Tug of War
Amy Catherine (Deck) Walton
Table of Contents
Runswick Bay: Chapter 1
It was the yellow flowers that did it! I’ve finally remembered. All night long I’ve been dreaming of Runswick Bay. I’ve been climbing the rocks, talking to the fishermen, picking my way over the masses of slippery seaweed, and breathing the fresh salty air. And all morning I’ve been saying to myself, “What can have made me dream of Runswick Bay? What can have brought the events of my short stay in that quiet little place so vividly before me?” Yes, I am convinced of it; it was that bunch of yellow flowers on the table in my bedroom. My little Ella gathered it in the lane behind the house yesterday morning, and brought it in triumphantly. She took the best china vase from the dining room, filled it with water from the tap, and stuck the large yellow bunch in it.
“Ella!” said Florence, her older sister, “What ugly weeds! Why did you put them in Mother’s best vase, the one Aunt Alice gave her on her birthday! What a silly thing to do!”
“It’s not silly,” Ella retorted, “and Mother is sure to like them; I know she will. She won’t call them weeds. She loves all yellow flowers. She said so when I brought her the daffodils, and these are yellower, much yellower.”
Her mother came in at that moment, and, taking our little girl on her knee, she told her that she was quite right; they were very beautiful and she would put them at once in her own room where she could have them all to herself.
And that is how it came about that, as I lay in bed, the last thing I saw before I went to sleep was Ella’s bunch of yellow flowers, and what could be more natural than that I should dream of Runswick Bay?
I was a young man then, just beginning to make my way as an artist. It was slow work at first, for until you’ve become well-known, every one looks critically at your work. Only after you’ve gotten a good reputation does every daub from your brush sell easily. At the time my story begins I wasn’t making much money, but I enjoyed my work and kept at it patiently. Several of my pictures had sold for reasonably good prices, and I hoped to have some of my paintings in the Art Academy soon.
That summer was unusually hot and London was emptying fast. Every one who could afford it was going either to the moors or to the sea, and I wanted to follow their example. My father and mother had died when I was young. The aunt who brought me up had just passed away, and I mourned her death very deeply. She had been both father and mother to me. I felt that I needed a change. I’d been up for many nights with her during her last illness, and I’d had my rest broken for so long, that I found it very difficult to sleep. I felt tired and restless most of the time.
My Aunt left all she had to me, so I had enough money to leave London and to take a long holiday. The question was, where should I go? I was anxious to combine, if possible, pleasure and business. I hoped to find some quiet place where I could get fresh air and pleasant weather, and also where I could find inspiration for my new picture, which I hoped would find a place in the Academy the following spring.
I was having trouble finding a place to go until Tom Bernard, my best friend, came to the rescue.
“Jack, old fellow,” he said, thrusting a torn newspaper into my hand, “read that.”
The newspaper was folded to the spot Tom had circled in red for me to read.
RUNSWICK BAY
This charming seaside resort is not half as popular as it deserves to be. For the lover of the beautiful, for the person with an artistic eye, it possesses a charm which is difficult to describe. The little bay is a favorite resort for artists; they, at least, know how to appreciate its beauties. Any who can visit this wonderfully picturesque and enchanting spot should reserve hotel or lodging house accommodation as early as possible, because the demand for rooms in August and September is far greater than the supply.
“Well, what do you think of it?” said Tom.
“It sounds just right,” I said; “fresh air and plenty to paint.”
“Are you going to go?”
“Yes, tomorrow,” I replied; “the sooner the better.”
Eagerly I packed my bag and painting easel and purchased some art supplies. By early the next morning I was on my way into Yorkshire.
The late afternoon sun looked down as I reached the end of my long, railway journey. My body ached and cried out in thirst. Dust clung to my shirt, pants and bags. I still had two miles to walk, but I saw no sign of beauty as I started out from the station. The country had a few low hills, but I could see nothing but a long, flat stretch of fields covered with grass or corn. Harebells and pink campion grew on the banks, and the meadows were full of ox-eye daisies, but I saw nothing else that was in the least attractive, and certainly nothing worth painting.
A family from York came on the same train, and I learned from their conversation that they had rented rooms for a month at Runswick Bay. The children, two boys of ten and twelve, and a little fair-haired girl a year or two younger, were excited about being there.
“Father, where is the sea?” they cried. “We can’t wait to see the ocean.”
“Run on,” said their father, “and you’ll soon see it.”
I ran with them, for I felt like a child again as I watched them, and if I lagged behind, one or other of them would turn round and call, “Come on, come hurry up; we’ll soon see it.”
Then, suddenly, we came to the edge of the high cliff, and the sea in all its beauty was in view. The small bay was shut in by rocks on either side, and the little fishing village was built on the slope of the steep cliff. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prettier place.
The children went running down the steep, rocky path which led down to the sea while I followed more slowly behind them. It was a very curiously built place. The fishermen’s cottages were perched on the rock, wherever a ledge or flat place could be found. Steep, narrow paths, or small flights of rock-hewn steps, led from one to another. There was no street in the whole place; there could be none, for there were hardly two houses which stood on the same level. To take a walk through this quaint village was to go up and down stairs the whole time.
At last, after a long, downward scramble, I found myself on the shore, and then I looked back at the cliff and the irregular little village. I was no longer surprised to find artists here. I counted four as I came down the hill, perched on different platforms on the rock, and all hard at work at their easels.
It was certainly a picturesque place, and I was glad that I had come. The coloring was charming: there was red rock in the background, here and there covered with grass, and ablaze with flowers. Wild roses and poppies, pink-thrift and white daisies, all contributed to make the whole rocky area cheerful. But the yellow ragwort was all over; great patches of it grew even on the edge of the sand, and its bright flowers gave the whole place a golden coloring. There seemed to be yellow everywhere, and the red-tiled cottages, the fishermen in their blue jerseys, and the countless flights of steps, all appeared to be framed in bright gold.
Now, I felt sure I would find something to paint in Runswick Bay. I wasn’t disappointed in Tom’s suggestion.
Little John: Chapter 2
After admiring the beauty of the bay for a while, I realized that I must look for a place to stay. I was anxious if possible, to find a lodging in one of the cottages, and then, after a good night’s rest, I would carefully select a good subject for my picture. I called at several houses, where I noticed a card in the window announcing Apartments for Rent but I met the same answer everywhere, “Full, Sir, quite full.” In one place I was offered a bed in the kitchen, but the whole place smelled so strongly of fried herrings and fish oil, that I thought it would be far more pleasant to sleep on the beach than to try to sleep in that smelly place.
After wandering up and down for some time, I passed a house close to the village park, and saw the children with whom I’d traveled having supper by the open window. They, too, were eating herrings, and the smell made me hungry. I decided it was time I had something to eat, and I thought my best plan would be to climb back up to the hotel which I’d passed on my way down. It stood at the very top of the high cliff. My legs protested when I thought of the climb. I was tired with my journey, and not very strong. To drag my bag and easel up the steep path would require a real effort at the best of times. I noticed that wooden benches had been placed here and there on the different platforms of the rock, for the convenience of the fishermen, and I decided to rest for a quarter of an hour on one of them before climbing up the steep hill to the hotel. The fishermen filled most of the seats, sitting side by side, row after row of them, talking together, and looking down at the beach below. As I gazed up at them, they looked to me like a flock of birds perched on the steep rock.
To my relief I noticed one empty seat in a quiet corner. I went to it, and laying my backpack and other belongings beside me, I sat down to rest.
But I wasn’t alone for long. A minute afterward a young fisherman, dressed like his mates in a blue sweater and an oilskin cap, planted himself on the other end of my bench.
“Good-day, Sir,” he said. “What do you think of our bay?”
“It’s a pretty place, very pretty,” I said. “I like it well enough now, but I’m sure I’ll like it even better tomorrow.”
“Even better tomorrow,” he repeated; “Well, Sir, in my opinion it is the better for knowing, and I ought to know, if any one should, for I’ve lived here all my life.”
As he spoke I turned to look at him. He was a fine specimen of an honest English fisherman, with dark eyes and hair, and with a sunny smile on his weather-beaten, sunburned face. You only had to look at the man to feel sure that you could trust him, and that, like Nathaniel in the Bible, there was no guile in him.
“I wonder if you could help me,” I said; “I want to find a room here if I can, but every place seems full.”
“Yes, it is full, Sir, in August; that’s the busiest time here. Let me see, there’s Brown’s, they’re full, and Robinson’s, and Wilson’s and Thomson’s, all full up. There’s Giles’s, they have a room, I believe, but they’re not very clean. Maybe you’re particular, Sir?”
“Well,” I said, “I do like things clean; I don’t mind how rough they are if they’re only clean.”
“Well,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye; “you wouldn’t care for one pan to do all the work of the house — to boil the dirty clothes in, and the fish, and your bit of pudding for dinner, and not much cleaning of it in between.”
“No,” I said, laughing; “I certainly wouldn’t like that.”
“Might give the pudding a flavor of stockings, and a sauce of fish oil,” he answered. “Well, you’re right, Sir; I shouldn’t like it myself. Well, then, that being as it is, I wouldn’t go to Giles’s, not if that is the way you feel about pans, Sir.”
“Then I suppose there’s nothing for it but to trudge up to the hotel at the top of the hill,” I said, with something of a groan.
“Well, Sir,” he said, hesitating a little; “me and my missus, we have a room that we rent sometimes but it’s a poor place, Sir, homely you might say. Maybe you wouldn’t put up with it.”
“Would you let me see it?” I asked.
“With pleasure, Sir; it’s rough, but it’s clean. We could promise you a clean pan, Sir. My missus she’s a good one for cleaning; she’s not one of those sloppy, good-for-nothing women. There’s heaps of them here, Sir, idling away their time. She’s a good girl is my Polly. Why, if that isn’t little John clambering up the steps to his daddy!”
He jumped up as he said this, and ran quickly down the steep flight of steps which led down from the edge where the seat was, and soon returned with a little boy of about two years old in his arms.
The child was as fair as his father was dark. He was a handsome boy with light hair and blue eyes, and was nicely dressed in a bright red cap and clean shirt and pants.
“Tea’s ready, Daddy,” said the boy; “come home with little John.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t object to a cup of tea, Sir,” said the father, turning to me. “It’ll cheer you up a bit after your journey, and there’s sure to be herrings. We almost live on herrings here, Sir. Then, if you’re so minded, you can look at the room after,” he added, as he gently patted little John’s small hand which rested on his arm.
“I’ll be glad to come,” I said; “I’m very hungry, and if Polly’s room is as nice as I think it will be, it will be just the place for me.”
He walked in front of me, up and down countless flights of steps, until, some little way lower down the hill, he stopped outside a small cottage. Sure enough there were herrings, frying and spluttering on the fire, and Polly in a clean white apron, turning them with a fork. The kitchen was very low, and the rafters seemed to rest on my head as I entered, but the window and door were both wide open, and the whole place struck me as wonderfully fresh and clean. A low wooden bench stood by the fire, one or two plain chairs by the wall, and little John’s three-legged stool was placed close to his father’s armchair. A small shelf above the fireplace held the family’s books. I noticed a Bible, a hymn book, a Pilgrim’s Progress, and several other tattered books and that were obviously in constant use. On the walls discolored by the smoke of countless fires hung prints in wooden frames. On a carved old oak cupboard, which held the clothes of the family, were arranged various rare shells and stones, curious sea urchins and other treasures from the sea. In the center of the house and the pride of Polly’s heart, was a ship, carved and rigged by Duncan himself, and preserved carefully under a glass cover.
Polly gave me a hearty Yorkshire welcome, and we soon gathered round the small round table. Duncan, with little John on his knee, thanked God for the food. Polly poured out the tea, and we all enjoyed the meal.
The more I saw of these people, the more I liked them and felt I could trust them. When the meal was over, Polly took me upstairs to see the guest-room where her husband had offered me a bed. The low room had only enough space for a plain wooden bed and one chair. On the wall opposite the bed there were three or four gloomy pictures in dismal black frames, and a mirror on another wall. But the one window was wide open, and the pure sea air filled the little room. The coarse white coverings of the bed were spotless, and the whole place looked and felt both fresh and clean.
“You’ll pardon me, Sir,” said Duncan, “for asking you to look at such a poor place.”
“But I like it, Duncan,” I answered, “and I like your family and if you’ll have me as a lodger, I’d be glad to stay.”
We soon agreed upon the rent and everything being settled, Polly went to put little John to bed while I went with Duncan to see his boat.
It was an old boat, and it had been his father’s before him. It had weathered many storms, but it was the dream of Duncan’s life to buy a new one, and he and Polly had nearly saved up enough money for it.
“That’s why the missus and I are glad to get a lodger now and again,” he said. “It all goes toward the new boat, every penny of it. We mean to call her the Little John. He’s going in her the very first voyage she takes; he is, indeed, Sir, for he’ll be her captain one day, please God, little John will.”
