“A false prophetess! Nowithstanding all my visions, I have outlived the night, you see,” said Lady Delacour, to Miss Portman when they met in the morning. “I have heard, my dear Belinda, and I believe, that the passion of love, which can endure caprice, vice, wrinkles, deformity, poverty, nay, disease itself, is notwithstanding so squeamish as to be instantaneously disgusted by the perception of folly in the object beloved. I hope friendship, though akin to love, is of a more robust constitution, else what would become of me? My folly, and my visions, and my spectre--oh, that I had not exposed myself to you in this manner! Harriot Freke herself is scarcely more contemptible. Spies and cowards are upon an equal footing. Her malice and her _frolic_ are consistent with her character, but my fears and my superstition are totally inconsistent with mine. Forget the nonsense I talked to you last night, my dear, or fancy that I was then under the dominion of laudanum. This morning you shall see Lady Delacour _herself again_. Is Dr. X----, is the surgeon ready? Where are they? I am prepared. My fortitude shall redeem me in your opinion, Belinda, and in my own.” Doctor X---- and the surgeon immediately obeyed her summons. Helena heard them go into Lady Delacour’s room, and she saw by Marriott’s countenance, who followed, that her mother was going to submit to the operation. She sat down trembling on the steps which led to her mother’s room, and waited there a long time, as she thought, in the most painful suspense. At last she heard some one call Helena. She looked up, and saw her father close to her. “Helena,” said he, “how is your mother?” “I don’t know. Oh, papa, you cannot go in there _now_,” said Helena, stopping him as he was pressing forwards. “Why did not you or Miss Portman write to me yesterday, as you promised?” said Lord Delacour, in a voice that showed he was scarcely able to ask the question. “Because, papa, we had nothing to tell you: nothing was done yesterday. But the surgeon is now there,” said Helena, pointing towards her mother’s room. Lord Delacour stood motionless for an instant; then suddenly seizing his daughter’s hand, “Let us go,” said he: “if we stay here, we shall hear her screams;” and he was hurrying her away, when the door of Lady Delacour’s apartment opened, and Belinda appeared, her countenance radiant with joy. “Good news, dear Helena! Oh, my lord! you are come in a happy moment--I give you joy.” “Joy! joy! joy!” cried Marriott, following. “Is it all over?” said Lord Delacour. “And without a single shriek!” said Helena. “What courage!”