Kerry laughed, and there was a glad little ring to her voice, too.
“I’m very glad,” she said shyly, “I’m glad you believe it, because then I shall feel safe in believing it, too. But it seemed too good to believe. Only, perhaps—perhaps it isn’t good after all. Who are the dead in Christ? What does that mean?”
“It means all those who died believing in Him—all who have accepted Him as their Savior.”
“Oh!” said Kerry in a puzzled way. “Oh, I—wonder—” And he thought he saw a sudden droop of her whole little figure as it sat there in the dimness of the first faint moonlight.
“What is the trouble—?” he said, and his voice was very tender. “Is it—is there—someone—?”
“Yes,” said Kerry tensely, “my father! I am wondering—will he be among those dead?”
With a great yearning upon him he sat forward in his chair and leaned nearer to her.
“Tell me about him,” he said gently. “Did he—believe? Did he—know the Lord?”
Kerry moved restlessly in her chair and threw up her chin with a gesture almost of despair and pleading.
“Oh, I don’t know! I think perhaps—but I know so little about it all. We never talked about these things. But listen! This morning I opened the sealed letter from my father that was to give me the last directions about his book, and I found—a personal letter—from him!”
“How precious that must have been to you,” said McNair sympathetically.
“I want you to read it!” said Kerry, brushing away a furtive tear in the darkness. “But it says strange things—things that he never talked about before. He’d asked for his Bible a couple of weeks before he died, an old Bible he kept on a high shelf, and he’d been reading it, kept it under his pillow those last days. In the letter he says that he thinks he began at the wrong end in his research, and that he should have begun with the viewpoint of the Bible. He directs me to go through his whole book and change anything that would not seem to be in accord with Bible statements, and he wishes a paragraph added suggesting that his fellow scientists should study nature from the viewpoint of the Bible. I’ve been making those changes all day.”
“How wonderful!” murmured McNair.
“But oh!” went on Kerry. “I begin to see that I know so little of the Bible. I’m not sure I’ve done it right. If I only had someone who knew the Bible, someone I could trust! Oh,” she exclaimed, “would you go over the changes I made and check them with the Bible? That will be wonderful, and I’ll feel so much better about it. I’ll know that what my father really wanted has been done right. His last words were these: ‘I am trusting in the old Book,’ and he signed his name to that as if it were a statement he wished to make before the world.”
“There! There you have your answer, my friend,” said McNair in a softly jubilant voice. “I think you can be sure that your father is among the dead in Christ. The old Book gives the plan of salvation and tells of Christ and the coming redemption from cover to cover. You need have no fear. And of course I’ll be glad to do all I can. I feel honored that you trust me to do it.”
“Oh!” breathed Kerry softly, and he could see that tears were glistening on her cheek.
Then after an instant she spoke again.
“But the little book tells another reason why He is coming again. It says that He is coming for the living believers. What is a living believer? Could I be among those?”
“You certainly could!” said McNair, and now his voice rang with a deep joy.
“What would I have to do?”
“Nothing. It has all been done for you. Your part is only to accept it.”
“But—I know nothing about it. How can I accept it? I do not understand.”
“You know that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, don’t you? You know that He died on the cross to take our sins, yours and mine and everybody’s, on Himself. If you are willing to accept that gift and put yourself under its protection you are a believer.”
“But how can I believe something that I have never looked into? How can I accept—?” Kerry turned her troubled eyes toward him in the darkness.
“Listen,” he said gently reaching out and laying his hand on her arm. “If I should offer you a cup of tea when you were hungry or thirsty would you have to draw back and say, ‘How can I drink that? How do I know it is tea? Perhaps it is some deadly poison. I must have it analyzed first!’ If you saw others drinking and being refreshed, could you not believe it was good for you also? Or if you were down there in that dark water below us, sinking, and I should throw you a rope, would you take it, or would you say ‘How do I know that is a rope? Perhaps it is only a strand of straw!’ Believing is an act of the will whereby you throw yourself upon something, whether you know it is able to bear you or not. Assurance comes when you find it bears you up, but you accept before you have had its strength proved. Do you know any other way to be saved?”
“Why—I have always supposed—I have always believed—that if you lived a good life—?” began Kerry.
“What was your authority for believing that anything you could do would save you?” he asked.
“Authority? Oh, doesn’t the Bible tell you you have to be good? Doesn’t it say that is the way to be saved?”
“No,” said McNair, “just the contrary. It says there is no other way given under heaven whereby we must be saved but to believe on the name of the only begotten Son of God.”
“Oh,” said Kerry again, dismayed, “I never thought much about it of course. I’ve read the Bible very little. But do you mean it is as simple as that, as taking hold of a rope when you are drowning?”
“Yes, as simple as that. Here are Jesus’ own words: ‘Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that believeth on me hath everlasting life.’”
