Chapter VIII: Act V (2)

The young man did not reflect upon the imprudence of asking a stranger up to his rooms at such an hour of the night. With the exception of the housekeeper, who occupied the basement, and who had been heard to declare that nothing less than an earthquake would wake her, once she was asleep, Arthur Gooch was the only night resident in the house. All the chambers, with the exception of his, were let as offices, and were tenanted only during the day. It is scarcely probable, however, if Arthur had given the matter a thought, that he would have acted differently. Here was a stranger paying him a visit, at an untimely hour it was true, but upon a delicate matter, which had best be disclosed in private. Arthur was a man of muscle, and stood six feet and half an inch in his stocking feet. The man who had intruded himself upon him was about five feet eight, a weed of a man in comparison with him. There was, moreover, no lack of physical courage in Arthur--a quality, it may be remarked, very different indeed from moral courage, in which respect a pigmy may be superior to a giant.

"Come up," said Arthur, and the two men ascended the stairs. "Now," he said, when they were together in his room, with the door closed, "you see that I am very busy. Explain your errand as briefly as possible. What is this delicate matter you speak of? I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance. Oh," he said, looking at a card presented by his visitor, "Mr. P. Foreman. Your name is as strange to me as your face. Who are you? What are you?"

"I am a private detective," said Mr. P. Foreman.

"A private detective!" cried Arthur, with an ominous frown. "And what business can you have with me at this hour of the night? I've a mind to pitch you out of window."

"Don't try it," said Mr. P. Foreman. "I should be bound to resist, and my shouts would be certain to bring someone to my assistance. As to my business, it is, as I have informed you, of a delicate nature."

"Speak in plain English if you have any regard for yourself."

"It is a very simple affair," said Mr. P. Foreman, "and it rests with you whether I shall take my leave of you with an apology, or adopt other measures. You were at Lady Weston White's 'At Home' a couple of hours ago."

"I was. What of it?"

"I am employed by her ladyship," proceeded Mr. P. Foreman. "She has given other 'At Homes' this season."

"She has, and I have been present at them."

"So I understand. Very serious things have occurred at those parties of her ladyship's at which you were present. Some of her guests have made complaints to her, and it is only at great expense and trouble that these complaints, and their very serious nature, have been kept out of the society papers."

"What has all this rhodomontade to do with me?" demanded Arthur, impatiently.

"I am about to tell you. Valuable diamonds have been lost at her ladyship's 'At Homes,' and have not been recovered. Her ladyship is naturally anxious to put a stop to this, and to bring the--" (Mr. P. Foreman hesitated, and chose another word than the one he intended to use)--"the offenders to justice."

"Quite proper," said Arthur. "Go on, and cut it short."

"The display to-night was brilliant, and knowing that it would be so her ladyship employed me and one or two others to keep watch upon suspicious persons. As you see"--he unbuttoned his light overcoat--"I am in evening dress. I was supposed to be present as a guest, but I was really there in my professional capacity, keeping my eyes open. Had it been regular pickpockets whom her ladyship suspected I should have found it an easy job, as I know most of them, but it was not. She suspected certain gentlemen upon her list, to whom she was in the habit of sending cards."

Mr. P. Foreman spoke in a significant tone, and there was no mistaking his meaning. Arthur laughed.

"Does her ladyship do me the honour to suspect me?"

"I am not at liberty to say; my orders are to speak not one word that might compromise her ladyship."

"A very prudent instruction. Well?"

"Certain articles of jewellery have been lost to-night in her ladyship's house. A crescent diamond brooch, another with the device of three birds on a stile, and a pin of brilliants with a pearl in the centre. There may be other articles missing, but we have not heard of them. Of the three ornaments I have mentioned the one most easily traced is the three-birds-on-a-stile brooch. The birds are perched upon a stile of gold; one is set with sapphires, one with brilliants, and one with rubies. I remarked to her ladyship that it was a pretty device. She is quite determined to make the matter public, and to bring the--the offenders to justice without an hour's delay, if we are fortunate enough to track them down."

"I infer," said Arthur, glaring at his visitor, "from the very guarded answer you gave to a question I put to you that her ladyship really does suspect me. I am greatly obliged to her ladyship." He recalled the strange looks which Lady Weston White had given him, and believed that he could now interpret them. He strode to the door and threw it open. "If you have any regard for your bones, you will now take your departure. I give you just one minute."

"If you send me away unsatisfied," said Mr. P. Foreman, composedly, "I shall, in accordance with instructions received, have you arrested the first thing in the morning, and brought before a magistrate on a distinct charge."

Arthur's heart seemed suddenly to cease beating. There was no mistaking that the man was in deadly earnest, and would carry out his threat. What! To be arrested on the very morning of his wedding! True, the charge was false and monstrous, but it would take time to prove it so, and meanwhile--

Yes, meanwhile, there was Adelaide in her bridal dress waiting for her bridegroom. Indignant as he was he could not but inwardly acknowledge that his best course would be to hush up the affair if possible--not for his own sake, but for Adelaide's. The shock to her feelings would be too great; she might never recover from it, and the happiness of her life might be for ever destroyed. Mr. P. Foreman, standing rather timidly near the open door, kept his eyes fixed upon Arthur's face. He shrank back as Arthur approached him.

