Everybody's Business

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

AUTHOR OF

"OLD COMRADES," "LIFE-TANGLES," "WON AT LAST," ETC. ETC.

NEW EDITION

John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd.

Publishers 3, Pilgrim Street, London, E.C.

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I. THE VILLAGE OF OLD MAXHAM

II. A BRAVE VENTURE

III. UPON THE ROCKY REEF

IV. OLD MAXHAM

V. TWO LITTLE DRESSMAKERS

VI. WHAT WOULD BE SAID?

VII. MISS PERKINS' NEW INMATE

VIII. HERO

IX. WHAT WAS TO BE DONE NEXT?

X. JESSIE'S DECLARATION

XI. INNUENDOS

XII. WHAT LIFE LOOKED LIKE TO MILDRED

XIII. SOMETHING FOR MILDRED TO DO

XIV. THE CHANGE IN JESSIE

XV. ENGAGED

XVI. THE LIFEBOAT

XVII. MAKING A COLLECTION

XVIII. WHO COULD HAVE SENT IT?

XIX. JESSIE'S WONDERINGS

XX. RUN OVER

XXI. THE TELLING OF THE NEWS

XXII. DIFFICULTIES

XXIII. WHAT JESSIE WOULD SAY

XXIV. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE

XXV. THE NEW LIFEBOAT

XXVI. MR. WILLOUGHBY'S AFFAIR

XXVII. ANOTHER GALE

EVERYBODY'S BUSINESS

CHAPTER I

THE VILLAGE OF OLD MAXHAM

"IT'S getting to be a regular storm! What a lot of storms we have had lately, to be sure! Just hark to the wind," said Jessie Perkins. "And I do believe I can hear the waves down at the Point. I do believe I can."

Miss Perkins sewed on solemnly. She was seated at the round deal table, with her shoulder towards the light.

"Aunt Barbara, you just listen. . . Can't you hear the waves? I can! . . . Mrs. Mokes will have it that nobody's ever heard them as far off as this; but I know better. I've heard them many a time at night, when it's rough; and I declare I can now. You just hark!"

"There isn't over much chance of anybody hearing anything, except your clapper, when you're in the room," Miss Perkins observed with severity.

"But I stopped talking twice on purpose, and you wouldn't try to listen. There it is again—a regular boom!—as clear as can be. And it's getting so dark. I can't think how ever you can manage to see at all, away there at the table. It's all I can do to thread my needle here."

"I'm not so desperate fond of staring out o' windows as some folks," snapped Miss Perkins.

Jessie sighed audibly, and took another peep through the clustering plants which intercepted her view of the outside world. It was not easy to see anything clearly, with so substantial a screen in the way. She had, however, a distinct glimpse of the shop opposite, beyond the wide and irregular village street, also of a group standing on the flagged pathway in front of the said shop.

"Something is the matter. I am sure something is the matter," she murmured, deeply interested.

Jessie allowed her work to fall upon her knees, whence it slid to the ground. Her pretty little short face, neatly rounded and rosily coloured, became altogether absorbed in what was going on across the road.

"I'll have that window blocked up some day,—see if I don't,—the bottom half of it," burst out Miss Perkins. "That's what I'll do."

Jessie had perhaps heard the threat before. "But where's the hurry?" she asked. "I've heaps of time, aunt Barbara. You said yourself I shouldn't need those night-dresses till next winter; and March isn't out yet. Just hear the wind! What a howl! I wish I was out in it . . . Something has happened somewhere, I'm quite sure. Mr. Mokes is all in a taking. And there's Mr. Gilbert, and a sailor,—I think it's Robins,—and—and there's Ben too."

Jessie's face grew more pink. Not that she cared a brass farthing for Ben Mokes; but he was one of her admirers, and she did care for admiration.

"Ben Mokes is as idle and useless a young spendthrift as ever lived," commented Miss Perkins. "I wonder at his parents for letting him go on as he does. I wouldn't! I'd make him work, or I'd send him about his business. Old Mokes just slaves, and Alice Mokes like another; and Ben don't do a single hand's turn that he isn't obliged. But there! They've spoilt him all through, and they've got to reap as they've sowed. He'll come to no good, nor nobody else that he has to do with."

This outburst seemed to amuse Jessie immensely. She had to bite her lips to keep in laughter.

"Poor Ben! Oh, he's well enough, aunt Barbara. He isn't handsome, and he's awfully lazy and rather stupid, but I don't see how he can help that. People can't help being stupid when they are made so. Can they?"

