University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

HE stood and measured the earth: and the ever
lasting mountains were scattered, the perpetual
hills did bow.”

These words of the prophet upon Shigionoth
were sung by a sweet, happy childish voice, and to a
strange, wild, anomalous tune—solemn as the Hebrew chant
of Deborah, and fully as triumphant.

A slender girl of twelve years' growth steadied a pail of
water on her head, with both dimpled arms thrown up, in
ancient classic Caryatides attitude; and, pausing a moment
beside the spring, stood fronting the great golden dawn—
watching for the first level ray of the coming sun, and
chanting the prayer of Habakkuk. Behind her in silent
grandeur towered the huge outline of Lookout Mountain,
shrouded at summit in gray mist; while centre and base
showed dense masses of foliage, dim and purplish in the
distance—a stern cowled monk of the Cumberland brotherhood.
Low hills clustered on either side, but immediately
in front stretched a wooded plain, and across this the
child looked at the flushed sky, rapidly brightening into
fiery and blinding radiance. Until her wild song waked
echoes among the far-off rocks, the holy hush of early morning
had rested like a benediction upon the scene, as though

nature laid her broad finger over her great lips, and waited
in reverent silence the advent of the sun. Morning among
the mountains possessed witchery and glories which filled
the heart of the girl with adoration, and called from her
lips rude but exultant anthems of praise. The young face,
lifted toward the cloudless east, might have served as a
model for a pictured Syriac priestess—one of Baalbec's vestals,
ministering in the olden time in that wondrous and
grand temple at Heliopolis.

The large black eyes held a singular fascination in their
mild sparkling depths, now full of tender loving light and
childish gladness; and the flexible red lips curled in lines of
orthodox Greek perfection, showing remarkable versatility
of expression; while the broad, full, polished forehead with
its prominent, swelling brows, could not fail to recall, to
even casual observers, the calm, powerful face of Lorenzo
de' Medicis, which, if once looked on, fastens itself upon
heart and brain, to be forgotten no more. Her hair, black,
straight, waveless as an Indian's, hung around her shoulders,
and glistened as the water from the dripping bucket
trickled through the wreath of purple morning-glories and
scarlet cypress, which she had twined about her head, ere
lifting the cedar pail to its resting-place. She wore a short-sleeved
dress of yellow striped homespun, which fell nearly
to her ankles, and her little bare feet gleamed pearly white
on the green grass and rank dewy creepers that clustered
along the margin of the bubbling spring. Her complexion
was unusually transparent, and early exercise and mountain
air had rouged her cheeks till they matched the brilliant
hue of her scarlet crown. A few steps in advance of her
stood a large, fierce yellow dog, with black scowling face,
and ears cut close to his head; a savage, repulsive creature,
who looked as if he rejoiced in an opportunity of making
good his name, “Grip.” In the solemn beauty of that summer
morning the girl seemed to have forgotten the mission
upon which she came; but as she loitered, the sun flashed

up, kindling diamond fringes on every dew-beaded chestnut
leaf and oak-bough, and silvering the misty mantle which
enveloped Lookout. A moment longer that pure-hearted
Tennessee child stood watching the gorgeous spectacle,
drinking draughts of joy, which mingled no drop of sin or
selfishness in its crystal waves; for she had grown up
alone with nature—utterly ignorant of the roar and strife,
the burning hate and cunning intrigue of the great world
of men and women, where “like an Egyptian pitcher of
tamed vipers, each struggles to get its head above the
other.” To her, earth seemed very lovely; life stretched
before her like the sun's path in that clear sky, and, as free
from care or foreboding as the fair June day, she walked
on, preceded by her dog—and the chant burst once more
from her lips:

“He stood and measured the earth: and the everlasting
mountains were scattered, the perpetual hills—”

