“Is your fortune dissipated by extravagance, and your power of relieving the distressed at an end?”
“No; the power and the will are I hope equally undiminished.”
“O then, unhappy girl! have you been guilty of some vice, and hangs remorse thus heavy on your conscience?”
“No, no; thank heaven, to that misery, at least, I am a stranger!”
His countenance now again resumed its severity, and, in the sternest manner, “Whence then,” he said, “these tears? and what is this caprice you dignify with the name of sorrow?—strange wantonness of indolence and luxury! perverse repining of ungrateful plenitude!—oh hadst thou known what I have suffered!”—
“Could I lessen what you have suffered,” said Cecilia, “I should sincerely rejoice; but heavy indeed must be your affliction, if mine in its comparison deserves to be styled caprice!”
“Caprice!” repeated he, “'tis joy! 'tis extacy compared with mine!—Thou hast not in licentiousness wasted thy inheritance! thou hast not by remorse barred each avenue to enjoyment! nor yet has the cold grave seized the beloved of thy soul!”
“Neither,” said Cecilia, “I hope, are the evils you have yourself sustained so irremediable?”
“Yes, I have borne them all!—have borne? I bear them still; I shall bear them while I breathe! I may rue them, perhaps, yet longer.”
“Good God!” cried Cecilia, shrinking, “what a world is this! how full of woe and wickedness!”