Kerry sat still with her hands clasped before her. They were hidden in a sheltered place where few people walked, and there was no one around. It was all very quiet as if they were shut in by the steady throbbing of the boat, and the regular dashing of the waves. Before them was the wide expanse of dark water and leaden sky. There was no moon, and the stars were all put out.
Suddenly she said, “Then I will believe. I will accept. But—what do I do next? Surely, there is something.”
“Nothing. It is all done for you. It is Christ’s finished work on Calvary. You take it as a gift, and then rejoice in it just as you would rejoice in a beautiful jewel if someone should give it to you. You can be just as sure of salvation as that. Safe. Forever more! And with the blessed hope that if He does not call you sooner, He will come sometime, soon perhaps, and that you will be among those for whom He comes, and will be caught up together with beloved dead who are His own, to meet the Lord in the air!”
“It is—very wonderful!” said Kerry wistfully.
There fell a sweet silence between them for an instant, and then McNair reached over and laid his hand on her hand that was resting now in her lap, and bowed his head near hers.
“Dear Father God,” he prayed, “bless this Thy child in her new life. Give her the peace and joy, and the sense of rest in Thee that belongs to those who are trusting in the death of Thy dear Son. We ask it in the name of Jesus.”
Kerry was very still as his words died away. She let her hand stay for the instant in the steady warm clasp that held it, and the air around them seemed holy with the new life she was entering.
“Do you mean,” she asked shyly, “that I—am counted—a child of God, now?”
“Yes,” he said, and his voice was vibrant with the triumph of it. “I am so very glad!”
She turned and looked in wonder at him, and her hand trembled in his for an instant more.
“Why—I am glad, too. I am sure I would never have found the way—but for you. It is all—so new and strange—!”
Then suddenly into their quiet talk there rolled the menace of thunder, and a lightning flash went round the world in dizzy blinding strokes and was gone, leaving deadly, threatening
blackness.
“My dear!” he said, springing up and pulling her quickly to her feet as the first great drops of rain began to fall. “There is going to be a storm! We must get under cover at once! Strange! I didn’t hear it before, did you? Have you got all your things? Then come! Quick! It is coming fast. Let us run for it.”
Still holding her hand he opened his coat and drew it around her as well as he could, and so close together they ran for shelter.
Music and dancing were going on in the heart of the ship. People were laughing and talking, others were playing endless games of cards. Nobody was noticing them. They stood outside of it all for a moment and a great joy was upon them both. They were reluctant to come back to earth again and into the garish light.
“Shall we find a quiet place to sit?” said McNair, looking at the lovely flush on Kerry’s cheeks and noting the bright drops sparkling in the red-gold of her hair.
“What time is it?” She looked at her watch. “Oh no. There are too many people around and we could not talk. I don’t want this evening to be spoiled. I’ll go to my room now. But—I can never thank you for what you’ve done for me—!”
He turned and walked with her to the end of her corridor, and as he bade her good night said, “Wait! Here! I want you to have this. Perhaps you have not one of your own.”
He handed her a little soft Testament from his inner pocket.
“I always carry it with me,” he said, smiling.
“But you will miss it,” she said as she held it wondering in her hand, and sensed the smoothness of its leather covers, worn with use.
“I shall rejoice to have you have it, and to know you will read it,” he said with a smile she knew she never would forget.
Chapter 9
There was no deck tennis the next morning, and many of the passengers remained in their beds. The storm that had burst so suddenly the night before had indeed been preparing for some time. The sun had unfurled her red banner of warning for all who understood the signs and the purple clouds had gathered quickly and faded. Lowering blue and steel and velvet black the waters were, and rose in frenzy. They lashed the ship as if it were a little toy, and boomed and tore like living maniacs.
Kerry had gone to her room in a strange daze of peace. She wondered at herself. She did not understand what had happened or why she should feel this way. It was not only that she had had a wonderful evening with a wonderful companion. She tried to be honest with herself. No, it was not entirely the touch of that strong hand holding hers and leading her to God that had thrilled her so, though that was warm and dear to remember—and—he had called her “my dear” at the end when the storm came. Of course he did not realize what he was saying. Just a pleasant, gentle way of being kind. He meant nothing personal by it, and she had not taken it that way. It had been a fellowship far above mere earthly things, that little hour out there on the deck, alone together, and God so near! No, it had not been just one man’s presence, dear and beautiful as that was. But there was something else. She had something new in herself. Something untried as yet, but she already felt it to be powerful, something she could lean upon, believe and lean upon.
Then she opened at random the little book he had given her and read these amazing words: “If we receive the witness of men, the witness of God is greater: for this is the witness of God which He hath testified of His Son. He that believeth on the Son of God, hath the witness in himself.”
With this strange message ringing in her heart she lay down to sleep. She put her manuscript under her pillow that night, but the little book she held in her hands, close to her heart. The storm increased all that night, but she slept with a smile on her lips and a new peace in her heart that was not disturbed by booming waves or tossing ship. She had taken Christ on board her little bark, and felt safe.
