by E. W. Howe
CHAPTER V.
A TROUBLED FANCY.
It was Annie Benton's playing which Allan Dorris occasionally heard ashe wandered about the yard of The Locks, for she came to the churchtwice a week in order that she might pretend to practise on Sundayafternoons, and please her father's critical ear with finished playing;and Dorris was so much impressed with the excellence of the music thathe concluded one afternoon to look at the performer.
In a stained-glass window looking toward The Locks there was a brokensquare, little larger than his eye, and he climbed up on the wall andlooked through this opening.
A pretty girl of twenty, a picture of splendid health, with dark hair,and features as regularly cut as those of a marble statue, instead ofthe spectacled professor he expected to see. Allan Dorris jumped down onthe outer side of the wall, and, going around to the front of thechurch, entered the door.
The player was so intent with her work that she did not notice hisapproach up the carpeted aisle, until she had finished, and he stoodalmost beside her. She gave a little start on seeing him, but collectedherself, and looked at him soberly, as if to inquire why he was there.
"T hope you will pardon me," he said in an easy, self-possessed way,"but I live in the place next door called The Locks, and having oftenheard you play of late, I made bold to come in."
"All are welcome here," the girl replied, turning the leaves of the bookbefore her, and apparently paying little attention to Dorris. "You haveas much right here as I, and if I can please anyone with my dullexercises, I am glad of the opportunity."
Allan Dorris seated himself in a chair that stood on the platformdevoted to the choir, and observed that the girl had splendid eyes andsplendid teeth, as well as handsome features.
"Do you mind my saying that I think you are very pretty?" he inquired,after looking at her intently as she turned over the music.
Allan Dorris thought from the manner in which she looked at him that shehad never been told this before, for she blushed deeply, though she didnot appear confused.
"I don't say it as a compliment," he continued, without giving her anopportunity to reply; "but I enjoyed the playing so much that I wasafraid to look at the performer, fearing he would be so hideously uglyas to spoil the effect; but you are so much handsomer than I expectedthat I cannot help mentioning it."
"You are a surprise to me, too," the girl replied, avoiding thecompliment he had paid her, and with good nature. "I imagined that thenew occupant of The Locks was older than you are."
There was a polite carelessness in his manner which indicated that hewas accustomed to mingling with all sorts of people; for he was as muchat his ease in the presence of Annie Benton as he had been with Mrs.Wedge, or with Silas and Tug.
"I am so old in experience that I often feel that I look old in years,"he replied, looking at the girl again, as though about to repeat hisremark concerning her beauty. "I am glad I do not appear old to you. Youhave returned my compliment."
The girl made no other reply than to smile lightly, and then lookintently at her music, as an apology for smiling at all.
"How old are you?" he asked abruptly.
Annie Benton looked a little startled at the question, but replied,----
"Twenty."
"Have you a lover?"
This seemed to require an indignant answer, and she looked at himsharply for that purpose, when she discovered that there was not aparticle of impudence in his manner, but rather a friendly interest. Hemade the inquiry as an uncle might, who had long heard of a pretty niecewhom he had never met; so she compromised the matter by shaking herhead.
"That's strange," he returned. "It must be because the young men areafraid of you, for you are about the prettiest thing of any kind I haveever seen. It is fortunate that you live in Davy's Bend; a moreintelligent people would spoil you with flattery. Will you be kindenough to play for me?"
The girl was rather pleased than offended at what he said, for there wasnothing of rudeness in his manner; and when she had signified herwillingness to grant his request, he went back to the pews, and sat downto listen to the music. When the tones of the organ broke the silence,Dorris was satisfied that the girl was not playing exercises, for themusic was very beautiful, and rendered with excellent judgment.
Her taste seemed to run in the direction of extravagant chords and oddcombinations; the listener happened to like the same sort of thing, too,and the performance had such an effect upon him that he could not remainin his seat, but walked softly up and down the aisle. The frown upon hisface was very much like that which occupied it when he walked alone inhis own room, after permitting himself to think; for there were wildcries in the music, and mournful melodies. When it ceased, he walked upto the player, and asked what she had been playing.
"I don't know myself," she answered, looking at him curiously, buttimidly, as if anxious to know more of him. "It was a combination ofmany of the chords I have learned from time to time that pleased me. Myfather, who is a very intelligent man, likes them, and I thought youmight. It was made up from hymns, vespers, anthems, ballads, andeverything else I have ever heard."
"The performance was very creditable, and I thank you for the pleasureyou have afforded me," he said. "Would you care if I should seat myselfhere in this chair while you play, and look at you?"
The girl laughed quietly at the odd request, and there was a look ofmingled confusion and pleasure in her face as she replied,--
"I wouldn't care, but I could not play so well."
