Sister Sue/Chapter 3

was still on the heights of self-surrender and exalted sacrifice the next morning. It was still all for love and the world well lost, with her. But she decided not to tell her family of the change in her plans until Cousin Abby's letter should have arrived, settling beyond doubt whether or not Cousin Abby herself was coming.

She had not long to wait. Cousin Abby's reply came promptly, almost by return mail. Cousin Abby would be delighted to come. She was not only glad to be of service to them, but she was pleased, she was sure, that dear Susanna was going to improve her wonderful talent and make a great name for herself. She could come now, any time; just as soon as they wanted her. And she signed herself devotedly theirs, Cousin Abby Herford.

Sister Sue winced a little and bit her lip over the "wonderful talent" and the "great name." But instantly she scornfully asked herself what was a wonderful talent or a great name compared to love—real love? True, at the same time she put both her hands to her ears as if to shut out an insistent something that was clamoring to be heard. And she hurried very fast to tell her family that she had given up her career, and that she and Martin Kent were going to be married in July.

Sister Sue did not wait to tell her family all at once to-day. She took them as she found them, one or two at a time; and she gave her information hurriedly, almost feverishly, with little catches of her breath in her throat.

Their manner of receiving it was characteristic in each case.

Her sister May clasped her hands to her breast and drew an ecstatic sigh with her gaze on the ceiling as she cried: "Oh, Sister Sue, how perfectly lovely! And you'll have a church wedding, of course, and I'll be maid of honor! What shall I wear? Oh, you lucky girl! I think Martin Kent is positively the handsomest man I ever saw, and so do all the girls. They're simply crazy over him! Sue, Sister Sue, what shall I wear?" But Sister Sue was already halfway down the stairway: Gordon's clear whistle of the latest bit of ragtime had sounded from the hall below.

Gordon received the news of Sister Sue's coming marriage with a smile and a shrug.

"I expected as much. All right, Sis, I wish you joy. He's a lucky dog all right, all right!"

It was two days before Sister Sue found a chance to tell her father. When he was not away, or at the telephone, or closeted with some man in the library, he was so irritable and so obviously concerned with his own affairs, that she did not like to broach the subject. And when she did tell him she had to repeat her words before she penetrated his absorbed absent-mindedness. Even then she elicited only an abstracted "Yes, yes; well, I'm glad, I'm sure," as he got up to go into the library.

It was left for Gordon to precipitate matters by saying that same night at the dinner table:

"Oh, by the way, Sister Sue, of course Cousin Abby is n't coming now, I take it."

"But she is," smiled the girl. "I've had a letter, and she'll come at any time, and be glad to."

"You bet she would!" Gordon was still smiling. "But of course she won't have to, now. We don't need her."

"No, of course not," interposed May; "for of course you'll live here, Sue. You said you were going to."

"You bet she's going to live here," cut in Gordon with a sly laugh.

"Certainly I'm going to live here." Sister Sue's chin had lifted a little. Her eyes were meeting Gordon's challenging glance with a flash of vague annoyance. "Martin said he would n't think of taking me away."

"You bet he would n't!" chuckled Gordon, again mischievously. But when his sister's eyes flashed another questioning glance of annoyance toward him, he shrugged his shoulders and repeated: "Oh, well, we don't need Cousin Abby now, anyway."

"But I've just told you she is coming," declared Sister Sue, with some spirit. "We asked her, and she's accepted. We've got to have her. Besides, I want her. There's all the shopping and the dress-making, and I shall want some time to myself after I'm married; and—"

"Will you have the bridesmaids wear pink or blue?" interrupted May eagerly.

"Oh, you women!" cried Gordon disgustedly, with the blasé air of a man of forty. Then, appealingly to his father: "Dad, say something, can't you? We don't need Cousin Abby here, do we? Do we, Dad?" he repeated, as his father still continued to gaze abstractedly at the empty plate before him.

"Eh? What? Cousin Abby? Need her? How should I know?" he frowned irritably. "Ask your sister Sue. I—I've got other things to think of," he finished as he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

"But, Father, there's the dessert! You're not waiting for dessert," cried his elder daughter.

"Don't want any. Had enough—too much," tossed the man over his shoulder as he disappeared through the doorway.

