Newspaper Page Text
TWO WRECKS AND THEIR DRIFTWOOD
D
AYS went by over the heads of the
little impromptu colony on Mana
tee Island, as they found the little
isle was called, because when the
fugitives landed here they found
the body of a Manatee—the great
sea cow —lying on the beach. The
creature seemed to be very old.
It had come out on land to die,
after the habit of all amphibious things.
The weather had been fine; the house was
completed and they had moved into it. The
women had made the interior look comfortable
with a deep carpet of pine needles, and couches
of palm leaves and long soft moss.
Outside, under a thick palm-leaf shelter was
their cooking range, built of stones, with a
cover of thick iron sheeting, a piece of which
they had found half buried in the sand at one
end of the island. Two holes were pierced in
this, over which fish might be fried that were
not baked inside with the bread and potatoes.
They had been able to buy from their island
companions only one cooking utensil —the ever
useful frying pan. Their other cooking and
eating appurtenances were large flat clam shells
gourds and the shells of the cocoanut. The
men had found time, with the help of the wom
en, to plant a patch of potatoes, from slips fur
nished them by the islanders. The sweet po
tato was perennial on the island. Once plant
ed, it remained green and prolific all the time.
They found that although they worked in the
open air, they cared little for any food beside
fruit, of -which there was a variety—guavas,
pineapples, mangoes, grapes and a small de
licious melon of the canteloupe species, which
the first settlers had planted, but which had
now become independent of care and had run
wild over the island.
In all the work and housekeeping, Mary
Manning took a cheerful part. The girl’s na
ture seemed to have undergone a wonderful
transformation. Her face had lost its sullen,
reckless expression. The friendliness shown
her by Maybeth and Mrs. Hamilton had re
created self-respect and hope in her bruised
spirit. One day she told her story to these
two friends. Her mother died when she was
twelve years old, leaving her an orphan, for her
father had passed away when she was but three
years old. Her sole dependence for protection
and support was a step-father, brutalized by
drink. He was so hard upon her, she said,
that she would have run away in desperation,
but for the baby brother that was her charge—
a sickly little chap who worshipped his sister
mother.
One night, when the girl was fifteen, her step
father came home drunk. The supper was
cold; there had been no wood to keep up the
fire in the stove until near midnight. He or
dered her to make a fire and heat the steak and
coffee. The baby had been ailing, and she
had him in her arms. He was going back to
sleep, and she did not immediately obey the
command of the drunken man. Cursing her,
he snatched the child from her and threw him
in his crib. His head struck the iron side piece
of the crib with such violence as to injure the
skull. The child died after three weeks of
intense suffering.
When the little creature she had loved so
dearly was buried beside his mother, Mary
could not make up her mind to live any longer
at the place that had been no home to her.
She made her scant wardrobe into a bundle and
left the house, the night after the baby was
buried. She walked all night and nearly all
the next day before finding a place where her
services were needed.
At length she stopped at a house, where a
tall, fine looking woman in the dress of a pro
fessional nurse, was taking her departure in a
buggy that would convey her and her trunk to
the railway station. A young man paid her
CHAPTER VI.
The Golden Age for July 18,1912.
some money, and she said to him: “I would like
to stay and nurse your mother. She certain
ly needs a nurse, but I cannot afford to stay
for the little money you are willing to give.”
She went away, and Mary spoke to the young
man, asking him to employ her to take care of
his mother. “I am used to sick people,” she
said. “I nursed my own mother and my little
half-brother.”
“You are very young,” he objected. “What
do you ask for your services?”
“Whatever you can afford to give,” she told
him, at which he smiled, understanding that
she knew little about business and could be
had on his own terms. “You are such a slen
der girl, and my mother has to be lifted a good
deal,” he demurred.
“I am stronger than I look,” she answered,
“and you will help me with your mother, I am
sure.”
“I am not much in a sick room,” he answer
ed, “but I will see you through, I guess.”
He led the way to his mother’s room. She
spoke kindly to the girl, who was drawn to her
at once. She remained with the sick woman
until her death. She and the son were thrown
constantly together. There was no one in the
house besides themselves. As the end ap
proached the invalid had to be looked after, day
and night. The work was exhausting. Often
the young nurse dropped on the bed in the ad
joining room and slept like the unbreathing
dead for an hour or two while the young man
kept watch. He would come in and wake her,
with a kiss. He had made love to her almost
from the first, and she, who knew nothing of
the ways of men, gave him her child-like love
and confidence, and fully believed his promise
to marry her.
