Volume 8, Chapter 3 of Cecilia. The journey was melancholy and tedious. Mrs. Charlton, extremely fatigued by the unusual hurry and exercise both of mind and body which she had lately gone through, was obliged to travel very slowly, and to lie upon the road. Cecilia, however, was in no haste to proceed. She was going to know when she wished to see. She was wholly without expectation of meeting with any thing that could give her pleasure. The unfortunate expedition in which she had been engaged left her now nothing but regret and only promised her in future sorrow and mortification. Mrs. Charlton, after her return home, still continued ill, and Cecilia, who constantly attended her, had the additional affliction of imputing her in disposition to herself. Everything she thought conspired to punish the error she had committed, her proceedings were discovered, though her motives were unknown, the Delville family could not fail to hear of her enterprise, and while they attributed it to her temerity they would exalt in its failure, but chiefly hung upon her mind the unaccountable prohibition of her marriage. Once that could proceed she was wholly without ability to divine, yet her surmises were not more fruitless than various. At one moment she imagined it some frolic of Morris, at another some perfidy of Moncton, and at another an idle and unmeaning trick of some stranger to them all. But none of these suppositions carried with them any error of probability. Morris, even if he had watched their motions and pursued them to the church, which his inquisitive impertinence made by no means impossible, could yet hardly have either time or opportunity to engage any woman in so extraordinary an undertaking. Mr. Moncton, however adverse to the connection, she considered as a man of too much honor to break it off in a manner so alarming and disgraceful, and mischief so wanton in any stranger, seemed to require a share of unfeeling effrontery, which could fall to the lot of so few as to make this suggestion unnatural and incredible. Sometimes she imagined that Delville might formerly have been affianced to some woman, who having accidentally discovered his intentions, took this desperate method of rendering them abortive. But this was a short-lived thought, and speedily gave way to her esteem for his general character and her confidence in the firmness of his probity. All therefore was dark and mysterious, conjecture was baffled, and meditation was useless. Her opinions were unfixed, and her heart was miserable. She could only be steady in believing Delville as unhappy as herself, and only find consolation in believing him also as blameless. Three days passed thus, without incident or intelligence, her time wholly occupied in attending Mrs. Charlton. Her thoughts all engrossed upon her own situation, but upon the fourth day she was informed that a lady was in the parlor, who desired to speak with her. She presently went downstairs, and upon entering the room perceived Mrs. Delville. Seized with astonishment and fear, she stopped short, and looking aghast, held by the door, robbed of all power to receive so unexpected and unwelcome a visitor by an internal sensation of guilt mingled with a dread of discovery and reproach. Mrs. Delville, addressing her with the coldest politeness, said, I fear I have surprised you. I am sorry I had not time to acquaint you of my intention to wait upon you. Cecilia then, moving from the door, faintly answered, I cannot, madame, but be honoured by your notice, whenever you are pleased to confer it. They then sat down, Mrs. Delville preserving in air the most formal and distant, and Cecilia half-sinking with apprehensive dismay. After a short and ill-boating silence. I mean not, said Mrs. Delville, to embarrass or distress you. I will not therefore keep you in suspense of the purport of my visit. I come not to make inquiries. I come not to put your sincerity to any trial, nor to torture your delicacy. I dispense with all explanation, for I have not one doubt to solve. I know what has passed. I know that my son loves you. Not all her secret alarm, nor all the perturbation of her fears, had taught Cecilia to expect so direct an attack, nor enabled her to bear the shock of it with any composure. She could not speak. She could not look at Mrs. Delville. She arose and walked to the window, without knowing what she was doing. Here, however, her distress was not likely to diminish. For the first sight she saw was Fidel, who barked, and jumped up at the window to lick her hands. Good God! Fidel here! exclaimed Mrs. Delville, amazed. Cecilia, totally overpowered, covered her glowing face with both her hands and sunk into a chair. Mrs. Delville, for a few minutes, was silent, and then, following her, said, Imagine not I am making any discovery, nor suspect me of any design to develop your sentiments, that Mortimer could love in vain I never believed, that Miss Beverly, possessing so much merit, could be blind to it in another, I never thought possible. I mean not, therefore, to solicit any account or explanation, but merely to beg your patience while I talk to you myself, and your permission to speak to you with openness and truth. Cecilia, though relieved by this calmness from all apprehension of reproach, founded her manner of coldness that convinced her of the loss of her affection, and, in the introduction to her business, a solemnity that assured her what she should decree would be unalterable. She uncovered her face to show her respectful attention, but she could not raise it up and could not utter a word. Mrs. Delville then seated herself next to her, and gravely continued her discourse. Miss Beverly, however little acquainted with the state of our family affairs, can scarcely have been uninformed that a fortune such as hers seems almost all that family can desire, nor can she have failed to observe that her merit and accomplishments have nowhere been more felt and admired. The choice, therefore, of Mortimer she could not doubt would have our sanction, and when she honoured his proposals with her favour, she might naturally conclude she gave happiness and pleasure to all his friends. Cecilia, superior to accepting appalliation of which she felt herself undeserving, now lifted her head up, and forcing herself to speak, said, No, madame, I will not deceive you, for I have never been deceived myself. I presumed not to expect your approbation, though in missing it I have forever lost my own. Has Mortimer then cried she with eagerness, been strictly honourable? Has he neither beguiled nor betrayed you? No, madame, she said, blushing, I have nothing to reproach him with. Even he is indeed my son, cried Mrs. Delville with emotion. Had he been treacherous to you while disobedient to us, I had indisputably renounced him. Cecilia, who now seemed the only culprit, felt herself in a state of humiliation not to be born. She collected, therefore, all her courage, and said, I have cleared Mr. Delville. Permit me, madame, now, to say something for myself. Certainly you cannot oblige me more than by speaking without disguise. It is not in the hope of regaining your good opinion, that, I see, is lost. But merely— No, not lost, said Mrs. Delville, but if once it was yet higher, the fault was my own, in indulging in expectation of perfection to which human nature is perhaps unequal. Ah, then thought Cecilia, all is over. The contempt, I so much feared, is incurred, and though it may be softened, it can never be removed. Take then, and with sincerity, she continued, all you wish me to hear, and then grant me your attention in return to the purpose of my present journey. I have little, madame, answered the depressed Cecilia, to say.  I will not therefore pretend to take any merit for revealing it. I will only add that my consent to this transaction has made me miserable almost from the moment I gave it. That I meant and wished to retract as soon as reflection pointed out to me my error, and that circumstances the most perverse, not blindness to propriety nor stubbornness and wrong, led me to make at last that fatal attempt of which the recollection to my last hour must fill me with regret and shame. I wonder not, said Mrs. Delville, that in a situation where delicacy was so much less requisite than courage, Miss Beverly should feel herself distressed and unhappy. A mind such as hers could never err with impunity, and it is solely from a certainty of her innate sense of right that I venture to wait upon her now, and that I have any hope to influence her upon whose influence alone our whole family must in future depend. Shall I now proceed, or is there anything you wish to say first? No, madame, nothing. Hear me, then, I beg of you, with no predetermination to disregard me, but with an equitable resolution to attend to reason, and a candor that leaves an opening to conviction. Not easy indeed is such a task, to a mind preoccupied with an intention to be guided by the dictates of inclination. You wrong me indeed, madame, interrupted Cecilia greatly hurt. My mind harbors no such intention. It has no desire but to be guided by duty. It is wretched with a consciousness of having failed in it. I pine. I sicken to recover my own good opinion. I should then no longer feel unworthy of yours, and whether or not I might be able to regain it, I should at least lose this cruel depression that now sinks me in your presence. To regain it, said Mrs. Delville, were to exercise but half your power, which at this moment enables you, if such is your wish, to make me think of you more highly than one human being ever thought of another. Do you condescend to hold this worth your while? Cecilia started at the question. Her heart beat quick with struggling passions. She saw the sacrifice which was to be required, and her pride, her affronted pride arose high to anticipate the rejection. But the design was combated by her affections, which opposed the indignant rashness, and told her that one hasty speech might separate her from Delville forever. When this painful conflict was over, of which Mrs. Delville patiently waited the issue, she answered with much hesitation. To regain your good opinion, madame, greatly, truly as I value it, is what I now scarcely dare hope. Say not so, cried she, since, if you hope, you cannot miss it. I purpose to point out to you the means to recover it, and to tell you how greatly I shall think myself your debtor if you refuse not to employ them. She stopped. But Cecilia hung back, fearful of her own strength. She dared venture at no professions. But how either to support or dispute her at compliance, she dreaded to think. I come to you, then, Mrs. Delville solemnly resumed, in the name of Mr. Delville, and in the name of our whole family, a family as ancient as it is honourable, as honourable as it is ancient. Consider me as its representative, and here in me its common voice, common opinion, and common address. My son, the supporter of our house, the sole guardian of its name, and the air of our united fortunes, has selected you, we know, for the lady of his choice, and so fondly has fixed upon you his affections, that he is ready to relinquish us all in preference to subduing them. To yourself alone, then, can we apply, and I come to you, a hold, madame, hold! interrupted Cecilia, whose courage now revived from resentment. I know what you would say. You come to tell me of your disdain.  