Speaker 1: On Christmas Day in the evening by Grace Louise Smith
Richmond One. All the Fernald family go back to the
old home for Christmas now every year. Last Christmas was
the third on which Oliver and Edson, Ralph and Guy,
Caroline and Nan were all at the familiar fireside as
they used to be in the days before they were married.
The wives and husbands and children go too when other
family claims can be compromised with, and no one of them,
down to Caroline's youngest baby, who was not a year
old last Christmas, has sustained a particle of harm from
the snowy journeys to northeaster Brook, tucked away though it
is among the hills where the drifts are deep. Taking
them altogether, they are quite a company, and as father
and mother Fernald are getting rather well along in years,
and such a house party means a good deal of preparation.
Last year, their younger daughter Nan and her husband Sam Burnett,
and their youngest son Guy and his wife of a
year Margaret, went up to Northeasterbrook two days ahead of
the rest to help with the finishing labors. Sam Burnett
and Guy Fernald being busy young men all the year round,
thought it great sport to get up into the country
in the winter, and planned for a fortnight beforehand to
be able to manage this brief vacation. As for Nan
and Margaret, they are always the best of friends. As
for father and mother, Fernald, I don't know, but this
is the best part of the party, mused John Fernald,
looking from one to another of them, and then at
his wife as they sat together before the fireplace on
the evening of the arrival. It was all over so
quick last year, and you were all piling back to
town to your offices in such a big hurry. You boys,
Now we can have a spell of quiet talk before
the fun begins. That suits us to a t eh. Mother,
missus Fernald nodded, smiling, her hand held fast in guise,
rested on his NaN's charming head with its modish dressing,
lay against her shoulder. What more could a mother ask?
Across the fireplace, Sam Burnett, most satisfactory of son in
laws and Margaret guy's best beloved, who had made the
year one long honeymoon to him, so he declared, completed
the little circle. There was much to talk about to
begin with, there was everybody in Northeasterbrook to inquire after,
and though Northeasterbrook is a very small village, it takes
time to inquire after everybody. Quite suddenly, having asked solicitously
concerning a very old woman who had nursed most of
the Fernald children in their infancy and was always remembered
by them with affection, it occurred to Nan to put
a question which had been on her mind ever since
she had come into town on the afternoon stage. Speaking
of Aunt Eliza, Mother makes me think of the old
church she used to talk so much about, liking to
hear the bell ring ride up over her head next door.
Does the bell ever ring these days? Or have cobwebs
grown over the clapper? A shadow dropped upon Missus Fernald's
bright face, but before she could speak, her husband answered
for her. He was more than a little deaf, but
he was listening closely and he caught the question. It's
a miserable shame, Nancy, but that church hasn't had a
door open since a year ago, last July, when the
trouble burst out. We haven't had a service there since.
Mother and I drive over to easterbrook when we feel
like getting out, but that's not often come winter time.
Being the only church building in this end of the township,
it's pretty bad having it closed up. But there's the fuss.
Folks can't agree what to do, and nobody dares get
a preacher here and try to start things up on
their own responsibility. But we feel it, we sure do.
I don't like to look at the old meeting house
going by, I declare, I don't. It looks lonesome to me.
And there's where every one of you children grew up too,
sitting there in the old family pew with your legs dangling.
It's too bad, it's too bad. It's Barbara's guy, exclaimed
in a tone of disgust. And all over nothing of
any real consequence, sighed missus Vernald in her gentle way.
We would have given up our ideas gladly for the
sake of harmony. But there were so many who felt
it necessary to fight to have their own way and
feel that way still, I suppose, suggested Sam Burnet cheerfully.
There's a whole lot of that feeling it's necessary to
fight in the world. I've experienced it myself at times.
They talked about it for a few minutes, the younger
men rather enjoying the details of the quarrel, as those
may who are outside of an affair sufficiently far to
see its inconsistencies and humors. But it was clearly a
subject which gave pain to the old people. And Guy
perceiving this, was about to divert the talk into pleasanter
channels when Nan gave a little cry. Her eyes were
fixed upon the fire, as if she saw there something
startling people. Let's open the church ourselves and have a
Christmas Day service there. They stared at her for a moment,
thinking her half dreaming, but her face was radiant with
the light of an idea which was not an idle dream.
Guy began to laugh, and expect the rival factions to
come flocking peaceably in like lamps to the fold. I
think I see them. Ignore the rival factions. Have a
service for everybody, a real Christmas service, with holly and
ropes of green, and a star, and music and a sermon.
She ended a little more doubtfully. The sermon, by all means,
quoth Sam Burnett, preach Adam, when once you've caught em,
they'll enjoy that. We all do. But it's really a
beautiful idea, said Margaret, her young face catching the glow
from NaN's. I don't see why it couldn't be carried out,
of course, you don't, guy spoke decidedly. If people were
all like you, there wouldn't be any quarrels. But unfortunately
they are not. And when I think of the Tomlinsons
and the Frasers, and the Hills and the Pollocks all
going in at the same door for a Christmas Day's
service under that roof, well, he gave a soft, long whistle.
It rather strains my imagination. Not that they aren't all
good people, you know. Oh yes, if they weren't, they'd
knock each other down in the street and have it
over with a splendid thing. It would be too, But
I tell you it strains my imagination. To let it
strain it. It's a good thing to exercise the imagination
now and then that's the way changes come. I don't
think the ideas are such a bad one myself. Sam
Barnett spoke seriously, and Nan gave him a grateful glance.
She was pretty sure of Sam's backing in most reasonable things,
and a substantial backing it was to have too. Who
could conduct such a service, Missus Fernald asked thoughtfully, you
couldn't get anybody out to church on Christmas morning? Broke
in mister Fernald, chuckling. Heaveny mother's daughter of them will
be blasting her Christmas turkey. Then have it Christmas evening?
