CHAPTER II
The mellow glow of September lay upon green hills and purple mountains,sleeping in serene content against a tender sky. Over quiet woods, andgliding river, bordered with ribbons of rich meadows, brooded a sweetpeace, as if nature, after a busy and fruitful season, took her wellearned rest in mood of conscious thankfulness. The very grapes, hangingin heavy amber clusters below the sloping roof of the low-eaved porch onwhich I sat, suggested fruition and content, as if they had stored allthe sweetness possible within their bursting skins, and now restedthankfully upon their strong stems.
I could see my father salting sheep in the meadow, watered by thespring-run, below the house, and I smiled as presently he sought theshade of a spreading elm, and stretched himself full length upon theground. The droning of the bees, and the sleepy humming of the fliesadded to the lazy influence of the fondling fruit-scented breeze; Ialmost nodded over my bullet molding for a moment, then roused myselfand went to work. Saturday was my only holiday, and I could not laze themorning away unless I were content to miss my one chance during the weekfor an afternoon in the forest.
"Good morning, nephew," spoke suddenly a high, strong voice which I knewto be Aunt Martha's. "Spend you all your spare time polishing firearms,molding bullets, and shooting animals?"
I turned in my chair, and looked up to see my mother's sister, who wasas unlike her as one sister could be from another--coming up thesidewalk, and my father leading her pacing mare from the stile,stable-ward. Aunt Martha's erect and well formed shoulders had a squareset which gave her a masculine air, and she held her somewhat sharp chinand nose tilted a little upward, as if she felt very sure of her ownconvictions. Her brown hair was brushed back severely from her square,high brow, and her gray eyes met your gaze steadily with a look that wasnot unkind, though it was certainly not sympathetic, nor confidenceinviting.
"Good morning, Aunt Martha," I answered, in undisturbed, and cheerfultones--for I never allowed Aunt Martha to disconcert or overawe me, asshe did her own son, Thomas, and even Uncle Thomas himself--"I'll clearthe way for you in a moment," and I began to push back my chair, rifleand implements from the middle of the porch.
"Your time might be better spent, nephew, in my opinion," continued AuntMartha, as she stood waiting on the step, looking with stern disapprovalfirst at me, and then at the cluttered floor of the porch. "Our lads, itseems to _me_," (Aunt Martha always accented the _me_ or the _my_) "aregrowing up to be a turbulent and bloodthirsty race, with but the mostcarnal ideas of life. Did we but serve God more entirely, and trust Himmore fully, we would depend less upon our own strength and skill, andmore upon Him to defend and take care of us. And after all what is man'spuny strength against the dangers of this life? It is our all powerfulHeavenly Father who must save and protect us."
"True enow, Martha, true enow," broke in the voice of my grandmother,who appeared just then in the front doorway, her ever busy fingerspicking up and knitting off the stitches from her shining needles withsteady click, "but God has naewhere promised to do His ain work, andman's as weel. He led the children o' Israel to the Promised Land, andthen bade them fight for a' they wanted o' it, nor did they get ony morethan they could win an' hauld. There's yet need, plenty, for men who canshoot in this colony, and likely to be for mony lang days to come. Letthe lad alone, Martha; he's fearless, an' sometimes rash, but neitherbloodthirsty nor a brawler," and as my aunt stepped into my mother'sroom, adjoining, to lay aside her bonnet, I heard my grandmother add insomewhat impatient tones,
"I'm glad enow to ken ye're sae pious, Martha, but dinna get to befanatical, nor in the way o' going about a' the time with reproof inyour een, an' a sairmon on your lips. You but cheapen our holy religionsae, an' harden the young an' the unconverted."
My grandmother spoke with a rich Irish accent that it is impossible toindicate, for it was not a brogue, nor a dialect; it was merely afull-throated, and somewhat rolling sound which she gave to certainwords. Her language too, was freely sprinkled with Scotch words, andthese she pronounced with broad Scotch accent. The combination wasdelightful, and her blended speech added a peculiar charm to thefascinating stories she could sometimes be beguiled into telling.
