Chapter 4

Sitting quietly smoking his cigarette, Mr. Henley became absorbed in a critical study of the quaint old pile which had so suddenly risen to abnormal interest in his eyes. A part of the structure was falling rapidly to decay, while other portions were so deeply embedded in ivy and other creeping things that it was impossible to discover their actual state of preservation. The windows were small and far apart, and Paul recognized his own by its bearing upon a certain tree which he had noticed while looking out upon the previous night. Following down the line of the wall, he was surprised to find a large space which was not pierced by either door or window, and naturally began to wonder what manner of apartment lay upon the opposite side, where neither light nor air were admitted. The wall, to be sure, was covered with Virginia creeper, which had made its way to the roof, but it was evident that it concealed no opening. Then his thoughts wandered back to the mysterious well, and he began to wonder if the closed door at the bottom connected with the unaccounted-for space behind this wall. His curiosity grew as he brooded upon this possibility--a possibility which he now conceded to be a certainty as he marked the configuration of the building. The blank wall was beneath his bedroom. The well descended directly into it, or upon one side of it, and communicated with it through the door mentioned. There was nothing to be learned by inquiry, and Henley determined to make another effort to force open the door. His resolution was not entirely the result of curiosity, for he had taken such a sudden and strong liking for the girl that he disliked the thought of leaving her; and yet the riddle of her environment was such that he conceived it to be no more than a proper regard for his own safety to take such a precaution while visiting her. Having reached this determination, he cast about for the means of executing it. He thought he should require a hammer and a cold chisel, but where such were to be found he could not conceive. Moreover, even were they in his possession, it was impossible to see exactly how he could make use of them without arousing the household. He thought of various devices, such as a muffled hammer, or a crowbar to wrench the door from its hinges, but these were discarded in turn as impracticable, from the fact that they were unobtainable. He looked about him among the shrubbery, but there was nothing to aid him; and, indeed, how could he expect to find tools where there were no servants to use them? He got up and walked down the path, absorbed in reverie, and although unable to devise any immediate plan to accomplish the task, his resolution became more fixed as he dwelt upon it. He would risk all things in opening that door, and was impatient for an opportunity to renew the effort. Then the girl's voice came floating through the air in a plaintive melody, and Henley was recalled to his surroundings. In another minute she had joined him.

“I was afraid you would be lonely without me,” she said, “and so I returned as soon as I had carried the flowers to the house.”

“I am so glad,” he replied, with a look of unmistakable pleasure. “Do you know, this is the most romantic place I have ever seen in all my life, and you are certainly the most romantic girl.”

“Am I?” she answered sadly, and without a glimmering suspicion of a smile.

They walked slowly down the path until reaching a decrepit old gate, where they stopped.

“This is the end of the garden,” she said. “Shall we go into the woods for a walk?”

“Dorothy!” Paul began, “pardon me for calling you by your name, but do you know I feel as if any prefix in your case would be irritating, from the fact that you strike me as a girl who is utterly above and beyond such idle conventionalities. One would almost as soon think of saying Miss to a goddess.”

“And may I call you Paul? You will not think me forward if I should do so?” she asked, looking up at him.

“I will think myself more honored than any poor language of mine could describe,” he answered.

“You know I would not want to call you Paul,” she added, “unless I believed in you--unless I thought you were true and honorable in all things.”

Paul winced. Was he not deceiving the girl at that very minute? What could he say?

“Dorothy,” he answered, after a moment's hesitation, “I am not true, nor honorable neither. Perhaps you had better not call me Paul. I do not deserve it.”

She was looking him straight in the face, with her hand upon the gate. He felt the keen, searching quality of her eyes, but was able now to return the look.

“We sometimes judge ourselves harshly,” she continued. “I have myself been often led by an idle temptation into what at first appeared but a trifling wrong, but which looked far more serious later. Had I acted with the greater knowledge, I had committed the greater fault.”

What was she saying? Was she not describing his own position?

