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?
The door opened, turning slowly and hesitatingly on its hinges, until it
disclosed her father's venerable figure.
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