And so we might have made our trip without incident, without sorrow, but for the unforeseen, in this instance, embodied in brother Joe. He suddenly appears, wild and excited, having come in such nervous haste, that his hat is left at home. Hatless, but not breathless, he stops that stage and holds it while he delivers himself of all his arguments, seeking to bury Australia in an avalanche of spontaneous eloquence. But the word Mattie has spoken before the blazing hearth she speaks on the open pike: "I will go."
Why argue further? Clearly conscience nerves her to her purpose! Conscience—or love. Only one term of her first school so proudly begun—and she has put it in charge of another, and is starting forth to merge her life-work into that of another—and he, a stranger not long ago,—a mere lad gathering the shavings in the wagon-shop to start the tavern fires.
Events now come thick and fast. We are getting ready for the wedding now. Oliver rides in a buggy with a schoolmate from his home town, May's Lick, through Lexington to Lancaster, the home of Mattie Myers. Many times he stops on the way for farewells. The reception committee come forth in strength, but their spokesman bursts into tears, and Oliver is received with tears only. Albert Myles, his six-year schoolmate accompanies him to Lancaster. The wedding is to be at five in the morning. Bells ring. The village people, thinking there is a fire, are roused and come forth. Learning that it is a wedding, they troop to the church. The spectators look on through their tears, thinking vaguely of the other side of the globe, whither the bridal pair is presently to set forth. Albert Myles performs the ceremony. It is a scene of early light and tears. "Mattie going away!" is the murmur—Mattie whom these folk have known from infancy—going away in early womanhood, perhaps never to return!
From Lancaster to Lexington in a carriage; and here J. B. Bowman, the University necromancer, gives the bride and groom a dinner in his home, once the home of Henry Clay,—Ashland, where we have seen Walter Scott admiring the picture of George Washington. Teachers and pupils of the University assemble, and there is another mournful farewell. In the afternoon, from Lexington to Stony point, and goodby to Mrs. Fox, that sister Minnie of the May's Lick days. At Millersburg, another wedding-dinner, given by Alex. McClintock, and then to May's Lick, thirty-six miles by carriage.
Before We Say Goodbye
Here they remain over Sunday—the last Sunday in the old May's Lick church, in which Eneas Myall is a deacon,—the blacksmith who said when first hearing the news, "I am sorry to see you go, Ollie, but it seems providential!" The elders of the church, the same who were elders when Walter Scott preached there, ordained Oliver on that last Sunday at home. He was surrounded by old friends, tearful but exultant in their sorrow. There was one who could not come because, "I can't tell him goodby," he said. That was Oliver's hard task now, to say goodby to all, hardest of all to those of his father's house. But he had nerved himself for the ordeal. "I could tell them all goodby," he says, "until I came to my mother."
They go, according to their plans, straight to Maysville, across the county, to take boat for Cincinnati. Not alone do Mattie and Oliver make that journey. His mother is with them. News runs before; the Australian missionaries are coming! The word is quickly passed back and forth, that there will be services at the church. When Oliver arrives he finds the appointment made. He rises to preach. It is his last night in Kentucky. Before his vision stretches a long vista of uncertain years in a strange land; years among strangers for this man who is blessed with so many friends. But that sorrow is swallowed up in the deeper joy of presenting Christ to the people, showing forth his loveliness for the last time in the land of his birth.
That sermon is not preserved, for which we are, we believe, sufficiently thankful. If love in its fulness cannot be spoken, much less can it be read. There is a simplicity and an inner earnestness, that is altogether baffling to the snare of leaded type. Whatever the subject of that sermon, Christ was in it, and we care nothing for its divisions and its order. We are thrilled with joy by that sermon—we who never heard it,—because we see the preacher's mother step forth—at last!—and stand before them all like a beautiful dream come true—or rather, like a spirit of love, whose enkindled face flashes into the son's eyes the answer to his prayers.