Sister Sue/Chapter 12

Tuesday morning Old Home Week in Gilmoreville was in full swing. The whole town was having a holiday. Cy Bellows had arrived the night before and had been carried on the shoulders of a cheering multitude to the final lucky choice of entertainers. The drawing had been made and the manufacturers' nine had won the star pitcher, and were off somewhere now in secret session preparing for the grand game. In another part of the town the disappointed, but by no means discouraged, nine were also in secret session, pledging themselves to see that it was no "walkover" and that they would give the shop boys "a good fight, anyhow."

At ten o'clock Miss Kate Farnum, the novelist, came accompanied by her secretary. With some relief and all deference, but with no enthusiasm, the ladies were escorted to the Inn and established in the Bridal Suite of two bedrooms, bath, and reception-room—really a sumptuous apartment; though, as the indignant hotel clerk afterwards reported, it was not quite satisfactory—the lady observing to her secretary upon entering that the rooms were hot and stuffy, and did she ever see such hideous wall-paper in her life! Mrs. French, the Chairman of the Committee for Making Our Old Home Week a Big Success, and two of her henchwomen somewhat tremblingly waited on the distinguished lady—gave her a programme for the entertainment the next day—hoped that her place on it was satisfactory and that she was in good health—said they were very glad to see her and felt deeply honored by her presence. Conversation rather languished after that, and the Committee took its somewhat nervous departure, drawing a very long breath when once outside the hotel door.

"Well! If our singer is any worse than she is, I pity us," breathed Mrs. French with relief, taking out a lace-bordered handkerchief and starting to wipe her perspiring face with it, stopping just in time, however, and substituting one with no lace from another pocket. "Heaven knows I wish this first-meeting part of the business was over!"

"And we've got to meet the singer at the depot," mourned the Committee lady with the purple hat.

"I know it," sighed Mrs. French; "but it's the last of 'em. Remember that."

"Goodness knows I hope she'll go to the Whipples'!" cried the third member of the Committee, who wore glasses. "If Kate Farnum finds fault with the wall-paper at the Inn, what do you suppose Viola Sanderson, the grandest of 'em all, will say to that little old Jones house?"

"I don't know," groaned Mrs. French. "But then we need n't worry. She won't go there, of course."

"But Jane Jones thinks she's coming," spoke up she of the purple hat.

"That ain't our fault," responded Mrs. French, somewhat haughtily. "We told her about the Whipples' invitation. Now, remember! Four o'clock—sharp—in the waiting-room at the depot. Then we'll be all ready for the train at five minutes past," she added as she turned down the street.

And at four o'clock sharp they were there—Mrs. French, the lady of the purple hat, and the one who wore glasses. They had n't long to wait or worry, for promptly on time the train rolled in and there stepped down from the parlor car the handsomely dressed, smiling woman whom they recognized from her pictures as the great soprano.

It was at that moment that the full awfulness of the task before her struck Mrs. French dumb. Advancing mechanically, she came to a stop, supported on each side by the purple hat and the eyeglasses. But she was silent. As if by intuition, Viola Sanderson understood and came promptly to the rescue.

"And did you come to meet me!" she exclaimed. "How perfectly lovely! And it is just like coming home, is n't it?"

"How do you do?" "Yes'm! If you please." "We're quite well, thank you"—stammered miserably the three members of the Committee for Making Our Old Home Week a Big Success. Then Mrs. French added:

"We've come to take you to the rich Mrs. Whipple's."

"Yes." A swift shadow came over the singer's face. "Oh, but my aunt. I—I had a letter—" she hesitated.

"Oh, yes. Mrs. Jones," nodded Mrs. French, quite certain of herself now. "She did ask you. I was going to say so, but I forgot. But of course you won't go there."

"Won't go!" Viola Sanderson looked startled. "Aunt Jane is n't sick, is she?"

"Oh, no! But the house is so small."

"And plain."

"And worse wall-paper than at the Inn."

"And feather beds."

"And no finger bowls."

"And kerosene lamps. And no tiled bathroom."

"And no lovely port—portcullis. And no conservatory."

"And nothing but old-fashioned furniture."

One after another these dire disadvantages were rapidly hinted at to the astonished visitor by the three flushed and perspiring Committee ladies. And for a minute Miss Sanderson stared at them a little confusedly, as she listened. Then suddenly she laughed. And when the last came about the old-fashioned furniture she held up a protesting hand.

"Oh! But I adore old-fashioned furniture," she declared brightly. "And I'll have Aunt Jennie, anyway, and that's what I want most of anything. So please won't you take me to Mrs. Jones?"

"Why, yes. Of course. If you really want us to. But—but—"

"I really want you to." Viola Sanderson spoke pleadingly, earnestly. She smiled, too.