It was a calm, beautiful evening; the sea was like a sheet of glass. Hardly a ripple was breaking on the shore. The sun was setting behind the cliff, and the fishing village would soon be in darkness. The fishermen were leaving their cottages and were making for the shore. Already some of the boats were launched, and the men were throwing in their nets and fishing tackle, and were pulling out to sea. I enjoyed watching my new friend making his preparations. His three mates brought out the nets, and he gave his orders with a tone of command. He was the owner and the captain of the Mary Anne, and the rest were accustomed to obeying him.
When all were on board, Duncan jumped in and gave the word to push off from shore. He nodded to me and called “good-night,” and when he was a little way from shore, I saw him stand up in the boat and wave his oilskin cap to someone above me on the cliff.
I looked up, and saw Polly standing on the rock overhanging the shore with little John in his white pajamas in her arms. He was waving his red cap to his father, and continued to wave until the boat was out of sight.
Strange Music: Chapter 3
I slept well in my strange little bedroom, although I was awakened early by the sunlight streaming in at the window. I jumped up and looked out. The sun was rising over the sea, and a flood of golden light was streaming across it.
I dressed quickly and went out. Very few people were around, for the fishermen hadn’t returned yet from their night’s fishing. The cliff looked even more beautiful than the night before, for every bit of coloring stood out clear and distinct in the sunshine. “I’ll get my best effects in the morning,” I said to myself, “and I’d better choose my subject at once, so that after breakfast I may be able to begin without delay.”
I climbed up and down for a long time until I found just the right place. An old abandoned boat stood in the foreground, and over it a large fishing net, covered with floats, was spread to dry. Behind rose the rocks, covered with tufts of grass, patches of gorse, tall yellow mustard plants and golden ragwort, and at the top of a steep flight of rock-hewn steps stood a white cottage with red-tiled roof. The little garden in front of it was cheerful with hollyhocks and dahlias. Several barefooted children were standing by the gate feeding some chickens and ducks; a large dog was lying asleep at the top of the steps, and a black cat was basking in the morning sunshine on the low garden wall. It was, to my mind, an extremely pretty scene, and it made me eager to start painting.
I hurried back to my lodging, and found Polly preparing my breakfast, while little John looked on. He was sitting in his pajamas curled up in his father’s armchair. “I’m Daddy,” he called out to me as I came in.
There was a little round table laid ready for me, covered with a spotlessly clean cloth, and on it was a small black teapot, and a white and gold cup and saucer, with the golden announcement, “A present from Whitby,” while my plate was adorned with a remarkable picture of Whitby Abbey in a thunderstorm.
The ever present herrings were there, and Polly had made some hot cakes, which are a specialty of that part of Yorkshire. These, already buttered, lay wrapped in a clean cloth in front of the fire. Polly made the tea as soon as I entered, and then retired into the bedroom with little John in her arms, while I sat down with a good appetite to eat my breakfast.
I was still finishing my meal when I heard a great shout from the shore. Women and children ran past the open door, crying, “The boats! the boats!” Polly came flying into the kitchen, caught up little John’s red cap, thrust it on his head, and ran down the steps. I left my breakfast unfinished, and followed them.
It was a pretty sight. The fishing boats were just nearing shore, and almost every one in the place had turned out to meet them.
Wives, children, and visitors were gathered on the small landing place; most had dishes or plates in their hands, for the herrings could be bought straight from the boats.
After the little village had all the fish it needed, the rest of the herrings were packed up and sent off by train to be sold elsewhere. Watching the animated scene, I wished I’d brought my sketchbook with me. I thought the arrival of the fishing boats would make a splendid subject for a picture.
Duncan was too busy even to see me till the fish were all landed, counted, and disposed of, but he had time for a word with little John, and, as I was finishing my breakfast, he came in with the child perched on his shoulder.
“Good morning, Sir,” he said. “How do you like our bay this morning?”
My answer fully satisfied him, and while he sat down to his morning meal I went out to begin my work. The sun was shining clear and bright in the cloudless sky, and I thoroughly enjoyed the prospect before me. I found a shady place just under the wall of a house, where my picture would be in sunlight and I and my easel in shadow. I liked the spot I had chosen even better than I had before breakfast and was soon hard at work.
I had sketched in my picture, and was beginning to paint, when I became conscious of voices just over my head. I soon realized that they were talking about me.
“It’s just like it,” said one voice. “Look — do look. There’s Betty Green’s cottage, and Minnie the cat, and the seat, and the old boat.”
“Let me see, Marjorie,” said another voice. “Is it the old one with white hair and a long, long beard?”
“No, it’s quite a young one; his hair’s black, and he hasn’t got a beard at all.”
“Let me look. Yes, I can see him. I like him much better than the old one; hasn’t he got nice red cheeks?”
“Shh! he’ll hear,” said the other voice.
“You naughty boy! I think he did hear; I saw him laugh.”
I jumped up at this, and looked up, but I could see nothing but a garden wall and a thick, bushy tree, which was growing just inside it.
“Hello, who’s there?” I shouted.
But there was dead silence, and when no one appeared, and nothing more happened, I sat down and went on with my picture.
Many people passed by as I was painting, and tried to look at what I was doing. Some glanced out of the corners of their eyes as they walked by; others paused behind me and silently watched me. A few made remarks to one another about my picture; one or two offered suggestions—thought I should have had a better view lower down the hill, or hoped that I would make the coloring vivid enough. The children from York, with whom I had traveled, seemed to feel a kind of partnership in my picture.
“Let’s go and look at our artist,” Bob would say to Harry. “His picture is going to be the best of the lot.”
At times they got so interested and crowded so close, I had to ask them to move further away.
I thoroughly enjoyed my morning’s work, and I went back very hungry, and quite ready for the delicious little dinner which Polly had prepared for me. In the afternoon the light would be all wrong for my picture, but I determined to sketch in the foreground, and prepare for my next morning’s work.
I was very busy with this, when suddenly I became conscious of music, if it could be called music. It was the most peculiar sound, and at first I could not find out where it came from. It was obviously not from a wind instrument, and I was sure it was not an accordion. This sound would go on for a minute or two, and then stop suddenly, only to begin again more loudly a few seconds later. At times I distinguished a few bars of a tune, then only disjointed notes followed. Could it be a child playing idly on an organ? No, it was not at all like an instrument of that kind. It was an annoying, worrying sound, and it went on for so long that I began to be disgusted with it, and stamped my foot impatiently when, after a short interval, I heard it begin again. The sound seemed to come from behind the wall of the house near where I was sitting, and to my annoyance could be heard from time to time all afternoon.
Finally as the afternoon wore on, I began to distinguish what tunes were being attempted. I made out a bar or two of the old French tune, “The Marseillaise,” Then I was startled by what came next, for it was a tune I remembered well from when I was a small child. It was “Home, Sweet Home,” my mother’s favorite tune. In fact, I never hear it without thinking of her.
Many times she sang me to sleep with that tune. I’d had scarlet fever when I was five years old, and my mother had nursed me through it, and when I was weary and cross she would sing to me. Even as I sat in front of my easel I could picture my pretty fair-haired mother as she sat at the foot of my bed, with the sunshine streaming upon her through the half-darkened window, and making her look, to my boyish imagination, like a beautiful angel. And I could hear her voice still, and the sweet tones in which she sang that very song to me, “Home, Sweet Home, there’s no place like Home.”
I remembered one night especially, in which she knelt by my bed and prayed that she might meet her boy in the bright city, the sweet home above the sky which was the best and brightest home of all. I wonder what she would think of me now, I said to myself. Will she see me there? I very much doubt it. It seems to me that I am a long way off from Home, Sweet Home now.
My mother died soon after that illness of mine, and I knew she had gone to live in that beautiful home that she had so often spoken to me about. I was left behind, and my aunt, who brought me up, cared for none of these things. I soon learned to look at the world and at life from her standpoint, and forgot to seek first the Kingdom of God. Oh! if my mother only knew, I said to myself that day. And then came the thought, perhaps she does know, and the thought made me very uncomfortable. I wished, more than ever, that that cracked, old instrument, whatever it was, would stop.
But in spite of all my wishes, the strange sound went on, and again and again I had to listen to “Home, Sweet Home,” and each time it set my memory going, and brought back to me the words and the looks which I thought I had forgotten. And it set something else going too: the still, small voice within, accusing me of forgetfulness, not so much of my mother as of my mother’s God.
I began to wish that I had chosen some other spot for my picture. But it was working out so well that I felt it would be a great mistake to change, and I hoped the person who had been making that horrible noise, might find something else to do tomorrow and leave me in peace.
The next day my wishes were fulfilled, and I was not disturbed. Very little happened except that my picture made progress. Then came two wet days, when I had to paint in my little chamber, and did not get back to my seat under the wall.
I saw a great deal of Duncan during those wet days. He would come and sit on the bed beside me as I painted, and would tell me stories of storms and shipwrecks, and of the different times when the lifeboat had been sent out, and of the many lives she had saved.
“Have you seen her, Sir? You must go and have a look at our boat; she lies in a house down by the shore, as trim and tight a little boat as you could wish to see anywhere!”
“I suppose you’ve been in many a storm yourself, Duncan,” I said.
“Storms, Sir! I’ve very near lived in them ever since I was born. Many times I’ve never expected to see land again. I didn’t care so much when I was a young chap. You see, my father and mother were dead, and if I went to the bottom there was nobody, as you might say, to feel it, but it’s different now, Sir, you see.”
“Yes,” I said, “there’s Polly and little John.”
“That’s just where the difference is, Sir — Polly and little John. All the time the wind’s raging, and the waves are coming right over the boat, I’m thinking of my poor dear at home, and how every gust of wind will be sweeping right over her heart, and how she’ll be kneeling by little John’s bed, praying God to bring his daddy safe home again. And I know, Sir, as well as I know anything, that when God Almighty hears and answers her prayer, and brings me safe to land, Polly and little John will be standing on those rocks straining their eyes for the first sight of the boats, and then running down almost into the water to welcome me home again. Yes, it makes a lot of difference to a married man, Sir, doesn’t it, now? It isn’t the dying, you understand; it’s the leaving behind that I think of. I’m not afraid to die,” he added, humbly and reverently, as he took off his oilskin cap. “I know whom I have trusted.”
“You’re brave, Duncan,” I said, “to talk of not being afraid to die. I’ve just been at a deathbed, and — ”
“And you felt you wouldn’t like to be there yourself,” Duncan went on, as I stopped. “Well, maybe not; it comes natural to us, Sir; we’re born with that feeling. I often think, that we can no more help it than we can help any other thing we’re born with. But what I mean to say is, I’m not afraid of what comes after death.”
What Are You? Chapter 4
On Saturday of that week the sun shone brightly and I was up early, had an early breakfast, and set to work at my picture as soon as possible. I had been painting for a long time before I heard again voices above me, the same childish voices that I had heard before.
“You give it to him,” said one voice. “No, Marjorie, I don’t dare; you take it.”
“You shouldn’t be afraid because you’re a boy,” said the first speaker. “Father says boys should always be brave.”
“But you’re big, Marjorie, and big people ought to be braver than little people!”
A long, whispered conversation followed, and I couldn’t tell what they were saying. But a moment later a small piece of pink paper was thrown over the wall, and fluttered down on my palette. I caught it up quickly to prevent it from sticking to the paints, and I saw there was something printed on it. This is what it said: There will be a short service on the shore on Sunday morning at 11 o’clock, and your presence is earnestly requested, Subject: WHAT ARE YOU?
“Thank you,” I said aloud. “Who sent me this?”
There was no answer at first, then a little voice just above me said, “Both of us, Sir.”
“Come down and talk to me,” I said; “I can’t talk to children whom I can’t see. Come out here and look at my picture.”
They came out presently hand in hand, a little girl in a blue beret, a pale pink dress, and a white apron, and her younger brother, the merriest, most sturdy little fellow I thought I’d ever seen. His face was round and rosy, his eyes were dark blue, and had the happiest and most mischievous expression possible. When the child laughed (and he was always laughing), every part of his face laughed together. His eyes began it, his lips followed suit, even his nose was pressed into the service.
“Now,” I said, “that’s better; I like to see children’s faces when I talk to them; tell me your names to begin with.”
“I’m Marjorie, Sir,” said the little girl, “and he’s Jack.”
“Jack!” I said; “that’s my name, and a nice name too, isn’t it, little Jack? Come and look at my picture, little jack, and see if you think big Jack knows how to paint.”
Gradually they became more at ease, and chatted freely with me. Marjorie told me that her father had sent the paper. Father was going to preach on Sunday; he preached every Sunday, and lots of people came, and Jack was in the choir.
“Will you come, big Jack?” he said, patting my hand with his sturdy little fist.
“I don’t know,” I said; “if it’s a fine day, maybe I’ll want to get on with my picture.”
“On Sunday?” said the child in a shocked voice. “It’s on Sunday father preaches, and you couldn’t paint on Sunday, could you?”
“Well, I’ll see,” I said; “perhaps I’ll come and hear you sing, little Jack.”
“Thank you, big Jack,” he said, with a merry twinkle in his eyes.
“What is this preaching on the shore, Duncan?” I asked, later in the evening.
