After leaving Chicago in June, we passed a wonderful fortnight among the
glories of the Yellowstone Park. Here Mildred seemed to throw off all
care, and to breathe freely for the first time in six months.
After leaving the Park, some of our party were called back to the East,
but aunt, cousin Will, and Alice still accompanied us.
On touching the Northern Pacific Railroad again our car was attached to
a train filled for the most part with immigrants.
At the stations where stops were made we always alighted to take a
little exercise in walking up and down the platform, and to chat with
the Indians and half-breeds, who greatly interested Mildred.
I must admit that for my part I found the wrinkled old crones and dirty
braves rather disgusting, though occasionally a few who still retained
their primitive adornments of vermilion paint and eagle’s feathers
furnished a bit of picturesqueness that was interesting.
At one stopping-place, there being no Indians visible, we turned our
attention to the crowd of European peasants who poured out of the
immigrant cars, and strolling about among them we amused ourselves by
studying the stolid, square faces, and giving candy to the sturdy,
little flaxen-haired children who gazed in round-eyed wonder at us.
Presently I saw that Mildred, who had slipped away from me, was holding
a hurried and earnest conversation with a sad-eyed little woman who with
quivering lips was telling the story of how her _Mann_ had died on the
voyage and been buried at sea, and how she was left to make the rest of
the long journey alone with her three helpless little ones.
“It goes to my heart,” said Mildred as we returned to our car, “to think
of that woman and those poor, fatherless little things in this strange
land. Not one of the people with her is her friend and neighbor, and I
don’t know what is to become of her.”
“How perfectly dreadful!” exclaimed Alice calmly as she scanned her
cards.
“Gad, that’s tough!” ejaculated Will, and then we proceeded with our
whist, which had been interrupted by this little episode.
I watched Mildred. I knew that this would not be the end of it with her,
though the others soon forgot about it. She played carelessly and was
beaten. She was thinking not of the game, but of the tired,
broken-hearted wife in the next car who had so courageously said good-by
to the Fatherland a month before with her brave Fritz, and must now end
the long, wearisome journey alone, poor and friendless.
Presently she rose and left the car.
“Let me go with you,” called Will, and followed her, while I lay down on
the sofa for a nap and knew nothing more until an hour later. Then I
waked to find Mildred kneeling by my side and smilingly patting my
cheeks.
“What do you say to having an adventure, Ruby?” she asked. “I have a
capital scheme; just listen to it. Will and I have been to see that poor
little woman, and it is pathetic to see how she clings to us and looks
to us for assistance. She will be utterly helpless when she gets to the
end of her journey. Her passage is prepaid through, but that is all. She
has only three dollars left, and the agent who has all these people in
charge is a hard-faced man who cannot be trusted to concern himself in
the least about her.
“She opened her whole heart to me while Will amused the children, and I
have learned all her simple little story. I hadn’t the heart to leave
her until I had promised to see her through to her journey’s end.”
“But you forget, Mildred,” I cried astonished, and sitting up quickly;
“these people are all going to switch off at the Junction and go
twenty-five miles on another road. The conductor told us so, you know,
and we can’t follow them, for it would make us a day late in reaching
Tacoma, and auntie really must have her ulcerated tooth attended to.”
She had in fact hardly held her head up that day and was suffering
terribly.
“Certainly,” said Mildred; “I have thought of all that, and it is all
arranged. Alice and Will are to go on with her in this car and take the
best of care of her, and if you will join Hélène [the maid] and me, we
will go with the immigrants and see little Frau Kopp well started in the
new home before we leave her. I consider it quite a fortunate
circumstance on the whole. I have wanted an excuse to mingle with the
people more and learn something further of frontier life than can be
seen from the windows of a parlor-car.”
Will remonstrated vigorously, however. “See here, Mildred,” he said
seriously, “it will never do in the world for you to start off this way
at night into an unknown region, and ride in these wretched cars. Very
likely you will have to sleep on a straw bed in some vile little tavern
no one knows where. You can give this woman some money, and”—
“I haven’t time to argue,” interposed Mildred, packing her bag. “I have
made up my mind to go. Don’t think me stubborn, but money can’t do for
that disconsolate, frightened little woman what I can do. She has not a
single friend; her baby is ill; some Yankee sharper would swindle her
out of her money; and, besides, I want to go. I want to know from
experience a little about the life of these people.”
“Then if I can’t dissuade you I must go with you. Mother can”—
“No, she can’t; and I can’t let you leave her, cousin Will,” replied
Mildred with quiet determination. “Nothing can possibly happen to us. We
are in a civilized land, and robbers are not wont to attack an immigrant
train. We shall not be hurt by ‘roughing it’ for twenty-four hours, and
if anything happens to delay us longer we will telegraph you.”