The sudden, almost simultaneous report of two pistol-shots
rang out sharply on the cool, calm air, and startled the
child so violently that she sprang forward and dropped the
bucket. The sound of voices reached her from the thick
wood bordering the path, and, without reflection, she followed
the dog, who bounded off toward the point whence
it issued. Upon the verge of the forest she paused, and,
looking down a dewy green glade where the rising sun
darted the earliest arrowy rays, beheld a spectacle which
burned itself indelibly upon her memory. A group of five
gentlemen stood beneath the dripping chestnut and sweetgum
arches; one leaned against the trunk of a tree, two
were conversing eagerly in undertones, and two faced each
other fifteen paces apart, with pistols in their hands. Ere
she could comprehend the scene, the brief conference ended,
the seconds resumed their places to witness another fire,
and like the peal of a trumpet echoed the words:

“Fire! One!—two!—three!”

The flash and ringing report mingled with the command,

and one of the principals threw up his arm and fell. When,
with horror in her wide-strained eyes and pallor on her
lips, the child staggered to the spot, and looked on the
prostrate form, he was dead. The hazel eyes stared blankly
at the sky, and the hue of life and exuberant health still
glowed on the full cheek; but the ball had entered the
heart, and the warm blood, bubbling from his breast, dripped
on the glistening grass. The surgeon who knelt beside
him took the pistol from his clenched fingers, and gently
pressed the lids over his glazing eyes. Not a word was uttered,
but while the seconds sadly regarded the stiffening
form, the surviving principal coolly drew out a cigar, lighted
and placed it between his lips. The child's eyes had wandered
to the latter from the pool of blood, and now in a
shuddering cry she broke the silence:

“Murderer!”

The party looked around instantly, and for the first time
perceived her standing there in their midst, with loathing
and horror in the gaze she fixed on the perpetrator of the
awful deed. In great surprise he drew back a step or two,
and asked gruffly:

“Who are you? What business have you here?”

“Oh! how dared you murder him? Do you think God
will forgive you on the gallows?”

He was a man probably twenty-seven years of age—singularly
fair, handsome, and hardened in iniquity, but he
cowered before the blanched and accusing face of the appalled
child; and ere a reply could be framed, his friend
came close to him.

“Clinton, you had better be off; you have barely time to
catch the Knoxville train, which leaves Chattanooga in half
an hour. I would advise you to make a long stay in New-York,
for there will be trouble when Dent's brother hears
of this morning's work.”

“Aye! Take my word for that, and put the Atlantic
between you and Dick Dent,” added the surgeon, smiling

grimly, as if the anticipation of retributive justice afforded
him pleasure.

“I will simply put this between us,” replied the homicide,
fitting his pistol to the palm of his hand; and as he
did so, a heavy antique diamond ring flashed on his little
finger.

“Come, Clinton, delay may cause you more trouble
than we bargained for,” urged his second.

Without even glancing toward the body of his antagonist,
Clinton scowled at the child, and, turning away, was
soon out of sight.

“O sir! will you let him get away? will you let him
go unpunished?”

“He can not be punished,” answered the surgeon, looking
at her with mingled curiosity and admiration.

“I thought men were hung for murder.”

“Yes—but this is not murder.”

“Not murder? He shot him dead! What is it?”

“He killed him in a duel, which is considered quite right
and altogether proper.”

“A duel?”

She had never heard the word before, and pondered an
instant.

“To take a man's life is murder. Is there no law to punish
`a duel'?”

“None strong enough to prohibit the practice. It is regarded
as the only method of honorable satisfaction open
to gentlemen.”

“Honorable satisfaction?” she repeated—weighing the
new phraseology as cautiously and fearfully as she would
have handled the bloody garments of the victim.

“What is your name?” asked the surgeon.

“Edna Earl.”

“Do you live near this place?”

“Yes, sir, very near.”

“Is your father at home?”

“I have no father, but grandpa has not gone to the shop
yet.”

“Will you show me the way to the house?”

“Do you wish to carry him there?” she asked, glancing
at the corpse, and shuddering violently.

“Yes, I want some assistance from your grandfather.”

“I will show you the way, sir.”

