“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!”