Sister Sue/Chapter 10

was to have an Old Home Week, beginning the last Monday in August. Mrs. French, the Chairman of the Committee for Making Our Old Home Week a Big Success, called upon Sister Sue early in the month to ask a great favor, as she termed it.

She said that they were to have an entertainment in a huge tent on the Common the third day for the double object of celebrating Old Home Week and of procuring funds for their new town building so greatly needed. She came to ask if Sister Sue would be so good as to play one of her "prettiest pieces"; and would also the young man at the Inn, Mr. Kent, she believed his name was, read a story. She understood that he wrote them.

Sister Sue smiled; but she looked over her shoulder a bit furtively to make sure that the young gentleman at the Inn named Kent was not within hearing distance. Then she asked Mrs. French to tell her a little more about the affair.

Mrs. French was very glad to do this. She was having really a perfectly awful job, she said, and the next time they wanted a chairman for any of their old committees they might look somewhere else. She should n't take it. That was sure. But she was in it now, and she'd got to go through with it, of course.

"But just what is it that you're trying to do?" asked Sister Sue.

"Well, first, of course, we're trying to make Old Home Week a Big Success. We're trying to get everybody back here. And, really, we have some very celebrated people, you know, who used to live here: Cy Bellows, the ball-player, and Miss Kate Farnum, the novelist, and Viola Sanderson. She sings, you know—in Grand Opera, too, I think, in New York, and everywhere. And Mrs. Kendall's boy; you know he's a perfectly wonderful violinist. Well, we've written them to come. And of course we've written all the others, too—everybody who used to live here. You folks would have got a letter if you had n't already come here," she beamed.

"Thank you," smiled Sister Sue, trying to banish from her thoughts the quick vision of her father as he used to be.

"Then, of course, we had to think how to celebrate, specially Wednesday—that's going to be our big day. Some wanted speeches. Some wanted just to feed 'em with banquets. The men wanted to get up a ball-game to amuse 'em; and some of the women thought a sale would be nicest. You see, we wanted to make some money for the new town hall if we could. The young folks, they wanted a dance, of course. You can imagine it was an awful mess. Nobody wanted the same thing, and some of us, who were wiser, knew we'd got to be careful what we did have, or else the Kendalls and Whipples and all that set would n't come near it."

She paused for breath, and Sister Sue murmured a sympathetic "You must be tired, indeed."

"I should say I was! Well, we talked it over, and we finally decided. We'd have a big tent on the Common, and we'd have a banquet at noon. Old Homers—the folks from out of town, you know, that used to live here need n't pay anything. The rest of us folks that live here, and just sight-seers from other towns—we'd pay thirty-five cents a head. Some said a quarter; but we're going to give 'em a pretty good feed, and I held out for the thirty-five. In the evening we'll all have a dance—in the same tent, of course. And in the afternoon we'll have a show and charge admission—twenty-five cents. That's when we want you and the young gentleman from the Inn. And we did think maybe of having my Nellie and some of the rest of your music-scholars play. But I don't know as that would be a good idea. Of course, we could n't ask 'em all, and that would make the others mad. So probably that would n't do. Better stick to you and Mr. Kent, and maybe the church choirs to sing."

Through the window came the sound of Martin Kent's voice on the veranda, and again Sister Sue looked fearfully over her shoulder in his direction. Then she turned toward her visitor.

"Mrs. French, while you've been talking I've been thinking," she began briskly; "and I've got an idea."

Mrs. French fell back in her chair.

"My land, Sister Sue! I beg your pardon, I'm sure, and no offense meant, Miss—Miss Gilmore, but we always think of you as Sister Sue," she corrected herself a little breathlessly. "But, please, please don't suggest anything else! We've thrashed out everything; and I worked a whole hour last night to get them settled down on this."

"Oh, but I'm not going to suggest anything else," calmed Sister Sue hurriedly. "It's only a little addition that I want to suggest to your plans. Why, Mrs. French, you've got the chance of a lifetime right in your fingers. Did n't you know that?"

"What do you mean?" Mrs. French's voice and manner were still doubtful, still a bit aggressive.

