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