THE WANDERER.
What exile from himself can flee!
The zones, though more and more remote,
Still, still pursue, where’er I be,
The blight of life, the curse of thought.
BYRON.
I depart.
Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by
When lessening or nearing shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
BYRON.
There was nothing now to detain Valdimir Desparde in New York, whence
the restlessness of misery urged him to move.
From Mercer street he went back to his hotel, wrote a hasty letter to
his “friend,” Brandon Coyle, instructing him to address his next
communication to Jonathan Adams, General Post-Office, New Orleans,
posted it and then packed his valise for his journey.
Later in the day he went again to the house of Mrs. Donald, and on this
second visit he was so fortunate as to see Annek, whom the prospect of
starting immediately to her brethren had inspired with new life.
The young woman had somewhat recovered from the shock of her
bereavement, and she seemed less sullen, despairing and ungrateful.
She expressed herself ready and eager to proceed on her journey, at any
hour, by land or by water, as the kind “laird” deemed best.
“The steamer _Creole_ leaves at six o’clock this evening for New
Orleans. We will take passage by her, if you like,” said the young
gentleman, kindly.
“Sure and I would rather, laird, an you please,” she said.
And thus it was arranged.
A dray was engaged to take Annek’s effects down to the boat, where Mr.
Desparde agreed to meet her an hour before the ship was to sail.
Meanwhile he went down to the office of the steamer and engaged a
comfortable berth in the ladies’ cabin for the woman and child, and a
state room in the saloon for himself.
At the appointed hour he met her on the boat, and gave the stewardess an
extra fee to take her to her berth, and to make her comfortable during
the voyage.
Annek had invested a part of the money advanced to Mrs. Donald for her
use in buying a decent mourning outfit, and had changed her picturesque
Skol costume of scarlet skirt, black jacket, and gray plaid, for a
sombre widow’s suit of black serge gown and sack, and black crape
bonnet.
This effected a perfect transformation in the young woman’s appearance.
As soon as he had provided for the comfort of his poor protégée,
Valdimir Desparde lighted a cigar and walked aft, to stand and watch the
receding piers of the city as the boat steamed off from her pier.
Annek did not reappear on deck that evening. He saw no more of her until
they met at supper in the saloon, where it happened that they sat on the
same side, but at opposite ends of the table. And these seats they kept
during the whole of the voyage.
After supper the young woman returned to the cabin and Mr. Desparde to
the deck without their having exchanged a word together.
And as the same circumstances happened at every meal, it followed, of
course, that these compatriots and fellow-passengers saw very little of
each other until the end of the voyage.
The _Creole_ arrived at New Orleans on the morning of the seventh day
out.
Mr. Desparde was early on deck watching for the appearance of Annek.
The young woman came up at last, with her baby on one arm and a big
basket on the other.
“Good morning, Annek. Here we are. Most of our fellow-passengers have
gone on shore, but you can get breakfast on board if you choose, and I
would advise you to do so, while I go out and find your people. Tell me
again their names and their places of business,” said the young man, as
he joined the girl.
“Ou, you winna leave me my lane on the boat, laird? I suld be sae sair
frighted to be left my lane!” she objected.
“Oh, come now, my good Annek, you were not frightened to cross the ocean
alone, why should you be afraid to stay here for an hour while I go and
look up your friends?” he remonstrated.
“Will you coom back sune, laird?”
“Yes, just as soon as possible. Tell me the names of your brothers, and
where they live.”
“Ou, it’s just Alek Yok and Jans Yok, and they are i’ the tobacco
trade.”
“Yes,” said the young man, taking note-book and pencil from his pocket
and writing down these names; “but now for their places of business.”
“Eh! sure it ’s here—i’ this city—N’ Orleans they bide.”
“But New Orleans is a great city, my girl. I want you to tell me the
street they live on.”
“The street, is it? Ou, thin, I dinna ken the street. Ou, wae ’s me an’
I suldna find my brithers after a’!” exclaimed the young woman, in
dismay.
“Don’t be frightened. If you do not know their address, I have only to
look in a city directory to find it out. There, go get your breakfast,
and then stay down in the cabin with the stewardess, and do not leave
the boat, on any pretext whatever, until I return for you.”
