Sister Sue/Chapter 2

was some days before Sister Sue found the opportunity of telling her family. She wanted them all together when she told them, and there seemed to be no appropriate time when they were all together. Besides, of late, her father had appeared to be more than usually nervous and irritable, for some unexplained reason; and she never liked to tell him disturbing things when he was in an unresponsive mood. And he certainly was in that sort of mood now. He seemed to be worried or anxious over something. It might be business. She rather suspected that it was.

She could not even tell Martin. As it happened, Martin was away for a week. There was nothing to do, therefore, but to wait. And as patiently as she could Sister Sue set herself to this new task, daily comforting herself with "Oh, well, it is n't as if it was n't going to come sometime!"

Then, almost as a surprise, the night before Martin Kent's expected arrival, came her chance: a furious storm was raging outside, and the Gilmore family were all together in the library.

For five minutes Sister Sue looked a little fearfully into the faces of her assembled family; then, taking her courage in both hands, she spoke.

She told them first of what Signer Bartoni had said. She enlarged upon the wonder of such praise from such a source, and she let them see plainly how much it meant to her. She told them then of her determination: she was to fit herself for a concert pianist. She was to try to prove herself worthy of Signer Bartoni's high commendation. She was going to make of herself something really worth while.

With a little breathless choke in her voice she stopped. Some way it sounded to her very crude, very commonplace, now that she had said it. She had intended to say much more. She had hoped to bring to their eyes the wondrous vision of herself bowing to enthralled multitudes, and to their ears the intoxicating clamor of "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore!" But she knew that she had done very far from that.

She felt suddenly shy and embarrassed. She was tempted almost to run away upstairs to her room. Though she realized at once that she could not do that, of course. There was yet more that she must say—much more. She had not yet spoken at all of Cousin Abby. With that little breathless choke, therefore, she waited now for some sort of reply to what she had already said.

There was a blank half-minute of silence that seemed to Sister Sue an eternity. Then from her father came this:

"You mean you are going to turn yourself into a—a show girl on the stage?"

The tension snapped, and Sister Sue laughed a bit hysterically.

"Not exactly that, Father—not in pink tights and spangles," she twinkled; then in a very different voice, just above her breath, she stammered: "I'm going to be a—great artiste." It was out, with all the hushed awe and glorified elation of youth's ambition.

There was another benumbed silence; then May began doubtfully:

"But do you think you will like that—on the stage so?"

"Of course she'll like it!" cut in Gordon, with sudden vehemence. "And I, for one, say, 'Bully for you, Sis!' We're going to be proud of you."

"Thank you, Gordon." Sister Sue's eyes glistened. "Of course I hope you will, but we can't tell about that—yet; but I'm going to try, oh, you don't know how I'm going to study and practice and work." She said this looking straight into Gordon's boyishly sympathetic eyes. Then, with a little relieved sigh, she turned to the others. "And so I'll write to Cousin Abby right away, and see how soon she'll come," she finished.

It was like a match to gunpowder.

"Cousin Abby!" ejaculated three amazed, angry voices. Then her father demanded: "Come here? What do you mean?"

The amazed anger of those three voices had not been lost on Sister Sue; but she gave no sign that she understood its meaning.

"Why, come here to live, of course—to see to things, you know," she retorted cheerily.

"Nonsense!" ejaculated her father.

"But we don't want Cousin Abby here!" cried May.

"I guess not!" emphasized Gordon.

"But you'll have to have her," reasoned Sister Sue. She still spoke cheerily, though her voice had lost some of its assurance. "You'll have to have some one, and I should think she would be the best of anybody."

"But we don't want any one but you," spoke up May.

"We don't need any one," declared Gordon.

"Come, come," interposed the father sharply; "there is no need of going through all this again. We settled it once for all some time ago. We don't want Cousin Abby nor need her. What is more, we're not going to have her. We're doing very well as we are, Sue. Now let us hear no more about it."

"That's just it. We don't want any one but our Sister Sue," beamed Gordon, settling back in his chair as at the satisfactory conclusion of a somewhat troublesome matter.

Sister Sue wet her lips, but her voice, as she spoke, still carried a resolute cheeriness.

"Oh, but you don't understand. I shan't be here, you see."

Her three auditors sat suddenly erect.

"You won't be here! What do you mean?" demanded her father.

"Why, I told you. I'm going to study. I've got to go away. I 'm going to New York first, then I want to go abroad."

"Nonsense!" cried the man, with an impatient gesture.