But there was a little something in her eyes that made the three Committee ladies, after one glance into her face, stammer:

"Why, yes—yes! Of course!" And they hurriedly led the way to the waiting automobile.

By night the town was filled to overflowing. Every available bed in town had been appropriated. Cots had been set up in chamber-halls and in lodge-rooms and shelters hastily erected on private grounds. Prodigious stocks of food had been prepared, and one might obtain a sandwich or a piece of pie at almost every corner.

Four guests were at the Gilmores' house, besides Gordon, who had cut short his camping trip by five days and had arrived that morning. His coming was a surprise to the family, for he had written that he would not be there. But a telegram announcing his expected arrival came just in time to prevent Sister Sue from handing over his unoccupied bed to the distraught Committee for Housing Our Guests.

"Come? Of course, I'd come!" he cried, when Sister Sue greeted him that Tuesday morning.

"But you said you would n't—not but what we're delighted to have you, of course," laughed Sister Sue, "only why the sudden change?"

"Cy Bellows—ball-game. We got the news 'way out in camp just in time. The idea of having him here! Say! You could n't hire me to keep away! The fellow who brought that thing about did some stunt, let me tell you."

"Well, the 'fellow' was Sister Sue," boasted May importantly.

"Sue!"

"Yes. And Viola Sanderson, and Kate Farnum, and Donald Kendall—they're all coming! And Sister Sue did that."

"Great work! Well, I shan't take back what I said," retorted Gordon. "And so Donald Kendall is coming, is he?"

"Yes—and there he is now!" cried May, her eyes on the tall figure coming up the walk. "And look at the music he's got. Lucky you told your pupils not to come to-day, Sue," laughed May as she went to the door.

"I had to. I found that out yesterday from the pupils themselves. I could n't hold their attention five minutes."

"Well, you can hold Donald Kendall's attention all right," was May's parting shot.

"I'm going to play for him. He's coming to practice," explained Sister Sue to her brother in answer to the somewhat mystified expression on Gordon's face. "Oh, Gordon! His playing is something wonderful."

A minute later Donald Kendall was in the room. He said good-morning, and he acknowledged the introduction of Gordon with a measure of cordiality, but it all was plainly only a necessary formality that had to precede the real business of the day. And in another minute he had indicated what that business was.

"I've brought two or three things here I'd like to have you try once, please," he said to Sister Sue. "Here's that largo of Liszt's. We might decide to play that instead of the concerto."

On the veranda, a few minutes later, Gordon accosted his sister May, who had taken her writing-pad to the vine-shaded corner, with:

"How long is that chap going to stay?"

"Till noon, probably. But he'll be back again after dinner (or luncheon, I believe the Kendalls call it), I'll warrant. The creature has no sense of time (except his own!) when he's playing, that's plain to be seen. He stayed till half-past eleven last night. Then something—maybe I dropped a hint—made him take out his watch, and I saw his face fall. 'I suppose I'll have to go, it's so late,' he says with a frown, 'but to-morrow—perhaps—' 'Yes, to-morrow I'll be very glad to,' says Sister Sue. But even then he stayed ten minutes longer, playing over and over again a little phrase that he wanted to get just so. Poor Martin! He stood it till half-past ten, hoping for a moment with Sister Sue to himself. Then he gave up in despair and left—which was best—for it was exactly a quarter to twelve when Donald Kendall strode down the walk to go home."

"Um-m! Martin'll be getting jealous."

"Jealous, nothing!" scoffed May. "You can't be jealous of a walking fiddle! I don't believe that Donald Kendall knows this minute whether Sister Sue is the distractingly pretty girl she is, or whether she is squint-eyed and freckled with a wart on her nose. No, Martin Kent need never be jealous of him. But he can play. Listen!" And she held up her finger as the strains of exquisite melody floated through the open door.

Wednesday came. It was a perfect day. Certainly all roads led to Gilmoreville that day. And long before ten o'clock—the hour for the ball-game—they were black with cars, carriages, wagons, and even hay-wagons packed to the limit with cheering, horn-blowing humanity. Extra trains brought more, and by ten o'clock there was no doubt as to the success of the Gilmoreville Old Home Day if the size of the crowds was any indication.