The surgeon spoke hurriedly to the two remaining gentlemen,
and followed his guide. Slowly she retraced her
steps, refilled her bucket at the spring, and walked on before
the stranger. But the glory of the morning had passed
away; a bloody mantle hung between the splendor of summer
sunshine and the chilled heart of the awe-struck girl.
The forehead of the radiant holy June day had been suddenly
red-branded like Cain, to be henceforth an occasion
of hideous reminiscences; and with a blanched face and
trembling limbs the child followed a narrow beaten path,
which soon terminated at the gate of a rude, unwhitewashed
paling. A low, comfortless-looking three-roomed house
stood within, and on the steps sat an elderly man, smoking
a pipe, and busily engaged in mending a bridle. The
creaking of the gate attracted his attention, and he looked
up wonderingly at the advancing stranger.

“O grandpa! there is a murdered man lying in the
grass, under the chestnut-trees, down by the spring.”

“Why! how do you know he was murdered?”

“Good morning, sir. Your granddaughter happened to
witness a very unfortunate and distressing affair. A duel
was fought at sunrise, in the edge of the woods yonder, and
the challenged party, Mr. Dent of Georgia, was killed. I
came to ask permission to bring the body here, until arrangements
can be made for its interment; and also to beg
your assistance in obtaining a coffin.”

Edna passed on to the kitchen, and as she deposited the
bucket on the table, a tall, muscular, red-haired woman, who
was stooping over the fire, raised her flushed face and exclaimed
angrily:

“What upon earth have you been doing? I have been
half-way to the spring to call you, and hadn't a drop of
water in the kitchen, to make coffee! A pretty time of day
Aaron Hunt will get his breakfast! What do you mean by
such idleness?”

She advanced with threatening mien and gesture, but
stopped suddenly.

“Edna, what ails you? Have you got an ague? You
are as white as that pan of flour. Are you scared or
sick?”

“There was a man killed this morning, and the body will
be brought here directly. If you want to hear about it, you
had better go out on the porch. One of the gentlemen is
talking to grandpa.”

Stunned by what she had seen, and indisposed to narrate
the horrid details, the girl went to her own room, and seating
herself in the window, tried to collect her thoughts.
She was tempted to believe the whole affair a hideous
dream, which would pass away with vigorous rubbing of
her eyes; but the crushed purple and scarlet flowers she
took from her forehead, her dripping hair and damp feet
assured her of the vivid reality of the vision. Every fibre
of her frame had received a terrible shock, and when noisy,
bustling Mrs. Hunt ran from room to room, ejaculating her
astonishment, and calling on the child to assist in putting
the house in order, the latter obeyed silently, mechanically,
as if in a state of somnambulism.

Mr. Dent's body was brought up on a rude litter of
boards, and temporarily placed on Edna's bed, and toward
evening, when a coffin arrived from Chattanooga, the remains
were removed, and the coffin rested on two chairs in
the middle of the same room. The surgeon insisted upon
an immediate interment near the scene of combat; but the
gentleman who had officiated as second for the deceased expressed
his determination to carry the unfortunate man's
body back to his home and family, and the earliest train on

the following day was appointed as the time for their de
parture. Late in the afternoon Edna cautiously opened
the door of the room which she had hitherto avoided, and
with her apron full of lilies, white poppies, and sprigs of
rosemary, approached the coffin, and looked at the rigid
sleeper. Judging from his appearance, not more than
thirty years had gone over his handsome head; his placid
features were unusually regular, and a soft, silky brown
beard fell upon his pulseless breast. Fearful lest she should
touch the icy form, the girl timidly strewed her flowers in
the coffin, and tears gathered and dropped with the blossoms,
as she noticed a plain gold ring on the little finger,
and wondered if he were married—if his death would leave
wailing orphans in his home, and a broken-hearted widow
at the desolate hearthstone. Absorbed in her melancholy
task, she heard neither the sound of strange voices in the
passage, nor the faint creak of the door as it swung back
on its rusty hinges; but a shrill scream, a wild, despairing
shriek terrified her, and her heart seemed to stand still as
she bounded away from the side of the coffin. The light of
the setting sun streamed through the window, and over the
white, convulsed face of a feeble but beautiful woman, who
was supported on the threshold by a venerable gray-haired
man, down whose furrowed cheeks tears coursed rapidly.
Struggling to free herself from his restraining grasp, the
stranger tottered into the middle of the room.

