WHO COULD HAVE SENT IT?
THAT afternoon the front door of the Vicarage had a busy time of it,
and the old housekeeper-cook, Mrs. Maggs, had a busier. No sooner did
she get into her kitchen than she had to walk out again.
"There wasn't no getting anything done," she declared. "One had need to
be made of two, ta answer that there bell, and keep everything going
besides."
For the girl was after some rough cleaning and therefore was not
presentable for the front door. Still, though Mrs. Maggs complained a
little, she was as much pleased as anybody could be, that more money
should flow in for the lifeboat. Whether she cared very greatly or no
for the lifeboat, she did care for anything that made the Vicar happy,
and this lifeboat lay very near to his heart.
First came a succession of notes, or little packages, containing coins;
small coins, most of them, perhaps, but none the less welcome for
that! Half-a-crown, two shillings, three shillings, one shilling, a
sixpenny piece—one after another dropped in, done up in paper or in an
envelope; each with name or initials attached, and each given in "for
the lifeboat collection." Each in succession was carried by Mrs. Maggs
to the study, to gladden the Vicar with fresh hope.
He was trying to get an hour's work over his next Sunday morning's
sermon; but the effort seemed likely to be a fruitless one. Note after
note arrived, and had to be opened; and then people began to arrive.
Miss Perkins was the first. She had brought ten shillings, and she
expressed herself glad to give the extra donation, but she didn't want
her name down nor anything said.
"It ain't that I'm making believe to be humble," she avowed with
delightful frankness; "but I don't want a lot of talk made, nor the
neighbours all wondering however in the world I can manage it. And it
isn't nobody's business, except my own."
"You are sure you can afford so much, Miss Perkins?" The Vicar put this
question involuntarily. He knew that Miss Perkins had a penniless niece
dependent on her.
"I'll make shift to afford it somehow," Miss Perkins responded grimly.
"I ain't going to have none of them drownded men laid to my score!" And
there was the sound of a suspicious sniffle.
Miss Perkins had been present at the funeral of the nameless strangers;
and when other people had wept, she had remained stolidly composed. Now
her eyes were red, and her pocket-handkerchief was rolled in one hand,
ready for emergencies.
"You know best, of course, Miss Perkins. I'm most grateful for your
kind help,—and every mother in the land, with a sailor-son at sea,
would be the same if she were here now. But I don't ask anybody to give
more than can rightly be spared. That would be unreasonable."
"Shouldn't think there wasn't overmuch danger of that, sir!" Miss
Perkins sniffled afresh.
"If others respond as quickly as you have done, I don't think we shall
wait much longer for the lifeboat," hopefully remarked the Vicar.
Hardly had Miss Perkins vanished, before Mildred Pattison appeared on
the scene.
"I've brought another pound," she said simply. "And I'm afraid that's
the most I can manage."
"I think you have done your share already, Miss Pattison—I really do,"
protested the Vicar. "I wasn't thinking of you when I spoke to-day."
"No, sir. But you made me think of myself. If anybody ought to do more,
I'm that one. Saved as I was from out of the waves."
Mildred had brought her invariable companion, Hero, who was always
admitted into the Vicarage. He had grown to be an immense favourite in
the place; and with nobody was he more of a favourite than with the
Vicar. Mr. Gilbert's hand rested on the dog's great solid head, as he
talked with the dog's mistress.
"But you lost your all on the rocks when you were saved from the wreck.
If any one had a reason not to give, some would say that you were that
one," the Vicar added impulsively.
In the churchyard he had seen only the other side of the question. Now
he was realising how much was meant in the lives of Old Maxham people
by the self-denying gifts for which he had pleaded so strongly.
"I don't see it so, sir. And if you don't mind me saying it, I doubt if
you do either."
The Vicar smiled. "No, you are right," he said. "I do not really,
perhaps. It was no hardship for your dear ones to be called home as
they were. The only hardship was for you—not for them. We may be very
sure that they would not wish to come back here, if the choice could be
given them. It has been a sore trial for you to lose them, but you may
indeed be thankful,—both for them and for yourself."
Mildred's eyes were full. She wiped away the tears, and said simply,—"I
do try."
After Mildred's departure, in walked the doctor.
"Now, I say, Gilbert, this sort of thing won't do," Mr. Bateson.
