Read Ebook: Betty Alden: The first-born daughter of the Pilgrims by Austin Jane G Jane Goodwin

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Ebook has 2148 lines and 109526 words, and 43 pages

"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.

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."

"There go pretty near every one of the Fernalds, 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, it strikes me."

Miss Jane Pollock, ensconsed behind the thick "lace curtains" of her "best parlour," 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 tell him he'll have to preach a pretty powerful sermon to reach old George Tomlinson and Asa Fraser, 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 out your hand to her first?"

"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'll 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 Guy's wife's brother is worth hearing. There's to be music, too."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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 rather a prosperous front. I never noticed it quite so decidedly as this year."

"There's nothing at all ostentatious about the girls' 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."

"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 louse about his ears! I'd like to catch him at it. I'd--why, I'd give him a taste of my fists,--one for himself, and one to pass on to his neighbor, and after that"--

"M-o-o-o!" broke in a voice close behind, and, with a start, the conspirators faced round to meet "the great red cow," recently arrived in the Charity, and, with her, the comely but scoffing face of Priscilla Alden.

"I cry your pardon, gentlemen, if I have disturbed a secret conclave, but as my babes have a share of this cow's milk, I like her not to feed among the graves. All sorts of unclean creatures lurk here, and I fear lest the poor beast find contamination."

"A saucy wench, and one that would well grace the ducking-stool," growled Oldhame as Priscilla drove her cow away; while Lyford, remembering that she had that morning brought his wife a delicate breakfast, laughed uneasily and made no reply.

The governor's boat meanwhile, merrily driven by the "white-ash breeze" of four stalwart oars, had reached the ship's side, signaling, as she passed, the colony's pinnace, which, under easy sail, lay off and on the anchorage of the Charity.

"Good-morrow, Governor. You are welcome aboard, Master Winslow," cried the hearty voice of William Pierce, master of the Charity, and friend of the Pilgrims, as the passengers came aboard; and then, as if their errand were one needing no explanation, he led the way at once to his own cabin, fastened the door, and from a small locker at the foot of the bed-place took a packet of letters enveloped in oilskin. Laying these upon the little table and still resting his hand upon them, the honest mariner looked steadily in the faces of his visitors.

"Master Bradford, you are the governor of this colony and its chief authority. Do you, in the presence of Master Edward Winslow, your agent to the home government and one of your principal assistants, demand the surrender of these letters confided to my care by persons under your government?"

"I do, Master Pierce," replied Bradford distinctly, "and I call Edward Winslow to witness that the responsibility is mine and that of my Board of Assistants, and that you are guiltless in the matter. Nevertheless, I will not pretend that Master Oldhame and his party are directly under my government, since they came to Plymouth on their own account, and are not ranked as of the general company, but rather on their own particular."

"Still they are bound by the laws we all have subscribed to for our mutual safety and advantage," suggested Winslow, and would have said more had not Pierce bluffly interposed,--

"Well, well, all these niceties are out of my line. Some colonists have confided certain letters to me; the governor of the colony makes requisition upon me before a competent witness for these letters, suspecting treason therein; I surrender them to his keeping, and there ends my responsibility. And now I will go and make sail upon my ship. Governor, your pinnace shall be summoned whenever you give the signal." And Captain Pierce turned toward the companion-way, but presently returned, a genial smile replacing the slight annoyance darkening his face, and going to the "ditty bag" suspended near the porthole, he fumbled for a moment, then threw what he had found upon the table, adding merrily, "And if you want to make a neat job of it, Bradford, here's a sharp little pair of scissors. We sailors hate to see a trick of work bungled, if it's nothing better than ferreting out treason."

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