There is little occasion for such a step. I am depressed. I am self-condemned already. Spare me, therefore, this insupportable humiliation. Wound me not with your scorn. Oppress me not with your superiority. I aim at no competition. I attempt no vindication. I acknowledge my own littleness as readily as you can despise it, and nothing but indignity could urge me to defend it. Believe me, said Mrs. Delville, I meant not to hurt or offend you, and I am sorry if I have appeared to you either arrogant or assuming. The peculiar and perilous situation of my family has perhaps betrayed me into offensive expressions, and made me guilty myself of an ostentation which in others has often disgusted me. Ill, indeed, can we any of us bear the test of experiment, when tried upon those subjects which call forth our particular propensities? We may strive to be disinterested. We may struggle to be impartial. But self will still predominate. Still show us the imperfection of our natures and the narrowness of our souls. Yet acquit me, I beg of any intentional insolence, and imagine not that in speaking highly of my own family I mean to depreciate yours. On the contrary, I know it to be respectable. I know, too, that we're at the lowest in the kingdom, the first might envy it that it gave birth to such a daughter. Cecilia, somewhat soothed by this speech, begged her pardon for having interrupted her, and she proceeded. To your family, then, I assure you, whatever may be the pride of our own, you being its offspring we would not object. With your merit we are well acquainted, your character has our highest esteem, and your fortune exceeds even our most sanguine desires. Strange at once and afflicting that not all these requisites for the satisfaction of prudence nor all these allurements for the gratification of happiness can suffice to fulfill or to silence the claims of either. There are yet other demands to which we must attend. Demands which ancestry and blood call upon us, allowed to ratify. Such claimants are not to be neglected with impunity. They assert their rights with the authority of prescription. They forbid us alike, either to bend to inclination or stoop to interest, and from generation to generation their injuries will call out for redress, should their noble and long and sullied name be voluntarily consigned to oblivion. Cecilia, extremely struck by these words, scarce wondered, since so strong and so established were her opinions, that the obstacle to her marriage, though but one, should be considered as insuperable. Not, therefore, to your name are we averse, she continued, but simply to our own, more partial. To sink that, indeed, in any other, were base and unworthy. What then must be the shock of my disappointment, should Mortimer Delville, the darling of my hopes, the last survivor of his house, in whose birth I rejoiced as the promise of its support, in whose accomplishments I gloried as the revival of its luster?  Oh, how should I know my son, what an alien to his family? How bare to think I had cherished in my bosom the betrayer of its dearest the destroyer of its very existence. Cecilia scarce more afflicted than offended. Now hastily answered, not for me, madame, shall he commit this crime, not on my account, shall he be reprobated by his family. Think of him, therefore, no more, with any reference to me, for I would not be the cause of unworthiness or guilt in him to be mistress of the universe. Nobly said cried Mrs. Delville, her eyes sparkling with joy, and her cheeks glowing with pleasure. Now again do I know Miss Beverly. Now again see the refined, the excellent young woman whose virtues taught me to expect the renunciation even of her own happiness when found to be incompatible with her duty. Cecilia now trembled in turn pale. She scarce knew herself what she had said. But she found by Mrs. Delville's construction of her words, they had been regarded as her final relinquishing of her son. She ardently wished to quit the room before she was called upon to confirm the sentence. But she had not courage to make the effort, nor to rise, speak, or move. I grieve indeed, continued Mrs. Delville, whose coldness and austerity were changed into mildness and compassion, at the necessity I have been under to draw from you a concurrence so painful, but no other resource was in my power. My influence with Mortimer, whatever it may be, I have not any right to try without obtaining your previous consent, since I regard him myself as bound to you in honour, and only to be released by your own virtuous desire. I will leave you, however, for my presence I see is oppressive to you. Farewell, and when you can forgive me, I think you will. I have nothing, madame, said Cecilia, coldly, to forgive. You have only asserted your own dignity, and I have nobody to blame but myself for having given you occasion. Alas! cried Mrs. Delville, if worth and nobleness of soul on your part, if esteem and tenderest affection on mine were all which that dignity which offends you requires, how should I crave the blessing of such a daughter, have rejoice in joining my son to excellence, so like his own, and ensuring his happiness while I have stimulated his virtue. Do not talk to me of affection, madame, said Cecilia, turning away from her. Whatever you had for me is past, even your esteem is gone. You may pity me, indeed, but your pity is mixed with contempt, and I am not so abject as to find comfort from exciting it. O little, cried Mrs. Delville, looking at her with the utmost tenderness, little do you see the state of my heart, for never have you appeared to me so worthy as at this moment. In tearing you from my son, I partake all the wretchedness I give, but your own sense of duty must something plead for the strictness with which I act up to mine. She then moved towards the door. Is your carriage, madame, said Cecilia, struggling to disguise her inward anguish under an appearance of solanness, in waiting? Mrs. Delville then came back, and holding at her hand while her eyes glistened with tears, said, to part from you thus frigidly while my heart so warmly admires you is almost more than I can endure. O gentlest Cecilia, condemn not a mother who is impelled to this severity, who performing what she holds to be her duty thinks the office her bitterest misfortune, who foresees in the rage of her husband and the resistance of her son all the misery of domestic contention, and who can only secure the honour of her family by destroying its peace. You will not, then, give me your hand? Cecilia, who had affected not to see that she waited for it, now coldly put it out, distantly curtsying and seeking to preserve her steadiness by avoiding to speak. Mrs. Delville took it, and as she repeated her adieu affectionately pressed it to her lips. Cecilia, starting, and breathing short, from increasing, yet smothered agitation, called out, Why, why this condescension, pray, I entreat you, madame? Heaven bless you, my love, said Mrs. Delville, dropping a tear upon the hand she still held. Heaven bless you, and restore the tranquility you so nobly deserve. Oh, madame, cried Cecilia, vainly striving to repress any longer the tears which now force their way down her cheeks. Why will you break my heart with this kindness? Why will you still compel me to love, when now I almost wish to hate you? No, hate me not, said Mrs. Delville, kissing from her cheeks the tears that watered them. Hate me not, sweetest Cecilia, though in wounding your gentle bosom I am almost detestable to myself. Even the cruel scene which awaits me with my son will not more deeply afflict me. But adieu, I must now prepare for him. She then left the room. But Cecilia, whose pride had no power to resist this tenderness, ran hastily after her, saying, Shall I not see you again, madame?  Cecilia sighed and paused. She knew not what to desire, yet rather wished anything to be done than quietly to sit down to uninterrupted reflection.  I should be sorry, said she, still hesitating, to detain you. You will rejoice me, cried Mrs. Delville, by bearing me in your sight." And she then went into her carriage. Cecilia unfitted to attend her old friend, and unequal to the task of explaining to her the cruel scene in which she had just been engaged, then hastened to her own apartment. Her hither too stifled emotions broke forth in tears and repinnings. Her fate was finally determined, and its determination was not more unhappy than humiliating. She was openly rejected by the family whose alliance she was known to wish. She was compelled to refuse the man of her choice, though satisfied his affections were her own. A misery so peculiar she found hard to support, and almost bursting with conflicting passions, her heart alternately swelled from offended pride, and sunk from disappointed tenderness. End of Chapter 3. CHAPTER IV A PURTURBATION Cecilia was still in this tempetuous state when a message was brought her that a gentleman was below stairs, who begged to have the honour of seeing her. She concluded he was Delville, and the thought of meeting him merely to communicate what must so bitterly afflict him redoubled her distress, and she went down in an agony of perturbation and sorrow. He met her at the door, where before he could speak. Mr. Delville, she cried in a hurrying manner, why will you come? Why will you thus insist upon seeing me, in defiance of every obstacle, and in contempt of my prohibition? Good heavens! cried he, amazed. Wents this reproach? Did you not permit me to wait upon you with the result of my inquiries? Had I not your consent? But why do you look thus disturbed?  You have been weeping. Oh, my Cecilia, have I any share in your sorrow, those tears which never flow weakly? Tell me, have they, has one of them been shared upon my account? And what, cried she, has been the result of your inquiries? Speak quick, for I wish to know, and in another instant I must be gone. How strange, cried the astonished Delville, is this language! How strange are these looks! What new has come to pass? Has any fresh calamity happened? Is there yet some evil which I do not expect? Why will you not answer first, cried she? When I have spoken, you will perhaps be less willing.  What dreadful blow awaits me! For what horror are you preparing me? That which I have just experienced, and which tore you from me even at the foot of the altar, still remains inexplicable, still continues to be involved in darkness and mystery, for the wretch who separated us I have never been able to discover. Have you procured, then, no intelligence? No, none, though since we parted I have never rested a moment. Make then no further inquiry, for now all explanation would be useless. That we were parted, we know, though why we cannot tell. But that again we shall ever meet. She stopped, her streaming eyes cast upwards, and a deep sigh bursting from her heart. Oh, what! cried Delville, endeavouring to take her hand, which she hastily withdrew from him. What does this mean? My loveliest, dearest Cecilia, my betrothed, my affianced wife. Why flow those tears which agony only can ring from you? Why refuse me that hand which so lately was the pledge of your faith? Am I not the same Delville to whom so few days since you gave it? Why will you not open to him your heart? Why thus distrust his honour, and repulse his tenderness? Oh, why, giving him such exquisite misery, refuse him the smallest consolation. What consolation! cried the weeping Cecilia. Can I give? Alas! It is not perhaps you who most wanted! Here the door was opened by one of the Miss Charlton's, who came into the room with a message from her grandmother, requesting to see Cecilia. Cecilia, ashamed of being thus surprised with Delville, and in tears, waited not either to make any excuse to him or any answer to Miss Charlton, but instantly hurried out of the room—not, however, to her old friend, whom now less than ever she could meet, but to her own apartment, where a very short indulgence of grief was succeeded by the severest examination of her own conduct. A retrospection of this sort rarely brings much subject of exultation, when made with the rigid sincerity of secret impartiality. So much stronger is our reason than our virtue, so much higher our sense of duty than our performance. All she had done she now repented. All she had said she disapproved. Her conduct, seldom equal to her notions of right, was now infinitely below them, and the reproaches of her judgment made her forget for a while the afflictions which had misled it. The sorrow to which she had openly given way in the presence of Delville, though their total separation, but the moment before, had been finally decreed, she considered as a weak effusion of tenderness, injurious to delicacy, and censurable by propriety. "'His power over my heart,' cried she, "'it were now indeed too late to conceal. But his power over my understanding it is time to cancel. I am not to be his. My own voice has ratified the renunciation, and since I made it to his mother, it must never without her consent be invalidated. Honor therefore to her, and regard for myself equally command me to fly him, till I cease to be thus affected by his sight.' When Delville therefore sent up an entreaty that he might be again admitted into her presence, she returned for answer that she was not well, and could not see any body. He then left the house, and in a few minutes she received the following note from him.   