"Not thousands in Maxham, not even hundreds, I suppose. It isn't a big place. But I'm certain there must be some. Old Maxham isn't Heaven, by any manner of means."
"I don't know the people, and they don't know me."
"That's easily cured."
"And I don't belong to them, or they to me."
"You've told me that three times in these few minutes, do you know? And I think you are wrong, if you'll forgive such plain speaking. Lots of people belong to you, and you can't get out of it. 'All children of one Father.' Doesn't that make us all brothers and sisters? You know the lines—
"'No distance breaks the tie of blood,Brothers are brothers evermore.'
"If I were you, I would begin to look upon other folks as brothers and sisters, and to treat them so. Never you mind if some of them are cantankerous. Perhaps they have had a good deal to make them cantankerous. Anyway, it doesn't un-brother or un-sister them. It only makes them a trouble and worry instead of a pleasure, and we all have troubles and worries of some sort to bear. You can do them good just the same, even if you can't exactly enjoy being with them. He who died for you died for them too, and He is their Brother just as He is yours. That makes a very close tie, eh?"
"I think I see," murmured Mildred. "Thank you. I—I'll try to remember."
He lifted his hat, uncovering the long grey hair, and moved quietly away, passing out of sight. Mildred stayed where she was, pondering his words. The feeling of utter isolation had vanished. She looked round upon the graves, meditating on the finished earthly lives of those who had been laid to rest; and then she gazed towards the village, trying to feel that in very truth she had many brothers and sisters living there, whose particular needs it was her duty to search out, perhaps even to supply.
Even she, Mildred Pattison, weak in body, and poor in money, she might supply some of those needs. For the most crying want of all, belonging to every heart of man, is the want of sympathy, and no man or woman ought to be so poor as to have no sympathy to bestow. That would be the worst and direst form of poverty, because it would be poverty, not merely of body, but of spirit.
The fact began to dawn upon Mildred, that the happiness of Old Maxham people was to some extent dependent upon herself. She might make some among them more happy or less happy. She had to take her choice which of the two it should be; but she could not refuse both alternatives. Each person in the world is always making those around either happier or unhappier than such individuals would otherwise be; and Mildred could be no exception to this rule. Every smile, every frown, every hasty utterance, every kind word, adds to the weight of the scale, one way or the other way, with respect to somebody.
And the happiness of each person in the world is the particular concern of all other persons who have to do with that one person. If all are brothers and sisters in the sight of our Heavenly Father, then each brother and each sister has some portion of the happiness of the rest in his keeping; and if one member of the family is in need or suffering, then it is everybody's business to help him.
Mildred did not say all this to herself in so many words; but a faint vision of the truth dawned upon her, and it was followed by a resolve. If something was due from her to others, even in Old Maxham, where nobody in a certain sense could be said to "belong to her," then she would endeavour to do that something. If she might not attempt much, she would be content to attempt little, but she would not remain idle and indifferent.
Rather curiously, the first suggestion which came to her mind was of the little girl who had smiled at her, and had had no smile in return. Mildred woke up to the fact of the child's disappointment, and was sorry for it. Looking back to her own childish days, she knew how small a matter could make a little one feel sad.
When she rose to go home, it was a positive relief outside the Churchyard to come across the very same child again, in her pink sunbonnet and apron. This time the blue eyes glanced up soberly, with the least possible edging of the tiny person away to a wider distance; but Mildred smiled her kindest, and the rosy lips parted instantly in response.
"What is your name, dear?" asked Mildred.
"I'm Posie. Posie Number Two. And they call me Pet, 'cause there was the other Posie, you know."
"And where is the other Posie?" Hardly a necessary question, for Mildred remembered the tiny headstone. Posie Number Two pointed with one small finger towards the churchyard.
"She's gone to bed there. Mother says Posie was so tired. And she don't never get up, you know, 'cause she's resting. I think I'd rather get up sometimes, it I was that Posie."
image004
"What is your name, dear?" asked Mildred.
"Have you any other sisters or brothers?"
Posie Number Two shook her head. "I haven't got none," she said sedately.
"And where do you live?"
Posie thrust her hand confidingly into Mildred's. "I'll show you," she said.
Mildred offered no objection, though wondering where she might be led, and whether her strength would hold out.
She found herself guided along the road which led homewards; and the clasp of those warm little fingers seemed to put new life into her. Posie chattered fast as they went, and presently they reached a trim little cottage, nearly opposite Groates' Store, and next door to the Miss Coxens. At the gate stood a woman, with a pleasant but rather careworn face.
"Posie!" she exclaimed, and the child sprang into her arms.
"Posie and I have been making friends," observed Mildred.
"Posie's a dear," said the other. "She's all I have,—me and Joe,—and sometimes I don't hardly know how to bear to let her go out of my sight. I don't know whatever we'd do if anything was to happen to her, that I don't."
"One never does know—till it comes," murmured Mildred. "I have just been to the grave of my little one,—no, not my own, but my brother's child. They were drowned in the wreck."
"Yes, I know—I was sure!" and the woman looked with kind full eyes at Mildred. "It must be so dreadful to lose anybody that way. I've lost a little one of my own; not by drowning, but she died of fever. I almost thought at first I must have died too."
"The other little Posie, you mean. I saw her grave."
"Some folks didn't like us naming Posie after her. They said maybe Posie 'ud die too. But I didn't see it, nor I don't. Posie's all we've got left,—me and Joe,—and God won't take her from us. Surely He won't."
"Not unless it was needful for Posie's own good. If it was better for Posie to go, He wouldn't leave her on earth for anybody's sake, I suppose—it wouldn't be kind to do it; and if you love her, you couldn't really wish it either. But it wouldn't be because her name is Posie—that's certain."
"Then you don't mind—you don't think it was wrong of us to call her Posie?" The woman looked anxiously for an answer.
Mildred considered, leaning on the gate. "No, I don't know that I should call it wrong," she said. "I wouldn't do it myself, though."
"You wouldn't?"
"No. I mean, if little Louey had died before her mother's death, and if another little one had come, and I'd had a choice of the name given me, I wouldn't have called the second 'Louey.' There aren't commonly two of one name in one family, you know. And Louey isn't dead; nor Posie either. They are only gone to another home. I wouldn't name a second child after the first, who had just gone to another home. Would you?"
"I didn't see it that way before." The woman looked thoughtful. "It's true, though. I think I'll take to calling her 'Pet' mostly, instead of Posie, and keep 'Posie' for the other."
"Yes, I would! Keep thinking of her as your own little Posie still—only safe at home, safe in the Good Shepherd's arms, and being taken care of for you till you can go to her. You can go by-and-by, you know—if you will."
The words of quiet confidence passing Mildred's lips cheered her own heart strangely. She had hardly known before how very sure she felt as to Louey and Louey's father and mother being in that other Home, guarded and kept till she should be allowed to join them again. What she said had sprung unbidden to her lips; and when she had so spoken, her whole being cried out in eager assent. It was true; all true. They were only parted for a little while. A restful gladness came over her. She could at last be glad for their sakes.
The woman's eyes filled, and she put out a hand.
