Donald McElroy, Scotch Irishman Part 2

"You must be very tired, Cousin Ellen," I said as kindly as I could, moved somehow with sympathy by the utter dejection of her att.i.tude 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 a.n.a.lyze 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 pa.s.sion. "Why did G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 superst.i.tious 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 h.e.l.l, 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 appet.i.te 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 pa.s.s 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 gra.s.s, and brought both of the dead ducks to me.

"I wish you had two rifles with you," she said, her eyes s.h.i.+ning 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. G.o.d 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."