Sister Sue/Chapter 8

was on a hot July day that Sister Sue received the letter from Martin Kent saying that since they seemed so ardently to want to see him, he was coming, though he was still a little fearful, he said, lest his visit be a burden to them. However, he would come for the week-end, arriving Saturday at four o'clock. And of course he was eager to see them, as they would know that he must be. And he closed with a very beautiful and very tender sentiment that would have held the eyes of most girls for the lingering reading over and over of the words.

But not so Sister Sue. Sister Sue barely skimmed through the closing paragraph before she looked up with startled eyes.

"Martin is coming. He's coming Saturday," she announced hurriedly to her brother and sister. "But—I don't understand. He writes as if—if we'd been urging him to come, lately." Her eyes went from Gordon's face to May's. On May's they paused, their pupils dilating in startled questioning. "May, you did n't—say anything?"

May shrugged her shoulders daintily.

"Now, Sister Sue, don't look so shocked," she pouted. "Of course I did n't say anything—much. I just wrote him how lonesome we were."

"May!"

"Well, I guess I've got a right to tell my future brother-in-law how tired and worn out you are getting," bridled May, looking very superior indeed; "and that we were just stagnating in this awful place, and we'd give anything to see a real man once more, and—"

"Oh, May!" remonstrated Sister Sue again, falling back in her chair with a gesture of dismay.

"Well, I don't care," maintained the younger girl stoutly. "He's coming, anyhow. I don't care if you do scold. Besides, I should think you'd want to see him. I would if he were engaged to me!"

"Hush! Be still. Of course I want to see him," protested Sister Sue, "if he wants to be seen. Not otherwise. We don't want to urge—unwilling visitors, remember," she finished a little coldly, as she rose to her feet and turned to leave the room.

Martin Kent came at the appointed time on Saturday. Gordon met him at the station. They came home in the town "bus." Gordon had wanted to ask Mrs. Kendall for the car. But Sister Sue said no, indeed, no! And she had said it so emphatically that he had not liked to urge the matter. Mrs. Kendall, besides coming to the station after them on the day of their arrival, had taken them all for a ride two or three times in a somewhat stiff "Of-course-I-understand, it's-my-duty-you-know" way (according to May), and she had told Sister Sue that she would be glad to lend the car and the chauffeur to her some day for calls if she liked. But Sister Sue had never availed herself of the privilege; and she told Gordon that nothing would induce her to ask for the car to go and meet Martin Kent.

Martin was looking well. He said he was well, though he was working very hard just now correcting proofs. The book was to come out in October. It was to be called "Trixie." He said that it was a wonderful novel. Then he laughed and apologized for being so conceited, but declared that it really was a wonderful novel, and had developed into something away beyond his expectations. He said the publishers thought very highly of it, too; and that they really had great hopes of its being a fine success.

Sister Sue said she was glad, she was sure. May clapped her hands rapturously, and declared she'd known all along it would be a success. Gordon grunted out something, an indeterminate something that might have passed for almost anything. Mr. John Gilmore was not present. He was out in the garden caring for his flowers. Mr. John Gilmore was spending a great deal of time in his garden these days, and very happily.

After Martin Kent told of his book he told of the city and their friends, most of whom had left town for the summer, he said. He talked then of the new books he had read, and the new celebrities he had met since the Gilmores had left Boston. He told them of the invitations he had had for the summer—charming places, charming people, seashore and mountains. But he said he was not going to accept any of them. He had made up his mind. He was coming up to Gilmoreville just as soon as he could—maybe by the twentieth—and stay at the Inn. He would have a real rest then, and be near them, where he could see them every day.

May clapped her hands at this and drew an ecstatic sigh.

"Oh, Martin, you've saved our lives!" she gurgled. "It seemed as if I just couldn't stand it all summer, without somebody. But now—oh, I'm so glad! Are n't we, Sister Sue?"