"You want your special Old Home Day to be a big, big success, don't you?"

"We do."

"And you want very much to get some money. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, oh, yes!" spoken with great fervor.

"Well, then, listen!" Sister Sue was all excitement now. "You can make it the biggest kind of a day this town, or any other town anywhere around here, ever had; and you can get lots of money, besides."

"My land! How?"

"Write to your ball-player and opera-singer and novelist and violinist, and tell them that Gilmoreville wants an Old Home Day that will make the whole State—yes, the whole country—sit up and take notice; and that you can do it if they will come back home for the day and give to their old home folks a few hours of their time and their talent, and let Gilmoreville show how proud it is of its illustrious sons and daughters, and let the outside world realize what it owes to Gilmoreville."

"My, don't that sound just grand!" breathed Mrs. French.

"Then tell them what you want. Tell them you are going to have a big tent, and you want Viola Sanderson to sing, and Miss Farnum to read one of her stories, and Mr. Kendall to play his violin. And tell the ball-player that you are going to have a ball-game, and if he will only come and pitch for you the town of Gilmoreville won't be able to hold the multitudes that will pour in from the whole country around."

"My land's sake!" ejaculated Mrs. French, her eyes almost popping from her head.

"Now is where the money comes in," went on Sister Sue, showing scarcely less excitement. "With Cy Bellows for your ball-game, and with Viola Sanderson, Kate Farnum, and Donald Kendall for your entertainment, you can charge any old price you want, and they'll pay it and be glad to. And they'll come from miles and miles around, for of course you'll advertise it. With such drawing cards as you've got, you won't have to worry about anything except how you're going to take care of the crowds when they get here."

Mrs. French drew a long breath of ecstasy.

"My! But will they do it—Mr. Kendall, and them others? Will they come and play and sing and read, and all that? Of course we could pay 'em."

Sister Sue smiled. Her lips twitched.

"I doubt it—and you would if you knew the prices they're in the habit of receiving. But I think they'll come if possible. I'm sure they will if you put it up to them right—appeal to their patriotism and their love for the old home town that gave them birth. Tell them how proud Gilmoreville is of them. And don't deceive them. Let them know what their presence is going to mean from a money point of view. Tell them frankly that, in addition to all the sentiment and glory of the occasion, they can, by coming, do a real and lasting service to the old home town by enabling you to raise the money for the much-needed town building."

"Oh, my, if we only could! " breathed Mrs. French.

"But you can! I'm sure you can!"

"We could n't. We'd never be able to write 'em so they'd come. Oh, Miss—Miss Gilmore, you do it, please do it. You will write 'em, won't you? Honestly, we'd make an awful mess of it if we tried to. You will do it?" she pleaded.

"Why, y-yes, I'll do it," promised Sister Sue, after a moment's hesitation. "But we must do it right away, at once. We have n't quite three weeks as it is. You'll have to get the names and addresses for me."

"I will. I'll go straight now and get them!" cried Mrs. French, springing to her feet. "And I'll send Nellie right back with them, so you can write to-night. And, oh—" she turned when almost at the door—"of course you'll play, too, and—and the young gentleman at the Inn will read?" The intonation of her voice made it a question.

Sister Sue shook her head.

"You wouldn't want Mr. Kent, anyway; he was n't born in Gilmoreville. I was, I know, but I—I'm not a celebrity. I'm only the music-teacher that teaches the children down at the village. That would look pretty on your programme with Viola Sanderson and Donald Kendall, would n't it? And when people asked, 'Who's that?' and you had to tell them the truth! Nonsense! Of course I shan't play." Her voice was not quite steady, but she laughed lightly, and her eyes were very bright as Mrs. French held out her hand in good-bye.

"But you'll write those letters! You'll do that part!" cried Mrs. French. "And, oh, thank you so much, Sister Sue, for giving us such a splendid idea. You wait till I tell the rest!" And she hurried away without even a suggestion of an apology for that "Sister Sue."

