University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

As day dawned the drab clouds blanched, broke up in
marbled masses, the rain ceased, the wind sang out of the
west, heralding the coming blue and gold, and at noon not
one pearly vapor sail dotted the sky. During the afternoon
Edna looked anxiously for the first glimpse of “Lookout,”
but a trifling accident detained the train for several
hours, and it was almost twilight when she saw it, a purple
spot staining the clear beryl horizon; spreading rapidly,
shifting its Tyrian mantle for gray robes; and at length
the rising moon silvered its rocky crest, as it towered in
silent majesty over the little village nestled at its base.
The kind and gentlemanly conductor on the cars accompanied
Edna to the hotel, and gave her a parcel containing
several late papers. As she sat in her small room, weary
and yet sleepless, she tried to divert her thoughts by reading
the journals, and found in three of them notices of the
last number of — Magazine, and especial mention of her
essay: “Keeping the Vigil of St. Martin under the Pines of
Grütli.”

The extravagant laudations of this article surprised her,
and she saw that while much curiosity was indulged concerning
the authorship, one of the editors ventured to attribute
it to a celebrated and very able writer, whose genius
and erudition had lifted him to an enviable eminence
in the world of American letters. The criticisms were excessively
flattering, and the young author, gratified at the
complete success that had crowned her efforts, cut out the

friendly notices, intending to inclose them in a letter to
Mrs. Murray.

Unable to sleep, giving audience to memories of her early
childhood, she passed the night at her window, watching
the constellations go down behind the dark, frowning mass
of rock that lifted its parapets to the midnight sky, and in
the morning light saw the cold, misty cowl drawn over the
venerable hoary head.

The village had changed so materially that she could
scarcely recognize any of the old landmarks, and the people
who kept the hotel could tell her nothing about Peter
Wood, the miller. After breakfast she took a box containing
some flowers packed in wet cotton, and walked out on
the road leading in the direction of the blacksmith's shop.
Very soon the trees became familiar, she remembered every
turn of the road and bend of the fences; and at last the
grove of oak and chestnut shading the knoll at the intersection
of the roads, met her eye. She looked for the forge
and bellows, for the anvil and slack-tub; but shop and shed
had fallen to decay, and only a heap of rubbish, overgrown
with rank weeds and vines, marked the spot where she had
spent so many happy hours. The glowing yellow chestnut
leaves dripped down at her feet, and the oaks tossed their
gnarled arms as if welcoming the wanderer whose head
they had shaded in infancy, and, stifling a moan, the orphan
hurried on.

She saw that the timber had been cut down, and fences
inclosed cultivated fields where forests had stood when she
went away. At a sudden bend in the narrow, irregular
road when she held her breath and leaned forward to see
the old house where she was born and reared, a sharp cry
of pain escaped her. Not a vestige of the homestead remained,
save the rocky chimney, standing in memorian in
the centre of a corn-field. She leaned against the low fence,
and tears trickled down her cheeks as memory rebuilt the
log-house, and placed the split-bottomed rocking-chair on

the porch in front, and filled it with the figure of a white
haired old man, with his pipe in his hand and his blurred
eyes staring at the moon.

Through the brown corn-stalks she could see the gaping
mouth of the well, now partially filled with rubbish; and
the wreaths of scarlet cypress which once fringed the shed
above it and hung their flaming trumpets down till they
almost touched her childish head, as she sang at the well
where she scoured the cedar piggin, were bereft of all support
and trailed helplessly over the ground. Close to the
fence, and beyond the reach of plough and hoe, a yellow
four-o'clock with closed flowers marked the location of the
little garden; and one tall larkspur leaned against the fence,
sole survivor of the blue pets that Edna had loved so well
in the early years. She put her fingers through a crevice,
broke the plumy spray, and as she pressed it to her face,
she dropped her head upon the rails, and gave herself up to
the flood of painful yet inexpressibly precious reminiscences.

How carefully she had worked and weeded this little
plat; how proud she once was of her rosemary and pinks,
her double feathery poppies, her sweet-scented lemon-grass;
how eagerly she had transplanted wood violets and purple
phlox from the forest; how often she had sat on the steps
watching for her grandfather's return, and stringing those
four-o'clock blossoms into golden crowns for her own young
head; and how gayly she had sometimes swung them over
Brindle's horns, when she went out to milk her.

With a sob she turned away and walked in the direction
of the burying-ground; for there, certainly, she would find
all unchanged; graves at least were permanent.

