tantalizing consciousness which eluded him, though almost touching his
memory. Every hour when alone was feverishly employed in trying to
recall that which seemed to him like a lost treasure. He listened to
every scrap of conversation, he watched the expression of every face,
the gestures of every person. A sentence which puzzled him he would
repeat over and over again, until he had fixed it firmly in his mind;
then the full meaning was hunted out as soon as he was alone.
Edith often looked at him in wondering surprise; he seemed not in the
least like the man whom she had loved; it is true the features were the
same, but—where was the cultivated ease of manner, where the grace which
had been so attractive; the clear, open expression of countenance which
had distinguished the man she loved above his fellows? This
discontented, rebellious soul looked out from under frowning brows; the
brilliant blue eyes had a wary, suspicious look; the movements were
awkward, the speech uncouth.
“Oh, Gus, how changed he is!” cried Edith.
“Yes, I scarcely know what to do; if one could but wake him in some
way!” said Gus, sadly.
A year or more passed by; as he regained strength he developed strange
desires; he absented himself from home for days together.
Edith remonstrated: “Why do you do so, Arthur?”
He answered her coarsely, like an undisciplined youth: “I do not think I
need a keeper!”
Edith burst into tears: “I did not mean that; but you know—that—that—I
am lonely when you are away,” she faltered.
A half-frightened look passed over his face, and was gone instantly, to
be succeeded by a perplexed scowl.
“You act as though you owned me!” he said brutally.
Edith regarded him in pained surprise: “Arthur!” The single word
expressed much.
He left the house, slamming the door after himself.
He began about this time assuming control of the business; things seemed
to go wrong from that hour, and he appeared to have lost all judgment;
heavy losses followed in rapid succession. He angrily resented advice,
and Gus became so annoyed that he took him to task.
“See here, old man! You are going it a bit wild—you had best check up!”
Arthur’s moody eyes lit up with an angry flame: “Any person would think
that you had the whole say so,” he sneered.
“You know, Arthur, that I have no wish to control, except for the mutual
good. Great heaven, Arthur! You are ruining us!” cried Gus, aggravated
into speaking his mind.
Arthur looked moodily down, and like a child caught in some misdemeanor,
grumbled out: “Any person is liable to make a mistake.”
Gus looked at him curiously: “I’ve a great notion to pull out; I do not
propose getting caught under the wreck when the crash comes,” said he
angrily.
“Oh, well, get some one to do the work in my place, if you feel so
terribly worried,” quite as angrily retorted Arthur.
A couple of weeks later Gus did put another man into the office; Arthur
seemed rather relieved than otherwise.
Gus was talking to Edith a few days later; they had been speaking of
Arthur, and incidentally of Wilbur the new man:
“He seems to understand his business; he has a way of going at it, as
though he had been in that office all his life; actually, as he sank
into that big, green chair, he sighed with satisfaction.”
“Tell me how he looks,” said Edith.
“Oh, tall and muscular; his hair is as black as the proverbial crow’s
wing; the most piercing black eyes that I ever saw; his looks are rather
fierce and brigandish, but his manner is most gentle and courteous; his
voice is very sweet, the words and tones of a cultured man.”
“You make me very curious to see him,” answered Edith.
“He interests me strangely; it seems as though I had known him at some
former time, but I cannot place him.”
“How does Arthur take it?”
“That is strangest of all; he glowers at him as though he hated him
mortally; yet he obeys every suggestion of Wilbur’s as though he were
afraid of him.”
Edith did not reply; she was conscious of a feeling of repulsion toward
Arthur, which had been growing in force for the last year; she no longer
had the slightest affection for him; if he laid his hand upon her
shoulder, even his near proximity would send a shudder through her whole
being. She felt ashamed and guilty that such was the case, and tried to
conceal the fact. A feverish longing possessed her to see Wilbur; she
was also ashamed of this feeling, and mentally took herself to task for
the unmaidenly desire.
As to Arthur, everything worried him; he was restless and unhappy; he
seemed to have no care as to the success of the business; instead, he
burned with a wild desire to throw the money away; anything, any way, so
as to be free from care and thought. He had a passionate wish to roam,
to get away from the haunts of men into the green woods; to lie on his
back and look up at the blue skies, listening to the rustle of the
leaves; it smoothed the frown from his moody brow, and seemed to bring
that floating affinity nearer his mental vision; at times it came so
near that with a cry he would start up and fling his arms wide with a
hoarse cry of mad impotence, as it faded delusively. He hated the
conventionalities of society; he longed to do something _outré_, to
shock those with whom he came into contact out of their calm; he looked
with hatred upon all the refinements of life, as so many limitations, so
many bars to personal enjoyment.