But the Chairman of the Committee for Making Our Old Home Week a Big Success did not know that she had said "Sister Sue." For that matter, neither did Sister Sue herself know it. Sister Sue, once alone, had gone straight to the piano. The next minute runs and trills and crashing chords told (had one but known) that Sister Sue was trying to fill her ears with something other than certain clamorous calls of "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! Encore!"

Sister Sue went out on to the veranda then and sat with May and Martin Kent till Nellie French appeared with the promised names and addresses; then she excused herself and went to her room to write the letters upon which hung so many hopes. With all the skill and tact and persuasion at her command, she made known what those hopes were; and begged for an early reply.

The letters finished, she took them downstairs to the veranda where Martin Kent was waiting to mail them for her.

"Well, it did n't take you long!" exclaimed May.

"Oh, they were short and sweet and straight to the point," laughed Sister Sue, "and of course they were all pretty nearly alike. But they're gems of the first water, I can assure you. Listen!" And in the light that came through the living-room window she took one of the letters from its envelope and read it aloud.

"Bravo!" applauded Martin Kent. "That would move the heart of a stone."

"Perhaps. But that's not saying they'll move the hearts of those celebrated pets of fortune," shrugged Sister Sue.

"Only think of having Cy Bellows and Donald Kendall right here in town with us!" gurgled May.

"Donald Kendall would be flattered that you included him with Cy Bellows, I am sure," observed Martin Kent dryly.

May sniffed her disdain.

"If Donald Kendall is anything like what he used to be, you could n't flatter him!" she declared. "Of all the conceited creatures! And domineering! You could n't say your soul was your own in his presence and be sure to get away with it, even then."

"When was that?"

"Eight or ten years ago. Oh, he could play then. He was wonderful."

"How old was he?"

"Eighteen. I was eight and Sister Sue ten; and we were his abject slaves, when he'd let us be. Most of the time, though, he just tormented us. He was an awful tease. But it will be exciting to see him again, though. And he's so wonderfully famous now!"

"I want to hear him play," said Sister Sue dreamily. "Young as I was, I'd sit by the hour then and listen to him if he'd let me. But he would n't let me very often. He preferred to make hideous noises, and scrape the bow across the strings in weird shrieks and groans and cat-calls that sent us flying with our hands to our ears."

"Well, he can play now all right." Martin Kent's lips came together a bit grimly.

"You've heard him, I think you said."

"In New York a year ago—yes. He's wonderful."

"What does he look like?" This from May.

"Very much like a man who could be just such a boy as you describe," laughed Martin Kent. "He's tall, dark, rather piercing black eyes, a mouth not too accustomed to smiling, and a temper and a disposition that showed up very plainly, even that night, right there."

"You don't mean during the concert!" Sister Sue's eyes were incredulous.

"Yes. On the stage. He had an encore, and came out to respond. His accompanist came out, too, and was just arranging the music on the rack at the piano, when Kendall wheeled, walked over to the piano, said a sharp word or two, then came back to the front of the stage and waited till the pianist, very red of face, got up from the piano and disappeared. When everything was quiet, Kendall raised his violin and played two or three old airs entirely unaccompanied. I heard afterwards what happened. He was n't suited with his accompanist. Even I noticed that he turned to him once or twice, during the playing, as if greatly annoyed. When it came to the encore—something that had been previously provided for—he walked over and told the young fellow his services would not be required."

"How nice!" tittered May.

"That poor accompanist!" frowned Sister Sue. "But I can imagine Donald Kendall's—doing just that."

"I wonder if he'll come." May's voice was half fearful, half longing.

"I wonder if any of them will come," sighed Sister Sue, balancing the letters in her hand. "I'm beginning to get scared, now that the deed is done."

"Oh, it is n't quite done," Martin Kent reminded her. "The letters are n't mailed yet."

"No, but they will be to-night, for I shall give them to you when you go, of course. I'm not going to stop now, you may be sure, after all this!"

"If the rest of the celebrities are as sweet-tempered as Donald Kendall, we'll have some excitement, anyhow," commented May. "Really, I'm getting quite worked-up over this Old Home Day," she laughed as she got to her feet. "And now I'll leave you and let you two visit together. Poor Martin! He has n't had you a minute to-day. I'd rebel if I were in his place," she tossed over her shoulder as she disappeared through the doorway.

