The Storyteller.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXIV, Issue 28, 6 November 1896, Page 8

The St oryteller.

4, MAMMY'S GIFT.

(By Anna T. Sadlier.) As I sat at my window that balmy June evening watching the graceful figure of my niece, Helen Jordan, flitting to and tro, my thoughts with an obstinate persistence took a backward turn. It was the anniversary of Helen's First Communion. There had been on that happy day the same tempered warmth in the air, the same blending of sun and shade, with the fragrance of the honey Mickle and lilac, the richer perfume of the magnolia, and occasionally a far-off scent of the new -mown hay. How few had been the years, but how momentous the changes they had brought 1 I, in my sixties, had seen it all, the gradual brewing of the storm and its breaking over the land, the storm of a civil war. Helen had been precisely eleven when she had made her First Communion in the old stone church, just one mile from our plantation. Radiant in the whiteness of her clothing-, which symbolised bo exactly the vesture of her young soul, she had driven beside me in silence to the church, through lanes and hedgerows full of summer sweetness, alive with wild rose and sweet briar. The blossoms falling in fragrant showers or peeping out through foliage of tender green, seemed to form an aerial decoration over the pathway of this young pilgrim speeding towards that first landmark in the existence of a Catholic. Her face, sweet and grave, framed in the somewhat quaint cap and veil, was enlightened by an inward peace and joy. In her hands were her rosary and prayer-book, respectively the gifts of her father and myself. Her mother, my only sister, had not lived to share the happiness of that day. As we came out of church, where a number of friends had collected, a pathetic little scene had occurred, which was fresh in my memory, though some seven years had intervened. As Helen descended the steps she was met by her old Mammy, who had cared for her from infancy, and whose hands had tenderly arrayed her in all the finery of that day. The ebony face, framed in its gorgeous turban, was fairly shining with pleasure, while two great tears forced themselves from the aged eyes and coursed down the cheeks. She seized the child's hand in both of hers, pressing into it, unperceived by those about, a tiny paper package. " You wear dat, honey, an' de good Lord make it de blessedest gift you eber got." Helen had taken it wonderingly, with a child's eagerness, opening the paper and discovering a gold medal of the Immaculate Conception. " Oh, Mammy," she had said, " how beautiful. Dear Mammy, how good of you 1" And Mammy wiping her tears, had muttered for the hundredth time that morning : "'Fore de Lord, Miss Helen, but you's just like an angel out of heben." " Mammy," had Helen added, with that rare smile which so lit up her face and which she kept through life, " 1 11 put it on and J"ll always keep it as long as I live." " De good Lord spare you, till you's ole and gray like Miss Sarah." That was Helen's grandmother, of whom Mammy was a contemporary. It all came back tome now a* I watched He4en.no longer a child but a sweet and gracious giil, around whom old Mammy fluttered with the same tenderness as ot yore. Evil times had come upon the countiy during the j>ci iod winch had transformed the child ot seven jears ago into a woman. In Virginia and theCarolinas men had begun to enlist and to prepare with a fierce determination tor a struggle to the death. In the more moderate sections ot the country men were still biding their tune, hoping against hope th.it the trouble might not be lasting and that a sense ot loyalty to the Union would sase the land from the horrors ot a ci\il war. I'.ut the Hag had been fired upon at Sumter and the sparks long smouldering had burst into a flame. North and South were up in arms. Regiments were marching away with flying colours, leaving sorrowiul hearts to wait in familiar places for steps that were to tread there no more. Patriotic songs were sung in the streets. The " Bonnie blue flag " and " Dixie " were answered from the northward by "We are coming Father Abraham ' and " When this cruel war is over.' Already from our plantation had gone forth Helen's t.ither and brother. Desolation w as upon the land. As I sat at my window, and Helen, ceasing her restless walking to and tro, took her place in the shadow of the rose vines, called to Mammy to come and talk to her, we were all of us' suddenly aware oi steps upon the street outBide, and presently the sound of a voice, singing. The air and the ■words were familiar to us. and I saw a Mush mount to Helen s cheek. though the Minger was still hidden by the garden Avail : " Dear old Ireland, brave old Ireland, Ireland, boys, hurrah '" " It's jest Mas-sa Gerald Redmond, said Mammy, an anticipatory smile oi welcome cros-mg her wrmklul tace 1 . " I>k^s hi- Ik 1 in. always the .same, m good tune- or had As she spoke a tine specimen ot yuung manhoo i appeared at the gate. Tall and broad-shouldered, with closely trimmed brown cuils and a face made, one would have .said, tor the sunshine ot joy alone. He came and seated himseli on the step below Helen. A splendid old oak tree, bending downwards, cast glints iroin the glory ot the setting sun upon those two young things. It was like a solemn benediction from its antiquity and infinitude upon these pigmy atoms of humanity. Gerald Redmond was strangely silent after the first greetings had been interchanged. He scarcely spoke, indeed, until old Mammy had transferred her comfortable proportions to the aide of the

verandah, where she kept up an animated monologue with a stra^ guinea fowl. '■ Ain't you ashamed of yourself, comin' 'round here where de quality is ? You's a speckled fow 1 dat haint got no manners, anyway. Why don't you stay in the backyard, you btiff-necked, good-fur-nuthing bird. And you knows better than dat. too." '■ Helen." said Gerald, suddenly. '■ I may as well tell you at once. I"m going away to-morrow." The expression •• going away " was a euphemism, and Helen knew it. It meant going to danger, to death, going to the scene of war. The girl's face grew pale as the white gown she wore, but though the subject had never been broached before between Gerald and her she was in a measure prepared for the announcement. Gerald wan not the one to play the laggard when swords were clashing and brave men fighting, each for the cause he thought to be most just. " What regiment shall you be with .'" she asked faintly, '• with papa or with Henry /" " With neither !" answered Gerald, rising to his feet in visible excitement. As he stood before this girl whom he had loved since boyhood, the rose vines fell tangled about him and made a garland for the head that might soon be lying low. It was this fancy which made Helen shiver with a deadly coldness. '• With neither," repeated Gerald, for he saw she had not taken in the meaning of hiswords. "lam a graduate of West Point, as you know, and there I was taught loyalty to the old flag and the principle it represents is my first duty. I cannot fight against ' Old Glory,' Helen, I cannot remain idle. lam going away to light for it." There was a moment of intense silence, one of those moments when all else but the subjecL under consideration seems mean and commonplace. Helen sat as one stricken. Her worst fears had never pointed in this direction. Gerald, who had grown as pale as she, was the first to break the silence. "Is it so, Helen 1 Oh, love, have you no word to say ?" But the head remained averted. For once Helen was deaf tc his pleading. I listened, with a curious, absorbing interest, as if my own fate were in the balance, " Hear me, Helen," continued the young man, a sudden strength and passion for which I had not given him credit showing itself in his utterance. "My father, an Irish exile, banished from his own land in the cause of freedom, came here to find safety and protection under the stars and stripes. He instilled into me thai intense love which mjahna mater fostered for that flag. The hanc that strikes at it strikes at our common country. I will fight t( death under its folds. My duty, my honour, as I understand them call me to the North. lam going to-morrow." " Then do not let me detain you, Gerald," said Helen, in a voic( so cold that I could scarcely believe it was hers. She had risen and stood before him like the dim ghost of happier times. " You will doubtless, have much to do in the way of preparation and I — ] have letters to write to papa and Henry." " I understand," said Gerald, bending his head as if he had received a blow. But he raised it proudly a moment after. " I must not keep you, if that is the case. Good-night anc good-bye." He turned to go down the gravel walk, which he had troddei so often in his boyish light-heartedness, and with a touch of his ole careless bravado, tried to sing a line of his favourite song : " Dear old Ireland, brave old Ireland, Ireland, boys, hurrah ! " But it was no use. The voice broke and failed, and before h< had reached the gate he turned with a pitiful look of appeal to wards the motionless figure on the steps. I wanted to speak, t< warn Helen, that she was in sore danger of wrecking the happines; of two lives, but an invisible power seem to prevent me, as in i dream one is withheld from carrying out one's will. But a voic< came back from the half darkness that had fallen . " Helen, Helen, 1 cannot go like this/ " " Gerald ! " The word, faintly uttered, brought Gerald swiftb back to his place upon the steps, while it touched a vibrating chore in my wearied heart. That was my own, sweet girl, who could no so steel her heart against her boyish play-mate, her lover " Gerald," said Helen, '' we may never meet again. Sol wil speak now. lest the eternal silence should fall between us. I knov you are true and honourable. I shall always believe that, and fee that you are following hat seems to you the best. "God knows how hard it is," said Gerald in a low voice, almos stern in its intensity. " when it would have been &o sweet to iigh lor the cause you love." '" Ni.'