Christie, the King's Servant / A Sequel to "Christie's Old Organ"

by Mrs. O. F. Walton

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.'