"Why, Sister Sue, you can't go away!" expostulated May. "Who'll keep house for us?"

"Cousin Abby. That's what I'm telling you."

It came then the storm of protest. They understood at last. They were not only indignant and angry, but they were amazed and grieved. Not have Sister Sue at home with them? Why, it was absurd, unthinkable! Why, they'd always had Sister Sue. They shouldn't think she'd wish to go—anywhere, when they wanted her so at home!

Sister Sue wet her lips once more, and began all over again at the beginning. She tried to make them see what it meant to her—what Signer Bartoni had said; how her whole future happiness was bound up in this great wish of hers; how this was her one chance to make something really worth while of her life.

In the end she won a grudging consent—that is, if it might be called consent. Her father, with a frown and an impatient gesture, sprang to his feet, muttering as he left the room: "Oh, well, well, have it your own way. I've too many troubles of my own to think of to try to settle yours."

Gordon, with no sympathy in his eyes now, and no "Bully for you!" on his lips, struck a match with unnecessary vehemence. "Of course, have it your own way!" he snapped, as he, too, rose to his feet and left the room.

Wistful-eyed and quivering-lipped, Susanna Gilmore turned to her sister.

"May, you think—" she began. But May interrupted her sharply, as she, also, rose to her feet.

"It's just as well, perhaps, that I do not say what I think," she vouchsafed coldly.

The next moment Sister Sue was alone.

For a long time she sat motionless, her eyes on the dancing flames on the hearth; then, as if to a refuge, she flew to the piano in the music-room. In fifteen minutes she came away, rested, refreshed, serene, and at peace once more with the world.

It was always like that with Sister Sue. Let her have but ten minutes of improvising at the piano, and whether it was joy, sorrow, anger, or a fearsome questioning that had strained her emotions to the breaking point, those ten minutes of vibrant fellowship with the ivory keys had brought back her poise and serenity of soul. Sister Sue's family irreverently called it "taking it out on the piano." And it was always left for Gordon to add with a roguish twinkle that they were mighty glad the piano was there, just the same!

Sister Sue wrote to Cousin Abby that evening. To herself she said she wanted to do it before she lost her courage, and before they—her family—lost theirs. The letter written, she went to bed, but not to sleep. For long hours she lay awake, half the time assuring herself over and over that she was not an unfeeling, selfish wretch, unfilial and unsisterly, to want to live her own life; the other half spent in trying to plan what she should say to Martin Kent.

Martin would not like it, of course. She was quite sure of that. He would much prefer that she should tell him she had decided to set an early marriage date. But she had already told him that she should not do that. As if she were going to tie herself down at twenty years of age to what would be merely another laundress and another brand of soap! After she had made a name for herself—that would be a different matter.

So Martin would not be exactly pleased with what she was going to tell him. She knew that. But he would not be like her father, or Gordon, or even May. She was sure of that. He would show interest and sympathy, and be proud and excited and glad when she told him what Signor Bartoni had said. He al- ways praised her playing, and said he thought she had wonderful talent. So he would understand and not object—not really object—to her wanting to make the most of that talent, she was sure.

Sister Sue went to sleep then. In her ears once more was ringing the applause of uncounted audiences, and in her eyes was the vision of herself bowing her thanks to the clamorous "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! Encore!"

Martin Kent called the next evening.

Martin Kent was engaged in writing the Great American Novel. That is, he said it was going to be that when it was finished. He had told Sue several times that it was going to be by far the best thing he had ever done.

Martin Kent already had several novels to his credit—or discredit, as one chose to look at it. They were more or less erratic, and they had not sold well—not that this disturbed their author, however. Martin Kent snapped his fingers at the public taste, with a disdainful "Who cares?" and a merry "I should worry!" To be sure, there were those who wondered why he did not worry, for certainly his visible means of support were very slender. He was known to have only a small annuity aside from what his books brought him. Others—one of whom was Gordon Gilmore—said that they understood quite well why he did not worry: he did n't need to if he was going to marry Susanna Gilmore!—which was a most unkind insinuation to make, especially concerning one who was at that very moment engaged in writing that Great American Novel which would, of course, sell away into the hundreds of thousands. But perhaps Gordon and some others had not quite so much faith in this Great American Novel.

