Chapter 9

A few bold, rapid strokes transferred a pretty bit of rural landscape to the canvas, and this much gained, the amateur artist lit a fine Havana and lazily drifted off again into reverie. His thoughts were not of a pleasant nature. Why couldn't a man do as he liked in this world? Here the particular man in his mind--to-wit his own agreeable self, had devoted his twenty-four years to acquiring sundry dazzling accomplishments, zonly to have his interest in life dampened by a matrimonial scheme, hatched long ago in the fertile brains of his own parents and the parents of his prospective dulcinea in conspiracy.

Yes, a regular wet blanket had awaited his return from Italia's classic shores. What an insufferable bore to be pledged, promised, all but tied to an unknown female whose only merit, he wilfully wagered, lay in her invincible ground rents.

"Why, my son," his doting mother said, "think of it--two hundred thousand dollars in her own right, and all yours for the asking."

He did think of it; and he vowed in his own mind to do something--anything; run away, commit suicide, before he would join himself for life to any girl he had never seen, especially old Thornton's daughter, who seemed so willing to jump at him. Not he. In vain they urged him to cultivate the fair damsel. Not till he had braced his nerves with country air, he said. This tonic secured, he graciously consented to be introduced, but would reserve the ratification of the wedding treaty till later.

What's the use in having fathers and mothers, anyhow? They only plague the life out of one. They don't ever think of letting a fellow alone once in a while. They--

What other heinousness they would be guilty of would never be shaped into thought, for at this moment down came a dainty little slipper, with a dainty little rosette, from the tree above, plump on to his sketch, and a violent start and a glance upward revealed a bewildering little pink-stockinged foot, which was the daintiest of all.

The abrupt spring to his feet brought down the camp stool, cigar, easel and all, but not the foot, for the rest of the apparition was caught and hidden by the clustering young shoots of the apple tree.

A whistle--quite involuntary, if not polite--was shaping itself a brief distance below his staring eyes, when, recovering himself and tiptoeing to his full height, he peered into the branches and said, a little irrelevantly:

"I beg pardon!"

Two milk-white hands parted the leaves, and a flushed pink-and-white face appeared at the opening.

"It's only me," cooed a musical voice, and as if the sound had unlocked the pent-up silence, two rows of pearls shone between two red lips, two large blue eyes twinkled with fun, and as charming a peal of laughter as was ever vouchsafed to mortal ears rippled merrily on the air.

"And who is me, may I ask?" rather saucily asked the routed artist.

"Why, Daisy--Daisy Merrifield; don't you know?"

"Why, no, I don't know; that is, I didn't know, but of course I know now; and I'm delighted to know."

At all these "knows", the maiden laughed her merry laugh again.

"May I ask what you are doing up there?"

"Doing nothing--just what you are doing down here."

"Ah, but I was doing something very nice down here, only you have nearly spoiled it," and with mock regret the young man picked up the slipper and comically surveyed its Cinderella proportions.

"So I did," was the regretful reply, "you see it was awfully poky, having to sit so still. I must have grown desperate at last and kicked it off--I am sorry."

"Well, I am not one bit sorry," he said. "I'll do another picture, and next time I'll sketch the tree," he added, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement.

"But how did you get up there, and how will you get down?" were his next queries, putting the little slipper into the pocket of his jacket.

"Well, I climbed up," she admitted. "I suppose I'll have to jump down. Reach out your hands," she cried, and a sudden rustle showed she was preparing to spring. "Good gracious me!" was her next exclamation, as the willing hands were extended, "my hair is all caught."

"Hold perfectly still till I get up there," he said with concern, and replacing the stool, he was soon on a level with the fair prisoner.

Patiently he disentangled the long golden locks from the infringing boughs, and gathering them all in her little hands, she gave them a vigorous twist forward over her face out of further mischief.

"Now, my slipper, please," as the young fellow retreated. Obediently restoring the truant article, she deftly adjusted it, and cried, "All ready!"

It is hardly to be wondered at that her descent was arrested, and her rounded form tenderly lowered to terra firma.