“Let me go _instead_ of you,” insisted Will, still frowning upon the
project; “there is no need of you three interrupting your journey when I
can manage the affair perfectly well.”
“But you don’t speak German and I do,” replied Mildred, decisively.
There was nothing more to be said, and we bade them good-by, with no
misgiving on our part, and stepped into the uncomfortable, stuffy
immigrant cars. Mildred seated herself beside little Frau Kopp and held
in her lap chubby two-year-old Hans, dressed like a little old man in
the clumsy, German peasant fashion. Hélène and I meanwhile took turns in
occupying the only vacant seat in the car. The motley crowd of Swedes,
Norwegians, Danes, Germans, and Bohemians, who for five or six days and
nights had been traveling together in heat and discomfort, sat nodding
sleepily and apparently unexcited at the near approach of their long
journey’s end.
All the afternoon it had looked lowering in the west, and as the dim
kerosene lamps were lighted one by one, we heard the dash of rain upon
the roof of the car, and by the flashes of lightning could discern with
our faces pressed close to the panes that we were just entering upon the
track of a storm. Trees were uprooted and lay in confusion beside the
track. But we could see little, and I gave scarcely a thought to it as I
sat on the hard, uncushioned seat, with my lap full of bags and wraps,
and watched Mildred a few seats in front of me as she talked cheerily to
the tired little children. Our destination was to be the little mining
town of Blivens, and we were to reach it at half-past eight.
On we went whizzing through the darkness, the train rocking from side to
side, and the red-kerchiefed, brown faces of the women lighting up
picturesquely the dark mysterious shadows. We were about to reach our
destination, and I had just risen to rest my stiffened limbs, when
suddenly I was thrown headlong down the aisle, and a hideous grating,
jarring noise drowned every other sound. Then a sense of falling,
rolling, pitching, of absolute darkness, and of frightful pain.
I lay I know not how long. One foot and hand were pinioned under
something hard and immovable, the other foot doubled under me, and my
head twisted awry and also immovable. I was lying between two bodies,
one above and one under me. Something warm was dripping down over my
face, and shrieks and dying groans rent the air.
I was too stunned at first to think what it meant. I was conscious only
of pain, horrible pain, such as I had never dreamed of before. I could
not cry out, I could not move. Oh, would help never come?
What was this horrible thing that had happened? A moment ago—no, was it
not an hour ago?—we were alive and well; and now? Oh, why had God let
this horrible thing happen? And Mildred—where was she? Perhaps she was
dead; and I should be dead too very soon, and nothing would matter much.
I remember thinking then, strangely enough, “I am glad she has made her
will.”
Suddenly a dull glow, a gleam of light, then a hoarse yell of despair
from a score of voices, “Da ist Feuer!” “_The train is on fire!_”
My heart stopped beating. Were the horrors of a holocaust to be added to
this agony?
Oh, the long, fearful minutes! A horrid glare lit up the blackness of
the night, and nearer, nearer crept the crackling flames!
O Christ! will no one come to rescue us, will not the clouds in mercy
pour down their treasures to stop this demon flame!
But no! The rain had ceased, and on, on, steadily on came the frightful
scorching flames.
It was now as light as day. In the red glare I could see black figures
moving swiftly, men running wildly about and desperately pulling and
tearing at the splintered sides of the car.
But oh, how feeble all their efforts! How utterly futile seemed all
human strength to cope with these frightful forces that held us
relentlessly in their grasp!
“Well, it will soon be over, soon be over,” I groaned to myself. “The
torture shall not be long if with my free hand I can get a quicker
death,” I resolved in the desperation of my agony.
It seemed hours to us wretches lying there ’twixt hell and heaven, but I
suppose it was only minutes. Then there was a cracking, a breaking. An
iron crowbar in the hands of a man had broken through the débris and was
lifting the frightful weight from my arm.
I could see his face distinctly, as with the giant strength of a madman,
but with the clear eye of one who was a born general, he marshaled his
panic-stricken followers and bade them aid him.
“Here, Jim,” he shouted hoarsely, his voice rising above the roar of the
flames, “hold on there! Now you and Tom and the rest, _pull!—pull as you
never pulled before_!”
But it was all in vain; as well try to lift a mountain.
“Take this child,” groaned a muffled voice at my side, and as the strong
arms of the stranger lifted little Hans limp and lifeless, and hastily
laid him in the soft dark mud behind him, I saw for the first time
Mildred’s white face beside me.
