Sister Sue/Chapter 16

Sister Sue faced the thing. Calmly she thrashed it out in her mind. There would, indeed, be no hysterics or heroics. She was not that kind. She thanked Heaven for that. Besides, when one comes right down to it, the thing—what she was doing—was not so different from what she had been doing all her life. She was merely substituting a lover for the larger apple or the bigger piece of cake, and letting little sister have it. That was all. Surely, she ought to be used to that sort of thing by this time!

To be sure, it was not exactly soothing to one's pride to be thus so lightly tossed aside for a younger, fairer face! There would be a slight period of rather painful readjustment. There was bound to be that.

Women, like the two gossips coming out of Sunday-School that day, would love to roll the thing over their tongues and nod "I told you so" to each other. She must expect that. Other people, their own friends and acquaintances, might stare and marvel a little at the metamorphosis in the bride. That, also, was to be expected. But at the worst it would be but a nine days' wonder, soon over. Then some other matter somewhere would claim their attention.

As for her own feelings in the matter—Sister Sue was experiencing the realization of a curious phenomenon; where before, ever since her talk with Martin Kent in February about leaving her father, she had been trying hard not to think, think,, of Martin Kent, she was now conscious of no such effort on her part. She was quite willing to think of him. He seemed already a being quite apart from her life. She was amazed, and a little troubled, that she could think of him in that way so calmly—so almost indifferently. Was she, then, so cold-hearted, so fickle-minded? Surely, when one's lover failed one so utterly as to—

Like a flash in the dark there came the explanation why she, ever since February, had been mentally humming the meaningless little tunes so as not to think, think, of Martin Kent, and why now she could think of him so calmly, so indifferently.

It was not now that her lover had failed her. (A thing that was already black could not become blacker.) She knew now that it was in February that he had really failed her; in February when he had pleaded for an immediate marriage, peremptorily suggesting a sanitarium for her father, and at the same time so unmistakably indicating his own abhorrence of the presence so dear to her. She knew now why something had seemed to snap within her at that time. She knew now why she had then grown so numb and cold, and why from that moment she had always unconsciously been putting the thought of Martin Kent as far from her as possible. She knew now why, when she saw his arms about her sister, there was n't the sharp stab of a new hurt, but the dull ache of an old one. For that matter, as she looked back at it, she could now see that from the very day of the catastrophe that had brought such changes into her life Martin Kent had continuously been found wanting when put to the test of real aid and comfort. She knew that always in her own mind she had been finding excuses for him, always she had been either telling herself that it was "just Martin's way," or she had been trying to put some word or action of his quite out of her thoughts. As she looked back at it, there had, for a long time, been this growing sense of hurt and disappointment which had now culminated in a thing that precluded excuse and that most certainly could not be dismissed with a placating "Oh, that's just Martin's way." She still felt, however, that it was not now that she had lost her lover, but months ago on that day in February, just as she felt that no matter when her father should die she had really lost him on the day he was brought home unconscious from the office.

As for May—Martin Kent would very likely make May happy. Certainly she hoped he would. They would at least have the same interests, and May had no household cares or filial duties to prevent his taking her where he liked.

There remained, then, only the readjustment of matters so as to make as little commotion and talk as possible in Gilmoreville.

In the morning came Martin Kent's note by special messenger. It was a beautiful note. Not for nothing was Martin Kent a fiction writer. He did, as May had predicted, bow himself to the dust. He did not attempt to offer explanations or excuses. He declared that he could n't do that. It would be useless. But he was all contrition, all shame in his supplication for mercy and forgiveness. And in the end he begged, would she not take back his ring and wear it?

Sister Sue answered immediately. Her note was not beautiful. It contained no heroics and no thrills. Sister Sue was not a fiction writer. It contained no bemoanings, no reproaches. It was cheerful, matter of fact, and cordially interested in plans for his and May's happiness. It said, no, thank you, she did not care to wear the ring again, and she was very glad the true state of affairs had been found out before it was too late. It said, also, that there was no reason why he and May should not be married as soon as May's simple trousseau could be made ready, and that he need feel no hesitation in coming to the house with the old freedom and informality, and that she really hoped he would come soon.

And she signed herself, "Sister Sue."

