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 along the woodland way homeward.
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