Sister Sue/Chapter 5

was little more than a half-day's journey to Gilmoreville from Boston, and Sister Sue knew that she had been hoping that Martin Kent would make it with them. She was dreading the trip especially for her father, and she was fearing what he might do on the journey. She felt that if she had a strong man like Martin with her, she would be much easier in her mind. But she did not like to ask him to go, especially in the face of his very obvious avoidance of the presence of the sick man, even in the Gilmores' own home.

When the day came finally for the start, Sister Sue was still hoping against hope that he would go with them. Nor did she quite give up till his telephone message came that morning to the effect that he would meet them at the station and see them off. She knew then that upon her own shoulders must rest the entire responsibility of the trip.

Even from the very beginning she found that she stood alone; for as soon as the doctor and Mr. Loring had disappeared into the library, May and Gordon hurried out to the waiting cab, May calling back:

"Now wait till we're inside before you get Father. We don't want to be there when he comes down!"

At her words, Katy, standing in the hall with the remaining bags, picked up a suitcase in each hand and hurried after the two young people.

Behind them Sister Sue, alone on the stairway, bit her lip and forced back a choking something in her throat. Then, with chin up, she turned and began to ascend the stairs. But her feet lagged, and it was plainly only sheer will power that carried them up at all.

On all sides were bare walls, bare windows, bare floors; and Sister Sue saw them, and shivered.

Just what would be the effect on her father when he should step across the threshold of his chamber into—this? Would he pass through unnoticing, or would the shock of the echoing bareness snap the taut something that held his brain in leash and restore memory and understanding? And if it did, would the revelation mean hours, days, months, even years of full consciousness of the catastrophe, or would it mean one blinding flash of anguish to be succeeded immediately by blank oblivion?

To Sister Sue, holding her breath outside her father's door, the one seemed hardly less terrible than the other.

At that moment from the room beyond came the sound of a clock's striking nine; and with a little choking sob the girl pulled a key from the pocket of her dress and hurriedly fitted it into the lock; for some days now John Gilmore had been very literally a prisoner, his daughter not daring to trust his rapidly increasing activity to the unrestricted freedom of an unlocked door.

"Well, Father, are you all ready?" she called gayly. "The car is here. You know I said I'd be up at nine o'clock." Then she stopped and caught her breath with a little half-suppressed cry, so fine and splendid and handsome did the man look, standing by the table facing her.

John Gilmore, carefully groomed and fully dressed, even to hat, top coat, and cane, looked so near like the John Gilmore of Gilmore and Glode, that she almost expected him to say peremptorily:

"Tell Jackson I'll want the car right away, please, and telephone Loring that I've started, and shall expect him to meet me at the First National in half an hour."

But the tall, distinguished-looking man standing by the table did not say that. He opened his lips—and with his first words the illusion of the prosperous, prominent banker, was quite gone.

"Sue, I can't find my pictures, not a single one of them. I can't go without my pictures!" he fretted. "Where are they, Sue?"

The girl drew a long breath.

"They're quite safe, dear. I packed them myself last night. Don't you remember? I told you. Come, we're all ready. The trunks went last night and the bags are all in the car. And we have a beautiful day to start," she chatted on. They were going through the doorway into that bare hall now, and Sister Sue, in spite of her blithe voice, was trembling with the fear of the next two minutes, her eyes shrinking from what they dreaded to see, yet refusing to leave the man's face. "May and Gordon are already in the car, waiting. Come, Father, we don't want to lose that train. You know trains don't wait for people, and—"

"Why, Sue!" At the head of the stairs the man had come to a full stop in spite of the urge of the girl's arm.

From sheer inability to make her dry lips articulate the rest of her sentence, Sister Sue stopped and waited for him to speak.

"Why, Sue, what is the matter here? Things look—queer." He had the groping air of one trying to peer through the dark to find the outlines of some familiar object.

"Yes, I know, dear; but, come, Father—hurry. We don't want to lose that train, you know!" She pulled gently at his arm.

In obedience he began to descend the stairs slowly, his groping eyes still peering into the hall below.

"But, they're all gone, Sue—everything!"

"Yes, dear, and we 're going, too, you know. We're going to Gilmoreville."

"Oh, yes—Gilmoreville." They were in the lower hall now. The door to the library, behind which she knew were the two listening men, was closed. So, too, was the door to the drawing-room on the other side. Sister Sue had seen to that. The front door lay before them, wide open, inviting them. "Oh, yes, Gilmoreville," repeated the man, his eyes still troubled, questioning, turning from side to side.

"You wanted to go there, you know," Sister Sue reminded him cheerily. They were safely by the two closed doors that she had most feared now.

"Yes, oh, yes, I like Gilmoreville. But you took the pictures?" His eyes sought her face fearfully.

"Yes, every one of them. And I bought two lovely new books of them yesterday downtown, too. You'll like those, I'm sure."

They were at the outer door. In a moment they were descending the steps. On the sidewalk John Gilmore paused again, his eyes on the cab and its driver.

"That's not Jackson. Is that our car?"