The little spring bubbled as of yore, the lush creepers
made a tangled tapestry around it, and crimson and blue
convolvulus swung their velvety dew-beaded chalices above
it, as on that June morning long ago when she stood there
filling her bucket, waiting for the sunrise.

She took off her gloves, knelt down beside the spring,
and dipping up the cold, sparkling water in her palms,
drank and wept, and drank again. She bathed her aching
eyes, and almost cheated herself into the belief that she
heard again Grip's fierce bark ringing through the woods,
and the slow, drowsy tinkle of Brindle's bell. Turning
aside from the beaten track, she entered the thick grove of
chestnuts, and looked around for the grave of the Dents;
but the mound had disappeared, and though she recognized
the particular tree which had formerly overhung it, and
searched the ground carefully, she could discover no trace
of the hillock where she had so often scattered flowers. A
squirrel leaped and frisked in the boughs above her, and
she startled a rabbit from the thick grass and fallen yellow
leaves; but neither these, nor the twitter of gossiping orioles,
nor the harsh hungry cry of a blue-bird told her a syllable
of all that had transpired in her absence.

She conjectured that the bodies had probably been disinterred
by friends, and removed to Georgia; and she hurried
on toward the hillside, where the neighborhood graveyard
was situated. The rude, unpainted paling still inclosed it,
and rows of head-boards stretched away among grass and
weeds; but whose was that shining marble shaft, standing
in the centre of a neatly arranged square, around which ran
a handsome iron railing? On that very spot, in years gone
by, had stood a piece of pine board: “Sacred to the memory
of Aaron Hunt, an honest blacksmith and true Christian.”

Who had dared to disturb his bones, to violate his last
resting-place, and to steal his grave for the interment of
some wealthy stranger? A cry of horror and astonishment

broke from the orphan's trembling lips, and she shaded her
eyes with her hand, and tried to read the name inscribed
on the monument of the sacrilegious interloper. But bitter,
scalding tears of indignation blinded her. She dashed them
away, but they gathered and fell faster; and, unbolting the
gate, she entered the inclosure and stepped close to the
marble.

ERECTED
IN HONOR OF
AARON HUNT,
BY HIS DEVOTED GRANDDAUGHTER.

These gilded words were traced on the polished surface
of the pure white obelisk, and on each corner of the square
pedestal or base stood beautifully carved vases, from which
drooped glossy tendrils of ivy.

As Edna looked in amazement at the glittering shaft
which rose twenty-five feet in the autumn air; as she rubbed
her eyes and re-read the golden inscription, and looked at
the sanded walks, and the well-trimmed evergreens, which
told that careful hands kept the lot in order, she sank down
at the base of the beautiful monument, and laid her hot
cheek on the cold marble.

“O Grandpa, Grandpa! He is not altogether wicked
and callous as we once thought him, or he could never have
done this! Forgive your poor little Pearl, if she can not
help loving one who, for her sake, honors your dear name
and memory! O Grandpa! if I had never gone away
from here! If I could have died before I saw him again!
before this great anguish fell upon my heart!”

She knew now where St. Elmo Murray went that night,
after he had watched her from behind the sarcophagus and
the mummies; knew that only his hand could have erected
this noble pillar of record; and most fully did she appreciate
the delicate feeling which made him so proudly reticent

on this subject. He wished no element of gratitude
in the love he had endeavored to win, and scorned to take
advantage of her devoted affection for her grandfather, by
touching her heart with a knowledge of the tribute paid to
his memory. Until this moment she had sternly refused to
permit herself to believe all his protestations of love; had
tried to think that he merely desired to make her acknowledge
his power, and confess an affection flattering to his
vanity. But to-day she felt that all he had avowed was
true; that his proud, bitter heart was indeed entirely hers;
and this assurance filled her own heart with a measureless
joy, a rapture that made her eyes sparkle through their
tears and brought a momentary glow to her cheeks. Hour
after hour passed; she took no note of time, and sat there
pondering her past life, thinking how the dusty heart deep
under the marble would have throbbed with fond pride, if
it could only have known what the world said of her writings.
That she should prove competent to teach the neighbors'
children, had been Aaron Hunt's loftiest ambition for
his darling; and now she was deemed worthy to speak to
her race, through the columns of a periodical that few women
were considered able to fill.

