Sophie had never seen Cornelia in hysterics before, and was tortured
with alarm and apprehension. She knew not what to do, for every attempt
she made to relieve her, seemed only to make her worse.
"Let me call papa--he must be somewhere in the house--he will know what
to do!" she said, at last, trembling and white.
"No! no!" cried Cornelia: and the shock of fear lest her father should
see her, overcame the grasp of the hysterical paroxysm. She half raised
herself on one arm, showing her face, red and disfigured, the veins on
the forehead standing out, full and throbbing. "Come back! come back!"
for Sophie had her hand on the door.
She returned, in compliance with her sister's demand, and knelt down
beside her on the floor. Cornelia let herself fall back, her head
resting on Sophie's knee, in a state of complete exhaustion. There she
lay, panting heavily; and a clammy pallor gradually took the place of
the deeply-stained flush. But the fit was over: by-and-by she sat up,
sullenly shunning Sophie's touch, and appearing to shrink even at the
sound of her voice. Finally, she rose inertly to her feet, attempting to
moisten her dry lips, walked once or twice aimlessly to and fro across
the room, and ended by sitting down again upon her stool, and taking up
her sewing.
"Are you all well again, dear?" asked Sophie, timidly.
"Better than ever," replied Cornelia, with a short laugh, which had no
trace of hysteria about it.
There was, however, a slight but decided change in her manner, which did
not pass away: a sort of hardness and impenetrability: and so
incorporated into her nature did these traits seem, that one would have
supposed they had always been there. Some unpleasant visitors take a
surprisingly short time to make themselves at home.
But Sophie, seeing that her sister soon recovered her usual appearance,
did not allow herself to be disturbed by any uncalled-for anxieties.
Love, at its best, has a tendency to absorb and preoccupy those whom it
inspires: if not selfish, it is of necessity self-sufficient and
exclusive. Sophie was too completely permeated with her happiness, to
admit of being long overshadowed by the ills of those less blessed than
herself. Not that she had lost the power to sympathize with misfortune,
but the sympathy was apt to be smiling rather than tearful. She was
alight with the chaste, translucent, wondering joy of a maiden before
her marriage: the delicate, pearl-tinted brightness that pales the
stars, before the reddening morning brings on the broader daylight.
She was not of those who, in fair weather, are on the lookout for rain:
she believed that God had plenty of sunshine, and was generous of it;
and that the possibilities of bliss were unlimited. She was not afraid
to be perfectly happy. A little sunny spot, in a valley, which no shadow
has crossed all day long, was like her: there seemed to be nothing in
her soul that needed shadow to set it right.