The Mystery of the Locks

by E. W. Howe

"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.