Complete Story. A Japanese Vengeance.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVII, Issue XXIII, 7 December 1901, Page 1065

Complete Story. A Japanese Vengeance.

Clo. Graves in “The Sketch.”

Oishi Yoshio, Second Secretary of Legation, aged twenty-five, and named after the celebrated leader of the Forty-seven Ronins, stood in the door way of a London drawing-room which bore a considerable resemblance to a Knightsbridge eurio-brocade-and-pottery shop, and wondered greatly. For in Japan they use aniline dyes, English and American, and wear, or put on, European clothing, and endeavour to assimilate European cookery, and paint up the names of their streets in English. But they do not hang up English boots and shoes upon their walls for spill holders, nor do they cherish English cooking pots and butter boats as things of price. The streets outside had been wet and drab, and the social atmosphere within seemed as neutral tinted, if less humid. The room was full of clacking women, in furs and out of them, drinking bad tea, with much milk and sugar, at the savour of which infusion the soul of Oishi Yoshio revolted, and his heart yearned for Tokio, for sunshine, brightness, the dainty refinements of life, and the hue and colour loveliness which constitute Japan.

His hostess beckoned him. and he steered his dapper, unobtrusive way to her. his slim hand fidgeting with his neat little black moustache. He was introduced to a young lady, who murmured something unintelligible as Oishi Yoshio bowed before her. Her name was Miss Darchfield. and the lithe Japanese observed that she was young and very pretty in her wheat haired, cornflower eyed, English style. She told him that she adored everything Japanese, and Oishi Yoshio could imagine her buying pastille sticks or paper fans, or string bath sandals at the Brompton emporium for the sale of such cheap and trashy merchandise. She said, “Have you seen the conservatory?" and took him there; and on a cane settee, in front of a miniature pond containing goldfish and a prospect of Japanese dwarf trees, in the midst of which appeared the roof of a crimson doll’s temple, they fell into conversation. Miss Darchfield still harped upon Japan and things Japanese. Her 'white teeth showed under the pink gable of her short upper lip as she said, lispingly. “I want to ask” .... She changed her tone, and put the question positive. “Do you know anything about tattooing as it is done in Japan?” Oisho Yoshio gave a quick glance at the charming face, and assented, passing one slim fingered, honey coloured hand over the other. “Of tattooing I certainly do know something,” he returned, in his slow, correct English. “It is an art much practised in my country—among certain classes of individuals.” He preserved perfect gravity, and wondered privately what was coming next. It came. “Could you tell me of anybody—any Japanese person living in London." the girl asked, “who could do it don’t you know?” She blushed pink, and looked everywhere, vaguely, before she brought the cornflower coloured eves back to Oishi Yoshio.

The perfectly marked eyebrows of the Secretary of the Legation were lifted the breadth of a baby’s finger nail.

“The art of tattooing" . . . He thought a moment; "there is one man . . . I could give you his address, if required. He lives"—the slim hand of the young Japanese waved eastward—“near your London Docks. He carries on a business there in curios, and in the art you speak of he is proficient. though he is now very old. Sailors resort to him. and rich, eccentric Englishmen, and sometimes” the oblique Asiatic eyes narrowed n

