DOROTHY GUIR.

“Devilish strange letter!” said Henley, turning the sheet over in an

effort to identify the writer. But it was useless. Dorothy Guir was

as complete a myth as the individual for whom her letter was

intended. Oddly enough, the man's last name, as well as the initial

of his first, were the same as his own; but whether the P. stood for

Peter, Paul, or Philip, Mr. Henley knew not, the only evident fact

being that the letter was _not_ intended for himself.

Reading the mysterious communication once more, the young man smiled.

Who was Dorothy Guir? Of course she was Dorothy Guir, but what was

she like? At one moment he pictured her as a charming girl, where

curls, giggles, and blushes were strangely intermingled with

moonlight walks, rope ladders, and elopements. At the next, as some

monstrous female agitator; a leader of Anarchists and Nihilistic

organizations, loaded with insurrectionary documents for the

destruction of society. But the author was inclined to playfulness;

incompatible with such a character. He preferred the former picture,

and throwing back his head while watching the smoke from his

cigarette curl upward toward the ceiling, Mr. Paul Henley suddenly

became convulsed with laughter. He had conceived the idea of

impersonating the original Henley, the man for whom the letter had

been written. The more he considered the scheme, the more fascinating

it became. The girl, if girl she were, confessed to never having met

the man; she would therefore be the more easily deceived. But she was

expecting him daily, and should not be disappointed. Love of

adventure invested the project with an irresistible charm, and Mr.

Henley determined to undertake the journey and play the part for all

he was worth. It is true that visions of embarrassing complications

occasionally presented themselves, but were dismissed as trifles

unworthy of consideration.

It was still early in October, while Miss Guir's communication had

been dated nearly three weeks before. Had she kept her word? Had she

driven to the station every day during those weeks? Mr. Henley jumped

down from the table, exclaiming:

“Yes, Miss Dorothy, I will be with you at once, or as soon as the

southern express can carry me.” A moment later he added: “But I shall

glance out of the car window first, and if I don't like your looks,

or if you are not on hand, why in that event I shall simply continue

my journey. See?”

But another question presented itself. Where was Guir Station? The

lady had mentioned neither county nor county town, evidently taking

it for granted that the right Henley knew all about it, which he

doubtless did; but, since he was dead, it was awkward to consult him,

especially about a matter which was manifestly a private affair of

his own. But where was Guir? In all the vast State of Virginia, how

was he to discover an insignificant station, doubtless unknown to New

York ticket agents, and perhaps not even familiar to those living

within twenty miles of it? Paul opened the atlas at the “Old

Dominion,” and threw it down again in disgust. “A map of the infernal

regions would be as useful,” he declared. However important Guir

might be to the Guirs, it was clearly of no importance to the world.

But the following day the Postal Guide revealed the secret, and the

railway officials confirmed and located it. Guir was situated in a

remote part of the State, upon an obscure road, far removed from any

of the trunk lines. Mr. Henley purchased his ticket, resolved to take

the first train for this _terra incognita_ of Virginia.

The train drew up at the station. Yes, there was the piebald horse,

and there was the cart with the gory wheels, and there--yes,

certainly, there was Dorothy, a slender, nervous-looking girl of

twenty, standing at the horse's head! Be she what she might,

politically, socially, or morally, Mr. Henley decided at the first

glance that she would do. With a flourish of his crimson handkerchief

he stepped out upon the platform. “Rash man! You have put your foot

in it,” he soliloquized, “and you may never, _never_ be able to take

it out again.” But he could as soon have passed the open doors of

Paradise unheeded as Dorothy Guir at that moment.

“Mr. Henley! So glad!” said the girl in recognition of the young

man's hesitating and somewhat prolonged bow. “He's a little afraid of

the engine,” she continued, alluding now to the horse, “so if you

will jump in and take the reins while I hold his head--”

Paul tossed in his bag and satchels, and then jumping in himself

gathered up the reins, while the girl stood at the animal's head.

Although Mr. Henley had hoped to find an attractive young woman

awaiting him at the station, he was surprised to discover that his

most sanguine expectations were exceeded. Here was no blue-stocking,

or agitator, or superannuated spinster, but a graceful young woman,

rather tall and slight, with blue eyes, set with dark lashes that

intensified their color. Her complexion, although slightly freckled,

charmed by its wholesomeness; and her hair, which shone both dark and

red, according as the light fell upon it, seemed almost too heavy for

the delicate head and neck that supported it. Although not strictly

beautiful, she had one of those intelligent and responsive faces that

are often more attractive than mere perfection of feature and form.

“It does seem funny that you are here at last!” she said, when seated

beside him with the reins in her hand.

“It does indeed!” answered Paul, with a suspicion that he was a

villain and ought to be kicked. For a moment he scowled and bit his

mustache, hesitating whether to make a clean breast of the deception

or continue in the role he had assumed. Alas, it was no longer of his

choosing. He had commenced with a lie, which he now found it

impossible to repudiate. No, he could not insult this girl by telling

her the truth. That surely was out of the question.

Miss Guir touched the horse with the whip, and the station was soon

out of sight. They ascended a long hill with gullies, bordered by

worm fences and half-cultivated fields. Such improvements as there

were appeared in a state of decay, and, so far as Henley could see,

the country was uninhabited. Presently the road entered a wood and

became carpeted with pine tags, over which they trotted noiselessly.

Where were they going? Dorothy had not spoken since starting, and

Paul was too much disconcerted to continue the conversation. He hoped

she would speak first, and yet dreaded anything which it seemed at

all probable she would say. The novelty was intense, but the agony

was growing. At last, without looking at him, she said:

“You haven't told me why you never answered my last letter. You know

we have been expecting you for ages.”

Paul coughed, hesitated, and then resolved to tell a part of the

truth, which is often more misleading than the blackest lie.

“I--I did not get it,” he answered, “until a day or two ago.”

Miss Dorothy looked surprised.

“Strange!” she said; “but, after all, I had my misgivings, for I

never could believe that a letter like that would reach its

destination. But you know you told me--”

“Yes, I know I did,” interrupted Paul. “You were perfectly right. You

see I got it at last, and 'all's well that ends well!'”

“Not necessarily; because if you are as careless about other matters

as this, why--I may have--that is, _we_ may have to part before

really knowing each other, and do you know, _I_ should be awfully

sorry for that.”

Although she laughed a quick, nervous laugh, the words were uttered

as if really meant. Paul suffered, and tried to think of something

non-committal--something which, while not exposing his ignorance of

the real Henley's business, might induce the girl to explain the

situation; but no leading question presented itself. He thought he

could be happy if he could but divert the conversation from its

present awkward drift.

There was a quaintness about the young lady's costume that reminded

Henley of an old portrait. Evidently her attire had been modeled

after that of some remote ancestor, but it was picturesque and

singularly becoming, and Paul found it difficult to avoid staring in

open admiration. Inwardly he concluded that she was a “stunner,” but

in no ordinary sense; and despite the novel and somewhat embarrassing

situation, he was conscious of a fascination not clearly accounted

for. Thoughts of the defunct Henley, with his store of inaccessible

knowledge, were discouraging; but then the memory of the girl's

smiles was reassuring; and, come what might, Paul determined to

represent his namesake as creditably as possible.

