“You are not obliged to me, my dear, for I do you only justice.”
“Justice is sometimes felt as the greatest possible obligation, especially by those who have experienced the reverse.—But,” said Emilie, checking herself, “let me not blame Mrs. Somers, or incline you to blame her. I should do very wrong, indeed, if I were, in return for all she has done for us, to cause any jealousies or quarrels between her and her best friend. Oh! that is what I most dread! To prevent it, I would—it is not polite to say so—but I would, my dear Lady Littleton, even withdraw myself from your society. This very day you return to your own house. You were so good as to ask me to go often to see you: forgive me if I do not avail myself of this kind permission. You will know my reasons; and I hope they are such as you will approve of.”
A servant came in, to say that her ladyship’s carriage was at the door.
“One word more before you go, my dear Lady Littleton,” said Emilie, with a supplicating voice and countenance. “Tell me, I beseech you—for you have been her friend from her childhood, and must know better than any one living—tell me how I can please Mrs. Somers. I begin to be afraid that I shall at last be weary of my fruitless efforts, and I dread—above all things I dread—that my affection for her should be worn out. How painful it would be to sustain the continual weight of obligation without being able to feel the pleasure of gratitude!”
Lady Littleton was going to reply, but she was prevented by the sudden entrance of Mrs. Somers with her face of wrath.
“So, Lady Littleton, you are actually going, I find!—And I have not had one moment of your conversation. May I be allowed—if Mlle. de Coulanges has finished her mysteries—to say a few words to you?”
“You will give me leave, I am sure, Emilie,” said Lady Littleton, “to repeat to Mrs. Somers every word that you have said to me?”
“Yes, every word,” said Emilie, blushing, yet speaking with firmness. “I have no mysteries—I do not wish to conceal from Mrs. Somers any thing that I say or think.”
Mrs. Somers seized Lady Littleton’s arm, and left the room; but when she had entire possession of her friend’s ear, she had nothing to say, or nothing that she would say, except half sentences, reproaching her for not staying longer, and insinuating that Emilie would be the cause of their separating for ever.—“Now, as you have her permission, will you favour me with a repetition of her last conversation?”
“Not in your present humour, my dear,” said Lady Littleton: “this is not the happy moment to speak reason to you. Adieu! I give you four-and-twenty hours’ grace before I declare you a bankrupt in temper. You shall hear from me to-morrow; for, on some subjects, I have always found it better to write than to speak to you.”