A REMARKABLE GIRL.
Annie Benton had said that she usually practised once a week in the church; and during the lonely days after his first meeting with her, Allan Dorris began to wonder when he should see her again. The sight of her, and the sound of her voice, and her magic music, had afforded him a strange pleasure, and he thought about her so much that his mind experienced relief from the thoughts that had made him restless and ill at ease. But he heard nothing of her, except from Mrs. Wedge, who was as loud in her praise as ever; though he looked for her as he rode about on his business affairs, and a few times he had walked by her father's house, after dark, and looked at its substantial exterior.
There was something about the girl which fascinated him. It may have been only the music, but certainly he longed for her appearance, and listened attentively for notice of her presence whenever he walked in his yard, which was his custom so much of late that he had worn paths under the trees; for had he secured all the business in Davy's Bend he would still have had a great deal of time on his hands.
During these weeks he sometimes accused himself of being in love with a girl he had seen but once, and laughed at the idea as absurd and preposterous; but this did not drive thoughts of Annie Benton out of his mind, for he stopped to listen at every turn for sounds of her presence. After listening during the hours of the day when he was not occupied, he usually walked in the path for a while at night, hoping it might be possible that she had changed her hours, and would come to practise after the cares and duties of the day were over. He could see from his own window that the church was dark; but he had little to do, so he took a turn in the path down by the wall to convince himself that she was not playing softly, without a light, to give her fancy free rein. But he was always disappointed; and, after finding that his watching was hopeless, he went out at the iron gate in front, and walked along the roads until he recovered from his disappointment sufficiently to enter his own home.
This was his daily experience for several weeks after his first meeting with the girl, for even the Sunday services were neglected for that length of time on account of the pastor, who was away recruiting his health; when one afternoon he heard the tones of his old friend the organ again. Climbing up on the wall, and looking at the girl through the broken window, he imagined that she was not playing with the old earnestness, and certainly she frequently looked toward the door, as if expecting someone. Jumping down from the wall, he went around to the front door, which he found open, and entered the church. The girl heard his step on the threshold, and was looking toward him when he came in at the door leading from the vestibule.
"I seem to have known you a long time," he said, as he sat down near her, after exchanging the small civilities that were necessary under the circumstances, "and I have been waiting for you as anxiously as though you were my best friend. I have been very busy all my life, and I don't enjoy idleness, though I imagined when I was working hard that I would relish a season of rest. I have little to do here except to wait for you and listen to the music. Had you delayed your coming many days longer I should have called on you at your home. You are the only acquaintance I have in the town whose society I covet."
There was no mistaking that the girl had been expecting him, and that she was pleased that he came in so promptly. Her manner indicated it, and she was perfectly willing to neglect her practice for his company, which had not been the case before. She was better dressed, too; and surely she would have been disappointed had not Dorris made his appearance.
Annie Benton, like her father, improved on acquaintance. She was neither too tall nor too short, and, although he was not an expert in such matters, Dorris imagined that her figure would have been a study for a sculptor. A woman so well formed as to attract no particular comment on first acquaintance, he thought; but he remarked now, as he looked steadily at her, that there was a remarkable regularity in her features. There are women who do not bear close inspection, but Annie Benton could not be appreciated without it. Her smile surprised every one, because of its beauty; but the observer soon forgot that in admiring her pretty teeth, and both these were forgotten when she spoke, as she did now to Dorris, tiring of being looked at; for her voice was musical, and thoroughly under control:
"I have dreaded to even pass The Locks at night ever since I can remember," she said with some hesitation, not knowing exactly how to treat the frankness with which he acknowledged the pleasure her presence afforded him, "and I don't wonder that anyone living in it alone is lonely. They say there is a ghost there, and a mysterious light, and a footstep on the stair; and I am almost afraid to talk about it."
Allan Dorris had a habit of losing himself in thought when in the midst of a conversation, and though he said he had been waiting patiently to hear the music, it did not arouse him, for the girl had tired of waiting for his reply, and gone to playing.