The loneliness of the country road begot a spirit of confidence, so

that Miss Guir soon appeared in the light of an old friend, to

deceive whom was sacrilege. Mr. Henley realized the enormity of his

conduct each time he glanced at her pretty face, but had not the

courage to undeceive her. And why should he? Was not Dorothy happy?

“Would it be right,” he argued, “to upset the girl's tranquillity for

a whim, for a scruple of his own, which had come too late, and which,

for his as well as the girl's peace of mind, had better not have come

at all? No, he would continue as he had begun. Doubtless he would be

discovered ere long, but would not anticipate the event.”

The forest was beginning to take on its autumnal tints, but Mr.

Henley's conscience barred his thorough enjoyment of the scene. They

followed the bank of a brook where wild ivy and rhododendrons

clustered. They climbed steep places and descended others, and

crossed a little river, where rocks and a rushing torrent made the

ford seem dangerous. It was lonely, but exquisitely beautiful, and

the mountain ridges closed about them on every hand.

The twilight was rapidly giving way to the soft illumination of a

full moon; and it was not until Paul noticed this, that he began to

ask himself, “Where are we going?” He could not put the question to

the girl, and expose his ignorance of a matter which he might

reasonably be supposed to know.

After a prolonged silence, Henley ventured to observe that he had

never been in the State of Virginia before, hoping that the remark

might lead to some information from his driver; but she only looked

at him with a wondering expression, and after a minute, with eyebrows

lifted, said:

“And I have never been out of it.”

Paul would have liked to pursue the conversation, but did not know

how to do it. So far from gaining any information, he felt that he

was sinking deeper in the mire. “After all,” he reflected, “there are

worse things in life than being run away with by a pretty girl, even

if one doesn't happen to know exactly where she is taking him, and

even if she doesn't happen to know exactly whom she is taking.” He

stretched out his feet and leaned back, resigned to his fate.

Not a house had been passed in more than a mile. The road was

deserted, and Paul's interest in future developments steadily

growing.

Suddenly there was a terrible crash, and Mr. Henley's side of the

cart collapsed. Dorothy drew up the horse and exclaimed:

“There! It is the spring. I was afraid it would break!”

“Too much weight on my side, Miss Guir,” said Paul, jumping to the

ground.

“It is not that; it was weak; and I should have remembered to place

your luggage on my side. It is too unfortunate.”

“What are we to do?” inquired Henley.

“It is difficult to say. We are miles from home, and the road is

rough.”

She was examining the broken spring by the uncertain light, and

seemed perplexed.

“Can I not lead the horse while we walk?” suggested Paul.

“We could, but the break is too bad. I fear the body of the cart will

fall from the axle. But stop; there is one thing I can do. There is a

smith about half a mile from here, upon another road, which leaves

this about a hundred yards ahead. I will drive on alone to the shop,

and, although it is late, I feel sure the man will do the work for

me. You, Mr. Henley, will wait here for the stage, which will be due

directly. Tell the driver to put you off at the Guir Road, where you

can wait until I come along to pick you up. The distance is not

great, and I will follow as quickly as possible.”

She was off before he had time to answer, leaving him standing by the

roadside, waiting for the promised coach. It was not long before the

rumbling of a heavy vehicle was heard, and but a few minutes more

when an antiquated stage with four scrubby horses emerged from the

shadow of a giant oak into the open moonlight, scarce fifty yards

away. Mr. Henley hailed the driver, who stopped, and looked at him as

if frightened. The man was a Negro, and, when convinced that it was

nothing more terrible than a human being who had accosted him, smiled

generously and invited him to a seat on the box.

“I 'lowed yer was a _hant_” observed the man, by way of opening the

conversation, when Paul had handed up his bags and taken his place on

top. Henley lighted a cigar, and the cumbersome old vehicle moved

slowly forward.

Their way now lay through a beautiful valley, beside a picturesque

stream, tunneling its course through wild ivy and magnificent banks

of calmia, and under the wide spreading limbs of pines and hemlocks.

The country appeared to be a wilderness, and Paul could not help

feeling that the real world of flesh and ambition lay upon the other

side of the ridge, now far behind. The night was superb, but the road

rough, so that the horses seldom went out of a walk. Presently the

driver drew up his animals for water, and Henley took the opportunity

to question him.

“Do you know these Guirs where I am going?” he inquired.

The man paused in the act of dipping a pail of water, and seemed

puzzled. Thinking he had not understood, Paul repeated the question,

when the man dropped the bucket, and staring at him with a look of

horror, said:

“Boss, is you uns in airnest?”

Henley laughed, and told him that he thought he was, adding that Miss

Guir was a friend of his.

“Now I knows you uns is jokin', 'case dey ain't got no friends in dis

'ere country.”

“But I am a stranger!” argued Paul.

“Well, sah, it ain't for de likes o' me to argify wid you uns, but ef

you wants to know whar de house is, I kin show it to you; leastways I

kin show you de road to git dar.”

“That's it; but tell me, don't the people about here like the Guirs?”

“Boss, ef dey's frens o' yourn, I reckon you knows all about 'em;

maybe more'n I kin tell you, and I reckon it's saiftest for me to

keep my mouf shet tight!”

“Why so? Explain. Surely Miss Guir is a very charming young lady.”

“I reckon she be, boss; dough for my part I ain't nebber seed her.

Folks says as how it ain't good luck when she trabels on de road.”

“What do you mean? Are any of her people accused of crime?”

“Not as ever I heerd on, sir.”

“Then explain yourself. Speak!”

But not another word was to be gotten out of the man. He was like one

grown suddenly dumb, save for the power of an occasional shout to his

horses. A mile beyond this the driver drew up his team, and turning

abruptly, said:

“You see dat paf?”

After peering doubtfully through the moonlight into the black shadows

beyond, Paul thought he discerned the outline of a narrow wood road,

and placing a tip in the man's hand, picked up his satchel and

climbed down to the ground.

“Tank 'ee, sir, and de Lawd take keer o' you when you gets to de

Guirs',” called the driver, as he cracked his whip and drove away,

leaving Mr. Henley standing by the roadside listening to the

retreating wheels of the coach. The forest was dense, and the

moonlight, struggling through the tree-tops, fell upon the ground in

patches, adding to the obscurity. Henley seated himself upon a fallen

tree, to await the arrival of the cart. Although quite as courageous

as the average of men, he could not help a slight feeling of

apprehension concerning the outcome of his enterprise. Of course, he

knew nothing about these people; but the girl was prepossessing and

refined to an unusual degree. It seemed impossible that she could be

acting as a decoy for unworthy ends. He laughed at the thought, and

at the fun he would some day have in recounting his fears to her, and

at her imaginary explanation of the driver's silly talk. At the same

time he examined his revolver, which he kept well concealed, despite

the law, in the depths of a convenient pocket.

When twenty minutes had passed, he began to grow impatient for the

girl's arrival, and, when half an hour was up, started down the road

to meet her. Scarcely had he done so when the sound of approaching

wheels greeted his ears, and directly after Miss Guir was in full

view.

“I hope you have been successful,” Paul asked as she drew up beside

him.

“Quite,” answered the girl; “indeed, they put in a new spring for me;

and we can now drive home without fear.”

“Do you know, I have been half frightened,” said Paul, climbing into

the cart beside her.

“And about what, pray?”

“Absurd nonsense, of course; but the old man who drove the coach

talked the most idiotic stuff when I asked him about your people.