Why not? The day isn't over. Nobody knows what to
do Christmas evening except go to dances, and there's never
a dance in northeaster Brook. Whom can we get to
lead it? Well? Nan paused, thinking it out. Her eyes
roamed from Sam to her father's and from there on
around the circle. While they all waited for her to
have an inspiration. Nobody else had one, presently, as they expected,
for Nan was a resourceful young person. Her face lighted
up again. She gazed at Margaret smiling, and her idea
seemed to communicate itself to Guy's wife. Together they cried
in one breath, Billy Billy, whoop bee. Guy threw back
his head and roared with delight at the notion the
Reverend Billy of Saint John's coming up to Northeasterbrook to
take charge of a Christmas evening's service. Why Billy'll be
dining in purple and fine linen at the home of
one of his multi millionaire parishioners, the Edgecombs, most likely.
I think they adore him most Billy, why don't you
ask the bishop himself? Margaret flushed brightly. The Reverend William
Seawall was her brother. He might be the very manly
and dignified young rector of a fashionable city church, but
no man who answers to the name of Billy in
his own family can be a really formidable personage. And
he and his sister Margaret were undeniably great chums. Of course,
Billy would cried Margaret. You know perfectly well he would,
Guy dear. He doesn't care a straw about millionaire's dinners.
He'd rather have an evening with his newsboy's club any time.
He has his own service Christmas morning, of course, but
in the evening he could come up on the afternoon train.
He'd love to. Why Billy's a bachelor. He's nothing in
the world to keep him. I'll telephone him first thing
in the morning. From this point on, there was no
lack of enthusiasm. If Billy Seawell was coming to Northeasterbrook.
As sam Burnett remarked, it was time to get interested
and busy. They discussed everything excitement, mounting, the music, the
trimming of the church, then more prosaically, the cleaning and
warming and lighting of it. Finally the making known to
Northeasterbrook the news of the coming event. For nothing less
than an event it was sure to be to Northeasterbrook
put a notice in the post office, advised guy, comfortably
crossing his legs and grinning at his father, until Aunt
Eliza and Miss Jane Pollock and the thing is done, Sam,
I think I see you spending the next two days
at the top of ladders hanging greens. I have a
dim and hazy vision of you on your knees before
that stove that always used to smoke when the wind
was in the east, the one in the left corner,
praying to it to quit fussing and draw a nice,
RESTful Christmas vacation you'll have. Sam Burnett looked at his wife.
She's captain, said he. If she wants to play with
the old meeting house play, she shall, so long as
she doesn't ask me to preach the sermon, you old dear,
murmured Nan, jumping up to stand behind his chair, her
two pretty arms encircling his stout neck from the rear.
You could preach a better sermon than lots of ministers
if you are only an upright old bank cashier. Doubtless, Nancy, doubtless,
murmured Sam pleasantly. But as it will take the wisdom
of a solomon, the tact of a pall, and the
eloquence of the Almighty himself to preach a sermon on
the present occasion that will divert the Tomlinsons and the Frasers,
the Hills and the Pollocks from glaring at each other
across the pews. I don't think I'll apply for the job.
Let Billy see, we'll tackle it. There's one thing about it.
If they get to fighting in the aisles, Billy'll leap
down from the pulpit, roll up his sleeves and pull
the combatants apart. A yourile religion is Billy's, and I
rather think he's the man for the hour. Two Hi
there all, why not get something done with that hammer?
Don't you see the edge of that pulpit stair carpeting
is all frazzled the preacher catch his toes in it,
and then where all his ecclesiastical dignity be. The slave
driver was guy shouting down from the top of a
tall step ladder, where he was busy screwing into place
the freshly cleaned oil lamps whose radiance was to be
depended upon to illumine the ancient interior of the northeaster
Brook Church. He addressed his eldest brother Oliver, who, in
his newness to the situation and his consequent lack of
sympathy with the occasion, was proving an indifferent worker. This
may have been partly due to the influence of Oliver's wife, Marian, who,
sitting in Russian sables in one of the middle pews,
was doing what she could to depress the laborers. The
number of these, by the way, had been reinforced by
the arrival of the entire fernal the clan to spend Christmas.
Your motive is undoubtedly a good one, Missus, Oliver conceded.
She spoke to Nan, busy near her, and she gazed
critically about the shabby old balls, now rapidly assuming a
quite different aspect as the great ropes of Laurel Leaves
swung into place under the direction of Sam Burnett. That
young man now had Edson Fernald and Charles Westmore, Caroline's husband,
to assist him, and he was making the most of
his opportunity to order about two gentlemen who had shown
considerable reluctance to remove their coats, but who were now,
to his satisfaction, perspiring so freely that they had some
time since reached the point of casting aside still other
articles of apparel. But I shall be much surprised, missus
Oliver continued, if you attain your object. Nobody can be
more obstinate in their prejudice than the people of such
a tiny place as this. You may get them out,
though I doubt even that, but you are quite as
likely as not to set them by the ears and
simply make matters worse. It's Christmas, replied Nan. Her cheeks
were the color of the holly berries in the great
rea she was arranging to place on either side of
the wall behind the pulpit. They can't quarrel at Christmas,
not with Billy Sewall preaching peace on earth, good will
to men to them. Jessica, please hand me that wire
and come hold this wreath a minute, will you? Nobody
expects Marian to be on any side but the other one,
consolingly whispered merry face to Jessica Edson's wife Lucky Fellow,
as she held the wreath for Nan to fix the wire?
What's this about Seawell, Oliver inquired, I hadn't heard of that.
You don't mean to say sea Wall's coming up for
this service? Of course he is. Margaret telephoned him this
morning and he said he'd never had a Christmas present
equal to this one. He said it interested him a
lot more than his morning service in town, and he'd
be up loaded. Isn't that fine of Billy? Nan beamed
triumphantly at her oldest brother over her holly wreath. That
puts a different light on it. And mister Oliver Fernald,
present of the Great City Bank of which Sam Burnett
was Cashier, got promptly down on the knees of his
freshly pressed trousers and proceeded to tack the frazzled edge
of the pulpit stair carpet with interest and skill. That
stair carpet had been tackled by a good many people
before him, but doubtless it had never been stretched into
place by a man whose eye glasses sat astride of
a nose of the impressive presidential mold of this one.
Do I understand that you mean to attempt music? Missus
Oliver seemed grieved at the thought. There are several good
voices in the family, of course, but you haven't had
time to practice any Christmas music together. You will have
merely to sing hymns. Fortunately, some of the old hymns
are Christmas music of the most exquisite sort. Began Nan,
trying hard to keep her temper, a feat which was
apt to give her trouble when Marian was about. But
at a moment, as if to help her up in
the old organ loft at the back of the church,
Margaret began to sing. Everybody looked up in delight, for
Margaret's voice was the pride of the family, and with reason.
