JEALOUSY.
“Crescent, Bath, July--Wednesday.
“MY DEAR NIECE,
“I received safely the bank notes for my two hundred guineas, enclosed
in your last. But you should never trust unnecessarily in this manner to
the post--always, when you are obliged to send bank notes by post, cut
them in two, and send half by one post and half by another. This is
what is done by all prudent people. Prudence, whether in trifles or
in matters of consequence, can be learned only by experience (which is
often too dearly bought), or by listening, which costs nothing, to the
suggestions of those who have a thorough knowledge of the world.
“A report has just reached me concerning you and _a certain lord_, which
gives me the most heartfelt concern. I always knew, and told you, that
you were _a great favourite_ with the person in question. I depended
on your prudence, delicacy, and principles, to understand this hint
properly, and I trusted that you would conduct yourself accordingly.
It is too plain, (from the report alluded to,) that there has been some
misconduct or mis-management somewhere. The misconduct I cannot--the
mis-management I must, attribute to you, my dear; for let a man’s
admiration for any woman be ever so great, unless she suffer herself
to be dazzled by vanity, or unless she be naturally of an inconsiderate
temper, she can surely prevent his partiality from becoming so glaring
as to excite envy: envy is always to be dreaded by handsome young women,
as being, sooner or later, infallibly followed by scandal. Of this,
I fear, you have not been sufficiently aware, and you see the
consequences--consequences which, to a female of genuine delicacy or of
real good sense, must be extremely alarming. Men of contracted minds and
cold tempers, who are absolutely incapable of feeling generous passion
for our sex, are often unaccountably ambitious to gain the reputation
of being _well_ with any woman whose beauty, accomplishments, or
connexions, may have brought her into fashion. Whatever affection may be
pretended, this is frequently the _ultimate_ and _sole_ object of these
selfish creatures. Whether or not the person I have in my eye deserves
to be included in this class, I will not presume positively to
determine; but you, who have personal opportunities of observation,
may decide this point (if you have any curiosity on the subject) by
observing whether he most affects to pay his devoirs to you in public or
in private. If the latter be the case, it is the most dangerous; because
a man even of the most contracted understanding has always sense or
instinct enough to feel that the slightest taint in the reputation
of the woman who is, or who is to be, his wife, would affect his own
private peace, or his honour in the eyes of the world. A husband who
has in a first marriage been, as it is said, in constant fear both of
matrimonial subjugation and disgrace, would, in his choice of a second
lady, be peculiarly nice, and probably _tardy_. Any degree of favour
that might have been shown him, any report that may have been raised,
and above all, any restraint he might feel himself under from
implied engagement, or from the discovery or reputation of superior
understanding and talents in the object beloved, would operate
infallibly against her, to the confusion of all her plans, and the
ruin at once of her reputation, her peace of mind, and her hopes of an
establishment. Nay, supposing the best that could possibly happen--that,
after playing with the utmost dexterity this desperate game, the pool
were absolutely your own; yet, if there were any suspicions of unfair
play buzzed about amongst the by-standers, you would not in the main be
a gainer; for my dear, without character, what is even wealth, or all
that wealth can bestow? I do not mean to trouble you with stale wise
sayings, which young people hate; nor musty morality, which is seldom
fit for use in the world, or which smells too much of books to be
brought into good company. This is not my way of giving advice; but I
only beg you to observe what actually passes before your eyes in the
circle in which we live. Ladies of the best families, with rank and
fortune, and beauty and fashion, and every thing in their favour, cannot
(as yet in this country) dispense with the strictest observance of the
rules of virtue and decorum. Some have fancied themselves raised so high
above the vulgar as to be in no danger from the thunder and lightning
of public opinion; but these ladies in the clouds have found themselves
mistaken--they have been blasted, and have fallen nobody knows where!