Indeed, from his manner, I believe he was afraid of you.”

Miss Guir did not laugh, nor seem in the least surprised. She only

drew a long breath and said:

“Very likely!”

“But why should he be?” persisted Henley.

“It does seem strange,” said the girl, pathetically, “but many people

are.”

“I am sure I should never be afraid of you,” added Paul,

confidentially.

“I hope not; and am I anything like what you expected?” she asked

with languid interest.

“Well, hardly--at least, you are better than I expected--I mean that

you are better--looking, you know.”

He laughed, but the girl was silent. There was nothing trivial in her

manner, and she drove on for some minutes, devoting herself to the

horse and a careful scrutiny of the road, whose shadows, ruts, and

stones required constant attention. Presently, in an open space,

bathed in a flood of moonlight, she turned toward him and said:

“I can not reciprocate, Mr. Henley, by saying that you are better

than I expected, for I expected a great deal; I also expected to like

you immensely.”

“Which I hope you will promptly conclude to do,” Paul added, with a

twinkle in his eyes, which was lost on his companion, in her endeavor

to urge the horse into a trot.

“No,” she presently answered, “I can conclude nothing; for I like you

already, and quite as well as I anticipated.”

“I'm awfully glad,” said Henley, awkwardly, “and hope I'll answer the

purpose for which I was wanted.”

“To be sure you will. Do you think that I should be bringing you back

with me if I were not quite sure of it?”

He had hoped for a different answer--one which might throw some light

upon the situation--but the girl was again quiet and introspective,

without affording the slightest clew to her thoughts. How did it

happen that he had proved so entirely satisfactory? Perhaps, then,

after all, the original Henley was not so important a personage as he

had imagined. But Paul scarcely hoped that his identity would remain

undiscovered after arriving at the young lady's home; then, indeed,

he might expect to be thrown upon his mettle to make things

satisfactory to the Guirs.

They had been jogging along for half a mile, when, turning suddenly

through an open gateway, they entered a private approach. Paul

exclaimed in admiration, for the road was tunneled through such a

dense growth of evergreens that the far-reaching limbs of the cedars

and spruce pines brushed the cart as they passed.

“Romantic!” Henley exclaimed, standing up in the vehicle to hold a

branch above the girl's head as she drove under it. The little horse

tossed the limbs right and left as he burrowed his way amongst them.

“Wait until you know us better,” said Dorothy, dodging a hemlock

bough; “you might even come to think that several other improvements

could be made beside the trimming out of this avenue; but Ah Ben

would as soon cut off his head as disturb a single twig.”

“Who?” inquired Paul.

“Ah Ben.”

Mr. Henley concluded not to push his investigations any further for

the present, taking refuge in the thought that all things come to him

who waits. He had no doubt that Ah Ben would come along with the

rest.

A sudden turn, and an old house stood before them. It was built of

black stones, rough as when dug from the ground more than a century

before. At the farther end was a tower with an open belfry, choked in

a tangle of vines and bushes, within which the bell was dimly visible

through a crust of spiders' webs and birds' nests. Patches of moss

and vegetable mold relieved the blackness of the stones, and a

venerable ivy plant clung like a rotten fish-net to the wall. It was

a weird, yet fascinating picture; for the house, like a rocky cliff,

looked as if it had grown where it stood. Parts of the building were

crumbling, and decay had laid its hand more or less heavily upon the

greater part of the structure. All this in the mellow light of the

moon, and under the peculiar circumstances, made a scene which was

deeply impressive.

“This is Guir House,” said Dorothy, drawing up before the door. “Now

don't tell me how you like it, because you don't know. You must wait

until you have seen it by daylight.”

She threw the reins to a stupid-looking servant, who took them as if

not quite knowing why he did so. She then made a signal to him with

her hands, and jumped lightly to the ground.

“Down, Beelzebub!” called Dorothy to a huge dog that had come out to

meet them, while the next instant she was engaged in exchanging

signals with the servant, who immediately led the horse away,

followed by the dog.

“Why does the boy not speak?” inquired Paul, considerably puzzled by

what he had seen.

“_Because he is dumb_,” answered the girl, leading the way up to the

door.

Paul carried his luggage into the porch where he saw that Dorothy's

eyes were fixed upon him with that strange _quizzo-critical_ gaze,

with lids half closed and head tilted, which he had observed once

before, and which he could not help thinking gave her a very

aristocratic bearing.

“You should carry one of those long-handled lorgnettes,” he

suggested, “when you look that way.”

“And why?” she asked quite innocently.

“To look at me with,” answered Henley, hoping to induce a smile, or a

more cheery tone amid a gloom which was growing oppressive. But Miss

Guir simply led the way to the great hall door, which was built of

heavy timber, and studded with nail-heads without. As the cumbersome

old portal swung open, Paul could not help observing that it was at

least two inches thick, braced diagonally, and that the locks and

hinges were unusually crude and massive. He followed Miss Guir into

the hall, with a slight foreboding of evil which the memory of the

stage driver's remark did not help to dispel.

2

There are few men who would not have felt uncomfortable in the

peculiar situation in which Mr. Henley now found himself, although,

perhaps, he was as little affected as any one would have been under

the circumstances. It was impossible now to retreat from the part

assumed, and he resolved to carry it out to the best of his ability,

never doubting for an instant that the deception would be discovered

sooner or later.

Following Miss Guir across the threshold of her mysterious home,

Henley entered a hall which was by far the most extraordinary he had

ever beheld, and he paused for a moment to take in the scene. The

room was nearly square, with a singular staircase ascending from the

left. Upon the side opposite the door was a huge chimney, where a

fire of logs was burning in an enormous rough stone fireplace, doubly

cheering after their long drive through the cool October evening. A

brass lamp of antique design, with perforated shade of the same

material, was suspended from the ceiling, and helped illumine this

strange apartment. From each end of the mantelpiece an immense

high-backed sofa projected into the room, cushioned and padded, and

looking as if built into its present position with the house. The

walls were covered with odd portraits, whose frames were crumbling in

decay, and the window curtains adorned with fairy scenes and

mythological figures. The ceiling was crossed with heavy beams of

oak, black with the smoke of a century; and the stairway upon the

left was also black, but ornamented with a series of rough panels,

upon each of which was painted a human face, giving it a somewhat

fantastic appearance. Paul could not help glancing above, toward the

mysterious regions with which this eccentric stairway communicated.

An antique sofa, studded with brass nails, exhibited upon its

towering back a picture of Tsong Kapa reclining under the tree of a

thousand images at the Llamasary of Koomboom. There were scenes which

were evidently intended to be historical, but there were others which

were wild and inexplicable. The quaintness of the room was

intensified by the flickering fire and the shafts of yellow light

emitted through the perforations of the lamp.

A faint aromatic odor hung upon the air, possibly due to a pile of

balsam logs in a corner near the chimney. Over all was the

unmistakable evidence of age, and of a nature at once barbaric,

eccentric, and artistic. Who had conceived and executed this

extraordinary apartment? And what were the people like who called the

place their home? Paul stood aghast and wondered as he inwardly

propounded these questions.

The girl led the way to the fire, and, seating herself upon one of

the sofas described, invited Paul to the opposite place. His

bewilderment was intense, and with a lingering gaze at the oddities

surrounding him, he accepted the invitation. Not another soul had

been seen since he entered. Did the girl live alone? It seemed

incredible; and yet where were her people?

