"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.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Ghost of Guir House, by Charles Willing Beale