On Christmas Day In The Evening Part 4

XI

"Well, Billy Sewall, 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 little children--before the fireplace, talking things over. They had been there for nearly an hour, since the service, but Sewall had only just come in.

"I've taken him home," Sewall replied. "But there was no 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 armchair for him, in the very centre 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 defence.

"Let him alone," said he. "He gets enough of prominent positions.

If he wants to sit on the fence and kick his heels a while, let him.

He's certainly earned the right to do as he pleases to-night. By George!--talk about magnificent team-work! If ever I saw a sacrifice play I saw it to-night."

Sewall shook his head. "You may have seen team-work," said he, "though Mr. Blake was the most of the team. But there was no sacrifice play on my part. It was simply a matter of pa.s.sing 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 o' 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 Sewall, 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 far apart, 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 have 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 Burnett, "after they found out how it felt to be friends again. n.o.body 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 Carolyn 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 a.s.signing credit, don't forget that."

"I stoked those stoves," a.s.serted 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 'em."

"You all did wonderfully well," came Mother Fernald's proud and happy declaration.

"All but me," said a voice, from the centre of the group. It was a voice which n.o.body 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'm 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 than 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 first to marry--what a tremendous effort the little speech had cost her, a proud woman of the world, who had 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 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 fixedly into the fire, looked as if he would be willing to tack 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 got us all--Fernalds as well as Tomlinsons and Frasers. He 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, 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 Sewall, 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," he said, leaning over to clasp her hand in his own, as she sat next 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."

[Music: Piano or choral arrangement of "Silent Night"]

THE END