WHAT JESSIE WOULD SAY
JACK felt that matters were coming to a crisis. He would do as the Vicar had advised. He would see Jessie, and would put before her the state of affairs, and would ask her to decide.
If she were willing to wait until he should be free to marry her, so much the better. Jack felt that he could wait any number of years, with a prospect of Jessie as his wife at the end. If she were not willing, then he would have to give her up. He could not in either case fail towards his mother. She was and had to be the first claim upon him.
It was not quite easy to get hold of Jessie alone. She was busy over her dressmaking, and he was busy over plans and accounts; and by a kind of tacit agreement, they had put off confabulations upon their own affairs until other people's affairs should be settled. But Jack now felt that a quiet talk with Jessie must come off before those affairs of other people could be entirely settled. The question of the future home of his mother and of himself might hang upon that quiet talk.
When once a person sets himself to have a thing done, it is usually not long in being brought about. Despite business and other difficulties, Jack found himself only two days later walking with Jessie outside Old Maxham, through a muddy field under a grey sky.
Jessie was unusually silent, seeming more disposed to listen than to talk, and Jack was desperately puzzled how to begin. He had conned over so often beforehand what he had to say that it had grown to look quite easy; and now he could remember nothing of it. So he and Jessie marched along together in solemn silence.
"I thought you wanted particular to speak to me," Jessie at length said.
"I thought you'd talk to me," Jack answered, cowardly still as to what he had to say.
"Me talk! Yes, of course, if you like." Then she started off full swing, and chattered on every variety of subject. She allowed Jack no loophole for his say, and this was worse than her previous silence. For some minutes Jessie rattled on about the lifeboat, and the anonymous gift, and who could have been the donor; and then she slid off to her own work, and said how nice it was, and how well she was paid, and how kind Mildred was in teaching her. Next she was skipping off to some fresh subject; but she had afforded Jack an opportunity, and Jack at last had the courage to avail himself of it.
"That's just what I'm thinking about."
"What, my dressmaking?"
"Yes, about what you've been saying. Things aren't the same now as they have been, and I want you to see it."
"I don't see the good," pouted Jessie. "Look! Is that a chaffinch?"
"You've got to listen to me, Jessie, and I've got to say it. Don't you see, you can go on making money now and laying it by, and I can't. I shan't be able for ever so long. Every penny that I earn will have to go to keeping my mother in comfort, and the children. They'll just all depend on me."
"Well?" Jessie said. She hung her head so that he could not see her face, and the tone sounded cold.
"I can't tell how long it may be. And it don't seem to me—I should be right—to let you go on—not knowing—nor—"
Jack's faltering suggestions were nipped. Jessie raised her head, looked him in the face, and said tersely: "So you want to break it off? Very well."
"Jessie!" Jack had not expected this, and he was dumbfounded. He knew now how certain he had felt in his heart of what her answer might be, and the disappointment was great. A black cloud seemed to have settled down upon him.
Jessie said no more, and they walked on side by side. Jack's shoulders were rounded, and he dragged his feet like an old man. Jessie hung her head once more, and a keen observer, glancing under her hat-brim, might have detected a small smile quivering at the corners of her mouth.
"Well, you haven't said all you meant to say," she presently remarked.
"I told you—" Jack's voice was too husky to proceed.
"And I suppose you thought I'd want you to leave your mother to manage for herself, while you just went on working for me? A nice thing to think!"
Jessie's tone was full of scorn. This was not what Jack had expected her to say, either. He ventured to look in her direction, and saw two bright eyes sparkling with tears.
"Jessie—"
"Jack, you're a donkey; that's what you are! I wouldn't have thought you could have been so stupid!" Jessie stamped her foot upon the grass. "I wouldn't! You ought to have more sense."
"I've got mother and the children to see to," Jack said helplessly.
"As if I didn't know that! And as if I'd ever look at you again, if you could go and leave your mother to get on as she could, while you were only thinking of yourself—well, and of me, if you like! That 'ud mean the same thing. If you could, I should despise you, Jack."
"Then you think I'm doing what's right?"
"You couldn't do anything else. I only wish I had a mother to work for. But I have—almost," she added, under her breath.
"Only, you know, it may mean putting off our being married for ever so long. I can't tell how long."
"There's no need to tell. Let it be put off. So much the better," declared Jessie. "I'm in no hurry to get married. Why should I be? Girls like a bit of freedom first. And I'm comfortable as I am. As for your mother—if you and me ever do get married, why then she'll be my mother as well as yours, and I shall have a right to work for her too. And if we have a home, that home will be hers as well as yours and mine. So there!"
Jack was not to be at once pulled up out of despondency. "And you're quite sure, Jessie—you don't think—you wouldn't rather give me up and take somebody else?"
"Yes, of course I would! That's just what I should like, most particularly," declared Jessie, with tartness. "Get rid of you and take up with the first man I can find instead! It wouldn't matter who—not one bit! O no, anybody would do. I'm not difficult to please, am I?" Jessie broke into a queer laugh with a sound of tears in it. "O dear, you men are funny! As if that was my way!"
"I don't want you to give me up. I'd wait any time for you. Only, it may be years and years."
"It won't be, though. I'm going to make lots of money, and I shall work all the harder now, thinking about your mother. Why, Jack, don't you know I'm pretty near as fond of her as you are, and I'd like nothing better in all the world than to give her a home and to make her happy. I've never had a mother of my own—anyhow, I can't remember her—and to be always with your mother would be lovely. She's the dearest thing, and she never grumbles. She isn't a scrap like aunt Barbara. The only thing is that you might get jealous. I'm not sure, but I almost think I love her more than I love you; and I don't mind telling you so, either. And as for giving you up,—if you are tired of me, I'll give you up this minute, and I'll say good-bye, and I'll tell you not to cross my path again in a hurry. And if you're not tired of me—why—then—things can go on as they have gone on. And if you can't lay by yet for me, I can lay by for your mother, and we can wait a while longer and make the best of it. So you needn't be a donkey again, Jock—that's all."
Jack's answer to these various "ifs," though wordless, was unmistakable.
He told his mother about his talk with Jessie. Jack had not meant to do so at first, only he was used to telling her everything that touched him closely. He tried not to let her know that the question of her support had played a prominent part; but her womanly penetration was a great deal too much for Jack's duller wits. A few adroit questions drew the whole from him, including Jessie's hot little speeches and loving words about herself. A curious light came into Mrs. Groates' face, and her eyes, which had of late been dimmed with tear-shedding, shone again with almost their old look.