“Oh, it’s our local preacher,” he said. “He’s a good man, and has done a lot of good in this place. You see, it’s too far for folks here to go to church, and so he lives among us, and has meetings in the hall over there in winter. In summer, we have ‘em on the shore, and most of the visitors come. There’s a few that won’t come, but we get the best of them, and we have some fine singing — real nice it is! I’m in the choir myself, Sir,” he said; “you wouldn’t think it, but I am. I’ve got a good strong voice, too!”
It must be a choir worth seeing, I thought, if it contained two singers as different as the big, burly fisherman and the small child who had invited me.
I hadn’t quite made up my mind to go. I hadn’t been to a service for months, maybe years. I had slipped out of the habit, and I thought I would feel like a fish out of water. However, when the next day came, every one seemed to take it as a matter of course that I would be going. Polly was up early, and had dressed little John in his best.
“You’ll see him at church, Sir,” she said, as she made my breakfast; “he always likes to go to church, and he’s as good as gold, bless him!”
Duncan was out before I was up, and as I was dressing I saw him going round to the fishermen sitting as usual on the seats on the cliff. He had a bundle of pink papers in his hand, similar to the one given to me, and was distributing them to each of his mates. I sensed that I was expected to go, and it would be difficult to keep away. All doubt vanished when at exactly ten thirty a small couple came hand in hand up the steps to Duncan’s door, and announced to Polly that they had come to take big Mr. Jack to go to church.
It was Marjorie and her little brother, and small Jack put his little fat hand into big Jack’s, and led him triumphantly away.
From the fishermen’s cottages there came a stream of people down to the shore — mothers with babies in their arms leading young children by the hand, groups of boys and girls who had been barefoot all week long wearing shoes and stockings, many weather-beaten sailors, many sunburnt fishermen, many elderly people too, old men, and white-haired women in white straw hats. There were visitors, too, coming down from the rocks. These mostly kept in the background, and acted at first as though they were watching the movement rather than joining in it. My York friends were, however, near the front, and the children nodded to me, and smiled at one another as they saw me led like a lamb to the service by my two small guardians.
The day was clear and bright. The sandy ground was dry, and the congregation sat on the rough, coarse grass or perched on the small round sand hills. As for the old boat, it was occupied by the choir, and little Jack, having seen me safely to the spot, climbed into the boat and stood proudly in the stern. He had a hymn book in his hand, which I knew he couldn’t read, because he was holding it upside down, but he looked at it as long and as earnestly as if he could understand every word. Marjorie planted herself beside me, I suppose to watch me in case I showed signs of running away before the service was over.
Then, just before eleven, and when quite a large company of people had gathered on the grass, her father arrived. He was a man of about forty, and his face gave me the impression that he had known trouble, and yet I thought as I looked further at him that the trouble, whatever it was, had ended. He seemed to me like one who has come out of a sharp storm, and has anchored in a quiet haven. Even though I noticed in his face the traces of heavy sorrow, he still looked happier and more peaceful than any of those who stood round him. In fact, he had the most restful face I had ever seen. He was not an educated man, nor was he what men call a gentleman, and yet there was a refinement about him which made me feel at once that he was no common man, and had no common history. His face was so interesting, that I gazed at him instead of finding the hymn he’d given out. I was recalled to my duty by his little daughter, who seized the hymn book she had given me at the beginning of the service, found the page for me, and pointed with her small finger to the place.
It was a mission hymn, sung to a wild, irregular tune. I imagine I would have smiled if I’d heard it anywhere else, but it was no laughing matter that morning. As I looked at the brown fishermen who had taken off their oilskin caps, as I glanced at the earnest face of the preacher, as I noticed how even children, like little Marjorie beside me, were singing with all their heart and soul the simple, plaintive words, I felt strangely solemnized.
Then came the prayer, and I felt as he prayed that One whom we could not see was standing among us. It was a very simple prayer, but it was the outpouring of his heart to God, and many low Amen came from the lips of the fishermen as their hearts went with his.
The sermon followed. Shall I call it a sermon? It was more an appeal than a sermon or even an address. There was no attempt at style, there were no long words or stilted sentences; it was exactly what his prayer had been, words spoken out of the abundance of his earnest heart. The prayer was the outpouring of his soul to his God; the words to which we listened afterward were the outpouring of his soul to us, his brothers and sisters on earth.
A great hush settled over the congregation while he spoke. The mothers quieted their babies, the children sat with their eyes fixed on the speaker; even those visitors who had been on the outskirts of the crowd came closer to listen.
“What are you, dear friends?” he began, “that is our subject today. What are you? How many different answers I hear you make, as you answer my question in your hearts!”
“What am I?” you say. “I am a fisherman, a strong active man, accustomed to toil and danger.” “I am a mother, with a large family of little children, working hard from morning till night.” “I am a schoolboy, learning the lessons which will help me make my way in the world.” “I am a busy merchant, working hard to make money, and obliged to come to this quiet place for relaxation.” “I am an artist, with great ambition of future success.” “I am an old man, who has weathered many a storm, but my work is done now; I am too old to fish, too tired to work.” “I am a gentleman of no occupation, idling comfortably through a busy world.” “I” — and here he glanced at his own little Jack in the stern of the old boat — “I am a small child, with an unknown life before me.”
“Dear friends, such are some of your answers to my question. Can I find, do you think, one answer, one description, which will suit you all — fishermen, mothers, boys and girls, artists, merchants, gentlemen, the old man and the little child? Yes, I can. If I could hand you each a piece of paper and a pencil today, there is one description of yourself which each of you might write, one occupation which would include you all, the old, the young, the rich and the poor. Each of you, without exception, might write this — I am a servant.
“I, the speaker, am a servant; you who listen, all of you, are servants.”
“Well, I don’t know how he is going to explain that,” I said to myself. “I thought he was going to say we were all sinners, and that, I suppose, we are, but servants! I don’t believe I am anybody’s servant.”
“All servants,” he went on, “but not all in the same service. As God and the angels look down upon this grassy area today, they see a great company of servants gathered together, but they also see that we aren’t servants of the same master. They see what we don’t see, a dividing line between us, On one side of the line God sees, and the angels see, one company of servants — and in God’s book He gives us the name of their master — Servants of sin.
“On the other side of the line, God sees, and the angels see, another company of servants — Servants of Christ.
“Which company do you belong to, dear friend? You fishermen on the bank there, what are you? Little child, what are you? — a servant of sin, or a servant of Jesus Christ?
“Do you say, How can I tell? How can I possibly know on which side of the line I stand? God may know, the angels may know, but how can I know myself?
“It isn’t difficult to know; it is as plain and clear as possible. A servant of sin obeys his master. Sin rules in him. He pleases his own sinful heart. I please myself, is the rule by which he is governed. He wakes up in the morning, and asks himself this question, What do I wish to do today? And if the sin in his heart prompts him to do anything contrary to God’s will, he does it without hesitation. Sin rules; he is a servant of sin.
“A servant of Christ obeys his Master. Christ rules in him. He pleases Christ. What would Christ have me do? is the rule by which he is governed. He wakes in the morning, and the question he asks is this, Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do? And if his Master asks him to do anything contrary to his own inclination, he does it readily, even cheerfully. Christ rules; he is a servant of Christ.”
Then he ended by a very solemn appeal. “You must be one or other,” he said. “Oh, my friend, which are you? — a servant of sin, or a servant of Christ? Who is your Master? On which side of the line do you stand?”
I can’t remember all he said that day, but I know his words made me feel very uncomfortable.
The congregation broke up quietly, and I took a walk along the shore while Polly was preparing dinner.
“Oh well,” I said to myself, “he didn’t speak badly, and I’m glad those fishermen heard him. There is a good deal of drinking, I believe, in the place, and they need a bit of warning, I suppose.”
So I tried to turn it away from myself and forget his message. And whenever the question came back to me, the question which the speaker had repeated so often, “What are you?” I answered it by saying to myself, I’m a poor artist, having a holiday at Runswick Bay, and I’m not going to bother with gloomy thoughts.
Polly prepared an excellent dinner in honor of the day, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Then I determined to walk to Staithes, and spend the rest of the day seeing the country. I was accustomed to painting on Sunday, but only one of the artists was at work, and Duncan and Polly had been so shocked by seeing him that I didn’t dare do the same. I enjoyed the walk along the cliffs, and came back in good spirits, having completely shaken off, as I imagined, the speaker’s words.
The Runswick Sports: Chapter 5
“I’ve got a big favor to ask of you, Sir,” said Duncan the next day. “You’ll not be upset, will you?”
“Certainly not, Duncan,” I said. “What do you want?”
“Well, it’s just this, Sir — me and my mates, we get up some sports every year on the grassy area. We have them in August, Sir, just when the visitors are here. They all turn out to see them, and lots of them are very good in giving money to help buy the prizes. You see, Sir, there are many young fellows here, young chaps who must have something to keep them out of mischief; when they’re not fishing, they’re bound to be after the beer, if they haven’t something to turn their minds and keep them going a bit. And these sports, why, they like them, Sir, and a man must keep sober if he’s to win a prize — you understand, Sir?”
“Yes, Duncan, I understand,” I said; “it’s an excellent idea for these young fellows, and for the older ones too, for that matter. I suppose you want a donation for your prizes?” I added, as I handed him some money.
“Thank you kindly, Sir; I won’t refuse it, and it’s very good of you to help us so generously, but that isn’t what I came to ask you for. I hardly like to bother you, Sir,” he said doubtfully.
“Never mind the bother, Duncan; let’s hear what you want.”
“Well, it’s just this, Sir. Could you, do you think, make us some sort of program to hang up by the post office there for visitors to see? You draw the pictures so quick, Sir, and — ”
“I see, Duncan; you want the program to be illustrated. I’m your man; I’ll do it at once.” I was really quite glad to oblige the kind, honest fisherman.
He was very pleased at my quick agreement, and left at once to get a board to fasten my program to. We soon made out a list of attractions, and I had great pleasure in illustrating the catalog of sports.
I headed it —
ATTENTION!
RUNSWICK ATHLETIC SPORTS
Then, from the R of Runswick I hung a long fishnet, covered with floats, and falling down over a fish basket, and some lobster pots. On the ground I added a number of fish that had been emptied out of the basket.
Next followed a list of patrons, such as: The Honorable O’Mackerell, Lord Crabby Lobster, Sir C. Shrimp, etc., etc.
Then came a list of the various sports, each profusely illustrated — The tug of war, the jockey race, the women’s egg and spoon race, the sack race, the greased pole, the long jump, etc., and lastly, an announcement of a grand concert to be held in the evening, as a conclusion to the festivities of the day.
Duncan was more than satisfied — he was delighted, and his gratitude knew no bounds. His excitement was childlike, as he carried the board away to hang it in a conspicuous place.
The whole village eagerly waited as the big day approached.
“Are you going to see the great tug of war, big Mr. Jack?” my little friend called to me over the wall as I was painting. As for the York boys, Harry and Bob, they spent time every day admiring the program and bringing other visitors to see and admire the work of their artist.
Duncan anxiously watched the sky the day before the sports, and Polly triumphantly announced, when I came down to breakfast, “A fine day, Sir; couldn’t be finer, could it now?”
Those village sports were really a pretty sight. I can see it all in my mind’s eye now. I often wonder why I haven’t made a picture of it — the high cliff stretching overhead, and covered with red-tiled cottages nestled among the bushes and bracken. Then below the cliff was a level stretch of grass, covered with hardy fishermen and their wives, and surrounding the grass, on the sandy hills, the visitors old and young, dressed in bright colors and holiday attire.
The program lasted a long time and went well. Polly distinguished herself by winning the egg and spoon race, much to the joy of little John, who watched all the proceedings from his father’s arms.
Then came the biggest event, the tug of war. A long cable was brought out and stretched across the grass, and a pocket-handkerchief was tied in the center of it. Two stakes were then driven into the ground, and between these a line was chalked on the grass. The handkerchief was then placed exactly over the line. After this all the fishermen who entered the contests were divided into two teams. Then each side grabbed one end of the rope, and at a given signal they began to pull. It was a test of strength; whichever side could pull the handkerchief past the two stakes, and over the line, would win.
How those men pulled! What force they put into it! Yet for a long time the rope did not move a single inch. These powerful fishermen lay on the ground, so that they could pull harder. Every nerve, every muscle seemed to be strained, but the two sides were so evenly matched, that the rope was motionless, and it was impossible to tell which team would win.
Little John was eagerly watching his father.
“Pull, Daddy, pull!” I heard him cry, and I think I was nearly as pleased as he and Polly were when Duncan and the men on his side suddenly made one mighty effort, and the handkerchief was drawn across the line. There was tremendous cheering after this. Polly clapped her hands with delight, and little Jack and big Jack nearly shouted themselves hoarse.
This interesting sight I had reason to remember afterward as you will see. The evening concert went as well as the sports had, and Duncan came in that night rather tired, but satisfied with the day’s fun.
I enjoyed all the sights at Runswick Bay, but I was particularly charmed with what happened the day after the sports. All the village got up early, and as I was dressing, it seemed to me that every fisherman in the place was hurrying down to the beach. It wasn’t long before I followed them to see what they were doing. I found that they were about to draw the crab boats up from the shore, to a place where they would be safe from the winter storms. It was hard work, but every one was there to give a hand.