At the table the three young people exchanged glances. Dessert and coffee on the table, and the waitress out of the room, May spoke.

"For pity's sake, what's the matter with Father?" she demanded fretfully. "He's cross as two bears lately."

"Humph! Make it three," shrugged Gordon disrespectfully.

"Hush! I'm ashamed of you," protested Sister Sue, a worried look coming to her face. "Something is plaguing him; I know there is. Or else he's—sick."

"Well, if he's sick, I know who'll have to be his nurse and it won't be Cousin Abby," teased Gordon, his eyes merry.

"Sue, shall we wear pink or blue, or will you have it a rainbow wedding, with all the colors?" palpitated May. "Oh, have it a rainbow wedding, Sister Sue, please have it a rainbow wedding!"

"Yes, please have it a rainbow wedding, Sister Sue!" mocked Gordon mischievously. "Only I supposed rainbows came after the storm—not before it," he chuckled as he rose from the table.

"For shame, Gordon Gilmore!" remonstrated May indignantly. "As if there was going to be any storm after this wedding! This is going to be the live-happy-ever-after kind, is n't it, Sister Sue?"

But Sister Sue only drew a long sigh. Her troubled eyes were still on the doorway through which John Gilmore had disappeared a few moments before.

"May, something is worrying Father," she said then, in an anxious voice, rising to her feet. "I wonder what it is."

Two days later she knew. Indeed, the whole world knew—their world. For big black headlines, sprawling across the front page of every morning newspaper in the city, told that the old firm of Gilmore and Glode, Bankers and Brokers, had gone to the wall. They told also that Glode had shot himself in his office, and that the senior member, John Gilmore, had collapsed under the strain, and was taken home unconscious. All this they told. But they did not tell of the horror and heartache, the tears, exclamations, and lamentations, the terror by night and the confusion by day; the telephoning, telegraphing, messengers, doctors, nurses, hurried consultations, and quick orders.

At the Gilmores' it was Sister Sue, of course, whose shoulders were under the entire load. It was she who quieted May's hysterics, soothed Katy and Mary, calmed Gordon, gave directions, sent telegrams and messages, and then appeared at her father's bedside to assure his waking consciousness that everything was all right and that he was not to worry one bit. And John Gilmore, his befogged brain not in condition to realize anything clearly, recognized the staff upon which he had leaned for the past six years, and obediently leaned back to the comfortable consciousness that everything was, indeed, all right.

From Martin Kent Sister Sue had received first a shocked telephonic inquiry, then a box of beautiful roses and an exquisitely worded note, assuring her of his undying affection and sympathy, and telling her how hard it was for him to refrain from flying on the swift feet of love straight to her side; but that he realized how full her hands and heart must be at this most distressing time, and he would not demand even one moment's attention to add a feather's weight to her already overburdened dear self; that when things were more calm and she was a little rested, he would come. Until that time he was her very devoted lover, whose thoughts were always with her, even though he was forcing his feet to keep from seeking her.

The gist of this, only couched in very different terms, Sister Sue said to Gordon in response to his irate question, the third day after the crash, as to where Martin Kent was.

"He will come later. He wrote, and he sent me some beautiful flowers, and said that he wanted to come now, but that he knew I'd be too busy to see him, and he'd wait till I had more time."

"Humph!" growled Gordon. "Till you had more time, indeed! Why does n't he come and do something for you, so you'll have more time?"

"Nonsense, Gordon! There's nothing he can do, I'm sure," protested Sister Sue, with a haste so precipitate that it looked suspiciously like an old argument already used to convince some one other than the indignant youth now before her. "He—he is trying to help the best way he knows, by staying away and not bothering us. He feels so sorry for us! He wrote a beautiful letter."

"Humph!" ejaculated Gordon again. "A lot he cares!"

"Oh, but he does care," interposed May, before her sister could speak. "I saw him yesterday on the Avenue, and he turned and walked with me; and he told me how much he cared, and how sorry he was for us. He's broken-hearted."

"Well, maybe he is that—at the failure of Gilmore and Glode," murmured the young fellow, with an expressive lift of the eyebrow.