“O Harry! My husband! my husband!” She threw
up her wasted arms, and fell forward senseless on the
corpse.

They bore her into the adjoining apartment, where the
surgeon administered the usual restoratives, and though
finally the pulses stirred and throbbed feebly, no symptom
of returning consciousness greeted the anxious friends who
bent over her. Hour after hour passed, during which she
lay as motionless as her husband's body, and at length the
physician sighed, and pressing his fingers to his eyes, said

sorrowfully to the grief-stricken old man beside him: “It
is paralysis, Mr. Dent, and there is no hope. She may
linger twelve or twenty-four hours, but her sorrows are
ended; she and Harry will soon be reünited. Knowing her
constitution, I feared as much. You should not have suffered
her to come; you might have known that the shock
would kill her. For this reason I wished his body buried
here.”

“I could not restrain her. Some meddling gossip told
her that my poor boy had gone to fight a duel, and she rose
from her bed and started to the railroad dépôt. I pleaded,
I reasoned with her that she could not bear the journey,
but I might as well have talked to the winds. I never
knew her obstinate before, but she seemed to have a presentiment
of the truth. God pity her two sweet babes!”

The old man bowed his head upon her pillow, and sobbed
aloud.

Throughout the night Edna crouched beside the bed,
watching the wan but lovely face of the young widow, and
tenderly chafing the numb fair hands which lay so motionless
on the coverlet. Children are always sanguine, because
of their ignorance of the stern inexorable realities of the untried
future, and Edna could not believe that death would
snatch from the world one so beautiful and so necessary to
her prattling fatherless infants. But morning showed no
encouraging symptoms, the stupor was unbroken, and at
noon the wife's spirit passed gently to the everlasting reunion.

Before sunrise on the ensuing day, a sad group clustered
once more under the dripping chestnuts, and where a pool
of blood had dyed the sod a wide grave yawned. The
coffins were lowered, the bodies of Henry and Helen Dent
rested side by side, and, as the mound rose slowly above
them, the solemn silence was broken by the faltering voice
of the surgeon, who read the burial service:

“Man, that is born of a woman, hath but a short time to

live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down,
like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth
in one stay. Yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord
most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us
not into the pains of eternal death!”

The melancholy rite ended, the party dispersed, the
strangers took their departure for their distant homes, and
quiet reigned once more in the small dark cottage. But
days and weeks brought to Edna no oblivion of the tragic
events which constituted the first great epoch of her monotonous
life. A nervous restlessness took possession of
her, she refused to occupy her old room, and insisted upon
sleeping on a pallet at the foot of her grandfather's bed.
She forsook her whilom haunts about the spring and forest,
and started up in terror at every sudden sound; while from
each opening between the chestnut trees the hazel eyes of
the dead man, and the wan thin face of the golden-haired
wife, looked out beseechingly at her. Frequently, in the
warm light of day, ere shadows stalked to and fro in the
thick woods, she would steal, with an apronful of wild
flowers, to the solitary grave, scatter her treasures in the
rank grass that waved above it, and hurry away with
hushed breath and quivering limbs. Summer waned, autumn
passed, and winter came, but the girl recovered in no
degree from the shock which had cut short her chant of
praise on that bloody June day. In her morning visit to
the spring, she had stumbled upon a monster which custom
had adopted and petted—which the passions and sinfulness
of men had adroitly draped and fondled, and called Honorable
Satisfaction; but her pure, unperverted, Ithuriel nature
pierced the conventional mask, recognized the loathsome
lineaments of crime, and recoiled in horror and amazement,
wondering at the wickedness of her race and the forbearance
of outraged Jehovah. Innocent childhood had for the
first time stood face to face with Sin and Death, and could
not forget the vision.

