CHAPTER II.
Swiftly the emigrant ship cut the blue waves, boldly her sails wooed the winds, and hearts that had been despondent at parting grew hopeful and buoyant as they neared the promised land.
Port at last; and, with a party of his countrymen, William Leyden sought the far West, and before many months had elapsed, the letters he dispatched to the loved ones at home contained not only assurance of his good fortune, but substantial tokens of the fact; and Mary wrote cheerfully and hopefully, ever looking forward to the time when they would be reunited.
For two years our brave Irishman struggled and toiled. Sometimes his heart would almost fail him when he thought of the ocean that intervened between him and his dearest treasures; but these sad thoughts were not familiar visitants, for unusual good fortune had attended his efforts. By the end of the second year he had cleared and planted several acres of rich, fruitful land, and the first flush of autumn saw the completion of as neat and compact a little dwelling as ever western pioneer could claim. Then went "home" the last letter, glowing with hope and promise, and sending wherewith to defray the expenses of wife and children, who were at length to rejoin him in the land where he had toiled for them so hard and so patiently.
"My heart is so light," Mary wrote to him; "my heart is so light that I can hardly feel myself walkin'; it seems to be flyin' I am all the time. And when I think of how soon I'll be near you, of how short the time till ye'll be foldin' yer arms about me, many and many's the time I'm cryin' for joy. Was there ever a happier woman? And Katie and Mamie haven't forgotten a line o' your face or a tone of your voice; ye'll not know them, Willy, they've grown so tall. My tears are all happy ones now, alanna; my prayers are all thankful ones, asthore machree."
How often Leyden read and reread this letter, its torn and ragged appearance might indicate, and as the intervening days sped by, each seemed longer than the last. Mary and the children were to come direct from New York with a party who also expected to meet friends in the West, and he felt quite easy as to their safety and companionship. But ever and anon, as the time drew near, he half reproached himself that he had not gone to meet them, a pleasure he had only foregone on account of his scanty resources.
At last they were in St. Louis—they would be with him in three days. How wearily those days dragged on. But the beautiful October morning dawned at last; a soft mist hung over the tree-tops, and the balmy breath of the Indian summer threw a subtle perfume over the thick forest and its wide stretch of meadow-land beyond.
It was fifteen miles to the nearest town, and fifteen more to the railway station. The earliest dawn saw William Leyden up and impatient to be away. In company with one of his old neighbors, he took his place in the rough wagon that was to figure so prominently in the "hauling home." About eight o'clock they reached their first stopping-place, where Leyden's friend had some little business to transact that would detain him a short time in the town.
Not caring to accompany him, too restless to sit still in the public room of the tavern, the impatient husband and father wandered into the spacious yard behind the house. A young girl stood washing and wringing out clothes near the kitchen door. Mechanically he took in every feature of the place; the long, low bench over which she leaned; her happy, careless face; her bare, red arms and wrinkled hands; the white flutter of garments from the loosened line; the green grass, where here and there others lay bleaching; the broken pump and disused trough; two or three calves munching the scattered herbage; in the distance a wide, illimitable stretch of prairie.
How well he remembered it all afterward!
As he stood watching her, the girl nodded smilingly and went on with her work. After a while she began to hum softly to herself. Leyden caught the sound, and listened. "What tune is that?" he asked eagerly. "Sing it loud."
"Shure I dunno," the girl answered. "I heard my grandmother sing it many's the time in the ould counthry, and I do be croonin' it over to mysel' sometimes here at my washin'."
"Have you the words of it a', colleen?" he inquired. "I'd give a dale to hear them again. 'Tis the song my own Mary likes best; and, thanks be to God! I'll hear her own sweet voice singin' it shortly. It's to meet her this mornin' I'm goin'—her and the childer, all the way from Ireland; but if ye have the words of it and will sing it for me, I'd like to hear it."
"Ayeh but you're the happy man, this day!" she replied. "I'm not much of a hand at singin', but I believe I have all the words, and I'm shure ye're welcome to hear them as well as I can give them."
With a preparatory cough and a modest little blush, the girl began in a timid voice the familiar melody. It was a sad, dirge-like air, as are so many of that sad, suffering land, "whose children weep in chains."
And yet it was not in itself a mournful song. Ever and anon the glad refrain broke forth exultingly and joyously from the monotone of the preceding notes.
Simple as were the words, they found a welcome in the heart of the listener; and unpretending as they seem written, they may find a like responsive echo in the heart of the Irish reader.