A long string of men and boys laid hold of the cable fastened to a boat. Even the wives and older children grabbed it. I went to help too, and several of the visitors followed my example. Then, when we were all in position, Duncan, who was directing the proceedings, warned us not to pull till the signal was given. Then there rose a peculiar cry or yodel, all the fishermen uttering it together, and as soon as it died away we gave our united, mighty pull. Then we paused to take a breath, until once more there came a yodel followed by another pull, and as this was repeated again and again, the heavy boat made steady and regular progress across the wet sand. Up the low bank she came, over the rough grass, slowly, steadily, she moved onward, until at last she was placed safely out of the reach of the highest tide and the roughest sea. Thus, one after another, the boats were drawn up, and we were exhausted before our work was done.
I think it must have been that very day, that, as I was painting, I once more heard the broken notes of the instrument which had bothered me so much before. It was that tune again, my mother’s tune, and somehow, I don’t know how it was, with the sound of my mother’s tune I was reminded of the Sunday service. Ah! my mother was on the right side of the line, I said to myself; she was a servant of Christ. But her son! what is he?
I didn’t want to think about this subject, so I jumped up from my campstool, and standing under the wall, I called, “Little Jack, little Jack.”
The music stopped at once, and the child came out. How fond I was of the merry little boy!
“Yes, Mr. big Jack,” he said, as he ran out of the gate.
“Come and talk to me, little friend,” I said, “while I paint. Who plays music in your house?”
“I do,” said little Jack.
“You do, Jack? You’re pretty young to be playing music! What do you play on, and who taught you?”
“Nobody teached me, Mr. Jack,” he said; “I teached my own self.”
“Teached your own self? How did you manage that?” I asked.
“I turned him round and round and round, Mr. Jack, and the music came, and I teached my own self,” he repeated.
“What is it, Jack?” I asked. “Is it an old music box?”
“No, it’s an organ, a barrow organ, Mr. Jack.”
“Oh, a barrel organ you mean; how in the world did you get hold of a barrel organ? Is it a little toy one?”
“No, it’s big, ever so big,” he said, stretching out his hands to show me its size.
“Whoever gave you it?” I asked.
“It isn’t Jack’s own organ,” said the child. “Whose is it, then?”
“It’s Father’s, Father’s own organ.”
It seemed to me a most extraordinary thing for the preacher of Runswick Bay to have in his possession, but I didn’t want to ask any more questions just then.
However, in the afternoon my little friend called to me over the wall, “Big Mr. Jack, come here.”
“Come where, my little man?”
“Come inside and look at Father’s organ; I’ll play it to you, Mr. Jack.”
“What will your father say if I come in?” “Father’s out.”
“What will your mother say?”
“Mother’s out too.”
I didn’t relish the idea of entering a man’s house in his absence, but the insistent entreaties kept coming from the other side of the wall. Over and over again it was, “Do come, Mr. Jack; do come quick, Mr. Jack.” At last, to please the child, I left my work for a few minutes and went up the steps which led to the gate of their garden.
The cottage was small, but nicely laid out. The tiny well kept lawn was covered with short, soft grass, and in the center of this a round bed filled with brilliant flowers. Round the wall, at the edge of the garden, was a border, in which grew all manner of pretty, sweet-smelling flowers. There were asters, mignonette, sweet peas and many others. Then in front of me was the cottage, with two gables and a red-tiled roof, the walls of which were covered from top to bottom with creeping plants, all helping to make the little place beautiful.
“What a nice home you have, little Jack!” I said.
He kept tight hold of my hand, so that I would not escape from him, and led me on — into a tiny entrance hall, past one or two doors, down a dark passage, and into a room at the back.
This room had a small bow window overlooking the sea, the walls were covered with bookshelves, a writing table stood in the window, and in a corner by the fireplace was the extraordinary object I had been brought to see — a very outdated barrel organ.
What a peculiar thing to come across in a preacher’s study! What possible use could he have for it? It was a dilapidated, old instrument, almost falling to pieces with old age. The shape was so old-fashioned that I don’t remember ever having seen one like it; the silk which had once decorated it was torn into shreds, and it was impossible to tell what its original color had been; the wood was worm-eaten and decayed, and the leg it had rested on could no longer support its weight.
“Let me hear you play it, Jack,” I said.
He sat down with great pride to turn the handle, but I noticed that half the notes were broken off the barrel, which accounted for only fragments of each tune being heard, while many bars of some were missing completely. However, Jack seemed very proud of his performance, and insisted on my staying till he had gone through all four tunes which the old thing was supposed to play. He announced their names, one by one, as each began.
“This is ‘My Poor Mary Anne,’ Mr. Jack, very sad.” Then when that was finished, “This is the ‘Old Hundred,’ very old.”
After this there was a long turning of the handle without any sound being heard, for the first part of the next tune was entirely gone. “I can’t say the name of this one, Mr. Jack,” he explained; “Marjorie called it something like ‘Ma says.’”
“Oh! the Marseillaise,” I said, laughing; “all right, little man, I know that.”
“Then comes Father’s tune; Father likes it best of all. Listen, ‘Home, sweet home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.’ Do you like it, Mr. Jack?”
“Yes, I do like it, Jack,” I said; “I knew it when I was a little boy like you.”
As he played, the music reminded me again of my mother’s voice and my mother’s words. I hadn’t thought of her so much for years before I came to Runswick Bay. The old organ brought her back to me, for she was always kind to organ-grinders. An old Italian man used to come round with a barrel organ when I was a little boy. I can see him now. I used to watch for him from my bedroom window, and as soon as he came in sight I flew down to my mother for a penny, and then went into the garden and stood beside him while he played. Mother gave me on my birthday a musical box in the shape of a barrel organ with strap which I could hang round my neck. I used to take this box with me, and standing beside the old man, I imitated his every movement, holding my little organ just as he held his big one, and playing beside him as long as he remained. So wonderful did this man’s occupation seem to me, that I can remember quite well when my father asked me one day what I would like to be when I grew up. I answered without a moment’s hesitation, “An organ-grinder, of course, Father.”
My boyhood days — how long ago they seemed! What was the use of recalling them! It wouldn’t bring back the mother I had lost, or the father who had cared for me, and it only made me depressed to think of them. What good, I asked myself, would my holiday do me if I spent it in brooding over old sorrows? I must forget this kind of thing and cheer up.
“Now, little Jack,” I said, “big Jack must go back to his picture; come and climb into the old boat, and see how you would look in the foreground of it.” He looked just right, perched amongst the nets and fishing tackle. I felt I should improve my picture by introducing him into it, and from that day on he came for a while every morning to be painted. He was a good model, never moving after I told him I was ready, and never speaking unless I spoke to him.
I never saw a more lovable child nor a more obedient one. While full of fun and with a mischievous spirit, he was checked in a moment by a single word. No one could be dull in his company, and as the week passed, I began to regain my usual cheerfulness and lose the uncomfortable feeling left by the sermon on the shore and the questions the preacher had asked us.
The Tug of War: Chapter 6
My mind was made up! I would not attend the service on Sunday. So when a pink paper floated down on my easel on Saturday morning, I caught it and shoved it into my pocket, without even looking to see what the sermon topic was to be.
“Have you got it, Mr. Jack?” said the child’s voice above me.
“All right, little man,” I answered; “it’s all safe and sound.”
I made my plans for Sunday with great care. I asked for an early breakfast, so that I could walk over to Kettleness, a place about two miles off along the coast. It could only be reached at low tide, and when I was there, on the other side of the bay, I determined to be in no hurry to return, but to arrive at Runswick too late for the service on the sands. If Duncan and Polly missed me, they would simply conclude that I had found the walk longer than I had expected.
But, just as I was ready to set out for Kettleness, it started to rain hard.
“You’ll not go walking in this weather, Sir?” said Duncan, anxiously.
“Oh, no, of course not,” I answered lightly. I thought he looked more concerned than the occasion warranted, and I feared that he suspected the real reason for my early walk.
I could do nothing but wait till the shower was over, and by then it was impossible to go to Kettleness without appearing to avoid the service deliberately.
At last the sun came out, and by eleven o’clock the sky was clear. The fishermen spread tarpaulins on the sand for the congregation to sit on, and I found myself, much against my will, being led to the place by little Jack.
“At least there is no need for me to listen,” I said to myself; “I will plan out a new picture, and no one will know where my thoughts are.”
But in spite of my determination, from the moment that Jack’s father began to speak, my attention was caught, and I could not help listening.
“‘The Tug of War’ is our subject today, dear friends,” he began, “and a very suitable subject, I think, after what we witnessed here during the past week. We have seen, have we not, a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together, as that heavy crab boat was dragged up from the beach. How well she came, what progress she made; with each yodel we brought her farther from the sea. We, all of us, gave a helping hand. Fishermen, wives, visitors, friends, all laid hold, and all pulled, and the job was soon finished. Why? Because we were all united. It was a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together.
“And let me remind you of another event during this past week. The place is the same, our grassy area. The same rope was used, and those who pulled were the very same brawny, powerful fishermen. Yes, you pulled your hardest; if possible you worked harder than when the crab boat was drawn up, and yet, strangely, there was no result — the rope did not move an inch. What were you pulling? What was the mighty weight that you had to move? What was it that, for such a long time, resisted the strength of the strongest among you? The weight you could not move was not a heavy boat, but a light handkerchief!
“Why was there this difference? Why was the handkerchief harder to move than the boat? The answer to that was to be found at the other end of the rope. There were other pullers that day, pulling with all their might in the opposite direction. It was not a united pull, and therefore there was no result, and we watched until at length one side proved to be the stronger, and the handkerchief was drawn by them triumphantly across the line.
“Today, dear friends, I speak to you of yet another tug of war. The place is the same, Runswick Bay, but the weight to be drawn is not a boat, not a handkerchief; the weight is a human soul. It is your soul, my friend, your immortal soul; you are the one who is being drawn.
“And who are the pullers? Oh, how many they are! I myself have my hands on the rope. God only knows how hard I am pulling, striving with all my might, if possible to draw you, my friend, to Christ. But there are other hands on the rope besides mine. Your conscience pulls, your good old mother pulls, your little child pulls, your Christian friend pulls. Each sermon you hear, each Bible class you attend, each hymn you sing, each prayer uttered in your presence, each striving of the Spirit, each God-given yearning after better things, each storm you come through, each danger you escape, each sickness in your family, each death in your home, each deliverance granted you, gives you a pull Godward, Christward, heavenward.
“Yet you know as clearly as you know that you are sitting there, that, so far, Christ’s pullers are drawing in vain. You have never yet, and you know it, crossed the line which divides the saved from the lost. Why is this? Why, oh why are you so hard to move?
“Ask yourself why? Surely you know the reason! Is it not because there are other hands on the rope, other pullers drawing in the opposite direction? For Satan has many an agent, many a servant, and he sends forth a great army of soul-pullers. Each worldly friend, each desire of your evil nature, each temptation to sin, each longing after wealth, each sinful suggestion, gives you a pull, and a pull the wrong way, away from safety, away from Christ, away from God, away from heaven, away from home. And toward what? Oh, dear friend, toward what? What are the depths, the fearful depths toward which you are being drawn?”
He said a good deal more, but I did not hear it. That question seemed burned by a red-hot iron into my soul. What are the depths, the fearful depths into which you are being drawn? I could not shake it off. I wished I could get away from the group, but Jack had brought me close to the boat where the choir stood, and there was no way to escape. I would have to stay; it would soon be over, I said to myself.
The service ended with a hymn. Another of their queer, wild, irregular tunes, I thought; I was not going to sing it. But when Jack saw that I did not open my book, he leaned over the side of the boat, and poked my head with his hymnbook. “Sing, big Mr. Jack, sing,” he said aloud, and then I had to find my place and begin. I can still remember the first verse of that hymn, and I think I can recall the tune they sang it to: Oh, tender and sweet was the Master’s voice, As He lovingly called to me: ‘Come over the line! it is only a step—I am waiting My child for thee!’
‘Over the line!’ Hear the sweet refrain! Angels are chanting the heavenly strain!
‘Over the line!’ Why should I remain, With a step between me and Jesus?
I was very relieved when the service was over, and I went at once to the beach to try to walk off the effect the sermon had on me. But I was not as successful as I had been the Sunday before. That question followed me; the very waves seemed to be repeating it. What are the depths, the fearful depths, to which you are being drawn? I hadn’t looked at it in that light before. I’d been willing to own that I was not religious, that I was leading a care-free, easy-going kind of life, that my Sundays were spent in bed, or in novel reading, or in boating, or in some other amusement. I was well aware that I looked at these things very differently from what my mother had done, and I had even wondered sometimes, whether, if she had been spared to me, I should have been a better person than I knew myself to be. But I never for one moment felt any real alarm, or anxiety about my condition.
Yet if this man was right, there was real danger in my position. I was not remaining stationary, as I had thought, but I was being drawn by unseen forces toward something worse, toward the depths, the fearful depths, of which he had spoken.