"I am not going to hurt you," said the young man. "Come in and shut the door." Mr. P. Foreman obeyed. "You said at the commencement of this interview that it rested with me whether you would take leave of me with an apology, or adopt other measures. By other measures you meant my arrest." Mr. P. Foreman nodded. "But how do you propose to arrive at the apology?"

"It is entirely in your hands," replied Mr. P. Foreman. "You have only to prove your innocence, and I apologise. Her ladyship trusts everything to me, and will be guided entirely by the report I present to her."

"I have only to prove my innocence!" exclaimed Arthur. "But how can that be done if you will not take my word for it? I swear to you that I am innocent, and I declare this to be a foul and monstrous charge, for which, if I am put to any inconvenience or annoyance, I will make her ladyship and all concerned in it suffer. Now are you satisfied?"

"That is not what I meant," said Mr. P. Foreman, quietly. "What I require is _proof_ of your innocence. I cannot take your word. Any other gentleman would say as much."

Arthur could not help admitting that this was true. "Again I ask you," he cried, "how can I prove my innocence, except by my word?"

"It is very easily done. You have not changed your clothes. You have on your dress trousers and waistcoat; your dress coat hangs upon the back of that chair. If none of the missing articles are in the pockets I will offer you the completest apology in my power, and shall sincerely regret that I have caused you so much uneasiness."

Mr. P. Foreman was a private detective, but he certainly spoke like a gentleman. Throughout the interview he had conducted himself with moderation; there was even a sadness in his manner which, now that so reasonable a course was suggested, impressed itself upon Arthur.

"I am quite willing," he said, "to do what you ask, though I dispute your right, mind."

"I understand that," said Mr. P. Foreman.

"It is only," continued Arthur, "because I am to be married in the morning, and wish to spare a young lady's feelings, that I submit."

There was a deeper sadness in Mr. P. Foreman's voice as he observed, "To be married in the morning! I must be mistaken." He took a step towards the door.

"No, you don't go now," exclaimed Arthur. "I insist upon your stopping, and being completely satisfied. There's my coat. Search the pockets."

But Mr. P. Foreman would not touch the garment. "If you insist," he said, "you must go through the formality yourself. I should be ashamed to have a hand in it."

"You are a good fellow, after all," said Arthur, with a great sigh of relief. Will you have a glass of champagne?"

"Thank you," said Mr. P. Foreman. Arthur filled two glasses. "Your health," he said.

"Your health," said Mr. P. Foreman. "Allow me to wish you joy and happiness."

"Now you shall see," said Arthur, in a gay tone. "Come a little nearer; I might be a master of legerdemain."

A melancholy smile crossed Mr. P. Foreman's mouth, and he stood, apparently unconcerned, while Arthur turned out the pockets of his waistcoat and trousers.

"Nothing there," he said.

"Nothing there," said Mr. P. Foreman, and again moved towards the door.

"Stop a moment," said Arthur, "there is my coat."

He turned out the pockets upon the table; from the breast pocket he produced the bank notes he had received from his friend, Jack Stevens; from the tail pockets a handkerchief and gloves. Nothing more. He laughed aloud, and lifted the handkerchief from the table. The laugh was frozen in his throat. As he lifted the handkerchief there fell from it a jewelled brooch, the device a stile of gold, with three birds perched thereon, one of sapphires, one of rubies, one of brilliants.

"My God!" he gasped, and sank into a chair.

Mr. P. Foreman did not break the silence that ensued. With sad eyes he gazed upon the crushing evidence of guilt. At length Arthur found his voice.

"You do not, you cannot," he cried in an agonised tone, "believe me guilty!"

Mr. P. Foreman uttered no word. Arthur's face was like the face of death. A vision of his ruined life rose before him, and in that vision the image of his fair young bride, stricken with despair.

"What am I to do?" moaned the unhappy man. "What am I to do? As I hope for mercy in heaven, I swear that I am innocent!"

Mr. P. Foreman in silence pointed to the brooch on the table. It was an eloquent sign, but he seemed to sympathise with the hapless man before him. Arthur rose to his feet, trembling in every limb.

"Have mercy upon me!" he murmured, stretching forth his hands. "Before God I am innocent!"

"I am sorry for the young lady," said Mr. P. Foreman, "deeply, deeply sorry. I have a daughter of my own, whom I hope one day to see happily married. But she is in delicate health."

There was a plaintiveness in his voice, and Arthur, overwhelmed as he was, caught at the despairing hope which presented itself to his distracted mind. He and the man who held his fate in his hands were alone; there were no witnesses, and not a sound reached them from house or street.

"Save me!" implored Arthur. "As you hope for your daughter's happiness, save an innocent man--save an innocent girl from despair and death!"

Mr. P. Foreman put his hands before his eyes. "My duty!" he murmured.

"You owe a duty elsewhere," said Arthur, in a rapid, feverish voice. "The lady who has employed you trusts you implicitly, and will receive your report without question."

"I do not grasp your meaning," said Mr. P. Foreman.

"Your daughter is in delicate health, you say," continued Arthur. "You hope to see her one day happily married. You are not rich?"