I would call you unfeeling, but that I saw you were unhappy. I would reproach you with tyranny, but that your eyes when you quitted me were swollen with weeping. I go therefore. I obey the harsh mandate, since my absence is your desire, and I will shut myself up at Bidolf's till I receive your commands. Yet disdain not to reflect that every instant will seem endless, while Cecilia must appear to me unjust, or wound my very soul by the recollection of her in sorrow. Mortimer Delville The mixture of fondness and resentment, with which this letter was dictated, marked so strongly the sufferings and disordered state of the writer, that all the softness of Cecilia returned when she perused it, and left her not a wish but to lessen his inquiritude by assurances of unalterable regard. Yet she determined not to trust herself in his sight, certain they could only meet to grieve over each other, and conscious that a participation of sorrow would but prove a reciprocation of tenderness. Calling therefore upon her duty to resist her inclination, she resolved to commit the whole affair to the will of Mrs. Delville, to whom, though under no promise, she now considered herself responsible. Desirous, however, to shorten the period of Delville's uncertainty, she would not wait till the time she had appointed to see his mother, but wrote the following note to hasten their meeting. To the honourable Mrs. Delville. Madam, your son is now at Burry.  Inform me of your desire, and I will endeavour to fulfil it. As my own agent, I regard myself no longer. If as yours I can give pleasure, or be of service, I shall gladly receive your commands. I have the honour to be, madam, your most obedient servant, Cecilia Beverly. When she had sent off this letter, her heart was more at ease, as reconciled with her conscience. She had sacrificed the son. She had resigned herself to the mother. It now only remained to heal her wounded pride by suffering the sacrifice with dignity, and to recover her tranquility and virtue by making the resignation without repining. Her reflections, too, growing clearer as the mist of passion was dispersed, she recollected with confusion her cold and sullen behaviour to Mrs. Delville. That lady had but done what she had believed was her duty, and that duty was no more than she had been taught to expect from her. In the beginning of her visit, and while doubtful of its success, she had indeed been austere. But the moment victory appeared in view, she became tender, affectionate and gentle. Her justice, therefore, condemned the resentment to which she had given way, and she fortified her mind for the interview which was to follow, by an earnest desire to make all reparation both to Mrs. Delville and herself for that which was passed. In this resolution she was not a little strengthened by seriously considering with herself the great abatement to all her possible happiness which must have been made by the humiliating circumstance of forcing herself into a family which held all connection with her as disgraceful. She desired not to be the wife even of Delville upon such terms. For the more she esteemed and admired him, the more anxious she became for his honour, and the less could she endure being regarded herself as the occasion of its diminution. Now therefore, her plan of conduct settled with calmer spirits, though a heavy heart, she attended upon Mrs. Charlton. But fearing to lose the steadiness she had just acquired before it should be called upon, if she trusted herself to relate the decision which had been made, she besought her for the present to dispense with the account, and then forced herself into conversation upon less interesting subjects. This prudence had its proper effect, and with tolerable tranquility she heard Mrs. Delville again announced, and waited upon her in the parlour with an air of composure. Not so did Mrs. Delville receive her. She was all eagerness and emotion. She flew to her the moment she appeared, and throwing her arms around her warmly exclaimed, O charming girl, savor of our family, preserver of our honour, how poor our words to express my admiration, how inadequate our thanks in return for such obligations as I owe you! You owe me none, madame," said Cecilia, suppressing aside. On my side will be all the obligation, if you can pardon the petulance of my behaviour this morning." Call not, by so harsher name," answered Mrs. Delville, the keenness of a sensibility by which you have yourself alone been the sufferer. You have had a trial the most severe, and, however able to sustain, it was impossible you should not feel it, that you should give up any man whose friend solicit not your reliance. Your mind is too delicate to make wonderful, but your generosity in submitting, unasked, the arrangement of that resignation to those for whose interest it is made, and your high sense of honour in holding yourself accountable to me, though under no tie, and bound by no promise, mark a greatness of mind which calls for reverence rather than thanks, and which I never can praise half so much as I admire. Cecilia, who received this applause but as a confirmation of her rejection, thanked her only by curtsying, and Mrs. Delville, having seated herself next to her, continued her speech. "'My son, you have the goodness to tell me, is here. Have you seen him?' "'Yes, madam,' answered she, blushing, but hardly for a moment. "'And he knows not of my arrival. No, I believe he certainly does not. But then is the trial which awaits him, and heavy for me is the office I must perform. Do you expect to see him again?' "'No. Yes. Perhaps, indeed, I hardly,' she stammered, and Mrs. Delville, taking her hand, said, "'Tell me, Miss Beverly, why should you see him again?' There was thunderstruck by this question, and colouring yet more deeply looked down but could not answer. "'Consider,' continued Mrs. Delville, the purpose of any further meeting, your union is impossible. You have nobly consented to relinquish all thoughts of it. Why then tear your own heart, and torture his, by an intercourse which seems nothing but an ill-judged invitation to fruitless and unavailing sorrow?' Cecilia was still silent. The truth of the expostulation, her reason acknowledged, but to assent to its consequence her whole heart refused. "'The ungenerous triumph of little female vanity,' said Mrs. Delville, "'is far, I am sure, on your mind, of which the enlargement and liberality will rather find consolation from lessening than from embittering his sufferings. Speak to me, then, and tell me honestly, judiciously, candidly tell me, will it not be wiser and more right to avoid rather than seek an object which can only give birth to regret, an interview which can excite no sensations but of misery and sadness?' Cecilia then turned pale. She endeavoured to speak, but could not. She wished to comply, yet to think she had seen him for the last time, to remember how abruptly she had parted from him, and to fear she had treated him unkindly. These were obstacles which opposed her concurrence, though both judgment and propriety demanded it. Can you, then, said Mrs. Delville, after a pause? Can you wish to see Mortimer merely to behold his grief? Can you desire he should see you only to sharpen his affliction at your loss?" "'Oh, no!' cried Cecilia, to whom this reproof restored speech and resolution. I am not so despicable. I am not—I hope so unworthy. I will be ruled by you wholly. I will commit to you everything, yet once—perhaps no more.' "'Ah, my dear Miss Beverly, to meet confessedly for once. What were that but planting a dagger in the heart of Mortimer? What were it but infusing poison into your own?' "'If you think so, madame,' said she, I had better. I will certainly—' she sighed, stammered, and stopped.' "'Hear me!' cried Mrs. Delville. "'And rather let me try to convince them persuade you. Were there any possibility by argument, by reflection, or even by accident, to remove the obstacles to our connection, then would it be well to meet? For then might discussion turn to account, and an interchange of sentiments be productive of some happy experience. But here—' she hesitated, and Cecilia, shocked and ashamed, turned away her face, and cried, "'I know, madame, what you would say, here all is over, and therefore—' "'Yet suffer me,' interrupted she, to be explicit, since we speak upon this matter now for the last time. Here, then, I say, where not one doubt remains, where all is finally, though not happily, decided. What can an interview produce?' "'Mischief of every sort, pain, horror, and repining. To Mortimer you may think it would be kind and granted to his prayers as an alleviation of his misery. Mistaken notion! Nothing could so greatly augment it. All his passions would be raised, all his prudence would be extinguished, his soul would be torn with resentment and regret, and force only would part him from you, when previously he knew that parting was to be eternal. To yourself—' "'Talk not, madame, of me,' cried the unhappy Cecilia, "'what you say of your son is sufficient, and I will yield.' "'Yet hear me,' proceeded she, and believe me, not so unjust as to consider him alone. You also would be an equal, though a less stormy sufferer. You fancy at this moment that once more to meet him would soothe your uneasiness, and that to take of him a farewell would soften the pain of the separation. How false such reasoning! How dangerous such consolation! Acquainted ere you meet that you were to meet him no more, your heart would be all softness and grief, and the very moment when tenderness should be banished from your intercourse, it would bear down all opposition of judgment, spirit, and dignity. You would hang upon every word, because every word would seem the last. Every look, every expression would be riveted in your memory, and his image in this parting distress would be painted upon your mind in colours that would eat into its peace, and perhaps never be erased. "'Enough! Enough!' said Cecilia, I will not see him, I will not even desire it. Is this compliance or conviction? Is what I have said true or only terrifying?' "'Both! Both! I believe, indeed, the conflict would have overpowered me. I see you are right, and I thank you, madam, for saving me from a scene I might so cruelly have rude.' "'O daughter of my mind!' cried Mrs. Delvile, rising and embracing her. Noble, generous, yet gentle, Cecilia! What tie! What connection could make you more dear to me? Who is there like you? Who half so excellent, so open to reason, so ingenuous an error, so rational, so just, so feeling, yet so wise?' "'You are very good,' said Cecilia, with a forced serenity. And I am thankful that your resentment for the past obstructs not your lenity for the present.' "'Alas, my love! How shall I resent the past, when I ought myself to have foreseen this calamity? And I should have foreseen it, had I not been informed you were engaged, and upon your engagement built our security. Else, had I been more alarmed, for my own admiration would have bid me look forward to my sons. You were just, indeed, the woman he had least chance to resist. You were precisely the character to seize his very soul. To a softness the most fatally alluring.  You seem born to have all the world wish your exultation, and no part of it murmur at your superiority. Were any obstacle but this insuperable one in the way, should nobles, nay, should princes offer their daughters to my election, I would reject, without murmuring the most magnificent proposals, and take in triumph to my heart my son's nobler choice.' "'Oh, madam,' cried Cecilia, talk not to me thus, speak not such flattering words.  Load, load me with contempt, but do not thus torture me with approbation.' "'Pardon me, sweetest girl, if I have awakened those emotions you so wisely seek to subdue. May my son but emulate your example, and my pride in his virtue shall be the solace of my affliction for his misfortunes.' She then tenderly embraced her, and abruptly took her leave. Cecilia had now acted her part, and acted it to her own satisfaction. But the curtain dropped when Mrs. Delvile left the house. Nature resumed her rites, and the sorrow of her heart was no longer disguised or repressed. Some faint ray of hope had till now broke through its gloomiest cloud of her misery, and secretly flattered her that its dispersion was possible, though distant. But that ray was extinct. That hope was no more.  