Through all the fierce rebellion ran a hazy admonition: “You ought to
like these things, it is expected of you; your position requires it.”
Accompanying these thoughts like a weird shadow was that intangible—what
was it? A delusion, a dream, or the shadow of a memory?
A few days after Wilbur came, Gus one evening invited him to go home
with them: “I wish to introduce you to Arthur’s ward, Edith,” he said.
“Edith! Edith!” said Wilbur dreamily; “I seem to see her—tall, fair—with
the purity of the lily—” He paused, passing his hand over his brow, with
a deep sigh.
Gus stared at him in amazement; “Do you know her?” he asked brusquely.
“No! no! I have sometimes dreamed of her, I think; I cannot recall what
it is—” again he sighed deeply; he appeared like one awakening from
sleep.
Arthur looked at him, his brows bent moodily.
Gus said nothing, but thought to himself; “Well, here is a pair of
them!” As they were walking slowly homeward, through the level glow of
the sunset, a woman brushed past them; she lifted her face to look at
Wilbur, a look in which hate mingled strangely with love. Her eyes were
like midnight, but a midnight lighted by a reddish glow, the reflection
of the fires within; inky black brows, and hair of the same shade
falling low on a forehead as colorless as marble. A face to glow with
the fiercest abandonment of love, or burn with the seething fires of
hate; her form was of voluptuous beauty, a something strange and foreign
in the _ensemble_.
Arthur stopped abruptly, giving vent to a strange, fierce cry:
“Andalusia! Andalusia!” The sound was like the voice of one in anguish.
She swept him a burning glance, to which he replied in a strange
language, gesticulating rapidly; with a look of wild amazement she
passed on, and was lost to sight around a street corner.
Gus looked his displeasure: “I would not stop to talk with one of that
kind on the street; who is she?”
Arthur looked at him as though he did not understand, but when the
question was repeated, he replied absently:
“No; no; I must have been mistaken!”
Gus of course thought that he was telling an untruth; he judged her some
disreputable woman of Arthur’s acquaintance. “Oh, it is all right, I do
not blame you for being ashamed of it!” he answered sarcastically.
Arthur shot him a look of hatred from under moody brows, but made no
reply. Wilbur seemed feverishly eager to reach their destination, and in
preoccupied thought had hurried forward until he was considerably in
advance of the others, consequently observed nothing.
When Gus introduced Wilbur to Edith, he blushed and stammered awkwardly;
she was no less embarrassed. Throughout the whole evening Wilbur
scarcely took his eyes from her face; once, inadvertently, he called her
Edith; she blushed furiously, and Gus gave him a look of displeasure,
which he did not observe.
Later in the evening Gus said to her: “I do not like Wilbur’s
familiarity on so short an acquaintance.”
Edith hesitated a moment before answering: “I do not think it was
intentional, Gus, doesn’t he remind you of some other person?”
“Yes; but I can never say who it is.”
They turned to look at him, as he sat talking to Arthur; the contrast
between the two was very marked. Arthur was slouchingly leaning over the
table; his carelessness of attire, an indefinable coarseness of look and
action, contrasted most unfavorably with Wilbur’s refined manner, the
neatness of his person, and the high thought written in characters
unmistakable upon his countenance; yet the features of Arthur were far
more regular, his physique finer.
Edith sighed. Gus answered her thought.
“Yes; he has changed awfully; I doubt his ever being quite himself
again.”
“He seems an entirely different person; Mr. Wilbur is much more as
Arthur used to be than Arthur himself.”
Gus started in amazement: “By Jove! That is so! Ever since he came it
has puzzled me to know who he was like.”
They had been busying themselves over the tea things as they talked, and
now brought them forward. As they sipped their tea Gus endeavored to
lead the conversation toward Wilbur’s former life, but he plainly evaded
the subject. Arthur the whole evening sat moodily gnawing his mustache,
or paced the floor restlessly. It was late when Wilbur took his
departure.
