Cecelia was still in this tempestuous state, when a message was brought her that a gentleman was below stairs, who begged to have the honour of seeing her. She concluded he was Delvile, and the thought of meeting him merely to communicate what must so bitterly afflict him, redoubled her distress, and she went down in an agony of perturbation and sorrow.
He met her at the door, where, before he could speak, "Mr Delvile," she cried, in a hurrying manner, "why will you come? Why will you thus insist upon seeing me, in defiance of every obstacle, and in contempt of my prohibition?"
"Good heavens," cried he, amazed, "whence this reproach? Did you not permit me to wait upon you with the result of my enquiries? Had I not your consent--but why do you look thus disturbed?--Your eyes are red, --you have been weeping.--Oh my Cecilia! have I any share in your sorrow?--Those tears, which never flow weakly, tell me, have they--has one of them been shed upon my account?"
"And what," cried she, "has been the result of your enquiries?--Speak quick, for I wish to know,--and in another instant I must be gone."
"How strange," cried the astonished Delvile, "is this language! how strange are these looks! What new has come to pass? Has any fresh calamity happened? Is there yet some evil which I do not expect?"
"Why will you not answer first?" cried she; "when I have spoken, you will perhaps be less willing."
"You terrify, you shock, you amaze me! What dreadful blow awaits me? For what horror are you preparing me?--That which I have just experienced, and which tore you from me even at the foot of the altar, still remains inexplicable, still continues to be involved in darkness and mystery; for the wretch who separated us I have never been able to discover."
"Have you procured, then, no intelligence?"
"No, none; though since we parted I have never rested a moment."
"Make, then, no further enquiry, for now all explanation would be useless. That we were parted, we know, though why we cannot tell: but that again we shall ever meet---"
She, stopt; her streaming eyes cast upwards, and a deep sigh bursting from her heart.
"Oh what," cried Delvile, endeavouring to take her hand, which she hastily withdrew from him, "what does this mean? loveliest, dearest Cecilia, my betrothed, my affianced wife! why flow those tears which agony only can wring from you? Why refuse me that hand which so lately was the pledge of your faith? Am I not the same Delvile to whom so few days since you gave it? Why will you not open to him your heart? Why thus distrust his honour, and repulse his tenderness? Oh why, giving him such exquisite misery, refuse him the smallest consolation?"