"And you think I'm going to sit with my hands before me, Jack, and you do all the work?"
"Why, no; you'll keep things going in the house, and there 'll be the children to see to. You'll find plenty to do,—no fear!"
"I shall take a share of earning money too. I can tell you that. I don't mean to be a useless burden on anybody. Not even on you."
"You'd never be useless, come what might. And it isn't only me that's going to work. Miss Pattison has offered to teach Mimy dressmaking, so that by-and-by she can get work in some of the New Maxham shops. We didn't mean to bother you about it for a day or two, but Mimy likes the notion, and I don't think you'll have anything against it. Just like Miss Pattison, isn't it? And Ted will be through his schooling in less than three months, and then we'll have to find something for him to do too. He's a handy little chap, you know. But you and the three little ones are going to be my charge,—till they can begin to work for themselves too, which won't be yet awhile. And you will be my charge always, mother,—mine and Jessie's too, in time, for she says so."
"Bless you both for meaning it! All the same, I'm going to take my share."
"I'll not have you go out charing. Nothing of that sort. You're not fit for rough work."
"There's things enough to be done. I'm used to turn my hand to most things. I'm good at fine needlework; and I can cook first-rate; and I shouldn't mind a spell at nursing now and then. You won't keep me in idleness, Jack; thank you all the same. And I'll try to get some needlework."
Jack protested in vain; and as days went by, he became convinced that his mother would really be the happier for having a certain amount of employment. The children would be away a great part of the day, except in holiday time, and the tiny cottage which was to be their home would scarcely afford scope enough for so active a little person in mind and body as Mrs. Groates.
It was quite true, as she had told Jack, that she was not only a very good needle-woman, but also an efficient cook, and a reliable nurse—not trained up to full modern requirements, but experienced in divers illnesses. These gifts might in coming months be turned to good account.
Meanwhile, the move out of the old home into a new one had to be done. A small cottage, on the outside border of Old Maxham, had been found for a moderate rent; and enough furniture to make it habitable was taken thither from "Groates' Store," the rest being parted with to Mr. Mokes, together with the stores of grocery and aught else that the shop held.
The act of removal, and settling in, helped to rouse Mrs. Groates, and to give her new interests in life. It was a pretty little cottage, with small but not inconvenient rooms, and a tiny garden behind, which Jack proposed to cultivate in leisure hours.
Since Jessie had not taken him at his word, and had not wished to break off the engagement, he was glad still to make his home in Old Maxham. He was by nature very much of a "home-boy," and he did not love change or novelty. To be within easy reach of Jessie was cheering; and the daily walk in and out of New Maxham would do him no harm. As Mr. Gilbert had foretold, Jack gave great satisfaction at the grocer's where his work now lay; and very soon, from having been taken on for his Mother's sake, he was highly valued for his own.
"The fact is, I can always trust Groates," Ward was heard to say to a friend. "There's no shilly-shally about him. He don't pretend to be out of the way clever; but give him a thing to do, and you may be sure that thing 'll be done, without any more bother. And the time that's due to me, he don't spend in amusing himself. I'd trust Jack Groates with a five-hundred-pound note, and not a doubt in my mind. Yes, it was a good thing for myself that I ever got him here, and I don't mind saying so, though it wasn't for my sake, nor for his, that I did get him."
Somebody took the trouble to repeat the main part of this speech to Mrs. Groates; and any mother will know how pleased she was to find Jack so well understood.
Jessie heard the same tale, and Jessie took it rather differently, as girls will. She tossed her head, with disdain. "Anybody might know that of Jack. He is honest enough, dear old fellow. But he is awfully stupid sometimes, and there's no denying it."
Jessie was thinking about a certain walk in muddy fields, one dull afternoon, not far back; and she quite forgot that if Jack had followed a different tack, and had shown himself too confident, she herself would have been the first to blame him for conceit.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
"SUCH a little while since I came, and yet Old Maxham feels quite a home to me now! I suppose we are like creeping plants, putting out tendrils wherever they chance to be, and clinging fast. Only a few months ago I felt so alone and friendless in the world, and now it's all different,—isn't it, Hero?"
Mildred paused to pat the dog's head, as he followed close behind her. "Less than a year, and so much to have happened."
She looked down at her black dress, not yet discarded. Close upon eleven months had passed since the death of her brother and his child; and the earlier months of those eleven had dragged by very slowly while the later months, being full of work and interest, had fled three times as fast. It was difficult to believe that one year ago she had never heard of Old Maxham, or of Jessie, or of Miss Perkins.
The afternoon was keen and cold, but very still. Old Maxham had been a good deal excited during the last few days; for the long-wished-for lifeboat had at last arrived, and was now installed in the boat-house, built beforehand in readiness to receive it.
Some time might elapse before a storm should arise, and longer still, it was to be hoped, before a wreck should call out the boat; but here it now was, ready for need, a possible ark of refuge for drowning sailors or passengers, no longer to be vainly cried for in a last despair.
Already a full crew had been enrolled, double the number actually needed to man the boat; and more than one practice had taken place, by way of getting their hands in. Old Adams had been appointed coxswain, with a fixed salary of eight pounds a year, with Robins for bowman at a salary of thirty shillings. There would also be regular additional payments; four shillings usually to each man of the crew, when they went afloat for exercise; ten shillings to each by day, and one pound to each by night, when going to save life, whether or no they were successful in the effort; and these sums would be increased by one-half during the winter months, from the beginning of October to the end of March.
Such and other expenses would be undertaken by the National Lifeboat Institution, out of its regular funds; but collections were to be made annually in the neighbourhood, managed by a small local committee, to do what might be possible in the way of helping to support their own lifeboat. All Maxham was delighted with this new possession, and certainly not least so the Vicar, who had had so much to do with getting it.
Mildred had lately been very hard at work, with her two helpers, Jessie and Mimy. She seemed always to have her hands more than full; and, indeed, she might easily have kept two or three more assistants employed. But this would have meant a change of abode, as no room in Periwinkle Cottage was large enough for more than three workers, spending many hours of the day together.
A fourth might sit with them occasionally, but not as a regular thing: and Mildred was not anxious to make a big concern of her dressmaking business. She preferred to undertake no more than she could herself cut out and properly overlook; and she did not at all wish to quit Miss Perkins' little house, which had become a home to her.