Martin Kent posted the letters that night. Then came the days of waiting for the answers. The whole town was on the qui vive. Even Sister May Superior (as Martin Kent sometimes called May Gilmore) asked every day if Sister Sue had heard anything; and Martin himself was not far behind her.

Mrs. French telephoned daily. Nor was she the only one. Sister Sue, indeed, for the first time since installing the instrument almost wished for the old telephoneless days, so constantly was she summoned to answer the query: "Have you heard anything yet, Miss Sister Sue?"

After all, they had not very long to wait. The first reply came from Donald Kendall, and it came through his mother.

Mrs. Kendall walked over to the house one afternoon at about five o'clock. Mrs. Kendall did not often come to the Gilmores'. She had called once, and Sister Sue had properly returned the visit. Since then she had not come to the house except to take them for a ride or two in the motor car. May was wont to say that Mrs. Kendall had "duty" written large all over her when she noticed them in any way. May declared that her very air said: "Whereas these persons were rich, but are now poor, it is my duty to show them that it makes no difference in my treatment of them, no difference whatever."

"And when she used to just toady to us, and be so pleased if we'd even notice her!" May would finish wrathfully.

To-day Mrs. Kendall was coldly gracious, with a tinge of patronage in her manner as Sister Sue greeted her.

"My son writes me that he has received a letter from a Susanna Gilmore requesting him to play at the Gilmoreville Old Home Day," she began with a faint smile.

"Yes, I wrote him—in behalf of the Committee." Sister Sue also spoke with a faint smile.

Mrs. Kendall stirred in her chair.

"But I wonder if you—I mean if the Committee understands what—what my son usually receives for a single appearance at a concert."

"Perhaps not—until I told them," returned Sister Sue imperturbably, still with the little quiet smile on her lips. "We understand, of course, that it would be impossible for Mr. Kendall to acquire any financial benefit from an appearance in Gilmoreville. But—we were venturesome enough to hope that he still might like to come."

"He will come." Mrs. Kendall bowed graciously. Plainly she had been only trying to make Gilmoreville realize the magnitude of the favor being done them. "He says he will be very glad to come. He will play two numbers, and he will bring his own accompanist." (Mrs. Kendall wondered a little at the sudden broad smile that came to Miss Sue Gilmore's face, but she went on with what she had to say.) "My son asks me to tell you that he is coming. So if you will consider this an official notice, please."

"Thank you. I shall be glad to pass on the information," bowed Sister Sue. "The Committee will be gratified, I am sure."

"He may come a day or two early. He was planning to make me a visit at about this time, anyway."

"I see."

For a few minutes longer Mrs. Kendall chatted of one thing and another, but she spoke no more of her son. She asked Sister Sue how she enjoyed teaching, and if she did not find that it tried her—so confining, and in warm weather, too! It was such a pity that she had to do it. She inquired for the health of the family, mentioning in particular poor dear Mr. Gilmore. Then, a little later, she took her very gracious leave.

Sister Sue went to the piano and played for quite ten minutes; then very quietly she went out to the veranda and told May that Donald Kendall was coming. She gave the same piece of information to Mrs. French over the telephone. After that it was not necessary to tell any one; though she still had to say, "Yes, it is fine that he is coming, is n't it?" to no less than five others who called her up before the next morning.

A day later came a letter from Kate Farnum's secretary saying that Miss Farnum would be pleased to come to Gilmoreville as requested, and would be willing to donate her services to the extent of a thirty-minute reading from her latest novel, provided that the management would agree that the doors of the assembly room should be closed during the reading and no one admitted for that period of thirty minutes.

Close upon the heels of this epistle came a letter from Viola Sanderson, written in her own sprawling hand. She said that she thought it was perfectly lovely for Gilmoreville to plan such a delightful reunion of all the old home folks, and she was anticipating the occasion very much and would n't miss it for the world. Then she signed the name known from one end of the continent to the other (to say nothing of Paris, London, and Berlin) as that of the greatest coloratura soprano of the day.