"I like this out here, don't you?" was her next remark, shaking out her fairy muslin skirts and placidly surveying the scene. "I've been out every day these--let me see--yes, three days. Aunt Hepsy says I'll get tanned, but I don't mind. You know Aunt Hepsy, don't you? Everybody does."

"No, but I'd like to," he said, and he meant it.

"She lives at the farm-house yonder--she and Uncle Reuben. They are the best old souls! So this is what you were doing," she abruptly added, picking up the sketch. "You wouldn't think I could draw, but I can," with a proud little toss of the hair.

"I would think you could do anything," he gallantly replied.

But she was intent upon the picture, with its bold, true outlines.

"This isn't bad," was her sage critcism.

"Didn't you wear a hat, or something?" he asked, looking around and up into the tree.

"No--yes--I wore this," and pulling from her pocket a large blue square of cotton, she tied it under her chin with the utmost naivete.

"It's Aunt Hepsy's," she explained. "There, do you hear that bell? That's for dinner," and taking a tiny watch from an elf-like pocket, she added, "Only half-past eleven. But, to be sure, we ate breakfast with the chickens. It's horrible."

"Don't you live here?"

"Live here?" she echoed. "No, I'm only visiting. Good-bye, I must go. I am much obliged, though," and as if the recollection were overpowering, she again burst out into her ringing laugh.

"It was too funny you didn't see me; and I so scared I was afraid to breathe. Good-bye, I hope you will have a good time with your picture."

"But you are not going to dismiss me, are you? Mayn't I take you home?"

"Yes, if you like; only you musn't stay long. I've got to do Rollin and Plutarch while I'm out here, and can't be bothered."

With difficulty repressing an explosion, the young man walked beside the woodland sprite, with his goods and chattels thrown across his shoulders, and found himself falling--yes, tumbling--headlong in love. Such an airy, fairy, exquisite piece of humanity it had never been his fortune to behold.

"You are too young to worry your brain with dry old fossils like Rollin and Plutarch," he said, with what gravity he could.

"I am a person of twenty," she affirmed with demure satisfaction, as she tripped along in a manner quite enchanting.

At the door of the farm-house a fair, motherly face smiled a welcome from the border of a spotless cap, then sobered a little at the sight of a stranger.

"This is Aunt Hepsy," simply said Daisy, "and you are--?" hesitating.

A flush not born of the sunshine mounted to his brow as with swift thought he saw the shoals ahead, and did not dare reveal his identity.

"John Smith," he said, with his natural ease.

"Oh!" half exclaimed Daisy, upon hearing such a very common name from such very uncommon lips; but checking it, and softly humming a tune, she retired to an inner room to prepare for dinner.

This episode was the beginning of elysium for John Smith. Every day saw him at the farm-house. Every day revealed some new charm in the Daisy he had found. She was as industrious and sensible as she was petite and pretty. Rollin and Plutarch were discarded for modern authors, or for simple chit-chat about mamma, papa, and little ones at home.

But when the day came for John Smith to tell his love, he met with a shock that quite paralyzed his senses.

Looking up with her big blue eyes, she said:

"You mustn't talk like that; I'm engaged."

"Engaged?" he stammered, "engaged?"

"Yes, I'm engaged."

"And to whom? May I ask?"

"Oh, I can't tell you his name; it's a secret yet. He is a person I never saw."

"Sheer madness!" was his horrified ejaculation. "Never saw him, and going to marry him?"

"I promised, you know; I must, if he wants me," she said in her unconcerned way.

"But don't you love _me_, Daisy?"

"Yes, I suppose I do, but that can't be helped; a promise is a promise."

"Who is to prevent it?" he exclaimed impatiently. "I say it shall be helped."

There was not time for further rhapsodies. Aunt Hepsy appeared with a telegram, calling Daisy home; and home she went next day, leaving Mr. John Smith in despair. In vain he laid siege to Aunt Hepzibah and Uncle Reuben; they could not help him.

Then, in a mighty wrath, he too went home, and desperately resolved to have it out with the Thornton girl, one way or the other; but not "the other" if Daisy could be brought to terms.

