CHAPTER XI.
LIGHT DAWNS
After Stone and Henry had disappeared through the woods, Dudley did not long ponder over the late discussion; he found in his environment too much food for other thought. He was on the same spot where, ten months before, he had first been alone with Abby Patterson. Yonder was the fallen log upon which she had sat toying with a spray of goldenrod, her white bonnet beside her, the soft wind playing with her brown hair, the sunlight through the overhanging boughs dancing over her head and hands, and making little patches of brightness on her lavender gown. The pungent odor of mint was in the air now as then when she had gathered some for her uncle's glass of toddy. The water sparkled and danced in the sunshine, trickling down the mossy rocks into the spring, and yonder in the cleft was the old gourd from which he had poured water on her hands.
Somewhere in his reading he had come across the story of the man who always "thanked God for the blessings that passed over his head." Often in the last few weeks he had had a dim consciousness that perhaps it was best for both that Abby had not yielded to his pleadings; but hitherto he had thrust the thought from him, as though it were disloyalty to Abby and to love. But though the recollection of Abby had still a tender, half-sad sweetness, Dudley's nature was too vigorous and buoyant long to give way to melancholy and vain regrets. As he lay there in the forest solitude, a renewed hopefulness filled his soul, and he felt that he, too, could thank God for the blessing that had passed him by. He got up, intending to return to the encampment, but a recollection of something Abby had said in their last interview, about his being blind to the good that fate was ready to bestow upon him, suddenly arrested him. "What could she have meant?" he wondered, as he seated himself on a stump, pulled his hat over his eyes, and, with a stick in his hand, idly traced lines and figures in the dust at his feet.
A slight noise presently made him look up, and there, standing under the big oak on the little prominence above him—just where she had stood that October afternoon, beckoning to him and Abby—was Betsy, again looking down upon him. She did not beckon this time; but as he looked up she turned quickly away, though not before he had caught the wistful, steadfast look in her eyes, and had seen the quick flush that covered her face.
Like lightning came the thought, "Was it Betsy whom Abby meant?" and as quickly the truth was flashed upon him with all the force of an electric shock. In an instant, old things had passed away, and a tumult of feeling stronger than anything he had ever known leaped into life. It was not alone the realization of Betsy's love, coming to him in that flash of intuition, that set his nerves tingling and made the hot blood pulse madly through his veins; but, with a rapture that approximated pain in its intensity, there rushed into his soul an answering love, tender, deep and fixed.
It is supposed by many people that man's love is founded upon uncertainty as to any answering passion in the woman's heart, and that a true woman never gives her love unsought; but there is more proof to warrant the contrary belief—that it is her love, unspoken, carefully hidden from all eyes, yet revealed by the mysterious telepathy of spiritual sympathy, that calls his love into being. A man of noble, generous nature is often thus kindled into responsiveness, and his love thus evoked is often the most reverent and the most lasting.
In a moment Abner had to some extent regained his self-possession, though his pulses still beat riotously. He hastened after Betsy, who turned as he approached, her face still flushed, her eyes glowing with unwonted fire. She greeted him in her usual nonchalant manner, and walked demurely beside him, swinging her bonnet carelessly.
"You seem to have forgotten, sir, that a big camp-meeting is in progress in these woods. You reminded me of Daniel Boone or Simon Kenton, sitting on that stump with your 'monarch-of-all-I-survey' air, as though you were alone in the heart of some vast wilderness of which you were the sole proprietor. What schemes were you hatching? and what were you doing with that stick? Working out some abstruse mathematical problem, or calculating how much money your year's crops will bring? This is no time for such worldly thoughts, while all these hair-lifting wonders are occurring yonder. Your leisure moments should be employed in pious meditation, or in repenting of your sins."
Too much agitated by the revelation which had just come to him to answer her light banter, he walked silently by her side. She, surprised by his silence, glanced into his face. What she saw there arrested her footsteps and brought a startled look into her eyes. For a moment they stood still in the pathway, gazing into each other's faces—soul revealed to soul in the look. Then her eyes fell, a trembling seized her, and a wave of crimson swept over cheeks and brow and throat. In a voice hoarse with feeling, he exclaimed, "Betty! Betty!" and stretched out his arms toward her. Tremblingly she threw out her hands as though to repel his approach; and then, turning from him, ran down the path toward the encampment.
Abner was in no mood for the noise and excitement of the "revival"; so he turned aside into a ravine where many of the campers' horses were tethered. Here he encountered Henry, to whom he said abruptly, saddling his mare as he spoke, "I'm sick of all this; I'm going for a gallop."
"It's a pity to miss to-night's service," Henry answered. "The camp breaks up to-morrow."
"No matter," Dudley replied as he sprang into the saddle. "I'm off now."
"Better take a snack before you go. You must be hungry," called Henry, but Dudley, already beyond the ravine, gave no heed.
In his overwrought mood hunger and slumber were equally impossible, and the quiet of his attic room would have been as intolerable as the glare of the torchlights and the singing, shouting, and wild ravings of the encampment. He rode on and on through the moonlight, over hills and fields and roads, until his mare, flecked with foam, was breathing uneasily. Then he allowed the reins to drop loosely over her neck, and rode slowly back until he reached his own unfinished cabin. But the air of the unused house was oppressive, and the walls seemed to stifle him. Freeing the mare of saddle and bridle, and turning her out to graze, he threw himself down on the sward in front of the house. Even then he could not sleep, but for a long time lay gazing into the clear, star-studded sky; for the sudden broadening of the perspective of his future kept him wide awake. He wondered at his long blindness, and with an agony of uncertainty questioned whether Betsy's sympathetic comprehension of his old feeling for her cousin might not now hinder the fulfillment of his dearest hope. But at last the solemn serenity of the summer night stilled his unquiet spirit, and he fell asleep.
When he awoke, the flaming radiance in the eastern sky indicated another sultry day; but at this early hour there was a dewy freshness in the air, and all nature was astir and joyous. Upon the bark of a hickory-tree a crimson-crested woodpecker was tapping for his breakfast; under the edge of a half-decayed stump a colony of ants had already begun the day's labor. Lark and bee were on the wing; squirrels ran up and down the trunk of a big elm, leaping from branch to branch, where redbird, thrush and linnet were making the woods merry with their morning concert.
CHAPTER XII.
COMMENT AND CRITICISM
On Friday the campers returned to their homes, and Cane Ridge neighborhood settled down to its usual routine.