Dorothy pulled off her gloves and warmed her fingers before the

cheerful blaze, and then stood eying with evident satisfaction the

costly gems with which they were loaded. The light seemed to shine

directly through her delicate palms, and to fall upon her face and

hair and quaint old-fashioned costume with singular effect. There was

something so bizarre and yet so spirituelle in her appearance that

Henley could not help observing in what perfect harmony she seemed

with her environment. It was some minutes before either of them

spoke--Paul loth to express his surprise for fear of betraying a lack

of knowledge he might possibly be expected to possess, while Dorothy,

in an apparent fit of abstraction, had evidently forgotten her guest

and all else, save the cheerful fire before her. Presently she

withdrew her eyes from their fixed stare at the flames, and, looking

at Paul, said:

“You must be hungry.”

There was something so incongruous with his surroundings and recent

train of thought in the girl's sudden remark that Henley could not

help laughing.

“One would scarcely expect to eat in such a remarkable home as yours,

Miss Guir,” he replied, looking into her earnest eyes, and wondering

if she ordinarily dined alone.

“Nevertheless, we will in an hour,” she answered, “and I shall expect

you to have an excellent appetite after our long drive.”

Paul wanted to ask about the members of her family, but thought it

wisest to say nothing for the present. Surely they would appear in

due season, for it was impossible the girl could live alone in so

large a house, and without natural protection; and so he simply made

a further allusion to the apparent age and great picturesqueness of

the building.

“Yes,” said Dorothy, again gazing into the fire, “it is old--considerably

more than a hundred years. It was built in the Colonial days, when things

were rougher and good work more difficult to obtain.”

“But surely these portraits and historical scenes were the work of an

artist,” Henley ventured to observe, looking at a strange head of

Medusa.

“Yes,” she answered, “the one you are looking at was done by Ah Ben.”

He had been led to believe that Ah Ben was a living member of the

household, who would shortly appear, but this now seemed impossible,

for these extraordinary pictures were as old as the house itself.

What did the girl mean? Had this Ah Ben done them all? Should he ask

her and expose his ignorance? Paul thought he would venture upon a

compromise.

“And are these pictures as old as they appear?”

“Quite,” answered the girl. “As you can see for yourself, the house

and all that is in it date from quite a remote time, and many of the

portraits were painted before the house was ever begun.”

That seemed to settle the question. Ah Ben was evidently a deceased

ancestor; possibly a friend of the family in the distant past, and

Henley concluded that he had misunderstood the girl in her former

allusion to the man.

Dorothy had not taken off her hat, nor did she seem to have the

slightest intention of doing so; meanwhile Paul's appetite, which had

been temporarily lulled by his novel surroundings, was beginning to

assert itself, and as there was no prospect of an attendant to

conduct him to his room, he was about to ask where he might find a

bowl of water to relieve himself of some of the stains of travel.

Before he had finished the sentence, however, his attention was

arrested by the sound of a distant footstep. He listened; it came

nearer, and in a minute was descending the black staircase in the

corner. Paul watched, and saw the figure of an old man as it turned

an angle in the stairs. Then it stopped, and coughed lightly as if to

announce its approach.

“Come,” cried Dorothy, “it's only Mr. Henley, and I'm sure he'll be

glad to see you.”

The figure advanced, and when it had descended far enough to be in

range with the fire and lamplight, Paul saw a most extraordinary

person. The man, although very old, was tall and dignified in

appearance, with deep-set, mysterious eyes, and flowing white

moustache and hair. The top of his head was lightly bound in a turban

of some flimsy material, and a loose robe of crimson silk hung from

his shoulders, gathered together with a cord about the waist. As he

advanced Henley observed that the bones of his cheeks were high and

prominent, and the eyes buried so deep beneath their projecting brows

and skull, that he was at a loss to account for the strange sense of

power which he felt to be lodged in so small a space.

“This is Ah Ben, Mr. Henley, of whom I have spoken,” said Dorothy,

rising.

The old man extended his hand and bowed most courteously. He hoped

that they had had a pleasant drive from the station, and then took

his seat beside the fire.

Paul was dumfounded. Probably he was expected to know all about the

man, and he had only just decided that he had been dead for a

century. How could he so have misinterpreted what he had heard?

Ah Ben stretched his long bony fingers to the fire, and observed that

the nights were beginning to grow quite cold.

“Yes,” said Henley, “I had hardly expected to find the season so far

advanced in your Southern home.”

“Our altitude more than amends for our latitude,” answered the old

man; and then, taking a pair of massive tongs from the corner of the

mantel, he stirred the balsam logs into a fierce blaze, starting a

myriad of sparks in their flight up the chimney. Dorothy was looking

above, and Paul, following the direction of her eyes, observed a

model of Father Time reclining upon a shelf near the ceiling. The

figure's scythe was broken; his limbs were in shackles, and his body

covered with chains. It was an original conception, and Henley could

not help asking if Time had really been checked in his onward march

at Guir House.

“Ah!” said Dorothy, “that is a symbol of a great truth; but I am not

surprised at your asking;” then, turning to the old man, added: “Mr.

Henley has not yet been shown to his room, and I am sure he would

like to see it. It is the west chamber.”

“True,” said Ah Ben, rising and taking a candle from the mantel,

which he lighted with a firebrand; “if Mr. Henley will follow me, I

shall take pleasure in pointing it out to him.”

Paul followed the elder man up the black stairs, through devious

passages, and past doors with pictured panels, until he began to

wonder if he could ever find his way back again. At last they stopped

before a rough door, hung with massive hinges stretching half way

across it, discolored with rust, and looking as if they had not been

moved in an age, and which creaked dismally as Ah Ben entered.

“This will be your room,” he said, bowing courteously, and placing

the candle upon the table near the chimney. He then reminded Henley

that their evening meal would soon be ready. “If there is anything

further which you will need, pray let me know,” he added, and then

retired.

“I should like my luggage,” said Paul, having left it below, with the

exception of a small satchel.

“It shall be sent to you at once,” the old man answered, as he walked

slowly away.

Left to himself, Henley looked around with curiosity. Every comfort

had been provided, even to an arm-chair and writing-table by the

fire; but the room, as well as its furnishing, was old and quaint,

and rapidly going to decay. Everything he saw related to a past

period of existence. The window was high, and deep set in the wall.

There was a bench under it, upon which one was obliged to climb to

obtain a view of the country, and Henley pulled himself up into the

sill to look out.

The landscape presented an unbroken panorama of forest. No farming

land was visible, and the distant mountains closed in the sky-line,

and all bathed in the soft light of the moon, made a picture of

extreme beauty and loneliness--a solid wilderness, shut in from the

busy world without. There was a musty smell, as if the room had not

been used in years, and he lifted the sash. The rich perfume of fir

and balsam was wafted in, displacing the disagreeable odor.

The bed was a high four-poster, and there were steps for climbing

into it. On examination, it was discovered to be built into the room

with heavy timbers, and framed solidly with the house itself. A few

faded rugs were scattered about the worm-eaten floor, and in every

direction the wood-work was rough and unpainted, though massive

enough for a fortress. Above the wash-stand was a strange picture,

painted upon a fragment of coarse blanket, which had been stretched

upon the wall. It depicted the setting sun, with red and gold rays,

and a blue mountain in the distance. Around the entire scene, in a

semicircle, was the word “Illusion,” singularly wrought into the

shafts of light, and undecipherable without the closest scrutiny. The

figure of an old man in the foreground was contemplating the scene.