At times I wished I had never come to Runswick Bay and been made so uncomfortable; at other times I wondered if I had been brought there on purpose to hear those words.
I went back to dinner, but, much to Polly’s distress, I could not enjoy it. It rained hard all afternoon, and as I lay on my bed upstairs I heard Polly washing the dishes and singing the hymn we had had at the service “Come over the line to me.”
There seemed no chance of forgetting the words that had made me so uneasy. That night. I had a strange dream. I thought I was once more on the shore. It was a wild, stormy night; the wind was blowing hard, and the rain was falling, yet through the darkness I could distinguish crowds of figures gathered on the shore. On the side farther from the sea there was a bright light streaming through the darkness.
I wondered in my dream what was going on, and I found that it was a tug of war, taking place in the dark of night. I saw the huge cable, and gradually as I watched, I caught sight of those who were pulling. I walked to the side from which the light streamed, and there I saw a number of holy and beautiful angels with their hands on the rope, and among them I distinctly caught sight of my mother. She seemed to be dragging with all her might, and there was such an earnest, pleading, beseeching expression on her face that it touched my heart to look at her. I noticed that close beside her was the preacher, little Jack’s father, and behind him was Duncan. They were all intent on their work, and took no notice of me, so I walked to the other end of the shore, the one nearest the sea, that I might see who was there. It was very dark at that end of the rope, but I could dimly see evil faces, and dark, strange forms that I could’nt describe. Those on this side seemed to be having it much their own way, I thought, for the weight, whatever it was, was gradually drawing near to the sea, and, lo and behold, I saw that they were close to a terrible place, for mighty cliffs stood above the shore, and they were within a very short distance of a sheer precipice.
Then, as I continued watching, I saw that the precipice was nearly reached, and that both those who pulled and the weight they were dragging were on the point of being hurled over, and suddenly it flashed upon me in my dream that it was my soul for which they were struggling, and I heard the cry of the pullers from the other side of the shore, and it seemed to me that, with one voice, they were calling out that terrible question, “What are the depths, the fearful depths, to which you are being drawn?” And through the streaming light I saw my mother’s face, and a look of anguish crossed it, as suddenly the rope broke, and those who were drawing it on the opposite side went over with a crash, dragging my soul over with them.
I woke in terror, and cried out so loudly that Duncan came running into my room to see what was the matter.
“Nothing, Duncan,” I said, “I was only dreaming; I thought I had gone over a precipice.”
“No, thank God, you’re safe, Sir,” he said. “Shall I open your window a bit? Maybe the room’s stuffy; is it?”
“Thank you, Duncan,” I answered; “I’ll be all right now. I’m so sorry I woke you up.”
“You haven’t done that, Sir; me and Polly have been up all night with the little lad. He’s sort of funny, too, Sir, burning hot, and yet he shivers like, and he clings to his daddy; so I’ve been walking a mile or two with him up and down our bedroom floor, and I heard you calling out, and says Polly, ‘Run and see what ails him.’ So you haven’t disturbed me, Sir, not one little bit, you haven’t.”
He left me then, and 1 tried to sleep, but sleep seemed far from me. I could hear Duncan’s footsteps pacing up and down in the next room; I could hear little John’s fretful cry; I could hear the rain beating against the window; I could hear the sighing and whistling of the wind; I could hear Polly’s old eight-day clock striking the hours and the half-hours of that long, dismal night, but through it all, and above it all, I could hear the preacher’s question, “What are the depths, the fearful depths, to which you are being drawn?”
I found it impossible to close my eyes again, so opened the curtains, and, as morning began to dawn, I watched the pitiless rain and longed for day. The footsteps in the next room ceased as the sky lightened, and I concluded that the tired child was at last asleep. I wished that I was asleep too. I thought how often my mother, when I was a child, must have walked up and down through long weary nights with me. I wondered whether, as she did so, she spent the slow, tedious hours in praying for her boy, and then I wondered how she would have felt, and how she would have borne it, had she known that the child in her arms would grow up living for this world and not for the Christ she loved. I wondered if she did know this now, in the far-off land where she dwelt with God.
I think I must have dozed a little after this, for I was suddenly roused by Polly’s cheery voice, cheery in spite of her bad night “Have a cup of tea, Sir, it’ll do you good. You’ve not slept very well, Duncan says. I’ll put it down by your door.”
I jumped out of bed and brought it in, feeling very grateful to Polly, and I drank it before I dressed.
“I think it must have been a nightmare I had last night, Polly,” I said as I finished my breakfast and began to put my equipment and supplies in order.
Over the Line: Chapter 7
I was at my painting early the next morning, for the sun was shining brightly, and the air was wonderfully clear. My portrait of little Jack sitting in the boat looked promising. As I was hard at work on it that day, I heard a voice behind me.
“I never thought my little lad would have a place in the Royal Academy,” said the voice.
It was the voice of Jack’s father — the voice that had moved me so deeply, the voice that had made me tremble only the day before. Even as he spoke I felt inclined to run away, in case he should ask me again that terrible question that had been ringing in my ears ever since. Even as I talked to him about my picture, and even as he answered in pleasant and friendly tones, through them and above them came the words which were burned on my memory: “What are the depths, the fearful depths, to which you are being drawn.”
“I hope my children are not troublesome to you,” he said.
“Oh, no,” I answered; “I love to have them here, and Jack and I are great friends. Do you know,” I went on, “he took me into your study the other day? I am afraid I was taking a great liberty, but the little fellow would not let me say ‘no’ he wanted me to see the old barrel organ.”
“My dear old organ!” he answered. “Yes, Jack is nearly as fond of it as his father is.”
“His father?” I replied, for it seemed strange to me that a man of his years should care for what appeared to me scarcely better than a broken toy.
“That organ has a history,” he said, as he noticed my surprise. “If you knew the history, you wouldn’t be surprised that I love it. I owe all I am in this world, all I hope to be in the world to come, to that poor old organ. Some day, when you have time to listen, perhaps you might like to hear the story of the organ.”
“Thank you,” I said; “the sooner the better.”
“Then come and have supper with us tonight. Nellie will be very pleased to see you, and the children will be in bed. We will have plenty of time and quiet for story telling.”
I accepted his invitation gratefully, for September had come, and the evenings were growing dark, and my time hung somewhat heavily on my hands. Polly, I think, was not sorry when she heard I was going out, for Duncan was away in the boat fishing, and little John was so feverish and restless that she could not put him down even for a moment.
The cottage looked very bright and cheerful when I arrived, and they gave me a most kind welcome. A small fire was burning in the grate, for the evenings were becoming chilly. The bow-window was hung with India-muslin curtains, tied up with amber ribbon; the walls were decorated with photographs framed in oak. The supper table was covered with a snowy cloth, and a little meal was laid out with the greatest taste and care, while in the center was a china bowl, containing the leaves of the creeper which covered the house, interspersed with yellow bracken and other beautiful leaves, in every varied shade of their autumn beauty. Jack’s mother was evidently a woman of taste. She had a quiet, gentle face, almost sad at times when it was at rest, but she had Jack’s eyes and Jack’s bright smile, which lighted up her face, as a burst of brilliant sunshine will stream suddenly down a dark valley, and fill it with light.
I enjoyed the company of both of them exceedingly, and, as we sat round the table and chatted over our supper, all feeling of constraint passed away, and I no longer heard the words of the question that had troubled me so much all day long. He didn’t mention the organ during the meal. We talked of Runswick Bay and its surroundings, of the fishermen and their life of danger; we spoke of the children and of my picture and hopes to get it displayed in the Royal Academy.
The table was cleared, and we went over to the fire. I had just said to him, “Now for your story,” and he was just beginning to tell it, when, as I sat down in an armchair that Nellie had placed for me by the fire, I noticed a photograph that was hanging in a frame close to the fireplace. I jumped from my seat and looked at it. Surely I couldn’t be mistaken! Surely I knew every feature of it, every fold of the dress, every tiny detail in the face and figure. It was the duplicate of a picture which hung opposite my bed in my London home.
“How on earth did you get that?” I cried. “Why, it’s my mother’s picture!”
I don’t think I’ve ever felt more startled than I did then. After all the thoughts of yesterday, after my dream of last night, after remembering my mother’s words to me, and her prayers for me — after all this, to see her dear eyes looking at me from the wall of the house of this unknown man, in this remote, out-of-the-world spot, almost frightened me.
I didn’t realize at first that my host was almost as startled as I was.
“Your mother!” he repeated, “your mother! Surely not! Do you mean to tell me,” he said, laying his hand on my arm, “that your name is Villiers?” “Of course it is,” I said, “Jack Villiers.”
“Nellie, Nellie,” he cried, for she had gone upstairs to the children, “Come down at once; who do you think this is, Nellie? You’ll never guess. It’s Jack Villiers, the little Jack you and I used to know so well. Why, do you know,” he said, “our own little Jack was named after you, but we haven’t heard of you for years — not since your dear mother died.”
I was too astonished at first to ask him any questions, and he was too delighted to explain where and how he had known me, but after a time, when we had recovered ourselves a little, we drew our chairs round the fire, and he began his story.
“I was a poor little street urchin once,” he said; “a forlorn boy with no one to love him or to care for him. But I made friends with an old man in the attic of the lodging house where I lived who had a barrel organ.”
“That barrel organ?” I asked.
“The very same,” he said, “and he loved it as if it were a child. When he was too ill to take it out himself, I took it for him, and that was how I first saw your mother.”
“Was she married then?” I asked.
“No,” he said, with a smile; “she was quite a little girl, about the age of our Marjorie. She used to run to her nursery window as soon as she heard me begin to play. I let her turn the organ one day, and she said she liked all the tunes, but she liked ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ the best of all.”
“Did she?” I said. “Yes, I’ve often heard her sing it; she sang me to sleep with it many a time.”
“As I played it,” he went on, “she would speak to me of the Home, Sweet Home above. Although she was a child, she knew the way to that home, and she soon found out that I knew nothing about it. ‘You can’t go to heaven if you don’t love Jesus, organ boy,’ she said, and the tears ran down from her eyes as she said it.”
“I couldn’t forget those words, and I was determined to find out the way to the home she spoke of.
“My old master was dying; he had only another month to live, and for his sake I must learn quickly the way to be saved. I attended a mission service, and I learned first that no sin can enter the gates of the heavenly city. But I learned more. I learned that the blood of Jesus Christ, God’s Son, cleanses from all sin. Your mother gave me a bunch of snowdrops to take home with me and taught me the Bible verse, ‘Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.’”
He stopped for a minute or two after this, and gazed into the fire. The memory of those old days had stirred him deeply.
“Please go on,” I said, for I had to hear more.
“She came to our attic after that with her mother. They came to see my old master, and she was pleased to see the snowdrops. She told me that day, that if I would only say her prayer I should be sure to go to be with Jesus in that Home, Sweet Home.
“Soon after this my old master died, and on the very day that I was following him to the grave, I saw my little friend, your mother, Jack, in a funeral procession, following her mother to the same place. After that she went abroad, but she didn’t forget the poor organ boy. She told her father about me, and he sent money for my education, and had me trained to be a city missionary in the east of London, to work among the very people I had lived with. All this I owe to your grandfather.
“I didn’t see your mother again for many years, not until she was married to the clergyman in whose parish I worked.
“We met one day in my old attic, the very attic where my old master had died. She had gone there to visit a sick woman, and as I went in she was reading to her from the very Testament her mother had read to my master from, when she had come to see him in that place, fifteen years before.
“Soon after this Nellie and I were married, and it was your mother who made our little home bright and cheerful for us. She was there to welcome us to it. How we loved her then, and how we love her memory still!
“When you were quite small, she would bring you to see us, and Nellie often used to say you were the dearest, prettiest child she had ever known!”
“I don’t remember it,” I said.
“No, you would be too young to remember it; you were only three years old when your father left London for a parish in the country. Soon after came the news of his death, and only a year or so later we heard your mother was gone too. It was a sad day, Jack, when that news came.
“We often wondered about you; we heard that you had gone to live with an aunt, but we didn’t even know her name. We tried to find out more, but we didn’t know anyone where you lived, and we never heard what had become of you.”
“How strange that I should have been brought here to meet you!” I said.
“No, not strange,” he said soberly. “It is the hand of God.”
And then — I could not help it — I laid my head on my arm as I stood against the mantel, and I sobbed like a child.
He did not speak for some minutes. Then he put his arm round me as tenderly as my mother could have done, and said, “What is it, Jack? Is it talking of your mother that has upset you so?”
“No,” I said, “it isn’t that — I love to talk of her; I love to hear of her; her memory is precious to me; it isn’t that.”
“What then?” he said. “What troubles you, Jack?”
“It’s the thought that I shall never see her again,” I said; “I know I won’t. She went one way, and I am going another.”
“Why not turn round and go her way, Jack?” he said, cheerfully.