"Indeed he is!" If there was a covert insinuation in Gordon's words, his sister May gave no sign of having noticed it. "And he spoke perfectly beautifully of Father, and said how dreadful it must be to see him like this, and how did we endure it! And he said he never could stand seeing suffering like that. He simply couldn't. He's so sensitive, you know! Oh, he feels dreadfully, I know he does," reiterated May, as her brother, with a shrug and a superior smile, turned away. "Does n't he, Sister Sue?" she appealed then to the elder girl.

"Why, yes, of course! Of course he feels dreadfully," corroborated Sister Sue. "He wrote a beautiful letter—a perfectly beautiful letter. And he's coming soon to see us. He says he simply can't stay away very long."

Sister Sue laughed and blushed a little self-consciously as she finished speaking. But there was still that curious little precipitate haste in voice and manner as if in effort to carry unmistakable conviction.

It was on the fourth evening after John Gilmore had been carried upstairs to his room that Martin Kent called. He brought red roses again; and he had made his appointment by telephone. His fiancée was awaiting him alone in the living-room.

He was very tender, very loving. Even the manner in which he kissed her showed how deeply grieved he was for her. And to-night it was not his own affairs that he spoke of first.

"Now talk to me. Tell me everything. I want to know all your plans, darling," he begged, as they seated themselves before the open fire.

She drew a long sigh. Her eyes, fixed on his face, were wistful and infinitely weary.

"It will be good, just to sit and talk—a little while," she admitted. "Oh, Martin, I'm so tired! There have been so many things to think of."

"Of course there have, dear."

"And there has n't been any one but me to decide—everything."

"I know it. But that's nothing new—to you, dear." He was plainly trying to raise her spirits.

She smiled faintly, even while she sighed.

"Oh, yes, I know. But there's never been anything like this before. Oh, Martin, it's so awful, so perfectly awful to see—Father."

The man stirred a little restlessly.

"Yes, yes, I know; it must be—very terrible. But just don't—don't think of it, darling."

"But I have to think of it. I have to think—what to do."

"You mean—" He waited for her to finish his sentence.

"I mean that everything will have to be different now, of course."

He threw a quick look into her eyes.

"You don't mean—that you won't marry me?"

"Oh, no, not that. There'll be the wedding—only it'll be a different wedding." She smiled a little wistfully, and her voice broke. "It won't be much of a rainbow wedding now, I guess, with pink and blue bridesmaids and flowers and music and a big church full of guests! I'll be lucky if—if I have a white muslin to get married in."

"As if I cared about that!" he scoffed. But he did not meet her eyes and he pulled a cigar from his pocket. "You don't mind if I smoke?"

She shook her head—an entirely unnecessary concession, for he had already struck the match alight.

"Of course you know we—we've lost everything," she said, after a moment's silence.

"So I judged if the newspapers told the truth," he nodded. "But as if we cared for that!" he exclaimed, his eyes still turned away. "However, was it really as bad—as they made it out?"

"I'm afraid so. Of course Father can't be questioned. It would n't do any good if we did question him. He doesn't remember—much. And it's a mercy he does n't, of course."

"But won't he ever remember?"

"Perhaps—some things. The doctor says he'll be better than this very soon, and he may live for years. But he probably won't ever be quite right in his mind again. 'T was a nervous breakdown a sort of shock to the nerves, he says. Oh, Martin, it's awful!"

"Yes, I know." Again the man stirred restlessly. "But what—what are your plans?"

"We don't know yet, except that we're to give up everything, of course. That's what folks always do, when they fail, isn't it?" She gave a weary little smile. "Mr. Loring has been out here every day. He knows everything about Father's affairs, you know—more than even Father himself, I guess. Anyway, he knows enough. We'll have to give up the house and the cars and everything here, of course."

"But where will you go?"



"Vermont—Gilmoreville. Father owns the old Gilmore homestead there, and Mr. Loring says he thinks he can save that for us. It is n't much of a place, but you'd think, to hear Mr. Loring, that 't was a gold mine, and we were the luckiest things to have that much. And—well, maybe we shall be," she laughed unsteadily.

"What sort of a place is it? Ever been there?"

"Not much lately. We used to go when we were children, and we've been there a little two or three times since, in the summer. It's just a big country house in a country town. I must confess I don't exactly anticipate it. And I have n't dared to tell Gordon and May yet."

"It's a shame, Sue! I declare, I—I wouldn't stand it!" cried the man.

