Idle Hour Stories Part 21

Rapt visions illumined the young speaker's features with a glow of national pride, and he saw not the looks of intelligent curiosity that pa.s.sed among his companions.

Then starting up, he said, "I must really be going. I have a long ride, and the day is waning. I thank you heartily for your hospitality.

I a.s.sure you it is as refres.h.i.+ng as it was unexpected."

They shook hands, and the stranger mounted his horse which was quietly grazing near by. Catching up the bridle, he said: "One of these days I hope to visit your section again, and see the great results of which you are now making the small beginning. Farewell."

"One moment," said the man who had first greeted him; "might I ask your name, if it's not going too far?"

"Not at all, sir, not at all. My name is Henry Clay."

For a few minutes after the departure of the young stranger, the small knot of pioneers commented with admiring wonder upon his singularly fascinating address, and saying, "That man will make his mark in the world," they proceeded to refresh themselves at a cool spring, and then prepared to finish the survey.

Years after, the little town of Lancaster, which had grown from the humble courthouse of the Cross Roads, was in a state of excitement such as only villages are liable to experience. It was the occasion of a school examination, and the citizens were all more or less interested.

At the appointed hour the house was full, and the cla.s.ses were marshalled in due order to the front. Four o'clock struck, and the programme was drawing to a close, when one of the dignitaries of the town entered the hall, accompanied by a tall, distinguished-looking stranger, whose presence inspired the children with a certain sense of awe. It was at once whispered about that the great statesman, Henry Clay, was among them. Upon presenting him to the teacher, the school rose, and chairs being provided, the exercises went on. When the time came for making recitations, the young people exhibited marked signs of embarra.s.sment; but one by one they acquitted themselves creditably.

At length a little blue-eyed, sunny-haired child ascended the platform and recited "The Old Oaken Bucket," with wonderful pathos, so accurate was her enunciation, so impressive the varying cadences of her sweet voice.

"Who is she?" I inquired the great man when the storm of applause had somewhat subsided.

"We call her 'Daisy of the Glen,'" was the reply. "She is a prodigy for her age. Her history is a little singular. She was found not far from here in a wild glen, or ravine, when about three years old, and has never been able to tell who or where her parents are. But I will relate the circ.u.mstances to you at another time. At present the trustees are pressing in their invitation to you to say something to the children."

Whereupon the grandest orator of his day arose and addressed a few remarks in simple language to his youthful audience. He told them of the day, when on the highway from Virginia into the Blue Gra.s.s region, he rode into their woodland council on the rugged spot where their pretty little village now stood. And as their forefathers had cultivated the then dense wilderness, so he admonished them to study and improve their minds in school. Great men and noted women had already sprung into fame from their young city, and many a glorious achievement of word, of pen, and of sword, had given renown to the place whose birth he had incidentally witnessed in the long ago.

When he ceased speaking he had implanted the germ of honest ambition in the hearts of many of the little men and women whose future influence was to wield power for good or ill. That night, seated among friends in the best room the little tavern afforded, Henry Clay learned further particulars concerning wee, winsome Daisy of the Glen, whose appearance and address had so charmed his fancy. She was evidently a stolen child.

Her dress, when she was discovered by a hunter, was fine, and her whole appearance indicative of an easy sphere of life. It was supposed that a band of gypsies had decoyed her away while carelessly straying too far from her home, but nothing definite was known. Mrs. Templeton, a kind, motherly woman, without children, had cheerfully given the little stranger shelter, and had in time grown so fond of her that she could not bear the thought of parting. Hence, after the first unsuccessful effort, no further attempt had been made to discover the parentage of the little waif. She called herself Daisy, in her lisping fas.h.i.+on, and her lovely disposition had won for her the poetical t.i.tle of "Daisy of the Glen."

Mr. Clay listened earnestly, and when about to leave, he deposited a sum of money for the benefit of the little girl's education.

Ten years after, two figures sat in earnest conversation on the verdant cliff of a romantic ravine leading from the banks of Dix river. The one, a young girl of remarkably fair exterior, turned in an animated manner to impress some a.s.sertion upon her companion. The other, a youth so exceedingly handsome in face and figure, so lithe of person and eloquent of speech, that no girl of eighteen could long resist his attractions.

"Indeed, Roye, I knew it must be he and no other. He made an impression upon my memory when a little child of eight years, that can never be effaced. Who else would be so likely to interest himself in my fate?"

"Indeed, Daisy," he echoed, "who is disposed to doubt the truth of your surmises? You are probably correct, yet on the other hand, what proof have you that Mr. Clay is your unknown benefactor?"

"None at all except the fact that he honored me so far on that memorable visit to the school, as to inquire all about me. More than that he came to the house and asked me a number of questions about my infancy.

Without his help I could never have gone away to complete my education or possessed any accomplishments. Poor mamma always thought the money came from him, and almost her last injunction to me, was to hold him in profound veneration as long as I live."