“Oh, I can’t” I said; “it’s no use — I can’t turn. There are too many hands on the wrong end of the rope. I’ve been miserable ever since I heard you talk of it. ‘What are the depths, the fearful depths, to which you are being drawn?’ Those words have never left me, night or day, since you uttered them. I have tried to shake them off, but I can’t.”
“Don’t attempt to shake them off,” he said. “Oh, Jack, don’t try to do it, for they are the voice of the Spirit of God. But listen now to the One who is calling you. ‘Come over the line — it is only a step. Come over the line to Me.’ He loves you, Jack, so much that He died on the cross and shed His blood so that you could have your sins forgiven. Won’t you come to Him now?”
“I wish I could,” I said.
“You can do it, and you must do it, Jack,” he said, firmly, “before you leave this room.”
“Before I leave this room?” “Yes, this very instant,” he said.
“But how can I do it? I don’t know how to cross,” I said.
“You are no dead, lifeless weight on the rope, like a boat or a handkerchief. You are living and you must decide. Which way do you want to be drawn? Godward, Christward, heavenward, or to the fearful depths I spoke of. God is drawing you very strongly now. He loves you. He wants you to cross the line to Jesus. He stretches out His arms to you and says, “Come unto Me.” Which side of the line will it be, Jack?”
“Well,” I said, “I will think it over.”
“Many have said that, and their desire to cross the line has cooled down, and they have been lost.”
“I’ll come and have a talk with you another day, later on in the week, if we can make it convenient.”
“A man named Felix after listening to the Apostle Paul said, ‘When I have a more convenient season I
will send for thee.’ But we do not read that he ever sent for Paul again.”
“Well, suppose we say tomorrow. It’s late now, and you’re tired, I know, and—”
“God says today,” he said. “‘Today, if ye will hear His voice, harden not your hearts. Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.’”
“Tell me how I can come,” I said.
“ ‘Come over the line to Me.’ There you have it,” he answered. “The Lord calls you, and you have not far to go. It is only a step. He stands in this room close to you. He holds out His arms to you. He calls, and He waits to receive you. Jack, will you come?”
“Yes, I will,” I said, earnestly; “I will come.”
We knelt down together. I can’t remember the words he said, but I know that whenever I read those words in the first chapter of John’s gospel, “He brought him to Jesus,” I think of that night. I don’t think that Peter and Andrew felt the Lord Jesus more near them by the sea side than we felt Him in that little room in Runswick Bay.
I know He was there, and I know something more — I know that I came to Him. And I know that that night, before we rose from our knees, I crossed the line, and I was able to take my place among the glad, thankful people who can say humbly and yet confidently, “We know that we have passed from death unto life.”
A Night of Storm: Chapter 8
I got back to my lodging late, walking like one in a dream. Polly who opened the door seemed troubled about the child. Little John was evidently in pain, for I heard him moaning as I went upstairs.
“I think you should call a doctor, Polly,” I said.
“So Duncan says, Sir; we shall have to send for him in the morning if John is no better.”
I slept calmly and peacefully, and I woke up feeling as though I were beginning an entirely new life. From now on I was not my own. I was standing on the heavenward side of the line, and I had taken my place among the servants of Christ. I had never felt so happy before.
Duncan had set off for the doctor before I was down that morning. Little John was better, Polly said, but was still very feverish and would eat nothing. She brought him down wrapped in a blanket, and I thought he looked very ill, but I didn’t like to say so.
Duncan came in just then. The child put out his arms to his father, and he took him on his knee by the fire. When I came home to dinner he was still lying there.
“Has the doctor seen him?” I asked.
“No, Sir; he was out when I called this morning. He had gone ten miles away to see a seriously ill patient, they said, but I left a message. I hope he’ll come before I go this evening. I would be more comfortable if he did.”
However, the evening came, and Duncan’s mates were whistling for him from the shore, and the doctor hadn’t appeared. The boy was still in his father’s arms, and he was walking up and down the kitchen to soothe him.
“It’s hard to leave him, Sir,” he said, when he heard the whistle, “but he seems a bit better, I think, this afternoon; he hasn’t cried so much, has he, Polly?”
But I saw there were tears in his eyes as he gave the boy to his mother.
“I’ll walk with you to the shore, Duncan,” I said, for I saw that he was very downcast.
“Thank you kindly, Sir,” he answered.
I stood on the shore while the nets and fishing tackle were put on board, then he said in a low voice, “It’s a comfort to feel you will be near my poor wife tonight, Sir. It cuts me to the heart to leave her; if anything happens to little John, whatever would me and my missus do! But the Lord knows, Sir — He knows,” he repeated, and he wiped away a tear which fell on my hand as he grasped it.
I went back to Duncan’s house, and found the doctor there. It was influenza and pneumonia, he said, and the boy must be kept in one room. He was a very silent man, and whether he thought it was a serious case or not I couldn’t discover.
I decided not to go to bed that night, but instead to sit up in case I should be needed. I was really glad of the quiet time for thought and prayer.
I am ashamed to confess that I hadn’t brought a Bible with me to Runswick Bay. I hadn’t opened a Bible for years. But when all was quiet in the house, I crept quietly downstairs, and brought up Duncan’s Bible, which was lying on the top of the oak cupboard below. What a well-worn, well-read Bible it was! I wondered if my mother’s Bible had been read like that. There was his name on the title page, “John Duncan, from his affectionate father.” It had evidently been given to him when he was a boy, and underneath the name was written this verse: “Open Thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of Thy law.” I prayed briefly before I began to read the Bible, and I’ve done so ever since.
About twelve o’clock that night the weather became very stormy. A sudden gale set in, and in a very short time the sea was lashed into a fury. I have never heard wind like the wind that night. It literally shrieked and moaned as it blew; every window and door in the house rattled, and sometimes I felt as if the cottage itself would be swept away.
“What a time they must be having out at sea!” I said to myself.
I went to the window, and putting out my candle, I tried to see out into the darkness, but I couldn’t distinguish anything through the black sky and heavy rain.
It must have been about one o’clock that I heard a step on the stairs. I opened my door and went out. It was Polly.
“How is he, Polly?” I asked.
“Very bad, Sir; very bad,” she said. “He doesn’t know me now, and he won’t take anything, and oh, Sir, do you hear the wind?”
Who could help hearing it? It raged more furiously every moment, and the house seemed to rock with the violence of the storm.
“Let me help you, Polly,” I said. “Let me come and sit with you beside little John.”
“Well, Sir, if you would just stay a few minutes while I fetch Betty Green,” she said. “I feel as if I must not be alone any longer. I’m getting that nervous, what with little John talking so strangely, Sir, and the wind blowing so awful, and his father on the sea”, and Polly burst into tears.
“Polly,” I said, “God is on the sea as well as on the land. Go and get Betty, and I will sit by the child.”
She went down and opened the door. The wind rushed into the house and up the stairs. I had to shut the bedroom door hastily to keep it out. Then I heard Polly pulling and pulling at it, and vainly trying to shut it, and I had to go down to help her. She was gone several minutes, for she had difficulty in rousing her neighbor, and I sat beside the unconscious child. He was talking the whole time, but I could distinguish little of what he said. It seemed to be chiefly about going with his daddy in his boat, and every now and then he would call out quite loudly, “Come, Daddy! come, Daddy, to little John.”
When Polly returned with Betty, I again had to go down to help them to close the door.
“What do you think of him, Sir?” said Polly.
I didn’t like to say what I thought, so I answered, “Well, perhaps it would be as well to get the doctor to have another look at him. I’ll go for him if you like.”
“I don’t believe you could manage it, Sir,” said Betty. “You can’t stand outside; me and Polly have been clinging to the fence all the way, and it will be terrible up on the top.”
“Shall I try, Polly?”
She gave me a grateful look, but didn’t answer by words. Then the two women gave me long a description of the way to the doctor’s house, interrupting each other so often, that at length both talked together in their eagerness to make it clear to me. By the end I was more bewildered and hopelessly puzzled than at the beginning, and I determined to go to Mr. Christie before I started, in order to get full, clear directions.
It took me a full ten minutes to reach his house, and I felt as if I had gone through a battle when I arrived there at last, tired and breathless. I saw a light in the lower room and I found Mr. Christie and his wife and children sitting in the room where I had passed through so much the night before. Marjorie and little Jack were in their pajamas, wrapped in a blanket, and sitting in the same armchair.
“What a terrible night!” said Mrs. Christie. “The children were so frightened by the noise of the wind in their attic that we brought them down here.”
I told them my errand, and Mr. Christie at once offered to go with me for the doctor. I’ll never forget that walk as long as I live. We could not speak to each other more than a few necessary words. We were simply fighting with the storm. Then, to our disappointment we found that the doctor was away, and would probably not return until morning.
The wind was dead against us as we came down the cliff and made the walk home worse than the walk there. It had changed some the last hour, and was now blowing from the northeast.
“There will be trouble out at sea,” Mr. Christie said, as we stopped to take a breath.
“And what about the boats?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, almost with a groan, “what about the boats?”
We could see very little out at sea, though it was beginning to grow light, but we decided to make our way to the shore to see as much as possible. He went home for a moment, and then followed me to my lodging. Polly and her old friend were still watching the child.
“I think he’s a little better, Sir,” she said; “he’s quieter. Oh, Mr. Christie, I am glad to see you, Sir. Will you pray, Sir? I think I shall hear the wind less if you pray!”
We knelt down beside the child’s bed, but the noise of the storm almost drowned his voice. At the end of the prayer the child began once more to cry for his father, so piteously, so beseechingly, that at last I could bear it no longer, but ran downstairs to be out of the sound of that touching little voice. Mr. Christie soon followed me, and we went out together in the gray light of that terrible morning.
“The child is dying, Jack,” he said.
“Oh, don’t say so, Mr. Christie,” I answered; “dying before his father comes back.”
“God grant he may come back,” he said; “look at the sea, Jack.”
The sea was dashing wildly against the rocks, and the noise of the wind was so great we could hardly hear our own voices. In the dim uncertain light we could barely distinguish a group of anxious watchers on the shore. Some old fishermen were there trying to hold a telescope steady in the gale, so that they could look across the water for any sign of a boat. Mothers and wives and sweethearts of the absent fishermen were there also, with scarves tied over their heads, and with troubled and tear-stained faces, peering out into the dismal morning light.
Mr. Christie and I stood near them, and he spoke from time to time a word of encouragement and hope to the anxious women beside him. As the light increased, the wind dropped somewhat, and the gale seemed to have spent its violence. We thankfully noticed that although the sea was still very rough and would be for hours, the wind was gradually subsiding, instead of howling and shrieking, as it had done the whole night long. But still there was no sign of the boats.
The women on the shore were wet through, and Mr. Christie tried to persuade them to go home. Their men would want good fires and hot tea on their return, he told them, and they ought to make ready for them. I was glad to notice that one by one they followed his advice, and turned to climb the hill toward their cottages. Then we turned also, and went back to my lodging. We crept into the room and found old Betty asleep in her chair, and Polly holding John’s little hand in hers as the child slept.
“Have the boats come, Sir?” she said as we went in.
“Not yet, Polly, but if it please God they will come soon.”
We sat down beside her for a little time, but we presently heard a shout from the shore.
“Thank God,” said Polly, “he’s come.”
The child seemed in some strange way to have heard that shout, and to have understood its meaning, for he opened his eyes and said, “Come, Daddy, come to little John.”
We hurried down to the shore, where a large crowd had already collected. The whole of Runswick Bay seemed to have gathered together in that short time. We could see distinctly the boats far out at sea, but wind and tide were with them, and they were coming rapidly nearer. What a night they must have had, and what a welcome they would receive from the watchers on the shore.
“How many boats went out last night, Bob?” said one man as they drew nearer.
“There was eight, Jem,” he said — “the Jane Ann one, Lady Hilda two, the Susan three, the Mary Ann four, Princess Alice five, the Lightning six, the Eliza seven, the Alert eight.”
“Are you sure, Bob?”
“Quite sure, I saw them start.”
“Well, there’s one missing, Jem,” he said; “look through this telescope and count.”
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.”
There was one missing, and I felt that I knew which it was before they came in sight.
It was the Mary Ann.
Ask What Ye Will: Chapter 9
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.”
We Know: Chapter 10
The next day Duncan was able to tell us what had happened during that terrible night. It seems he was separated from the other boats by the very first outburst of the gale, and never saw them again through the rest of that stormy night. For a considerable time he and his mates, by straining every nerve, were able to keep the water out of their boat, but as the night went on, and the sea grew rougher, and the waves seemed mountains high, they had to admit that it was hopeless. “At that time,” said Duncan, “I just trusted my soul to Christ, for I expected the next wave to sweep us to the bottom.
“Was I frightened, Sir, did you say? No, I think not; I felt more awed Like, if you understand, and, in those few moments, all sorts of thoughts seemed to be running through my head. But through them all was the thought of my poor wife, of Polly and little John. Yes, Sir, of Polly and little John, and I cried to Him who alone could help me, ‘O God,’ I said, ‘save me, for Polly and little John want me so bad.’ And He heard my prayer, Sir. I’ve often thought how those fishermen cried to Him in the storm that day, ‘Master, save us, we perish,’ they said, and He heard their cry, didn’t He, Sir? And He heard mine.
