She saw, she heard, but as one who neither sees nor hears; like one in
a drugged, unnatural stupor. She could not think; an iron hand seemed to
have clutched her heart, a dreadful despair to have taken possession of
her. She had made a horrible, irreparable mistake; she was body and soul
in the power of the man she hated most on earth. She was his wife!--she
could get no further than that.
The stormy night wore on; midnight came and the elemental uproar was at
its height. Still she lay there all in a heap, suffering in a dulled,
miserable way that was worse than sharpest pain. She lay there stunned,
overwhelmed, not caring if she ever rose again.
And so morning found her--when morning lifted a dull and leaden eye
over the stormy sea. It came gloomy and gray, rain falling still, wind
whispering pitifully, and a sky of lead frowning down upon the drenched,
dank earth and tossing, angry ocean.
All in a heap, as she had fallen, Mollie lay, her head resting on a
chair, her poor golden ringlets tossed in a wild, disheveled veil, fast
asleep. Pitifully, as sleep will come to the young, be their troubles
ever so heavy, sleep had sealed those beaming blue eyes, "not used to
tears at night instead of slumber.
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