Crestlands Part 3

CANE RIDGE MEETING-HOUSE

The third Sunday in October was the regular once-a-month meeting-day at Cane Ridge Church. Early in the morning a note of preparation was sounded throughout the Rogers domain, and by nine o'clock the entire household was en route for the place of worship. On chairs in the wagon drawn by two stout farm horses sat Mr. and Mrs. Rogers and the four youngest children, while young Dudley, Henry and Susan rode horseback.

Uncle Tony, by reason of age, and Aunt d.i.n.k, by reason of flesh, instead of walking with the other negroes, were allowed to sit on the straw-covered floor of the wagon behind the white occupants.

As the cavalcade neared the church, a big, weather-stained log structure, they saw that, early as it was, a crowd had preceded them.

Other wagons were stationed about in the shade, and many horses were tethered to overhanging boughs.

While waiting for service to begin, Abner stood near the church and looked around with some curiosity and not a little surprise; for nearly every grade of frontier society seemed represented--aristocrats and adventurers; mistresses and slaves; farmers and land agents; ex-Revolutionary officers and ex-Indian-fighters; lately established settlers and weather-beaten survivors of early pioneer days.

"Visiting together" near the woman's entrance were a number of matrons, some in homespun gowns, calico split bonnets and cowhide shoes; others in more pretentious apparel--bombazine gowns, muslin tuckers, and "dress bonnets" of surprising depth and magnitude. Near the other entrance, comparing notes upon fall wheat-sowing or corn-gathering, was a cl.u.s.ter of farmers in shirt sleeves, homespun trousers and well-greased shoes. Upon the horse-block a group of merry belles, divesting themselves of mud-stained riding-skirts, stood forth in bright array--beads and ribands, flaunting chintzes, clocked stockings and morocco slippers. Some distance off, upon the roots of a wide-spreading elm, sat two barefooted, swarthy, scarred old hunters with racc.o.o.n skin caps, linsey hunting-shirts and buckskin breeches.

Near by, a group of urchins listened with open-mouthed absorption to blood-curdling reminiscences of days when upon this now peaceful slope the scream of the wildcat and the whoop of the Indian were more familiar sounds than the songs of Zion and the eloquence of the revivalist. Less in accord with the quiet beauty of this October Sunday, a squad of loud-voiced, swaggering, half-intoxicated young men lounged under the trees, recounting incidents of yesterday's c.o.c.k-fight or betting upon the wrestling-match next muster day.

In contrast to the other vehicles, the Gilcrest family coach, with its span of glossy-coated bays, presently drew up before the church. The negro driver sprang from his high seat, and, bowing obsequiously, let down the steps and opened the door of the coach, from which emerged, first, Hiram Gilcrest in all the glory of Sunday broadcloth; next, two small boys, then a negro woman bearing in her arms the youngest scion of the house of Gilcrest, an infant in long clothes. Lastly came Mrs.

Gilcrest, a fragile, faded woman in rustling brocade and satin petticoat. Close behind the coach rode a horseback party of four--Betsy Gilcrest, two of her brothers, and a young woman in long black riding-skirt and loose jacket, her features hidden by the gauze veil depending from her dress bonnet of corded white silk.

Betsy, rosy and dimpling, unenc.u.mbered by riding-skirt, dust-jacket or veil, tossed her bridle to her brother, John Calvin, and sprang from her saddle to the stile. Her movements were light and graceful, and she looked like a woodland nymph in a gown of light, gaily flowered chintz, and a large hat encircled in a wreath of bright leaves. As her companion, the girl in the corded silk bonnet, drew up, several gallants from the group of young people near by hastened eagerly forward to her a.s.sistance. After doffing riding-skirt and loose jacket, she stood a moment upon the block, adjusting her attire, a robe of misty lavender sarcenet with a pink crepe scarf loosely knotted across the bosom.

"I wish she'd throw back that veil," thought Abner, as he stood with Henry a little apart.

"That's Major Gilcrest's niece, come from Virginia to live with them,"

explained Henry, seeing Abner's admiring gaze fixed upon the girl.

"She's as pretty as a rosebush covered with pink blossoms; there ain't a girl comes to Cane Ridge that can stand alongside her. She makes even Sally Bledsoe and Molly Trabue look like common hollyhocks."

