Bressant

But would not Sophie prevail, and turn his heart to forgiveness? Oh!

but why was it not probable, and more than probable, that the argument

would result the other way?--that her father, by a clear and stern

representation of the real heinousness of her offense, would convince

Sophie that Cornelia was entitled to nothing but condemnation?

There would be nothing to urge against the justice of such a

sentence--nothing.

Perhaps Sophie's courage might fail her, or her strength give way,

leaving the ugly story but half told, and then her father would come to

her to learn the rest. What should she do then? How much more terrible

to be obliged to tell him then, after having made up her mind that her

sister was to take the burden off her shoulders, than it would have been

before any such resource had presented itself! How much more awful to

meet her father when aroused by suspicion and anger, and perhaps

loathing, than to begin her confession while his face was as she had

always seen it, when turned toward her--loving and tender!

She could not sit still, at last, but rose up from her chair to walk the

room--not from the old, restless energy, which needed physical exercise

to keep it within bounds, for Cornelia was now white and faint, from

exhaustion of mind and body, but from the tumult of pervading fear and

delusive hope--the attention strained to catch some sound from below,

and the dread lest it should never come. As the suspense grew more

painful, the rapidity of her walk increased.

She expected now, every moment, to catch herself shrieking aloud, or

performing some mad action or other. How long had she been up there

already? Was it an hour yet? It must be an hour. Oh! it was more. Was he

never coming, then?--never? O God! was there no forgiveness? Cornelia's

walk had gone on quickening until it was almost a run. She was circling

round and round the room, like a wild animal--was growing dizzy and

exhausted, but was afraid to stop: better her body should give way than

her mind--and, all the time, her ears were alert for the slightest

sound.

She halted, wild-eyed and unsteady on her feet, her hand trembling at

her lips. A step in the passage below, ascending the stairs slowly and

heavily. Oh! did it come in mercy? She tried to draw a meaning from the

sound--then dared not trust her inference. The steps had gained the

landing now--were advancing along the entry toward her door. Did they

bear a load of sorrow only, or of hate and condemnation likewise?

They paused at her threshold--then there was a knock, thrice

repeated--not loud, nor rapid, nor regular, nor precise--rather as one

heart might knock for admittance to another. Cornelia tried to say "Come

in," or to open the door, but could neither speak nor move. Iron bands

seemed to be clasped around all her faculties of motion. Would he go

away and leave her?