Oldfield: A Kentucky Tale of the Last Century

by Nancy Huston Banks

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 piqué, 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.