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.