Mrs. Somers continued during the remainder of the day in a desperate state of ill-humour, which was increased by finding that Mlle. de Coulanges could neither stand nor walk. Mrs. Somers was persuaded that Emilie, if she would have exerted herself, could have done both, but that she preferred exciting the pity of the whole house; and this, all circumstances considered, was a proof of total want of generosity and gratitude. The next morning, however, she was alarmed by hearing from Mrs. Masham, whom she had sent to attend upon Mlle. de Coulanges, that her ankle was violently swelled and inflamed.—Just when the full tide of her affections was beginning to flow in Emilie’s favour, Mrs. Somers received the following letter from Lady Littleton:—
“Enclosed, I have sent you, as well as I can recollect it, every
word of the conversation that passed yesterday between Mlle. de
Coulanges and me. If I were less anxious for your happiness,
and if I had not so high an opinion of the excellence of your
disposition, I should wish, my dear friend, to spare both you and
myself the pain of speaking and hearing the truth. But I know that
I have preserved your affection many years beyond the usual limits
of female friendship, by daring to speak to you with perfect
sincerity, and by trusting to the justice of your better self.
Perhaps you would rather have a compliment to your generosity than
to your justice; but in this I shall not indulge you, because I
think you already set too high a value upon generosity. It has
been the misfortune of your life, my dear friend, to believe that,
by making great sacrifices, and conferring great benefits, you
could ensure to yourself, in return, affection and gratitude. You
mistake both the nature of obligation and the effect which it
produces on the human mind. Obligations may command gratitude, but
can never ensure love. If the benefit be of a pecuniary nature, it
is necessarily attended with a certain sense of humiliation, which
destroys the equality of friendship. Of whatever description the
favour may be, it becomes burdensome, if gratitude be expected as
a tribute, instead of being accepted as the free-will offering
of the heart: ‘still paying still to owe’ is irksome, even to
those who have nothing Satanic in their natures. A person who has
received a favour is in a defenceless state with respect to a
benefactor; and the benefactor who makes an improper use of the
power which gratitude gives becomes an oppressor. I know your
generous spirit, and I am fully sensible that no one has a more
just idea than you have of the delicacy that ought to be used
towards those whom you have obliged; but you must permit me to
observe, that your practice is not always conformable to your
theory. Temper is doubly necessary to those who love, as you do,
to confer favours: it is the duty of a benefactress to command her
feelings, and to refrain absolutely from every species of direct
or indirect reproach; else her kindness becomes only a source
of misery; and even from the benevolence of her disposition she
derives the means of giving pain.
“I have said enough; and I know that you will not be offended. The
moment your understanding is convinced and your heart touched,
all paltry jealousies and petty irritations subside, and you
are always capable of acting in a manner worthy of yourself.
Adieu!—May you, my dear friend, preserve the affections of one
who feels for you, I am convinced, the most sincere gratitude! You
will reap a rich harvest, if you do not, with childish impatience,
disturb the seeds that you have sown, to examine whether they are
growing.
“Your faithful friend,
“L. LITTLETON.”
This letter had an immediate and strong effect upon the mind of Mrs. Somers: she went directly with it open in her hand to Emilie. “Here,” said she, “is the letter of a noble-minded woman, who dares to speak truth, painful truth, to her best friend. She does me justice in being convinced that I shall not be offended; she does me justice in believing that an appeal to my candour and generosity cannot be in vain, especially when it is made by her voice. Emilie, you shall see that I am worthy to have a sincere friend; you shall see that I can even command my temper, when I have what, to my own feelings and understanding, appears adequate motive. But, my dear, you are in pain—let me look at this ankle—I am absolutely afraid to see it!—Good Heavens! how it is swelled!—And I fancied, all yesterday, that you could have walked upon it!—And I thought you wanted only to excite pity!—My poor child!—I have used you barbarously—most barbarously!” cried Mrs. Somers, kneeling down beside the sofa. “And can you ever forgive me?—Yes! that sweet smile tells me that you can.”
“All I ask of you,” said Emilie, embracing Mrs. Somers, “is to believe that I am grateful, and to continue to make me love you as long as I live. This must depend upon you more than upon myself.”
“I know it, my dear,” said Mrs. Somers. “Be satisfied—I will not wear out your affections. You have dealt fairly with me. I love you for having the courage to speak as you think.—But now that it is all over, I must tell you what it was that displeased me—for I hate half reconciliations: I will tell you all that passed in my mind.”
“Pray do,” said Emilie; “for then I shall know how to avoid displeasing you another time.”
“No danger of that, my dear. You will never make me angry again; for I am sure you will now be as frank towards me as I am towards you. It was not your adapting that little poem to a French rather than to an English air that displeased me—I am not quite so childish as to be offended by such a trifle; but I own I did not like your saying that you chose it merely to comply with your mother’s taste.—And you will acknowledge, Emilie, there was a want of sincerity, a want of candour, in your affected look of astonishment, when I mentioned M. de Brisac. I do not claim your confidence as a right—God forbid!—But if the warmest desire for your happiness, the most affectionate sympathy, can merit confidence—But I will not say a word that can imply reproach. On the contrary, I will only assure you, that I have penetration sufficient always to know your wishes, and activity enough to serve you effectually, even without being your confidante. I shall this night see a friend who is in power—I will speak to him about M. de Brisac: I have hopes that his pension from our government may be doubled.”
“I wish it may, for his sake,” said Emilie; “but certainly not for my own.”
“Oh! Mlle. de Coulanges!—But I have no right to extort confidence. I will not, as I said before, utter a syllable that can imply reproach. Let me go on with what I was telling you of my intentions. As soon as the pension is doubled, I will speak to Mad. de Coulanges about M. de Brisac.”
“For Heaven’s sake, do not!” interrupted Emilie; “for you would do me the greatest possible injury. Mamma would then think it a suitable match, and she would wish me to marry him; and nothing could make me move unhappy than to be under the necessity of acting contrary to my duty—of disobeying and displeasing her for ever—or else of uniting myself to M. de Brisac, whom I can neither love nor esteem.”