Title: The Ghost of Guir House
Author: Beale, Charles Willing
Language: English
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THE GHOST OF GUIR HOUSE

By Charles Willing Beale

1897


{Illustration: Guir House}



1


When Mr. Henley reached his dingy little house in Twentieth Street, a
servant met him at the door with a letter, saying:

“The postman has just left it, sir, and hopes it is right, as it has
given him a lot of trouble.”

Mr. Henley examined the letter with curiosity. There were several
erased addresses. The original was:

  “_Mr. P. Henley, New York City_.”

Scarcely legible, in the lower left-hand corner, was:

  “_Dead. Try Paul, No. --, W. 20th_.”

Being unfamiliar with the handwriting, Mr. Henley carried the letter
to his room. It was nearly dark, and he lighted the gas, exchanged
the coat he had been wearing for a gaudy smoking jacket, glancing
momentarily at the mirror, at a young and gentlemanly face with good
features; complexion rather florid; hair and moustache neither fair
nor dark, with reddish lights.

Seating himself upon a table directly under the gas, he proceeded
with the letter. Evidently the document was not intended for him, but
it proved sufficiently interesting to hold his attention.

                                      GUIR HOUSE, 16TH SEPT., 1893.

  MY DEAR MR. HENLEY:

  Although we have never met, I feel sure that you are the man for
  whom I am looking, which conclusion has been reached after
  carefully considering your letters. Why have I taken so long to
  decide? Perhaps I can answer that better when we meet. Do not
  forget that the name of our station is the same as that of the
  house--Guir. Take the evening train from New York, and you will be
  with us in old Virginia next day, not twenty-four hours. I shall
  meet you at the station, where I shall go every day for a month, or
  until you come. You will know me because--well, because I shall
  probably be the only girl there, and because I drive a piebald
  horse in a cart with red wheels--but how shall I know you? Suppose
  you carry a red handkerchief in your hand as you step upon the
  platform. Yes, that will do famously. I shall look for the red silk
  handkerchief, while you look for the cart with gory wheels and a
  calico horse. What a clever idea! But how absurd to take
  precautions in such a desolate country as this. I shall know you as
  the only man stopping at Guir’s, and you will know me as the only
  woman in sight.

  Of course you will be our guest until you have proved all things to
  your satisfaction, and don’t forget that I shall be looking for you
  each day until I see you. Meanwhile believe me

  Sincerely yours,

  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.”

“Yes, we have all seen it in a small way; and does it not seem
strange that men have never thought of cultivating it in a larger
way, through the exercise of their will in controlling their minds
and bodies? This exaltation of spirit is only attained through
effort, or some great physical shock. It is the secret of all power;
it conquers all pain, and makes disease impossible.”

“Makes disease impossible!” cried Paul in astonishment.

“Yes,” answered the elder man quietly. “This soul power, of which I
speak, is the hidden akasa in all men--it is the man himself--and
when once recognized, the body is relegated to its proper sphere as
the servant, and not the master; then it is that man realizes his own
power and supremacy over all things.”

“But,” persisted Henley, “if you go so far as to say that this occult
or soul power can conquer disease, you would have us all living
forever!”

“We do live forever,” answered Ah Ben.

“Yes, after death; but I mean here!”

“_There is no such thing as death_!” remarked Ah Ben quietly, as if
he were merely giving expression to a well-established scientific
fact.

“And yet we see it about us every day,” Paul replied.

“There you are wrong, for no man has ever seen that which never
occurs!”

“You are quibbling with words,” suggested Henley.

“There is a change at a certain period in a man’s life, which, from
ignorance, people have agreed to call death. But it is a misnomer,
for man never dies. He goes right on living; and it is generally a
considerable time before he realizes the change that has taken place
in him. He would laugh at the word death, as understood upon earth,
as indeed he frequently does, for he is far more alive than ever
before.”

“You speak as if you knew all this,” said Paul. “One might almost
imagine that you had been in the other world yourself.”

“_Had been_!” exclaimed the old man with emphasis. “_I am in it now,
and so are you. But there is a difference between us; I know that I
am in it, because I can see it, and touch it, and hear it; while you
are in it without knowing it_.”

There was an air of authority that impressed the hearer with the
conviction of the speaker. This was not theory; it was the result of
experience. There was a difference as vast as the night from the day.
“I suppose, when I am dead, I shall know these things too,” said Paul
meditatively.

“No,” answered Ah Ben, “not when you are dead, but when you have been
born--when you have come into life.”

“Pardon me,” answered Paul, pondering on the man’s strange assertion;
“but this knowledge of yours is in demand more than all other
knowledge. Positive information about the other world is what men
have sought through all the ages; why do you not impart it to them?”

“Impart it!” exclaimed Ah Ben. “Can you explain to one who has been
born blind what it is to see? Can you impart to such a man any true
conception of the world in which he has always lived? But _couch_ his
eyes, remove the worthless film that has covered them, and for the
first time he realizes the glorious world surrounding him. Likewise
_couch_ the body, remove the shell that covers the spirit, and it is
born.”

“I perceive, then, that it is only through death that most of us can
hope to gain this knowledge.”

“Death, if you prefer the word,” said Ah Ben. “Yes, it is the death
of the film over the eye that reveals the world to the blind; but I
should hardly say that the man was dead because he had so entered
into another existence.”

“Would you mind telling me how it is that you have gained this
knowledge in such obvious exception to the rule!”

“The power of the occult is dormant in all men,” answered Ah Ben;
“and as I have already said, may be developed slowly, through the
exercise of the will, or suddenly, as in some great physical shock,
and of a necessity comes to all in the event called death. Were I to
tell you how _I_ acquired this knowledge, Mr. Henley, it would
startle you, far more than any exhibition of the power itself. No, I
can not tell you; at least, not at present; perhaps some day you may
be better prepared to hear it.”

The spark in the hanging lamp had almost expired, and the fire was
reduced to a mere handful of coals, casting an erubescent glow over
the pew and its occupants. Ah Ben stretched his hand toward the
chimney, and as he did so, a ball of misty light appeared against it,
just below the mantel. It was ill defined and hazy, like the
reflection a firefly will sometimes make against the ceiling of a
darkened room; but it was fixed, and Paul was sure it had not been
there a moment before.

“Do you see that?” asked the old man, breaking the silence.

“Yes,” answered Paul; “and I was just wondering what it could be.”

“Watch! and you will see.”

They sat with their eyes fixed; but while Paul was staring into the
mantel, Ah Ben was looking at him.

“Observe how it grows,” and even as he spoke the strange illumination
deepened, until it assumed the distinct and definite form of a lamp.
Then the mantelpiece dissolved into nothingness, and Paul was staring
through the chimney into a strange room, whose form and contents were
dimly revealed by the curious lamp which occupied a table in the
centre. Two persons sat at this table, the one a woman, the other a
boy, and near at hand was an English army officer. The woman was
small, with dark eyes and hair, and a skin the color of tan bark. Her
head was bowed forward and rested upon her arms, which were crossed
upon the table. The man was looking down at her with a troubled
expression, and in a minute he stooped forward and kissed the top of
her head; he then turned suddenly and left the room. The scene was
distinct, although the outer part of the room was in shadow.
Presently the woman threw herself to the floor with a heart-rending
shriek, and Paul started up, exclaiming:

“What has happened? She will wake everybody in the house!”

He bounded to his feet; but as he did so, the lamp in the strange
room went out, and the chimney closed over the scene, leaving him
with his old surroundings. Looking up at Ah Ben, he said:

“I must have fallen asleep. I’ve been dreaming.”

“Not at all,” answered Ah Ben. “You’ve been quite as wide awake as I
have, and we’ve been looking at the same thing.”

Paul demanded the proof, which the old man gave by telling him what
he had seen in every detail.

“Then it’s magic!” said Henley, “for surely no room can be visible
through that chimney.”

“That,” answered Ah Ben, “is mere assertion, which you can never
prove.”

“Do you mean to tell me that the thing was real? There is a secret
about this house which I do not understand!”

His manner was excited. He felt that he had been the dupe of the man
before him, the prey to some clever trick; the thing was too
preposterous, too unreasonable.

“Be calm,” said Ah Ben; “there is nothing in this that should disturb
you. The room has disappeared from our sight, and will no more
trouble us. Shall we have another pipe?”

The words had an instantaneous effect, so that Paul resumed his seat
and pipe, as if nothing had happened. For several minutes he sat
silently gazing at vacancy, and listening to the north wind as it
moaned through the old pines. He was trying to account for what he
had seen, but could not. The mystery was deepening into an
overpowering gloom. The house, with its eccentric inmates; the girl
Dorothy, with her freaks and manner of living; the odd circumstance
of the stairway in his closet; these, and other things, flashed upon
his memory in a confused jumble, and seemed as inexplicable as the
vision just witnessed through the chimney.

Suddenly a thought struck him. Could this last have been hypnotism?
He put the question straight to Ah Ben. The man passed his withered
hand over his face thoughtfully as he answered:

“Hypnotism, Mr. Henley, is a name that is used in the West for a
condition that has been known in the East for thousands of years as
the underlying principle of _all phenomena_.”

“And what is that condition?” Paul inquired.

“_Sympathetic vibration_,” answered the elder man.

“Vibration of what?” asked Paul.

“Of the mind,” said Ah Ben. “The condition of the universal mind
vibrating in our material plane, or within the range of our physical
senses, is represented in the trees and the rocks, in the earth and
the stars. Our physical senses, being attuned to his form of
vibration, are in sympathy with it, and apprehend all its phenomena.
There is but one mind, of which man is a part. Thought is a product
of mind. Thought is real, and, when sufficiently concentrated,
becomes tangible and visible to those who can be brought into
sympathy with its vibrations. There is but one primal substance,
which is mind. Mind creates all things out of itself; therefore, to
change the world we look at, it is only necessary to change our
minds.”

“Let me ask if what I saw was hypnotism?” repeated Henley. “I ask
this, first, because I know it is impossible to see through a brick
wall, even if there should be such a room in the house; and,
secondly, because I cannot believe that I was dreaming, consequently
the thing could not have been real.”

“Hypnotism is a good enough word,” answered Ah Ben; “but that which
men generally understand by the real, and that which they consider
the unreal, are not so far apart as they suppose. You say the room
was not real, and yet you saw it; had you wished, you might have
touched it, which is certainly all the evidence you have of the
existence of the room in which we are now sitting. Hypnotism is not a
cause of hallucination, as is commonly supposed, but of fact. Its
effects are not illusory, but real. Perhaps it would be more correct
to say that they are _as real_ as anything else, and that _all_ the
phenomena of nature are mere illusions of the senses, which they
undoubtedly are. But whichever side we take, all appearances are the
result of the same general cause--that of mental vibration. Matter
has no real existence.”

Paul was meditating on what he had seen and what he was now hearing.
Ah Ben’s words were endowed with an added force by the vision of the
mysterious room.

“When you tell me that there is practically no difference between the
real and the unreal, and that matter has no real existence, I must
confess to some perplexity,” observed Henley.

