TWO LITTLE DRESSMAKERS
IT was whispered that the Misses Coxen, or at least the Miss Coxens'
parents, had seen better days, and that they themselves had been by no
means originally intended for dressmakers.
If it were so, they had, like a wise pair of little women, settled
down cheerily into the position where they found themselves; and after
thirty years of dressmaking in Old Maxham, they had probably ceased
to wish very keenly for anything more distinguished in the way of a
career. A small annuity, left to each of them by a thoughtful relative,
had lately placed them both, after years of struggling, in a position
of comparative ease. Dressmaking was still to some extent necessary,
or at least desirable; but they now sewed for butter and jam to their
bread, not for the bread itself, which makes all the difference in
the world. They might safely indulge in many a peep out of the front
window, or even in an occasional whole holiday, instead of having to
toil with might and main to hold soul and body together.
"It seems such a Providence, you know," Miss Coxen would remark to her
friends, "such a Providence, the money coming just when it did, when my
sight had begun to fail a little—only just a little, of course—and when
poor dear Sophy getting so rheumaticky in her hands. It really seemed
quite a special Providence to us both; I am sure I hope we are properly
grateful. I am sure we try to be."
The pair talked much of their legacy, and always carefully avoided
stating the amount which they had received. Reports therefore varied
much, Mrs. Mokes setting down the annual sum-total as £40 or £50, while
Miss Perkins believed it to be at least £60 or £70.
"Of course we shouldn't like not to work, you know," Miss Sophy would
chime in mildly. "It would be so bad for us to be idle, and such an
example, too, to the neighbourhood! And then dresses have got to be
made, and there isn't a single person here who knows how to do it
properly, except sister and me. I suppose if her sight quite went,
and my hands too,—I mean if they got so rheumaticky that I couldn't
work,—why, then I suppose Providence would send another dressmaker to
Old Maxham. Things generally come when they are wanted, you know,—"
which axiom would, perhaps, not be fully endorsed by everybody.
The two sisters were good little women after their kind; but they had
odd impersonal ideas on the subject of "Providence," as of some hidden
machine, which kept matters going, and supplied people's needs.
"And that will not be yet, I hope," Miss Coxen would add. "At present
we get along pretty well—on the whole pretty well—though somehow we
don't seem able to work so hard as we used to do."
On this particular afternoon they did not work hard at all. It became
evident that something unwonted was stirring the air of the village,
over and above the gale that had hitherto kept the sisters prisoners in
fear of possible chills.
Nobody had happened to call and to tell them what had befallen the
place. They saw Jessie Perkins arrive, breathless and troubled, to
vanish inside the opposite door. And they saw Mrs. Groates, resolved
and pale, come out; and a minute later they saw Mr. Groates himself
hasten away in rear of his wife. At this, the Miss Coxens exchanged
glances full of meaning.
The elder sister, who was bony and thin, with corkscrew curls and blank
eyes, murmured, "Dear me! Dear me! What can it mean?"
And Miss Sophy, who was plump and loose-lipped, with thicker and larger
curls, began to wax restless.
"It's a strong wind, to be sure," she remarked, "and rather
boisterous—at least, it sounds so—but not so very cold, sister. March
isn't so cold as January; and I generally get out even in January. I
haven't been outside the door once to-day."
"No, Sophy; you haven't."
"I almost think I should like to get just a breath. It's so refreshing.
You mustn't, because of your eyes; but for me it is different. I can
wrap up warmly. There's Mimy taking a look down the street. And Jessie
is there still: because we haven't seen her go away. They are nice
girls. I always do like Mimy, and her mother too, though it doesn't do
to say so to Mrs. Mokes."
"I wonder what Jessie Perkins has got to do with the matter," debated
Miss Coxen, letting her work lie on her knee. "Seems to me she's a
great deal with the Groateses, slipping in and out. I don't believe
Miss Perkins half knows how often. It's no business of yours or mine,
of course; but still I do wonder if Miss Perkins knows."
"She's a funny woman, Miss Perkins, though it wouldn't do to say so to
everybody."
"And she's done a lot for Jessie. Why, if it wasn't for her, Jessie
might just have gone into the Union. The girl ought to be grateful. But
young people in these days don't trouble their heads to be grateful.
They only want to have their owns way. And Jessie's like the rest of
them."
"Well, well!" sighed Miss Sophy, in deprecating tones. She was burning
to get out, but did not see her way to doing so, unless Miss Coxen
should take up her suggestion.
"I don't believe it ever so much as comes into that girl's mind how
much she owes to her aunt. She takes it all as a matter of course.
That's the way. I don't say,—" and Miss Coxen shook her little
ringlets,—"I don't say Miss Perkins is one to make a young girl fond of
her. She's sort of cold in her ways, you know. But there's duty to be
thought of."