“There ain’t no use, boss,” cried the men in a frenzy, and stopping to
wring their hands. “We can’t do nothing; _they’ve got to burn alive_!”
“Then for God’s sake give me your pistol or your knife!” I cried
fiercely.
“Yes, Mildred,” I protested, “it’s right, it’s right. If we must die,
let it be quickly, and not by inches.”
But Mildred did not hear. She was looking at the stranger with wild,
staring eyes, and for an instant, as if paralyzed, he gazed at her. Then
a look of such agony as I never saw on a human face convulsed his
features, and he cried, “_Boys, once more! I must save this woman!_” and
while they stood wringing helpless hands, he, with knotted veins and
starting eyes, made one herculean effort, and Mildred was in his arms
and free.
I saw them stagger and fall together, while the bright blood in a
crimson torrent poured from his lips and dyed her white, clinging hands.
Then I knew nothing more. I have a vague recollection of a roar as of
Niagara filling my ears, a sense of being torn limb from limb, a
shuddering thought that this indeed was death and the end had come—and
then blackness.
I knew not how many hours or days had passed. When I opened my eyes I
was lying on a hard straw bed on the floor of an unplastered attic room.
I could see nothing from where I lay but the corner of a window through
whose panes the sun streamed in, scarce hindered by the torn blue paper
curtain. It shone upon the gorgeous patchwork counterpane upon my bed.
It dazzled my eyes, which felt strangely weak.
I tried to move, but could not stir; to speak, but could utter no sound.
Presently, as I lay with closed eyes, I felt that some one had stooped
from behind and looked at me. Then I heard a husky whisper,—
“She’s sleepin’ real nateral, don’t ye worry a mite. _She_’s agoin’ ter
git on, you can jest bet on that.” This was followed by a heavy tread
which jarred my head with every movement like that of a giant trying to
walk on tiptoe. There was a creaking of a door, then a slow, soft thump,
thump, thump down the uncarpeted stairs, and all was still.
I lay quiet, wondering what it all meant. Where was I, and what could be
the matter? My head was confused. Was Mildred—hush, there was a voice
near by talking low; it seemed behind me.
“But it was not so; how could you have thought it so?”
The voice sounded like Mildred’s. It was weak and trembling.
“I went East to find you after it was all over between Agnes and me, but
they said you were engaged, you had gone abroad. I could do nothing. I
came back; I had my work, and I tried to live.”
The other voice I did not know; it was husky and broken.
There was silence again, and I heard a bustling and tramping about
below, and outside the window locusts buzzing shrilly.
Voices again. I could not but hear. It was Mildred’s voice. “But did you
love me then in the beginning?”
There was no answer at first; then it came, a little stronger and
steadier than before. “I should have loved you then if I had dared, but
I was pledged to Agnes; she had promised to be my wife. There came a day
at Concord when I saw my danger. I knew that I must not dare to see you
again. I prayed that I might be kept from being false to the woman whom
I had asked to love me, so I went away and tried to forget. After all, I
had known you for only a few days, and I had known her from childhood.
She was true as steel. She trusted me; and when with her again I was
glad to find at last that life could still be rich and sweet, and I be
spared from baseness.”
“Then why, why”—Mildred began; but she hesitated, and her voice died
away.
“It came about in this way,” said the other voice after a pause. “I had
studied for the ministry, you know. Agnes had rejoiced to think that she
was to share my work. I had decided from the first to give myself to the
home mission work either in the far West or among the colored people at
the South. She was all enthusiasm and zeal. She was a noble woman; but
oh—well, it is a long story, a long story.” Another pause; then, “Do you
know how unjust and bitter a woman can be when she thinks that she alone
is intrusted with the decrees of the Almighty?
“As her lover, I must be frank with her, I must conceal nothing. I told
her all, little by little, of what I had come to believe and see. It
only made her tremble with horror. She saw that I was not ready to
preach the gospel which she believed. She felt that I was going
no-whither. ‘You have denied God’s Word and made your reason your God,’
she said. ‘I can never dare trust my future with you unless you promise
me once and forever to abandon reading these dreadful books which are
leading you farther and farther from the truth.’
“I tried argument, but it was of no avail. ‘I am no logician; I cannot
argue and reason with a college-bred man like you. You could readily
refute my simple talk to your own satisfaction,’ she said; ‘but all the
philosophy in the world cannot change my faith. My husband’s God must be
the one whom I serve.’
“I did not know how I had really loved her until I found I was breaking
her heart. It was pitiful. I tried to show her how I loved the same God
whom she served, but she said, while the tears choked her voice:
“‘No, Ralph, let us not deceive ourselves; we look at the world in a
radically different way. There can be no compromises so long as this
exists.’ So we parted.”