Ah Ben looked up and smoothed the furrows in his withered cheek
thoughtfully for a minute before he answered:

“Unfortunately, Mr. Henley, language is not absolute or final in its
power to convey thought, and the best we can do is to use it as
carefully as possible to express ourselves, which we can only hope to
do approximately. Therefore when I say that a thing is hot or cold,
or hard or soft, I only mean that it is so by comparison with certain
other things; and when I say that matter has no existence, I mean
that it has no independent existence--no existence outside of the
mind that brought it into being. I mean that it was formed by mind,
formed out of mind, and that it continues to exist in mind as a part
of mind. I mean that it is an appearance objective to our point of
consciousness on the material plane; but inasmuch as it was formed by
thought, it can be reformed by thought, which could never be if it
existed independently of thought. It is real in the sense of apparent
objectivity, and not real in the sense of independent objectivity,
and yet it affects us in precisely the same manner as if it were
independent of thought. What, then, is the difference between matter
as viewed from the Idealist’s or the Materialist’s point of view? At
first there is apparently none, but a deeper insight will show us
that the difference is vast and radical, for in the one case the tree
or the chair that I am looking at, owing its very existence to mind,
is governed by mind, which could never be did they exist as separate
and distinct entities. Therefore I say with perfect truth that matter
does not exist in the one sense, and yet that it does exist in the
other. I dream of a green field; a beautiful landscape, never before
beheld; I awake and it is gone. Where was that enchanting scene? I
can tell you: for it was in the mind, where everything else is. But
upon waking I have changed my mind, and the scene has vanished. Thus
it is with the Adept of the East, with the Yoghis, the Pundit, the
Rishis, and the common Fakir; through the power of hypnotism they
alter the condition of the subject’s mind, and with it his world has
likewise undergone a change. You say this is not real, that it is
merely illusion; but in reply I would say that these illusions have
been subjected to the severest tests; their reality has been
certified to by every human sense, and when an illusion responds to
the sense of both sight and touch, when the sense of sight is
corroborated by that of touch, or by any other of the five senses,
what _better_ evidence have we of the existence of those things we
are all agreed to call real? Yes, I know what you are about to say,
you object upon the ground that only a small minority are witnesses
of the marvels of Eastern magic; but you are wrong, for I have seen
hundreds of men in a public square all eye-witnesses to precisely the
same occult phenomena at once. Now if certain hundreds could be so
impressed, why not other hundreds? And with a still more powerful
hypnotizer, why could not a majority--nay, all of those in a certain
district, a certain State, a certain country, _in the world_--be made
to see and feel things which now, and to us, have no existence? In
that case, Mr. Henley, would it be the majority or the minority who
were deceived? _All is mind_, and the hypnotizer merely alters it.”

“You said just now,” answered Paul, “that matter, being mind, was
governed by mind, and that the tree or chair before me, owing its
existence to mind, is subject to that mind; do you mean by that to
say that the existence of that sofa, as a sofa, may be transformed
into something else by mental action alone?”

“I do,” said Ah Ben, “under certain conditions; namely, the condition
called hypnotism. On this material plane we are imprisoned; the will
is not free to operate upon its environment, but in the spiritual
state this dependence and slavery to the appearances we call
realities is cast aside; the will becomes free and controls its own
environment--in short, we are out of prison. But even here, Mr.
Henley, by practicing the self-control we were speaking of, the will
becomes so powerful that it can sometimes break through the bondage
of matter, which, after all, is no more real than the stuff a dream
is made of, and mold its prison walls into any form it chooses; in
which case, of course, it is no longer a prison, and the other world
is achieved without the change called death!”

“And why do you call it a prison, if no more real than a dream?”

“Have you ever had the nightmare? If so, you must know that your will
was insufficient to free you from the horrid scene that had taken
such forcible hold of you. Was the nightmare real or not?”

Paul was silent for several minutes. He could not deny the reality of
the scene through the chimney, for it had the same forceful existence
to him as anything in life. Ah Ben, seeing that he was still puzzling
himself over the problem of mind and matter, the puzzle of life, the
great sphinx riddle of the ages, said:

“Let me ask you a question, Mr. Henley--I might say several
questions--which may possibly tend to throw a little light upon
this subject, and perhaps convince you that matter is really mind.”

“Ask as many as you like.”

“Pantheism,” continued Ah Ben, “is scoffed at by many people calling
themselves Christians as being idolatrous, and yet to me it is the
most ennobling of all creeds. Without knowing anything of your
religious faith, I would first ask if you believe in God?”

Paul answered affirmatively.

“Do you look upon him as a personal Deity--I mean as an exaggerated
man in size and power--or as a Spirit?”

“As a Spirit,” Paul replied.

“Very well, then; do you believe that Spirit is infinite or finite?”

“Infinite.”

“Then, if it is infinite, there can be no part of space in which it
does not exist.”

“That is my idea also.”

“If, then, that Spirit exists everywhere, it must penetrate all
matter; in fact, all matter must, in its very essence, be a part of
it; it must be formed out of the very substance of this infinite
Spirit or Mind. Hence all is mind!”

“That seems clear enough,” said Paul; “in which case it seems to me
that we are a part of God ourselves, and God being spirit, we must be
spirits now.”

“Of course we are,” answered Ah Ben; “as I have already told you, we
are in the spiritual world now, although much of it is screened from
our view, because we are temporarily imprisoned in a lower vibratory
plane, called matter.”

Ah Ben arose, and procuring candles, which he lighted by the expiring
fire, the men went to their beds.



6


It was past midnight, and the house quiet, when Paul determined to
have another look at the mysterious door at the foot of his closet
stairs. He had sat for more than an hour before his bedroom fire,
after bidding Ah Ben good-night, to make sure that the inmates of
Guir House had retired; and as not a sound had been heard since
locking his door, he sincerely hoped they were asleep. Before
descending into the noisome depths, however, he concluded to climb up
into his window, and have another look at the beautiful panorama of
mountain and woodland shimmering in the meagre light of a hazy sky
and a moon past full. The uncertain outline of a distant horizon; the
interminable stretch of forest, which bore away upon every hand; the
rugged heights, now soft and colorless; the aromatic smell of pine
and fir; the distant murmur of falling water; and the assonant
whispering of wind in the tree tops, had all become strangely
fascinating to him, more so than such things had ever been before.
“Never was a house so situated, so lost to the world, so tightly held
in the lap of unregenerate nature,” thought Paul; “no laugh of child,
no shout of man, no bark of dog, nor bellowing beast to break the
stillness of the midnight air; an impenetrable, imperturbable, and
silent wilderness shuts out the busy world, as we know it, forever
and forever. It is a fitting place for such witchery as the old man
seems master of, and I do not wonder that he has chosen it for his
home; but the girl--the poor girl!--she must get away!” He closed the
window, and prepared for his descent into the well.

Removing his shoes, he put on a pair of soft felt slippers, and then,
with candle in his hand, a box of matches and a revolver in his
pocket, entered the closet, and opened the scuttle in the floor. A
mouldy smell rose upon the air, and Henley recoiled at the thought of
what might be in waiting below. He had not the slightest idea of how
he should open the door at the bottom, but would make a careful study
of the situation, hoping that a solution of the difficulty would
present itself. The steps creaked dismally as he placed his weight
upon them, and it was necessary to use extreme caution to avoid
breaking through the more rotten ones. He had not descended more than
a dozen, when there was a terrible crash above his head, and he found
himself in absolute darkness. The trap had fallen as upon the
previous night, he having forgotten to fasten it back, and the wind
had blown out his candle. Henley hastened back up the stairs, fearful
lest the noise had waked some one in the house, and without
relighting his candle threw himself upon the bed to await
developments. After listening for some minutes, and hearing nothing,
he became convinced that no one had been disturbed; and so, creeping
out of bed, and lighting his candle by the dying embers in the
fireplace, started in afresh. This time he was careful to fasten back
the scuttle door, and in doing so discovered that one of the great
iron hinges was loose. It was more than two feet long, and with very
little difficulty he managed to wrench it off, thinking it might
possibly be of service in forcing the door at the bottom. He was
careful this time to let the scuttle down quietly after him, thinking
it safer to do this than to prop it open.

The bottom was reached in safety after the usual doleful crunching
and creaking of the timber, and Paul sat down on the bottom step,
with his candle, to rest and quiet himself, before proceeding with
his work upon the door. A dead stillness reigned all about him,
broken only by the occasional resettling of the steps above his head,
but which, to his excited brain, was like the report of a pistol;
still even this ceased in a few minutes, and the silence was
undisturbed. He now made a careful examination of the door. It was
very heavy, and solid. Holding his candle close against the crack, he
could see, to his surprise, that it was bolted upon the inside.
Placing his ear close against the keyhole, he listened, but it was
silent as a tomb within; and how the door became fastened upon the
inside was inexplicable, unless indeed there was another outlet,
which from his examination of the building had seemed improbable.
Then, taking out his knife, he stuck it into the wood in various
directions to ascertain the condition of its preservation. The door
itself was in an excellent state; but in examining the lintel, the
blade of his knife suddenly sank into the rotten wood up to the
handle. Here, then, was the place to begin operations, and
fortunately it was on the side from which the door opened. Henley had
soon dug away a great segment of decayed wood, exposing the bolt
clearly to view. Then taking the hinge which he had brought with him,
and slipping the small end between the bolt and the frame of the
door, he used it as a lever to pry against the bolt within. The iron
was so old and rusty, and his purchase so poor, that he only
succeeded in making a rasping sound where the two metals scraped
against each other, and so stopped, discouraged. Presently he
bethought him of his handkerchief, which he wrapped carefully around
the end of the hinge, and thus not only gained a better purchase,
increasing his leverage, but was able to operate without the
slightest sound. It was a long time before the bolt moved, but to his
intense gratification it did move at last, and Henley took a fresh
grip upon his hinge. Backward and forward he worked his lever, and
with each turn the old bolt slipped back a little. At last he could
see the end of it, and then it was clear of the frame entirely. He
had expected no difficulty in opening the door when the hinge was
once slipped, but to his surprise it was still immovable. He pulled
and tugged and pushed, but it would not budge; then suddenly, just as
he was about to give up, it came tumbling down upon him, so that he
was barely able to save it from falling against the stairs with a
terrible crash, but fortunately caught it upon his shoulder, and
lowered it to the floor without a sound. Imagine his surprise in
going to what he now believed to be the open portal, to find that the
doorway had been bricked up from within, and that the door itself had
simply been the back of a solid wall. Naturally, he was disappointed
at finding himself no nearer the inner chamber than before. A careful
examination of the masonry showed that the work of bricking up the
entrance had undoubtedly been done from the other side, and after the
door had been closed and bolted. This was evidenced from the fact
that there was no mortar next the door, against the smooth inner
surface of which the bricks had been closely laid. Henley worked his
hinge between some of the looser joints, and found, just as he
expected, that the mortar had been laid from within. By degrees he
managed to wedge one of the bricks out of its place, and then pulled
it bodily from the wall. The inner surface was plastered over. He
tried another, which he got out more easily, and it told the same
tale. Then he went to work in earnest, and had soon dug a hole large
enough to admit his body. Leaning over into the aperture, with his
candle at arm’s length, the place looked dark and empty, with faint
masses of lighter shadow. Then, with a certain indescribable awe,
Henley commenced crawling through the breach. Stepping upon an
earthern floor, he found himself in a vault-like chamber--damp,
mouldy, and foul of atmosphere. He glanced hurriedly about, and then
turned to examine the wall through which he had come. Just as he had
surmised, the bricks had been laid from the inner side, and plastered
over within. The person who had done the work must have had some
other means of escape. This set him to wondering where the other
entrance could be, and to a careful search around the wall; but there
was no door, no window, nor opening of any kind. How had the work
been done? While he was wondering, he stumbled over something in the
floor, and, recovering, threw back his head, holding his candle high
above it. He was startled by the sight of what appeared to be four
shadowy human faces, looking directly at him from above.
Instinctively he sought his revolver, but before drawing it perceived
that what he had taken for living people were simply four portraits,
of the most remarkable character he had ever beheld. Paul stared in
bewilderment at the sight before him. The pictures were so old, their
canvases so rotten and mildewed and stained with the accumulated
fungi of time and darkness that it was only by degrees that the
intention of the artist became manifest. In the hall and other
apartments of the old house, Henley thought he had seen the most
original and inexplicable pictures ever painted; but here, buried
forever from the sight of human eyes, were the most dreadful
countenances ever transcribed from life or the imagination of man.
Torture was clearly depicted upon each face; but not torture alone,
for horror, fright, and mental agony were strangely blended in each.
Not a face that looked down upon him from those antiquated frames but
bore that agonized, heart-broken, terrified expression. Paul was
paralyzed; a kind of mesmeric spell held him to the spot, so that he
could not remove his eyes from the uncanny scene before him. Then a
wild desire to be rid of the place forever seized him, and he stepped
backward. At the same minute he observed for the first time what
looked like some faded letters painted upon the wall directly beneath
the four mysterious portraits. Examining these with his candle, he
saw that they formed the words:

  “_The last of the Guirs_.”