"It's high time thet fo'ks should come to ther senses," said Mrs. Rogers, as she and her husband and young Dudley sat in the yard after supper that evening. "I don't see how you all stood it stiddy fur two weeks et a stretch up et the 'campment. Ev'ry time I sent the niggahs up thah with the fresh vittuls, they'd come back with ther eyes fa'rly bulgin' out o' ther haids, an' whut little wits they hed knocked sky west an' crooked. They brung me sich 'counts uv the goin's-on thet at last, thinks I, I'll go an' see fur myse'f. I knowed you an' Henry could tek keer uv yo'se'ves; but I wuz consarned 'bout Cissy, an' felt it high time to be lookin' artah her. I soon found her, an' when I seed she still hed her haid on her shouldahs, I wuz easier in my mind; but I'll nevah fergit thet fust visit. The meetin' hed been goin' on six days, an' things hed got in a good weavin' way. Thah wuz no less than five preachahs holdin' forth to oncet in diffrunt parts uv the grounds; so I tells Cissy thet ez thah wuz no tellin' when I'd git thah ag'in we'd meandeh 'roun' permiscous lak an' tek in all we could. Fust, we went to the arboh whah thah wuz a big geth'rin'—hardly even standin'-room in the aisles—but we manidged to squedge in on a seat close up in front. The platform wuz crammed with preachahs, an' ole Brothah Ranson wuz holdin' fo'th et a gran' rate. His subjec' wuz 'Fleein' frum the wrath to come,' an' he wuz pow'rful. The pictures he drawed uv the tormints uv the lost, writhin' in the midst uv the fire an' brimstone in the bottomless pit, wuz 'nough to set a snowbank afire. I felt ez hot ez ef I wuz danglin' ovah thet pit myse'f; an' ef one o' the angels hed happened to peep ovah the battermints o' heaven et thet minit, he'd been scorched hisse'f by the billers o' flame whut riz mountain high frum thet sea o' tormint. But somehow, the fo'ks didn't git ez much rousement on 'em ez I'd looked fur—reckon they'd done hed so much preachment thet they wuz kindah tuckahed out. Oh, yes, thah wuz considahble groanin' an' wailin' an' sich like, an' a whole passel o' sinnahs come furwa'd to be prayed fur; but I could see thet Brothah Ranson wuz disapp'inted et the lack o' 'citement, an' thet he wuz fixin' to mek a big jump uv some sort. Fust, he prayed a ha'r-liftin' pertition; then, soon's thet wuz ovah, he swung hisse'f out to the aidge o' the platfo'm, stomped his foot, waved his arms, an' hollahed out, 'Ev'rybody whut wants to 'scape the wrath to come, an' to meet me in heaven, clap yer hands an' shout "Glory!" altogethah.' Thet fotched us shore 'nough."
"Yes," said Mr. Rogers, "I hearn o' thet meetin', but I wuzn't thah. I wuz list'nin' to Brothah Rice et t'othah eend o' the camp."
"Did you shout with the rest, Mrs. Rogers?" Dudley asked.
"I should say so!" she answered. "Ev'rybody did, an' sich a hullabaloo ez it wuz—'nough to raise the dead. I thought fur a minit thet judgment-day hed come, an' wouldn't been s'prised to heah the toot o' Gabr'el's horn then an' thah. No wondeh fo'ks hed jerks an' fits an' swoondin' spaills et the camp! My ha'r wuz all creepy, thah wuz goose flesh all ovah my arms, an' hot an' cold chills a-chasin' one 'nothah up an' down the spines o' my back."
"How'd Cissy behave in all thet rumpus?" asked Rogers.
"I got Cissy outen thah none too soon," Mrs. Rogers acknowledged with a wise shake of her head. "Her face wuz ashy, an' she wuz all o' a shake an' a quake. I took her ovah to some trees whah a watah barr'l stood, an' made her tek a good swill, an' wet her hankchief an' mop her face. Then I walked her off to a quiet place an' says to her, 'Cissy, the Lawd knows I want to see you become a child o' grace, but I don't intend to hev religion jerked an' shouted an' skeered intah you. 'Tain't fittin', to my notion, to see a modest young gal a-mekin' a show uv herse'f, an' the Lawd nevah intended it, nuthah. Ef you're 'lected to salvation—an' I believe you air, fur he's a marciful an' gracious God, an' you're a nice, innercent, well-behaved gal—you kin be called in a quiet way; an' when he does call, whut you got to do is to heah an' obey. Thet's all thah is to convarsion, anyway. So I reckon you'd bettah come 'long home with me this evenin', outen all this fuss.' But she begged so hard to stay, an' promised so faithful not to git wrought up ag'in, thet I let her stay."
After a short pause, Mrs. Rogers continued: "But I stick to it thet the Lawd nevah intended his people to go stark, starin' crazy ovah religion, no more'n ovah anything else. All them ravin's an' jerkin's an' holy-laughin's an' holy-dancin's air onseemly in any fo'ks, sinnah or saint. The Almighty don't want to be pestered with no sich tekin'-on. When he calls, listen; whut he says do, you jes' git up an' do. Thet's religion, an' nuthin' else."
"You're 'bout right, Cynthy Ann," Rogers assented, as he lay at full length on the grass. "To my mind, the main p'int is to love God, an' do yer duty by yer neighbor an' fambly."
"An' do it quiet, too," added his wife. "You nevah heah uv a woman tekin' spasms an' jerks ovah lovin' her husban' or childurn, or a gal ovah lovin' her sweetheart. Then, why must fo'ks raise sich a cavortment 'bout lovin' God—hollahin' an' whoopin' an' sprawlin' 'roun' on the ground lak Sal Fox did thet las' time I wuz et the camp? She'd been a-jerkin' an' a-rollin' an' a-foamin' et the mouth wussen a mad dog, tell she wuz clean tuckahed out, an' thah she lay in the straw 'roun' the altah, her pink caliker dusty an' tore lak she'd been a-chasin' through a briah patch, straws stickin' out all ovah her haid. Thah stood ole Brothah Stratton prayin' ovah her, her sister Jane an' Poll Tribble snifflin' an' snufflin' an' fannin' her, an' sayin' they feared she'd nevah come outen her trance. Thinks I, 'I'll fotch her out.' I walks up, an', pokin' her with my foot, I says, 'Git up, Sal! Hain't you 'shamed yo'se'f, layin' heah with yer haid lookin' lak a rat's nest, an' yer laigs a-showin'?' Daddy Stratton he prayed loudah, Poll she fanned fastah, an' Jane she sniffled an' snuffled harder'n evah, while Sal she jes' lay thah lak a dead corp. I knowed she heard me, though, fur she kindah flickahed her eyeleds, an' then lay stiffer'n evah. So I says, pokin' her ag'in, 'Ef I hed sich pipestems ez them laigs o' yourn, I'd keep 'em hid—an' heah comes Jed White, too!' With thet she sets up, smoothes down her dress, an' winds up her ha'r, spry ez a ant; fur Jed's her beau."
