possible over consecration and apostolic succession than she was over
most things. When, however, after a time, she came gradually to
comprehend that this stand, taken privately by Miss Judy, would spare
herself the exertion of walking to the meeting-houses, both of which
were at the other end of town, she became so decided in her support of
Miss Judy's position as to remove the last shade of doubt from that mild
little lady's mind. Nothing of all this was ever suspected by any third
person, but in the absence of any actual knowledge, it ultimately came
to be taken for granted that Miss Judy stayed at home on Sundays and
read the prayer-book to her sister because Miss Sophia was not equal to
the long walk to church and back, especially in bad weather. Miss Judy
of course said not a word either to confirm or to contradict this
impression, which strengthened as the years went by. But she always gave
the neighbors so sweet a smile when they passed on the way to meeting
that everything seemed to everybody just as it should be.
One of the churches belonged to the Methodists and the other to the
denomination known as The Disciples of Christ. The town was not large
enough to supply two congregations or to support two preachers; and it
was consequently necessary to hold services in each of the churches on
alternate Sundays in order to insure a sizable congregation and a
moderate support for the circuit rider and the Christian elder, when
they came from their farms in another part of the county to preach on
their appointed days; thus giving freedom to all and favor to none.
A single contribution box served for the two churches. This, which was
in reality a contribution bag, was a sort of inverted liberty cap made
of ecclesiastical black cloth, and lined with churchly purple satin.
When not in use it usually stood on the end of its long staff in what
was called the Amen corner of the Methodist church. The office of taking
it down from its accustomed resting-place, and of carrying it over to
the Christian church when needed there, had belonged from time
immemorial to Uncle Watty. It is not certain to which of the two
denominations Uncle Watty himself belonged. It was, indeed, never a very
clearly established fact that he was a member of any denomination, but
this uncertainty had nothing whatever to do with the lifelong holding of
his office. It seemed to everybody to be the right and proper thing for
Uncle Watty to take up the collection, mainly for the reason that he
always had done it, which is accepted as a good and sufficient reason
for many rather singular things in that region. Miss Judy, who knew
about it, as she knew about everything, although she never saw him do
it,--since she never went to meeting,--always considered it a
particularly kind and delicate arrangement, devised by some thoughtful,
feeling person expressly to save Uncle Watty the embarrassment of having
nothing to put in the bag himself. But Uncle Watty apparently took
another view of it; and, like a good many people who do little
themselves and exact much from others, he was extremely rigorous and
almost relentless in his handing of the contribution bag. Its tough,
hickory handle was equal to the full length of the benches, and no man,
woman, or child might hope to evade its deliberate presentation under
the very nose, and its being steadily held there, too, until Uncle Watty
thought everybody's duty was fully done.
When there was a fifth Sunday in the month, both of the regular
preachers came to the village, inviting any other preacher who chanced
to be in the vicinity to join in the debate which then took the place of
the sermon, and which was held in the court-house, on neutral ground, as
it were. Sometimes the Cumberland Presbyterians and the Hard-shell
Baptists took part, and now and then a Foot-Washing Baptist came along,
so that these fifth Sundays were usually memorable occasions in
Oldfield. Occasionally, to be sure, there was some slight friction, as
was, perhaps, unavoidable under the circumstances; but, on the whole,
this rotation in creeds and dogmas gave remarkable general satisfaction.
The exceptions were very few and purely personal in character, the
gravest and most important growing out of an unfortunate dispute between
Miss Pettus and the Christian elder over the ownership of a runaway pig.
The controversy ended in the reverend gentleman's getting the pig. When,
therefore, on the following Sunday--through some singular mischance--he
chose as a text: "Children, have ye any meat?" Miss Pettus not
unnaturally felt that he was wantonly adding insult to injury, and,
rising from her seat in the front of the church, the indignant
lady--holding herself haughtily erect and her head very high--walked
straight down the whole length of the middle aisle and out through the
women's door. It was a year or more before she could be induced to go
back again to hear the elder preach, notwithstanding that he did
everything in his power (like the good man that he was) to convince her
of his innocence of any thought of offence. But she tried to forgive
him--which is all that the best of us can do--and she ultimately
succeeded, in so far that she returned to the meeting-house on his day.