“No wonder Dorothy said that she was afraid of them,” Paul reflected;
“their portraits alone would drive me mad.” He took another long
searching look; and as his eyes grew accustomed to the faded
coloring, he observed how cleverly the work had been done. Evidently
the pictures had been painted from life, though under what
circumstances Henley could never imagine. The faces were all those of
a feminine type; they were of young women, apparently but little more
than girls, and each with this life-like, though dreadful expression.
As Paul stood marveling and wondering, a new interest seized him. At
first he could not quite understand what it was, but it became
stronger and better defined, he knew, for he recognized one of the
faces. Yes, there could be no mistake about it; the picture on the
left was a _portrait of Dorothy herself_. Henley rubbed his eyes, and
looked again and again; he could not believe their evidence, but they
had not deceived him. He tried to make himself believe that it was
the likeness of some ancestor, to whom she had a strange resemblance;
but, despite the look of pain, it could be no other than Dorothy, and
indeed this very expression helped to heighten the likeness, for had
he not seen a similar expression at the breakfast table? The longer
he gazed at it, the more convinced he became that this was a portrait
of Miss Guir. At last, thoroughly mystified, he turned away,
intending to leave this grewsome chamber of horrors forever; but now
for the first time the heap of rubbish in the center of the floor
engaged his attention. Taking his hinge, he stirred up the mass; some
shreds of cloth, which fell to pieces on being touched, and beneath
them some human bones. This was all, but it was enough; and
overwhelmed with horror, Henley rushed out of the room, bounding
through the aperture he had made in the wall, and up the rickety
stairs into his own bed chamber. He carefully closed the scuttle,
heaped some firewood upon it, shut the closet door and fastened it
securely from without. He then built up a roaring fire, lit another
candle, and sat meditating over what he had seen until the dawn of
day. When the light of the sun came streaming into his room, he
undressed and went to bed.

Whatever may have been Mr. Henley’s suspicions concerning the
implication of the Guirs with the crime which he could no longer
doubt had been committed in their house, they were promptly
dispelled, so far as the young lady was concerned, upon meeting
Dorothy at the breakfast table. Her innocent though serious face was
a direct rebuke to any distrust he might have entertained; and he
even doubted if she had any knowledge of the state of things he had
discovered in the vault. This, of course, only added to the mystery;
nor was Mr. Henley’s self-esteem fortified by the memory of how
unscrupulously he had become the guest of these people, and of how
equivocal had been his treatment of their hospitality. All this,
however, related to the past, and, as he felt, could not be now
undone. He must act to the best of his ability in the extraordinary
position in which he found himself.

After breakfast they walked again into the garden, and while Paul
smoked his cigarette, meditatively, Dorothy gathered flowers for the
house. There was an earnestness in everything that she did, quite
unusual in a girl of her age, and at times her manner was grave and
sad, but strangely attractive, nevertheless. When she had completed
her labors in the garden, she came and seated herself beside him.

“Some day, Paul, we’ll have a cheerier home than this; won’t we?” she
said, looking wistfully up at the quaint old pile before them.

“I don’t think we could have a more romantic one,” he answered; and
then, hoping to elicit an explanatory answer, added, “but why should
Guir House not seem cheerful to you?”

“I don’t know; it has always been gloomy; don’t you think so?”

“Not having known it always, Dorothy, I am not in a position to
judge; but it will always be the sweetest place on earth to me,
because I met you here for the first time.”

“Yes, I know; but you must not forget your promise.”

She seemed nervous and anxious concerning his fulfillment of it.

“And do you suppose that I could ever forget anything you asked me?
No, Dorothy, while you will it, I am your slave; but, as I told you
before, you exert such a strange power over me that you could make me
hate and fear you. I don’t know why this should be so, but I feel
it!”

“Hush!” she said, extending her outstretched hand toward his mouth;
“do not talk in that way; you frighten me; for, O Paul! I was just
beginning to hope that in you I had found a friend who would never
shrink away from me. Do not tell me that you will ever become afraid
of me like the others. I could not bear it.”

“I shrink! God forbid,” he answered, “but tell me why are other
people afraid of you? You mystify me.”

“Because I am different--so different from them!”

“I’m quite sure of that,” he replied, “else I should never have come
to love you within an hour of meeting you.”

She did not smile; she did not even look up at him, but sat gazing at
nothing, with countenance as solemn and imperturbable as that of a
Sphinx.

“How am I ever to understand you, Dorothy, you seem such a riddle?”
 said Paul presently.

“You will never understand me,” she answered with a sigh, “No one
ever has understood me, and you will be just like the rest!”

“But you will never let me be afraid of you, like the others, will
you?” he exclaimed half in earnest.

“I don’t know; others are; why should not you be?”

She was still staring into vacancy, with her hands clasped, and Paul
thought he detected a little, just a little, of the same expression
he had seen in the portrait. He started, and Dorothy saw him.

“What is the matter?” she inquired, looking around at him for the
first time.

“Nothing; only you looked so dreadfully in earnest, you startled me.”

“But surely you would not be startled by so simple a thing as that!”

“Why not? I am only human,” he answered.

“Yes, but I am sure there was something else. Now tell me, was there
not?”

“Why, how strangely you talk!” he replied, searching her face for an
explanation. “Of course there wasn’t; why should there be?”

She leaned back, apparently still in doubt as to his assertion, while
her countenance grew even more grave than before. Henley was puzzled,
and while Dorothy had not ceased to charm him, he was conscious of a
very slight uneasiness in her presence. This, however, wore off a
little later when they went together for a stroll in the forest. The
girl’s extreme delicacy of appearance, her abstracted, melancholy
manner, and sincerity of expression, both attracted and perplexed
Paul, and kept him constantly at work endeavoring to solve her
character and form some conception of the mystery of her life. He had
not yet had even the courage to ask her if Ah Ben were her father,
dreading to expose himself as an impostor and be ordered from the
place, which, despite his discovery of the previous night, he could
only regard as an unmitigated hardship in the present state of his
feelings; and so he had let the hours slip by, constantly hoping that
something would occur to explain the whole situation to him. And yet
nothing had occurred, and now upon the third day he was as grossly
ignorant of the causes which had produced his strange environment as
at the moment of his arrival.

“One thing I do not understand,” Paul observed, as they wandered over
the vari-colored leaves, side by side; “it is why you should be so
anxious to leave this ideal spot.”

“Have I not told you that it is because I am out of my element;
because I am avoided; because I have not a friend far nor near! Oh,
Paul, you do not know what it is to be alone in the world!”

“And do you believe that a simple change of locality would alter all
this?” he asked.

She paused for a moment before answering, and then, looking down upon
the ground, said as if with some effort:

“No, not that alone.”

“What then, Dorothy?” he asked with solicitude.

“I have already told you,” she replied without looking up. “Oh, Paul,
what a short memory you must have!”

“Of course I understand that we are to be married,” he responded
hastily, “but how can that alter the situation? Dorothy, if we have
not found congenial friends in that position in life in which God or
nature has placed us, how can we hope to make them in another? Do you
not think there may be some deeper reason than simple locality and
single blessedness? Would it not be natural to look for the cause in
the individual?”

“Undoubtedly you are right,” she answered, “but your premises do not
apply to my case, for neither God nor nature ever intended that I
should live this life. Oh, Paul, believe me when I tell you that I
know whereof I speak. Do not judge me as you would another; some day
you may know, but I can not tell you now.”

She spoke pleadingly, as imploring to be released from some awful
incubus which it was impossible to explain. Paul listened in deep
perplexity, and swore that the powers of heaven and earth should
never come between them. So different was she from any girl that he
had ever seen, that her very eccentricity bound him to her with a
magic spell. When he had again asked her if Ah Ben would oppose their
marriage, or indeed if any one else would, she declared that no human
being would raise a voice against it.

“Then what is to hinder us?” he asked; “I am poor, but I can support
you; not perhaps in such luxury as you are accustomed to, but I can
give you a home; and if you are so unhappy here, why submit to
unnecessary delay?”

He had become impassioned and enthused by the girl’s strange
influence over him.

“True, Paul, there are none to hinder us,” she replied seriously,
“that is, no one but--but--”

She paused, not knowing how to proceed.

“Then there is some one,” cried Paul earnestly. “I thought as much.
Who might the gentleman be?”

“Yourself!” exclaimed Dorothy, her eyes still fixed upon the ground.

“Myself!” shouted he in amazement. “Do you mean to say that I should
oppose my own marriage with the girl I love?”

“You might,” she answered demurely, casting a side glance up at him,
and allowing the very faintest, saddest kind of smile to rest for an
instant upon her face.

“Well!” said Paul, “I do not suppose you will explain what you mean,
but it would be only natural that I should like to know.”

“I only mean,” she replied, resuming her meditative attitude, “that
you do not know me; that you neither know who nor what I am. If I did
not love you, I might deceive and entrap you, but not under the
circumstances.”

Later they returned to the house.



7


It was not until Mr. Henley had made another and longer visit to the
dark room that he became convinced beyond all doubt that the work of
sealing up the place had been done from within, and that there was,
and had been, no other outlet but that through which he had entered.
To suppose that the main wall of the house had been closed in at a
later period would be preposterous, and for manifest reasons. His
examination of the room’s interior had been most thorough and
exhaustive. The place was smoothly plastered upon the inside, and
even the mason’s trowel had been found upon the floor within, so that
it became at once evident that those who had done the work had been
self-immured. Although the reason for such an act was utterly beyond
his comprehension, Paul felt a certain satisfaction in having reached
this conclusion, as it showed the impossibility of Dorothy’s being in
any way implicated in the affair. It seemed even possible that she
was ignorant of it. But this discovery in no wise lessened the
mystery; it rather increased it.

A few evenings after Paul’s decision regarding the self-immurement of
those discovered in the vault, he and Ah Ben were again enjoying
their pipes by the great fireplace in the hall. The elder man was
generally disposed to conversation at this hour; and after Dorothy
had retired, Paul alluded to the strange scene he had witnessed
through the chimney, and expressed a desire to learn something of
occultism. Taking his long-stemmed pipe from his lips, the old man
gazed earnestly into the fire. He seemed to be thinking of what to
say, and to be drawing inspiration from the glowing embers and
dancing flames before him. At last he spoke:

“Occultism, Mr. Henley, is difficult--nay, almost impossible--to
explain to a layman; or if explained, remains incomprehensible; and
yet a child may acquire its secrets by its individual efforts.
Spiritual power comes to those who seek it in proper mood, but,
injudiciously exercised, may cause insanity.”

“Nevertheless,” urged Paul, “if you won’t consider me a trifler, I
should like to see a further manifestation of the power.”

Ah Ben looked at him compassionately.

“Pardon me, Mr. Henley,” he said, “but it is not always well to
gratify our curiosity upon such a subject; but if you seriously wish
it, and can believe in me as an honest and honorable custodian of the
power, and will prepare yourself for a serious mental shock, I will
show you something.”

“Before proceeding,” said Paul, “I should like to ask you a question.
Was the room I saw through the chimney a real room? I mean had it any
material existence upon earth?”

“Most assuredly. It was a scene in my early childhood, and originated
in the Valley of the Jhelum, in the Punjab. The officer and lady were
my parents. It was the last time I ever saw them. I was the boy.”

“May I ask how it is possible to reproduce a scene so long passed out
of existence, and which took place so many thousand miles away?”

“Easily told, but not so easily understood by one whose mind has
never been trained to think in these occult channels,” answered the
elder man; “for to understand the thing at all, you must first divest
your mind of time and space as outside entities, for these are in
reality but modes of thought, and have only such value as we give
them. India, doubtless, seems very far to you, but to one whose
powers of will have been sufficiently developed, it is no farther
than the wall of this room. So it is with time. How can we see that
which no longer exists? But a little reflection will show us that
even on the physical plane we see that which does not exist every day
of our lives. Look at the stars. The light by which some of them are
recognized has been millions of years in transit, so that we do not
behold them as they are tonight, but as they were at that remote
period of time; meanwhile they may have been wrecked and scattered in
meteoric dust.”

