Chee shook her head dubiously. “Aunt Mean never lets anything make her feel as though she must fly straight to heaven. She can’t,” said the little girl, translating Gertrude’s words into a language of her own.
CHAPTER XII.
BUSY weeks followed. Mr. Farrar frequently came and went—of course to see Gertrude, but often their afternoon drive together was only to and from the parsonage gate.
Finally the day for the concert was set. Artists from a distance were engaged, and the children’s rehearsal commenced. Chesterfield life had begun to lag. For the farmers it was less dull than for the townsfolk, on account of the haying. But gossip was scarce, and the news of a concert ahead was a genuine treat.
“Now I wouldn’t snap my fingers to hear the school youngsters holler, but regular music fellers from the city—that’s something we don’t get a chance at every day.”
The choir-leader made this remark with his usual nasal drawl. The big bulletin of the coming event was being fastened against the wall of the post-office. A little knot of men and boys had gathered around.
“Well, I don’t know as I could ’zactly afford to pay for city finery, but as Sadie and Bill are both a-going to sing, mother ’n’ me cal’ated as how we’d have to see they did right proper,” replied wee Sadie’s grandpa.
“Stuff and nonsense,” growled the doctor, as he peered impatiently at the postmistress, as though that meek little person was to blame for the tardiness of a letter, “waste of time and money.” But the doctor was a bachelor, and “took in the shows,” so the people said, during his city trips. He was a gruff man, and though they had often proved his kind-heartedness in a case of measles, or scarlet fever, small urchins stepped aside with alacrity as he passed.
“Some on you is wrong, and some on you is maybe right,” said Bill Saulswick, the village wag and philosopher, “but I know good tunes when I hears ’um; just gimme the sort, be it fiddlin’, or singin’, or drummin’,—that tells me why I’m who, and which I’m what, and when I’m where, and I’ll sit there till the lights go out.”
While the villagers enjoyed the gossip, poor little Chee was in a whirl of excitement. Her days seemed a series of ups and downs. At times she could hardly wait for the great day to arrive, then in a moment her heart would sink with terror, and she would hide herself for hours until she had conquered the temptation to tell Cousin Gertrude she must break her promise. But she came of a sturdy, resolute race,—to falter would be worse than to fail, so she struggled with herself, Gertrude claiming more and more of her time as the eventful day drew nearer.