By this time every one save the group of young people and a few stragglers out in the shade had entered the church, from which at this moment a loud voice was heard announcing, "Hymn 642;" while at the same time Deacon Hiram Gilcrest, standing at one door, and Deacon Bushrod Hinkson at the other, admonished all loiterers to come in.

As soon as the congregation was seated, Mason Rogers, in a voice of much power and sweetness, started the hymn already announced. Others quickly joined in, until soon the building was filled with a swelling volume of melody which made the walls resound and the cobwebs tremble.

The negro nurse on the doorstep crooned the hymn as she held the sleeping baby. Uncle Tony, sitting on the steps of the pulpit platform, swayed his body and nodded his head in rhythmic motion. He could not carry a tune, but now and then would join in with a single note which rang out clear and loud above all the rest. Other negroes from their places in the gallery over the doorways opposite the pulpit, though they knew not the words of the hymn, added the melody of their plaintive voices. Little girls seated by their mothers on the woman's side of the low part.i.tion, and little boys by their fathers on the other side of the church, joined in with piping treble. Deacon Gilcrest, his stern features relaxed, kept time with his hand (down, left, right, up) as he thundered forth a ponderous ba.s.s. Old Matthew Houston from one "amen corner" added his quavering notes; while from the other, Squire Trabue, his chair tilted back, his face beaming, sang with little regard to time or tune, but with melody in his heart, if not in his voice. Near the central part.i.tion Susan Rogers and Betsy Gilcrest, happy and bright-eyed, sang from the same book, their voices clear, true, and sweet as bird notes.

As the music arose in a swelling wave of melody, Abner Dudley looked through the congregation for the girl in the lavender sarcenet.

Presently he discovered her seated near a window and singing with the rest. Her veil was thrown back, and from the depths of the scoop bonnet, with a wreath of roses under its brim, shone forth a face of radiant loveliness. From her broad, white brow the shining brown hair was parted in rippling ma.s.ses; she had darkly fringed blue eyes, a well-rounded chin, and skin whose tints of rose and pearl were like the delicate inner surface of a sea sh.e.l.l.

"Abigail Patterson, of Williamsburg!" he mentally e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "What is she doing here? Henry said that she was Major Gilcrest's niece, too. So this is the 'Miss Abby' whom the Rogers children talk so much about, and whom the Gilcrest children are always quoting. And to think that I had pictured her a prim old maid."

It was not until the preacher, who until now had been hidden by the high pulpit, stepped forward, that Abner was aroused to a sense of time and place. He looked up as the clear tones of the speaker rang through the building, and saw for the first time the man who was destined to exert a powerful influence upon his career--Barton Warren Stone. At this time, Stone was about twenty-nine years old, of slender build, refined features, earnest mien, and childlike simplicity--"an Israelite indeed in whom was no guile." This third Sunday in October was the day for the regular quarterly communion service, and the emblems of the sacred feast were spread upon the table in front of the pulpit.

Extending his hand, the speaker reverently p.r.o.nounced his text: "Put off the shoes from off thy feet; for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground" (Ex. 3:5).

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Barton Warren Stone._]

After pausing a moment that the words of the text might have due impressiveness, Stone proceeded. He explained that the command in its spiritual significance was still as imperative upon G.o.d's people when they entered the house dedicated to his service, as it had been in its literal sense to Moses when he had stood face to face with Jehovah at the foot of Mount h.o.r.eb. The speaker's musical accents fixed the attention of every hearer, and his words impressed every heart with the solemnity befitting the place and the hour.

As soon as the people were dismissed for the noontide intermission, they scattered about the grounds, talking, laughing, and setting out, upon the table-cloths spread upon the gra.s.s, the luncheons which they had brought with them.

