We had run down the hill as quickly as we possibly could, but we were in no hurry to return. We waited until the boats were drawn in, and the worn-out fishermen had come on shore. They knew nothing of the Mary Ann. They had lost sight of her soon after the beginning of the gale. They told us they had had an awful night, and had thought they would never reach home in safety.
“How shall we tell Polly?” I groaned.
But a cold hand was laid on mine at that instant, and I turned round to see Polly herself just behind me. She couldn’t wait any longer, but had run down to the shore to hurry her husband up the hill. She was trembling from head to foot, and seemed ready to faint. The kind-hearted fishermen crowded round her with cheerful, comforting words.
“He’ll be all right, my dear, never fear. He’s put into Saltburn or Staithes maybe. These gales they drive so far. He’ll be home all safe and sound before night.”
But Polly didn’t seem to hear them. She stretched out her hands feebly to Mr. Christie and to me as she said: “Take me home; I can bear it better there.”
The fishermen turned away sadly, and there were very few dry eyes among the group that we left on the shore.
When we reached the house again, all was quite still. As we entered the bedroom I thought the little boy had died, but I bent over him to listen and, to my relief, I found he was still breathing.
As I look back, I hardly know how we lived through that painful day. The doctor came, and did nothing but shake his head in the ominous way that doctors have when a case seems hopeless. I think Polly had so little hope herself that she didn’t want to ask him what his real opinion was.
I went out for a short walk in the afternoon, to get some fresh air to strengthen me when I watched with Polly beside little John that night, if he was still living. My young friends, Bob and Harry, joined me, and we were pacing up and down together watching the tide come in when we thought we saw a dark speck far out to sea.
There were others who saw it also The coastguard man was looking at it through his telescope, and before very long, the shore was covered with fishermen and their wives, all gazing in same direction. Whatever the object was, it was coming rapidly shoreward. Wind and tide were both with it, and it was being carried swiftly along. After a little while we could distinguish, even without the help of a telescope, what it was, and I don’t think there was anything that we could have been more horrified to see, for the floating object was a boat bottom upward, being driven rapidly by the tide.
A groan came from the group of fishermen who were watching, and as the capsized boat neared the shore they ran into the water to meet it. I don’t think it was necessary to look at the name on it as it was dragged out of the water. We all looked anyway and found that it was the Mary Ann.
I will never forget the piercing shriek that came from the wife of one of Duncan’s mates, who was standing just behind me, when she read the name on the boat. I thought shock and sorrow had driven her mad, for she ran screaming up the hill. Indeed, I firmly believe that for a while she was quite out of her mind.
Poor Polly heard the shrieks of the woman as she ran by her window, and, looking out, she saw the boat on the shore, and guessed the truth at once. She did not scream, but she looked as if she had been turned to stone. She said nothing and didn’t cry, but she looked as if she had suddenly become an old and worn-out woman.
She didn’t look up as we went in, but bent over little John, moistening his lips from time to time, and watching his every movement. We tried to say a few words of comfort, but she didn’t seem to even hear our voices. Yet she didn’t miss a moan or a sigh from her child; she seemed to be listening to every breath he drew as if it might be his last.
I thought that terrible day would never end. Mr. Christie stayed with us until dark, and then he took me home with him to have supper, so that I could get a little change and rest before my night watch. I think they knew how tired I was, worn out more by feeling than by lack of sleep, and they were very good to me. I don’t think my own mother could have been more kind to me than Mrs. Christie was that night. She told me that she would have had a boy nearly as old as I was if he had lived, but he had died when he was very young, and then they had no children for many years, until Marjorie was born.
“Your mother was so good to me when my baby died,” she said. “I thought I would never be happy again, but she came and talked to me, and made me look from my sorrow to my little boy’s gain, and I think her kindness to me and the loving words she spoke made me love her more than ever.”
