“Oh Virtue, how bright is thy triumph!” exclaimed Mrs Delvile, flying up to Cecilia, and folding her in her arms; “Noble, incomparable young creature! I knew not that so much worth was compatible with human frailty!” But the heroism of Cecilia, in losing its object, lost its force; she sighed, she could not speak, tears gushed into her eyes, and kissing Mrs Delvile's hand with a look that shewed her inability to converse with her, she hastened, though scarce able to support herself, away, with intention to shut herself up in her own apartment: and Mrs Delvile, who perceived that her utmost fortitude was exhausted, opposed not her going, and wisely forbore to encrease her emotion, by following her even with her blessings. But when she came into the hall, she started, and could proceed no further; for there she beheld Delvile, who in too great agony to be seen, had stopt to recover some composure before he quitted the house. At the first sound of an opening door, he was hastily escaping; but perceiving Cecilia, and discerning her situation, he more hastily turned back, saying, “Is it possible?--To _me_ were you coming?” She shook her head, and made a motion with her hand to say no, and would then have gone on. “You are weeping!” cried he, “you are pale!--Oh Miss Beverley! is this your happiness!” “I am very well,--” cried she, not knowing what she answered, “I am quite well,--pray go,--I am very--” her words died away inarticulated. “O what a voice is that!” exclaimed he, “it pierces my very soul!” Mrs Delvile now came to the parlour door, and looked aghast at the situation in which she saw them: Cecilia again moved on, and reached the stairs, but tottered, and was obliged to cling to the banisters. “O suffer me to support you,” cried he; “you are not able to stand,--whither is it you would go?” “Any where,--I don't know,--” answered she, in faltering accents, “but if you would leave me, I should be well.” And, turning from him, she walked again towards the parlour, finding by her shaking frame, the impossibility of getting unaided up the stairs. “Give me your hand, my love,” said Mrs Delvile, cruelly alarmed by this return; and the moment they re-entered the parlour, she said impatiently to her son, “Mortimer, why are you not gone?” He heard her not, however; his whole attention was upon Cecilia, who, sinking into a chair, hid her face against Mrs Delvile: but, reviving in a few moments, and blushing at the weakness she had betrayed, she raised her head, and, with an assumed serenity, said, “I am better,--much better,--I was rather sick,--but it is over; and now, if you will excuse me, I will go to my own room.” She then arose, but her knees trembled, and her head was giddy, and again seating herself, she forced a faint smile, and said, “Perhaps I had better keep quiet.”