This afternoon she meant to treat herself to a lonely ramble; lonely, except for the companionship of Hero—and she never went for a walk without taking him. Hero had saved her life; and he was the one link which bound her present to her past life.
Everything and everybody else was new; dating not so far back as the shipwreck which had swept away her belongings. Hero alone had been in her former life. Much as Mildred cared for Jessie, and for other Old Maxham friends, not one of them could be to her what faithful Hero was; and she loved now and then to get away with him into the country, there to indulge in dreams of the past, which were not all sad, because they were mingled with dreams of the future.
Solitary as she might be in a sense, that solitariness was not for ever. Those who were gone she had not lost. They had only passed before her into the fairer Land. By-and-by she would join them there; and all her best hopes were anchored on that reunion. It helped her sometimes to pass out of reach of other people's chit-chat, and to lose herself in thought of the future.
"Come, Hero, we'll go through the fields," she said, speaking to the dog as to a friend of her own standing.
Hero always seemed to understand.
The ground was dry, because frozen; and a slight fall of snow had taken place. Each tiny twig bore its little clothing on the upper side, of delicate whiteness; and the ground sparkled, as if strewn with diamonds, in the sunshine. A good many clouds were scattered over the sky, one and another passing from time to time over the face of the sun; but each brief shadow was followed by renewed brightness.
"Not a bad day," Mildred decided. "And winter cannot last much longer now. A few weeks will see us well into spring."
She walked on, musing after her favourite fashion, keeping up a good pace, and covering a greater distance than she quite realized.
Hero walked close at her heels, after his usual fashion; and with him she never minded where she went, for no man would ever have dared to molest her while Hero was at hand. Gentle as the dog looked and was, he would have made short work of anybody who should have threatened harm to his mistress. He would let a little child tug his hair and poke its fingers into his eyes, with unlimited patience; but his grip could be deadly, if occasion called for it. This was understood in the country round, since one day when Hero found that a man in a lonely lane had evil intent towards Mildred. That man had a narrow escape of his life.
Mildred suddenly woke up to the fact of how fast and how far she had walked. The sun was dipping below the horizon, and the air had begun to gain an extra sharpness, suggestive of approaching night.
"I must be going back," Mildred said aloud; but she felt rather tired, and paused, to lean against the low parapet of a bridge, where the road passed over a stream.
She determined to give herself three minutes' rest, and then to return as fast as she had come.
Hero laid himself down at her feet, to await her pleasure.
It was singularly still. Hardly a breath of air stirred; hardly a twig of any bush moved. The brightness of sunlight, causing snow-sparkles all around, had now vanished, and the whole landscape lay under a grey shadow, which momentarily deepened. She would scarcely get back to the village before dark; but with Hero at her side, this did not matter; and Mildred enjoyed keen cold. It braced her up, she said.
The water of the sluggish little stream below ran quietly, with barely power to make itself heard. It was not a singing brook, though the water moved. Such frost as there was had not been able to bind it into stillness; but a little harder frost would succeed with so slow a brook.
Somebody was coming along the road, from that direction towards which she had been walking; that is to say he was on the way to Old Maxham. Not a tramp or a beggar. Mildred knew this at once, while he was still distant. She knew it from the quick step, the purposeful onward motion, which spoke of another class of man, though what class she could not yet conjecture.
In general outline the figure did not recall any one with whom she was acquainted in the neighbourhood; yet there was about it a curious suggestion of familiarity, as if she had known the person once upon a time, she could not recall when. She watched with a dreamy interest the gradual approach of the figure, as it came onward steadily, never swerving, nor hastening, nor slackening, but gradually increasing in apparent size as it filled a larger and larger space in her eye.
Then she began to see that it was an elderly man, or at least that he looked elderly, and that he had longish loose grey hair, curling, and falling almost to his shoulders. The kind benevolent face under his hat brought back in a flash a certain day, when she had been in the Churchyard, alone and lonely and well-nigh hopeless, and a stranger had spoken to her words of comfort.
"I thought I should see him again some day," she said to herself, and she went a step or two forward to meet him.
"How do you do?" she said, putting out her hand, with no hesitation. "We have met before, you know."
"Yes, I know," he replied pleasantly. "I remember you well,—very well indeed."
"We have only met once. It was one day in the Churchyard. You told me some truths, and made me feel how wrong I was. It did me a great deal of good. I am glad to be able to thank you for it now."
He smiled, as if recalling what had passed.
"You are Miss Pattison, who was saved last year from the shipwreck. When the Vicar behaved so gallantly, and all the other good fellows too. And your brave dog, not least of them all. Yes, yes, of course I heard all about that. The place was very full of the story when I came. And when I was here last, you were all trying hard to get enough money for a lifeboat."
"Have you been here a second time? I did not see you."
"No, I ran down for a week only. In fact, I only stayed three or four days. I had to hurry back to London. So I promised your good doctor to come again, and to stay a little longer. He and I are firm friends. Now, do you think you are wise to stay here in the cold?" This question came in a half-coaxing tone of remonstrance, as to a child.
"No, perhaps not; but I wanted a minute or two of rest, before starting for home."
"Then we are both going the same way. You will let me see you safely to the village. You are excuse me—hardly old enough to wander alone in these lonely roads."
"I feel very old! And I have no fear, with Hero. No one dares to touch me when he is here. He does not seem to mind you."
"I have spoken to Hero several times,—meeting him in the village. He is a fine fellow."
"I owe my life to him. But for Hero, I could not have escaped from the wreck."
"So I was told. And you are of course very grateful to him. You could not be otherwise."
Mildred walked silently for some seconds. "Yes," she said at length, "I am grateful now. I see that life is worth keeping, that it must be worth keeping, no matter how lonely or how sad one may be,—because there is always something to be done for somebody, and because it is God's gift to us, and meant to be valued. But that day, when you found me in the Churchyard, I was not grateful at all. It seemed to me that it would have been so very much happier, if only I had been taken too, with my brother and the little one. I had no one left, and life seemed to have no object."
"I remember. That was what you felt; one could see it. I wished that I could make you see how close a tie there really is between all brother men, and—" with a slight break,—"'specially those who are of the Household of Faith.'"
"You did help me to see it. I began to understand from that hour. You did not say much, but what you did say took hold of me."