Somebody was at the organ, the little reed organ. It
proved to be Caroline, Missus Charles Wetmore. For a moment
the notes rose harmoniously. Then came an interval, and the
organ wailed. There was a shout of protest from the
top of Guy's step ladder, cut it out, cut out
the steamed calliope unless you won a burlesque. That organ
hasn't been tuned since the deluge, and they didn't get
all the water out. Then I won't hit that key again,
called Caroline. Listen, you people, listen. You can't help listening.
When a cat yowls on the back fence, retorted guy,
go it alone, Margaret, girl. But the next instant nobody
was jeering, for Margaret's voice had never seemed sweeter. From
the old choir loft over the hills of Bethlehem, lighted
by a star, wise men came with offerings from the
east afar. It took them all, working until late on
Christmas Eve, to do all that was needed to be done.
Once their interest was aroused, nothing short of the best
possible would contend to them. But when at last Nan
and Sam, lingering behind the others, promising to see that
the fires were safe, stood together at the back of
the church for a final survey, they felt that their
work had been well worth while. All the lights were
out but one on either side of the dim interior
with its ropes and wreaths of green fragrant with the
woodsy smell which veiled, the musty one, inevitable in a
place so long closed, seemed to have grown beautiful with
a touch other than that of human hands. Don't you believe, Sammy,
questioned Nan, with her tired cheek against her husband's broad shoulder.
The poor old meeting house is happier to night than
it has been for a long, long while. I think
it should be returned, Sam Burnett, falling in with his
wife's mood. If after a year and a half of
cold starvation, somebody had suddenly warmed me and fed me
and made me hold up my head again. It does
look pretty well, much better than I should have thought
it could when I first saw it in its barrenness.
I wonder what the northeaster Brook people are thinking about this,
That's what I wonder. Do you suppose the Tomlinsons and
the Pollocks and the rest of them have talked about
anything else to day? Not much else? Nan smiled contentedly.
Then suddenly, oh, Sam, the presents aren't all tied up.
We must hurry back. This is the first Christmas Eve
I can remember when the rattling of tissue paper wasn't
the chief sound in the air. If this goes off
all right, mused Burnett as he examined the stoves once
more before putting out the lights. It'll be the biggest
Christmas present Northeasterbrook ever had peace and good will Jove.
But they need it, and so do we all, So
do we all three there go pretty near every one
of the fernolds down to the station land. But there's
a lot of em counting the children. I suppose they're
going to meet Guy's wife's brother that they've got up
here to lead these Christmas doings to night. Queer idea
strikes me. Miss Jane Pollock, ensconced behind the thick lace
curtains of her best parlor, addressed her sister, who lay
on the couch in the sitting room, behind an invalid
who could seldom get out, but to whom Miss Jane
was accustomed faithfully to report every particle of current news.
I suppose they think Miss Jane went on with asperity.
They're going to fix up the fuss in that church
with their greens and their city minister preaching brotherly love.
I can't tell him he'll have to preach a pretty
powerful sermon to reach Old George, Tomlinson and oz Of
frasier and make em notice each other as they pass by.
And when I see Maria Hill coming toward me with
a smile on her face and her hand out, I'll
know something's happened. I don't suppose, said the invalid sister
rather timidly from her couch. You would feel, sister, as
if you could put your hand out to her first. No,
I don't, retorted miss Jane very positively, And I don't
see how you can think it, Deborah. You know perfectly
well it was Maria Hill that started the whole thing
and then talked about me as if I was the
one how that woman did talk and talks. Yet, don't
get me thinking about it. It's Christmas Day and I
want to keep my mind off such disgraceful things as
church quarrels. If the Fernald family'll let me a pretty
bold thing to do, I call it, open up that
church on their own responsibility and expect folks to come
and forget the past. Debby, I wish you could see
Oliver's wife in those furs of hers. She holds her
head as high as ever, but she's the only one
of 'em that does it disagreeably. I'll say that for
em if they are all city folks now, And of
course she isn't a Fernald. Here comes Nancy and her husband.
That girl doesn't look a minute older when she was
married five years ago. My, but she's got a lot
of style. I I must say, her skirt stone hang
like any Northeasterbrook dressmaker can make em. They're walking hurrying
up to catch the rest. Sam Burnet's a good looking man,
but he's getting a little stout, Jane, said the invalid
sister wistfully. I wish I could go to night. Well,
I wish you could, that is, if I go. I
haven't just made up my mind. I wonder if folks
will sit in their old pews. You know, the hills
is just in front of ours. But as to your going, Deborah,
of course that's out of the question. I suppose I
shall go. I shouldn't like to offend the Fernalds. And
they do, say Guve's wife's brother is worth hearing. They'll
be music too. I wish I could go, sighed poor
Deborah under her breath. To be able to go, and
to wonder whether you will, Oh Lord. She closed her
patient eyes and whispered it make them all choose to
go to Thy house this Christmas day, and to thank
THEE that the doors are open, and that they have
the strength to go, and help me to bear it
to stay home. Four. The problem is, said the Reverend
William Sewell, standing at the back of the church with
his sister Margaret and Guy Fernald, her husband, and Nan
and Sam Barnett, the four who had as yet no children,
and so could best take time on Christmas afternoon to
make the final arrangements for the evening. The problem is
to do the right thing to night. It would be
so easy to do the wrong one. Am I the
only man to stand in that pulpit? And is it
all up to me? He regarded the pulpit as he spoke, richly,
hung with Christmas greens, and seeming eagerly to invite an occupant.
I should say, observed his brother in law Guy, his
face full of affection and esteem for the very admirable
figure of a young man who stood before him. That
a fellow who's just pulled off the sort of service
we know you had at Saint John's this morning, wouldn't
consider this one much of a stunt. Seawell smiled. Somehow.