As if in afterthought came the P.S.:

"Sing? Bless your heart, of course I'll sing for you—all you want me to!"

"And she's the biggest, the very biggest of the whole bunch!" cried May, when Sister Sue, as usual, had read the letter to her and Martin Kent on the veranda. "And yet look how little she makes of what she is doing for us!"

"Quite apt to be the way, from my experience," commented Martin Kent, reaching for the letter and critically examining the handwriting. "The bigger they are, the more simple and unassuming. And the lady writes the whole letter herself, if you please, in her own hand. That's some letter for an autograph collector, Sue!"

"Well, an autograph collector is n't going to get it." And Sister Sue reached for the letter as if already fearful of its escape.

"And look at Kate Farnum, with her stiff little note from her secretary!" scoffed May; "laying down the law about doors being shut and no admissions during the reading. As if anybody cared whether they heard her little two-for-a-cent novel, or not!"

"Jealousy—professional jealousy!" gibed Martin Kent with merry eyes.

May shrugged her shoulders.

"Sister Sue, it is so,—what I said,—is n't it?" she appealed.

But Sister Sue turned away with a laugh.

"Settle your own disputes," she said. "I've got to go and tell Mrs. French the latest. How pleased they will be!"

"You have n't heard from Cy Bellows yet?" called out May.

"No, but you will," declared Martin Kent without hesitation.

And Martin Kent was right. Before night there came a telegram reading:

"And now we've heard from them all, and they're all coming," triumphed Sister Sue. "Why, May, I'm getting to be real excited myself; I really am."

But she had to draw the line that evening when Mrs. French, red-faced and flustered, ran over to "talk things up."

"And, oh, ain't it splendid and perfectly wonderful?" breathed Mrs. French, dropping herself into a chair. "Only think of having Viola Sanderson and Mr. Kendall and—on our programme! Why, they say she has sung before Kings and Queens and Princesses, and the idea of her singing for us, right here in Gilmoreville! And it's all owin' to you—every bit of it. We would n't have had anybody but you an' Mr.—oh, Miss Sister Sue," she broke off, growing even more red of face, "I beg your pardon! Excuse me! That was awful! I—I did n't mean it to sound like that. Of course we wanted you—that is, we'd be glad now to have—"

But Sister Sue interrupted her with a quickly upraised hand.

"Yes, yes, I know; I understand," she nodded with a smile. "But never mind about that. Just think of what we're going to have now. Besides, the work has just begun, the real work."

"Yes, of course, I suppose it has," sighed Mrs. French, settling back in her chair. "Well, what shall we do first?"

"I can't do anything. I have n't the time, really, Mrs. French."

"But, Sister Sue, you'll advise us!" cried Mrs. French, sitting up, aghast. "I mean, Miss—Miss Gilmore," she stammered.

"Let it go at 'Sister Sue.' That's what I am." There was an odd something in the girl's voice that vaguely disturbed Mrs. French. But instantly she forgot it under the sway of the brisk cheeriness of Sister Sue's next sentence. "Advice? Oh, yes, I'll give you lots of advice, if you want it," she was saying. "And I can put it in just one word: Advertise. Advertise everywhere—town, county, the whole State. Tell everybody what you are going to have here on that last Wednesday in August. Then get busy, all of you, to prepare for the crowd that will surely come."

"We will, we will! " exclaimed Mrs. French eagerly. "And folks are interested already. The Kendalls, and Whipples, and Grays, and all that set they're coming, and the Kendalls are going to have folks from Boston and New York—a house-party. And Mrs. Sargent telephoned yesterday to know if we were going to have boxes in the tent; and if we were, she wanted us to reserve the best one for her. She wanted to give a box-party, she said. Oh, I think it's wonderful, perfectly wonderful! And we owe every bit of it to you!"

"Then pay me back by making the whole thing one big glorious success," smiled Sister Sue as she bowed her visitor out.

