A SHOCK.
Heart-rending news and dreadful to those few
Who her resemble and her steps pursue;
That death should license have to rage among
The good, the strong, the loving, and the young.
WALLER.
Faith builds abridge across the gulf of death,
To break the shock blind nature cannot shun,
And lands thought smoothly on the other shore.
YOUNG.
While this conversation was going on between the two loiterers on the
pier, the unconscious objects of their comments were driving rapidly
towards Mercer street.
Arrived at that unsavory thoroughfare, the horses slackened speed, while
the driver began to scan the figures over each door.
They drove very slowly, and by dint of questioning policemen and
comparing notes over the hieroglyphic figures in the address at the head
of poor Eric’s letter, they were at length directed to a large,
three-storied brick building in a rather dilapidated condition, occupied
as a boarding-house and patronized principally by Scotch laborers.
Here the carriage drew up and Desparde offered to get out and make
inquiries.
“Na, na, laird, let me gae too! D’ye think I can stay behint a minute
and my ain guid mon i’ the hoose? Na, na, I’ll gae wi’ you!” exclaimed
Annek, hurrying from the carriage and joining Desparde as he walked up
the ricketty front steps between the half dozen ragged boys and girls
that roosted thereon.
“Does Eric Lan live here?” inquired Desparde of the oldest child, a
bright-looking girl of about twelve years of age.
“Eric Lan?” echoed the girl, with sudden gravity clouding over her sunny
face.
“Yes! Eric Lan! Does he live here?”
“Na, he’s deed!” said the girl, solemnly.
“He’s deed!” echoed the other children, gathering around the inquirer.
“What—what do they say?” faltered Annek, clutching the coat of Desparde
with one hand while she clasped her child with the other.
“Heaven help us, I don’t know what they say.”
“He’s deed! he’s deed! and they put him i’ the Potter’s Field,” repeated
the children, with addition.
“Ou, laird! laird! It is na true! It was na him! It was another mon! He
could na dee, ye ken, he was sae tall and strong! He could na dee and me
coming out till him!” gasped poor Annek, clinging to her child with one
arm and to the coat of her only friend with the other.
“My poor girl! Here comes the landlady, I think She will tell us,” said
Desparde, kindly.
“Wha are ye speering for?” inquired a stout and florid dame of about
fifty years, as she came up to the door, wiping her large, red hands on
a dingy white apron.
“Eric Lan. Can you tell us—” began Desparde, but the landlady cut him
short with an exclamation.
“Eric Lan! Gude guide us! Erie Lan is deed! He dee’d, puir mon— Hech,
lass! Dinna drap the bairn! Luik till her, sir!” exclaimed the landlady,
breaking off from her story and catching the baby from the failing hands
of the young mother.
“She was his wife,” said Desparde, as he supported her head upon his
shoulder, and looked around for some chair or sofa upon which to lay
her.
“Eh! puir young thing! I kenned he expectit her. It’s hard. It’s unco
hard. Bring her intil the house, sir,” said the landlady, leading the
way to a room on the same floor, wherein was a bed.
“Lay her doon here, sir, and I’ll fetch something to bring her too,”
said the woman.
But poor Annek had not swooned. She had lost power, but not
consciousness.
“Na, na,” she gasped, “I will na lay doon. Sit me here, laird,” she
said, as she left his hold and tottered and dropped into a dilapidated
old easy-chair.
Desparde stood over it watching her.
The landlady came in with the baby in her left arm, and half a glass of
whiskey in her right-hand.
“Here, tak this, lass. It will pit some life intil ye. It’s the rale
guid whiskey,” she said, putting the glass to Annek’s lips.
The poor girl took a swallow, that in its turn took her breath. And then
she said:
“Tell me a’. When did my Eric dee?” And then she suddenly broke down and
burst into a passion of tears and sobs, swinging herself back and forth,
and crying between her gasps and catches:
“Ou, my Eric! my Eric! Why did ye iver gae and leave me? Ou, why did ye
dee and leave me? Why did ye no tak me wi’ ye? Ou, my Eric! my ain lad!
Wad I hae deed wi’ ye, my Eric!”
And so she continued, rocking her body to and fro, sobbing, weeping,
crying and exclaiming after the noisy manner of her kind.
Meanwhile the poor baby began to wail and fret, and the kindly
Scotchwoman walked it up and down the floor to quiet it, and finally
carried it out of the room to feed it and put it to sleep.
