OUR EXILE.
Oh, unexpected stroke, worse than of death!
Must I then leave thee, Paradise? Thus leave
Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades,
Fit haunt of gods?
MILTON.
Yes, yes! from out the herd, like a marked deer,
They drive the poor distraught! The storms of heaven
Beat on him; gaping hinds stare at his woe;
And no one stops to pray Heaven speed his way.
BAILLIE.
We must now take up the story of our exile, Valdimir Desparde, and
briefly relate what had happened to him in the interval between that
despairful day on which, self-banished, he left his native land and that
hopeful one on which he embarked to return.
He took passage on the _Arizona_, that sailed from Liverpool on the
third of June.
To avoid the possibility of meeting any acquaintance, he took a berth in
the second cabin, and secluded himself within his state room, where,
under the plea of illness, which his pale and haggard countenance
verified, and by the payment of an extra stipend to the steward, he had
his slender meals served him.
Only at night did he venture forth to take a little exercise and breathe
a little fresh air by pacing up and down the then forsaken and almost
solitary deck.
Often, at such hours, with the lonely, starlit sky above, and the
lonely, restless sea beneath, the temptation to suicide strongly beset
him.
To take one plunge! To leave this world of anguish and despair and enter
the other world of—_what_?
He had no fears of that other world—none whatever. So it was no craven
terror that withheld him from “rushing unbidden” into the life beyond
this. But he had the loyalty of a faithful soldier at his post—the
loyalty that would stay and suffer until his Lord should see fit to
relieve him.
It is in hours like these of fierce suffering and fiercer temptation
that the power of a religious training is manifested.
And he suffered a living death in the keenly conscious loss of all he
loved and valued on this earth—reputation, home, country, friends and
bride! What words can portray his desolation? His very great strength to
live and endure did but intensify and prolong his agony.
And still Valdimir Desparde secluded himself in his state room during
the day, and walked the deck during the night. And still the woful days
and sleepless nights went on, and finally brought the ship into port in
the gray of the morning on the fifteenth of the month.
“She’s landed, sir, and the passengers are all getting up and preparing
to go on shore,” said the voice of the steward, as he officiously rapped
at the door of Desparde’s state room.
Valdimir Desparde arose, dressed himself, packed his valise, and came
out on deck.
It was scarcely light, yet many of the passengers were already up and
dressed, and crowding to the side of the ship where the gang-plank had
been laid.
“So this is the new world! Not so very unlike the old world! And both at
this hour and on this scene not unlike one of the visions in Dante’s
Inferno,” said Desparde to himself as he gazed.
Certainly he had not seen the new world for the first time under the
best auspices.
He crossed the gang-plank and stood on the crowded and noisy pier, where
stevedores were already engaged in unloading the ship and piling up the
freight.
A human being more lonely, more desolate, more miserable and despairing
than our exile could scarcely be found on this sin and sorrow-laden
earth. He had no farther interest in this world—no single object to live
for. He scarcely knew where next he should bend his steps. It would have
been well for him then if he had been compelled to labor for his next
meal; if the pangs of absolute hunger with impending famine could have
driven him to occupation. But he had a thousand pounds sterling in his
valise, so that wholesome necessity to work was not upon him.
There were but two possibilities he anticipated with any sort of
interest—the first was the receipt of that promised letter from Brandon
Coyle—“honest, _honest_ Iago!”—which should give him the latest news of
his beloved, his forsaken, his forever-forfeited bride! but he did not
know or even ask himself whether he looked forward to this with more of
desire or—despair! The other one was his visit to New Orleans and
investigation of the old domestic tragedy whose discovery had ruined his
life—an investigation from which he shrank with feelings of the most
intense horror and repugnance, yet towards which he was forced by some
occult, irresistible impulse.
He determined to wait in New York city until he should have received and
answered that letter, and then to set out for that southern city on his
weird errand to “open the ghastly charnel-house” of that dread tragedy
for what further discoveries it might reveal.
But at the present moment he scarcely knew whither to direct his steps.
He thought he would hide himself for a few days, until the arrival of
his letter, in some obscure but decent public house, where no Englishmen
of his rank or acquaintance would be likely to meet him.
But where to find a public house which was at once obscure and
respectable, was a difficult question.
While he was turning over the subject in his mind, his ears were saluted
by a voice of wailing—a voice of lamentation and great mourning, in the
dear, familiar accents of the “North Countrie.”
“Ou, ou, wae’s me!” it cried; “wae’s me, my bonny bairn, what sal we do,
wi’ naebody here to mit us! Wae’s me! wae’s me!”