Kerry had always been a good sailor. She was not alarmed by the rolling of the ship. But looking out of her porthole the next morning at the great wall of water that seethed past as if it would obliterate everything, she wondered at the strange new sense of safety that pervaded her. She sensed that the storm was unusual, but somehow it seemed as if a new assurance had driven out ordinary fears.
It was difficult dressing with the floor taking continually a new slant.
Before she left her stateroom she paused thoughtfully, her hand on her door. Then she turned back and dropped to her knees beside her bed.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, “teach me what You want of me, please!” Then after an instant she added, “I ask it in the name of Jesus.”
The phrase was to her a new one, but she would never forget its sweetness as McNair had used it out on deck when he prayed for her.
There were not many people around, though it was by no means early. Walking was not easy with such an uncertain floor, but Kerry made her way toward the dining room, and found McNair awaiting her. They were the only ones at their table except an old man who soon finished his breakfast and left them.
Kerry had with her the copy of her father’s letter, and she brought it out now and showed it to McNair, keeping careful watch of the door lest Dawson should enter while he was reading it.
But Dawson did not appear on the scene at all that day. In fact even the dining room had very few occupants.
Kerry and McNair had the main cabin mostly to themselves, and spent a happy morning together. They went carefully over the changes Kerry had made in her father’s manuscript. It was good that she could recall whole paragraphs from memory, for they dared not take the precious book out of its hiding. Kerry learned wonderful things about the new life she had entered as McNair in making a suggestion here and there opened up new truth to her. She drank it in like a thirsty flower.
But the day was a wild one. The vessel rolled from side to side, and it was difficult to keep a location gracefully. People were constantly falling and crying out. Frequent crashes of dishes added to the weirdness of the occasion.
As the day wore on it became apparent that something unusual was going on, and McNair went to inquire. He returned gravely but did not seem disturbed. His face wore a kind of exalted look, as if whatever came his soul had wings. That was the way Kerry thought of it afterward—and there came an afterward, when she went over every little detail of that wonderful time.
But McNair took it all calmly.
Something had gone wrong with the ship, some of its inner workings. He had not been able to pry much information out of the officials. They were working at it and hoped to right matters.
He did not tell Kerry that the matter was serious and that he had gathered from listening to asides from the captain and those in charge that the danger was extreme, that there was grave doubt whether the ship could ever weather the storm in her present condition. He merely said, “We are in our Father’s hands. He holds the sea in the hollow of His hand, you know. We are safe even if the ship goes down. It will not hinder us from being present when our Lord returns!”
He gave her a confident smile that warmed her heart as it had never been warmed before, even with her father’s beloved smile.
“Oh, I should have been so frightened now,” she said, smiling bravely back, “if it hadn’t been for you—for what you have taught me.”
When he went again to inquire he discovered that a seam in the ship had been wrenched apart, and the water was coming in fast, faster than the pumps could take care of it. To make it worse a fire had broken out in the region of the kitchen, for a cauldron of oil had escaped from its moorings and upset near an open flame. The fire at present was under control, and the crew was hard at work, but McNair saw that if it went much further there would be something worse than a storm to face; the whole shop would be in flames within a few short hours.
He slipped away to his stateroom, cut up an expensive coat of oiled silk, and presently brought two large pieces to Kerry.
“You know, in a storm like this,” he said quietly, “there is always a possibility of having to take to the lifeboats. I was just think
ing about your precious manuscript. Couldn’t you wrap it carefully in this so that in case anything happened it would not get wet? You might need to have it ready for sudden warning, you know. Don’t be alarmed, but it does no harm to be ready for emergencies. How about those notes, too, that you told me about? If I were you I would get ready anything valuable that could be easily carried. It can do no harm, and may save you a lot of anxiety later.”
He said it all so quietly that Kerry could not be unduly alarmed, but Kerry was not a child. She knew there must be grave danger. She made no outcry, showed no sign of fright, but accepted the oilskin gratefully and went to her cabin to do as he suggested. She not only wrapped the manuscript in several thicknesses of oilskin, but got out her notes also, and protected them, and then she planned a way to safely and swiftly bind them beneath her garments in case of sudden alarm, so that there would be no risk of having them snatched from her, or knocked from her grasp if there should be a panic.
All that day and night the storm raged madly. People crept to their berths like rats to their holes. The fearful sounds of straining timbers, the terrible booming of the mountain-like waves as each one crashed and threatened to overwhelm the frail ship, which seemed like a toy in the tempest, the cries of people who had been thrown down or catapulted across the cabin, the constant knocking about of furniture that had broken away from it moorings, the crashing of more dishes created pandemonium.
McNair sent Kerry to her stateroom late in the evening, promising to call her if there was any need. He knew the strain was telling upon her and she needed to rest.
Kerry did not undress. She prepared herself for sudden call, for any emergency that might arise, as far as she knew how.
She bound the manuscript, her money, and her few small valuables beneath her garments, not forgetting the tiny Testament that McNair had given her. She laid her coat and hat close at hand, and then she lay down.