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
characterise 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, nor 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 anything 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.”

Emily seized a pause of Madame Montoni’s voice, to speak. “Dear madam,”
said she, “but will not this serve to irritate the Signor
unnecessarily? will it not provoke the harsh treatment you dread?”

“I do not care,” replied Madame Montoni, “it does not signify: I will
not submit to such usage. You would have me give up my settlements,
too, I suppose!”

“No, madam, I do not exactly mean that.”

“What is it you do mean then?”

“You spoke of reproaching the Signor,”—said Emily, with hesitation. “Why, does he not deserve reproaches?” said her aunt. “Certainly he does; but will it be prudent in you, madam, to make
them?”

“Prudent!” exclaimed Madame Montoni. “Is this a time to talk of
prudence, when one is threatened with all sorts of violence?”

“It is to avoid that violence, that prudence is necessary.” said Emily. “Of prudence!” continued Madame Montoni, without attending to her, “of
prudence towards a man, who does not scruple to break all the common
ties of humanity in his conduct to me! And is it for me to consider
prudence in my behaviour towards him! I am not so mean.”

“It is for your own sake, not for the Signor’s, madam,” said Emily
modestly, “that you should consult prudence.