"You're enough to worm a toad out of a stone. As for giving more, I
can't afford it, of course,—but there's no resisting you. Here,—" and
he slipped a gold coin into the Vicar's hand. "You may have that, and
that's all. Can't do more. There's no end of broth and good things
wanted just now among my poorer patients. Glad to do all I can, but
limits must exist. Well—I hope you'll succeed in the end. Nothing like
perseverance. I've tried to stir the sensibilities of a patient of
mine, just come down from London; perhaps I ought to call him a 'paying
guest,' rather than a patient. One might as well try to rouse a log to
generosity. He really isn't badly off, and he might have spared you at
least a few shillings. He didn't seem to look upon the matter in that
light: and one man can't see with another man's eyes. Good-day, and
don't make yourself ill over this business."
Then was ushered in Alice Mokes, the silent and useful daughter whom
everybody liked and few knew well. She had no message from her father,
but she brought two shillings out of her own little store. "I wish it
was more," she said sadly. "I haven't much."
"That makes the more of the little that you can give, Alice."
"I'd make it more if I could," she said, hardly grasping his meaning.
"I did think father might—but—"
"No hope in that direction, I suppose?"
She shook her head. "If father once makes up his mind, nothing turns
him from it," she said. "And he has made up his mind."
"Was he at the funeral?"
"No, sir. He said he couldn't spare the time."
Alice had a class in the Sunday school, and she stayed to ask a
question on some point that had puzzled her. The Vicar explained her
little difficulty with clearness, and she tripped off smiling, only to
make way for Mrs. Groates.
"Come in, Mrs. Groates, come in. I'm glad to see you," the Vicar said,
with his heartiest welcome. "How are you getting on? Jack all right?"
"He is; thank you kindly, sir. And I've brought just half-a-crown for
the lifeboat, and I wish it was ten times as much."
"So do I, Mrs. Groates, because that would show your husband's business
to be prospering particularly well. However, I hope it does prosper. Of
course you are a large party, and you have a good many expenses. Sit
down, and tell me all about yourselves. Stop a minute; I'll note this
down. 'Mrs. Groates, two and sixpence.' That's right. I didn't think
your husband looking well the other day?"
"No, sir. Nor happy." Mrs. Groates spoke with emphasis.
"Sorry for that. I hope nothing is wrong—You are such a happy-looking
woman yourself—"
"I'm glad to say I've always been blessed with good spirits. But Jim,
he's more of an up-and-down sort; and it's been all down lately, not
up. He don't and won't tell me why, and I thought I'd just mention it
to you, sir, thinking maybe you might some day have a bit of a talk
with him. If anything is gone wrong, he'd tell you, perhaps, when he
won't tell me."
The Vicar thought this doubtful, but forbore to say so.
"We've had a lot of talk lately about my boy Jack—our boy I mean.
Jack's always been a good boy to me, sir; the best boy a mother ever
had. I've never had a hard word from Jack, not since he was a baby. But
you know he's engaged to be married now."
"I know. To Jessie Perkins. Nice girl too."
"Yes, she's a very nice girl, sir; I wouldn't wish a nicer for my Jack;
and nobody could wish a better young man for her than him. Jessie
always was nice, but she's ever so much nicer since Miss Pattison went
to live in that house. She's done a lot of good to Jessie. But it was
about Jack that I wanted to ask you, sir. I do think, and so does Jack,
that he'd ought to be in some other place, and doing something better
than he's doing now. It's all very well his helping in our shop, but
that won't lead to nothing better by-and-by; and there ain't no real
need for Jack to help. Mimy and me can do all that's wanted. It isn't
as if the shop was so very big, nor as if the business was getting to
be more and more, for it don't; and I don't mind saying that to you,
sir, though I wouldn't like it to be farther."
"No, no, I'm safe. You may trust me. Perhaps that is what troubles your
husband."
"Maybe so, sir. I couldn't say. He won't allow that things ain't all
just as they should be—and maybe they are better than I think. But I do
know Jack had ought to get something better to do. He'd ought to be in
some biggish town, where he can learn his business thoroughly, and hope
to rise by-and-by. I've always told them so, and Jim wouldn't listen,
and Jack didn't mind. Jack's easy-going, you know: and he's a good
home-boy too, and didn't want to leave us all. But now he's thinking
of getting married, it makes all the difference. He don't like the
thoughts of going, but all the same, he knows it's got to be, and wants
it as much as anybody."
"Yes, yes, I see. And what does your husband say?"
"He don't seem over well pleased, sir, but he don't say much. He's sort
of gloomy-like, and don't talk much about nothing. He says he s'poses
Jack 'll have to do as he chooses."
"And you want me to help you. I'll think about the matter. Perhaps I
could write on his behalf to one or two large houses of business, where
I am well-known. Worth the trial, at all events."
