“O 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 every thing;--yet _once_, perhaps,--no more!”-- “Ah, my dear Miss Beverley! 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, madam,” said she, “I had better--I will certainly--” she sighed, stammered, and stopt. “Hear me,” cried Mrs Delvile, “and rather let me try to convince than 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 expedients: but here--” She hesitated, and Cecilia, shocked and ashamed, turned away her face, and cried “I know, madam, 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 grant it 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, madam, 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 at 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 rivetted 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?”