"Come, my daughter," said Severinus, with inexpressible gentleness.
Deep grief, such as he had never felt before, overmastered Henri. He tried to kiss her hand, but she withdrew it. "Will you act in opposition to the dictates of your own heart, Cornelia?" he exclaimed. "My love, do not cause yourself so much pain. See, you are pitying me almost more than I pity myself. Be more womanly, Cornelia; you cannot treat the man in whom your life is rooted thus. This is not the place for such discussions. I will forgive your want of confidence and your having exposed me to this gentleman in such a manner. To-morrow, my Cornelia, I shall hope to find you more reasonable."
"More reasonable? You will never find me again."
"Cornelia!"
"I think you will feel yourself that between us no reconciliation is possible. We are parted!"
"Cornelia! and you have loved me!"
"Because I have loved, still love--I fear you," she breathed almost inaudibly. "Should I need to fly from you if I hated you as I ought?"
She fixed her eyes once more on the wondrously beautiful features, now ennobled by pain; tear after tear rolled slowly down her cheeks; she shivered violently, and sank sobbing at the feet of a life-size figure of Christ, resting her burning head against the cold stone.
"Oh, Cornelia," whispered Henri, his voice trembling with emotion; "unhappy child, why do you lacerate your own heart and mine so cruelly? Tell me, wherefore do you now suffer all this? wherefore do you renounce me, do you bear this anguish?"
"Wherefore?" she said, looking up to the Christ to which she still clung. "Ask Him. He will teach you."