“Ay, laird; but will ye be sure to coom back?” inquired the girl, in
some trouble.
“Why, of course. Here, you see, Annek, I will leave my valise with you
as a pledge,” said Desparde, smiling at the thought of having to give
security for his good faith to this peasant woman from the Shetlands.
“Eh! then, I dinna want your bag, laird. It is na that. It’s fearsome I
am to lose sight of you,” said Annek, feeling a little ashamed of
herself for her injurious doubt.
Nevertheless Desparde left his valise in her charge, as much for his own
convenience as for her satisfaction.
Then he went on shore and walked into the city, and stopped at the first
drug store he came to for the purpose of consulting a directory.
There he found what he sought:
A. & J. YOK, tobacconists, 7 Leroy Place.
He turned next to the street directory and found that Leroy Place was
quite at the other end of the city—a good three miles off.
He thanked the obliging druggist who had let him consult the directory,
and went out to get a hack. He was fortunate in seeing an empty one
passing the door.
He hailed it, jumped in, gave the order to Leroy Place and was soon
bowling through the principal streets of the city, out towards the
obscure suburb honored by the Messrs. Yok’s enterprise.
A half hour’s rapid ride brought him to Leroy Place, a locality that,
like “Royal Hotels” and “Imperial Saloons,” sadly bewrayed its regal
name. It was a short and narrow street of small shops and humble
tenementhouses.
About half down the street, on the right-hand as the hack approached,
stood the little two-story red brick house occupied by the brothers Yok
as a shop and a dwelling. The figure of a Highlander usurped the place
usually occupied by the Indian Chief.
Here the hack drew up, and Desparde alighted and walked into the shop.
A tall, raw-boned, red-bearded lad “o’ the land o’ cakes” stood behind
the counter.
“What will ye hae, sir?” inquired this canny Scot, seeing that the
stranger gave no order.
“Is Mr. Alek or Jan Yok in?” asked Desparde.
“I am maister Jan, at your bidding, sir.”
“I have brought you news of your sister,” said Desparde.
Jan Yok was interested in a moment.
“Sit ye doon, sir, an you please,” he said, handing a chair over the
counter, of which Desparde immediately availed himself. “Of Ann’k, sir?
The lass was married when we haired frae her last—that will be sune
after the feyther and mither wint to their rest, Gude keep ’em! about
twa years sin’! And hoo is Ann’k an it please you, sir?”
“She is well; but I have sad news to tell of her,” replied Desparde.
“Ou, ay, it wull tak na Solomon to tell what that wull be! It wull be
the auld, auld story! She wull be suffering frae want! I kenned it! I
kenned it! When I haird the auld fowks had gane, I wrote for her to coom
oot till us and we would tak’ care of her; but she had married her lad,
and noo they are a’ in want! I kenned it, sir. I kenned it! But wha be
you, sir, an you please, wha tak sae muckle interest intil the lass?”
“I am one who was an intimate friend of the Earl of Altofaire and a
frequent guest at Castle Skol, and knew Annek from her childhood,”
evasively answered Desparde, who did not choose to give his real name
and did not wish to give a false one there.
“Eh, then, you kenned the auld pleece?” exclaimed the Scot, his healthy
red face in its frame of red hair and beard lighting up with joy at the
sight of one who knew “the auld pleece.”
“Yes, but I must tell you of your sister. Her case is not just what you
suppose, or rather I fear it is much worse. Are we liable to
interruption?”
“Na, not sae muckle at this hour. What’s amiss wi’ Annek, sin’ she is
weel and nae in want?”
“I will tell you,” said Desparde. And he began, and as briefly as
possible he told the short, sad story of Annek’s marriage, maternity,
widowhood, emigration to New York, and voyage to New Orleans.
The brother listened with deep interest and sympathy.
“Eh, puir lass! puir lass! sae young to be burthened wi’ a bairn, and
widowed in a foreign land; though for the matter o’ that, it is better
for her to be here, sir—muckle better! But what wad she hae dune an she
had na found a guid freend in you, sir?”
“I was glad to be of some service to the poor girl,” quietly replied the
young gentleman.
“And she will be on board the _Creole_ waiting for us noo, sir?”
