# Sister Sue/Chapter 11

pp. 149–164.
CHAPTER XI
DONALD KENDALL
It was on the last Saturday afternoon before Old Home Week that May rushed into the living-room where Sister Sue was awaiting a belated pupil.
"He's come!" she announced breathlessly.
"Well, I should think that it was time," answered the somewhat annoyed music-teacher. "But why, pray, all this excitement on your part? You're not usually so interested in my pupils. Where is he? Why does n't he come in? Well, what's the matter now?" she demanded with still more irritation as May began to giggle hysterically.
"It's Donald Kendall that's come—not your precious Jimmy Sargent," chattered May. "I just saw him."
"Oh! Well." Sister Sue was still frowning, though her eyes began to show a decided interest.
"I saw him get out of the motor at their door. I know it was he. He was tall and dark, just as Martin said; and he had a violin. Behind him came a little man with a big music portfolio under his arm. Then the chauffeur carried in two enormous suitcases and a hatbox. Oh, Sue, I'm crazy to see him!—near to, I mean. Are n't you?"
"I'm crazy to hear him play," emphasized Sister Sue severely; "and—oh, there's Jimmy, at last," she broke off, hurrying from the room.
The whole town knew before the day was over that Donald Kendall had arrived; and before twenty-four hours had passed, many who (like May) had longed to see him "near to," found their longing satisfied. For Donald Kendall went to church in the morning and sat in the Kendall pew. He seemed oblivious of the many curious glances cast in his direction; and his air, as he walked down the aisle upon leaving the church, did not invite approach, though he was civil enough to the few braver spirits who dared to speak to him.
In the afternoon he and his accompanist went to walk on the hill back of the house; and in the early evening May saw the big touring car come around to the door and take them all away for a ride.
Not until Monday morning did there come the sound of the violin; then, at almost the first note, Sister Sue and May ran to the corner of the vine-shaded veranda nearest the Kendall house.
"Hush! Listen! He's playing the Tschaikowsky concerto," whispered Sister Sue excitedly. Then, after a minute: "Oh, May, he can play!" Then, after another five minutes of ecstatic listening: "And—I've got to leave it! There's Susie—the little wretch! To think of having to hear her jangling with the memory of this in my ears!"
"I wonder if he remembers us," murmured May, trying to peer through the thick screen of leaves. "Sue, do you suppose we'll have to be introduced? I shan't. I'm going to go right up and speak to him when it's over. Shan't you?"
But Sister Sue had gone. And in a moment from the piano in the house came the familiar one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.
With a vexed gesture May ran to shut the door and the window; then she came back to her corner on the veranda.
She was there when the messenger boy on the bicycle dashed up the Kendall driveway, and she was still there through all the subsequent confusion; so that when Sister Sue came out on to the veranda for a breath of air between pupils, May was able to give her a full account of what had occurred.
"Something has happened, Sue!" she cried, fairly quivering with excitement. "First, Johnny Baxter came on his wheel with a telegram, and a minute later the music stopped right off short, and I could hear voices, away here—quick, excited voices as if something was wrong. Then it seems as though it was n't more than five minutes before the chauffeur had the car at the door and the little man—the accompanist, you know—came running down the steps with a suitcase and jumped into the car. Behind him Mr. Kendall was hurrying just as fast, only he did n't get into the car. He had his watch out and I heard him call: 'You'll make it! You've got ten minutes! Don't worry!' Then I knew he meant the train for New York, of course. And the car dashed off and Mr. Kendall went back into the house. In a minute I heard the violin; but it was n't at all as he played it before. It sounded, for all the world, like your piano when you are all worked up over something, only much worse."
"I can imagine it," nodded Sister Sue.
"It shrieked and groaned and fairly sent the shivers down my back; then he played the most wonderful double-stopping I ever, ever heard. The next minute the music stopped right off short again, and a moment later his majesty appeared on the piazza and began to walk up and down, up and down, like a wild thing. Twice his mother came out and said something, but he just waved her away as if she had been a fly that bothered; and by and by he went into the house, and I heard the violin again, only worse than before. I tell you, Sue, the piano is n't in it with the violin when it comes right down to expressing your opinion of matters and things without reserve! But what do you suppose it all means?"
"I can't imagine, except, of course, that the accompanist has gone. That's plain to be seen. And maybe he can't get back for the concert. But, anyway, we'll know later, probably," she called back as she went to meet her next pupil coming up the steps.
And they did know. At noon Sister Sue was summoned to the telephone. When she came back to the table there was an odd smile on her face.
"Well, May, you'll have your wish. You will have an opportunity of seeing Donald Kendall real near to, this evening, if you like. He's coming over here."