This strikes me as the bigger one. Said he. The
wisest of my old professors used to say that the
further you got into the country, the less it mattered
about your clothes, and the more about your sermon. I've
been wondering all the way up if I knew enough
to preach that sermon. Isn't there any minister in town,
not even a visiting one, not a one you can't
get out of it, Billy Sewell, if you've got an
attack of stage fright, which we don't believe, there is
one minister, Nan admitted, But I'd forgotten all about him
till father mentioned him last night. But he doesn't really
count at all. He's old, very old, and infirm, super annuated,
they call it, added Sam Bournett, poor old chap. I've
seen him. I met him at the post office this morning.
He has a peaceful face. He's a good man. He
must have been a strong one in his time. Had
he anything to do with the church trouble, Sewell demanded
his keen brown eyes eager Nan, and guy laughed, Old
elder Blake, not except as he was on his knees
alone at home, praying for the fighters. Both sides, was
Guy's explanation, so father says, and nobody knows better what
side people were on. If I can get hold of
a man whose part in the quarrel was praying for
both sides, I'm off to find him, said Sewall decidedly.
He picked up his hat as he spoke, and tell
me where he lives, please, Billy. His sister Margaret's voice
was anxious. Are you sure you'd better? Perhaps it would
be kind to ask him to make a prayer, but
you won't. You won't ask him to preach the sermon,
Billy Sewall promise us that an old man in his dottage.
Sewall smiled again, starting towards the door. Somehow, he did
not look like the sort of fellow who could be
easily swayed from an intention once he had formed it,
or be forced to make promise until he was ready.
You've got me up here, said he. Now you'll have
to take the consequences. Where did you say Elder Blake lives?
And he departed. Those behind stared at one another in dismay.
Keep cool, advised Sam Bournett. He wants the old man's advice,
That's all I don't blame him. He wants to understand
the situation thoroughly. Nothing like putting your head into a
thing before you put your foot in. It saves complications.
Seewell's Head's level. Trust him five. I can't, said a
very old man with a peaceful face, now wearing a
somewhat startled expression. I can't quite believe you are serious,
mister Sewell. The people are all expecting you. They will
come out to hear you. I've not preached for he
hesitated for many years. I will not say that it
would not be a happiness if I thought I were fit.
But if I were half this fit, answered Sewall gently,
I should be very proud. But I'm why. I'm barely seasoned.
Yet I'm liable to warp if I'm exposed to the weather.
But you, with all the benefit of your long experience,
you're the sort of timber that needs to be built
into this strange Christmas service. I hadn't thought much about it,
mister Blake, till I was on my way here. I
accepted the invitation too readily. But when I did begin
to think, I felt the need of help. I believe
you can give it. It's a critical situation. You know
these people rude and branch I may say the wrong thing.
You will know how to say the right one, if
I should consent, the other man said, after a silence,
during which with a bent white head he studied the matter.
What would be your part should you attempt, he glanced
at the clerical dress of his collar, to carry through
the service of your church. Seawall's face, which had been grave, relaxed. No,
mister Blake, said he. It wouldn't be possible, and it
wouldn't be suitable. This is a community which would probably
prefer any other service, and it should have its preference respected.
A simple form as nearly as possible, like what it
has been used to, will be best, don't you think so?
I believe there is to be considerable music. I will
read the story of the birth and will try to
make a prayer. The rest I'll leave to you, and
him added the old man, and him agreed the young
man reverently. Then a bright smile broke over his face,
and he held out his hand. I'm no end grateful
to you, sir, he said, a certain attractive boyishness of manner,
suddenly becoming uppermost and putting to flight. The dignity, which
was at times a heavier weight than he could carry
no end. Don't you remember how it used to be
when you first went into the work and tackled a
job now and then that seemed too big for you.
Then you caught sight of a pair of shoulders that
look to you broader than yours, the muscles developed by
years of exercise, and you were pretty thankful to shift
the load on to them. You didn't want to shirk,
Heaven forbid, but you just felt you didn't know enough
to deal with the situation. Don't you remember? The old man,
with a gently humorous look, glanced down at his own thin,
bent shoulders, then at the stalwart ones which towered above him.
You speak metaphorically, my dear lad he said quaintly, with
a kindly twinkle in his faded blue eyes. He laid
his left hand on the firm, young arm whose hand
held his shrunken right. But I do remember, yes, yes,
I remember plainly enough. And though it seems to me
now as if the strength were all with the young
and vigorous embody, it may be that I should be
glad of the years that have brought me experience and tolerance,
added William sewell, pressing the hand, his eyes held fast
by elder Blakes, and love added the other. Love. That's
the great thing. That's the great thing. I do love
this community, these dear people. They are good people at heart,
only misled as to what is worth standing out for.
I would see them at peace. Maybe I can speak
to them, God knows. I will try. The fern Old
family alone will fill the church, observed the bachelor son
of the house, Ralph. He leaned out from his place
at the tail of the procession to look ahead down
the line, where the dark figure showed clearly against the snow.
By either hand he held a child, his sister Caroline's oldest,
his brother Edson's youngest. So it won't matter much if
nobody else comes out. We're all here, some in rags
and some in tags, and some in velvet gowns. I
can discern the velvet gowns conceded Edson from his place
just in front, where his substantial figure supported his mother's
frail one. But I fail to make out any rags.
Take us, by and large, we seem to put up
a rather prosper front. I never noticed it quite so
decidedly as this year. There's nothing at all ostentatious about
the girl's dressing, dear, said his mother's voice in his ear.
And I noticed they all put on their simplest clothes
for to night, as they should. Oh. Yes, Edson chuckled.
That's precisely why they look so prosperous, that elegant simplicity. Gad,
you should see the bills that come in for that.
Jess isn't an extravagant dresser as women go, not by
a long shot. But he whistled a bar or two
of rag time. I can see myself now as a
lad sitting on that fence over there. He indicated the
line of rails half buried in snow, which outlined the
borders of an old apple orchard. Counting the quarters in
my trousers pocket earned by hard labor and the strawberry patch,
I thought it quite a sum, but it wouldn't have
bought a box of the cigars you smoke. Now, interjected
Ralph unexpectedly from behind. HULLO, there's the church, jolly, But
the old building looks bright, doesn't it. I didn't know
oil lamps could put up such illumination. And see the
folks going in see them coming from all directions. Nan,
farther down the line, clutched Sam Burnett's arm. Oh I
knew they'd come out. I knew they would. Of course
they'll come out. This was missus, Oliver. Locks and bars
couldn't keep a country community at home when there's anything
going on. But as to the feeling, that's a different matter. Oliver,
do take my muff. I want to take off my veil.