“Yes, she is in the care of the stewardess, who seems to be a good
woman. I have a carriage at the door, and will take you or any member of
the family you would like to send.”
“I will go, sir, as soon as my brother Alek cooms to tak my pleece,”
said Jan, turning to attend a customer—an old woman who came for a
cent’s worth of snuff.
“Where is your brother?” at length inquired Valdimir.
“At breakfast, doon in the kitchen, and a long time he is taking over
it. I’ll just step to the head of the stairs and call him,” said Jan,
leaving the shop by a side door, and shouting:
“Alek! Alek! Coom here! Here’s grawnd news frae hame!”
A sound of many rushing footsteps was heard, and a crowd, headed by
another tall, raw-boned, high-cheeked florid-faced and red-bearded
Skolman, came rushing after Jan into the shop. These were Alek Yok, his
wife Sona, and his four red-haired lads, of ages ranging from nine to
thirteen.
“Wull, what is it, then?” inquired Alek.
“This gentleman brings us news of Annek; her guid mon is gane, and she
hae coom acrass the seas till us. She will be at the steamboat landing
noo, waiting for ane of us to go and fetch her!” said Jan putting the
story of his sister in a nutshell.
A chorus of exclamations and a crowd of questions demanded details, but
Jan cut them all short by saying:
“An ye’ll gae behint the coonter and mind shop, Alek, I’ll get me a cup
av coffee and pit an ait cake in my pocket, and gae along wi’ this
gentleman to fetch her.”
And without waiting for an answer he hurried down stairs, where he
dispatched his morning draught so quickly that he returned to the shop
in three minutes and announced himself ready to go with the gentleman.
They entered the hack, and were driven rapidly back to the steamboat,
where they found Annek sitting in the midst of her luggage, with her
baby in her arms.
There was not much of a scene. The natives of Skol are not so
demonstrative as some of their neighbors.
Jan took her hand and said:
“Hoo is it wi’ ye, lass?”
And kissed her quietly.
Annek cried a little.
Then the attention of both was drawn to the baby.
“Dinna greet, lass. I’m no marrit mysel’ and forehanded, wi’ naebody
depending upo’ me, sae I can be a feyther to the bairn. Eh! he’ll find
kinsmen eno’ wi us! Four braw lads as ever ye set een on, Ann’k, forby
the brither and the guid wife. Eh! we are unco gled to welcome ye,
lass.”
With these and other words of affection Jan cheered his sister, and soon
arranged for the transport of her effects to her new home.
“We a’ leeve thegither, ye ken lass, but there’s room eno’ and to spare
for yoursel’ and the bairn. And hoo did ye lave the guid fowk at haime,
Annek?”
So chatting, the brother put the sister and her child on a spring wagon
laden with her luggage and prepared to start with her for Leroy Place.
On taking leave of her benefactor, Annek had the grace to thank “the
laird” for his protection of her.
As they drove slowly off between piles of freight on the pier, Desparde
heard this question and answer between the brother and sister.
“Wha’s yon gentleman, ony gait? De’il hae me if I know his neeme yet!”
“Oo, I dinna ken. We ay called him ‘the laird.’ He will be ane of the
Montjoies, I’m thinking. He was alang o’ the auld airl at the castle.”
And they drove out of hearing.
Desparde, who had not yet dismissed his carriage, now re-entered it and
ordered the driver to take him to the St. Boniface Hotel, where he
registered his name as Jonathan Adams, New York, engaged a room and
ordered breakfast.
This dispatched, he walked out on his first investigation around the
city. In that crowded metropolis, where he knew no living creature
except the poor woman and child whom chance had made his
fellow-passengers, and her humble relatives from whom he had just now
parted, a feeling of unutterable loneliness, desolation and
home-sickness came over him. An impulse to hurry back to his native
country as fast as steam could take him, and see his friends again, at
any cost to his pride or his principles, tempted him so sorely as to
rouse his soul into a tumult; his only remedy was to throw himself into
some active employment that should absorb all his thoughts. The very
errand that had brought him to the Crescent City—the desire to
investigate his hidden family history, with all the details of the
ghastly tragedy that had ruined his life, morbid as that desire was,
furnished the employment he sought.
