CHAPTER II.

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!!”