Desparde turned and saw a young woman in the Shetland peasant’s dress,
short full plaid skirt, black bodice and white cap, standing amidst her
bundles on the pier and holding a baby in her arms. On closer view she
was a very handsome woman of the Juno type of beauty, tall, finely
proportioned, full-formed, with a well-shaped head, gracefully set upon
a stately neck, regular, noble features; fair, blooming complexion, with
large, clear blue eyes and wavy yellow hair.
Desparde’s casual glance became a fixed look, as he exclaimed, in
amazement;
“Why, Annek! Annek Yok! This is never _you_, lass!”
The young woman raised her head and stared at him with her wide open,
great blue orbs for a full minute before she answered:
“Indeed and it is, then, laird, just mysel’ and nae ither! But is it
yoursel’, then, laird, that I see before my een? And is it your bridle
tower, and _where is my bonny Leddy Arielle_?”
As the young woman put this question she sat down on her largest bundle
to recover her breath.
Desparde, still amazed at the presence of this girl, whom he had known
from her childhood as the daughter of a fisherman at Skol, and a special
favorite with Lady Arielle Montjoie, did not answer her question, but
put another:
“Why, how came you here, of all places in the world, Annek? Who is with
you? Where are you going? What are you waiting here on the pier for?”
“Ou, sure I cam i the ship there, by, and there’s naebody wi’ me,
barring the bairnie, and I’m waiting for my guid mon; but he does na
come! But _where’s my leddy_?” inquired the girl, returning to the
previous question.
“Then you are married, Annek?” said Desparde, evading the necessity of
giving her a direct reply.
“Marrit, is it? Ou, ay, laird! Dinna ye see for yoursel’ I am marrit?—
Bless the bairnie—” exclaimed the young mother, suddenly breaking off in
her discourse, and stooping to kiss her child. “Ay, laird, I’m marrit;
and sure I’m thinking ye’ll be marrit yoursel’ and on your bridle tower,
and _where is the bonnie bride_?” persisted the young woman.
“Who did you marry, Annek?”
“E’en just a guid mon and true! Ye mind Eric Lan, wha warked under the
gardener at the castle?”
“Yes, I remember him—a fine young fellow.”
“Weel, it is just him I marrit, eighteen months ago, come the first o’
next month, laird. But where’s my bonny leddy a’ this time?”
“Where is your husband, Annek?”
“Eh, thin in N’yark somewhere. I writ him to mit me here, and I’m
waiting for him noo. Eh! laird, but I was frighted to stand here my lane
in a strange country, and naebody to mit me! But when I saw ye, laird, I
kenned weel that ye’d no let ony ill come till me! Noo, then, _where’s
the bonny bride, laird_?”
“Did you come over in the _Arizona_?”
“Ay, sure, laird! That ship lying there, by! I cam i’ the steerage,
laird! Eh! but the saysickness tuk me aff my feet the first wick! And
‘deed, liard, ye dinna luke that weel yoursel’! Ye will ha’ been saysick
yoursel’! And aiblins the bonny leddy is saysick hersel that I dinna see
her! _Where is my leddy?_”
“Annek, I think you had better not sit here. The pier is very damp and
the air is very unwholesome. It is not good for you or your child that
you should stay here any longer,” said Desparde.
“Where will I gae, then laird? Sure I’m waiting for my gud mon to come
and mit me, and frighted anoo I was to be standin’ my lane here in a
strange country till I saw you, laird! And then I kenned I was safe, ony
gait! And ye’ll be on your bridle tower, laird, and where is the bonny
bride?”
“Annek, my lass, since you must wait here I will not leave you until
your ‘guid mon’ comes,” said Desparde, taking his seat on a deal box at
her side. “So now you may employ the time in telling me about your
marriage and your emigration to this country.”
“Ay, that I will, laird! Eric and me were troth-plighted lang sine, but
we didna think to get marrit sae sune, but ye maun ken, laird, that my
puir auld feyther got drooned in a squall, when he was awa in the boat—”
“Your father was drowned! I am very sorry to hear it, my poor Annek.”
“Ou, ay! It waur the fishermon’s risk and the fishermon’s fate, laird,
but the auld mither was puirly, laird, and she took it sae sare to hairt
that wi’ the cough and wi’ the sorrow she pined awa’ and dee’d, and I
was left my lane.”
“My poor, dear lass!” exclaimed Desparde, for the moment forgetting his
own sorrows in those of the girl.