She could not help, however, saying at the time, when coming out, how
much she disliked levity in the pulpit, be it Christian or Methodist;
yet she admitted afterward, when cooler, that he might have meant no
irreverence, though there was no gainsaying his levity, when he
announced at the close of the sermon that he would preach again on the
second Sunday, "the Lord willing;" but that he would preach again on the
fourth Sunday "whether or no." There are always plenty of overcritical
people besides Miss Pettus to be found everywhere. Some of those living
in Oldfield complained that the circuit rider pounded so much dust out
of the pulpit cushion that they took cold from continual sneezing every
time he preached. Others were inclined to criticise the too vigorous
elocution of the elder when he warmed to the warning of his flock
against the shifting sands of dangerous doctrines, bidding them build
their house of faith upon a rock, so that it might fall _n-o-t_ when the
winds _b-l-e-w_.
Sidney, who called herself a Whiskey Baptist, and who consequently
regarded herself and was regarded by others as something of a free
lance--in theology as in most other things,--used to express her
opinions of the shortcomings of both the Methodists and the Christians
with entire frankness, but always more in jest than in earnest. Indeed,
all these trivial faultfindings were no more than the passing expression
of sectarian jealousy, and harmless as heat lightning, so that, on the
whole, religion flourished in Oldfield.
It was a pleasant, peaceful sight to see the people coming out of their
green-bowered houses on that radiant May morning. The old locust trees
were at the sweetest and whitest of their flowering; the light, fine
foliage seemed to float on the south breeze, and the long clusters of
snowy flowers swung gently to and fro over the heads of the
church-goers, like silvered censers filling the air with richest
incense. And there at the base of every fragile spray--emblem of life's
mortality--lay the bud of the next year's leaf--symbol of life's
immortality. But the simple people, walking beneath, went on their way
heeding only the beauty, and the sweetness, and the warmth of the
sunshine. They greeted one another after the friendly custom of the
country, which gave a greeting even to strangers,--and these
church-goers were all old friends. Only the young man leaving old lady
Gordon's gate might be accounted a stranger. Yet his ancestors also
slept on the highest, greenest hillside, under the long grass over which
the soft wind was running with swift, invisible feet. There were no
strangers even there, where all the tombstones bore familiar names; the
new ones freshly inscribed, gleaming white and erect against the green;
the older ones showing gray as they leant; the oldest, lying brown and
prone, and crumbling slowly back to earth.
The cracked bell of the wooden church rang with the homesick sound, full
of a homely pathos that richer-toned bells never give tongue to. In
response to its pathetic call the people went on toward the
meeting-house in little groups, chatting with one another. Anne Watson
was among the first now as always, when the preaching was to be in her
own church. Her faith enjoined the weekly "breaking of bread," and it
had ever been a sore trouble to her that the opportunity was not given
oftener than twice a month in her own church. In her grave uneasiness of
conscience she had sought to do her duty in the other church whenever
she could. But this had been before her husband was stricken; since that
time she had not felt compelled to leave him, except for the service in
her own church. But the feeling that she must go there now became more
imperative in its demands, if possible, than it ever had been.
Therefore, when the bell began to ring that day, Anne put on her bonnet
and came to take an hour's anxious leave of her husband.
She was a tall, delicately built woman, too thin and too unbending to be
graceful, and yet too quiet and too dignified to be awkward. Her
straight features were neither noticeably pretty nor decidedly plain,
and her face was pale without being fair. Her hair, of an ashen shade,
clung to her hollow temples; there was not one loose lock, or the
suggestion of a ripple under her quakerish bonnet. The straight skirt of
her lead-colored dress hung flat, as the skirts of such women always
hang, falling to her feet in unbroken lines. It was her eyes alone which
made Anne Watson's appearance utterly unlike that of any other woman of
her not uncommon type. And even her eyes were neutral in color and
slightly prominent, as the eyes of such women nearly always are, but so
singularly and luminously clear that a white light seemed to be shining
behind them.
