The Mystery of the Locks

by E. W. Howe

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.