And when Mrs. French had gone, once more to the piano went Sister Sue to fill her ears with something other than that clamorous "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! Encore!"

For the next two weeks little was done or thought of in Gilmoreville but what had to do with Old Home Week. Even the children, whose lips still droned one-two-three, one-two-three, at Sister Sue's piano, showed so plainly where their minds were, that their much-tried music-teacher sometimes declared to her family that she might as well have given up her entire time to the project, for all the good her lessons were doing. Even as it was, her telephone was kept not a little busy by Mrs. French's excited voice announcing as a preface to an always lengthy talk:

"Well, I want to tell you what we're doing now!"

Sister Sue knew, therefore, the most of what was being done.

It was arranged that Miss Kate Farnum should stay at the Inn. Nobody seemed anxious to undertake her entertainment after being shown the secretary's letter. Mr. Donald Kendall, of course, would stay at his mother's. At least five homes had been thrown wide open to Cy Bellows, with their owners begging for the privilege of entertaining him. After anxious deliberation the Committee chose the first one offered as the safest way out of that dilemma.

There remained, then, only Miss Viola Sanderson. Here there entered complications. Mrs. Jane Jones, an aunt of the singer, lived in a little white house on a side street, and she notified the Chairman of the Committee for Making Our Old Home Week a Big Success that she would be very glad to entertain her niece. This created some little consternation of itself, for the small white house on the side street was very plain and unpretentious, and its mistress, though a very sweet and estimable little old lady, was even more simple and unpretentious than the house; and the Committee for Making Our Old Home Week a Big Success were appalled at the thought of conducting the great Viola Sanderson to what they scornfully termed "that little snippy place."

"Yet, of course, Mis' Jones is a relative, her own mother's sister," moaned Mrs. French worriedly. "There's no getting away from that!"

At this point, to complicate matters still further, came the note from Mrs. Whipple, graciously offering the hospitality of her home for the entertainment of their expected guest Miss Viola Sanderson.

"And there the Whipples have got the very swellest-looking house in town, with that porte-cochère, and all," wailed one of the Committee when the letter was read. "We'd love to take her there. Besides, if we don't, what can we say to Mrs. Wliipple? She'll get mad then, and we can't afford that. She's going to take ten tickets. She said she would. But if we don't let her have Miss Sanderson, after all her kind offer, she won't take one, maybe."

In this dilemma, as in many others, Mrs. French finally appealed to Sister Sue.

"Now what shall we do?" she demanded, when she had laid the case before her over the telephone. "What can we do?"

"Leave it to Miss Sanderson herself," answered Sister Sue promptly.

"To Miss Sanderson?"

"Of course. You'll have to. There's nothing else you can do that I can see," persisted Sister Sue. "You want her to go to Mrs. Whipple's, I judge, from what you say."

"Well, I guess we do! The idea of Viola Sanderson going to Jane Jones's to stay!"

"But Mrs. Jones can't be ignored, just the same," Sister Sue reminded her. "She is her aunt, you know. It would n't be fair to her, or even to Miss Sanderson herself, not to give her her aunt's invitation. At the same time you can tell her of the other. Then let her choose."

"All right," came the voice of Mrs. French doubtfully over the wire. " If you really think we ought to."

"I certainly do," declared Sister Sue as she hung up the receiver.

Arrangements for the ball-game were coming on apace. Sister Sue was not consulted about this, but she was told all about it. The players were all home-town young men, and were practicing every afternoon on the Common. The bank boys and retail clerks were going to play against a nine picked from the Kendall and Whipple shops. Before the Great Day they were to draw lots to see who should have Cy Bellows for pitcher. It was a foregone conclusion, of course, that the side which won Cy Bellows would win the game; though each team valiantly declared that they'd give the other a fight for it, anyhow, even if they did have Cy Bellows for pitcher!

The fame of the game, as well as of the concert, was already spread abroad, for both had been advertised far and near. And already from remote corners of the State had come news of intending visitors.

Little wonder that Gilmoreville was on the qui vive, and that Sister Sue's small pupils droned out their one-two-three, one-two-three, with minds miles away from their fingers.