"Come, that's cheering," and he smiled. "One likes to be made use of sometimes, in a stray sort of way. I am very much alone in the world, too, after a fashion: that is to say, I have no one belonging to me in the way of near relations. But I have been used to comfort myself with thinking that everybody belonged to me, and that I might always be doing something for somebody or other."
The speaker paused, and began afresh,—"I wonder whether you remember a certain sermon or address of your good Vicar, when he said something about Nobody's Business being commonly Everybody's Business. That struck me, just because it was a favourite thought of my own. Odd, how much one is impressed by what a man says in the pulpit, if one has happened to have that very same idea in one's own mind before. Why should one think better of it, merely because it has been one's own notion? However, so things are; and I had often said to myself,—
"'Now, John Willoughby, you haven't got much business of your own to attend to, so the best you can do is to look about and see whatever happens to be "nobody's business," and then just take that up and make it "your business."'
"And when I heard your Vicar say pretty much the same thing, I was delighted. No reason for being so, but I was, and I suppose most people would have been in my place. Man's an odd being, you know. But here am I chattering on, and letting you have no time to put in a single word."
"No; I like to hear you. Please go on," Mildred answered quietly. "Tell me how you carry out that plan."
"Not much difficulty. There's always something wanting to be done, or somebody needing to be helped. And though I haven't kith or kin, I have no lack of money. So the question is—how to use my money to the best advantage. Not always in the regular channels, you know, but in doing things that perhaps nobody else is quite able or quite willing to do. No end of things turn up, one way and another."
Then another pause.
"I had a very good business in the second-hand book trade for years; and when health showed signs of failing, I disposed of that, and money came to me unexpectedly from another quarter. So, of course, the question arose, what to do with myself and my money, to the best advantage? I'm no advocate for reckless giving to anybody that asks,—just pauperising those who ought to work for themselves. But very often one may help those who are down to get up again, or those who are in difficulties to get out of them. I can't go in for regular hard work, but I can see to that sort of thing."
A sudden thought had come to Mildred, making her eyes brighten. She looked round at him, and said, "And perhaps, sometimes, if you find a collection being made for something that is very much wanted, you give a check to help it on."
"Sometimes, yes,—if that seems to be the right thing to do."
He showed no particular signs of consciousness, and Mildred added,—
"You say you were here once, since that time that I saw you. And that must have been when Mr. Gilbert was preaching for the new lifeboat. That was the time, I think, when he said so much about Nobody's Business. Mr. Gilbert was in great difficulties about getting all the money he wanted. And some one generously gave ninety pounds towards it." Mildred forgot that she had once condemned any attempt to find out the donor. People are not always consistent.
"Ah!" Mr. Willoughby answered gravely. "That was quite right of somebody." Then, as he met Mildred's smile, "You are a little too keen in putting two and two together. I ought to have kept clear of these subjects,—but—the fact is, I had a wish to know you better, after the curious beginning of our acquaintanceship. So it seemed natural to tell you frankly a little about myself. But if I do not deny what you suggest, I shall ask you to keep my secret."
"May I some day tell the Vicar? He would be so much interested. It almost seems as if he ought to know."
"I don't see the need; but I won't make a fuss and tie you down too closely. If you have no especial reason for telling him, please say nothing. If you have, then ask him to let it go no farther. There is too much in this day of making everything public that one does. And, after all, what was it worth? I did not want the money for myself. I had enough besides for every need of my own."
THE NEW LIFEBOAT
NOTHING at this time gave greater pleasure to the Vicar than to get hold of some outsider, not yet up in the subject of lifeboats, and to display to him, or at least to pour out to him all particulars connected with the now possession of Old Maxham. A school-boy with a new bat is not more eager over that bat, than was Mr. Gilbert over the new boat; only, his was joy on behalf of others, while the schoolboy's delight is on behalf of himself.
One afternoon, two or three days after Mildred's encounter with Mr. Willoughby, the Vicar had paused in a road just outside the village, for a few words with the doctor; and as they talked, a figure could be descried coming along the road at some distance.
"There comes one of my friends," Mr. Bateson naturally remarked. "Mr. Willoughby."
"I saw him in Church on Sunday. A rather striking-looking man. One of your patients?"
"Well, not precisely. Hardly a patient, in the proper sense. He runs down here for rest and change, once in a while, and I prescribe for him if needful. A thoroughly nice fellow. Rich, too, if a man may be accounted rich because he has more money than he wants for himself. He is one of the best men that I ever came across; simple and true-hearted as a child; not an atom of nonsense about him. I've known him for years,—used to be a London bookseller in a large way. He rose to that from small beginnings; and I should think there never was a time when he wasn't one of 'Nature's gentlemen.' He'd be that if he were driving a plough."
"In business now?"
"No; he gave up, on account of certain symptoms of head-weakness. He had been working too hard, and was suffering from it; and he was able to retire on a small competency. Then he came in unexpectedly for a fortune from a distant cousin,—what, at least, was a fortune for him, with his simple tastes. So he took to spending time and money in philanthropic directions, and is one of the busiest people I know. Gets done up once in a way, and comes down here."
"Generous, I suppose?"
"After his own fashion. Odd, rather, in his way of doing good. If you beg him for some pet object, ten to one he'll refuse to give a penny; and then, perhaps, for a thing you don't count half so important he'll hand over twenty pounds. I tried to interest him in your lifeboat scheme last time he was here, and he showed no more concern than if I had been speaking about a pop-gun."
"When was that?"
"He has been twice before. First time he stayed a week; last time only three or four days. That was just about when we had that severe storm, and the two bodies were washed up. Yes,—just then. This time he means to stay longer; told me yesterday, he thought of taking a month off work. I don't know why, for he seems well; but I am glad, for he is pleasant in the house."
The Vicar was deep in thought, "Time of that Storm," he murmured. "Ah! When somebody gave the ninety pounds."
The doctor's lips took a queer set, and the Vicar laughed slightly.
"Well, as I say, I tried to interest him in the subject, and he apparently wouldn't be interested. Possibly, afterwards, on thinking it over—"
"And you have never given me a hint till this moment?"
"It wasn't my business," Mr. Bateson answered. "And it isn't my business now. Of course, I drew my own deductions; and you are at liberty to draw yours. That's all. I don't say he did it."
"No, of course. I understand. But—well, here he comes. I've never spoken to him yet."
"You were ill the first time, and last time he was here no time worth mentioning."