"No, but it's all right. Step right in, Father. We've got to hurry, you know, for that train!"

And John Gilmore stepped in. And as his foot touched the running-board the girl behind him turned with a smile and a wave of the hand toward the two men watching from the library window.

The men waved back vigorously and nodded their heads in obvious congratulation. They caught her answering nod and the flash of her smile; but they could not hear her relieved sigh as she stepped in after her father and the door closed behind her.

In the cab May whispered an excited question:

"How was he? Was he all right?"

"Yes, yes—hush! Talk about the weather, the scenery—anything; but don't let him talk," begged Sister Sue.

"I saw the doctor and Mr. Loring watching from the window," whispered Gordon. "I s'pose they'll—'tend to things."

"Yes, everything. Now let's forget it all—back there," cried Sister Sue, her anxious eyes still searching her father's face.

It was not a long trip to the station and it proved to be an uneventful one. With calm dignity John Gilmore sat back in his seat, commenting pleasantly on the various sights from the window, much to the very plain relief of his three children.

In the station they found Martin Kent awaiting them. He was very kind. He asked if they had their tickets and he arranged about their baggage. He bought flowers, candy, and books; and he told Sister Sue that her father was looking finely; and he said what a handsome man he was, to be sure, and what a pity it was that he should have gone to pieces like that! But he very carefully avoided speaking to the man himself. He told May, in a low voice, that it would kill him if he had to be with him the way Sister Sue was. And May said, yes, it would her, too; and she did n't see how Sister Sue stood it. He went with them into the car and piled up the candy and the books and the flowers all around them, and told them he hoped they'd have a very pleasant journey.

It was left for May to say, as he turned away:

"Come up soon, Martin, please! We shall just die up there alone with nobody! You will come?"

"Of course I'll come," he nodded back at her. "Now take good care of your sister Sue, for me," he finished, with a flashing smile which included both the girls.

"May, how could you ask him to do that?" remonstrated Sister Sue, her face scarlet.

"Why, what an idea! Of course I'd ask him to come up! Why not?"

"But, May, he has n't said a word about coming—not a word!"

"What if he has n't?" retorted May aggrievedly. "Of course he doesn't want to come! Who would want to come to a stupid place like that? But I don't care if he does n't. He's got to! Is n't he engaged to you?"

"May!"

"Well, I don't care. It's no more than fair that he should come up and help us bear it part of the time."

"Oh, May!" objected Sister Sue again, her face still scarlet. "As if I want any man to do anything for me he does n't want to do!"

But May only shrugged her pretty shoulders and settled herself more comfortably hi her seat.

It was Gordon's turn then.

"But I thought you two were going to be married in July."

"Oh, no, not now—not at present," declared Sister Sue hurriedly, but with a very bright smile. Then, a little abruptly, she turned her attention to her father, to make sure that he was comfortable and contented.

On the whole, the journey to Gilmoreville was accomplished with less trouble than Sister Sue had feared that it would be. The shifting panorama out the window sufficiently occupied John Gilmore's attention for more than half the way. After that he dozed fitfully in his chair, and at no time did he give any sort of trouble.

Gordon read, and spent more of his time in the smoking-car than was quite pleasing to his sister Sue. May also read for a while; but as time passed she grew restless; and, after an apprehensive glance at her father, she began to talk to her sister.

"Will anybody meet us?"

"Mr. Preston, I think. I told him to be there. I may want some help—about Father, you know."

May drew a prodigious sigh.

"I suppose we'll have to ride in that awful bus."

"I suppose we shall."

"Horrid, bumpy thing! Sue, it just seems as if I could n't do it!"

"I know it; but—we've got to do it, May. We've got to do—a lot of things, I'm afraid, that it will seem as if we could n't do."

"Have n't we got any money?"

"Very little. Mr. Loring's coming to see us after everything's all settled up and tell us how much we have got."

"We've got that mining stock—we three children. Is n't that worth anything?"

Sister Sue made a wry face.

"About two cents on a dollar, Mr. Loring says."

"Why, how perfectly horrid! What did Father buy it for, anyway? "

"I don't know, I'm sure." Sister Sue spoke a little wearily, her eyes out the window. "He thought it was worth something, I suppose, or would be, sometime. Mr. Loring says it may be even now. It's possible, but not probable. So I would n't count on that if I were you."

"But what are we going to do?" demanded May.

There was no answer. Sister Sue, apparently absorbed in her own thoughts, was still looking out the window.

For another minute the younger girl fidgeted in her seat; then she began to talk again.

"What'll you wager half of Gilmoreville isn't at the station to meet us? If Granny Preston knows when we're coming, the whole town does. That's certain. And they'll come and stare, and stare, just as they do when the circus conies to town."

"May!" Sister Sue's attention was manifestly captured now.

"Well, they will. You know they will. We were rich; now we're poor. Something awful's the matter with Father. He looks like a man; he acts like a child. They want to see him. They want to see us. They want to find out how we take it."

"Oh, May!" remonstrated Sister Sue feebly.

"Well, they do. Funny how folks like that will stand around and gloat over anybody, is n't it?"