What is become of Lady ----, and the Countess of ----, and others I
could mention, who were as high as envy could look? I remember seeing
the Countess of ----, who was then the most beautiful creature my eyes
ever beheld, and the most admired that ever was heard of, come into
the Opera-house, and sit the whole night in her box without any woman’s
speaking or courtesying to her, or taking any more notice of her than
you would of a post, or a beggar-woman. Even a coronet cannot protect
a woman, you see, from disgrace: if she falls, she and it, and all
together, are trampled under foot. But why should I address all this to
my dear niece? Whither have the terror and confusion I was thrown into
by this strange report about you and Lord ---- led me? And yet
one cannot be too cautious--‘Ce n’est que le premier _mot_ qui
coute’--Scandal never stops after the first word, unless she be
instantly gagged by a dexterous hand. Nothing shall be wanting on my
part, but you alone are the person who can do any thing effectual Do not
imagine that I would have you quit Lady----; that is the first idea,
I know, that will come into your silly little head, but put it out
directly. If you were upon this attack to quit the field of battle, you
yield the victory to your enemies. To leave Lady----‘s house would be
folly and madness. As long as she is your friend, or _appears_ such,
all is safe; but any coolness on her part would, in the present
circumstances, be death to your reputation. And, even if you were to
leave her on the best terms possible, the malicious world would say
that you left her on the worst, and would assign as a reason the report
alluded to. People who have not yet believed it would then conclude
that it must be true; and thus by your cowardice you would furnish an
incontrovertible argument against your innocence. I therefore desire
that you will not, upon any account, think of coming home to me at
present; indeed, I hope your own good sense would prevent you from
wishing it, after the reasons that I have given. Far from quitting Lady
---- from false delicacy, it is your business, from consideration for
her peace, as well as your own, to redouble your attentions to her in
private, and, above all things, to appear as much as possible with her
in public. I am glad to hear her health is so far reestablished, that
she _can_ appear again in public; her spirits, as you may hint, will be
the better for a little amusement. Luckily, you have it completely in
your power to convince her and all the world of the correctness of your
mind. I believe I certainly should have fainted, my dear, when I first
heard this shocking report, if I had not just afterward received a
letter from Sir Philip Baddely which revived me. His proposal at this
crisis for you, my dear, is a charming thing. You have nothing to do but
to encourage his addresses immediately,--the report dies away of itself,
and all is just as your best friends wish. Such an establishment for
you, my dear, is indeed beyond their most sanguine expectations. Sir
Philip hints in his letter, that my influence might be wanting with you
in his favour; but this surely cannot be. As I have told him, he has
merely mistaken becoming female reserve for a want of sensibility on
your part, which would be equally unnatural and absurd. Do you know, my
dear, that Sir Philip Baddely has an estate of fifteen thousand a-year
in Wiltshire? and his uncle Barton’s estate in Norfolk will, in due
time, pay his debts. Then, as to family--look in the lists of baronets
in your pocket-book; and surely, my love, an old baronetage in actual
possession is worth something more than the reversion of a new coronet;
supposing that such a thing could properly be thought of, which Heaven
forbid! So I see no possible objection to Sir Philip, my dear Belinda!
and I am sure you have too much candour and good sense to make any
childish or romantic difficulties. Sir Philip is not, I know, a man of
what you call genius. So much the better, my dear--those men of genius
are dangerous husbands; they have so many oddities and eccentricities,
there is no managing them, though they are mighty pleasant men in
company to enliven conversation; for example, your favourite, Clarence
Hervey. As it is well known he is not a marrying man, you never can have
thought of him. You are not a girl to expose yourself to the ridicule,
&c., of all your female acquaintance by romance and nonsense. I
cannot conceive that a niece of mine could degrade herself by a mean
prepossession for a man who has never made any declaration of his
attachment to her, and who, I am sure, feels no such attachment.
That you may not deceive yourself, it is fit I should tell you, what
otherwise it might not be so proper to mention to a young lady, that
he keeps and has kept a mistress for some years; and those who are most
intimately in his confidence have assured me that, if ever he marries
any body, he will marry this girl; which is not impossible, considering
that she is, they say, the most beautiful young creature that ever was
seen, and he _a man of genius_. If you have any sense or spirit, I have
said enough. So adieu!--Let me hear, by return of the post, that every
thing is going on as it should do. I am impatient to write to your
sister Tollemache this good news. I always foretold that my Belinda
would marry better than her sister, or any of her cousins, and take
place of them all. Are not you obliged to me for sending you this winter
to town to Lady ----? It was an admirable hit. Pray tell Lady Delacour,
with my best compliments, that our _aloe_ friend (her ladyship will
understand me) cheated a gentleman of my acquaintance the other day, at
casino, out of seventy guineas. He hates the sight of her odious red wig
as much now as we always did. I knew, and told Lady D----, as she will
do me the justice to remember, that Mrs.----cheated at play. What a
contemptible character!--Pray, my dear, do not forget to tell Lady
Delacour, that I have a charming anecdote for her, about another
_friend_ of ours, who has lately gone over to the enemy. Has her
ladyship seen a manuscript that is handed about as a great secret, and
said to be by ----, a parallel between _our friend_ and the Chevalier
d’Eon? It is done with infinite wit and humour, in the manner of
Plutarch. I would send a copy, but am afraid my frank would be too heavy
if I began upon another sheet. So once more adieu, my dear niece! Write
to me without fail, and mention Sir Philip. I have written to him to
give my approbation, &c.