"Oh, well, Sal nevah 'sperienced religion befoh," said Rogers, "so it went hard with her, 'cause, befoh this, she's allus resisted the Speret. But whut I can't stand is them Methodis' folks whut fall in an' out uv religion so of'en—'speri'ncin' a change o' heart ev'ry day in the week, an' mekin' the Lawd out a reg'lar Injin givah, bestowin' grace at ev'ry revival, an' tekin' it away soon's meetin's ovah. While the rousement lasts, the road to glory stretches out befoh 'em, an' they're ready, ez the hymn says, 'to bid far'well to ev'ry fear an' face a frownin' world.' Then by the nex' week they can't mustah up 'nough strength to hoe a row o' cawn. Oh, yes, they're mighty happy while the meetin' lasts. They're on the way to the land o' promise, singin' ez they journey on, ez how they'll 'b'ar the toil, endure the pain, supported by His grace.' Soon's the revival's ovah, they're ready fur anothah kind o' journey, an' lak ez not, they will jine in a drinkin' spree, an' end up in a free fight an' a gen'ral fisticuff. Now, thahs Jake Simmons, a lazy, no-'count skunk whut won't even tote in a back log to keep his fambly frum freezin'. He's got religion ha'f a dozen times, an' teks on a leetle crazier ev'ry time. When I seed him a-rollin' an' stompin' an' cavortin' an' axin' the brethren to pray fer him, thinks I, 'Whut you need, Jake, wossen the prayers uv the saints, is a big blacksnake whip larruped ovah yer back.' The Lawd does the job up right when he really convarts a man. It's 'onc't in grace, allus in grace,' ez the catechism teaches."
"But," said Dudley, who until now had listened silently to this discussion, "the Bible speaks of wanderers from the fold. No doubt Jake is a wandering sheep."
"Maybe he is," Mrs. Rogers agreed; "but, ef so, he looks an' acts so lak a goat thet the angel Gabr'el hisse'f don't know the diffruns."
"An' ef he is a sheep," added Mason, "he's so hidebound an' so fleece-growed, an' hez been herdin' with the goats in the devil's pastur' so long, thet he hain't wuth fotchin' home to the fold."
As soon as the fall wheat-sowing was finished, Abner Dudley resumed his school, but under such changed conditions that he could not feel the same enthusiastic interest as during the previous term. John Calvin was now the only advanced pupil; Henry had entered Transylvania University, and neither Betsy nor Susan were in school.
"Cissy's goin' on sixteen, an' hez eddication 'nough," said her mother. "It don't do gals no good to be too book-l'arned—jes' meks 'em uppish an' no-'count."
Mr. Rogers submitted to his wife's decree. "I boss the boys," he said, "but I reckon Cynthy Ann knows whut's best fur the gals; though, ez fur ez I'm consarned, I'd like Cissy to be ez eddicated ez any uv them high-flyers 'roun' Lexin'ton."
Susan was ambitious and loved study, and, although she did not openly rebel against her mother's ruling, went about her household tasks in a dejected way which greatly tried bustling Mrs. Rogers.
"Now, Cissy," she said, coming to the girl's room one night and finding her sobbing over disappointed hopes, "don't you s'pose yer own mammy'll do whut's best fur her dautah? You mustn't think 'cause I'm sharp an' stirrin' with you thet I don't love you." She seated herself on the side of the bed and began to stroke Susan's hair. "'Tain't no use fur you to tek on so. You must jes' trust yer mammy, an' by an' by you'll see I'm right. I can't spar' you frum home this wintah, but you kin study o' nights, an' Abner'll holp you with yer books. So cheer up, lak a good gal; an' nex' time the packman comes 'long—an' I'm lookin' fer him 'most any day—I'll buy you some ribbon fur yer hair an' a string uv beads. Soon's we git the heft o' the fall wuck did up, you'n' me will mek you one o' them fine quilted silk petticoats, lak Betsy's, to w'ar under yer red calaminco dress. Thah now!"—and she kissed the girl—"say yer prayers, an' go to sleep." Then she murmured as she left the room, "Pore gal! 'Tis hard on her; but I jes' can't spar' her this wintah. I know she's ez purty an' ez good a gal ez kin be found anywhahs!"
As the weeks went by, Betsy Gilcrest did not sing over her work in her old light-hearted way. Mrs. Gilcrest was not an observant woman; but Aunt Dilsey, the old "black mammy," noticed the change in her idolized young mistress. "The keer ob dis place an' all de man'gin' o' dem noisy boys an' lazy niggahs am too much 'sponsibility fur sich young shouldahs ez hern. Ole Dilsey does whut she kin to spar' de precious chile frum worry an' care; but one ole niggah lak me carn't do ebbrythin'; an' 'tain't no wondah Miss Betsy's gittin' pale an' peeky an' low-spereted."
CHAPTER XIII.
COURT DAY
The old-time county court, held once a month, usually on Monday, was an interesting feature of early statehood.
Judging by the crowds that always assembled at the county-seat upon court day, one would have supposed that if legal business were the main feature of the occasion, a surprising amount of litigation was necessary to the well-being of the commonwealth. But legal business was often the least important feature of these gatherings, which seemed to combine the characteristics of picnic, county fair, muster day and old English hustings.
From an early hour upon court day, all was excitement, noise and confusion in and around the county-seat. The discordant bleating and lowing of sheep and cattle filled the air, and droves of swine, after the manner of their kind, refusing to be driven quietly to the market-place, wandered into byways, or sought refuge in stable lots and house yards. In fence corners and under trees, along every approach to the town, horses were hitched—many of them with heaps of provender on the ground before them, that they might feed at any hour which suited their appetites; and vehicles of every known pattern, from family coach to ox-cart, thronged the highways. It was a gala time for the slave-buyer, stock-trader, horse-jockey, and itinerant packman, as well as for the politician and the militia men. Not only was there much trading and political speech-making, but also horse-racing, cock-fighting, gambling and drunkenness; for society, even in the good old times, contained a large rioting element.
At Fayette County court, however, the chief interest was usually the political; and the most popular rendezvous was the tree-bordered enclosure surrounding the court-house, until the noon hour; then the center of interest was the tavern, which, though but a two-storied log house, having only eleven rooms to serve all purposes of dining-hall, office, kitchen and guest chambers, was a famous resort. The sleeping apartments were large, and each was furnished with four beds. Always as many as two guests to a bed, and frequently as many as three, was the economical rule of the house—an arrangement which, though possibly inconvenient in some respects, was one likely to encourage a spirit of democratic sociability.