A little more talk on the subject, and Mrs. Groates decamped, to be
followed by somebody else.
So the afternoon wore away; and by the time darkness settled down upon
the land, the lifeboat collection had made sensible advance. More than
seven pounds had been added to it since lunch.
Seven pounds! But one hundred pounds were needed!
"It will come. We shall get it," Mr. Gilbert said aloud, cheerily. "I
must send out fresh appeals by post. And now, positively, I must get
half-an-hour's reading."
It was early in the week, but the Vicar generally liked to fix upon his
next Sunday's subjects in early days, so as to allow time for thought.
A modest little ring presently sounded, and he glanced up to
murmur,—"Another half-crown, probably. It is nice to see the dear
people responding as they do. Up to and even beyond their ability, I do
believe—in some cases. Yet, others could give more," and he thought of
Mr. Mokes.
Mrs. Maggs brought another envelope; just a common envelope of cheap
white paper, addressed to "The Vicar."
"Who left this, Mrs. Maggs?"
"I really couldn't tell you, sir. There wasn't any name said; and I
couldn't even see what sort of a person it was. It gets dark so soon
at that back door. Yes, he came to the back door, and he had a sort of
woollen muffler up to his face, and he didn't scarcely look at me. He
just poked that into my hand, with a sort of a queer grunt, and was of
in a moment, before you could say so much as 'thank you.'"
"What sort of man?"
"I couldn't tell the very least, sir. I didn't get a proper look at him
at all."
"One of my working-men friends, perhaps,—a little shy of being seen to
do a generous act. Another half-crown most likely. Or let us hope for
five shillings. Perhaps the name will be inside. Wait, and I will tell
you. I really do believe you are as much interested in this lifeboat
affair as I am myself. Eh, Mrs. Maggs?"
The Vicar beamed up at her with his bright boy-like smile, and Mrs.
Maggs said, "Yes, sir," decorously, with an affectionate glow at her
heart. There was not the least need to specify how much she cared for
its own sake, and how much for his sake. Perhaps she did not know
herself.
A folded blank sheet was within, and inside that sheet were three or
four thin papers, at sight of which the Vicar stared in amazement.
Across one corner of the blank sheet was written, in a very minute neat
hand, "For the lifeboat fund." Nothing more; and no name. The Vicar
flushed, and his heart beat fast.
"Bank-notes, sir!!!" said Mrs. Maggs.
"Yes, bank-notes, Maggs! For how much do you think? Maggs, how much do
you think?" The Vicar was so excited as to go back to his earlier style
of designating Mrs. Maggs, forgetting that he had taken of late to
always calling her "Mrs. Maggs," by way of inducing proper respect for
her in the village. "How much do you think?" he repeated.
"I couldn't guess, sir." Mrs. Maggs smoothed down her apron.
"Ninety pounds, Maggs! There are bank-notes here for no less than
ninety pounds!"
"Sir!"
"It's true! Ninety pounds!" The Vicar sprang to his feet, and waved the
notes over his head, with a hearty "Hurrah!" which rang through the
house. Then he stopped, bent his head, and said reverently,—
"Thank God. Now we can do it."
"Ninety pounds!" repeated Mrs. Maggs.
"Ninety pounds, Maggs! Not one penny less."
"But who—?" both voices exclaimed together.
"Who, indeed?" Mr. Gilbert's mind was already running over the list
of his friends and acquaintances in Old and New Maxham, rejecting the
thought of each in turn. Most of them simply could not have offered
such a gift; and the very few who perhaps could, he felt sure would
not. Or if they would, he saw no reason in their case for secrecy.
"It is extraordinary. I have not the vaguest idea who the money can
be from. Most singular. Somebody in the place; that seems certain. He
must have been at the funeral, or else he must have heard about it
from others. This plainly comes as a response. On Sunday—only this
last Sunday—I gave out that one hundred pounds more would be required;
and the giver of this has evidently reckoned that the neighbourhood
might make up ten pounds of that amount. He has reckoned rightly too.
Seven of the ten we have already; less than three more wanted. A mere
nothing! But ninety pounds! And brought to the back door in such a
quiet way. No fuss or ostentation. I am utterly at a loss. And we shall
have to be at a loss. The good man does not mean it to be known—whoever
he is and of course we cannot try to find out. He has a right to his
secret if he chooses."
The Vicar was unable to settle down to any more sermon-preparation that
afternoon. He put his books and papers away, and went off to tell his
people the good news. Many of them would rejoice heartily with him; not
least among them the inhabitants of Periwinkle Cottage.