The bustle of the arrivals had reached its climax at this moment. For nearly half an hour the congregation had been collecting, some on foot, others on horseback, and still others in antiquated, worn out carriages. The last, however, were very few. Generally the conveyance was nothing better than a common hay wagon, with temporary seats placed for the good dame and her children; while the harness was of the most primitive description. The horses were tied about, under the shade of the trees, and were busy whisking the flies off with their tails, and occasionally glancing around with a knowing look at the groups of people. The women generally entered the church as soon as they arrived, but the men stood talking about the crops, the war, or other matters of interest. Now and then a rustic beauty would create a buzz of remarks, as she tripped coquettishly by the young bachelors, glancing askance at them; and now some elderly person would step out from the throng to assist a poor, ancient dame, who came hobbling along on crutches.
A murmur of voices without, and of rustling fans within, filled the air.
Suddenly a handsome carriage dashed up from the direction of Sweetwater, drawn by two spirited horses, and was checked in front of the church. In the driver Major Gordon recognized his rival, who, throwing the lines to a servant that rode beside him, leaped out, and hastened to assist the ladies to alight. But Kate was too quick for him, for already she had opened the door and stepped nimbly to the ground, much to her cousin’s discomfiture, as Major Gordon thought.
When Kate turned, after her aunt had descended, to enter the church, her eye met that of Major Gordon. The latter bowed with all his old cordiality. Her recognition was instantaneous and frank, and was accompanied with a bright blush, and a sudden lighting up of the whole countenance, as if with gratified surprise. This little incident was not, however, observed by her cousin, who had preceded Kate, Mrs. Warren leaning heavily on his arm, with more than her usual assumption of dignity.
“I declare,” said Uncle Lawrence, “if that ain’t Charles Aylesford come back. I thought he’d gone to Philadelphy for a month or two.” And, shaking his head, he added, “Strange, that two such near relations as Miss Katie and he should be so different. But their fathers were so before them, and there’s a good deal, Major, in blood.”
In what this difference consisted, Major Gordon had not time to inquire, even if he felt so disposed, for as he finished speaking, Uncle Lawrence led the way into the church.
It was, as we have stated, a small edifice. A single block of benches, with an aisle on each side, afforded room for a few score of people only; but these were quite as many as the neighborhood supplied, even in better times. The pulpit was high, approached by a staircase, and surmounted by a sounding-board. On each side it had a window, half obscured outside by waving oaks; and through this casement the summer air stole in, laden with sweet fragrance from the cedars that overhung the stream. In either corner of the edifice, to the right and left of the pulpit, was a deep square pew, reserved for the proprietors of Sweetwater and Waldo, who together had built the church. One of these young Mr. Aylesford now occupied, in solitary state; while the other was tenanted by Kate and her aunt. The sexes, throughout the congregation, sat apart, in like manner, the women to the right of the preacher, and the men to the left. Uncle Lawrence, advancing to the head of the church, took his seat, evidently an accustomed one, on the front bench, dragging with him the Major, who would have shrank, if alone, from such a conspicuous position. The old man evidently expected Mr. Aylesford to rise and invite Major Gordon to enter the pew, a civility usually tendered to strangers in the Major’s rank of life; but as Kate’s cousin sat still, and only noticed the officer by a civil stare, Mr. Herman signed to his companion to occupy the bench at his side.
Our hero could not avoid, after a while, glancing in the direction of Kate. She sat, with eyes downcast, and her hands folded meekly before her, looking, in her spotless white, like some virgin saint. The deep love for her, which already filled the heart of Major Gordon, welled up warmer and more gushing than ever at this sight. For true manhood reverences woman all the more for those religious instincts which, implanted in her by her Maker, can never be obliterated without defacing her fair image. Her lover thought as he looked, that Raphael, when painting his Madonna, must have had a vision of such a face.
The preacher ascended the pulpit, and at once the shuffling of feet subsided, the preparatory coughs ceased, and a profound silence fell on the audience. For a few moments, with his head leaning on the Bible, the man of God engaged in silent prayer. The hum of insects without, and the light rustle of leaves, gave audible meaning to this deep stillness. In at the east windows, the sunshine, glimmering through the grave-yard oaks, slanted downwards into the church, and dappled the white, sanded floor with shifting light and shade. The murmur of the stream, like the solemn undertone of a distant organ, swelled softly on the ear, filling the whole atmosphere with sacred quiet.
The hymn was given out. It was that one of Charles Wesley’s, beginning, “Lo! on a narrow neck of land.” After a slight pause, a manly tenor struck up. The solitary voice was soon joined by a treble; a deep bass followed; and directly the whole congregation, women and men, adults and children, had joined in the singing. Rude as the music was, it had an earnestness, which placed it, in Major Gordon’s opinion, far ahead of the meretricious vocalization he had often heard in fashionable churches. At the end of every stanza, the preacher read the next, when the singing commenced again. It seemed to our hero that he could distinguish Kate’s voice, rising melodiously above all the rest, like that of some fair seraph, soaring high up over the choirs of Heaven.