taking her hand, You must
allow for the perturbation of my mind, said he, I did not mean to
afflict you thus. The idea of sending Peter to Auboine, where he has
already done so much harm by his blunders, teased me, and I could not
let it pass unnoticed. No, my dear, our only chance of safety is to
remain where we are while our provisions last. If the officers do not
come here to-night, they probably will to-morrow, or, perhaps, the next
day. When they have searched the abbey, without finding me, they will
depart; we may then emerge from this recess, and take measures for
removing to a distant country.
Madame La Motte acknowledged the justice of his words; and her mind
being relieved by the little apology he had made, she became tolerably
cheerful. Supper being ended, La Motte stationed the faithful though
simple Peter at the foot of the steps that ascended to the closet, there
to keep watch during the night. Having done this, he returned to the
lower cells, where he had left his little family. The beds were spread;
and having mournfully bidden each other good night, they lay down, and
implored rest.
Adeline's thoughts were too busy to suffer her to repose, and when she
believed her companions were sunk in slumbers, she indulged the sorrow
which reflection brought. She also looked forward to the future with the
most mournful apprehension. Should La Motte be seized, what was to
become of her. She would then be a wanderer in the wide world; without
friends to protect, or money to support her. The prospect was
gloomy--was terrible! She surveyed it, and shuddered! The distresses too
of Monsieur and Madame La Motte, whom she loved with the most lively
affection, formed no inconsiderable part of hers.
Sometimes she looked back to her father; but in him she only saw an
enemy from whom she must fly: this remembrance heightened her sorrow;
yet it was not the recollection of the suffering he had occasioned her,
by which she was so much afflicted, as by the sense of his unkindness:
she wept bitterly. At length, with that artless piety which innocence
only knows, she addressed the Supreme Being, and resigned herself to his
care. Her mind then gradually became peaceful and reassured, and soon
after she sunk to repose.