"Come again, won't you, some day? Come and see me indoors. I like to hear you talk. We live here—me, and Joe, and Pet. My name's Emma—Emma Stokes. Come and see me any time, only not just as late as this, because Joe 'll be back directly, and I've got to see to him."
"Yes, I will. I'll be sure to come. I won't forget."
Mildred was turning away, but she paused and asked, "Do you know who the elderly gentleman is that I saw just now in the churchyard? It's a kind face, with longish grey hair, quite curly."
"It'll be one of the doctor's patients. He's got a fresh one, come only two or three days ago, and Joe saw him. Joe said he was exactly like that. I hope he isn't very ill, poor gentleman."
"What is the matter with his patients generally?"
"Different sorts of things," Mrs. Stokes replied. "Sometimes it's what the doctor calls 'a mental case.' But I shouldn't think it was that this time. Joe said the gentleman looked as if he was all right in his head. Sometimes they only want change and rest, and a bit of extra looking after."
"No, I shouldn't think it could be that with him," remarked Mildred. "Well, good-bye. I'll come again some day before very long."
SOMETHING FOR MILDRED TO DO
MRS. STOKES went back into her cottage, hugging Posie No. 2, and Mildred was on the point of starting for home, feeling very tired, and ready for nothing but rest. Before, however, she could turn her face in the right direction, another front door was flung open—that of the next little house, which had upon a brass plate outside an indication of "The Misses Coxen, Dressmakers," as resident there—and a plump little woman, with eyes aghast and dropping under-lip, stood in an attitude of dismayed appeal to the world in general.
"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" she wailed. And in her extremity of excitement, she began to dance from one foot to the other, wringing her hands. "Oh dear! Whatever in the world shall I do?"
"Can I help in any way?" asked Mildred, wondering what would happen next.
"Will you really? How good of you. But I don't believe I know who you are." Miss Sophy was far too flustered to recognise anybody unfamiliar.
"Never mind. My name is Pattison. Tell me what has happened."
"It's my sister, poor thing. We've been ever so hard at work all day; and she just got up to cross the room for a pattern, and I suppose she went too fast. Her sight isn't good, and she fell over a stool. I was too far off to be any help, and I suppose she bumped her head against the fender or the coal-scuttle. She seems half stunned, and she doesn't get up, and her hand is hurt. I'm all in a shiver at the thought of touching her, and I've got nobody to send for the doctor, for our girl is out, and I don't know what to do."
"A helpless sort of person," Mildred said to herself. Aloud she only remarked, "You had better take me to your sister."
Miss Sophy backed before her to the front sitting-room, talking volubly as she went. The room was strewn from end to end with unmade and half-made dress materials. Her sister half lay and half sat upon the rug, supporting one hand with the other and moaning distressfully, while blood ran fast from a cut across her forehead.
"You are hurt, poor thing," Mildred said, bending over her.
"It is my hand that is worst, and the pain's most dreadful," groaned Miss Coxen.
"Your right arm too. Yes, you must have come down with all your weight on this hand. I dare say it has saved you from some worse hurt. The cut on your face doesn't seem to be very deep. I see you must have fallen against the edge of that old coal-scuttle; it's as sharp as a knife."
"It might have killed me outright. I wonder it didn't. And Sophy never doing anything but stand and stare."
"Well, yes, it might; but you see it hasn't. Now, we must help you into the arm-chair, and then will see to your forehead and hand. Perhaps the pain will be better for a little bathing."
To Miss Sophy she said, "You must give an arm too, please. I cannot lift your sister up alone."
Miss Sophy obeyed, but in so limp and clumsy a style, that Mildred might almost as well have acted without her. When at the first outcry of complaint, Miss Sophy started back, leaving her sister a dead weight upon the other, Mildred, weakened by illness, nearly came down with her burden.
"That was wrong of you," Mildred said gravely. "Now please go at once for the doctor, and I will stay here till you come back."
Tiredness had to be put aside for the present. Mildred saw Miss Sophy off the premises, and then brought warm water to bathe the cut, tying it up with a clean pocket-handkerchief of her own. The hand seemed to be a more serious matter, and Miss Coxen was crying with the pain. Mildred bathed it gently pending the doctor's arrival.
"I'm sure I can't think how ever I did it," Miss Coxen said plaintively more than once. "It was being in a hurry, I suppose. We'd promised a new dress to Miss Gilbert this week, and there was something else to finish off first; and Sophy is so slow. Oh! Don't touch—please don't touch me there. Just let the water run over my hand, that's all. Sophy could never do this. She always flusters and hurts people. I do hope the doctor won't touch my hand. I couldn't stand it, if he did; I should have to scream. I wonder how soon I shall be able to work again?"
When Mr. Bateson walked in, a certain amount of "touching" was of course inevitable; and not of touching only, since the thumb proved to be badly dislocated. Putting it right meant no doubt considerable pain, and Miss Coxen did not fail to carry out her promise of screaming.
"Come, come! That isn't quite needful," Mr. Bateson observed. "Rather bad at the moment, but soon over. You'll have to keep this hand in a sling for a while, and give it complete rest. How long? Oh, for some little time. I'll come again to see how it is getting on. Work in two days? Dear me, no; nor in two weeks. Of course a great deal depends on strict attention to orders. I shall look in soon; and meanwhile you've got to take a holiday."
Miss Coxen wore an expression of dismay, and Miss Sophy's loose mouth dropped open, while Mr. Bateson turned his attention to Mildred, who had long been his patient.
"When did you come in here?" he asked.
"Perhaps half-an-hour before you did."
"Well, you have to go home now. Any hot water handy?" he demanded of Miss Sophy. "Get a cup of tea for Miss Pattison, please, as quick as you can."
Mildred protested, but the doctor refused to listen; and Mr. Bateson waited till the feat was accomplished.
"That's right," he said. "Now you'll get back without collapsing. Best thing you can do is to go to bed and get rested. No particular use in falling ill again."
He stood drawing on his gloves, and Mildred remarked, "I think I must have come across a friend of yours to-day in the churchyard. A nice-looking man, rather old, with grey hair. Is he one of your patients?"
"What makes you suppose him to be so?"
"Somebody said that he was."
"Well, I shouldn't wonder if he is—one of my inmates, at all events. 'Patient' is an ambiguous term. Willoughby arrived two days ago, and it sounds like Willoughby. If he isn't old and benevolent, he manages to appear like both."
"What is the matter with him? Not a mental case surely?"
"Not what you mean by a mental case. Been working too hard, and come down for a week's rest. That's about all. I heard of him through a friend, and had a spare room to offer."
"Then he will soon be off again. I liked him."
"So do I, thus far. Now, Miss Pattison, I must be off, and you have to go straight home."
Mildred did not protest. The doctor turned to Miss Sophy with one or two parting directions for the management of her sister, and Miss Sophy listened with an air of hopeless incapacity.
"It doesn't matter; I understand," said Miss Coxen. "Sophy always was a goose about anybody being ill. But I shall do, somehow. I wish I had you to nurse me," she added to Mildred.
