* * * * *
September 18.—I am leaving tonight. Mrs. O’Brien has packed my two
suitcases, and everything is in readiness for my departure. Ten minutes
ago I handed her the keys and she went off tearfully. She has been
sniffling all day and I have been perplexed, for a curious thing occurred
this morning.
It was about Arthur’s letter. Yesterday, when I had finished reading it,
I took it to my desk and placed it in a small compartment together with
other personal papers. I remember distinctly that it was on top, with a
lavender card from my sister directly underneath. This morning I went to
get it. It was gone.
There was the lavender card exactly where I had seen it, but Arthur’s
letter had completely disappeared. I turned everything upside down, then
called Mrs. O’Brien and we both searched, but in vain. Mrs. O’Brien, in
spite of all I could say, took it upon herself to feel that I suspected
her.... But what could have become of it? Fortunately I remember the
address.
* * * * *
September 19.—I have arrived. I have seen Arthur. Even now he is in the
next room and I am supposed to be preparing for bed. But something tells
me I shall not sleep a wink this night. I am strangely wrought up, though
there is not the shadow of an excuse for my excitement. I should be
rejoicing to have found my friend again. And yet....
I reached Baltimore this morning at eleven o’clock. The day was warm
and beautiful, and I loitered outside the station a few minutes before
calling a taxi. The driver seemed well acquainted with the street I gave
him, and we rolled off across the bridge.
As I drew near my destination, I began to feel anxious and afraid.
But the ride lasted longer than I expected—Marathon Street seemed to
be located in the suburbs of the city. At last we turned into a dusty
street, paved only in patches and lined with linden and aspen trees. The
fallen leaves crunched beneath the tires. The September sun beat down
with a white intensity. The taxi drew up before a house in the middle of
a block that boasted not more than six dwellings. On each side of the
house was a vacant lot, and it was set far back at the end of a long
narrow yard crowded with trees.
I paid the driver, opened the gate and went in. The trees were so thick
that not until I was half way up the path did I get a good view of the
house. It was three stories high, built of brick, in fairly good repair,
but lonely and deserted-looking. The blinds were closed in all of the
windows with the exception of two, one on the first, one on the second
floor. Not a sign of life anywhere, not a cat nor a milk bottle to break
the monotony of the leaves that carpeted the porch.
[Illustration]
But, overcoming my feeling of uneasiness, I resolutely set my suitcase on
the porch, caught at the old-fashioned bell, and gave an energetic jerk.
A startling peal jangled through the silence. I waited, but there was no
answer.
After a minute I rang again. Then from the interior I heard a queer
dragging sound, as if someone was coming slowly down the hall. The knob
was turned and the door opened. I saw before me an old woman, wrinkled,
withered, and filmy-eyed, who leaned on a crutch.
“Does Mr. Barker live here?” I asked.
She nodded, staring at me in a curious way, but made no move to invite me
in.
“Well, I’ve come to see him,” I said. “I’m a friend of his. He sent for
me.”
At that she drew slightly aside.
“He’s upstairs,” she said in a cracked voice that was little more than a
whisper. “I can’t show you up. Hain’t been up a stair now in ten year.”
“That’s all right,” I replied, and, seizing my suitcase, I strode down
the long hall.
“At the head of the steps,” came the whispering voice behind me. “The
door at the end of the hall.”
I climbed the cold dark stairway, passed along the short hall at the top,
and stood before a closed door. I knocked.
“Come in.” It was Arthur’s voice, and yet—not his.
I opened the door and saw Arthur sitting on a couch, his shoulders
hunched over, his eyes raised to mine.
After all, ten years had not changed him so much. As I remembered him,
he was of medium height, inclined to be stout, and ruddy-faced with keen
gray eyes. He was still stout, but had lost his color, and his eyes had
dulled.
“And where have you been all this time?” I demanded, when the first
greetings were over.
“Here,” he answered.
“In this house?”
“Yes.”
“But why didn’t you let us hear from you?”
He seemed to be making an effort to speak.
“What did it matter? I didn’t suppose any one cared.”
Perhaps it was my imagination, but I could not get rid of the thought
that Arthur’s pale eyes fixed tenaciously upon my face, were trying to
tell me something, something quite different from what his lips said.
I felt chilled. Although the blinds were open, the room was almost
darkened by the branches of the trees that pressed against the window.
Arthur had not given me his hand, had seemed troubled to know how to make
me welcome. Yet of one thing I was certain: He needed me and he wanted me
to know he needed me.