It was easy travelling where the way was all prepared. So a lovely moonlight evening found him in Squire Thornton's parlor. In a few moments there floated down to him from the invisible upper regions a cloud of blue muslin, and the laughing face of Daisy Merrifield was before him.

"Oh, Daisy, what a surprise! and how sweet you are!" as impulsively he strained her to his heart. "What joy to find you here!"

"Don't crush my dress," she said, righting up the ruffles; "it's new. Yes, I am here. Didn't you come to see me?"

"No--that is--I came to see Miss Thornton," and his face fell.

"There is no Miss Thornton," she said, her dimples playing mischievously. "It is only _I_--_now_ don't you know?"

"But how is it? I was told--I understood--"

"Pshaw! you stupid!" she said, with a bewitching pout, "if you had been a little more civil, you would have known that I am Mrs. Thornton's daughter--not Mr. Thornton's; that mamma is mamma, but papa isn't papa, and--"

But in an ecstacy of surprise and joy the rest of her sentence was entirely smothered.

"And you knew from the first?" he asked, reproachfully.

"Not from the first, but almost. They were all in the plot. I meant to snub you outright, only--well, somehow you didn't look as horrid as you really were! The 'John Smith' was almost too much for me, but I stood it. Then when the letter came--it was well for you I had seen you under the tree. So you wouldn't marry the heiress," she said, archly. "I did my very best to teach you a lesson, young man. Have you learned it?"

The answer was fervently though silently given the merry, rosy, smiling lips.

Treesa

A CHARACTER SKETCH

They called her Treesa. She was not young. That she had ever been was hard to realize. Whatever her childhood, and however the years had brought her up to woman's estate, there was no footprint upon the worn face of the gladsome time we call youth. No light in the eye of other and happier days. No echo in the quiet heart, of bounding pulses, or ever a sweet enthusiasm. The treadmill of duty in life's most trivial task, enthralled her every faculty. Her daily round was in a large hotel--an arena of toil circumscribed by four brick walls. Her domain was the parlor floor; that sacred area of rosy vistas and costly suites, where she was as proud to tread as a king in his royal glory. Where beauty and fashion made for her a panorama of short glimpses amid pauses of broom and duster.

The maids on the other floors might earn the wage just as honorably; Treesa permitted no trespass upon her exalted territory. The bridal chambers, the private sitting rooms, the luxurious sleeping apartments--these were her pride and her joy. The Excelsior had a reputation, national and international. Princes and potentates had slumbered in Treesa's chambers. The "nobility and the gentry" had been feted there. Year after year her pale eyes had watched over the welfare of distinguished visitors, American and foreign. They had seen the help come and go; she was still the "girl of the parlor floor." Discreet, silent, honest, they might well allow her a share of caprice. "Cranky" they called her, yet no one found fault. She neglected no duty. The lady manager of the interior was not always the same. She changed from time to time; Treesa was always the same, and always there. At length there came a dainty little woman, full of native pluck, who was born to rule, and rule she did, to the limit of her jurisdiction. Though so far apart, a kindred chord was struck between mistress and maid. The high spirit that smouldered in these two never crossed; but with the smallest tangible demonstration they were fast friends. The girl's horizon now bordered a triune interest;--the church, the mistress, and the parlor floor. Gaunt and spare, she trod her beat. Shy of manner, with eyes looking nowhere, she seemed a human machine of the broom. A woman without kith or kin, without a history, and apparently without a memory. Never sick, never absent, never a letter from friends, never a visit away. The old habitues of the house liked her. She gave no sign of favor or disfavor, till at last it was their way to respect her and leave her alone. But whenever a mission of trust was needed Treesa was the one called upon.

But as the calmest stream is ruffled at some time on its course, so there comes to every human life a shock that upturns hidden forces. And this came to Treesa. It was when she was one day summoned to the private office downstairs: that dread tribunal for the wrongdoers of the large household--a locality as little heeded by the girl as any other foreign place, albeit there had been new and strange proprietors as the years went by. Without so much as a ripple of excitement upon her homely features, she came down and stood within the door, respectfully awaiting orders. The two arbiters of her destiny were in close conference upon ways and means. Expense must be cut down. There must be a weeding out. Raising his head and looking in some curiosity at the queer apparition, the new partner said: "Are you Teresa O'Toole?"