Valdimir Desparde could not find it in his heart to leave the poor
afflicted young creature before him. He had known her from the time she
was a little, toddling, bare footed bairn in her father’s cot at Skol.
He had seen her nearly every summer while spending the heated term with
the Earl and Countess of Altofaire and Lady Arielle Montjoie at Skol. He
had seen her grow from childhood to womanhood under the eyes of her
venerable lord and lady. He had known her ill-fated young husband almost
as long and as well as he had known herself. Now he deeply sympathized
with her, and he resolved to do all that in him lay to soothe her sorrow
and relieve her wants.
He watched her violent paroxysm of grief in silent sympathy for awhile,
hoping that it would in due time exhaust itself. But seeing no sign of
its abatement he could defer his efforts at consolation no longer.
He drew his chair to her side, took her hand in his, and whispered:
“I wish you to look upon me as a brother, lass. Do not think yourself a
friendless stranger in a strange land, for I will be a friend to you,
Annek. I will send you back to Skol by the next steamer, if you wish to
go. I will send you in the second cabin, so that you will be perfectly
safe and comfortable. I will not leave you, Annek, until I have provided
for your safety and comfort.”
Excessive grief is often very ungrateful, bitterly resenting all
expressions of sympathy, and rudely repulsing all offers of service.
“I dinna want any friends. I want my Eric! Ou, my Eric! Ou, my ain
Eric!” cried the girl, snatching her hand from Desparde’s kindly clasp,
and bursting into more violent sobs and more copious tears.
“Would you like to go back to Skol by the next steamer, Annek?” gently
inquired Desparde.
“Na, na, I dinna want to gang onywhere on this earth! I want to dee! I
want to dee! I want too dee and gae to my own Eric!” she cried, amid
violent gasps that seemed to rend her bosom.
The Scotch landlady now appeared at the door, with the sleeping baby in
her arms; but hearing the uproar of Annek’s lamentations, and fearing it
would awake the sleeper, she turned and took it away again to lay on
some quieter bed.
And then she returned to the room, and going up to the wailing woman
began to essay her plain, commonplace method of consolation.
“Coom, coom, noo, lass! Ye mauna greet sae sair! Ye will be making
yoursel’ ill! Hout noo, ye mauna be fleein’ i’ the face o’ Providence
that gait! Sure, lass, we hae a’ got to dee ane time or anither, and
weel it is for them that are prepared!”
“I wish I was deed mysel’! I wish we were _a’_ deed! I do! I do!” cried
the wild creature, wringing her strong young hands as if she would have
wrung the flesh off their bones.
“Hout, woman, we are na ready to dee. I ken well enoo that I am na. Eh,
but we’ll a’ gae when our time coomes, na fear o’ that! But stap
greeting! ‘Deed and ye’ll mak’ yoursel’ ill.”
“Let me alane! I want to be ill? I want to dee! I want to gae to my
Eric! Ou, my ain Eric! Ou, my ain Eric!”
And here she writhed in an accession of convulsive agony that terrified
the good Scotchwoman, who would have again attempted to soothe her had
not Desparde interfered.
“Best not to notice her. This paroxysm must exhaust itself sooner or
later. Come with me out into the passage and tell me how this strong
young man came to die,” he whispered, as he led the way from the room.
“You know him, then, sir?” said the Scotchwoman, as she stood by his
side in the passage.
“Yes, from childhood I knew them both. They were both born and brought
up on the estate of a dear friend,” replied Desparde.
“My Laird Allfair?” put in the Scotchwoman.
“Altofaire. Yes. I suppose poor Eric spoke of his feudal lord,” said
Desparde, with a sad smile.
“Ay, he did, puir lad!”
“Now what was his trouble?” inquired Desparde.
“Ou, just the fever, sir! The tie-foot fever they ca’ it here; though
why they do, or what it has to do wi’ feet, I dinna ken!”
“Was he ill long?”
“Aboot ten days in his bed, sir. He was ta’en doon twa days after he had
sent the money to the puir lass to coom oot till him—though I’m thinking
he had been no that weel for some time before. Eh, sir, he told me it
would be a month before he could see her; but he counted off the days as
they passed until he got so ill as to lose his mind, and then, sir, gin
you will believe me, he thought she was _with_ him, and he talked to
her, off and on, quiet and loving, till he dee’d. Eh, it waur pitiful!”
said the woman, putting up her apron to her eyes.