While these preparations were in progress, Dudley started off with Henry to look after the horses. Before reaching the grove where they were tethered, he was hailed by Major and Mrs. Gilcrest with a cordial invitation to "break bread" at their table--an invitation which he, thinking of the beautiful niece, gladly accepted. He followed his host and hostess to a cl.u.s.ter of trees under which Abby Patterson and Betsy Gilcrest, a.s.sisted by their dusky servitors, had already spread a repast which an epicure might have envied. But to one, at least, of the guests it mattered little what viands were served; for young Dudley was soon enthralled by the witchery of the blue eyes, rose-tinted complexion and low-toned voice of the girl beside him. He was conscious the while of little else save an unreasoning animosity for a young man in powdered queue, flowered satin waistcoat, frilled shirt, and silver knee buckles, who sat at Miss Patterson's other hand, between her and Miss Gilcrest. This man, James Anson Drane, of Lexington, lawyer and land agent, notwithstanding Dudley's jealous fancies, divided his attentions almost equally between the two damsels, and seemed quite as content with Betsy's lively sallies as with Abby's gentler, more dignified conversation. As for the two gay youths, Thomas Hinkson and William Smith, who sat opposite, if Abner thought of them at all, it was only to pity them that the width of the table-cloth divided them from the angelic being at his right; although they had for their companions, Molly Trabue and Sally Bledsoe, who in their own buxom style were accounted beauties.

Later, the young people started on a ramble through the woods. Dudley offered his arm to Miss Patterson, thus separating them in a measure from the rest of the company, who finally joined other groups of strollers, until at last he found himself alone with her.

The air, odorous with the elusive fragrance of bark and crisping leaf, breathed a delicious languor. The summer green of the chinquapin burrs had given place to a richer coloring; the sumac and blackberry bushes flushed red in the sunlight. Not even when clad in the tender freshness of springtime beauty could the woods have been a more favorable place in which to indulge in tender fancies than now when panoplied in crimson and gold and burnished bronze, the scarlet fire of the maple and the gaudy yellow of the hickory contrasting with the sober brown of the beech, the dull red of the oak, and the dark gloss of the walnut. A redbird arose from the gra.s.s at their approach and circled away into the blue ether, and a rabbit, startled by the crackling of a twig, scattered away into the deeper undergrowth.

Presently, Dudley and Abby reached a shady spot where a large spring, clear as crystal, bubbled up from a hillside cleft. Outside this leafy nook, myriads of gnats and bright-winged flies buzzed in the sunlight; the soft breeze murmured faintly through the treetops, and the far-off echo of laughter and merry shouts of other strollers accentuated the quiet of this little retreat. They seated themselves upon the gnarled roots of a big tree that guarded the spring. Abby, untying her bonnet, tossed it upon the gra.s.s, and the sunlight glinted upon her lavender gown and gave a warmer radiance to the wavy ma.s.ses of her hair.

"To-day is not the first time I have seen you, Miss Patterson," Abner said presently; "I recognized you the instant I saw you in church this morning."

"Indeed!" she exclaimed, looking at him searchingly. "Are you not mistaken? I have no recollection of ever seeing you before; and I have a good memory for faces, too."

"As to your having seen me, that's a different matter," he replied, "but I've a vivid recollection of you. It was at the a.s.sembly ball at Williamsburg just four years ago this month."

"Ah, that a.s.sembly ball!" she exclaimed sadly. "That was the closing scene of my happy young girlhood. Trouble followed quickly upon trouble immediately after that night, until, within six weeks, I had lost everything that made life sweet. But," she asked with a quick change of manner, "if you were at that ball, how happened it I did not see you?

Were you not among the dancers?"

"On the contrary," Abner laughingly replied, "I was there as an uninvited guest. Not for me were the delights of minuet, cotillion and Roger de Coverly; for I had neither the costume nor the courage to penetrate into the ballroom. With several fellow-students, I had stolen from the college that night to witness the gay doings at the Capitol.

As I stood in a doorway wishing I could exchange my sober college garb for that of a gentleman of fashion, you were pointed out to me as the belle of the ball; and memory has ever since treasured the radiant picture of the girl in a richly flowered brocade gown, who, with bright eyes glowing, powdered head held high, and with little feet that scarce touched the floor, led the dance with a handsome young soldier in officer's uniform."

"Ah! those were happy days!" she said sadly. "I wonder you recognized me to-day; I've had so much to change and age me."

"Changed you certainly are," he replied; "but, if I may say so, it is a change which has but enhanced your claims to the verdict I heard p.r.o.nounced upon you that night--'the most beautiful woman in Virginia.'

