THE SEARCH.
They who have never warred with misery,
Nor ever tugged with fortune and distress,
Hath had n’ occasion nor a field to try
The strength and forces of his worthiness;
Those parts of judgment which felicity
Keeps as concealed, afflictions must express,
And only men show their abilities,
And what they are, in their extremities.
DANIEL.
The next few days were spent by Valdimir Desparde in hunting the old
book-stands and second-hand book-stores of the city, at every one of
which he inquired for the pamphlet he so much desired to procure; but in
vain.
Many of the venders of literary litter had never even heard of the work
in question, or the man whose career it professed to relate; others,
upon taxing their memories, were enabled to recollect having heard of
the execution, but it was so long ago—so many men had been hanged since
then—that the tragedy had nearly faded from their minds.
Then Desparde offered to each one of these dealers in old books a large
price for a copy of the pamphlet, if they should be so fortunate as to
find one in any of the collections they were in the habit of purchasing,
either at auction or at private sales, and all promised to be on the
lookout for the required work.
Meanwhile much speculation was rife among these “merchants” as to who
this really very refined and intellectual man—this Mr. Jonathan Adams
(most probably of Boston, Massachusetts)—really could be, and what on
earth he could want with such a book. And various were the conclusions
at which they arrived.
One bookseller thought he was a story writer in search of a plot from
real life; another felt sure that he was a lawyer compiling a book of
famous criminal trials, and wanting more facts connected with this
particular case than he could get from the records of the court, or even
from the newspaper files of the period.
But whatever their differences of opinion in regard to his object in
wanting the book, every one honestly sought hard to find it for him.
But the search proved fruitless.
Then one dealer, more enterprising than his fellows, advertised for the
book, and kept the advertisement standing; but when weeks passed without
bringing any response he stopped it.
Then Valdimir Desparde put the same advertisement in all the city
papers, with the determination to keep it there for months if necessary,
until he should find the coveted pamphlet, that seemed to grow more
precious, and more to be desired, with every difficulty and delay he met
with in his search for it.
To find this work seemed now the one object of his life. He had become
quite morbid on the subject. He might have seemed insane upon it, had
not his clear, sound reason told him that he _was_ morbid in attaching
so much importance to the discovery of that pamphlet, and even caused
him to wonder at the power of the sustained impulse that continued to
drive him in the vain pursuit.
We said the finding of that book seemed to be the one object of his
life; but it was not the only source of his anxiety.
He longed to hear from his home—from Arielle!
He had written to Brandon Coyle on the very same day on which he had
embarked from New York for New Orleans. He had given his correspondent
instructions to address his next letter to the general post-office at
New Orleans.
After the first two weeks in the city he had gone daily to the
post-office in hope of getting a letter, but had always been
disappointed.
Then he calculated the time and found that four weeks at least, if not
five, would be required to elapse between the day of his writing from
New York to London and the day when he might reasonably expect an answer
to his letter to reach New Orleans.
So he waited with impatience, but not with anxiety, for two weeks
longer, going every day to the post-office, however, to inquire for a
letter, _in case_ one might have come by a very swift passage. None
came; and at the end of the two weeks he grew very anxious to know what
could have been the cause of the delay.
When he had last heard of Arielle by the letter he had received from
Coyle in New York she had recovered her health and spirits.
He was still engaged in this vain search when, one day, near the middle
of August, he went to the general post-office, as it was his daily
custom to do, and, on inquiry, he received a letter post-marked London,
and directed in the handwriting of Brandon Coyle.
Too impatient to wait until he should get home to his hotel, he withdrew
to a corner of the lobby, and there he opened and read the letter.
It was that letter from Brandon Coyle inclosing the second letter—the
cruel forgery, the combined work of the evil brother and sister, but
purporting to be a genuine letter from Lady Arielle Montjoie to her
friend, Aspirita Coyle, announcing her ladyship’s engagement to a
gentleman “approved” by her grandparents, and it was “forwarded,” wrote
young Coyle, “from a sense of duty to a friend.”
He had but hastily, breathlessly, glanced over Brandon’s letter, and
gathered that the inclosed one was from Arielle to Aspirita, when,
without any forewarning suspicion of its contents, he eagerly opened and
began to read it, thankful to his correspondent for giving him once more
the joy of seeing the beloved handwriting; but when he came to the
following words, his eyes dilated with amazement and his cheeks paled
with despair:
“You say, dear friend, that you have heard the rumor of my betrothal to
a certain party, and you express your surprise that I could so soon have
forgotten one to whom I once seemed to be very strongly attached.
“Let me, in my turn, declare _my_ astonishment that you should even
_name_ that person to me!
