Chapter 10

Time passed, and Grant prospered. He was obliging and agreeable, and people naturally patronized his store, which he rendered as attractive as his means and good taste would allow. His wife, too, charmed the community by her simple, sweet ways; and motherly old ladies took special interest in her and her babe.

Grant built a neat cottage, and this gave fresh offense. At last Belt, who was a drinking man as well as surly, swore that he would take Grant's life if the latter persisted in remaining there. His trade was falling off, and Grant was the cause. Matters reached a climax then, and Grant armed himself in case of a surprise.

One morning Belt was missing, and his family raised a hue and cry that speedily brought a crowd about the house, just as Grant approached and made the startling announcement that he had shot at a man the night before, and was ready for such investigation as would be proper under the circumstances. He stated that he had been aroused by a filing, grating sound at his bedroom window, which was on the ground floor, and that he sprang from his bed, threw open the front door, and fired upon a figure that retreated rapidly and was soon lost in the darkness.

Upon this Grant was held in custody, while a party of men went in search of Belt. Hours were spent in vain, when it was suggested that Belt's dog, a vicious mongrel-cur, should be put upon the trail. Accordingly the dog, which was usually seen at Belt's heels, was given the scent of his master's coat, and started rapidly down the road, his nose to the ground. The testimony as elicited at the trial showed that the brute had bounded along to the Grant cottage, leaped upon the window sill, sniffed eagerly about the spot, then ran down the path to a clump of bushes on the river cliff. Here the creature stopped and set up a piteous howl. The pursuing party hastened to the spot, and there lay the body of Belt, who had fallen and died, as the autopsy revealed, of internal hemorrhage produced by a pistol shot. As if to corroborate Grant's statement, a chisel and a pistol were found in the grass under the window of his bedroom.

Such was the history of the case. The absence of any testimony in behalf of the prisoner beyond his own assertion, was painfully evident. His wife supported him in the facts, but the law did not permit a wife to testify in the husband's case, so this evidence was unavailable.

The natural sympathy which death awakens in the human breast, especially a tragic one, had done its work even in the case of so unpopular a man as Belt, and already he was considered a martyr. The desperate lamentations and impoverished condition of his family asserted their claims, and the time of trial found public opinion greatly divided. The spark of envy in every community which had lain dormant as long as the Grants were novelties, sprung into life at their unwonted prosperity, and the gaily painted store and fanciful cottage became eyesores to more than one. Various rumors, like uncanny spirits of air, floated about till the prisoner felt himself sinking into an abyss. Once down, there seemed no power ready to lift him up.

He employed several distinguished attorneys as counsel, and I, a struggling young lawyer, whose ambition was to be worthy the mantle of an illustrious father, was also retained. There was something about the case that inspired me to the utmost of which I was capable. There was no circumstantial evidence against the prisoner. He had frankly owned to shooting the man. The issue rested upon his motive for the deed. What was the provocation? True, Belt may have threatened his life; but Belt was a drunkard, and who attached any importance to his words?

The prosecution endeavored to show that Grant, wearied with the enmity of Belt, and wishing to be rid of him, had enticed him away on the night of the killing, and shot him in cold blood. True, a chisel and pistol had been found, but how easy for the prisoner to have placed them there to carry out his plans! The dead man was proved to be a harmless character, though of intemperate habits and rough ways. His antipathy to Grant was only natural, since the latter had, by ingratiating manners, flashy advertising dodges, and a few modern tricks of trade, ruined the business of the old-fashioned, plain-sailing German.

In the hands of such skillful manipulators the case grew blacker and blacker, and the face of my client reflected the anguish he saw his wife enduring, and he powerless to comfort. He saw his beautiful, idolized boy the son of a convict, and all that had made life worth the living shattered to the dust. Closer and closer the meshes were weaving about him. The jurors sat with fixed gaze as one by one the speeches were ended. At length the honorable counsel for the prosecution concluded a powerful argument, and I saw in the faces of the twelve men that it had told.

There was but one point left for me to make, and I wondered that my distinguished brethren had passed it by. They had dwelt upon the youth and good standing of the prisoner, and the uncalled-for persecution he had suffered. They pictured in graphic words the midnight attempt upon his life at his own house. A man's house is his castle, and he has the supreme right to defend both it and himself. They appealed to the sympathies of the jurors in behalf of the young, helpless wife and innocent child. Still there was wanting the one link in the chain of positive evidence. Sympathy was well enough. The twelve sworn men required proof. How was it to be shown them?

I was young, and I felt all the nervousness attendant upon a maiden effort, but my heart was in the work and I launched forth. Nature had given me a good voice, and I felt a certain power as I spoke. But I had not the egotism to suppose that I could compete with the learned gentlemen who had preceded me unless I could make a decided hit in summing up the testimony. This I did. When I came to the hitherto unnoticed dog, I dwelt there with a tenacity that was determined to convince. I portrayed the well-known fidelity of the dog. No matter what the master, whether fortune's pampered darling, or a beastly denizen of the gutter, his dog was always his friend. Be he kind and gentle, or cruel and pitiless, still his dog crouches in loving submission. And the animal, whether a high-bred, glossy-coated favorite, with golden collar and silken leash, for whom hundreds had been paid, or an ill-favored, ungainly brute picked up from nowhere and as thankful for a kick as for a crust, was loyal with a fidelity that puts to shame man's boasted friendship.