"Why, May, they don't gloat," disputed Sister Sue. "They will be be—sorry for—for Father, I know."

May laughed a bit tauntingly.

"You could n't say it, could you?" she challenged. "You know they won't be sorry for us—oh, they may be sorry for Father, in that horrid, pitying way that makes you want to shake them! But they won't be sorry for us. They'll say they are, of course; but all the while they'll be thinking inside of themselves: *Ah, ha! Ah, ha! Now I guess you'll see how good it is to be poor, yourself!"

"Oh, May, don't!" remonstrated Sister Sue again feebly. But May was not to be so easily silenced. With only an imperturbable shrug, she kept right on speaking:

"Can't you see Mrs. Whipple rush up to us and say, 'Oh, dear Miss Gilmore, how shocked and grieved we all are for you!' and then put up that wonderful lorgnette of hers and make sure whether it is our last year's suits turned and dyed? Can't you? I can! And I can see Delia Gray roll her eyes to the sky, and moan, 'Oh, you poor dear things! How are you ever going to live through it!' and then call that red-haired, homely daughter of hers away quick, for fear she'll look at Gordon, who 'has n't a cent now, my dear, not a cent!'"

"Oh, May, May, what a child you are!" cried Sister Sue; but she was laughing now.

May was not laughing. The fretful frown on her face carried nothing but vexation and disgust.

"Oh, of course lots of them won't say anything; they'll just stand off and stare, and not even take the trouble to look the other way, either, when we catch them at it. And the children will point their fingers at Father and whisper those things that begin with 'Do you know, they say—' And I just hate to—" There came a sharp whistle and the slowing-down of the train as they approached a station. "Why, here we are, now!" she cried, as the train drew up to the Gilmoreville station platform. "And there's Mrs. Whipple with her lorgnette and a whole mob with her. What did I tell you? And there's Mrs. Kendall, too," she added. "Sister Sue, that is Mrs. Kendall, is n't it?"

There was no answer. Sister Sue was too busy getting her charge into his hat and coat to reply to any questions just then.

In a way it was as May had said that it would be. There certainly was (for Gilmoreville) a large crowd at the station; and many persons did stand back and stare with unabashed eyes that refused to turn aside. Mrs. Whipple, too, did rush up to them; and she said: "Oh, my poor dear Miss Gilmore, this has been such a shock to us!" But she did not, as far as May could see, give their suits a lorgnette scrutiny.

As for Mrs. Gray, she was not there at all. Neither did they ride home in the hated bus. Mrs. Kendall had her big seven-passenger touring car there, and she said there was room for them all. And there was.

John Gilmore behaved like the courteous gentleman that he was; and except for his obvious great weariness and his two questions as to how his mother was and why she did not come to the station to meet them, he gave no sign that he was not very much as they had been accustomed to seeing him.

Mr. Preston was there, a little frightened and nervous, but very anxious to help in every way possible. He was left in charge of the baggage, looking infinitely relieved that he was not obliged to have anything to do with Mr. John Gilmore. John Gilmore was, indeed, except for his daughter Sue's ministrations, left almost entirely to himself. Few appeared to care to speak to him; and even Mrs. Kendall, aside from greeting him in the first place, and answering his questions concerning his mother with a stammering "I—I don't know, I'm sure," appeared not to know that he was present.

Mrs. Kendall told Sister Sue that she was glad, she was sure, that she could bring them home; and she hoped there would be many little kindnesses that she could show them in the days to come, now that they had lost their money and were so poor. Sister Sue smiled and said, "Thank you," very pleasantly, pretending not to notice that May's elbow was digging into her side with unmistakable meaning.

At the great square house with its white-pillared veranda, known as the Gilmore place, Mrs. Preston greeted them with a cheery welcome and an open fire in the living-room.

"'T was so kind of cold to-day I lit up," she explained as she ushered them into the house. "Anyhow, I knew 't would look good."

Mrs. Preston was a spry little old lady, seventy-five years young, with twinkling blue eyes, and a back whose uncompromising straightness hinted at a lifelong scorn of rockers and easy-chairs. There was certainly no avoidance of Mr. John Gilmore on her part, nor the least hesitation in her manner as she went straight to him and shook his hand heartily.

John Gilmore peered into her face a little uncertainly.

"How do you do, how do you do?" he muttered. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Preston, how do you do?" he went on more confidently. "I'm tired, very tired. I'll go up to my room, I think, as soon as I've seen Mother. Where is she, Mrs. Preston?"

Sister Sue, just behind her father, caught her breath and held it suspended, her beseeching eyes on Mrs. Preston's face. May and Gordon gasped audibly. But Mrs. Preston—Mrs. Preston never so much as changed color, and only the slightest flickering of the lids above the kindly blue eyes showed that the question was anything out of the ordinary.

"Your mother? Well, I can't jest say where she is, Mr. Gilmore. But I would n't wait for her. I'd come right up now ter your room. I've got it all slicked up for you, nice an' pretty." And still cheerily Mrs. Preston led the way from the room.