“Say no more, I beg, Mlle. de Coulanges—I asked only for a simple answer to a plain question. You refuse my son—you refuse to be my daughter. I am satisfied—perfectly satisfied. I suppose you have arranged to go to Lady Littleton’s. I heartily hope that she may be able to make her house more agreeable to you than I could render mine. Shake hands, Mlle. de Coulanges. You have my best wishes for your health and happiness—Here we part.”
“Oh! do not let us part in anger!” said Emilie.
“In anger!—not in the least—I never was cooler in my life. You have completely cooled me—you have shown me the folly of that warmth of friendship which can meet with no return.”
“Would it be a suitable return for your warm friendship to deceive your son?” said Emilie.
“To deceive me, I think still less suitable!” cried Mrs. Somers.
“And how have I deceived you?”
“You know best. Why was I kept in ignorance till the last moment? Why did you never confide your thoughts to me, Emilie? Why did you never till now say one word to me of this strange attachment?”
“There was no necessity for speaking till now,” said Emilie. “It is a subject I never named to any one except to mamma—a subject on which I did not think it right to speak to any one but to a parent.”
“Your notions of right and wrong, ma’am, differ widely from mine—we are not fit to live together. I have no idea of a friend’s concealing any thing from me: without entire confidence, there is no friendship—at least no friendship with me. Pray no tears. I am not fond of scenes. Nobody ever is that feels much.—Adieu!—Adieu!”
Mrs. Somers hurried out of the room, repeating, “I’ll write directly—this instant—to Lady Littleton. Mad. de Coulanges shall not be kept prisoner in my house.” Emilie stood motionless.