“Yours sincerely,
“SELINA STANHOPE.”
“Mrs. Stanhope seems to have written you a volume instead of a letter,
Miss Portman,” cried Lady Delacour, as Belinda turned over the sheets
of her aunt’s long epistle. She did not attempt to read it regularly
through: some passages here and there were sufficient to astonish and
shock her extremely. “No bad news, I hope?” said Lady Delacour, again
looking up from her writing at Belinda, who sat motionless, leaning
her head upon her hand, as if deep in thought, Mrs. Stanhope’s
unfolded letter hanging from her hand. In the midst of the variety of
embarrassing, painful, and alarming feelings excited by this letter, she
had sufficient strength of mind to adhere to her resolution of speaking
the exact truth to Lady Delacour. When she was roused by her ladyship’s
question, “No bad news, I hope, Miss Portman?” she instantly answered,
with all the firmness she could command. “Yes. My aunt has been alarmed
by a strange report which I heard myself for the first time this morning
from Mr. Hervey. I am sure I am much obliged to him for having the
courage to speak the truth to me.” Here she repeated what Mr. Hervey had
said to her. Lady Delacour never raised her eyes whilst Belinda spoke,
but went on scratching out some words in what she was writing. Through
the mask of paint which she wore no change of colour could be visible;
and as Belinda did not see the expression of her ladyship’s eyes, she
could not in the least judge of what was passing in her mind.
“Mr. Hervey has acted like a man of honour and sense,” said Lady
Delacour; “but it is a pity, for your sake, he did not speak
sooner--before this report became so public--before it reached Bath, and
your aunt. Though it could not surprise her much, she has such a perfect
knowledge of the world, and ----”
Lady Delacour uttered these broken sentences in a voice of suppressed
anger; cleared her throat several times, and at last, unable to speak,
stopped short, and then began with much precipitation to put wafers into
several notes that she had been writing. So it has reached Bath, thought
she--the report is public! I never till now heard a hint of any such
thing except from Sir Philip Baddely; but it has doubtless been the
common talk of the town, and I am laughed at as a dupe and an idiot, as
I am. And now, when the thing can he concealed no longer, she comes to
me with that face of simplicity, and knowing my generous temper, throws
herself on my mercy, and trusts that her speaking to me with this
audacious plainness will convince me of her innocence. “You have acted
in the most prudent manner possible, Miss Portman,” said her ladyship,
as she went on sealing her notes, “by speaking at once to me of this
strange, scandalous, absurd report. Do you act from your aunt Stanhope’s
advice, or entirely from your own judgment and knowledge of my
character?”
“From my own judgment and knowledge of your character, in which I
hope--I am not--I cannot be mistaken,” said Belinda, looking at her with
a mixture of doubt and astonishment.
“No--you calculated admirably--‘twas the best, the only thing you could
do. Only,” said her ladyship, falling back in her chair with an hysteric
laugh, “only the blunder of Champfort, and the entrance of my Lord
Delacour, and the hammercloth with the orange and black fringe--forgive
me, my dear; for the soul of me I can’t help laughing--it was rather
unlucky; so awkward, such a contretemps! But you,” added she, wiping her
eyes, as if recovering from laughter, “you have such admirable presence
of mind, nothing disconcerts you! You are equal to all situations,
and stand in no need of such long letters of advice from your aunt
Stanhope,” pointing to the two folio sheets which lay at Belinda’s feet.
The rapid, unconnected manner in which Lady Delacour spoke, the hurry of
her motions, the quick, suspicious, angry glances of her eye, her laugh,
her unintelligible words, all conspired at this moment to give Belinda
the idea that her intellects were suddenly disordered. She was so firmly
persuaded of her ladyship’s utter indifference to Lord Delacour, that
she never conceived the possibility of her being actuated by the passion
of jealousy--by the jealousy of power--a species of jealousy which she
had never felt, and could not comprehend. But she had sometimes seen
Lady Delacour in starts of passion that seemed to border on insanity,
and the idea of her losing all command of her reason now struck Belinda
with irresistible force. She felt the necessity of preserving her own
composure; and with all the calmness that she could assume, she took
up her aunt Stanhope’s letter, and looked for the passage in which Mrs.
