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Mystery of the Locks

<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2> <h3>A TROUBLED FANCY.</h3> It was Annie Benton's playing which Allan Dorris occasionally heard as he wandered about the yard of The Locks, for she came to the church twice a week in order that she might pretend to practise on Sunday afternoons, and please her father's critical ear with finished playing; and Dorris was so much impressed with the excellence of the music that he concluded one afternoon to look at the performer. In a stained-glass window looking toward The Locks there was a broken square, little larger than his eye, and he climbed up on the wall and looked 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 of the spectacled professor he expected to see. Allan Dorris jumped down on the outer side of the wall, and, going around to the front of the church, entered the door. The player was so intent with her work that she did not notice his approach up the carpeted aisle, until she had finished, and he stood almost beside her. She gave a little start on seeing him, but collected herself, and looked at him soberly, as if to inquire why he was there. "I 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 often heard you play of late, I made bold to come in." "All are welcome here," the girl replied, turning the leaves of the book before her, and apparently paying little attention to Dorris. "You have as much right here as I, and if I can please anyone with my dull exercises, I am glad of the opportunity." Allan Dorris seated himself in a chair that stood on the platform devoted to the choir, and observed that the girl had splendid eyes and splendid 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 she had never been told this before, for she blushed deeply, though she did not appear confused. "I don't say it as a compliment," he continued, without giving her an opportunity to reply; "but I enjoyed the playing so much that I was afraid to look at the performer, fearing he would be so hideously ugly as to spoil the effect; but you are so much handsomer than I expected that I cannot help mentioning it." "You are a surprise to me, too," the girl replied, avoiding the compliment he had paid her, and with good nature. "I imagined that the new occupant of The Locks was older than you are." There was a polite carelessness in his manner which indicated that he was accustomed to mingling with all sorts of people; for he was as much at 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 his remark concerning her beauty. "I am glad I do not appear old to you. You have returned my compliment." The girl made no other reply than to smile lightly, and then look intently 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 him sharply for that purpose, when she discovered that there was not a particle of impudence in his manner, but rather a friendly interest. He made the inquiry as an uncle might, who had long heard of a pretty niece whom he had never met; so she compromised the matter by shaking her head. "That's strange," he returned. "It must be because the young men are afraid of you, for you are about the prettiest thing of any kind I have ever seen. It is fortunate that you live in Davy's Bend; a more intelligent people would spoil you with flattery. Will you be kind enough to play for me?" The girl was rather pleased than offended at what he said, for there was nothing of rudeness in his manner; and when she had signified her willingness to grant his request, he went back to the pews, and sat down to listen to the music. When the tones of the organ broke the silence, Dorris was satisfied that the girl was not playing exercises, for the music was very beautiful, and rendered with excellent judgment. Her taste seemed to run in the direction of extravagant chords and odd combinations; the listener happened to like the same sort of thing, too, and the performance had such an effect upon him that he could not remain in his seat, but walked softly up and down the aisle. The frown upon his face was very much like that which occupied it when he walked alone in his own room, after permitting himself to think; for there were wild cries in the music, and mournful melodies. When it ceased, he walked up to the player, and asked what she had been playing. "I don't know myself," she answered, looking at him curiously, but timidly, as if anxious to know more of him. "It was a combination of many of the chords I have learned from time to time that pleased me. My father, who is a very intelligent man, likes them, and I thought you might. It was made up from hymns, vespers, anthems, ballads, and everything else I have ever heard." "The performance was very creditable, and I thank you for the pleasure you have afforded me," he said. "Would you care if I should seat myself here in this chair while you play, and look at you?" The girl laughed quietly at the odd request, and there was a look of mingled 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 the music. If you don't mind it, I will say that I think you are very frank and honest, as well as pretty and accomplished. Many a worse player than you are would have claimed that the rare combination of chords I have just heard was improvising." "It is my greatest fault," the girl answered, "to let my fancy and fingers run riot over the keys, without regard to the instructions in the book, and of which I am so much in need. The exercises are so dull that it is a great task for me to practise them; but I never tire of recalling what I have learned heretofore, and using the chords that correspond with my humor. I have played a great deal, lately, with The Locks in my mind, for I have heard much of you, and have known of the strange house all my life. Perhaps I was thinking of you when you were listening." "If you will close up the book, and think about me while you are playing, I will go back to the door, and listen. The subject is not very romantic, but it is lonely enough, Heaven knows. I should think the old organ might have sympathy with me, and do the subject justice, for it is shut 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 a length of time that he thought it very correctly represented the silence that hung over his house like a pall; but finally there was the thunder of the double-bass, and the music began. The instrument was an unusually good one, with a wide range of effects in the hands of such a player as Annie Benton proved to be; and Allan Dorris thought she must have learned his history somehow, and was now telling it to whoever cared to listen. Dirges! The air was full of them, with processions of mourning men and women. The girl seemed to have a fondness for odd airs, played in imitation of the lower and middle registers of the voice, with treble accompaniment, and the listener almost imagined that a strong baritone, the voice of an actor in a play, was telling in plain English why Allan Dorris, the occupant of The Locks, came to Davy's Bend, and why he was discontented 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 all the people he had ever known, appeared before him under the magic of the music. Some of them looked in wonder, others in dread and fear, as they passed him in procession; but the march kept them going, and their places were soon taken by others, from the store in his memory, who looked in wonder, and in dread and fear, at the strange man in the back pew, though he was no stranger to them. Not by any means; they knew him very well. What an army! They are still coming, flinging their arms to the time of the march; but the moment they arrive they look toward the back pew, and continue looking that way, until they disappear; as though they have been looking for him, and are surprised at his presence in that quiet place. After a pause, to arrange the stops, the music sounded as if all those who had appeared were trying to make their stories heard at once. Their hatred, their dread, their fear,—all were represented in the chords which he was now hearing, but in the din there was nothing cheerful or joyous. If any of the actors in the play he had been witnessing knew anything to the credit of Allan Dorris, their voices were so mild as to be drowned by the fiercer ones with stories of hate and fear and dread. The music at last died away with the double-bass, as it began, and the player sat perfectly still after she had finished; nor did Dorris move from his position for several minutes. The music seemed to have set them both to thinking, for nothing could be heard for a long time except the working of the bellows; for the old janitor 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 beside the girl, feeling as though there was nothing concerning him which she did 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 dull town, like this, a great deal is said when a mysterious man arrives, and takes up his residence in a house that has been regarded with superstitious fear for twenty years." She was preparing to go out now, and he respectfully followed her down the 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 the people 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 in that house," he replied, pointing to The Locks. "When the stillness of night settles upon it there never was a scene in hell which cannot be imagined by those so unfortunate as to be alone in it. I believe the wind blows through the walls, for my light often goes out when the windows and doors are closed; and there is one room where all the people I have ever known seem collected, to moan through the night. Did you ever hear about the room in The Locks into which no one is permitted to look?" "No." "Even the new owner was asked to give a promise not to disturb that room,—it adjoins the one I occupy,—or look into it, or inquire with reference to it; and if I look ill at ease, it must be because of the house I occupy. I am sincerely obliged to you for the music. May I listen 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 negro janitor, who turned occasionally to look at Dorris with distrust. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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