The Mystery of the Locks

by E. W. Howe

  CHAPTER XIII.

  THE REBELLION OF THE BARITONE.

  During the summer and winter following the arrival of Allan Dorris inDavy's Bend, he met Annie Benton at intervals after their strangemeeting out on the hills, in spite of his resolution to keep out of herway, and though he was convinced more than ever after each meeting thattheir acquaintance was dangerous, he candidly admitted to himself thathe was powerless to resist the temptation to see her when opportunityoffered, for the girl waited as anxiously for his appearance as he didfor hers; she was as deeply concerned as he was, and while thiscircumstance afforded him a kind of pleasure, it was also painful, forhe felt certain that no good could come of it.

  Usually he attended the services in the church once a week, and watchedthe organist so closely that she always divined his presence, and lookedtimidly toward where he sat when opportunity offered. Dorris believedthat he could cause the girl to think of him by looking at her, andthough he changed his position at every service, he had the satisfactionof finally seeing her pick him out, and she never made a mistake, alwayslooking directly at him when she turned her head.

  After the people were dismissed, he occasionally met her at the door,and walked home with her behind her glowering father, who received theattentions of Dorris with little favor. A few times he remained in thechurch with her a few minutes after the congregation had passed out, butafter each meeting he felt more dissatisfied than ever, and chafed underthe restraint which held him back. A few times, also, he went into thehouse, after accompanying her home, which pleased Annie Benton as muchas it displeased old Thompson, but somehow he did not enjoy her companythere as he did when she was alone in the church, for the AncientMaiden, as well as the Ancient Gentleman, seemed to regard him withsuspicion and distrust; therefore in spite of his vows to let her alone,which he had made with honesty and sincerity, he called on her at thechurch nearly every week.

  He believed that he was entitled to some credit because he only saw thegirl occasionally, for he longed to be with her continually; and therewere times, when he heard the organ, that he overcame the temptation anddid not enter the church. On these occasions he turned his face doggedlytoward The Locks, and paced up and down in his own room until he knewthe temptation was removed; when he would go out into the yard again,hoping that some good fortune had detained the player longer than usual,and that he would meet her unexpectedly.

  This same spirit caused him to haunt the road which she frequented onher visits to and from the town, and quite often he had occasion toappear surprised at her approach when he was not, when he would walkwith her one way or the other until it seemed necessary for them toseparate. It was not a deep _ruse_--nor did it deceive himself, for heoften laughed at its absurdity--but it afforded occupation to a man whowas idle more than half his time, and Allan Dorris was like other men inthe particular that he wanted to do right, but found it very difficultwhen inclination led in the other direction. When they met in thismanner, each usually had time to say only enough to excite the curiosityof the other, and to cause them to long for another meeting, and thusthe winter was passed, and the early spring came on; the season ofquarreling between frost and sunshine.

  On a certain wild March evening, after a day of idleness and longing tosee the girl, Dorris put on his heavy coat and walked in the yard, upand down the old path under the trees, which gave evidences of hisrestless footsteps even in the snows of winter. As soon as he came outhe heard the music, and between his strong desire to see the player, andhis conviction that he should never enter her presence, he resolved toleave Davy's Bend and never return. He could better restrain his lovefor her in some distant town than in Davy's Bend, therefore he would goaway, and try to forget. This gave him an excuse to enter the church,though he only intended to bid her good-by; and so impatient was he thathe scaled the wall, and jumped down on the outside, instead of passingout at the gate.

  Annie Benton was watching for him when he stepped into her presence fromthe vestibule, and as he walked up the aisle he saw so much pleasure inher face that he regretted to make the announcement of his departure;but he knew it was the best thing to do, and did not hesitate. He eventhought of the prospect that she might regret his determination, and sayso, which would greatly please him.

  "I have concluded to leave Davy's Bend," he said, as he took the handshe offered him, "and have called to say good-by. As soon as I candispose of my effects I will leave this forbidden ground, and travel sofar that I will forget the way back. The more I see of you, the more Ilove you; and if I continue to live in sight of your house, I willfinally forget everything except that I love you, and do you a greatharm. It will not take me long to settle up my affairs, and within a fewdays, at the farthest, I shall be gone."