Abner Dudley accepted Major Gilcrest's invitation to accompany him in his coach to Lexington upon a certain court day which was an occasion of unusual excitement. Tidings that the trade of the Mississippi River was again endangered had just been received. The treaty of 1795, which secured to Kentucky the right of navigation of the Mississippi and the right of deposit in the New Orleans Bank, had now come to a termination by limitation of treaty; and the Spanish Intendant of the province of Louisiana had issued a proclamation that there should be no renewal, although it had been plainly stipulated in the former treaty that the privileges should be renewed. The indignation which this act of broken faith produced in Kentucky was greatly augmented by tidings which had just reached the State that Louisiana had been ceded by Spain to France by the treaty made secretly in 1800, but not made public until 1802.
The failure of all former efforts to induce Kentucky to sever her allegiance to the Union and to join her fortunes with Spain had not destroyed the hopes of the Spaniards and of self-seeking Kentucky agitators. Thus the revival of the old troubles over the navigation of the Mississippi afforded an opportunity of which treacherous conspirators were not slow to avail themselves.
During the noon repast at the tavern, Dudley and James Drane had been neighbors at table; and when the meal was concluded, the two had linked arms and strolled up and down the wide portico running the length of the tavern, and serving to-day as a reception-room for the tavern and as a political arena for groups of excited men who were hotly denouncing Spain and all her works. Other groups near by were as earnestly, but far less noisily, insinuating that Spain was the best friend Kentucky could have, and that her interests lay in the direction of an alliance with the foreign power.
Somewhat apart from the larger groups three men were talking in low tones. Presently, at a sign which, unperceived by Dudley, passed between his companion and one of the men, Drane, saying that he desired to introduce Abner to three of the most agreeable and gifted men of the age, drew him toward the trio at one end of the porch, and presented him to General Wilkinson, Judge Sebastian and Judge Murray. Immediately after the introduction, Drane excused himself and withdrew. Before any conversation, save the usual exchange of introductory courtesies, had passed between the three distinguished Kentuckians and our young Virginian, Hiram Gilcrest came through the door opening from the hall. Seeing Dudley in what was apparently a confidential conversation with the three older men, Gilcrest stood a moment in the doorway, frowning heavily; then, turning, he strode through the hall to the negro quarters of the hotel. Here he found Uncle Zeke, his coachman, and ordered him to prepare for a speedy return home. When he returned to the porch, he walked up to the group of which Dudley was one, and said to him, after a somewhat curt salutation to the other three, "I am sorry to cut short your day's pleasure, but I find that a matter of grave importance necessitates our leaving immediately."
On the homeward drive Gilcrest explained the reason for this hasty retreat. "You were in the company of three of the slyest and most dangerous intriguers of these unsettled times. They are brilliant, daring men, and I fear many of our adventurous young men are being led away by their specious arguments and schemes for future greatness. You have never been in their company before to-day, have you?" with a keen glance at his companion.
Dudley explained that he had only exchanged a few words of ordinary civility with the three before Gilcrest had interrupted the conversation. He did not, however, mention that Drane had brought about the meeting, and had spoken of the men in glowing terms.
CHAPTER XIV.
BETSY SAYS "WAIT"
Rarely ever since that August afternoon when Abner and Betsy had stood a moment in the pathway, gazing into each other's souls, and she had hurried away from him, could he by any pretext or maneuver succeed in being for one moment alone with her. Always when in her presence, either as one of the quiet home circle at her father's house, or at church, or at a neighbor's, he was conscious of a change in her manner towards himself. Much of her old, light-hearted gayety had vanished, and in its stead were a new quietness and reserve, without any trace of embarrassment, it is true, but with a demure dignity which made her seem to repel even such advances as ordinary gallantry would prompt any young man to make to a pretty girl.
Dudley tried vainly to win her back to her former attitude of cordial ease. Occasionally he noticed a merry chord in her voice and something of the old, sparkling playfulness of manner; but if he sought to answer her quips in the same vein of pleasantry, she would color warmly, answer gravely, and then seem to shrink from him. Never could he get her eyes to meet his. Once or twice, in some rare opportunity when he found himself for a brief moment alone with her, he had tried with the most delicate and insinuating skill to approach the subject of his love for her; but at the first hint she, like a fish that sees the line gleaming in the sunlight, would dart away to another topic, or would find some ready excuse for leaving him. Furthermore, the very power of his love made him likewise often constrained and ill at ease in her presence; and as the months dragged on, it seemed to him that not only was he making no progress toward winning her, but that he was losing even her former frank regard. He frequently questioned the reliability of the revelation which had come to him that afternoon at the spring; for although it had given him unmistakable knowledge of his own feelings, it had, he feared, erred in its interpretation of hers. Nor was the element of jealousy wanting to complete his torment at this period. Betsy was developing into the recognized beauty and belle of the county, and not only did the rustic swains of the neighborhood court her favor, but the fashionable beaux from Lexington and Frankfort found abundant attraction at Oaklands. The one feared most by Abner was James Anson Drane, who, besides being well-to-do and of good family, was handsome and gallant and stood very high in Major Gilcrest's good graces. In fact, it seemed to Dudley in his moments of deepest despondency that Drane had everything in his favor, while he himself had nothing to plead in his own behalf save the might of his love, and that between two such suitors as Drane and himself no girl would hesitate to choose the former.
Under the sway of these feelings, Abner's first instinctive dislike of Drane, which had been lulled to sleep by the young lawyer's courteous bearing, awoke into more than its former vigor. At times the schoolmaster felt ready to believe anything of James Anson Drane—he was a schemer, a traitor, and was doubtless even now plotting against the Government. He would marry Betty, of course, and would wreck her happiness, and bring financial ruin and political disgrace upon the Gilcrests. Nevertheless, although Betsy's reserve, his own lack of opportunity for wooing her, and his jealous distrust of Drane, made Abner alternately chafe and despond, yet through all these moods there ran the fiber of a proud, buoyant spirit which would not allow him to give up; and hope, though for a time baffled, retreated only to advance again with new courage.
While returning from Bourbonton one May afternoon, Abner, lured by the beauty of the day, turned from the public road, and chose instead a sequestered bridle-path which, with many a devious turn and twist, wound through the forest whose giant trees, though centuries old, were now again clothed upon with youthful freshness and beauty. Through this green canopy of arching boughs, where sunshine and shadow intermingled, one caught glimpses of the sky, a dome of azure velvet flecked with fleecy white. A soft wind blew from the south, laden with the faint, elusive fragrance of anemone and violet. From every bush and treetop came the light-hearted carol of linnet and thrush and redbird; and in the open spaces between the trees the sportive sunlight gleamed and smiled so joyously that every blade of soft, green grass seemed to quiver with gladness. The day was so golden, so filled with the tender hope and promise of the Maytime, that Abner, yielding to its charm, for the moment forgot his doubts and perplexities. His path led in the direction of a shallow creek; and as he drew near the stream, he spied upon its bank a girl who had stopped to let her horse drink. It was Betty on old Selim. Abner gently checked his mare and sat watching her. Her white scoop-bonnet was hanging from the pommel of the saddle, the bridle-reins drooped carelessly upon old Selim's neck, and her hands, encased in white linen "half hands," were crossed in her lap. She was looking out across the country with a far-away, dreamy expression. Her lover noticed every detail of her beauty—the regal poise of head, the lovely outline of throat and shoulders, the rosy oval of face, the piquant cleft of the chin, the arch curve of the upper lip, and the ripe fullness of the lower. Presently her horse, more awake to outside influences than was his mistress, caught the sound of a breaking twig, and, raising his nose from the water, pricked up his ears and neighed.