“Therefore, when I say Paul,” she added, “I do it because I like you, and because I believe in you, and not because I think you perfect.”

She lifted the rickety old gate with care, and he closed it after them; then they walked out over the dank leaves, through the brilliant coloring of the forest. The day was soft and tempting, while a mellow haze filled the air.

“I am going to show you the prettiest spot in all the world,” said Dorothy, “a place where I often go and sit alone.”

They walked side by side, there being no longer any path, or, if there had been one, it was now covered, and the sunlight, filtering through the tree-tops, fell in brilliant patches upon the gaudy carpet beneath their feet. They had walked a mile, when Paul heard the murmur of distant water, and saw that they were heading for a rocky gorge, through which a small stream forced its way in a jumble of tiny cataracts and pools. It was an ideal spot, shut in from all the world beyond. The restful air, barely stirring the tree-tops, and the water, as it went dripping from stone to stone, made just enough sound to intimate that the life principle of a drowsy world was existent. They seated themselves upon a rocky ledge, and Dorothy became absorbed in reverie; while Paul, from a slightly lower point, gazed up at the trees, the sky, and the girl, with mute infatuation.

“You lead such an ideal life here,” he said, after some minutes of silence, “that I should imagine the outer world would seem harsh and cold by contrast.”

“But I have never seen what you call the outer world,” she answered, with a touch of melancholy in her voice.

“Do you mean to say that you have lived here always?”

“Yes, and always shall, unless some one helps me away.”

“I don't think I quite understand,” he replied, “who could help you away, if your own people would not. Pardon the allusion, but I do not grasp the situation.”

“I could never go with any of the Guirs,” she answered, with a shudder, “for I am quite as much afraid of them as they are of me.”

Paul was again silent. He was meditating whether it were best to ask frankly what she meant, and risk the girl's displeasure, as well as his own identity, or to take another course. Presently he said:

“Dorothy, I would not pry into the secrets of your soul for the world, and am sure you will believe in my honesty in declaring that there is no one whom I would more gladly serve than yourself. I think you must know this.”

An eager glance for a moment dispelled the melancholy of her face, and then the old look returned with added force, as she answered:

“Yes, Paul, I believe what you say, and admit that you, of all men, could be of service; and yet you have no conception of the sacrifice you would entail upon yourself by the service you would render. Could I profit myself at the cost of your eternal sorrow? You do not know, and alas! I cannot explain; but the boon of my liberty would, I fear, only be purchased at the price of yours. I had not thought I should be so perplexed!”

He had not found the slightest relief from the embarrassing ignorance that enshrouded him. The girl's utter lack of coquetry, and her depth of feeling, made his position even more complex than it might otherwise have been.

“As you must know, I am talking in the dark,” he continued after a minute, “but this much I will venture to assert, that no act of mine could be a sacrifice which would put my life in closer touch with yours; for although it was only yesterday that we met for the first time, I love you; and I loved you, Dorothy, from the instant I first caught sight of you at the station. I do not pretend to explain this, but have felt an overpowering passion from that moment.”

“And you will not think me unmaidenly, Paul, if I say the same to you?”

She made no effort to conceal her feelings, and they sat murmuring sweet things into each other's ears until a green bird came fluttering through the air, and lighting upon a bough just above their heads, screamed:

“Dorothy! Dorothy!”

It was a parrot, and there was something so uncanny in its sudden appearance that Paul started:

“He seems to be your chaperone!” he observed.

“He is my mascot!” cried Dorothy. “If it were not for his company, I fear I should go mad. I am so lonely, Paul, you can not understand it.”

“Have you no neighbors?” he inquired.

“None within miles; and we live such a strange isolated life that people are afraid of us.”

Paul thought of the stage driver, and his look of horror on hearing where he was going.

“I can't understand why people should be afraid of you simply because you live alone,” he said. “For my part, I think your life here is most interesting. But you have not told me how I can help you.”

“Nor can I yet,” she answered. “There is a way, of course, but I can not consent to so great a sacrifice from you; at least, not at present.”

