"The problem is--" said the Reverend William Sewall, standing at the
back of the church with his sister Margaret, and Guy Fernald, her
husband, and Nan and Sam Burnett--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 mighty 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 St. John's this morning, wouldn't consider
this one much of a stunt."
Sewall 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 but 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 Sewall, if you have 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."
"Superannuated, they call it," added Sam Burnett. "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?" Sewall 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. "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,"
cried Guy. "An old man in his dotage!"
Sewall smiled again, starting toward 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 promises 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 left behind stared at one another, in dismay.
"Keep cool," advised Sam Burnett. "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. Sewall's head's level--trust him."
[Illustration:
"Billy!" His sister Margaret's voice was anxious.
"Are you sure you'd better?"]
V
"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,
Mr. Sewall. The people are all expecting you--they will come out to hear
you. I have 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 as 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, Mr. 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, root 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 bent white head, he studied the matter, "what would be your part?
Should you attempt--" he glanced at the clerical dress of his caller--
"to carry through the service of your--Church?"
Sewall's face, which had been grave, relaxed. "No, Mr. 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 will 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 coming
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 looked 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 in body, it may be that
I should be glad of the years that have brought me experience."
"And tolerance," added William Sewall, pressing the hand, his eyes held
fast by Elder Blake's.
"And love," yet 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."