"You'll manage well enough," the doctor assured her. "It's chiefly a matter of keeping the hand quiet." Then he said good-bye and vanished, and Mildred rose to put on her mantle.
Miss Sophy indulged in another sigh, and wondered whatever in the world they were to do.
"There's that new dress for Miss Gilbert that isn't so much as begun to be cut out yet," she said; "and it was promised by the end of the week. I shall never manage it alone, I'm quite sure. And Alice Mokes' gown too, and Mrs. Mokes' old one that's got to be turned."
"Alice Mokes won't mind waiting, if her mother doesn't mind. Oh dear, my poor hand! But I know Miss Gilbert can't wait. She's leaving the Vicarage on Monday for a fortnight, and she wanted this dress particularly. Well, we shall just have to tell her that it can't be done."
"And then she'll go to somebody in New Maxham, and we shall lose a good customer," complained Miss Sophy. "And so pleased as we were to get her too!"
Miss Coxen looked towards Mildred, and Miss Sophy blinked.
"I wonder if it wouldn't do," cogitated Miss Coxen, and Miss Sophy began to dance anew with excitement.
Mildred roused herself from a fit of thought to the consciousness of being talked about.
"I think I could help you, if you like," she said. "I mean, if Miss Gilbert is willing. You could let me have the stuff and I would make it up for her."
"But perhaps you mightn't do it rightly, and we should be blamed," objected Miss Sophy.
Mildred smiled.
"I'm not afraid of the risk, if you are willing."
"Miss Gilbert was in a great hurry for the dress, and she might consent," admitted Miss Coxen. "She said her regular dressmaker in London was ill; and, dear me! It seemed quite a Providence for us. And now it's all upset. I can't think how ever I could do such a silly thing as to tumble over that footstool."
Miss Sophy could not think it either, and she said so in plain terms, whereupon Miss Coxen began immediately to defend herself.
"Do just as you like about it," broke in Mildred. "If you are willing, and if Miss Gilbert does not mind, I will do my best to have the dress made in time. I must go home now, and you can let me know to-morrow morning. Terms? I do not ask any payment. Of course I hope to find work by-and-by, and to be paid for it; but this is merely to help you through a difficulty. It will be a pleasure to me."
THE CHANGE IN JESSIE
THE sisters consulted seriously after Mildred was gone. She had undoubtedly made a very kind proposal. If they yielded to her offer, and allowed her to do the work, and if she did it well, she might receive payment of another kind, since success in that direction would be extremely likely to bring other work to her hands. The Misses Coxen rather shrank from this possibility.
Yet why not? Mildred, as well as the Misses Coxen, had her way to make in life; and if she were a capable dressmaker, she was sure, sooner or later, to find employment for her needle. The Misses Coxen could not expect always to enjoy a monopoly of dressmaking in the neighbourhood.
In point of fact, they had not done so: since any lady who was particular as to cut and style would certainly not go to them, unless for some very simple piece of work. Most ladies thereabout had procured all better dresses from London; really good dressmakers in Maxham being unknown.
It was surely unreasonable that Mildred Pattison, who had both the will and the power to work, should be expected not to exercise that power.
And if she did not set up in the place, somebody else would do so before long. Not only might many dresses now made in London be made in Maxham, but the two sisters found it increasingly difficult to get through even such work as fell to their share; and where a plain opening exists, it is likely before long to be filled. The Misses Coxen had long been aware of a growing need for another good workwoman in the village, and they reluctantly arrived at the sage conclusion that, on the whole, their wiser policy would be not to attempt to stand in Mildred's light, but rather to endeavour to use her—perhaps even to put her under obligation to themselves. This was not a lofty view of the question, though a good deal better than an opposite view would have been. At present, it must be confessed, the matter of obligation seemed to lie the other way.
An interview with Miss Gilbert ended in the dress material being handed over to Mildred.
"I'm only too delighted," Miss Gilbert confessed in an under tone. "I see that you know what you are about, and I was beginning to regret having tried the other quarter. My dress would have been an utter failure, of course, but I did not know that when I rashly went to them. Please follow your own devices in making this. I particularly want the dress to look nice, and I am not afraid about it—now."
The emphasis with which Miss Gilbert spoke showed that she had been very much afraid.
Four days of hard toil followed—hard at all events in Mildred's still weakly condition. Perhaps a little for her own sake, and certainly also for the Misses Coxen's sake, as well as under the pressure of a strong sense of duty which never allowed her to do less than her best, Mildred threw her whole energy into the task which she had undertaken, and the dress when completed proved to be, in its owner's eyes, "the very prettiest she had ever had in all her life."
"It is simply perfect," Miss Gilbert exclaimed, in her girlish manner, to Mildred. "I have never seen anything better done. You ought to set up in London, or in some large town. Positively you are thrown away in this little out of the way place."
"I don't think I should care to live in London, Miss," Mildred answered. "If I can get work to do in Old Maxham, I shall be quite content."
"You will not have to wait long for that. I shall take care to let my friends know at once that it has become possible to get a dress made in Maxham fit to be worn."
"But—" and Mildred hesitated; "I think it should be understood that I wouldn't on any account do anything to harm the Miss Cozens. I could not do it! They have been so long here, and I'm only a new-comer. I don't mean to make dresses for any of their old customers."
"Poor little women! I am told that they turn out the most wonderful sacks in the way of gowns! Of course I had no idea of that when I asked them to make my dress. They don't even know enough to be willing to improve." Miss Gilbert laughed and then she grow grave. "But you are right, Miss Pattison; quite right. My brother would say so. It is nice and good of you to think of them before yourself. Only people can't possibly send their better dresses to people who simply spoil the material. If they could turn out a dress looking respectable—but I'm told that they can't. The dresses that you will have to make will be those which otherwise would have been made in town. Don't you see?"
Mildred knew that it might be so, but she also knew that the sisters would not see it to be so, and in her kind-heartedness she felt a touch of pitying soreness for the pair who had always counted themselves such an important part of Old Maxham.
Jack Groates had begun to hobble about on crutches before the Vicar might come downstairs: and by the time that the Vicar could get out of doors, Jack had cast aside his crutches and had taken to a stick. He would soon be as "right as a trivet," the doctor said. The Vicar, having less strength of constitution, was longer in climbing the hill, and his arm was still good for little.
But the Vicar looked as joyous as a man could well look, while Jack Groates had a depressed aspect. An unaccountable cloud had arisen between himself and Jessie—unaccountable except to Jessie herself, and no doubt to Miss Sophy Coxen. It was a complete mystery to Jack's mother. He had never yet told her, or allowed Mimy to tell her, of the gossip which had reached his ears.
Mrs. Groates was not a person who would lend herself to the hearing of gossip, and people were rather careful what they ventured to say to her concerning Jack. She was apt to fire up, like a cat in defence of its kittens, if anything adverse were spoken as to any of her children—Jack above all. And though there was nothing exactly adverse to Jack in this particular tale, it was quite possible that her ire might be aroused at the very idea of any girl rejecting Jack, more especially before he had come forward with an offer.