"Old Selim spied me first," said Abner, riding to Betty's side.
She looked up for an instant, then her eyes fell before a scrutiny whose blending of admiration and passionate feeling she could not fail to understand.
"Yes," she answered lightly, laughing and striving to regain self-possession, "Selim is glad to see you, I know; he is getting impatient for his supper, and there's no knowing how long I might have sat here day-dreaming, had you not appeared. Shall we ride on?"
"And is not Selim's mistress glad to see me, too?" asked Abner, as he rode by her side.
"Oh, of course," was the reply; "but it is getting late, and we had better hasten on."
After riding a few moments in silence, he said, laying a detaining hand on her bridle: "Betty, why do you avoid me so persistently, and why are you so reserved with me? Is it because, knowing that you are becoming all the world to me, you would by avoidance and reserve spare me the pain of refusing my love? It is now nearly ten months since I first began to realize what you are to me, and that knowledge has become everything."
"No! no! do not speak! Please, please do not!" she remonstrated, her face flushing and then paling.
"Why will you not let me speak?" he continued gently.
"Oh, not—not now," she murmured stammeringly. "I—I—I could not bear it. I can not listen—yet," she ended, her eyes filling with tears.
Her manner, though it had something of a proud reserve, was not wholly unrelenting. In her voice there was a winning cadence which seemed to bid him hope. He understood her at once. She did not want to silence him entirely, but it was too soon—that was what she meant—too soon after his feeling for her cousin. She owed it to her own womanly dignity that his love should be put to the proof of time. She must not be too easily won. Yes, Abner felt that he understood her. Instantly the look of deprecating humility vanished from the young man's face, and in its stead there flashed into his eyes an eager, courageous light; for renewed hope was sending the warm blood leaping and dancing through his veins; and the humble, dejected suppliant of the moment before was transformed into the hopeful, assured lover.
For a time he said nothing, but, with his hand still upon her bridle, they rode on silently through the twilight of the forest aisle, where all was so still and peaceful that their fast heart-throbs seemed almost audible. Pledges more definite and binding might afterwards be exchanged, yet in the hearts of these two lovers this solemn temple of nature was forever consecrated as the place of plighting.
"I will wait, Betty," he said presently; "but do not keep me too long in suspense. Remember how long I have already waited for you. When may I speak?"
"Oh, I—I don't know—not for a long time yet." Then, regaining her old, saucy air, and flashing into his eyes one glance, half tender, half defiant, she snatched her bridle-rein from his hand, and, with a flick of the switch across her horse's neck, rode on. As she galloped off, she looked back for an instant to say archly, "Spring is very beautiful; but I like autumn better, and November is my favorite month, for Thanksgiving Day comes then. No! no! do not follow me, sir," she added saucily, as he rode quickly towards her. "Your road lies straight on," pointing with her switch to where the roads forked. "Mine leads down this lane to Oaklands."
"Very well," he answered with grave sweetness, "I will leave you now, but I shall remember what you have said, and hope that my own thanksgiving day may, in truth, come next November—though it is a weary while to wait."
CHAPTER XV.
THE WAITING-TIME
The Cane Ridge revival of the August before had been followed by many others of a similar nature throughout the country. Although there was much that was fanatical and grotesque in these meetings, much good was undoubtedly accomplished. With all the fanaticism, there was in them the wholesome leaven of gospel truth which did much to arouse the churches from their deathlike indifference. Better than this, the revivals were a bond of union between the different religious sects; for, in the prevalence of enthusiasm, even such rigid upholders of creed as Gilcrest and Landrum felt more concern about the salvation of their children than about the tenets of their church. In fact, from the beginning of the awakening, Books of Discipline and Confessions of Faith had been gathering dust, and soon would have been completely lost to view, had not the more strenuous churchmen at last in alarm put forth their hands to stay their tottering ark of creed, mistaking it for the ark of God. But though for a time the orthodox element held its peace, apparently well pleased to see members of other denominations joining cordially in the revivals, each sect finally became fearful lest other churches might draw away disciples from its own ranks. The tocsin was sounded, "'To your tents, O Israel!' Our creed is in jeopardy! There must be no more union meetings!" Thus the old denominational war waged with renewed fierceness.
Though Barton Stone was, like John, gentle and tender, yet he was also, like Paul, ready at need to wield the double-edged sword of logic and truth to cut down sophistry and combat unbelief. Therefore, to those dominated by sectarianism, as well as to the indifferent and the scoffer, his work was unacceptable; but between the high-water mark of orthodoxy and the low-water mark of willful unbelief, there were many who heard him gladly.
His June appointment at Cane Ridge was an occasion never to be forgotten by those present. Indeed, his sermon that day was well calculated to make the more orthodox members of the congregation writhe in their seats.
He chose as his text the familiar sixteenth verse of the third chapter of John, announcing at the same time that his topics would be God's love as manifested in the gift of his Son; the gospel, the power of God unto salvation; faith, the first requisite, which all who willed might have.
Stone began by portraying, forcibly and tenderly, the love of God, emphasizing the fact that "he willed not that one of his creatures should perish." His love included the whole world, and Christ, instead of being surety for an elect few only, had satisfied the demands of the Father's love by dying for all mankind. Thus "by the righteousness of one the free gift came upon all men unto justification," and Christ, by office, became the Saviour, not of a few only, but of all who would accept him.
He said that the only way to reconcile the two passages of Scripture, John 6:44 and John 12:32, was to believe that the Father recognized no other means of drawing men to him than that of holding up his Son in the gospel; and that, therefore, all who believed on Christ and received the Word were elected to salvation.
Stone next pointed out what he considered to be a marked contrast between the teachings of the Scriptures and that of the Confession of Faith of his church upon this point. He then spoke of regeneration, or the "new birth," and said that the declaration, "born not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible by the word of God," showed clearly that the Word must first be believed in order to produce this effect; consequently, faith preceded regeneration. Furthermore, this faith was wrought in the heart by no outside or miraculous influence, but was freely given to all who would believe. He explained the passage, "Faith is the gift of God," by saying that the object of faith, "the man, Christ Jesus," is the gift of God.
