I think Tom very much enjoyed that week at Runswick Bay. The more he saw of the place the more he liked it. He and Duncan got on very well together. They sat together on a seat above the house, and Duncan told him stories of shipwrecks and storms, while I sat painting just below them.
One night he even persuaded Duncan to let him go out with him fishing, and Duncan confided to me afterward, “That friend of yours, Sir, he’s a real handy chap. He knows how to use his fingers, Sir, and isn’t afraid of a drop of salt water neither.”
We came across Mr. Christie on the shore the very first time we went out together, and I introduced him as a friend of my mother’s whom I had been delighted to find in this out-of-the-way place, and Tom talked very pleasantly to him, and I think liked him.
“What is he doing here, Jack?” he said. “He does not look like the rest of them.”
“He is a preacher,” I said.
“Whatever in the world is a preacher doing here?” said Tom, laughing.
I didn’t answer, but called his attention to little Jack, who was running along the shore after his red cap, that had been carried off by a gust of wind.
“That’s his little boy,” I said, “and my namesake; they lived in my father’s parish in London, and Mr. Christie and his wife loved my mother. It was seeing her photograph on the wall of their room which made them discover who I was.”
“What a splendid little fellow!” said Tom, as the child came up to us. “So you are Jack, are you?”
“Yes, I’m little Jack, and he’s big Jack,” said the boy cheerfully, looking at me.
I wasn’t surprised that Tom made friends very quickly with my little favorite, for he was very fond of children, and he and the two children had many games together while I was at work.
Every evening Tom and I walked together, and we explored all the country for miles around. Sometimes we went by train and walked back by the cliffs. The train seemed to land us at each station in the midst of fresh beauty, and I came to the conclusion that Yorkshire was indeed, what I had always been told by my mother, the most beautiful county in England.
“Now, Jack,” said Tom on Saturday morning, “we’ll have a really good day tomorrow. You won’t want to paint, will you?”
“No,” I answered. “I don’t paint on Sunday.”
“All right,” he said, “that’s good. ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’ That old couplet must have been made for you, Jack. Well, then, let’s see, where shall we go? Suppose we make a long day of it and go to Scarborough. We must see Scarborough before we go home. We’ll go by the early train, and come back as late as we can. The worst of it is there are not so many trains to choose from on Sunday, but I’m sure we’ll find one that will do,” and, without saying another word, he went off to my lodging for a train schedule.
What was I to do? A few weeks ago a Sunday spent in pleasure would have been just what I would’ve chosen, and many times Tom and I had been up the river on Sunday together. There was hardly a place within easy distance up the Thames that we hadn’t visited together. But now I felt very differently about these things. Sunday was my Lord’s own day. Every moment of it, I felt, must be consecrated to Him. Yet, although I had no doubt as to what I wanted to do, I am ashamed to say that for some time I hesitated. Tom would be so terribly disappointed, I said to myself, and he had been a good friend to me, and I didn’t want to upset him; surely there would be no great harm in obliging him this once! Besides, when I get to Scarborough I may have time to go to church, and then, after all, where is the difference? I told myself that I would just take a longer journey to church, that was all.
And then Tom came back, full of his plans for the day. He had already settled the train we were to catch, and he told me that he looked forward to seeing Scarborough immensely, as his mother had stayed there a year ago, and she had told him it was the most beautiful vacation spot she had ever visited.
I tried to feel pleased with what Tom had arranged, but in my heart I was very miserable, and just at that moment who should appear but Marjorie and Jack, distributing the pink papers containing the invitation to the service on the shore. I turned away when I saw them coming. I looked toward the sea, and took my little telescope from my pocket, that I might seem to be intent on watching a distant steamer. What would Duncan say? What would Mr. Christie say? What would my little friend, Jack, say, when I did not appear at the shore service? And how shocked they would be when they heard I had gone off for a day’s pleasure!
I hoped that the children would pass by us, and would go to a large group of fishermen standing on the shore just beyond us. But I was not to escape that way. Marjorie came up to Tom and presented him with a paper, and she was going to give one to me, but my little friend stopped her, “No, no, Marjorie,” he said, “let me give one to my own Mr. Jack. I always give you one my own self, don’t I, big Jack?”
I patted him on the head and took the paper, but I didn’t answer, and the children passed on. Tom opened his paper and read it aloud — “There will be a short service on the shore next Sunday morning.”
“Oh, indeed,” he said, “that’s what they’re after, is it? Distributing notices for some meeting. Is that where Christie holds forth?”
“Yes,” I said, “he preaches every Sunday.”