Mr. Bateson waited till Mr. Willoughby drew near, and then named him to the Vicar, who raised his hat. The doctor went off, and in three minutes Mr. Gilbert was in eager converse with Mr. Willoughby.
He had been speaking to the doctor about the lifeboat, newly received. Had Mr. Willoughby seen it yet? And did Mr. Willoughby feel any interest in lifeboats generally?
Mr. Willoughby confessed to an interest in everything that benefited his fellow-men.
This set the Vicar off afresh. Was Mr. Willoughby engaged elsewhere? If not, would he like to come and see the lifeboat there and then? Mr. Gilbert would be delighted to escort him, and they could call on their way for the key. The distance was not great.
Mr. Willoughby demurred, and suggested that another day might do as well. He had walked rather far already, and he was not disposed to do quite so much in addition; moreover, the Vicar's time was doubtless valuable. He would turn and go with the Vicar for a short distance, and so hear about the boat instead of immediately seeing it. Mr. Willoughby studiously abstained from showing any special interest in the matter.
He asked rather carelessly, Was it not the Vicar who had set the affair going in the first instance? He could recall hearing a mention of the boat as wanted, in the Vicar's address at the funeral of the two sailors. And, by-the-bye, was not Miss Pattison the sole survivor of the wreck which had first, perhaps, put it into the mind of the Vicar that a lifeboat ought to be had?
So composed and indifferent was the speaker's manner, that the Vicar began to question the truth of his own late surmise. He fell in, of course, with Mr. Willoughby's mood, and refrained from the faintest hint that he had ever supposed Mr. Willoughby to be the donor of the ninety pounds.
Yes, certainly, he said, he was glad to say that he had had a hand in first starting the motion—not that the people of Old Maxham had not in earlier years felt the need of a lifeboat, but only that they had failed to come to a point in the matter. Perhaps he had helped to bring them to a point. But once aroused, the people of the place had responded nobly to his appeal.
They were dear people, the Vicar said warmly, with a touch of boyish enthusiasm, at which the older man smiled with pleasure. The Vicar went on to say that he was proud of his people. And—yes, it was Miss Pattison who had had so remarkable an escape from drowning, and whose escape had partly made him think about a lifeboat.
Then, just as Mr. Willoughby was hoping to hear more about Mildred Pattison, the Vicar swerved off again to the subject of the lifeboat itself, and dashed into an eager explanation of its make and its merits.
He described the wonderful self-righting power of a lifeboat; the air-cases to which it owes its buoyancy; the tubes through which may escape any water shipped by the boat; the life-lines hanging outside, in readiness to be caught and clung to by any man overboard.
Then he congratulated himself and his Parish on the transporting carriage which had also been provided, by means of which the lifeboat could be quickly conveyed to the water's edge, and launched in heavy surf.
He had much also to say as to lesser equipments,—anchors, cables life-buoys, grapnels, rockets; and, above all, the cork lifebelts to be worn by the crew, the buoyant and flexible make of which had greatly delighted him.
"With one of those belts on, a man wearing heavy clothing may not only float safely, but may keep another person afloat also," he said. "It's a marvellous invention. One wonders how the world managed to get on before all these things were found out."
"Not quite such an amount of shipping in earlier times," suggested Mr. Willoughby.
"That's true. But no doubt many a poor fellow lost his life in those days, who in these days might be rescued. Why, only think, the Royal National Lifeboat Institution has in charge over three hundred lifeboats on our coasts. It's a splendid work,—grand! And they are grand men who carry it on. Not many of us realise what some of those noble fellows have to go through, tossing about for hours on a bitter winter night, drenched with rain and spray, half-drowned and half-frozen, yet never giving in, so long as they have a hope of saving a life. It's magnificent!"
Mr. Willoughby assented warmly, and he would have assented a great deal more warmly if he had not feared, by a show of too much sympathy, to betray the generous part which he had himself taken in procuring this very lifeboat.
He did not suppose the Vicar's suspicions to have been already aroused, and he had no wish to arouse them. After listening a little longer, he made an attempt to turn the talk into another channel.
"The shipwreck of last year seems to have done good to Old Maxham in more ways than one."
"By bringing about the presence of a lifeboat? Yes, indeed."
"Not that only. I said, 'in more ways than one.' I was thinking that it had also brought about the presence of Miss Pattison in the place. That must be a gain."
"You are quite right. It is a gain. I have the greatest esteem for Miss Pattison. I believe she does good wherever she goes."
"I have not, of course, seen very much of her yet," remarked Mr. Willoughby, drawing the point of his walking-stick through the dust. "But the little that I have seen,—I confess she seems to me to be a woman among a thousand. We are perhaps better off than King Solomon was. He didn't manage to find one woman among a thousand. I am inclined to think that I—have!"
The Vicar stopped short, and looked full at Mr. Willoughby.
"I am inclined to think that I have," repeated Mr. Willoughby, with deliberation. "I may be mistaken; but I think not."
"You mean—" began the Vicar.
"Yes. I've never been married yet; but there is no especial reason why I shouldn't marry. I am not quite so old as I look, perhaps. How old should you guess me to be? 'Sixty?' Some would have guessed sixty-five. No; I am just over fifty-four—not old at all for a man. And she is over thirty. Nothing out of joint as to age, you see. I have enough money to keep a wife in comfort, and still to be able to give away. Moreover, I am much alone in the world, and she is the same. Why should we not—?"
Mr. Willoughby came to a pause, and the Vicar said heartily, "Why not, indeed?"
"That is the question. It is only an idea in my mind at present; and I can't tell if she could ever care for me. But I want to see more of her, and it is not easy to manage. So I thought I would ask your help. If in the end she isn't willing,—why, I'm no worse off than I have been before."
"Well, I wish you good success; and if there is any way in which I can help matters on, you only have to command me. I wish my sister were here just now, but she isn't. Your best plan really is to interest Mrs. Bateson. She could help you, I don't doubt. I mean, as to arranging for you and Miss Pattison to meet."
"That's an idea worth consideration," Mr. Willoughby remarked.
MR. WILLOUGHBY'S AFFAIR
"IF I might offer a word of advice, it would be—not to make too much haste," were the parting words of Mr. Gilbert. "Best not to be in a hurry, you know."
Mr. Willoughby resolved to follow this counsel, and on no account to give in to a spirit of impatience.
