Part 9

“Edith, I must tell you what I think is the truth. You love Mr. Thomas, and are unwilling that he or anybody should know it.”

“I admire him very much,” said the girl slowly.

“But why have you never let him see that you liked him?”

“I couldn’t do that, doctor. He knows that we are good friends.”

“Has he ever spoken of marriage?”

“No.”

“Would you marry him if he asked you?”

“If he loved me—never without.”

“What if I should find out his feelings for you?”

“Oh, not for the world, doctor! Let that come of his own free will if at all.”

“But you are ill, child, and you are letting the matter prey upon your strength and health. Mr. Thomas is a noble young man, and I believe is fond of you.”

“We must wait, doctor. I shall be better soon.”

Mr. Thomas called a few days later, but Edith was too ill to see him, and he left his regrets with her parents. He went home sadly to think of his future. He loved Edith, he was happy in her refined society, but his salary was not large, and he could not support her as he desired. She would tire of the home he could give her, and be unhappy, he thought. He called again, but as before was unable to see Edith.

He finally resolved to talk with her parents and tell them of his love for her, and why he had waited until he was better able to provide for her; but she was an only child, and he hesitated to commit himself. Others liked her, and he loved her too well to take her into privation. Besides, the parents, while they liked him, might not be at all willing to give him their daughter. He would talk with her physician, and she, a woman, would know whether Edith were really interested in him.

He called upon Dr. Mary Armstrong as soon as possible.

“I have come to ask about my friend, Miss Sinclair,” he said, as he sat in the physician’s parlor. “Is she better?”

“No, she does not mend at all. There seems to be some weight upon her heart or life that is breaking her down.”

The blood came to the young man’s face, but how could he know that “the weight” upon her heart meant love for him! Perhaps he was too presuming. After an awkward silence he said, “Doctor, I must confide in you. I love Miss Sinclair, but I have never had the means to marry her. I have had a mother and sister to make a home for, and I could not ask another to share my poverty. I do not know that Edith returns my affection, though we have had a delightful friendship together.”

“She loves you, I feel sure,” said her doctor, “and I think your mistake has been that you and she have not had an understanding sooner. Edith is a sensitive, lovely girl, delicately reared, and almost too careful of the conventionalities of life, or she would have shown her love for you.”

“Do you think the time has come to tell her that I love her?”

“Perhaps not just yet. I will tell her of our conversation and make her ready for the meeting.”

Young Thomas went away with a lighter heart than he had had for months. At last Edith would know all and wait for him, if she loved him.

Dr. Armstrong came every day to the Sinclair home, but the sick girl grew no better. Soon after this talk with Mr. Thomas the doctor said to Edith, “I have had a visit from your friend, and, just as I expected, he loves you, but has never asked your hand in marriage because he has so many cares at home and a small salary.”

The white face grew eager and flushed with color. “I told him,” Dr. Armstrong continued, “that he had made a mistake in not having an understanding with you, and then both could wait for marriage if circumstances made such waiting wise. Do you want to see him, Edith?”

“Yes, as soon as I am a little stronger. I feel too weak to-day.”

Several days passed, and strength did not return rapidly, but a new peace had come into Edith’s life, for she loved and was beloved, and then there was a happy meeting of the two lovers, but a quiet one of few words and promises.

Weeks and months went by, during which time hope and love worked the same miracle that has been wrought thousands of times since the world began.

Edith walked in the sunshine of a new day and a new life of restored health and vigor. The autumn leaves took on their color, and red showed itself again in the young girl’s cheeks.

When Christmas day came, that precious day of giving and receiving, George Thomas and Edith Sinclair gave themselves to each other for life.

AN UNFORTUNATE SAIL.

“THE SUNSET is so lovely we might take a row on the ocean,” said Mr. Farneaux to the young lady who was walking beside him.

“I don’t quite like to go on Sunday evening,” said the girl. “But we wouldn’t stay long, would we?”