little—"occasionally ladies," he said. Miss Darchfield’s cheeks deepened their pretty pink. She was full of her subject, and hei - exuberant interest in it sparkled in her eyes. "Then,” she cried, "of course this old person who lives near the London Docks could carry out . . . ol course, he could dt> what 1 want at a reasonable charg-e?” “I imagine he has charges to suit all purses,” said Oishi Yoshio. "Perhaps you will tell me what you require done?” He shrugged his sloping shoulders slightly as he continued, "It is, no doubt, a gentleman of your acquaintance who desires to be tattooed with a figure . . . or an initial . . . or, perhaps, a name.” Miss Darchfield tossed her vretty chin and laughed a little harshly. "It is not a gentleman," she said; "it is 1, myself. Perhaps you think it a queer fancy.” . . . Her chin and shoulders expressed great indifference to the thoughts of this little Japanese. “But 1 want to be remind ed of something"—she caught her breath a little, and clasped her hands nervously together upon her knee - "something cruel and mean and heartless that has been done —by somebody I believed in. Call it a vendt tta. if you like” —Oishi Yoshio tried to do so, but was not enlightened in the least. “I want it to be stampe I upon me. so that I can carry it to my grave." Her tones grew tragic; her sensitive upper lip trembled; for the moment she had forgotten Oishi Yoshio. and was alone with her resentment and her wrong. “I’ve been badly treated.” stie broke out. becoming quite an ordinary angry young woman in a moment: "and I don't intend to forget it. And I'm going to have it tattooed on my wrist! You can see the inscription if you care to,” she added, with a great assumption of indifference. And she took a half sheet of cream laid note paper, folded in four, from the pretty reticule—-a piece of Paris foolishness—that hung at her waist, and handed it to Oishi A’oshio. The piece of paper bore, in a large, schoolgirl hand this ii ky legend: W.J.B. "All the World to Him!” June 19, 1900. “Not Good Enough!" Nov. 8. 1900.

“In my country,” said Oishi Yoshio, carefully perusing the inscription, “when a man takes a young wife, and finds himself dissatisfied or displeased with her, he can return her to her parents or guardians without blame. But he returns her dowry, or he pays an indemnity. It is all very simple.” he ended. “It sounds so," said the girl, with some acerbity, “but, of course, the ease is different. 1 was not married to William Johnson-Bradley; we were engaged, that’s all —ard quite enough too!” she added, viciously. “For a reasonable man," said Oishi Yoshio quietly. “You are very kind." said Miss Darchfield. She hesitated a moment, then turned her pretty face and looked full at the Secretary of the Legation. "You would be still kinder.” said Oishi Yoshio, “if you would tell me more about this Mr He wrinkled his tine black eyebrows. “Pardon! ... it is elusive—the English name—William Jowley-Biidson “William Johnson-Bradley." said the girl, a slight frown drawing her pretty brows together. “We met last March, at Prince’s Skating Rink. He skates awfully well, you know—figure skating, kind all that. Everybody wanted him to take them round on

the ice—Babs Mortimer, Flossie Daventry, and Everildu Fitzharding—they were quite wild about him. Everilda fell down in front of him, on purpose to get him to pick her up, and showed all her frills—she has a way of doing that, and wears lovely things on purpose—and I was flattered because he preferred me—and we did the outside edge, and it was like skating in heaven to the Hungarian band—and he taught me to waltz before the season was over—and the other girls were just wild—and Ever* ilda said horrid things, and was aa spiteful as a ferret! But 1 didn’t rare, and we were secretly engaged at Ascot in June. Nobody was to know, because we had not much money, and couldn't afford to marry; bul he said I was ‘all the world to him!’ ” “Yes?” said Oishi Yoshio, with delicately interrogating eyebrows, twisting the half sheet of cream laid note paper in his honey coloured fingers. His manner was full of unobtrusive deference and gentle politeness, and Miss Darchfield looked at him more appreciatively than before. She observed that his hair was as fine and smooth as black silk, that his eyes were handsome, even if the corners did tilt up toward the temples—his honey-coloured complexion was a peculiarity one might get used to — and that his hands, one of which bore a superb emerald signet ring, were lithe, supple, and beautiful in shape. “Yes.” Miss Darchfield went on, “Hie engagement was secret. We used to meet at places, and on Thursdays he would come to tea at Clargesstreet. I live there with my aunt. He was as devoted as anything for quite a long time. It was only when Everilda made up to him and told him about the £20.000 she had inherited from her uncle that he began to cool off. and I know it was all her doing. Beast!” Iler bosom rose and fell stormily under the fanciful tucks of her smart silk blouse. She took off her hat and stabbed it through viciously with a long gold pin. and threw it upon a neighbouring ehair.

