I hope there will be no need, replied your brother, of sending him out of England; your affairs may yet turn out so as to permit your return into your own country.—Impossible! interrupted Mr Faulkland; if Smyth should ever recover, his representation of the other accident cuts off every hope. He will not, for his own sake, confess the truth, but impute the error of my fatal hand to premeditated guilt. Heaven knows, base as she was, I would not have attempted her life; but I was born to be the avenger of those crimes into the commission of which I, perhaps, first led her. As for the contemptible villain who wronged me, I do not repent of the punishment I inflicted on him; though probably, had I been allowed a moment’s time for recollection, I might have taken vengeance in a manner more worthy of myself.
I was delighted, proceeded Mr Warner, to find him so cool and rational in his reflections. He continued talking calmly and reasonably on the subject of his misfortunes; but on the mention of your name, started again into transports; but they now seemed to be only those of joy, upon the prospect of what was to happen the next day.
After I left him, I went to Mr Price, who promised to be in readiness at the appointed hour.
We were now got to the house of my brother’s friend. Mr Warner led me up stairs into the room, where Sir George, Mr Faulkland, and Mr Price, were sitting together.
Mr Faulkland was so agitated at the sight of me, that having risen to salute me, he was not able to speak; but seizing both my hands, he kissed them fervently one after the other, tears dropping on them as he held them to his lips. Every one was silent; we were all too much affected to speak. My brother was the first that broke silence. Well, Faulkland, said he, have we not kept our promise?
Mr Faulkland turned towards him: Oh, Bidulph, forgive me for doubting; I am afraid I have used you ill: Can you pardon the madness that I was driven to by despair?—Mr Warner, Mrs Arnold, I believe you think me distracted. Indeed I am not. I was only—(and he seemed to hesitate for a word) weary of life.—I thought I had lost every thing.—The world was grown a desart.—No one in it for me.
You formed a wrong judgment, my dear Sir, answered Mr Warner; you find yourself now with your sincere friends; Sir George and myself are both so; and your bride, your dear Mrs Arnold, is ready to give you her hand. I am, Sir, said I, and if your happiness still depends on me, it gives me joy that I have at length the power of bestowing it.
I have no words, he replied, I can find none, it is all here; and he laid his hand on his heart, his eyes fixed with delight on my face.
I beheld him now, my Cecilia, in a light in which I had never before viewed him; overwhelmed by misfortunes, of which I accused myself as being the author. I saw him an exile, likely to be deprived of a noble fortune, his heart pierced with remorse for an involuntary crime. I saw too that he loved me; loved me with a fervent and unconquerable passion. Of this, in the anguish of his soul, at a time when he was wrought up to phrenzy, he had given but too strong demonstration. Shall I own it to you, my Cecilia, I think I never loved him as I did in that moment.
My heart was at once assailed by a variety of passions; amongst which, gratitude, and the softest compassion, were predominant.