“And would it compel me to leave you?”

“No; it would compel you to be with me always.”

“And have you so little faith in me as to call that a sacrifice? I did flatter myself that you believed what I told you just now.”

“But, Paul, you do not know me. Wait until you do. Then, perhaps, you will change your mind.”

She spoke with emphasis and a strange depth of feeling, and he wondered what she meant.

“I could never change, Dorothy,” he replied with fervor, “unless you wished it; but if you did, do you know I believe it would not be in your power to reverse the bewildering spell you have wrought, and make me hate you, for never before have I felt anything approaching this strange sudden infatuation. But do not keep me in suspense; tell me, I pray, what is this mystery in your life which you think would change my feelings toward you?”

“I belong nowhere. I have no friend in all the wide world,” she answered bitterly.

“You have forgotten Ah Ben,” suggested Paul. She did not answer, but continued stroking the parrot which had lighted upon her shoulder, demanding her caresses with numerous mutterings.

“Modesty prevents my reminding you of my humble aspirations to your friendship,” added Paul, nestling closer to her side. Suddenly she looked up at him with an intense penetrating gaze, while she squeezed the parrot until it screamed.

“Do you think you could show your friendship and stick to me through a terrible ordeal?” she asked earnestly.

“I'm sure of it,” he answered. “My love is not so thin-skinned as to shrink from any test. Only try me!”

“Then get me away from this place,” she cried, “far, _far_ away from it. But, mind, it will not be so easy as you think.”

“Are you held against your will?” demanded Paul.

“No, _no_! You can not understand it. But I could not go alone. I will explain it to you some time, but not now. There is no hurry.”

“Is Ah Ben anxious to keep you?” inquired Henley.

“On the contrary, he wishes me to go. You can not understand me, as I am quite different from other girls. Only take my word for what I tell you; and when the time comes, you will not desert me, will you?”

There was something wildly entreating in her manner and the tones of her voice, and a pathos which went to Henley's heart. What it all was about he could no more imagine than he could account for any of the mysteries at Guir House; but he was determined to stand by Dorothy, come what might.

Suddenly the girl had become quiet, rapt in some new thought. In another minute she placed her hand lightly upon Paul's shoulder, and said:

“Remember, you have promised!”

“I have promised,” answered Paul. “Is there anything more?”

“Yes,” said Dorothy.

She paused for a minute, as if what she were about to say was a great effort.

“Well,” he continued, “after I have got you safely away--which, by the by, does not seem such a difficult task, as no one opposes your going--but, after we have escaped together, what further am I to do?”

“Naturally, I feel great delicacy in what I am about to say,” said Dorothy; “but since you have told me that you love me, it does not seem so hard, although you do not know who or what I am--but, to be candid and frank with you, dear Paul, after you have gotten me away--why, you must marry me!”

Paul snatched her up in his arms.

“My darling!” he said, “you are making me the proudest man on earth!”

“Do not speak too soon,” said Dorothy, releasing herself from his grasp. “Remember I have told you frankly that you do not know me. Perhaps I am driving a hard bargain with you!”

For a moment Paul became serious.

“Tell me, Dorothy,” he asked, in an altered tone, “have you, or Ah Ben, or any member of your mysterious household or family, any crimes to answer for? Is there any good reason why I, as an honest man, should object to taking you for my wife?”

She turned scarlet as she answered:

“Never! There is no such reason. There is nothing dishonorable, I swear to you--nothing which could implicate you in any way with wrong-doing. No, Paul; my secret is different from that. You could never guess it, nor could I ever compromise you with crime.”

Her manner was sincere, and carried conviction to the hearer of the truth of what she said.

“It is time we were going to the house,” she added, rising, with the parrot still upon her shoulder; and side by side they retraced their steps along the woodland way homeward.

