CHAPTER XIX
A BROKEN ARM
The winter passed and spring came again. The winter had been less severe this time, and particularly for Sister Sue it had not been so arduous. There were not so many shivering mornings with the fire out, nor quite so many frozen water-pipes. The family had been measurably well, and the pupils had been more regular in attendance. Expenses had not been so heavy and no checks had to be sent to Gordon. Indeed, Sister Sue wrote to May that she was making money, was growing rich, so rich that she was going to invest in a new spring suit.
When June came, bringing Gordon's wedding, she went into an even deeper extravagance and bought a brand-new pretty little frock for the occasion, "neither dyed, nor mended, nor turned inside out," she wrote May. But, what was still more thrilling to Sister Sue, she went to the wedding, venturing to leave her father to the Prestons' care for three brief days. It was the first time for four years that she had been away from home overnight, and she told May at the wedding that the smoke of the engine was like the perfume of Araby to her nostrils, and that even the railroad tracks looked good to her, which only made May stare and exclaim, "Why, how funny! I hate that cindery, sooty railroad smoke!" But then May had been away a good many nights during the last four years. That might have made some difference.
It was a very pretty wedding. Most weddings are. It would be a sorry thing, indeed, that could take away all the beauty of a wedding: beauty with its charm of youth, lights, flowers, music, radiant faces, and holiday garments. Miss Mabel Billings, in her white satin and tulle, was a picture of loveliness, and her shy embarrassment rendered her all the more appealing. Gordon was a handsome and a beatifically happy-looking bridegroom. The guests represented the usual mixture of smiling, or teary-eyed, relatives, some rather noisy schoolmates on the look-out for a chance to play pranks, and a few intimate friends of the family. The father and mother of the bride, Sister Sue owned to herself, she genuinely liked. They were simple, kindly, and were possessed very evidently of a generous fund of good common sense. Sister Sue went home reflecting that, while keeping a grocery-store might not bring to Gordon a Ph.D. or even an A.B., yet, after all, grocery-stores occupied a place of no mean value in the scheme of daily living, and that it was just as necessary to have potatoes to peel as it was to peel them—sometimes.
May had told Sister Sue at the wedding that she should not be up to Gilmoreville till August this year. Then she and the baby and Martin would come for a few weeks. And again was Sister Sue conscious that her assent to the proposition would be merely an unnecessary formality—it had been a statement of fact, not a request for a favor. She listened, therefore, with a quiet smile, while May went on to explain that the first month of their summer holiday was to be spent at the North Shore visiting friends.
It was soon after returning from the wedding that Sister Sue's daily paper carried the information that the great violinist, Donald Kendall, had gone down a twenty-foot embankment in an automobile. He had come out of the accident with multiple cuts and bruises and a badly broken right arm. It would be some time before he could play the violin again, the report said.
Two weeks later Sister Sue's telephone bell rang at nine o'clock one morning.
Sister Sue heard this, then, over the wire, spoken in Mrs. Kendall's voice:
"Is this Sister—er—is this Miss Gilmore?"
"Yes, Mrs. Kendall."
"Will—will you be so good, please, as to come right over? My son wants to see you." It was the fretful voice of a woman who has been harassed to the breaking point of temper and patience.
Sister Sue smiled.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Kendall, but I can't just now. I have a pupil."
"But, Sister Sue, can't you excuse her, or him, or whatever it is, for this once? My son has broken his arm, you know. Really, he's in a dreadful state."
"Yes, I know. I heard that he was injured and that he came home yesterday. I'm so sorry. How is he?"
"I've just told you, he's in a dreadful state." Mrs. Kendall's voice was waxing more and more impatient. "I can't do a thing with him, really, if you don't come.—Can't you dismiss that pupil this once? You're the only thing he's been willing at all to have. He has n't had a mouthful of breakfast."
Sister Sue's merry laugh went over the wire.
"And does he want me for breakfast, Mrs. Kendall?" she chuckled; then with quiet seriousness, she added: "Indeed, Mrs. Kendall, I'm very sorry, and I'll be glad to do anything I can. I have an hour from eleven till twelve and I'll run over then. I can't come before. Indeed, I can't. I'm sorry. But I'll be over soon after eleven."
"W-well, if that is the best you can do," accepted Mrs. Kendall grudgingly. "Er—thank you," she added, as an unwilling afterthought.
Sister Sue was still smiling as she turned away from the telephone, and for some reason the smile continued in her eyes if not on her lips all the rest of the morning.
Just after eleven she went through the garden gate and up the side walk to the Kendalls' veranda. Before she could ring the bell Mrs. Kendall met her at the door.
"Thank Heaven, you're here! I thought 't would never come eleven o'clock."
"Oh, yes, I'm here," smiled the girl. "But, Mrs. Kendall, what—what is it? What do you want me to do?"
Mrs. Kendall threw up her hands.
"Heaven knows, child! I don't! I don't believe even my son himself does. He's restless, and—and, I'm afraid, irritable. He's always been perfectly well and strong, and he does n't know how to be sick. He is n't sick now."
"Is it more than just the broken arm?"
"Nothing serious. Only a few cuts and scratches. His head is still tied up—with plasters. But his arm—it was a bad break. The doctor says it will be weeks now before he can use it. He can't play, you know, and always before he's been able to vent his feelings on the violin—just as you do on the piano.—Your sister said you did." Mrs. Kendall smiled faintly.
