"My husband," continued she, and her voice suddenly altered from the tone
of grief to that of anger--"my husband hates me--no matter--I despise
him. His relations hate me--no matter--I despise them. My own relations
hate me--no matter, I never wish to see them more--never shall they see my
sorrow--never shall they hear a complaint, a sigh from me. There is no
torture which I could not more easily endure than their insulting pity. I
will die, as I have lived, the envy and admiration of the world. When I am
gone, let them find out their mistake; and moralize, if they will, over my
grave." She paused. Belinda had no power to speak.

"Promise, swear to me," resumed Lady Delacour vehemently, seizing
Belinda's hand, "that you will never reveal to any mortal what you have
seen and heard this night. No living creature suspects that Lady Delacour
is dying by inches, except Marriott and that woman whom but a few hours
ago I thought my _real friend_, to whom I trusted every secret of my life,
every thought of my heart. Fool! idiot! dupe that I was to trust to the
friendship of a woman whom I knew to be without principle: but I thought
she had honour; I thought she could never betray _me_,--O Harriot!
Harriot! you to desert me!--Any thing else I could have borne--but you,
who I thought would have supported me in the tortures of mind and body
which I am to go through--you that I thought would receive my last breath
--you to desert me!--Now I am alone in the world--left to the mercy of an
insolent waiting-woman."

Lady Delacour hid her face in Belinda's lap, and almost stifled by the
violence of contending emotions, she at last gave vent to them, and sobbed
aloud.

"Trust to one," said Belinda, pressing her hand, with all the tenderness
which humanity could dictate, "who will never leave you at the mercy of an