  The smile on Annie Benton's pretty face vanished at once, as she turnedher head and looked from him, at the same time trying to run her fingersover the keys; but they had lost their cunning, and her hands soon layidly on the keyboards. When Dorris finally caught her head gently, andturned it toward him, he saw that tears were in her eyes. She did notattempt to hide this, and quietly submitted when he brushed them away.

  "It pains me to know that you regret this announcement," Dorris said,after looking at her a moment, "though it would pain me more to believethat you did not. It seems to be always so; there is sorrow ineverything for me. I have cursed myself a thousand times for thisquality, and thought ill of a nature which had no peace or content init. I have hated myself for years because of the belief that nothingwould satisfy me; that I would tire of everything I coveted, and that Iwas born a misanthrope and an embodied unrest. When I have envied otherstheir content, I have always concluded afterwards that there wassomething in my nature opposed to peace, and that I was doomed to arestless life, always seeking that which could not be found. I havealways believed that my acquaintances have had this opinion of me, andthat for this reason they did not grant me the charity I felt the needof. But now that I am going away, and will never see you again, I hopeyou will pardon my saying that your absence has been the cause of theunrest which has always beset me. Long before I knew you existed I waslooking for you; and I know now that all my discontent would havevanished had I been free to make honorable love to you when we firstmet. In our weakness we are permitted to know a few things; I know thisto be true."

  "Since you have always wished me to take no interest in thisacquaintance of ours," Annie Benton replied, in a tone which might havebeen only sullen, but it sounded very much like the voice of an earnestwoman expressing vexation and regret, "let me at least express in wordswhat I have often expressed in my actions--that I would have long agoshown you that your affection was returned; that you are not moreconcerned than I am. I have always been in doubt as to what my courseshould be; but let me say this, in justice to my intelligence, though itbe a discredit to my womanhood, you can never love me more than I doyou. Nor do you more sincerely regret the necessity which you say existsfor your going away."

  "I hope I do not take undue credit to myself," he replied, "when I saythat I have known this ever since our acquaintance began, and I onlyasked you to remain silent because I could not have controlled myselfwith declarations of love from your lips ringing in my ears. You trustedmy judgment fully, and refused to hear the reasons why I said ouracquaintance was dangerous; and I will deserve that confidence by goingaway, for I know that is the best thing to do. Sometimes there is alittle pleasure in a great sorrow. I have known mothers to find pleasurein talking of their dead children, and I find a fascination in talkingto you about a love which can never be realized. Heretofore I have beena man shut up in a dungeon, craving sunlight, hating myself because Icame to believe that there was no sunlight; now I realize that sunlightwas a natural necessity for my well-being, for I have found it, and itis all I hoped. But I must go back into the dungeon, and the necessityis more disagreeable than I can tell you. I am an average man in everyrespect save that I feel that I have never had an average man's chancein this matter of love, and
fret because of it. That which I crave maybe a mistake of the fancy, but I am not convinced of it; therefore I amnot as philanthropic as those who have outgrown in experience aninfatuation such as I feel for you. I have tried everything else, andhave learned to be indifferent, with all my idols broken and dishonoredat my feet; but there is a possibility in love which I can never knowanything about."

  While the girl was listening, there were times when Dorris thought shewould interrupt him, and make the declaration which he had forbidden;but she controlled herself, and looked steadily away from him.

  "It may occur to you as strange--it _is_ strange--that while I declaremy love for you, I run away from it. In explanation I could only repeatwhat I have said before; that it is for your good that I have adoptedthis course. Had you listened to my brief story, you would nowunderstand why my going away seems to be necessary; since you preferrednot to, I can only say in general terms that nothing could happen,except good fortune, which would surprise me. I am surrounded by danger,and while my life has been one long regret, the greatest regret of allis that which I experience in leaving you. Were I to consult my ownbent, I would deny all that I have intimated to my discredit, and makesuch love to you that you could not resist it; but I love you, and thiscourse would not prove it. We are doing now what millions of people havedone before us; making a sacrifice for the right against stronginclinations, and we should meet it bravely. There is no hesitation inmy manner, I hope."

  Annie Benton turned and looked at him, and saw that he was trembling andvery much agitated.

  "Then why are you trembling?" she asked.

  "Because of the chill in the air, I presume," he answered, "for I amvery determined to carry out my resolution. I might tremble withexcitement in resolving to rescue a friend from danger, though it wouldnot indicate a lack of courage. You are willing for me to go?"

