"Hi, there, Ol--why not get something doing with that hammer? Don't
you see the edge of that pulpit stair-carpeting is all frazzled? The
preacher'll catch his toes in it, and then where'll 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 North Estabrook 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 but 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 labourers. The number of these, by the way, had
been reinforced by the arrival of the entire Fernald clan, to spend
Christmas.
"Your motive is undoubtedly a good one," Mrs. Oliver conceded. She spoke
to Nan, busy near her, and she gazed critically about the shabby old
walls, 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 Wetmore--Carolyn'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,"
Mrs. Oliver continued, "if you attain your object. Nobody can be more
obstinate in their prejudice than the people of such a little 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 colour of the holly
berries in the great wreaths 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 and hold this wreath a
minute, will you?"
"Nobody expects Marian to be on any side but the other one," consolingly
whispered merry-faced Jessica, Edson's wife--lucky fellow!--as she held
the wreath for Nan to affix the wire.
"What's that about Sewall?" Oliver inquired. "I hadn't heard of that.
You don't mean to say Sewell'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 Mr. Oliver Fernald, president
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 tacked 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 mould
of this one.
"Do I understand that you mean to attempt music?" Mrs. Oliver seemed
grieved at the thought. "There are several good voices in the family,
of course, but you haven't had time to practise 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 the 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 Carolyn--Mrs. 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 steam calliope!--unless you want 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 Carolyn. "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 than from the old choir-loft.
"_Over the hills of Bethlehem,
Lighted by a star,
Wise men came with offerings,
From the East afar...._"
[Illustration:
"Cut it out--cut out the steam calliope!"]
It took them all, working until late on Christmas Eve, to do all that
needed to be done. Once their interest was aroused, nothing short of
the best possible would content 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, and 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 I 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 North Estabrook
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: "O 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 on the air."
"If this thing 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 North Estabrook ever had. Peace and good will--Jove,
but they need it! And so do we all--so do we all."