Cecilia reluctantly obeyed, for she feared increasing her indisposition by the intelligence she had to communicate. She struggled therefore to appear to her with tolerable calmness, and in briefly relating what had passed, forbore to mingle with the narrative her own feelings and unhappiness. Mrs. Charlton heard the account with the utmost concern. She accused Mrs. Delvile of severity, and even of cruelty. She lamented the strange accident by which the marriage ceremony had been stopped, and regretted that it had not again been begun, as he only means to have rendered ineffectual the present fatal interposition. But the grief of Cecilia, however violent, induced her not to join in this regret. She mourned only the obstacle which had occasioned the separation, and not the incident which had merely interrupted the ceremony. Convinced by the conversations in which she had just been engaged of Mrs. Delvile's inflexibility, she rather rejoiced than repined that she had put it to no nearer trial. Sorrow was all she felt, for her mind was too liberal to harbour resentment against a conduct which she saw was dictated by a sense of right, and too ductile and too affectionate to remain unmoved by the personal kindness which had softened the rejection, and the many marks of esteem and regard which had shown her it was lamented, though considered as indispensable. How and by whom this affair had been betrayed to Mrs. Delvile she knew not. But the discovery was nothing less than surprising, since by various unfortunate accidents it was known to so many, and since, in the horror and confusion of the mysterious prohibition to the marriage, neither Delvile nor herself had thought of even attempting to give any caution to the witnesses of that scene, not to make it known. An attempt, however, which must almost necessarily have been unavailing, as the incident was too extraordinary and too singular to have any chance of suppression. During this conversation one of the servants came to inform Cecilia that a man was below to inquire if there was no answer to the note he had brought in the forenoon. Cecilia, greatly distressed, knew not upon what to resolve, that the patience of Delvile should be exhausted, she did not indeed wonder, and to relieve his anxiety was now almost her only wish. She would therefore instantly have written to him, confessed her sympathy in his sufferings, and besought him to endure with fortitude an evil which was no longer to be withstood. But she was uncertain whether he was yet acquainted with the journey of his mother to Burry, and having agreed to commit to her the whole management of the affair, she feared it would be dishonorable to take any step in it without her concurrence. She returned, therefore, a message that she had yet no answer ready. In a very few minutes Delvile called himself, and sent up an earnest request for permission to see her. Here at least she had no perplexity, an interview she had given her positive word to refuse, and therefore without a moment's hesitation she bid the servant inform him she was particularly engaged, and sorry it was not in her power to see any company. In the greatest perturbation he left the house, and immediately wrote to her the following lines. To Miss Beverly, I entreat you to see me, if only for an instant, I entreat, I implore you to see me. Mrs. Charlton may be present, all the world if you wish it may be present, but deny me not admission, I supplicate, I conjure you. I will call in an hour. In that time you may have finished your present engagement. I will otherwise wait longer, and call again. You will not, I think, turn me from your door, until I have seen you, I can only live in its vicinity." M.D. The man who brought this note waited not for any answer. Cecilia read it in an agony of mind inexpressible. She saw by its style how much Delvile was irritated, and her knowledge of his temper made her certain his irritation proceeded from believing himself ill-used. She ardently wished to appease and to quiet him, and regretted the necessity of appearing obdurate and unfeeling even more at that moment than the separation itself. To a mind priding in its purity, and animated in its affections, few sensations can excite Keener misery than those by which an apprehension is raised of being thought worthless or ungrateful by the objects of our chosen regard. To be deprived of their society is less bitter. To be robbed of our own tranquility by any other means is less afflicting. Yet to this it was necessary to submit, or incur the only penalty which to such a mind would be more severe, self-reproach. She had promised to be governed by Mrs. Delvile. She had nothing therefore to do but obey her. Yet to turn, as he expressed himself from the door, a man who but for an incident the most incomprehensible would now have been sole master of his self and her actions, seemed so unkind and so tyrannical that she could not endure to be within hearing of his repulse. She begged therefore the use of Mrs. Charlton's carriage, and determined to make a visit to Mrs. Harrell till Delvile and his mother had wholly quitted Burry. She was not indeed quite satisfied in going to the house of Mr. Arnot, but she had no time to weigh objections, and knew not any other place to which still greater might not be started. She wrote a short letter to Mrs. Delvile, acquainting her with her purpose and its reason, and repeating her assurances that she would be guided by her implicitly, and then embracing Mrs. Charlton, whom she left to the care of her grand-daughters, she got into a chaise, accompanied only by her maid, and one man and horse, and ordered the bestylian to drive to Mr. Arnot's. CHAPTER V. A COTTAGE The evening was already far advanced, and before she arrived at the end of her little journey it was quite dark. When they came within a mile of Mr. Arnot's house, the postylian, interning too suddenly from the turnpike to the cross-road, overset the carriage. The accident, however, occasioned no other mischief than delaying their proceeding, and Cecilia and her maid were helped out of the chaise unhurt. The servants, assisted by a man who was walking upon the road, began lifting it up, and Cecilia, too busy within to be attentive to what passed without, disregarded what went forward till she heard her footman call for help. She then hastily advanced to inquire what was the matter, and found that the passenger who had lent his aid, had by working in the dark unfortunately slipped his foot under one of the wheels, and so much hurt it, that without great pain he could not put it to the ground. Cecilia immediately desired that the sufferer might be carried to his own home in the chaise, while she and the maid walked on to Mr. Arnot's, attended by her servant on horseback. This little incident proved of singular service to her upon first entering the house. Mrs. Harrell was at supper with her brother, and hearing the voice of Cecilia in the hall, hastened with the extreme surprise to inquire what had occasioned so late a visit, followed by Mr. Arnot, whose amazement was accompanied with a thousand other sensations too powerful for speech. Cecilia, unprepared with any excuse, instantly related the adventure she had met with on the road, which quieted their curiosity by turning their attention to her personal safety. They ordered a room to be prepared for her, and treated her to go to rest with all speed, and postpone any further account till the next day. With this request she most gladly complied. Happy to be spared the embarrassment of enquiry, and rejoiced to be relieved from the fatigue of conversation, her night was restless and miserable. To know how Del Vile would bear her flight was never a moment from her thoughts, and to hear whether he would obey or oppose his mother was her incessant wish. She was fixed, however, to be faithful in refusing to see him, and at least to suffer nothing new from her own enterprise or fault. Early in the morning Mrs. Harrell came to see her. She was eager to learn why, after invitations repeatedly refused, she was thus suddenly arrived without any, and she was still more eager to talk of herself, and relate the weary life she led thus shut up in the country and confined to the society of her brother. Cecilia evaded giving any immediate answer to her questions, and Mrs. Harrell happy in an opportunity to rehearse her own complaints, soon forgot that she had asked any, and in a very short time was perfectly, though imperceptively, contented to be herself, the only subject upon which they conversed. But not such was the selfishness of Mr. Arnott, and Cecilia, when she went down to breakfast, perceived with the utmost concern that he had passed a night as sleepless as her own. A visit so sudden, so unexpected, and so unaccountable, from an object that no discouragement could make him think of with indifference, had been a subject to him of conjecture and wonder that had revived all the hopes and the fears which had lately, though still unextinguished, lain dormant. The inquiries, however, which his sister had given up, he ventured not to renew, and thought himself but too happy in her presence whatever might be the cause of her visit. He perceived, however, immediately the sadness that hung upon her mind, and his own was redoubled by the sight. Mrs. Harrell also saw that she looked ill, but attributed it to the fatigue and fright of the preceding evening, well knowing that a similar accident would have made her ill herself, or fancy that she was so. During breakfast, Cecilia sent for the postillian, to inquire of him how the man had fared whose good-natured assistance in their distress had been so unfortunate to himself. He answered that he had turned out to be a day-labourer, who lived about half a mile off, and then, partly to gratify her own humanity, and partly to find any other employment for herself and friends than uninteresting conversation, she proposed that they should all walk to the poor man's habitation, and offer him some amends for the injury he had received. This was readily assented to, and the postillian directed them wither to go. The place was a cottage, situated upon a common. They entered it without ceremony, and found a clean-looking woman at work. Cecilia inquired for her husband, and was told that he was gone out to day-labour. "'I am very glad to hear it,' returned she. "'I hope then he has got the better of the accident he met with last night.' "'It was not him, madam,' said the woman, met with the accident. It was John. There he is, working in the garden. To the garden then they all went, and saw him upon the ground weeding. The moment they approached he arose, and without speaking began to limb, for he could hardly walk away. "'I am sorry, master,' said Cecilia, that you are so much hurt. Have you had anything put to your foot?' The man made no answer, but still turned away from her. A glance, however, of his eye, which the next instant he fixed upon the ground, startled her. She moved round to look at him again, and perceived Mr. Belfield. "'Good God!' she exclaimed, but seeing him still retreat, she recollected in a moment how little he would be obliged to her for betraying him, and suffering him to go on, turned back to her party, and led the way again into the house. As soon as the first emotion of her surprise was over, she inquired how long John had belonged to the Scottish, and what was his way of life. The woman answered he had only been with them a week, and that he went out to day labour with her husband. Cecilia then, finding their stay kept him from his employment, and willing to save him the distress of being seen by Mr. Arnott or Mrs. Harrell, proposed their returning home. She grieved most sincerely at beholding in so melancholy an occupation a young man of such talents and abilities. She wished much to assist him, and began considering by what means it might be done, when as they were walking from the cottage a voice at some distance called out, "'Madame, Miss Beverly!' and looking round to her utter amazement she saw Belfield endeavouring to follow her. She instantly stopped, and he advanced, his hat in his hand, and his whole air indicating he sought not to be disguised. But at this sudden change of behaviour she then stepped forward to meet him, accompanied by her friends, but when they came up to each other she checked her desire of speaking to leave him fully at liberty to make himself known or keep concealed. He bowed with a look of assumed gaiety and ease, but the deep scarlet that tinged his whole face manifested his internal confusion, and in a voice that attempted to sound lively, though its tremulous accents betrayed uneasiness and distress, he exclaimed with a forced smile. Is it possible, Miss Beverly, contained to notice a poor miserable day-labourer such as I am? How will she be justified in the Beaumond, when even the sight of such a red-shot to fill her with horror? Henceforth let hysterics be blown to the winds, and let nerves be discarded from the female vocabulary, since a lady so young and fair can stand this shock without heart-shawn or fainting. I am happy," answered Cecilia, to find your spirit so good, yet my own I must confess are not raised by seeing you in this strange situation. My spirits cried he with an air of defiance. Never were they better, never so good as at this moment. Strange as seems my situation, it is all that I wish. I have found out at last the true secret of happiness, that secret which so long I pursued in vain, but which always eluded my grasp, till the instant of despair arrived, when slackening my pace I