Jessie seldom entered Groates' Store now to see Mrs. Groates, and when she did appear, her manner was constrained. She was by no means her old blithe little self; for the alteration in the condition of affairs was quite as much of a grief to her as to Jack.
She had, however, reluctantly made up her mind that Jack could, after all, have meant little, or he would not so soon have believed Miss Sophy's gossip. He too had grown cold and constrained; and she did not know how entirely this was caused by her own changed manner to him.
He said nothing, even to his mother; and Mrs. Groates would not try to force his confidence.
"If anything is wrong, it may come right again, if nobody meddles," she considered. "I don't hold with meddling in other folks' affairs in a hurry. Maybe they have had a bit of a quarrel, and maybe they'll make it up again. I'll wait and see."
But as days went by, and Jack's face grew longer, and Jessie's manner stiffer, Mrs. Groates found it increasingly hard to maintain silence.
"You're very busy nowadays, Jessie," she said one day, meeting her in the street. Jessie would have hurried by, but Mrs. Groates stopped her.
"Yes, I've a lot to do—helping Mildred," Jessie answered nervously, looking around, as if she wanted to escape.
"We're older friends of yours than Miss Pattison, but she seems to have stepped into our shoes with you, Jessie." There was a note of reproach in the voice. "You used to like coming to see us,—to see me and Jack."
"Of course I like going to see you. I don't see why I should care so very particularly for going to see—Jack!" with a slight break.
"Now, Jessie!"
"And I've got ever so much to do now. I'm learning dressmaking from Mildred Pattison, and I like it very much. I mean to be a dressmaker. Millie is getting heaps to do."
"And the Misses Coxen don't mind?"
Jessie's face had for a moment a curiously bitter look.
"I don't care if they do," she said shortly. "I mean, I don't care if Miss Sophy does. She can't expect to have everything always her own way. I don't mind if you tell her so too."
"Why, Jessie, you're not like yourself to-day, not one bit. What has come over you, I wonder?"
"Nothing. I'm just the same as I always was. Only I've got to hurry home, or I shall keep Millie waiting."
"Good-bye, then;" and Mrs. Groates turned away, very much hurt, while Jessie ran off with her eyes full.
It was hard to have to snub her kind friends, but what else could she do? If Jack had not the sense to understand and to come after her, things had to be thus. She at least would put it into the power of nobody to say that "Jessie had gone after Jack."
Mrs. Groates meanwhile walked on, thinking what a pity it was that so nice a girl should be so altered, and as she so considered, she met Miss Sophy Coxen.
"Good afternoon. It's a fine day," said Miss Sophy. "And how are you all getting on? I haven't seen much of you lately, but you must have had a deal to do with Jack laid by. He seems to be pretty nearly all right again now. I saw you talking just now to Jessie Perkins."
"Yes. How is Miss Coxen's hand?"
"Oh, pretty bad still. The doctor don't give any hope of its being fit for work for a long while yet. Just see what a time Mr. Gilbert's arm has been getting better. I don't think Mr. Bateson cures people as quick as he ought. He might do something or other, I should think."
"There's a good many things doctors can't do, and that's one, I shouldn't wonder," sagely remarked Mrs. Groates.
"Well, I don't know. I don't see why he shouldn't. It's very bad for us, I know; very bad indeed!" shaking her head till the curls danced. "I don't know whatever we shall do by-and-by. There's that Miss Pattison setting up herself for a fine London dressmaker, after pretending she wanted to help us, and getting all the work of the place into her hands. There 'll be nothing loft at all for sister and me to do, and however in the world we're to get along—. And that chit of a Jessie making believe to work too, as conceited as anything. They'll take the bread out of our mouths; and much they'll care."
"But I thought Miss Pattison was so good in finishing off that dress for Miss Gilbert that you couldn't get done, and not even wanting to be paid for the work," remarked Mrs. Groates, who pretty well understood the state of the case.
"O yes, I dare say. She's deep, that Miss Pattison. It sounded fine and grand, and it's brought her in a lot of work; and she knew what she was about all the while. I've got no patience with that sort of showing off. And now she'll do her best to ruin sister and me."
"I think you are wrong, Miss Sophy; I do think so really," Mrs. Groates answered, trying to control her indignation. "Miss Pattison isn't that sort, I'm sure. Not as I know her well; but I do like to be fair to people. And only yesterday Mrs. Mokes was in a regular taking because she says that Miss Pattison wouldn't have nothing to do with making dresses for her. She wasn't going to make dresses for none of your customers. And Mrs. Mokes was as vexed as could be."
"Yes, I dare say! That's the way. Setting up herself to make dresses for the ladies of Maxham Hall and Lee Court. She's doing both, I know. And they've never been to sister and me all the years we've done dressmaking here. Oh, I dare say Miss Pattison wasn't likely to make a dress for anybody so humble as Mrs. Mokes—I shouldn't wonder if she wouldn't! But as for her pretending it's for our sake,—no, no, I know better."
Mrs. Groates was silent. She really did not feel capable of answering this outflow of ill-will. That Miss Sophy was utterly in the wrong in her estimate of Mildred Pattison, Mrs. Groates had not the smallest doubt, but to convince Miss Sophy of the same would be a difficult matter. The outflow went on, unchecked:—
"There's carriages stopping at the door of Periwinkle Cottage, and ladies going up Miss Perkins' stairs to be tried on, and Miss Perkins thinking herself as grand as anything. And as for Jessie, why her head's fairly turned. If you don't see it, I do. Jessie used to be mighty good friends with your Jack, and folks did say something was to come of it, but now she'll scarce turn her head his way. Jack's nothing like good enough for her."
"How do you know?" demanded Mrs. Groates, her motherly heart aching for Jack.
"Why, anybody can see, I should think. It don't take much in the way of eyes. And it isn't seeing only. I said something to Jessie herself about Jack one day,—just in a friendly sort of way. And, dear me, didn't she give herself airs, and toss up her head.
"'Marry Jack Groates?' says she; 'not if I was to be paid for it!'
"'But you would if he asked you,' says I.
"'I wouldn't, though,' said she. 'Jack may get another sort of wife. He needn't look to have me. I hope I'll be able to look higher than that, anyway.'"
By which it may be perceived that Miss Sophy was not exact in her report of what had occurred, and that the story had gained in size.
"I'm sorry to hear that Jessie is such a little goose," Mrs. Groates replied, outwardly cool, inwardly burning. "Whether or no Jack ever wants to marry her, I'm sure of one thing, and that is that she'll never find a truer or better husband than my Jack would be. But he needn't be in a hurry. There's plenty of girls to be had."
"And plenty of young men, too, for the matter of that!" Miss Sophy retorted. "If Jessie likes to look higher, there's no particular reason why she shouldn't, I suppose. As for Jack choosing, everybody's known for a long while past that he's been wanting Jessie. But it don't seem likely that he'll get her."
ENGAGED
MRS. GROATES went home, feeling very sorrowful; and that evening she noted afresh Jack's troubled look, and knew with certainty that the change in Jessie was weighing upon him. He sat and read quietly, hardly opening his lips, and when some one happened to mention Jessie there was no response from him. Later on, when Mr. Groates was gone out, and the younger ones had disappeared, she found herself alone with Jack, and took the opportunity to say,—
"I saw Jessie to-day."