“I feel that it would be degrading to me to waste more thought on one
who has proved himself so utterly false, base, treacherous; so I _have_
consented to receive the attentions of a gentleman, approved by my
grandparents as entirely worthy of esteem and affection.
“We are indeed betrothed, and our marriage will come off in a few weeks.
I bespeak you as my first bride’s maid.”
Valdimir Desparde had not read quite so far as this, in the false,
forged letter, before sense and reason were submerged in the rushing
tumult of heart and brain.
The scene seemed to whirl around him and disappear.
So he lost consciousness.
In the crowd that had gathered no one could identify the stranger.
His pockets were searched, but no cards or letters bearing his address
could be found.
Only the envelope of the letter in his hand bore the address: “JONATHAN
ADAMS, Esq., Post-Office, New Orleans.”
So he was put in a spring wagon and taken to the city hospital.
Here he lay, attended by the hospital medical staff, for days in a state
of insensibility, and for weeks too ill to give any account of himself.
When at the end of a month, he was able to answer questions, he gave his
name as Jonathan Adams, and his address.
He also soon requested to be removed from the public ward to a private
room, for which he declared himself able and willing to pay.
His request was complied with, and every comfort and luxury was supplied
him.
Under these improved circumstances his vigorous young manhood
successfully combatted both bodily and mental ills, and he convalesced
slowly but surely.
On the very first day that he was permitted to sit up, and accorded the
use of pen, ink, and paper, he availed himself of the privilege to
answer Brandon Coyle’s false and cruel letter. That answer has been
recorded in a previous chapter of this story, and need not be repeated
here.
One week from the day on which he first sat up, and five weeks from the
day of his entrance into the hospital, he left it, in full health as to
body, though in hopeless sorrow as to soul.
He no longer cared even to pursue his search for the pamphlet once so
earnestly desired.
Why should he care to unravel the mystery, or vindicate himself, now
that Arielle was irretrievably lost to him?
Nothing now seemed left for him to live for; and yet he lived! If ever
“Conscience does make cowards of us all,”
as the great poet declares, it quite as often makes heroes.
If Valdimir Desparde, with happiness destroyed and hope dead, continued
to live on with the prospect of living for half a century longer, he did
so because he felt it to be his duty to the Divine Life-Giver to hold
and guard His gift through sorrow as through joy, through ill report as
through good report, until He should require it at his hands.
It was a great dread to the young man, this stretch of barren, dreary
life into the long future.
But soon a way of escape opened. Before he went into the hospital he had
heard that a few cases of yellow fever—that periodical scourge of the
Gulf States—had appeared in the thickly crowded portions of the city,
near the water. He had paid little attention to this rumor, his mind
having been at that time engrossed by his anxiety to find the pamphlet
and to hear from his home—even though people were then already leaving
the city, as all who could get away always did on the very first note of
alarm.
During the five weeks of his illness in the seclusion of his private
chamber of the institution, he heard nothing of what was going on in the
outside world. How should he hear, indeed—he, who had no friends in the
city, and, consequently, no visitors at his bedside except his physician
and his nurse.
But when he walked forth from the hospital he scarcely recognized the
city again.
The once crowded thoroughfares were nearly deserted. Many houses were
shut up and abandoned, many of the stores were closed, and an air of
strange desolation and deep gloom pervaded the place.
As he passed street after street on his way to his former lodgings, he
saw that only the druggists and the undertakers seemed to be doing an
active business.
He reached the hotel, re-registered his name, and engaged better rooms
than he had previously been able to secure, for there was a plenty of
space, “and to spare,” in that, as well as in every hotel in the city,
for every one who could fly from the prevailing plague had fled.
Valdimir had been shielded from news of “the fever,” during his
confinement in the hospital; but now “the fever” met him at every
turn—in the office, in the reading-room, in the public parlor, in the
dining-room—everywhere, everywhere, nothing but talk of “the fever.”
In the conversation going on all around him everywhere, Valdimir
Desparde heard of the great destitution and suffering of the sick
poor—of their want of medicine, food, clothing, and most especially
their want of attention. Indeed it was said that there were many cases
of whole families being sick in their houses, with everything else they
could require except attendance.
Here, then, was Valdimir Desparde’s opportunity. He had money—several
thousand pounds, that he had brought from England—lodged in the City
Bank. He had life and health and strength, all to give to the sick poor.
He felt a thrill of _pleasure_ in the thought that he had so much to
give, but scarcely any merit in giving what he valued so little, what,
in truth, he would willingly get rid of, if he could do so in the line
of duty. He would not throw his health and strength and life away, but
he would _give_ them where they could serve humanity.