“Ou, ay, it was waefu’! And ye ken, laird, the Word says it is na guid
for mon to be alane, and sure nae mair is it guid for a puir lass to
live alane in her sheeling when the feyther and the mither hae gane till
their Heavenly hame.”
“I am sure it could not have been,” assented Desparde.
“Sae ye ken, laird. Eric cam’ and took me before the priest, and we were
marrit and cum hame to live i’ the auld sheeling thegither, and we gaed
on weel enoo for the first year, laird; but then the bairn cam and took
a’ Eric’s savings, and the wark give oot i’ the gairden, and as ye ken,
laird, there’s nae muckle chance o’ making a living at Skol, ance
fortune taks a turn agen ane.”
“I know,” said Desparde, sympathetically.
“Eh, but we struggled haird to live before we pairted; but at lang last
my puir lad said he had better gang while he could; so he left the lave
of his bit money wi’ me and got a cast in a fisher’s boat ower to
Dunross, and then he trampped doon to Glasgow and shipped as a seaman
for the voyage to N’yark.”
“Ay?” said Desparde, seeing that she had paused for breath.
“Ay, laird, and it was months before I heard of him. Then cam a letter
wi’ guid news. He had got wark on the public roads at a dollar and
seventy five cents a day, wilk be seven shillings of our money, and as
muckle as he could mak in a week at hame—and he said as sune as he could
save eneugh for my passage out wi’ the bairn he would send me the money
in a bill o’ changes—whilk he did, laird, about four wicks sin’, and ye
may weel believe I didna let the grass grow under my feet till I got the
eight go’den guineas for that bill o’ changes. Eh, the beauties! I
hardly thought the airl at the castle himsel’ had sae muckle money as
that luked like. Eh, but it cost wan o’ the beauties to tak me to
Liverpool, and sax to buy my ticket in yon pig-sty of a steerage, and
noo I hae got but wan beauty left.”
“Did your husband know that you would come by the _Arizona_?”
“Ou, ay! The preest writ til him, for me, to mit me at the landing whin
the ship got in, and it’s him I’m waiting for noo.”
“But, my good girl, the ocean steamers, which are so regular on their
day of sailing, are by no means certain in their days of arrival. Your
good man may not know that the _Arizona_ is in. A man cannot _live_ on
the pier waiting for a ship, you know. And _you_ are staying too long
here for your good. Don’t you know where in this great city your husband
lodges? If you do, I could take you to his place,” said Desparde,
kindly.
“Eh, laird! would ye tak sae muckle trouble? ‘Deed I was i’ the right
nae to be freighted langer when I seed ye, laird!” exclaimed Annek, with
grateful glee.
“Then let me have Eric’s address,” said Valdimir.
“Is it where he lodges?”
“Yes, where he lodges.”
“It will be on the bit letter. Here! I hae keepit it neist my hairt a’
this time,” said the young woman, drawing out a large, clumsy document
from the bosom of her dress and handing it to Desparde.
He unfolded the letter and turned at once to the front page.
“One hundred and—something Mercer street. I cannot make out the two last
figures, but no doubt we can find the house,” said the young gentleman.
“Where will Mercy street be, then, laird?” inquired Annek.
“I do not know. I will call a cab and put you into it, and direct the
driver to take us there. We can store your traps until you can send for
them.”
“Vera weel, laird,” said the young woman, with a grateful courtesy.
Desparde beckoned a porter with a handcart, and engaged him to carry
Annek’s goods and chattels to a warehouse and store them, and then to
send a cab.
Fifteen minutes later Desparde placed Annek and her child in a hack and
took his seat by her side, after directing the driver to go to Mercer
street.
As the hack rolled off it was watched by two wharf loafers, who were
leaning up against a pile of boxes and smoking short pipes.
“If that young gent isn’t Valdimir Desparde, then he’s his double,
that’s all,” said one.
“Who? He that has gone off in the hack with that handsome young
Irishwoman he’s been talking to?” inquired the other.
“Yes; but she’s not Irish—she’s Scotch. Didn’t you hear her talk?”
“Not I. I was looking at her, not listening to her. By Jove! what a
handsome creature she is! Is she his wife, do you think?”
“If she _is_, it is a runaway match, and that is why they have come out
here.”
“You knew them in the old country, then!”
“I knew _him_! I should rather think I did! My father is bailiff of the
Honeythorn estate in his neighborhood.”
“Is he a gentleman, then?”
“Rather! he is the heir of a title and estate.”
“And you think he has ran away with and married—_that girl_? WHEW!!”