CHAPTER III.
CANE RIDGE MEETING-HOUSE
The third Sunday in October was the regular once-a-month meeting-day atCane Ridge Church. Early in the morning a note of preparation wassounded throughout the Rogers domain, and by nine o'clock the entirehousehold was en route for the place of worship. On chairs in the wagondrawn by two stout farm horses sat Mr. and Mrs. Rogers and the fouryoungest children, while young Dudley, Henry and Susan rode horseback.Uncle Tony, by reason of age, and Aunt Dink, by reason of flesh,instead of walking with the other negroes, were allowed to sit on thestraw-covered floor of the wagon behind the white occupants.
As the cavalcade neared the church, a big, weather-stained logstructure, they saw that, early as it was, a crowd had preceded them.Other wagons were stationed about in the shade, and many horses weretethered to overhanging boughs.
While waiting for service to begin, Abner stood near the church andlooked around with some curiosity and not a little surprise; for nearlyevery grade of frontier society seemed represented--aristocrats andadventurers; mistresses and slaves; farmers and land agents;ex-Revolutionary officers and ex-Indian-fighters; lately establishedsettlers 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; othersin more pretentious apparel--bombazine gowns, muslin tuckers, and"dress bonnets" of surprising depth and magnitude. Near the otherentrance, comparing notes upon fall wheat-sowing or corn-gathering, wasa cluster of farmers in shirt sleeves, homespun trousers andwell-greased shoes. Upon the horse-block a group of merry belles,divesting themselves of mud-stained riding-skirts, stood forth inbright array--beads and ribands, flaunting chintzes, clocked stockingsand morocco slippers. Some distance off, upon the roots of awide-spreading elm, sat two barefooted, swarthy, scarred old hunterswith raccoon skin caps, linsey hunting-shirts and buckskin breeches.Near by, a group of urchins listened with open-mouthed absorption toblood-curdling reminiscences of days when upon this now peaceful slopethe scream of the wildcat and the whoop of the Indian were morefamiliar sounds than the songs of Zion and the eloquence of therevivalist. Less in accord with the quiet beauty of this OctoberSunday, a squad of loud-voiced, swaggering, half-intoxicated young menlounged under the trees, recounting incidents of yesterday's cock-fightor betting upon the wrestling-match next muster day.
In contrast to the other vehicles, the Gilcrest family coach, with itsspan of glossy-coated bays, presently drew up before the church. Thenegro driver sprang from his high seat, and, bowing obsequiously, letdown the steps and opened the door of the coach, from which emerged,first, Hiram Gilcrest in all the glory of Sunday broadcloth; next, twosmall boys, then a negro woman bearing in her arms the youngest scionof the house of Gilcrest, an infant in long clothes. Lastly came Mrs.Gilcrest, a fragile, faded woman in rustling brocade and satinpetticoat. Close behind the coach rode a horseback party of four--BetsyGilcrest, two of her brothers, and a young woman in long blackriding-skirt and loose jacket, her features hidden by the gauze veildepending from her dress bonnet of corded white silk.
Betsy, rosy and dimpling, unencumbered by riding-skirt, dust-jacket orveil, tossed her bridle to her brother, John Calvin, and sprang fromher saddle to the stile. Her movements were light and graceful, and shelooked like a woodland nymph in a gown of light, gaily flowered chintz,and a large hat encircled in a wreath of bright leaves. As hercompanion, the girl in the corded silk bonnet, drew up, severalgallants from the group of young people near by hastened eagerlyforward to her assistance. After doffing riding-skirt and loose jacket,she stood a moment upon the block, adjusting her attire, a robe ofmisty lavender sarcenet with a pink crepe scarf loosely knotted acrossthe bosom.
"I wish she'd throw back that veil," thought Abner, as he stood withHenry 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'ta girl comes to Cane Ridge that can stand alongside her. She makes evenSally Bledsoe and Molly Trabue look like common hollyhocks."
By this time every one save the group of young people and a fewstragglers out in the shade had entered the church, from which at thismoment a loud voice was heard announcing, "Hymn 642;" while at the sametime Deacon Hiram Gilcrest, standing at one door, and Deacon BushrodHinkson at the other, admonished all loiterers to come in.
As soon as the congregation was seated, Mason Rogers, in a voice ofmuch power and sweetness, started the hymn already announced. Othersquickly joined in, until soon the building was filled with a swellingvolume of melody which made the walls resound and the cobwebs tremble.The negro nurse on the doorstep crooned the hymn as she held thesleeping baby. Uncle Tony, sitting on the steps of the pulpit platform,swayed his body and nodded his head in rhythmic motion. He could notcarry a tune, but now and then would join in with a single note whichrang out clear and loud above all the rest. Other negroes from theirplaces in the gallery over the doorways opposite the pulpit, thoughthey knew not the words of the hymn, added the melody of theirplaintive voices. Little girls seated by their mothers on the woman'sside of the low partition, and little boys by their fathers on theother side of the church, joined in with piping treble. DeaconGilcrest, his stern features relaxed, kept time with his hand (down,left, right, up) as he thundered forth a ponderous bass. Old MatthewHouston from one "amen corner" added his quavering notes; while fromthe other, Squire Trabue, his chair tilted back, his face beaming, sangwith little regard to time or tune, but with melody in his heart, ifnot in his voice. Near the central partition Susan Rogers and BetsyGilcrest, happy and bright-eyed, sang from the same book, their voicesclear, true, and sweet as bird notes.
