“I was scarce myself,” resumed Delvile, “while I heard him: I demanded even with fierceness his author, whom I scrupled not to execrate as he deserved; he coldly answered he was bound by an oath never to reveal him, nor should he repay his honourable attention to his family by a breach of his own word, were it even less formally engaged. I then lost all patience; to mention honour, I cried, was a farce, where such infamous calumnies were listened to;--but let me not shock you unnecessarily, you may readily conjecture what passed.” “Ah me!” cried Cecilia, “you have then quarrelled with your father!” “I have!” said he; “nor does he yet know I am married: in so much wrath there was no room for narration; I only pledged myself by all I held sacred, never to rest till I had cleared your fame, by the detection of this villainy, and then left him without further explanation.” “Oh return, then, to him directly!” cried Cecilia, “he is your father, you are bound to bear with his displeasure;--alas! had you never known me, you had never incurred it!” “Believe me,” he answered, “I am ill at ease under it: if you wish it, when you have heard me, I will go to him immediately; if not, I will write, and you shall yourself dictate what.” Cecilia thanked him, and begged he would continue his account. “My first step, when I left the Castle, was to send a letter to my mother, in which I entreated her to set out as soon as possible for Margate, as I was detained from her unavoidably, and was unwilling my delay should either retard our journey, or oblige her to travel faster. At Margate I hoped to be as soon as herself, if not before her.” “And why,” cried Cecilia, “did you not go to town as you had promised, and accompany her?” “I had business another way. I came hither.” “Directly?” “No; but soon.” “Where did you go first?” “My Cecilia, it is now you must summon your fortitude: I left my father without an explanation on my part;--but not till, in his rage of asserting his authority, he had unwarily named his informant.” “Well!” “That informant--the most deceitful of men!--was your long pretended friend, Mr Monckton!” “So I feared!” said Cecilia, whose blood now ran cold through her veins with sudden and new apprehensions. “I rode to the Grove, on hack-horses, and on a full gallop the whole way. I got to him early in the evening. I was shewn into his library. I told him my errand.--You look pale, my love? You are not well?--” Cecilia, too sick for speech, leant her head upon a table. Delvile was going to call for help; but she put her hand upon his arm to stop him, and, perceiving she was only mentally affected, he rested, and endeavoured by every possible means to revive her. After a while, she again raised her head, faintly saying, “I am sorry I interrupted you; but the conclusion I already know,--Mr Monckton is dead!” “Not dead,” cried he; “dangerously, indeed, wounded, but thank heaven, not actually dead!”