"Me name is that same, sir," she said, meeting the eyes. "An' what thin, sir?" she added, as for a moment he was silent.

"Yes--ah--" he went on, this time not exactly confronting the expectant face--"We've been thinking, Teresa--we were just saying--that you are getting along in years now, and--ah--the fact is, we think you ought to have a rest. Some one younger, and stronger, ought to relieve you, and give you a chance to pick up. You are a good girl," with encouraging justice, "a very good girl, and have been faithful and honest. But we--" he hesitated, as Treesa's lean face suddenly darkened with an unwonted flush. Then she broke out:

"An' is it me dischairge ye'd be afther givin' me, sir?"

"Well, yes, about that, it amounts to that, I suppose," admitted the great man. "You see, my good woman," he ventured softly, noting the breakers ahead, "the fact is--"

"Well, thin," she burst forth in righteous wrath, placing her hard, red arms akimbo, and struggling to loose her tongue, "I'll be afther tellin' yees, I'll not take a dischairge from yees, sir! It's here I've been this fifty year, an' more. I was the first gurll in the house, for sure I come before the likes of yees was born an' before yees iver darkened the doors. It's no fault can be found with me. I'll stay right here!" and turning, she went out.

There was silence in the office. Then the senior partner, his eye twinkling, spoke:

"What are we going to do about it?"

"Why, nothing", drily said the other, "nothing, I suppose; you heard what she said, I presume she will stay on."

And stay on she did, her one dominant idea as fixed as the polar star. As the years rolled by she might have rested from her labors, but for this sense of devotion to duty. Even a monthly pittance will count through the ages; so Treesa's savings came at last to foot up into the thousands. Not even good Father Clement could have told the amount, or where she kept it. Like herself, it was a mystery. She continued to hoard and to hide, with no misgiving of loss by thief, or by accident; with no forewarning of danger. Yet dire calamity was impending.

It was past midnight when the veteran chambermaid was awakened by the sound of crackling wood and the smell of stifling smoke. To spring out of bed was the work of a moment, the aged limbs obedient to her call; then all her faculties alert, she thrust her hand into a hidden recess of the mattress, and clutching a bulky package from its depths, made her way out into the corridor, where the smoke was still thicker, on down the stairs from the servants' dormitory to the floor below. Staggering to the manager's door she pounded with all her strength till those within were aroused; and dizzy from fright and half-suffocation, she ran to the fire alarm, banging the gong till doors flew open right and left, and the halls were alive with people. The cry of "Fire!" on all sides now added to the din. More alarms were turned in till ample help was at hand. While the hotel manager's orders were being obeyed, and the guests were deserting their rooms for greater safety in the lobby below, Treesa was struggling to get back to the servant's floor, whence now issued screams of terror, as, for the first time, the flames were seen creeping in close proximity to the maid's quarters. In vain the firemen, who were now cutting holes in the floor to insert the hose, tried to intercept her. Bent upon serving her fellow-servants, she disappeared through the blinding smoke Crawling flat upon her face up the stairs to avoid the onset of the fumes, the girl reached the glass door that imprisoned the terrified creatures, burst it through with one powerful blow, and forced them out upon the fire escape, where now, too, the firemen's ladders were seen manned by the helmeted brigade. All bruised and bleeding from the splintered glass, and still clutching fast the rescued package, Treesa turned to retrace her steps, her only thought now being to save the parlor floor and its treasures. Again she eluded those who would have guarded her from danger, and made a hurried dash for the stairway, when a sudden rush of flame, now fanned by the air, blinded her, and she fell to the landing, dropping the bulk of her holdings, where the fire greedily licked it to destruction.

Tender hands lifted her and conveyed her, crushed and unconscious, to a temporary couch, where it was found, when the surgeon came, that her hip was dislocated. To the mistress alone would she unloose what her bleeding hand still held, as she whispered, "Put it away, safe--Masses for me soul--Father Clement."