She shook her head with a long sigh.

"I'm afraid we've got to. It's the only thing, Mr. Loring says. And, anyway"—her eyes flashed a sudden spark almost mirthful—"I have thought of one advantage. It'll be good for you. You won't have to go away for—copy, Martin!"

With a sudden exclamation the man sprang to his feet. Up and down the room he paced, twice, three times, before he turned squarely about and faced the girl who was looking up at him with eyes that showed a puzzled questioning.

"Why, Martin, what's the matter?" she cried. "What have I said? You've talked yourself about hunting in country towns for—copy!"

"Sue, I've been thinking." He was still standing, facing her. There was something tense about voice and manner. "I—I shan't be there to—to watch for copy."

"Why—Martin!" She had leaned forward. She sank back in her seat now, slowly, uncertainly, her eyes still searching his face.

With an abrupt movement the man came and sat down in the chair at her side. He took both her hands in his and held them fast while he talked.

"Dearest, I've been thinking. All these days while I 've been away from you I've been thinking. I could think then. I can't think when I'm with you. I only think how I want you. But these last few days I've been thinking—of what you said to me the other night."

"The other night?"

"About your music—what you longed to do; what Signor Bartoni said you could do. And I thought how your dear eyes sparkled and shone, and how your whole face was illumined as you talked. And I thought what a selfish brute I was to attempt to chain your bright spirit to sordid everyday living, just because I wanted you with me. And so I came to-day determined to make amends as best I could. And now I'm telling you. I take it back—all my pleading. You have my full and free consent to spread your wings and fly. You have not only that, but my loving sympathy and all my good wishes."

"You mean—?" Her eyes were incredulous.

"I mean, go on with your music. Make a name for yourself among the very greatest of earth."

"But, Martin, I—I gave that all up," she faltered.

"Why?"

"Why, because of—of what you said."

"Exactly! I knew it!" he triumphed. "And that's just what I mean! You gave it up because of me, and of what I said; because of my selfishness. And I won't have it. I've come to my senses now. I was a brute, darling, a selfish brute. But I'm not one any longer. Why, sweetheart, do you think I'd ever be happy again if I tied you down like that? Never! And now, dear, go out and win. I want you to! And you can win! You've got it in you! I know you have!"

He said more, much more. With all the eloquence with which he had pleaded against this "music madness" of hers, he pleaded now for it—only now it was not music madness. It was her "God-given message to the world."

And his task was easier this time; for it was not nearly so hard to bring back to the girl's ears the "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore!" as it had been to silence those clamorous voices a few short days before. And in the end he won, if Sister Sue's eager face and shining eyes were any criterion—until a new thought came to the girl's mind.

"Oh, but, Martin, I forgot. I can't now," she despaired. "There's the money."

"Have n't you anything of your own?"

She shook her head sadly.

"Not a thing—except some Magda Silver Mine stock, which is n't worth a cent, Mr. Loring says. Father gave all us children ten thousand shares apiece ages ago. He's never given us money, only an allowance every month. Next year, when I am twenty-one, he was going to give me something. He always said he was. But now—Martin, I—I can't, after all," she choked. "I have n't the money."

"Pooh! Earn it!" he challenged her. "As if you could n't teach and study, too! And it 'll be all the more credit to you when you do reach the goal."

"But do you really think I could?"

"I know you could."

She drew an ecstatic breath, though it ended in a sigh.

"Of course, there's Father to be looked out for; but he'll be all right. Cousin Abby's coming soon, and the doctor says he'll be up and around the room in a few days, anyway. Besides, Cousin Abby's a wonderful nurse and housekeeper. She's very capable. I should n't worry a bit with Cousin Abby here—I mean there in Gilmoreville."

"Then that's all right," summed up the man; "and everything's all right. And you forgive me now, for having been such a selfish brute in the first place?"

"Why, y-yes—no—I mean, you were n't a selfish brute, Martin."

The girl spoke feverishly, a little incoherently. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone. She had the air of one who has come out of a shadowy forest into the bright sunlight where the way shows straight before, leading to cloud-kissed heights beyond, and yet who cannot quite believe the evidence of eyes and ears.

"Do you think really I could—do—it?" she faltered.