There'll be no chance. Once I am inside the door.
Nan is walking twice as fast now as when we started.
She will have us all up the aisle before. Where's
Billy Seawoll bolting to guy sent back the stage whisper
from the front of the procession to Margaret, his wife,
who was walking with Father Fernald, her hand on his
gallant arm. In John Fernud's day, a man always offered
his arm to the lady. He escorted, he caught sight
of mister Blake across the road. They're going in together.
Margaret replied, I think mister Blake is to have a
part in the service, Old Ebenezer Blake. You don't say.
Father Fernald ejaculated in astonishment. He had not been told
of Sewall's visit to the aged minister. Well, well, that
is thoughtful of William Sewell. I don't suppose elder Blake
has taken part in a service in fifteen years twenty.
Maybe he used to be a great preacher too in
his day. I used to listen to him when I
was a young man, and think he could put things
in about as interesting a way as any preacher I
ever heard. Good man too. He was and is, but
nobody thought of asking him to make a prayer in
public sense. I don't know when well, well, well, look
at the people going in. I guess we'd better be
getting right along to our seats or there won't be
any left. Seven. The organ was playing very softly. Caroline
was skillful manipulator of keyboards, and she had discovered that
by carefully refraining from the use of certain keys discreetly
marked by postage stamps, she could produce a not unmusical
effect of subdued harmony. This unquestionably added very much to
the impression of a churchy atmosphere, carried out to the
eye by the Christmas wreathing and twining of the heavy
ropes of shining laurel leaves and by the massing of
the whole pulpit front in the soft, dark green of
hemlock boughs and holly. To the people who entered the
house with vivid memories of the burning July day, when
words hardly less burning had seemed to scorch the barren walls,
this lamp lit interior, clothed with the garments of the
woods and fragrant with their breath, seemed to place so
different that it could hardly be the same. But the
faces were the same, the faces, and George Tomlinson did
not look at Assa Frasier, though he passed him in
the aisle, beard to beard. Miss Jane Pollock stared hard
at the back of Missus Maria Hill's bonnet in the
pew in front of her, But when Missus Hill turned
about to glance up at the organ loft to discover
who was there, Miss Pollock's face became as adamant, and
her eyes remained fixed on her folded hands until Missus
Hill had twisted about again, and there was no danger
of their glances encountering. All over the church, likewise, were
people who avoided seeing each other, though conscious all down
their rigid backbones that those with whom they had fallen
out on that unhappy July day were present. There was
no vestry in the old meeting house, no retiring place
of any sort where the presiding Minister might stay until
the moment came for him to make his quiet and
impressive entrance through a softly opening pulpit door. So when
the Reverend William Sewell of Saint John's of the neighboring
city came into the Northeasterbrook Sanctuary, it was as his
congregation entered through the front door and up the aisle
there was a turning of heads to see him come,
but there was a staring of eyes. Indeed, when it
was seen by whom he was accompanied. The erect figure
of the young man in his unexceptionable attire walked slowly
to keep pace with the feeble footsteps of the very
old man in his threadbare garments of the cut of
half a century ago, and the sight of the two
together was one of the most strangely touching things that
had ever met the eyes of the people of Northeasterbrook.
It may be said, therefore, that from the first moment
there was an unexpected and unreckoned with influence abroad in
the place. Now to the subdued notes of the organ,
which had been occupied with one theme, built upon with
varying harmonies, but ever appearing, though perhaps no ear but
a trained one would have recognized it. Through the veil
was added the breath of voices. It was only an
old Christmas carol, the music that of a German folk song,
but dear to generations of Christmas singers everywhere the Northeasterbrook
people recognized it, yet did not recognize it. They had
never heard it sung like that before Holy night, peaceful night,
all is dark, save the light yonder where they sweet
vigils keep, or the babe who in silent sleep rests
in heavenly peace. It was the presence of Margaret Sewall
Fernald which had made it possible to attempt music at
this service. The music, which it seemed impossible to do
without her voice, was one of rare beauty, her leadership
that of training. Her husband, Guy, possessed a reliable, if
uncultivated bass edson had sung a fair tenor in his
college glee cup. By the use of all of her
arts of persuasion, Nan had provided an alto singer from
the ranks of the choir which had once occupied this
organ loft, the daughter of Oza Frasier. Whether the quartet
thus formed would have passed Muster as a quartet with
the choir master of Saint John's may have been a question,
But it is certain the music they produced was so
far above that which the old Church had ever heard
before within its walls. That had the singers but a
detachment from the choir celestial, Those who heard them could
hardly have listened with ears more charmed. As Holy Knight
came down to him, William Sewell bent his head, but
Ebenezer Blake lifted his. His dim blue eyes looked up,
up and up, quite through the old meeting house roof,
to the starry skies, where it seemed to him angels
sang again. He forgot the people assembled in front of him,
He forgot the responsibilities upon his shoulders, those bent shoulders
which had long ago laid down such responsibilities. He saw visions.
It is the old men who see visions, The young
men dream dreams. The young city Rector read the Christmas
Story out of the worn copy of the Scriptures which
had served this pulpit almost from the beginning. He read
it in the rich and cultivated voice of his training.
But quite simply then Margaret sang, to the slender accompaniment
of the little organ, the same solo which a famous
soprano had sung that morning at the service at Saint John's,
and her brother Williamtening from the pulpit, thought she sang
it better. There was the quality in Margaret's voice which
reaches hearts, a quality which somehow the famous soprano's notes
had lacked, And every word could be heard too. The
quiet throughout the house was so absolute, except when Asa
Fraser cleared his throat loudly in the midst of one
of the singer's most beautiful notes. At the sound, Missus
George Tomlinson gave him a glance which ought to have
annihilated him, but it did not. She could not know
that the throat clearing was a high tribute to the
song coming from Ossa Frasier. How silently, how silently the
wondrous gift is given so god imparts to human hearts,
the blessing of his heaven, O, Holy Child of Bethlehem,
descend to us. We pray, cast out our sin and
enter in be born in us to day, then William
Sewell made a prayer. Those who had been looking to
see old Elder Blake take this part of the service
begins to wonder if he had been asked into the
pulpit simply as a courtesy. They supposed he could pray,
at least they knew he had never ceased doing it,
and for them Elder Blake had not an enemy in
the village. It seemed strange that he couldn't be given
some part in spite of his extreme age. To be sure,
it was many years since anybody had asked him to
take part in any service whatsoever, even a funeral service,
for which it is well understood, a man retains efficiency
long after he had ceased to be of use in
the pulpit, no matter how devastating maybe the weather. But
that fact did not seem to bear upon the present situation.