"Of course we are—if the gentleman thinks he can stand Gilmoreville!" There were two little red spots in Sister Sue's cheeks and an odd little sparkle to her eyes; but her lips were smiling and her voice was cheerfully cordial.

"Oh, but I think Gilmoreville is lovely, and you know what I think of the people in it—some of them!" Martin Kent, having exhausted the subject of himself and his own affairs, was ready now to talk of something else. "You certainly have a fine old place here."

"You would n't think so if you had to live in it," sniffed May. "No hot water, no gas, no electric lights, no nothing!"

"Look out!" warned Gordon. "Sister Sue'll be sympathizing with you, May."

Martin Kent looked slightly dazed.

"Sympathizing with you! Well, why shouldn't she?" he demanded. "Does n't—she?"

"Oh, yes, she does," laughed May.

"You bet she does," grinned Gordon.

Sister Sue laughed this time with them; but when Martin Kent asked why their merriment, not one of them would tell him.

In the evening, after supper, Sister Sue and Martin Kent had an hour to themselves on the vine-shaded veranda. Martin told his fiancée how he had missed her, and how bare and empty the city was without her. He spoke very beautifully, very tenderly, and he quoted some exquisite poetry he had written especially for her. And he spoke of how blissfully happy they were going to be when they were married. He bemoaned the fact that he was so poor; but he said that when his novel was the big success it was going to be, then— He did not finish his sentence—in words; but the kiss he gave her was more eloquent than any words could have been.

The next day was Sunday. Martin Kent went to church in the morning with May and Gordon. Sister Sue had to stay at home to be with her father and to get dinner. In the afternoon May stayed with her father while Sister Sue and Martin Kent went for a walk on the hill back of the house.

They had a very beautiful walk. Sun, air, earth—each vied with the other to be at its best. Martin Kent quoted more exquisite poetry, and even composed some on the spot in celebration of the wonderful fact that they were together at last, out under God's blue sky. He talked more, too, of what they would do when they were married and of how happy they would be.

Then they went home. Sister Sue had supper to get.



Early Monday morning Martin Kent went back to Boston. He said that he had had a most wonderful visit, and that he was going back to the city rested and refreshed.

Sister Sue, after he had gone, acknowledged to herself that she was neither rested nor refreshed. She had enjoyed being with him—oh, yes. And he had said many beautiful things—she admitted that. But she felt tired and curiously depressed. She laid it partly to the nerve strain of preparing meals for company with the inevitable worrying lest they be not a success, and partly to the other strain of trying to keep her father from annoying Martin Kent with his presence.

Martin Kent did not like to be with John Gilmore. He indicated that very plainly. He did not like to have John Gilmore show him his pictures or his flower-beds. And John Gilmore very plainly wanted to do just those things; which made it hard for Sister Sue. Martin Kent told Sister Sue that it was like putting a knife of torture into his heart to talk with her father and see the wreck of that magnificent mind.

Naturally Sister Sue did not want a knife of torture put into Martin Kent's heart—certainly not by anything of hers; so she had made every effort all through the visit to keep the two men apart. It had not been an easy task, however, for John Gilmore, for some inexplicable reason, took a very sudden and very violent fancy to Martin Kent at the outset of his visit.

It was partly because of this, therefore, Sister Sue told herself, that she was feeling so particularly tired after Martin Kent's visit. Not that she blamed Martin Kent—indeed, no! It was not exactly a pleasant experience to be in daily companionship with John Gilmore, as none knew better than she herself.

Sister Sue was still unrested when the telegram came from Daniel Loring. It came that afternoon, and it said that Mr. Loring would be in Gilmoreville the next day and would call upon them at ten o'clock.

Sister Sue immediately felt more depressed than ever.

"Oh, of course, I knew he was coming soon," she sighed, after telling May of the contents of the telegram. "But, some way, I've always dreaded it."

"Why?"

"Well, we'll know more, of course, then, how we stand. We 'll know better—how much money we've got."

"Well, I don't see how we can be any worse off than we are now," contended May, with a pout.