This man's dog had loved him. Drunk or sober, kind or cruel, his dog was not content out of his presence. Why was he not with the man on this fatal night? Because Belt had chained him in order to follow out his vengeance untraced. The master knew the sagacity of his dog. He wanted no companion on his midnight stroll. And when, restless and uneasy, the dog was let loose and shown the garment of his master, what did he do? He dashed away, nose to earth, in eager, loving pursuit, along the road to Grant's cottage. There he sniffs the ground, where undoubtedly the familiar scent lay, jumps upon the window-ledge with his fore paws, whimpers, starts away, and follows the trail down the path to the beloved body now cold in death.

What proof more convincing than that Belt had been there? How improbable the trumped-up story that Grant could decoy from his home his bitterest enemy, especially at the midnight hour! A loaded pistol and a chisel were found under the window. It had been alleged that Grant placed them there for his own base purposes. But admitting that man could deceive, the dog would not. Canine instinct could not lie. Every man who knew the nature of the animal must feel convinced that Belt's dog would never have gone to that window except in honest pursuit of his master.

I felt that my speech had told, and as I sat down there was a stir in the vast crowd. My client's face was flushed, and the wife's somber veil was thrown back, revealing her large eyes lustrous with hope.

The Commonwealth's attorney occupied the floor for an hour, during which he ridiculed what he termed the schoolboy tales from his youthful opponent. But when the jury retired I felt that my influence was still uppermost. The suspense was trying, but it did not last long. They reported in a very short time, and the verdict, announced in a clear ringing voice, was "Not guilty!"

Grant sprang forward as his friends pressed near and seized my hand in a vise-like grip. Loud cheers rent the air, for again the fickle public had veered around, the crowd surged to and fro, women wept, and the fervent "Thank God!" that broke from the pallid lips of the young wife rang in my ears for many a day.

The foreman of the jury, a plain, intelligent farmer, drew me aside and said, "That dog done the business! There was no gittin' around that! I've got a dog myself."

Grant was forced to begin life anew, for his counsels' fees about consumed his little savings, but he remained at his post honest and industrious, and is one of the leading men in the now populous section.

Three Visits

A ROMANTIC SKETCH

The day was warm and sunny. A few industrious and enterprising pioneers were seated on a log near the Wallace Cross Roads, in what is now Garrard county, Ky. They were enjoying their noonday luncheon and discussing the object of their woodland caucus. Suddenly the sound of an advancing horse arrested their attention. Pausing and looking toward a primitive opening in the deep-tangled wildwood, they soon saw both horse and rider approaching, the latter looking about him as if a stranger to the country. He was among them in another moment, receiving their rough but hearty greetings, and manifesting genuine pleasure in his frank, youthful countenance. Though not yet attained to full manhood, the traveller's figure was tall and graceful, and his face, by no means handsome, wore a genial glow that intensified the wonderful magnetism of his manner.

"You seem to be a stranger in these parts," said one of the men, mopping his forehead with his red bandana.

"Yes," answered the traveller. "I am a few days out from home across the mountains yonder. Can you direct me to Lexington?"

"Easy, easy, sir," said the other, "It's a good spell from this, but there's a pretty fair road after you get out of these thickets. Sit down, sir; sit down and have a snack with us. You must be hungry, and you won't find a tavern soon."

Nothing loth, the young stranger addressed himself to the cold corn bread and bacon with a will, while the talk veered around to the business of the day.

"You, see, sir, we are about to build a courthouse hereabouts, and have our lawing to ourselves," said the first speaker. "We've about decided to plant the corner stone at the Cross Roads a little way from this."

"It's a first rate location," said another. "There's good water all around and plenty of trees for lumber."

"Nothing like making the right start," added a third voice.

They continued to discuss plans for their future township, the stranger entering with courteous interest into all their projects.

"I have often tried," said he, "to look into the future of this grand section of country. To the day when the spirit of internal improvement shall have levelled the roads and converted the hidden wealth of the soil into a glorious medium of happiness and prosperity. Then the mental stores of our hardy settlers will rapidly develop, and civilization will prune down the rugged points of character, as the implements of the husbandman break up the clods."

Rapt visions illumined the young speaker's features with a glow of national pride, and he saw not the looks of intelligent curiosity that passed 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 assure you it is as refreshing 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 classes 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 embarrassment; 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 circumstances 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 Grass 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 fashion, and her lovely disposition had won for her the poetical title 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 assertion 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."

Blushing 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 assembled 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 passing 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 ejaculate.

"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 passage, 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 assured 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 bloody 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. Remain perfectly quiet till nightfall and then go home a wiser and a better man."

"God bless you, miss!" said the man brokenly. "I have been very wicked all my life. I have wronged many, and you more than all; but if my life is spared, I'll make some things right."

Wondering at his words, Daisy left him and rejoined her friends, after the brief absence which was destined to bear rich fruits to her orphaned heart.