Emily, as she passed to her own apartment, saw Montoni go down to the hall, and she turned into her aunt's dressing-room, whom she found weeping and alone, grief and resentment struggling on her countenance.Pride had hitherto restrained complaint.Judging of Emily's disposition from her own, and from a consciousness of what her treatment of her deserved, she had believed, that her griefs would be cause of triumph to her niece, rather than of sympathy; that she would despise, not pity her.But she knew not the tenderness and benevolence of Emily's heart, that had always taught her to forget her own injuries in the misfortunes of her enemy.The sufferings of others, whoever they might be, called forth her ready compassion, which dissipated at once every obscuring cloud to goodness, that passion or prejudice might have raised in her mind.
Madame Montoni's sufferings, at length, rose above her pride, and, when Emily had before entered the room, she would have told them all, had not her husband prevented her; now that she was no longer restrained by his presence, she poured forth all her complaints to her niece.
'O Emily!' she exclaimed, 'I am the most wretched of women--I am indeed cruelly treated! Who, with my prospects of happiness, could have foreseen such a wretched fate as this?--who could have thought, when I married such a man as the Signor, I should ever have to bewail my lot? But there is no judging what is for the best--there is no knowing what is for our good! The most flattering prospects often change--the best judgments may be deceived--who could have foreseen, when I married the Signor, that I should ever repent my GENEROSITY?'
Emily thought she might have foreseen it, but this was not a thought of triumph.She placed herself in a chair near her aunt, took her hand, and, with one of those looks of soft compassion, which might characterize the countenance of a guardian angel, spoke to her in the tenderest accents.But these did not sooth Madame Montoni, whom impatience to talk made unwilling to listen.She wanted to complain, not to be consoled; and it was by exclamations of complaint only, that Emily learned the particular circumstances of her affliction.
'Ungrateful man!' said Madame Montoni, 'he has deceived me in every respect; and now he has taken me from my country and friends, to shut me up in this old castle; and, here he thinks he can compel me to do whatever he designs! But he shall find himself mistaken, he shall find that no threats can alter--But who would have believed! who would have supposed, that a man of his family and apparent wealth had absolutely no fortune?--no, scarcely a sequin of his own! I did all for the best; I thought he was a man of consequence, of great property, or I am sure I would never have married him,--ungrateful, artful man!' She paused to take breath.
'Dear Madam, be composed,' said Emily: 'the Signor may not be so rich as you had reason to expect, but surely he cannot be very poor, since this castle and the mansion at Venice are his.May I ask what are the circumstances, that particularly affect you?'
'What are the circumstances!' exclaimed Madame Montoni with resentment: 'why is it not sufficient, that he had long ago ruined his own fortune by play, and that he has since lost what I brought him--and that now he would compel me to sign away my settlement (it was well I had the chief of my property settled on myself!) that he may lose this also, or throw it away in wild schemes, which nobody can understand but himself? And, and--is not all this sufficient?'
'It is, indeed,' said Emily, 'but you must recollect, dear madam, that I knew nothing of all this.'
'Well, and is it not sufficient,' rejoined her aunt, 'that he is also absolutely ruined, that he is sunk deeply in debt, and that neither this castle, or the mansion at Venice, is his own, if all his debts, honourable and dishonourable, were paid!'
'I am shocked by what you tell me, madam,' said Emily.
'And is it not enough,' interrupted Madame Montoni, 'that he has treated me with neglect, with cruelty, because I refused to relinquish my settlements, and, instead of being frightened by his menaces, resolutely defied him, and upbraided him with his shameful conduct? But I bore all meekly,--you know, niece, I never uttered a word of complaint, till now; no! That such a disposition as mine should be so imposed upon! That I, whose only faults are too much kindness, too much generosity, should be chained for life to such a vile, deceitful, cruel monster!'
Want of breath compelled Madame Montoni to stop.If any thing could have made Emily smile in these moments, it would have been this speech of her aunt, delivered in a voice very little below a scream, and with a vehemence of gesticulation and of countenance, that turned the whole into burlesque.Emily saw, that her misfortunes did not admit of real consolation, and, contemning the commonplace terms of superficial comfort, she was silent; while Madame Montoni, jealous of her own consequence, mistook this for the silence of indifference, or of contempt, and reproached her with want of duty and feeling.
'O! I suspected what all this boasted sensibility would prove to be!'
rejoined she; 'I thought it would not teach you to feel either duty, or affection, for your relations, who have treated you like their own daughter!'
'Pardon me, madam,' said Emily, mildly, 'it is not natural to me to boast, and if it was, I am sure I would not boast of sensibility--a quality, perhaps, more to be feared, than desired.'
'Well, well, niece, I will not dispute with you.But, as I said, Montoni threatens me with violence, if I any longer refuse to sign away my settlements, and this was the subject of our contest, when you came into the room before.Now, I am determined no power on earth shall make me do this.Neither will I bear all this tamely.
He shall hear his true character from me; I will tell him all he deserves, in spite of his threats and cruel treatment.'
