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.