She wondered if he were not really cognizant of it all;
if he were not watching her struggles and her triumph;
and she asked herself why he was not allowed, in token of
tender sympathy, to drop one palm-leat on her head, from
the fadeless branch he waved in heaven?

The shaft threw a long slanting shadow eastward as the

orphan rose, and, taking from the box the fragrant exoties
which she had brought from Le Bocage, arranged them in
the damp soil of one of the vases, and twined their bright-hued
petals among the dark green ivy leaves. One shining
wreath she broke and laid away tenderly in the box, a hallowed
souvenir of the sacred spot where it grew; and as
she stood there, looking at a garland of poppy-leaves chiselled
around the inscription, neither flush nor tremor told
aught that passed in her mind, and her sculptured features
were calm, as the afternoon sun showed how pale and fixed
her face had grown. She climbed upon the broad base and
pressed her lips to her grandfather's name, and there was
a mournful sweetness in her voice as she said aloud:

“Pray God to pardon him, Grandpa! Pray Christ to
comfort and save his precious soul! O Grandpa! pray the
Holy Spirit to melt and sanctify his suffering heart!”

It was painful to quit the place. She lingered, and started
away, and came back, and at last knelt down and hid
her face, and prayed long and silently.

Then turning quickly, she closed the iron gate, and without
trusting herself for another look, walked away. She
passed the spring and the homestead ruins, and finally
found herself in sight of the miller's house, which alone
seemed unchanged. As she lifted the latch of the gate and
entered the yard, it seemed but yesterday that she was
driven away to the dépôt in the miller's covered cart.

An ancient apple-tree, that she well remembered, stood
near the house, and the spreading branches were bent
almost to the earth with the weight of red-streaked apples,
round and ripe. The shaggy black dog, that so often frolicked
with Grip in the days gone by, now lay on the step,
blinking at the sun and the flies that now and then buzzed

over the golden balsam, whose crimson seed glowed in the
evening sunshine.

Over the rocky well rose a rude arbor, where a scuppernong
vine clambered and hung its rich, luscious brown clusters;
and here, with a pipe between her lips, and at her
feet a basket full of red pepper-pods, which she was busily
engaged in stringing, sat an elderly woman. She was clad
in blue and yellow plaid homespun, and wore a white apron
and a snowy muslin cap, whose crimped ruffles pressed
caressingly the grizzled hair combed so smoothly over her
temples. Presently she laid her pipe down on the top of
the mossy well, where the dripping bucket sat, and lifted
the scarlet wreath of peppers, eyed it satisfactorily, and,
as she resumed her work, began to hum “Auld Lang Syne.”

The countenance was so peaceful and earnest and honest,
that, as Edna stood watching it, a warm loving light came
into her own beautiful eyes, and she put out both hands
unconsciously, and stepped into the little arbor.

Her shadow fell upon the matronly face, and the woman
rose and courtesied.

“Good evening, miss. Will you be seated? There is
room enough for two on my bench.”

The orphan did not speak for a moment, but looked up
in the brown, wrinkled face, and then, pushing back her
bonnet and veil, she said eagerly:

“Mrs. Wood, don't you know me?”

The miller's wife looked curiously at her visitor, glanced
at her dress, and shook her head.

“No, miss; if ever I set my eyes on you before, it's more
than I remember, and Dorothy Wood has a powerful memory,
they say, and seldom forgets faces.”

“Do you remember Aaron Hunt, and his daughter Hester?”

“To be sure I do; but you an't neither the one nor the
other, I take it. Stop—let me see. Aha! Tabitha, Willis,
you children, run here—quick! But, no—it can't be!
You can't be Edna Earl?”

She shaded her eyes from the glare of the sun and stooped
forward, and looked searchingly at the stranger; then the
coral wreath fell from her fingers, she stretched out her
arms, and the large mouth trembled and twitched.

“Are you—can you be—little Edna? Aaron Hunt's
grandchild?”

“I am the poor little Edna you took such tender care of
in her great affliction—”

“Samson and the Philistines! Little Edna—so you are!
What was I thinking about, that I didn't know you right
away? God bless your pretty white face!”

She caught the orphan in her strong arms and kissed her,
and cried and laughed alternately.

A young girl, apparently about Edna's age, and a tall,
lank young man, with yellow hair full of meal-dust, came
out of the house, and looked on in stupid wonder.

