By the time that Emilie returned, Mrs. Somers was dressed: she had dressed in the greatest hurry imaginable, that she might be ready for action—instantaneous action—if the service of her friends, as she hoped, required it. Emilie brought the newspaper in her hand, which her mother had been reading the preceding night.
“Here is all the mystery,” said she, pointing to a paragraph which announced the failure of a Paris banker. “Mamma lodged all the money she had left in this man’s hands.”
“And is that all?—I really expected something much more terrible.”
“It is terrible to mamma; because, depending on this man’s punctuality, she has bought in London clothes and trinkets—chiefly for me, indeed—and she has no immediate means of paying these debts; but, if she will only keep her mind tranquil, all will yet be well. You flatter me that I play tolerably on the piano-forte and the harp; you will recommend me, and I can endeavour to teach music. So that, if mamma will but be well, we shall not be in any great distress—except in leaving you; that is painful, but must be done. Yes, it absolutely must. Mamma knows what is proper, and so do I. We are not people to encroach upon the generosity of our friends. I need not say more; for I am sure that Mrs. Somers, who is herself so well-born and well-educated, must understand and approve of mamma’s way of thinking.”
Mrs. Somers replied not one word, but rang her bell violently—ordered her carriage.
“Do not you breakfast, madam, before you go out?” said the servant.
“No—no.”
“Not a dish of chocolate, ma’am?”
“My carriage, I tell you.—Emilie, you have been up all night: I insist upon your going to bed this minute, and upon your sleeping till I come back again. La comtesse always breakfasts in her own room; so I have no apologies to make for leaving her. I shall be at home before her toilette is finished, and hope she will then permit me to pay my respects to her—you will tell her so, my dear. I must be gone instantly.—Why will they not let me have this carriage?—Where are those gloves of mine?—and the key of my writing-desk?—Ring again for the coach.”
Between the acting of a generous thing and the first motion, all the interim was, with Mrs. Somers, a delicious phantasma; and her ideas of time and distance were as extravagant as those of a person in a dream. She very nearly ran over Emilie in her way down stairs, and then said, “Oh! I beg pardon a thousand times, my dear!—I thought you had been in bed an hour ago.”