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Idle Hour Stories by Eugenia Dunlap Potts

E >> Eugenia Dunlap Potts >> Idle Hour Stories




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.

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."

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