“It is over and done with, and there’s no use making a fuss,” she said; “and I would bet a dozen pair of gloves to one that Everilda will be sorry she ever married him,” she said, “though I don’t want to be revenged on Everilda in any way—a little, round-eyed, silly dolly, bit of a thing! And she really didn’t mean to behave dishonestly. When I came upon them—together—only a week ago. in the Oriental tea-room at Liberty's. 1 actually heard her say. ‘How can 1 be all the world to you when yon are engaged.

on the strict Q. T., to Flossie Darehfield ?’ ” “1 thought.” hazarded Oishi Yoshio, "that nobody was to know?” "I told a few of my intimate friends, in confidence,” replied Miss Darchfield. "and, of course, theytold theirs." "It would have happened in .Japan," said the Secretary of Legation, suppressing a twinkie. "Well, Everilda said that," went on Miss Flossie Darchfield. “And he — William Johnson-Bradley—gave one of his laughs, and said, squeezing the hand with which she held the teapot, and twisting his silly little fair moustache, though I’ve begun to dislike fair moustaches only since that dav. ’Oh. come. I say!*—those were his exact words—‘Oh, come. I say! How can you? That’s not good enough!* And at that I came on, right past their table, and cut him as dead as though he’d been—a black beetle.” She got out a dainty little handkerchief. not to cry into, but to bite and twist between her restless fingers. "And now it’s all over between us,” she said. “But I don’t mean to forget William Johnson-Bradley’s perfidy, and—what a fool 1 was! So I’m going to have those words of his tattooed on my wrist, with a fancy border of dragons and devils and things- in the Japanese style. And whenever I look at that” Miss Darchfield stopped for breath. Oishi Yoshio was sitting on the bamboo settee about three feet away, listening intently. One slim patent leather booted foot was tucked beneath him: his lustrous, oblique eyes were looking straight at the girl. "Whenever you see that you will remember that you have disfigured yourself for life for the sake of a man who is not worth a dead fish. More you will have stamped yourself as : member of the vulgar class, because, in Japan, it is only boatmen, sailors, porters, and rickshaw men who wear the tattoo. But if you are so determined to be revenged upon this"—he hesitated—"this Braddam W ilson-.lon-ley. or what his name may be. why not employ a charm?" Miss Darehfield associated the won' with little golden and enamelled trinkets made to hang upon porte-l onhenrs and watch chains. "A charm?" she repeated. “A spell." explained Oishi Yoshio. "By reciting a certain formula of words ami burning perfumes specially prepared it would be possible in Japan to be revenged upon an enemy without: diverging from the strict dictum of politeness." He produced a delicate little cigarette ease of some tine woven grass, and took from it a slender cigarette. “Yon do not smoke?

No! But —you will allow me? The mind works more smoothly assisted by tobacco.” He struck a vesta, taken from a curious little case representing a sea mouse in golden brown and green enamel, lighted his cigarette, and tucked the other foot beneath him for a change. His eyes were very thoughtful, and the emerald signet he wore upon the middle finger of his left hand glowed and scintillated with living green fire, as though it had been the eye of an angry cat defending her kittens from a too intrusive terrier. Miss Darchfield arrived at the mean ing of Oishi with a little scream. "Why,” she said, "do you really believe? Why, that’s witchcraft! It would lie dealing with the devil!” Iler voice dropped awfully. Hut the Japanese was speaking. "In Japan, in my country, we have more than one devil. Plenty of devils, the big and the strong, and the little and the weak, and many of them are remarkably obliging. There is one who could make this Willy Johnbrad 1 forget—very uncomfortable indeed. lie is shaped like a bat, with crimson eyes, and all night he hangs upside down from the ceiling overhead. The person who is being made uncomfortable cannot sleep, for this devil seems every instant about to fall upon his head.” "Couldn't he get up and move his bed ?” suggested Miss llarchfield. “In Japan the beds are spread upon the floor,” said Oishi. “Yes, of course, he could move, but the devil moves' too, and when he looks up—there it is in the old place, and this continues until the sufferer goes mad or dies.” "How awful!” commented Miss Darchfield. “It is a good revenge and very cheap,” said the Japanese. “You have only to give the devil a little rice. And there is another evil spirit who lives in a gong. You can arrange with him to make the person you wish to punish become possessed with the notion that the sound of the gong is always in his ears. It begins with a droning note and swells to an insupportable boom, and this continues until the afflicted one drowns himself in despair. The devil who does this lives in a gong in one of our Shinto temples You repeat the invocation and hit the gong—”