“Poor fellow! Did he leave any money or effects that might benefit his
widow?” inquired the young gentleman.
“Nay, sir; naught but a few bits o’ claithes. Certain he had sent every
dollar he could rake and scrape to the lass to bring her over, depending
on getting more every day, for he had constant wark at guid wage; but ye
ken he waur took doon and dee’d in about ten days. We behoved to bury
his body i’ the Potter’s Field, puir mon! Has the puir lass ony siller
o’ her ain, sir, do ye ken?”
“I think only a sovereign—about five dollars.”
“Eh, puir bodie! What will she do?” exclaimed the landlady.
“I will provide for her and her child until they return to their country
and friends,” quietly replied Desparde, unconsciously adding to the
structure of circumstantial evidence against himself.
“Eh, sir, that will be unco generous o’ you.”
“Can you accommodate them here until some arrangements can be made to
send them home?” then inquired Desparde, drawing his portemonnaie from
his breast-pocket.
“Ou, ay, sir, sure! She can hae her puir guid mon’s little room, which
is vacant noo,” replied the woman.
“I find I have only English money here. I had forgotten,” said Desparde.
“But in the course of the day I shall change it, and then will pay you
in advance.”
“Had we no better ask the lass if she be willing to bide wi’ me, sir?”
questioned the woman.
“We had better return to her, at any rate, lest she should think herself
deserted,” replied Desparde, as he walked back into the room where Annek
now sat, quiet with the prostration and stupor of grief.
“Annek,” he said, “are you willing to stay here with this kind woman
until you get better, and some arrangements can be made for sending you
back to Skol?”
“I dinna care whaur I bide, or what becomes o’ me,” muttered the girl.
“Then you will stay here for the present?”
“I dinna care.”
“She will stay, sir,” said the woman.
“Then I will go and send her effects. Like many of the emigrants who
come over in the steerage, she has brought a quantity of bundles,” said
Desparde.
And soon after he left the house, entered his hack, drove to a broker’s
office, changed his English sovereigns for American dollars, and then
drove to the warehouse where Annek’s little property had been stored,
paid charges and dispatched it to Mercer street.
It was now near noon; Desparde had not breakfasted, and, for the first
time since he had received that fatal revelation which had broken off
his marriage and ruined his life, Desparde began to feel very hungry.
For the last three weeks he had swallowed a little food every day, not
because he felt the least inclination to eat, but truly from
conscientious motives to keep life in him and not to be guilty of
suicide.
But this morning he had not thought of his own woes for several
consecutive hours, during which he had been walking and driving about,
actively engaged in the sympathetic service of others, and now he wanted
his breakfast, and he stepped into the first respectable-looking
restaurant he saw, and got it.
After this he drove to Mercer street again, to pay the board of his
protégées in advance, as he promised the landlady to do.
He found Annek still sitting in the room where he had left her, quiet
and sullen with grief. Now, however, she had her baby in her arms and
her bundles on the floor around her.
“They hae just come, sir, and I hae na had time to put them awa. She
canna do aught for hersel’, ye ken, sir. She is just dazed like still,
and no wonder, puir bodie!” said the landlady, in explanation.
Desparde called the woman aside and put two ten-dollar bills in her hand
on account, and took a receipt from which he learned for the first time
that the landlady’s name was Jane Donald.
He returned to the side of Annek and said:
“Mrs. Donald, your landlady here, will do everything in her power to
make you comfortable, my poor girl, and I shall not leave New York until
I have made arrangements for your future.”
“An ye could on’y send me and my bairnie after puir Eric, it’s the gait
I would like to gang,” said Annek.
“What is your child’s name Annek?” inquired Desparde, with the kindly
thought of occupying her with talk about the babe.
“What suld it be but Eric, sir, for the daddie o’ him?”
“Oh! it is a boy, then?”
“Of course it is. Would I be calling a lass Eric? What’s come till ye,
laird, to be speering such a question?”
“Dinna be crass, noo. The gentleman’s a guid freend till ye, lass,” put
in Mrs. Donald.
“I dinna want ony freends,” sullenly replied the girl.
“Dinna mind her, sir; she is a bit daft wi’ her troubles,” observed the
landlady.
Desparde again committed the unhappy young widow to the care of Mrs.
Donald, and left the house to find a lodging for himself.