As for having aged, I can not agree with you. Beauty that owes its charm even more to sweetness of expression than to perfection of coloring and regularity of features never grows old. Besides, four years is not a long period, even when reckoned by youth's calendar.

Some authorities, moreover, with whom I heartily agree, a.s.sert that no woman is older than she looks. According to that, you can not be more than sixteen."

"But," she replied archly, "another and equally reliable theory is that a woman is as old as she feels. That would make me at least thirty-six.

So, perhaps, between two such conflicting opinions, it would be well to take middle ground and place my age correctly, at twenty-six. But here!" she added laughingly, "you have actually inveigled me into confessing my age, and that, you know, is what no woman likes to do--especially when, as I suspect to be the case here, the woman is several years older than the man. I am forgetting, too, to do the honors of our spring, which is said to be the largest and most unfailing in Kentucky--at any rate, it is known all through this section as 'the big spring.' Boone declared this water to be the coolest in the State. I wish it was like that magical fountain of Lethe, and that a draught from it could make me forget my old life.

But, there! I will not look back, although your reminder of that a.s.sembly ball has stirred old memories to the depths. That road out there was once a buffalo trail, and the buffaloes, doubtless, always stopped at this spring to quench their thirst--at least, old hunters declare that this was their favorite camping-ground. It was also a favorite resort of the Indians, and a battle was fought here between them and the white settlers, before the terrible ma.s.sacre at Bluelicks had aroused the whites to determined and well-organized resistance and war of extermination. You should get old Mr. Lucky or Mr. Houston to describe the battle at this spot--they were in it. But now you must drink of this spring before you can be properly considered a member of this community in 'good standing and full fellowship."

"See!" she added, offering him a drink from an old gourd kept in a cleft of the rock for the use of chance pa.s.sers-by. "This water is almost ice-cold--and just look at this mint. Uncle Hiram declares it to be the finest flavored he ever tasted. He never comes here without carrying away some for his morning julep. I will take a handful to stow away in the lunch-basket; it will save him a trip here after service this afternoon."

Before drawing on her lace "half-hand" mitts, she held out her hands, and asked him to pour water from the gourd upon them. Then she drew from the swinging pocket at her belt a tiny embroidered square, but before she could use it, Abner rescued it, and, subst.i.tuting his own handkerchief, dried her hands himself. Her loose sleeves fell back to the dimpled elbows, and as he lingered over his task, he noted the delicate tracery of blue veins along the inner curve of her white arms.

He saw, too, the freckles upon her rounded wrists, and that her well-formed hands were sun-browned and hardened by work.

"Are you counting the freckles?" she asked demurely, smiling at him from the depths of her white bonnet. "I fear you will not have time to make a complete inventory of all the freckles, needle-p.r.i.c.ks and bruises; besides, it is some time since I heard voices, and we are far from the meeting-house. Uncle Hiram would think it no light offense to be late at afternoon service--and there is Betsy yonder by the big oak on the hill, waving and beckoning frantically. Let us join her at once."

"Yes, we must hasten," a.s.sented Dudley, consulting his big silver watch, after thrusting his wet handkerchief into the bosom of his coat.

David Purviance, a young licentiate awaiting ordination at the next session of presbytery, preached the afternoon sermon, and handled his theme, "The Final Perseverance of the Saints," in a masterly manner.

But Abner Dudley gave little heed to the discourse; for his thoughts, stirred by the vision of the beautiful girl across the aisle, were wandering in an earthly paradise.

Through the deepening twilight he rode home alone that evening in a tumult of bewildered feeling, scarcely able to realize that only that morning he had been on that same road with Henry and Susan; for in the interim he seemed to have entered an entirely new world of thought and feeling.

CHAPTER IV.

WINTER SCHOOL-DAYS

Soon beautiful, misty Indian summer had vanished before the stern approach of winter. The chestnut burs had all opened; the wild grapevines, clinging to fence rails along the roadside and twining in drooping profusion over the trees in wood and thicket, had long ago been robbed of their glistening, dark cl.u.s.ters of frost-ripened fruit.

The squirrels had laid in their supply of nuts; the birds had given their last Kentucky concert of the season and had departed to fill their winter engagements in the Southland; and the forest trees waved their bare arms and bowed their heads to the wind that wailed a mournful requiem for departed summer.