gave it up as a phantom. Go from me, I cried, I will be cheated no more, thou airy bubble, thou fleeting shadow, I will live no longer in thy sight, since thy beams dazzle without warming me. Mankind seems only composed as matter for thy experiments, and I will quit the whole race, that thy delusions may be presented to me no more. This romantic flight, which startled even Cecilia, though acquainted with this character, gave to Mrs. Harrell and Mr. Arnott the utmost surprise. His appearance and the account they had just heard of him, having by no means prepared them for such sentiments or such language. Is then this great secret of happiness, said Cecilia, nothing at last but total seclusion from the world?" No, madam, answered he. It is labour with independence. Cecilia now wished much to ask some explanation of his affairs, but was doubtful whether he would gratify her before Mrs. Harrell and Mr. Arnott, and hurt to keep him standing, though he lent upon a stick. She told him therefore, she would at present detain him no longer, but endeavour again to see him before she quitted her friends. Mr. Arnott then interfered, and desired his sister would entreat Miss Beverly to invite whom she pleased to his house. Cecilia thanked him, and instantly asked Velfield to call upon her in the afternoon. No, madam, no, cried he. I have done with visits and society. I will not so soon break through a system with much difficulty formed, when all my future tranquillity depends upon adhering to it. The worthlessness of mankind has disgusted me with the world, and my resolution in quitting it shall be immovable as its baseness. I must not venture, then, said Cecilia, to inquire. Enquire, madam, interrupted he with quickness. What you please! There is nothing I will not answer to you, to this lady, to this gentleman, to any and to every body. What can I wish to conceal, where I have nothing to gain or to lose, when first indeed I saw you, I involuntarily shrunk, a weak shame for a moment seized me? I felt fallen and debased, and I wished to avoid you, but a little recollection brought me back to my senses, and where, cried I, is the disgrace of exercising for my subsistence the strength with which I am endued, and why should I blush to lead the life which uncorrupted nature first prescribed to man? Well, then, said Cecilia, more and more interested to hear him, if you will not visit us, will you at least permit us to return with you to some place where you can be seated? I will with pleasure, cried he, go to any place where you may be seated yourselves, but for me I have ceased to regard accommodation or inconvenience. They then all went back to the cottage, which was now empty, the woman being out at work. Will you then, sir, said Cecilia, give me leave to inquire whether Lord Vanult is acquainted with your retirement, and if it will not much surprise and disappoint him? Lord Vanult, cried he, hotly, has no right to be surprised. I would have quitted his house if no other, not even this cottage, had a roof to afford me shelter. I am sorry, indeed, to hear it, said Cecilia, I had hoped he would have known your value and merited your regard. Illusage, answered he, is as hard to relate as to be endured. There is commonly something pitiful in a complaint, and though oppression in a general sense provokes the wrath of mankind, the investigation of its minuter circumstances excites nothing but derision. Those who give the offence, by the worthy few, may be hated, but those who receive it, by the world at large, will be despised. Conscious of this, I disdained making any appeal. Myself the only sufferer, I had a right to be the only judge, and shaking off the base trammels of interest and subjection, I quitted the house in silent indignation, not choosing to remonstrate, where I desired not to be reconciled. And was there no mode of life, said Cecilia, to adopt, but living with Lord Vanult or giving up the whole world? I weighed everything maturely, answered he, before I made my determination, and I found it so much, the most eligible, that I am certain I can never repent it. I had friends who would with pleasure have presented me to some other nobleman, but my whole heart revolted against leading that kind of life, and I would not, therefore, idly rove from one great man to another, adding ill-will to disgrace, and pursuing hope in defiance of common sense, no. When I quitted Lord Vanult, I resolved to give up patronage for ever. I retired to private lodgings to deliberate what next could be done. I had lived in many ways, I had been unfortunate or imprudent in all. The law I had tried, but its rudiments were tedious and disgusting, the army too, but there found my mind more fatigued with indolence than my body with action. General dissipation had then its turn, but the expense to which it led was ruinous, and self-reproach baffled pleasure while I pursued it. I have even—yes, there are few things I have left untried. I have even—for why now disguise it? He stopped, and coloured, but in a quicker voice presently proceeded. Trade also has had its share in my experiments. For that in truth I was originally destined, but my education had ill-suited me to such a destination, and the traders first maxed in my reverse, in lavishing when I ought to have accumulated. What then remained for me? To run over again the same irksome round I had not patience, and to attempt anything new I was unqualified. Money I had none. My friends I could bear to berth and no longer. A fortnight I lingered in wretched irresolution. A simple accident at the end of it happily settled me. I was walking one morning, in Hyde Park, forming a thousand plans for my future life, but quarrelling with them all. When a gentleman met me on horseback, from whom at my Lord Vannelts I had received particular civilities, I looked another way not to be seen by him, and the change in my dress since I left his lordships made me easily pass unnoticed. He had rode on, however, but a few yards, before by some accident or mismanagement he had a fall from his horse. Forgetting all my caution I flew instantly to his assistance. He was bruised, but not otherwise hurt. I helped him up, and he lent upon my arm. In my haste of inquiring how he had fared I called him by his name. He knew me, but looked surprised at my appearance. He was speaking to me, however, with kindness. When seeing some gentleman of his acquaintance galloping up to him he hastily disengaged himself from me, and instantly beginning to recount to them what had happened. He sedulously looked another way, and joining his new companions walked off without taking further notice of me. For a moment I was almost tempted to trouble him to come back, but a little recollection told me how ill he deserved my resentment, and bid me transfer it for the future from the pitiful individual to the worthless community. Here finished my deliberation. The disgust to the world which I had already conceived, this little incident confirmed. I saw it was only made for the great and the rich. Poor therefore, and low, what had I to do in it? I determined to quit it for ever, and to end every disappointment by crushing every hope. I wrote to Lord Vannelt to send my trunks to my mother. I wrote to my mother that I was well, and would soon let her hear more. I then paid off my lodgings, and shaking the dust from my feet, bid along adieu to London, and committing my route to Chance, stroll on into the country without knowing or caring which way.  But my slow method of travelling gave me time for reflection, and reflection soon showed me the error of this notion. What, cried I, may indeed be avoided by solitude, but will misery, will regret, will deep dejection of mind? No, they will follow more assiduously than ever, for what is there to oppose them when neither business occupies the time nor hope the imagination, where the past has nothing left but resentment, and the future only opens to a dismal uninteresting void? No stranger to life. I knew human nature could not exist on such terms. Still less a stranger to books, I respected the voice of wisdom and experience in the first of moralists, and most enlightened of men. Footnote, Dr. Janssen. And reading the letter of Cowley, I saw the vanity and absurdity of panting after solitude. Footnote, Life of Cowley, page thirty-four. I sought not, therefore, a self, but since I purposed to live for myself, I determined for myself also to think. Civility of imitation has ever been as much my scorn as civility of dependence. I resolved, therefore, to strike out something new, and no more to retire as every other man had retired than to linger in the world as every other man had lingered. The result of all you now see. I found out this cottage and took up my abode in it. I am here out of the way of all society, yet avoid the great evil of retreat, having nothing to do. I am constantly, not capriciously employed, and the exercise which benefits my health imperceptibly raises my spirits in despite of adversity. I am removed from all temptation. I have scarce even the power to do wrong. I have no object for ambition, for repining I have no time. I have found out, I repeat, the true secret of happiness, labour with independence." He stopped. And Cecilia, who had listened to this narrative with a mixture of compassion, admiration and censure, was too much struck with its singularity to be readily able to answer it. Her curiosity to hear him had sprung wholly from her desire to assist him, and she had expected from his story to gather some hint upon which her services might be offered. But none had occurred. He professed himself fully satisfied with his situation, and though reason and probability contradicted the profession, she could not venture to dispute it with any delicacy or prudence. She thanked him, therefore, for his relation, with many apologies for the trouble she had given him, and added, I must not express my concern for misfortunes which you seem to regard as conducive to your contentment, nor remonstrate at the step you have taken, since you have been led to it by choice, not necessity. But yet you must pardon me, if I cannot help hoping I shall some time see you happier, according to the common, however vulgar ideas of the rest of the world. No, never, never, I am sick of mankind, not from theory, but experience, and the precautions I have taken against mental fatigue will secure me from repentance or any desire of change, for it is not the active, but the indolent who weary, it is not the temperate, but the pampered who are capricious. Is your sister, sir, acquainted with this change in your fortune and opinions? Poor girl, no. She and her unhappy mother have borne but too long with my enterprises and misfortunes. Even yet, they would sacrifice whatever they possess to enable me to play once more the game so often lost. But I will not abuse their affection, nor suffer them again to be slaves to my caprices, nor dupes to their own delusive expectations. I have sent them word I am happy. I have not yet told them how, or where. I fear much the affliction of their disappointment, and for a while shall conceal from them my situation, which they would fancy was disgraceful, and grieve at us cruel. And is it not cruel, said Cecilia, is labour indeed so sweet, and can you seriously derive happiness from what all others consider as misery? Not sweet, answered he, in itself, but sweet, most sweet, and salutary in its effects. When I work, I forget all the world, my projects for the future, my disappointments from the past, mental fatigue is overpowered by personal. I toil till I require rest, and that rest which nature, not luxury demands, leads not to idle meditation, but to sound, heavy, necessary sleep. I wake the next morning to the same thought-exiling business, work again till my powers are exhausted, and am relieved again at night by the same health-recruiting insensibility. And if this, cried Cecilia, is the life of happiness, why have we so many complaints of the sufferings of the poor, and why so eternally do we hear of their hardships and distress? They have known no other life, they are strangers, therefore, to the felicity of their lot. Had they mingled in the world, fed high their fancy with hope, and looked forward with expectation of enjoyment, had they been courted by the great and offered with profusion, adulation for their abilities, yet, even when starving, been offered nothing else, had they seen an attentive circle wait all its entertainment from their powers, yet found themselves forgotten as soon as out of sight, and perceived themselves avoided when no longer buffoons? Oh! had they known and felt provocations such as these, how gladly would their