"And it was here they found my little wanderer," fondly exclaimed Roye Howard. "I should never, probably, have known true happiness but for the vagabond who stole my Daisy!"

The girl's face clouded for a moment.

"Are you willing, Roye, to take me with this mystery hanging over me? If there is nothing hid that shall not be revealed, how do we know at what moment some revelation may come upon us that will dash our hopes to the earth?"

"Never, never!" impetuously replied the youth. "Nature cannot so belie herself as to make a blot or stain possible to her fairest creation."

Blus.h.i.+ng beneath his admiring gaze, and thrilling with pleasure at his words, Daisy proceeded to repeat all that she had ever remembered of her home and parents. A large house, a doll as big as herself, and a tender face bending above her, comprised her store of reminiscences. Since the death of her foster mother she had remained with friends, and was soon to be united in marriage to Roye Howard, a rising young lawyer, reared in Lexington, and established at Lancaster only a few months.

Talking confidingly of their promised happiness, the pair lingered among the sylvan shades of the romantic spot till the waning sunlight bent their steps homeward.

Next day was the regular County Court day in the village. The public square was crowded with vehicles, live stock, and countrymen whose chief pleasure was to mix in motley crowds, and to whose fancy an uproar of some kind was ever welcome. On such occasions, in the somewhat lax administering of justice of those early times, the killing of a fellow creature seemed indeed a trifle light as air.

At a conspicuous corner of Danville street stood the house where Daisy Templeton had found a temporary home. A number of ladies, wives of the Judge and various lawyers, had a.s.sembled here to dine, a custom prevalent upon public occasions. The group were deeply engrossed in needle-work and cheerful conversation, when suddenly the crowds on the square began surging and clamoring as though the turbulence of an angry sea had been turned loose upon a peaceful plain, Shouts rose higher and higher, till at last a pistol shot resounded, and the ladies that had crowded to the front windows plainly distinguished the cry, "The Judge is killed! Jim Burns has shot Judge Pierce!" and the mob rushed toward the mouth of Danville street in pursuit of the desperado, a noted character of the county.

Quickly pa.s.sing out the back door of the parlor and closing it behind her, Daisy reached the side door, opening on Danville street and heavily shaded with trees, and flung the door to just as a man, pale and terrified, darted in, almost throwing her to the floor.

"Save me!" was all he had breath to e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e.

"Up there!" she hurriedly exclaimed, pointing up the stairway toward the attic; then slamming the door against the mob who were pressing upon the steps, she turned the key in the lock and stood, awaiting she knew not what. All this was the work of a moment, while the ladies in the parlor were too intent upon watching the square for a glimpse of the Judge to know that so important a scene was being enacted just behind them. Mrs.

Pierce had run down the front steps inquiring of every one if the report was true.

Meanwhile, as Daisy stood silent and alone in the little pa.s.sage, her heart throbbing fast, the crowd outside beat upon the door and clamored for Jim Burns. At this moment Stanley Livingstone, the young man of the house, appeared from a bed-room in the rear where he had been administering a dose of sleep to a severe headache, and asked with more emphasis than grace.

"What the devil's broke loose?"

She dared not tell him the truth.

"Oh, Stanley," exclaimed she, much relieved, "they are after Jim Burns.

They think he is here and are determined to force their way in. They say he has killed Judge Pierce!"

"Let me settle them," said Stanley, and throwing wide the door, he a.s.sured them that Burns was not there--that he would certainly have seen the man if he had entered the house.

Incredulous, but irresistibly impressed by his earnest words, they retired to the opposite side of the street to watch for their prey, who, they convinced themselves, had darted through the house and concealed himself about the premises too quickly to be detected by the inmates.

That the fugitive had disappeared at that side door, some of them knew beyond question.

As Stanley stepped out to learn exactly what the excitement meant, Daisy again turned the key, and observing a stain of blood on her white dress, she dared not re-enter the parlor with the tell-tale sign.

Hurrying up the stairs, she filled a basin with water, and with a roll of linen, proceeded quickly to the attic, where the man stood, leaning against a packing-box, tightly clasping his hand.

"You are wounded somewhere?" she asked.

"Yes, in the hand," he faintly answered. "He shot me."

"Who?" asked the girl.

"The Judge," sullenly said Burns.

"Then you didn't kill him?"

"Kill him! I wish I had!"

Going to a back window, Daisy signed to a servant to come up, but when there, the frightened creature refused to touch the b.l.o.o.d.y hand. So Daisy proceeded to bathe and dress the lacerated flesh, all the while talking kindly and warningly to the man, who stared at the lovely vision with something like shame in his face.

As she started to leave him, a stone sped its way swiftly through the window and fell at her feet.

"You see," said she, "your life is not safe a moment where you are.

They believe that you are here. Some one saw you enter the door.