Donald McElroy, Scotch Irishman

by Willie Walker Caldwell

  CHAPTER III

  Some weeks later the news came that Uncle Thomas had returned, bringingwith him the "Irish lass," and a huge bundle of linens, muslins, laces,tea, spices, and other goods and delicacies such as were difficult tocome by in our remote settlement. The horses were saddled as early thenext morning as my mother's energetic household management permitted,and she and grandmother, who sat her horse as erectly as either of herdaughters, rode across the fields to my aunt's, even more eager toinspect the contents of the bundles, which Uncle Thomas had brought,than to see our new kinswoman. I accompanied them, on foot, to lay downthe fences, and to watch my grandmother's horse, lest he stumble, thoughI did not dare avow the last named object to the dear old lady, wholiked not to be treated as if she were in any sense incapacitated by herage.

  When Thomas and I entered the big room, after stabling the horses, wecould see the three women in the adjoining spare room, gathered aboutthe bed which was piled so high with "feather-ticks" that my littlemother, standing, could not much more than see the top, on which waslaid out an array of fine dry goods, the like of which had seldom beenseen in our neighborhood.

  Aunt Martha, mounted upon the bed-stool, was drawing to the edge of thebed piece after piece of her treasures, and all were talking volubly asthey examined each article with eyes, fingers, tongues and even noses. Ismiled as the thought came into my mind that Uncle Thomas had used thewisdom of a serpent combined with the harmlessness of a dove, accordingto the Bible injunction, in thus diverting Aunt Martha's worrying spiritfor a while from the Irish lass thrown, so unwelcome, upon theircharities. Uncle Thomas would sacrifice anything for peace in hishousehold, though he lacked not courage where another than his wife wasconcerned.

  "Where is our new cousin, Thomas?" I asked, as I hung my hat upon thestag antlers near the door.

  "There," he said, pointing to the farthest window; then, after amoment's hesitation, he approached her and said, with shy, off-handmanner, "This is another cousin, Ellen, and his name is Donald McElroy."

  The girl, who had been leaning listlessly on the window sill, turned athin pale face towards me, and nodded silently.

  "You must be very tired, Cousin Ellen," I said as kindly as I could,moved somehow with sympathy by the utter dejection of her attitude andexpression.

  When I spoke directly to her she looked me full in the face, and I notedthe singular beauty of her eyes. They were large, almond-shaped, thebluest I have ever seen, and rayed with minute, dark lines whichcentered in the wide pupils. Moreover, the dark lashes, which fringedthickly their white lids, curved upward, and when they were liftedalmost touched the gracefully arched black brows. Otherwise her face wasnot pretty; it was too long, too thin and too pale; the nose wassomewhat sharp and the lips were compressed in an expression thatdenoted either sullenness or restrained misery, while the black hair,which had been cropped like a boy's, was stubbly and unbecoming.

  "I am not tired," she answered, rather scornfully; "I'm very strong."

  "But you are lonely," I said, "I wish we had brought Jean with us." Thencasting about in my mind for some more available resource to offer her,I asked impulsively: "Would you like to go duck shooting this afternoonwith Thomas and me? Jean goes with me sometimes."

  "I would like it, but I cannot go."

  "And why not?"

  "My Aunt Martha says that girls should be satisfied to keep busy withindoors. I am to learn to spin, and to weave, and then I'll not have timeto get lonesome, she says."

  "Do you not know how to spin and weave, Ellen? Why, even Jean can spin,and she's but thirteen," put in Thomas.

  "My mother did not make me do the things I detested," answered Ellenwith a flash of her eyes toward Thomas; then to me, with some show ofinterest, "Who is Jean?"

  "My little sister. What do you like to do, Cousin Ellen?"

  "Nothing that's useful."

  "Then what sort of play do you like?"

  "To shoot, to climb, to swim, to chop wood, to drive sheep and to read."

  I opened my eyes wide, I suppose, for I never heard of a girl who likedsuch things. "And you can do these things?" I asked.

  "Yes, my father taught me, and my mother said I needed outdoor life tomake me strong, and at night my father would read to us, or else mymother would teach me."

  "But you may like to spin; Jean does."

  "No; I shall hate everything I have to do here; I would rather have diedthan to have come." As she said this I noticed a singular quality in hervoice, though not until afterwards did I analyze it. There was a sort oftremor in certain tones, though tremor is, perhaps, too strong a word,since it was rather the suggestion of a harp-like vibration.--like thefaintest echo of a sob.

  "I wish I might have died when my mother did," she continued, withrising passion. "Why did God leave me alone in the world with no one tolove me?" and the strange child burst into a storm of weeping, and ranout of the room, her face hidden by her arm, her slight body shaken bysobs.

  "Isn't she queer, Don?" said Thomas, while Aunt Martha came from theroom to inquire what was the matter, followed by my mother andgrandmother.

  "O, 'twas Ellen," I explained, making as light of the matter aspossible; "she was answering our questions, and spoke of her mother,which started her to crying."

  "Poor child!" said my mother; "I do not wonder she is unhappy, having sorecently lost both her parents."

  "She is by no means humbled by her afflictions, nor does she seem everto have been taught respect and obedience," replied Aunt Martha. "Lastnight I stayed in her room to see that she said her prayers, and whenshe kneeled down she began to count the beads about her neck and to kissthe crucifix hung to them. I called her to me, and asked her if she didnot know they were idolatrous symbols, that she was breaking the secondcommandment in using them, and that she ought to pray to the unseen Godrather than to a wooden cross; and then I bade her give me the beadsthat I might put it out of her power to sin in that way again. But sherefused to give them up, said they were the last thing her mother hadkissed, and that her father had told her to say her prayers to themevery day; then she grew violent and said she would part with them onlywith her life. I took her to her Uncle Thomas this morning, and urgedhim to remonstrate with her, but she again became angry and wept andstormed till Thomas bade me let the child's beads alone; since they werethe gift of her dead parents, he could not see how they could do herharm, even though she did attach a superstitious importance to them. Soyou see, mother, that already this Irish girl is bringing trouble to myhousehold, as I was forewarned she would. Last night was the first timeI have ever heard Thomas say a word in favor of idolatry, and not formonths has he spoken to me so sternly."