Luttridge and Harriot Freke were mentioned. If I can turn the course of
Lady Delacour’s mind, thought she, or catch her attention, perhaps she
will recover herself. “Here is a message to you, my dear Lady Delacour,”
cried she, “from my aunt Stanhope, about--about Mrs. Luttridge.”
Miss Portman’s hand trembled as she turned over the pages of the letter.
“I am all attention,” said Lady Delacour, with a composed voice; “only
take care, don’t make a mistake: I’m in no hurry; don’t read any thing
Mrs. Stanhope might not wish. It is dangerous to garble letters, almost
as dangerous as to snatch them out of a friend’s hand, as I once did,
you know--but you need not now be under the least alarm.”
Conscious that this letter was not fit for her ladyship to see, Belinda
neither offered to show it to her, nor attempted any apology for
her reserve and embarrassment, but hastily began to read the message
relative to Mrs. Luttridge; her voice gaining confidence as she went on,
as she observed that she had fixed Lady Delacour’s attention, who now
sat listening to her, calm and motionless. But when Miss Portman came
to the words, “Do not forget to tell Lady D ----, that I have a charming
anecdote for her about another _friend_ of hers, who lately went over
to the enemy,” her ladyship exclaimed with great vehemence,
“_Friend_!--Harriot Freke!--Yes, like all other friends--Harriot
Freke!--What was she compared to? ‘Tis too much for me--too much!” and
she put her hand to her head.
“Compose yourself, my dear _friend_,” said Belinda, in a calm, gentle
tone; and she went toward her with an intention of soothing her by
caresses; but, at her approach, Lady Delacour pushed the table on which
she had been writing from her with violence, started up, flung back the
veil which fell over her face as she rose, and darted upon Belinda a
look, which fixed her to the spot where she stood. It said, “Come not a
step nearer, at your peril!” Belinda’s blood ran cold--she had no longer
any doubt that this was insanity. She shut the penknife which lay upon
the table, and put it into her pocket.
“Cowardly creature!” cried Lady Delacour, and her countenance changed to
the expression of ineffable contempt; “what is it you fear?”
“That you should injure yourself. Sit down--for Heaven’s sake listen to
me, to your friend, to Belinda!”
“My friend! my Belinda!” cried Lady Delacour, and she turned from her,
and walked away some steps in silence; then suddenly clasping her hands,
she raised her eyes to heaven with a fervent but wild expression of
devotion, and exclaimed, “Great God of heaven, my punishment is just!
the death of Lawless is avenged. May the present agony of my soul
expiate my folly! Of guilt--deliberate guilt--of hypocrisy--treachery--I
have not--oh, never may I have--to repent!”
She paused--her eyes involuntarily returned upon Belinda. “Oh, Belinda!
You, whom I have so loved--so trusted!”
The tears rolled fast down her painted cheeks; she wiped them hastily
away, and so roughly, that her face became a strange and ghastly
spectacle. Unconscious of her disordered appearance, she rushed past
Belinda, who vainly attempted to stop her, threw up the sash, and
stretching herself far out of the window, gasped for breath. Miss
Portman drew her back, and closed the window, saying, “The rouge is all
off your face, my dear Lady Delacour; you are not fit to be seen. Sit
down upon this sofa, and I will ring for Marriott, and get some fresh
rouge. Look at your face in this glass--you see--”
“I see,” interrupted Lady Delacour, looking full at Belinda, “that she
who I thought had the noblest of souls has the meanest! I see that she
is incapable of feeling. _Rouge! not fit to be seen_!--At such a time
as this, to talk to me in this manner! Oh, niece of Mrs.
Stanhope!--dupe!--dupe that I am!” She flung herself upon the sofa,
and struck her forehead with her hand violently several times. Belinda
catching her arm, and holding it with all her force, cried in a tone of
authority, “Command yourself, Lady Delacour, I conjure you, or you will
go out of your senses; and if you do, your secret will be discovered by
the whole world.”