"Here—to-night? Honestly?" May was guilty of trying to talk with her mouth full.
"Yes, at eight o'clock."
"To see us? " May spoke more distinctly now. "To—to call, you mean?"
"To practice—if he'll let me." Sister Sue's face was expressive.
"You don't mean—his violin!"
"Yes. His mother told me that she had persuaded him to let me try his accompaniments for Wednesday, and that he would be over at once."
"Now!" May's hands flew to her hair and the neck of her dress. "But I thought you said to-night!"
"I did. It was she who said 'now.'" Sister Sue's face was still expressive of that curious something. "And she did n't even ask me, either. She said he was coming."
"And you dared to put Donald Kendall off till to-night?" gasped May.
"Certainly. I told Mrs. Kendall that I couldn't see her son this afternoon. I had pupils."
"Pupils!—when Donald Kendall wanted you to play for him!" gasped May again. "Sister Sue, how could you?"
"But I had to." Sister Sue's voice was spirited, her eyes flashed a little. "Donald Kendall is not my bread-and-butter, and my pupils are. Besides, I was really rather glad that I could n't be ready just the minute his lordship demanded. As I said, Mrs. Kendall did n't ask if he might come, or if I'd be willing to play for him. She said she had persuaded him to let me try, and he was coming right over."
"Then his accompanist has gone."
"Yes. His father is very ill—dying, the telegram said. I guess they think there's no chance of his getting back in time. So they had to take me."
"Had to take you, indeed! As if they weren't the luckiest things in the world to get you!" cried May.
"Oh, I don't know," shrugged Sister Sue. "I fancy Donald Kendall does n't think so."
And Donald Kendall did not think so. Just how strongly Donald Kendall was of this opinion it was perhaps quite as well that Sister Sue did not know. It was just as well, too, perhaps, that she did not know exactly what had taken place before his mother's telephone message, otherwise there might have been a still longer wait before she was ready to receive Mr. Donald Kendall.
What had occurred was this:
"But what are you going to do, dear?" Mrs. Kendall had asked her son when he was calm enough to do something besides wave her away irritably. He had laid down his violin and thrown himself dejectedly into a chair. Twice before, on the veranda, she had spoken to him; but he would not even listen. He had come into the house then, and had played furiously on his violin until exhausted. "What are you going to do?" she repeated.
"I shall play without accompaniment."
"Donald, you never would!"
"But I shall."
"But, Donald, it won't sound half so good." She was almost crying. "I noticed this morning how the piano filled in and rounded the whole thing out, and made the violin part wonderful. I don't see how you can play it without the piano."
"Oh, I shan't play that concerto, of course. I shall play something else."
"You mean—! Donald, you would n't get up there and play some snippy little no-account thing that day!"
He shrugged his shoulders. "There are melodies," he began; but she interrupted him.
"Now, Donald, you are not going to get up there and play any old 'Home, Sweet Home,' or 'Last Rose of Summer.' That might do in New York and places where they'd understand the fine artistry of your performance—but not here. They'll have to have noise and show and fireworks here!"
"But, mother, as if I cared—" began the man, again with a shrug.
"Then care for me!" interrupted his mother tragically. "You are in your own home town—the town I have to live in, remember. Men, women, and children will be here who never heard you before, and who will never hear you again. Call it silly, foolish, false pride, if you will. I don't care. I want these people to think you are the wonder you really are—but they never will in the world if you get up there and play some little old tune they know by heart already."
"But, mother, will you kindly tell me what I can do?" demanded the violinist irritably.
"Play what you were going to, with piano accompaniment."
"But, good Heavens! with whom? Dodge can't possibly get back, and you know it."
"Get some one here."
"Here!—in this town!—To play the Tschaikowsky concerto—for me!"
"Certainly." Mrs. Kendall still held her ground in spite of the horror in her son's face. "I think Sister Sue could do it."
"And pray who may Sister Sue be? I did n't know that Gilmoreville sported a—a nunnery."
"Nonsense, don't be silly, Donald. It's Sue Gilmore, the little girl next door you used to play with years ago. Even then they used to call her Sister Sue. Don't you remember? Always, to any questions you asked of any of the family there was only one answer: 'Sister Sue will know'; 'Sister Sue will do it.'"
"Indeed! And so you think this all-powerful, all-knowing Sister Sue can play the Tschaikowsky concerto for me Wednesday afternoon, do you?"
"She can try."
"Thanks. I've had aspiring pianists try before. It was not a pleasant experience. I really should not care to repeat it."
"But, Donald; indeed, she plays very nicely, and she has been teaching all summer."
"The village children?"
"Yes; and four from the Junction, too."