And it was a success. Unquestionably, it was a success. Promptly at ten came the Ball-Game. It lasted two hours. The manufacturers' nine won, of course, as was expected, but they very unmistakably had to fight for their victory, and the wildly excited spectators certainly got their money's worth of thrills. At noon came the Banquet with the honored guests at the head table where all might be seen. At two o'clock came the Entertainment in the Big Tent. The brass band covered itself with glory in the opening overture which it had been practicing for weeks. Miss Kate Farnum, the novelist, in a remarkable costume which was a cross between a kimona and a ball-dress, read thirty minutes from her latest novel after first making sure that she had a glass of water near by and that the ushers understood her orders for none to be admitted during her reading. She was very dramatic. Her voice rose and swelled—almost shrieked—only to die away in a hoarse whisper that sent delirious shivers down unaccustomed spinal columns. She was applauded wildly, which brought only her secretary to the front of the stage to announce that owing to the great nervous exhaustion following her readings it was impossible for Miss Farnum to respond to any encore—she must beg, therefore, to be excused. This was received with an uncertain applause that was promptly hushed as if a restraining hand had been put forth with a shocked: "Hush! You must n't clap, because she is n't coming."

The Unitarian minister then got up to introduce the singer. The Baptist and Congregationalist ministers respectively had introduced the band and the novelist with great flourish of verbal eloquence. It remained for the Unitarian to outdo them if possible. And he quite succeeded. Then appeared Viola Sanderson, in a blaze of green and gold and iridescence that "just to see" was well worth the price of admission (according to Mrs. French and her of the purple hat). There came a surprise then. The most of the audience had never before heard a human songbird who trilled and warbled in limpid notes of melody that rivaled the flute and soared away above their heads to unbelievable heights of liquid purity. And when the exquisite voice had died into silence, there came a burst of applause that would not be denied, and that very plainly declared that no secretarial response would do this time. But they need not have feared. Again, and yet again, did the singer return to make them marvel that such wondrous sounds could emanate from a human throat, until at last, with smiles and bows and a deprecatory gesture of "Really, dear people—I can't, any more!" was she allowed to rest.

It was left for the Methodist minister then to outdo himself and all his brethren in his verbal triumphs heralding their distinguished violinist, Mr. Donald Kendall. And once again they went wild, those men and women and children who never before knew that "just a fiddle" could bring to their ears the winds from the mountains, the voices from the sea, the shouts and songs of triumphant multitudes, and the despairing wail of a woman who has lost her soul; or the tripping feet of fairies in the moonlight; or the tramp of vast armies marching on to victory. Donald Kendall was gracious but unsmiling. He came back twice, and rewarded their enthusiasm with a dainty little scherzo, then with a very tender rendering of "Home, Sweet Home," which brought the house to its feet in the wildest of cheers, notwithstanding the scornful predictions the violinist's mother had made two days before. He played it this time unaccompanied, however. It is doubtful, though, if half a dozen disinterested persons in the audience noticed whether he was accompanied or not. Those who knew and understood, however, realized that the quiet little woman at the piano was really depicting the very heights of her art, by keeping her playing so nicely attuned to his that it was but a background against which his performance showed clear and distinct in all its wondrous brilliance and beauty. And when the last echo of the applause had died away, the huge throng drew a long breath and dispersed, telling of the marvels they had heard.

In the evening came the Reception and Ball, when the guests of honor stood in line and became just folks with hands that one might take, and faces that one might gaze into, and say to, "I'm so glad to meet you!" Even the writer lady consented to endure this for a good half-hour—before she pleaded fatigue and retired to one of the thronelike chairs which had been prepared for the honored guests when the Ball should begin.

The Ball, too, was a success. True, the writer lady declined gracefully to dance, and Donald Kendall looked on from afar with eyes that were a trifle bored if not scornful. But Cy Bellows danced with every girl on the floor—at least a few times—besides bringing down the house with a solo clog dance between two numbers on the programme. The singer, too, danced. She danced with every daring man who asked her, and with several who did not—except with their pleading eyes. And she left with them all the memory of a charming smile and a cordial word which would long be treasured by the fortunate recipients.

Sister Sue was on the floor, and Sister Sue danced frequently. She was radiantly smiling and her eyes were bright, but there was, nevertheless, a tired little something, somewhere, that the discerning could plainly see.

She said, yes, oh, yes, it had been a wonderful day, and the Entertainment was indeed very fine. And, yes, she had enjoyed it all greatly. To the one or two who said: "But I heard you wrote the letters and got all these great people here—so we owe it all to you!" she answered: "Nonsense! What do those few letters amount to? Any one could have written them. I did n't do anything special!" And then she would laugh again sweetly and say "Nonsense!" as she turned away.

And when the last trainload of cheering visitors had chugged out of the little station, and the last automobile and hay-wagon had carried its burden of horn-blowing humanity well out of hearing, the town drew a long breath that was yet a deep sigh of content and laid itself down to sleep. Gilmoreville Old Home Day had most certainly been an unqualified success.

And in all the town there was probably only one whose eyes were smarting with tears and whose throat was tightening with a half-stifled sob. But then, in all the town there was only one trying to banish into the oblivion of forgetfulness that siren call of "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! Encore! Encore!"