“But that is hardly an explanation of the scene referred to,”
 answered Paul. “Whenever I direct my eyes in the right quarter, the
stars are visible; whether they be actually there or not, they are
there to me; but not so with the vision of the room. In my normal
condition there is no room there, while in my normal condition the
stars are always there.”

“True, and because your normal condition is sympathetically attuned
to the vibrations of starlight. Your consciousness is located in your
brain, and so long as those vibrations continue to strike with
sufficient force upon the optic nerve, you will be conscious of the
light. But suppose the machinery of your body were finer--suppose
your senses were absolutely in accord with those vibratory movements,
instead of only partially so--do you not know that the starlight
would reveal far more than it now does? Then you would see not only
the light, but the scenes that are carried in the light, but which by
reason of their obtuseness can not penetrate your senses. Were this
improvement in men really achieved, our conceptions of time and space
would be modified, and the condition of other worlds as plainly seen
as our own.”

“Yes,” said Paul, determined to follow up the original question, “but
what of a scene that occurred in this world some years ago, and whose
light vibrations would require but the fraction of a second to reach
our point of consciousness--no matter where situated on earth--and
which vibrations have long since passed beyond the reach of man, and
been lost in infinite space?”

“Nothing is ever lost, and infinite space is but a phase of infinite
mind. All that is necessary to review such a picture is to change our
point of consciousness from the brain to a point in space or _mind_,
where the vibratory movement is still in progress. In other words, to
overtake the scene by transposing our consciousness. Granted these
powers, which are born of the soul, and we may behold any event in
history with the clearness of its original force. Man is mind, and
mind is one; but all mind is not self-conscious. The consciousness of
mind is in spots, as it were, and here its consciousness is fixed in
a spot called brain, where with most men it remains until the will,
or some abnormal condition or the event called death, liberates it
from its prison. You believe that with your God, the scenes of
yesterday, to-day, and forever are alike visible?”

“Even admitting all that you say,” answered Paul, “I can not see how
it was that I, who have no such power, could see clearly an event in
your life.”

“Again the power of sympathetic vibration. The scene was reflected
from my mind to yours.”

“But you just now said there was but one mind.”

“Perhaps then it would be more correct to say, from my point of
consciousness to yours; or, to be still more accurate, to say that
the intensity of my thoughts struck a sympathetic chord in yours, and
vibrated through you as one consciousness. Without undue familiarity,
Mr. Henley, I have found in you a responsive temperament. There are
few men I can not influence, and with some the effort is trifling.”

Paul was interested, and sat quietly reflecting upon what he had
heard. Naturally the ideas were not so clear as they would have been
had he given more thought to the conditions of spirituality, which
for so many years had been a part of Ah Ben’s existence, and which
state was as familiar to him as the body in which he appeared. Time
and reflection alone, as this strange man had declared, could bring
one to comprehend and realize a condition of existence so totally
differing from that of our material plane. The inability of language
to express that of which we have no parallel, and of which we can not
conceive, is a grave obstacle to our understanding; but the man was
ever ready to exert himself to make the matter clear when he found
his listener interested.

“If I am not tiring you,” continued Paul, “I should like to call your
attention to another point. You said that nothing was absolute; that
all was relative; and yet when it comes to fixed measures, I think
you must admit that this is not so. For example, a mile is a mile,
and a mile must always be a mile under every conceivable condition.
Am I not right?”

“At first thought it would seem so,” answered Ah Ben. “A mile
certainly appears to be an absolute unchanging quantity of so many
feet, which must always and under every circumstance affect us in the
same way; and yet a little reflection will show that this can not be
so, and that a mile, after all, is only fixed so long as our mind is
fixed. In other words, it is a mental conception, and relative to
other mental conceptions. Let us, for example, suppose that the world
and all its contents, and, in fact, the entire universe, were exactly
twice as large as it is, the mile would then be twice as long as it
is now; and that which we _now_ call a mile would only make the
impression of half as much distance as it now does. And so with all
material conditions; I say _material_, for in the spiritual life we
see these things more truly as they are, and not as they appear.
There is but one class of facts which is absolute. I speak of the
emotions. These are the realities of life--the soul qualities. Could
we measure _love_, _hate_, or _happiness_, the standard would be
fixed.”

“Do not forget your promise to show me something more of your power
in the region of occultism,” said Henley, “for I am greatly
interested.”

“I will keep my word, but I warn you to prepare for a shock!”

“I am ready, and should like nothing better than to witness an
example of your greatest power!”

The old man looked solemn, and then slowly answered:

“You shall be gratified. It is now past midnight. Dorothy is asleep,
and it is a fitting time. If you will follow me to my own room, I
will show you a mystery.”

For a moment Paul hesitated. The thought of following this strange
man at such an hour into the realm of the unknown, to investigate the
supernatural, was uncanny, and he half wished he had not made the
request. He knew the man to be no trifler. That which he promised, he
would surely perform. Then, procuring a candle, Ah Ben led the way.

They walked along the narrow passage at the rear, Ah Ben stopping to
close the door quietly behind them. They then mounted a still
narrower stairway at the back, Paul following closely. Presently they
entered a passage which led in the opposite direction from Henley’s
bedchamber, and then, turning sharply to the right, found a narrow
hallway which terminated in a door. Here the men stopped.

“I am going to take you into my sanctum, and you must not be
surprised if you find things different from the ordinary. The
circumstances of my life have set me apart from most men; and if my
surroundings are at variance with theirs, you must set it down to
these facts.”

Here he opened the door.

The room was lighted with the same lamp that Paul had seen through
the chimney. There were odd-looking things, such as a skeleton with
artificial eyes; a glass manikin with a reddish fluid that meandered
through his body in thread-like streams; a horoscope and a globe,
suspended from the ceiling, with the signs of the Zodiac. Various old
parchments, covered with quaint cabalistic figures, were tacked
against the walls. In a cabinet, embellished with hieroglyphics,
stood another human form, a mummy wonderfully preserved.

“Here we are alone,” said Ah Ben; “it is the quietest hour of the
night, and therefore we are least apt to be disturbed.”

“And what do you propose?” asked Paul with a misgiving he was loth to
admit.

“Whatever you may desire, Mr. Henley; for you must know that which is
born of spirit is not subject to the restrictions of matter. But
remember that all is natural; there is no supernatural, and therefore
no cause for alarm.”

Ah Ben led the way to the window, and having drawn aside the curtain,
threw up the sash. To Henley’s amazement they walked directly through
the open casement and found themselves upon a broad stone terrace in
the glaring light of day. Beneath them lay a city of marvelous
beauty, whose streets were lined with palaces, surrounded by their
own parks, and whose inhabitants were walking in and about the shaded
thoroughfares, or resting in the public seats beside them. The change
was so sudden, so bewildering, that Paul drew back, his hand pressed
against his head; whereupon Ah Ben took him by the arm and said:

“There is nothing here to alarm you. Come, let us descend these
steps, and walk through the town!”

The voice and touch of the man reassured him.

Walking down the broad stone steps, they found themselves in a noble
avenue lined with trees and adorned with sparkling fountains.
Everywhere the people looked happy. There was neither hurry nor
effort, but the grandest monuments to human action were visible upon
every hand. Such palaces of dazzling marble; such lace-like carvings
in stone; such noble terraces and gardens; and open to all the world
alike.

“See,” said Ah Ben, “the people here are of one mind. There is no
wrangling nor struggling for place. These palaces are the property of
the public; and why should they not be, since man’s unity is
understood? Exclusiveness is the result of ignorance, but privacy and
seclusion may even be better enjoyed in the conditions prevailing
here than in our own state of existence, and because of the unlimited
power and material to draw upon. No man can crowd another after he
has come to realize that all is mind, and that mind is infinite.”

“But where is Guir House, and the estate?” inquired Paul, feeling as
if the whole thing were an incomprehensible illusion.

“They have not been disturbed,” the old man answered. “They are where
they always were, _in the minds of those who perceive them, and upon
whose plane they exist_.”

“It is too utterly bewildering. These things appear as real as any I
ever saw.”

“Appear! They _are as real_. Let us go into one of these bazars, and
see what the people are doing.”

They turned through an open doorway resplendent with burnished metal
and sculpture to where great corridors, halls, and galleries, stocked
with properties and merchandise of every description, were crowded
with people. No one was in attendance; and those who came and went,
carried with them what they pleased. No money was passed, nor did
compensation of any kind seem forthcoming. “If anything strikes your
fancy, take it,” said Ah Ben. “All things here are free, and yet
everything is paid for.”

Paul asked for an explanation, which Ah Ben gave as follows:

“The city before you is located in the year 3,000, more than a
thousand years in advance of our time. It is called _Levachan_, and
will appear upon earth about 700 years hence; in about four hundred
years from which time it will attain the size and splendor you now
behold. We here see it in its spiritual state, which precedes and
follows all material forms. It will begin its descent into matter,
through the minds of physical man, about the time I have mentioned.
It is merely a type of a class toward which we are tending, and I
show it to you that you may see the vast strides we shall have made
by that time. In the state of society in which we find ourselves,
compensation is made by a system of absolute freedom in exchange.
Here, if a man wants a coat, he takes it, and the owner reimburses
himself from the great reservoir of the world’s goods, which is open
to all men as integral parts of a unit.”

“What check have you upon the unreasoning rapacity of a thief, who
will take ten times as much as he requires?”

“The system operates directly against the development of that trait.
Here, men are only too anxious to have their goods admired and taken;
for, being certain of their own maintenance, they feel a pride in
contributing to that of others, and there is no temptation to take
that which can not be kept, since his neighbor has equal right to
take from him an idle surplus. Here the laws are the reverse of ours,
for here a man is encouraged in the taking, but never in the holding.
Wealth is measured by what a man disburses; hence all are anxious to
part with their individual property for the advancement of the
commonwealth, knowing that the _one_ can only thrive when the many
are prosperous.”

They continued their walk amid the marvelous wealth that surrounded
them. There were fabrics of untold value; jewels of indescribable
splendor; men, women, and children with strangely eager faces. They
seated themselves upon revolving chairs in the midst of a great space
to watch the glittering show.

“But tell me what it all means,” inquired Paul. “I feel as if it were
a dream, and yet I am absolutely certain that it is not.”

“You are right; it is not a dream. Levachan is as real as New York,
Boston, or Chicago, although invisible to men of earth. Its
inhabitants are as conscious of their existence as you and I are of
ours. They are quite as alive to their history and probable destiny
as any well educated citizen of America or Europe.”

“But where is Guir House, and all it contained?” repeated Henley,
unable to understand.

“Nothing has been changed by this any more than if you were in your
bed dreaming it all. But to you it is incomprehensible, as I told you
it would be, because your mind has never been trained to think in
these realms.”

“No,” answered Paul, turning uneasily in his chair, dazed by the
marvelous pageant that moved constantly about them. “No, I admit that
it has not, and that the whole thing is utterly beyond me; and this,
none the less, because I am aware that one of the fundamental facts
of nature is that two things can not occupy the same space at the
same time. My previous education, instead of helping me, makes the
situation more difficult. The Guir estate and this city can not both
be here at once; of that I am sure.”

“That is a mere assumption on the part of materialists,” answered
Ah Ben. “Not only two things, but ten million things, can occupy the
same space at the same time; for what is space, and what is time?
They are mental conditions, as are all the phenomena of nature.
Even your scientist will tell you that the infinite ether penetrates
all substances, and that cast-steel or a diamond contains as much
of this mysterious element as any other space of equal size. The
varying vibrations of this ether, or universal akasa, make the world
and all that is in it; and these vibrations are interpenetrable and
non-obstructive. Even on the material plane we see how the vibrations
of light and heat penetrate those of visible and tangible substance,
and how, in your more recent discoveries, light rays penetrate solid
metals formerly called opaque. When I say that these vibrations are
interpenetrable and non-obstructive, the statement must be taken as
approximating the truth, and not as a finality, independent of all
conditions; for by the power of the will, or as a result of mental
habit, a man may either exclude or admit to his consciousness the
thought vibrations of others. But you may set it down as a fundamental
fact that there is nothing or no condition of which the mind can
conceive that may not become an objective reality, which is the
creative faculty in all of us. This city is here to us just as really
and actually as were the trees of Guir forest a short time ago. By
opening our inward sight, and putting ourselves in accord with another
vibratory plane of existence, we are in full _rapport_ with a condition
that makes no impression upon the members of the sleeping world not so
impressed.”

