WHAT ARE YOU?
On Saturday of that week the sun shone brightly, and I was up betimes,
had an early breakfast, and set to work at my picture as soon as
possible. I had not been painting long before I again heard voices above
me, the same childish voices that I had heard before.
'_You_ give it to him,' said one voice.
'No, Marjorie, I daren't; you take it.'
'You ought not to be afraid, because you're a boy,' said the first
speaker; 'father says boys ought always to be brave.'
'But you're big, Marjorie, and big people ought to be braver than little
people!'
There was a long, whispered conversation after this, and I could not
distinguish the words which were spoken. But presently a small piece of
pink paper was thrown over the wall, and fluttered down upon my palette.
I caught it up quickly, to prevent it from sticking to the paints, and I
saw there was something printed on it. It ran thus:--
_There will be a short service on the shore on Sunday Morning at
11 o'clock, when you are earnestly requested to be present_.
_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 of five in a blue
tam-o'-shanter cap, a pale pink frock, and a white pinafore, and a boy
of three, the merriest, most sturdy little fellow I thought I had ever
seen. His face was as round and rosy as an apple, his eyes were dark
blue, and had the happiest and most roguish expression that it would be
possible for eyes to have. When the child laughed (and whenever was he
not laughing?), every part of his face laughed together. His eyes began
it, his lips followed suit, even his nose was pressed into the service.
If a sunbeam could be caught and dressed up like a little boy, I think
it would look something like that child.
'Now,' I said, 'that's right; 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.'
By degrees they grew more at their 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 numbers of people came,
and Jack was in the choir.
What a dear little chorister, to be sure, a chubby little cherub if ever
there was one!
'Shall you come, big Jack?' he said, patting my hand with his strong,
sturdy little fist.
'I don't know,' I said; 'if it's a fine day, perhaps I shall 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 pretty blue
eyes.
'What is this preaching on the shore, Duncan?' I asked.
'Oh, it's our lay preacher,' he said; 'he's a good man, and has done a
sight of good in this place. You see, it's too far for folks here to go
to church, and so he lives amongst us, and has meetings in the hall
yonder in winter, and in summer, why, we have 'em on the shore, and the
visitors comes mostly. There's a few 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 such
strange contrasts, the big burly fisherman and the tiny child who had
invited me to be present.
I had not quite made up my mind to go. I had not been to a service for
many months, I might almost say years. I had slipped out of it lately,
and I thought I should feel myself a fish out of water. However, when
the next day came, every one seemed to take it as a matter of course
that I should 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 laid 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 I had seen him, as I was dressing,
going round to the fishermen sitting as usual on the seats on the cliff,
with a bundle of pink papers in his hand, similar to the one which had
been given me, and distributing them to every group of his mates which
he came across. Yes, I felt that I was expected to go, and it would be
hard work to keep away. But if I had still had any doubt about the
matter, it would have surely disappeared when at half-past ten exactly a
tiny couple came toiling hand in hand up the steps leading to Duncan's
door, and announced to Polly that they had come to call for big Mr. Jack
to go to church.
It was Marjorie and her little brother, and the small Jack put his
little fat hand into that of big Jack, and led him triumphantly away.
It was a pretty sight to see that congregation gathering on the village
green. From the fishermen's cottages there came a stream of people down
to the shore,--mothers with babies in their arms and leading young
children by the hand, groups of boys and girls wearing shoes and
stockings who had been barefooted all the week, many a weather-beaten
sailor, many a sunburnt fisher lad, many elderly people too, old men,
and white-haired women in closely-plaited white caps. There were
visitors, too, coming down from the rocks, and these mostly kept in the
background, and had at first an air of watching the movement rather than
joining in it. My York friends were, however, well to 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.
It was a lovely day, and the sandy ground was dry, and the congregation
sat on the rough coarse grass or perched on the sand hillocks round. As
for the old boat, it was occupied by the choir, and little Jack, having
seen me safely to the spot, climbed into it and stood proudly in the
stern. He had a hymn-book in his hand, which I knew he could not read,
for 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 green, 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
fancied 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. For whilst I noticed in his face the
traces of heavy sorrow, still at the same time he looked happier and
more peaceful than any of those who stood round him; in fact, it was 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 one feel at once that he was no common man, and had no common
history. His face was so interesting to me, that I am afraid I was
gazing at him instead of finding the hymn he had given out, but 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 daresay I
should have smiled if I had 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 amongst us. It was a very simple prayer, but it was the
outpouring of his heart to God, and many a low Amen broke 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 had contained the outpouring of his soul to his God in heaven;
the words, to which we listened afterwards contained the outpouring of
his soul to us, his brothers and sisters on earth.
There was a great hush over the congregation whilst he spoke. The
mothers quieted their babes, the children sat with their eyes fixed on
the speaker; even those visitors who had been on the outskirts of the
crowd drew near to listen.
'What are you, dear friends?' he began; 'that is our subject to-day.
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 ones,
working hard from morning till night.' 'I am a schoolboy, learning the
lessons which are to fit me to make my way in the world.' 'I am a busy
merchant, toiling hard to make money, and obliged to come to this quiet
place to recruit my wearied energies.' '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
toil.' '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 tiny child, with an unknown life all
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 this day, 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 make that out,' I said to myself.
'I thought he was going to say we were all sinners, and _that_, I
suppose, we are, but _servants_! I do not 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 green to-day they see gathering together
a great company of servants, but they also see that we are not all
servants of the same master. They see what we do not 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?
So I tried to turn it off from myself, and to forget the words which had
been spoken. 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 am a poor artist, having a holiday in Runswick
Bay, and I am not going to trouble my head with gloomy thoughts.'
Polly had prepared an excellent dinner in honour of the day, and I did
full justice to it. Then I determined to walk to Staithes, and to spend
the rest of the day in seeing the country. I had always been accustomed,
to paint on Sunday, but only one of the artists seemed to be at work,
and Duncan and Polly had been so much shocked by seeing him, that I did
not venture to do the same. I enjoyed the walk along the cliffs, and
came back in good spirits, having completely shaken off, as I imagined,
the remembrance of the speaker's words.
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