A strange sermon, indeed, to be preached at that time, to such a people, by an ordained minister of the Presbyterian Church! As he spoke, several of the staunch supporters of orthodoxy shook their heads, and looked frowningly at the daring young preacher. Many recalled an incident of his ordination in that very house three years before. Stone, who had long entertained doubts upon the doctrines of predestination, regeneration and effectual calling, as set forth in the Confession of Faith of his church, had, on the day before the one set for his ordination, called aside two of the pillars of the Transylvania Presbytery, and with characteristic honesty had made known to them his difficulties. After laboring in vain to remove his doubts, the two men asked him how far he was willing to receive the Confession. "So far as I see it to be consistent with the word of God," was the answer, which they declared to be sufficient. No objection was raised to his answer when given before the presbytery the next day, and, after making satisfactory replies to all other questions propounded, he was ordained.
When Stone had finished his discourse, he called upon Gilcrest to lead in prayer. With an angry shake of his head, and a frown upon his stern features, the old man declined. Old Brother Landrum was then asked to pray. In a voice which shook with emotion, he besought pardon for the error in the sermon just heard and enlightenment for the mind of the preacher that he might have a better understanding of the mysteries of the gospel. When he began further to petition that the Lord would in his own good time and way manifest himself to the unconverted elect in the congregation, he was interrupted by David Purviance: "Not to the elect alone, O Lord," he prayed, "but unto all—all within these walls; for thou, O God, art no respecter of persons, and salvation is free, free to all who will accept!"
Notwithstanding the evident disapproval of some of his flock, Stone continued to preach sermons of a like nature. A few who heard him were stunned by his boldness and shocked by his ruthless defiance of the established order of things. Others found his words forcibly convincing. Still another class, though not exactly understanding his reasoning, had so great love for the young preacher and so great confidence in his ability that they were his warm advocates. Of this blindly trustful number, none were stouter in their adherence than Mason Rogers.
To Hiram Gilcrest these sermons seemed the undermining, blowing up and pulverization of the whole structure of sound doctrine. One day, in the course of a discussion with Mason Rogers, Gilcrest angrily maintained not only that the church should take action against their minister, but that his transgressions should be reported at the next meeting of the synod. Rogers, of course, defended Stone. Hot words ensued on both sides, and the friendly relations between the two old neighbors were somewhat strained.
One afternoon Gilcrest, who was so full of the subject of the parson's iniquities that he could think or speak of little else, encountered Dudley, to whom in no measured terms he denounced Stone. Abner would gladly have avoided argument with Gilcrest upon any subject, and especially upon this, which he felt did not concern himself personally; but Gilcrest was not to be evaded.
"You know, Major Gilcrest," said Dudley at last, "that I'm not a church-member, and therefore it is not fitting for me to discuss the question."
"No matter," answered Gilcrest; "you're a man and capable of reasoning, and can surely see the fallacy of this fellow's doctrine."
"But Stone is a personal friend of mine," Abner urged.
"What of that?" asked Hiram. "It's not the man, but his doctrine, that I abhor."
Thus driven to bay, Abner had no alternative but to reply that from what he could learn by his own study of the Bible, Stone seemed to be right. This was literally throwing down the gauntlet to Gilcrest, and the discussion waxed hot and stormy.
"This is a fine way to win the daughter—to be locking horns with the father in theological combat," Dudley soliloquized ruefully as Gilcrest rode off; but he laughed, too, as he thought how little like one "saved by grace" and "sanctified by the Spirit" the old man had appeared as, with frowning brow, loud voice and vehement gesticulation, he had stormed and raved against the offending Stone. "What a fool the old fellow did make of himself," thought Abner; "but not a bigger one than myself, considering all things. 'Never discuss theology with your intended father-in-law,' is a safe maxim for lovers to follow."
Later in the summer, Abner Dudley received from his uncle, Dr. Richard Dudley, of Williamsburg, intelligence of a surprising nature; namely, that an uncle of Abner's mother, Andrew Hite, of Sterling County, Virginia, had died, leaving a will by which Abner was heir to all his worldly possessions.
Richard Dudley urged upon Abner the necessity of coming at once to Virginia in regard to this inheritance. Accordingly, Abner, merely telling the Rogers family that he was summoned to Virginia on important business, set out one August afternoon. He went first to Lexington, and from there on horseback to Limestone. His companions on this horseback ride of sixty-five miles were Judge Benjamin Sebastian and Judge William Murray, against whom Hiram Gilcrest had seen fit to warn him. Nothing, however, of the negotiations and intrigues in which Sebastian and Murray may or may not have been concerned, had at this time been made public; and young Dudley saw no reason why the mere suspicions of so prejudiced a man as Hiram Gilcrest should deter him from accepting the company of two such agreeable men.
Soon after taking the boat at Limestone, Sebastian and Murray told Abner that they intended spending the night at the island home of Harman Blennerhassett, and urged him to do likewise. He readily accepted; for he had heard of this secluded island paradise with its romantic surroundings, beautiful grounds and vast library, and of the gracious hospitality of the scholarly Irish recluse and his charming wife. He found the home and his host and hostess all that had been reported, and greatly enjoyed his little visit. The next day, leaving Sebastian and Murray still guests of the Blennerhassetts, Dudley continued his journey by boat to Pittsburg, and thence by horseback across Virginia to Williamsburg.
CHAPTER XVI.
A SINGULAR WILL
Upon reaching Williamsburg, Abner, of course, examined the will of his late granduncle. It was dated May 2, 1782, when Andrew Hite, being dangerously ill, thought death imminent.
Stripped of all legal verbosities, the purport of the document was that the testator bequeathed all of his earthly possessions, consisting of six hundred and forty acres of land in Henderson County, Kentucky; Crestlands, a Virginia estate of some three hundred acres, and all slaves, cattle, horses, goods and chattels pertaining to this estate, to his niece, Mary Belle Hollis Page, youngest child of Andrew Hite's sister, Mary Hite Hollis—"provided," so read the will, "Mary Belle Hollis Page, wife of Marshall Page, is still living at this date, the second day of May in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and eighty-two. If, however, said Mary Belle Hollis Page, wife of Marshall Page, is already deceased, I, Andrew Thurston Hite, of Crestlands, Sterling County, Virginia, do give and bequeath all my worldly possessions above mentioned to her legitimate offspring, if any. In case my niece, Mary Belle Hollis Page, be already deceased and has left no legitimate offspring, I give and bequeath all houses, lands, slaves, live stock, goods and chattels of whatsoever nature of which I die possessed to my niece, Sarah Jane Pepper, of Chestnut Hall, Caxton County, Virginia, only child of my half-sister, Sarah Melvina Thornton Pepper, deceased."