\er niind that now. Gerald." said Helen, " the greatest pail of my lite ha^. come to me through you. and still I cannot blam you. Our happy hours are over, perhaps forever, but for their sakf accept thi^- pledge." She drew oil' her neck as sho »pul e what I recognised by th glitter to be Mammy's gift, the mnUi ol the Immaculate Concep tion. the souvenir ot her First Communion day. ■• Wear it for nn Gerald," she said. "I had thought never to part with it, but yoi have the greater need." Before he could speak she had vanished into the house, but saw Gerald reverently ki^s the medal before hanging it round hi neck, and heard him murmur '• Al.\a^s tor Helen's -*ake." It \\a> a tragic paiunn tor thoe two \>>ung lieu t-, w lio had lo hitheito -•<) lijiht and Ji^uus iin L\..s,un.t . 'lheit, had nut bee: precisely a formal engaui. nient biUNua Ui^ two, biiLit was full; undei stood that they were in the coui^e ol a yuar or two to b married. The parents on both si<lcs and liuiniaie. friends regards H, and with satisfaction, as a settled thai^. I shall never forget the gloom which rested upon the planta tion after that. All lite seemed to have fled lrom it. Many of th negroes had departed, those that remained seemed as the shadow of their former selves Weeds »rew up where careful cultivatio; had been. The very trees seemed to droop, as they are seen to d before a storm. Unrest and anxiety pervaded the neighbourhooc Provisions were scarce and dear. Scarcely a man but the old an

infirm remained behind ; all had eagerly rushed to swell the everthinning army. Helen, always sweet and gentle, had lines of care and sorrow about eyes and mouth, sad to see upon one naturally so bright and sunny. She turned more and more to religion as to her mainstay. Her rosary, the pearl rosary of i her First Communion, was frequently in her hand ; she often bent her steps towards the church, or knelt in the little oratory, and I knew that she prayed not alone for father and brother, but for that other, to whom she had given th« sacred pledge of her First Communion medal, Mammy's gift It was touching to see Mammy's love and devotedness during all those trying months and years, seeking out fragments of army gossip from stray soldiers, to supplement the scanty news which reached us. It was in such fashion, indeed, that we heard from time to time of the brave deeds of Lieutenant Redmond, who had won his brevets of captain and major, •' for gallant and meritorious service," in the words of the order from headquarters. Battle succeeded battle, Fredericksburg, Mary's Heights, Antietam and the splendid and terrible panorama of Gettysburg. The news of this last engagement had been brought to us by a journal already some weeks old. Helen and I were wearing deep mourning and mingling our heartfelt sorrow with pride for the gallant dead. Henry Jordan had fallen at the battle of Peach Tree Creek and was buried far from the dearly loved plantation. Helen, who had scarcely rallied from the blow, sat poring over the army lists, trembling and shuddering, as here and there a familiar name appeared among the dead or dying. All at once I saw her raise her hands to her eyes and in another instant old Mammy and I had caught her just as she fell forward senseless. We laid her gently upon a sofa and applied what restoratives were at hand, Mammy's tears falling meanwhile upon the unconscious face, as the poor old soul whispered : "De good Lord bring her back. She's most dead. Oh, honey, tell old Mammy what scared ye.' At last, to my intense relief, she opened her eyes with the one word : " Gerald." " What is it, dearest 1 " I whispered. " Gerald is mortally wounded." " Courage," I said, pressing her hand. ' while there is life there is hope. Remember you placed him under the protection of Our Lady." " Oh," she cried, suddenly, with a startled expression coming into her face, " suppose I had not done that, suppose I had let him go without a word. "Do not think of that," I said soothingly, " you parted with him sweetly and tenderly