Some weeks later the news came that Uncle Thomas had returned, bringing
with him the "Irish lass," and a huge bundle of linens, muslins, laces,
tea, spices, and other goods and delicacies such as were difficult to
come by in our remote settlement. The horses were saddled as early the
next morning as my mother's energetic household management permitted,
and she and grandmother, who sat her horse as erectly as either of her
daughters, rode across the fields to my aunt's, even more eager to
inspect the contents of the bundles, which Uncle Thomas had brought,
than to see our new kinswoman. I accompanied them, on foot, to lay down
the fences, and to watch my grandmother's horse, lest he stumble, though
I did not dare avow the last named object to the dear old lady, who
liked not to be treated as if she were in any sense incapacitated by her
age.
When Thomas and I entered the big room, after stabling the horses, we
could see the three women in the adjoining spare room, gathered about
the bed which was piled so high with "feather-ticks" that my little
mother, standing, could not much more than see the top, on which was
laid out an array of fine dry goods, the like of which had seldom been
seen in our neighborhood.
Aunt Martha, mounted upon the bed-stool, was drawing to the edge of the
bed piece after piece of her treasures, and all were talking volubly as
they examined each article with eyes, fingers, tongues and even noses. I
smiled as the thought came into my mind that Uncle Thomas had used the
wisdom of a serpent combined with the harmlessness of a dove, according
to the Bible injunction, in thus diverting Aunt Martha's worrying spirit
for a while from the Irish lass thrown, so unwelcome, upon their
charities. Uncle Thomas would sacrifice anything for peace in his
household, though he lacked not courage where another than his wife was
concerned.
"Where is our new cousin, Thomas?" I asked, as I hung my hat upon the
stag antlers near the door.
"There," he said, pointing to the farthest window; then, after a
moment's hesitation, he approached her and said, with shy, off-hand
manner, "This is another cousin, Ellen, and his name is Donald McElroy."
The girl, who had been leaning listlessly on the window sill, turned a
thin 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 and
expression.
When I spoke directly to her she looked me full in the face, and I noted
the singular beauty of her eyes. They were large, almond-shaped, the
bluest I have ever seen, and rayed with minute, dark lines which
centered in the wide pupils. Moreover, the dark lashes, which fringed
thickly their white lids, curved upward, and when they were lifted
almost touched the gracefully arched black brows. Otherwise her face was
not pretty; it was too long, too thin and too pale; the nose was
somewhat sharp and the lips were compressed in an expression that
denoted 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." Then
casting about in my mind for some more available resource to offer her,
I asked impulsively: "Would you like to go duck shooting this afternoon
with 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 within
doors. I am to learn to spin, and to weave, and then I'll not have time
to 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 Ellen
with a flash of her eyes toward Thomas; then to me, with some show of
interest, "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 liked
such things. "And you can do these things?" I asked.
"Yes, my father taught me, and my mother said I needed outdoor life to
make me strong, and at night my father would read to us, or else my
mother 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 died
than to have come." As she said this I noticed a singular quality in her
voice, though not until afterwards did I analyze it. There was a sort of
tremor in certain tones, though tremor is, perhaps, too strong a word,
since it was rather the suggestion of a harp-like vibration.--like the
faintest echo of a sob.
"I wish I might have died when my mother did," she continued, with
rising passion. "Why did God leave me alone in the world with no one to
love me?" and the strange child burst into a storm of weeping, and ran
out of the room, her face hidden by her arm, her slight body shaken by
sobs.
"Isn't she queer, Don?" said Thomas, while Aunt Martha came from the
room to inquire what was the matter, followed by my mother and
grandmother.
"O, 'twas Ellen," I explained, making as light of the matter as
possible; "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 so
recently lost both her parents."
"She is by no means humbled by her afflictions, nor does she seem ever
to have been taught respect and obedience," replied Aunt Martha. "Last
night I stayed in her room to see that she said her prayers, and when
she kneeled down she began to count the beads about her neck and to kiss
the crucifix hung to them. I called her to me, and asked her if she did
not know they were idolatrous symbols, that she was breaking the second
commandment in using them, and that she ought to pray to the unseen God
rather than to a wooden cross; and then I bade her give me the beads
that I might put it out of her power to sin in that way again. But she
refused to give them up, said they were the last thing her mother had
kissed, and that her father had told her to say her prayers to them
every day; then she grew violent and said she would part with them only
with her life. I took her to her Uncle Thomas this morning, and urged
him to remonstrate with her, but she again became angry and wept and
stormed till Thomas bade me let the child's beads alone; since they were
the gift of her dead parents, he could not see how they could do her
harm, even though she did attach a superstitious importance to them. So
you see, mother, that already this Irish girl is bringing trouble to my
household, as I was forewarned she would. Last night was the first time
I have ever heard Thomas say a word in favor of idolatry, and not for
months has he spoken to me so sternly."