“Yes, He heard my prayer, for when the wave did come which turned us over, the Mary Ann was turned upside down and we caught hold on her. We clung on for dear life, Sir, but we couldn’t have clung there many minutes, for the sea was cold and icy. Our hands were almost frozen. But God Almighty knew how to save us. In less than ten minutes after we went overboard, He sent a steamer to pick us up. And they were good to us, Sir. They warmed us, and gave us hot coffee, and lent us dry clothes, and they ran into the Hull docks in the afternoon and landed us there. Well, Sir, you may be sure I came home as quick as ever I could, for I thought maybe I should never see my boy again. Hasn’t God been good to us, now hasn’t he, Sir?” he concluded, as he gently patted his little boy’s hand.
The doctor gave a much better report of little John that day, although he said he was not yet out of danger. But from that time he improved slowly but steadily, and before very long he was able to lie once more in his father’s arms, and to stroke his face with his little thin hand.
I was very touched to see the love and the gratitude of both Duncan and Polly. They couldn’t say enough about the help and comfort I had given them in their time of trouble. If I had been a prince, I don’t think they could have made more of me, and I think I would have been completley spoiled if I had stayed in Runswick Bay much longer.
I hadn’t touched my picture that week, for while our anxiety lasted I had no desire to paint. On Saturday I saw Marjorie and little Jack giving out their pink papers, and I went to meet them.
“One for you, big Mr. Jack,” said the merry little boy, as he threw it up in the air for me to catch.
The subject for the following day I saw was to be these two words — WE KNOW. I thought, as I put the paper in my pocket, how much had passed since last Sunday. I thought how differently I felt about the service on the shore than I had when I received the last pink paper. I certainly didn’t want to run away to Kettleness, to be out of the way when it took place.
Sunday morning was bright and beautiful, and little John was so much better that his father was able to leave him and to take his place in the choir. I stood close to the old boat, and Jack put his hand in mine, and let me look at his hymnbook as he sang.
The congregation was large. The fine day had tempted them out, and I think the recent danger of their companions and their narrow escape from death had stirred the hearts of the fishermen and made many of them feel the need to think about serious things.
“My mates are all here today, Sir,” whispered Duncan, as he went forward to take his place in the boat. “It’s the first time I’ve been able to persuade them to come. They see the good of it now, Sir, you see.”
Never have I heard any man pray more earnestly for a blessing than Mr. Christie did that day, but I don’t think even he prayed more earnestly than I did. My whole heart went out to God that day, for wasn’t it my first Sunday on the right side of the line?
And then came the address. I never noticed a congregation more attentive than the one gathered on the shore that September morning. I can remember even now a good deal of the sermon.
“WE KNOW,” he said. “Those are strong words, confident words. It isn’t We imagine or We think. It isn’t even We hope, that would be wonderful, but it is something clearer and far more distinct than that. It is WE KNOW.
“If I were to ask you fishermen, you visitors, you mothers, you little children, this question: Do you imagine you are on the shore now? Do you think you are here today? Do you hope you are listening to me? What would you answer me?
“You would say, `Mr. Christie, it’s not a case of imagining, or thinking, or hoping; we know we’re here; we’re sure of it.’
“Now notice; ‘know’ is the strong, confident word used in my text today. The holy Apostle John stands side by side with all of us who have come to Christ, and he tells us to join with him in these glad, happy, thankful words, ‘We know that we have passed from death unto life.’ We know, we are persuaded, we are sure, that we are on the right side of the line. We know that we have left the company of the servants of sin, and are now the servants of the Lord Jesus Christ.
“Dear friends, I earnestly ask each of you, Can you say that? Can you take your stand by the Apostle John, and say, ‘I know that I have passed from death unto life”?
“I think I hear some one answer in his heart, ‘Well, that’s a great deal for any man to say, and I don’t see that any man can know in this life if he is saved or not. When he gets to heaven he’ll know he is all right, but not till then.’
“Now look again at my text. It doesn’t say, ‘We shall know’; it doesn’t say, ‘We hope soon to know,’ but it speaks in the present. It clearly states: ‘We know that we have passed from death unto life.’ So you see it is possible, in fact it is right, that you and I should, one by one, take up the words and say, ‘Know.’
“Do I hear some one saying in his heart, wish I could say that. I would be a happier man if I could. When I go out in my boat, and the storm rages and I don’t know whether I’ll ever see land again, it would be comforting if I could look up through the wind and tempest, and say gladly, I know that I have passed from death unto life’? “
I thought I heard a groan when he said this, and I looked round and saw one of Duncan’s mates burying his face in his hands.
“Do I hear one of you mothers say, ‘When I lie awake at night, and the baby won’t let me sleep, and I get out and look out my window at the stars shining down upon me, I would give a great deal to say, as I think of the heaven above those stars, I know that I have passed from death unto life.’?
“And you, my friend, when the day comes, as come it will, when you lie on your bed, and you see by the doctor’s face that you will never get out of it again, when you say to yourself, as the neighbors sit around you, ‘I am going to die, and they are watching to see me die,’ oh, what would you not give at that solemn time to be able to say, ‘I know that I have passed from death unto life’?
“Do you want to be able to say it? You cannot want it more than God wants to hear you say it. The Lord Jesus Christ stands on the shore beside us today, and He yearns with unutterable longing, that each man, each woman, each child here present, should be able to take up the words of my text, and say, ‘I know that I have passed from death unto life.’”
Then he went on to tell us that it wasn’t a long, weary journey that we had to travel to reach the Christ. He was present among us now. He was very near to each one of us. His arms were wide open. He was waiting to receive each one who was willing to cross the line; one step would be sufficient, one step into those open arms. Then we ended by singing a hymn, which seemed to me a very beautiful one: Only a step to Jesus!
Believe and thou shalt live: Lovingly now He’s waiting, And ready to forgive.
Only a step to Jesus!
Oh, why not come and say Gladly to Thee, my Savior, I give myself away.
Only a step, only a step, Come, He waits for thee; Come, and thy sin confessing, Thou shalt receive a blessing: Do not reject the mercy He freely offers thee.
I was glad to see at the end of the service that Duncan’s mate was still sitting by the old boat with his hands over his face. He had evidently felt the sermon very much, and, when he got up to go home after the others had left, I saw Mr. Christie walking beside him.
That was a lovely Sunday evening. The storm of the week before seemed to have cleared the air, and there was a golden light over everything, until the sun went down behind the hill. I spent the evening at Mrs. Christie’s for Polly was still fully occupied with the child, and wasn’t able to do much of the work downstairs. Duncan did the cooking now, and the washing up and the cleaning, and I never saw a more handy man. He waited on me hand and foot, but I felt that I was giving the dear fellow a great deal of trouble, and was glad to accept Mrs. Christie’s invitation to have supper at their house.
Little Jack welcomed me with the greatest joy. He was so delighted to have me there at tea, and watched me with so much delight from his chair by my side, that he forgot to eat his own meal, and had to be recalled from his admiration of me, time after time, by his mother. After tea he told her he had a great secret to confide to her; he dragged her from the room and led her upstairs, and then with closed doors, and in a whisper so low that she could scarcely distinguish the words, he told her solemnly, “I do love big Mr. Jack very much.”
After we came down, Mrs. Christie lighted the lamp, and we were sitting around the cozy fire talking of my mother, there suddenly came a knock at the outer door.
“Who can it be?” said Mrs. Christie, hastily. “Someone must be ill, I think; so few people come on Sunday.”
She was going to the door, but her little maid had already opened it, and coming into the parlor she announced “There’s a gentleman, Sir, at the door, says as how he wants Mr. Villiers, Sir.”
“A gentleman!” I repeated, in astonishment, “wanting me!”
“Yes, Sir, he says he wants you very particular, he does.”
I went quickly to the door, wondering who could be there, and to my great astonishment I found my friend Tom Bernard, with a black bag in his hand, eagerly awaiting me.
“Found at last, old chap,” he cried when he saw me; “why, I’ve been hunting for you all over in this rabbit-warren of a place, till finally some fishermen told me you were in here.”
“And what are you doing here, Tom?” I exclaimed.
“Doing here! Why, I’ve come to see you, of course, old fellow; what else should I come for? I set off early this morning, and I thought I would give you a bit of a surprise. Are these your lodgings?”
“No,” I said, “I’m only spending the evening here, but I’ll come back with you at once.”
I went in for a moment to explain my sudden departure to Mr. and Mrs. Christie, and then I went with Tom to my lodgings. He looked vastly amused when he saw Duncan’s house, and when I told him that I had been there all the time he seemed to think it a big joke.
“There’s no room for me, I’m afraid,” he said, as he looked with an amused smile round my bedroom.
“No, indeed, Tom,” I said, “and joking apart I wouldn’t ask you to come here if there was room; the hotel at the top of the hill will suit you better.”
Polly was sitting beside little John, but I tapped at the door, and told her a friend of mine had just arrived from London, and asked her if she thought it would be possible to get him some tea. Just at this moment Duncan came in, and he and Polly did all in their power to please my guest. The whitest tablecloth was spread on the round table, the very finest herrings were cooked, slice after slice of crisp brown toast was buttered and put before the fire to keep hot, and all was ready in so short a time that Tom was astonished.
He did full justice to the meal, and seemed to appreciate my quarters better after he had eaten. Then he said he was tired out, so I walked with him up to the hotel. He was in high spirits, and was looking forward to the time we were to have there together, and to all the walks we should take to the nearby places.
Was I glad that he had come? I asked myself this question many times that night. I was fond of Tom; he had been like a brother to me, and yet — and yet — I wished he hadn’t come to Runswick Bay.
Why? Why would I have kept him away if I could? I asked myself this question many times as I came slowly down the hill that night.
Was it because it would be a hindrance to my work? No, for my picture had made good progress, and I could finish it up even better in my studio at home. Besides that, Tom was a good-natured fellow, and would sit chatting in the old boat while I painted.
Was it that I wanted to be quiet, and to enjoy my present surroundings without interruption? No, surely, for Tom’s company had always been pleasant to me, and I couldn’t look on him as a stranger.
Why was it, then, that I felt almost sorry that he had followed me here? I had a suspicion of the right answer to that question, but I didn’t admit it, even to myself, till I entered my lodging.
Duncan was reading a chapter aloud to Polly, as he always did before going to bed. He stopped when he saw me come in, but I said, “Go on, Duncan, never mind me; I’d like to listen.” And the very first words that Duncan read seemed to me to contain the answer to my question.
Yes, that was the reason. I was sorry that Tom had come, because I was ashamed of my Master. Since I had seen Tom last I had changed my service. I used to be a servant of sin, living for self, pleasing self in all things. Now, I had crossed the line, I had joined the company of Christ’s servants, and I was afraid of Tom’s finding it out.
In London I thought I should have seen less of him, and it would have dawned on him gradually, but here he would discover it at once. And I dreaded his doing so. Yes, I was a downright coward, ashamed of the One who had died for me. This was not a comfortable thought, but I was convinced that it was the truth.
What would be the best thing to do? Should I say anything to Tom about it in the morning? I thought at first that I would speak, and I made up several sentences that I meant to begin with, but the more I thought of it the more my courage failed me, and I decided at length that my best plan would be to let Tom find out for himself.
Little Jack and Big Jack: Chapter 11
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.”
Where Are You Going? Chapter 12
I'll never forget my last Sunday in Runswick Bay. It was at the end of September, and was one of those gloriously brilliant days that we get in the early autumn, when the sky is cloudless, the air is fresh and clear, and the autumn colors on trees, hedges, ferns and brambles make the landscape extremely beautiful.
The high cliff above the bay was a perfect study in color that morning. I've never seen more splendid coloring; every varied shade of red and gold and green was to be found there.
"Tom will be off to Scarborough," I said to myself as I dressed. "What grand weather he has for his trip!"
But I didn't wish to be with him. No, I was thankful to look forward to a quiet and peaceful Sunday.
Not many visitors were still at Runswick; most had left the week before, but the fishermen came in great numbers to the service, and the shore was covered with them when little Jack and big Jack appeared, hand-in-hand as usual. Duncan was in the choir, but Polly thought the wind was too cold for little John, so she stayed home with him. A good many women and children were present, however, and the bank was covered with mothers and babies, sitting farther back so that the noise of the children wouldn't disturb the preacher or the listeners.
What made me think of Tom just as the service began? Was it a shepherd's plaid cloth cap, the kind Tom wears, that I saw on the head of some visitor who was sitting almost out of sight on the seaward side of the bank? Little things remind us of people sometimes, and my thoughts wandered to Scarborough for a few minutes, and I wondered what Tom was doing at that moment. I thought to myself how he would smile if he saw me sitting near the old boat and listening attentively to an open-air preacher.
But my thoughts did not wander long, for when the service began every word of it seemed to be for me.
Where are you going? I had worked the subject out in my mind before I came to the service, and had quite decided what line of thought Mr. Christie would take. I thought he would picture the two roads, the one leading to life, the other to destruction. Then I imagined that he would speak of the blessedness of being on the narrow road, and would dwell very vividly on the awful consequences of continuing to walk on the road leading to hell. I was wrong.