Nor did he; if the degree of haste were to be measured by the degree of desire on his part. It was astonishing how that desire grew, when once the notion of marrying Mildred Pattison was fully admitted to his own mind.
The first time that they had met, Mildred had made a strong impression on him; the second time that he had visited Old Maxham, though he did not exchange a word with her, that impression had been deepened by various facts casually told him about Mildred. And the next interview that he had with her convinced him that, if time and opportunity could be found, she might become to him what no other woman had yet been. The time he resolved to take; the opportunities he determined to make.
Mildred sometimes wondered over the length of his stay in Old Maxham. Weeks passed by, and, still he remained at the doctor's, as a "paying guest," but certainly not as a patient, for he made no pretence to be an invalid, or in need of sea-air. None the less, he stayed on.
She began also to wonder how it was that she so often met him, and why it was that he should seem always so pleased to see her. He managed to ingratiate himself with Miss Perkins, so that Miss Perkins actually asked him to come in now and then to tea. Mildred always had her meals with Miss Perkins and Jessie, therefore by this means, he saw her often.
Mildred felt some astonishment at so unusual a step on the part of Miss Perkins, not knowing aught as to certain invisible wires set in motion by the doctor's wife; and she felt yet greater astonishment at the readiness and frequency with which Mr. Willoughby availed himself of the invitation.
Soon a third wonder arose in the mind of Mildred. She was puzzled as to the warmth of her own liking for Mr. Willoughby,—puzzled that his presence should be so agreeable to her, puzzled to find out that if for two or three days she saw nothing of him she felt dull.
"It really is ridiculous," she said one day to herself. "I have known him such a little while, and very soon he will be going back to London, and then none of us will see anything more of him. At least, not for months. Perhaps some day he may come again to Old Maxham. I hope he will; he is a nice men. One can't know him and not like him. But it is rather absurd to care too much, when he is a mere bird of passage,—isn't it, Hero?" Mildred patted her dog and smiled as she spoke.
Not long after this she was one day going off for another afternoon ramble alone with Hero, when Mr. Willoughby happened to come up just before she started. He was always "happening" to meet her wherever she might chance to go; and it never occurred to Mildred that the "happening" might sometimes be due to a private hint bestowed upon Mr. Willoughby by Miss Perkins or Jessie.
Time had been when Miss Perkins would have set herself in opposition to anything so far from advantageous to herself as the possible marriage of Mildred Pattison. But Miss Perkins had had some lessons in self-forgetfulness during the last year; and now that the danger of having to part with her permanent lodger loomed upon her, she was able, amid regrets, to think of what would be for Mildred's good, and to endeavour to further that good, even though it should mean loss to herself. Jessie, too, though not without a struggle, took the same view of matters.
A late equinoctial gale seemed to be setting, but Mildred did not mind a struggle with the wind, now that she was again in good health and spirits. She had put on an old dress, and had tied a gauze veil tightly over her hat, so that it was in no danger of being carried away. And at the moment when she was starting, Mr. Willoughby made his appearance.
"Are you going for a walk? May I come part of the way with you?" he asked. "There are one or two things that I—well, that I rather wish to say. This might be a good opportunity. And really—" as a gust twisted her half round,—"it is rather a boisterous day for you to go alone."
"I'm not afraid of the wind, thank you; and I am used to taking care of myself." Mildred felt shy, which was not usual.
He had walked with her before, and she had not been shy in the least; but she was now quite glad of a thick veil, behind which she could blush comfortably.
"But you do not mind my coming, for at least part of the way?"
"O no; not at all."
Then they set off, and Mr. Willoughby talked on everyday subjects, and Mildred had little to say in reply. Most of her attention seemed to be given to the effect of the wind upon her dress, which certainly was discomposing.
Once or twice she spoke to Hero, and when necessary she answered briefly some question or remark of Mr. Willoughby; but for the first time conversation flagged between them. Generally he and she had any amount to say one to the other; and Mildred had often thought how pleasant a man he was to talk with, because he always understood at once what she meant. Some people were so dense, she used to say to herself, comparing them with him.
It began to dawn upon her, as they trudged along, that although Mr. Willoughby talked, he too was embarrassed, no less than she was. Yet he was not given to shyness, any more than was she.
She tried to think of something to say, which should put them at ease, and tried in vain. Nothing seemed to be exactly the right thing for that moment; and the feeling of constraint lasted till they were outside the village.
Then Mr. Willoughby asked, "Which way were you going?"
"I had not made up my mind."
"Don't you think we had better keep to this lane? We shall not have so much wind. Unless you wish for a good blow."
"No. I like the lane."
"Pretty, is it not? How fast the hedges are budding! We don't see that in London. I sometimes think, as years go on, that I should like to have a little cottage in a place like Old Maxham, and run down to it often for change. What do you think?"
"I should think it would be very nice for you."
"I have been looking at one or two. It wouldn't be a bad plan. My main work lies in London, and part of the year I must be there; but it isn't needful all the year round. And I think I get more fond of the country. Are you the same?"
"Very fond."
"Too fond ever to live in London?"
"I don't know," whispered Mildred. She happened to glance up, and met his eyes fixed upon her with so earnest a gaze that she was disconcerted.
"I'm not asking that question for nothing," observed Mr. Willoughby. "I have an object. There was something particular that I wanted to say to you, was there not? I told you that there was."
"Yes; you told me so."
"The only doubt on my mind is whether perhaps I may be saying it too soon. That's the doubt. But I don't want to wait longer. I want you to understand. But, remember, if I speak out now, I don't press for a hurried answer. If you cannot at once reply as I wish, I am willing to wait. I will give you any length of time to think it over—to get used to the idea. Perhaps it may be a now idea to you—and yet I have some hopes. You have been very kind to me lately."
"I think it is you who have been kind to me," Mildred said unsteadily, glad once more of her veil.
"My wish is to be kind to you, not now only, but always—through life. I should like to have it in my power to make yours a very happy life, so far as one has power over another's happiness. This is not a new thought with me. Even that first time that we met, when you were so sad, and I tried to comfort you, I found—not at the moment but afterward—that I could not shake off the recollection of your face. When I came down here again last autumn, I made no effort to see you, though once or twice I had a glimpse without trying. But every one spoke of you. It was singular, in those three days, how often your name came up, and how many warm words were said. Then, this time we met by accident—at least, with no effort on your part or mine—and that one walk decided me. I have known ever since how things might be with me. I made up my mind then to stay on here for several weeks, and to see as much of you as possible. And—I have done so."