"It is strange doctrine, mother, that one may be too pious," answered myaunt, who certainly did not number meekness among her Christian virtues.Nor was my grandmother meek spirited, and a warm argument would likelyhave followed had not my mother, whose sweet and placid temper was theoil ready, at all times, to be poured on the threatening argument,entered the back door at that moment.
With Dulce, the cook woman, to help her she had been making candles allmorning, in the back kitchen--my father having killed a fat beef but afew days before--and on seeing Aunt Martha's horse led to the stable shehad but waited to hang up the last dipping, and to tidy herself beforecoming in to welcome her sister.
"How do you do, Sister Martha," she began cheerily, "I'm more glad thanordinarily to see you; indeed I was just wishing I could send for you toeat some of the suet pudding we are boiling for dinner; I know you arefond of it."
"Yes, suet pudding is a favorite dish of mine," said my aunt, solemnlyand with a deep sigh, "but I am little in the mood to enjoy anythingthis morning, Rachael."
"And what troubles you noo, daughter?" asked grandmother kindly, butwith no note of anxiety in her cheery voice.
"I thought you looked pestered, child," added my mother in soothingtones; "take this chair, it sits easier than that one, and tell uswhat's on your mind."
"'Tis about the letter that came yesterday to Thomas," and Aunt Marthapaused, to whet still further her listeners' curiosity, and meantime,heaved another deep sigh.
"Well, Martha, who writ the letter, an' what was't writ aboot?" somewhatimpatiently from grandmother.
"'T'was writ by a cousin of Thomas', in Baltimore, to bring him news ofhis Sister Mary's death, and of her husband's, Owen O'Niel, of the smallpox plague within three days of each other," and again Aunt Marthasighed.
"But you ken but little o' Mary O'Niel, child, and 'tis near fifteenyears syne you ha'e seen her," remarked my grandmother, a touch ofimpatience still audible in her voice.
"They left an only daughter," continued my aunt, "and made dying requestthat the child, Ellen, might be sent to Virginia to the care of Mary'sbrother. And now Thomas says there's naught else to do but that he muststart at once to bring her to our house."
"Thomas is right, Martha; there's naught else to be doon;--the childcanna weal come sae far alone, e'en by the stages. But I see nae sicsair trouble in that, though I'm nae denyin' 'twill be something of atrial to you to spare Thomas for four or five weeks. At the same time'twill be a welcome opportunity to get some muslins, cap laces, and siclike things; and Martha, you micht hae him fetch you the table and bedlinens you hae wanted for sae lang," and grandmother's voice sounded ascheery as a bird's morning carol, while she suggested these substantialcompensations.
"And William will be glad to come over every few days, sister, to advisewith Thomas, who, though he's but a boy yet, is a sensible, steady lad,and can see that the negroes carry out his father's directions."
"'Tis not the sparing Thomas I am most troubled about, Rachael, though Ilike not the prospect of his absence, and son Thomas is in all things achild yet. That which kept me awake last night was the thought of havingan O'Niel and a Catholic in my household. 'Tis bitter, indeed, after allour people have suffered from that name and that religion."
"Tut, tut, Martha; you fret me," said my grandmother, almost shrilly,only shrillness was not possible to her rich voice. "I'd ne'er keep anold sore running that I micht hae the nursing o' it. And was na' thegreat, great grandmaither of yourself an O'Niel and a Catholic? 'Tis naefact we hae reason to be greatly proud of, I weel ken, yet O'Niel is naelow Irish name, nor is the Catholic religion, though it be full ofsuperstition, sae bad as some folks believe. I hae known, indeed,charitable and pious Catholics, and there was a time when an O'Nielstood staunch friend to our family, else I misdoubt me there'
d hae beennae McElroys in America to-day."
"And Ellen is only a child, sister," put in my mother; "we'll make agood Presbyterian of her in no-time."
"Ne'er by driving," said grandmother; "an O'Niel was ne'er yet driven todo anything."
"She's fourteen or more, thinks Thomas, and knowing the bigoted andstubborn spirit of the O'Niels I doubt not she is set in her idolatrousreligion by this time," sighed Aunt Martha.
"But she may be a sweet, tractable child, sister, and since you've nodaughter of your own, and I've always been sorry you did nothave--Jean's such a pleasure to us--this Ellen'll doubtless grow up tobe a great comfort to you."
