“Lord! ma’am, I was not going to abuse them—God forbid! I was just going to tell you,” cried Masham, “that never was any thing so mistaken as all I said before dinner. Just now, ma’am, when I went into the little dressing-room, within Mad. de Coulanges’ room, and happened to open the wardrobe, I was quite struck back with shame at my own unjustice: there, ma’am, poor Miss Emilie left something—and out of her best things!—to every maid-servant in the house; all directed in her own hand, and with a good word for each; and this ring for me, which she is kind enough to say is of no value but to put me in mind of all the attentions I have shown her and her mother—which, I am sure, were scarcely worth noticing, especially at such a time when she had enough to do, and her heart full, no doubt, poor soul!—There are her little paintings and embroideries, and pretty things, that she did when she was confined with her sprain, all laid out in order—‘tis my astonishment how she found time!—and directed to her friends in London, as keep-sakes:—and the very butterfly that I was so angry with her for staying to finish, is on something for you, ma’am; and here’s a packet that was with it, and that nobody saw till this minute.”
“Give it me!” cried Mrs. Somers. She tore it open, and found, in the first place, the pocketbook, full of bank notes, which she had given Mad. de Coulanges, with a few polite but haughty lines from the countess, saying that only twenty guineas had been used, which she hoped, at some future period, to be able to repay. Then came a note from Emilie, in which Mrs. Somers found her own letter to Lady Littleton. Emilie expressed herself as follows.
“Many thanks for the enclosed, but we have determined not to go to
Lady Littleton’s: at least we will take care not to be the cause
of quarrel between friends to whom we are so much obliged.—No,
dear Mrs. Somers! we do not part in anger. Excuse me, if the last
words I said to you were hasty—they were forced from me by a
moment of passion—but it is past: all your generosity, all your
kindness, the recollection of all that you have done, all that you
have wished for my happiness, rush upon my mind; and every other
thought, and every other feeling, is forgotten. Would to Heaven
that I could express to you my gratitude by actions!—but words,
alas! are all that I have in my power—and where shall I find
words that can reach your heart? I had better be silent, and trust
to time and to you. I know your generous temper—you will soon
blame yourself for having judged too severely of Emilie. But
do not reproach yourself—do not let this give you a moment’s
uneasiness: the clouds pass away, and the blue sky remains. Think
only—as I ever shall—of your goodness to mamma and to me. Adieu!
“EMILIE DE COULANGES.”
Mrs. Somers was much affected by this letter, and by the information that Emilie and her mother had declined taking refuge with Lady Littleton, lest they should occasion jealousies between her and her friend. Generous people are, of all others, the most touched by generosity of sentiment or of action. Mrs. Somers went to bed, enraged against herself—but it was now too late.
In the mean time, Emilie and her mother were in an obscure lodging, at a haberdasher’s near Golden Square. The pride of Mad. de Coulanges, at first, supported her even beyond her daughter’s expectations; she uttered no complaints, but frequently repeated, “Mais nous sommes bien ici, très bien—we cannot expect to have things as well as at the Hotel de Coulanges.” In a short time she was threatened with fits of her vapeurs noirs; but Emilie, with the assistance of her whole store of French songs, a bird-organ, a lap-dog, and a squirrel, belonging to the girl of the house, contrived to avert the danger for the present—as to the future, she trembled to think of it. M. de Brisac seemed to be continually in her mother’s thoughts; and whatever occurred, or whatever was the subject of conversation, Mad. de Coulanges always found means to end with “à propos de M. de Brisac.” Faithful to her promise, however, which Emilie, with the utmost delicacy, recalled to her mind, she declared that she would not give M. de Brisac an answer till the end of the month, which she had allowed her daughter for reflection, and that, till that period, she would not even let him know where they were to be found. Emilie thought that the time went very fast, and her mother evidently rejoiced at the idea that the month would soon be at an end. Emilie endeavoured, with all her skill, to demonstrate to her mother that it would be possible to support themselves, by her industry and ingenuity, without this marriage; and to this, Mad. de Coulanges at first replied, “Try, and you will soon be tired, child.” Emilie’s spirits rose on receiving this permission: she began by copying music for a music-shop in the neighbourhood; and her mother saw, with astonishment, that she persevered in her design, and that no fatigue or discouraging circumstances could vanquish her resolution.
“Good Heavens! my child,” said she, “you will wear yourself to a skeleton with copying music, and with painting, and embroidery, besides stooping so many hours over that tambour frame. My dear, how can you bear all this?”
“How!—Oh! dear mamma!” said Emilie, “there is no great difficulty in all this to me—the difficulty, the impossibility would be, to live happily with a man I despise.”
“I wish,” cried Mad. de Coulanges, “I wish to all the saints, that that hero of yours, that fellow-prisoner of ours at the Abbaye, with his humanity, and his generosity, and his courage, and all his fine qualities, had kept out of your way, Emilie: I wish he were fairly at the bottom of the Black Sea.”
“But you forget that he was the means of obtaining your liberty, mamma.”
“I wish I could forget it—I am always doomed to be obliged to those whom I cannot love. But, after all, you might as well think of the khan of Tartary as of this man, whom we shall never hear of more. Marry M. de Brisac, like a reasonable creature, and do not let me see you bending, as you do, for ever, over a tambour frame, wasting your fine eyes and spoiling your charming shape.”