"It has been very good of you," Mildred said in a low tone.
"I don't know about the goodness. I have pleased myself in doing it. But the question has arisen now—shall I stay longer, or shall I go back at once to London?"
Mildred was silent.
"And I am going to ask you to settle that question for me. I should like to stay—if you have not seen too much of me. Will you let me? Or would you rather that I should go? If I stay, I shall want to see a good deal of you—as much as can be managed. Do you think you would miss me at all, if I were to go, Mildred?"
He had never before called her by her name. She caught her breath slightly, and then said, "Yes, I think I should."
"That gives me hope. And if I stay, it will be for a purpose. I want to win you to be my wife. Perhaps you cannot yet promise. You may want to see a little more of me first. When you know me better—"
Mildred made no answer.
"You would rather wait for that, perhaps. You would rather not give an answer just yet. I shall leave you free as long as you wish."
They walked in silence for some distance. Mr. Willoughby would not break it. He saw that Mildred was deep in thought, and one or two side-glances showed him that her colour came and went fitfully behind the veil.
Presently she said,—
"May I have just a few hours?"
"Days, if you wish."
"No; a few hours. I think I should like that. I think that will be enough. I think—" in a softer voice—"I am very nearly sure—already."
"I hope I know what that means," he said as softly.
She gave him one glance.
"You don't know what a difference it would make in my life—if it might be. I am alone in the world now, just as you are. Then, we should neither of us be alone any longer."
A faint smile stirred her lips. "You told me once that I ought to be content with—other relationships. With mankind in general."
"I suppose I did say something of that sort. The thought has often been a comfort to me in hours of loneliness. But the nearer tie is not wrong. If that can be, I at least shall not be lonely any more, or in need of comfort."
"And I too—"
The three little words slipped out involuntarily and were checked. Mr. Willoughby waited in vain for more.
Again they walked in silence, reaching a piece of open common, where the wind was so strong as to make walking difficult, and speech almost impossible. Getting beyond it, they were again in a sheltered lane, with high banks, and Mr. Willoughby said, "Would you rather be alone, or may I walk with you still?"
"If you like," she said shyly.
"Then I like to stay. Perhaps I ought to tell you something else, and that is that I am well off as to money. I have a comfortable house in Bloomsbury, and if you like it we will set up a little cottage in the country—here or elsewhere. You should see your old friends as often as you wished. Of course there would be no more dressmaking—except for your own amusement."
"I am fond of dressmaking. I should like to teach others how to do it, to help them on—perhaps some poor girls in London," Mildred said dreamily, unaware how much the words would mean to him. It was almost an admission of what her answer would be. "And Jessie—I have undertaken to teach Jessie. I cannot leave that half done."
"There would be no need. She should learn still—either from you or from some one else. Whatever you wanted done, in the way of giving help to others, I would try to manage for you."
Mildred stood still. "I think I should like to go home now," she said, and they turned.
She was silent again, lost in thought.
The common had to be once more crossed, which meant another struggle with the wind. Mr. Willoughby would not interrupt her thoughts. They reached the long lane, and traversed half of it, with few words.
Then, suddenly, Mildred stood still. She put up her veil, and turned her face towards her companion.
"Mr. Willoughby—"
"Yes."
A bright colour came into her cheeks.
"I think—I hardly think it is right to keep you longer in uncertainty. I mean—it is not needful. I find that I shall not need to wait—that I do not need more time. I think I know now."
The flushing cheeks, the brightening eyes, filled him with gladness. No one was within sight, and he took her hand in his.
"Will you be my wife, Mildred?"
"If you think I can make you happy—yes," she answered.
ANOTHER GALE
THAT night a terrific gale blew; and, from the howling of the blast and the thunder of waves upon the shore, few of the inhabitants of Old Maxham could get much sleep.
Many lay wide awake, picturing to themselves the dismal state of sailors on their heaving craft; some sat up, refusing to undress; and a few spent the night upon the shore, watching the distant white gleam, which told of the line of breakers foaming on the reef.
With the coming of early dawn a water-logged ship could be seen in the offing, drifting towards the reef. Her masts were gone, and several men might be detected, holding on as best they might. Nothing could check the steady drift of that disabled vessel towards the rocks; and to be once on them in such a sea would mean a speedy end. All then would be up with the crew.
There was an instant rush for lifebelts on the part of the lifeboat crew, which consisted of double the number required. Not a man among them had any thought of holding back. Not one among them but would gladly have gone to the work of rescue.
As quickly as might be the boat was down at the water's edge, and then the launching had to take place—no light matter in such a surf. The storm from which Mildred had been saved, almost as by a miracle, had not been so heavy as this gale.
No time was lost, for indeed there was none to lose. Everything depended on speed and promptitude. The crew, ready for action with their lifebelts on, hauled with all their might and main at a strong rope which was attached to an anchor buoyed some little way from shore. And while they thus pulled, dozens of men on the beach pushed hard with a long spar at the stern of the boat. Among them might be soon the Vicar, as eager as any, and regardless of possible injury to his weakened arm. Jack too was there, of course.
A great wave came towering on, and instantly the lifeboat was full of water; but like a living creature, the gallant craft shook herself clear and rode bravely out amidst the breakers.
Now it became a race for life between the lifeboat and the drifting vessel. If the ship reached the rocks before the lifeboat could get to her, small hope remained for any one on board. Had it not been for the presence of the lifeboat, nothing could have been done. No ordinary boat could have lived, could even have been launched, in such a sea as this.
Mildred stood upon the shore, where most of the people of Old Maxham had already gathered, and Mr. Willoughby stood by her side.
For herself life had gained, within the last twelve hours, new hope and new happiness; but how could she think of herself, while those poor sailors were drifting to death, while those other gallant fellows were out on the stormy waters, risking their own lives that they might save men in direst need?
The very consciousness of impending happiness for herself was almost repellent at such a time. Even with John Willoughby by her side, she seemed to herself to be on that drifting vessel, awaiting rescue or death; so intense was her sympathy with the men who were there.
For she had gone through the same. She too had stood upon a heaving deck; she too had seen the line of wild white breakers drawing nearer and nearer. She too had watched a boat struggling through the rough water, vainly trying to get near in time. She too knew what it was to look drowning in the face, with small hope of being saved.