"Did you, mother? Jessie hardly ever comes here now."
"No, I know she don't. I thought maybe you and she had had a bit of a quarrel."
"Not that I know of. She was all right that day of the wreck, when I saw her down on the beach. And the very next time, you know, when I came downstairs, and she happened to walk in, she was different."
"I don't hold much with what Miss Sophy says. She's a mischief-maker, and no mistake. But I do feel afraid that Miss Sophy has got hold of the truth for once."
Mrs. Groates recounted particulars of her two short interviews that day, and Jack listened with a sad face of acquiescence.
"That isn't the first I've heard of it," he said. "Some one told Mimy, and Mimy told me. And I said I wouldn't have her tell you, because it might be all a mistake; and I didn't want to talk about it then. But I'm afraid it isn't a mistake."
"I'm afraid not, Jack."
"I'll never like any other girl so much as Jessie. She's so nice and bright, and such a pretty way with her; at least, she was till lately. And so fond of you, mother. I couldn't marry a girl that wouldn't be good to you. And I did think she cared for me. She'd look so pleased, and get such a colour in her cheeks, if I was to come near; and the way she'd say 'Jack' under her breath made me feel sure. And now it's all changed. I didn't think Jessie was the sort of girl to cast off old friends, nor to go and put on airs. But I can't feel a scrap of hope now."
"Miss Sophy wasn't fair on Miss Pattison, and I said what I could for her, of course," remarked Mrs. Groates. "All the same, if Miss Pattison has done harm to Jessie and set her against us, I do think it's too bad, and I shan't like her any more. I'm sure Jessie hasn't got so much to be proud of that she need put on airs to you, Jack."
Mrs. Groates was not quick to take offence for her own round comfortable little self. An unintentional little slight would pass over her head unnoticed; and even an intentional slight would be received with a cheery, "Well, well, I dare say it wasn't meant." But she was very quick to resent a slight to Jack, whether intended or no; and she could not easily forgive Jessie for causing him pain.
So the next time she happened to encounter Jessie, Mrs. Groates held up her head, and pursed her lips, and was as distant and disagreeable in manner as Jessie could be to her.
Poor Jessie quite made up her mind that day that Jack did not wish to have anything more to do with her. She ran home and cried bitterly, but she entirely refused to tell Mildred the cause of her tears.
Thenceforward she avoided going to Groates' Store, for any kind of reason, and if she saw Mrs. Groates or Jack coming, she would escape down a side-road to avoid meeting them. All the while her heart was longing for Jack; only, after what had gone forth about her, she could not possibly take the first step towards bringing about a happier state of things.
Had Jack believed in her still, the cloud would soon have passed off; but for a while he was to ready to believe in the tale set going by Miss Sophy Coxen, and too slow to understand its effects upon Jessie herself.
Mildred meantime found herself to be fast gaining a position as the best dressmaker in the neighbourhood. Miss Gilbert had taken care, before going away, to mention in two or three directions the fact of a capable hand within easy reach, and work began to flow in upon her with speed.
Though she had never gone through a regular apprenticeship, she possessed a remarkable aptitude for dressmaking, an aptitude so great as almost to amount to a genius for it; and she had made the most of her gift. She was a capital hand at cutting out, her fit was excellent, her taste and skill were equal to those of a first-class dressmaker, and her terms were moderate.
Moreover, she never undertook more than she had a good prospect of being able to do. Far from being in danger of robbing the Misses Coxen of their old customers, not many weeks went by before she was obliged to decline more than one dress, from sheer lack of time to make all that was offered to her; and she was also able now and then to pass on a simple "job" to the sisters, when it was really simple enough. She was too conscientious to give them work which she knew to lie beyond their powers.
Life for Mildred was no longer empty, and her health improved under the now state of things. She enjoyed her work, she liked to give satisfaction, she was glad to make nice little sums of money, and to lay by for the future, as well as to be able to do present small kindnesses.
It had soon become needful that Mildred should have two rooms, and Miss Perkins had made no difficulty about fitting up the back attic bedroom, so that the good-sized front room might be entirely given to needlework. In consideration of this, Mildred now paid double terms: so Miss Perkins was no loser by her kind action towards the forlorn and shipwrecked woman of the past.
Openings for usefulness appeared on one side and another, to be gladly welcomed by Mildred. There were the two little dressmakers to be helped, whenever an opportunity offered itself. There was Mrs. Stokes, with her pretty wee "Pet," to be called upon. There was a Sunday School class of big girls to be undertaken at the request of the Vicar.
Most of all, there was Jessie, her first Old Maxham friend—She was plainly in some sort of trouble. At present, however, she shrank into herself, refusing confidence, and Mildred could only wait, trying to interest her in the now occupation of dressmaking, to which, indeed, Jessie took with avidity, as a relief from her own thoughts.
"She may as well learn it, and by-and-by can decide whether or no she shall become a dressmaker," Mildred had said, when first offering to teach her.
Miss Perkins accepted the offer with unusual gratitude. It had often been a trouble to her to think of Jessie's future, since the girl might or might not marry, and her own little income would die with herself. Here would be a means of self-support provided, if only Jessie would take to it.
To Miss Perkins' surprise, Jessie did take to it. Though not fond of strictly plain work, she loved pretty things; and she was soon found to have good taste in this new direction. The scheme seemed to be a hopeful one.
"Still, I should like to know what is wrong with Jessie," Mildred sometimes said to herself. The gossip about Jack and Jessie had never reached her ears.
So passed several weeks, and the time of blackberrying had come round. Jack had been thinking much of Jessie, and a new idea had entered his mind.
What if there should be some mistake as to her state of feeling towards him? Was it wise of him, was it even right of him, to make up his mind, without really knowing it, that she had turned against him? It did not sound like the Jessie whom he knew. Could Miss Sophy Coxen be so entirely relied upon, that all hope for him was at an end?
The wonder was that Jack had not taken this view of the question a great deal sooner. He came to it now, gradually and with a good deal of slow thinking, and at length he resolved that, on the very first opportunity, he would put matters to the test. If she cared for him no longer, if she had grown too grand to think of him, she should at least say so plainly herself. Like a sensible man, Jack was no longer going to be managed by other folks' chit-chat.
He went one day about this time for a ramble through some fields, as he often liked to do. He was all right again now, able to enjoy rapid walking without so much as a twinge in the leg which had been broken. As he went along at a good pace, he thought continuously of Jessie, debating how he should manage to get hold of her, so as to come to an explanation.
For weeks the two had scarcely spoken, the one to the other; but an interview now was necessary, if only to settle Jack's mind. It might be that a mistake had divided them, and in that case the sooner it was laid bare the better. If not, the sooner Jack knew what lay before him, the better also.
He stopped to pick and eat some fine blackberries, and noting a small branch, heavily laden with ripe fruit, he carefully severed it with his penknife—the idea of somehow presenting it to Jessie having come up. Then he shut his penknife, put it away, jumped the next stile, and found himself face to face with Jessie herself.