"Yes, I know," smiled Sister Sue in her turn. "But, Mrs. Kendall, he will be all right, in time?"
"Oh, yes. If he does n't fret himself to death in the meantime, but—"
"When are you two women going to get done with your talking?" demanded an irate masculine voice from the library doorway down the hall. "How do you do, Miss Gilmore! I beg your pardon, of course, but Mother said you were coming to see me."
"Donald!" reprimanded Mrs. Kendall with a despairing "you see!" look toward the girl.
"And I am coming to see you," nodded Sister Sue, laughing a little as she came forward, "though I understand you are anything but pleasant company just now."
"Yes, I know I am a beast," admitted the man cheerfully. "Come into the music-room; I want you to play for me."
"For you!" Sister Sue bit her lips the minute the words were out. She had not meant to put it quite like that. But she had her fears for nothing. The man did not take it as she had thought he would.
"Yes. You take it out on the piano, don't you, when things go wrong?"
"Why, y-yes," laughed Sister Sue. "And when they go right, too."
"Humph!" grunted the man. "Well, I don't need that kind just now. But I do need the other. Now, sit down, please, and play."
"As I feel?"
"No! As I do," he snapped.
Her eyes began to twinkle, but he kept on speaking with no abatement of irritability. "I'm going to grumble and growl all I want to. I—I'll try not to swear. But I want to let it out for once—and as I talk, you play. Understand? And let me tell you right now you'll have to do some lively playing—if you're going to fitly express what I say."
Sister Sue laughed joyously and brought her hands together in a soft clap. More than anything else in the world, perhaps, Sister Sue loved to improvise.
"I can do it! I can do it! Oh, I know I can do it!" she cried, running to the piano and seating herself. "Ready. Begin!" she commanded, letting her hands rest lightly on the keys.
And he did begin, and he kept on. He roared—and scolded—and snapped—and snarled—and bitterly assailed a cruel Fate that had played him the beastly trick. The car, the road, the chauffeur, the slipping mud, the steep embankment, the doctors, nurses, medicine, the smells and sights and sounds of the past three detestable weeks—they were all there. And in Sister Sue's playing they were all there, too. The louder he talked the louder she played; the faster flew his tongue the faster flew her fingers, until they were both in gales of laughter—and with a rippling run and a crashing chord Sister Sue brought the performance to a triumphant end.
"Well! Have you two gone crazy?" Mrs. Kendall stood in the doorway.
Her son drew a deep breath.
"No, but I was headed in that direction and Miss Gilmore saved me. I'm sane now—for a while, anyway. My! But that felt good!" he sighed satisfiedly.
"I'm glad, I'm sure, if I have been of any assistance," smiled Sister Sue demurely. Then, glancing at her watch, she got to her feet, saying: "I'll have to go now, I'm afraid."
"But you'll come again?" begged the man.
"Of course she'll come again, whenever you want her," spoke up the relieved mother before Sister Sue could answer.
"Oh, yes, I'll come again—when I have the time." Sister Sue was still smiling, though the emphasis of her amended sentence was unmistakable.
And she did come again. She came many times during the next month, and when the bandages and plasters ceased to decorate Donald Kendall's head and face, he crossed the yard to Sister Sue's garden gate and went to see her. They played checkers, chess, and cribbage together. They read together, and not infrequently would Sister Sue sit again at the piano and let him vent his mind through her own finger-tips. And when the arm was out of the sling and the violin could be held again in position and the bow drawn, it was Sister Sue who played the piano for that first song of rejoicing—triumphantly, yet very carefully played—over the now no longer silent bow.
It was August by that time, and Mr. and Mrs. Martin Kent and little Martia soon arrived. Donald Kendall did not come to the house after that, and the necessity for Sister Sue's going to his had long since passed, so now the two did n't see so much of each other. Before long, too, Donald Kendall left town. Mrs. Kendall, however, for a long time did not cease to talk of what a wonderful thing Sister Sue had been able to do for her son, and they did not know what they should have done without her.
It was just as well, though, perhaps, that Donald Kendall went when he did, so far as concerned any further benefit from Sister Sue's ministrations, for after the Kents came, Sister Sue had little time that she could call her own. Martia was a very exacting child. She "took" to Sister Sue at once, and May said she was so glad, for she herself needed a rest, and she could take a real rest, she declared, whenever Sister Sue had the baby, for then she did n't worry at all.
Late in August Gordon and his wife came up for a week, but May did not care for her new sister-in-law and showed it very plainly, which did not contribute to the happiness of either guests or hostess. May was ironical and sarcastic and bored and sulky, and Gordon annoyed and angry. Poor little Mabel, obviously ignorant as to the cause of it all, chatted away cheerily to each one, saying how perfectly grand it was to be there all together and what a grand plan it was, anyway! Among them all, Sister Sue's tact and patience were tried to the utmost, and perhaps no one's sigh was quite so relieved a one as was hers when they all went home.
It was then that she suddenly realized how very lonesome she was, and how much she missed the visits of Donald Kendall.
"Oh, well! He was good fun, even if he was so outrageously conceited and irritable," she said to herself one day, her eyes idly following the little path through the garden to his side door.
She went upstairs then to sit with her father. John Gilmore had not been so well of late. Sister Sue wondered sometimes if it was the beginning of the end.