CHAPTER XVII

MAKING A COLLECTION

THE Vicar was not one who would allow grass to grow under his feet, as the saying is, or who would allow the heated iron to become cold before he struck it. No later than Monday afternoon he set forth upon a round through his parish, subscription list in hand, bent upon getting as many gifts as possible towards the needed lifeboat. He was very much in earnest, very eager in his quest; and, like all subscription collectors, he met with varying success, sometimes receiving more from a quarter where he had expected less, and sometimes receiving less where he had expected more.

The list was headed by ten pounds from himself. This, out of the Vicar's small stipend, after the expenses of his long illness, and considering that he had no private property of his own, meant a great deal more of self-denial than anybody in the Parish was likely to guess,—except indeed his old housekeeper, who "did" for him, with the help of one young girl. But the old housekeeper was no gossip, and Old Maxham was not likely to be the wiser for what she knew.

Mr. Bateson, the doctor, despite his large family, his limited number of paying patients, and his unlimited number of non-paying patients, followed up this donation with another of five pounds; and, to everybody's surprise, Mildred Pattison came forward with a second five-pound note.

Her wish would have been to give it silently, with no name, as a secret token of thankfulness for her own preservation. She could be thankful now, feeling that she had been kept to do some work in life which needed to be done. Sometimes, however, it may be a duty to make one's expression of thankfulness a public matter; and in this case the Vicar was anxious to have the influence of her example for others. Mildred yielded to his wish, simply saying, "I will do as you like."

Mrs. Groates, notwithstanding the pull of her boy's accident, persuaded Groates to offer a pound to the fund; and though he made a long face over it, he gave way. Miss Perkins offered another pound, and this again was a matter for general surprise, since she had never been regarded as of a liberal nature, but rather was reckoned to be parsimonious. Jessie, out of her small purse, bestowed half-a-crown; not without a sigh for the pink ribbon which she had intended to buy. And since the giving of the half-crown meant doing without the ribbon, and since she cared a great deal about having the ribbon, her contribution had the added worth which is involved in self-denial.

Old Adams and the fisherman, Robins, would not withhold their little gifts also, though they had already made the much greater offer of themselves for the work of rescue. Nor were Mrs. Stokes and her husband behindhand; and even wee Posie No. 2, with pink cheeks and much excitement, pushed a whole penny into the Vicar's hand. The young Vicar, who dearly loved children, took her into his arms, and kissed the soft little face.

"That penny will surely bring a blessing," he said.

"She's talked of nothing but the boat and the poor sailors, sir, since last Sunday," Mrs. Stokes remarked. "You wouldn't think it, to see her, how Posie listens to the sermons, nor how much she understands and remembers. She's such a little thing, but she's wonderful quick to take in things."

"She isn't too much of a babe to listen to the 'old, old story,' Mrs. Stokes," the Vicar said.

In certain quarters matters went less swimmingly. Mr. Mokes, who was credited with large savings, talked of "hard times," and averred the impossibility of going beyond five shillings; a sum which in his case could by no means be reckoned as anything approaching "widows' mites." The Misses Coxen declared themselves to be unable to give anything at all. Work had been slack lately, they said, and money was short, and it wasn't they who were to blame, but other people who ought to have known better; and if those other people liked to give, the Misses Coxen had nothing to say to it, but as for themselves they just couldn't, and that was all about the matter. Other individuals offered more or less, according to their means, according to the claims upon their purses, and according to the spirit of generosity or the reverse which happened to be theirs.

Mokes' very small gift was a disappointment to the Vicar. It might be that Mokes had not so much laid by as was supposed; but as the longest-established and most successful tradesman in the place, he might have given a good deal more than two half-crowns without being a sufferer from his own liberality. The Vicar had looked for at least five pounds from that quarter; perhaps even ten. He spoke rather plainly to Mokes.

And Mokes rubbed his hands deprecatingly and talked anew of "bad times." "He couldn't afford more," he said, "not just then. Perhaps by-and-by—"

The Vicar knew what that was worth.

So the list grew irregularly, as such lists do grow, and the Vicar met with a good deal to encourage him, as well as with a certain amount that was saddening.

He did not, however, depend upon the neighbourhood alone, but wrote to friends and acquaintances and strangers too, in all parts of England, asking them to contribute towards the same object. So vigorously did he exert himself, that in a few weeks he was able to announce good success from the pulpit. He was indeed far from having gained the whole sum, but he had received actually as much as three hundred and fifty pounds; and if he could collect one hundred pounds more, that would suffice. He had been in correspondence with the National Lifeboat Institution; and that Society having just received an unexpected legacy of six hundred pounds towards the purchase of a lifeboat in some locality, where it might be needed, was willing to use this legacy for the needs of Old Maxham.