“Well, Mr. Christie,” he went on, “you won’t have me there to hear you. I hate those meetings, don’t you, Jack? Subject. Ah, he tells us his subject beforehand, does he? Very kind of him, I’m sure! Subject: Where are you going? Well,” said Tom, “that’s soon answered: I’m going to Scarborough, old fellow, and a very good day I hope to have there,” and he threw the little pink paper into the air, and the wind carried it far out to sea.
All this time I had not spoken a word. A great battle was going on in my heart. My conscience was speaking very loudly, and telling me that I could not possibly take my pleasure on my Lord’s own day, but the tempter’s voice was arguing that the time to speak had not yet come, and that perhaps for this once it would be better to yield to Jack’s wishes. Later I might talk to him quietly about it, and make a fresh start after our return to London.
And so the day wore away, and evening came, and Tom had no idea that I had even hesitated about going with him to Scarborough. I never spent a more unhappy day. I avoided Mr. Christie, in case he should say anything to me about the service on the following day. I was not even happy with Duncan. Tom had gone off to Saltburn, leaving me, as he supposed, to put some finishing touches on my picture, but I had no heart for painting, and got my easel and painting materials out only to put them away again right away.
Polly was in good spirits that day, for little John was so much better that he was able to sit on the floor and play, and, as I stood looking out of my small window, I watched her singing to herself as she washed her clothes in a tub that was standing on a wooden stool outside her door. Most of the visitors had left Runswick Bay now, for it was late in the season, but the shore was covered with the village children — boys and girls without shoes and stockings, wading in the pools and running far out into the shallow water. It was a pretty sight: the gray, quiet water, the stripes of yellow sand, and the cliff covered with grass and flowers.
But I couldn’t enjoy the scene that Saturday evening; even my artistic eye that I used to boast about, failed me then. I was feeling thoroughly uncomfortable, and the most lovely view on earth would have failed to charm me at that moment.
There is a verse in the Bible which says “A little child shall lead them,” and whenever I hear that verse I think of that evening in Runswick Bay. For I was still gazing out my window, looking at nothing in particular, when I heard a well-known little voice just beneath me.
It was Jack. He had come down the hill on which Duncan’s cottage was built, so that I had not seen him until he spoke to me below the window.
“Mr. Jack,” he said, “what are you doing up there? Are you very busy?”
“No, little friend,” I said, “I’m not busy.”
“Then do come out, big Mr. Jack; I do want you so much.”
Who could resist the pleading little face, and the persuasive voice of that child? I ran downstairs, and a minute afterward I was racing with Jack on the wet sands, for the tide was fast going out, and was helping him to fly a small kite which his father had bought for him in Whitby. We had a fine time together on the shore, until at last a towel was hung out of the top window in the Christies’ house as a sign that it was Jack’s bedtime. Though he was wild with joy and excitement, the obedient little fellow at once stopped his play, and told me mother wanted him, and he must go.
“I’m coming for you tomorrow morning, Mr. Jack,” he said.
“Tomorrow morning, Jack?”
“Yes, for the service,” said the child, putting up his chubby little face to be kissed. “Don’t go without me, will you, Mr. Jack?”
“Well, I’m not sure I’m going tomorrow, little man,” I said, recluctantly, “so you had better not call for me.”
“Not going to the service!” said Jack, in a very shocked voice. “Why not, Mr. Jack?”
“I’m going to Scarborough for the day with my friend Tom,” I said. “I’ll go to a service in Scarborough, Jack.”
I’ll never forget the expression of that child’s face as long as I live; it was a mixture of surprise, sorrow and dismay. “Mr. Jack, do you know it’s God’s day tomorrow?” was all that he said, however, and as, at this moment, his mother called him from the bedroom window, he ran off without another word.
“Do you know it’s God’s day?” I asked myself when the little boy had gone. “Yes, I do know,” I answered aloud, “and Jesus is my Lord, and my Lord’s day shall be kept for Him and for His service.”
I walked to a lonely place on the shore where the sea had undermined the cliff and had made strange holes and caves, which could only be entered at low tide. I clambered over the rocks, and crossed about half a mile of slippery seaweed, until I came to one of these weird places. Creeping inside, I felt myself safe from any human eye. I was alone — alone with my Lord.
I cannot tell you all that passed during the half-hour that I spent in that lonely cave, but I know this, that I came out of it feeling that my Lord had indeed given me the strength for which I had pleaded, the strength to act as His faithful and true servant.
I was waiting outside the station when Tom’s train came in from Saltburn. He hadn’t expected to see me again that night, and seemed pleased that I had come to meet him.
“I think we’ll have a fine day tomorrow, old boy,” he said; “what a dew there is! My feet are quite wet with it.”
“Tom,” I said, “I came to meet you tonight because I wanted to tell you something. I am sorry, very sorry, to disappoint you, but I can’t go with you tomorrow.”
