“‘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.”