“Hold me not--you have no right,” cried Lady Delacour, struggling to
free her hand. “All-powerful as you are in this house, you have no
longer any power over me! I am not going out of my senses! You cannot
get me into Bedlam, all-powerful, all-artful as you are. You have done
enough to drive me mad--but I am not mad. No wonder you cannot believe
me--no wonder you are astonished at the strong expression of feelings
that are foreign to your nature--no wonder that you mistake the
writhings of the heart, the agony of a generous soul, for madness! Look
not so terrified; I will do you no injury. Do not you hear that I can
lower my voice?--do not you see that I can be calm? Could Mrs. Stanhope
herself--could _you_, Miss Portman, speak in a softer, milder, more
polite, more proper tone than I do now? Are you pleased, are you
satisfied?”
“I am better satisfied--a little better satisfied,” said Belinda.
“That’s well; but still you tremble. There’s not the least occasion for
apprehension--you see I can command myself, and smile upon you.”
“Oh, do not smile in that horrid manner!”
“Why not?--‘Horrid!--Don’t you love deceit?”
“I detest it from my soul.”
“Indeed!” said Lady Delacour, still speaking in the same low, soft,
unnatural voice: “then why do you practise it, my love?”
“I never practised it for a moment--I am incapable of deceit. When you
are _really_ calm, when you can _really_ command yourself, you will do
me justice, Lady Delacour; but now it is my business, if I can, to bear
with you.”
“You are goodness itself, and gentleness, and prudence personified. You
know perfectly how to _manage_ a friend, whom you fear you have driven
just to the verge of madness. But tell me, good, gentle, prudent Miss
Portman, why need you dread so much that I should go mad? You know, if
I went mad, nobody would mind, nobody would believe whatever I say--I
should be no evidence against you, and I should be out of your way
sufficiently, shouldn’t I? And you would have all the power in your own
hands, would not you? And would not this be almost as well as if I were
dead and buried? No; your calculations are better than mine. The poor
mad wife would still be in your way, would yet stand between you and the
fond object of your secret soul--a coronet!”
As she pronounced the word _coronet_, she pointed to a coronet set
in diamonds on her watch-case, which lay on the table. Then suddenly
seizing the watch, she dashed it upon the marble hearth with all her
force--“Vile bauble!” cried she; “must I lose my only friend for such
a thing as you? Oh, Belinda! do you see that a coronet cannot confer
happiness?”
“I have seen it long: I pity you from the bottom of my soul,” said
Belinda, bursting into tears.
“Pity me not. I cannot endure your pity, treacherous woman!” cried
Lady Delacour, and she stamped with a look of rage--“most perfidious of
women!”
“Yes, call me perfidious, treacherous--stamp at me--say, do what you
will; I can and will bear it all--all patiently; for I am innocent, and
you are mistaken and unhappy,” said Belinda. “You will love me when you
return to your senses; then how can I be angry with you?”
“Fondle me not,” said Lady Delacour, starting back from Belinda’s
caresses: “do not degrade yourself to no purpose--I never more can be
your dupe. Your protestations of innocence are wasted on me--I am not so
blind as you imagine--dupe as you think me, I have seen much in silence.
The whole world, you find, suspects you now. To save your reputation,
you want my friendship--you want--”
“I want nothing from you, Lady Delacour,” said Belinda. “_You have
suspected me long in silence!_ then I have mistaken your character--I
can love you no longer. Farewell for ever! Find another--a better
friend.”
She walked away from Lady Delacour with proud indignation; but, before
she reached the door, she recollected her promise to remain with this
unfortunate woman.
Is a dying woman, in the paroxysm of insane passion, a fit object
of indignation? thought Belinda, and she stopped short. “No, Lady
Delacour,” cried she, “I will not yield to my humour--I will not listen
to my pride. A few words said in the heat of passion shall not make me
forget myself or you. You have given me your confidence; I am grateful
for it. I cannot, will not desert you: my promise is sacred.”
“Your promise!” said Lady Delacour, contemptuously. “I absolve you from
your promise. Unless you find it _convenient_ to yourself to remember
it, pray let it be forgotten; and if I must die--”
At this instant the door opened suddenly, and little Helena came in
singing--
“‘Merrily, merrily shall we live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.’
What comes next, Miss Portman?”
Lady Delacour dragged her veil across her face, and rushed out of the
room.
“What is the matter?--Is mamma ill?”
