What Makes the Difference? [pp. 364-366]

WHAT MAKES THE DIFFERENCE?
blithe and gay, was now mournfully sad. She
seems to have lost all interest in worldly affairs.
Her appetite fails. She refuses to taste food.
She communicates with no one. She banishes
herself for the most part to her room. Finally,
on a Monday, after having assisted her sister
in some household duties, she retired to her
room never to leave it again alive. Mrs. P.,
her sister, called her several times during the
day and evening to come down and take some thing to eat, but she declined. About 9 o'clock
M\ondclay evening the devoted and anxious sister
took some supper to her room and tried hard
to induce her to eat, but she still declined, say ing she would perhaps feel better in the morning.
At about I i o'clocka brother, Mr. Maurice S., a
conductor on the street cars, arrived home and,
on reachl)ing the head of the stairs near her
room, heard her groan. Calling to her and
receiving no answer, he called to others of the
family, and going into her room they found her
in a stupor. Dr. H. was sent for, and did all he
could to restore her to consciousness, but with out success, as death ensued about I2- o'clock.
An empty two-ounce vial, labeled "laudanum;
poison," from Dr. Roland's drug-store, was
found in the bed, and at the head, between the
mattress and pillow, a goblet was found, dis colored by the drug. There was also found in
|the bed a small box, directed to Joseph A.,
Great Mill, St. Mary's county, Maryland, in
which were a locket and three small shirt-bosom
studcls, and the following note:
"'fMy Darling,-I can not live away firom you
any longer. The world is so cold and dreary
without you; and I have reason to believe,
darling, that you are false. Your heart-broken
"LAURA."
The above note is sufficiently affecting; but
while it very clearly indicates the natural kind ness of the writer's heart, it also, with equal
clearness, betrays an utter want of a noble,
womanly, courageous, Christian purpose. In deed, the completeness with which she had
succumbed to her disappointment, and the de liberation with whichl she premeditated this
awful crime of self-murder, is indicated by the
following note addressed to her sister:
"pay Dear Sister,-I only wish there was
some way I could repay you for your kindness
to me since I have been with you, but you will
be rewarded for it in the next world.
"Your attached sister, LAURA.
"Please send the box by the first opportu nity.... Give my prayer-book to Carrie. Tell
her that it is all that I had to leave her for a
keepsake. [Here follow three lines obliterated
by pencil.] Mollie, please do n't let the doc
tors touch me. If I had wanted to live I would
not have taken the laudanum.
"Your devoted sister."
Not many months ago there died in the city
of New York a maiden queen of poesy. It
had seemed to many impossible that she should
have carried her tender and passionate heart
through the social and literary thoroughfares
wherein she was called to tread, unpierced by
any amorous shaft. And it was, indeed, impossible. There was a secret page in the history of the deceased poetess never written, and
but seldom, and in the most guarded terms,
even alluded to.
When this beloved and now distinguished
authoress* was young, she made a pilgrimage
from the West, her home, to that great Eastern
literary Mecca, New York city. Here she was
introduced to a gentleman about five years her
senior-a prominent liiteratezir, journalist and
author. Being the editor of one of the then
most popular and fashionable monthlies, and
being withal very well acquainted both with the
literary market and the publishers of the metropolis, he was abundantly capable of rendering substantial aid to the aspiring but as yet
unsophisticated young writer. He gave her
space in his own columns, flattered her, encouraged her hopes, and assisted her in finding a
market for her wares. In the mean time, as
was by no means unnatural under the circumstances, acquaintance ripened into friendship,
firiendship into intimacy, and intimacy into love.
And it was said at last that the parties were
solemnly affianced. This was nearly twenty
years ago. The fair Alice had then passed
thirty. He, being still older, would seem to
have passed the bounds of juvenile folly, if those
bounds are ever passed by man. But no. Educated, though he had been, a Baptist minister,
he had now become a thoroughly blase citizen
of the world, and as such was really incapable
of fully appreciating the quiet, retired, sensitive, domestic, unassuming, and gifted woman
he had won. And so trouble came between
them after a while in the form of a woman of
society, externally more attractive than the
gentle Alice-a trouble which finally ended in
their separation. The engagement was broken,
and each went his way-the one to bask in the
smiles of his new-found idol, the other to do
the best she could with her broken heart. And
what did she do? Betake herself incontinently
to the laudanum bottle? Not at all. She was
a Christian, and as such she had a purpose, and
* She was once a contributor to this magazine.
365