“Why, children! don't you know little Edna that lived
at Aaron Hunt's—his granddaughter? This is my Tabitha
and my son Willis, that tends the mill and takes care of
us, now my poor Peter—God rest his soul!—is dead and
buried these three years. Bring some seats, Willis. Sit
down here by me, Edna, and take off your bonnet, child,
and let me see you. Umph! umph! Who'd have thought
it? What a powerful handsome woman you have made, to
be sure! to be sure! Well! well! The very saints up in
glory can't begin to tell what children will turn out! Lean
your face this way. Why, you an't no more like that little
barefooted, tangle-haired, rosy-faced Edna that used to run
around these woods in striped homespun, hunting the cows,
than I, Dorothy Elmira Wood, am like the Queen of Sheba

when she went up visiting to Jerusalem to call on Solomon.
How wonderful pretty you are! And how soft and white
your hands are! Now I look at you good I see you are
like your mother, Hester Earl; and she was the loveliest,
mild little pink in the county. You are taller than your
mother, and prouder-looking; but you have got her big,
soft, shining, black eyes; and your mouth is sweet and sorrowful,
and patient as hers always was, after your father
fell off that frosty roof and broke his neck. Little Edna
come back a fine, handsome woman, looking like a queen!
But, honey, you don't seem healthy, like my Tabitha. See
what a bright red she has in her face. You are too pale;
you look as if you had just been bled. An't you well,
child?”

Mrs. Wood felt the girl's arms and shoulders, and found
them thinner than her standard of health demanded.

“I am very well, thank you, but tired from my journey,
and from walking all about the old place.”

“And like enough you've cried a deal. Your eyes are
heavy. You know, honey, the old house burnt down one
blustry night in March, and so we sold the place; for when
my old man died we were hard-pressed, we were, and a
man by the name of Simmons, he bought it and planted it
in corn. Edna, have you been to your Grandpa's grave?”

“Yes ma'am, I was there a long time to-day.”

“Oh! an't it beautiful! It would be a real comfort to
die, if folks knew such lovely gravestones would cover 'em.
I think your Grandpa's grave is the prettiest place I ever
saw, and I wonder, sometimes, what Aaron Hunt would
say if he could rise out of his coffin and see what is over
him. Poor thing! You haven't got over it yet, I see. I
thought we should have buried you, too, when he died; for
never did I see a child grieve so.”

“Mrs. Wood, who keeps the walks so clean, and the
evergreens so nicely cut?”

“My Willis, to be sure. The gentleman that came here

and fixed every thing last December, paid Willis one hundred
dollars to attend to it, and keep the weeds down. He
said he might come back unexpectedly almost any time,
and that he did not want to see so much as a blade of grass
in the walks; so you see Willis goes there every Saturday
and straightens up things. What is his name, and who is
he, any how? He only told us he was a friend of yours,
and that his mother had adopted you.”

“What sort of a looking person was he, Mrs. Wood?”

“O child! if he is so good to you, I ought not to say;
but he was a powerful, grim-looking man, with fierce eyes
and a thick moustache, and hair almost pepper-and-salt;
and bless your soul, honey! his shoulders were as broad as
a barn-door. While he talked I didn't like his countenance,
it was dark like a pirate's, or one of those prowling, cattlethieves
over in the coves. He asked a power of questions
about you and your Grandpa, and when I said you had no
kin on earth, that ever I heard of, he laughed, that is, he
showed his teeth, and said, `So much the better! so much
the better!' What is his name?”

“Mr. Murray, and he has been very kind to me.”

“But, Edna, I thought you went to the factory to work?
Do tell me how you fell into the hands of such rich people?”

Edna briefly acquainted her with what had occurred during
her long absence, and informed her of her plans for the
future; and while she listened Mrs. Wood lighted her
pipe, and resting her elbow on her knee, dropped her face
on her hands, and watched her visitor's countenance.

Finally she nodded to her daughter, saying: “Do you
hear that, Bitha? She can write for the papers and get
paid for it! And she is smart enough to teach! Well!
well! that makes me say what I do say, and I stick to it,
where there's a will there's a way! and where there's no
hearty will, all the ways in creation won't take folks to an
education! Some children can't be kicked and kept down;

spite of all the world they will manage to scuffle up somehow;
and then again, some can't be cuffed and coaxed and
dragged up by the ears! Here's Edna, that always had a
hankering after books, and she has made something of herself;
and here's my girl, that I wanted to get book-learning,
and I slaved and I saved to send her to school, and sure
enough she has got no more use for reading, and knows as
little as her poor mother, who never had a chance to learn.
It is no earthly use to fly in the face of blood and nature!
`What is bred in the bone, won't come out in the flesh!'
Some are cut out for one thing, and some for another! Jerusalem
artichokes won't bear hops, and persimmons don't
grow on blackjacks!”