Now that he was in her presence he did not seem to realize the pleasure he expected when he walked under the trees and waited for her. Perhaps he was thinking of the footstep on the stair, which he had become so accustomed to that he thought no more of it than the chirping of a cricket; but more likely he was thinking that what he had in his mind to say to the girl, when alone, was not at all appropriate now that he was with her.
"An overture to 'Poor Helen,'" Dorris thought, when he looked up, and heard the music, after coming out of his reverie; for it was full of whispered sadness, and the girl certainly had that unfortunate lady in her mind when she began playing, for she had spoken of her tireless step on the stair; and when he walked back to the other end of the church, he thought of the pretty girl in white, at the instrument, as a spirit come back to warn him with music to be very careful of his future.
Where had the girl learned so much art? He had never heard better music, and though there was little order in it, a mournful harmony ran through it all that occasionally caused his flesh to creep. She was not playing from notes, either, but seemed to be amusing herself by making odd combinations with the stops; and so well did she understand the secret of the minors that her playing reminded him of a great orchestra he had once heard, and which had greatly impressed him.
Where had this simple country-girl learned so much of doubt, of despair, and of anguish? Allan Dorris thought that had his fingers possessed the necessary skill, his heart might have suggested such strains as he was hearing; but that a woman of twenty, who had never been out of her poor native town, could set such tales of horror and unrest and discontent to music, puzzled him. The world was full of hearts containing sorrowful symphonies such as he was now listening to, but they were usually in older breasts, and he thought there could be but one explanation—the organist was an unusual woman; the only flower in a community of rough weeds, scrub-oaks, and thistles, wind-sown by God in His mercy; a flower which did not realize its rarity, and was therefore modest in its innocence and purity. But her weird music; she must have thought a great deal because of her motherless and lonely childhood, for such strains as her deft fingers produced could not have been found in a light heart.
"There are few players equal to you," he said, standing by her side when she finally concluded, and looked around. "A great many players I have known had the habit of drowning the expert performance of the right hand with the clumsy drumming of the left; but you seem to understand that the left hand should modestly follow and assist, not lead, as is the habit of busy people. There are many people who have devoted a lifetime to study, surrounded with every advantage, who cannot equal you. I am an admirer of the grand organ, and have taken every occasion to hear it; but there is a natural genius about your playing that is very striking."
"No one has ever told me that before," she replied, turning her face from him. "I have never been complimented except by the respectful attention of the people; and father once said I could play almost as well as my mother. Your good opinion encourages me, for you have lived outside of Davy's Bend."
Well, yes, he had lived outside of Davy's Bend, and this may have been the reason he now looked away from the girl and became lost to her presence. He did not do this rudely, but there was a pathetic thoughtfulness in his face which caused the girl to remain silent while he visited other scenes. Perhaps Allan Dorris is not the only man—let us imagine so, in charity—who has lived in other towns, and become thoughtful when the circumstance was mentioned.
"If there is genius in my playing, I did not know it, for it is not the result of training; it comes to me like my thoughts," the girl finally continued, when Dorris looked around. "When you were here before, you were kind enough to commend me, and say that a certain passage gave evidence of great study and practice. I am obliged to you for your good opinion, but the strains really came to me in a moment, and while they pleased me, I never studied them."
The girl said this with so much simple earnestness that Allan Dorris felt sure that his good opinion of her playing would not cause her to practise less in the future, but rather with an increased determination for improvement.
"I think that your playing would attract the attention of the best musicians," he said. "The critics could point out defects, certainly, for a great many persons listen to music not to enjoy it, but to detect what they regard as faults or inaccuracies; but the masters would cheerfully forgive the faults, remembering their own hard experience, and enjoy the genius which seems to inspire you. I only wonder where you learned it."
"Not from competent teachers," she replied, as though she regretted to make the confession. "The best music I ever heard was that of the bands which visit the place at long intervals. I have seldom attended their entertainments, but my father has listened with me when they played on the outside, and we both enjoyed it. All that I know of style and expression I learned from them. I once heard a minstrel band play in front of the hall, on a wet evening, when there was no prospect of an audience, and there was such an air of mournfulness in it that I remember it yet. It is dreadful to imitate minstrel music in a church, but you have spoken so kindly of my playing that I will try it, if you care to listen."