"Then I will go back to the pews; I don't wish to interfere with themusic. If you don't mind it, I will say that I think you are very frankand honest, as well as pretty and accomplished. Many a worse player thanyou are would have claimed that the rare combination of chords I havejust heard was improvising."
"It is my greatest fault," the girl answered, "to let my fancy andfingers run riot over the keys, without regard to the instructions inthe book, and of which I am so much in need. The exercises are so dullthat it is a great task for me to practise them; but I never tire ofrecalling what I have learned heretofore, and using the chords thatcorrespond with my humor. I have played a great deal, lately, with TheLocks in my mind, for I have heard much of you, and have known of thestrange house all my life. Perhaps I was thinking of you when you werelistening."
"If you will close up the book, and think about me while you areplaying, I will go back to the door, and listen. The subject is not veryromantic, but it is lonely enough, Heaven knows. I should think the oldorgan might have sympathy with me, and do the subject justice, for it isshut up from day to day in a great stone house, as I am."
Allan Dorris went back by the door, and the organ was still for such alength of time that he thought it very correctly represented the silencethat hung over his house like a pall; but finally there was the thunderof the double-bass, and the music began. The instrument was an unusuallygood one, with a wide range of effects in the hands of such a player asAnnie Benton proved to be; and Allan Dorris thought she must havelearned his history somehow, and was now telling it to whoever cared tolisten. Dirges! The air was full of them, with processions of mourningmen and women. The girl seemed to have a fondness for odd airs, playedin imitation of the lower and middle registers of the voice, with trebleaccompaniment, and the listener almost imagined that a strong baritone,the voice of an actor in a play, was telling in plain English why AllanDorris, the occupant of The Locks, came to Davy's Bend, and why he wasdiscontented and ill at ease.
The actor with the baritone voice, after telling everything he knew,gave way for a march-movement, and a company of actors, representing allthe people he had ever known, appeared before him under the magic of themusic. Some of them looked in wonder, others in dread and fear, as theypassed him in procession; but the march kept them going, and theirplaces were soon taken by others, from the store in his memory, wholooked in wonder, and in dread and fear, at the strange man in the backpew, though he was no stranger to them. Not by any means; they knew himve
ry well. What an army! They are still coming, flinging their arms tothe time of the march; but the moment they arrive they look toward theback pew, and continue looking that way, until they disappear; as thoughthey have been looking for him, and are surprised at his presence inthat quiet place. After a pause, to arrange the stops, the music soundedas if all those who had appeared were trying to make their stories heardat once. Their hatred, their dread, their fear,--all were represented inthe chords which he was now hearing, but in the din there was nothingcheerful or joyous. If any of the actors in the play he had beenwitnessing knew anything to the credit of Allan Dorris, their voiceswere so mild as to be drowned by the fiercer ones with stories of hateand fear and dread.
The music at last died away with the double-bass, as it began, and theplayer sat perfectly still after she had finished; nor did Dorris movefrom his position for several minutes.
The music seemed to have set them both to thinking, for nothing could beheard for a long time except the working of the bellows; for the oldjanitor was so deaf that he did not know that the music had ceased.
"What have you heard about The Locks?" he asked, after he stood besidethe girl, feeling as though there was nothing concerning him which shedid not know; for she had expressed it all in the music.
"Everything about The Locks, and a great deal about you," she answered.
"I didn't suppose that you had ever heard of me. Who talks about me?"
"The people."
"What do they say?"
"I wouldn't care to tell you all they say," she answered; "for in a dulltown, like this, a great deal is said when a mysterious man arrives, andtakes up his residence in a house that has been regarded withsuperstitious fear for twenty years."
She was preparing to go out now, and he respectfully followed her downthe aisle.
"Whatever they say," he said, when they were standing upon the outside,"there was a great deal more than art in the piece you dedicated to me.You know, somehow, that I am lonely, and thoroughly discontented. Do thepeople say that?"
"No."
"Then how did you know it?"
"I saw it in your manner. Anyone could see that."
"A perfectly contented man would become gloomy were he to live long inthat house," he replied, pointing to The Locks. "When the stillness ofnight settles upon it there never was a scene in hell which cannot beimagined by those so unfortunate as to be alone in it. I believe thewind blows through the walls, for my light often goes out when thewindows and doors are closed; and there is one room where all the peopleI have ever known seem collected, to moan through the night. Did youever hear about the room in The Locks into which no one is permitted tolook?"
"No."
"Even the new owner was asked to give a promise not to disturb thatroom,--it adjoins the one I occupy,--or look into it, or inquire withreference to it; and if I look ill at ease, it must be because of thehouse I occupy. I am sincerely obliged to you for the music. May Ilisten to you when you practise again?"
"Certainly," she answered. "I could not possibly have an objection."
She bowed to him, and walked away, followed by the limping negrojanitor, who turned occasionally to look at Dorris with distrust.