She fixed these wonderful eyes on her husband as she stood before him
ready for church, and yet loath to leave him, and still lingering to see
if she might not do something more for his comfort during her absence.
She drew the stand nearer to his shaking uncertain hands, after turning
the pillows at his helpless back and straightening the cushion under his
powerless feet. When she could find nothing more to do, she bent down
silently and kissed his scarred forehead. There was nothing for her to
say, nothing for him to hear. At the door she looked back, and again
from the gate, before passing out to hasten toward the church as though
her haste in going might the sooner fetch her back.
All along the big road the people were coming. The doctor and his wife
were not far behind Anne, and following them came Miss Pettus and her
brother, accompanied by Sam Mills. The old man, his father, was worse
that morning, or thought he was, which amounted to the same thing, so
that Kitty had been compelled to stay at home as usual; but she leant
over the front gate, looking after her husband, with her bare red arms
rolled in her apron and her honest face beaming with happy smiles as she
hailed the passers-by, until the old man's harsh, querulous voice was
heard calling her into the house. From the opposite direction, also, the
pious people of Oldfield were approaching the meeting-house, the men to
enter one door and the women another. Even the children were strictly
divided, the boys sitting with their fathers and the girls with their
mothers. Once when a man, who was a stranger and unacquainted with
Oldfield customs, wandered in and unknowingly took a seat on the women's
side, a scandalized shock passed over the entire congregation. It was a
serious matter, to be gravely discussed for many a day thereafter.
On the church steps stood Lynn Gordon, intent upon watching and waiting
for the coming of the girl whom he had come hoping to see. So intent was
he that he was not aware of the glances cast upon himself by those
passing into the building. Yet he was well worth looking at, for he was
a handsome young fellow, and dressed, moreover, as no one had ever
before been dressed in Oldfield. His pantaloons, made of dove-colored
canton cloth, were tight beyond anything ever seen in that part of the
country, and held to his high-heeled varnished boots by a strap under
his arched instep. His long-waisted, short-skirted coat of dark blue was
lined and trimmed with rich goffered silk. His waistcoat was of a buff
color and _en pique_, for, strange--incredible, indeed--as it may seem,
Paris at that time set the fashions for fine gentlemen as well as for
fine ladies, and the London papers gravely recorded weekly what the
Frenchmen were wearing. Lynn Gordon's hat, too, was of the latest French
mode, just brought over for the Boston dandies on the eve of his leaving
Harvard. Its brim was very wide and slightly curled, and its crown was
high and widened perceptibly toward the top. His tie, a large, loose bow
of black brocade, gave the final touch of elegance.
There was nothing modish in poor little, country-bred, Doris's dress
when this fine gentleman saw her coming behind all the rest, after he
had almost given her up. The skirt of Miss Judy's book-muslin was much
too narrow for the requirements even of Oldfield fashions, but Doris did
not know it, and the young man was not thinking of it as he saw her
first, far up the big road, descending its gradual slope beneath the
flowering locust trees. The gentle breeze caught the ivory softness of
her skirt, pressing it into enchanting curves around her slender limbs;
a long, thin white scarf streamed back from her shoulders, and the white
ribbons of her straw hat floated out behind her golden head. The thought
which arose in Lynn's mind as he thus saw Doris approaching was not of
any fleeting fashion, but of a living Winged Victory lovelier than any
antique sculpture.
He lingered at his post on the steps till she ascended them and went by
him into the church, and he noted the little flurry of delicate color
which followed her shy side glance. But she did not pause, entering the
meeting-house at once, by way, of course, of the women's door, and going
straight up the aisle to a seat reserved for her between her mother and
Uncle Watty. The young man had never seen either Sidney or her
brother-in-law, but he knew who they were as soon as he caught sight of
them. And the sight was something of a shock. And yet what did it
matter, after all? he asked himself. The girl's beauty and refinement of
appearance were only the more remarkable because she came of such
humble, homely people. He could not take his eyes from the heavy braids
of shining gold gleaming below the white straw hat; and although he was
unable to see the beautiful face from the place in which he sat, he was
nevertheless vividly conscious of its soft dark eyes and its exquisite
rose-red mouth; and he fancied that he could distinguish her voice in
the old-fashioned hymn, given out two lines at a time by the preacher.