"My love he has a soft blue eye
With silken lashes drooping;
My love he has a soft blue eye
With silken lashes drooping.
Its glances are like gentle rays
From heaven's gates down stooping,
As bright as smiles of paradise, as truthful and serene.
And when they shine upon me, I
Am jewelled like a queen.
"My love he has the fondest heart
That maiden e'er took pride in;
My love he has the fondest heart
That maiden e'er took pride in;
'Twas nurtured in that fair green land
His fathers lived and died in;
He holds us dear, his native land and me his dark Aileen;
And just because he loves me, I am happy as a queen.
"My love he wraps me all around
With his true heart's devotion;
My love he wraps me all around
With his true heart's devotion;
With wealth more rare than India's gold, or all the gems of ocean.
He clothes me with his tenderness, the deepest ever seen,
And while I wear that costly robe, I'm richer than a queen.
"Oh! kindly does he soothe me when
My trust is faint and low;
Oh! kindly does he soothe me when
My trust is faint and low;
My joy is his delight and all
My griefs are his, I know.
In the spring-time he is coming, and I count the days between;
For with such a royal king to rule, who would not be a queen?"
William Leyden wiped the tears from his eyes as the girl concluded the song.
"Thank you, dear. God bless you," he said, "for singin' me Mary's song!"
The next moment he saw his friend advancing toward him, and in another they had resumed their journey.
Not much was said on either side as they rode along. At intervals our hero's heart gave a great throb, almost painful in its joy, and once in a while he made some casual remark; but that was all.
As they neared their destination, they noticed an unusual stir and excitement in the vicinity; and as they approached the depot, they saw knots of men scattered at intervals, apparently engaged in discussing some event that had recently transpired.
"There must have been a fight hereabouts, Will," said his friend; "but as every minute will seem an hour to you now, we'll not stop to ask questions. The train has been in half an hour by this time. I wonder if Mary'll know ye with that great beard?"
Leyden had no time to answer him, for at that moment a man advanced from a crowd that blocked up the road in front of them, and, checking the horses, said quickly, "Can't drive any further. Way up yonder blocked with the wreck."
"What wreck?" exclaimed both men with a single voice. "Haven't heard about it?" he replied. "Down-train, this morning, met the up-train, behind time—collision—cars smashed—fifty or sixty killed—as many wounded—terrible accident—no fault anywhere, of course."
But he checked his volubility at sight of the white face that confronted him, and the strong, convulsive grasp that seized his hand. Then in a softened tone he said,
"Hope you an't expecting no one;" and moved back a pace.
There was no answer; for William Leyden had sprung from the wagon, dashing like a lunatic through the group of men on the road-side, and in an instant had cleared the hundred yards between him and the station.
The crowd that stood upon the platform made way for him as he advanced; for they felt instinctively that he had come upon a melancholy quest, and the man whom he had clutched violently as he asked, "Where are the dead?" pointed to the inner room, where lay the mangled corpses of the victims.
Alas! in a few minutes after he had stepped across the threshold his eye fell upon the corpse of a fair-haired little girl, beside whom, one arm half thrown across the child, a woman lay, with a calm, holy expression on her dead face. Just at her crushed feet, which some merciful hand had covered, the body of another child was lying; but the black, wavy hair had been singed, and the white forehead burned and scarred, and the little hands were quite disfigured.
And they had left the dear old land for this! They had borne poverty and separation, and the weariness of waiting; through lingering days of anticipation they had traversed miles upon miles of dangerous ocean to be dashed, on the threshold of a new life, at the portal of realization, into the pitiless, fathomless abyss of eternity! Ah! no; rather to be gathered into the arms of a merciful God—to be folded close to his heart, for ever and ever. Truly his ways are not our ways, and who can understand them?
In a moment more the husband and father had sunk upon his knees beside the lifeless group; but no words came from his lips save "Mauria, Mauria avourneen, acushla machree." Then he would pass his hands caressingly over the ghastly faces, pressing tenderly and often the little childish fingers in his own, and kissing the scarred and disfigured forehead.
He never knew who it was that bore him away from the dreadful spot; what hands prepared his loved ones for the grave, he never knew, and never asked to know. He only remembered waking momentarily from a stupor on that sad night, and seeing the benevolent face of the priest bending over him, and hearing something he was saying about Calvary and the cross, to which he replied half unconsciously, but with a feeling as though there were angels near him, "God's will be done."
TRANSLATED FROM THE HISTORISCH-POLITISCHE BLATTER.