Dr. Richard Dudley, of Lawsonville, "husband of Frances Hollis, deceased, sister of Mary Belle Hollis Page," was named as sole executor of this will. A codicil dated twenty years later, June 30, 1802, the very day of Andrew Hite's death, stated that all subsequent wills having been rendered null and void by the death of the testator's adopted son, Stephen Balleau Hite, were destroyed, and that the testator, Andrew Thurston Hite, decreed that the will dated May 2, 1782, should be his last will and testament. This codicil also named Richard Dudley, "late of Lawsonville, now of Williamsburg," as sole executor.
Contrary to his own convictions and the dictum of his physicians, Andrew Hite recovered from his illness in 1782, and five years later adopted a lad, Stephen Balleau, and reared him as his son. This Stephen, grown to manhood, but unmarried, was killed in a duel, four months before the death of his adopted father, then an old man of seventy-six years. After Stephen was killed, Andrew Hite seems to have lost all interest in life, and to have neglected making any provision as to the disposal of his property, until the very day of his death. Then, instead of making a new will, he on his deathbed, in the presence of his physician, his old body-servant, and a neighbor, simply added the codicil to the will made twenty years before.
"This strange will still holds good, I presume, eccentric though it be," Abner said to Dr. Dudley, after reading the document.
"Certainly," his uncle replied; "for your mother was undoubtedly living at the date specified in the will."
"Yes," Abner said, "that can be established by your testimony, which is corroborated by the inscription on her tombstone at Lawsonville and by the record in your family Bible—both of which give the date of her death as that of August 21, 1782, three months after the will was written."
"And," added the doctor, "even should the will not stand, you, the only child of your mother, are justly entitled to this bequest; for all that Andrew Hite possessed, save that Kentucky land which he in my presence promised your mother at his death, came through his father, your great-grandfather, Abner Hite; and Sarah Jane Pepper is connected only through her mother, Andrew Hite's half-sister, Sarah Thornton, who was not a descendant of old Abner Hite. Therefore, you need have no uneasiness on the score of either the justness or the validity of your claim; and you should at once take steps to put you in possession of your legacy."
"That I shall certainly do," said Abner; "and I shall do so, not as Abner Dudley, but as Abner Dudley Logan. In fact, Uncle Richard, aside from all question of this bequest, I had already determined to assume my full name; for, much as I honor you who have been a second father to me, I think it but justice to my own father's memory, now that I have arrived at man's estate, that I should wear his name. You know I wished to do so before I went to Kentucky; but you were so averse to the idea that I yielded for the time, contrary to my convictions of justice to my father's memory and against my own preference. But now I am fully resolved to be known in future by my full name, Abner Dudley Logan."
Dr. Dudley sat silent with downcast eyes, a gloomy, perplexed look upon his face; and his nephew went on:
"Uncle Richard, I wish you would tell me more about my father and about my mother's early life. You have always been singularly reticent on the subject. Why! I was a boy of eleven or twelve before I even knew that my real name was Logan, and then I discovered it by accident; and it was not until I read this will of Uncle Hite's that I learned that my mother had married a second time. The time has now come, I think, when you should tell me all that you know of my father and mother."
"Of your father," said Richard slowly, and, it seemed to Abner, reluctantly, "I know little more than the facts already in your possession. Briefly told, your mother's history is this: Her mother, Mary Hite, married John Hollis, of Plainfield, New Jersey. To this union were born eight children, of whom your Aunt Frances, my first wife, was the eldest, and your mother, the youngest. The six children intervening died in early childhood. Your grandfather, John Hollis, died when your mother was two months old, and his wife survived him but one month. Her half-sister, Sarah Thornton, who had just been married to Jackson Pepper, of Chestnut Hall in northern Virginia—a widower with one son—took your mother to raise as her own child. This Sarah Thornton Pepper died ten years later. She had but one child, Sarah Jane Pepper. Your mother, after her aunt's death, still lived at Chestnut Hall until she was about sixteen. Then she greatly offended Jackson Pepper by refusing to be betrothed to Fletcher Pepper, the son of Jackson's former marriage. Her home was rendered so unpleasant by Jackson Pepper's anger and Fletcher's persistence in his suit, that she went to live at Crestlands with her old bachelor uncle, Andrew Hite, until a few years later—in 1775, I think—when he went with a party of adventurers to Kentucky. He expected to be gone a year, and, before setting forth, he took your mother to Morristown, New Jersey, to find a temporary home with some of her Hollis connections, two maiden ladies, her father's cousins. When, however, Andrew Hite returned to Virginia, he, instead of recalling his niece and settling down with her at Crestlands, joined the Continental army. So your mother continued with her distant relatives at Morristown until the winter of 1776-77. After the battles at Trenton and Princeton, Washington's army, as you know, went into winter quarters at Morristown. In this army was a young soldier, John Logan. He and your mother met and immediately fell in love with each other; and in March, after an acquaintance of only five weeks, they were married. It was an ill-advised, imprudent marriage. Mary had nothing of her own, nor had John Logan; and, besides, he must necessarily be away from his young wife a great deal, and leave her unprotected and illy provided for while he was encountering the dangers and hardships of a soldier's life. Mary's relatives at Morristown were bitterly offended because of her marriage to a man of whose antecedents she knew nothing, and who was poor, and, still worse, a hated Continental soldier, for they were strong Tory sympathizers. They would have nothing whatever to do with Mary after her marriage. In the spring, when Washington left his winter quarters, Logan, of course, went with the army, and his wife was left alone at Morristown with a poor old couple of whom your father had rented lodgings. After the departure of the troops from Morristown, Logan very rarely could find opportunity to visit his wife, nor could he make adequate provision for her comfort. You were born there in the home of the old couple at Morristown, February 25, 1778. There your mother continued to live until after your father fell in the battle of Monmouth Court-house in June, 1778. Then she made her way with you, her four-months-old babe, back to your Aunt Frances and me. She lived with us until after the death of your Aunt Frances in March, 1781. Then that fall, and about five months before my marriage to Rachel Sneed, your mother was married to Marshall Page, and both she and he died the following August."
"What of this Marshall Page, my stepfather?" asked Abner. "Where was he from? Was he a man calculated to make my mother happy?"
"He was a brave, honest, hard-working fellow," acknowledged Richard, "from Maryland; but he had only a limited education, and had not been gently reared. I was not well pleased with the marriage; and had your Aunt Frances lived, I do not think Mary would have married him. But as I was a widower, and no blood relation to your mother, my house was hardly any longer a suitable refuge for her and her babe. When she and Marshall Page died the following summer, we—my second wife, Rachel, and I—took you as our own. It was your mother's dying request that you should, if possible, be spared all knowledge of her sad history, and be reared as our own child."