resentful spirits turn from the whole unfeeling race, and how would they respect that noble and manly labour which at once disentangles them from such subjugating snares, and enables them to fly the ingratitude they abhor? Without the contrast of vice, virtue unloved may be lovely, without the experience of misery, happiness is simply a dull privation of evil. And are you so content? cried Cecilia, with your present situation, as even to think it offers you reparation for your past sufferings. Content! repeated he with energy, oh, more than content, I am proud of my present situation, I glory in showing to the world, glory still more in showing to myself, that those whom I cannot but despise, I will not scruple to defy, and that where I have been treated unworthily, I will scorn to be obliged. But will you pardon me? said Cecilia, should I ask again, why in quitting Lord Vanult you concluded no one else worthy a trial? Because it was less my Lord Vanult madam, than my own situation that disgusted me. For though I liked not his behaviour, I found him a man too generally esteemed, to flatter myself better usage would await me in merely changing my abode, while my station was the same. I believe indeed he never meant to offend me, but I was offended the more that he should think me an object to receive indignity without knowing it. To have had this pointed out to him, would have been at once mortifying in vain, for delicacy, like taste, can only partially be taught, and will always be superficial and airing, where it is not innate. Those wrongs, which though too trifling to resent, are too humiliating to be born, speech can convey no idea of, the soul must feel, or the understanding can never comprehend them. But surely, said Cecilia, though people of refinement are rare, they yet exist, why then remove yourself from the possibility of meeting with them? Must I run about the nation, cried he, proclaiming my distress and describing my temper, telling the world that though dependent I demand respect as well as assistance, and publishing to mankind that though poor I will accept no gifts if offered with contumely? Who will listen to such an account? Who will care for my misfortunes, but as they may humble me to a service? Who will hear my mortifications, but to say I deserve them? What is the world to do with my feelings and peculiarities? I know it too well to think calamity will soften it. I need no new lessons to instruct me that to conquer affliction is more wise than to relate it." Unfortunate as you have been, said Cecilia, I cannot wonder at your asperity. But yet it is surely no more than justice to acknowledge that hard-heartedness to distress is by no means the fault of the present times. On the contrary, it is scarce sooner made known than every one is ready to contribute to its relief. And how contribute, cried he, by a paltry donation of money? Yes, the man whose only want is a few guineas may indeed obtain them. But he who asks kindness and protection, whose oppressed spirit calls for consolation even more than his ruined fortune for repair, how is his struggling soul, if superior to his fate, to brook the ostentation of patronage, and the insolence of condescension? Yes, yes, the world will save the poor beggar who is starving, but the fallen wretch who will not cringe for his support may consume in his own wretchedness without pity and without help. Cecilia now saw that the wound his sensibility had received was too painful for argument, and too recent immediately to be healed. She forbore, therefore, to detain him any longer, but expressing her best wishes, without venturing to hint at her services, she arose, and they all took their leave, bell-field hastening as they went, to return to the garden, where, looking over the hedge as they passed, they saw him employed again in weeding, with the eagerness of a man who pursues his favorite occupation. Cecilia half-forgot her own anxieties and sadness in the concern which she felt for this unfortunate and extraordinary young man. She wished much to devise some means for drawing him from a life of such hardship and obscurity. But what to a man thus jealous in honor, thus scrupulous in delicacy could she propose, without more risk of offence than probability of obliging? His account had, indeed, convinced her how much he stood in need of assistance, but it had shown her no less how fastidious he would be in receiving it. Nor was she holy without fear that an earnest solicitude to serve him, his youth, talents and striking manners considered, might occasion even in himself, a misconstruction of her motives, such as she already had given birth to in his forward and partial mother. The present, therefore, all circumstances weighed, seemed no season for her liberality, which she yet resolved to exert the first moment it was unopposed by propriety. CHAPTER VI A CONTEST The rest of the day was past in discussing this adventure, but in the evening Cecilia's interest in it was all sunk by the reception of the following letter from Mrs. Delville. TO MISS BEVERLY I grieve to interrupt the tranquility of a retirement so judiciously chosen, and I lament the necessity of again calling to trial the virtue of which the exertion, though so captivating, is so painful. And alas, my excellent young friend, we came not hither to enjoy but to suffer, and happy only are those whose sufferings have neither by folly been sought nor by guilt been merited, but arising merely from the imperfection of humanity have been resisted with fortitude or endured with patience. I am informed of your virtuous steadiness which corresponds with my expectations while it excites my respect. All further conflict I had hoped to have saved you, and to the triumph of your goodness I had trusted for the recovery of your peace. But Mortimer has disappointed me, and our work is still unfinished. He averts that he has solemnly engaged to you, and in pleading to me his honor, he silences both expostulation and authority. From your own words alone will he acknowledge his dismission, and not withstanding my reluctance to oppose upon you this task I cannot silence or quiet him without making the request. For a purpose such as this can you then admit us? Can you bear with your own lips to confirm the irrevocable decision? You will feel, I am sure, for the unfortunate Mortimer, and it was earnestly my desire to spare you the sight of his affliction. Yet such is my confidence in your prudence, that since I find him bent upon seeing you, I am not without hope that from witnessing the greatness of your mind the interview may rather calm than inflame him. This proposal you will take into consideration, and if you are able upon such terms to again meet my son, we will wait upon you together, where and when you will appoint. But if the gentleness of your nature will make the effort too severe for you, scruple not to decline it, for Mortimer, when he knows your pleasure, will submit to it as he ought. Adieu, most amiable, and but too lovely Cecilia. Whatever you determine, be sure of my concurrence, for nobly have you earned, and ever must you retain the esteem, the affection, and the gratitude of Augusta Delville. Alas, cried Cecilia, when shall I be at rest, when cease to be persecuted by new conflicts, for why must I so often, so cruelly, though so reluctantly reject and reproof the man, who of all men I wish to accept and to please? But yet, though repining at this hard necessity, she hesitated not a moment in complying with Mrs. Delville's request, and immediately sent an answer that she would meet her the next morning at Mrs. Charlton's. She then returned to the parlor and apologized to Mrs. Harrell and Mr. Arnot for the abruptness of her visit and the suddenness of her departure. Mr. Arnot heard her in silent dejection, and Mrs. Harrell used all the persuasion in her power to prevail with her to stay, her presence being some relief to her solitude. But finding it ineffectual, she earnestly pressed her to hasten her entrance into her own house, that their absence might be shortened and their meeting more sprightly. Cecilia passed the night in planning her behavior for the next day. She found how much was expected from her by Mrs. Delville, who had even exhorted her to decline the interview if doubtful of her own strength. Delville's firmness in insisting the refusal should come directly from herself, surprised, gratified, and perplexed her in turn. She had imagined that from the moment of the discovery he would implicitly have submitted to the award of a parent at once so reverenced and so beloved, and how he had summoned courage to contend with her she could not conjecture. Yet that courage and that contention astonished not more than they soothed her, since, from her knowledge of his filial tenderness, she considered them as the most indubitable proofs she had yet received of the fervor and constancy of his regard for her. But would he, when she had ratified the decision of his mother, forbear all further struggle and forever yield up all pretensions to her? This was the point upon which her uncertainty turned, and the ruling subject of her thoughts and meditation. To be steady, however, herself, be his conduct what it might, was invariably her intention, and was all her ambition. Yet earnestly she wished the meeting over, for she dreaded to see the sorrow of Delville, and she dreaded still more the susceptibility of her own heart. The next morning, to her great concern, Mr. Arnott was waiting in the hall when she came downstairs, and so much grieved at her departure that he handed her to the shez without being able to speak to her, and hardly heard her thanks and compliments but by recollection after she was gone. She arrived at Mrs. Charlton's very early, and found her old friend in the same state she had left her. She communicated to her the purpose of her return, and begged she would keep her granddaughters upstairs, that the conference in the parlor might be uninterrupted and unheard. She then made a forced and hasty breakfast, and went down to be ready to receive them. They came not till eleven o'clock, and the time of her waiting was passed in agonies of expectation. At length they were announced, and at length they entered the room. Cecilia, with her utmost efforts for courage, could hardly stand to receive them. They came in together, but Mrs. Delville, advancing before her son, and endeavouring so to stand as to intercept his view of her, with the hope that in a few instants her emotion would be less visible, said, in the most soothing accents. What honour, Miss Beverly, does us by permitting this visit! I should have been sorry to have left Suffolk without the satisfaction of again seeing you, and my son, sensible of the high respect he owes you, was most unwilling to be gone before he had paid you his devoirs. Cecilia curtsied, but depressed by the cruel task which awaited her, had no power to speak, and Mrs. Delville, finding she still trembled, made her sit down, and drew a chair next to her. Meanwhile, Delville, with an emotion far more violent because wholly unrestrained, waited impatiently till the ceremonial of the reception was over, and then, approaching Cecilia in a voice of perturbation and resentment, said, in this presence at least I hope I may be heard, though my letters have been unanswered, my visits refused, though inexorably you have flown me. Not a mere, interrupted Mrs. Delville, forget not that what I have told you is irrevocable. You now meet Miss Beverly for no other purpose than to give and to receive a mutual release of all, too, or engagement with each other. Pardon me, madam, cried he. This is a condition to which I have never assented. I come not to release, but to claim her. I am hers, and hers wholly. I protest it in the face of the world. The time, therefore, is now passed for the sacrifice which you demand, since scarce are you more my mother than I consider her as my wife. Cecilia, amazed at this dauntless declaration, now almost lost her fear and surprise. While Mrs. Delville, with an air calm, though displeased, answered, this is not a point to be at present discussed, and I had hoped you knew better what was due to your auditors. I only consented to this interview as a mark of your respect for Miss Beverly, to whom in propriety it belongs, to break off this unfortunate connection. Cecilia, who at this call could no longer be silent, now gathered fortitude to say, whatever tie or obligation may be supposed to depend upon me, I have already relinquished, and I am now ready to declare that you wholly give me up, interrupted Delville. Is that what you would say? Oh, how have I offended you?  