But Treesa did not die. The morning papers rang with her heroism, but none then knew that she had lost the hoarded earnings of a life-time; that the one package saved represented but a small proportion of her treasure. She was taken to a hospital, and, fortunately for her peace of mind, the house was closed for repairs. During the weeks of building, the old bones were mending. The sufferer counted the days with jealous watching. When an agony of fear seized upon her lest she might never go back, only the mistress or the kindly priest had power to quiet her, She was promised over and over again that she should not be supplanted.

When the hotel opened anew, the daily press blazoned to the world the fact, giving a personal paragraph to the officials, and including a list of well-known names, among them the humble one of Teresa O'Toole, who had been a chambermaid there during sixty years. This scrap of paper was held fast in the horny fingers, and seemed to the fevered senses to keep alive the link between her and the only home she knew.

Hither she was borne at last to a small room that was to be her portion and her pension forevermore. Her old quarters, austere and clean and bare, had been effaced by the carpenter's hammer, and this corner retreat had been partitioned from a domestic recess in the rear. But it was on the parlor floor, that fetich of a devoted life. Crippled and useless, Treesa was an object of unobtrusive care. She kept her shrunken savings about her person, more unwilling than ever to trust the unexplored fields of finance. She grew querulous. She must be getting to her work again. Would the mistress be after letting her earn something--on the parlor floor, she tremulously added. Smiling sadly, permission was granted. Fondly the old creature took up her broom and duster--bought anew for her--and limped painfully toward the beloved rooms--the bridal chambers--the choicest suites where beauty and fashion came. What a journey now! The grand parlors and long corridors were interminable vistas of elegance and luxury. And--ah! what was that clinging to the velvet carpet pile? A bit of paper carelessly let fall? And--yes, was there dust on the polished marble of yon table? Alas! that her dim eyes should live to behold the desecration. What shiftless wretch was doing the parlor floor, and she a useless block in her room!

The shock told. She staggered to a gorgeous sofa near the offending bit of rubbish, and sunk down in the act of reaching for it. This was the beginning of the end. Lying on her bed sleep deserted the fading eyes. An attendant was provided, who grew accustomed to mutterings she could not understand. She ceased to listen. In pity the mistress came often and sat beside the couch. She listened and understood. She gathered the last wishes of the dying, and received as a sacred charge all that the sufferer had to leave. Still the angel of death tarried, until sweet peace shed a radiance over the departing soul, whose faith was steadfast to church and heaven.

At the first faint ray of dawn the mistress arose and went to her. The bed was empty, the nurse asleep. Following the instinct of the moment, the lady hastened along the quiet corridors to where the night taper showed the still form of the devoted veteran stretched out on the thick, soft carpet, her cold fingers clasping the new broom and duster.

My First Jury Case

THE DOG WITNESS

The court-house was crowded to its utmost capacity. Women as well as men were there to hear the arguments in the case of the Commonwealth against William Grant for the alleged murder of John Belt.

Grant was a young man of handsome exterior and pleasing manners. He sat in the prisoner's box, and near him, closely veiled, was his beautiful girlish wife, with her arm around a fine, manly boy, and her head bowed upon his sunny curls.

Near the group were the surviving relatives of the dead man, consisting of the wife, mother and daughter. Their faces were heavy and stolid, and their whole appearance indicated not only the lower walks of life, but the existence of evil passions and aggressive natures.

Belt had owned a small grocery some fifteen miles from town, in a wild glen at the mouth of a shallow stream that flowed into the Kentucky river. The region was for a long time sparsely settled; but the establishing of a government distillery and a railroad station had led to an increase of population, so that young Grant was induced to locate there and open a shop for provisions and other supplies, that line of business having been the one chosen from his boyhood.

From the first Belt, who was one of the few German settlers in that part of the country, resented what he was pleased to call an encroachment upon his trade, and lost no opportunity of showing his ill-feeling. He was a heavy-set, sullen man of about forty-five years of age, and showed a dogged spirit even to his customers. In vain Grant strove, first to pay no attention to his enmity, and afterward to conciliate him. He continued obstinate, and his family were not behind him in giving insults and slights.