Yet she determined not to give him unavailing pain by
relating the reasons she had to regret the having rejected his better
judgment concerning Montoni; reasons, however, which could not induce
her to lament the delicacy and disinterested affection that had made
her reject his proposal for a clandestine marriage. The approaching
interview with her uncle she regarded with some degree of hope, for she
determined to represent to him the distresses of her situation, and to
entreat that he would allow her to return to France with him and Madame
Quesnel. Then, suddenly remembering that her beloved La Vallée, her
only home, was no longer at her command, her tears flowed anew, and she
feared that she had little pity to expect from a man who, like M.
Quesnel, could dispose of it without deigning to consult with her, and
could dismiss an aged and faithful servant, destitute of either support
or asylum. But, though it was certain, that she had herself no longer a
home in France, and few, very few friends there, she determined to
return, if possible, that she might be released from the power of
Montoni, whose particularly oppressive conduct towards herself, and
general character as to others, were justly terrible to her
imagination. She had no wish to reside with her uncle, M. Quesnel,
since his behaviour to her late father and to herself, had been
uniformly such as to convince her, that in flying to him she could only
obtain an exchange of oppressors; neither had she the slightest
intention of consenting to the proposal of Valancourt for an immediate
marriage, though this would give her a lawful and a generous protector,
for the chief reasons, which had formerly influenced her conduct, still
existed against it, while others, which seemed to justify the step,
would not be done away; and his interest, his fame were at all times
too dear to her, to suffer her to consent to a union, which, at this
early period of their lives, would probably defeat both. One sure, and
proper asylum, however, would still be open to her in France. She knew
that she could board in the convent, where she had formerly experienced
so much kindness, and which had an affecting and solemn claim upon her
heart, since it contained the remains of her late father. Here she
could remain in safety and tranquillity, till the term, for which La
Vallée might be let, should expire; or, till the arrangement of M.
Motteville’s affairs enabled her so far to estimate the remains of her
fortune, as to judge whether it would be prudent for her to reside
there. Concerning Montoni’s conduct with respect to his letters to M. Quesnel,
she had many doubts; however he might be at first mistaken on the
subject, she much suspected that he wilfully persevered in his error,
as a means of intimidating her into a compliance with his wishes of
uniting her to Count Morano. Whether this was or was not the fact, she
was extremely anxious to explain the affair to M. Quesnel, and looked
forward with a mixture of impatience, hope and fear, to her approaching
visit. On the following day, Madame Montoni, being alone with Emily,
introduced the mention of Count Morano, by expressing her surprise,
that she had not joined the party on the water the preceding evening,
and at her abrupt departure to Venice. Emily then related what had
passed, expressed her concern for the mutual mistake that had occurred
between Montoni and herself, and solicited her aunt’s kind offices in
urging him to give a decisive denial to the count’s further addresses;
but she soon perceived, that Madame Montoni had not been ignorant of
the late conversation, when she introduced the present. “You have no encouragement to expect from me,” said her aunt, “in these
notions. I have already given my opinion on the subject, and think
Signor Montoni right in enforcing, by any means, your consent. If young
persons will be blind to their interest, and obstinately oppose it,
why, the greatest blessings they can have are friends, who will oppose
their folly. Pray what pretensions of any kind do you think you have to
such a match as is now offered you?”

“Not any whatever, Madam,” replied Emily, “and, therefore, at least,
suffer me to be happy in my humility.”

“Nay, niece, it cannot be denied, that you have pride enough; my poor
brother, your father, had his share of pride too; though, let me add,
his fortune did not justify it.”

Emily, somewhat embarrassed by the indignation, which this malevolent
allusion to her father excited, and by the difficulty of rendering her
answer as temperate as it should be reprehensive, hesitated for some
moments, in a confusion, which highly gratified her aunt. At length she
said, “My father’s pride, Madam, had a noble object—the happiness which
he knew could be derived only from goodness, knowledge and charity. As
it never consisted in his superiority, in point of fortune, to some
persons, it was not humbled by his inferiority, in that respect, to
others. He never disdained those, who were wretched by poverty and
misfortune; he did sometimes despise persons, who, with many
opportunities of happiness, rendered themselves miserable by vanity,
ignorance and cruelty. I shall think it my highest glory to emulate
such pride.”

“I do not pretend to understand anything of these high-flown
sentiments, niece; you have all that glory to yourself: I would teach
you a little plain sense, and not have you so wise as to despise
happiness.”

“That would indeed not be wisdom, but folly,” said Emily, “for wisdom
can boast no higher attainment than happiness; but you will allow,
Madam, that our ideas of happiness may differ. I cannot doubt, that you
wish me to be happy, but I must fear you are mistaken in the means of
making me so.”

“I cannot boast of a learned education, niece, such as your father
thought proper to give you, and, therefore, do not pretend to
understand all these fine speeches about happiness. I must be contented
to understand only common sense, and happy would it have been for you
and your father, if that had been included in his education.”

Emily was too much shocked by these reflections on her father’s memory,
to despise this speech as it deserved. Madame Montoni was about to speak, but Emily quitted the room, and
retired to her own, where the little spirit she had lately exerted
yielded to grief and vexation, and left her only to her tears. From
every review of her situation she could derive, indeed, only new
sorrow. To the discovery, which had just been forced upon her, of
Montoni’s unworthiness, she had now to add, that of the cruel vanity,
for the gratification of which her aunt was about to sacrifice her; of
the effrontery and cunning, with which, at the time that she meditated
the sacrifice, she boasted of her tenderness, or insulted her victim;
and of the venomous envy, which, as it did not scruple to attack her
father’s character, could scarcely be expected to withhold from her
own.