As the music arose in a swelling wave of melody, Abner Dudley lookedthrough the congregation for the girl in the lavender sarcenet.Presently he discovered her seated near a window and singing with therest. Her veil was thrown back, and from the depths of the scoopbonnet, with a wreath of roses under its brim, shone forth a face ofradiant loveliness. From her broad, white brow the shining brown hairwas parted in rippling masses; she had darkly fringed blue eyes, awell-rounded chin, and skin whose tints of rose and pearl were like thedelicate inner surface of a sea shell.
"Abigail Patterson, of Williamsburg!" he mentally ejaculated. "What isshe doing here? Henry said that she was Major Gilcrest's niece, too. Sothis is the 'Miss Abby' whom the Rogers children talk so much about,and whom the Gilcrest children are always quoting. And to think that Ihad pictured her a prim old maid."
It was not until the preacher, who until now had been hidden by thehigh pulpit, stepped forward, that Abner was aroused to a sense of timeand place. He looked up as the clear tones of the speaker rang throughthe building, and saw for the first time the man who was destined toexert a powerful influence upon his career--Barton Warren Stone. Atthis time, Stone was about twenty-nine years old, of slender build,refined features, earnest mien, and childlike simplicity--"an Israeliteindeed in whom was no guile." This third Sunday in October was the dayfor the regular quarterly communion service, and the emblems of thesacred feast were spread upon the table in front of the pulpit.Extending his hand, the speaker reverently pronounced his text: "Putoff the shoes from off thy feet; for the place whereon thou standest isholy ground" (Ex. 3:5).
_Barton Warren Stone._]
After pausing a moment that the words of the text might have dueimpressiveness, Stone proceeded. He explained that the command in itsspiritual significance was still as imperative upon God's people whenthey entered the house dedicated to his service, as it had been in itsliteral sense to Moses when he had stood face to face with Jehovah atthe foot of Mount Horeb. The speaker's musical accents fixed theattention of every hearer, and his words impressed every heart with thesolemnity befitting the place and the hour.
As soon as the people were dismissed for the noontide intermission,they scattered ab
out the grounds, talking, laughing, and setting out,upon the table-cloths spread upon the grass, the luncheons which theyhad brought with them.
While these preparations were in progress, Dudley started off withHenry to look after the horses. Before reaching the grove where theywere tethered, he was hailed by Major and Mrs. Gilcrest with a cordialinvitation to "break bread" at their table--an invitation which he,thinking of the beautiful niece, gladly accepted. He followed his hostand hostess to a cluster of trees under which Abby Patterson and BetsyGilcrest, assisted by their dusky servitors, had already spread arepast which an epicure might have envied. But to one, at least, of theguests it mattered little what viands were served; for young Dudley wassoon enthralled by the witchery of the blue eyes, rose-tintedcomplexion and low-toned voice of the girl beside him. He was consciousthe while of little else save an unreasoning animosity for a young manin powdered queue, flowered satin waistcoat, frilled shirt, and silverknee buckles, who sat at Miss Patterson's other hand, between her andMiss Gilcrest. This man, James Anson Drane, of Lexington, lawyer andland agent, notwithstanding Dudley's jealous fancies, divided hisattentions almost equally between the two damsels, and seemed quite ascontent with Betsy's lively sallies as with Abby's gentler, moredignified conversation. As for the two gay youths, Thomas Hinkson andWilliam Smith, who sat opposite, if Abner thought of them at all, itwas only to pity them that the width of the table-cloth divided themfrom the angelic being at his right; although they had for theircompanions, Molly Trabue and Sally Bledsoe, who in their own buxomstyle were accounted beauties.
Later, the young people started on a ramble through the woods. Dudleyoffered his arm to Miss Patterson, thus separating them in a measurefrom the rest of the company, who finally joined other groups ofstrollers, 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 burrshad given place to a richer coloring; the sumac and blackberry bushesflushed red in the sunlight. Not even when clad in the tender freshnessof springtime beauty could the woods have been a more favorable placein which to indulge in tender fancies than now when panoplied incrimson and gold and burnished bronze, the scarlet fire of the mapleand the gaudy yellow of the hickory contrasting with the sober brown ofthe beech, the dull red of the oak, and the dark gloss of the walnut. Aredbird arose from the grass at their approach and circled away intothe 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 leafynook, myriads of gnats and bright-winged flies buzzed in the sunlight;the soft breeze murmured faintly through the treetops, and the far-offecho of laughter and merry shouts of other strollers accentuated thequiet of this little retreat. They seated themselves upon the gnarledroots of a big tree that guarded the spring. Abby, untying her bonnet,tossed it upon the grass, and the sunlight glinted upon her lavendergown and gave a warmer radiance to the wavy masses of her hair.
