Cecilia, scarce more afflicted than offended, now hastily answered, “Not for me, madam, 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 Delvile, her eyes sparkling with joy, and her cheeks glowing with pleasure, “now again do I know Miss Beverley! 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 and turned pale; she scarce knew herself what she had said, but, she found by Mrs Delvile'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 Delvile, 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, madam,” 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 Delvile, “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! how rejoice in joining my son to excellence so like his own, and ensuring his happiness while I stimulated his virtue!” “Do not talk to me of affection, madam,” 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 Delvile, 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, madam,” said Cecilia, struggling to disguise her inward anguish under an appearance of sullenness, “in waiting?”