The sick mother questioned her, and with
many blushes she confessed her secret. “My
son will marry you; he must,” said the honor
able old lady. And she called him to her and
made him promise to marry Mary the next day
in her presence. That night, she died. After
the funeral, the son went to the city to secure
a position, he told the girl. She was left alone
in the old house. After a few weeks, a man—
a stranger—came ia an automobile and said he
had been sent by nis friend —her affianced —
to take her to the city, where he would meet
her and they would be married. She went
with him. When he arrived in the city, he stop
ped before a lighted Church and said, “He is
in there waiting for you. Take this” —putting
a small parcel in her hand “and go in.” She
went in; there was a sparsely attended prayer
meeting going on. She saw nothing of her
lover. When she asked about him, people star
ed and smiled strangely. They thought she
was crazed. One man said, “Some one has
been making a fool of you my girl.” Yes,
she had been deceived. She knew it now. She
opened the package the man had given her,
under the street lamp and read, “Here is twen
ty dollars. Do the best you can with it and your
self. lam married and do not wish to see you
again.”
Her brain reeled. She sank to the pavement
unconscious. When she recovered, she was in
an automobile with two richly-dressed women
and a man. As in a dream, she heard the wom
an say, “She can’t be over sixteen and what
a pretty face.” The man answered', “Take her
to your house. If she proves to be friendless,
take care of her and I will pay you for her
keep.” She was too ill to think or understand.
It was days before she knew the nature of the
house she was in. Then the toils were about
her, it was too late. “After this, for two
years,” said Mary “My life was full of excite
ment, misery and shame.” I would have end
ed it, but I shrank in nervous horror from pois
on or a pistol ball. At last, I determined to go
on board a vessel, and when we were far out
at sea, to leap over board at midnight, when
there was no chance of rescue. I was dressed
By FIFTY-NINE.
and on deck the night of the fire—the night I
had resolved should be my last. The cry of
fire and the rush of people on deck put my
purpose to flight. I let myself be placed in the
life boat. I was saved. I met you two ladies
and you were kind. You have not scorned
me; you have given me hope that I may begin
a new life, and redeem my past. You have
made me believe that Christ will say to me, as
he said to the woman of his time: “Thy sins
are forgiven thee. Go and sin no more.”
Her beautiful dark eyes were full of sadness,
but all aglow with earnest purpose. “You will
help me,” she said. “You will not forsake me
when we are back in the world?”
“We will always help you and be your
friend,” Mrs. Hamilton and Maybeth assured
her.
They stopped talking, for Sydney was ap
proaching. A large fish swung from the end
of the pole he carried across his shoulder. His
face was flushed, his eyes brilliant. It could
not be 'denied that he was wonderfully hand
some.
“He loves you,” Mary said. “Are you going
to marry him?”
“Never,” Maybeth answered emphatically.
“I am glad,” said Mary with a look of relief.
“I do not believe he would make you happy.
But he seems determined that you shall care
for him, and—with a sigh—a man’s will is
very strong.”
CHAPTER VII. •
Sydney Devon threw himself down on the
ground beside the two girls. Laughing, he
said: “I have made a discovery. I have found
the hidden treasure of these island fellows. No,
it isn’t gold or silver or green backs. You
know, don’t you, that they have a couple of
storm pits—Miall caves they have dug out to
take refuge in when a tornado sweeps over the
island? Well, today, I explored one of these
pits, and at the back part, hid under a pile of
palm leaves, I found a barrel of wine and a keg
of as fine whisky as I ever tasted. The wine
they had made out of the native grapes, and
the keg of whisky is one of several that came
ashore from a schooner that went to pieces on
the rocks out yonder in a big storm last fall.
Just sample this wine, Maybeth darling, it will
make your eyes as bright as stars.”
He produced a bottle and a cocoanut cup;
poured the cup half full of the red wine and
held it out to Maybeth.
“You know that I do not drink wine,” she
told him.
Well, if you were a little teetotaller back in
the world we have left behind us, we needn’t
be here. There is no law and no social code on
this bit of groundßn the wide seas. We can
do here as please. So drink to ous love
and our happy times together, my little bride.
“He thrust the cup to her lips. She pushed
it back quickly, spilling half it’s contents.” “I
will not drink it,” she said, her look expressing
the contempt she felt.
His eyes blazed with anger—he was more
than half drunk, and liquor always made him
a fiend. “You shall drink it,” he muttered
between clenched teeth. With a quick move
ment, he caught both her hands in one of his
and held them, while with his other hand he
pressed the wine to her lips. “Drink,” he
commanded. “You belong to me; you shall
do as I desire.” Suddenly a sharp blow stung
his face; the cup was dashed from his hand.
“Let her alone. For shame, you drunken cad,”
exclaimed Mary Manning. With a cry of rage,
he sprang toward her. She stood up, her dark
eyes sternly resolute. The fire in them, more
than the glimpse he had of a weapon in her
hand made him stop and turn away with a mut
tered curse.
Mary Manning laughed scornfully. “Men in
liquor are fierce and bold sometimes, but not
(Continued on Page 8.)
3