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.