It was a crude piece of work, but impressive. There was a large

mahogany cabinet, mounted with brass; but its double doors were

locked and its drawers immovable. Beside the bed was a worm-eaten

door, and in idle curiosity Paul tried the handle. It opened easily,

revealing a spacious closet, with hooks and shelves. Throwing the

small satchel he had brought up with him upon the floor within, it

struck something, but the closet was too dark for him to see what;

so, taking the candle, he made an examination. In the farthest corner

was a hand-rail, guarding a closed scuttle, in which was inserted a

heavy iron ring. Henley took hold of the ring, and with some effort

succeeded in opening the scuttle. Looking down, he found to his

surprise that it communicated with a rough stairway leading below. He

peered into the darkness, but could discern nothing save the steps,

which seemed to go all the way to the cellar, and were just wide

enough to admit of a human body. He then removed his belongings back

into the room, shut down the scuttle, and closed the door. As there

was no fastening, he wedged a chair between the knob and the floor,

in such a manner that it could not be opened from within. He then

threw himself upon the bed, wondering what would be the outcome of

his unlawful enterprise, and while inhaling the tonic air of hill and

forest, half wished he were well away from this uncanny house and its

eccentric inmates. And yet, despite the mystery which enshrouded it,

there was a charm, a fascination, he could not deny. It was the

dream-like unreality of his surroundings--unreal, because different

from all that he had ever known. Should he suddenly find himself a

dozen miles removed, he felt certain that he would straightway

return.

The musty smell had disappeared, and as the room was getting cold,

Paul got up and closed the window. At the moment he had done so,

there was a low knock at the door. He replied by a summons to enter,

but there was no answer. The knock was repeated, and again Paul

shouted, “Come in”; but, as before, there was no response. He now

went to the door and opened it, and found a servant standing outside

with his luggage.

“Why did you not come in?” Paul inquired.

But the man did not answer; he simply entered and placed the bags

upon the floor. Henley now asked him another question, but the fellow

did not even look at him, and left the room without saying a word.

Suddenly Paul remembered that he had seen him before. It was the dumb

man who had met them on their arrival. It was the only servant he had

seen. Could it be possible that these people kept no other?

When Henley had completed his toilet, he blew out the candle and then

groped his way down to the hall, where he found Miss Guir and Ah Ben

awaiting him. The girl came forward to greet her guest, and to reveal

her presence, the fire having died away and the hanging lamp

affording but a dull, copperish glow, barely sufficient to indicate

the furniture and outlines of the room.

Dorothy was radiant, but peculiarly so. She was unlike the girls to

whom he was accustomed in the city. Moreover, her manner was more

quiet, more earnest and dignified than theirs. She looked more

charming than ever in a white gown, while her burnished hair was held

in place by a tall Spanish comb, and decorated with a flower. To be

sure, the details of her costume were only suggested in the vague,

uncertain light, but her pose and manner were unusually impressive.

“I hope you will not think that all Virginians are as inhospitable as

we appear to be, Mr. Henley,” she exclaimed, with a graciousness that

was quite bewitching.

“I'm sure,” said Henley, “that I have never been treated with greater

consideration by any one; my room is simply perfect!”

“In its way, yes; but its way is that of a century past. But what I

was referring to in the matter of special negligence was the time we

have kept you from food.”

“Do you know,” Paul replied, “that I have been so absorbed with the

many strange things I have seen since my arrival that I have scarcely

had time to think of food?”

“But I told you that you would be expected to have a good appetite.”

“And I have. In fact, when I think of it, I am ravenous,” he

answered.

“Then follow me,” she said, leading the way toward a heavily-curtained

door upon the right. They passed into a narrow passage, and then,

turning to the left, entered a softly-lighted room. Paul was amazed

at the sight that met his eyes. A round table, set for two, loaded

with flowers, cut glass, and silver, and lighted with wax candles

grouped under a large central shade of yellow silk, with a deep

fringe of the same material. The distant parts of the room were in

comparative shadow forming a proper setting for the soft candle-light

in the center. Evidently no one else was expected, and Dorothy, taking

her seat upon one side of the cloth, requested Paul to sit opposite.

“And will not Ah Ben be with us?” inquired Henley, glancing around to

see if the old man were not coming.

“I'm afraid not,” replied Dorothy; “he rarely dines at this hour.”

If Mr. Henley had been told of the reception awaiting him at Guir

House before leaving New York, he would doubtless have considered it

a hoax. As it was, he was astounded. The odd character of the house

and its inmates had already given him much ground for thought, even

amazement; but to suddenly find himself face to face, _tete-a-tete_

with a bewitching girl, at a gorgeous dinner table, laid for them

only, was a condition of things calculated to turn any ordinary man's

head. Never for an instant had the girl given the slightest intimation

of why he, or rather the original Henley, had been wanted, and every

effort to gain a clew of his business was thwarted--sometimes, it

seemed, intentionally. The table was deftly waited upon by the same

dumb man, who was a man-of-all-work and marvelous capacity, but his

orders were invariably given by signals. Paul wondered if he were

mistaken; could it be another servant with the same affliction? But

that seemed incredible.

Miss Guir's eloquent face, her wonderful hair and eyes, doubtless

interfered with Paul in the full enjoyment of his meal. In fact, he

was bewildered--dazed. He could neither account for the situation or

the growing beauty of the girl. Was it the candle-light that had

proved so becoming? But there was another matter that disturbed him,

perhaps, quite as much as this. It was the fact that Dorothy would

not eat. Scarcely a mouthful of food passed her lips, although the

dishes were of the daintiest, and she barely tasted many which she

recommended heartily to him. Was she ill? or was it not the usual

hour for her evening meal? Manlike, Henley was distressed for

anything not endowed with a hearty appetite, and after the long cool

drive he was sure she ought to be hungry. When he ventured to allude

to the fact, and to remark that neither she nor Ah Ben ate like

country people, the girl only smiled and declared that they both ate

quite enough for their health, although she would never undertake to

judge for others. With this he had to be satisfied.

From time to time Paul's eyes would wander around the table; and from

its dainty dishes and exquisite flowers return to their true

lodestone, his hostess. In fact, the girl possessed a mesmeric charm

for him, which had grown with marvelous rapidity since his arrival.

“It is all wonderfully beautiful!” he said, looking straight into

Dorothy's eyes.

“I'm so glad you like it,” she answered smiling, “but you're not

eating like a very hungry man.”

She was helping his plate to a salad of cresses, to which she was

adding an extra spoonful of dressing.

“I think you will find this quite the correct thing,” she added,

pushing the plate toward him.

“Everything is much more than perfect,” answered Paul; “in fact, I am

not accustomed----”

But he checked himself suddenly. How did he know what the real Henley

was accustomed to? Possibly he was a millionaire, while he, Paul--was

not.