They were both amused at the idea, and laughed over it; and after Dorris had signified his eagerness to hear it, and reached his favorite place to listen, the back pew, he reclined easily in it, and waited until the stops were arranged.
The music began with a crash, or burst, or something of that kind, and then ran off into an air for the baritone. This was the girl's favorite style of playing, and there was really a very marked resemblance to a band. There was an occasional exercise for the supposed cornets, but the music soon ran back into the old strain, as though the players could not get rid of the prospect of an empty house, and were permitting the baritone to express their joint regrets. The accompaniment in the treble was in such odd time, and expressed in such an odd way, that Dorris could not help laughing to himself, although he enjoyed it; but finally all the instruments joined in a race to get to the end, and the music ceased. He started up the aisle to congratulate the player, and when half way she said to him:
"At another time I heard a band coming up from the river. The players seemed to be in better spirits that day"—
A distant march, and a lively one, came from the organ, and surely there were banners in front of the players. The music gradually became louder, and finally the girl said,—
"Now it turns the corner of the street."
Then came a crash of melody, and Dorris was almost tempted to look out of the window for the procession that he felt sure was passing. It was just such an air as a band-master might select to impress the people favorably on his first appearance in a town; and every member did his best until the grand finale, which exhausted the powers of the organ.
When the girl turned round, Dorris was laughing, and she joined him in it.
"It is a dreadful thing for a girl to do," she said, though her face indicated that she did not think it was so dreadful, after all, and that she enjoyed it; "but when father comes to hear me practise, he insists on hearing the band pieces; and he sometimes calls for jigs, and quadrilles, and waltzes, and imitations of the hand-organ. The hand-organs, with their crippled players, have been of great use to me, for their music is all well arranged, and father says that if I can equal them he will be very proud of me. Please don't laugh at the idea, for father never says anything that is silly, and he knows good music when he hears it. I know it is the fashion to make light of the barrel-organ; and the people talk a great deal about bribing the players to leave town; but father says a great many customs are not founded in good sense, and perhaps this is one of them. We so rarely find innocent pleasure that we should be free to enjoy it, no matter what it is, or where found, whether custom happens to look on approvingly or not."
"I am glad you said that," Dorris returned, "for I enjoy coming here to listen to your practising, and whether the world approves or not, I intend to come whenever there is opportunity, and you do not object. It is my opinion that you have never been appreciated here, and I will repay you for the music by fully and thoroughly appreciating it. Do you know that you are a remarkable girl?"
Dorris was a bold fellow, the girl thought, but there was nothing offensive in his frankness. He seemed to say whatever occurred to him, without stopping to think of its effects.
"It never occurred to me," she said.
"Really and truly?"
"Really and truly," she replied. "If there is merit in my playing, I might have lived all my life without finding it out, but for you."
"Then let me be the first to tell you of it. You are very pretty, and you have talent above those around you. I hear that your father is a very sensible man; he no doubt appreciates what I have said, but dreads to tell you of it, fearing you will become discontented, and lose much of the charm that is so precious to him. The friends of Cynthia Miller force themselves into the belief that you are no handsomer than she, and that your playing is no better than her drumming. All the other Davy's Bend maids have equally dull and enthusiastic friends; but I, who have lived in intelligent communities, and am without prejudice, tell you that I have never seen a prettier girl in my life. You have intelligence and capacity, too. Mrs. Wedge has told me the pretty story of how you became an organist, and I admire you for it. Some people I have known were content to be willing to do creditable things, and came to believe in time that they had accomplished all they intended, without really accomplishing anything; but I admire you because you do not know yourself how much of a woman you are; at least you make no sign of it. I am glad to be the first to do justice to a really remarkable woman."
The remarkable woman was evidently surprised to hear this; for she was very much flustered, and hung her head.