"But, Martha, you dinna use due discretion with the child," said my
grandmother; "couldna you hae waited till she hae gotten used to her new
surroundings, an' her grief for her parents had some abated, afore you
began to abuse her religion? You will soon hae the child set in stubborn
defiance, at this rate; hae na' I told you that ne'er yet micht an
O'Niel be driven--that they wad be easier led to hell, than driven to
heaven?"
"Such language sounds irreverent to me, mother," Aunt Martha replied,
with her most pious air, "and if that is the character of the O'Niels
they must be a stiff necked people. In my opinion anyone should be
grateful to be driven in the right way. But, be that as it may, I cannot
risk the effect of an idolatrous example upon my own children, even
could I bring myself to tolerate such practices in my house. If Ellen
persists in saying prayers to her beads she must do so without my
knowledge or consent, and I shall consider it my duty to speak out
against such practices whenever the opportunity is afforded."
"Well, Martha, you maun need take your ain way, and reap the fruit of
it," said my grandmother, in her sharpest tone; and my mother as usual
rushed in with soothing words, diverting the conversation into smoother
channels, by further laudation of the beauty of the table linens they
were already beginning to hem.
Ellen did not come into dinner, and no one appeared to notice her
absence, though Uncle Thomas watched the door, I thought. After dinner I
took my rifle on my shoulder, and went down to the canebrake where I
hoped to find a flock of wild ducks. Thomas had been sent by his father
with more seed to the fields, where the men were sowing wheat, so could
not go with me. I went by the dining room, and found platters of wheaten
bread, and spice cake still on the side table with which I filled my
pockets, for my appetite would be as hearty as ever in three hours, and
I might need bait for the ducks.
My way lay under a sycamore tree, on the edge of the creek behind the
barn, and as I stooped to pass beneath a low bough, something jumped
from a branch just before me. I raised my head quickly, and saw the
child, Ellen, standing in the path.
"May I go hunting with you, now?" she said, eagerly. "You asked me this
morning, 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 fond
of 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--this
morning 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 have
lunch together. I'm hungry still, though I've had my dinner." This was
not strictly true, but I managed to eat enough to keep her at it till I
thought she was satisfied, and then I bade her follow me, and not to let
me walk too fast for her.
She scouted the idea, saying: "My father was tall, like you, and walked
fast always, and he never had to wait for me."
She kept up without seeming to try, and helped me to pile brush for a
blind on the edge of the brake, keeping as still as possible when we
were hidden behind it.
A flock rose presently, and flew straight over our heads toward the
river. I took aim, brought down one, then loaded quickly, and hit a
second, as the flock circled, calling noisily to each other.
Ellen ran fleetly into the marshy grass, and brought both of the dead
ducks to me.
"I wish you had two rifles with you," she said, her eyes shining with
excitement. "I might be loading one, while you shoot the other."
I smiled at her enthusiasm. "The next flock that rises is yours," I
said, "I want to see how well you can aim."
In less than half an hour we again heard a whirring in the brake, and
this time the flock flew low, and between us and the river, affording
Ellen a fine chance. She waited with a coolness that surprised me, then
took careful aim and shot the leader.
"Well done!" I said, seizing the gun to reload, and getting it ready to
pick off one of the scattered flock before they could all get back into
the brake.
By the time the light began to fail we had six ducks, two of which Ellen
had killed. Already we were good friends, and the child looked so happy,
as she tripped lightly beside me, that I could not believe that she
would ever again seem to me sullen and forbidding as she had that
morning.
"It's a pity you're a girl, Ellen," with the patronizing air of a youth
of nineteen.
"I wish I were a boy!" with a profound sigh; "I'd live in the woods, and
eat roots, berries, and game; I'd never have to weave and spin for my
keep, then. Why must I wear skirts and live in the house just because
I'm a girl, Cousin Donald?"
"I'm not sure I can give a better answer than the one Aunt Martha would
likely make you. God fixed it that way. He meant women for the home, and
men for the fields and for war. There's one good thing, maybe, about
being a girl--that is, some persons might think it a compensation,--you
will never have to fight, or go to war."
"I think fighting would be fine, a heap more fun than staying at home
and hearing about it. Don't women ever go to war?"
"Of course not, child, though in this valley they have more than once
helped to fight Indians."
"I do wish I were a boy," she repeated, "or I'd like better still to be
a splendid, big man like you."
This flattery, whether intentional or not, had its effect upon me, and I
constituted myself Ellen's champion from that moment. When we reached
the house I marched boldly in with her to Aunt Martha, and after
announcing that I had taken the child to the river to pick up ducks for
me, made Aunt Martha a peace offering of half of them.