It was a quaint little stone church, all overgrown with ivy, that the Chadwicks had built generations ago. The high arched door was never opened of late years, except at long intervals, when some one came out from the city to hold services. But the side door was certainly ajar now, for the saddest music that John Jay had ever heard in all his life came trembling out on the warm summer air.
Forgetting all about his errand, he scrambled through the fence and up the gently rising knoll. His bare feet made no noise as he tiptoed up the steps and stood peering through the open door. It was dim and cool inside, with only the light that could sift through the violet and amber of the stained glass windows; but in one, the big one at the end, was the figure of a snowy dove, with outstretched wings. Through this silvery pane a long slanting ray of light, dazzling in its white radiance, streamed across the keys of the organ and the man who played them,—the Reverend George.
It threw a strange light on the upturned face,—a face black as ebony, worn with suffering, but showing in every feature the refining touch of a noble spirit. His mournful eyes seemed looking into another world, while his fingers wandered over the keys with the musical instinct of his race.
John Jay slipped inside and crouched down behind a tall pew. The only music that he had been accustomed to was the kind that Uncle Billy scraped from his fiddle and plunked on his banjo. It was the gay, rollicking kind, that put his feet to jigging and every muscle in his body quivering in time. This made him want to cry; yet it was so sweet and deep and tender as it went rolling softly down the aisles, that he forgot all about the eggs and Miss Hallie. He forgot that he was John Jay. All he thought of was that upturned face with the strange unearthly light in its dark eyes, and the melody that swept over him.
A spell of coughing seized the rapt musician. After it had passed, he lay forward on the organ a while, with his head bowed on his arms. Then he straightened himself up wearily, and began pushing the stops back into their places.
The silence brought John Jay to his senses. He crawled along the aisle and out of the door, blinkling like an owl as he came into the blinding sunshine. Many experiences had convinced him that he was born under an unlucky star. When he went leaping down the hill to the log where he had left his basket, it was with the sickening certainty that some evil had befallen the eggs. He was afraid to look for fear of finding a mass of broken shells strewn over the ground. It was with a feeling of surprise that he saw the white ends of the top layer of eggs peeping out of their bed of bran, just as he had left them. With a sigh of relief he picked up the basket; then whistling gaily as a mockingbird, he set out once more in the direction of Rosehaven.
CHAPTER IV.
Something unusual was going on at Rosehaven. Awnings were spread over the lawn, gay colored lanterns were strung all about the grounds, and a stage for outdoor tableaux had been built near the house, where a dark clump of cedars served as a background.
John Jay had orders to take the eggs directly to the cook, but his curiosity kept him standing open-mouthed on the lawn, watching the hanging of the lanterns.