the sentence, but, she had not courage to make the effort, nor to rise,
speak, or move.

"I grieve, indeed," continued Mrs Delvile, whose coldness and austerity
were changed into mildness and compassion, "at the necessity I have
been under to draw from you a concurrence so painful: but no other
resource was in my power. My influence with Mortimer, whatever it may
be, I have not any right to try, without obtaining your previous
consent, since I regard him myself as bound to you in honour, and only
to be released by your own virtuous desire. I will leave you, however,
for my presence, I see, is oppressive to you. Farewell; and when you
_can_ forgive me, I think you _will_."

"I have nothing, madam," said Cecilia, coldly, "to forgive; you have
only asserted your own dignity, and I have nobody to blame but myself,
for having given you occasion."

"Alas," cried Mrs Delvile, "if worth and nobleness of soul on your
part, if esteem and tenderest affection on mine, were all which that
dignity which offends you requires, how should I crave the blessing of
such a daughter! how rejoice in joining my son to excellence so like
his own, and ensuring his happiness while I stimulated his virtue!"

"Do not talk to me of affection, madam," said Cecilia, turning away
from her; "whatever you had for me is past,--even your esteem is gone,
--you may pity me, indeed, but your pity is mixed with contempt, and I
am not so abject as to find comfort from exciting it."

"O little," cried Mrs Delvile, looking at her with the utmost
tenderness, "little do you see the state of my heart, for never have