And Sister Sue did hope he would come soon. She longed to get over the awkwardness of that first meeting. After that it would be easier, she knew.

She was glad, therefore, when two days later Delia told her that Mr. Kent was in the living-room and wanted to see her. She went down at once. She gave him a cordial hand and smiled straight into his eyes, and she promptly hushed the rush of words on his lips. After a very little while she took him out on to the veranda where May was waiting; then she left them with the cheery suggestion that they'd better be making their plans or the summer would be gone before they knew it.

After all, it proved to be even less difficult than Sister Sue had feared. Matters at home seemed hardly to change at all except that it was May now, instead of herself, that spent the evenings on the veranda with Martin Kent. The daytime hours May had always spent with him, anyway. True, the explanations to her father and Gordon were not easy, and certain other words had to be given out in various quarters. These, too, were not easy. As for Gilmoreville, Sister Sue simplified matters there by saying to Mrs. Preston: "My sister May and Mr. Kent are going to be married in September. If any person says to you that they supposed it was I who was to marry Mr. Kent, do you suppose you could answer very lightly, something like this: 'Sister Sue the one? Oh, no, it's May. Oh, there was a fancied something once—perhaps—between the other two—but that's all over now. May is the one'; could you do that, Mrs. Preston?"

"Could I? " The little old lady threw a keen glance into Sister Sue's face. "You just wait and see. An' I'm thinkin' I'd be addin' that whatever it was between Martin Kent an' Sister Sue, it did n't never come to much, I guessed, or else Sister Sue would n't be so happy an' gay over fixin' up her sister to marry him."

"I thought I could trust you," laughed Sister Sue as she turned away.

And she could, as Mrs. Preston soon proved. For it was in a measure true, as Gordon had once asserted, that whatever Granny Preston knew the whole town knew, but it was also true that the town knew only what Granny Preston chose to tell it. And in this particular case Granny Preston's words were chosen with great care and discrimination.

After all, even in Gilmoreville, it was only a nine days' wonder, and long before the day set for the wedding Sister Sue knew that she had ceased to be the cynosure of every curious eye the minute she appeared on the street.

Even had it been otherwise, however, Sister Sue was much too busy to pay attention to what Gilmoreville was thinking or saying, for Sister Sue was trying to create a trousseau attractive enough to suit May's particular taste and inexpensive enough to be encompassed by the slender funds at her command. And it was no small problem. But it was not the first struggle Sister Sue had had with "clothes." From the days of their affluence, when the tailors and dress-makers and unlimited credit at the shops had been a matter of course, they had brought with them to Gilmoreville a well-filled wardrobe which, by the skill Sister Sue had developed in remodeling, had served them so well that few garments had had to be bought thus far. But the supply was getting low now. There were, however, two or three evening dresses and a somewhat faded pink challis, from which, with a few packages of dye, some new patterns, and Mrs. Preston's help, Sister Sue had evolved three very pretty little frocks which found a measure of approval even in May's critical eyes. This left most of the money at Sister Sue's command to go for shoes and gloves and hats, and, by going without the new suit she had planned for herself, she was enabled to provide a trousseau that May said would "pass"—albeit she said it with so obvious a discontent that Sister Sue opened her lips as if she had something she wanted very much to say. But she did not say it. There were a good many times these days that Sister Sue was opening her lips—and then not saying it.

The wedding took place on the third day of September. It was a very simple but a very pretty one. Beth Henderson came on to be bridesmaid, and two or three other Boston friends came also. It was said at the wedding that Sister Sue looked fully as radiantly happy as the bride. And perhaps she did. Sister Sue understood very well that she could n't expect Granny Preston to do all her fighting for her. And Sister Sue particularly wanted to look happy at that wedding.

Mr. and Mrs. Martin Kent left on the afternoon train for a brief honeymoon trip, after which they were to go to Boston to live. Three days after the wedding Gordon left for college. He told Sister Sue that she was a brick to let him go, and that he was going to help—oh, he was going to help a whole lot, waiting on tables, shoveling paths, anything. But surely something.