"But 1 should have to go to Japan to do it!” expostulated Miss Darchfield. Oishi Yoshio smiled with quiet subtlety. “It would, of course, be more effective if you were upon the spot. Oh, certainly, yes! But I have a friend in Tokio who would arrange or I myself I go to Japan every spring to visit my father’s wives. He died over here some years ago, and they are always very pleased to see me.” “Did he have —many?” asked Miss Darchfield, shyly. "Only four,” replied Oishi. “Japan must be a—queer place,” said Miss Darchfield. A sudden look of interested curiosity came into het eyes as she turned them on the young Japanese diplomat. “Are you married?—if you don't think it’s rude of me to ask. And have you?—” She stopped in confusion. “Have I four wives?” said Oishi. “I have not yet one. I am a Europeanised Japanese, and belong to the American Evangelical Church: therefore any union I contract would be monogamic.” “But you believe in Japanese devils?” said Miss Darchfield, rather mystified by the last word. “Ah! To go on with those devils,” continued Oishi, gravely, but with a lurking smile hidden at the corners of his lips, “There is another, a lady, who carries three little baby devis in a pouch, who could do the business of this Johnwill Bradson-Yamley, in what you English call a jiffy. You burn a gilt paper sword ami call upon her name. Magahara O-Todao Kanesada. and the offending party is immediately seized with such remorse for his crime that he forgets his food, abstains from bathing, and at last is reluctantly compelled to commit selfdispatch. You could not do better than employ her.” Miss Darchfield rose ami began to look about for her hat. “You have taken a great deal of trouble to explain things to me,” she said, “and I’m awfully obliged. But I won’t call in any of those devils to

William Johnson-Bradley; and, as to the tattooing, I’ve changed my mind. I’d read a story —a book we got from Mudie’s, called 'Lady Vinolia’s Victim' —that put that into my head. It was Lady Vinolia who made a memorandum on herself, with a redhot bodkin, of a vengeance she meant to carry out on a wicked Austrian duke who had ruthlessly betrayed her. But that was in the time when people wore ruffs and somehow, it seems too big a way of treating a man like —” Oishi gave his version of the name in a musical singsong. This time it was “Bradjohn Jimson-Leeson.” Miss Darchfield gave a little peal of laughter. “You’ve never got that name right once!” she said. Then she pinned on her Bond-street hat, and Oishi helped her. She had masses of the wonderful wheat-coloured hair, and the sleeve-link in the cuff of the Secretary of Legation caught in a silken strand of and brought a great coil tumbling down. “Don’t look frightened—the other end has roots!” said Miss Darchfield. She looked vaguely about her, her slight arms raised, her hands busy at her head, and the reason of her perplexity was plain to the quick mind of the young Japanese. “You need a hairpin? Excuse me a moment!” he said, and, turning aside, thrust his hand within the breast of his exemplary waistcoat, and, withdrawing it with a slender object in its clasp, held it out to the girl. She took it with a brief word of acknowledgment, and then, as the beautiful thing glittered in the lamplight, she caught her breath in ecstasy, and cried, “Oh. how lovely! But I mustn’t take it, of course!” “It” was a slender stiletto in a narrow golden sheath, with a hilt of costly jade representing a lotus bud, upon which was perched a little diamond snail. Her heart went out to it, her soul yearned for it, but she held it out to Oishi Yoshio. He drew back, extending his palms downward before him. with a gesture of polite negation.

