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."