A number of people, among them Miss Jane Pollock, were
beginning to feel more than a little indignant about it,
and so lost the most of Sewell's prayer, which was
a good one and not out of the prayer book,
though there were phrases in it which suggested that source,
as was quite natural. The city man meant to do
it all then, doubtless he thought that nobody from the
country knew how to do more than to pronounce the benediction.
Doubtless that was to be Elder Blake's insignificant part, to
pronounce the Miss Jane Pollock looked up quickly. She had
been staring steadily at the back of Maria Hill's mink
collar in front of her through the closing sentences of
the prayer. But what was this? Elder Blake had risen
and was coming forward. Was he going to read to him?
But he had no book, and he had taken off
his spectacles. He could see better, as was known without
his spectacles when looking at a distance. William Seawall's prayer
was not ended. He could no longer be heard by
the people. But in his seat, behind the drooping figure
of the old man, he was asking things of the Lord,
as if it seemed to him he had never asked
anything before. Could his poor feeble, superannuated old servant ever
speak the message that needed to be spoken? That night?
William Seawell felt more than ever that he himself could
not have done it. Could Ebenezer Blake make him strong?
O God make him strong? Requested William Sewell fervently then,
forgetting even a likeness to prayer book phrase he added
with fists unconsciously tight clenched in the language of the
athletic field, where a few years back he himself had
taken part in many a hard fought battle. Help him
to buck up eight They talk about it. Yet in
northeaster Brook, though it happened a year ago, nobody knew
how it was. That from a frail old man with
a trembling voice, which in its first sentences the people
back of the middle of the church could hardly hear,
there came to stand before them a fiery messenger from
the skies. But such was the miracle, for it seemed
no less. The bent figure straightened, the trembling voice grew
clear and strong, the dim eyes brightened into the withered cheeks,
flowed color into the whole. Aged personality came slowly but
surely back the fires of youth, and once more in
a public place, Ebenezer Blake became the mouthpiece of the Master.
He served peace and good will. Oh yes, he preached it,
no doubt of that. But it was no milk and
water piece, no sugar and spice, good will There was
flesh and blood in the message he gave them, and
it was the message they needed. Even his text was
not the gentle part of the Christmas prophecy. It was
the militant part. And the government shall be upon his shoulder.
They were not bidden to lie down together like lambs.
They were summoned to march together like lions, the lions
of the Lord. As William Sewell looked down into the
faces of the people and watched the changing expressions there,
he felt that the strange, strong, challenging words were going home.
He saw stooping shoulders straighten even as the preachers had straightened.
He saw heads come up and eyes grow light. Most
of all, he saw that at last the people had
forgotten one another and were remembering God. Suddenly the sermon ended,
As preachers of a later day have learned the art
of stopping abruptly with a striking climax. So this preacher
from an earlier generation his message delivered ceased to speak.
He left his hearers breathless, But after a moment's pause,
during which the silence was a thing to be felt,
his voice spoke again. It no longer rang, It sank
into a low pleading in words out of the book
upon which the clasped old hands rested. Now, therefore, o
our God, hear the prayer of thy servant and his supplications,
and cause thy face to shine upon thy sanctuary that
is desolate for the Lord's sake. Nine Up in the
choir loft, chokily, Guy whispered to Margaret. Can't we end
it with Holy Night again? Nothing else seems to fit?
After that, she nodded, her eyes wet. It had not
been thought best to ask the congregation to sing. There
was no knowing if anybody would sing if they were asked.
Now it seemed fortunate that it had been so arranged.
For somehow the congregation did not look exactly as if
it could sing. Certainly, not George Tomlinson, for he had
a large frog in his throat, Nor ass A Frasier,
for he had a furious cold in his head. Not
Maria Hill, for though she hunted vigorously high and low
for her handkerchief, she was unable to locate it. And
the front of her best black silk was rapidly becoming
shiny in spots, a fact calculated to upset anybody singing.
Not even miss Jane Pollock, For though no tears bedewed
her bright eyes, there was a peculiar heaving quality in
her breathing, which suggested an impediment of some sort not
to be readily overcome. And it may be safely said
that there was not a baker's dozen of people left
in the church who could have carried through the most
familiar hymn without breaking down. So the four in the
organ loft sang Holy Night again. They could not have
done a better thing. It is a holy night, indeed,
when a messenger from Heaven comes down to this world
of ours, though he takes the form of an old
old man, with a peaceful face, but with eyes which
can flash once more, with a light which is not
of earth, and with lips upon which, for one last
mighty effort has been laid a coal from off the
altar of the Great High Priest. Silent night, Holy night,
darkness flies, all is light. Shepherds, hear the angels sing, Hallelujah,
Hail the King Jesus Christ is here. Ten George Tomlinson
came heavily out of his pew. He had at last
succeeded in getting rid of the frog in his throat,
or thought he had. It had occurred to him that
perhaps he ought to go up and speak to Elder Blake,
now sitting quietly in his chair with William Seawell bending
over him, though he didn't know exactly what to say
that would see adequate to the occasion. At the same moment,
Asa Frasier, still struggling with the cold in his head,
emerged from his pew directly opposite. The two men did
not look at each other, but as they had been
accustomed to allow their meeting glances to clash with cutting
quality of implacable resentment, this dropping of the eyes on
the part of each might have been interpreted to register
a distinct advance toward peace. As each stood momentarily at
the opening of his pew, neither quite determined whether to
turn his face pulpit word or door word. Samuel Burnett,
coming eagerly up to them from the doorward side, laid
a friendly hand on each black clad arm. Whether sam
was inspired by heaven or only by his own strong
common sense and knowledge of men, will never be known.
