No; she would not steal the love for which her soul thirsted, even
though he whom she robbed should not feel the loss. She had stripped him
of much that would doubtless seem to him of far more worth and
importance; but, when it came to taking, under false pretenses, a thing
so sacred as her father's love, Cornelia drew back, and, spite of her
great need, had the grace to make the sacrifice. Let it not be
underrated: a woman who sees honor, reputation, and happiness slipping
away from her, will struggle hardest of all for the little remaining
scrap of love, and only feel wholly forlorn after that, too, has
vanished away.
At length, about daybreak or a little after, Sophie spoke, low, but very
distinctly: "I'm going to sleep; don't wake me or disturb me;" and almost
immediately sank into a profound slumber--so very profound, indeed, that
it rather bore likeness to a trance. Yet, her pulse still beat
regularly, though faintly, and at long intervals, and her breath went
and came, though with a motion almost imperceptible to the eye.
"Is it a good sign? Will she get well now?" asked Cornelia, as she and
her father stood looking down at her.
"She'll never get well, my dear," said Professor Valeyon, very quietly.
"Her mind and body both have had too great a shock--far too great. More
has happened than we know of yet, I suspect. But we shall hear, we shall
hear. Yes, sleep is good for her: it'll make her comfortable. Her nerves
will be the quieter."
"O papa! papa! is our little Sophie going to die?" faltered Cornelia;
and then she broke down completely. She had not fully grasped the idea
until that moment; but the very tone in which her father spoke had the
declaration of death in it. It was not his usual deep, gruff, forcible
voice, shutting off abruptly at the end of his sentences, and beginning
them as sharply. It had lost body and color, was thin, subdued, and
monotonous. Professor Valeyon had changed from a lusty winter into a
broken, infirm, and marrowless thaw.
He stood and watched her weep for a long while, bending his eyes upon
her from beneath their heavy, impending brows. Heavy and impending they
were still, but the vitality--the sort of warm-hearted fierceness--of
his look was gone--gone! A young and bitter grief, like Cornelia's,
coming at a time of life when the feelings are so tender and their
manifestation of pain so poignant--is terrible enough to see, God knows!
but the dry-eyed anguish of the old, of those who no longer possess the
latent, indefinite, all-powerful encouragement of the future to support
them--who can breathe only the lifeless, cheerless air of the
past--grief with them does not convulse: it saps, and chills, and
crumbles away, without noise or any kind of demonstration. The sight
does not terrify or harrow us, but it makes us sick at heart and tinges
our thoughts with a gloomy stain, which rather sinks out of sight than
is worn away.