"If a girl as pretty and intelligent as you are," he continued, "should fall in love with me, I believe I should die with joy; for a girl like you could find in her heart a love worth having. I don't know what I should do under such circumstances, for I have had no experience; but I imagine I should be very enthusiastic, and express my enthusiasm in some absurd way. No one ever loved me, that I can remember; for as a child I do not believe I was welcome to the food I ate, though I was not more troublesome than other children who receive so much attention that they care nothing for it. I have been indignant at men for beating their dogs, and then envied the love the brutes displayed while the smart was yet on their bodies. It has so chanced that the dogs I have owned were well treated and ungrateful, and finally followed off some of the vagrants who were hard masters. I have thought that they despised me because they were fat and idle, believing these conditions to be uncomfortable, having never experienced poverty and hard treatment; but certainly they regarded me with indifference and suspicion. But I didn't try to force them to admire me; I rather kept out of their way; for an animal cannot be driven to love his master, and you cannot force or persuade a man to admire any one he dislikes."
"It is possible that you only imagine it," the girl said. "Such doubts as you express have often come to me, but I have comforted myself with the poor reflection that there is so little love in the world that when it is divided among the people, it does not amount to as much as they wish. I know nothing of your situation, past or present, but is it not possible that everyone has the same complaint that you have?"
"There is force in your suggestion," he replied thoughtfully, "but I do not believe that I overdraw my condition; I know too much of real wretchedness to permit myself to worry over fancied wrongs. I hope I am too sensible to weave an impossible something out of my mind, and then grieve because of a lack of it. I might long for something which does not exist, but so long as I am as well off as others, I will be as content as others; but when I have seen that which I covet, and know that I am as deserving as others who possess my prize, its lack causes me regret which I can shake off, but which, nevertheless, is always in my mind. This regret has no other effect than to make me gloomy, which no man should be; I can get it out of my actions when I try, but I cannot get it out of my mind. Happiness is not common, I believe; for I have never known a man or woman who did not in some way excite my pity on closer acquaintance, but owing to a strange peculiarity in my disposition, I have always felt the lack of honest friendship. This is my malady, and perhaps my acquaintances pity me because of it, as I pity them because of their misfortunes. It must be that I have a disagreeable way about me, and repel friendship, though I am always trying to be agreeable, and always trying to make friends. I have little ambition above this; therefore I suppose it may be said that I am no more unfortunate than others who have greater ambitions, and fail in them. I have been told that men who have great success find friends a bother and a hindrance; so it comes about that we are all disappointed, and I am no worse off than others. How old are you?"
"I shall be twenty on my next birthday; you asked me that before."
"A little too old to become my pupil," he continued, "but let me say that if you are as contented as you look, make no experiments in the future; pursue the course you have already pursued as long as you live, and never depart from it. If you are given to dreaming, pray for sound slumber; if you occasionally build castles, and occupy them, extol your plain home, and put aside everything save simplicity, honesty, and duty. There is nothing out in the great world, from which I came, which will afford the happiness you know here. I know everything about the world except the simplicity and peace of your life, and these are the jewels which I seek in Davy's Bend. The road leading from this town is the road to wretchedness, and I have heard that those who have achieved greatness would scatter their reputation to the quarters from whence it came for the quiet contentment you know. Many lives have been wrecked by day dreaming, by hope, by fancy. Pay attention only to the common realities. If you feel that there is a lack in your life, attack it as an evil, and convince yourself that it is a serious fault; an unworthy notion, and a dangerous delusion."
"Must all my pretty castles come tumbling down, then?" she said, in a tone of regret. "Can this be the sum of life, this round of dull days? This dreaming which you say is so dangerous—I have always believed it to be ambition—has been the only solace of my life. I have longed so intensely to mingle with more intelligent people than we have here, that I cannot believe it was wrong; I almost believe you are dangerous, and I will leave you."
She walked half way down the aisle, as if intending to go out, but as Dorris did not move, and continued looking at the floor, she came back again.
"That is what you ought to do—go away and never come into my presence again," he said, raising his eyes and looking into her face. "That was a good resolve; you should carry it out."
Annie Benton looked puzzled as she asked why.
"Because every honest sentiment I ever expressed seemed wrong, and against the established order. The friendship of the people does not suit me—neither does their love; and, miserable beggar though I am to feel dissatisfied with that which The King offers, I am not content with it. I wander aimlessly about, seeking—I know not what. A more insignificant man than I it would be difficult to find; but in a world of opulence, this mendicant, this Prince Myself, finds nothing that satisfies him. A beggar asking to be chooser, I reject those things that men prize, and set my heart upon that which is cheap but impossible. Sent into the world to long for an impossibility, I have fulfilled my mission so faithfully that I sometimes wonder that I am not rewarded for it. You must not follow a path that ends in such a place."