“But we left the house at midnight, and here we are in the broad
light of day. Do you mean to tell me that the mind controls the sun
itself? The thing is so astounding that I feel as if I were losing my
reason.”

“And did I not tell you that it was unwise to gratify curiosity in
this realm when unprepared by a long course of training? But let me
quote you a few words from one of our greatest philosophers”; and Ah
Ben quoted the following from Franz Hartman’s “Magic, White and
Black”:

“Visible man is not all there is of man, but is surrounded by an
invisible mental atmosphere, comparable to the pulp surrounding the
seed in a fruit; but this light, or atmosphere, or pulp, is the
mind of man, an organized ocean of spiritual substance, wherein all
things exist. If man were conscious of his own greatness, he would
know that within himself exist the sun and the moon and the starry
sky and every object in space, because his true self is God; and
God is without limits.”

“These thoughts are utterly beyond me,” said Paul uneasily.

“As I told you they would be,” replied Ah Ben, turning his chair and
looking at his pupil with a kindly expression; and then, with his
usual earnestness, he added: “But they will not be so always.”

“And you tell me that these things are actually as real as the
furniture in Guir House?” inquired Henley.

“Quite!” answered the guide. “Test them for yourself. Do you not see
this magnificent dome above our heads, supported upon these wonderful
pillars? Try them, touch them, strike them with your hand. Are they
not solid? Apply every test in your power to their reality; they will
not fail you in one--and, let me ask, what further evidence have you
of the furniture of which you speak? Thought is real; and the man who
can hold to his thought long enough endows it with objectivity.”

“It is a mystery involving mysteries,” sighed Paul; “and I could
never even ask the questions that are crowding into my mind.”

“So it is with all life,” the old man replied thoughtfully, pressing
his hand against his forehead as he gazed into the brilliant scene
without seeming to look at anything especial; “and so it is with all
life,” he repeated in a minute; “it is a mystery involving mysteries!
What are dreams? Give them a little more intensity, as in the case of
the somnambule or clairvoyant, and they are real. The trouble is, Mr.
Henley, that few of us ever come to realize that life itself is a
dream; and when science recognizes that fact, many of the
difficulties she now encounters will vanish. Let me repeat a few
lines from the Song Celestial, or _Bhagavad Gita_.

  “Never the spirit was born; the spirit shall cease to be never;
  Never was time it was not; end and beginning are dreams,
  Birthless and deathless and changeless remaineth the spirit forever;
  Death has not touched it at all, dead though the house of it seems.

“These thoughts are better understood in the East,” continued Ah Ben,
“where the people give less time to _religion_ and more to the
_philosophy_ of life. And what are dreams but a part of our inner
existence? None the less mysterious because we are so familiar with
them. There are numerous authenticated records of dreams that have
carried a man through an apparently long life, but which have really
occupied less than a second of time as counted with us; through all
the minutiae and details of youth, courtship, marriage, a military
career, war with all its horrors, the details of the last battle
where death was inevitable, and where the last shot was fired and
heard that brought the great change--of _awakening_, and the sudden
perception that the entire phantasmagoria had been caused by the
slamming of the door, which the exhausted sleeper had only that
second opened as he dropped into a chair beside it. The facts in this
case are proven; no perceptible time having elapsed. Time--time is
nothing. Time is only what we make it. An hour in a dungeon might be
an eternity, while a million years in the Levachan of the Hindoo
would seem but a summer’s day.”



8


Continuing their walk, they followed an avenue of dazzling beauty,
which led to a green hill overlooking the town, upon which stood a
temple of transcendent splendor. The sunlight flashed upon its marble
walls and _chevaux de frise_ of minarets. Paul was filled with
amazement, and demanded an explanation.

“Let us climb the hill and see for ourselves,” answered his guide,
leading the way.

Crowds of people passed in and out through the open portals of the
temple; and when sufficiently near, Paul read the inscription above
the principal entrance:

  “_In Commemoration of the Birth of Human Liberty_.”

“I am as puzzled as ever,” he declared, with a look of resignation.
“It is the most stupendous and remarkable edifice I ever beheld!”

They passed up by a marble terrace and entered the building through
an archway so wide and lofty that it might have spanned many ordinary
houses. Windows of jeweled glass scattered a thousand tints over
walls and columns of barbaric splendor, where encrusted gems of every
hue, scintillating with strange fires, were grouped in dazzling
mosaics portraying historic scenes in endless pageant. It was a
miracle of art and trembling iridescence. White pillars, set with
jewels, rose and branched above their heads like the spreading boughs
of gigantic trees. The throng of humanity surged hither and thither,
and yet so vast was the nave of the temple that nowhere was it
crowded. Paul clung closely to his comrade’s arm, fearful lest his
only friend in this strange world should be lost to him. On they
walked; Ah Ben having an air of long familiarity with the scene,
while Paul was dazed and bewildered. Occasionally they would stop to
examine some object of special interest or to take in with
comprehensive view the marvels surrounding them. But the temple was
too grand, too glorious for a hasty appreciation of its wonders.

Entering an elevator, they ascended to the roof and stepped out upon
a mosaic pavement of transparent tiles. Looking over the parapet,
they beheld a country of vast extent, where field, forest, and
watercourse combined in a landscape of rare beauty. Beneath lay the
marble city with its palaces, parks, and fountains. In the distance
were shadowy hills and gleaming lights; and above, a sky whose
singular purity was reflected over all. The height was great, but the
roof so extensive that it seemed more like some elevated plateau than
a part of a building. A multitude of spires rose upon every side like
inverted icicles, and Paul was amazed to discover an inscription at
the base of each.

“I have a distinct impression of the meaning,” he said, looking up at
his guide; “but how, I can not tell.”

“Yes,” answered the old man solemnly, “you now perceive that this
stupendous temple commemorates the birth of liberty, or the death of
superstitions, and the consequent liberation of the human mind from
the slavery of false belief. The temple itself is a monument to the
whole, while each minaret commemorates the downfall of some
scientific dogma, and the consequent release of the human mind from
its thralldom. The limit of man’s power over his environment has been
extended again and again; and even in your day, Mr. Henley, you have
witnessed such marvelous advances as have adduced the aphorism, that
this is an age of miracles. We speak from one end of the continent to
the other. We sit in New York and sign our name to a check in
Chicago. We reproduce a horse race or any athletic sport just as it
occurred with every movement to the slightest detail, so that all men
can see it in any part of the world at any time quite as well as if
present at the original performance. We photograph our thoughts and
those of our friends. We reproduce the voices of the departed. We
commune with each other without the intervention of wires. We have
lately pictured the human soul in its various phases. We see plainly
through iron plates many inches in thickness, and look directly into
the human body. Our food and precious stones are made in the
laboratory, and a syndicate of scientists has recently been formed
for the transmutation of the baser metals into gold. When man can
produce food, clothing, and all the precious metals at will; when he
can see what is occurring at a distance without the necessity of
lugging about a cumbersome piece of machinery like his body--when all
these and many other discoveries have been brought to perfection, the
farmer and manufacturer may cease their labors. The necessity for war
will no longer exist, as the righting of wrongs, the acquisition of
territory, and the payment of debt will not demand it. But all these
things and many more, Mr. Henley, will be brought to perfection
before the liberation of man shall have been effected, which will be
when he comes to understand that, with proper training and the
ultimate development of self-control, there is no limit to his power.
As I have told you before, self-control is the secret of all power.
The day is not distant when the dogmas of science will be set aside
for the spirit of philosophic inquiry. Then men will no longer say
that they have reached the goal of human capacity or that they can
not usurp the prerogative of the gods, for it will be known that we
are all gods!”

Later they descended to the ground and passed into the superb public
gardens of the city. Seating themselves beside one of the numerous
fountains sparkling with colored waters and perfumed with strange
aquatic plants, they watched the brilliant scene that surrounded
them. Aerial chariots flashed above, and men, women, and children
moved through the air entirely regardless of the law of gravitation.
Occasionally a passer-by would nod to Ah Ben, who returned the salute
familiarly, as if in recognition of an old friend; but no one stopped
to talk.

“And you know some of these people!” cried Paul in astonishment.

“Some of them.” But a look of intense sadness had settled upon the
old man’s face, quite different from anything Henley had seen. For a
moment neither spoke, and then Ah Ben, passing the back of his hand
across his forehead, said: “Yes, Mr. Henley, I know them, but I am
not of them; and as you see, they shun me.”

“I can not understand why that should be,” answered Paul, who was
conscious of a growing attachment for his guide.

“I can not explain; but some day, perhaps, you may know. Let us
continue our walk.”

Looking up at the marvelous examples of architecture that surrounded
them, Paul observed that many of the houses had no windows, and
inquired the reason.

“Windows and doors are here only a matter of taste, and not of
necessity,” answered the elder man; “the denizens of Levachan enter
their houses wherever they please without experiencing the slightest
obstruction. Likewise light and air are not here confined to special
material and apertures for their admission. We are only just
beginning to discover some of the possibilities of matter upon our
plane of existence. Here these things are understood; for matter and
spirit are one, their apparent difference lying in us.”

“Yes,” said Paul, “and I perceive that the inhabitants move from
place to place through the upper atmosphere in defiance of all law!”

“Law, Mr. Henley, is the operation of man’s will. Where man through
uncounted eons of time has believed himself the slave of matter, it
becomes his master. I mean that the belief enslaves him, and not
until he has worked his way out of the false belief, will he become
free.”

They continued their walk through gardens of bewitching beauty, and
amid lights so far transcending any previous experience of Henley’s
that he no longer even tried to comprehend Ah Ben’s labored
explanations. At last his guide, turning, abruptly said:

“Come, let us return; the time is growing short!”

“Time!” said Henley, with an amused expression. “I thought you told
me that time was only a mental condition!”

“True, I did,” said Ah Ben, with a return of the same inexpressibly
sad look; “but did I tell you that it had ceased to belong to me?”

There was no intimation of reproof, no endeavor to evade the remark;
but Paul could not but observe the change in the man’s manner as they
retraced their steps. Indeed, he was conscious of an overpowering
sadness himself, as he turned his back upon the strange scene.

“Come!” said Ah Ben, with authority, leading the way.

They passed up the grand stairway to the terrace, entering the room
at the same window by which they had left it, and Ah Ben closed the
sash and drew the curtains behind them.

A moment later Paul went to the window and looked out. There was an
old moon, and the forest beneath lay bathed in its mellow light. The
sudden transition to his former state was no less astounding than the
first.

“Which, think you, is the most real,” asked the old man, “the scene
before us now, or the one we have left behind?”

Paul could not answer. He was revolving in his mind the marvels he
had just witnessed. He could not understand how hypnotism could have
created such a world as he had just beheld. It was not a whit less
tangible, visible, or audible than that in which he had always lived,
and he could not help looking upon Ah Ben as a creature far removed
from his own sphere of life. How had the man acquired such powers?
These and other thoughts were rushing through his mind. Presently his
host touched him lightly upon the shoulder, and said:

“Come, let us descend into the hall again, and finish our pipes.”

And so they wandered back through the silent house to the old pew by
the fire; and Ah Ben, stirring up the embers and adding fresh fuel,
said:

“Although it is late, Mr. Henley, I do not feel inclined for bed; and
if you are of the same mind, should be glad of your company.”