"Where are you going? My question today," he said, "is addressed only to some of you; I wish I could address it to you all! I speak today to those who have crossed the line, who have run into the loving Savior's arms, who have become servants of Christ.
"My friends, my dear friends, where are you going? What does the Master say? He calls to every one of His servants, and He says, 'If any man serve Me, let him follow Me, and where I am there shall also my servant be.
"Servant of Christ, where are you going? The Master answers you, WHERE I AM.
"And where is that? A little group of men is standing on the Mount of Olives. Above them is the deep blue sky, and they are gazing earnestly upward, for their Master is rising far above them, and even as they watch, a cloud receives Him out of their sight.
Yet still He ascends higher and yet higher, and, as He rises, countless angels attend Him. He is joined by company after company of the heavenly host, who have come out to meet their King. Heaven's gates are reached, and the cry goes forth, ' Lift up your heads O ye gates, even lift them up ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory shall come in.' Amidst heaven's most joyful music the Master passes within to the Heavenly Jerusalem, the glad, glorious Home. Every care, every sin, every sorrow is left outside; within all is sunshine, all is joy. And as heaven's gates are closing, we hear the Master's voice. He leaves us a word of hope, 'Where I am, there shall also My servant be.'
"Oh, fishermen, oh, friends, think of that! If you are His servants, those gates will open for you. Your life may be hard now. Some of you have large families, and heavy work, and long, cold, comfortless nights tossing on the stormy sea, but never mind. Home is coming; heaven is coming, for "Where I am, there shall also My servant be.'
"But that's not all. There is something more wonderful still. For where is the Master now? He isn't only inside the gates of the city, He isn't only walking through the golden streets, but He's in the midst of the glory of God. He has sat down on the right hand of the throne of God. Will you and I, dear friends, ever dare to go near that throne? Will not the glory be too dazzling? Will not the place be holy ground, too holy for us to approach? Will He allow us to draw near to His footstool, and even there, close to His glory, to lie low before Him.
"What, on the throne of God! Yes, even there He bids you come, for what does He say? 'To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with Me in My throne, even as I also overcame, and am set down with My Father in His throne.' Oh, what a wonderful promise! We could never have believed it; we could never even have dreamed of such a thing, if the Master had not told us Himself."
And then he concluded by asking us to remember our glorious future. "Sometimes," he said, "you get downhearted, full of sorrow and fear, and you say, 'I shall never be a good servant.' Oh, dear friends, it is worth an effort, for at the end lies Home, and the Master's 'Well done.' There stands the throne of God, with a place waiting for you upon it. 'Where I am, there shall also My servant be.'
"What if you have to bear something for the Master's sake? What if you have to give up friends or comforts for Him? What if you have to take up your cross and follow Him? It is only for a few days, only for a little while, and Home is coming. 'Where I am, there shall also My servant be.' Isn't it worthwhile?"
Then, as he ended, he spoke a few words to all who were there, and he begged those who were not servants of Christ, to consider what they were losing. "All this might be yours," he said, "the wide-open gates, the Heavenly City, the seat on the glorious Throne, but you're turning your backs on it all, and you're choosing instead—what? A few of earth's fleeting pleasures, a little of this world's passing enjoyment. Oh, dear friends, think before it's too late, what your eternal loss will be!"
He said much more, but I can't remember it now. I only know that I came away feeling that I had been very near the golden gates he spoke of, and had heard the Master's voice saying to me, "Where I am, there shall also My servant be."
The tide was coming in as we left the service, and I was standing on the shore watching the waves rolling in over the rocks, when I felt an arm slipped through mine, and when I looked round, to my great surprise, I found that it was Tom.
"Why, Tom!" I said, "back already? You've come home early!"
"Back, Jack?" he said, laughing; "why, I've never been."
"Do you mean you haven't been to Scarborough?"
"No, of course not. You didn't think I would go without you, old boy. We'll go tomorrow, of course. I thought we settled that last night."
"Why, I've been thinking of you in Scarborough all day!" I said.
"Then your thoughts have gone in a wrong direction for once, Jack," he replied, "for I've been here all the time."
"I'll walk with you up the hill," I said. "It isn't quite dinner time."
I was very pleased to see him, and to find that he didn't appear to be annoyed with me. We talked for a while, and then he said casually, " Ele doesn't speak badly, that preacher of yours, Jack."
I stood still in astonishment. "Who?" I said, "Mr. Christie? Why you surely weren't at the service, Tom! Oh, I know," I cried, before he could answer, "you were behind the sand bank; I saw a black and white cap, and I thought how much it was like yours "
"It couldn't be much more like, since it was mine," said Tom.
"I'm so glad you heard him," I ventured to say.
He didn't answer, so I thought it was better not to say anything else, but when we reached the top of the hill, and he was just leaving me, he said: "Jack, I'm afraid I was a bit cross last night. You mustn't think any more of it, old fellow. We'll have a good day at Scarborough tomorrow. And Jack," he went on, "I was very much annoyed at the time, I admit I was, but I'm not sure after all that you're not right."
He said no more, but hurried away, and it was many years before he referred to the subject again, but the day came when he did mention it. Then he told me, with tears in his eyes, that he looked upon that Sunday at Runswick as the first link in the chain of God's loving Providence, by which He had led him to Himself. He told me then that he had never forgotten my firm refusal to go with him, and he had never forgotten the sermon that he had listened to, hidden from sight by the sandbank.
Our day at Scarborough exceeded all our anticipations. The weather was glorious, and Tom was in excellent spirits, and we thoroughly enjoyed everything.
I couldn't help feeling sorry when Thursday came, which was to be my last day at Runswick Bay. It had been such a happy and eventful time. I seemed to have passed through so much, and to have learned so much unknown to me before, that I felt very reluctant to bring my holiday to a close. As for Duncan and Polly, they were quite sad to think of my leaving.
"We shall feel lost without you, Sir," said Duncan. "We won't know what to do." There were tears in Polly's eyes as she said mournfully, when she set the herrings on the table for my supper, "These are the last herrings I shall fry you, Sir, and. I feel as if there was going to be a death in the house."
"Cheer up, Polly," I said, "who knows? Perhaps you may have to put up with me the next time I get a holiday, and you may be sure I'll want plenty of herrings then."
She brightened a little at this, and little John, who was quite well now, and who had become very friendly with me since his illness, climbed up on my knee, and stroked my face with his little thin hand, as if he were trying to coax me to come back to them again.
There was one thing that I had a great desire to do before leaving Runswick. I knew that Duncan was troubled about the Mary Ann. She had been terribly damaged by the storm, and although Duncan had tried to mend her, she leaked in several places, and was completely unseaworthy. He had been obliged to hire a boat until the Mary Ann could be properly repaired. Then he went over to Whitby and brought an experienced man back with him. The expert examined her thoroughly, and gave his opinion that it would be a waste of money to try to patch her up.
When Duncan came in that night I saw that he was terribly downcast. "The Mary Ann's days are numbered, Sir; she'll never be able to rough it again," he said. "She's been a good old boat to me and my father before me, and it will be like parting from an old friend to give her up. That man says she might be patched up a bit, but you would never make a good job of her. She might do well enough for fine weather, but you couldn't trust her in a storm."
I saw Polly turn pale as he said this. "Duncan," she said, going up to him, and laying her hand on his arm, "you'll never go in her again; promise me that. Think of me and little John, Duncan."
"Yes, my dear," he said. "Yes, Polly I do think of you and little John, but the worst of it is there's bread must be earned for you and little John. I can't let you starve, wife."
"What about the bankbook, Duncan?" I said.
He went to the old oak chest, and brought it out. I was much touched by his handing it to me, and telling me to see how much it contained. He was perfectly open with me, and spoke to me as freely as if I had been an old and trusted friend. I added up the amount and read it out to him.
"Well, Sir," he said, "it's getting on, but I don't have quite enough yet. We shall have to hire Brown's boat for a bit and do as well as we can, though it isn't a very paying business when one takes to hiring. It will be hard enough to make both ends meet, you see, Sir, let alone saving up for the new boat. But I can't see anything else to do, Sir, that is, if Polly won't let me risk it in the Mary Ann."
"Duncan," she said, solemnly, "if you went to sea in the Mary Ann, and she went to the bottom, I could never say, 'The will of the Lord be done,' for I don't believe it would be God's will for you to go in that rotten old thing."
"Well, Sir," he said, "I see what you mean, you and Polly too. The Lord will show us what's to be done."
Nothing more was said about the Mary Ann at that time, but I had already made my own plan about the new boat. My aunt had recently left me her considerable savings. I felt as though I were a rich man, for in addition to money invested in various ways, quite a large amount of available money had been placed to my account at the bank.
What would be more delightful, I thought, than to use part of this in helping Duncan to complete the purchase of the new boat? The only difficulty would be to get Duncan to accept the money, for he had all the honest independence of a Yorkshireman, and I knew he would hesitate about receiving help from anyone. But, at the same time, I knew that in this instance his need was great, and his kindly feeling toward myself was so strong, that I hoped that I would be able to give him the money without giving offense. I thought, at first that I would take Mr. Christie into my confidence, and consult with him, but on second thought I decided it would be wiser not to do so, and felt that I would be more likely to succeed if no one else was in on the secret. So I folded the money in paper, put it into an envelope, and wrote outside, "With little John's love to his daddy, to help him to buy another Little John." This I decided to slip into the child's hand when I said goodbye.
That evening I had supper with the Christies. They were kindness itself, and told me what a great pleasure it had been to them to meet me. "Not only because you are your mother's son, Jack, but for your own sake as well," said Mr. Christie with a smile.
I wanted to say something in return, but the words wouldn't come—at least not then. But, just before I
left, I went with Mr. Christie into his study, and he said, "Jack, I thought perhaps we might have prayer together before we part," and then the words came.
"Mr. Christie," I said, "I can never, never thank God enough that I came here."
"Let's thank Him together, Jack," he said.
Then we knelt down, he by the table, and I with my arms resting on the old organ, and he thanked God for His mercy in bringing me safely along the road which leads Home.
The next morning I was up early, for our train was to leave at eight, and we had two miles to walk. I had told Polly I would want only a cup of tea before I set off, but when I came down I found a most tempting breakfast prepared for me—ham and eggs, and toast in abundance, and fresh lettuce from Duncan's small garden.
"Well, Polly," I said, "you are spoiling me to the last."
"We can never make enough of you, Sir," said Polly, and there were tears in her eyes as she said it.
I ran up to pack my bag and collect my things, and 1 determined to start in good time, so that I might allow myself a few minutes to say good-bye to the Christies "I must be off, Duncan," I said.
He was standing outside with little John in his arms, and Polly, with her hat on, was standing beside him.
"We're coming along with you, Sir, to the station," said Duncan. "You won't mind will you, Sir, but Polly and little John and I would like to walk to the station with you."
"That is good of you," I said, "I'll have a grand escort up the hill!"
Polly took the child from his father, and Duncan carried my bag and easel, and would not even hear of my giving him a hand with them.
I ran up to the Christie's house, but couldn't find anyone to answer the door. However I heard a great running backward and forward overhead, and presently Mr. Christie called out of the bedroom window, "Wait one moment, Jack; we're all coming to see you off."
So my escort increased as we proceeded, and Tom, as he came out of the hotel, said he thought the whole of Runswick must be going by the early train when he saw us, one after another, come toiling up the hill. Little Jack rode up the whole way on my back, and his horse was very hot when we reached the top.
Though it is now so many years ago, I can see that little party of friends standing together on the platform, as the train moved out of the station. I can feel the warm grasp of Mr. Christie's hand, and can hear his whispered, "God bless you, Jack." I can see Mrs. Christie holding Marjorie by the hand, and waving her handkerchief to me, and can hear little Jack crying out, "Come back soon, big Mr. Jack." I can see Duncan bareheaded, with little John in his arms, the child waving the envelope that I had put in his hand as I stepped into the train, and which was still unopened. I can see Polly wiping her eyes with her apron, and then holding it up and waving it till I was out of sight. I can see them all as they appeared to me that day, kind hearts and true, not one of them considered great by the world and yet all of them well known to Him who "calleth His own sheep by name and leadeth them out."
I had a very touching letter from Duncan at the end of that week. The spelling was most wonderful, and the grammar was quite of his own making, but it was full, from end to end, of the most simple-hearted affection, and of the deepest gratitude.
"Me, and my missus, and little John, can never be thankful enough, Sir," he said, "and when the other Little John is afloat, as please God she soon will be, we hope you will come and have a sail in her."
So ended my visit to Runswick, and when I consider all that happened during those few weeks, I think it is small wonder that the little bay is still fresh in my memory, and that my Ella's yellow flowers made me dream of it so distinctly. Surely that month was the most important month in my life, for it was the beginning of a new life in Christ.
I can say today, even as I said then, "One is my Master, even Christ," and I look forward to the time when the golden gates will open to me, and when the Master's promise will be fulfilled to me, "Where I am, there shall also My servant be."
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