  "Since you say it is for the best," she replied, "yes."

  Believing that he had said all that was necessary, Allan Dorrishesitated between going away and remaining. Walking over to the window,and looking out, he saw that the light he had been talking about wasfading away from the earth, as it was fading away from him, and that theold night was coming back. A hill-top he saw in the distance he likenedto himself; resisting until the last moment, but without avail, for thedarkness was gradually climbing up its sides, and would soon cover it.

  "You will no doubt think that I should have kept away from you when Isaw that my presence was not objectionable, and that our acquaintancewould finally result in this," he said, coming back to the girl, andstanding by her side, "but I could not; let me acknowledge my fault, andsay that I am sorry for it. I could not resist the temptation to enterthe only presence which has ever afforded me pleasure, try hard as Icould, so I kept it up until I am now forced to run away from it. Do Imake my meaning clear?"

  "Perfectly," she replied, without looking around.

  "Life is so unsatisfactory that it affords nothing of permanent valueexcept the love and respect of a worthy, intelligent, and agreeablewoman. It is the favor I have sought, and found too late. It isfortunate that you are not as reckless as I am; otherwise no restraintwould keep us apart. But for the respect I have for your good name, Iwould steal you, and teach you to love me in some far-away place."

  "You have taught me already," the girl timidly replied, still lookingaway.

  "Don't say that," Dorris said in alarm. "That pleases me, for it isdepravity, and everything depraved seems to suit me. You must saynothing which pleases me, else I will fail in my resolve. Say everythingyou can to hurt my feelings, but nothing to please me."

  "I cannot help saying it," she replied, rising from her seat at theorgan, and facing him. "If it is depravity to love you, I likedepravity, too."

  "Annie," Dorris said, touching her arm, "be careful of what you say."

  "I must say it," she returned, with a flushed face; "I am only a woman,and you don't know how much weakness that implies. I am flesh and blood,like yourself; but you have made love to me as though I were anunconscious picture. I fear that you do not understand womankind, andthat you have made an idol of me; an idol which will fall, and break atyour feet. My love for you has come to me as naturally as my years, andI want you to know when you go away that my heart will be in yourkeeping. Why may not I avow my love as well as you? Why may not I, too,express regret that you are going away?"

  The girl asked the question with a candor which surprised him; there wasthe innocence of a child in her manner, and the enthusiasm of a womanthoroughly in earnest.

  "For the reason that when I am gone it will be in the nature of thingsfor you to forget me," he replied. "You are young, and do not know yourheart as well as I know mine. In course of time you will probably forman honorable alliance; _then_ you will regret having said this to me."

  "It will always be a pleasure for me to remember how ardently I haveloved you," she replied, trembling and faltering, as though not quitecertain that the course she was pursuing was right. "I will never feelashamed of it, no matter if I should live forever. It may not be womanlyfor me to say so; but I can never forget you. Your attentions to me havebeen so delicate, and so well calculated to win a woman's affection,that I want you to know that, but for this hindrance you speak of, yourdream might be realized. If I am the Maid of Air, the Maid of Airreturns your affection. Surely my regard for you may excuse my sayingthis, now that you are going away, for you may think of it with pleasurein your future loneliness. I appreciate your love so much that I musttell you that it is returned."

  They were standing close together on the little platform in front of theorgan, and the girl leaned against him in such a manner that he put hisleft arm around her shoulders to support her. Her head rested on hisarm, and she was looking full into his face. The excitement under whichshe seemed to labor lent such a charm to her face that Allan Dorristhought that surely it must be the handsomest in the world.

  "Kiss me," she said suddenly.

  The suggestion frightened the great brawny fellow, who might have pickedup his companion and ran away with her without the slightestinconvenience; for he looked around the room in alarm.

  "I don't know whether I will or not," he replied, looking steadily ather. "Were you ever kissed before?"

  "By my father; by no one else."

