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.”
“Capital,” said Louise. “And I have another suggestion. I love animals
so much, dogs and horses especially, that I want children taught to be
kind to them. Let us put two hundred copies of ‘Our Dumb Animals,’ each
fifty cents a year, into as many homes, for nobody can read that paper
without being kinder all his life.”
Louise Strong was married quietly to one of the noblest men of the
city, and Alice Jameson began her labor of love. After one year of
work, and gifts supplied by Louise, of course a generous father and
husband would not see the enterprise abandoned. The incidents of the
next few years, told by Alice to Louise, the dying cared for, children
saved and placed in good homes, men helped and women cheered, would
fill a volume. Louise, thus kept in touch with the world’s sorrow, did
not forget and become selfish. How many lives were blessed with that
wedding money!
LOST HIS PLACE.
“WE ARE sorry to let you go, James, but business is dull and we must
cut down expenses.”
The speaker was the head of a hardware store, a man not unkind in
nature, but who looked at business purely as a money-making matter.
Men were not to be carried over a long winter if there was no need for
their help.
James Leonard’s eyes fell on the paper where he was writing with a
sadder expression than before, but he said nothing. Both of his parents
were dead. He was not strong in body, and none too well fitted to cope
with the obstacles one meets in the daily struggle for existence. He
would, of course, look for work, but that it was not easy to find he
had proved when attempting to get a situation several months before. He
had very little money saved for his board, for wages had been small. He
would keep his inexpensive room, eat but two meals a day, if need be,
and hoped his money would last till a place could be found.
The next morning he started out, not over-courageous, but determined to
be persevering. From store to store, from office to office, he asked
for work, and received the same old reply—“We are discharging men,
rather than hiring new ones.” Days went by and grew into weeks. He came
home hungry, cold, and tired. There was nobody to confer with or to
cheer him. He could not get bookkeeping—that was hopeless. He would
take any kind of work that could be obtained, for his money was growing
perilously scant.
Finally, despite his delicate appearance, a man hired him at small
wages at heavy outdoor work. As might have been expected, his hands
were soon blistered, insufficient food left him with little strength,
and he broke down from the labor.
The woman at whose house James had his room cared for him as best she
could, but she also was poor and could not long provide for him without
remuneration. He must have money for food and fuel. He could not go to
the poorhouse, he could not go to a hospital while half-way able to
work, and he had no relatives upon whom he could depend.
Resolutions to do right are sometimes broken when everything seems
against a person. James was cold and needed an overcoat. Possibly he
could have begged one; possibly not, for the world is not over-generous
with overcoats. He saw one in the hall of a house which he was passing;
the night was bitter cold—he opened the unfastened door, stole the
coat, and hurried away.
He was restless that night as he attempted to sleep. He was cold, and
in his dreams put on an overcoat that did not fit him, and he felt
ill at ease. As he wore it next day, though it was black, he thought
everybody looked at it. The owner might recognize it by the cut of the
collar or the sleeves. He was not happy, but he was warm, and by and
by, as he walked, he forgot that the coat was not really his own and
paid for with his own money.
He could find nothing to do in the city. He could go out into the
suburbs; perhaps in the homes of wealth they would feel neither the
hard times nor the need for retrenchment in winter. He walked all day,
and slept in a barn at night. The next day he went from house to house,
and there was no more success than before.
As night came on he passed a beautiful home back from the street, where
the windows were lighted and all seemed inviting and happy. He looked
in at the window. The daughter of the house sat reading in the cosey
library, and a servant was preparing supper in the kitchen.
He walked away, and then went back. There must be a good deal of food
in so cheerful a home, and he needed some. He had asked for food before
this, and sometimes a kind lady gave him hot coffee with his bread and
butter, but oftener the servants refused.
He would wait till later, and then, unperceived, he would enter the
pantry and take what he needed for the night and the day following. It
was cold remaining outside, and the hours to wait seemed very long, but
then he was used to waiting for everything. There was little else for
him to do nowadays.
The lights were turned out early, for there had been a party at the
house the previous night. He lifted the slightly fastened kitchen
window, entered the pantry, and ate what food he needed, filling his
pockets for the next day’s use.
He was going away when something bright gleamed before him. It was a
basket of silver ready to be put into the safe, but carelessly left
for the morrow. That, if sold, would give him money enough to last the
winter through.
He had to think and act quickly. Before he had time to argue with
himself the right or the wrong of it he had gathered all and put it
into a satchel close at hand. The satchel was heavy, but he hurried
away, secreting some of it, after he left the house, near or partly
under a stone wall.
He feared somebody on the street would hear the silver rattle, or
somebody in the street-car would hit his foot against it. Every eye
seemed upon the satchel, and he was glad to get out of the car and take
it to a pawn-shop. As usual, the pawn-broker beat him down in the price
of the silver. He knew the young man’s necessities and offered him not
over a fifth of its value. Young Leonard demurred, but finally took the
money and hurried away.
Again he looked for work and found some for a day or two. He used his
money carefully, and when it was gone went stealthily to the hidden
place by the wall, dug up the silver, and took it to the pawn-broker.
The police had an agreement with the dealer in stolen goods, and when
Leonard came again to sell he was arrested, tried, and sentenced to
prison.
The prison years, as those know who have tried them, went by
painfully, with much of depression, much of good resolutions, much of
hopelessness, much of weariness and mortification. When James Leonard
was released he determined to begin life anew. He had the same old
struggle to obtain a place, but finally succeeded as the coachman for
two ladies. He was faithful, honest, and greatly liked by them.
One day a policeman recognized him. “Hello, James,” he said, “glad to
see you in a good home. How did they happen to take you? Did they know
you had been in prison?”
“Oh, no, and I wouldn’t have them for the world! They wouldn’t trust
me, and would turn me off.”
“But they’ll find it out, I fear. Better be straight, I think. I would
tell all and take my chances. If they hear it from outside you’ll be
sure to lose your place.”
The next persons to recognize James were two servants, who, eager to
be the bearer of news, told the cook who worked in the same house with
James. To her a prison seemed an awful thing, and she told the ladies.
They in turn told James they feared to trust a man who had stolen, and
discharged him. They did not stop to ask themselves where the man would
go for a home if they turned him away.
The old result happened. James searched for a situation, did not
succeed, became discouraged, was without funds, stole, and again was
sent to prison.