He stopt; but Cecilia could say nothing: to censure him now would both be cruel and vain; yet to pretend she was satisfied with his conduct, would be doing violence to her judgment and veracity. She saw, too, that his error had sprung wholly from a generous ardor in her defence, and that his confidence in her character, had resisted, without wavering, every attack that menaced it. For this she felt truly grateful; yet his quarrel with his father,--the danger of his mother,--his necessary absence,--her own clandestine situation,--and more than all, the threatened death of Mr Monckton by his hands, were circumstances so full of dread and sadness, she knew not upon which to speak,--how to offer him comfort,--how to assume a countenance that looked able to receive any, or by what means to repress the emotions which to many ways assailed her. Delvile, having vainly waited some reply, then in a tone the most melancholy, said, “If it is yet possible you can be sufficiently interested in my fate to care what becomes of me, aid me now with your counsel, or rather with your instructions; I am scarce able to think for myself, and to be thought for by you, would yet be a consolation that would give me spirit for any thing.” Cecilia, starting from her reverie, repeated, “To care what becomes of you-? Oh Delvile!--make not my heart bleed by words of such unkindness!” “Forgive me,” cried he, “I meant not a reproach; I meant but to state my own consciousness how little I deserve from you. You talked to me of going to my father? do you still wish it?” “I think so!” cried she; too much disturbed to know what she said, yet fearing again to hurt him by making him wait her answer. “I will go then,” said he, “without doubt: too happy to be guided by you, which-ever way I steer. I have now, indeed much to tell him; but whatever may be his wrath, there is little fear, at this time, that my own temper cannot bear it! what next shall I do?” “What next?” repeated she; “indeed I know not!” “Shall I go immediately to Margate? or shall I first ride hither?” “If you please,” said she, much perturbed, and deeply sighing. “I please nothing but by your direction, to follow that is my only chance of pleasure. Which, then, shall I do?-you will not, now, refuse to direct me?” “No, certainly, not for the world!” “Speak to me, then, my love, and tell me;--why are you thus silent?--is it painful to you to counsel me?” “No, indeed!” said she, putting her hand to her head, “I will speak to you in a few minutes.” “Oh my Cecilia!” cried he, looking at her with much alarm, “call back your recollection! you know not what you say, you take no interest in what you answer.” “Indeed I do!” said she, sighing deeply, and oppressed beyond the power of thinking, beyond any power but an internal consciousness of wretchedness. “Sigh not so bitterly,” cried he, “if you have any compassion! sigh not so bitterly,--I cannot bear to hear you!”