Miss Perkins did not feel herself competent to answer this question. It involved too much. She sewed in a persistent and combative fashion, the droop at the end of her thin pinched nose very near indeed to her needle. Perhaps her sight had begun to fail a little, for she was well over fifty; besides, it was uncommonly dark and dull for only half-past four o'clock on an afternoon in the end of March. Twice she looked round with indignant protest at the window, as if somehow it were to blame.

"I can't possibly see to work any more. I couldn't if you paid me for it," Jessie observed. "I'll wait till we have lights, or till it gets clearer. It's hours too early for lights yet. I don't see the good of sitting here doing nothing . . . Aunt Barbara, there is something wrong, and I'm going to see what it is. Don't hinder me. I must go."

Miss Perkins gazed in grim disapproval after the girl's retreating figure, and said nothing. She pretty well knew the extent of her own restraining power, and she did not often risk a battle where she could not be secure of victory. But, oh, the ways of these giddy young folks! Miss Perkins shook her head over them all, including Jessie.

Even while Jessie chattered the wind had been audible enough, and now nothing hindered her from listening. It came in rushes, with a roar each time as of a great gun, swirling round the cottages, bending trees like reeds, shrieking in the chimney, and making Jessie's light figure stagger as she struggled across the road. She had caught up a small woollen shawl, wrapping it round head and shoulders. Though Jessie wanted greatly to know what was wrong, she was not in the least alarmed or anxious. It only formed a nice excuse for getting away from the needlework which she abhorred.

But other people viewed the matter after a more serious fashion, and Jessie speedily found herself close to a troubled and intent group; far too much troubled and far too intent to pay any attention to her little self.

The village shop, outside which they were gathered, stood back, country-wise, in its own garden, where in summer stray ramblers from the neighbourhood were wont to sit and have their tea. On the front flagged pathway, between door and gate, stood Mokes himself, a man of elderly middle age, bareheaded and aproned. His manners were marked by mild suavity and by an air of proper dignity. His face was all over of a reddish tan, the nose thickish, but well-shaped; the light-tinted eyes, under bushy brows, keen and benevolent; the grey hair brushed upwards, converging to a point. Gusts of wind creeping round a corner of the house blew his apron to and fro in vehement jerks; but Mr. Mokes stood with an unruffled air and an expression of solemn concern.

Mrs. Mokes, having no customers on hand, was peering out of the front door; and Ben Mokes, her hopeful youngest, a limp lanky youth, lounged in his father's rear. Only Alice remained within. Somebody had to see to things, and Alice, as a matter of course, was that somebody.

Before Mokes stood a weather-beaten sailor, or rather fisherman, in blue jersey and sou'-wester; and beside him was a boyish-looking smooth-shaven individual, in black coat and white necktie, the new Vicar of Old Maxham. Judging from appearances, he might have been under one-and-twenty; but since he had already filled two Curacies, remaining in each about two years, and since no man can be ordained under the age of twenty-three, it is obvious that in his case looks were deceptive. The youthful features of the Vicar showed excitement.

"And you actually mean, Mr. Mokes, that there is no lifeboat nearer than twelve miles off!" Mr. Gilbert gave vent to these words, just as Jessie arrived on the scene, in an extraordinarily deep voice, which no one would have expected from his boyish appearance. "Twelve miles off, with such a coast, such rocks, such currents, as yours!" He had not been in the place a fortnight, and the pronoun "our" did not yet come readily.

"That's so, sir," admitted Mokes, with an air of regret. "It hadn't ought to be; and times and again we've talked over what could be done. But there's a lot of difficulties in the way."

"Talked! Ah, I see! Every time a ship goes to pieces on your rocks, you talk about a lifeboat. And then, when the storm is over, you forget it all,—till next time! That's it: eh?"

Mokes shook his head mildly. He "supposed it had ought to be seen to, but he didn't know; it didn't seem to be nobody's business in particular."

"It's everybody's business," declared Mr. Gilbert. "And it's a disgrace to Maxham to have no lifeboat. I don't care who hears me say it. A disgrace to Maxham!" The speaker's fair boyish face flushed, while his deep tones rolled down the street. "See now, if, instead of talking, you had all clubbed together and bought a boat, those poor fellows who are coming to their death upon the rocks might have been saved, one and all of them. Do you think the people of Maxham won't be reckoned accountable for the untimely death of those poor men? I tell you it's everybody's business, and everybody has a share in the responsibility."

Mokes could have been offended; but he remembered that it was the Vicar who spoke, and also that the Vicar was young.