He determined to begin his investigation that very day, by going to all
the public libraries, where files of newspapers were kept, and looking
over those of that fatal month and year in which the crime was committed
and expiated.
He first purchased a city directory to have constantly at hand, to find
the places he desired to visit.
Instructed by that guide he went to the Blankonian Library, the largest
as well as the oldest in the city. There he asked of the assistant
librarian the privilege of examining the files of city papers for the
month of July in the year 18—.
He was conducted by a clerk to the alcove where they were preserved and
then left to his search.
Ah! too soon for his peace he came to a copy of the same paper that had
been shown him by Brandon Coyle on that fatal day of his flight.
There again he recognized the ghastly headlines the first sight of which
had stricken him down insensible and unconscious as the fabled head of
Gorgon was said to have slain her beholder:
“THE EXECUTION OF THE QUADROON SLAVE, VALDIMIR DESPARDE, FOR THE MURDER
OF HIS MASTER.”
On this occasion he nerved himself to read the whole revolting narrative
from beginning to end—and even the supplementary remarks of the editor,
adding that a manuscript confession, containing the wonderful history of
this “incarnate fiend’s” career of crime in the United States, in
Canada, and in the West Indies, was in the hands of his spiritual
director and would be immediately given in pamphlet form to the public.
While reading all the details of the last day on earth and the execution
of the great criminal, a subtle doubt, like a first gleam of light
striking into a dungeon, or a first ray of hope rising upon a soul
overwhelmed in despair, entered the mind of Valdimir Desparde—a doubt
whether the demon who bore his family name was really a member of his
family at all.
True, all the circumstances pointed to the hanged felon as the father
of Valdimir and Vivienne. These circumstances have been related in a
former chapter and need not be recapitulated here—they were
overwhelming—convincing; they had driven our unhappy young exile from
his home, his country, his friends, and his promised bride.
But now that he read the story of the crime and the execution in detail,
there was a subtile something running through the narrative that seemed
to contradict them, conclusive as they were.
“These are facts, _facts_,” said Valdimir Desparde to himself—“but I
divine the possibility of a truth, a key that may explain them all away.
If I could only get hold of that confession said to contain the true
autobiography of the man.”
He turned to the papers immediately following the one containing the
account of the execution, and there again he found a clew to what he
sought. It was in the advertising column of new publications, and it
read as follows, in sensational type and notes of admiration:
“Ready! Ready!! Ready!!! The Wonderful Life and Adventures of John Sims,
the Quadroon Slave, alias Valdimir Desparde, Gentleman, who was Executed
for the Murder of his Master. With a Portrait.”
“‘_John Sims?_’” murmured the young gentleman to himself, as the doubt
born of his first reading grew into large proportions. “‘John Sims?’ Was
that the man’s name? And was the other only an alias! If so, how came he
by it? And under which name did he marry—our—Heaven! I cannot believe
it! I must find that confession and learn the whole truth, or I shall go
mad. This doubt is worse than any certainty.”
With the paper in his hands, he went again to the librarian, and
pointing to the advertised pamphlet, he inquired:
“Is there a copy of _this_ in your collection?”
The polite librarian took the paper, glanced at the title of the work
indicated, and then raised his eyes in simple wonder to the refined and
intellectual face of the gentleman who had called for such a rank
specimen of the literature of the gutter, and replied:
“_That!_ Certainly not, sir! We do not lumber our shelves with such very
objectionable garbage as that!”
“I beg your pardon,” said Valdimir Desparde, flushing and turning away,
fully conscious of the false step he had taken, the offense he had given
in asking for such a work in so select a library—the possibility of
which he had forgotten in the eagerness of his pursuit.
“He is some ‘Variety’ playwright, I presume, looking for sensational
material,” said the librarian to himself. Then feeling some compunction
for the severity of his speech to the stranger, he spoke up and said:
“I think the most likely places where to procure the work you want, sir,
will be the second-hand book-stores and the old book-stands, of which
you may find any number scattered throughout the city.”
“I thank you, sir,” replied young Desparde, with a courteous bow; and
then, having replaced the files of newspapers in their places, he left
the library with the intention of following the librarian’s advice.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]