The next morning Valdimir Desparde offered his services to the Christian
Commission, requesting to be placed on duty among the poorest of the
sick and suffering.
And he had his wish.
For many weeks after this he worked indefatigably among the destitute,
fever-stricken families, supplying their wants from his own purse, and
ministering at their bedsides to their humblest necessities.
One day, when he had just got through with his duties in a house where
all the members of the family had been stricken, and where four had
recovered and two had passed away, he went to the office of the
Christian Commission to report.
“Glad you have come,” said the commissioner then on duty. “Here is a
house—a whole row of houses, in fact—but one house in particular of the
row, where all the family, consisting of eight persons, are ill, with
the exception of two young children. We have not a soul to send them.”
“I will go immediately. Where is the place?” promptly inquired Valdimir.
“It is Leroy Place. The house in question is No. 7, a tobacconist’s,”
replied the commissioner, referring to a memorandum on his desk, and
then passing it to Desparde.
“No. 7 Leroy Place, a tobacconist’s! Why, it is poor Yok’s family!”
exclaimed Valdimir, compassionately.
“You know the people?” inquired the commissioner, looking up from the
book in which he was making entries.
“Yes! I knew them long ago in the old country. I have known them here
also. I will go immediately,” said Desparde, as he left the office.
He called a passing cab and threw himself into it, gave his order,
hurried to his banker’s, drew out a sum of money, thence to a drug
store, laid in a store of such medicines as he knew would be required,
and thence to a provision store for such articles of nourishment as
would be needed, and finally on to Leroy Place.
There the sorrowful but too common sight of deadly illness and deep
destitution met his view. No life was abroad in the place. No man, woman
or child passed in the street, no children played before the doors, no
faces appeared at the windows.
He drew up at No. 7, alighted, paid and discharged the cab, and entered
the shop.
There was no one visible except Donald, the ten-year-old lad, who stood
behind the counter, but looked so sallow and haggard that he seemed
scarcely able to stand.
The shop was in the saddest state of confusion and neglect—the windows,
the counter, the glass case and the boxes all covered thickly with dust,
and the floor was littered with torn paper, shreds, straw, and other
_debris_.
“My poor boy,” said Desparde, pitifully, “you look scarcely able to be
out of bed. Is there no one up but you?”
“Nay, but I maun mind shop,” replied the lad, in a forlorn tone.
“There is not the least need for your doing so; no one is coming here to
buy. Go into the back room now and lie down on that settee I see there,
and I will come and attend to you soon. Now where are the others? I must
see them.”
“Up stairs i’ their beds,” replied the lad, who was willingly obeying
Desparde’s order, and walking feebly towards his place of temporary
rest.
Desparde left the shop by the side door and went up the front stairs
leading to the bed-chambers.
Distressing moans met his ear as he reached the landing, upon which
three doors opened, one from the front chamber, one from the back, and
one from the little hall chamber.
The last mentioned was immediately before him. He entered that little
room first.
Ah! what a sight!
There, extended on the bed, lay the forms of Annek and little Eric,
already past all human help, all earthly want.
“This is a case for the undertaker, not for the nurse,” he said.
And he took from his pocket a roll of black cambric, tore off a strip,
hoisted the window of the room and fastened the black flag to the sash
as a signal for the “dead-cart” to stop as it passed.
Then he went into the next room, where he found Alek Yok and his wife
ill on one bed and two of the boys on the other, while in the back room
beyond lay Jan Yok, dying, and the third boy delirious, and below, in
the back parlor, lay the youngest lad, ill with the premonitory symptoms
of the fever.
I promised to be brief with this part of my story, and I will be so.
That afternoon the remains of Annek and Eric were laid in the earth.
The next day those of Jan Yok were placed by their side.
All the other members of the family recovered.
But it was two weeks before Valdimir Desparde was released from duty in
that house.
By the first of November there was not a single case in the city.
It was while nursing the last patient who came under his charge that
fortune favored Valdimir Desparde in an unexpected manner.
The man was convalescent and seriously inclined. One morning he asked
his kind attendant to bring him a volume of John Wesley’s sermons from a
book-shelf in the parlor.
Valdimir Desparde went to bring it.
The parlor was poor and plain. Three hanging shelves over the dusty
mantel-piece supported three rows of books and pamphlets.
Valdimir, looking for the required volume, took down several books, and
accidentally knocked down a pile of old pamphlets.
In stooping to gather these up from the floor, his eyes fell upon the
title of one of them.
It was the book he had been in search of for the last four months—“The
Wonderful Life and Adventures of John Sims, Quadroon Slave, alias
Valdimir Desparde, Gentleman.”
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]