One little "Oh!" escaped her lips, and her face flushed. Before she could turn away, Jack was offering the blackberry branch.
"I got this for you, Jessie. Won't you have it?" he said beseechingly. "Don't run away yet. I—I'd like some words with you,—if you don't mind."
Jessie received the bough, gazing on the ground, and twisted it shyly in her fingers, murmuring a "Thank you."
After which followed a pause. They stood facing each other, neither knowing what to say.
"You haven't been to see us for ever so long, Jessie," Jack observed at length.
"Haven't I? I'm so busy—"
"I shouldn't think that was reason enough. It don't sound like you to forsake old friends for new ones. It don't really."
Jessie glanced quickly up at this, and Jack was encouraged to proceed.
"I can't imagine whatever in the world it is that's come between us; but I know there's something or other. And it isn't me. It isn't anything that I've done. I did hope, one time, that you cared for me—and lately I've pretty near given up hope. Since I've been up and about again, I mean."
Jessie was surprised into a confession. "Why!—I thought it was you that had grown different!"
"I! But how could you? I!—Why—why, Jessie, you know I'm not changed. You must know it. You know it quite well. You've kept out of my way, and wouldn't come near me; and if you saw me, you've just run off as fast as you could. And I couldn't think whatever it's been for. Somehow, it don't seem like you that you should think yourself too grand now for me, if you ever did care the least bit,—and I can't half believe it. And yet I don't know what to think—and they say you're different."
"Who says it of me, I wonder?"
"Miss Sophy Coxen does."
"And you can believe that woman! Jack, you just deserve to be turned off; that you do. If you're going to take for truth all the stories she tells, I'll have nothing more to do with you."
"Then it wasn't true? And you haven't turned against me?"
Jessie was silent.
"You do care for me—just a very little? Eh, Jessie? Say you do."
Silence still, but a small smile curled the corners of Jessie's mouth.
"I've never cared for any girl, like I do for you, and I never shall neither. I'd do my best to give you a good home—I would that—if only you'd have me. Don't you think you might now? Don't you think you could promise, Jessie?"
"Promise what?"
"Why—promise to marry me! That's the long and short of it. Won't you?"
"I'm not going to marry yet; not for ever so long. I'm going to learn dressmaking."
"But you'll promise you won't marry anybody else? I'll wait, as long as ever you wish, if only you'll be mine some day. Won't you? Nothing in the world would make me so happy. And I know what mother would say too."
Once again he had to say, "Won't you?"
And then at length, Jessie answered with a "Yes." At the moment she quite forgot a certain past declaration to the contrary. She only felt strangely happy. Jack's heart was true, after all her fears, and she no longer needed to hide her love for him.
But what would Miss Perkins say? That question came up, when a joyous ten minutes had gone by. Jack was for taking the bull by the horns at once. He was ready to do anything for anybody, if only he might have Jessie. His honest face beamed with delight, and he insisted on walking home there and then with Jessie, that he might at once ask Miss Perkins' consent.
When the matter was laid before her, Jessie blushing and Jack glowing, she made, wonderful to say, no objection. Miss Perkins had certainly grown softer of late—perhaps under Mildred's influence; and she no longer indulged her old dislike of the Groates family as a whole, while she had been heard to speak approvingly of Jack.
"But I'm not going to have any 'marrying in haste and repenting at leisure,'" she said with severity. "You're both of you full young; and you've got to make your way, Jack; and Jessie has got to make hers. She's taken to dressmaking, and I mean her to stick to it. By-and-by, when she has laid by something, and when you've laid by something too, and when you're both a few years older, it'll be time enough. I don't mind her seeing you sometimes, of course—so long as Jessie's a dutiful girl, and does what she's told. She's a deal improved lately, and I don't mind saying it neither."
Jack was glad to hear anything said in praise of Jessie, though, under the circumstances, he naturally did not imagine any improvement to be possible. "She's all I want her to be," he said ardently. Other people, perhaps, took a fairer view of the matter.
And so Jessie and Jack were engaged to be married.
"As I always said they would be, sister," declared Miss Sophy Coxen, who never could allow that she had made a mistake.
THE LIFEBOAT
"SEEMS to me—I dunno as I'm a judge—but seems to me, Mimy, that Miss Perkins is uncommon changed, some ways, from what she used to be when we first came here. And uncommon nicer, too," said Mrs. Groates, polishing her best plated teapot with a vigour which made it soon to reflect her own beaming visage.
Mimy was not a girl of many words; none the worse for that, perhaps.
"Yes, mother," she said.
"And seems to me, too, a lot of it is through Miss Pattison—if there is a difference, and I'm pretty sure there is. Miss Pattison's nice; and that isn't saying half. She does good to everybody and everything about her. It isn't Miss Perkins only; it's Jessie too."
"Jessie's a dear," Mimy remarked.
"Jessie always was that; a nice little dear, so pretty and smiling. And I always liked her. But, all the same, I wasn't altogether sure, once upon a time, that she was best fitted to make our Jack happy—not as happy as I'd wish him to be. No, I wasn't quite sure, Mimy. And now I've got no manner of doubt. I do believe she's a real good girl, and tries to do what's right; and I believe it's Miss Pattison's doing, a lot of it."
Mrs. Groates rubbed vehemently at the fat round side of her teapot, and thought of a certain stormy day in the preceding March, when a vessel had been descried bearing down upon the dangerous reef of rocks which lay outside Old Maxham; and when the new young Vicar—now new no longer—had called upon her boy, Jack, among others, to go to the rescue of the sailors. Jack had long ago recovered entirely from his share of hurts, and had now been for many weeks engaged to be married to Jessie Perkins; but the Vicar's injuries had been of a more serious and prolonged nature, and perhaps his strength of constitution was less than that of hardy young Groates. His recovery had been a slow one, and he was only this day expected to return to his parish, after more than two months of absence, ordered by the doctor as an ending to months of pain and weakness.
"And Mr. Gilbert 'll be back this very afternoon," continued Mrs. Groates. "I'm glad of it. I like Mr. Gilbert, and I hope he'll come back all right, and able for his duties. Dear me, I dunno whatever this spot is made of. It won't come off; do what I will. But I'll have to keep on till it does."
"Mother, I saw Miss Sophy Coxen when I went out for you."
"Well, and what did she say?"
"She said she wondered how soon Jack and Jessie were going to be married."
"I don't see as that's her business, nor anybody's business except Jack's and ours. Miss Sophy does love to meddle, that she does." Mrs. Groates could not easily forget that Miss Sophy's meddling had caused Jack a good deal of unhappiness already in the past. "Next time Miss Sophy says anything of that sort, you can just tell her that there isn't any manner of hurry. Miss Perkins means Jessie to be a good dressmaker before she thinks about marrying, and Jack means to lay something by in the Savings Bank too, and he's right. A man's got no sort of business to marry till he's a fair prospect of being able to keep wife and children in comfort."
"Jack says so too, mother."