Getting no response to this cheerful doctrine but another sigh, mymother got up, and said briskly:
"Come, Martha, I want you to see my cheeses. I never made finer ones,I'm sure."
The invitation proved too tempting to resist, and Aunt Martha followedmother into the back entry, wearing still the look of a much burdenedwoman. She would forget her role, presently, however, in the interest ofinspecting jellies, and butters, and sampling the new cheeses. My motherwas a famous housewife, and her domestic products were the admiration ofthe neighborhood.
"Grandmother," I said, joining her as soon as they were out of hearing,"who is this Ellen O'Niel who is niece to Uncle Thomas?"
"Well, laddie, 'tis a tangled story, but I will e'en try to unravel itfor you, if you'll hold this hank of yarn till I wind me a good ball."
There was nothing, save hunting, I liked so well as my grandmother'sstories; so I drew my chair in front of her and held my arms as still asI could, while she wound dexterously, and told me the origin of EllenO'Niel.
To-day I can shut my eyes and call up the picture of the "big room" inthe comfortable log house where I was born and raised. Its walls of hewnlogs, brown from smoke and age, and chinked with yellow plastering, werealmost covered with wild skins, and stag antlers; these last used asrests for muskets, and powder horns. Over its small paned, deep silledwindows hung speckless muslin curtains; upon its floor was spread agayly striped rag carpet; and the wooden rocking-chairs were made softwith skins or feather cushions. The high mantel-shelf was ornamented, ateither end, with squat wide-lipped blue pitchers, and between them twoshining brass candle-sticks, having trays and snuffers to match. Inwinter these pitchers were filled with dried grasses and "everlastings;"in summer with flowers of the marigold, poppy, heartsease orlove-in-mist, and the great fireplace below with feathery asparagusbranches. At all times it was a homely, comfortable room, but cosierperhaps on winter evenings, when great logs blazed high above thedog-irons; when between the candles on either end of the long tableagainst the wall, sat plates of ginger bread, and pitchers of persimmonbeer; when apples sputtered on the stone hearth, filling the room withspicy fragrance, and roasting chestnuts popped in the hot ashes.Especially were we merry on such winter evenings as guests joined thehearth circle around the blazing logs. Nor were they so infrequent asyou may suppose, for my father, being justice of the county and a man ofsubstance, kept open house for travelers of all degrees, and, since theybrought us all our news from the outside world, they were alwayswelcome. On such evenings I was bid to hurry with my lessons, that Imight play a tune for our guests on my fiddle--for music was so rare atreat in our settlement that even my poor, self-taught efforts wereappreciated.
But I am wandering, as garrulous old age is apt to do, and meantime myreader waits for my grandmother's story.
"The O'Niels, lad," she began, "lang syne, were a great family inIreland, the Earls O'Niel, or the Earls O'Tyrone, as they were called,being hereditary chiefs o' a powerful clan, in the northern part o'Ireland. But always they were a turbulent people, an' as was the customwith mony o' the Scotch an' Irish lads in those days, lived for themaist part by pillaging their neighbors. Continually, too, they were theleaders in insurrection against the English power, and as far back asthe reign of King James part o' their lands were forfeited to the croon,an' were granted or sold to English an' Scotch Protestants, with thehope that a loyal an' peaceful settlement in the heart o' brawlingIreland micht help to civilize the people, an' keep them quiet, or atwarst, help to subdue them. 'Twas then our ancestor came to Ulster fraeScotland, though your father's people not until half a century later.Our people were sheep graziers an' wool manufacturers, and alwaysthrifty and prosperous. The Irish, for the maist part, e'en the greatlairds, were idle and shiftless, and lived in a sort of squalid splendorwithin their castles, surrounded by bands of clansmen and swarms o'unpayed retainers.
"Our lands were close to the castles o' Sir Phelim O'Neil, an' I haeheard my grandmaither say that mony's the time my great grandmaither wadsend welcome gifts o' cheese, an' meat to the maither o' Sir Phelim,when he would be absent on one of his lang maraudin' expeditions.
