University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
SINKING.

ISABEL MARLAY'S first care had been to see
that little Katy had a good hold. Helen Minorkey
was quite as self-possessed, but her chief care
was to get into a secure position herself. Nothing
brings out character more distinctly than an emergency
such as this. Miss Minorkey was resolute and bent on
self-preservation from the first moment. Miss Marlay was resolute,
but full of sympathy for the rest. With characteristic
practical sense, she did what she could to make herself and
those within her reach secure, and then with characteristic
faith she composed her mind to death if it should come, and
even ventured with timid courage to exhort Katy and Miss
Minorkey to put their trust in Christ, who could forgive their
sins, and care for them living or dying. Even the most skeptical
of us respect a settled belief in a time of trial. There
was much broken praying from others, simply the cry of terror-stricken
spirits. In all ages men have cried in their extremity
to the Unseen Power, and the drowning passengers in Diamond
Lake uttered the same old cry. Westcott himself, in
his first terror, prayed a little and swore a little by turns.

The result of self-possession in the case of Isa Marlay and
Helen Minorkey was the same. They did not waste their
strength. When people drown, it is nearly always from a

lack of economy of force. Here was poor little Katy so terrified
at thoughts of drowning, and of the cold slimy bed at the
bottom of the lake, and more than all at thoughts of the ugly
black leeches that abounded at the bottom, that she was drawing
herself up head and shoulders out of the water all the time,
and praying brokenly to God and Brother Albert to come and
help them. Isa tried to soothe her, but she shuddered, and said
that the lake was so cold, and she knew she should drown,
and Cousin Isa, and Smith, and all of them. Two or three
times, in sheer desperation, little Katy let go, but each time Isa
Marlay saved her and gave her a better hold, and cheered
her with assurances that all would be well yet.

While one party on the shore were building a raft with
which to reach the drowning people, Albert Charlton and
George Gray ran to find the old boat. But the young men
who had rowed in it, wishing to keep it for their own use,
had concealed it in a little estuary on the side of the lake opposite
to the village, so that the two rescuers were obliged to
run half the circumference of the lake before they found it.
And even when they reached it, there were no oars to be found,
the party rowing last having carefully hidden them in the
deep grass of the slough by the outlet. George Gray's quick
frontiersman's instinct supplied the deficiency with sticks broken
from a fallen tree. But with the time consumed in finding
the boat, and the time lost in searching for the oars, and
the slowness of the progress made in rowing with these clumsy
poles, and the distance of the boat's starting-point from the
seene of the disaster, the raft had greatly the advantage of
them, though Charlton and Gray used their awkward paddles
with the energy of desperation. The wrecked people had clung

to their frail supports nearly a quarter of an hour, listening to
the cries and shouts of their friends ashore, unable to guess
what measures were being taken for their relief, and filled with
a distrustful sense of having been abandoned by God and
man. It just then occurred to Westcott, who had recovered
from his first fright, and who for some time had neither prayed
to God nor cursed his luck, that he might save himself by
swimming. In his boyish days, before he had weakened his
texture by self-indulgence and shattered his nerves by debauchery,
he had been famous for his skill and endurance in the
water, and it now occurred to him that he might swim ashore
and save Katy Charlton at the same time. It is easy enough for
us to see the interested motives he had in proposing to save
little Katy. He would wipe out the censure sure to fall on him
for overloading the boat, he would put Katy and her friends
under lasting obligations to him, he would win his game. It
is always easy to see the selfish motive. But let us do him
justice, and say that these were not the only considerations.
Just as the motives of no man are good without some admix
ture of evil, so are the motives of no man entirely bad. I
do not think that Westcott, in taking charge of Katy, was
wholly generous, yet there was a generous, and after a fashion,
maybe, a loving feeling for the girl in the proposal. That good
motives were uppermost, I will not say. They were somewhere in
the man, and that is enough to temper our feeling toward him.

Isa Marlay was very unwilling to have Katy go. But the
poor little thing was disheartened where she was—the shore
did not seem very far away, looking along the water horizontally—the
cries of the people on the bank seemed near—she
was sure she could not hold on much longer—she was so

anxious to get out of this cold lake—she was so afraid to
die—she dreaded the black leeches at the bottom—she loved and
trusted Smith as such women as she always love and trust—
and so she was glad to accept his offer. It was so good of
Smith to love her so and to save her. And so she took hold
of his coat-collar as he bade her, and Westcott started to swim
toward the nearest shore. He had swam his two miles once,
when he was a boy, testing his endurance in the waters of
the North River, and Diamond Lake was not a mile wide.
There seemed no reason to doubt that he could swim to the
shore, which could not in any event be more than half a mile
away, and which seemed indeed much nearer as he looked over
the surface of the water. But Westcott had not taken all the
elements into the account. He had on his clothing, and before
he had gone far, his boots seemed to fetter him, his saturated
sleeves dragged through the water like leaden weights. His
limbs, too, had grown numb from remaining so long in the
water, and his physical powers had been severely taxed of
late years by his dissipations. Add to this that he was encumbered
by Katy, that his fright now returned, and that he made
the mistake so often made by the best of swimmers under
excitement, of wasting power by swimming too high, and you
have the causes of rapid exhaustion.

“The shore seems so far away,” murmured Katy. “Why
don't Albert come and save us?” and she held on to Smith
with a grasp yet more violent, and he seemed more and more
embarrassed by her hold.

“Let go my arm, or we'll both drown,” he cried savagely, and
the poor little thing took her left hand off his arm, but held all
the more firmly to his collar; but her heart sank in hopelessness.

She had never heard him speak in that savage tone before.
She only called out feebly, “Brother Albert!” and the cry,
which revealed to Westcott that she put no more trust in him,
but turned now to the strong heart of her brother, angered
him, and helped him to take the resolution he was already
meditating. For his strength was fast failing; he looked
back and could see the raft nearing the capsized boat, but
he felt that he had not strength enough left to return; he
began to sink, and Katy, frightened out of all self-control as
they went under the water, clutched him desperately with
both hands. With one violent effort Smith Westcott tore her
little hands from him, and threw her off. He could not save
her, anyhow. He must do that, or drown. He was no hero
or martyr to drown with her. That is all. It cost him a pang
to do it, I doubt not.

Katy came up once, and looked at him. It was not terror
at thought of death, so much as it was heart-break at being
thus cast off, that looked at him out of her despairing eyes.
Then she clasped her hands, and cried aloud, in broken voice:
“Brother Albert!”

And then with a broken cry she sank.

Oh! Katy! Katy! It were better to sink. I can hardly
shed a tear for thee, as I see thee sink to thy cold bed at the
lake-bottom among the slimy water-weeds and leeches; but for
women who live to trust professions, and who find themselves
cast off and sinking-neglected and helpless in life—for them
my heart is breaking.

Oh! little Katy. Sweet, and loving, and trustful! It were
better to sink among the water-weeds and leeches than to
live on. God is more merciful than man.