Paul was glad of an excuse to sit up, and so settled himself upon the
sofa, absorbed in meditation. The firelight flickered over their
faces and the strange pictures on the wall, and the head of Tsong
Kapa shone more plainly than ever before. The portraits on the stairs
were as weird and incomprehensible as they had appeared on the first
night of his arrival; and the old man and the girl, and their strange
life, seemed even more deeply involved in mystery than they had upon
that occasion. Paul was now beset with conflicting emotions. The
gloom of the house was more oppressive than before; and were it not
for his sudden and unaccountable affection for Dorothy, he might have
left it at once, had it not again been for the vision of splendor and
happiness just faded from his sight. He could not bear the thought of
losing forever the sensation of life and power and ecstasy just
beginning to dawn upon him, when so cruelly snatched away; and but
for Ah Ben he knew he should hope in vain for its return. Naturally,
his emotions were strong and tearing him in opposite directions. The
old man perceiving the depression of spirits into which his guest had
fallen, reminded him gently of his warning regarding the shock of
occult manifestation to those who were unprepared.

“It is not that so much,” answered Paul, “as the regret I feel at
having left it all behind. When a man has only just begun to
experience the sensation of life--_of real life_--to find himself
suddenly plunged back into a dungeon with chains upon his shoulders,
you must admit the shock is terrible.”

“Do I not know it?” answered the old man feelingly. “The return is
far more to be dreaded than the escape into that life which you were
at first inclined to call unreal; and yet, Mr. Henley, you must admit
that it is difficult to decide the question of reality between the
two worlds.”

“True,” answered Paul; “and yet I know that what I have just seen can
be nothing else than a hypnotic vision; it is impossible it should be
otherwise, for it has gone--and beyond my power to recall. What
amazes me to the point of stupefaction is the marvelous impression of
truth with which hypnotism can fill one. I had always imagined the
effect was more in the nature of a dream, but this was vivid, sharp,
and perfect as the everyday life about me. I am more bewildered than
I have words to express.”

“And yet,” answered Ah Ben, “you still insist that the things you saw
were unreal, because, as you say, they were the result of hypnotism.
It seems difficult to convince you of what I have already told you,
that hypnotism is not a cause of hallucination, but of fact. You
insist that because the minority of men only are subjected to
hypnotic tests, the impressions produced must be false. You will not
admit that a minority has any claim to a hearing, although their
evidence is based upon precisely the same testimony as that of the
majority--namely, the five senses. You have no better right to assume
that your present surroundings are any more truthfully reported by
your senses than those of your recent experience. You see, you hear
and touch; did you not do the same in Levachan?”

“I did, indeed,” answered Paul, “and with a clearness that makes it
the more difficult to comprehend; still, of course, I know that the
vision of Levachan was a deception, while this is real!”

“And because you are convinced that a majority of men would see this
as you see it. What if it should be proved that you are wrong?”

“That would be impossible,” answered Paul.

“You think so, indeed,” answered the old man with a strange look in
his eyes; “and yet, if you will look above you and about you, you
will see for the first time the way in which this old house looks to
the great majority of mankind--indeed, to such a vast majority, Mr.
Henley--that your individual testimony to the contrary would be
regarded as the ravings of a madman. Look!”

Paul lifted his eyes. The roof was gone, and the stars shone down
upon him through the open space. About him were rough walls of
crumbling stone, rapidly falling to decay; there were no pictures,
there were no stairs with their uncanny portraits, there was no great
open fire-place with the blazing logs, nor hanging lamp, nor cheery
pew--all--all was gone--and nothing but ruin and decay remained, save
some bunches of ivy which had climbed above the edge of the tottering
wall, outlined dimly in the moonlight. The floor had rotted away, and
dank grass and bushes and heaps of stone had filled its place. A pool
of water in a distant corner reflected the sky and a star or two, and
the dismal croaking of a frog was the only sound he heard. Through
the open casements wild vines and stunted trees had thrust their
boughs, and beyond were the pines and hemlocks. Paul stood erect, and
stared around him in blank amazement. Where was Ah Ben? He too had
departed with the rest. Dazed and wondering, Henley sauntered toward
the door, or rather to where the door had once stood, now only an
open portal of crumbling stone, from the crevices of which grew
bushes and a tangled network of vines. Climbing down over a mass of
fallen bricks, he wandered out into the grounds. The lawn was buried
beneath a confused jumble of rubbish and weeds, and the forest
encroached upon its rights. The graveled road was no longer visible,
wild grass, moss, and piles of fallen stone having covered it far
below. As he looked above, the moon shone through the casement of a
ruined window, and an owl hooted dismally from the open belfry. The
old house was a wreck, a tottering ruin, from whatever point he
looked; and no room above or below seemed habitable. He walked around
to see if the blank wall which guarded the secret chamber was still
intact. Yes, there it was; it alone remained untouched by the ravages
of time or war. The portraits and human remains were probably safe in
their hiding place, and Paul shuddered at the thought. What hand had
bound them up in that strange old corner to be hid forever from the
eyes of men? He had heard no human word, nor was there apparently any
shelter where man or woman could live. Presently amid the deep
shadows of the forest something moved. It came nearer, and then from
beneath the trees walked out into the moonlight. Paul started; but at
the same moment a familiar voice spoke to him. It was Ah Ben’s.

“Do not let what you see alarm you, Mr. Henley, for it is the first
time in which you have perceived Guir House in what you would call
its normal state. As you now behold it, the majority of men would see
it.”

“Then I have been duped ever since my arrival!” exclaimed Paul in a
slightly irritated tone.

“Not at all,” answered the elder man complacently. “I have simply
presented the house to you as it stood a hundred years ago. The
impression you have had of it is quite as truthful as the one now
before you. Indeed, it is as truthful as the view you now have of
yonder star,” he pointed to a twinkling luminary in the north; “for
time has put out its fires more than a thousand years ago, so that
you now behold it as it then was, and not as it is to-night.”

“This hypnotism of yours is quite undoing me,” answered Paul, passing
his hand across his eyes.

“And yet what you now behold is not hypnotism at all, but fact, as
the world would call it. It is what the vast majority of all men
would see if here to-night. But I perceive that it is troubling you.
Let us return to our old place by the fire, and the house as it was a
century ago. In that state of the past I think you will find more
comfort than in the melancholy ruin before us.”

They climbed back over the fallen piles of bricks, stone, and mortar;
and then Ah Ben lifted his withered hand, and touching Henley lightly
upon the forehead, said:

“And now we are back in our old seats, just as they used to be in the
days of yore!”

Paul looked about him. The fire was burning brightly. The pictures
had been restored to their places on the walls. The old lamp and the
strangely decorated staircase were all restored, just as he had left
them a few minutes before. He gazed long and earnestly at the scene
around him, and then fixing his eyes upon Ah Ben, helplessly, said:

“If then I am to understand that this is no longer real, but that the
old ruin just beheld is the existing fact, might I ask in what part
of the wreck you and Miss Guir have been able to fix your abode, for
I saw nothing but crumbling walls--a roofless ruin?”

“The question you ask involves a story, and if you care to listen I
will tell it to you, although the hour is late and the night far
gone.”

“I should enjoy nothing more,” said Paul.

And the men filled and lighted their pipes, and Henley listened while
Ah Ben told him the following:



9


“In the early settlement of this State, an Englishman by the name of
Guir pre-empted a large body of land, near the center of which he
erected this house. Although his intention in coming from the old
country was to make his permanent home in the colony, his reasons for
doing so were quite different from those which usually induce
immigration. Guir was an artist, and a man of some means; and his
object in colonizing was not so much to cultivate the soil, or to
trade with the Indians, or engage in any business enterprise, as to
gratify a craving for nature and surround himself with such scenery
as he loved to paint. It would be folly to pretend that Guir was a
man of ordinary tastes and disposition; for had he been such, he
would never have undertaken a journey, with a family of girls, into
such a wilderness as Virginia was at that time. No; from the very
circumstances of his birth and education, he was unfitted to live
with his countrymen; hence his early adoption of the colony as a home
for himself, wife, and daughters. This happened a hundred and fifty
years ago.”

“He was an ancestor of yours, I presume,” said Paul, hoping to gain
some clew to the man’s identity.

“No,” answered Ah Ben, “he was not.”

“Pardon the interruption,” added Paul, fearing he had annoyed the
speaker.

“Naturally, in a country without roads, or even wagon trails,”
 continued the old man, without noticing the apology, “it was years
before a house of this size could be completed, as every brick and
nearly every stick of timber was brought from England. These, of
course, were conveyed by water as far as the rivers permitted, the
rest of the journey being performed upon sleds drawn by oxen. But it
was Guir’s hobby, and in the course of a dozen or fifteen years the
job was completed, and the house stood as you see it now. Then the
owner set himself to work with brush, canvas, and chisel to decorate
his home, and make it, according to his ideas, as beautiful and
suggestive of his early youth as imaginable. With his own hands, Mr.
Henley, he painted most of these pictures, although his three
daughters, inheriting his tastes, assisted him. And thus, as the
years rolled by, Guir House became more and more a museum of artistic
efforts, embracing many unusual subjects, and in every degree of
perfection. The broad acres of the estate produced much that was
necessary toward the maintenance of life, and what they lacked was
supplied once a year from a distant settlement near the coast. As you
can readily understand, there were no neighbors, and but occasional
visits from the red man, who looked distrustfully upon the pale-face.
This feeling became mutual, and trifling acts of hostility on the
part of the natives grew both in frequency and magnitude.
Depredations upon Guir’s fields and cattle were at first ignored, in
the effort to maintain peace, but in time it became necessary to
resist them. Upon one occasion, a raid upon a distant field was
successfully repulsed, with the aid of his wife and three daughters,
attired in men’s clothing and mounted upon fast horses. The Indians
were so completely surprised by the ruse, being apparently attacked
by five men, where they had believed there was only one, that they
fled, completely routed, nor did they return for several years.
Meanwhile, fearing another and closer attack, Guir converted one of
the lower rooms of his house into an impenetrable and unassailable
place of refuge. The windows were walled up, to correspond with the
stonework of the house, leaving no suspicion of there having been
once an opening. Likewise the doors were treated, and then carefully
plastered both within and without, with the exception of one, which
he made anew, to communicate with a private stairway leading from one
of the upper bedrooms. This was the only entrance to the dark
retreat, and a heavy bolt was placed upon the inside, to be used by
the family in case of attack. There was no reason to suppose that a
marauding party would ever find the way to this secret chamber, as
the entrance was carefully covered by a scuttle in the floor of a
dark closet; and the place being thoroughly fire-proof, the family
felt unusually secure in the possession of their new retreat.”

“I think I have seen the stairway you speak of,” said Paul.

“Yes,” answered the old man, “it communicates with the closet of your
room.

“One day Guir had left his home. He had ridden alone into the distant
hills to dispute the range for some cattle with his natural enemy,
the red man. The pow-wow had been long and trying, and it was only
with the setting sun that he had come to a proper understanding, as
he supposed, with the ugly chief who dominated the region about.

“It was midnight when he reached his home. He pounded sharply on the
door; but his good wife, who never retired without him, failed to
answer the summons. So, after repeated knocks, Guir forced the door
and entered. All was dark. An unearthly stillness pervaded the air,
and a horrid suspicion forced itself upon him while groping his way
forward to secure a light. Finding the chimney, he raked together a
few coals, which he blew into a flame, and then, with trembling
hands, lighted the candle upon the shelf above. Looking about him,
Guir’s heart sank. His house had been wrecked. His pictures, the work
of years, were scattered in fragments about the floor. The windows
were smashed, and the hall starred with broken glass. Not an
ornament, not a treasure remained intact. But this he knew was as
nothing to the horrible sight which he expected momentarily to greet
his eyes. He called aloud to each member of his family, in the
failing hope that some one would answer; but no sound broke the awful
stillness. Suddenly he bethought him of the secret chamber, and with
a wild prayer that his loved ones had been able to reach it in
safety, and were still in hiding there, he started down the narrow
stairs in search. Reaching the bottom, he found that the door had
been wrenched from its hinges and thrown to the ground; and then
Guir’s heart sank, never to rise again. Stepping across the threshold
of the room, candle in hand, a vision of blood swam before his eyes,
and the dimly-burning light revealed the horror-stricken faces of his
murdered family. Not one was left to tell the tale, but the story
pictured before him was unmistakable in every detail. The treacherous
natives had first tortured and then butchered them. For a time he
stood transfixed with horror, unable to remove his eyes from the
awful scene, or his feet from the spot where he had first beheld it;
then, with the cry of sudden madness, he threw himself beside the
bleeding corpses and lost all consciousness. How long he remained
there was problematical, but on awaking Guir was still in the dark,
and where he had fallen. At that moment a strange and overpowering
desire seized him. He must paint the portraits of his murdered family
before it became too late. Had he been sane, such a ghastly thought
would never have possessed him; but Guir was crazed, and for days and
nights following he worked in that dismal vault, by the light of a
smoking lamp, at the task he had set himself, his fired imagination
even intensifying the horrors of the grewsome tableau.