Whate'er she was doing, in every pose, Miss Guir was a picture--a

quaint, unusual picture, to be sure, but nevertheless a picture. In

helping the fruit which was brought on after dinner, her white hands,

ablaze with precious stones, shone to peculiar advantage; and when

she poured out the coffee that followed, Paul wished for his kodak,

for he had seen nowhere, save in old-fashioned engravings, just such

a picture as she made. But it became Miss Guir's turn to be critical.

“Do you know what I think?” she said, looking him full in the face,

and without a suspicion of embarrassment.

“About what?”

She bent toward him with her elbows on the table, her chin resting

upon her clasped hands.

“I think that if you had a flower in your buttonhole--you wouldn't

mind it now, would you, if I were to give you one?”

And then without either smile or apology, she took the chrysanthemum

from her hair and tossed it over to Paul. There was something so odd,

and yet so deeply earnest in the way the thing was done that Henley

accepted the favor as he might have accepted a command from royalty

than as a flirtatious banter from a girl. He placed the flower in his

buttonhole without the faintest desire to respond with one of those

frivolous speeches he would have used under most similar

circumstances.

Before the meal was finished, Ah Ben entered the room and poured

himself a cup of coffee, which he drank without sitting down. It was

all that he took.

3

When Ah Ben had finished his coffee, the three retired to the great

entrance hall, where the fire was burning brightly, and the hanging

lamp lending its uncertain aid to the illumination of the curious old

apartment. Ah Ben produced a couple of long-stemmed pipes, one of

which he handed to Paul, with a great leather pouch of leaf tobacco

which he showed his guest how to prepare for smoking. They seated

themselves in the pew before the fire, Dorothy nearest the hearth,

while Paul placed himself upon the lounge opposite.

A great stillness pervaded the house, and Mr. Henley could not help

wondering again if there were not other members of the establishment.

Dorothy was staring into the fire, her thoughts far away, while Ah

Ben smoked his pipe in silence. “Perhaps they have theories about

digestion,” Paul reflected, while he pulled at his long Ti-ti stem,

and watched the meditative couple before him. The firelight played

upon Ah Ben's white moustache and swarthy features, and the colored

handkerchief upon his head, and set the long thin fingers all of a

tremble upon the pipe-stem, as if manipulating the stops of a flute.

It danced over Dorothy's gown in a dazzling sheen of white, and

flashed upon her jeweled hands in colored sparks of green and gold

and purple and red, and lit up her face and hair with the soft warm

tints of a Rubens. Such a picture did the twain combine to make; they

looked indeed as if they might have stepped from the canvas of some

old master and come for a brief season to taste the joys of flesh and

blood and life.

The outer regions of the hall were in darkness, the ancient lamp

barely revealing the oddities of brush, chisel, and structure, that

combined to make the most remarkable living-room that Henley had ever

seen. The decaying portraits, the singular carvings and peculiar

furniture, now only revealed themselves by suggestion in the faint

illumination of the lamp and uncertain flicker of the fire.

But what were these people, Dorothy and Ah Ben, to each other? It was

out of the question that they could be husband and wife--it seemed

equally so that they could be father and daughter. Paul searched the

faces of each for traces of similiarity, but there were none. Their

manner to each other, the girl's mode of addressing the man, all

indicated the absence of kinship. Yes, Henley felt quite certain that

Ah Ben and Dorothy Guir were neither related nor connected, and that

they were never likely to become so.

From time to time the old man would arise to mend the fire, and a

quiet conversation upon indifferent topics ensued, Dorothy uttering a

few words occasionally, in a dreamy voice, with her head propped upon

a cushion in the corner. At last she failed to answer when spoken to;

evidently she had fallen asleep.

“My daughter, you need rest,” said Ah Ben gently, and at the same

moment a clock upon the stairs began striking eleven.

Dorothy opened her eyes and looked around.

“I must have fallen asleep!” she exclaimed quite naively.

She bade them each “Good night,” and then started up the uncanny

stairs. Near the top she paused in the darkness, and looking over the

balustrade into the hall below, seemed to be waiting. Perhaps she was

not so completely in the shadow as she imagined, and perhaps Paul did

not see aright, but through the gloom he thought he caught the flash

of a diamond as it moved toward her lips and away again. If tempted

to return the salute, his better judgment prevailed, and while

holding the stem of his pipe in his right hand, pressed the tobacco

firmly into the bowl with his left. A troublesome thought presented

itself. Could this girl have entered into any kind of entanglement

with his namesake which would have demanded a tenderer attitude than

he had assumed toward her? Had he neglected opportunities and failed

to avail himself of privileges which he had unknowingly inherited?

For an instant the thought disturbed Mr. Henley's equilibrium, but a

moment's reflection convinced him that the idea was not worth

considering. Whatever it was he had seen upon the stairs he knew was

not intended for his eyes, even if it had been meant for himself.

“Shall we smoke another pipe?” said Ah Ben. “I'm something of an owl

myself, and shall sit here for quite a while before retiring.”

Paul was glad of the opportunity, and accepted with alacrity. He

hoped in the quiet of a midnight conversation to discover something

about this peculiar man and his home. Perhaps he should also learn

something of the girl, her strange life, and the Guirs.

“We may not be so comfortable as we would be in our beds,” continued

the elder man, “but there is a certain comfort in discomfort which

ought not to be undervalued. Sleep, to be enjoyed, should be

discouraged rather than courted.”

“Yes,” answered Paul, “I believe Shakespeare has told us something

about it in his famous soliloquy on that subject.”

“True,” replied Ah Ben, “and I suppose there is no one living who has

not felt the delusion of comfort. Like many other material blessings,

it is to be had only in pills.”

Ah Ben had stretched his legs out toward the hearth, and while

passing his hand across his withered cheek, had closed his eyes in

reverie. The dim and uncertain shadows made the room seem like some

vast cavern, whose walls were mythical and whose recesses unexplored.

The lamp had expired to a single spark, and there was nothing to

reveal their presence to each other except the red glow from the

embers.

“No,” said the man, continuing to speak with his eyes still closed,

“luxury is not necessary to a man's happiness, although he has

persuaded himself that it is so.”

“Perhaps not,” Paul admitted, “although I contend that a certain

amount of comfort is.”

“By no means. There was never a greater fallacy, although I am free

to admit that under certain conditions it may conduce to that end.

But tell me, have you never seen one happy amid the greatest physical

privations?”

“Not absolutely.”

“No, not absolutely; the absolute does not belong to the finite. I

refer to what most men would consider happiness.”

“Oh, if you're talking about saints, they're outside my experience.”

A faint smile played over Ah Ben's face as he answered:

“Saints, my dear sir, are no more to me than to you. Have you ever

seen a prize fight?”

“Oh, yes; several.”

“Do you not believe that the winner of a prize fight, even when

covered with bruises, and suffering in every bone of his body, is

happier at the moment of victory than he was the previous morning

while lying comfortably in his bed?”

“I dare say; but now you're speaking of--”

“Happiness,” suggested Ah Ben, “and if you will pardon me for saying

so--for possibly I may have thought more upon this subject than you

have--I can tell you the one essential which lies at the root of all

happiness, without which it can never be acquired, but with which it

is certain to follow.”

“And what is that?” inquired Paul, with interest.

“_Power_” said Ah Ben, with an assurance that left no doubt of the

conviction of the speaker.

“I suppose that is a kind of stepping-stone to contentment,” answered

Paul, reflectively.

