“Ask What Ye Will”

We had run down the hill as quickly as we possibly could, but we were in no haste 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.

“However 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 could wait no longer, but had run down to the shore to hasten 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 words of cheer and comfort.

“He’ll be all right, my lass, never fear. He’s put into Saltburn or Staithes maybe; these gales they drive so far. He’ll be home all safe and sound afore night.”

But Polly did not 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 sorrowfully, and there were very few dry eyes among the group which we left on the shore.

When we reached the house again all was quite still, and as we entered the bedroom I thought the little soul had passed away, 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 sorrowful day. The doctor came, and did nothing but shake his head in the ominous way which doctors have when they feel a case is beyond their power. I think Polly had so little hope herself that she did not care to ask him what his real opinion was.

I went out for a short walk in the afternoon, to get a little fresh air to strengthen me for the coming night, when I had determined to watch with Polly beside little John, 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 was looking at it through his telescope, and before very long the shore was covered with fishermen and their wives, all gazing in the same direction. Whatever the object was, it was coming rapidly shoreward; wind and tide were both with it, and it was being borne swiftly along. After a little time we could distinguish, even without the help of a telescope, what it was, and I do not think there was anything which we could have been more aghast to see, for the floating object was a boat bottom upwards, and being driven rapidly before the tide.

A groan came from the group of fishermen who were watching, and as the capsized boat neared shore they ran into the water to meet it. I do not think it was necessary to look at the name upon it as it was dragged out of the water: we all did look, however, and we found there the name which we knew we should see before we looked. It was the Mary Ann.

I shall never forget the piercing shriek which 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 the shock and the sorrow had driven her mad, for she ran screaming up the hill; indeed, I firmly believe that for the time she was quite out of her mind.

Poor Polly heard the shrieks of the woman as she ran under her window, and looking out, she saw the boat on the shore, and guessed the truth at once. She did not scream nor cry, but she looked as if she had been turned into stone. No word escaped her lips, not a tear was in her eye; but she looked as if all her youth had gone in a moment, and as if she had suddenly become an old and worn-out woman.

She never looked 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 did not seem even to hear our voices. Yet no moan, no sigh from the child was unheard by her; she seemed to be listening to every breath he drew, as if it might be his last.

I thought that terrible day would never have an end. Mr. Christie stayed with us until dark, and then he took me home with him to supper, that I might 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 want of sleep, and they were very good to me. I do not 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 had no children for many years, not until Marjorie was born.

“Your mother was so good to me when my baby died,” she said. “I thought I should 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 for the good supper, and for the kind words of these dear people, and I went back determined to do all I could for poor Polly and her child through that sorrowful 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 any little thing to show my love to Him. It seemed to me then, and it seems to me still, that the way in which we can 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 is not in need of cold water, for she is too cold already, but I might make her a cup of tea.”

The fire was out, and the little kitchen, which was usually so neat, was all in confusion. I lighted the lamp that I might see what I was about, and then I tried to put the little place in order. First I found sticks and coal, and lighted a fire. Then, while my fire was burning up, I cleared the table, carried the dirty plates and cups into the small back 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 nice crisp toast, such as my aunt used to like when she was ill. Then I heated a plate, and buttered the toast, and set it down by the fire. By this time the kettle was boiling and I made the tea, and I said in my heart when all was finished, “Lord Jesus, I do this for Thee.”

Then I went upstairs to my hardest task of all, namely, to persuade Polly to come down to eat the little meal I had prepared.

Polly was, as I had expected, most unwilling to leave the child, and at first she firmly declined to move, and would not listen to my pleading words. Yet I could see that she was almost fainting, and I knew that she would need all the strength that she could muster for the night which lay before us. Who knew what that night would bring?

I therefore spoke to her very firmly, telling her that I was willing and anxious to help her in her trouble, but that, if I was to be any use to her, she must not refuse to go downstairs for a few minutes at least, and I promised her to watch little John very carefully, and to call her at once if I saw any change in the child. She obeyed me at last, and I heard her weary footsteps descending the steep stairs.

When I was left alone, I saw that Polly’s Bible was lying open by the little oil-lamp which stood on the table, upon which had been placed the medicine and milk for little John’s use. 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.”* (John 15:7)

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? One, ‘If ye abide in me.’ ” I asked myself if I was fulfilling that condition. I humbly hoped I was; for, oh, I longed to be in Christ, saved by Him, more than I longed for anything else in this world.

“Two, ‘If my words abide in you.’ ” Was I fulfilling the second condition? Again I humbly 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 might I claim the promise? I believed that I might.

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 the poor, 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 fender and her head in her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break. What was it that 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 the child; what was it that had helped her to give way to the tears which were such a relief to her? It was a very simple thing. She had picked up from the floor a little toy, a tiny roughly-shaped boat, which Duncan had made for the child, and which had been little John’s greatest treasure. There had come over her such a rush of memories of the happy days of the past, gone, as she believed, 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 the little lad passing away from her also, and leaving his treasured toy behind him. All these sad but lovely memories came before her, as she took up the little boat and pressed it to her lips. They came so strongly and with such power, that the tears which had refused to come before came with them, and brought, as I felt sure they would, wonderful relief to her over-strained 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 and that she was herself again.

That sleep lasted for hours. It was a quiet night, the wind had quite gone down, and everything seemed more still after the tumult of the previous night. I was glad to see that Polly herself at length fell asleep in her chair. Little John’s hand lay in hers, and I knew she would wake with his least 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 had seen that it was nearly half-past two, when I thought I heard footsteps outside, and a moment afterwards there came 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, lest either Polly or the child should wake, and carefully unfastening the bolts I opened the door.

I nearly yelled with joy when I saw who was standing there. Never in all my life have I been more glad to see any man than I was that night to see Duncan, alive and uninjured, while all day long I had been picturing him being driven backwards and forwards by the waves, a drowned corpse at the mercy of the relentless 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 over like. Is little John dead?”

“No, Duncan,” I said, “he still lives, and he is asleep. And, Duncan, I believe he will be given back to you.”

“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, and the word of the Lord was sure, and I believed that if what I asked was good for these poor souls it must be granted to me.

Duncan had now sat down in his armchair, and by the light of the fire I could see that he was faint and exhausted. He leant back wearily for some time and seemed unable to speak. I had left the kettle on the fire, and I hastened to give him a cup of tea and something 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. He was better for the tea, and able to talk to me.

“I’ve had an awful time, sir,” he said, in answer to my inquiry. “Many and 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 halfway down it, sir. How’s my poor lass, sir?”

“Very cut up, Duncan,” I said. “She thinks you are dead. Your boat came up with last night’s tide.”

“Poor Polly, poor lass!” he said. “I’ll go to her.”

“Wait a little, Duncan,” I said. “She is asleep now, and she will bear the joy better when she wakes.”

“And my little lad?” he asked.

“Sleeping, too, Duncan, so peacefully and quietly.”

“Well, it’s hard not to go up, sir, but may be 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 done since his illness began. He had no sooner finished his milk, however, than he began his old weary cry, “Come, Daddy, come to little John.”

Polly burst into tears again when she heard him calling for the father whom she believed to be dead; but I bent over the child and said, “Yes, little John, Daddy will come to you.”

I believe Polly fancied that I thought the child was dying, and that I meant 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 that 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 lad, my own little John, I never thought to see you again!”