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.
That night, under cover of the darkness, the man went away. But at ten
o'clock, in defiance of prudence, he came back, knocked boldly, and
asked to see Miss Templeton--he had a package for her. She came, and
placing something in her hand, abruptly left, mounted his horse, and
rode away in a fierce gallop, ere she could speak, and again Daisy
closed the door upon this thread of her romantic destiny.
On opening the package she found a coral necklace and armlets, with
clasps engraved, and a soiled, miserably-scrawled letter. The initials
on the jewels were R.M. The letter told her that he, the desperate and
outlawed writer, had been leagued with a band of reckless men some years
ago, and had stolen her away from her beautiful home in Louisville,
thinking to obtain a heavy ransom. While passing through Garrard county,
he, the man to whose care the gang had confided her, because he was
sort o' womanish, they said, had lagged behind intent upon a bottle of
whisky, and when he recovered his senses, the child was gone. Fearing
that she had met her death, and knowing nothing then of the picnic party
that had rescued her, he fled the country for some years, and after his
return he had never had courage to confess his crime. Her parents were
wealthy, and their name was Mentelle. He could tell her nothing of their
present whereabouts.
* * * * *
New Year's Eve comes in cold, and a deep snow envelops the earth.
A wedding party at the corner house on Danville street is the event
of the evening. Roye Howard and Daisy Mentelle have just taken their
marriage vows, and the house is crowded with guests. Just before supper
a new arrival startles and astonishes the brilliant company. Henry Clay,
grown grey with years and honors, is among them, never having lost sight
of his protege. After congratulating the pair and kissing the bride,
he bade her come with him to another apartment; and when she had
wonderingly obeyed, he proudly presented to her a handsome lady richly
dressed in mourning.
"This, my dear, is your mother. I have not rested till I found her."
"It is she--it is she, indeed," exclaimed the noble-looking woman--"my
own little Ray--my Daisy!" and the mother clasped her newfound darling
to her breast in a passion of thankfulness and joy.
"This is my bridal present, my dear," said the statesman, after much had
been told, and Roye admitted to the circle.
"Since your letter of inquiry to me, my search has been constant. Your
father is no more, but this boon is the greatest of all. Receive her
with my blessing. Three times have I passed through your town. Always
has it held a warm place in my heart. May every succeeding twelve months
bring to you as happy a New Year!"