“Upon each canvas he depicted the awful countenance which fact and
fancy had imprinted upon his brain. Guir painted not only what he
saw, but what he imagined he saw--dreadful faces, loaded with torture
and despair. When completed, he hung them upon the walls of the room,
and then with his own hands bricked up the entrance from within,
having first carefully replaced and bolted the door. When Guir had
thus entombed himself, he lay down again upon the floor, and then,
still a madman, opened a vein in his wrist. The letting of blood may
have sobered him or restored his mental equilibrium; for suddenly,
with a wild change in his feelings, he bounded to his feet and
repented. Again he was in darkness, and could not guess how much time
had elapsed since his fatal act. Staggering to the closed doorway, he
endeavored to tear away the bricks he had so recently placed there,
but the mortar was hardening fast, and he was unable to find his
trowel. Groping frantically along the floor, he searched in vain for
some tool to open the vault in which he was buried, and then, with
the anguish of despair, dropped again upon the ground to await his
fate. Thus Guir died, in an agony of remorse, and with the intensest
desire to live.”

Ah Ben stopped suddenly, and fixed his eyes upon Henley, as if trying
to read his thoughts.

“There is one thing in that story that strikes me as very peculiar,”
 observed Paul, returning his host’s look with interest.

“And what is that?” answered the old man, his eyes still fixed on
Henley’s face.

“The fact that you are able to repeat with such circumstantial detail
the feelings and actions of a man who died under such peculiar
conditions, and quite alone.”

“It might indeed appear strange to you, Mr. Henley, but my
familiarity with the case enables me to speak with knowledge and
accuracy.”

“And would you mind telling me how that is possible?” inquired Paul.

“_Because I am the man Guir himself; and I have lived on through such
ages of agony that I have no longer the will or desire to appear
other than as the ancient wreck before you_.”

Paul started.

“Do you mean to tell me then that I am talking to a ghost?” he cried
in dismay.

“As you please, Mr. Henley; but ghosts are not so different from
ordinary people--that is, when they have become materialized. I have
just now shown you the real condition of this old house, or rather
the way in which the majority of men see it. I do not hesitate,
therefore, to show you the ghost that haunts it; nor do I object to
explaining the dreadful cause of the haunting, or a little of the
philosophy of hauntings in general.”

Paul looked aghast. Easy enough was it now to comprehend how the man
had talked so familiarly of death and the next life after having
actually crossed the threshold and passed into the realm of
experience. But there was something too real, too natural about this
personality to accept the remark as literal. Familiarity with Ah Ben
had shown him to be a man. Paul felt sure of it. And yet here were
revealed mysteries never dreamed of; one of which was even now
producing an occult spell. Henley drew a deep breath in agony of
spirit.

After a moment’s pause, the old man continued:

“Ghosts, Mr. Henley, are as real as you; and when a spirit returns to
earth in visible form, it is the result of some disquieting influence
immediately before the death of the body, or, as I might say,
previous to the new life. At the hour of physical birth, such
influences cause idiocy or such imperfection of the bodily functions
that death ensues, and the spirit returns to seek another entrance
into the world of matter. When a man dies dominated by some intense
earthly desire, his mind is barred against the higher powers and
greater possibilities of spirit; his whole nature is closed against
their reception, so that he perceives and hopes for nothing save the
continuance of that life which has so completely filled his nature.
His old environment overpowers the new by the very force of his will;
and if this continues, he becomes not only a haunting spirit, but a
materialized one, visible to certain people under certain conditions,
and compelled to live out his life amid the scenes which had so
attracted him. This, Mr. Henley, has been my case. I shall live upon
earth, and be visible to the spiritually susceptible, until the
strong impression made at the hour of death shall have worn away.”

“And the young lady, is she your daughter?” inquired Paul.

“She is my daughter,” answered the old man solemnly.

“How comes it, then, that she addresses you by so singular a name?”

“It is the one she first learned to use in infancy. As I partially
explained to you, my mother was a Hindoo, while my father was
English. The name Ah Ben belongs to the maternal side of my family.”

“Another question--more vital than any I have yet asked, because it
concerns my own well-being and happiness,” continued Paul; “how is it
possible that Dorothy can live in a place like this with a being who
is only semi-material?

“Because her nature is double, as is mine,” answered the old man.
“Dorothy, like her sisters and mother, passed out of this life more
than a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“And did the same causes operate to bring her back to earth?”

Ah Ben became more serious than ever as he answered: “You have
touched upon the sorest point of all, and one which requires further
elucidation. Sudden and unnatural death has a retarding tendency upon
the spirit’s progress; but where one has caused his own destruction,
the evil resulting is incalculable. I was a suicide; and ten thousand
times over had I better have borne all the ills that earth could heap
upon me, than have stooped to such folly. For in what has it resulted?
A prolonged mental agony, such as you can never conceive; for I have
no home in heaven nor earth, but am forced to wander amid the shadows
of each world, unrecognized by those either above or below me. Here I
am shunned upon every hand, and, as you saw for yourself, I was equally
avoided in Levachan. But that is not all; in the ignorance and
selfishness of my grief, I yearned for my lost ones with a solicitude,
a consuming fierceness and power of will which insanity only can equal.
By nature I was intense; and even had I not committed the fatal act, my
vitality would have burned itself away with the awful concentration of
feeling. But it must be remembered that I was not the only sufferer from
this pitiful lack of self-control. The stronger desires and emotions of
the living influence the dead--I use the words in their common
acceptation for the sake of convenience--and here is where I caused
such incalculable injury to my own child; for Dorothy, having entered
the spirit world with inferior powers of resistance, fell under the
spell I had wrought, and joined me in the haunting of this old house.
Here, Mr. Henley, am I, a suicide, justly deserving the punishment I
receive; but there is my child, as innocent as the air of heaven,
forced to suffer with me, and it is no small part of my chastisement
to realize this fact. People fly from us as they would from pestilence,
both in this world and the other, although many of the dwellers in the
higher state, from their greater knowledge and loftier development,
simply avoid us. And we can not criticise their action in either world,
for we are not adapted to either state. We are outcasts.”

Ah Ben paused for a moment, and then became deeply impressive, as he
added:

“Mr. Henley, let the experience of one who has suffered, and who will
continue to suffer more than you can possibly understand--let his
experience, I say, warn you against the unreasonable yearning for the
return of those who have passed on to their spiritual state! Here our
eyes are blinded to the blessedness to come, and it is well it is so;
for, were it otherwise, the discipline of earth life would be lost,
as too monstrous to be endured. No man could submit to the restraints
of matter, with the power and freedom of spirit in sight. If once I
could have realized the dreadful results entailed upon what I had
lost, by my effort to recover it, I would have known that the
blackest curse would have been trifling by contrast. Let the dead
rest! and let one who knows persuade you that their entrance into
spirit life is a time rather for rejoicing than regret!”

“And is Dorothy to suffer as you have suffered, for what was no fault
of hers?” demanded Paul.

“Yes,” said Ah Ben; “the law of Karma is the law of nature and the
law of God; and while ordinarily she would have passed safely on in
the possession of her new-born powers, the pitfall which I blindly
laid beset her unwary feet, and she fell. There is but one course
open; but one way in which Dorothy can reach either heaven or earth,
by a shorter road than that which I am compelled to travel. It is
simple, and yet one which, under the circumstances, is almost
impossible to achieve; and this from the fact that it requires the
cooperation of a human being.”

“I should imagine that any one with the ordinary feelings of
humanity would gladly do what he could to assist such an unhappy
fellow-creature!” exclaimed Paul.

“But she is not a fellow-creature,” urged the old man.

“True, but I understood you to say that she might become one with the
cooperation of a human being.”

“I did,” Ah Ben replied; “but where is that to be found?”

“Not knowing the nature of the task, it would be difficult to say,”
 answered Paul, “but I will adhere to my first proposition, that one
with the ordinary feelings of humanity would gladly do what he
could.”

“Mr. Henley, have you the ordinary feelings of humanity?”

“I hope so,” answered Paul.

“Would you be willing to marry a ghost, and be haunted for the rest
of your life; for the ghost would be sure to outlive you?”

Paul started.

“I have put the case too strongly,” continued Ah Ben; “Dorothy is not
a ghost in the ordinary sense. She is a materialized spirit, and
that, my dear friend, is exactly what you are, with this difference:
you have practically no control over your body; while she, having
returned from the summer land abnormally, can, like myself, become
invisible at will; but, upon the other hand, she is not always
visible, even to those whom she would like to have see her. In short,
as I have told you before, we belong to neither one world nor the
other. But through union with a human creature, Dorothy can once more
assume the functions of mortality, and after another period of earth
life, become fitted again for the land of spirits.”

“I understand you entirely,” answered Paul, “and can say, without
hesitation or reservation, that I love your daughter, and, be she
whom or what she may, will gladly marry her, if she can say as much
for me.”

“I thought I could not be mistaken in my man,” answered Ah Ben. “I
have believed in your frankness, honor, and courage from the
beginning; and although you came to this house with the intention of
deceit, I feel sure that in the more serious situations of life you
are to be relied upon. You have spoken to Dorothy, Mr. Henley, and I
am confident she shares my trust in you.”

“I hope so,” answered Paul.

“I know it,” the old man replied; “and let me tell you further that
this match is not one subservient to the ends of utility or profit;
for, were such the motive, the very end would be defeated. Dorothy
must love the man she marries, with all her heart and soul; and you
can readily understand, ostracized as we are, how difficult it has
been to find such a one. For more than a century we have sought in
vain, and I have pressed every opportunity and strained every power
to bring about such a meeting and such a result as I trust will
shortly follow; but the world has given us no chance, and those few
who have been able to see us have only fled in terror!”

“Am I at liberty, then, to prove my devotion to your daughter by
asking her to marry me?”

“You have already done so,” replied Ah Ben, “and I have already given
my consent; but I warn you, Mr. Henley, that in your intercourse with
my daughter you should remember that you are dealing with a nature
far more intense, and with far greater capacity to love, than any you
have ever known. While the most fervid desire of Dorothy’s life has
doubtless been to meet some creature with whom she might affiliate, I
believe she would forego even that happiness if convinced that it
would prove disastrous to the object of her affection.”

Paul extended his hands to Ah Ben, who took them with fervor. “Dear
old man!” he said, “although I am speaking to a ghost, I am not
afraid of you; and knowing how much you have suffered, it shall be my
aim to help and comfort you; for have you not shown me how close is
the other world, and so in a measure removed the dread of death? How
truly do I feel that those who have left us may be close around us,
although we can not see them.”

And then, with a new light on all that surrounded him, Paul bade Ah
Ben good-night, and went to his room.



10


The following morning, Mr. Henley was puzzled, in thinking over the
conversation of the previous night, to remember that he had not been
alarmed at the revelations which Ah Ben had made. The things he had
seen and the words he had heard were amazing, but they had not
terrified him; and when he recalled the easy and natural manner in
which he had talked, he attributed the fact to the same mental change
whereby he had perceived the visions.

