JESSIE'S WONDERINGS
"I WONDER, I do wonder, who it could have been. Don't you, Millie? Who
ever could have given such a lot? Only fancy—ninety pounds! And this
isn't like a big town, where a lot of rich people live. Why, there's
hardly anybody in Old Maxham with any money at all to spare. Unless
it's the Mokeses. Mr. Mokes wouldn't give ninety pounds, nor ninety
shillings, for anybody in the world, except himself. You needn't look
so grave, because I've known Mr. Mokes pretty nearly all my life, and
I know just exactly what he is. It isn't Mr. Mokes that's given the
ninety pounds. And who else it can be, I don't know. Even in New Maxham
there's nobody really rich. And nobody likely to give such a lot, all
at once, without a word. Who do you think it can have been? What do you
think?"
"I think—that skirt has to be finished," Mildred said in tranquil tones.
"I'm getting on with it; I am really. But I'm not like you, and I do
get a little excited sometimes. And this is exciting, I am sure. Mr.
Gilbert was excited. I never saw him with such a colour."
"Yes; he is very glad indeed. I don't think it is for himself, though.
He was thinking of all the poor fellows who might be wrecked upon our
rocks; and that now they might be saved."
"And you don't think I am thinking of the sailors too?"
Mildred's grave eyes looked across with a meaning expression. "No," she
said. "I don't, Jessie dear."
Jessie was silenced for several minutes, and her sewing-machine went
fast. This was the next morning after Mr. Gilbert's call, with news
of his unexpectedly large contribution towards the lifeboat fund, and
perhaps Jessie's eagerness was not surprising. Mildred's feelings were
deeper, and did not easily find vent in words.
"There!" Jessie said at length, bringing the machine to rest. "I've got
round that whole skirt, and it's done. It hasn't taken me long either.
I should like to go out, and see what people are saying."
"Does it matter what they say?"
"Oh, but I like to know. And perhaps some one may be able to guess who
can have given the money."
Mildred was silent.
"Millie, why did you say that just now; you didn't suppose I cared
about the sailors? I do care."
"I don't think I said anything about your not caring. It was only a
question whether you were thinking of them just then. And whether your
being so excited was only for their sake."
"Why should you think it wasn't?"
"I'm not setting myself to judge you," Mildred answered, putting
another piece of work into Jessie's hands. "Just hem these, dear;—no,
not with the machine; and it must be your best work. If you can tell me
that you care as Mr. Gilbert cares, I'm bound to do my best to believe
you. But it didn't look like that."
"I don't suppose I do, exactly." Jessie spoke in subdued tones. "I do
care about the sailors being saved, really and truly; but just to-day I
suppose I want more to know who has given the money."
"And that is what you are not meant to know. Whoever gave the money
intends nobody to know his name, and it is no business of ours to try
to find out. Didn't you see? Mr. Gilbert will not try. He may wonder,
as you and I do, but he will not stir a finger to find out anything
about it."
"Only, if one could just guess—"
"You have been guessing for the last hour. That doesn't do much good or
much harm. If you tried deliberately to find out, I think you would be
wrong."
"Millie! You didn't give the ninety pounds?"
Mildred laughed. "No, I did not," she said. "I have not the ninety
pounds to give. All the same, I think you were wrong to ask me, if you
had the least idea of such a thing being possible."
"I know one thing," Jessie exclaimed. "I wish I hadn't given my
half-crown."
"Why?"
"Why, what's the use? Two and sixpence! And ninety pounds! Think of the
difference. The person who gave ninety pounds could easily have given
another half-crown. And I dare say his ninety pounds were nothing to
him, and my two-and-six pence was a great deal to me."
"I don't see why you should suppose his ninety pounds to be nothing to
him. It may be just as much to him as your half-crown was to you. If
not—that would only mean that in one sense your gift was the larger of
the two."
"Millie!"
"I mean it really. Did you not understand the Vicar when he preached
about the widow's mites? Her gift was actually more than what the rich
men gave."
"Now, Mildred! More in a sort of way, I suppose, but not really more."
"I mean what I say. The way God looks upon a thing is the real way, and
our way of looking is often wrong. Which do you suppose is most, the
half of a thing or the whole of a thing?"
"The whole, of course. At least—well, of course half-a-sovereign is
more than a whole five-shilling piece."