"Twas in the year 1641, that the massacre of Protestants took place, andthe besotted, cruel Sir Phelim was thought to be at the head of thedreadful plot. At first Protestants were only driven from their homes towander, starving an' shiverin', aboot the country, refused shelter orfood everywhere, till mony a woman and her bairns perished from hungerand exposure, and all suffered cruelly.
"Presently the killing began, an' no Protestant in a' that part o'Ireland escaped save the verra few who found refuge with Catholicfriends. My great grandmaither an' her two young children were amangstthose few fortunate ones, though my great grandfaither was killed. Shelay concealed for weeks in a disused wing o' the O'Niel castle itself,an' was carefully guarded, an' provided for by old lady O'Niel.
"Afterwards when Cromwell an' his men marched into Ulster to takerevenge, my great grandmaither begged successfully for the lives o' LadyO'Niel an' her two grandsons. They were not, tho' I am glad to say, thechildren o' Sir Phelim, but o' a younger son, who had died before themassacre. My grandmaither, when she grew up, married Owen O'Niel, an''tis there that the one strain o' Irish cooms into our bluid. But thisOwen died young, an' my grandmaither went back to her ain people, withnaithin' to show the Irish in her children, but the name an' accent. Mymaither, Jeannie, married, as you know, a full blooded Scotchman,William Irvine, an' I anaither, Douglas McIlwaine--yet they tell me theIrish accent has descended as far as me," and my grandmother looked atme with a half merry, half serious question in her eye.
"Just enough to make your speech roll musically, grandmother. So then Iam a cousin of Ellen O'Niel's as well as Thomas Mitchell?"
"Yes, but verra deestant. She's a direct descendant o' James, a brotherof the Owen who was my ancestor, an' who also married a Scotch lass ashis brother did, in spite of the law an' the custom. The grandson o'James was amangst the first o' the Scotch Irish settlers who came withthe McElroys, an' aithers to Pennsylvania in the year 1729, in the goodship, _George and Ann_. The Mitchells came a few years later, an' yourUncle Thomas' sister married the youngest son o' this first emigrant,some sixteen years syne."
"They moved from Pennsylvania to Baltimore?"
"Yes; James O'Niel was a shrewd man, and whilst made money in the shiptraffic; but when Thomas was last on, he brought news that James hadlost his ship, and that his business was being taken frae him by richertraders. Thees child Ellen has nae aither heritage, I suppose, than hername, an' mayhap beauty--her race are a comely people."
"Poor child!" said I, "'Tis a pity she must come here."
"The purposes o' God in His providences are inscrutable, lad; but thatHe maun work final good out o' this event you need nae meesdoot.Martha's a pious woman, an' her intentions are good, though without dootshe is overly selfrighteous, an' has nae understanding o' the feelingso' the young. But remember, my son, 'twere better to hae o'er moochreligion than not enow, an' what e'er experience life may bring youne'er lose reverence, lad, for the earnest and beautiful faith of yourforefaithers. Because there be some who pervert its solemnity tosternness--do not conclude that Presbyterianism is a hard and narrowfaith. There be some, lad, that wad make it appear so, but 'tis in theirperverted minds, an' not in those lofty an' consoling doctrine
s whichturn life into a joyful though toilsome pilgrimage to a blissfuleternity."
"Should I ever be inclined to think Presbyterianism a cold, hard faith,grandmother," I answered, "I shall but need to think of you."
"Aye, laddie, think o' your old grandmaither, an' that she told youthees--that during a pilgrimage o' seventy-five years,--an' my life hasknown mony vicissitudes, Donald, an' mooch hardship an' danger--naetrouble e'er came to her that her religion dinna gie her strength toendure calmly, and hopefully; and nae joy that her faith dinna make thesweeter an' brighter--as being but a faint foretaste o' that perfect an'eternal happiness to which she felt assured she was journeying."
As grandmother spoke these words, there grew upon her face a rapt andabsent look, and her lips parted in a smile of perfect satisfaction. Ilike to remember her thus--the silky bands of her white hair shiningbeneath her soft cap, her wrinkled hands crossed upon the finished ball,her alert brown eyes dreamy and tender, and over all her kind, brightface, that look of pure content--as of faith assured, and Heaven alreadyrealized.