"I am very poor," said Mr. P. Foreman. "Do you think I would otherwise follow this miserable occupation? Fortune has been against me all my life."

"It smiles upon you now," pursued Arthur, desperately; "it offers you a chance. You speak like a gentleman; you have a soul above your station. See here. There are a hundred and fifty pounds in bank notes. Take them; they are yours--and keep my secret, guiltless as I am. You are not a young man; you have had experience of the world; you must know the voice of innocence when you hear it. Could a guilty man plead as I am pleading? By all your hopes of happiness, save me! No one is near; no one knows but you and I. It is so easy, so easy!--and I shall bless you all my life!"

"You tempt me sorely," said Mr. P. Foreman. "My daughter is ordered abroad for her health, and I have no means to take her."

"You have means here, at your hand. Take the money--it is yours; I give it to you freely. No one will be the wiser, and you will be an instrument in the hands of Providence to save two innocent lives!"

"Let me think a moment," said Mr. P. Foreman, and he turned his head. Arthur awaited his decision in an agony of despair. Presently he spoke again. "I will express no opinion of your guilt or innocence, but you have offered what I cannot resist. I will take the money, and will keep your secret, for the sake of the lady you are about to marry, for the sake of my poor daughter. It may be the means of restoring her to health. As for this brooch----"

"Take it," cried Arthur, impetuously, "and do what you will with it. It is one of my conditions. Heaven bless you--Heaven bless you!"

"We are accomplices in a transaction that must not be spoken of," said Mr. P. Foreman, who had put the money and the brooch into his pocket. "I pity and despise you, as I pity and despise myself."

He did not wish Arthur good night; seemingly ashamed of the bargain they had made, he went downstairs, accompanied by Arthur, who closed the street door upon him.

Dazed and bewildered, the young man returned to his room, and with great throbbings of his breast at the mysterious danger he had escaped, completed his preparations for the wedding and the honeymoon. Before he threw himself upon his bed in the vain attempt to seek oblivion for an hour or two, he wrote a letter to his friend Jack Stevens, saying he had unfortunately lost the money that had been lent to him, and begging for another loan, which was to be forwarded to a hotel in Paris where he intended to stop with his young wife for a few days.

There is no need to describe the wedding. Everything passed off well, and everybody in church declared they had never seen a lovelier bride; but they observed, at the same time, that the bridegroom appeared far from happy, and one of the spectators remarked that he looked several times over his shoulder, with the air of a man who feared that a ghost was standing behind him. His own people and his new relatives, being in a state of excitement, did not take the same view of it; they said he was nervous, which was quite natural on such an occasion. Adelaide was tremblingly happy, and she and her lover-husband departed on their honeymoon amid the usual showers of rice and hurling of old slippers. In Paris, Arthur received from Jack Stevens a draft for another hundred and fifty pounds; but in the letter which accompanied the welcome draft Jack said he could not understand how Arthur had managed to lose the money. "I saw you," wrote Jack, "put the money in the side pocket of your dress coat, and button your overcoat over it. How could you have lost it? Did you have an adventure, and are you keeping it from me? Make a clean breast of it, old fellow. I should like to know. And if there is anything I can do for you while you are away, do not fail to call upon me. I am in London for good, and am entirely at your service." Arthur pondered over this letter, and pondered deeply, also, over the events which had occurred on the night before the wedding; and the more he pondered the more he was dissatisfied. Once his young wife, who had noticed that something was weighing on her hero's spirits, said to him:

"Arthur, dear, are you happy?"

"Very happy, darling."

"But quite happy, Arthur?"

"Yes, darling, quite happy. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know--only you seem so melancholy sometimes."

"All your fancy, darling."

"I suppose so, Arthur, dear."

But the young bride was not satisfied for all that. She was sure that her hero was keeping something disagreeable from her. However, like a sensible little woman, she did not worry him; no bride could expect greater attention and devotion than he showed towards her, and she lectured herself, and said that she could not expect to know everything about her husband all at once. "I shall have to study him," she said, "and when I know him thoroughly I will make him perfectly, perfectly happy."

On the eighth day of the honeymoon something curious happened. They had travelled from Paris to Geneva, and they put up at the Grand Hôtel de la Paix. The first time they dined in the hotel, Arthur, looking up, saw exactly opposite to him the forms of Mr. P. Foreman and a lady. He turned red and white, and his heart beat furiously. There appeared, however, to be no cause for apprehension; Mr. P. Foreman looked him straight in the face, and evinced no sign of recognition. Perceiving this, Arthur took courage, and glanced at the lady. Again he turned red and white. On the bosom of the lady's dress was affixed a beautiful brooch--a stile of gold, with its three little birds of rubies, sapphires, and brilliants.

"Did you think the lady opposite to us was very pretty, Arthur?" asked Adelaide, as she and her husband stood close together after dinner, looking into the clear waters of the lake.

"I did not take particular notice, dear," replied Arthur, awkwardly.

"Oh, Arthur! I saw your eyes fixed upon her."