"I know. 'The Maiden's Prayer,' and, 'Listen to the Mocking Bird with Variations.' I recognize the type."
"But, Donald, you could try her. It would n't do any harm to let her try. There's time enough. Please, please let me go and tell her you'll be over this afternoon with the music. And, Donald, have n't you got something easier, that's still showy and fine-sounding, something she could do, if she can't do the concerto? You can try her on the concerto, first, of course."
It was after ten minutes more of such pleading that Donald Kendall (chiefly to avoid hearing it any longer) consented that his mother should telephone to Sister Sue next door. Two minutes later Mrs. Ken-dall came back from the instrument, her face flooded with anger.
"Well, you've had your way," began her son discontentedly, without looking up, "and I suppose I'm in for it after luncheon. What time do I go?"
"Not till evening—eight o'clock." Mrs. Kendall's voice shook. "The little wretch had the impertinence to say that she could n't attend to it this afternoon. Pupils. The idea!—and the honor you were doing her!"
An odd expression came to Donald Kendall's face. He stared, frowned, then shrugged his shoulders again. The next minute he had turned away without a word.
It was just eight o'clock when Donald Kendall rang the Gilmores' front-door bell. He carried a violin in its case and a portfolio of music.
May advanced at once from the shadow of the vines.
"Good-evening, Mr. Kendall!" she greeted him blithely. "Won't you come in and sit down, please? I will tell Sister Sue you are here. I am May. You don't remember, probably, but we remember you very well."
"Yes, we remember you very well," echoed a new voice as Sister Sue herself appeared in the doorway. "Won't you come in, Mr. Kendall?"
"Er—thank you, yes." Donald Kendall's lips smiled, but his eyes were somber, and there was a frown between the heavy black brows. "My mother said perhaps you'd be willing to try—that is—that perhaps you could play my accompaniments for me Wednesday."
"I shall be glad to. Won't you be seated, please?"
They were in the stiff parlor room with the hair-wreath and the coffin-plates staring down at them. Donald Kendall put down his violin and his music; and May began to talk brightly—archly asking him how it felt to be so famous and to come to his old home town like this, and did he remember what a wretch he used to be and how he tormented the lives out of those two poor little girls next door, who just worshiped him if only he'd stop teasing and play with them?
Mr. Donald Kendall did not remember—much. Oh, yes! he remembered the little girls, of course, and he was very sorry he had been so rude and inconsiderate, he was sure.
But the frown was still on his face and his eyes still were somber and he was plainly nervous and impatient—and bored—and enduring it all merely as a necessary preliminary to the business on hand. At last he turned to Sister Sue decisively, saying:
"I've brought the music. I have it here—what I planned to play. But I'm afraid you will find it—er—rather difficult. In that case there are one or two others—I could substitute them, if necessary. Of course, I don't expect you to play them to-night without first looking them over. You can practice them a little to-morrow. Then to-morrow night I'll come over again—with your permission" (this last plainly as an afterthought)—"and we can try them."
"May I see them, please?" Sister Sue rose and went to the piano. She was serene, demure, and innocent, but there was an odd little something in her eyes that would have puzzled Mr. Donald Kendall very, very much had he seen it.
"Yes, that's what I wanted, to show them to you," he said, hastily getting to his feet. "I just wanted to tell you the tempo—time, you know—of some of the movements."
"I see," murmured Sister Sue. "Suppose we take first the—the pieces you wanted to play," she suggested.
"Very well." With a frown, and an obviously resigned sigh, the violinist selected some sheets of music and placed them on the piano rack. Sister Sue looked at the first page interestedly and nodded her head. She did not hesitate long. The man took out his violin and tested a string.
"Give me 'A,' please."
Obediently, Sister Sue struck the key. Still frowning, still resigned, Donald Kendall pointed with the bow in his hand to the opening score.
"I take it about like this," he said, and played a few bars. "Then over here"—he turned the pages rapidly—"the andante should go slowly, very slowly. Then the scherzo here, quick, animated—just as fast as you can and then 't won't be fast enough, I'll warrant." Sister Sue's lips came together quickly. "Here, you have these runs and trills alone. And those eight measures there, they're rather difficult, you'll find. But, of course, they could be omitted, I suppose, though 't would be a pity."
"Yes, it would," murmured Sister Sue. Then, cheerfully, "Well, I think I understand. Shall we try it?" she asked, turning back to the first page.
"Now?"
"Why, yes, I'd like to."
The man's frown deepened.
"But, Miss Gilmore! Now? Before you even practice it? I wouldn't, really. You—you'll get discouraged at the very beginning while, maybe, if you'd practice it—" He let a significant pause finish the sentence for him.