"Jack always was a sensible boy, and he ain't selfish either, like a lot of young fellows, who think of nothing in the world but what they want for themselves. A man ought to look ahead, and think what life is going to be, and not go plunging blindly along, without a notion of what lies before him. I wouldn't for anything have those two marry all in a hurry, and settle down in one little poky messy room, and use up every penny they can earn, and then go on from bad to worse, getting poorer every year, just because they began too soon, and never had a fair start."
"Jack don't manage to lay by much now."
"No, I know; and I've been speaking to your father, and telling him things can't go on so. Jack's a good son, but it's time he should look-out for a better post for himself somewhere else, in a bigger shop. He ought to be making a deal more than his father can give him now. It's time Jack should act, for Jessie's sake."
"What did father say?"
"He don't say much, and I can't get him to say much. I don't know as I understand your father just now. He seems so down, and not like himself. He just said, 'If it must be, it must be,' and I could see he didn't like me saying what I did. But Jack has got to be thought about."
"And if Jack got a good post somewhere, and made a nice sum of money, they wouldn't need to wait so very long."
"Well, that must depend. Jack won't get so very much at first, you may be sure. He's only been in this little country place, and if he goes to London or some biggish town, he'll have to begin low down, and work his way up. But it's time he should do it. I don't like the thought of parting with Jack, but, all the same, he's got to do it. People can't always have things just as they'd like 'em; and I s'pose it wouldn't be good for us if we could.
"As for marrying yet awhile, Jack is young, and Jessie is younger, and there's no manner of haste. If they had to wait three or four years, that wouldn't be any sort of hardship—no, nor four or five years. Neither of 'em 'll be any the worse for having to learn patience. A deal better put off, and begin life, when they do begin it, in comfort and ease."
"Jack told me last week that he did wish he could get something to do in London. He said he wasn't wanted here, and he thought it would be right."
"No more he isn't. There's nothing that you and I can't manage by way of helping father. It's just wasting our Jack to keep him here. I mean to have a talk with Mr. Gilbert, and see what he thinks. Maybe that 'ud bring things to a point."
"Mother, there's the bells ringing. It's the Vicar come back."
Mimy flew out to the front of the house, and Mrs. Groates followed with hardly less speed. Old Maxham Church had a small but tuneful old peal of bells, and they were now clashing vigorously. A number of boys came racing along the street, and then an open fly from the railway station, with the Vicar seated inside, and his sister beside him. Both were nodding and smiling, and the Vicar leant out, as they passed, to call to Mrs. Groates, "How do you do? How do you do? Glad to see you again."
"And I'm sure we're glad," responded Mrs. Groates.
She finished the sentence, though he was out of hearing before she reached the end of two syllables. "Dear me, now, that is a nice man, Mimy. So kind and hearty, ain't he? Not a bit of pride in him."
But Miss Sophy, standing on the other side, was deeply injured because the Vicar had happened to turn his head towards the Groates' Store and not towards the Coxens' little dwelling. It would have been hard for him, poor man, to look both ways at once, or even to look both ways in succession, for the fly went fast, and there was very little time. But Miss Sophy, like a great many people who are much occupied with themselves, was not always reasonable.
"There is not a person in the place that I like better than that sunny-faced little Mrs. Groates," the Vicar remarked over his afternoon cup of tea. "She is the very essence of content and good-humour. If nobody ever grumbled more than Mrs. Groates grumbles, the world would be quite another sort of place."
"You had better preach a sermon on that subject."
"Something else must come first. Here we are, well on in the autumn, with winter storms near at hand, and not one penny laid aside for a lifeboat. It won't do. That must be my business."
"Who ought to have seen to it?"
"Anybody. That too often means nobody. So I mean to make it my business."
"It will be a troublesome one, I am afraid."
"And if so—what then? We are sent into the world to take trouble."
"How much do you suppose a lifeboat will cost?"
"Can't say exactly. I have to find out all particulars. Several hundreds of pounds, I should imagine. All the more need not to delay."
"You don't suppose you will get it in time for this winter?"
"I don't know in the least. All I want is to get it as soon as possible. I shall not be happy till Old Maxham has a lifeboat. The thing is an absolute necessity."
"And you expect this village to supply you with hundreds of pounds!"
"No, I don't; but Old Maxham must give its share. And so must New Maxham, and all the country round. When I have collected a certain amount, I shall apply to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution, and see whether they would be able to meet us half-way. Of course, if somebody would give a large round sum down, that would make all easy; but at the present moment, it does not seem likely. We can only do our best in the matter."
"Which means that you will wear yourself to a thread-paper, rushing after an impossibility."
"I don't admit the word 'impossibility' into my dictionary. If the thing ought to be done, it can be done. I mean to have that lifeboat sooner or later."
"And a house to hold it."
"Just so. And a carriage to carry it, and a crew to work it."
"And suppose you cannot find a crew?"
"I'm not afraid. While England is England, and while Englishmen are Englishmen, there will be no lack of men to work the boat—when once the boat is here."
On the very first Sunday after his return the Vicar gave out, in the course of his morning's sermon, his intention of starting forthwith a "subscription list" for the purchase of a lifeboat.
"The list will lie on my study table, and I shall bring it round to all of you in turn," he said in his own straightforward genial manner. "I want you to think beforehand—not how little it will do you to give, but how much you can manage to spare, for the saving of our fellow-creatures' lives on this dangerous coast. Remember, each shilling that you do not give may mean the death of a man who is not ready to die,—may mean the loss of a husband, father, bread-winner, who can ill be spared.
"We need a lifeboat sorely, and you all know it. Not many months ago you saw with your own eyes a barque go to pieces on the rocks; and you can recall how many lives were lost that day, which, with a lifeboat at hand, might perhaps have been saved.
"A boat did go out, and it went too late; and if it had not been too late, it could not have got near enough to save the men. Had a lifeboat been on the spot, there would have been no thought of delay, and some, or even all, of the crew might have been rescued. The shortening days of autumn are now upon us, and the long dark nights of winter are at hand; and with each week the perils of our coast to passing vessels will be increased. I call upon you all to buckle to with determination, and to do your very utmost that no more lives may be needlessly sacrificed.
"The rocks are yours; the danger is your concern. Friends of yours may one day be in dire need, requiring a lifeboat to save them; and if not actual friends, they will at least be brother men. This is a matter which does not concern only one or two in the place.
"Perhaps you will tell me that it is one of those things which of course ought to be done, but that it is nobody's business in particular, and therefore not your business. Be sure of this, as you go through life, that if you hear of anything which needs to be done, and which is 'nobody's business,' that thing is Everybody's Business, and more especially it is your business. If God does not call upon one man in particular to do the thing, He calls upon us all collectively. Shall we disregard that call?
"No, this matter of a needed lifeboat is the business of all of us. It is not a case of 'nobody's business.' It is your business—and yours—and yours—and yours—each one of you, down to the little children.
"Everybody may help, each in his or her degree. Those who cannot give much may give little; but all may give something. If you cannot afford five pounds, you can perhaps afford one pound. If you cannot afford one pound, you can perhaps afford ten shillings or five shillings. If you cannot afford five shillings, you can perhaps afford half-a-crown—or one shilling. Nobody, I think, is so utterly poor that at least a few pence could not be given for such an object as this. If you had only two mites in all the world you might, like the widow of old, give those two mites, trusting to your heavenly Father for more mites on the morrow.