He kept the back of the charming head in view all down the aisle, when
the sermon was over and the congregation arose to leave the church. But
Colonel Fielding was at the outer end of the bench on which the young
man had been seated, and it required some minutes for the old
gentleman's friends to help him regain his feet. Poor, feeble old man!
And then everybody was talking to everybody else while passing down the
aisle. It was the custom in Oldfield for neighbors thus to greet one
another after the sermon, and Lynn consequently found himself hemmed in
and could move only with the crowd; so that notwithstanding his
strenuous though quiet efforts to reach the door of the men's side,
before Doris could reach the entrance on the women's side, she had
already passed out and was well on her way homeward when he reached the
big road.
He was keenly disappointed, and stood for a moment undecided what to do
or which way to go, until the doctor and his wife spoke to him. They
were almost the last of the home-going procession at that end of the
village; and the young man joined them in the lingering hope that the
girlish figure in white, fluttering ahead, might be overtaken, since he
now saw that it was not, after all, so very far in advance. Mrs.
Alexander undoubtedly would present him, so he thought; she could hardly
do anything else; and, so hoping, he walked on up the big road,
listening as best he could to what she was saying. But the slender young
shape in white went rapidly on and did not linger, and never once looked
back. Sidney turned at the gate and nodded to her neighbors; but Doris
passed through it without pausing, and disappeared under the low arch of
silver leaves.
Again Lynn went back to his grandmother's house, thinking of Doris, but
again he refrained from speaking of her, although he hardly knew why,
unless it was because he shrank from the harshness of his grandmother's
cynical comments. Old lady Gordon asked about many of the people whom he
had seen at church, but it did not occur to her to mention the daughter
of Sidney Wendall. Nevertheless, the girl clung to Lynn's thoughts
through all the warm idle afternoon hours of the perfect spring day.
Talking half-heartedly, absently, of other things, he still thought of
her, even until the evening, coming little by little to think of her as
the most beautiful girl whom he had ever seen. He knew, upon reflection,
that meeting her was merely a question of a short time in a place so
small as Oldfield; and he was not quite sure that, after all, he really
wished to make her acquaintance. It would be best, perhaps, considering
the career which he had laid out for himself, that he should know as few
young women as possible. Moreover, it seemed most unlikely, from all
that he had heard of Doris Wendall and of her family and training and
environment, that she could possess any charm other than a beautiful
face. Yet at the same time he ardently admitted that merely to look upon
such rare beauty was a delight to such a worshipper of beauty as he knew
himself to be.
He smiled at his own weakness and folly, when he found himself going
toward the tall poplars at the close of the long day. The supple tops of
the great trees bent white against the darkening sky. But although the
leaves no longer dazzled as when they turned their silver lining to the
noonday sunlight, they were still too restless and too thick to be seen
through, and, smiling again at his foolish craving for another glimpse
of beauty, the young man went on, hoping for better luck as he came
back. Going beyond the eastern hills which rimmed the village, he paused
and looked down and far out over the wide lowlands; at the emerald seas
of wheat flowing with waves of purple shadows; at the springing vivid
lines of young corn, stretching to the dim distant horizon; at the rich,
dark green of the vast tobacco fields already beginning to be dotted by
the small, thick-leaved plants; at the red herds, and at the white
flocks dimly visible through the fleecy mists trailing above the
meadows. He stood still, leaning on a fence and listening to the gentle
lowing of far-off cattle, and the homely barking of distant dogs, which
were the most distinct sounds. Then, as he listened, lingering, the
music of the woods and fields grew fainter--fainter, till it became
hushed with the falling of the twilight. Only the whip-poor-will's
lonesome cry--the vesper bell of the birds--rang out at long intervals
from the dark willows fringing a far-away stream.