But he had been a popular man in Northeasterbrook ever
since he had first begun to come there to see
Nancy Fernald, and both Tomlinson and Fraser heartily liked and
respected him, a fact he understood and was counting on. Now,
wasn't it great? Mister Tomlinson? Stam enthusiastically great, mister Fraser.
He looked, smiling into first one austere face, and then
the other. Then he gazed straight ahead of him up
at Elder Blake, going up to tell him, so, so
am I. He pressed the two arms, continuing in his
friendly way to retain his hold on both. In all
the years I've gone to church, I've never heard preaching
like that. It warmed up my heart till I thought
it would burst, and it made me want to go
to work. Almost without their own volition, Tomlinson and Fraser
found themselves proceeding toward the pulpit. Yet Sam's hands did
not seem to be exerting any force. The force came
from his own vigorous personality, which was one that invariably
inspired confidence. If Brunett was going up to speak to
the elder, it seemed only proper that they, the leading
men of the church, should go too. William Sewell, having
assured himself that his venerable associate was not suffering from
a more than natural exhaustion. After his supreme effort, stood
still by his side, looking out over the congregation. He
now observed an interesting trio approaching the platform, composed of
his valued friend Samuel Burnett, his fine face alight with
his purpose, and two gray bearded men of somewhat unpromising exterior,
but plainly of prominence in the church by the indefinable
look of them. He watched the three climb the pulpit
stairs and come up to the figure in the chair,
sam with tact falling behind. You did well, Elder, you
did well, said George Tomlinson, struggling to express himself and
finding only this time worn phrase. He stood awkwardly on
one foot before Ebenezer Blake, like an embarrassed schoolboy, but
his tone was sincere and a trifle husky on account
of the untimely reappearance of the frog in his throat.
Elder Blake looked up, and William Sewall thought he had
never seen a sweeter smile on a human face, young
or old. You are kind to come and tell me so, George,
he said, I had thought never to preach again. It
did me good it did us good, Sir, said Sam Barnett.
He had waited an instant for a Fraser to speak,
but saw that the cold in the head was in
the ascendancy again. It did me so much good that
I can hardly wait till I get back to town
to hunt up a man I know and tell him
I think he was in the right and a little
disagreement we had a good while ago. I've always been
positive he was wrong. I suppose the facts in the
case haven't changed. He smiled into the dim blue eyes,
but somehow I seemed to see them differently. It doesn't
look to me worth while to let them stand between
us any longer. Ah, it's not worth while, agreed the
old man quickly. It's not worth while for any of
us to be hard on one another, no matter what
the facts. Life is pretty difficult at its best. We
can't afford to make it more difficult for any human soul.
Go back to town and make it right with your friend,
mister Burnett. I take it he was your friend, or
you wouldn't think of him to night was and is,
declared Sam with conviction. He's got to be whether he
wants to or not. But he'll want to. I know
that well enough. We've been friends from boyhood. We'd just
forgotten it, that's all. There was a little pause. The
old man sat with his white head leaning against the
high back of his chair. His face upturned, his eyes
with an appeal in them, resting first on the face
of Asa Fraser, then on that of George Tomlinson. With
a common impulse, William Sewall and Samuel Barnett moved aside, together,
turning their backs upon the three Ossa. Fraser lifted his
eyes and met those of George Tomlinson with a palpable effort.
For he was a man of few words. He spoke.
George said he, I guess I made a mistake, thinking
as I did, Assy responded Tomlinson quickly, I guess you
weren't the only one that's made a mistake, And he
held out his hand. Fraser grasped it with his other hand.
He raised his handkerchief and blew his nose once more violently,
and finally, from this point the smile in his eyes
usurped the place of the moisture which had bothered him
so unwontedly, and put it quite to rout. If you
imagine that this little drama had escaped the attention of
the departing congregation heading the other way. You are much mistaken.
The congregation was not headed the other way. From the
moment when Burnet, Fraser and Tomlinson had started toward the pulpit,
the congregation, to a man, had paused and was staring
directly toward them. It continued to stare up to the
moment when the hand shaking took place. But then eyes
turned and met other eyes. Hearts beat fast, lips trembled,
feet moved. Unquestionably, something had happened to the people of Northeasterbrook.
Do you know how sometimes the ice goes out of
a river from shore to shore. It has been frozen,
cold and hard for many months. It has grown solid,
deepening and thickening, until it seems as if there could
be no life left beneath. Then at last comes sunshine
and rain and warmth. The huge mass looks as impenetrable
as ever, but all at once, some day crack. The
first thin dark line spreads across the surface. Then crack, crack, crack, crack,
in every direction. The ice is breaking up. Look quickly now,
if you would see that frozen surface, stretching seamless between
shore and shore. For suddenly, dark lanes of water open up,
which widen while you watch, and soon, incredibly soon, the
river has burst its bonds and is rushing freely once
more between its banks, with only the ever diminishing blocks
of melting ice upon its surface to tell the story
of its long imprisonment. Even so, on that memorable Christmas
night did the ice in the northeaster Brook Church break up. Crack.
George Tomlinson and Ossa Fraser, old friends but sworn foes,
had shaken hands. Crack. Missus Tomlinson and Missus Fraser, tears
running frankly down their cheeks, had followed the example of
their husbands and glad enough to do it, for their
homes lay side by side, and each had had a
hard time of it getting along without the other. Miss
Jane Pollock, seeing Missus Maria Hill's fruitless search for her handkerchief,
had long since drawn out one of her own. She
always carried two, and had held it in her hand,
ready to offer it if she could just get to
the point. But when she saw upon the pulpit platform
these two gripping hands, somehow, she suddenly reached the point
crack with no difficulty whatever. Miss Pollock slipped the handkerchief
into Missus Hill's hand, whispering commiseratingly. I presume you've got
one somewhere, Maria, but you just can't lay your hand
on it. Don't take the trouble to return it. It
isn't of any value. And Missus Hill, excepting the handkerchief,
wiped away the unmanageable tears and turning round, answered fervently,
I guess I will return it, Jane, if it's only
so to come and see your house again, if you'll
let me in after all I've said. Even as they
smiled shamefacedly but happily at each other, similar scenes were
being enacted all about them, spread the breaking ice. Incredible
that it should happen in a night. Not so. The
forces of nature are mighty, but they are as weakness
beside the spiritual forces of Nature's god. Eleven Well, Billy, sewell,
have you taken your young friend home and put him
to bed? The questioner was Ralph Fernald, sitting with the
rest of the family, or those members of it who
were not still attending to the wants of their children
before the fireplace talking things over. They had been there
for nearly an hour since the service, but Seawell had
only just come in. I've taken him home, Seoul replied,
but there's no point putting him to bed. I think
he'll sit up till morning, too happy to sleep. The
fine old man. They had saved the big arm chair
for him in the very center of the circle, but
he would have none of it. He went over to
a corner of the inglenook and dropped upon the floor
at his sister Margaret's feet, with his arm upon her knee.
