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Old Peabody Pew. The

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<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> <blockquote>“Ring out, sweet bells, O’er woods and dells Your lovely strains repeat, While happy throngs With joyous songs Each accent gladly greet.” </blockquote> Christmas morning in the old Tory Hill Meeting-House was felt by all of the persons who were present in that particular year to be a most exciting and memorable occasion. The old sexton quite outdid himself, for although he had rung the bell for more than thirty years, he had never felt greater pride or joy in his task.  Was not his son John home for Christmas, and John’s wife, and a grandchild newly named Nathaniel for himself?  Were there not spareribs and turkeys and cranberries and mince pies on the pantry shelves, and barrels of rosy Baldwins in the cellar and bottles of mother’s root beer just waiting to give a holiday pop?  The bell itself forgot its age and the suspicion of a crack that dulled its voice on a damp day, and, inspired by the bright, frosty air, the sexton’s inspiring pull, and the Christmas spirit, gave out nothing but joyous tones. Ding-dong!  Ding-dong!  It fired the ambitions of star scholars about to recite hymns and sing solos.  It thrilled little girls expecting dolls before night.  It excited beyond bearing dozens of little boys being buttoned into refractory overcoats.  Ding-dong!  Ding-dong!  Mothers’ fingers trembled when they heard it, and mothers’ voices cried: “If that is the second bell, the children will never be ready in time!  Where are the overshoes?  Where are the mittens?  Hurry, Jack!  Hurry, Jennie!”  Ding-dong!  Ding-dong!  “Where’s Sally’s muff?  Where’s father’s fur cap?  Is the sleigh at the door?  Are the hot soapstones in?  Have all of you your money for the contribution box?” Ding-dong!  Ding-dong!  It was a blithe bell, a sweet, true bell, a holy bell, and to Justin, pacing his tavern room, as to Nancy, trembling in her maiden chamber, it rang a Christmas message:— <blockquote>Awake, glad heart!  Arise and sing; It is the birthday of thy King! </blockquote> The congregation filled every seat in the old Meeting-House. As Maria Sharp had prophesied, there was one ill-natured spinster from a rival village who declared that the church floor looked like Joseph’s coat laid out smooth; but in the general chorus of admiration, approval, and good will, this envious speech, though repeated from mouth to mouth, left no sting. Another item of interest long recalled was the fact that on that august and unapproachable day the pulpit vases stood erect and empty, though Nancy Wentworth had filled them every Sunday since any one could remember.  This instance, though felt at the time to be of mysterious significance if the cause were ever revealed, paled into nothingness when, after the ringing of the last bell, Nancy Wentworth walked up the aisle on Justin Peabody’s arm, and they took their seats side by side in the old family pew. (“And consid’able close, too, though there was plenty o’ room!”) (“And no one that I ever heard of so much as suspicioned that they had ever kept company!”) (“And do you s’pose she knew Justin was expected back when she scrubbed his pew a-Friday?”) (“And this explains the empty pulpit vases!”) (“And I always said that Nancy would make a real handsome couple if she ever got anybody to couple with!”) During the unexpected and solemn procession of the two up the aisle the soprano of the village choir stopped short in the middle of the Doxology, and the three other voices carried it to the end without any treble.  Also, among those present there were some who could not remember afterward the precise petitions wafted upward in the opening prayer. And could it be explained otherwise than by cheerfully acknowledging the bounty of an overruling Providence that Nancy Wentworth should have had a new winter dress for the first time in five years—a winter dress of dark brown cloth to match her beaver muff and victorine?  The existence of this toilette had been known and discussed in Edgewood for a month past, and it was thought to be nothing more than a proper token of respect from a member of the carpet committee to the general magnificence of the church on the occasion of its reopening after repairs.  Indeed, you could have identified every member of the Dorcas Society that Sunday morning by the freshness of her apparel.  The brown dress, then, was generally expected; but why the white cashmere waist with collar and cuffs of point lace, devised only and suitable only for the minister’s wedding, where it first saw the light? “The white waist can only be explained as showing distinct hope!” whispered the minister’s wife during the reading of the church notices. “To me it shows more than hope; I am very sure that Nancy would never take any wear out of that lace for hope; it means certainty!” answered Maria, who was always strong in the prophetic line. By sermon time Justin’s identity had dawned upon most of the congregation.  A stranger to all but one or two at first, his presence in the Peabody pew brought his face and figure back, little by little, to the minds of the old parishioners. When the contribution plate was passed, the sexton always began at the right-wing pews, as all the sextons before him had done for a hundred years.  Every eye in the church was already turned upon Justin and Nancy, and it was with almost a gasp that those in the vicinity saw a ten dollar bill fall in the plate.  The sexton reeled, or, if that is too intemperate a word for a pillar of the church, the good man tottered, but caught hold of the pew rail with one hand, and, putting the thumb of his other over the bill, proceeded quickly to the next pew, lest the stranger should think better of his gift, or demand change, as had occasionally been done in the olden time. Nancy never fluttered an eyelash, but sat quietly by Justin’s side with her bosom rising and falling under the beaver fur and her cold hands clasped tight in the little brown muff.  Far from grudging this appreciable part of their slender resources, she thrilled with pride to see Justin’s offering fall in the plate. Justin was too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice anything, but his munificent contribution had a most unexpected effect upon his reputation, after all; for on that day, and on many another later one, when his sudden marriage and departure with Nancy Wentworth were under discussion, the neighbours said to one another:— “Justin must be making money fast out West!  He put ten dollars in the contribution plate a-Sunday, and paid the minister ten more next day for marryin’ him to Nancy; so the Peabody luck has turned at last!” which, as a matter of fact, it had. “And all the time,” said the chairman of the carpet committee to the treasurer of the Dorcas Society—“all the time, little as she realized it, Nancy was laying the carpet in her own pew.  Now she’s married to Justin she’ll be the makin’ of him, or I miss my guess.  You can’t do a thing with men folks without they’re right alongside where you can keep your eye and hand on ’em.  Justin’s handsome and good and stiddy; all he need is some nice woman to put starch into him.  The Edgewood Peabodys never had a mite o’ stiffenin’ in ’em,—limp as dishrags, every blessed one!  Nancy Wentworth fairly rustles with starch.  Justin hadn’t been engaged to her but a few hours when they walked up the aisle together, but did you notice the way he carried his head?  I declare I thought ’t would fall off behind!  I shouldn’t wonder a mite but they prospered and come back every summer to set in the old Peabody Pew.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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