"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 G.o.ddess."
"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 ident.i.ty, 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 embarra.s.sing 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 a.s.sert, 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 pa.s.sion 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.