Arthur did not dare confess that it was the brooch he was staring at, and not at the lady, so he diverted Adelaide's thoughts by means of those tender secret caresses which render young brides supremely happy. But he thought very seriously, nevertheless. The lady who accompanied Mr. P. Foreman seemed to be in perfect health, and she was not young enough to be his daughter, by a good many years. The dreadful position in which he had stood upon the occasion of Mr. P. Foreman's nocturnal visit to his chambers weighed terribly upon him. He knew himself to be innocent; but the brooch which his accuser had now appropriated was found in his pocket; he had taken it out himself. How had it got there? That was the mystery that was perplexing him, and he felt that he could not be at peace with himself until it was solved. That night he wrote to Jack Stevens, and made a full confession of how he had lost the money, and in his letter he gave a very faithful description of Mr. P. Foreman.

"If you can clear up the mystery," he said in his letter, "for Heaven's sake do so. I do not advise you to go to Lady Weston White to make inquiries, for that might result in attracting attention which, as things stand, I wish to avoid; but do what you can for me, and act as you think best, for the sake of your old and unhappy friend, Arthur." He directed Jack to reply to him at the Hôtel Victoria, Interlaken, where he proposed to take Adelaide after a stay in Geneva. He made his visit to this beautiful city shorter than he intended, so anxious was he to receive Jack's reply. It was not there when he arrived, but on the following mid-day it was delivered to him.

"My dear Arthur," (Jack wrote), "my dear simple friend, my timid love-stricken swain, your letter astonished me, and in your interests I set to work at once. I have a friend who is a real detective--a real one, mark you--and when I entrusted him with your precious secret, and read to him the careful description you have given of your saviour, Mr. P. Foreman, he first looked at me in blank amazement, and then burst into a fit of laughter. 'By Jove!' he cried, when he got over his fit, 'that is my friend Purdy. He's been at his tricks again.' 'Who is your friend Purdy,' I inquired, 'and what are the particular tricks you refer to?' He did not favour me with an answer, but stipulated that I should pay an immediate visit to Lady Weston White, and ask whether the jewels lost in her house on the night before your wedding had been recovered. I did as he bade me, and learned from her ladyship--what do you think? Why, that there were no jewels lost in her house, and never had been, to her knowledge. I did not enlighten her, old fellow, having some regard for your reputation for shrewdness. I went straight from her to my friend the real detective. Learn from me, O wise young bridegroom, that Mr. P. Foreman, _alias_ Purdy, is no more a detective than I am, that he must have slipped the brooch (all false stones, my boy) himself into your pocket, having previously ascertained that you were to be married in a few hours, and that he practised upon you a rather clever trick which he has practised successfully upon other victims as simple as yourself. Now I come to think of it, I shouldn't wonder if he was one of the men who passed us when I gave you the thirty five-pound notes at the corner of the street. My friend the real detective tells me that Purdy is one of the best actors he has ever seen, and that his skill would beat the devil himself. Let us hope he will soon have the chance of trying it on with his Satanic majesty. Anyways, he is enjoying himself on the Continent with your money and mine, and, as he has cast a cloud over the first fortnight or so of your honeymoon, I should recommend you to lengthen it by just as many days of happiness as he has robbed you of. And here is another recommendation, my dear, simple, old fellow. Tell your little wife all about it, and tell her at the same time that I have given an order for a brooch, of which I shall beg her acceptance, with the very original design of a gold stile and three little birds perched atop of it. Give her my love, and accept the same from yours ever and ever."

Arthur danced about the room when he read this comforting letter. Adelaide looked up from a novel in which she had been absorbed.

"Why, whatever is the matter with you," she cried, "you dear old goose?"

"Never mind the dear old goose," said Arthur. "Let us have a waltz round the room, you dear young darling!"

A waltz they had, and they made some glasses on the table jingle so that a chambermaid knocked at the door, and asked whether her services were required.

"Not at all," replied Arthur, in very indifferent German. "I am only giving madame a lesson."

At the end of which lesson Arthur related to his bride what it was that had been disturbing him. How she pitied him! The tears ran down her pretty face as she took his between her little hands, and gave him kisses which he returned with interest. Of that you may be sure.

"Oh, Arthur," said Adelaide, with the fondest of looks, "I am glad I married you; because, you know, you do want someone to look after you."

As for the rest of the honeymoon, I leave you to imagine it. All I will say is, that I wish no newly married young couple a happier.

_A Night in an Opium Den._

BY THE AUTHOR OF "A DEAD MAN'S DIARY."

Yes, I have smoked opium in Ratcliff Highway, and in the den which was visited by Charles Dickens, and through the pipe which had the honour of making that distinguished novelist sick.

"And did you have lovely dreams? and what were they like?" asks a fair reader.

Yes, I had lovely dreams, and I have no doubt that by the aid of imagination, and a skilful manipulation of De Quincey, I could concoct a fancy picture of opium-smoking and its effects, which might pass for a faithful picture of what really occurred. But, "My Lord and Jury"--to quote the historic words of Mrs. Cluppins, when cross-examined by Serjeant Buzfuz--"My Lord and Jury, I will not deceive you": what those dreams were, I could not for the life of me now describe, for they were too aërial and unsubstantial to be caught and fixed, like hard facts, in words, by any other pen than that of a Coleridge, or a De Quincey. I might as well attempt to convey to you, by means of a clay model, an idea of the prism-fires and rainbow-hues that circle, and change, and chase each other round the pictured sides of that floating fairy-sphere which we call a soap-bubble, as attempt, unassisted, to describe my dreams in words. Hence it is that in this narrative, I have confined myself strictly to the facts of my experiences.

