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George Tomlinson came heavily out of his pew. He had at last succeeded in getting rid of the frog in his throat—or thought he had. It had occurred to him that perhaps he ought to go up and speak to Elder Blake—now sitting quietly in his chair, with William Sewall bending over him—though he didn’t know exactly what to say that would seem adequate to the occasion.
At the same moment, Asa Fraser, still struggling with the cold in his head, emerged from his pew, directly
opposite. The two men did not look at each other. But as they had been accustomed to allow their meeting glances to clash with the cutting quality of implacable resentment, this dropping of the eyes on the part of each might have been interpreted to register a distinct advance toward peace.
As each stood momentarily at the opening of his pew, neither quite determined whether to turn his face pulpit-ward or door-ward, Samuel Burnett, coming eagerly up to them from the door-ward side, laid a friendly hand on either black-clad arm. Whether Sam was inspired by Heaven, or only by his own strong common-sense and knowledge of men, will never be known. But he had been a popular man in North Estabrook, ever since he had first begun to come there to see Nancy Fernald, and both Tomlinson and Fraser heartily liked and respected him—a fact he understood and was counting on now.
“Wasn’t it great, Mr. Tomlinson?” said Sam, enthusiastically. “Great—Mr. Fraser?” He looked, smiling, into first one austere face and then the other. Then he gazed straight ahead of him, up at Elder Blake. “Going up to tell him so? So am I!” He pressed the two arms, continuing in his friendly way to retain his hold on both. “In all the years I’ve gone to church, I’ve never heard preaching like that. It warmed up my heart till I thought it would burst—and it made me want to go to work.”
Almost without their own volition Tomlinson and Fraser found themselves proceeding toward the pulpit—yet Sam’s hands did not seem to be exerting any force. The force came from his own vigorous personality, which was one that invariably inspired confidence. If Burnett was going up to speak to the Elder, it seemed only proper that they, the
leading men of the church, should go too.
William Sewall, having assured himself that his venerable associate was not suffering from a more than natural exhaustion after his supreme effort, stood still by his side, looking out over the congregation. He now observed an interesting trio approaching the platform, composed of his valued friend, Samuel Burnett—his fine face alight with his purpose—and two gray-bearded men of somewhat unpromising exterior, but plainly of prominence in the church, by the indefinable look of them. He watched the three climb the pulpit stairs, and come up to the figure in the chair—Sam, with tact, falling behind.
“You did well, Elder—you did well,” said George Tomlinson, struggling to express himself, and finding only this time-worn phrase. He stood awkwardly on one foot, before
Ebenezer Blake, like an embarrassed schoolboy, but his tone was sincere—and a trifle husky, on account of the untimely reappearance of the frog in his throat.
Elder Blake looked up—and William Sewall thought he had never seen a sweeter smile on a human face, young or old. “You are kind to come and tell me so, George,” said he. “I had thought never to preach again. It did me good.”
“It did us good, sir,” said Sam Burnett. He had waited an instant for Fraser to speak, but saw that the cold in the head was in the ascendancy again. “It did me so much good that I can hardly wait till I get back to town to hunt up a man I know, and tell him I think he was in the right in a little disagreement we had a good while ago. I’ve always been positive he was wrong. I suppose the facts in the case haven’t changed—” he smiled into the dim
blue eyes— “but somehow I seem to see them differently. It doesn’t look to me worth while to let them stand between us any longer.”
“Ah, it’s not worth while,” agreed the old man quickly. “It’s not worth while for any of us to be hard on one another, no matter what the facts. Life is pretty difficult, at its best—we can’t afford to make it more difficult for any human soul. Go back to town and make it right with your friend, Mr. Burnett. I take it he was your friend, or you wouldn’t think of him to-night.”
“Was—and is!” declared Sam, with conviction. “He’s got to be, whether he wants to or not. But he’ll want to—I know that well enough. We’ve been friends from boyhood—we’d just forgotten it, that’s all.”
There was a little pause. The old man sat with his white head leaning against the high back of his chair,
his face upturned, his eyes—with an appeal in them—resting first upon the face of Asa Fraser, then upon that of George Tomlinson. With a common impulse, William Sewall and Samuel Burnett moved aside together, turning their backs upon the three.
Asa Fraser lifted his eyes and met those of George Tomlinson. With a palpable effort—for he was a man of few words—he spoke.
“George,” said he, “I guess I made a mistake, thinking as I did.”
“Asey,” responded Tomlinson quickly, “I guess you weren’t the only one that’s made a mistake.” And he held out his hand.
Fraser grasped it. With his other hand he raised his handkerchief and blew his nose once more, violently—and finally. From this point the smile in his eyes usurped the place of the moisture which had bothered him so unwontedly, and put it quite to rout.
If you imagine that this little drama had escaped the attention of the departing congregation, headed the other way, you are much mistaken. The congregation was not headed the other way. From the moment when Burnett, Fraser and Tomlinson had started toward the pulpit, the congregation, to a man, had paused, and was staring directly toward them. It continued to stare, up to the moment when the handshaking took place. But then—eyes turned and met other eyes. Hearts beat fast, lips trembled, feet moved. Unquestionably something had happened to the people of North Estabrook.
Do you know how sometimes the ice goes out of a river? From shore to shore it has been frozen, cold and hard. For many months it has grown solid, deepening and thickening until it seems as if there could be no life left beneath. Then, at last, comes
sunshine and rain and warmth. The huge mass looks as impenetrable as ever, but all at once, some day—crack!—the first thin, dark line spreads across the surface. Then—crack, crack!—crack, crack!—in every direction the ice is breaking up. Look quickly, now, if you would see that frozen surface stretching seamless between shore and shore—for suddenly dark lanes of water open up, which widen while you watch—and soon, incredibly soon, the river has burst its bonds and is rushing freely once more between its banks, with only the ever-diminishing blocks of melting ice upon its surface to tell the story of its long imprisonment.
Even so, on that memorable Christmas night, did the ice in the North Estabrook church break up. Crack!—George Tomlinson and Asa Fraser, old friends but sworn foes, had shaken hands. Crack! Mrs. Tomlinson
and Mrs. Fraser, tears running frankly down their cheeks, had followed the example of their husbands—and glad enough to do it, for their homes lay side by side, and each had had a hard time of it getting along without the other. Miss Jane Pollock, seeing Mrs. Maria Hill’s fruitless search for her handkerchief, had long since drawn out one of her own—she always carried two—and had held it in her hand, ready to offer it, if she could just get to the point. But when she saw, upon the pulpit platform, those two gripping hands, somehow she suddenly reached the point. Crack! —With no difficulty whatever Miss Pollock slipped the handkerchief into Mrs. Hill’s hand, whispering commiseratingly: “I presume you’ve got one somewhere, Maria, but you just can’t lay your hand on it. Don’t take the trouble to return it—it isn’t of any value.”
And Mrs. Hill, accepting the handkerchief,
wiped away the unmanageable tears, and turning round answered fervently; “I guess I will return it, Jane, if it’s only so’s to come to your house again—if you’ll let me in, after all I’ve said.”
Even as they smiled, shamefacedly but happily, at each other, similar scenes were being enacted. All about them spread the breaking ice. Incredible, that it should happen in a night? Not so. The forces of Nature are mighty, but they are as weakness beside the spiritual forces of Nature’s God.