When somebody protested, Guy interfered in his defense. Let him alone,
said he He gets enough of prominent positions if he
wants to sit on the fence and kick his heels, awhile,
let him. He certainly earned the right to do as
he pleases. To Night Py George talk about magnificent team work.
If I ever saw a sacrifice play, I saw it.
To night Sewell shook his head. You may have seen
team work, said he, though mister Blake was the most
of the team. But there was no sacrifice play on
my part. It was simply a matter of passing the
ball to the man who could run I should have
been down in four yards if I ever got away
at all. John Fernald looked at his wife with a
puzzled smile. What sort of talk is that? He queried,
Then he went on, I suppose you boys are giving
the credit to elder Blake, who ought to have it.
But I give a good deal to William Sewell, whose
eyes were sharp enough to see what We've been too
blind to find out that the old man was the
one who could deal with us and make us see
light on our quarrel. He did make us see it here.
I've been standing off, pluming myself on being too wise
to mix up in the fuss, when I ought to
have been doing my best to bring folks together. What
a difference it does make, the way you see a thing.
He looked round upon the group, scanning one stirred face
after another as the ruddy firelight illumined them. His glance
finally rested on his daughter Nan. She too sat upon
the floor on a plump red cushion, with her back
against her husband's knee. Somehow, Nan and Sam were never
par a part at times like these. The youngest of
the house of Fernald had made perhaps the happiest marriage
of them all, and the knowledge of this gave her
father and mother great satisfaction. The sight of the pair
returning his scrutiny with bright faces gave John Fernald his
next comment after the preachers, I guess Nancy and Samuel
deserve about the most credit. He went on. It was
the little girl's idea, and Sam stood by her right through.
He began to chuckle. I can see Sam now towing
those two old fellows up to the pulpit. I don't
believe they'd ever got there without him. There certainly is
a time when a man's hand on your arm makes
it a good deal easier to go where you know
you ought to go. It would have taken more than
my hand to tow them away, said Sam Barnett, after
they found out how it felt to be friends again.
Nobody could come between them now with an axe. The
music helped, cried Nan. The music helped more than anything
except the sermon. Think how Margaret worked over that, and
Caroline over that crazy little old organ, and Guy and
Ed and Charles hung all those greens. I tacked the
pulpit stair carpet, put in Oliver gravely, while you're signing credit.
Don't forget that I stoked those stoves, asserted Ralph. That
left hand one, Christopher. I never saw a stove like
that to hand out smoke in your face. But the
church was warm when I got through with them. You
all did wonderfully well, came Mother Fernoud's proud and happy declaration.
All but me, said a voice from the center of
the group. It was a voice which nobody had ever
expected to hear in an acknowledgment of failure of any
sort whatsoever, and all ears listened in amazement. I did
nothing but discourage everybody, went on the voice, not quite evenly.
I believe I am apt to do that, though I
never realized it before. But when that wonderful old man
was speaking, it came to me quite suddenly that the
reason my husband's family don't like me better is because
it is my nature always to see the objections to
a thing and to discourage people about it, if I can.
I want to tell you all that I'm going to
try to help, not hinder, from now on. There was
never a deeper sincerity that breathed in these astonishing words
from Marian Oliver's wife. Astonishing because they all understood, knowing
her as they did. Oliver was oldest and had been
the first to marry. What a tremendous effort the little
speech had cost her, a proud woman of the world
who never seemed to care whether her husband's family loved
her or not, so that they deferred to her for
a moment. They were all too surprised and touched, for
there is nothing more touching than humility where it is
least expected to speak. Then Ralph, who sat next to Marian,
brought his fist down on his knee with a thud.
Bully for you, said he. Upon Marian's other side, her
husband's mother slipped a warm, delicate hand into hers, nan,
leaning past Sam's knee, reached up and patted her sister
in law's lap. Everybody else smiled in his or her
most friendly way at Oliver's wife, and Oliver himself, though
he said nothing and merely continued to stare fixed into
the fire, looked as if he would be willing to
tackle pulpit stair carpets for a living, if it would
help to bring about such results as these. Marian's right
in calling him a wonderful old man guy spoke thoughtfully.
He's got us all, Fernald's as well as Tomlinson's and Frasier's.
Hit me square between the eyes, good and hard. But
I'm glad he did, he owned with characteristic frankness. They
all sat gazing into the fire in silence for a
little while After that, in the musing way of those
who have much to think about, and by and by,
Father Fernald pulled out his watch and scanned it by
the wavering light. Bless my soul, he cried, it's close
on to twelve o'clock. You children ought to be in bed,
oughtn't they? Mother? There was a murmur of laughter round
the group, for John Fernald was looking at his wife
over his spectacles in just the quizzical way his sons
and daughters Well remembered. I suppose they ought, John, she responded,
smiling at him, But you might let them sit up
a little longer, just this once. He looked them over
once more. It was the hundredth time his eyes had
gone round the circle that night. It was a goodly
array of manhood and womanhood for a father to look
at and call his own. Even William Sewell, the brother
of his son's wife, seemed to belong to him. To night.
They gave him back his proud and tender glance, every
one of them, and his heart was very full. As
for their mother, but her eyes had gone down, well,
said he, leaning over to clasp her hand in his
own as she sat next to him. I guess maybe,
just this once, it won't do any harm to let
em stay up a little late. They're getting pretty big now,
and it's Christmas night, and of on Christmas Day in
the evening by Grace Louise Smith, Richmond