“Precisely; for no man who lacks the power to accomplish his desires

can know contentment. But contentment is transitory, and rests upon

power. Power alone is the cornerstone of happiness.”

“Do you really believe that?” Paul inquired, half incredulously.

“I know it. With me it is not a matter of speculation; it is a matter

of knowledge.”

“Then let me ask you why it is that the greatest power in the world,

which is undoubtedly money, so often fails of this end?”

Ah Ben refilled his pipe, then raked a coal out of the fire with the

bowl and pressed it firmly down upon the tobacco, and then said,

reflectively:

“You are mistaken. Money does confer happiness to the full limit of

its power, but this limit is quickly reached--first, because man's

ambitions and desires grow faster than his wealth, or reach out into

channels that wealth can never compass, or, and principally, because

wealth is an impersonal power and not a direct one. Give the earth to

a single man, and it would never enable him to change his appearance

or alter one of his mental characteristics, nor to do one single

thing he could not have accomplished before--it giving him the power

to make others do his will; and so long as his will is not beyond the

power of others to do, he is to that extent happy. But to be really

happy, a man must have _personal power_. Wealth is not power. Power

is lodged in the individuality.”

“I don't know whether I quite understand you,” said Paul.

Ah Ben looked at him searchingly with his luminous, deep-set eyes.

“Can gold restore an idiot's mind,” he inquired, “or a cripple the

use of his limbs? Would a mountain of gold add one iota to the power

of your soul? And yet it is gold that men have labored for since the

earth was made. Could they once understand its real limitations? What

a different planet we should have!”

“That is all very well,” answered Henley; “but this personal power of

which you speak is born in a man, and is not to be acquired by

anything he can do; whereas, the battle for wealth can be fought in a

field open to all.”

“There again I must beg to differ from you,” said Ah Ben. “There is a

law for the acquirement of this soul-power which is as fixed and

certain as the law of gravitation; and when a man has once gained it,

he has no more use for worldly wealth than he has for the drainings

of a sewer.”

“Do you mean to say that by a course of life--”

“I do, and it is this: _Self-control is the law of psychic power_.”

“Then, according to your theory, the better mastery a man has over

himself, the more he can accomplish and the greater his happiness?”

“I go still further,” the old man continued. “I claim that _self-control

is the only source of happiness, and that he who can control his

body--and by this I mean his eyes, his nerves, his tongue, his appetites

and passions--can control other men; but he who is master of his mind,

his thoughts, his desires, his emotions, has the world in a sling. Such

a man is all powerful; there is nothing he can not accomplish; there is

no force that can stand against him_.”

The fire had died out, save for a few glowing embers, but Ah Ben's

singular face seemed to draw unto itself what light there was, and to

hold Henley's eyes in a kind of mesmeric fascination. He had put off

going to bed for the sole purpose of gaining some knowledge of the

house and its inmates; and yet now, with apparently nothing to hinder

his investigations, he felt an unaccountable diffidence about making

the inquiries. An impression that the man was a mind-reader had

doubtless increased this embarrassment, and yet he had had no

evidence of this kind, nor anything to indicate such a fact beyond

the keen, penetrating power of those marvelous eyes. Paul felt that

there was a mental chasm, deep and wide and impassable, that yawned

between him and the strange individual before him. Such stupendous

power of will as lodged within that brain could sport with the forces

of nature, suspend or reverse the action of law, disintegrate matter,

or create it. At least such was the impression which Mr. Henley had

received.

It was past midnight before a movement was made for bed, and when Ah

Ben brought a lighted candle, inquiring if everything in the

bedchamber had been satisfactory, Paul was about to reply in the

affirmative, when he suddenly remembered the staircase in the closet.

“I was about to forget,” he said, “but would you mind explaining the

object of a very peculiar staircase I discovered in the closet of my

room?”

“This house is old,” Ah Ben replied simply. “It was built when the

State was a colony and full of Indians. The stairway communicating

with the lower floor was doubtless intended as a means of escape. I

had not thought of this annoying you, but can readily see how it

might. You shall be removed to another room at once.”

“_Removed_?” exclaimed Paul. “My dear sir, I had no intention of

making such a suggestion. The most I thought of asking for was a bolt

for the door, or scuttle; but since your explanation I do not wish

either.”

They bade each other good night, and Paul undertook to find his room

alone, declining Ah Ben's offer to accompany him. But the house was

full of strange passages and unexpected stairways, making the task

more difficult than he had expected. After wandering about he found

himself stopped by a dead wall, at least so it had looked, but

suddenly directly before him stood Ah Ben.

“I thought you might need my assistance,” he said quietly; and then

without appearing to notice Henley's astonishment, led the way to his

room.

When Paul found himself alone, he became conscious of a growing

curiosity concerning the stairs in the closet. He opened the door and

looked in, and then quietly lifted the scuttle by the ring. He peered

down into the darkness, but, as the stairs were winding, could

discern nothing for more than a half dozen steps below. He listened,

but the house was perfectly quiet, Ah Ben's retreating footsteps

having died upon the air. Somehow he half doubted the story which the

old man had told him about the original intention of the stairway as

a means of escape. It seemed improbable, and dated back to such a

remote period that he could not help feeling distrustful. Candle in

hand, he commenced to descend, looking carefully where he placed his

feet. As everywhere else, the woodwork was worm-eaten, and the

timbers set up a dismal creaking under the weight of his body, but he

had undertaken to investigate the meaning of this architectural

eccentricity, and would not now turn back. On he crept, noiselessly

as possible, adown the twisting stairs, carefully looking ahead for

pitfalls and unsuspected developments. Once he paused, thinking he

heard the distant tread of a foot, but the sound died away, and he

resumed his course. Some of the steps were so broken and rotten that

extreme caution was necessary to avoid falling. At last he reached

the ground, and found himself at the bottom of a square well, around

the four walls of which the stairs had been built. He was facing a

massive door, which occupied one of the sides of the well. Paul tried

the lock, but it was so old and rust-eaten that it refused to move.

There was no other outlet, and the place was narrow and damp. He

looked wistfully at the solitary door, feeling a vague suspicion that

it barred the entrance to a mystery, and resolved to return at some

future time, when not so harassed with sleepiness and the fatigues of

travel, and make another effort to open it. Paul looked above, and as

he did so a gust of air swept down the narrow opening and blew out

his light; at the same instant he heard the fall of the scuttle and

realized that he was shut in.

“Trapped! and by my own cursed curiosity,” he muttered, as he

commenced groping his way up in the darkness. But it was not so easy

as he had supposed. Twice he slipped his foot into a rotten hole, and

once the stairs trembled so violently that he thought they were about

to fall. Nevertheless he reached the top, as he realized when his

head came in contact with the trap-door, upon the other side of which

he pictured Ah Ben standing with an amused smile. Henley placed his

shoulder against the door, and to his amazement found that it opened

quite easily. He then procured a light, and having satisfied himself

that there had never been the slightest intention to entrap him, the

door having simply fallen, he went hurriedly to bed.

4

The breakfast room was a charming little corner reclaimed from a

dingy cell, where in by-gone days guns and ammunition had been

stored, but the peace-loving inhabitants of later times had rendered

these no longer necessary. It was now the most modern room Paul had

seen since his arrival at this great unconventional homestead,

looking quite as if it had been tacked on by mistake to the dismal

old mansion.