"Oh, yes, I know," smiled Sister Sue sweetly. "Very likely I can play it better after I practice it, but I thought I'd like to run it through once or twice now."
"Run it through, run it through!—Run it—run a concerto for the violin and piano through once or twice!" Very plainly Mr. Donald Kendall had lost his temper now and did not care who knew it. "Very well, young woman, we will! But remember your sin will be on your own head. I did my best to warn you. This is no 'Maiden's Prayer,' or 'Listen to the Mocking Bird with Variations,' as you'll soon find out. But I'll 'run it through' for you. I'll play it straight through from the beginning to the end. I don't need the notes. As for you, when you can, play; when you can't, keep quiet and wait till a place where you can. Above all things, don't drag. If you're not sure of your notes, don't slow up and pick them out; stop; stop, I say, and wait till you can come in again with me. Now, ready!" And he motioned for her to begin.
Over in the corner May gasped aloud. For one brief instant Sister Sue looked as if she were going to leave the piano. She did, indeed, half start from her seat. Then, with a demure little smile, she lifted her hands and struck the opening notes.
And then Donald Kendall began to play. Very plainly he was master of the score and of his instrument. At the first few notes from the piano, accurate and unhesitating, he had turned sharply, his questioning eyes on the girl's unperturbed face. All through the first half of the first movement he had the air of one who finds himself walking on familiar ground when he was expecting uncertainty to break through a treacherous crust. But very soon evidently he forgot that, and long before the end of the first movement was reached, he had lost himself entirely in the world of exquisite melody he was making for himself.
In the corner May caught her breath, and held it, afraid to let it out lest some of the entrancing cadence be lost. Martin Kent came up the walk, and May, seeing him, went to admit him, her finger to her lips. Then together they tiptoed back to the parlor and slipped silently into their chairs.
As from a single instrument under the will of a single mind came the wondrous music, so exactly were the two players together, whether in a swelling pæan of triumphant rejoicing or the whisper of some fair voices far in the distance. Enchanted and enthralled, the two listeners across the room sat motionless. No less enchanted and enthralled, the players themselves very clearly had lost all consciousness of anything but the creation of their own melodious harmony. At the piano Sister Sue, as if under the sway of some magic message from his mind to hers, kept pace, note for note;—now faster and faster, till her fingers seemed scarcely to touch the keys; now slower and slower, till each note was a lingering caress bringing out the very soul of the instrument itself. And when the last strain had quieted into silence, May and Martin Kent drew a long breath of ecstasy which was echoed by Donald Kendall himself.
"That was something like!" he breathed. Then, as if in sudden realization, he turned to the girl at the piano. "And you—you! For Heaven's sake, child, who and what are you?" he demanded.
Sister Sue, whose face till that moment had been rapt, eager, and alight, like the faces of the others, changed color.
"I? Oh—I—I'm Sister Sue," she shrugged, and, wheeling back to the piano, lightly touched the keys—perhaps to show that her answer was really as light as it sounded to be.
"But—to—to read like that, to say nothing of playing as you did!" He stared, still with a puzzled frown.
"Sister Sue was the crack sight-reader in Signor Bartoni's class last year," bragged May shamelessly.
Then somebody remembered that Martin Kent did not know Mr. Kendall; thereupon formal introductions were made, and the talk for a few moments became general, but not for long. Without asking, Donald Kendall turned again to Sister Sue.
"I'm going to play this for the second piece," he began, eagerly placing on the rack a fresh score; "would you mind trying this—just a bit?"
"Oh, no! I would n't mind it at all." Sister Sue's face had suddenly broken into a broad smile as she let her fingers fall on the keys.
After that it was another, and another.
And so on they played, oblivious of everything but themselves and their music before them. In the corner May yawned behind her hand and Martin Kent fidgeted with his watch-chain, pulling at the watch itself at intervals more frequent than polite. After a time he rose to his feet. He said he must go—really he must.
May rose at once to her feet.
Donald Kendall said, "Yes, yes, to be sure. Good-night." All of which was tossed over his shoulder without so much as the turning of the head away from the sheets of music he was sorting.
Sister Sue rose and came forward with her hand outstretched. Under her breath she said she was sorry to have to seem inhospitable to him, but of course he'd understand that she had to attend to the music that evening.
Her eyes were very bright and her cheeks were very pink and her whole face was alight with eager excitement. Martin Kent's eyes were not bright, his cheeks were not flushed, and not a bit of his face was alight with eager excitement. Martin Kent, in fact, looked actually cross as he strode down the walk toward the street. Under his breath he was muttering: "Deliver me from a fool man who does n't know a thing but how to fiddle—and wants to fiddle all the time."