Pretty Merribelle by Nellie Bly

Author:Nellie Bly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: David Blixt
Published: 2021-12-05T00:00:00+00:00

XXIII - What The River Casts Up.

As the dark, cold water closed over Merribelle’s yellow head she was conscious of a sudden chill and shock, and then a great rumbling and roaring in her ears.

Gasping for breath, and with a bursting sensation in her head, the poor girl came up again above the surface of the water.

She wished for an instant, strange as it may seem, that she could have time to take a comfortable breath, but she had sought death in the cruel river and it was merciless.

With furious haste it swept her on, and a new terror awoke in her heart.

Where was the river’s gentle murmur? Where were the soft promises it seemed to whisper of peace and happiness in its embrace?

Its murmur now was a deafening roar. It thundered and plunged and pulled and tore like a savage beast. It lifted helpless Merribelle upon one wave only to pull her roughly down within its dark depths again.

Gone were its promises of comfort, gone its whisperings of peace and rest. It was cold and chilly, it was rough and cruel, and it was loud and terrifying. It seemed to make rough play with its helpless prey.

It tossed her up to gain one fleeting breath, it sucked her down into its depths and tried to strangle her; it chilled her to her heart’s core, it smothered her until a fire burned in her head and throat, and all the while it thundered and roared in her ears until she could hear nothing else but its awful voice.

Poor Merribelle had time to regret her sinful act, time to wish she could save herself, time to realize how useless it was now to struggle, time to think how frightfully long it took to die.

She was only a delicate girl, weak and worn, but nature fought against death, and she struggled with the strength of a giant.

But her struggles were in vain. The river seemed to roar in glee at her fruitless endeavors.

At last came the blissful moment when her strength failed, when the river’s roar seemed to grow fainter, and she closed her eyes, thrilling with the thought that death was creeping over her, when she felt something clutch her with a firm grip, and, after several brave efforts, gently draw her from the swift current of the water.

She put out her little white hand and touched something rough and shaggy.

It was a dog.

Hope rushed madly into her heart, the terror of what she had been through came over her, and with a sob of joy she clutched at the dog’s long hair and clung desperately to him.

Then some one came to the dog’s aid, and Merribelle found herself drawn up on the sandy shore. She tried to get an easy breath, to get the water out of her ears and eyes.

She remembered afterward how she had heard the dog shaking his shaggy coat, and dimly she wished she might as easily shaked herself dry.

“She’s all right, Friend, old boy!” Merribelle heard a cold, unemotional voice say.

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