For a long time Gus could hear Arthur moving about his room, but at last
he sank into dreamy slumber, in which Arthur and Wilbur were strangely
intermingled, once starting up wide awake as he fancied he heard the
hall door close. He lay a few minutes with every nerve quivering, afraid
of—he knew not what; then took himself to task for being so foolish, and
again dropped off to sleep.
Arthur did not appear in the morning; but his course was so erratic that
this occasioned no surprise; but when a week, two weeks went by without
his return, Gus began to be seriously alarmed.
Wilbur proved a treasure; everything went on in the most methodical
manner; he seemed to understand every detail of the business; to know
where papers and records were kept, of which others had no knowledge;
moreover he seemed to enjoy his work.
The residence also, seemed strangely familiar to him; on more than one
occasion he surprised them by mentioning articles placed in rooms of
which he was supposed to know nothing.
One evening Gus asked him: “Were you ever in that room?”
Wilbur looked bewildered: “I think not—I do not know,” he said slowly.
“If not, how do you know where that picture is placed, and the subject
of the painting?”
They had been talking of the works of a certain master, and Wilbur
mentioned a painting which hung in Arthur’s room.
He rested his head upon his hand in an attitude familiar to both; “I do
not know; I seem to see it, that is all that I can tell you,” he
answered in a sad tone.
Gus looked at Edith questioningly; she did not notice him, her eyes were
fixed upon Wilbur.
The next morning as they were sitting down to breakfast, Arthur
returned. Edith and Gus rose to their feet, simultaneously; he was
dirty, and disheveled, his clothing tattered and soiled; he had the look
of a tramp. “Well! You are a sight, and no mistake! Where have you
been?” said Gus laughingly.
His appearance was really ludicrous; he tried to pass it off lightly,
but a heavy frown belied his flippant manner.
“Who made you your brother’s keeper?”
“Really, I do not know who appointed me, but you look as though you were
in need of some person to fill that position,” retorted Gus.
Half defiantly he replied: “With your kind permission, I’ll take some
breakfast,” tossing his hat on the floor, as he seated himself at the
table.
Edith had not spoken, but looked at him in amazement and aversion. Gus
laughed derisively: “I say, aren’t you forgetting something, old
fellow?” laying his hand affectionately on his shoulder.
“What’s wrong, now?” looking scowlingly at him.
Gus made no reply in words, but looked significantly at his grimy hands;
he frowned still more angrily; jerked himself out of his chair, and went
to his room muttering: “Confounded bore! Mind his own business!” like an
untrained, overgrown boy.
Edith could scarcely restrain her tears. “Is it not horrible?” she said
with quivering lips.
“Yes it is, but we must overlook it as much as possible; he is to be
pitied; he has never been quite right since—” he paused significantly.
“I know! But Gus, it makes me shudder to think of fulfilling my
engagement to him; I just cannot—” she paused, a burning blush spreading
over her face; she had never before spoken of it to Gus.
He sat thoughtfully toying with his fork for a few minutes:
“Do you think that he wishes it?”
“No, I do not; he never offers me the slightest token of affection, for
which I am indeed grateful; truly, I do not believe that he ever thinks
of it.” She laughed in an embarrassed manner.
“Taking it altogether, Wilbur, Arthur, and—ourselves, it’s a queer
business.”
Edith flushed a fiery red; but if she intended an answer, which is
doubtful, Arthur’s returning step put an end to the conversation. He at
once seated himself at the table, and ate like one famished. A few
evenings later Wilbur again came to dinner with Arthur and Gus. The air
was very warm and pleasant, and after dinner they all went into the
sitting room; the windows opened down to the floor, and were flung wide
to admit the sweet, fresh evening air; a long vine-draped porch ran
along the whole front of the house.
“Do not have lights, they call the insects, and it is much pleasanter to
sit on the porch,” said Edith.
Seated there, a strange silence fell over them; the full moon rode
through the sky like a stately silver ship; a faint breeze stirred the
leaves on the vines, and cast fitful arabesques on the floor; a cricket
chirped lonesomely in the grass; dark shadows lay weirdly across the
winding walks. Wilbur sat close to Edith, the shadows half enveloping
them; in their concealment his hand had sought hers, and clasped it
fondly. Arthur sat at the far end of the porch, in the densest gloom;
only the fiery tip of his cigar betraying his presence. Gus lay
stretched on a wooden settee, his eyes fixed dreamily on a few light,
fleecy clouds showing through a break in the vines.
