"I should like my luggage," said Paul, having left it below, with the
exception of a small satchel.
"It shall be sent to you at once," the old man answered, as he walked
slowly away.
Left to himself, Henley looked around with curiosity. Every comfort
had been provided, even to an arm-chair and writing-table by the
fire; but the room, as well as its furnishing, was old and quaint,
and rapidly going to decay. Everything he saw related to a past
period of existence. The window was high, and deep set in the wall.
There was a bench under it, upon which one was obliged to climb to
obtain a view of the country, and Henley pulled himself up into the
sill to look out.
The landscape presented an unbroken panorama of forest. No farming
land was visible, and the distant mountains closed in the sky-line,
and all bathed in the soft light of the moon, made a picture of
extreme beauty and loneliness--a solid wilderness, shut in from the
busy world without. There was a musty smell, as if the room had not
been used in years, and he lifted the sash. The rich perfume of fir
and balsam was wafted in, displacing the disagreeable odor.
The bed was a high four-poster, and there were steps for climbing
into it. On examination, it was discovered to be built into the room
with heavy timbers, and framed solidly with the house itself. A few
faded rugs were scattered about the worm-eaten floor, and in every
direction the wood-work was rough and unpainted, though massive
enough for a fortress. Above the wash-stand was a strange picture,
painted upon a fragment of coarse blanket, which had been stretched
upon the wall. It depicted the setting sun, with red and gold rays,
and a blue mountain in the distance. Around the entire scene, in a
semicircle, was the word "Illusion," singularly wrought into the
shafts of light, and undecipherable without the closest scrutiny. The
figure of an old man in the foreground was contemplating the scene.
It was a crude piece of work, but impressive. There was a large
mahogany cabinet, mounted with brass; but its double doors were
locked and its drawers immovable. Beside the bed was a worm-eaten
door, and in idle curiosity Paul tried the handle. It opened easily,
revealing a spacious closet, with hooks and shelves. Throwing the
small satchel he had brought up with him upon the floor within, it
struck something, but the closet was too dark for him to see what;
so, taking the candle, he made an examination. In the farthest corner
was a hand-rail, guarding a closed scuttle, in which was inserted a
heavy iron ring. Henley took hold of the ring, and with some effort
succeeded in opening the scuttle. Looking down, he found to his
surprise that it communicated with a rough stairway leading below. He
peered into the darkness, but could discern nothing save the steps,
which seemed to go all the way to the cellar, and were just wide
enough to admit of a human body. He then removed his belongings back
into the room, shut down the scuttle, and closed the door. As there
was no fastening, he wedged a chair between the knob and the floor,
in such a manner that it could not be opened from within. He then
threw himself upon the bed, wondering what would be the outcome of
his unlawful enterprise, and while inhaling the tonic air of hill and
forest, half wished he were well away from this uncanny house and its
eccentric inmates. And yet, despite the mystery which enshrouded it,
there was a charm, a fascination, he could not deny. It was the
dream-like unreality of his surroundings--unreal, because different
from all that he had ever known. Should he suddenly find himself a
dozen miles removed, he felt certain that he would straightway
return.