When he had gone Sister Sue sat down and drew a long breath; but she did not sit long; her father called her, and said he had lost his shears and could not find them anywhere. He thought perhaps Sister Sue could find them for him. Sister Sue then got up quietly and went to look for the shears. There were other things, too, which her father had lost, and some things which he had found and cut which he should not have found and cut. Two buttons were off his coat, too, and his linen looked shabby. In fact, very plainly the old gentleman showed that the thoughtful and loving care usually bestowed upon him must have been absent for some weeks past.

"My! But I guess we've got to be tended to now," said Sister Sue brightly as she rummaged her work-basket for two black coat buttons. "But never mind, dearie. They're all gone now, and there's just our two selves here."

Gradually, as September passed, Sister Sue got back "into the harness," as she expressed it. Her pupils came and she welcomed them eagerly. Sister Sue was counting her money very carefully these days, and every new dollar helped. The wedding and the first payment toward Gordon's college expenses had made no small hole in Sister Sue's savings and she was beginning to worry a little about the future. If they should have a big doctor's bill! And there was the fuel for the furnace! And if Gordon was to be put through college nobody knew how much would have to be paid out for him.

With all this, and more, in mind, Sister Sue began to economize in her household matters even more rigorously than ever. Gordon and May being gone, she told herself she could do it. There were now only her father and herself to feed, besides Delia, and they could have very simple food, the cheaper cuts of meat, and no rich pies or cake. She should not go out much, so she would need but little in the way of clothing. What she had, indeed, with careful mending and managing, would probably do very nicely for the present. She wished she could let Delia go, but that was hardly possible—not if she kept her pupils, and certainly to let her pupils go would be the height of folly. She could close part of the house. That would be a good idea, and very promptly she put it into effect. By moving the piano into the living-room, and changing her own bedroom to the little chamber next her father's, she was enabled to shut up the greater part of the rambling old house, which left much less to heat and care for. She settled down then for the winter. When the early December snows came and piled high around the doors and windows, she wrote May and Gordon that she was as snug as a bug in a rug. She said nothing about the gloomy, half-closed house, the mended suit, and the simple meals, however.

It was not an easy winter. The snow came early and stayed late. It drifted deep through the roadways, and almost defied Mr. Preston to keep the paths open for the children coming to their lessons. Sister Sue went out but little. Twice her father fell sick with severe colds, and once Delia was shut up in her room for a week with a bad throat. Sister Sue thought her days were full before, but she soon learned there is nothing quite so elastic as a busy day to encompass yet other tasks.

From May came glowing letters telling of a whirl of gayety among new friends and old. Running through them was only one thread of disappointment. Martin's new book, "The Unknown Highway," was somehow not seeming to "catch on." The advance sales had been fair, but there were almost no re-orders, and the booksellers reported overloaded shelves with few sales after the first spurt. Moreover, the reviews had not been at all satisfactory, and the general report was that people did not like the book. May said that that was absurd! That she just loved the book, and so did all the rest of their friends that she had asked about it. Anyhow, they said so.

From Gordon, also, came glowing letters telling of gay times and winter sports. At the bottom of almost every letter he said he was awfully sorry, but he had n't yet found a decent job—at waiting on tables. But it was coming—oh, it was coming. Once he wrote that he had tried shoveling, but it made his arms so lame that he was unfitted for study the next day, and of course he knew Sister Sue would n't want him to do that! In the meantime he was awfully sorry, but he was afraid he would have to ask for a little more money if Sister Sue could spare it.

And of course Sister Sue spared it.

To Sister Sue, as the winter passed, the days came to be one endless round of dreariness and monotony. Sometimes she cried. Sometimes in the privacy of her own room she stormed hotly at the cruel turn the Fates had played her—though always she was ashamed of this, and afterwards she usually would do contrite penance by some special tenderness shown her father. Sometimes to Mrs. Preston she would say that the pan of potatoes she was peeling did n't seem to lower much notwithstanding her long labors. But she said this, as both knew, merely to get the comfort of Mrs. Preston's swift response:

"Never mind. Petaters is petaters, an' 'way ahead o' turkey when ye come right down ter bein' necessary!"

Sister Sue still fled to her piano when time permitted, for rest and refreshment of soul. But she never lay awake nights now, visioning herself as bowing to entranced multitudes, though still in her dreams sometimes she heard the clamorous call of "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! Encore! Encore!"