Answer! Speak to me, Cecilia. What is it I have done? Nothing, sir, said Cecilia, confounded at this language in the presence of his mother. You have done nothing, but yet, yet what? Have you conceived to me an aversion? Has any dreadful and horrible antipathy succeeded to your esteem? Tell, tell me without disguise, do you hate, do you abhor me? Cecilia sighed and turned away her head, and Mrs. Delville indignantly exclaimed, what madness and absurdity I scarce know you under the influence of such irrational violence. Why will you interrupt Miss Beverly in the only speech you ought to hear from her? Why at once oppress her and irritate me by words of more passion than reason? Go on, charming girl, finish what so wisely, so judiciously you are beginning, and then you shall be released from this turbulent persecution. No, madam, she must not go on, cried Delville. If she does not utterly abhor me, I will not suffer her to go on. Pardon, pardon me, Cecilia, but your too exquisite delicacy is betraying not only my happiness, but your own. Once more, therefore, I conjure you to hear me, and then, if deliberately and unbiased you renounce me, I will never more distress you by resisting your decree. Cecilia, abashed in changing color, was silent, and he proceeded, all that has passed between us, the vows I have offered you of faith, constancy, and affection, the consent I obtained from you to be legally mine, the bond of settlement I have had drawn up, and the high honor you conferred upon me in suffering me to lead you to the altar. All these particulars are already known to so many that the least reflection must convince you, they will soon be concealed from none. Tell me, then, if your own fame pleads not for me, and if the scruples which lead you to refuse by taking another direction will not, with much more propriety, urge, nay, enjoin you to accept me. You hesitate at least. Oh, Miss Beverly, I see in that hesitation. Nothing, nothing, quench she, hastily in checking her rising irresolution. There is nothing for you to see, but that every way I now turn I have rendered myself miserable. Mortimer, said Mrs. Delville, seized with terror as she penetrated into the mental yielding of Cecilia. You have now spoken to Miss Beverly, and unwilling as I am to obtrude upon her our difference of sentiment, it is necessary, since she has heard you, that I also should claim her attention. First let her speak, cried Delville, who in her apparent wavering built new hopes. First let her answer what she has already deigned to listen to. No, first let her hear, cried Mrs. Delville, for so only can she judge what answer will reflect upon her most honor. Then solemnly turning to Cecilia, she continued, you see here, Miss Beverly, a young man who passionately adores you, and who forgets in his adoration friends, family, and connections, the opinions in which he has been educated, the honor of his house, his own former views, and all his primitive sense of duty, both public and private. A passion built on such a defalcation of principle renders him unworthy your acceptance, and not more ignoble for him would be a union which would blot his name from the injured stock whence he sprung, than indeligate for you, who upon such terms ought to despise him. Heavens, madam, exclaimed Delville, what a speech. Who never, cried Cecilia, rising, may I hear such another. Indeed, madam, there is no occasion to probe me so deeply, for I would not now enter your family for all that the whole world could offer me. At length, then, madam, cried Delville, turning reproachfully to his mother. Are you satisfied? Is your purpose now answered? And is the dagger you have transfixed in my heart sunk deep enough to appease you? Oh, could I draw it out, cried Mrs. Delville, and leave upon it no stain of ignominy? With what joy should my own bosom receive it? To heal the wound I have most compulsorily inflicted. Were this excellent young creature portionless, I would not hesitate in giving my consent. Every claim of interest would be overbalanced by her virtues, and I would not grieve to see you poor, or so conscious you were happy. But here, to concede, would annihilate every hope with which hitherto I have looked up to my son. Let us now, then, madam, said Cecilia, break up this conference. I have spoken. I have heard. The decree is passed, and therefore, you are indeed an angel, cried Mrs. Delville, rising and embracing her. And never can I reproach my son with what has passed when I consider for what an object the sacrifice was planned. You cannot be unhappy. You have purchased peace by the exercise of virtue, and the clothes of every day will bring to you a reward in the sweets of a self-approving mind. But we will part since you think it right. I do wrong to occasion any delay. No, we will not part, cried Delville, with increasing vehemence. If you force me, madam, from her, you will drive me to distraction. What is there in this world that can offer me a recompense, and what can pride even to the proudest afford as an equivalent? Her perfections you acknowledge. Her greatness of mind is like your own. She has generously given me her heart. Oh, sacred and fascinating charge. Shall I, after such a deposit, consent to an eternal separation? Repeal, repeal your sentence, my Cecilia. Let us live to ourselves in our consciences, and leave the vain prejudices of the world to those who can be paid by them for the loss of all besides. Is this conflict, then, said Mrs. Delville, to last forever? Oh, end it, Mortimer. Finish it, and make me happy. She is just, and will forgive you. She is noble-minded, and will honor you. Fly, then, at this critical moment, for in flight alone is your safety.  Oh, madam, cried Delville, for mercy, for humanity, for bear this cruel supplication. Nay, more than supplication, you have my commands. Commands you have never yet disputed, and misery. Tenfold misery will follow their disobedience. Hear me, Mortimer, for I speak prophetically. I know your heart. I know it to be formed for rectitude and duty, or destined by their neglect to repentance and horror. Delville, struck by these words, turned suddenly from them both, and in gloomy despondence walked to the other end of the room. Mrs. Delville perceived the moment of her power, and determined to pursue the blow, taking, therefore, the hand of Cecilia, while her eyes sparkled with the animation of reviving hope. See, she cried, pointing to her son, see if I am deceived. Can he bear even the suggestion of future contrition? Think you, when it falls upon him, he will support it better? No, he will sink under it. And you, pure as you are of mind and steadfast in principle, what would your chance be of happiness with a man who, never erring till he knew you, could never look at you without regret? Be his fondness what it might. Oh, madam, cried the greatly-shoved Cecilia, let him then see me no more. Take, take him all to yourself. Forgive, console him, I will not have the misery of involving him in repentance, nor of incurring the reproaches of the mother he so much reverences. Exalted creature, cried Mrs. Delville, tenderness such as this would confer honor upon a monarch. Then calling out exultingly to her son, see, she added, how great a woman can act, when stimulated by generosity and a just sense of duty? Follow, then, at least the example you ought to have led, and deserve my esteem and love, or be content to forego them. And can I only deserve them, said Delville, in a tone of the deepest anguish, by a compliance to which not merely my happiness but my reason must be sacrificed? What honor do I injure that is not factitious? What evil threatens our union that is not imaginary? In the general commerce of the world it may be right to yield to its prejudices, but in matters of serious importance it is weakness to be shackled by scruples so frivolous, and it is cowardly to be governed by the customs we condemn. Religion and the laws of our country should then alone be consulted, and where those are neither opposed nor infringed, we should hold ourselves superior to all other considerations. Mystique in notions, said Mrs. Delville, and how long do you flatter yourself this independent happiness would endure? How long could you live contented by mere self-gratification, in defiance of the censure of mankind, the renunciation of your family, and the curses of your father? The curses of my father, repeated he, starting and shuddering? No, he could never be so barbarous. He could, said she steadily, nor do I doubt but he would. If now, however, you are affected by the prospect of his disclaiming you, think but what you will feel when first forbid to appear before either of us, and think of your remorse for involving Miss Beverly in such disgrace. Oh, speak not such words, cried he, with agonizing earnestness, to disgrace her, to be banished by you. Present not, I conjure you such scenes to my imagination. Yet they would be unavoidable, continued she. Nor have I said to you all, blinded as you now are by passion, your nobler feelings are only obscured, not extirpated. Think then how they will all rise in revenge of your insulted dignity when your name becomes a stranger to your ears, and you are first saluted by one so meanly adopted. Hold, hold, madam, interuptity. This is more than I can bear. Heavens, still continued she, disregarding his entreaty. What in the universe can pay you for that first moment of indignity? Think of it well, ere you proceed, and anticipate your sensations, lest the shock should wholly elucum you. How will the blood of your wronged ancestors rise into your guilty cheeks, and how will your heart throb with secret shame and reproach when wished joy upon your marriage by the name of Mr. Beverly? Delville, stung to the soul, attempted not any answer, but walked about the room in the utmost disorder of mind. Cecilia would have retired, but feared irritating him to some extravagance, and Mrs. Delville looking after him added, For myself I would still see, for I should pity your wife, but never would I behold my son when sunk into an object of compassion. It shall not be, cried he, in a transport of rage. Cease, cease to distract me, be content, madam, you have conquered. Then you are my son, cried she, rapturously embracing him. Now I know again my mortimer. Now I see the fair promise of his upright youth, and the flattering completion of my maternal expectations. Cecilia, finding all thus concluded, desired nothing so much as to congratulate them on their reconciliation. But having only said, Let me too, her voice veiled her. She stopped short, and hoping she had been unheard, would have glided out of the room. But Delville, penetrated and tortured, yet delighted at the sensibility, broke from his mother, and seizing her hand exclaimed, Oh, Miss Beverly, if you are not happy. I am, I am, cried she, with quickness. Let me pass, and think no more of me. That voice, those looks, cried he, still holding her. They speak not serenity. Oh, if I have injured your peace, if that heart, which pure as angels deserves to be a secret from sorrow through my means, or for my sake suffers any diminution of tranquility. None, none interrupted she with precipitation. I know well, cried he, your greatness of soul. And if this dreadful sacrifice gives lasting torture only to myself, if of your returning happiness I could be assured I would struggle to bear it. You may be assured of it, cried she, with reviving dignity. I have no right to expect escaping all calamity. But while I share the common light, I will submit to it without repining. Heaven, then bless, and hovering angels watched you, cried he, and letting go her hand, he ran hastily out of the room. Oh, virtue, how bright is thy triumph, exclaimed Mrs. Delville, flying up to Cecilia, and folding her in her arms. Knowable, incomparable young creature, I knew not that so much worth was compatible with human frailty. But the heroism of Cecilia, in losing its object, lost its force. She sighed. She could not speak. Tears gushed into her eyes, and kissing Mrs. Delville's hand with a look that showed her inability to converse with her, she hastened, though scarce, able to support herself away, with intention to shut herself up in her own apartment. And Mrs. Delville, who perceived that her utmost fortitude was exhausted, opposed not her going, and wisely forebored to increase her emotion by following her even with her blessings. When she came into the hall, she started, and could proceed no further. For there, she beheld Delville, who in too great agony to be seen had stopped to recover some composure before he quitted the house. At the first sound of an opening door, he was hastily escaping. But perceiving Cecilia, and discerning her situation, he