"I know you could," he assured her again. And at his answer the peace of a great content settled upon her countenance.

It was still there when Martin Kent went away, leaving with her as a good-bye thought: "And we're all going to be so proud of you!"

Once again through the long night watches Sister Sue lay awake and thought. She was more calm now, more rational. True, the clamorous "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! Encore!" was still in her ears; but as a bit of ballast to keep her feet on the ground there was the thought that it now must all be brought about by her own efforts.

No golden-paved, flower-bedecked path of gentle ascent led to the heights for her. Nothing but her own digging would open the path before her now; and every step upward must be quarried out of the rock of opportunity by her own hand. Martin had said that. The girl thought of it now, and thrilled to the challenge of the words.

Of course she could do it! It just meant teaching while she was studying; and even in the teaching she would be learning. Besides, she had an added incentive now. Was it not absolutely necessary that she go out into the world and earn money? And how fortunate that she had this wonderful talent to enable her to do it!

And she would make big money when she should have become the great artiste. They always did. She was sure they did. And how she would love to add comforts and luxuries to the home, and make life easier for her father. Poor Father! Oh, how dreadful it all was!

But she would not think of that. She would think of how she was going to be the rescuer. She would think of the tangible help and comfort she was going to bring into the home. And it was so especially wonderful, because all the while she would be doing what she most wanted in all the world to do go—on with her beloved music, and make for herself a name and a place that was really worth while.

And how good of Martin Kent to let her do it, after she had promised to marry him in July! But, of course, it was only for a time. Later they would be married. But now—

And once more with the inspiriting "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! Encore!" in her ears, she fell asleep.

In the morning, at the breakfast-table, Sister Sue broke the news to her brother and sister that they were to go to Gilmoreville to live. The new joy that had come to her had given her courage for the unpleasant task. Besides, she realized that the time had come when they must know the changes in store for them. Yet her heart beat faster and her lips were dry as she began to speak.

"Well, children, of course you know that we've got to leave here," she announced cheerfully. "So I suppose the sooner we begin to prepare for it, the better. The doctor says Father will be up and dressed in a week; and Mr. Loring says we'd better begin to break up as soon as possible after that."

"Tough luck!" ejaculated Gordon.

"I suppose we'll have to go into a snippy little house or flat on some mean little street, and we 'll be so ashamed when folks call," May pouted.

"Not a bit of it," contradicted Sister Sue, with a jauntiness that was a little forced. "They'll have to come a long way if they're going to call on us! We're going to Gilmoreville."

"That little country town?" Gordon's voice expressed unbelieving disgust.

"But of course it's only for the summer," suggested May hopefully.

Sister Sue wet her lips. It was going to be even harder than she thought.

"We don't know how long it'll have to be," she reasoned, still cheerily. "But however long it's to be we've got to go; so don't fret. Besides, Gilmoreville is a lovely old town, and we may enjoy it. Who knows?"

"Enjoy it!—a stupid little place like that?" disdained May. "Why, Sue, you know what that town is. There is n't a thing going on, and we just hated it the last time we were there! Have we got to go?" she demanded tearfully.

"Yes, we've got to go."

"Oh, well, cheer up," cut in Gordon. "There ought to be good fishing and maybe hunting; and the cars'll help. Besides, we'll be off to school winters, anyway. So we shan't be there much, after all."

"Well, yes, that's so," admitted May, a little less dolefully. "We shan't be there much, after all."

Sister Sue wet her lips again. She assumed a blithe confidence she was very far from feeling.

"Oh, come, come, children, this will never do in the world. This is n't a matter for argument. We've just got to do it and there's no use fretting. Furthermore, there won't be any car nor any expensive schools and colleges for either of you—just yet. You don't seem to understand. We're poor, I tell you."

"No car! No college!" cried Gordon.

"Have we lost everything?" demanded May.

Sister Sue sighed.

"I should think so, pretty nearly, by the way Mr. Loring talks. He seems to think we 're lucky to have even Gilmoreville to go to."

"It's all so blamed sudden," fumed Gordon.

"To us—yes. But I don't think it was—to Father." Sister Sue's voice shook a little. "He's been worried and irritable and absent-minded for quite a while. You know he has."

"But I don't see how we're going to live at all," quavered May. "I don't see how we 're going to stand it!"