  "Then I think I will refuse," he said, "though I would give twenty yearsof my life to grant your request. What a request it is! It appeals to mewith such force that I feel a weakness in my eyes because of the warmthin my heart, and the hot blood never ran races through my veins beforeas it is doing now. You have complete possession of my heart, and I am abetter man than I was before, for you are pure and good; if I have asoul, it has forgotten its immortality in loving this earthy being in myarms. But it is the proudest boast of a loyal wife that no lips savethose of her husband ever touched hers, and my regard for you is suchthat I do not wish to detract from the peace of your future. If I havemade an idol of you, let me go away without discovering my mistake;grant me the privilege of remembering you as the realization of all mydreaming. In a year from now you will only remember me to thank me forthis refusal of your request."

  "In a year from now I will feel just as I do now. I will never change. Iwill have only this to remember you by, and my acquaintance with you hasbeen the only event in my life worth remembering. _Please_ kiss me."

  He hurriedly pressed her lips to his own, and looked around as though hehalf expected to be struck dead for the sacrilege, but nothing seriousresulted, and the girl continued to talk without changing her position.

  "I have never regretted the restraint which is expected of women until Iknew you, for why should I not express my preferences as well as you? Inmy lonely, dreamy childhood, I had few acquaintances and fewer friends,and you have supplied a want which I hardly knew existed before. Eversince I can remember, I have longed so much to know the people in thegreat world from which you came that I accepted you as a messenger fromthem, and you interested and pleased me even mo
re than I expected. Mylife has always been lonely, though not unhappy, and the people I readof in books I accepted as the people who lived outside of Davy's Bend,in the cities by the lakes and seas, where there is culture as well asplenty. I have been familiar with their songs, and played them on theorgan when I should have been practising; everything I have read of themI have put to music, and played it over and over. Once I read of a greatman who died, and who was buried from a church filled with distinguishedmourners. The paper said that when the people were all in their seats,the voice of a great singer broke the stillness, in a song of hope, andI have imitated the voice on the organ, and imagined that I was playinga requiem over distinguished dust; but in future I shall think only ofyou when I play the funeral march. Since I have known you, I havethought of little else, and I shall mourn your departure as though youhad always been a part of me. If I dared, I would ask you on my knees toremain."

  "I have heard you play the songs to which you refer," Dorris repliedmusingly, "and I have thought that you played them with so muchexpression that, could their authors have listened to the performance,they would have discovered new beauties in them. I never knew a playerbefore who could render the words of a song as well as the music. You doit, and with so much genius that I wonder that you have nothing but thecold, passionless notes to guide you. One dark afternoon you played 'IDreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls,' and a savage could have told what thewords were. The entire strength of the organ seemed to be united in themournful air, and the timid accompaniment was peopled with the othercharacters in the play from which the song is taken. That representedyou; but you have had me before the organ, telling all I knew, a hundredtimes. Although you have refused to hear my story, you seem to know it;for you have told it on the organ as many times as I have thought ofit."

  "If I have told your story on the organ," the girl said, "there musthave been declarations in it that you were a brave, an honorable, and anunfortunate man, for I have always thought that of you. In spite of allyou have said to me against yourself, I have never doubted this for amoment, and I would trust you to any extent."

  "If I expect to carry out my resolution," Allan Dorris replied, asthough in anger, though it was really an unspoken protest against doinga disagreeable thing, "I must hear no more of this; a very little moreof what you have said, and retreat will be impossible. But before Ileave you, let me say this: You once said I was an odd man; I will tellyou why. I seem to be an odd man because you have heard every sentimentthere is in my heart; I have kept nothing back. The men you have knownwere close-mouthed and suspicious, knowing that whatever they said waslikely to be repeated, and this made them cautious. Place other men inmy situation as to loneliness and misfortune, and I would not seem sounusual. There are plenty of staid business men who are as 'odd' as Iam, but they have never been moved to tell their secrets, as I have doneto you. Even were your honorable father to express the love he feels foryour dead mother, it would sound sentimental and foolish, and surprisehis acquaintances; but rest assured that every man will turn out astrange creature when you get his confidence. I say this in justice tomyself, but it is the truth. When you know any man thoroughly, youeither think more or less of him."

  "I don't dare to tell you what is in my mind," Annie Benton said, as shestood beside him, his arm still around her. "It would startle you, andperhaps cause you to change the good opinion you have expressed of me;but there can be no harm in my saying this--every day of ouracquaintance has brought me more respect and love for you. Let me payyou the poor compliment of saying that the more I know of you, the moreI respect and honor you."