more hastily turned back, saying, is it possible? To me were you coming? She shook her head, and made a motion with her hand to say no, and would then have gone on. You are weeping, cried he. You are pale. Oh, Miss Beverly, is this your happiness? I am very well, cried she, not knowing what she answered. I am quite well, pray go. I am very, her words died away, inarticulated. Oh, what a voice is that? exclaimed he. It pierces my very soul. This is Delville, now came to the parlor door, and looked aghast at the situation in which she saw them. Cecilia again moved on, and reached the stairs, but tottered, and was obliged to cling to the banisters. Oh, suffer me to support you, cried he. You were not able to stand. Wither is it you would go. Anywhere, I don't know, answered she, in faltering accents. But if you would leave me, I should be well. And turning from him, she walked again towards the parlor, finding by her shaking frame the impossibility of getting unaided up the stairs. Give me your hand, my love, said Mrs. Delville, cruelly alarmed by this return. In the moment they re-entered the parlor, she said impatiently to her son, Mortimer, why are you not gone? He heard her not, however. His whole attention was upon Cecilia, who, sinking into a chair, hid her face against Mrs. Delville. But reviving in a few moments and blushing at the weakness she had betrayed, she raised her head, and with an assumed serenity, said, I am better, much better. I was rather sick, but it is over. And now, if you will excuse me, I will go to my own room. She then arose, but her knees trembled, and her head was giddy, and again seating herself, she forced a faint smile, and said, perhaps I had better keep quiet. Can I bear this, cried Delville? No, it shakes all my resolution. Loveliest and most beloved Cecilia, forgive my rash declaration which I here retract and forswear, and which no false pride, no worthless vanity shall again surprise for me.  Hot-headed young man, interrupted Mrs. Delville with an air of haughty displeasure. If you cannot be rational, at least be silent. Mrs. Beverly, we will both leave him. Shame and her own earnestness now restored some strength to Cecilia, who read with terror in the looks of Mrs. Delville the passions with which she was agitated, and instantly obeyed her by rising. But her son, who inherited a portion of her own spirit, brushed between them both in the door, and exclaimed, Stay, madam, stay. I cannot let you go. I see your intention. I see your dreadful purpose. You will work upon the feelings of Miss Beverly. You will extort from her a promise to see me no more. Oppose not my passing! cried Mrs. Delville, whose voice, face, and manner spoke the increasing disturbance of her soul. I have but too long talked to you in vain. I must now take some better method for the security of the honor of my family. This moment appeared to Delville decisive, and casting off in desperation all timidity and restraint, he suddenly sprang forward, and snatching the hand of Cecilia from his mother, he exclaimed, I cannot. I will not give her up, nor now, madam, nor ever. I protest it most solemnly. I affirm it by my best hopes. I swear it by all that I hold sacred. Grief and horror next to frenzy at a disappointment thus unexpected, and thus peremptory, rose in the face of Mrs. Delville, who, striking her hand upon her forehead, cried, my brain is on fire, and rushed out of the room. Cecilia had now no difficulty to disengage herself from Delville, who, shocked at the exclamation, and confounded by the sudden departure of his mother, hastened eagerly to pursue her. She had only flown into the next parlor, but upon following her thither, what was his dread in his alarm, when he saw her extended upon the floor her face, hands, and neck all covered with blood. Great Heaven, he exclaimed, prostrating himself by her side. What is it you have done? Where are you wounded? What direful curse have you denounced against your son? Not able to speak, she angrily shook her head, and indignantly made a motion with her hand that commanded him from her sight. Cecilia, who had followed, though half dead with terror, had yet the presence of mind to ring the bell. A servant came immediately, and Delville, starting up from his mother, ordered him to fetch the first surgeon or physician he could find. The alarm now brought the rest of the servants into the room, and Mrs. Delville suffered herself to be raised from the ground and seated in a chair. She was still silent, but showed a disgust to any assistance from her son that made him deliver her into the hands of the servants, while in speechless agony he only looked on and watched her. Neither did Cecilia, though forgetting her own sorrow and no longer sensible of personal weakness, ventured to approach her. Uncertain what had happened, she yet considered herself as the ultimate cause of this dreadful scene, and feared to risk the effect of the smallest additional emotion. The servant returned with the surgeon in a few minutes. Cecilia, unable to wait and hear what he would say, glided hastily out of the room, and Delville, in still greater agitation, followed her quick into the next parlor. But having eagerly advanced to speak to her, he turned precipitately about, and hurrying into the hall, walked in hasty steps, up and down it, without courage to inquire what was passing. At length, the surgeon came out. Delville flew to him and stopped him, but could ask no question. His countenance, however, rendered words unnecessary. The surgeon understood him and said, the lady will do very well. She has burst a blood vessel, but I think it will be of no consequence. She must be kept quiet and easy, and upon no account suffered to talk or to use any exertion. Delville now let him go, and flew himself into a corner to return thanks to heaven that the evil, however great, was less than he had at first apprehended. He then went into the parlor to Cecilia, eagerly calling out, heaven be praised, my mother has not voluntarily cursed me. Oh, now then, cried Cecilia, once more make her bless you. The violence of her agitation has already almost destroyed her, and her frame is too weak for this struggle of contending passions. Go to her, then, and calm the tumult of her spirits by acquiescing wholly in her will, and being to her again the son she thinks she has lost. Alas! cried he in a tone of the deepest dejection. I have been preparing myself for that purpose, and waited but your commands to finally determine me. Let us both go to her instantly, said Cecilia. The least delay may be fatal. She now led the way, and approaching Mrs. Delville, who faint and weak was seated upon an armchair, and resting her head upon the shoulder of a maid-servant said, "'Lean, dearest madam, upon me, and speak not, but hear us.' She then took the place of the maid and desired her and the other servants to go out of the room. Delville advanced, but his mother's eye recovering at his sight, its won'ted fire, darted upon him a glance of such displeasure that shuddering with the apprehension of inflaming again those passions which threatened her destruction, he hastily sank on one knee and abruptly exclaimed, "'Look at me with less abhorrence, for I come but to resign myself to your will.' "'Mine also,' cried Cecilia, "'that will shall be. You need not speak it, we know it, and hear solemnly we promise that we will separate forever.' "'Revive then, my mother,' said Delville, "'rely upon our plighted honours and think only of your health, for your son will never more offend you.' Mrs. Delville, much surprised and strongly affected, held out her hand to him with a look of mingled compassion and obligation. And dropping her head upon the bosom of Cecilia, who with her other arm she pressed towards her, she burst into an agony of tears. "'Go, go, sir,' said Cecilia, cruelly alarmed. "'You have said all that is necessary. "'Leave Mrs. Delville now, and she will be more composed.' Delville instantly obeyed, and then his mother, whose mouth still continued to fill with blood, though it gushed not from her with the violence it had begun, was prevailed upon by the prayers of Cecilia to consent to be conveyed into her room, and as her immediate removal to another house might be dangerous, she complied also, though very reluctantly, with her urgent entreaties, that she would take entire possession of it till the next day. At this point gained, Cecilia left her to communicate what had passed to Mrs. Charlton, but was told by one of the servants that Mr. Delville begged first to speak with her in the next room. She hesitated for a moment whether to grant this request, but recollecting it was right to acquaint him with his mother's intention of staying all night, she went to him. "'How indulgent you are,' cried he in a melancholy voice as she opened the door. "'I am now going post to Dr. Leistor, "'for I shall entreat to come hither instantly, "'but I am fearful of again disturbing my mother, "'and must therefore rely upon you "'to acquaint her with what has become of me.' "'Most certainly, I have begged her to remain here tonight, "'and I hope I shall prevail with her "'to continue with me till Dr. Leistor's arrival, "'after which she will doubtless be guided "'either in staying longer "'or removing elsewhere by his advice.' "'You are all goodness,' he said with a deep sigh, "'and how I shall support. "'But I mean not to return hither, "'at least not to this house, "'unless indeed Dr. Leistor's account should be alarming. "'I leave my mother, therefore, to your kindness "'and only hope, only entreat, that your own health, "'your own peace of mind, "'neither by attendance upon her, "'by anxiety, by pity for her son.' He stopped and seemed gasping for breath. Cecilia turned from him to hide her emotion, and he proceeded with a rapidity of speech that showed his terror of continuing with her any longer and his struggle with himself to be gone. "'The promise you have made in both our names to my mother, "'I shall hold myself bound to observe. "'I see indeed that her reason or her life "'would fall the sacrifice of further opposition. "'Of myself, therefore, it is no longer time to think. "'I take of you no leave. "'I cannot. "'Yet I would feign tell you the high reverence, "'but it is better to say nothing.' "'Much better,' cried Cecilia with a forced and faint smile. "'Lose not, therefore, an instant, "'but hasten to this good Dr. Leister.' "'I will,' answered he, going to the door. "'But they're stopping and turning round. "'One thing I should yet,' he added, wished to say. "'I had been impetuous, violent, unreasonable. "'With shame and with regret, "'I recollect how impetuous and how unreasonable. "'I have persecuted where I ought in silence to have submitted. "'I have reproached where I ought in candor to have approved. "'And in the vehemence with which I have pursued you, "'I have censured that very dignity of conduct, "'which has been the basis of my admiration, "'my esteem, my devotion. "'But never can I forget, "'and never without fresh wonder remember "'the sweetness with which you have borne with me, "'even when I have most offended you. "'For this impatience, this violence, this inconsistency, "'I now most sincerely beg your pardon. "'And if, before I go, you could so far condescend "'as to pronounce my forgiveness, "'with a lighter heart I think I should quit you, "'do not talk of forgiveness,' said Cecilia. "'You have never offended me. "'I always knew, always with sure, always imputed. "'She stopped, unable to proceed. "'Deeply penetrated by her apparent distress, "'he with difficulty restrained himself "'from falling at her feet. "'But after a moment's pause and recollection, he said, "'I understand the generous indulgence you have shown me, "'and indulgence I shall ever revere "'and ever grieve to have abused. "'I ask you not to remember me. "'Far, far happier do I wish you "'than such a remembrance could make you. "'But I will pain the humanity "'of your disposition no longer. "'You will tell my mother, but no matter. "'Heaven preserve you, my angelic Cecilia.  "'And should I see you no more? "'Should this be the last sad moment?' "'He paused, but presently recovering himself at it. "'May I hear at least of your tranquility, "'for that alone can have any chance "'to quiet or repress the anguish I feel here. "'He then abruptly retreated and ran out of the house. "'Cecilia for a while remained "'almost stupefied with sorrow. "'She forgot Mrs. Delville. "'She forgot Mrs. Charlton. "'She forgot her own design of apologizing to one "'or assisting the other. "'She continued in the posture in which he had left her, "'quite without motion, and almost without sensibility. "'End of chapter six.