The proprietor of the den which I visited was a Chinaman named Chang, who positively grinned me over from head to foot--not only when I was first made known to him by the friend who had piloted me to the establishment, but as long as I remained within grinning range. An uninformed onlooker might not unnaturally have concluded that I was stone-deaf and dumb, and that our host was endeavouring to express, by his features, the cordiality he was unable to convey in words. In reply to every casual remark made by my companion, the Chinaman would glance up for a moment at his face, and then turn round to grimace again at me, as though I, and I only, were the subject of their conversation, and he was half afraid I might think he did not take a becoming interest in it. In the few words which I exchanged with him, I found him exceedingly civil, and he took great pains to explain to me that his wearing no pigtail was attributable, not to his own act and deed, but to the fact that that ornament had been cut off by some person or persons unknown, when he was either drunk or asleep--I could not quite make out which. The deadliest insult which can be offered a Chinaman (so I understood him) is to cut off his pigtail, and it was only when referring to this incident, and to his desire to wreak a terrible vengeance upon the perpetrators, that there was any cessation of his embarrassing smile. The thought of the insult to which he had been subjected, and of his consequent degradation in the eyes of his countrymen, brought so evil a look upon his parchment-coloured features, and caused his small and cunning eyes to twist and turn so horribly, that I was glad to turn the conversation to pleasanter topics, even though it necessitated my being once more fixed by that bland and penetrating smile so peculiarly his own. The smile became more rigid than ever, when I informed him that I was anxious to smoke a pipe of opium. The way in which he turned his face upon me (including the smile, which enveloped and illumined me in its rays) was, for all the world, like the turning-on by a policeman of a bull's-eye lantern. With a final grin which threatened to distort permanently his features, he bade us follow him, and led the way up the most villainously treacherous staircase which it has ever been my lot to ascend.

"Den" was an appropriate name for the reeking hole to which he conducted us. It was dirty and dark, being lit only by a smoking lamp on the mantel-shelf, and was not much larger than a full-sized cupboard. The walls, which were of a dingy yellow (not unlike the "whites" of the smokers' eyes) were quite bare, with the exception of the one facing the door, on which, incongruously enough, was plastered a coarsely-coloured and hideous print of the crucifixion. The furniture consisted of three raised mattresses, with small tables on which were placed pipes, lamps, and opium.

Huddled or curled up on these mattresses lay two wretched smokers--one of them with the whites, or, I should say, "yellows," of his eyes turned up to the ceiling, and another, whose slumbers we had apparently disturbed, staring about him with a dazed and stupefied air. Something in the look of these men--either the ghastly pallor of their complexion, or the listlessness of their bearing--reminded me not a little of the "white lepers" of Norway. I have seen patients in the hospitals there whose general aspect greatly resembled that of these men, although the skin of the white leper has more of a milky appearance--as if it had been bleached, in fact--than that of the opium-smoker, which is dirtier and more yellow. The remaining occupants of the den, two of whom were Chinamen, were wide awake. The third was a partly naked Malay of decidedly evil aspect, who shrank back on my entrance, and coiled himself up in the recesses of a dark corner, whence he lay furtively watching me, very much in the same way in which the prisoned pythons in a serpent-house watch the visitors who come to tap at the glass of their cages. The Chinamen, however, seemed pleased to see me; and, after I had handed my cigar-case to the nearest, begging that he and his friend would help themselves, they became quite companionable. One of them, to my surprise, immediately relinquished the drug which he had been smoking, and began to suck with evident relish at the cigar. The other, after pocketing the weed, lay down on his back with his arms behind his head, and with his legs drawn up to his body, in which singularly graceful and easy attitude he carried on a conversation with his friend, watching me narrowly all the time, through the chink between his knees. At this point of my visit, and before I could take any further stock of the surroundings, I was not a little surprised by the entrance of a young, and by no means ill-looking Englishwoman, to whom I gave a civil "good evening," receiving, however, only a suspicious and surly nod in reply. She occupied herself at first by tickling one of the Chinamen under the armpits, evidently finding no little amusement in the fits of wild, unearthly, and uncontrollable laughter into which he broke, but growing weary of this, she seated herself on the raised mattress where I was located, and proceeded to take stock of her visitor. Beginning at my boots, and travelling up by way of trousers and waistcoat, up to my collar and face, she examined me so critically and searchingly from head to foot that I fancied once or twice I could see the row of figures she was inwardly casting up, and could hear her saying to herself, "Boots and trousers, say, sixty bob; and watch and chain, a couple of flimsies each; which, with coat and waistcoat, bring it up to thirty shiners; which, with a couple of fivers for links, loose cash and studs make about forty quid--that's _your_ figure young man, as near as I can reckon it."

