A SUICIDAL ATTEMPT.
Have pity, Reader,'twas the fire
Of human passion in her brain,--
First, youth's impulsive, mad desire,
Then love, and love's devouring pain.
Some two years previous to the incidents of our opening chapter, in a
quiet house situated on G--St., in the vicinity of Belmont Square, an
aged couple sat quietly talking, while the shadows fell longer and
darker about the room, and the increased tread of passing feet spoke
plainly of the end of another day of that weary labor that fell to the
lot of the large number of tradespeople who lived in this row of modest
houses.
The aged couple mentioned were occupying the two narrow windows that
faced the crowded thoroughfare, and the two faces were pressed anxiously
against the glass, while the old eyes peered eagerly up and down, over
and across in a careful search for the one of whom they had been quietly
speaking.
There was silence for a little while and then the old man leaned back in
his chair and, while wiping the moisture from his glasses with a
generous square of cambric, said querulously:
"It is mighty strange, Marthy, where Lizzie is. She ought to be home
before this."
"I know it, father," responded his wife meekly. "She's been acting very
strange of late, staying away from home and coming in at all hours as
dragged out as if she had been walking the streets for miles."
"Maybe that's what she does," snapped the old man, and then, as if
ashamed of his hasty words, he added in a softer tone: "Though why she
should do that I can't see. She's got a good home here with us and has
had ever since our poor Mary died and left us our grandchild in the
place of our child to care for and protect."
"And we've done both, father," said the old lady, gently. "Lizzie has no
need to seek pleasure outside her own home, what, with the rooms to
look after, her books, her piano and her needle work, she ought to be
pretty well contented."
"That's so, Marthy, but she evidently is not. Now ever since that young
man rented our two back rooms and began to spend his evenings here--"
"You don't think she is in love with him, do you father?" interrupted
his wife quickly.
"Can't say, Marthy, you women can judge better of that. I only know she
acts uncommonly unhappy lately. Let's see, the young fellow has been
gone a week now, hasn't he?"
"Yes, that is so, and Lizzie has seemed all broke down ever since. I was
asking her yesterday to see Mr. Jeller, but she turned as white as
anything.
"'No, no, Grandma,' she said, 'I'll not see any doctors. There's nothing
the matter with me, nothing!'
"But there was a hard look came into her eyes, and the idea went through
my mind that perhaps that gentlemanly looking fellow was just playing
with her after all, and she had only found it out after her heart was
gone from her."
Here the old lady stopped to wipe the tears from her faded eyes, while
the blood of his youth flushed her husband's face and, with cane
uplifted, he muttered fiercely:
"If I thought that, I'd cane him, old as I am! Lizzie's a good girl and
has been as well raised and as well educated as the best of them, and if
her father and grandfather before him were tradespeople, they were
honest and respectable, and I don't know what better dowry a woman can
need than her own virtues and accomplishments and a record behind her of
generations of honorable people."
Here the old man again sank back in his chair, overcome by the violence
of his emotions, while his wife, re-adjusting her glasses, moved aside
the curtain and again peered out into the fast darkening street.
There was silence for a few moments and then her husband resumed his
position at the other window, while the ticking of the clock echoed,
painfully distinct, through the silent room, and the sound of passing
feet grew fainter and fainter, and darkness, mingling with the
impenetrable vapors of a London fog, settled heavily down upon the
earth.
Certainly no girl could have a more happy home or two more tender,
loving companions than had Elizabeth Merril.
But discontent is bred in the bone and needs no outward influence or
surroundings to foster its soul destroying germs.
Elizabeth had grown into womanhood, beautiful in form and feature, loyal
in heart and spotless in her maidenly purity, but the seeds of
discontent, inherited or otherwise, sprang up in her heart and took from
every pleasure that fullness of joy which is so necessary to perfect
happiness.
It was her suggestion to rent the superfluous rooms thereby adding to
the family exchequer and at the same time increasing her household
duties.
The logic was excellent, but the impulse of a dissatisfied mind prompted
the suggestion and evil impulses, however logical, are rarely productive
of good results.
This particular instance was a most conclusive proof of the veracity of
such reasoning.
For a few brief weeks Elizabeth's heart was filled with content and
peace. With her additional labor came renewed ambition and the results
seemed highly satisfactory to all concerned.
Then, as time passed on and the young man who occupied the rooms found
many and varied excuses for seeking her presence, the roses on
Elizabeth's cheeks deepened into carnation, her eyes flashed with a new
born glory, and from morn till night the tender song of the nightingale
burst joyously from her lips.
The young man had occupied the rooms for nearly a year and his devotion
to their grandchild had been constantly growing more marked.
But for the past few months the song had ceased on Elizabeth's lips and
the rosy cheeks were growing steadily paler.
In vain the aged couple watched and questioned, but Elizabeth's feminine
tact and spirit outwitted them.
She fulfilled her duties patiently, as of yore, but would seize upon
every possible pretext for remaining away from home, and now, during the
week that her lover failed to appear at his cosy apartments, they had
hardly seen her for more than a few moments each day.
Thus it was no wonder that to-night they watched and waited at their
narrow windows while the hours stole by and still the wandering girl
returned not to her pleasant home.
Back and forth over the great London Bridge she was walking; her head
bent low; her blue eyes fixed and glaring; her pale lips compressed in
bitter agony, while over and over again she paused and looked eagerly
down into the sluggish water.
The bridge was jammed as usual with hurrying pedestrians and jostling
carts, and few turned to look at the solitary figure.
Now and then a watchful "Bobby" stopped and stared into her face and
more than one of these experienced officers read the signs of coming
trouble in her pallid features.
But it was not their duty to ask her business or order her away. She was
doing no harm and surely it would be but a meddlesome act on their part
to try and avert the danger which they so plainly foresaw.
Still she walked on and on until the crowd was lessened and fewer
officers remained on duty.
Just as the fog, rising from the river below and the smoke falling from
the chimneys above, met and mingled in a pall of gloom and obscurity,
she turned again, paused, looked once more into the darkness below, then
vaulting suddenly to the massive rail, sprang lightly forward through
the mists and down into the awful waters.