"Ah, but that is the wrong way of measuring. It isn't the question, how
much a sum of money will buy, but, how much it is out of what a man
has. The half of what a man has is always less than the whole of what a
man has. If one man has a hundred pounds, and gives ten pounds out of
it, then he gives one-tenth of what he has, and he keeps nine-tenths.
And if another man has one pound and gives one pound, then he gives his
all and keeps nothing for himself. Don't you see? The ten pounds is
more in man's sight, but the one pound may be more in God's sight. It
is a very simple sum, if one takes it in the right way. I'm not talking
now about one's reasons for giving. Only God can know what they are,
and we have no business to judge one another's motives."
"But one pound isn't more than ten pounds!"
"It might be very much more to the man himself; and if so, it would
really be the larger gift. The man who gave away ten pounds and kept
ninety, would not miss so much what he gave, as the man who had only
one pound, and who gave that pound, and kept nothing at all for
himself. Of course if he was sure of food and clothes and comforts,
when he gave his pound, one could not say that he had really had
nothing more—even though it might have been the last coin in his
pocket."
"And it mightn't be right for a man to give away all he had, if he had
children depending on him."
"Certainly it might not."
Jessie worked busily for some time, not talking.
"Do you know about Jack?" she asked suddenly.
"What about Jack?"
"He wants to go away to get work somewhere else. He says he can never
get on here. And Mrs. Groates spoke to Mr. Gilbert yesterday—I was
there in the afternoon when she came in—and Mr. Gilbert is going to try
to help Jack to find something."
"I think Jack is right. It has seemed to me for a good while that he
ought not to stay here. There is no chance of his getting on."
"That's what they all say. And Jack wants to begin to lay by. He says
he ought."
"Of course he ought. No man has any business to think of marrying,
until he has a good hope of giving his wife a comfortable home. If
Jack and you were to marry, with nothing laid by, and only just making
enough to carry you on from week to week, you would have very little
comfort. Loss of work or of health would mean misery at once."
"But it will be so horrid to have him go away from Old Maxham—so dull."
"Not horrid at all, if it is the right thing for him to do. You are
both young enough not to mind waiting. Jack will never make his way in
Old Maxham."
"He might, if the shop did as well as it ought," meditated Jessie. "So
Mr. Groates says. He says he has no chance against the Mokeses."
"You see Mr. Groates is comparatively new to the place, and the Mokes
family has been here for at least three generations. That makes all the
difference."
"I shall be so dreadfully dull," sighed Jessie again.
"O no, you will not. You will be brave and sensible, and make the best
of things. You and Jack will meet sometimes, and you can write to one
another. And you will both work hard, and not spend all you earn in
pretty things to wear."
Jessie blushed a little, and said, "No; but I do like pretty things."
"Most people do. But you are not a child any longer, Jessie. You and
Jack are thinking of being married some day; and with that before you,
you ought to think of the future. You ought to deny yourself now for
the sake of by-and-by. It isn't only yourself that you have to think
of—nor even only yourself and Jack."
"Jessie!" called Miss Perkins.
Jessie sprang up and ran out of the room, Mildred following; for
something in the tone of that cry was unusual.
"Jessie!"
"I'm coming, aunt. What is the matter?"
The voice was broken and appealing. Miss Perkins stood at the foot of
the stairs, holding the baluster with one hand, and holding her side
with the other. She breathed hard, as if she had been running up-hill,
and her face was yellow-white. The first impression made upon the minds
of them both was that Miss Perkins had been taken ill.
"Let me help you into the dining-room," Mildred said kindly. "Lean upon
me—so—don't be afraid. You will feel better presently."
"Can't I get anything?" asked Jessie.
"It isn't—it isn't—me! I'm all right," gasped Miss Perkins. "At
least—I'm only—only—it gave me a turn—made me feel like—" and she hid
her face in her handkerchief.
"What was it that gave you a turn?" asked Mildred, she and Jessie
exchanging glances.
Miss Perkins shuddered.
"Come in here, and sit down. Jessie, get a glass of water, dear. Thank
you. Now, Miss Perkins, take a sip or two. Has anything happened?"
Miss Perkins groaned.
"Tell me what it is. Anybody hurt?"
"Killed!" whispered Miss Perkins.
"Who was it?" Both Mildred and Jessie grew paler.
"Killed outright," moaned Miss Perkins. "And not a moment's warning! O
dear me!"