"At all events, that reproach shall not lie upon Maxham much longer. I'll start a subscription for the boat next Sunday." Mr. Gilbert came from a large town, and, as everybody knows, a subscription list in a town is the panacea for all evils. "Why it hasn't been done before passes my comprehension. Well, but look here—what's to be done now? We can't leave those poor fellows to rush on their death without an effort to save them. Women on board, too, you say."

"Adams was sure he see'd one, sir, through his glass. But he doubted no boat could live in this sea, without it was a lifeboat."

"We can try; always possible to try. Better to die doing our duty than to live with the duty left undone!" The "our" came naturally enough here. "Out of the question that the lifeboat should arrive in time. She'll be on the rocks in less than an hour, and it will be short work then. Whose is the best boat? And who can row?"

Mokes gently rubbed the side of his head, surveying the speaker with dubious eyes.

"Come! Whose boat shall it be? And who will man it? I'm the first volunteer."

"Then I'm the second," added Robins. "I'll never be the one to hold back, though I doubt it'll be no good. They're doomed, poor chaps."

"No man is doomed while life remains—at all events, so far as our knowledge is concerned. Here are two of us ready, and we may count upon Adams. He is old, but he knows every inch of the rocks, and he must steer. Adams will be the third, I don't doubt. Who's fourth?"

"Here's your fourth, sir," a voice said behind; and at the sound Jessie clasped her hands under the shawl which she wore. A lithe well-built young fellow stood outside the gate. At sight of him Mokes' face fell, and on the younger Mokes' brow might be noted an unpleasant scowl.

"Right, my lad! And your name?"

"Jack Groates."

"Good at an oar?"

"Yes, sir."

"You know what it's for? A work of danger."

"Yes, sir, a barque drifting on to the rocks."

"She's disabled, and she'll be on them in less than an hour. If she doesn't break up with the first crash, we may get off the crew. But it will be a ticklish job. Ready?"

Jack Groates nodded.

"Then the sooner the better. Any more volunteers?" Mr. Gilbert looked towards young Mokes. "Are you good at rowing in rough weather?"

Ben Mokes knew himself to be probably as good as Jack Groates, but he said nothing, and a shrill voice sounded in his rear,—

"Not our Ben! Ben's not to go. You hear, Ben! You ain't going!"

Ben shuffled sheepishly from one foot to the other. Jessie's eyes sparkled, as the three started off at a swinging pace, and Mrs. Mokes came out with a red face of indignation.

"I never heard of such a thing in all my born days! To be wanting our Ben, the only boy we've got! Why, they'll all be drowned, as sure as fate."

"It's as bad for others, I s'pose, if they are," burst out Jessie. "Jack Groates has a mother too."

"He's one of seven; that's all the difference," retorted Mrs. Mokes. "You go home, Jessie, and don't be talking of things you can't understand. And you just tell your aunt—"

"Not yet. I'm going to take a look at the shore first and see what's doing."

"Of all idle girls—" began Mrs. Mokes. "Well, I'm sure Miss Perkins has a handful of her, and no mistake."

Jessie did not wait to hear the latter half of this utterance. The wind was cold as well as boisterous but she folded her shawl more closely round her, and set off at full speed for the nearest part of the distant shore—that jutting rock which was known among them as "Reef Point." Many and many a good vessel had come to grief on those rocks.

CHAPTER II

A BRAVE VENTURE

THE fishermen's cottages near Reef Point were strictly an outlying part of Maxham, possibly a more ancient part than even the village; but they were commonly distinguished as being simply "down at the Point."

Despite the perilous nature of the coast, these very rocks would, when the wind was westerly, make something of a sheltered semi-harbour between themselves and the shore. In fair weather it was no such bad place for fishing; and when rough weather came on from the east, the boats which were out made no attempt to get back to Maxham. They would take refuge in the next fishing village, and await a favourable change. The fishermen of Maxham were a hardy race; and their wives had grown used to a life of suspense. If a storm broke, they were well pleased not to see their husbands' boats near land.

An unwonted stir was created when the young clergyman, with his two companions, dashed into the hamlet, demanding volunteers. Attention was already, of course, wide awake on the subject of the unhappy barque; though nobody supposed that much could be done. The men at first held back, and the women threw their influence into the safe side of the scale. But when it dawned upon them who was the first volunteer, when they looked into Mr. Gilbert's face, and heard his deep eager indignant voice, opposition wavered. How could they continue to hold back, when a clergyman and a shopman were willing to go?

It might be just possible that a boat could approach near enough, when the barque drifted on the rocks, to save any men who threw themselves overboard, or who could be hauled in with a line. All agreed that to attempt to get beyond the reef, through one of the narrow openings in it, would, in such a sea, be worse than madness. But at least it was worth making the venture of doing what they could. In a very short time the crew was complete, and the chosen boat was down at the water's edge in readiness.