As I took a chair I glanced about the room. It was a typical
lodging-house room, medium sized, flowered wall paper, worn matting,
nondescript rugs, a wash-stand in one corner, a chiffonier in another, a
table in the center, two or three chairs, and the couch which evidently
served Arthur as a bed. But it was cold, strangely cold for such a warm
day.
Arthur’s eyes had wandered uneasily to my suitcase. He made an effort to
drag himself to his feet.
“Your room is back here,” he said, with a motion of his thumb.
“No, wait,” I protested. “Let’s talk about yourself first. What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been sick.”
“Haven’t you a doctor? If not, I’ll get one.”
At this he started up with the first sign of animation he had shown.
“No, Tom, don’t do it. Doctors can’t help me now. Besides, I hate them.
I’m afraid of them.”
His voice trailed away, and I took pity on his agitation. I decided to
let the question of doctors drop for the moment.
“As you say,” I assented carelessly.
Without more ado, I followed him into my room, which adjoined his and
was furnished in much the same fashion. But there were two windows, one
on each side, looking out on the vacant lots. Consequently, there was
more light, for which I was thankful. In a far corner I noticed a door,
heavily bolted.
“There’s one more room,” said Arthur, as I deposited my belongings. “One
that you’ll like. But we’ll have to go through the bath-room.”
Groping our way through the musty bath-room, in which a tiny jet of gas
was flickering, we stepped into a large, almost luxurious chamber. It was
a library, well-furnished, carpeted, and surrounded by shelves fairly
bulging with books. But for the chillness and bad light, it was perfect.
As I moved about, Arthur followed me with his eyes.
“There are some rare works on botany—”
I had already discovered them, a set of books that I would have given
much to own. I could not contain my joy.
“You won’t be so bored browsing around in here—”
In spite of my preoccupation, I pricked up my ears. In that monotonous
voice there was no sympathy with my joy. It was cold and tired.
When I had satisfied my curiosity we returned to the front room, and
Arthur flung himself, or rather fell, upon the couch. It was nearly five
o’clock and quite dark. As I lighted the gas, I heard a sound below as of
somebody thumping on the wall.
“That’s the old woman,” Arthur explained. “She cooks my meals, but she’s
too lame to bring them up.”
He made a feeble attempt at rising, but I saw he was worn out.
“Don’t stir,” I warned him. “I’ll bring up your food tonight.”
To my surprise, I found the dinner appetizing and well-cooked, and, in
spite of the fact that I did not like the looks of the old woman, I ate
with relish. Arthur barely touched a few spoonfuls of soup to his lips
and absently crumbled some bread in his plate.
Directly I had carried off the dishes, he wrapped his reddish-brown
dressing-gown about him, stretched out at full length on the couch, and
asked me to turn out the gas. When I had complied with his request, I
again heard his weak voice asking if I had everything I needed.
“Everything,” I assured him, and then there was unbroken silence.
I went to my room, finally, closed the door, and here I am sitting
restlessly between the two back windows that look out on the vacant lots.
I have unpacked my clothes and turned down the bed, but I cannot make up
my mind to retire. If the truth be told, I hate to put out the light....
There is something disturbing in the way the dry leaves tap on the panes.
And my heart is sad when I think of Arthur.
I have found my old friend, but he is no longer my old friend. Why does
he fix his pale eyes so strangely on my face? What does he wish to tell
me?
But these are morbid thoughts. I will put them out of my head. I will go
to bed and get a good night’s rest. And tomorrow I will wake up finding
everything right and as it should be.
* * * * *
September 26.—Have been here a week today, and I have settled down to
this queer existence as if I had never known another. The day after my
arrival I discovered that the third volume of the botanical series was
done in Latin, which I have set myself the task of translating. It is
absorbing work, and when I have buried myself in one of the deep chairs
by the library table, the hours fly fast.
For health’s sake I force myself to walk a few miles every day. I have
tried to prevail on Arthur to do likewise, but he, who used to be so
active, now refuses to budge from the house. No wonder he is literally
blue! For it is a fact that his complexion and the shadows about his eyes
and temples, are decidedly blue.
What does he do with himself all day? Whenever I enter his room, he is
lying on the couch, a book beside him, which he never reads. He does
not seem to suffer any pain, for he never complains. After several
ineffectual attempts to get medical aid for him, I have given up
mentioning the subject of a doctor. I feel that his trouble is more
mental than physical.
* * * * *
September 28.—A rainy day. It has been coming down in floods since dawn.
And I got a queer turn this afternoon.
