“Good Heaven!” cried Cecilia, “is it possible!” clasping her hands together in the eagerness of her surprise and delight.
“Is it possible!” repeated Delvile, with a look of rapture; “ah Miss Beverley!—once my own Cecilia!—do you, can you wish it possible?”
“No, No!” cried she, while pleasure and expectation sparkled in her eyes, “I wish nothing about it.—Yet tell me how it has happened,—I am curious,” added she, smiling, “though not interested in it.”
“What hope would this sweetness give me,” cried he, “were my scheme almost any other than it is!—but you cannot,—no, it would be unreasonable, it would be madness to expect your compliance!—it is next to madness even in me to wish it,—but how shall a man who is desperate be prudent and circumspect?”
“Spare, spare yourself,” cried the ingenuous Cecilia, “this, unnecessary pain!—you will find from me no unnecessary scruples.”
“You know not what you say!—all noble as you are, the sacrifice I have to propose—”
“Speak it,” cried she, “with confidence! speak it even with certainty of success! I will be wholly undisguised, and openly, honestly own to you, that no proposal, no sacrifice can be mentioned, to which I will not instantly agree, if first it has had the approbation of Mrs Delvile.”
Delvile's gratitude and thanks for a concession never before so voluntarily made to him, interrupted for a while, even his power of explaining himself. And now, for the first time, Cecilia's sincerity was chearful, since now, for the first time, it seemed opposed by no duty.
When still, therefore, he hesitated, she herself held out her hand to him, saying, “what must I do more? must I offer this pledge to you?”
“For my life would I not resign it!” cried he, delightedly receiving it; “but oh, how soon will you withdraw it, when the only terms upon which I can hold it, are those of making it sign from itself its natural right and inheritance?”