“Yet would they 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,” interrupted he, “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 overcome 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 Beverley_!” Delvile, 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 Delvile, 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 failed her, she stopt short, and hoping she had been unheard, would have glided out of the room. But Delvile, penetrated and tortured, yet delighted at this sensibility, broke from his mother, and seizing her hand, exclaimed, “Oh Miss Beverley, 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 as sacred 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 lot, I will submit to it without repining.” “Heaven then bless, and hovering angels watch you!” cried he, and letting go her hand, he ran hastily out of the room.