CHAPTER XIX

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!"