Cecilia, struck by these reproaches, turned back; but while she
hesitated how to answer them, he went on, "You are insensible to my
misery, and impenetrable to my entreaties; a secret enemy has had power
to make me odious in your sight, though for her enmity I can assign no
cause, though even her existence was this morning unknown to me! Ever
ready to abandon, and most willing to condemn me, you have more
confidence in a vague conjecture, than in all you have observed of the
whole tenour of my character. Without knowing why, you are disposed to
believe me criminal, without deigning to say wherefore, you are eager
to banish me your presence. Yet scarce could a consciousness of guilt
itself, wound me so forcibly, so keenly, as your suspecting I am
guilty!"

"Again, then," cried Cecilia, "shall I subject myself to a scene of
such disgrace and horror? No, never!--The punishment of my error shall
at least secure its reformation. Yet if I merit your reproaches, I
deserve not your regard; cease, therefore, to profess any for me, or
make them no more."

"Shew but to them," cried he, "the smallest sensibility, shew but for
me the most distant concern, and I will try to bear my disappointment
without murmuring, and submit to your decrees as to those from which
there is no appeal: but to wound without deigning even to look at what
you destroy,--to shoot at random those arrows that are pointed with
poison,--to see them fasten on the heart, and corrode its vital
functions, yet look on without compunction, or turn away with cold
disdain,--Oh where is the candour I thought lodged in Cecilia! where
the justice, the equity, I believed a part of herself!"