Sister Sue laughed.

"Oh, yes, it might be worse, you know," she declared significantly, her eyes flashing a merry glance into her sister's face. "Anyhow, whatever it is, we've got to stand it," she said a little more soberly as she left the room.

Promptly on the minute Daniel Loring appeared the next morning. Sister Sue met him alone in the living-room. He took off his panama, applied his handkerchief to his forehead with an energy that showed his embarrassment as he remarked that it was a warm day and that he hoped he found them well. Then, because he was a business man who used few words and who always came straight to the point, he said:

"I'm sorry, but I have n't very good news for you. There's very little left but this house. You have that, however, unencumbered. And there is a small sum which will give you income enough for the repairs and taxes, and a very little more toward living expenses, perhaps. That is all. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry that the daughter of my old friend—" He did not finish his sentence. He was blowing his nose vigorously.

"But what—are we going to do?" faltered the girl.

"Somebody will have to—to earn some money."

"But how can I? I can't leave Father; and now—there's the housework."

Mr. Loring frowned and blew his nose again.

"Are you the—the only member of your family able to work?" he demanded.

"Yes, oh, yes." She spoke with hurried decision. "You can't mean Father, of course. As for May and Gordon—why, Mr. Loring, they are just counting on school and college."

"I'm afraid they'll have to count the money first," vouchsafed the man grimly.

Sister Sue relaxed in her chair.

"But, Mr. Loring, what can I do? Of course I can play, and I can teach. I was planning to—once." Her voice broke, then went on resolutely. "But all that is impossible now. I've given it up. I can't leave Father."

"Your—sister?"

"Must go on with her studies. I can't have her life spoiled, too. She is really very talented. She wants to write. She has written some, and has done beautifully. Mr. Kent says so. But of course she needs training. And I want her to have it. Mr. Loring, she must have it! I can't let her life be spoiled, like mine. She was planning on entering college this fall. As for Gordon—he has one more year where he is, and I wanted him to finish there. But it is an expensive school, and I suppose he could take the last year in the High School here—I understand they fit for college. But, Mr. Loring, Gordon can't—work."

The man gave a gesture, half impatient, half resigned.

"All right, all right, I'm not saying he can, though I've seen boys of his age— However, somebody's got to." He hesitated, then went on with obvious reluctance: "Couldn't you teach here, then? You would n't have to leave your father to do that."

Sister Sue's worried face broke into a broad smile. Her eyes twinkled.

"Mr. Loring, I don't want to seem conceited or egotistical, but I played really adult 'show pieces' when I was ten, before I could stretch the octave. This spring Signer Bartoni told me I was capable of teaching the most advanced pupils in the Conservatory, and that for private lessons I should charge five dollars each. Do you think Susie Smith and Nellie French, down the lane here, would want me to teach them my kind of music, or pay me the price if they did?"

"Hm; perhaps not, perhaps not," murmured the man, with a frown.

"Besides, I doubt if they'd want to take of—me," sighed the girl. "I don't think we're very popular here, Mr. Loring. They remember we have been rich. We're poor now. I doubt if they'd come, anyway."

"Humph!" grunted Mr. Loring, still frowning, as he fumbled for some papers in his coat. "I'm afraid I know nothing about such things, nothing. But these I do know about—and you'll have to. So if you'll kindly give me your attention," he finished, spreading one of the folded papers open for her.

When Mr. Loring had gone, some time later, Sister Sue sat for a long time thinking. To May's questions and Gordon's she made scant reply, except to say that it was rather bad and they had very little to live on. What they were to do or how they were to do it, she refused to discuss.

After the dinner was cleared away she hurried upstairs to Mrs. Preston's.

"I'm afraid you think I run to you with every problem," she apologized, a little ruefully, as she entered the room. "But you see, you seem to know everything."

"Oh, there's many that's wiser than me, an' don't know it," bridled the little old woman, plainly not ill-pleased; "an' there's some that ain't so wise—an' don't know that," she chuckled. "But what is it ter-day?—somethin' ter eat or somethin' ter wear?"