There was a faint rustling sound just where the foliage grew the most
dense; the leaves were cautiously parted, and a pallid, vengeful face
looked through. The intruder seemed as much surprised as were the group
seated there; she had evidently expected to find the porch untenanted,
and the sight revealed seemed to drive her to a frenzy of madness; a ray
of moonlight fell upon the clasped hands of Edith and Wilbur, also
showing the look of devotion upon Wilbur’s face, as he was bending
toward her in the act of speaking.
There was a flash, the report of a pistol, intermingled with wild
screams, and a hoarse, strange cry from Arthur:
“Andalusia! Andalusia!” Then, something wildly, rapidly spoken in a
strange language; the vengeful, defiant air speedily changing to wonder
and amazement; tones of fierce remonstrance from him, and scornful
disbelief from her; then a word or two of pleading; a light in her eyes
like blazing stars, and obeying his fierce gestures she slipped away
among the winding walks, shadowy trees and shrubbery.
It has taken some time to tell all this, but the happening was so rapid
that none save Gus saw or heard aught that passed between Arthur and the
strange woman.
Wilbur was bending over the half-fainting Edith, whispering impassioned
words in her ear, caution thrown to the winds on the near approach of
danger.
Gus for a moment gazed speechless and motionless, amazed at the fierce
gestures, and the strange language; and when he would have detained the
woman, Arthur angrily threw him backward, saying: “Let her alone! She
made a mistake!”
“A strange mistake, I take it!” hotly replied Gus.
“What is the use of raising more disturbance? No one is hurt! She
thought that I was sitting there beside Edith.”
“Suppose you were? Why should she shoot you? It looks very peculiar!”
said Gus angrily.
Arthur made no reply, but strode away into the darkness of the
shrubbery.
Edith and Wilbur had entered the house, and their low tones, agitated
conversation, reached Gus indistinctly as he stood irresolute; he had
sent the servants back to their places, and their frightened tones
reached him faintly; after some seconds’ indecision he plunged off down
the path which Arthur had taken, but no trace of him or the woman could
he find.
It was fully an hour before he returned to the house, feeling angry that
he was no wiser than when he started; he was the more angry that he did
not know what he expected to find. His astonishment was great to find
Arthur seated in the self same place smoking as though nothing out of
the ordinary had happened.
“Well, I declare! I have been looking everywhere for you;” he said.
“Yes! You have found me, now what will you have?”
It had seemed during the surprise and heat of anger easy enough to ask
him what all this mystery meant; but looking Arthur in the face;
listening to his cool, sneering tones, it was far from easy; so he
hesitated and stammered out: “I don’t understand this business at all.”
Arthur broke in: “My dear Gus, neither do I.”
His tone implied so much more than the words that Gus was effectually
silenced.
They soon separated for the night; Wilbur had gone home half an hour
before, and Edith had retired to her room, her nerves in a tumult over
the occurrences of the evening; but through all the fright and horror
ran a thrill of sweetness.
Wilbur had whispered in her ear, as she lay half fainting: “My love! Do
not be frightened; I will protect you!”
“Who could it be? I _am_ so frightened!” clinging to his hand.
“It is all past now, dear; I think it must have been some crazy person.”
For another week things went on much as usual, except that Gus was now
positive that Arthur went out each night at about half-past twelve; not
returning until morning, always haggard and worn, and often in the most
furious mood. Frequently he glared at Wilbur as though he would like to
murder him; but if Wilbur turned, or he knew himself to be observed, his
manner changed completely. He seemed anxious to throw Edith and Wilbur
together; and yet, as they conversed or sat in silent contentment he
would restlessly pace the floor, and finally fling himself out of the
room angrily.
Of a sudden he changed entirely; he remained at home of nights, went to
the bank early in the morning, and remained until the hour of closing,
seemingly intent upon a thorough understanding of every phase of the
business, but at times showing such a strange forgetfulness—or
ignorance—that Wilbur would pause, and look at him in astonishment.
It was on Wednesday, there were papers missing, relating to some
securities; Gus and Arthur had been vainly seeking them all the morning;
finally Gus went over to Wilbur’s desk and asked, more because he was
vexed and at a loss as to what to do, than for any other reason:
“Wilbur, do you know anything about those securities?” mentioning the
particular ones he wished.