Sue Gilmore had faith in it; so, too, had her young sister May. May was particularly interested: was not she herself writing stories—also or trying to? Was not she going to write the Great American Novel sometime? Of course she was! May just knew this novel of Martin Kent's was going to be a wonderful success! May did not realize, perhaps, to what extent that confidence on her part had to do with the author's black eyes, ready smile, and debonair self generally. May regarded her future brother-in-law as the most thrillingly handsome man she had even seen"and May's experience was not limited. She was familiar with the features of nearly every Adonis of the screen and the footlights. As for John Gilmore—John Gilmore was not a movie fan, neither was he thrilled at the sight of Adonises in everyday life. He knew little of the Great American Novel, and he cared less. He knew little of Martin Kent—and perhaps he cared less also. That the young author had once said something to him about wanting to marry his daughter, Susanna, he remembered perfectly. (He had answered: "Well, well, what do I know about it? Ask your sister—" then he had caught himself just in time and finished—"Ask the young lady herself, sir." He remembered that.) He knew now, too, that there was some sort of an "understanding" between the two young people. But the fact never loomed large in his thoughts, and carried only a vague consciousness of something that was possibly to happen in the dim and distant future.

To-night, when Martin Kent called, Sister Sue was alone in the living-room. John Gilmore was closeted in the library with two men who had come on business soon after dinner; and May and Gordon were off for the evening. Sister Sue was glad that there was a prospect of having the room quite to themselves. She had much that she wanted to say to Martin Kent; and she did not want to be interrupted. She knew, too, that first she must listen to what Martin Kent himself had to say of his own doings. Martin Kent always spoke first and listened afterwards. Not but that he was entertaining—Martin Kent was always a good talker. It was just that it was his way to start in with a full account of his own affairs first, as if they were the most interesting of any subject that could be broached. For that matter, they were, many times. Martin Kent was always having unusual experiences.

To-night he had been away a week "getting atmosphere," he said, for his novel. He had spent the entire time in a little Vermont town in the Green Mountains, and he had many stories to tell of the splendid "copy" he had found there. Then he spoke of the story itself.

"And it's going to be the very best thing I ever did," he cried, his face alight.

"I'm glad. And—and you look very happy, Martin," the girl said a little wistfully.

"I am happy. Who would n't be happy? Are n't we always happy when we know we are doing our very best?"

It was Sue's chance, and she grasped it.

"That's it—that's it, exactly," she interposed a little feverishly; "and that's why I want to do my best."

The man laughed lightly.

"And so you do, my dear; you always do your best."

Impatiently she brushed this aside.

"No, no, you don't understand. I mean I want to do my best—in my music."

"And so you do, I say."

"But I want to do better!"

"All right! That's a laudable wish, I'm sure," he bantered.

Impatiently again she brushed his words aside. And then she told him—hurriedly, impetuously, with little half-finished sentences that were eloquent of suppressed fear and longing. And when she had finished she sat back palpitatingly, her eager eyes on Martin Kent's face. She was so sure Martin Kent would understand and sympathize! And yet—

And Martin Kent understood—but he did not sympathize. He laughed first, and called the idea silly and absurd, and he asked why in the world, with her money, she should care to take up a thing like that. When he found her still unmoved he became stern and dignified, and grieved; and he reproached her bitterly that she should prefer a public career to a life of peace and love under his sheltering care.

"But, Martin, I haven't said that I wouldn't marry you sometime," she argued, in response to this. "I've just told you; I want first to try my wings. I want to do something really worth while. I want to make you all proud of me. I've got it in me! I know I've got it in me, to make people see what I see and hear what I hear when I play. Oh, Martin, don't you see?"

"I see—that you don't love me," said Martin Kent passionately.

He tried pleading then. With all his emotional power and his command of words, he appealed to her heart and to her sympathies. He pictured her life, barren and wasted, without love. He pictured his own work, come to naught, a failure, because of the lack of her love and her presence as an incentive. He pictured themselves grown old with love and youth lost forever. As he drew it, it was a picture calculated to strike cold terror to the stoutest heart.

Sister Sue, caught up in the whirlwind of his wooing, was lifted to an exaltation of surrender and self-sacrifice that saw only love and the world well lost. And Martin Kent went away that evening with her promise to marry him in July.

"I never dreamed he cared so much for me," she sighed, as she settled herself to sleep that night. "And it is nice to be loved like that; and of course such love really is the greatest thing in the world!"

Just as she was dozing off, another thought came.

"I suppose I shan't need Cousin Abby—now. He said I could live right along here just the same after we were married. But—oh, well, if she comes, let her come. I shan't mind. It'll take some care away from me; and I shall want more time to myself when I'm married, anyway," she murmured happily.