“Favour me by accepting! To make such presents to a lady —in token of respect. —is a custom with the people of my country. Besides”—his voice became low and impressive — “that snail is a devil. It will work out a revenge for you upon this man with the name which is impossible to remember.” He leaned nearer to Miss Darchfield with gleaming eyes. “You have only to look happy—and to wear that dagger constantly in your hair. Do you see? He will notice it, and wonder who gave you that. He will get other people to put questions to you; but you will answer none of them; you will only look happy, and wear the dagger of the lotus flower with the diamond snail. And this man. who, like a person of no discernment, threw you—you who are so beautiful and so proud!—aside like a broken jar for the sake of a little, silly woman with a baby face, this man will become possessed with the Devil of Jealousy! There are many devils in Japan, but this one is to be found wherever men and women live under the sky—and it is the worst of all.” Oishi’s white teeth showed as he caught his breath: his slim, supple hand closed upon the girl’s wrist as though the fingers were of jointed steel, and his dark eyes gleamed. “He will grow jealous—and he will come back to you. Then you will say: ‘Billiam Wohnson-Jadley, you are nothing to me! The mat on which I wipe my feet is more honourable in my eyes. For your love keep it, give it to whom you choose: T will have nothing of it. For I am loved by an honourable man, rich, not old, and very respectable—Europeanised Japanese, belonging to the American Evangelical Church, having favour in the eyes of authority as Second Secretary to the Legation of Japan, and with him 1 am about to contract a monogamic union.* ” He released the girl’s wrist, and pressed his palms together, bowing almost to the floor. “Tell me. my almond flower, my delight of spring, is not that what you will say?” Miss Darchfield hesitated. Then, “I’ll try your prescription.” she said.

with a flash of her eyes and teeth. “I’ll wear the dagger with the diamond .snail every day.” She thrust the exquisite, deadly thing, with its golden sheath and jewelled hilt, through her whealcoloured coils of hair. Oishi Yoshio, overwhelmed with a sudden dizziness, was aware only when the thing was done that he had kissed her. “You will wear the dagger—yes. But the words—will you not say the words?” he found himself pleading. Miss Darchfield stood before him with eyelids that drooped a little shyly and a flickering smile hovering about her sensitive mouth. “Of course, it’s very sudden, and—and I couldn’t dream of doing such a thing—without consulting Aunt,” she said.

“You did not consult her in the case of this Jamjonwilbad—and the rest, whose name I utterly abhor and contemn as I loathe his despicable personality!” cried Oishi Yoshio hotly. “True,” said Miss Darchfield, drawing her furs about her. “But it is a little sudden —don’t you think?” S'he thoughtfully put on one glove. “Love is always sudden,” said the lover. This was not denied by Miss Darchfield. “Good-bye, and thank you so much!” she said, proffering the ungloved hand. “By the way,” she remarked, with a studied appearance of casualness, “we live at No. 50, Clarges-street, and, if you should happen to be passing on Thursday at 4, Aunt would be glad to give you a cup of tea. It isn’t Japanese, but she buys it from the importers. And perhaps you would like to hear”—she gave her head a little, curious movement. and the diamond snail upon the jade lotus sent out a white and crimson throb of radiance —“you might like to know how the charm works.” “Flossie!” called a matronly voice belonging to a stout lady standing with several other stout ladies near the door.

“I’m coming. Auntie!” responded Miss Darchfield in her shrill, fresh voice. She looked back at Oishi Yoshio over her shoulder, and the diamond snail gleamed again. “Don’t forget the address —No. 50. Clargesstreet!” she said. Then she went away, and Oishi Yoshio, being a methodical young Secretary of Legation, made a note of the address, in Japanese, in his private memorandum book.