“Oh, no, only till the sun went down! And we have just come from church, so where’s the harm?”

So a little rowboat was engaged for an hour, and two happy persons pushed off the Jersey Island coast. They chatted merrily as the red and yellow of the clouds played on the waters, and let the boat half drift toward the sunset.

Suddenly the young man dropped one of the oars. A shade of fear passed over Louise Arnot’s face.

“Can you reach it?” she asked anxiously.

“Oh, yes, don’t fear!” and he took the other oar and guided the boat toward the missing paddle.

The breeze was blowing off the land, and increasing. The boat was not easily managed with one oar, and the cheery face of young Farneaux grew a little troubled as the oar drifted faster than the boat.

Anxiety does not give a steady hand, and before he knew it the other oar had slipped from his grasp.

Miss Arnot’s face grew white. “What shall we do? We are drifting out to sea. Would they see us if we were to signal to the shore? Ours is the only boat out. Oh! why did we start at all?”

“Accidents will happen. I must jump for the oars. I am a good swimmer. Don’t get frightened and let the boat tip and fill with water. I’ll soon be back.”

“But you may be drowned,” said the frightened girl. “I wish I could swim, and so help you.”

“No, no! Keep the boat steady as I jump, and I’ll have them in hand soon. I must throw off this coat, so I can swim.” He rose, put his hand on the side, and gave a leap into the ocean.

Her heart sank within her as he went, but there was nothing else possible to be done.

The boat, lightened of its freight, glided on further and further from shore. She wished she were heavier to hold it down. She wished she could reach one oar while he obtained the other, as both had now floated far apart. She watched him breathlessly as he swam away. Impeded somewhat by his clothes, he yet swam hastily and caught one oar, holding it up to Louise’s delighted eyes.

He did not see that the boat was drifting fast away from him. But he must have the other oar. Both persons were helpless without it, so he redoubled his efforts. He felt the breeze stiffening. What if he could not reach the oar? What if he could not reach the boat with its fair owner? What if Louise were to drift out to sea and be drowned, and her death be laid at his door? No, that should not be; and he put his whole strength against the waves. He gained in speed, and soon held the coveted oar in his grasp.

He looked toward the skiff. Alas! it was smaller to his sight and almost flying before the wind. He started with the oars, but he felt himself weakening. He must throw them away if he would overtake the boat, and then it would be certain death to both. The moments were agonizing. Even if he did reach Louise, he could not swim with her to the shore. If he reached the bank himself, he could get friends to put out and save her.

Thus reasoning, he sorrowfully dropped the oars and swam for life. The wind had now become violent and he was losing strength, but fear and despair nerve us to our uttermost; and finally, well nigh exhausted, he touched the shore. He was grateful, but almost overcome with sorrow as well as fatigue.

An excited crowd gathered around him.

“Where is the young lady?” they asked.

“We lost the oars, and she has drifted out to sea. God help her!”

“Coward!” shouted the crowd, who are usually blind and unreasoning.

“Nobody’ll believe such a yarn,” said one.

“We heard cries of ‘Murder!’ ’way back here on the shore,” shouted others, for there is always a class of persons who fill life with imaginary evils, as though it were not full enough of real ones.

“Arrest him—he deserves lynching,” said others, who knew and honored the young girl who was now missing.

“Man a boat and let us go and bring her back,” persisted young Farneaux, but the people laughed him to scorn. The case was plainly against him. He had taken her out and came back without her. He could swim and she could not, and he had basely deserted or murdered her. Besides, no rowboat could live in the fast-increasing waves. The officers hurried Farneaux off to jail, and he was indicted for homicide. In vain he protested; in vain he begged for clemency till the matter could be investigated. No, they would keep him close in hand, and if anything favorable developed they would give him the benefit.

Meantime what had become of the rowboat? It had drifted out into the deep ocean with its helpless occupant. The sun went down in a blaze of light, but the beautiful red and orange colors brought no joy to the eyes that peered in vain toward the horizon.

