“Directly?”
“No; but soon.”
“Where did you go first?”
“My Cecilia, it is now you must summon your fortitude: I left my father without an explanation on my part;—but not till, in his rage of asserting his authority, he had unwarily named his informant.”
“Well!”
“That informant—the most deceitful of men!—was your long pretended friend, Mr Monckton!”
“So I feared!” said Cecilia, whose blood now ran cold through her veins with sudden and new apprehensions.
“I rode to the Grove, on hack-horses, and on a full gallop the whole way. I got to him early in the evening. I was shewn into his library. I told him my errand.—You look pale, my love? You are not well?—”
Cecilia, too sick for speech, leant her head upon a table. Delvile was going to call for help; but she put her hand upon his arm to stop him, and, perceiving she was only mentally affected, he rested, and endeavoured by every possible means to revive her.
After a while, she again raised her head, faintly saying, “I am sorry I interrupted you; but the conclusion I already know,—Mr Monckton is dead!”