Without even pausing in his work Wilbur replied, naming the number of
the drawer in the security vault where he would find them.
Gus made him no reply, but sought the drawer described, and returned
with the papers.
He walked up to Wilbur, followed by Arthur:
“Will you explain to me _how_ you knew where those securities were?
After you told where they were, I remember placing them there; and I
know that they have not been removed for over a year, long before you
came here—” he paused significantly.
Wilbur looked up from his work in complete bewilderment:
“I do not know _how_ I know it, but it is all clear to me; the moment
you mention a thing I seem to see it, and a long-stored knowledge seems
instantly to step forth. I seem to know every crevice in these stones;
every bolt, bar and drawer; but how I gained that knowledge I can not
tell, because—I do not know.”
As he talked he was gazing straight before him, with a strange, unseeing
look.
“It is not so strange that you have the knowledge—it is easy to get, if
one pokes his nose into everything; but it is hard to understand why I
cannot remember anything concerning the business,” said Arthur
disagreeably.
“It is no use quarreling!” said Gus, but it was evident that he was both
puzzled and annoyed.
That night Gus again heard Arthur stealthily leaving the house, and he
did not return until noon of the next day. He remained at the bank from
that time until after the hour for closing, remarking that he had
correspondence which he wished to finish; having completed it, he called
the watchman and sent him to post the letters, saying that he would
remain on watch until his return; as soon as he came back, Arthur went
home.
He seemed moody and distrait all the evening, and several times Gus
caught him glaring at Wilbur with the unmistakable light of hatred in
his eyes. Wilbur spent nearly all of his evenings with Edith, and made
no secret of his devotion to her. Gus was puzzled to account for
Arthur’s manner toward Wilbur; that he hated him was very evident, but
it certainly was not from jealousy, as he showed not the slightest love
for Edith; on the contrary, he appeared actually to dislike and avoid
her. Several times during the evening he sank into such gloomy
abstraction as not to notice when he was addressed; at an early hour he
left the parlor and went to his room, with not even an excuse or a
good-night.
Edith looked pained, but Gus was too outspoken to keep silence:
“I do believe that Arthur is going insane; I never saw such a change in
any one!”
He was again absent the next morning; but he was away so frequently that
no one even spoke of it; but when a week passed without his return Gus
began to be vaguely alarmed and suspicious; the reason for the latter
feeling being that Arthur had drawn large sums of money on his personal
check within the previous week. Only the day before this last departure
he had taken out several thousand dollars.
On his way to his sleeping room that night, Gus, from some impulse
unexplainable, tried the door of Arthur’s room. He did not know what he
expected to discover, he was simply uneasy.
To his surprise he found the door unlocked; heretofore Arthur had been
more than careful to keep his privacy secure. Gus entered and turned on
the light, everything seemed as usual; he opened the door of the
wardrobe, and looked within, it gave him a start to find it empty. Gus
turned giddy; had his prediction come true? A prophecy which was born of
vexation, instead of insight. Arthur had taken away all of his clothing;
no interpretation could be put upon that action, but that he intended to
abandon his home; but why should he do so, unless mentally unbalanced?
As he turned to extinguish the light he saw, placed conspicuously on the
dresser, a letter; trembling with undefinable fear he caught it up;
without address it abruptly commenced:
“When you find this I shall be far away. I have taken five thousand
dollars in cash and the diamonds which were in my safe-deposit drawer,
which amount to twenty thousand more. The balance of the money and the
real estate I have turned over to Wilbur; I hate him, but he has a right
to the property.
“You do not understand, and will wonder; I will explain.
“You remember the time when, to all appearances, Arthur Lombard dropped
dead; amid great, apparent grief, and much excitement he was carried to
this house where he lay silent and motionless for three days.
“At the same instant in which he fell in his elegantly appointed office,
almost in the same manner, fell Antoni Petronelli, one of a band of
roving gypsies, who dwelt in a fair southern country, with no covering
save the waving arms of the forest trees, or at most a house of boughs
for shelter at night or in storm. As Edith and Gus mourned over Arthur
Lombard, so Andalusia Varana mourned over Antoni—yet not the same—the
cool blood of your race cannot realize the fierce love and desperate
grief of the untrammeled children of the South.
“At the very instant that Arthur Lombard awoke to life again, that same
instant arose as one from the dead, Antoni Petronelli.