She had never been able
to sink into utter indifference; and she could not forget, strive as she
would, all the happy past, and the unutterably wretched present. Here,
on board ship, there was no chance for her to procure the narcotics,
with which she had lulled her self-reproaches formerly. Her longing for
such stimulants amounted almost to delirium. She could not sleep for
want of them; and all day long she thought of them, and cried for them,
until her husband and Ann Holland could scarcely persevere in refusing
them to her. It seemed to them at times as if she must lose her reason,
the little that remained to her, and become insane, unless they yielded
to her vehement entreaties. Even when, after the first week was gone,
and the craving was in some measure deadened, her spirits did not rally.
She would lie still on deck when her husband carried her there, or on
the narrow berth in their cabin, with eyes closed, and hands listlessly
folded, an image of despair.
"Sophy!" he cried one day, when she had not stirred, or raised her
eyelids for hours; "Sophy, do you wish to kill me?"
"I have killed you," she muttered, still without moving, or looking at
him.
Pages:
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132