Kitty had said that John should sing, and she did not find it at all hard to keep her word. He was fond of music, and only too glad of an opportunity to serve Mrs. Lottie, who had been and who continued to be so very kind to Kitty. Lottie never did anything by halves, and now she had taken up the Craigs she meant to keep them up till after the musicale at least, and she frequently sent to Kitty flowers and fruit, and even her carriage for the dear little boy to take the air, and Kitty, though she in a measure understood it all, wisely concluded to accept the good the gods provided, and submitted patiently to John’s absence three nights in a week, and when he was home, played the music for him, accompanying him with her voice until she was almost as familiar with it as he was himself, and, as he declared, played better than the Misses Barrows, who did not always keep perfect time or give the best expression.
Kitty was going to the musicale, too, and she began to look forward to it with a great deal of pleasure, although she dreaded it somewhat, inasmuch as “she had nothing to wear.” All those pretty silks made at the time of her marriage were out of style. The sleeves were too large, the waists too small, and “they had not a bit of a stuck-up behind,” Susan said, when she tried them on one after another to see if they would do. Only one was at all “au fait” in that respect, and that a plain black silk, which, having been made over the summer previous, was nearly enough “bouffant” in appearance to suit the fastidious Susan.
“Some do take a newspaper,” she said, as she tried to make the overskirt stand out as far as Mrs. Steele’s had done. “Some do take a newspaper and tie on, and if you was to do that you’d bunch out beautiful.”
But Kitty declined the newspaper, and when the night of the musicale came she looked very pretty and modest in her black silk, with her coral and real lace, and John kissed her proudly and told her she was sure “to pass muster.” They were among the first arrivals, and they found the house ablaze with light and full of flowers, while Lottie herself was splendid in silk, and lace, and jewels, and in a high state of excitement. The last rehearsal had been very satisfactory and she had reason to expect a great success. But where were the Misses Barrows, her pianist and soprano? They had promised to be early, and it lacked but half an hour of the time appointed for the first piece, and they had not yet appeared.
“Dressing, probably, as if anybody will care what they wear,” she said to Kitty, thus showing the estimate in which she held them outside the services she desired.
There was a sharp ring at the door and a servant brought a note to Lottie, who, feeling intuitively that it in some way concerned her greatly, tore it open at once, her face flushing and then turning pale as she read that the Misses Barrows had just received news that their mother was dying, and they must start for home that night if they would see her alive. It was a bitter disappointment, and Lottie felt as if that poor woman dying in that little village in Ohio had somehow injured her. But there was no help for it now. The Barrowses were out of the question, and in her utter helplessness and distress, she turned to John to know what they should do.
“It is a failure, of course,” she said, and the great tears stood in her fine eyes.
John hesitated a moment and glanced toward his wife, and then to her utter dismay replied:
“Not necessarily an entire failure, perhaps. I think it just possible that Mrs. Craig can play the accompaniments and, possibly, sing as well.”
“Oh, John,” Kitty gasped, while Lottie’s black eyes flashed a curiously doubtful glance at her and Lottie’s voice said: