‘Don’t tell me, Lady Merrifield,’ said Constance, who, after her first fright, was working herself into a passion. ‘You don’t know what a little viper you have been warming, nor what things she has been continually saying of you. She told me—’
Lady Merrifield held up her hand with authority.
‘Stay, Constance. Do you think it is generous in you to tell me this?’
‘I am sure you ought to know.’
‘Then why did you encourage her?’
‘I pitied her—I believed her—I never thought she would have led me into this!’
‘How did she lead you?’
‘Always talking about her precious, persecuted uncle. I believe she was in league with him all the time!’
‘That is nonsense,’ said Lady Merrifield, ‘as you must see if you reflect a little. Dolores was too young to have been told this man’s real character; she only knew that her mother, who had spent her childhood with him, treated him as a brother, and did all she could for him. Dolores did very wrongly and foolishly in keeping up a connection with him unknown to me; but I cannot help feeling there was great excuse for her, and she was quite as much deceived as you were.’
‘Oh, of course, you stand by your own niece, Lady Merrifield. If you knew what horrid things she said about your pride and unkindness, as she called it, you would not think she deserved it.’