“Mr. Farneaux would not desert me,” she murmured. “Where can he be?” and she shaded her eyes with her hand, hoping to see the dim outline of a human being.

The stars came out slowly one by one, and gradually she knew that she was at the mercy of the great ocean and the God who rules over all. What might come she hardly dared to think. If a storm did not arise, she might float on and on. If the wind rose higher, more water would come into the boat, for it dipped already, and then death was certain.

She began to grow hungry and faint, but she must not give up. The hours grew toward midnight. There was no use to call aloud, for there was no soul to respond. The boat lurched, and was now half full of water. She could only pray and wait in agony.

One hour, two hours, three hours, four hours, five hours, which were as long as weeks, and then the sun streaked the eastern sky, and came up as grandly and joyously as though no hearts were breaking on land or sea.

“O Father in heaven, if some ship might only pass this way!” she moaned. So thirsty, but no water—so hungry, but no food—weak from loss of sleep, but with nerves strung to their utmost tension in the eager watching for a sail.

The whole forenoon passed. The mid-day sun grew hot and parching, and hope was finally giving way to despair. The whole of life had been reviewed, with thoughts of the dear ones waiting for her. The whole afternoon dragged on, the sun set, and the second weary night was to be lived through, or death might come before morning. Hunger and fear had blanched the face, and death even was beginning to lose its terrors from the numbness of the physical.

The night wore away, long and weary and desolate, and again morning dawned. Louise was sitting in the water of the boat, her limbs chilling, scarce knowing now if she were dead or alive. It was growing toward noon again; forty hours alone on the ocean, and death seemingly near at hand.

Something appeared in the distance. What! Did she see with her half-blind eyes the smoke of a coming vessel? Could it be, or was it only a mirage which had deceived again and again?

Yes, it actually came nearer; but would it see her, a mere speck on the ocean? She would gather strength enough to wave her handkerchief. Ah! it really was a vessel. God help her now in her one last gleam of hope! She had no strength to call, and even if she had probably such call would be useless. How earnestly she prayed, gaining new lease of life from this new hope!

“There’s something ahead,” said the man at the lookout. “Perhaps a body floating out at sea; no, it looks like a rowboat—perhaps a drifting lifeboat of some steamer.” And word was given to bring the ship alongside.

“Heaven help us—why, there’s a girl in the boat alone!”

“Lower a lifeboat, boys, and pull out for her.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” said the men, with eager hearts, for none have warmer than those who sail the ocean.

Louise’s heart bounded for joy when she saw the sturdy oarsmen come near. She would have fainted hours before, but now she wept with gratitude.

“It’s a long way ye are from home,” said one broad-shouldered sailor, as he lifted her in his arms like a child, and carried her into the lifeboat.

She was too weak to tell the story now, and wondering how it all happened the men carried back their precious freight to the ship.

The captain and officers showed her every kindness, offering her food when she could partake of it, and giving her every chance for rest and sleep.

“But we cannot take you home,” said the kind-hearted man. “We are on our way to America. It must be weeks before our return.”

“I am so thankful for all your kindness. I can wait anywhere, only so I send them word of my safety.”

The steamer arrived on the Atlantic coast May 19, just one month after the almost fatal boat-ride.

On the other side of the ocean there was sorrow and suspense. Louise’s home was desolate for its lost one. Public opinion was still bitter against the author of her misfortune. With innocent heart, but blanched face, Mr. Farneaux was brought from jail to the crowded court-room for his trial on the charge of homicide. Every day and hour he had hoped for some word that would show him to be guiltless, but days grew into weeks, and neither the boat nor Louise Arnot was found. He supposed her dead, but hoped some vessel would report the empty boat, or have picked up at sea the missing one.

The prosecution made out a strong case.

“If Mr. Farneaux’s story were true,” said the attorney, “that he was unable to reach her, and therefore saved his life by swimming ashore, her body would have been found on the beach long before this. She was last seen in his company. It was an easy matter to sink the oars and then swim to shore after the deed was done. Thirty days have gone by, long enough for any vessel to have picked her up and restored her to her heart-broken family, if she were alive.”