While this was going on, my host, Mr. Chang, was busily making preparations for my initiatory smoke by sticking small pellets of the opium (a brownish, glue-like substance) upon a pin, and rolling and re-rolling them against the pipe, which is about the size of a small flute, and has a big open bowl with a tiny aperture at the base. Into this aperture the drug-smeared pin is slipped, and the pipe is then held over a lamp, and the fumes of the burning opium inhaled. The occupation is by no means a luxurious one; for, as surely as I removed the pipe from my lips to indulge in a furtive cough (and it did make me cough a bit at first), it inevitably went out. By means of repeated applications to the lamp, however, I managed to get through the allotted number of pipes, and sank slowly and insensibly into the deep waters of slumber, until at last they closed over my head, and I was swept and borne unresistingly away upon the vast seaward setting tide of sleep.

Of my dreams, as I have already said, I have but the haziest of recollections. I can just recall a sensation of sailing, as on a cloud, amid regions of blue and buoyant ether; of seeing, through vistas of purple and gold, a scene of sunny seas and shining shores, where, it seemed to me, I beheld the fabled "Blessed Isles," stretching league beyond league afar; and of peeps of paradisial landscapes that swam up to me as through a world of waters, and then softened and sank away into a blending of beauteous colours, and into a vision of white warm arms and wooing bosoms.

And so we slept on, I and my wretched companions, until, to quote Rossetti:--

Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams,
And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away.
Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams
Of watered light, and dull drowned waifs of day;
Till, from some wonder of new woods and streams,
He woke and wondered more.

Yes, "I woke and wondered more"--woke to wonder where I was, and where were my boots, my hat, and my umbrella; woke to find the faithless friend, who had promised to guard my slumbers, sleeping peacefully at his post; and woke with a taste in my mouth which can only be likened to a cross between onions and bad tobacco. And this taste, in conjunction with a splitting headache and a general lowness of spirits, served, for the next day or two, to keep me constantly in remembrance of my visit to the Opium Den in Ratcliff Highway.

_Janko the Musician._

FROM THE POLISH OF SIENKIEWICZ.

[HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ is perhaps the most popular of contemporary
Polish novelists. He is a realist, but his realism is tempered
by a dash of romance. Keenly in sympathy with the poor, the
oppressed, the despised, and possessed of a genius for portraying
the character of Polish peasants, he has a particular gift for
depicting the sufferings of artistic natures dimly conscious of
their gifts, or blighted by the curse of mediocrity. Sienkiewicz
was born in 1845, and was educated at the University of Warsaw.
In 1876 he went to California, and first attracted attention by
letters descriptive of the New World contributed to the newspapers
of his native country. These sketches were collected, and, together
with some short tales, published at Warsaw in 1880 under the title
of "Pisma." To his American experiences we owe Sienkiewicz's
delightful story, "For Daily Bread," one of the most simple and
touching narratives possible. His chief work, "With Fire and
Sword," has been translated into English. This gifted writer was
almost entirely unknown in this country until recently. At the
present day he resides at Warsaw, where he edits a paper.]

Weak and frail came he into the world. The neighbours, assembled round the bedside, shook their heads over mother and child. The blacksmith's wife, the most experienced amongst them, began to comfort the sick woman after her fashion.

"You just lie quiet," she said, "and I will light a blessed candle. It's all up with you, poor dear, you must make your preparations for another world. Someone had better run for the priest to give you the last Sacraments."

"And the youngster must be baptized at once," said another. "I tell you he won't live till the priest comes, and it will be some comfort not to have an unbaptized ghost spooking about."

As she spoke, she lit a blessed candle, took the baby, sprinkled it with holy water, till it winked its eyes, and at the same time pronounced the words:

"I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, and give thee the name of Jan," adding immediately (with a vague recollection of the form of prayer used for the dying): "And now depart, O Christian Soul! out of this world, and return to the place you came from. Amen."

The Christian soul, however, had not the least intention of departing out of this world. It began, on the contrary, to kick with the legs of the body as hard as ever it could, and to cry, but in a fashion so feeble and whimpering, that it sounded to the women like the mewing of a kitten.

The priest was sent for, discharged his sacred office, and retired; but, instead of dying, the mother recovered, and, after a week, went back to work.

The life of the baby hung on a thread; he scarcely seemed to breathe, but, when he was four years of age, the cuckoo cried three times over the cottage roof--a good omen, according to Polish superstition--and after that matters mended so that he somehow attained his tenth year. To be sure, he was always thin and delicate, with a slouching body and hollow cheeks. His hay-coloured hair fell over his clear, prominent eyes, that had a far-away look in them, as if he saw things hidden from others.

In winter the child crouched behind the stove and wept softly from cold, and not unfrequently from hunger if "Mammy" had nothing in the cupboard or in the pot. In summer he ran about in a little white blouse, tied round the waist with a handkerchief, and wore an old straw hat on his head. His flaxen hair poked its way through the holes, and his eager glance darted hither and thither like a bird's. His mother, poor creature! who lived from hand to mouth, and lodged under a strange roof like a swallow, loved him, no doubt, after a fashion, yet she gave him many a cuff, and generally called him a "changeling." At eight years of age he began life on his own account, now driving a flock of sheep, now making his way deep into the forest to look for mushrooms when there was nothing to eat at home. He had Providence only to thank that the wolves did hot devour him on one of these expeditions. He was not a particularly precocious boy, and, like all village children, had the habit of sticking his finger into his mouth when addressed. The neighbours prophesied that he would not live long, or that, if he did live, he would not be much of a comfort to his mother, for he would never be strong enough for hard work.