“Yes, my dear,” said Belinda. But at this instant she heard the sound of
Lord Delacour’s voice upon the stairs; she broke from the little girl,
and with the greatest precipitation retreated to her own room.
She had not been alone above an hour before Marriott knocked at the
door.
“Miss Portman, you don’t know how late it is. Lady Singleton and the
Miss Singletons are come. But, merciful heaven!” exclaimed Marriott, as
she entered the room, “what is all this packing up? What is this trunk?”
“I am going to Oakly-park with Lady Anne Percival,” said Belinda,
calmly.
“I thought there was something wrong; my mind misgave me all the time I
was dressing my lady,--she was in such a flutter, and never spoke to me.
I’d lay my life this is, some way or other, Mr. Champfort’s doings. But,
good dear Miss Portman, can you leave my poor lady when she wants you
so much; and I’ll take upon me to say, ma’am, loves you so much at the
bottom of her heart? Dear me, how your face is flushed! Pray let me pack
up these things, if it must be. But I do hope, if it be possible, that
you should stay. However, I’ve no business to speak. I beg pardon for
being so impertinent: I hope you won’t take it ill,--it is only from
regard to my poor lady I ventured to speak.”
“Your regard to your lady deserves the highest approbation, Marriott,”
said Belinda. “It is impossible that I should stay with her any longer.
When I am gone, good Marriott, and when her health and strength decline,
your fidelity and your services will be absolutely necessary to your
mistress; and from what I have seen of the goodness of your heart, I
am convinced that the more she is in want of you, the more _respectful_
will be your attention.”
Marriott answered only by her tears, and went on packing up in a great
hurry.
Nothing could equal Lady Delacour’s astonishment when she learnt from
Marriott that Miss Portman was actually preparing to leave the house.
After a moment’s reflection, however, she persuaded herself that this
was only a new artifice to work upon her affections; that Belinda did
not mean to leave her; but that she would venture all lengths, in hopes
of being at the last moment pressed to stay. Under this persuasion, Lady
Delacour resolved to disappoint her expectations: she determined to meet
her with that polite coldness which would best become her own dignity,
and which, without infringing the laws of hospitality, would effectually
point out to the world that Lady Delacour was no dupe, and that Miss
Portman was an unwelcome inmate in her house.
The power of assuming gaiety when her heart was a prey to the most
poignant feelings, she had completely acquired by long practice. With
the promptitude of an actress, she could instantly appear upon the
stage, and support a character totally foreign to her own. The loud
knocks at the door, which announced the arrival of company, were signals
that operated punctually upon her associations; and to this species of
conventional necessity her most violent passions submitted with magical
celerity. Fresh rouged, and beautifully dressed, she was performing her
part to a brilliant audience in her drawing-room when Belinda entered.
Belinda beheld her with much astonishment, but more pity.
“Miss Portman,” said her ladyship, turning carelessly towards her,
“where do you buy your rouge?--Lady Singleton, would you rather at this
moment be mistress of the philosopher’s stone, or have a patent for
rouge that will come and go like Miss Portman’s?--Apropos! have you read
St. Leon?” Her ladyship was running on to a fresh train of ideas, when a
footman announced the arrival of Lady Anne Percival’s carriage; and Miss
Portman rose to depart.
“You dine with Lady Anne, Miss Portman, I understand?--My compliments to
her ladyship, and my duty to Mrs. Margaret Delacour, and her macaw. _Au
revoir_! Though you talk of running away from me to Oakly-park, I am
sure you will do no such cruel thing. I am, with all due humility, so
confident of the irresistible attractions of this house, that I defy
Oakly-park and all its charms. So, Miss Portman, instead of adieu, I
shall only say, _au revoir!_”
“Adieu, Lady Delacour!” said Belinda, with a look and tone which struck
her ladyship to the heart. All her suspicions, all her pride, all her
affected gaiety vanished; her presence of mind forsook her, and for some
moments she stood motionless and powerless. Then recollecting herself,
she flew after Miss Portman, abruptly stopped her at the head of the
stairs, and exclaimed, “My dearest Belinda, are you gone?--My best, my
only friend!--Say you are not gone for ever!--Say you will return!”
“Adieu!” repeated Belinda. It was all she could say; she broke from Lady
Delacour, and hurried out of the house with the strongest feeling of
compassion for this unhappy woman, but with an unaltered sense of the
propriety and necessity of her own firmness.