[Music:
Holy night! peaceful night! Darkness flies, all is light!]
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, Carolyn 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 Carolyn's youngest baby, who was not a year old
last Christmas, has sustained a particle of harm from the snowy journey
to North Estabrook, tucked away though it is among the hills, where the
drifts are deep.
Taking them all together 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 North Estabrook two days
ahead of the rest, to help with the finishing labours. 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 hurry, you boys. Now we can have a
spell of quiet talk, before the fun begins. That suits us to a T --eh,
Mother?"
Mrs. Fernald nodded, smiling. Her hand, held fast in Guy's, rested on
his knee; 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 sons-in-law, 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
North Estabrook to inquire after; and though North Estabrook is but
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, right up over
her head, next door. _Does_ the bell ever ring, these days--or have
cobwebs grown over the clapper?"
A shadow dropped upon Mrs. 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 Estabrook 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 barbarous!" Guy exclaimed, in a tone of disgust.
"And all over nothing of any real consequence," sighed Mrs. Fernald, 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 Burnett, cheerfully.
"There's a whole lot of that feeling-it-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 humours. But it was
clearly a subject which gave pain to the older 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 lambs 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 greens, and a star, and
music--and--a sermon," she ended, a little more doubtfully.
"The sermon, by all means," quoth Sam Burnett. "Preach at 'em, 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 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--and 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 idea's such
a bad one, myself." Sam Burnett 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 would conduct such a service?" Mrs. Fernald asked thoughtfully.
"You couldn't get anybody out to church on Christmas morning," broke in
Mr. Fernald, chuckling. "Every mother's daughter of 'em will be basting
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 North Estabrook. Whom can we get to lead it? Well----"
Nan paused, thinking it out. Her eyes roamed from Sam's to her fathers,
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-ee!" Guy threw back his head and roared with delight
at the notion. "The Reverend Billy, of St. Johns, coming up to North
Estabrook to take charge of a Christmas-evening service! Why, Billy'll
be dining in purple and fine linen at the home of one of his 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 Sewall 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 millionaires'
dinners--he'd rather have an evening with his newsboys' 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 Sewall
was coming to North Estabrook, 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 North Estabrook the news of the coming event--for nothing less than
an event it was sure to be to North Estabrook.
"Put a notice in the post office," advised Guy, comfortably crossing
his legs and grinning at his father, "and tell 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 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 Paul, 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 Sewall 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 virile religion is
Billy's, and I rather think he's the man for the hour."