The breakfast room was deserted, neither Dorothy nor Ah Ben being
present; and so Paul partook of the meal alone, which he found
prepared as usual. He lingered over his second cup of tea in the hope
that the young lady would join him; but after loitering quite beyond
the usual hour, he sauntered out into the garden, trusting to find
her there. But Dorothy was nowhere to be seen, and Henley sank
dejectedly into the old rustic bench to await her coming.

An hour passed, but no token of a human being was in evidence; not
even the voice nor the footstep of a servant had been heard, and Paul
sat consuming cigarettes at a rate that showed clearly his
impatience. At last he returned to the house, and going to his room
took pen and paper and wrote, in a large hand:

  Will Miss Guir kindly let me know at what hour I may see her?
  I shall await her answer in the garden.

                                                   PAUL HENLEY.

Not being able to find a servant, he took this downstairs and
suspended it from the hanging lamp by a thread, and then returned to
the garden to tramp up and down the neglected paths, between the
boxwood bushes, and to burn more cigarettes. He had not the slightest
hope of finding Ah Ben, as that individual never put in an appearance
until the day was far spent--in fact, not generally until after the
shadows of evening were well advanced; and the only servant he had
seen was the dumb boy alluded to, and even he had only appeared
occasionally. Clearly there was nothing to do but wait. But waiting
brought neither Dorothy nor Ah Ben, and Paul began to wonder
seriously where his hosts could have taken themselves. The time wore
on, and the shadow of a tall fir showed that the hour of noon had
passed. Had he been left in sole possession of this old mansion,
whose history was so amazing, and yet whose very existence appeared
mythical? He wandered back into the house, and passing through the
hall, stopped suddenly. His note was gone. Surely it had been taken,
for it could not have fallen. Examining the lamp, Henley saw that a
short end of the thread was hanging, indicating that it had been
broken and the note carried away. Some one had passed through the
building since he had left it. Could it have been the girl? and if
so, why had she avoided him? One thing appeared certain; she would
know where to expect his letters, and he would now write another. In
twenty minutes he had prepared the following, which, having sealed,
he again suspended from the lamp in the hall:

  DEAREST GIRL--I have waited all the morning to see you, and am
  growing fearfully impatient. Is it business or pleasure that keeps
  you away? Why not tell me frankly just what it is, as I can not
  bear to think that I am avoided from indifference, or because you
  are getting tired of me. Have I outstayed my welcome at Guir House?
  I entreat you to give me an answer and an interview, as I am so
  lonely without you; just how lonely I will tell you when we meet.

                                                             PAUL.

Having left this dangling from the same thread, he went out for a
walk; and thinking it possible that he might meet Ah Ben in the
forest, went in that direction.

The leaves were now falling rapidly, and the clear sky was visible
through the bare limbs above; and the open spaces were beginning to
give the woods quite a wintry aspect. Guir House was visible from a
greater distance than he had ever seen it, and Paul sat down upon a
fallen log to take in the picture of the quaint old mansion, buried
in the depths of a trackless, almost impenetrable forest. He sang a
verse of a familiar song in a loud voice, with the hope of attracting
attention, but the distant echo of the last words was the only
response that he got. Then he threw himself upon the ground and
whistled and smoked alternately, his anxiety constantly growing; but
the gentle sighing of the wind in the tree tops, and the uncertain
rustling of the leaves, were but poor comfort. Was this to be the end
of his strange visit? Was he to start back upon his homeward journey
without an opportunity to bid his phenomenal hosts good-bye? He could
not bear the thought. Dorothy at all events must be found. He would
search the grounds and ransack the house. Surely she must be
somewhere within reach of his voice. But then she was so strange, so
different from any woman he had ever known. How could he tell,
perhaps she had left the old place forever! Henley had not realized
until now what a deep and overpowering dependence had suddenly
developed in him toward these people. They seemed to hold the key to
another world in a more practical and tangible way than he had ever
deemed it possible for any mortal-appearing man to do. Even to be
shut out from the wonderful city of Levachan would be an overwhelming
loss, and how could he ever hope to see it again without their aid?
To be deprived forever of the spiritual influence of these eccentric,
half-earthly acquaintances was a thought he could not tolerate. Even
the horrors through which they had passed appeared trivial as
compared with the glimpses they had afforded him of happiness. But to
see these things--to feel the mystery of their power and beauty just
beginning to descend and take possession of him--and then to be
snatched back to earth, with the inability to return, was too
horrible, and like the ecstatic visions of a drowning man cut short
by rescue. While he had Ah Ben and Dorothy within his reach, he felt
the possibility of return; but suddenly they had gone, and for the
first time he realized what they had been to him. Then it began to
dawn upon him what these people must have suffered in a century and a
half, and what they must continue to endure for untold time to come,
in their inability to return in full to that world they had left, or
even to take part in the affairs of this. Surely their case was far
worse than his, for after a few years he would be freed from the
bondage of matter, and would grapple with the mysteries which had
become so fascinating; but with them it was different. Unfitted for
either world, without a friend and alone, they must drag out their
weary existence until the law of Karma was satisfied. But he would
not give them up; he could not; for were they not the new life, the
new atmosphere, the very essence of his newly discovered self? He had
felt, and seen, how possible it was for a man to tread on air--to
walk the upper regions of the sky, and he could never again be
contented to crawl upon the surface of the ground like a worm. But
without Ah Ben he must crawl. With him, Paul felt that all things
were possible, which powers he felt that Dorothy also possessed;
though, alas, through the crime, and earth-bound cravings of his
host, these powers had been sadly curtailed.

Nerveless and dispirited he returned to the garden gate. Some one had
been there since he had passed, for there were fresh foot-prints
along the walk, of a small, feminine type, and directed toward the
forest. The steps had passed outward, and their track was lost in the
leaves beyond. Surely Dorothy had left the house and gone for a
ramble in the woods without having seen him. How could he have missed
her, and could it have been intentional, were thoughts which came
unpleasantly to Paul at that moment. He stood gazing long and
earnestly in the direction taken by the departing footsteps, and
doing so, his attention was attracted by the flight of a bird which
came swooping towards him from the depths of the woodland glade.
Nearer and nearer it came, uttering a strange, shrill cry, as if to
attract his attention; and then, after circling in the air above his
head, came fluttering down, and lighted upon the gate-post at his
elbow. It was Dorothy’s parrot. But what did it mean by this unusual
freak of familiarity? Paul spoke to the bird, which pleased it; and
when he put out his hand to smooth its feathers, the parrot lifted
its wings, and with a loud cackle exhibited a note which had been
carefully tied beneath one of them. Henley relieved the animal of its
burden, and discovered that the note was addressed to himself. When
he looked around again, the parrot had flown away. This is what the
note contained:

                                                     GUIR HOUSE.

  MY OWN DEAR COMRADE--I call you my own because you are all that I
  ever had, but even now the memory of our few brief interviews is
  all that is left to me, for I must go without you. So happy was I
  when we first met, that I don’t mind telling you, since we shall
  not meet again, how, in anticipation, I rested in your dear arms
  and felt your loving caresses; for you were all the world to me
  then--the only world I had ever known--and the break of day seemed
  close at hand. But soon the thought of drawing you down into that
  awful abyss ‘twixt heaven and earth, which has whirled its black
  shadows about me for more than a century, seized me, and I could
  not willingly make a thrall of the one I loved; and so I leave you
  to those for whom you are fitted, while I shall continue my
  solitary life as before. You say that you are lonely without me!
  But what is your loneliness to mine? I, who never had a comrade;
  who never felt the joy of friendship; and who was dazed with the
  sudden flush of love, of hunger satisfied, of companionship! Have
  you ever felt the want of these, dear Paul? Have you ever known
  what it is to be alone--to live in an empty world--and that, not
  for a time, but for ages? Yes, you will say, you understand it, and
  that you pity me, and yet you do not know its meaning; for you at
  least can live out the life for which God and nature have fitted
  you, while I am fit for nothing. You know not what it is to be
  shunned; to be avoided; to be feared! You go your way, and smile
  and nod to those you meet, and they are pleased to see you. You are
  welcome among your friends, as they to you. Live on in that
  precious state, and feel blessed and happy, for there are worse
  conditions, although you know it not.

  And now I am going to tell you a strange thing. It is this: I have
  shadowed your life from the hour of your birth. I have watched your
  career, and where able have guided and helped you, knowing that you
  were one whom I could love. I have helped to make you what you are,
  and therefore my right of possession is doubly founded, even though
  my love be too great to lead you astray. Gradually I led you up to
  the hour when all was ripe, and then mentally impressed you with
  the letter which you thought you received, and which I knew would
  affect you through your strongest characteristics--love of
  adventure, and--curiosity--as well as from the fact that you were
  susceptible to mental influence. You came, and I was happy--more
  happy than you will ever know--until my unsated Karma thwarted my
  plan, and showed that while seeking my own peace, I might possibly
  endanger yours. That ended all. I could go no further. But even
  now, as before, I shall come to you in spirit, during the still
  hours of night; for my love is more intense and strangely different
  from that which waking men are wont to feel. It is that which
  sometimes comes in dreams. Do you not know what I mean?

  You will feel bewildered on reading this, and at a loss to
  understand many things, but remember that your inward or spiritual
  sight has been opened through the power of hypnotism, and you must
  not judge things as in your normal state.

  When you reached our little station of Guir, you were expecting to
  find me there, and expectation is the proper frame of mind in which
  to produce a strong impression; and therefore, although you did not
  know what I was like, Ah Ben and I together easily made you see me
  as I was, together with the cart and horse; and although you
  actually got into the stage which was waiting, you thought you were
  in the cart with me. The incident of the broken spring was merely
  suggested as a fitting means to bring you back physically from the
  coach to the cart, where for the first time, in the moonlight, you
  saw me in semi-material form, visible as a shadow to some men, but
  wholly so to you. Had I appeared thus at the station, I should have
  alarmed all who saw me, and so I came to you only. The two worlds
  are so closely intermingled that men often live in one while their
  bodies are in another, and to those who are susceptible, the
  immaterial can be made more real than the other. I know these
  things, because, while at home in neither, I have been in both.

  And now, dear comrade, think sometimes of her who loves you, and to
  whom you have been the only joy; and she will be with you always,
  although you may not know it, except in your dreams.

  One more word. Think happily of the dead, for they are happy, and
  in a way you can not understand. If you love them truly, rejoice
  that they have gone, for what you call their death is but their
  birth, with powers transcending those of their former state, as
  light transcends the darkness. Disturb them not with idle
  yearnings, lest your thought unsettle the serenity of their lives.
  Let the ignorance which has ruined me be a warning. Some day I
  shall complete my term of loneliness, and begin life anew. We will
  know each other then, dear Paul, as here. Remember, I shall always
  be your spirit guide.                                     DOROTHY.

Henley folded the letter and looked about him in bewilderment, and
with a sense of loneliness he had never known before. He thought he
could realize the emptiness of life, the dissociation with all
things, of which Dorothy had spoken. He was adrift, without anchor in
either world. Heart-broken and crushed, he determined to find the
girl at all hazards, and bounded down the garden path in search of Ah
Ben, who alone could help him. At the last of the boxwood trees he
stopped, and then, _in an agony of horror, beheld the roofless ruin
of the old house as Ah Ben had shown it to him_. The crumbling walls
and broken belfry, half hidden amid the encroaching trees, were all
that was left of Guir House and its spacious grounds. Heaps of stone
and piles of rubbish beset his path, and the open portals, choked
with wild grass and bushes, showed glimpses of the sky beyond. In a
panic of terror lest his reason had gone, Paul flew madly on in the
direction from which Dorothy had first brought him. But not an
indication of what once were ornamental grounds remained. Beyond, an
unbroken forest was upon every side, and the growth was wild and
dense. On he rushed, with both hands pressed tightly against his
head, neither knowing nor caring whither he went. But at last two
shadowy forms emerged from a dense thicket of calmia upon his left,
and Paul felt that their influence was kindly, and that they had come
to guide him back into the world he had left behind.





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