and you gave him Mammy's gift." " It'll be a blessed gift to him, Miss Helen, just the same," broke in Mammy, " and he's got to bring it back to you, honey, 'fore <le Lord he has." As I passed to my room an hour later, I saw Helen upon her knees before the great crucifix in the oratory, which Mammy had decorated that day with flowers. In the background knelt old Mammy. Both were in fervent prayer, those simple hearts together finding courage and strength, the one in her agonizing grief, the other in her sympathetic mourning. The time that followed until the close of the war was the most trying that could be imagined. No tidings could be had of Major Red nond, and that single line in the journal, recalling his serious injuries, seemed to be Helen's entire mental food. I have often wondered since that her mind did not give way under the pressure of those days, but it was her deep faith and trust in the power of prayer that sustained her. Her father had returned, and despite the terrible changes, the plantation began to recover a little of its old aspect. Spring too. was at hand once more, the robin building in the tree-tops and many a sweet-voiced songster joining in the song of re-awakening nature. Again tne old scents were in the air, the old sweetness and warmth, again the shedding of blossoms upon the young grass, and the soft and swiftly-fading twilight. Helen sat in her u-ual place upon the verandah, old Mammy beside her, stroking ever and anon the bright hair and letting her great, black hand rest upon her darling*, shoulder. I, fearful of the evening air, had withdrawn to my favourite window, where I was catching the last light to finish a bit of knitting Helen had seemed more despondent all that day than was her wont, and she sat now quietly, her hands crossed in her lap, her eyea watching the flickering sunlight amongst the oaks. I could not help thinking that that evening of Gerald's departure had repeated itseJf in almost every particular. Suddenly there was a step upon the street. I saw Helen btart, a vivid colour rushing into her che 'ks and fading to leave her deadly pale. There was a pause, and then a voice, somewhat deeper and tuller, but unmistakably familiar, took up once more the old strain : " Dear old Ireland, brave old Ireland, Ireland, buys, hurrah." " 'Fore de Lord it's Massa Gerald Redmond," cried Mammy, with a glad cry of recognition, as that personage, who had chosen to approach after the lapse of so many years in precisely the old fashion, made his appearance. Bronzed and bearded, it was Gerald indeed, Gerald come home from the wars. " Helen," he said, " I have come back to repay a sacred trust, I have brought you Mammy's gift." He paused an instant, while Helen regarded him with an ever increasing wonder and delight as one who had arisen from the dead, " That medal saved my life. It bears a bullet mark upon it." " Bless de Lord for all his mercies, and give praise," broke out Mammy, and at this moment there was an interruption. Captain -Jordan, Btill wearing the gray uniform, stood suddenly face to face with Major Redmond, arrayed in the blue. The men gazed upon «ach other for full a moment, while Helen stood by with parted lips -and swift-coming breath. It was the older man who spoke first. "Major Redmond," he said, " fortunately our views diverged where honourable men may differ. Your notion «f duty led you

one way, mine another. We have both followed it. Give me your hand." Their hands met in a clasp which only by such men and in such times can be interchanged. " Captain Jordan," said the younger man, in a tone of deep emotion, "may I find in that hand -clasp the sanction to what must give significance to my return 1 I have come to restore to your daughter a token of friendship bestowed by her when we parted, but in restoring it, I must tell her that it has been to me the pledge of a love that has been hers since boyhood. " My daughter, sir," said the old man, with his fine stateliness, "is worthy the love of a brave soldier. In that capacity and as the son of a valued friend, I give my sanction to your suit. If my daughter has given you her love, it is wisely bestowed." And bo saying, the father turned away and re-entered the house. There was a wedding down at the stone church, where Helen had made her First Communion, before the last of the blossoms had fallen from tb» trees, and upon the very anniversary of that other event. It was not such as it would have been in the gala days of the plantation, but never, people said, was there a fairer bride or a happier groom. " And to think it was all through Mammy's gift," I whispered, as I kissed my Helen. " Tore de Lord, honey," cried Mammy, " I knew it would be de blessedest gift."