"And really, sister, I can't, for my part, see that Jessie is wanting
in her duty to Miss Perkins. I really can't! I'm sure she's as steady
and nice a girl as you could wish; and she always does as her aunt
tells her. And if she does find her home a little dull, and makes
friends outside, isn't it natural? And that young Groates is as nice
a young fellow as anybody can come across; as good to his mother as a
daughter."
"He's not bad," murmured Miss Coxen.
"I don't say much for Mr. Groates. It wasn't pretty of him to come and
set up an opposition shop to Mr. Mokes, after all these years and years
that Mokes has had everything his own way. But I suppose Mr. Groates
has got to make his way in life; and seven children aren't so easily
provided for as two. And I know one thing,—though I wouldn't say it to
everybody,—I know Groates' cotton is ever so much better than Mokes'.
I've done nothing but snap my cotton every other minute. It's that reel
from Mokes, you know."
Miss Coxen slowly swallowed the bait. She looked up at Miss Sophy, then
at the shop opposite. "Well, I don't mind," she said. "If you want a
breath of air, Sophy, and don't feel afraid of the wind, I shouldn't
mind a reel of No. 36 and a reel of No. 30 from opposite. It's
uncommonly good cotton Groates supplies, almost as good as we get from
London. And Mr. Mokes couldn't expect us to go so far as to his shop in
such a wind."
At this moment, as if to lend additional weight to her words, the small
and not very tidy girl, who acted as their maid-of-all-work, burst into
the room.
"O mum!—" with eyes and mouth equally wide—"O mum! Only to think!"
"Do you know what is the matter, Susanna?" asked Miss Coxen, retaining
her self-control, while Miss Sophy gasped audibly.
"O mum, it's a ship on the rocks, and the sailors all drownded—every
one of 'em drownded. And the boat what went out 's got turned top side
down, and every man jack of 'em's drownded too. And young Groates is
one of 'em."
"You shouldn't say 'every man jack,' Susanna. It's a foolish
expression." Then Miss Coxen looked at Miss Sophy. "Dear me, how
melancholy."
"You are quite sure, Susanna?" panted Miss Sophy.
"The doctor's been sent for all of a hurry, mum; and he 've gone down
to the Point. But Tim, he says it's no manner of good. And all the
bodies is laid in a row like, and every one of 'em dead, every man jack
of 'em, Tim says."
"Tim Robins isn't always a perfectly truthful boy," remarked Miss Sophy.
This was a mild way of stating the fact that Tim was known far and wide
to be an arrant liar.
"How came you to see Tim, Susanna?"
"Oh, please, mum, I was only just a-peeping out, and he went by, and he
told me, and he'd been for the doctor, and all of 'em was drownded, he
says."
"I'm afraid it must really be true," sighed Miss Coxen. "Well, you may
go, Susanna; and mind, you are not to peep out any more."
Whereat Susanna vanished.
There could be no further question as to the propriety of Miss Sophy
dressing with all speed and hastening across the road. Not only were
the two reels of cotton found to be an urgent necessity, but also "that
poor dear girl Mimy" would need comforting for her brother's death.
So the little woman bustled herself as fast as possible into a
superabundance of wraps, and then pitter-pattered over to the opposite
door, being vary nearly blown clean away by the blast which assailed
her half-way. However, she just managed to keep her equilibrium, and in
two or three more seconds she was under shelter.
"I've come for some reels of cotton, Mimy; No. 30 and No. 36, the best
make."
Mimy had appeared at the sound of the bell.
"We like your cotton so much, sister and I. But, oh dear, isn't this
bad news! I'm so sorry for you all; I am really."
Miss Sophy had no intention of being unkind; but she never could resist
talking, and it did not so much as occur to her that silence would be
the kinder course, until at least she was sure of her facts. There was
no need to say anything yet.
Mimy's rather stolid face looked straight at her, with a blunt "What?"
"About the ship on the rocks, you know. Of course you've heard all
that. And a boat went out to save the sailors, and they're all drowned;
and I'm told your brother was in the boat."
A reel slipped through Mimy's fingers. "Who told you?"
"Tim Robins was sent for the doctor, and he says so—every one of them,
he says. Poor things! It's too dreadful."
"I don't believe it," Mimy responded, turning scared eyes to the door
of the back room, whence came a hoarse murmur,—
"Jack drowned!"
Mimy forgot her duties as saleswoman. Leaving the cotton reels to take
care of themselves, she went towards Jessie.
"I don't believe it," she repeated. "Tim isn't to be trusted. I don't
believe a word of it."
"Jack drowned!"
The words seemed to be forced from Jessie's white lips. Then she turned
her back, went gropingly into the room once more, and crouched down in
the big arm-chair, with her face hidden. They could see her through the
open door.