I felt much better after a good supper, and the kind words of these dear people, and I went back determined to do all I could for Polly and her child through that difficult night. I felt so grateful to the Lord Jesus Christ for all He had done for me, and I was very glad to be able to do anything to show my love to Him. It seemed to me then, and it seems to me still, that the way to please Him best is by showing kindness to His children. I remembered a verse about a cup of cold water being noticed by Him if given for His sake, and I thought to myself, Polly doesn’t need cold water, she’s too cold already, but I could make her a cup of tea.
The fire was out, and the little kitchen that was usually so neat, was a mess. I lighted the lamp to see what I was doing, and then I tried to put the place in order. First I found sticks and coal, and lighted a fire; then, while my fire was burning, I cleared the table, carried the dirty plates and cups into the small kitchen, found a tablecloth and a clean cup and saucer, and filled the kettle. As soon as the fire was hot enough I put the kettle on, and cutting a slice from the loaf I made some toast the way my aunt liked it when she was sick. Then I heated a plate, and buttered the toast, and set it down by the fire. By this time the kettle was boiling, so I made the tea, and said in my heart when I was done, “Lord Jesus, I do this for Thee.”
Polly was, as I had expected, unwilling to leave the child, and at first she firmly declined to move, and would not listen to me. Yet I could see that she was almost fainting, and I knew she would need all the strength that she could muster for the night ahead of her.
I spoke to her very firmly, telling her that I was anxious to help her in her trouble, but that, if I was to be any use to her, she must go downstairs for a few minutes at least, and I promised her I would watch little John very carefully, and call her at once if I saw any change in the child. She obeyed me at last, and I heard her wearily descending the steep stairs.
When I was alone, I saw that Polly’s Bible was lying open by the oil lamp, which stood on the table where she had placed little John’s medicine and milk. I went up to it, and my eye fell upon these words: “If ye abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you.”
It seemed to me as if that verse was God’s direct message to me that night. I saw it as clearly and distinctly as if the page had been lighted with electric light. Two conditions and a promise, I said to myself; if only the conditions are fulfilled, the promise is sure.
What are the two conditions? (1) “If ye abide in Me.” I asked myself if I was fulfilling that condition. I believed I was, for I had accepted Christ as my Savior and longed to live to please Him.
(2) “If My words abide in you.” Was I fulfilling the second condition? Again I hoped that I was, for I felt that if Christ told me to go to the North Pole, or to an African desert, I would obey gladly. I would go anywhere, I would do anything, to show Him how grateful I was for His love to me.
Then could I claim the promise? I thought I could.
I laid Polly’s Bible on the bed. I knelt down beside Little John. I put my finger on the promise, and I prayed, as I had never prayed before, for help in this time of need. I felt very strongly that all power was in the hands of Christ, and that He who healed the sick on earth had lost none of His power, now that He was exalted to the throne of God. I besought Him to come into that room that very night, and to touch and heal little John. And, as I rose from my knees, I felt that my prayer was heard.
Polly had not returned, so I went to the top of the stairs and listened, and I heard the sound of sobbing. I was thankful to hear it; the tears had come at last, and they would relieve her weary, over-strained heart.
Little John was very quiet, so I crept downstairs. I found to my joy that Polly had eaten most of the toast, and had drunk the tea, and now she was sitting with her feet on the stool before the fire and her head in her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break. What had brought the tears? She had not cried when the empty boat had come ashore; she had shed no tear when the doctor’s face had told her that he had no hope for her child. What had helped her to give way to the tears which were such a relief to her? It was simple. She had picked up a little toy, a tiny, roughly-made boat, that Duncan had made for the child, and that had been little John’s greatest treasure. There had come over her such a rush of memories of the happy days of the past, that she thought were gone forever, of the father whose fingers had so busily carved the boat for his boy, but who would never come back to her again, and of her boy passing away from her also, and leaving his treasured toy behind him. All these memories came before her, as she took up the little boat and kissed it.
They came so strongly, that she began to cry, and brought, as I felt sure it would, relief to her grief-filled heart.
“Polly,” I said, “cheer up, don’t lose heart; I believe little John will recover.”
“Thank you, Sir, thank you,” she said, as she dried her eyes. “I feel better now, a deal better, I do. You have been good to me, Sir. I’ll go up again to him now.”