All this was vividly present to her imagination, and she felt as she knew that the men must feel on yonder dismasted vessel. Only this time the struggle might not be in vain; for the gallant lifeboat rose splendidly again and again from breaking waves and sheets of spray, and still the rescuers pressed onward.
Nearer and nearer the helpless vessel drew to the rocks; nearer and nearer the lifeboat drew to the vessel. It was fearful work to stand on the beach, helpless except that all might pray,—to stand in safety, hoping and fearing what each moment might bring.
By this time all the village was down on the shore, watching their lifeboat, bought partly with the fruits of their own little self-denials. Everybody realized that, had the boat not been procured, they could only have stood to look upon a terrible tragedy, powerless to give any help. Not even the sanguine young Vicar would have proposed taking out a common boat into such a sea as they looked upon this morning. The thing would have been simply an impossibility.
At length it was seen that the lifeboat was winning—would win—had won, the race. Before the vessel was yet on the rocks, the lifeboat drew near; and then, one by one, slowly and with difficulty, the crew of the vessel were taken off.
Some who had glasses could watch the perilous work being done; and cheer after cheer broke from those on shore, as one sailor after another was reported to be safe on board the lifeboat. This work accomplished, the dismantled vessel was left to drift to its fate; and the laden lifeboat turned to struggle landwards, again and again to vanish momentarily under rush after rush of breaking waves, yet again and again to rise, like a bird shaking itself free, gallantly riding the watery hills.
"It's a wonderful thing to see! Thank God that we have that boat!" murmured the Vicar.
To land at the same spot whence they had started proved to be impossible; but the crowd on shore followed the boat, and when it at length came in, friends were at hand to give a hearty welcome.
A rush was made, and strong arms helped to haul it in. The pale foreigners, snatched from the very jaws of death, were eagerly taken care of, fed and warmed and guarded. And old Adams, the coxswain, vigorous as any young man, despite his years, received such an ovation as he had never known yet. He deserved it well.
"And oh, John, if you had not given that money, the lifeboat might not be here yet!" Mildred said, her face glowing as she turned to speak to him.
Then she found the Vicar to be a listener also.
"Some of us have suspected this," Mr. Gilbert said, warmly grasping Mr. Willoughby's hand. "Forgive me for hearing; I did not intend to hear what was not meant for me. But I am glad to know it; very glad. And you may well be thankful to have helped in bringing this about. I'll say no more as to that, if you would rather not."
"I am thankful," John Willoughby said quietly. "And I am thankful for something else too. A great happiness has come into my life. You may congratulate me upon that, if you wish."
"Eh! What is that?" asked the Vicar. For the moment he forgot what had passed between himself and Mr. Willoughby as to Mildred. Then he remembered, and a smile crept into his face. "Ah!" he said. "Yes; I think I understand."
"This dear woman has promised to be my wife."
"Then I do congratulate you most heartily; and I am only sorry to think that we shall lose her from our midst."
"But perhaps it will not be losing, sir," Mildred said softly.
"Not if I can get a little cottage here, and if we spend part of the year always in Old Maxham," added Mr. Willoughby.
"Is that to be it? Why, I know the very cottage for you," exclaimed the Vicar.
Mildred's first intention was not to be married in a hurry. She saw no need for it, she said, and she wanted to turn out Jessie an accomplished dressmaker, which might not be so easy when she had a husband claiming her attention.
Mr. Willoughby, however, demurred as to this. It was not as if he were a very young man, or had to make his way. He was over fifty years old, and he had abundance of money.
Moreover, if Mildred was in no hurry, the same could not be said of himself. He was in a very great hurry; and his impatience waxed stronger every day. Jessie should learn her business from somebody, at his expense but he did not quite see why Jessie's dressmaking was to keep him longer without a wife, now that he had found a wife exactly to his mind.
A good deal of urging was needed to make Mildred see things as he did; but she became slowly convinced, and even at last confessed that she had really no wish for delay, except for the sake of Jessie's dressmaking and Miss Perkins' convenience. When it was decided that Jessie should go to London for six months' good instruction, and when another lodger was found for Miss Perkins, and when Mr. Willoughby undertook that she should be in no sense a loser by Mildred's departure or by Jessie's absence, Mildred had no longer any real difficulties to propose.
The wedding took place in June, from Miss Perkins' house; and Old Maxham came together to see it. Everybody was invited afterwards to a tea on the Vicarage lawn, where Miss Gilbert dispensed tea and coffee and cakes; and the Vicar managed to have a few words with each individual present; and many kind things were said both to Mr. Willoughby and his wife.
Mr. Willoughby, in consideration of its being his wedding day, had cut his hair—or had had it cut—a good deal shorter; and if the effect was less picturesque, it was also less aged. People ventured to hope that his new wife would insist on making this improvement permanent, as it was not necessary that he should as yet look patriarchal. Mildred herself, in a soft grey dress and grey bonnet with white flowers, looked very nice and happy. No two opinions were heard as to this.
They went into Devonshire for their honeymoon, and afterwards spent much time in London, with a month now and then in Mr. Willoughby's little cottage at Old Maxham. Mildred had always thought that she would dislike London; but she soon became so deeply interested in the various benevolent works taken up by her husband, that it was easier to win him away than to persuade her to go.
Jessie and Jack had to wait much longer for their marriage, which was only reasonable, since they were so very much younger.
Between four and five years passed, Jack making a home for his mother and the children, while Jessie lived with Miss Perkins, did dressmaking, and laid by a nice sum of money.
By that time the Groates children were getting old enough to begin to work for themselves; Jack himself was in a good enough position under Mr. Ward to have been for two years laying something by out of his earnings; and Mrs. Groates was known far and wide as one of the most useful of little women in any kind of emergency, as to work or cooking or health, so that really she was seldom at home for a month at a time.
Under these circumstances it was thought reasonable that Jack and Jessie should become man and wife. Mrs. Groates wanted to live apart, but neither Jack nor Jessie would hear of this.
A larger cottage was taken, and Mrs. Groates and her youngest girl had their home in it; Mrs. Groates still going out often to work in homes round about. The elder children also had a general welcome, coming and going as need arose; so that Jack's house became a kind of family home to them all; and Jessie turned out, not only a first-rate dressmaker, but also a notable housekeeper, and a loving daughter to her husband's mother.
And neither of them was any the worse for a few years of patient waiting, before having exactly what he or she wanted.
THE END