Upon entering, he found Miss Guir sitting alone at the table. She was

attired in a charming costume, and looked as fresh as the flowers

before her. She greeted him with a smile, and asked how he had slept.

“Perfectly!” he answered, seating himself by her side, where he

looked out of a low French window opening upon a garden with boxwood

borders and a few belated blossoms.

“But do you know,” he continued, “the most extraordinary thing

happened.”

He went on to tell of his experience in the closet, thinking it best

to take the _bull by the horns_ and see if anything in Dorothy's

expression would lead him to suspect foul play. She listened to his

story with interest, and, as Paul thought, a slight display of

anxiety, but nothing more. When he had finished, she simply advised

him not to go down those stairs any more, as they were rotten and

dangerous. This was all. Nevertheless Henley felt sure that the girl

knew what lay upon the other side of the door at the bottom. They

chatted along quite pleasantly, Paul endeavoring to lead the

conversation into some instructive channel, but without success.

“I thought perhaps I should have met some of your people at

breakfast,” he said, while sipping his coffee.

Dorothy stopped with a piece of toast half way to her lips.

“_My people_!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Paul, unmindful of the impression he had made.

“Really, Mr. Henley, what are you talking about?”

“The Guirs!” said Paul, still unheedful.

Suddenly he looked up, and the expression on the girl's face startled

him.

“Are you ill?” he cried. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, no,” she gasped. “It is nothing. I am nervous. I am always

nervous in the morning, and you gave me quite a turn. There now, I

shall feel better directly.”

If Paul was astonished before, he was dumfounded now. He could not

imagine how anything he had said could produce such an effect, but he

watched the return of color to the girl's face with satisfaction.

Presently she looked up at him with a smile and said:

“It is all right now, but you must excuse me for a minute. I shall be

back immediately.”

She got up and left the room, leaving Paul alone. His appetite had

quite departed, so he turned his chair around and looked out of the

window at the boxwood bushes and the trees beyond. Not a human figure

was in sight, nor was there a sound to indicate that there were

living creatures about the premises. Where was the family? Surely

such a large house could not be occupied solely by the few

individuals he had already met. If there were other members, where

had they kept themselves? He would have given the world to have asked

a few straightforward questions, but there seemed no opportunity to

do so. Where was Ah Ben? Even he had not shown his face at the

breakfast table. A painful sense of mystery was growing more

oppressive each hour, which the bright morning sunlight had not

dispelled, as he had hoped it would. If this feeling had confined

itself to Ah Ben and the house, Paul thought he might have shaken off

the gloom while in the company of the girl, but even she was subject

to such extraordinary flights of eccentricity, such sudden fits of

nervous depression, that he felt she was not surely to be depended on

as a solace to his troubled soul. While he was meditating, the door

opened, and Dorothy returned. She was full of smiles; and the color

had come back to her cheeks.

“I can't imagine how I could have given you such a turn,” said Paul

apologetically, as he resumed his place at the table.

“It was altogether my fault,” she answered. Then looking at him very

earnestly, added:

“I hope, Mr. Henley, that you may never become an outcast, as I am.

I hope _your people_ will never disown you. But let us talk of

something else.”

As upon the previous evening, she was solicitous about his food, that

it should be of the best, and that he should enjoy it, although

apparently indifferent about her own.

“Of course, you will find us quite different from other people, Mr.

Henley,” she continued, sipping her coffee (she never seemed to drink

or eat anything heartily); “our ideas and manner of living being

quite at variance with theirs.”

“Yes,” Paul replied, as if he understood it perfectly. She was toying

with her cup as though not knowing exactly how to continue. Presently

she looked up at him appealingly, possessed of a sudden idea, and

added:

“And what do you think about the brain?”

Paul was astonished at the irrelevancy of the question.

“I think it is in the head,” he answered, smiling, in the hope of

averting a difficulty. “That is, I think it ought to be there,” he

added in a minute, “although it is doubtless missing in some cases.

Still, there can be but little dissent from the general opinion that

the skull is the proper place for it.”

She looked puzzled, and Paul began to wonder if he had offended her,

but in another moment she relaxed into a smile.

“I'm sure you don't think anything of the kind,” she answered, “for

if you do, you're not up to date. The latest investigations have

shown that brain matter is distributed throughout the body. No, I'm

not joking. We all think more or less with our hands and feet.”

“I've not the slightest doubt of it,” Paul answered, applying himself

to his food; “and even if I had,” he continued, “I should never

dispute anything you told me.” And then, looking her full in the

face, he added: “Do you know, Miss Guir, that you have exerted a most

remarkable influence over me? It might not be polite to say that it

is inexplicable; but when I recall the fact that no girl ever before,

in so short a time--”

He paused for a word, but before he could discover one that was

satisfactory, she said:

“Do you mean to say that you have formed a liking for me already?”

“It is hardly the word. I have been fascinated from the moment I

first saw you.”

“I'm so glad,” she answered, without the slightest appearance of

coquetry, and as simply and naturally as though she were talking

about the weather. Paul was puzzled. He could not understand her, and

not knowing how to proceed, an awkward silence followed. Presently

she leaned her head upon her hand, her elbow resting on the table,

and with a languid yet interested scrutiny of his face, said:

“You doubtless know the world, its people and ways, far better than

I, and perhaps you wouldn't mind helping me with my book.”

“Indeed! You are writing a book, then?”

“No, but I should like to do so.”

“And may I ask what it is about?”

“It's about myself and Ah Ben, and the awful predicament into which

we have fallen.”

“I should like greatly to help you,” said Paul, thinking the subject

might lead to a clearer insight of the situation; “but even were I

competent to do so, which I doubt, I can not see how any little

worldly knowledge I might possess could possibly be of service in a

description of your own life.”

“It is only that I should like to present our story in attractive

form--one which would be read by worldly people.”

“A laudable ambition. But what is the predicament you speak of?”

“The predicament is more directly my own; the situation, Ah Ben's.”

“Perhaps if you will explain them, I might aid you.”

“You might indeed,” she answered seriously, rising from the table;

“but it would be premature. Let us go into the garden.”

She led the way through the back of the house out into the old-fashioned

yard, where boxwood bushes and chrysanthemums, together with other

autumnal flowers, adorned the beds. They walked down a straight path

and seated themselves upon a rustic bench in full view of the edifice.

Paul lighted a cigarette and watched the strange old building before

him, while Dorothy was content to sit and look at him, as though he

were some new variety of man just landed from the planet Mars. Presently

she arose and wandered down the path in search of a few choice blossoms,

leaving Paul alone, who watched her until she disappeared among the

shrubbery.

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?”

Ah Ben made no answer; he did not even smile, but continued to gaze

into the fire and blow little puffs of smoke toward the chimney.

“You referred just now to the prize-fighter,” Paul resumed after a

few minutes, “but I am going to squelch that argument.”

“Yes,” Ah Ben replied, now with his eyes half closed, “you are going

to tell me that, although the man may have been battered and bruised,

he really feels no pain, because of the unnatural excitement of the

moment; but there you only rivet the argument against yourself; for I

maintain--and not from theory, but from knowledge--that that very

excitement is an exaltation of the spirit, which may be cultivated

and relied upon to conquer pain and the ills of the flesh forever!”

“It would go far indeed if it could do all that, although I believe

there is something in what you say, for in a small way I have seen it

myself.”