IsaWhitney,brotherofthelateEliasWhitney,D.D.,PrincipaloftheTheologicalCollegeofSt.George’s,wasmuchaddictedtoopium.Thehabitgrewuponhim,asIunderstand,fromsomefoolishfreakwhenhewasatcollegeforhavingreadDeQuincey’sdescriptionofhisdreamsandsensations,hehaddrenchedhistobaccowithlaudanuminanattempttoproducethesameeffects.Hefound,assomanymorehavedone,thatthepracticeiseasiertoattainthantogetridof,andformanyyearshecontinuedtobeaslavetothedrug,anobjectofmingledhorrorandpitytohisfriendsandrelatives.Icanseehimnow,withyellow,pastyface,droopinglids,andpin-pointpupils,allhuddledinachair,thewreckandruinofanobleman.
Onenight—itwasinJune,’89—therecamearingtomybell,aboutthehourwhenamangiveshisfirstyawnandglancesattheclock.Isatupinmychair,andmywifelaidherneedle-workdowninherlapandmadealittlefaceofdisappointment.
“Apatient!”saidshe.“You’llhavetogoout.”
Igroaned,forIwasnewlycomebackfromawearyday.
Weheardthedooropen,afewhurriedwords,andthenquickstepsuponthelinoleum.Ourowndoorflewopen,andalady,cladinsomedark-colouredstuff,withablackveil,enteredtheroom.
“Youwillexcusemycallingsolate,”shebegan,andthen,suddenlylosingherself-control,sheranforward,threwherarmsaboutmywife’sneck,andsobbeduponhershoulder.“Oh,I’minsuchtrouble!”shecried“Idosowantalittlehelp.”
“Why,”saidmywife,pullingupherveil,“itisKateWhitney.Howyoustartledme,Kate!Ihadnotanideawhoyouwerewhenyoucamein.”
“Ididn’tknowwhattodo,soIcamestraighttoyou.”Thatwasalwaystheway.Folkwhowereingriefcametomywifelikebirdstoalighthouse.
“Itwasverysweetofyoutocome.Now,youmusthavesomewineandwater,andsitherecomfortablyandtellusallaboutit.OrshouldyouratherthatIsentJamesofftobed?”
“Oh,no,no!Iwantthedoctor’sadviceandhelp,too.It’saboutIsa.Hehasnotbeenhomefortwodays.Iamsofrightenedabouthim!”
Itwasnotthefirsttimethatshehadspokentousofherhusband’strouble,tomeasadoctor,tomywifeasanoldfriendandschoolcompanion.Wesoothedandcomfortedherbysuchwordsaswecouldfind.Didsheknowwhereherhusbandwas?Wasitpossiblethatwecouldbringhimbacktoher?
Itseemsthatitwas.Shehadthesurestinformationthatoflatehehad,whenthefitwasonhim,madeuseofanopiumdeninthefarthesteastoftheCity.Hithertohisorgieshadalwaysbeenconfinedtooneday,andhehadcomeback,twitchingandshattered,intheevening.Butnowthespellhadbeenuponhimeight-and-fortyhours,andhelaythere,doubtlessamongthedregsofthedocks,breathinginthepoisonorsleepingofftheeffects.Therehewastobefound,shewassureofit,attheBarofGold,inUpperSwandamLane.Butwhatwasshetodo?Howcouldshe,ayoungandtimidwoman,makeherwayintosuchaplaceandpluckherhusbandoutfromamongtheruffianswhosurroundedhim?
Therewasthecase,andofcoursetherewasbutonewayoutofit.MightInotescorthertothisplace?Andthen,asasecondthought,whyshouldshecomeatall?IwasIsaWhitney’smedicaladviser,andassuchIhadinfluenceoverhim.IcouldmanageitbetterifIwerealone.IpromisedheronmywordthatIwouldsendhimhomeinacabwithintwohoursifhewereindeedattheaddresswhichshehadgivenme.AndsointenminutesIhadleftmyarmchairandcheerysitting-roombehindme,andwasspeedingeastwardinahansomonastrangeerrand,asitseemedtomeatthetime,thoughthefutureonlycouldshowhowstrangeitwastobe.
Buttherewasnogreatdifficultyinthefirststageofmyadventure.UpperSwandamLaneisavilealleylurkingbehindthehighwharveswhichlinethenorthsideoftherivertotheeastofLondonBridge.Betweenaslop-shopandagin-shop,approachedbyasteepflightofstepsleadingdowntoablackgaplikethemouthofacave,IfoundthedenofwhichIwasinsearch.Orderingmycabtowait,Ipasseddownthesteps,wornhollowinthecentrebytheceaselesstreadofdrunkenfeetandbythelightofaflickeringoil-lampabovethedoorIfoundthelatchandmademywayintoalong,lowroom,thickandheavywiththebrownopiumsmoke,andterracedwithwoodenberths,liketheforecastleofanemigrantship.
Throughthegloomonecoulddimlycatchaglimpseofbodieslyinginstrangefantasticposes,bowedshoulders,bentknees,headsthrownback,andchinspointingupward,withhereandthereadark,lack-lustreeyeturneduponthenewcomer.Outoftheblackshadowsthereglimmeredlittleredcirclesoflight,nowbright,nowfaint,astheburningpoisonwaxedorwanedinthebowlsofthemetalpipes.Themostlaysilent,butsomemutteredtothemselves,andotherstalk