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 form 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 chrys-