She put her brawny brown hand on Edna's forehead, and
smoothed the bands of hair, and sighed heavily.

“Mrs. Wood, I should like to see Brindle once more.”

“Lord bless your soul, honey! she has been dead these
three years! Why, you forget cows don't hang on as long
as Methuselah, and Brindle was no yearling when we took
her. She mired down in the swamp, back of the mill-pond,
and before we could find her, she was dead. But her calf
is as pretty a young thing as ever you saw; speckled all
over, most as thick as a guinea, and the children call her
`Speckle.' Willis, step out and see if the heifer is in
sight. Edna, an't you going to stay with me to-night?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wood, I should like very much to do
so, but have not time, and must get back to Chattanooga before
the train leaves, for I am obliged to go on to-night.”

“Well, any how, lay off your bonnet and stay and let
me give you some supper, and then we will all go back with
you, that is, if you an't too proud to ride to town in our
cart? We have got a new cart, but it is only a miller's
cart, and may be it won't suit your fine fashionable clothes.”

“I shall be very glad to stay, and I only wish it was
the same old cart that took me to the dépôt, more than five
years ago. Please give me some water.”

Mrs. Wood rolled up her sleeves, put away her pretty
peppers, and talking vigorously all the time, prepared some
refreshments for her guest.

A table was set under the apple-tree, a snowy cotton
cloth spread over it, and yellow butter, tempting as Goshen's,
and a loaf of fresh bread, and honey amber-hued,
and buttermilk, and cider, and stewed pears, and a dish of
ripe red apples crowned the board.

The air was laden with the fragrance it stole in crossing
a hay-field beyond the road, the bees darted in and out of
their hives, and a peacock spread his iridescent feathers to
catch the level yellow rays of the setting-sun, and from the
distant mill-pond came the gabble of geese, as the noisy fleet
breasted the ripples.

Speckle, who had been driven to the gate for Edna's
inspection, stood closed to the paling, thrusting her pearly
horns through the cracks, and watching the party at the
table with her large, liquid, beautiful, earnest eyes; and afar
off Lookout rose solemn and sombre.

“Edna, you eat nothing. What ails you, child? They
say too much brain-work is not healthy, and I reckon you
study too hard. Better stay here with me, honey, and
run around the woods and get some red in your face, and
churn and spin and drink buttermilk, and get plump, and
go chestnuting with my children. Goodness knows they
are strong enough and hearty enough, and too much study
will never make shads of them; for they won't work their
brains, even to learn the multiplication table. See here,
Edna, if you will stay awhile with me, I will give Speckle
to you.”

“Thank you, dear Mrs. Wood, I wish I could; but the
lady who engaged me to teach her children, wrote that I
was very much needed; and, consequently, I must hurry on.
Speckle is a perfect little beauty, but I would not be so
selfish as to take her away from you.”

Clouds began to gather in the south-west, and as the

covered cart was brought to the gate, a distant mutter of
thunder told that a storm was brewing.

Mrs. Wood and her two children accompanied the orphan,
and as they drove through the woods, myriads of fire-flies
starred the gloom. It was dark when they reached
the dépôt, and Willis brought the trunks from the hotel,
and found seats for the party in the cars, which were rapidly
filling with passengers. Presently the down-train from
Knoxville came thundering in, and the usual rush and bustle
ensued.

Mrs. Wood gave the orphan a hearty kiss and warm embrace,
and bidding her “Be sure to write soon, and say
how you are getting along!” the kind-hearted woman left
the cars, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron.

At last the locomotive signaled that all was ready; and
as the train moved on, Edna caught a glimpse of a form
standing under a lamp, leaning with folded arms against
the post—a form strangely like Mr. Murray's. She leaned
out and watched it till the cars swept round a curve, and
lamp and figure and dépôt vanished. How could he possibly
be in Chattanooga? The conjecture was absurd; she
was the victim of some optical illusion. With a long, heavily-drawn
sigh, she leaned against the window-frame and
looked at the dark mountain mass looming behind her; and
after a time, when the storm drew nearer, she saw it only
now and then, as