'I thank you for your pity, Annette,' said Emily, interrupting her: 'but
my aunt was unhappy then, and that disturbed her temper perhaps, or I
think--I am sure--You may take away, Annette, I have done.' 'Dear ma'amselle, you have eat nothing at all! Do try, and take a
little bit more. Disturbed her temper truly! why, her temper is always
disturbed, I think. And at Tholouse too I have heard my lady talking of
you and Mons. Valancourt to Madame Merveille and Madame Vaison, often
and often, in a very ill-natured way, as I thought, telling them what
a deal of trouble she had to keep you in order, and what a fatigue and
distress it was to her, and that she believed you would run away with
Mons. Valancourt, if she was not to watch you closely; and that you
connived at his coming about the house at night, and--'
'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, blushing deeply, 'it is surely impossible
my aunt could thus have represented me!' 'Indeed, ma'am, I say nothing more than the truth, and not all of
that. But I thought, myself, she might have found something better to
discourse about, than the faults of her own niece, even if you had been
in fault, ma'amselle; but I did not believe a word of what she said. But
my lady does not care what she says against any body, for that matter.'
'However that may be, Annette,' interrupted Emily, recovering her
composure, 'it does not become you to speak of the faults of my aunt to
me. I know you have meant well, but--say no more.--I have quite dined.' Annette blushed, looked down, and then began slowly to clear the table.
'Is this, then, the reward of my ingenuousness?' said Emily, when she
was alone; 'the treatment I am to receive from a relation--an
aunt--who ought to have been the guardian, not the slanderer of my
reputation,--who, as a woman, ought to have respected the delicacy of
female honour, and, as a relation, should have protected mine! But, to
utter falsehoods on so nice a subject--to repay the openness, and, I
may say with honest pride, the propriety of my conduct, with
slanders--required a depravity of heart, such as I could scarcely
have believed existed, such as I weep to find in a relation. O! what a
contrast does her character present to that of my beloved father;
while envy and low cunning form the chief traits of hers, his was
distinguished by benevolence and philosophic wisdom! But now, let me
only remember, if possible, that she is unfortunate.' E