Connecticut Western News

MY MASKED HERO.

Being in that condition of social degradation known as "shabby genteel"- that is, being too shabby to walk in fashionable thoroughfares and mingle with wealthier people, and too genteel to partake of the public generosity--I betook myself a few weeks ago to the east side of the city, and permitted a quaint, comfortable looking little landlady to install me in a room ten feet long and five feet eight and one-half inches wide. I knew that the room was five feet eight and one-half inches wide, because that measurement is my height; and when, in a fit of sybaritic indolence, I lay down crosswise on the bed the top of my head touched one wall and my feet the other, a discovery which, in my superstitious mood, I regarded as an omen that I had at last found that place in society I was best fitted to fill.

In such a miniature dormitory there could be but little furniture, and there was but little. Here is the inventory: A bed, a compound article of toilet-table and chest of drawers, a chair, a looking-glass and a towel-horse.

In the first drawer of my toilet table lay an exploded pistol cartridge and a quantity of tobacco, from which discoveries I deduced that my predecessor must have been an excellent judge of the weed, and indulged his taste extravagantly for one in his position.

As I lay back in my chair, in the full enjoyment of a reflective mood, superinduced and harmonized by the good tobacco of my unknown friend, I espied in the corner near the toilet-table a little piece of black cloth; and prying further into the nook I found its fellow. The piece would just have filled the eye-holes of a mask. Quoth I, sotto voce:"The previous occupant of this room was gay and economical withal, for here is evidence that he has been masquerading, and that, too, in a mask of his own manufacture."

Having been educated to a profession in which the necessity for putting "this and that" together frequently arises (I mean the bar), I wrapped my discoveries in paper, subscribed the envelope with my name, and deposited them in my private pocket; "For," thought I, "many a tragedy has been traced with a slenderer clue, and many a thrilling romance has had a flimsier foundation. Who knows but that this smoker of tobacco had as critical a taste for beauty as for the weed? May it not be that his heart is given to some high-born beauty, and he waits for wealth to offer her his hand?"

Dozing dreamily under the narcotic influence, I settled it all to my own satisfaction, as thus: This gentleman's name is Ralph de Mortimer-with the possibility of a title--and he is of ancient and noble family. He is tall, stalwart, handsome, has mutton-chop whiskers, and teeth of exquisite whiteness and regularity. He has been engaged to be married to the surpassingly lovely and accomplished Miss Ada Vere de Vere--in a low-necked dress -the flashing eyes, raven hair, Junonian bearing, and no end of jewels being inseparable and understood concomitants. He was incarnate generosity and became answerable for a friend. The great financial crash ruined his friend, but left him just as he was before, minus a colossal fortune gone to the dogs.

She loved him still, and would have married instantaneously had not a sordid papa, of pompous corpulency, forbidden the banns. De Mortimer had then betaken himself to this little room, and, with noble regard for his feelings, had emerged from it only at night, and then only to walk the street opposite the great mansion at the West End and watch the light in his Dulcinea's chamber until its exceeding dimness proclaimed that his mistress was taking her repose after having tired her symmetrical little jaws in a vapid, moony conversation with young Fitz-Plantagenet, his ancient rival.

Then he wended his way by devious paths and tortuous windings to this room and tried to comfort his yearning heart with hope. His great black eyes grew moist as he experienced the affliction which lay heavy upon him, and, like David of old, he wetted his pillow with tears.

But when the sun-Homer's "Hand maiden of the morn"-arose, and scoured the murky sky into a brilliant hue, he got out of bed-right foot first, for luck-washed his face, smiled a great genial smile of intelligence, and robed himself with an alacrity that betokened a new idea and determination to put it into immediate execution.

Then he went on and with his last money (such metaphysical beings are superior to the vulgar appetite for breakfast, dinner and supperpur- chased a yard of black cloth and a pennyworth of elastic. Returning, he borrowed a pair of scissors, and needle and thread, from the pretty and industrious seamstress on the ground-floor, and made a mask, muttering to himself in dulcet tones, "This is the evening of the masquerade, and, come weal, come woe, I'll see my love to- night."