He had lived, so to speak, in his hack all day. His valise and other
small movables were in there. Now the day was drawing to a close, and he
determined to seek rest. But first he drove to the general post-office,
in the very slight hope that he might find there a letter from Brandon
Coyle that might possibly, even though sent a day or two later than the
day of his own embarkation, have arrived by a faster sailing steamer. He
was disappointed, however; there was no letter in the _post restante_
for “_Jonathan Adams_,” the _alias_ he had left with Brandon Coyle.
Then Desparde drove to a quiet, respectable hotel, in a retired street,
where he registered his name as Jonathan Adams, and engaged a room.
Already the reaction was at hand. The spirits of anguish and despair,
that had been exorcised for a brief season by the angel of benevolence,
now took possession of his soul with a hundred-fold power to torment and
destroy.
Under their full influence he retired to his room and wrote that dark
and desperate letter to Brandon Coyle that has been recorded elsewhere.
He rang for a waiter, and sent the letter to be posted and then locked
himself in and spent the dreadful night in walking up and down the
floor, until near morning, when he threw himself, exhausted, on the
outside of his bed and slept until late in the forenoon.
His first care that day was to go to the post-office, where he found a
letter from Brandon Coyle waiting for him. He could not wait to get back
to his hotel before reading it. He went up to an unoccupied window in
the lobby and opened the envelope and read the letter with devouring
interest.
Brandon Coyle had described the scenes that had followed the flight of
Valdimir Desparde, with a mixture of most artful truth and falsehood,
calculated to utterly discourage the exile from ever dreaming of return.
He had portrayed the condition of Lady Arielle Montjoie very plausibly,
describing her as overwhelmed by his departure, but as having
successfully rallied from the shock, until _then_, at the date of the
letter, she seemed quite herself again.
“In three days! To forget me in three days! It is impossible! She puts
it on! For the sake of her aged grandparents, she assumes a gayety she
does not feel! I am sure of it! _I know her heart!_ Yet, oh, my lost
love! ought I not to hope and pray that this letter speaks the truth
that you have forgotten me! But I am human! I am human! And therefore I
am selfish!” inwardly moaned the unhappy young man, as he thrust the
letter in his pocket and left the post-office.
His own woes did not cause him to forget his poor protégées in Mercer
street. He turned his steps thither and found Mrs. Donald busy setting
the dinner-table for her boarders.
Neither Annek nor her child were visible. When Desparde inquired for
them, Mrs. Donald replied that they were lying on the bed up stairs,
adding:
“The puir lass is vera weak fra sae muckle grieving, sir; and I bid her
rest, but I’ll call her doon and ye wish.”
“No, no, I would not disturb her. I only wish to know from her when she
would like to return to her own country, so that I may engage her
passage back,” replied Desparde.
“Eh, sir! she will not hear o’ gaeing back. I sat wi’ her a bit last
night, after she had gane to bed, and tried to comfort her wi’ telling
her how ye would send her hame to her people; but she winna hear of it.”
“But why, for Heaven’s sake?”
“Eh, then, sir, she says she hae na people of her _ain_ in the auld
countrie. They are a’ deed, she says, and the neebor-folks there be too
poor to help her. She’ll na gae back to starve, she says.”
“Then what on earth _does_ she wish to do?” inquired Desparde.
“She tells me she hae twa brithers out by yonder in New Orleans, an’ she
wants to gae to them, if she can sell her bedding and ither plenishing
for enoo money to take her there.”
“To _New Orleans_, did you say?” inquired Desparde in surprise.
“Ou, ay, sir, just to New Orleans, wha she hae twa brithers i’ the
tobacco trade, weel-to-do, forehanded men. I think mysel’ it is the best
thing she can do, sir, an ye wouldn’t mind sending her there instead of
to Scotland.”
“How very strange. I am going to New Orleans, and I will gladly take
charge of the poor woman and child, and see them safe in their kinsmen’s
home. I hope she will be able to start in a day or two. Tell her this,
if you please, Mrs. Donald.”
“Ay, that I will, sir, and the message will carry gladness to the
widow’s heart, an’ she’ll be ready, sir, na fear o’ that!” replied the
kindly Scotchwoman.
And Valdimir Desparde left the house to make preparations to go to New
Orleans, incumbered by a young woman and child, and thus to add another
ton to the weight of circumstantial evidence that was eventually
destined to crush all his hopes.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]