"Only, don't do one thing, which sometimes is done in the present day—do not give two mites out of a well-filled purse, and then, having eaten a hearty dinner, dare to class them as 'widows' mites.' They are nothing of the sort. The widow when she gave her mites gave her all. If you have given less than your all—less than all the living that you have—you have not given widows' mites.
"The point of the story lay, not in their being mites, but in their being the only mites that the widow possessed. If our Lord were again sitting by, as He did in those days, and if He saw some well-to-do person, with more money at home or in the bank, give one or two very small coins to our collection, when that person could well afford to give more, you may be very sure that our Lord would not say of such a giver, 'He hath cast in more than they all.'
"Our Lord does stand by, and does see. He is always near, and He sees everything. You cannot hide from Him the contents of your purse, or the figures in your bank-book, or the amount that you have been spending upon yourself in the past week.
"In addition to all this, remember something else also. Whatever you give, see that you give it from the heart unto Christ. Not unto me, your Vicar; not unto the Churchwardens; not unto the opinions of your neighbours; not even unto the cause of suffering humanity; but unto Christ. He gave His Life to save the perishing. You are urged to give—not your lives, most of you, though some have been willing to give even their lives—but, a little of your money.
"It may be that some among you will yet give your lives in the effort to rescue drowning men, when the lifeboat has been bought with your help! If so, that is a grand thing to do. It is a grand and a Christ-like thing to die in striving to save. I can hardly call it a grand thing, but only a plain and simple duty, to give what you can towards this crying need. It would be a grander thing to give more than you could well spare—more than you could spare without self-denial and loss—and some of you will perhaps be equal to this effort."
Then the Vicar quoted impressively in his deep voice some simple lines beginning,—
"'Man the lifeboat! man the lifeboat!Hearts of oak, your succour lend.See, the shattered vessel staggers!Quick, oh! quick! assistance send!'"
The congregation was throughout more or less moved by the earnestness and the pathos of the Vicar's appeal. He had himself been foremost in the rescuing work; he had caused the attempt to be made when others were hopeless; he had risked his life, and had suffered long and sorely in consequence; and one in that congregation would never have been there but for him. Mildred's head was bent, and her tears fell, at the thought of those who might have been saved and who had not been saved. Tears were also on Mrs. Groates' cheeks as she recalled her Jack's peril.
MAKING A COLLECTION
THE Vicar was not one who would allow grass to grow under his feet, as the saying is, or who would allow the heated iron to become cold before he struck it. No later than Monday afternoon he set forth upon a round through his parish, subscription list in hand, bent upon getting as many gifts as possible towards the needed lifeboat. He was very much in earnest, very eager in his quest; and, like all subscription collectors, he met with varying success, sometimes receiving more from a quarter where he had expected less, and sometimes receiving less where he had expected more.
The list was headed by ten pounds from himself. This, out of the Vicar's small stipend, after the expenses of his long illness, and considering that he had no private property of his own, meant a great deal more of self-denial than anybody in the Parish was likely to guess,—except indeed his old housekeeper, who "did" for him, with the help of one young girl. But the old housekeeper was no gossip, and Old Maxham was not likely to be the wiser for what she knew.
Mr. Bateson, the doctor, despite his large family, his limited number of paying patients, and his unlimited number of non-paying patients, followed up this donation with another of five pounds; and, to everybody's surprise, Mildred Pattison came forward with a second five-pound note.
Her wish would have been to give it silently, with no name, as a secret token of thankfulness for her own preservation. She could be thankful now, feeling that she had been kept to do some work in life which needed to be done. Sometimes, however, it may be a duty to make one's expression of thankfulness a public matter; and in this case the Vicar was anxious to have the influence of her example for others. Mildred yielded to his wish, simply saying, "I will do as you like."
Mrs. Groates, notwithstanding the pull of her boy's accident, persuaded Groates to offer a pound to the fund; and though he made a long face over it, he gave way. Miss Perkins offered another pound, and this again was a matter for general surprise, since she had never been regarded as of a liberal nature, but rather was reckoned to be parsimonious. Jessie, out of her small purse, bestowed half-a-crown; not without a sigh for the pink ribbon which she had intended to buy. And since the giving of the half-crown meant doing without the ribbon, and since she cared a great deal about having the ribbon, her contribution had the added worth which is involved in self-denial.
Old Adams and the fisherman, Robins, would not withhold their little gifts also, though they had already made the much greater offer of themselves for the work of rescue. Nor were Mrs. Stokes and her husband behindhand; and even wee Posie No. 2, with pink cheeks and much excitement, pushed a whole penny into the Vicar's hand. The young Vicar, who dearly loved children, took her into his arms, and kissed the soft little face.
"That penny will surely bring a blessing," he said.
"She's talked of nothing but the boat and the poor sailors, sir, since last Sunday," Mrs. Stokes remarked. "You wouldn't think it, to see her, how Posie listens to the sermons, nor how much she understands and remembers. She's such a little thing, but she's wonderful quick to take in things."
"She isn't too much of a babe to listen to the 'old, old story,' Mrs. Stokes," the Vicar said.
In certain quarters matters went less swimmingly. Mr. Mokes, who was credited with large savings, talked of "hard times," and averred the impossibility of going beyond five shillings; a sum which in his case could by no means be reckoned as anything approaching "widows' mites." The Misses Coxen declared themselves to be unable to give anything at all. Work had been slack lately, they said, and money was short, and it wasn't they who were to blame, but other people who ought to have known better; and if those other people liked to give, the Misses Coxen had nothing to say to it, but as for themselves they just couldn't, and that was all about the matter. Other individuals offered more or less, according to their means, according to the claims upon their purses, and according to the spirit of generosity or the reverse which happened to be theirs.
Mokes' very small gift was a disappointment to the Vicar. It might be that Mokes had not so much laid by as was supposed; but as the longest-established and most successful tradesman in the place, he might have given a good deal more than two half-crowns without being a sufferer from his own liberality. The Vicar had looked for at least five pounds from that quarter; perhaps even ten. He spoke rather plainly to Mokes.
And Mokes rubbed his hands deprecatingly and talked anew of "bad times." "He couldn't afford more," he said, "not just then. Perhaps by-and-by—"
The Vicar knew what that was worth.
So the list grew irregularly, as such lists do grow, and the Vicar met with a good deal to encourage him, as well as with a certain amount that was saddening.
He did not, however, depend upon the neighbourhood alone, but wrote to friends and acquaintances and strangers too, in all parts of England, asking them to contribute towards the same object. So vigorously did he exert himself, that in a few weeks he was able to announce good success from the pulpit. He was indeed far from having gained the whole sum, but he had received actually as much as three hundred and fifty pounds; and if he could collect one hundred pounds more, that would suffice. He had been in correspondence with the National Lifeboat Institution; and that Society having just received an unexpected legacy of six hundred pounds towards the purchase of a lifeboat in some locality, where it might be needed, was willing to use this legacy for the needs of Old Maxham.