“All right, Polly,” I said; “I’ll make up the fire, and then I’ll come and help you. He’s asleep now, Polly.”
“I’ll creep quietly up, then, Sir,” she said, and I saw as she rose to go that the stony look had gone out of her face. She was herself again.
John’s sleep lasted for hours. It was a quiet night; the wind had gone down, and everything seemed more still after the confusion of the previous night. I was glad to see that Polly herself finally fell asleep in her chair. Little John’s hand lay in hers, and I knew she would wake with his slightest movement, but I was pleased to see it, for I felt sure that even a light sleep would soothe and strengthen her.
I had just looked at my watch, and seen that it was nearly half-past two, when I thought I heard footsteps outside. A moment afterward there was a gentle knock at the door. It seemed a strange time for a visitor, but I thought probably it was some neighbor come to offer to help Polly in her long night watch, or perhaps it was Mr. Christie come to see how we were getting on. I crept softly downstairs, and carefully unfastening the bolts I opened the door.
I nearly yelled with joy when I saw who was standing there. I’ve never been more glad to see any man than I was to see Duncan, alive and uninjured, while all day long I had been picturing him being driven backward and forward by the waves, a drowned corpse at the mercy of the sea.
He grasped my hand and came in to the fire, but at first he could not speak.
“Sir,” he said at last in a broken voice, “am I too late? Tell me the truth, Sir; don’t hide it. Is little John dead?”
“No, Duncan,” I said, “he still lives, and he is asleep, and, Duncan, I believe he will get well again.”
“Thank God!” he said; “thank God for that!”
For just a moment a doubt crossed my mind as to whether I ought to give him this hope, and yet I rebuked myself for this doubt, for I was clinging to the promise. The word of the Lord was sure, and I believed that if what I asked was according to the Lord’s will and was good for these dear friends it must be granted.
Duncan had now sat down in his armchair, and by the light of the fire I could see that he was faint and exhausted, too weak even to go upstairs to see his Polly and John. He leaned back wearily for some time and seemed unable to speak. I had left the kettle on the fire, and I quickly made him a cup of tea and fixed something for him to eat.
Then I crept upstairs to see what was going on, but finding Polly and little John were still both fast asleep, I came back to him. The tea had given him strength, and he was able to talk to me.
“I’ve had an awful time, Sir,” he said, “Many’s the time since I was a boy that I’ve been near the dark valley, but this time, why, I think I’ve been half way down it, Sir. How’s my poor wife, Sir?”
“Very upset, Duncan,” I said. “She thinks you are dead. Your boat came in with last night’s tide.”
“Poor Polly, poor dear,” he said; “I’ll go to her.”
“Wait a little, Duncan,” I said; “she’s asleep now, and she’ll bear the joy better when she wakes up.”
“And my boy?” he asked.
“Sleeping too, Duncan, so peacefully and quietly.”
“Well, it’s hard not to go up, Sir, but maybe you’re right.”
He waited very patiently for an hour, and when I crept up again at the end of that time Polly and the child were both awake, and she was giving him some milk. Little John was quite conscious, and looked more like himself than he had since he’d gotten sick. He had no sooner finished his milk, however, before he began his old, weary cry, “Come, Daddy, come to little John.”
Polly burst into tears again when she heard him calling for his father but I bent over the child and said, “Yes, little John, daddy will come to you.”
Polly must have thought that I meant the child was dying, and that his father’s spirit was coming to fetch him, for she only cried the more bitterly and said, “Oh, little John, Little John.”
But when I added, “Shall I fetch Daddy, little John?” she sprang to her feet and looked at me wildly, but without speaking a word.
There was no need for me to say more, for she heard the sound of a well-known footstep on the stairs, and in another moment she was in her husband’s arms.
I felt then that my work was over, and that the best thing I could do would be to go to bed. But I glanced back from the door as I went out, and I saw the little hands held out, and I heard Duncan sob like a child as he cried, “Oh, my little boy, my own little John, I thought I would never see you again.”