"The cost of a lifeboat, fully equipped, with carriage and boat-house, amounts to about one thousand and fifty pounds," the Vicar said. "That six hundred, with the three hundred and fifty which we have collected, gives us nine hundred and fifty pounds; and I have undertaken, if possible, to get the remaining hundred pounds. When the boat is actually started, there will of course be a certain amount of annual outlay, to keep it in an efficient state,—repairs, salaries to the men, and so on,—amounting to about one hundred pounds a year. For this we shall have a committee and collect what we can, and the rest will be undertaken by the Society.

"And now, my friends, I want you all to help me. Some of you have done much already, I know; and most of you have done something. Still, perhaps you may be able to do just a little more. Think how much the boat is wanted. Think,—if a storm should come,—what a difference the presence or absence of that boat would make!"

And the very next day a storm did come. The winds raged, and the waves leaped in fury over the outlying range of rocks known to Old Maxham as "the reef." All through the evening hours matters grew worse and worse, till only a strong man could stand upon the shore, facing the blast. And in the darkness, those who were there believed that they heard an awful cry, as of human beings in the last extremity of danger. One wild wail, and a pause; then another wilder wail, and a longer pause; then a third—and no more. Some said it was only the shrieking of the gale, and others hoped it might be fancy.

"Even if a barque was on the reef, we couldn't have heerd them here," it was declared.

But the older sailors shook their heads, and said that the thing was not impossible, for such a sound had been heard before, when a wreck had taken place, the wind blowing direct from the reef. Nothing could be done, however; for no ordinary small boat could keep afloat in such a sea as was running that night.

And when the morning dawned, and the fury of the wind had grown less, and the frantic waves had died into a sullen swell, fragments of a broken barque were borne in by the next rising tide, and with the fragments came two drowned bodies of sailors, stark and stiff. Only those two. The rest were gone, and the barque itself had vanished.

They were taken up and were reverently buried in the churchyard, and the Church's prayers were read over them, a large crowd having assembled around.

The Vicar officiated, and he used the opportunity to say a few more words upon the subject which lay near his heart. Many words were not needed, for those two drowned men had cried with a loud voice to the people of Old Maxham. But the Vicar could not quite pass the matter by. He looked round with sorrowful eyes as he said,—

"My friends, if we had had a lifeboat ready, it might be that we could have welcomed these sailors living, in our midst, instead of only giving them a corner of cold earth for their resting-place.

"Who can say? You all know that cries were heard in the night,—cries for help,—and no help could be given. No boat except a lifeboat could have floated yesterday night.

"And whose fault is it that we had not a lifeboat? It is certain that one ought to have been procured, long long ago. I am not going to reproach you now for the past. That which is done cannot be undone; and that which has been undone in the past must remain undone in that past. In the present and for the future it can be done, and it ought to be done, and till it is done we are one and all blameworthy. How many more poor fellows are to die thus, for want of our brotherly care?"

Then a flush came to the Vicar's face. "It is nobody's business, perhaps," he said. "Nobody's business, in particular; therefore, everybody's business in general. What!—Nobody's business, when we are here, when you and I are here, when God expects us to do what we are able to do!

"Nobody's business! Will that excuse serve, do you think, when we stand face to Face with our Lord, and He searches into our actions and motives and the use that we have made of our time and money and talents?

"Will it do then for us to say, 'It was nobody's business, and so it was not mine!' I think His answer would be, 'The blood of thy brothers crieth unto Me from the ocean.' I think He would ask of us, not, 'Have you bought the lifeboat?' but 'Hast thou done what thou couldst?'

"I cannot judge for one or another of you, whether you have or have not 'done what you could.' But He, your Lord, knows. He never makes a mistake. He never misjudges. He searches into all the underlying motives.

"If you have honestly done your utmost, then you may be at rest in spirit. If you have not, then think of those two poor fellows whom we have laid in the earth: think of all the others who have gone down in the night in an unnamed watery grave. Think of the many more who will yet come to our dangerous coast, and see what you can do, even beyond what you have already done, for their safety."

Tears were in the Vicar's eyes when he stopped, and some of the women present were sobbing aloud. And the Vicar went home and added two more pounds of his own to the collection, resolving to spare them somehow, at the cost of some added self-denial, though he was hardly yet in a condition of health for severe treatment of himself as to food or comforts.