"It may work out all right in time," Carson said. "The thing is new yet,
and you can't expect it to be mellow all at once. What I'm afraid of,
apart from the inability of our cook to stand the racket, is that this
quivering will structurally weaken the house. What do you think?"
"Oh, I don't know," I said. "Some of the wainscot panels rattle a bit,
but I imagine the house will stand it unless you go in too much for
Wagner. 'Tannhaeuser' or 'Siegfried' might shake a few beams loose, but
lighter music, I think, can be indulged in with impunity."
Time did not serve, as Carson had hoped, to mellow things. Indeed, the
succeeding weeks brought more trouble, and most of it came through the
organ. Some of the rattling panels, in spite of every effort to make
them fast, rattled the more. One night when the servants were alone in
the house, of its own volition the organ sent forth, to break the still
hours, a blood-curdling basso-profundo groan that suggested ghosts to
their superstitious minds. The housemaid came to regard the instrument
as something uncanny, and, even as the cook had done before her, shook
the dust of the house of Carson from her feet.
Then a rat crawled into one of the pipes--Carson was unable to ascertain
which--and died there, with results that baffle description. I doubt if
Wagner himself could have expressed the situation in his most inspired
moments. Still Carson was philosophical.
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