“Why ever in the world not, Jack?” he said. “I thought you were so eager to see Scarborough.” “Yes, Tom,” I said, “but I’m still more eager for something else.”
“What’s that?” he asked; “do you mean Redcar? It’s a stupid place, Jack: nothing in the world to see, I assure you.”
“No, Tom, I don’t mean that. I want to change our plan. I would rather see Scarborough than any other place. I’ll give myself a holiday on Monday, and go with you gladly, Tom, but I can’t go tomorrow.”
“Nonsense, Jack,” he said, angrily. “You can go if you like. What’s stopping you? If you are willing to go at all, why on earth can’t you go tomorrow?”
“Simply because tomorrow is Sunday, the Lord’s day, Tom.”
“And if it is Sunday, what of that?” said my friend.
“‘The better the day, the better the deed,’ and it’s ridiculous your talking in this saintly way about Sunday, when to my certain knowledge you’ve spent every fine Sunday boating on the river for the last two years or more. No, no, my friend, that won’t go down with me.”
“Tom,” I said, “it’s all quite true what you say. I have, I know I have, spent my Sundays in boating or in taking my pleasure in some other way, and I am more sorry for it, Tom, than I can tell you. But since I came here — “you’ve got your head full of all sorts of insane and ridiculous ideas.”
“Since I came here, Tom,” I said, taking no notice of his last remark, “I’ve seen what I never saw before, that I am a great sinner, and I’ve found what I never found before, that Jesus is a great Savior.”
“Well, I wish you had never come to Runswick Bay, if this is the absurd way you are going on, Jack, and after all the good old times we’ve had together too.”
“And why can’t we have good time together still, Tom?” I said. “I have entered the service of a new Master, that’s all, and Tom,” I said, timidly, “I wish He was your Master too.”
Tom made no answer, but swung a stick round and round, and slashed at the thistles and the ox-eye daisies which grew by the roadside. I tried to make one or two remarks, but I saw he was very much upset by what I had said, and he didn’t answer me. He was angry with me, and perhaps he was a little uncomfortable besides, and I felt it was far wiser to say no more.
He didn’t speak again until we reached the hotel, and then he simply said, “Good-night, Jack. I’m sorry you’ve gone and made such a fool of yourself.” and I went down the hill, feeling as if I had lost my friend, and as if the old days and old companionship were dead and buried forever.
But if I had lost one friend, I felt I had gained another. Mr. Christie was waiting for me at the bottom of the hill, and he proposed that we should take a walk together on the shore. Nellie was expecting me to supper, he said. He had told Duncan I was going there, and the moon was coming out, and a bit of exercise on the sands would make us enjoy it all the more.
We had walked across the bay, and were standing gazing out seaward, when he suddenly put his hand on my shoulder.
“What is it, Jack?” he asked, kindly. “Something is troubling you this evening.”
“Yes, you are right,” I said. “How did you know, Mr. Christie? I am bothered a bit. The fact is, I’m ashamed of myself, I’ve been such a coward.”
“What have you been doing, Jack? You don’t mind telling me, do you?”
“Not at all, Mr. Christie, I would rather tell you,” I said, and then I gave him an account of the last week. I told him of my fear of Tom, and how very nearly, I was ashamed to say it, I had yielded to him about the trip tomorrow. Then I spoke of my friend, and I told him I was afraid I had lost him through my plain speaking.
“Never mind, Jack,” he said. “The Master must come first, and it does happen very often that when He is put in His right place we have to give up a good deal. He knew we should have to do it, and He spoke some very plain words about it: ‘He that loveth father or mother more than Me is not worthy of Me, and he that loveth son or daughter more than Me is not worthy of Me.’ Would you like to be worthy of Him, Jack?”
“I’ll never be that, Mr. Christie,” I said.
“No,” he said; “you are right, we are all unworthy of Him, but when we love Him, we do long to do what is pleasing in His sight. And, remember, there is always the hundredfold, Jack, always the Lord’s reward for anything we give up for Him.”
“Yes, in heaven,” I said, softly.
“No, Jack, not in heaven, but on earth. Do you remember how the Lord’s words go: ‘He shall receive an hundredfold now, in this time, and in the world to come, life everlasting.’ The hundredfold is to be enjoyed here, the everlasting life there.”
“I never noticed that before,” I said.
“I have proved it true, Jack, abundantly true. I sometimes think I have got beyond the hundredfold. And then beyond that, there lies the life eternal.”
“My mother is enjoying that,” I said.
“Yes, indeed,” he answered, “and her boy will enjoy it too in God’s good time, for doesn’t the Lord say of all those who belong to Him, ‘I give unto them eternal life.’? He also says, ‘I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.’ We have that life now; we’ll enter into the full enjoyment of it later.”