As I could not get out for my walk, I spent the morning staging a general
house-cleaning. It was time! Dust and dirt everywhere. The bath-room,
which has no window and is lighted by gas, was fairly overrun with
water-bugs and roaches. Of course I did not penetrate to Arthur’s room,
but I heard no sound from him as I swept and dusted.
I made a good dinner and settled down in the library, feeling quite cosy.
The rain came down steadily and it had grown so cold that I decided to
make a fire later on. But once I had gathered my tablets and notebooks
about me I forgot the cold.
I remember I was on the subject of the _Aster Tripolium_, a rare variety
seldom found in this country. Turning a page, I came upon a specimen of
this very variety, dried, pressed flat, and pasted to the margin. Above
it, in Arthur’s handwriting, I read:
_September 27, 1912._
I was bending close to examine it, when I felt a vague fear. It seemed to
me that someone was in the room and was watching me. Yet I had not heard
the door open, nor seen anyone enter. I turned sharply and saw Arthur,
wrapped in his reddish-brown dressing-gown, standing at my very elbow.
He was smiling—smiling for the first time since my arrival, and his dull
eyes were bright. But I did not like that smile. In spite of myself I
jerked away from him. He pointed at the aster.
“It grew in the front yard under a linden tree. I found it yesterday.”
“Yesterday!” I shouted, my nerves on edge. “Good Lord man! Look! It was
ten years ago!”
The smile faded from his face.
“Ten years ago,” he repeated thickly. “_Ten years ago?_”
And with his hand pressed against his forehead, he went out of the room
still muttering, “_Ten years ago!_”...
As for me, this foolish incident has preyed on my mind and kept me from
doing any satisfactory work.... _September 27th_.... It is true, that was
also yesterday—ten years ago.
* * * * *
October 1.—One o’clock. A cheerful morning this has been, the sun shining
brightly, and a touch of frost in the air. I put in an excellent day’s
work in the library yesterday, and on the first mail this morning came a
letter from Mrs. O’Brien. She says the _Scarab_ chrysanthemums are in
full bloom. I must positively run up for a day before they are gone.
As I lighted a cigar after breakfast, I happened to glance over at Arthur
and was struck by a change in him. For he _has_ changed. I ask myself
if my presence has not done him good. On my arrival he seemed without
energy, almost torpid, but now he is becoming restless. He wanders about
the room continually and sometimes shows a disposition to talk.
Yes, I am sure he is better. I am going for my walk now, and I feel
convinced that in a week’s time I shall have him accompanying me.
* * * * *
Five o’clock. Dusk is falling. O God! What has come over me? Am I the
same man that went out of this house three hours ago? And what has
happened!...
I had a splendid walk, and was striding homeward in a fine glow. But as I
turned the corner and came in sight of the house, it was as if I looked
at death itself. I could hardly drag myself up the stairs, and when I
peered into the shadowy chamber, and saw the man hunched up on the couch,
with his eyes fixed intently on my face, I could have screamed like a
woman. I wanted to fly, to rush out into the clear cold air and run—to
run and never come back! But I controlled myself, forced my feet to carry
me to my room.
There is a weight of hopelessness at my heart. The darkness is advancing,
swallowing up everything, but I have not the will to light the gas....
Now there is a flicker in the front room. I am a fool; I must pull myself
together. Arthur is lighting up, and downstairs I can hear the thumping
that announces dinner....
It is a queer thought that comes to me now, but it is odd I have not
noticed it before. We are about to sit down to our evening meal. Arthur
will eat practically nothing for he has no appetite. Yet he remains
stout. It cannot be healthy fat, but even at that it seems to me that a
man who eats as little as he does would become a living skeleton.
* * * * *
October 5.—Positively, I must see a doctor about myself, or soon I shall
be a nervous wreck. I am acting like a child. Last night I lost all
control and played the coward.
I had gone to bed early, tired out with a hard day’s work. It was raining
again, and as I lay in bed I watched the little rivulets trickling down
the panes. Lulled by the sighing of the wind among the leaves, I fell
asleep.
I awoke (how long afterward I cannot say) to feel a cold hand laid on my
arm. For a moment I lay paralyzed with terror. I would have cried aloud,
but I had no voice. At last I managed to sit up, to shake the hand off. I
reached for the matches and lighted the gas.
It was Arthur who stood by my bed—Arthur wrapped in his eternal
reddish-brown dressing-gown. He was excited. His blue face had a yellow
tinge, and his eyes gleamed in the light.
“Listen!” he whispered.