"But we've got to stand it," declared her sister. "We've just got to! And it may not be so bad, after all. Just think of the ideas for stories you may get there, May! You know Martin loves just such places for copy. We shall have to let Mary go, of course; but we'll take Katy. And Cousin Abby's a splendid housekeeper and a good nurse for Father if he should need her. Besides, we'll hope it won't be for long." A rosy glow suffused her face, and her eyes grew luminous. "I'm going to earn money. I have n't told you that. Maybe I can earn enough, after a little, to help about the schools, too, for both of you. Oh, I hope I can!"

"Earn money! You!" ejaculated Gordon.

"Yes. I'm going on with my music. I'm going to do—what I wanted to do before, only now I shall have to work a little harder, because I shall have to teach while I'm studying to pay my way. But when I've won out—when I get there," she hurried on, ignoring their interrupting ejaculations, "then the money'll begin to come in instead of going out, and—and we shan't have to live in Gilmoreville any longer!"

She stopped, a little out of breath, her eager, glowing eyes seeking first one face, then the other, for appreciation, understanding, and answering enthusiasm. But she found neither appreciation nor understanding. She found, too, no answering enthusiasm. She found only disappointment, dismay, and vexed anger in the faces before her.

"You don't mean we've got to go to that awful place to live, and have Cousin Abby, too, all alone, and not have you at all?" gasped May.

"Oh, come, Sis, that's too much to expect any fellow to stand!" exploded Gordon wrathfully.

"But there's the money—I'm going to earn the money. We need the money," urged Sister Sue. "You don't want to forget that."

"We're not forgetting Cousin Abby either," cut in Gordon. "We're not forgetting—" He stopped short, an odd look coming to his face. "Why, where does Kent come in? I thought you two were going to be married?"

"We were; but we are n't now till later. He's going to let me go on with my music and—and be a concert pianist instead. He knew how I wanted to. He said that he felt that it was very wrong and selfish for him to try to keep me from it. So he let me off from my promise to marry him in July."

"Humph! I notice he did n't let you off until after—this happened," observed Gordon.

Again, if there was a covert insinuation in the youth's words and manner, no one seemed to notice it.

"There was n't the need, before, that I should earn money," Sister Sue reminded him, with some dignity.

"But there's all that beautiful rainbow wedding," bemoaned May. "Oh, Sue, how can you give it all up?"

"Oh, but think of what I'm getting!" cried Sister Sue, her face, still eager and alight. "To go on with my work, and— Oh, the mail," she broke off as Katy appeared at the door, several letters in her hand, the greater share of which a moment later were placed at the elder daughter's plate.

While Gordon was reading his single letter, and May hers, Sister Sue picked out a pale-blue envelope from the pile and hastily opened it.

As she read, all the light and eagerness faded from her face, leaving it suddenly pinched and drawn-looking. With hands that shook a little, she folded the letter, put it back in its envelope and raised her head. The cold quietness of her voice as she began to speak won the instant attention of both her auditors.

"You need not worry any more about Cousin Abby. She's just written me a letter. She sends her love and sympathy in this time of our great trial, and says she could n't think of burdening us with her presence at a time like this. So she's not coming."

The next minute May and Gordon found themselves alone. Sister Sue had picked up her letters and left the room.

"Why, what—" began May, with puzzled eyes.

"Quitter, quitter!" stormed Gordon. It was as if the surge of emotion of the last few minutes had found a welcome outlet. "That's just the kind of a woman I thought Cousin Abby was!"

"Why, Gordon, aren't you glad? I thought you did n't want Cousin Abby to come!" cried May.

"What if I don't?" retorted Gordon, with the lofty scorn of an unaccustomed cloak of righteous indignation. "That doesn't hinder my saying she's a quitter, does it? And her always teasing to come when we had plenty of money, and backing out now just when we want her!"

"But we don't want her," demurred May, with a frown.

"That does n't make any difference—she does n't know it. She's a quitter, just the same; and all because we're poor now, and she can't ride in the limousine, and order the maids around, and cut a dash generally. You know what she was that time Sister Sue was sick! She's a quitter, I tell you," decreed Gordon, still wearing that unaccustomed cloak of righteous scorn as he rose from the table.