  "But, Martha, you dinna use due discretion with the child," said mygrandmother; "couldna you hae waited till she hae gotten used to her newsurroundings, an' her grief for her parents had some abated, afore youbegan to abuse her religion? You will soon hae the child set in stubborndefiance, at this rate; hae na' I told you that ne'er yet micht anO'Niel be driven--that they wad be easier led to hell, than driven toheaven?"

  "Such language sounds irreverent to me, mother," Aunt Martha replied,with her most pious air, "and if that is the character of the O'Nielsthey must be a stiff necked people. In my opinion anyone should begrateful to be driven in the right way. But, be that as it may, I cannotrisk the effect of an idolatrous example upon my own children, evencould I bring myself to tolerate such practices in my house. If Ellenpersists in saying prayers to her beads she must do so without myknowledge or consent, and I shall consider it my duty to speak outagainst such practices whenever the opportunity is afforded."

  "Well, Martha, you maun need take your ain way, and reap the fruit ofit," said my grandmother, in her sharpest tone; and my mother as usualrushed in with soothing words, diverting the conversation into smootherchannels, by further laudation of the beauty of the table linens theywere already beginning to hem.

  Ellen did not come into dinner, and no one appeared to notice herabsence,
though Uncle Thomas watched the door, I thought. After dinner Itook my rifle on my shoulder, and went down to the canebrake where Ihoped to find a flock of wild ducks. Thomas had been sent by his fatherwith more seed to the fields, where the men were sowing wheat, so couldnot go with me. I went by the dining room, and found platters of wheatenbread, and spice cake still on the side table with which I filled mypockets, for my appetite would be as hearty as ever in three hours, andI might need bait for the ducks.

  My way lay under a sycamore tree, on the edge of the creek behind thebarn, and as I stooped to pass beneath a low bough, something jumpedfrom a branch just before me. I raised my head quickly, and saw thechild, Ellen, standing in the path.

  "May I go hunting with you, now?" she said, eagerly. "You asked me thismorning, so I brought my bonnet, and I have been watching for you."

  "But you've had no dinner."

  "I'm not hungry, and I can't eat when she looks at me."

  "Who?"

  "The one I must call Aunt Martha; do _you_ like her?"

  "Well, I never thought about it, much, but I don't believe I am as fondof her as I ought to be."

  "Ought to be,--why?"

  "She is my real blood aunt, you know--my mother's sister."

  "That's nothing. She's hateful, just as much as if she weren't--thismorning she stole my crucifix--I left it on my dresser, and it's gone.O, I know she stole it!"

  "Don't let's talk about that now," I said, "but sit down here and havelunch together. I'm hungry still, though I've had my dinner." This wasnot strictly true, but I managed to eat enough to keep her at it till Ithought she was satisfied, and then I bade her follow me, and not to letme walk too fast for her.

  She scouted the idea, saying: "My father was tall, like you, and walkedfast always, and he never had to wait for me."

  She kept up without seeming to try, and helped me to pile brush for ablind on the edge of the brake, keeping as still as possible when wewere hidden behind it.

  A flock rose presently, and flew straight over our heads toward theriver. I took aim, brought down one, then loaded quickly, and hit asecond, as the flock circled, calling noisily to each other.

  Ellen ran fleetly into the marshy grass, and brought both of the deadducks to me.

  "I wish you had two rifles with you," she said, her eyes shining withexcitement. "I might be loading one, while you shoot the other."

  I smiled at her enthusiasm. "The next flock that rises is yours," Isaid, "I want to see how well you can aim."

  In less than half an hour we again heard a whirring in the brake, andthis time the flock flew low, and between us and the river, affordingEllen a fine chance. She waited with a coolness that surprised me, thentook careful aim and shot the leader.

  "Well done!" I said, seizing the gun to reload, and getting it ready topick off one of the scattered flock before they could all get back intothe brake.

  By the time the light began to fail we had six ducks, two of which Ellenhad killed. Already we were good friends, and the child looked so happy,as she tripped lightly beside me, that I could not believe that shewould ever again seem to me sullen and forbidding as she had thatmorning.

  "It's a pity you're a girl, Ellen," with the patronizing air of a youthof nineteen.

  "I wish I were a boy!" with a profound sigh; "I'd live in the woods, andeat roots, berries, and game; I'd never have to weave and spin for mykeep, then. Why must I wear skirts and live in the house just becauseI'm a girl, Cousin Donald?"

  "I'm not sure I can give a better answer than the one Aunt Martha wouldlikely make you. God fixed it that way. He meant women for the home, andmen for the fields and for war. There's one good thing, maybe, aboutbeing a girl--that is, some persons might think it a compensation,--youwill never have to fight, or go to war."

  "I think fighting would be fine, a heap more fun than staying at homeand hearing about it. Don't women ever go to war?"

  "Of course not, child, though in this valley they have more than oncehelped to fight Indians."

  "I do wish I were a boy," she repeated, "or I'd like better still to bea splendid, big man like you."

  This flattery, whether intentional or not, had its effect upon me, and Iconstituted myself Ellen's champion from that moment. When we reachedthe house I marched boldly in with her to Aunt Martha, and afterannouncing that I had taken the child to the river to pick up ducks forme, made Aunt Martha a peace offering of half of them.