5

Although Mr. Henley had no doubt of the truth of Miss Guir's assertion, the mystery of her life was as real and deeply impressive as ever. Perhaps it was even more so, as seeming more subtle and far-reaching than crime itself, if such a thing were possible. Paul was determined to investigate the secret of the closet stairs; for while Ah Ben's explanation was plausible to a degree, the blank wall and heavy door at the bottom filled him with an uncanny fascination, which grew as he pondered upon them. Exactly what course to pursue he had not decided, but awaited an opportunity to continue his efforts in earnest. There were two serious difficulties to contend with; one was the want of tools, the other the necessity of prosecuting his work in silence.

As upon the previous evening, Dorothy and Mr. Henley dined alone, although Ah Ben, appearing just before they had finished, partook of a little dry lettuce and a small cup of coffee. Dorothy, as usual, ate most sparingly, “scarcely enough,” as Paul remarked, “to keep the parrot alive.”

After dinner they went together into the great hall, where Ah Ben prepared a pipe apiece for himself and his guest.

The logs were piled high upon the hearth, and the cheery blaze lit up the old pictures with a shimmering lustre, reducing the lamp to a mere spectral ornament. It was the flickering firelight that made the men and women on the walls nod at each other, as perhaps they had done in life.

They seated themselves in the spacious old leather-covered pew; Ah Ben and Dorothy upon one side, while Paul sat opposite. The men were soon engaged with their pipes, while Miss Guir had settled herself upon a pile of cushions in the corner nearest the chimney.

“You have been absent from home to-day, I believe,” said Henley to the old man, by way of opening the conversation, and with the hope of eliciting an answer which would throw some light upon his habits.

“Yes,” Ah Ben replied, blowing a volume of smoke from under his long, white moustache; “I seldom pass the entire day in this house. There are few things that give me more pleasure than roaming alone through the forest. One seems to come in closer touch with first principles. Nature, Mr. Henley, must be courted to be comprehended.”

“I suppose so,” answered Paul, not knowing what else to say, and wondering at the man's odd method of passing the time.

A long silence followed after this, only interrupted at intervals by guttural mutterings from the parrot, which seemed to be lodged somewhere in the upper regions of the obscure stairway. When the clock struck eleven, the bird shrieked out, as upon the previous night.

“Dorothy! Dorothy! it is bed time!”

Miss Guir arose, and saying “Good night,” left Ah Ben and Mr. Henley to themselves.

“I am afraid I have been very stupid,” said the old man, apologetically; “indeed, I must have fallen asleep, as it is my habit to take a nap in the early evening, after which I am more wide awake than at any other hour.”

“Not at all,” answered Paul, “I have been enjoying my pipe, and as Miss Guir seemed disposed to be quiet, think I must have been nodding myself.”

“Do you feel disposed to join me in another pipe and a midnight talk,” inquired the host, “or are you inclined for bed?”

Paul was not sleepy, and nothing could have suited him better than to sit over the fire, listening to this strange man, and so he again accepted eagerly. Ah Ben seemed pleased, declaring it was a great treat to have a friend who was as much of an owl as he himself was. And so he added fresh fuel to the dying embers, settled himself in his cosy corner by the fire, while Paul sat opposite.

“Every man must live his own life,” resumed Ah Ben; “but with my temper, the better half would be blotted out, were I deprived of this quiet time for thought and reflection.”

“I quite agree with you,” replied Paul, “and yet the wisdom of the world is opposed to late hours.”

“The wisdom of the world is based upon the experience of the _worldly prosperous_; and what is worldly prosperity but the accumulation of dollars? To be prosperous is one thing; to be happy, quite another.”

“I see you are coming back to our old argument. I am sure I could never school myself to the cheerful disregard for money which you seem to have. For my part, I could not do without it, although, to be sure, I sometimes manage on very little.”

“Again the wisdom of the world!” exclaimed Ah Ben, “and what has it done for us?”

“It has taught us to be very comfortable in this latter part of the nineteenth century,” Paul replied.

