“Street?” Fanchon looked about her vacantly. “Ciel, do you call this a street?”
“Yes, I do. It’s a street in my home town,” replied William doggedly. “I’m sorry you don’t like it. We’ve got to live here, you know.”
“Here?” She looked at him now, her lip trembling. “Toujours?”
Suddenly she began to laugh, softly at first, and then wildly, hysterically, dashing tears from her eyes.
William, nonplused, simply stared. He no longer understood her.
VII
The difficulties of St. Luke’s Church had been very great. The interest on the debt was heavily in arrears, and the Ladies’ Association, selected from the active female members of the congregation, had labored early and late to find its share of the money. There had been fairs and tableaux and even Mrs. Jarley’s waxworks, but none of these things had done more than collect a tax on the members of the church. Outsiders had been absolutely shy, and the members were beginning to find a hole in both sides of their pockets. They made dainty articles for sale—splashers and whiskbroom holders and aprons—and dressed dolls and baked cakes, and then went to the bazaar and solemnly bought them back again. It had become a little wearing on sensitive nerves and pocketbooks.
Finally, as a brilliant climax, old Mrs. Payson conceived the idea of a concert that would be fine enough to coax the reluctant dollars from the Presbyterians and the Baptists, the Methodists and the Universalists and the Catholics—in fact, an entertainment that would draw the town. The Sunday-school hall, a gift from Dr. Barbour’s father, was large enough to seat almost a theater audience, and it had a fine platform, furnished with footlights, and wide enough not only for a grand piano but for a number of famous singers.
The question of paying the singers had, at first, staggered the ladies, but Mr. Payson had finally come to their relief. As the wealthiest member of the congregation, he usually had to make good the deficiencies, and he proposed to pay for some first-class performers if the ladies of the association would guarantee that they could fill the hall at good prices—five dollars for the best seats, two-fifty for the second best, and one dollar and fifty cents for children. If they sold every seat at these rates, they could cover the deficit, and Mr. Payson would escape another and heavier levy.
It was Virginia Denbigh who finally achieved it. She had taken hold with the ardor of youth and the executive ability which Colonel Denbigh proudly claimed was an attribute of his family. The thing was done. The pianist, Caraffi, was engaged and one fine singer, besides a first-rate orchestra from out of town.