We Know

The next day Duncan was able to tell me what he had passed through 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 long hours of that night of storm. For some 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 were compelled at last to own that their attempt was hopeless. “At that time,” said Duncan, “I just trusted my soul again to Christ, for I expected the next wave would 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 them few moments all sorts of thoughts seemed to be running through my head, but through them all was the thought of my poor lass, of Polly and little John. Yes, sir, of Polly and little John, and I cried to Him as 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 them fishermen cried to Him in the storm that day, ‘Lord, save us: we perish!’* (Matthew 8:25) they said; and He heard their cry, didn’t He, sir? And He heard mine. Yes, He heard mine, for when the wave did come which carried us over, the Mary Ann was driven right past where we were struggling in the water, 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 that cold and icy our hands was well-nigh frozen. But God Almighty knew how to save us, and He sent a steamer to pick us up, in less than ten minutes after we went overboard. And they were good to us, sir—all they were foreign folk aboard. 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 little lad 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.

It was very touching to see the love and the gratitude of both Duncan and Polly. They could not say enough about the help and comfort I had given them in their time of trouble, small though I felt these to have been. If I had been a prince, I think they could not have made more of me, and I believe I should have been altogether spoiled if I had stayed in Runswick Bay much longer.

I had not touched my picture the whole of that week, for while our anxiety lasted I had no heart or 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 rogue, 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, and I thought also how differently I felt with regard to the service on the shore, from what I had done when I received the last pink paper. I had certainly no wish 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.

There was a large congregation, the fine day had tempted them out, and I think the danger of their companions and their narrow escape from death had stirred the hearts of the fishermen, and had made many of them feel that “it is not all of life to live, nor all of death to die.”

“My mates are 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 do not think even he prayed more earnestly than I did. My whole heart went out to God that day, for was it not my first Sunday on the right side of the line?

And then came the address, and I never noticed a congregation more attentive than was that 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 is not, ‘We imagine,’ or ‘We think’; it is not 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 is not a case of imagining, or thinking, or hoping; we know we are here. We are sure of it.’

“Now notice, that 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 bids us join with him in these glad, happy, thankful words, ‘We know that we have passed from death unto life.’* (1 John 3:14) 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 would now ask each of you very earnestly, 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 someone 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 does not say, ‘We shall know’; it does not say, ‘We hope soon to know’; but it speaks in the present. It runs thus: ‘We know that we have passed from death unto life.’ So you see it is possible, nay, it is right, that you and I should, one by one, take up the words and say, ‘I know.’

“Do I hear someone saying in his heart, ‘I do wish I could say that? I should 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 shall ever see land again, it would be a good thing if I could look up through the wind and tempest, and could 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 will not let me sleep, and I get out and look from 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 round, ‘This is my dying bed, 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 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 was not a long, weary, toilsome journey which 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!
A step from sin to grace;
What has thy heart decided?
The moments fly apace.

“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 under the old boat with his hands over his face. He had evidently felt the sermon very much, and when he rose to go home after the others had dispersed, I saw Mr. Christie walking by his side.

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 was not able to attend to 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, as if I was a lord. But I felt that I was giving the dear fellow a great deal of trouble, and was glad, therefore, to accept Mrs. Christie’s invitation to have tea and supper at their house.

Little Jack welcomed me with the greatest joy. He was so delighted to have me at tea, and contemplated me with so much delight and interest from his chair by my side, that he quite forgot to eat his own tea, 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”; which secret his faithless mother was treacherous enough to reveal to me, after we had been upstairs that evening to see little Jack in bed.

After we came down, Mrs. Christie lighted the lamp, and we were sitting cosily round the fire talking of my mother, when suddenly there 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 pertickler, he does.”

I went quickly to the door, wondering very much who could be there, and to my great astonishment I found my friend Tom Bernard, with a black bag in his hand, eagerly awaiting my approach.

“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 at last some of these fisher-lads 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 have come for? I set off early this morning, and I thought I would give you a bit of a surprise. Are these your diggings?”

“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 capital 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 would not 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 the two good souls did all in their power to do honor to my guest. The whitest tablecloth was spread on the round table, the very finest herrings were cooked, round after round 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 partaken of it. Then he declared himself tired out, so I walked with him up to the hotel. He was in high spirits, and was much looking forward to the time we were to have there together, and to all the walks we should take to the places round.

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 had not come to Runswick Bay.

Why was this? 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 work it up even better in my studio at home. Besides which, Tom was a good-natured fellow, and would sit smoking and 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 could not look upon 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 did not own 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 shall like to listen.” And the very first words that Duncan read seemed to me to contain the answer to my question.

“Whosoever shall be ashamed of me and of my words, of him shall the Son of man be ashamed.”* (Luke 9:26)

Yes, that was the reason. I was sorry that Tom had come, because I was ashamed of my Master. Since I had seen him 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 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 reflection, 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 with which I meant to begin; but the more I thought of it so much the more my heart failed me, and I decided at length that my best plan would be to let Tom find it out for himself.