One distinguishing characteristic he had. Who can say why the gift was bestowed in so unlikely a quarter? But music he loved, and his love was a passion. He heard music in everything; he listened to every sound, and the bigger he grew the more he thought of melody and of harmony. If he tended the cattle, or went with a playfellow to gather berries in the forest, he would return empty-handed, and lisp, "O mammy, there was such beautiful music! It was playing like this--la, la, la!"

"I'll soon play you a different tune, you good-for-nothing monkey!" his mother would cry angrily, and rap him with the ladle.

The youngster might shriek, and promise not to listen to the music again, but he thought all the more of how beautiful the forest was, and how full of voices that sang and rang. Who or what sang and rang he could not well have told; the pine-trees, the beeches, the birch-trees, the thrushes, all sang; the whole forest sang, and the echo sang too ... in the meadows the blades of grass sang; in the garden behind the cottage the sparrows twittered, the cherry-trees rustled and trilled. In the evening he heard all imaginable voices, such as are audible only in the country, and he thought to himself that the whole village resounded with melody. His companions could only wonder at him; they heard none of these beautiful things. When he was set to work to toss out hay he fancied he heard the wind playing through the prongs of his pitchfork. The overseer, who saw him standing idly, his hair thrown back from his forehead, listening intently to the wind's music on the fork, seized a strap, and gave the dreamer a few cuts to bring him to his senses, but it was of no avail. The neighbours, at last, nicknamed him "Janko the Musician."

At night, when the frogs croaked, the corncrakes cried across the meadows, the bitterns boomed in the marsh, and the cocks crowed behind the fences, the child could not sleep, he could but listen with delight, and heaven only knows what harmonies he heard in all these mingled sounds. His mother dared not bring him with her to church, for when the organ murmured or pealed, the eyes of the boy grew dim and moist or else brightened and gleamed as if the light of another world illumined them.

The watchman, who nightly patrolled the village and counted the stars, or carried on a low-toned conversation with the dogs in order to keep himself awake, more than once saw Janko's little white blouse scudding through the gloom to the alehouse. The child did not enter the tavern, but crouched close up to the wall and listened. Within, couples revolved merrily to lively music, and now and then a fellow would cry "Hooray!" One could hear the stamping of feet and the affected voices of the girls. The fiddles murmured softly, the big 'cello's deep notes thundered, the windows streamed with light, every plank in the taproom seemed to creak, to sing, to play, and Janko listened to it all. What would he not have given to have a fiddle that would give forth such sounds, a bit of board that would make such music! Alas! where was _he_ to get it; how could he make it? If they would only allow him just to take one in his hand!... But no! all he could do was to listen, and so he listened till the voice of the watchman would call to him out of the darkness--

"Off to bed with you, you imp!"

Then the little bare feet would patter away to the cabin, and the voices of the violins would follow him as he ran through the night.

It was a great occasion for him when at harvest time or at a wedding he heard the fiddlers play. At such times he would creep behind the stove, and for days would not speak a single word, looking straight before him with great glowing eyes, like those of a cat at night.

At last he made himself a fiddle out of a shingle, and strung it with horsehair, but it did not sound as beautifully as those in the alehouse; the strings tinkled softly, ever so softly, they hummed like flies or midges. All the same, he played on them from morning until night, though many a kick and cuff he got till he was black and blue. He could not help himself, it was in his nature.

The child grew thinner and thinner; his shock of hair became thicker, his eyes grew more staring and swam with tears, and his cheeks and chest became hollower. He had never resembled other children, he was more like his own poor little fiddle that one could scarcely hear. Moreover, before harvest-time he was almost starving, living as he did chiefly on raw turnips, and on his longing, his intense longing, to own a violin. Alas! this desire bore evil fruit.

Up at the Castle the footman had a fiddle that he sometimes played in the evening to please his pretty sweetheart and his fellow-servants. Janko often crept amongst the climbing plants to the very door of the servants' hall to hear the music, or, at least, to catch a glimpse of the fiddle. It generally hung on the wall, exactly opposite the door, and the youngster's whole soul was in his eyes as he gazed at it, an unattainable treasure that he was unworthy to possess, though he held it to be the most precious thing on earth. A dumb longing took possession of him to touch it just once with his very own hand--or, at any rate, to see it closer.... At the thought the poor little childish heart leaped with delight.

One evening there was no one in the servants' hall. The family had for a long time lived abroad, the house was empty, and the footman, with his sweetheart, was elsewhere. Janko, hidden amongst the creepers, had already been looking for many minutes through the half-open door at the goal of his desires.