By this stage Jessie had arrived on the spot, cold and blue-lipped, despite her run, with a chill at her little heart. She stood somewhat apart, looking on forlornly; and there Jack Groates caught sight of her.

He dropped a rope, and sprang to her side. The attention of everybody else was bent upon the tossing helpless barque, dimly seen at intervals in the offing. In Mokes' garden Jack Groates had barely acknowledged Jessie's presence, partly because his mind was full of another matter, partly because he knew what the Mokes family felt about his family, and he did not wish to draw blame upon Jessie. Now, however, there was not the same restraint.

"Jessie! You here! Whatever did you come for?"

"I wanted to see—" Words failed, and she clutched a corner of her shawl between two chilly hands.

"Don't stay. Go back straight home. It isn't fit for you to be here. You're like ice."

"You won't—won't—" she struggled to say, "won't get into danger?"

"I'll do my duty, I hope. Danger may take care of itself."

"I don't want you to get hurt."

He just caught the words.

"Now look here, Jessie, you're to go back home directly. It's no good your staying, not one scrap. I've got to be off; and you can do something for me. Go and tell mother about it. Tell her I'm come because it's right, and I hadn't a moment to look in and see her. If she'd a boy on board, she'd want folks to try and save him; and there's some mothers have got boys on board. Tell her to think of that. Promise me you'll go."

"Yes," faltered Jessie.

"This very minute?"

"Yes."

"And you won't look back?"

"I'll—try not."

"Groates!" shouted a voice.

"Mind! You've promised!" And he was gone.

Jessie kept her word. She turned her back upon them all, and went swiftly up the rugged road, with furze bushes on either side, never pausing till a higher spot was reached, whence she knew she could command a good view of the sea she had left. Jessie hesitated then; and the temptation proved too strong. She had not actually promised to give no backward glance.

One look, and she stood rooted to the spot. At that instant the boat, just launched and not two strokes from the beach, was caught in the grasp of a huge swell, which turned her round broadside to the land, and flung her back, bottom up. Her crew was scattered right and left.

No sound left Jessie's lips. She only stood like an image, staring, till one and another swam or struggled to shore. All were there, safe so far and apparently unhurt. Another trial would be made; Jessie saw so much. Then, remembering her promise, she once more turned away and went on along the lonely road, with a weight pulling at her heart. Who could say whether she would ever again look Jack Groates in the face?

It seemed, oh, such a pity for Jack to risk his life. Not that she would have liked Jack to be willing to hold back. Jessie thought with scorn of Ben Mokes, lazily safe at home. And yet it did seem such a pity!

Jessie had hardly known till to-day how much she cared for Jack. Barely nine months had elapsed since first the elder Groates had set up his shop in Old Maxham, and Jessie had learnt very gradually to know the family. She knew them now well, and she liked them all, unless the father were to be excepted; but certainly Jack stood first in her estimation.

And perhaps he would be dashed to pieces on those cruel rocks. Jessie was aware that just such an attempt had been made before, with a common boat, some three or four years earlier; and she remembered too well the result. Not a man of the little crew had come back alive. Then she tried to comfort herself by murmuring that that storm was worse than this.

Jack's message had to be taken to his mother the first thing. So she made her way to the western end of the main village street, and was soon standing outside the rival establishment, which was distinguished from Mokes' "shop" by the more Yankee name of "store." Jessie waited a moment. Then she slipped softly in, passing without a pause to the room behind. Business being slack that afternoon, Mr. Groates stood alone at the counter, and since he was occupied in lifting down a big canister from a high shelf, he did not even see Jessie's entrance.

In the back room was Mrs. Groates, a plump genial blue-eyed little body, with a smile like Jack's own and a motherly tenderness which had quickly won Jessie's heart. Of the seven children, six were still at home. The boy next after Jack had gone to sea. Then came Mimy, a girl of fifteen, three more boys, and one little girl. The four youngest were at school when Jessie stumbled into the room. A sudden realization of what she had to say almost overcame her.

"Why, Jessie, so it's you!" exclaimed Mrs. Groates. "We haven't seen you for days. Dear me, what an afternoon it is, to be sure! Come along and sit down by the fire, and tell us all the news. How is Miss Perkins? Why, child, you're as cold as anything. What's come to you, and where have you been?"

Jessie could not utter a word. She could only shiver. Mrs. Groates pulled her closer to the fire, and set a kettle on the glowing coals.