And so, day by day, Destiny, throned in space, shot her flaming shuttle from darkness into darkness, and the time passed on, as the time must pass, till the inevitable end of all things is attained.
Eva existed and suffered, and that was all she did. She scarcely ate, or drank, or slept. But still she lived; she was not brave enough to die, and the chains were riveted too tight round her tender wrists to let her flee away. Poor nineteenth-century Andromeda! No Perseus shall come to save you.
The sun rose and set in his appointed course, the flowers bloomed and died, children were born, and the allotted portion of mankind passed onwards to its rest; but no godlike Perseus came flying out of the golden east.
Once more the sun rose. The dragon heaved his head above the quiet waters, and she was lost. By her own act, of her own folly and weakness, she was undone. Behold her! the wedding is over. The echoes of the loud mockery of the bells have scarcely died upon the noonday air, and in her chamber, the chamber of her free and happy maiden-hood, the virgin martyr stands alone.
It is done. There lie the sickly scented flowers; there, too, the bride’s white robe. It is done. Oh, that life were done too, that she might once press her lips to his and die!
The door opens, and Florence stands before her, pale, triumphant, awe-inspiring.
“I must congratulate you, my dear Eva. You really went through the ceremony very well; only you looked like a statue.”
“Florence, why do you come to mock me?”
“Mock you, Eva, mock you! I come to wish you joy as Mr. Plowden’s wife. I hope that you will be happy.”
“Happy! I shall never be happy. I detest him!”