When the appointed hour had arrived, De Mortimer sailed forth, and at length, under cover of a throng of masquers, entered the halls at the Vere de Vere. He sought, found and accosted his fair mistress; but in the midst of an enraptured dialogue that deceitful rogue, Fitz-Plantagenet, recognized his voice and betrayed him. Rushing from the house, he was followed by his well-hated rival. In a secluded portion of the street, when the varlets of the Vere de Veres had given up the chase, De Mortimer and Fitz-Plantagenet met face to face, and the rejected lover forced his rival to draw. The reports of the pistols still echoed, and the flashes had scarcely left the muzzles of the pistols, when De Mortimer fled.

As he lay down that night, despite the exciting scenes through which he had passed, his heart beat joyfully; his brain teemed with visions of celestial happiness in the future, when the bell rang vigorously and a youthful voice inquired, in shrill pertinacity, for "Sir Ralph de Mortimer."

He leaped from the bed and opened the door one inch-his dishabille forbade his opening it further-and received a telegram informing him that his uncle in Scotland had considerately died in the nick of time, good old soul, leaving him all his broad acres and his title of Earl.

Then followed these emotions: Bewilderment, joy, grief, hilarious sorrow; and these facts: Immediate evacuation of this little room, visit to the mansion of the Vere de Veres (reunion with the corpulent paternal consent), marriage at St. George's, and happiness.

Fully satisfied that my riddle was solved, and that from the slender clue I had worked out a truthful solution of the problem which had bothered me mentally not a little, I slept the sleep of a just man who had done a virtuous action and smoked excellent tobacco, into the possession of which he had come by a piece of good fortune.

Waking up in the middle of the night I looked into the darkness, made more apparent by the ghost of a flickering night-light, and saw standing on the opposite side of the street, intently regarding the house, a policeman.

"But his regard I regarded not- That is to say, not then."

It was only when, day after day- or, more correctly speaking, night after night-I marched out to take the air, which my shabby gentility denied me day by day, that I noticed the jealous solicitude with which I was followed, sometimes by one man, sometimes by another, but always by some one.

Then I commenced to wonder why I one of the most innocent of mortals, should thus be made an object of surveillance. True, I had not walked all my days in the odor of sanctity; but no clause of the criminal code had I infringed, no creditors could find it thus worth their while to watch me. I was not a Communist. I had no cellar in which to store murderous weapons. I thought of the sbirri of Italy, of the gendarmerie of France, but still was I at a loss to account for it. No clue could I catch to the mystery. But, having determined the fact that I was watched, I resolved to apply for an explanation at the nearest police station. Thither I went, accordingly.

"Mr. Sergeant," quoth I, "can you tell me why it is that at night my chamber window is watched by you minions of the moon, and that all my incomings and outgoings, and my wanderings to and fro, are scrutinized as thoroughly as though I were a criminal?"

"No," quoth he.

"Then," said I, "I wish you'd call the dogs off; I prefer to go where I list unheeded."

"Where do you live?" said the Sergeant.

"At No. 12 Queer street," said I.

"Oh! oh!" said he.

And he laughed as though some theme of extraordinary jocularity had occurred to him. When he finished one hilarious explosion he began another, until he devoured whatever hilarity had been given to him. Then he called a constable and said: "Send Jackson here."

Jackson, be it known, was a plain-clothes detective, renowned for his proficiency in the occult art of entrapping rogues and schemers.

"Tell Jackson about it," said the sergeant.

"Mr. Jackson," I began.

"I occupy a little two-pair room at No. 12 Queer street, formerly occupied by a young nobleman,"

"Nobleman be hanged!"

"Sh-b-h-h!" quoth I, deprecatingly.

"Did you know the personage?" I asked; "for I have here some little trifles, all that I found in the room (save a little excellent tobacco, which I smoked), and from which I produced his ro- mance."

"His romance!" said Jackson; "he never had none. That was Smoky Larkin had that little two-pair room. He's down for ten years."

"I own where?" I queried in dismay.

"Portland Island," replied Jackson.

He was a masked burglar-one of the worst of 'em. I think I'll keep these trifles."