But, at the last
moment, it had spoken--at least, the lips bad moved as if in speech,
though no sound had reached the professor's ears; yet he fancied he had
caught a glimmering of the purport. He pressed his hands over his
forehead to shut out the thought, and wondered no longer at the
expression upon Sophie's face.
Then Cornelia moved across the hollow blackness of the room. She was
sunshiny no longer, but morose and stern; her eyebrows were drawn
together; a secret defiance was in her tigerish eyes; her lips were set,
yet seemed, ever and anon, as she turned her face aside, to tremble
with a passionate yearning. As he gazed, she disappeared, but the
professor had a feeling that she was still concealed somewhere in the
darkness. And, at last, she came again--she, or something that looked
like her. The old gentleman shivered and recoiled, as though a
snow-drift had somehow blown into his warm, old heart. Was it his
daughter who looked with those unmeaning eyes, encircled with dark
rings, in which life and passion burned out had left the dull ashes of
remorse and hopelessness? Where were the luminous cheeks and the queenly
step of his proud and beautiful Cornelia?--What words were those? or was
it only fancy?--Ah!--The professor started with a sharp exclamation: but
he was alone in his dark study, and the phantom of Cornelia was gone.
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