And then for hours the enormity of the deed, the coaxing her to go upon the ocean that Sabbath evening, the cold-bloodedness of the whole affair, were gone over by able lawyers.

Mr. Farneaux’s face grew white, and his body trembled at the accusations. And then he told in straightforward language the story of his losing the oars, of the increasing wind so that he could scarcely gain the shore, of the impossibility of reaching her with his heavy oars in hands, and of the certainty of death for both if he attempted it.

“He talks like an innocent fellow,” said one.

“Yes, I have known him for years, and he’s a well-brought-up young man, but I’ve known well-brought-up people turn out to be fiends,” said another.

“Not often if they have Christian parents,” said a third. “That young man has a good mother, and it’s rare that the son of such a mother goes wrong. I believe in the man. I’d be willing to wager a good deal that his story is true.”

Several witnesses testified as to good character, but one fact was patent to all, that Louise Arnot went out with him and he came back alone, excited, anxious, and seemingly greatly disturbed. He could prove nothing, and circumstances were against him.

Away in America the sick girl, now coming to her usual health by care, was writing a cable message the hour the ship arrived. “How glad they will be! Poor Mr. Farneaux will be so anxious. He swam for the boat, I know, just as long as he could.”

So the words were sent: “Louise Arnot picked up at sea in open boat. Arrived in New York May 19. Well.”

A courier came to the crowded court-room and delivered the message. A hush fell upon the assembly, and then a cheer broke out, and tears rolled down the cheeks of the man accused of murder. The proceedings were stayed, and the townspeople waited eagerly for the coming of Miss Arnot, that she might tell the story of why she was left alone through those terrible forty hours.

The captain had taken Miss Arnot to his home till she should fully recover and be able to make the return voyage. One day as she was reading the daily paper her eye fell upon the words, “Supposed murder at sea,” and where was detailed the arrest of Mr. Farneaux and his unexpected deliverance by her cable.

“What if I had not been rescued,” she said, “and had died in the boat! Who could have saved my poor, dear friend then?” And anew she thanked God for her miraculous deliverance, and for saving the life of her friend.

A few weeks later Miss Arnot was home in her beloved island, her friends gathering about her. All were eager for her side of the story. “Mr. Farneaux has told the truth,” she said, “and I am more thankful for his life even than for my own. What would have been my agony if he had suffered death for me!”

Time will tell what the sequel will be! Whatever life has before them, neither will forget the awful experience of being on the sea alone, drifting helplessly, or on trial for murder with no power to prove one’s innocence. And each is thankful for that wonderful deliverance.

A NEW KIND OF WEDDING.

“I DO NOT want the usual kind of wedding,” said the pretty daughter of Jared Strong, the millionaire of Huntsville. “I would rather use the money spent for flowers and supper in a way that pleases me better.”

“And what would please you?” said the gracious man, who loved his daughter with an especial fondness now that her mother was dead. “You are a queer girl.”

“I will spend the money wisely, if I may have it.”

“But what will the young man you are to marry think of a simple and private wedding, and what will the people in society think, who have entertained you?”

“They know already that I care little for parties or clubs. Going into one of the ‘Settlements’ and seeing how the poor live cured me of extravagance. Why, the money spent for one grand party would make one hundred poor people comfortable for a year!”

“Well, the suppers and making the fine silks give employment to people,” said Mr. Strong.

“But you forget, father, how much further the money would go if spent otherwise. A florist receives one thousand dollars for flowers. His family and a few workmen are benefited, but that thousand dollars would keep scores of families from starving or cold, if properly used. Many, unable to obtain work,—and we know from statistics that quite a large per cent. cannot possibly get it, because there is not work enough for all,—would be cheered and kept from discouragement if rent could be paid for a time, or clothes furnished, or coal given, or comforts provided in sickness.”

