"Ask him to come to me," Sophie said, after a pause. "I will speak to
him; I'll tell him; it will be best that I should do it; and you will
trust me?"
"O Sophie!" was all that Cornelia could say; but it expressed at least
the fullness of her heart. What must be the love and tenderness that
could undertake such a task as this! How great the trial for a nature
delicate and shrinking, like Sophie's, to bear witness before their own
father of her sister's sin against herself! But Sophie was as brave as
she was feminine and delicate.
Cornelia's gratitude, however, was mingled still with a despairing
agony, and her life seemed to be escaping from her. If this cup might
but pass!
"He will not be to me as you are, Sophie. He will never look at me
again."
"Do not fear," replied Sophie, with her faint but incomparable smile.
"If I can forgive you, surely he must. Go and call him, and then stay in
your room till he comes to you."
But Cornelia, as she left the room upon her heavy errand, shook her
head, and drew a shivering breath. She knew her father would look upon
the matter more from the world's point of view than Sophie did; and it
was a curious example of the strength of the material element in
Cornelia, that she more feared to meet her father's eye, whom she felt
would understand that aspect of her disgrace, than Sophie's, who
probably had a more acute and certainly a more exclusive perception of
her spiritual accountability.
As she was beginning to mount the stairs, she met her father already on
his way down. He noticed the wretchedness depicted on her face, and,
supposing it to be all on Sophie's account, did what he could to comfort
her.
"Don't despair, my child," quoth the old man, laying his hands on her
shoulders. "Nothing is so hopeless that we mayn't trust in God to better
it."
The words seemed to apply so felicitously that Cornelia tried to think
it a good omen sent from heaven. Then he bent over and kissed her
forehead--perhaps before she was aware, perhaps not; but she took it,
praying that it might prove a blessing to her hereafter, even if it were
the last she were destined to receive. She passed on into her own room
without speaking, and sat down there to wait.
To wait! and for what, and how long? till her father came to her? But
suppose he were not to come? She would stay there, perhaps, an
hour--that would be long enough--yes, too long; but still let it be an
hour; and then, he not coming, what should she do? Go to him? No, she
would never dare, never presume to do that. What then? steal
down-stairs, a guilty, hateful thing, softly open the door which would
never open to her again, and run away through the snow? The world would
be before her, but snow and ice would but faintly symbolize its
coldness. Was it likely that heaven itself would yield her entrance
after her father's door had closed upon her?