  "I believe I deserve that," he replied. "I have more than my share offaults, but it has always been a comfort for me to know that my bestfriends are those who know most of me. But though I have faults, I amnot the less sensitive. I believe that should I kill a man, I would askeenly feel the slights of my fellows as would one whose hands wereclean. Should I become so offensive to mankind as to merit banishment,my wickedness would not cause me to forget my loneliness. My mistakeshave been as trifling in their nature, and as innocent, as neglect tolock a door in a community of thieves; but I have been punished asseverely as though I had murdered a town. The thieves have pursued andbeaten me because I carelessly permitted them to steal my substance; andthe privilege of touching a pure woman's lips with my own, and foldingher in my arms, becomes a serious wrong, though it has only brought me ajoy which other men have known, and no harm came of it."

  "I do not wish to do anything that is wrong," the girl said, with somealarm, stepping away from him, as if frightened at her situation; "buton the score of friendship, I may say that I shall be very lonely whenyou are gone. Davy's Bend was never an agreeable place, but I wascontent with it until you came and filled me with ambition. I wanted tobecome worthy of the many kind things you said of me; I hoped that Imight distinguish myself in some way, and cause you to rejoice that youhad predicted well of me, but now that you are going away, you willnever know of it even if I succeed. I may regret your departure on thisaccount, if nothing else. I _do_ regret it for another reason, but youreprimand me for saying it."

  The dogged look which distinguished him when thinking came into his faceagain, and though he seemed to be paying no attention, he was listeningwith keen interest.

  "Regret seems to be the common inheritance," he said, after a protractedsilence between them. "Your regret makes me stronger; it convinces methat I am not its only victim. Duty is a master we must all obey, thoughI wonder that so many heed its demands, since it seldom leads us in thedirection we would travel. The busy world is full of people who aremaking sacrifices for duty as great as yours and mine; let us not failin doing ours. In the name of the only woman I ever loved, I ask you tobid me good-by with indifference. For the good of the best woman in theworld, play a joyful march while I leave your presence, never toreturn."

  Without another word, the girl sprang to her seat at the organ, andAllan Dorris having awakened the sleeping janitor, the music commenced;a march of joy, to the time of which he left the church without oncelooking back.

  But on reaching the outside he could not resist the temptation to lookonce more at Annie Benton; so he climbed up to his old position on thewall, and looked at her through the broken pane.

  He saw her look around, as if to convince herself that he was gone, whenthe music changed from joy to regret while her face was yet turnedtoward the door at which he had departed. She was thinking, andexpressing her thoughts with the pipes, and Allan Dorris knew what shewas thinking as well as if she were speaking the words. There wereoccasional passages in the music so fierce and wild that he knew thegirl was struggling with desperate thoughts; nor could she easily getrid of them, for the reckless tones seemed to be fighting for masteryover the gentler ones. The old baritone air again; but strong andcourageous now, instead of mournful, and it seemed to be muttering thatit had ceased to be forbearing, and had no respect for customs, orusages, or matters of conscience; indeed, there was a certain recklessabandon in it which caused the listener to compare it to the roaringsong of a man reeling home to squalor and poverty--a sort of declarationthat he liked squalor and poverty better than anything else. The mildnotes of the accompaniment with the right hand--how like entreatinghuman voices they sounded--a chord of self-respect, of love of home, ofduty, in all their persuasive changes, urging the enraged baritone airto be reasonable, and return to the pacific state which it had honoredso long; but the baritone air continued to threaten to break over allrestraint, and become as wild and fierce as it sounded. Occasionally thechord of self respect, of love of home, and of duty, seemed to gain themastery, but the wicked baritone broke away again, though it was growingmore mild and tractable, and Allan Dorris thought that it must finallysuccumb to the eloquent appeal in the treble. "I have been mild andgentle all my life"--it seemed to be grumbling the words, as an apologyfor giving in, instead of declaring them as an excuse for breaking overall restraint--"and what good has it done me? Am I happier than th
osewho have mingled joys with their regrets? My mild sacrifices haveresulted in nothing, and I am tempted to try what a little spirit willdo."

  But the unruly spirit was pacified at last, and the music resolveditself into a lullaby of the kind which mothers sing to their children;it may have been a recollection of the player's own childhood, for itsoon caused her to bow her head on the keyboard, and burst into tears.