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.