"To-day is not the first time I have seen you, Miss Patterson," Abnersaid presently; "I recognized you the instant I saw you in church thismorning."
"Indeed!" she exclaimed, looking at him searchingly. "Are you notmistaken? I have no recollection of ever seeing you before; and I havea 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 Assembly ball atWilliamsburg just four years ago this month."
"Ah, that Assembly ball!" she exclaimed sadly. "That was the closingscene of my happy young girlhood. Trouble followed quickly upon troubleimmediately after that night, until, within six weeks, I had losteverything that made life sweet. But," she asked with a quick change ofmanner, "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 anuninvited guest. Not for me were the delights of minuet, cotillion andRoger de Coverly; for I had neither the costume nor the courage topenetrate into the ballroom. With several fellow-students, I had stolenfrom 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 garbfor that of a gentleman of fashion, you were pointed out to me as thebelle of the ball; and memory has ever since treasured the radiantpicture of the girl in a richly flowered brocade gown, who, with brighteyes glowing, powdered head held high, and with little feet that scarcetouched the floor, led the dance with a handsome young soldier inofficer's uniform."
"Ah! those were happy days!" she said sadly. "I wonder you recognizedme 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 achange which has but enhanced your claims to the verdict I heardpronounced upon you that night--'the most beautiful woman in Virginia.'As for having aged, I can not agree with you. Beauty that owes itscharm even more to sweetness of expression than to perfection ofcoloring and regularity of features never grows old. Besides, fouryears is not a long period, even when reckoned by youth's calendar.Some authorities, moreover, with whom I heartily agree, assert that nowoman is older than she looks. According to that, you can not be morethan sixteen."
"But," she replied archly, "another and equally reliable theory is thata 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 totake middle ground and place my age correctly, at twenty-six. Buthere!" she added laughingly, "you have actually inveigled me intoconfessing my age, and that, you know, is what no woman likes todo--especially when, as I suspect to be the case here, the woman isseveral years older than the man. I am forgetting, too, to do thehonors of our spring, which is said to be the largest and mostunfailing in Kentucky--at any rate, it is known all through thissection as 'the big spring.' Boone declared this water to be thecoolest in the State. I wish it was like that magical fountain ofLethe, and that a draught from it could make me forget my old life.But, there! I will not look back, although your reminder of thatAssembly ball has stirred old memories to the depths. That road outthere was once a buffalo trail, and the buffaloes, doubtless, alwaysstopped at this spring to quench their thirst--at least, old huntersdeclare that this was their favorite camping-ground. It was also afavorite resort of the Indians, and a battle was fought here betweenthem and the white settlers, before the terrible massacre at Bluelickshad aroused the whites to determined and well-organized resistance andwar of extermination. You should get old Mr. Lucky or Mr. Houston todescribe the battle at this spot--they were in it. But now you mustdrink of this spring before you can be properly considered a member ofthis community in 'good standing and full fellowship."
"See!" she added, offering him a drink from an old gourd kept in acleft of the rock for the use of chance passers-by. "This water isalmost ice-cold--and just look at this mint. Uncle Hiram declares it tobe the finest flavored he ever tasted. He never comes here withoutcarrying away some for his morning julep. I will take a handful to stowaway in the lunch-basket; it will save him a trip here after servicethis 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 drewfrom the swinging pocket at her belt a tiny embroidered square, butbefore she could use it, Abner rescued it, and, substituting his ownhandkerchief, dried her hands himself. Her loose sleeves fell back tothe dimpled elbows, and as he lingered over his task, he noted thedelicate tracery of blue veins along the inner curve of her white arms.He saw, too, the freckles upon her rounded wrists, and that herwell-formed hands were sun-browned and hardened by work.
"Are you counting the freckles?" she asked demurely, smiling at himfrom the depths of her white bonnet. "I fear you will not have time tomake a complete inventory of all the freckles, needle-pricks andbruises; besides, it is some
time since I heard voices, and we are farfrom the meeting-house. Uncle Hiram would think it no light offense tobe late at afternoon service--and there is Betsy yonder by the big oakon the hill, waving and beckoning frantically. Let us join her atonce."
"Yes, we must hasten," assented Dudley, consulting his big silverwatch, after thrusting his wet handkerchief into the bosom of his coat.
David Purviance, a young licentiate awaiting ordination at the nextsession of presbytery, preached the afternoon sermon, and handled histheme, "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, werewandering in an earthly paradise.
Through the deepening twilight he rode home alone that evening in atumult of bewildered feeling, scarcely able to realize that only thatmorning he had been on that same road with Henry and Susan; for in theinterim he seemed to have entered an entirely new world of thought andfeeling.
Crestlands: A Centennial Story of Cane Ridge Page 6