“And then you—you came here?” queried Mildred faintly.
“Yes. My life at first seemed wrecked; but I had my work, and though I
could not ask any Missionary Board to send me out, I determined to come
alone and serve God, if not in the pulpit, then perhaps as well some
other way.
“I came with the first miners. I lived with them and worked for them. I
helped them build their first log huts. I opened the first store here,
but as I sold no liquor it was hard to contend with the other shops
which soon were rivals of mine.
“But I made enough to live on. That was all I cared for. I had come here
to save men, not to save money.
“First I started a reading-room, here in my room. It was open to them
all, and after a while we had an evening class. Then I began a Sunday
school, and they all came at first just to oblige me because I asked
them, but afterwards because they liked it. Then at last I began a
regular Sunday service.
“I love these rough fellows, and they have learned to love me. I do what
I can for them. I would not change my work for the richest parish in the
country. I have the satisfaction of knowing that I am helping to shape
the future of this whole region.
“These men have loved me in a rough, hearty way, and I thank God for it,
for sometimes the loneliness has been terrible.
“Agnes married a missionary and went to India, and after a while I saw
that it was best so, though it was bitter to me at first.
“I felt that you, the only other woman for whom I ever had cared, had
forgotten me. I did not dare to think that you had remembered me, but I
could not rest until I knew. I made the long journey East. I felt that I
could not be denied until I had heard the final word from your lips. I
reached Boston the very day that you sailed from New York; and I heard
that you were to marry a rich man on your return.
“Well, I tried to bear it as best I could. I came back to my work. After
the little glimpse of civilization and comfort that I had had, this
dreary little place seemed drearier still; but I had brought books with
me, and they helped me.
“One day, as I sat here feeling lonely, wretched, forlorn, I picked up
my Thomas à Kempis, and suddenly a light seemed to break in upon me, and
I said, ‘O fool, you with strength and vigor and opportunities, you who
have the inherited wisdom of the world at your command, you the heir of
all the ages, the son of a King!—shall _you_ mourn and complain because
Heaven denies you one boon? When was it ever decreed that you should be
so favored above all other mortals as to be completely happy in this
world of pain? Should the servant be above his Master?’
“So then I tried to learn to be content. I found something better than
happiness,—it has been blessedness.
“I study when I can. But I am studying humanity chiefly. I am learning
how to fill the needs of these brothers of mine. I am trying to show
them that there is something better than the gold which seems to them
the only thing worth working for. Yes, I love my work.”
There was a note of exultation in the voice, weak though it was, which
thrilled me. I think I must have dozed, for the voices again sounded
faint and far away. Presently as I returned to consciousness I heard the
voice saying in little broken gasps of pain, “But oh, Mildred darling,
do you know what this means? Do you know what it means when you promise
to be willing to take me for better or for worse? You love books and
pictures and music and beauty. Can I consent to see you deprived of them
all, to share my lot?
“You do not know me yet. You are grateful to me for saving you; but it
was simple humanity—humanity, nothing more. I was a fool to speak out as
I did just now; it was only my weakness and selfishness. No, I cannot
let you bind yourself yet; wait till you are well, till your friends
come.
“You say they have wealth. What will they think of your giving them all
up to settle in this dismal place and be the wife of a man who has not
five hundred dollars in the world, and can offer you nothing but a life
of toil?
“No, you shall be free. Forget that I dared to speak, that I dared for a
moment to think—What? Why—why, Mildred, you are laughing!”
“Oh,” said Mildred in a different tone, “I—that is, I was only thinking
of _love in a cottage_. I am not afraid of being poor; I can work too.”
“Ah, yes; but being poor in Boston, where you have the largest public
library in the world, and the free Lowell lectures, and a glorious
symphony concert now and then for only fifty cents, is one thing; and to
be poor here, to stand at the washtub, and to scrub and clean and bake
and mend, is quite another. There would be little call here for the work
which you love and can do so well. These rough, hard-working men have
little time or inclination to hear of Goethe or Dante.
“It would be cruel for me to let these soft, white hands grow hard and
rough, to let your life which elsewhere could be so rich run to waste
here.”
“Would it not be far more cruel,” asked Mildred tenderly, “to keep me
from the man I love?”
“Mildred dear, I am awake,” I tried to say, for through my bewildered
brain the meaning of all this had begun to penetrate, and I realized for
the first time that I had been hearing what was too sacred for any other
ears than those of Mildred and her lover, Ralph Everett.
But the words choked in my throat, there was only an inarticulate
murmur, and the voices ceased.