CHAPTER XXVII

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