Edna Earl had lost both her parents before she was old
enough to remember either. Her mother was the only
daughter of Aaron Hunt, the village blacksmith, and her
father, who was an intelligent, promising young carpenter,
accidentally fell from the roof of the house which he was
shingling, and died from the injuries sustained. Thus Mr.
Hunt, who had been a widower for nearly ten years, found
himself burdened with the care of an infant only six
months old. His daughter had never left him, and after
her death the loneliness of the house oppressed him painfully,
and for the sake of his grandchild he resolved to
marry again. The middle-aged widow whom he selected
was a kind-hearted and generous woman, but indolent, ignorant,
and exceedingly high-tempered; and while she
really loved the little orphan committed to her care, she
contrived to alienate her affection, and to tighten the bonds
of union between her husband and the child. Possessing
a remarkably amiable and equable disposition, Edna rarely
vexed Mrs. Hunt, who gradually left her more and more to
the indulgence of her own views and caprices, and contented
herself with exacting a certain amount of daily work,
after the accomplishment of which she allowed her to
amuse herself as childish whims dictated. There chanced
to be no children of her own age in the neighborhood, consequently
she grew up without companionship, save that
furnished by her grandfather; who was dotingly fond of
her, and would have utterly spoiled her, had not her
temperament fortunately been one not easily injured by unrestrained
liberty of action. Before she was able to walk,
he would take her to the forge, and keep her for hours on a
sheepskin in one corner, whence she watched, with infantine
delight, the blast of the furnace, and the shower of
sparks that fell from the anvil, and where she often slept,
lulled by the monotonous chorus of trip and sledge. As
she grew older, the mystery of bellows and slack-tub engaged
her attention, and at one end of the shop, on a pile

of shavings, she collected a mass of curiously shaped bits
of iron and steel, and blocks of wood, from which a miniature
shop threatened to rise in rivalry; and finally, when
strong enough to grasp the handle of the bellows, her
greatest pleasure consisted in rendering the feeble assistance
which her grandfather was always so proud to accept
at her hands. Although ignorant and uncultivated, Mr.
Hunt was a man of warm, tender feelings, and rare nobility
of soul. He regretted the absence of early advantages
which poverty had denied him; and in teaching Edna to
read, to write, and to cipher, he never failed to impress
upon her the vast superiority which a thorough education
confers. Whether his exhortations first kindled
her ambition, or whether her aspiration for knowledge was
spontaneous and irrepressible, he knew not; but she manifested
very early a fondness for study and thirst for learning,
which he gratified to the fullest extent of his limited
ability. The blacksmith's library consisted of the family
Bible, Pilgrim's Progress, a copy of Irving's Sermons
on Parables, Guy Mannering, a few tracts, and two
books which had belonged to an itinerant minister who
preached occasionally in the neighborhood, and who having
died rather suddenly at Mr. Hunt's house, left the volumes
in his saddle-bags, which were never claimed by his family,
residing in a distant State. Those books were Plutarch's
Lives and a worn school copy of Anthon's Classical Dictionary;
and to Edna they proved a literary Ophir of inestimable
value and exhaustless interest. Plutarch especially
was a Pisgah of letters, whence the vast domain of learning,
the Canaan of human wisdom, stretched alluringly before
her; and as often as she climbed this height, and viewed
the wondrous scene beyond, it seemed indeed

In after years she sometimes questioned if this mount

of observation was also that of temptation, to which ambition
had led her spirit and there bargained for and bought
her future. Love of nature, love of books, an earnest piety,
and deep religious enthusiasm, were the characteristics of a
noble young soul, left to stray through the devious, checkered
paths of life without other guidance than that which she
received from communion with Greek sages and Hebrew
prophets. An utter stranger to fashionable conventionality
and latitudinarian ethics, it was no marvel that the child
stared and shivered when she saw the laws of God vetoed,
and was blandly introduced to murder as Honorable Satisfaction.