"Dear me, poor girl! Who ever would have thought she'd mind it like
that?"
Mimy flashed out upon the visitor. "Mind it! Who wouldn't mind it that
knows our Jack? You don't know him, and Jessie does! And if Jack is
dead, it'll kill mother; I know it will. And you to come and tell it in
such a way, as if it was just nothing at all! Our Jack to be drowned!
I don't believe it, and I won't believe it. If you'd just go away and
leave us! Cotton! Oh, I'll see to the cotton. Make haste, please, and
don't go near Jessie. You don't know anything about it."
"Really, Mimy!" faltered Miss Sophy. She hardly knew whether to be
offended or unhappy. To receive such a rebuke, especially from a young
girl, was not what she was accustomed to. Resentment strove with
regret; and when she turned her back upon the shop, she was very nearly
in tears.
Mimy hurried into the room behind, where Jessie still crouched in a
silent heap.
"Jessie!" she whispered.
No answer came. Mimy put her arms round the other girl.
"Poor Jessie! Don't mind. I don't believe it's true. That Tim is a
regular story-teller. It isn't likely, you know,—all of them to be
drowned."
"I don't see why not," moaned Jessie.
Then she pulled herself together, and sat up.
"I can't think why I'm so silly. Isn't it silly of me! I'm cold, I
think,—all of a shiver! It's you that ought to cry, not me. There's
nobody belonging to me in danger."
Mimy said nothing. She only hold Jessie fast.
"And you mustn't say anything to anybody, not one word, about how
stupid I've been. Promise me, Mimy—not one single word to anybody. I've
no business to be so silly."
"No, I won't," Mimy answered. She would not remind Jessie of what was
evidently forgotten,—the presence of the little dressmaker.
"I ought to go home. Aunt Barbara will wonder what ever has become of
me."
"But mother asked you to stop here, just till somebody comes. It won't
be long now."
Nor was it long. As the two girls clung together, each hiding her face
from the other, approaching footsteps became audible. Another moment,
and the shop-bell rang sharply with the opening of the door. That was
no customer, however; and Mimy did not stir. Mrs. Groates walked in,
her face agitated, yet joyous. A variety of feelings seemed to be
striving for the mastery.
"Mother, is it true?"
"Poor boy! Yes. But it might have been worse; it might have been a deal
worse, Mimy."
"Then Jack isn't drowned!"
"Drowned! No. What's put that into your head? Not but what he might
have been. I did think—one minute—but he isn't killed. He's got a
broken leg, and that's all."
"Miss Sophy came and told us that Tim said they were all drowned, every
one of them."
"Miss Sophy needn't have been in such a mighty hurry with her news!"
It was seldom that Mrs. Groates gave utterance to so tart a remark;
but her eyes had fallen upon Jessie's woe-begone visage. "There's some
folks can't be happy without they can make other folks miserable.
No, it isn't true, Mimy. But it might have been. They got back close
to shore, and then a big wave caught the boat and threw it on the
beach upside down. And Jack's leg is broken; and Mr. Gilbert's arm is
crushed; and old Adams was stunned."
"And nobody killed?"
"The ship broke up, and all the sailors were lost. Poor fellows! Not a
single one saved except a woman! And she was kept afloat by a big dog,
till the boat picked them both up. She hasn't come round, but they say
she's alive, and maybe she'll do well yet." Mrs. Groates collapsed into
a chair, and into a flood of tears. "I didn't think when I got there
that we'd have any of them back alive; that I didn't! It was a sight! O
dear me!" Then she jumped up again. "And now we must get things ready
for Jack. They are bringing him on a shutter; and Dr. Bateson 'll come
to set the bone. Poor Jack! He's a brave boy; isn't he, Jessie?"
Jessie had not spoken a word, simply because she lacked the power to
do so. When Mrs. Groates looked her in the face, with wet proud eyes,
Jessie just stooped to kiss her, and ran away.
"Poor dear Jessie!" murmured Mrs. Groates.
Mimy began impulsively to tell about Jessie's distress on hearing that
Jack was drowned. Then came a recollection of her own promise; and she
pulled herself up sharply. Mrs. Groates was too much occupied to notice
what had or had not been said.
"Yes, she's a nice girl, Mimy. I always do like Jessie Perkins. And so
feeling, too! Only think, there was Miss Perkins herself down at the
beach. And when everybody was wondering what to do with the poor woman
from the wreck, if Miss Perkins didn't up and say, 'I've got a bedroom
as she can have!' I wouldn't have expected it of Miss Perkins, and
that's a fact. But there, nobody ever knows. Folks has got their good
and their bad sides, and the very tiresomest people has mostly got some
soft spot or other, I do believe, if only it can be got at. Now, Mimy,
we've got to brisk up and make things ready. Jack 'll soon be here."