"Nobly have you and Aunt Rachel tried to fulfill that dying request!" said the young man in a choked voice and with tears in his eyes, as he arose and threw his arm across his uncle's shoulder.
"And nobly have you repaid our love and care, my boy," the older man answered huskily. "You have given us filial love and obedience, and have never crossed our wishes in anything, except when you persisted in going off to Kentucky, instead of staying here and becoming a lawyer. But there! there! you were right, I dare say. You had no liking for a legal profession, and that new country across the mountains is a better place than this old, aristocratic State for a young, energetic fellow who has nothing but his native ability and a good education to assist him forward. So enough of these saddening recollections," he added in a more cheerful tone, rising briskly and crossing the room to a table whereon were scattered various papers. "Now for the business pertaining to this fine fellow, Abner Dudley Logan, as he must be called in future, I suppose, and who has just come into a rich inheritance."
"Of which inheritance," said Abner, joining his uncle at the table and picking up one of the papers, "the most valuable part, I'm inclined to think, will prove to be this Kentucky land. As for this Virginian estate, I fear from what you tell me that I can realize very little from it."
"That is true," agreed Richard. "Owing to the recklessness and prodigality of Stephen Hite, and the neglect and mismanagement of Col. Andrew Hite during the last ten years of his life, the estate is well-nigh worthless. Besides being heavily mortgaged, the land is worn, and the grand old brick mansion built over a hundred years ago by your great-grandfather, Abner Hite, is sadly out of repair—in fact, is almost in ruins."
"'Lord of Crestlands, an ancestral estate in the proud old dominion of Virginia,' sounds rich and grand," laughed Abner; "but is only as 'sounding brass and tinkling cymbals,' after all, without money to lift mortgages and to repair the breaches made by the prodigality and carelessness of my predecessors. And, uncle, how about the negroes I am to inherit?" taking up the copy of the will, and reading therefrom, "'I give and bequeath all houses, lands, slaves, live stock, goods and chattels of whatsoever nature of which I die possessed, etc.' How many of these dusky retainers are there remaining in my ancestral halls?"
"Only three," the doctor answered, "out of the troops of slaves which Andrew Hite owned twenty years ago. The others, I find, have been sold from time to time, to pay the gambling debts and for the other vicious habits of the precious Stephen, I presume. And of the three negroes still left, two are old and decrepit, which leaves but one of marketable value. But, Abner, my boy," jokingly added Dr. Dudley, "when you have realized a fortune out of that Henderson County land which you think so valuable, you can use this wealth to lift mortgages and to rebuild this home of your forefathers; so that you will be, after all, 'lord of Crestlands,' the ancestral home of the family."
"That plan doesn't appeal to me," said the young man, stoutly. "For one thing, I do not consider Crestlands as my ancestral estate. My Grandmother Hite lived there only until her marriage, and neither Hollises nor Logans had part or lot in it. No, my ancestral halls shall be of my own rearing," he said promptly. "I intend indeed to be one day known as 'Logan of Crestlands;' but not of that ramshackle old manor house in southeastern Virginia, but of a new Crestlands in that transmontine paradise, Kentucky. Crestlands!" he said musingly. "Yes, I like the name. It has a pleasing sound, and I mean that in its symbolical sense it shall be appropriate; for I intend that life in this home I shall found shall be one of purity, truth, love, and high ideals."
"And from the light in your eyes, and that hopeful, exultant smile, I suspect," said Uncle Richard, "that you have found the fair damsel who is to reign queen of this goodly domain, this new Crestlands. Is it not so?"
"I see visions and dream dreams of such a consummation," acknowledged the young man, flushing warmly; "but at present I am on probation with this lady fair. I shall know my fate when I return in November for her verdict. But, uncle, whatever my hopes in that direction, there's another hope almost equally dear—that my loving foster parents should share my prosperity. Leave this old home which must be lonely to you and Aunt Rachel now that I am gone and your daughters both married and gone from the home nest. You have toiled hard, and have borne the burden and heat of the day, and now in your declining years I would have your life all ease and sunshine. Come to me, and share my new home. I promise you comfort, cheer and happiness. Will you not come?"
"No, my boy," answered his uncle. "'Ephraim is joined to his idols.' I am too old to transplant to a new soil, however vigorous and genial it may be; and your Aunt Rachel would never consent to go so far from her daughters and their children. But some day, when that saucy, black-eyed siren (I'm certain she is saucy and black-eyed) shall have come to reign as mistress of your hearth and home, I'll cross the mountains, old as I am, to spend a few months with you. But all this is far in the future, and we have too much business still to transact before we can hope to get you thoroughly established in your rights, to plan so far ahead."
"As to this Kentucky land, Uncle Richard," said Abner, presently, "when and how did Uncle Hite acquire it?"
"Back in 1775, I believe, when he went out there on that exploring trip. Under the provisions of the 'Henderson grant' made that same year, Andrew Hite purchased, as I see from these papers, a tract of four hundred acres in that part of the Green River valley now known as Henderson County. But, instead of remaining in Kentucky and settling on his land, he returned to this State and joined the army. Now, this 'Henderson grant' was annulled in 1778 by the Virginia Assembly, but the next year, when the war burdens were beginning to press heavily on the country, the Assembly enacted a new land law which, besides arranging for the sale of lands in her western territory, also offered as military bounty tracts of these western lands to her soldiers. So, Hite, then a colonel in the Continental army, applied for and received from the State of Virginia this same land he had purchased under the old Henderson grant, and sixty acres adjoining. His title, therefore, was made doubly secure, and he seems to have been little troubled, as so many others were, by rival claimants. He was wounded in the battle of King's Mountain, and after his wound had healed, before rejoining the army, he managed to make another short visit to Kentucky. Upon his return, on his way to join Lafayette at Yorktown just before Cornwallis' surrender, Hite stopped at Lawsonville. It was soon after your Aunt Frances died, and when your mother was on the eve of marrying Marshall Page. After the war, Hite went to France, where he found this waif, Stephen Balleau, and brought him home as his adopted son, a year or so later. That is all I know about Andrew Hite. After that flying visit to Lawsonville I never saw him, nor heard anything more directly of him, until I was notified last May of his death, and asked to be present at the reading of his will.
"This paper shows me," said Abner after a pause, "that Uncle Hite placed the management of his Kentucky affairs in the hands of an attorney, Anson Drane. Now, I know a young lawyer of Lexington named James Anson Drane. It must be the son of this old attorney."
"Yes," said Dr. Dudley, handing his nephew another document, "and from this paper you will find that this son, your James Anson Drane, was employed after the death of the father to act as Hite's factor. So your first step, when you return, will, of course, be to communicate with this young Drane."