“Alas! good aunt, there is not in the deep recesses of my inmost heart, a recollection of any whom I can with justice accuse but myself. That God who made me, must bear witness, that he implanted in my breast, even from the tenderest age, passions fiercer than I had power to curb. The wild tygress who roams amongst the mountains—the young lion who roars for its prey amidst its native woods—the fierce eagle who soars above all others, and cannot brook a rival in its flight, were tame and tractable compared with me. Nature formed me fierce, and your authority was not strong enough to curb and conquer me. I was a darling and an only child. My words were idolized as they sprung warm from my heart; and my heart was worth some attachment, for it could love with passionate excess. In my happier days, I thought too highly of myself; and forgive me, Madam, if, fallen as I am, I still think the same. I cannot be humble. When they tell me I am base, I acknowledge it: pride leads me to confess what others dare not; but I think them more base who delight in telling me of my faults: and when I see around me hypocrisy and all the petty arts of fashionable vice, I too can blush for others, and smile in triumph at those who would trample on me. It is not before such things as these, such canting cowards, that I can feel disgrace; but before such as you are—so good, so pure, and yet so merciful, I stand at once confounded.” “The God of Heaven pardon thee!” said the abbess. “You were once my delight and pride. I never could have suspected ill of you.” “I too was once unsuspicious,” said St. Clare. “My heart believed in nothing but innocence. I know the world better now. Were it their interest, would they thus deride me? When the mistress of Glenarvon, did they thus neglect, and turn from me? I was not profligate, abandoned, hardened, then! I was lovely, irresistible! My crime was excused. My open defiance was accounted the mere folly and wantonness of a child. I have a high spirit yet, which they shall not break. I am deserted, it is true; but my mind is a world in itself, which I have peopled with my own creatures. Take only from me a father’s curse, and to the last I will smile, even though my heart is breaking.” “And are you unhappy,” said the abbess, kindly. “Can you ask it, Madam? Amidst the scorn and hatred of hundreds, do I not appear the gayest of all? Who rides so fast over the down? Who dances more lightly at the ball? And if I cannot sleep upon my bed, need the world be told of it? The virtuous suffer, do they not? And what is this dream of life if it must cease so soon? We know not what we are: let us doubt all things—all but the curse of a father, which lies heavy on me. Oh take it from me to-night! Give me your blessing; and the time is coming when I shall need your prayers.”