“Do as you wish, my child. You shall have the money to spend as you like. I fear, however, that the world will call you peculiar. You know there has always been poverty and always will be.”

“But we who are rich have duties to those who are not so fortunate. I learned at the ‘Settlement’ how the luxuries of the rich make the poor feel discouraged and unhappy. They work, and they see idlers all about them who are haughty when they should be kind and courteous. The poor see many of the rich waste their time in hunting or useless pleasure. They see people living for self, with no thought of the homeless or over-worked. They see clothes thrown away or hoarded, when they might be of use to somebody.”

“What does my dear Louise wish for her wedding day? No jewels and laces and rejoicing over the happy event?”

“Well, let us see how much I can save to use as I like. I prefer to be married quietly in our own home, with only a few friends together. I do not want many outside presents, for people give more than they can afford generally, and because they feel that social customs demand it. The flowers, if the church and house were elaborately trimmed, would cost a thousand dollars, the supper for a large company another thousand, the elegant wardrobe, which I do not wish, another thousand. Now I would rather have this to spend for myself.”

“You shall have it, daughter, and we will see how you will spend it. You will be the talk of Huntsville.”

Louise Strong, college educated, was about to marry a young man who was graduated from the same class as herself. He had wealth and did not need her fortune; besides, he loved her well enough to let her decide what would make her happiest.

Soon after leaving college she entered one of the college “Settlements,” partly because some of her friends were trying the experiment, and partly because she had an interest in those less fortunate than herself. She found it true, indeed, that “one-half the world does not know how the other half lives.”

While one part dressed in purple and fine linen and fared sumptuously every day, another had scarcely enough to eat or to wear, slept on poor beds if any, with insufficient bedding to keep them from the cold, in tumble-down tenement houses, with high rents and no conveniences. With pinched faces and oftentimes bitter hearts they looked on the showy equipages, elegant mansions, and extravagant dresses of many of the rich.

True, there were some who, either because of their refined tastes or Christian principles, made little display, and gave of their surplus to bless humanity, but the majority lived for self and let the rest of the world struggle as it might. They would not take on responsibility, and in no wise regarded themselves as holding their property in trust for the betterment of the world. They had made their money and they would spend it as they chose. To God or man they did not feel responsible. Only when death came did they begin to ask if life had been well spent.

Louise Strong had gone into poor homes and cared for sick children; she had given sympathy and money; she had read to weary and lonely persons; she had encouraged the despondent, tried to find situations for those out of work, helped to make the “Settlement” a social home and place of elevation and rest, and learned, best of all, that life is worse than useless unless lived for the sake of others.

And now what should she do with the three thousand dollars that were to be spent for the wedding if she did not use them in charity? There were so many ways to spend it that one could scarcely select. The libraries needed more books; some of the children in the Sunday School of her church needed proper clothing; the people in jails ought to have books and papers; the poor who hesitated to ask charity because it was so often grudgingly given at the public institutions, and often to the unworthy, needed coal and food and clothes; many boys and girls longed for a college education and were helpless in getting it; the colored people in the South needed education and to be taught industries; the temperance cause needed money and workers. How should she use her three thousand dollars?

One of the friends she had made at the “Settlement,” Alice Jameson, had often said she wished she could visit among the poor and be their friend, but she had no means. Louise knew that personal contact with human beings is the best way to improve them. She went to see her friend Alice.

“I have a proposition to make,” she said to Alice. “I can have the money for my wedding to use as I please. How would you like to be my missionary? I to pay you a salary, and you to visit in your own field and tell me all the needy and helpless, so that you and I can find a way to brighten their lives.”

“I should be more delighted than you can imagine,” said Alice. “Call me the ‘Louise Missionary.’ And now, as the cold weather is coming, I think you will want to provide me with one or two hundred pairs of mittens and warm stockings, and perhaps you will like to use some of the money in Christmas gifts for those who rarely have presents.”