Part 5

It is hard to tell what were Arthur’s sensations; everything seemed so strange. He was told that these were his rooms; he had no recollection of ever having seen them until the morning when he opened his eyes on the physician’s face. Even the language sounded strange to him, though in a hazy way he knew what was meant; it was as though the sounds had been imprinted upon the brain by some other intelligence; as a picture is sensitized upon the plate by one artist for another artist’s use. The business so often mentioned to him, seemed like a hazy dream; something of which some other person being cognizant, had conveyed to him in a far-off manner, an impression of his knowledge. In the same way he knew that he was expected to love Edith; but there was a vague, elusive intuition of some actual affinity, a feeling which he could not shake off, and by which he knew that whatever of feeling he possessed for Edith was as the shadow to the real. This hazy something, which was not knowledge, nor yet a dream, strained his mental capacity in a vain effort after solution. He restlessly tried to gather up the threads of that which seemed to him a new life.

As Gus was vice-president of the bank everything went on smoothly; but he felt greatly annoyed at Arthur’s complete indifference when he wished to consult with him upon important business:

“You just manage everything, Gus, until I feel more like business.”

“You will have to pull yourself together, old man;” answered Gus, regarding him with troubled gaze.

No sooner had Gus left the room than all signs of languidness disappeared; he muttered angrily to himself; he paced up and down the floor; he tore the books from the shelves in frantic desire for something which would enlighten him on these things which seemed so hazy and bewildering; he threw the book he was holding from him in an excess of rage. Letters and words had a strangely familiar look, and yet—the mental strain was fearful—it was like hunting for faces whose lineaments were long since forgotten; like trying to decipher a faded picture imprinted in dim ink by some person unknown; and feeling, withal, that a perfect understanding of the dim lights and shadows was expected.

That which gave him a still more restless pain was that other 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.