He pointed out of the window, and the girl thought he referred to The Locks; certainly it was not a cheerful prospect.
"For you, who are satisfied with everything around you, and who greet every new day for its fresh pleasures, I am a dangerous companion, for my discontent is infectious. And though I warn you to go away, you are a suspicion of that which I have sought so long. Your music has lulled me into the only peace I have ever known; but principle—which has always guided me into that which was distasteful—demands that I advise you to keep out of my company, though I cannot help hoping that you will not heed the advice."
"I regret that what you say—that I am contented with everything around me—is not true," the girl replied, "but though I am not, and wish I were, I do not repine as you do. You are the gloomiest man I ever knew."
"Not at all gloomy," he answered. "Listen to my laugh. I will laugh at myself."
Surely such a good-natured laugh was never heard before; and it was contagious, too, for the girl joined him in it, finally, though neither of them knew what they were laughing about.
"I seldom afflict my friends with melancholy," he said, "for I am usually gay. Gay! I am the gayest man in the world; but the organ caused me to forget. It's all over now; let's laugh some more."
And he did laugh again, as gayly as before; a genteel, hearty laugh it was, and the girl joined him, as before, though she could not have told what she was laughing about had her life depended upon it, except that it was very funny that her companion was laughing at nothing. The different objects in the church, including the organ, seemed to look at the pair in good humor because of their gayety; perhaps the organ was feeling gay itself, from recollections of the minstrel band.
"It makes me feel dreadfully gay to think you are going home presently, and that I am to return to my cheerful room in The Locks, the gayest house in the world. Bless you, there is no ghost's walk about that place, and the sunshine seems to be brighter there than anywhere else in the town. I leave it with regret, and return to it with joy; and the wind—I can't tell you what pleasing music the wind makes with the windows and shutters. But if you will let me, I will walk home with you, although I am dying with impatience to return to my usual gayety. I wish it would rain, and keep you here a while longer. I am becoming so funny of late I must break my spirit some way."
It was now dusk, and the girl having signified her willingness to accompany him, they walked out of the church, leaving the old janitor to lock the door, which he probably did with unusual cheerfulness, for Dorris had given him an amount of money that was greater than a month's wages.
"They say here that if Thompson Benton should see a gentleman with his daughter," Dorris said, as they walked along, "that he would give it to him straight. I suppose they mean, by that, that he would tell him to clear out; but I will risk it."
"They say a great many things about father that are unjust," the girl answered, "because he does not trifle. Father is the best man in the world."
"The lion is a dear old creature to the cub," he replied, "but I am anxious to meet this gentleman of whom I have heard so much, so you had better not invite me in, for I will accept. A lion's den would be a happy relief to the gayety of The Locks, where we go on—the spectres and I—in the merriest fashion imaginable."
Dorris seemed determined to be gay, and as they walked along he several times suggested another laugh, saying, "now, all together," or, "all ready; here we go," as a signal for them to commence, in such a queer way that the girl could not help joining.
"I am like the organ," he said, "gay or sad, at your pleasure. Just at present I am a circus tune, but if you prefer a symphony, you have only to say the word. I am sorry, though, that you cannot shut a lid down over me, and cause me to be oblivious to everything until you appear again. Something tells me that the stout gentleman approaching is the lion."
They were now in the vicinity of the home of the Bentons', and the girl laughingly replied that the stout gentleman was her father. By the time they reached the gate, he was waiting for them, and glaring at Dorris from under his shaggy eyebrows. Annie presented the stranger to her father, who explained who he was, and said that, having been attracted by the music in the church, he had taken the liberty of walking home with the player.
"I have the habit myself," old Thompson grunted, evidently relieved to know that Dorris was not a lover, and looking at him keenly.
He held the gate open for the girl, who walked in, and then closed it, leaving Dorris on the outside. He raised his hat, wished them good night, and walked away, and he imagined when he looked back that the girl was standing at the door looking after him.