“Has it?” cried the old man, his eyes fixed full upon Henley's face. “I admit,” he continued, “that it has taught us to rely upon luxuries that eat out the life while pampering the body. It has taught us to depend upon the poison that paralyzes the will, and that personal power we were speaking of. It has done much for man, I grant you, but its efforts have been mainly directed to his destruction.”

“No man can be happy without health,” answered Paul, “and surely you will admit that the discoveries of the last few decades have done much to improve his physical condition.”

He was nestling back into the corner of his lounge, where the shadow of the mantelpiece screened his face, and enabled him to look directly into Ah Ben's eyes, now fixed upon him with strange intensity. There was a power behind those eyes that was wont to impress the beholder with a species of interest which he felt might be developed into awe; and yet they were neither large nor handsome, as eyes are generally counted. Deep set, mounted with withered lids and shaggy brows, their power was due to the manifestation of a spiritual force, a Titanic will, that made itself felt, independent of material envelopment. It was the soul looking through the narrow window of mortality.

“Health?” said Ah Ben, repeating Henley's last idea interrogatively, and yet scarcely above a whisper.

“Yes, health,” answered Paul. “I maintain that the old maxim of 'early to bed' says something on that score, as well as on that of wealth.”

“True, but you said that a man must needs be healthy to be happy.”

“That's it, and I maintain that it's a pretty good assertion.”

“There again we must differ. Happiness should be independent of bodily conditions, whether those conditions mean outward luxury or inward ease. I must again refer you to the prize-fighter. But if you will pardon me, I think you have put the cart before the horse; for once having granted that personal power, happiness must ensue, and your health as a necessity follow. First cultivate this occult force, and we need submit to no physical laws; for inasmuch as the higher controls the lower, we are masters of our own bodies.”

“That is a pretty good prescription for those who are able to follow it, but for my humble attainments I'd rather depend on physic and a virtuous life.”

“Quite so,” answered Ah Ben, thoughtfully, “but, speaking frankly, this limitation of your powers to the chemical action of your body only shows the narrowness of your scientific training. Had men been taught the power of the will as the underlying principle of every effect, one drug would have proved quite as efficacious as another, and bread pills would have met the requirements of the world.”

“But in the state of imbecility in which we happen to find ourselves,” added Paul, “I should think that a judicious application of the world's wisdom would be better than trifling with theories one does not comprehend.”

“As I said just now,” observed Ah Ben, “I have no desire to force my private views upon another, but I must distinctly object to the word 'theory,' as associated with my positive knowledge on this subject. Every man must do as he thinks right, and as suits him best; but, for my part, I have disregarded all the physical laws of health during an unusually long life.”

Paul straightened himself up, and looked at his host in the hope of a further explanation.

“I don't think I quite understand you!”

“Yes,” said Ah Ben, repeating the sentence slowly and emphasizing the words, “_I disregard all laws usually considered essential to living at all_!”

Henley was silent for a minute in a vain effort to decide whether or not he were speaking seriously. He could not help remembering his abstinence from food, but at the time had not doubted the man had eaten between meals.

“Then you certainly ought to know all about it,” he continued, relaxing into his former position, but quite unsettled as to Ah Ben's intention.

“You must admit that I have had sufficient time to be an authority unto myself, if not to others,” added the old man. And then as he pressed the ashes down into the bowl of his pipe with his long emaciated fingers, and watched the little threads of smoke as they came curling out from under his thick moustache, Paul could only admit that the gravity of his bearing was inconsistent with a humorous interpretation of his words.

“You interest me greatly,” resumed Henley, after scrutinizing the singular face before him for several minutes, in a kind of mesmeric fascination, “and I should like to ask what you mean by the cultivation of this occult power of which you spoke?”

“It is only to be acquired by the supremest quality of self-control, as I told you yesterday,” answered Ah Ben; “but when once gained, no man would relinquish it for the gold of a thousand Solomons! You would have proof of what I tell you? Well, some day perhaps you will!”

Henley started. The man had read his thoughts. It was the very question upon his lips.

“You are a mind reader!” cried Paul. “How did you know I was going to ask you that?”