The moon, at her full, swam high in the heavens; her beams threw a shaft of light across the room, and fell on the opposite wall. Gradually they moved towards where the violin hung, and streamed full upon it. To the child in the darkness a silvery halo seemed to shine around the instrument, illumining it so brightly that Janko was almost dazzled; the strings, the neck, the sides were plainly visible, the pegs shone like glow-worms, and the bow like a silver wand.... How beautiful it was; almost magical! Janko gazed with hungry eyes. Crouching amidst the ivy, his elbows supported on his little bony knees, he gazed open-mouthed and motionless at this one object. Now fear held him fast, next moment an unappeasable longing urged him forward. Was it magic, or was it not? The violin, with its rays of glory, absolutely appeared to draw near to him, to hover over his head.

For a moment the glory darkened, only to shine again more brilliantly. Magic, it really was magic! Meantime, the wind murmured, the trees rustled, the creepers whispered softly, and to the child they seemed to say, "Go on, Janko, there is not a soul there.... Go on, Janko."

The night was clear and bright. By the pond in the garden a nightingale began to sing--now softly, now loudly. Her song said, "Go on; have courage; touch it." An honest raven flew softly over the child's head and croaked, "No, Janko; no." The raven flew away, but the nightingale remained, and the creepers cried more plainly than ever, "There's no one there."

The fiddle still hung in the track of the moonbeams. The little crouching figure crept softly and cautiously nearer, and the nightingale sang "Go on--on--on--take it."

The white blouse glimmered nearer the doorway. Soon it was no longer hidden by the dark creepers. On the threshold one could hear the quick, panting breath of the delicate child. A moment more and the little white blouse had disappeared, only one tiny bare foot still stood upon the steps. In vain the friendly raven flew by once more, and cawed "No, no,"--Janko had already entered.

The frogs in the pond began suddenly to croak as if something had frightened them, and as suddenly were silent. The nightingale ceased to sing, the climbing plants to whisper. In the interval Janko had edged nearer and nearer to his treasure, but fear seized him. In the shadow of the creepers he felt at home, like a wild creature in a thicket, now he quivered like a wild creature in a snare. His movements were hasty, his breath came short.

The pulsing summer lightning that glanced from east to west illumined the apartment for an instant, and showed poor trembling Janko almost on his hands and knees, his head stretched out, cowering before the violin, but the summer lightning ceased, a cloud passed before the moon, and there was nothing to be seen nor heard.

Then, after a pause, there sounded through the darkness a low wailing note, as if someone had accidentally touched a string, and all at once a rough, sleepy voice broke from a corner of the room, asking angrily--

"Who's there?"

A match cracked against the wall. Then there was a little spurt of flame, and then--great heaven!--then were to be heard curses, blows, the crying of a child, appeals, "Oh, for God's sake!" barking of dogs, people running with lights before the windows, uproar in the whole house.

Two days later poor Janko stood before the magistrates. Should he be prosecuted as a thief? Of course.

The justice and the landlord looked at the culprit as he stood in the dock, his finger in his mouth, with staring, terrified eyes, small, emaciated, dirty, beaten, unable to tell why or wherefore he found himself there, or what they were about to do to him. How, thought the justice, could anyone try a wretched little object like that, only ten years of age, and barely able to stand on its legs? Was he to be sent to prison, or what? One must not be too severe with children. Would it not be well if a watchman took him and gave him a few strokes with a cane, so that he might not steal a second time, and so end the matter?

"Just so. A very good idea!"

Stach, the watchman, was called.

"Take him, and give him a caning as a warning."

Stach nodded his stupid, bull head, took Janko under his arm like a kitten, and carried him off to the barn.

Either the youngster did not understand what it was all about, or he was too terrified to speak; in either case he uttered not a word, and looked round him like a little frightened bird. How did he know what they wanted with him. It was only when Stach seized him, laid him on the barn floor, and, holding him fast with one hand, turned up his little shirt with the cane, that poor Janko shrieked "Mammy!" and after every blow he cried "Mammy, mammy!" but lower and weaker each time, until after a certain number of strokes, the child was silent, and called for his mother no more....

The poor broken fiddle!

You clumsy, wicked Stach! Who ever flogged a child in such a fashion? The poor, tiny fellow was always thin and weakly, and scarcely had breath in his body!

At last the mother came and took the child with her, but she had to carry him home. Next day Janko did not rise. On the third day he breathed out his soul in peace, on the hard bed covered by the horsecloth....

As he lay dying, the swallows twittered in the cherry-tree that grew before the window, a sunbeam peered through the pane, and flooded with glory the child's rough hair and his bloodless face. The beam seemed like a track for the little fellow's soul to ascend to heaven.

Well for him was it that at least at the hour of death he mounted a broad and sunny path, for thorny would have been his road in life. The wasted chest still heaved softly, and the child seemed still conscious of the echoes of the outer world that entered through the open window. It was evening; the peasant girls returning from hay-making passed by and sang as they went; the brook purled close at hand.

Janko listened for the last time to the musical echoes of the village. Beside him, on the horsecloth, lay the fiddle he had made from a shingle. Suddenly the dying child's face lit up, and his white lips whispered--

"Mammy!"

"What is it, dearie?" asked the mother, her voice stifled with sobs.

"Mammy, God will give me a real fiddle in heaven."

"Yes, darling, yes," replied the mother. She could speak no more, for from her heart the pent-up sorrow burst suddenly forth. She only murmured, "Jesus, my Jesus!" and laying her head on the table, wept as those weep from whom death robs their dearest treasure.