The dusk falls very slowly and very softly over the Pennyroyal Region,
settling like the exquisite gray down from some wonderful brown wings.
It was falling, but still lingering between daylight and darkness, when
Lynn Gordon turned at last toward the village. He could not see the
people sitting in Sunday quiet and peace on their vine-wreathed porches;
but he heard them talking in low tones of the humble little things that
make the sweetness of home. A feeling of longing came over him such as
he had never known before; a yearning for the home which had never been
his, for the loved ones whom he could not remember. The fireside smell
of smoking tobacco mingled with the scent of the homely flowers blooming
in the yards and gardens. Great white moths fluttered back and forth
across the deserted highway, seeking the sweetest of those shy blossoms
which yield their beauty and fragrance only to the gloaming.
As the young man approached the poplars, sombre now as cypress trees in
the deepened twilight, a sudden breeze stirred the leaves and swayed the
branches. But the fleeting glimpse of white at which he started forward
so eagerly, proved to be nothing more than a bunch of pale roses
drooping beside the window. There was not a glimmer of light behind the
curtain, and as he strolled on along the big road the lights in all the
houses went out one by one, as the simple people, drowsy from the day's
unaccustomed idleness, sought their early rest. Tom Watson's lamp alone
shone afar, throwing its beams a long way down the big road, and the
sight of it suddenly touched the young man's softened heart with keenest
pity, reminding him, almost reproachfully, of the promise which he had
quite forgotten.
At his grandmother's house all was dark and still; the dogs leaping to
meet him knew him well enough not to bark, and he sat down on the porch
to smoke a cigar. He could always think more clearly when smoking, and
he wished now to think as clearly as possible. For the past two days his
thoughts had been wandering, as he rarely allowed them to wander, far
away from his life plans. Firmly he now bent them back; intently he
surveyed every up-hill step in the direction of his high ambition;
calmly he faced the full length and difficulty of the struggle between
him and his goal, without thought of faltering or fear of failure. He
said to himself, as the young who have never measured their strength
against their weakness often say to themselves:--
"I will not do any of those things which I firmly set on that side; I
will do all these things which I calmly range on this side: the shaping
of a man's life lies in his own hand; it has but to be powerful enough
to grasp and firm enough to hold."
It is easy to be calm and common to be sure on starting in life's race.
And, indeed, this young fellow was better trained and equipped for the
running of it than most young men are. Feeling this intelligently, but
without undue conceit, he now threw back his broad shoulders and lifted
his proud head. The arrogance of youth takes no heed of the slight
chances that defeat great plans, no heed even of the divinity that
shapes mortal hewing. He looked absently at the red rim of the climbing
moon, and scarcely noting that, as its disk grew larger and its beams
grew brighter, a mocking-bird, at home with his beloved in one of the
giant elms, began a murmuring melody, as though he were wooing his mate
in dreams. Yet, as the paling, brightening moon arose higher and higher,
till it hung a great shield of burnished silver on night's starry wall,
the mocking-bird's song grew clearer and sweeter, till, soaring to the
moonlit heavens, it arose to a very pean of love triumphant.
XI
BODY OR SOUL
Lynn set out on his errand of mercy very early the next morning. The
eternal freshness of dawn seemed still to be lingering amid the cool
shadows of the wooded hillsides. The woods and fields alike were still
bubbling with matin song. Heavy drops of dew still hung on the blue-eyed
grass, sparkling in the sunlight like happy tears.
The doctor, however, was ready and waiting. The day's work began with
the sunrise in Oldfield, and no one in all the region round had more to
do between the rising and the setting of the sun, or indeed between its
setting and rising again, than John Alexander always had. Ah, those
village doctors of the old time! It is known in a way to all who think,
how large a part they must have had in the making of these far-off
corners of our great country, and yet the greater part can never be
known. A doctor's memory is the greatest catholic confessional of
humanity--and forever sacred. It is only the trivial, the whimsical
outer edges of the deep experiences of these old-time country doctors
that history may ever touch. Being human, they growled aloud sometimes
over these trifles, as the doctor was growling when Lynn Gordon found
him on that May morning.