"Neither one—or, rather, it's both, I suppose, really." Sister Sue dropped a little wearily into a chair. "It's money. Mrs. Preston, do you know any kind of work that I can do at home here, to earn money? Now please don't say to do sewing. You know how poor I am at that, from the way I've had to run to you every time I took a needle in my hand, almost. But do you know of anything I can do?"

Mrs. Preston sat suddenly even more erect. Her face had become alight. She had the air of one to whom has come a long-awaited joy.

"Sure I do. You can teach."

"You don't mean—music?"

"Sure I mean music! What else would I be meanin', an' you with all your studyin' an' trainin'?" She asked the question a little aggressively.

"But that's just it, Mrs. Preston, I've had too much training," sighed the girl. "There's nobody here that would want such advanced instruction or that would pay the price."

"Well, I like that!" The little old lady sat back in her chair and eyed her visitor with whimsical exasperation. "An' so because they don't want angel cakes you refuse to teach 'em how to make bread?"

"I—what?"

"Humph! How would you have liked it if when you come askin' me how ter stir up a tin o' biscuit, I had told yer with my nose in the air that I never teached nothin' but weddin' cake."

Sister Sue laughed merrily.

"And am I—like that?" she demanded.

"I think you be. You can teach scales an' them five-finger things, could n't ye?" queried the old woman.

"Why, y-yes, I suppose so," admitted the girl doubtfully, though her eyes were still merry.

"Well, then; an' I suppose you'd take one dollar if you could n't get five, wouldn't ye?—'specially if ye got enough of 'em ter more 'n make up for the five kind."

"Why, y-yes, of course," conceded the girl. "But—who would come to me for lessons?"

"Susie Smith an' Julia Small an' Nellie French an' Millie Sargent an' Charlie Burt an'—"

"But, Mrs. Preston, you speak as if you knew," interrupted the girl.

"I do know. They're just waitin'  ter come when you say the word; an' at a dollar a lesson an' glad ter pay it, 'cause they feel they 're gettin' somethin' special—from you."

"But—but—" The girl was on her feet now, her eyes shining, but incredulous.

"An' the see-lect men want you for the graded schools here in Gilmoreville, ter teach music in 'em; an' Mr. Spencer, down ter the Junction, he wants you one day a week when school opens there," went on Mrs. Preston calmly, ignoring the dazed exclamations of the girl across the room. "Oh, you'll have plenty ter do when you say the word," she nodded.

"But—but how can I, with the housework and all?" Sister Sue dropped back into her chair, the elation all gone from her eyes.

As if by the same signal the little old woman sat more erect again.

"My daughter Delia—her Tom's dead, now, an' left her with little Paul, so she's free—Delia, she'd like ter come an' do yer work fer ye, an' she'd do it cheap, too, if you'd be willin' ter let the baby play out in the back yard here. An' she could help me some, spare time, I know. I need her, too. I ain't so young as I was once. So her pay would n't be so high fer you, an' she'd more'n save her wages, anyway (compared ter your way of doin' things!), usin' up odds an' ends an' cookin' economical."

Sister Sue was sitting forward now with her eyes frankly staring.

"But, Mrs. Preston, you sound as if—if you'd got this all arranged beforehand!"

"I have. They come ter me first fer the lessons, askin' if you would give 'em, I mean; then I thought up the rest, about Delia an' her workin' here. I knew you'd have ter have some one, with all that ter do."

"But why have n't you said anything to me of all this?"

"I was waitin'."

"Waiting!"

"Yes; till you come ter yer senses. I knew some day you'd see how foolish you was to bury your light under a bushel basket like this. An' I knew you'd want some money, too. An', besides, I suspected sometime you'd get tired of—of eatin' bread with that gravy."

"Bread?—gravy?" frowned Sister Sue.

The little old woman nodded her head, her shrewd eyes twinkling.

"Yes. I suspected some day you'd be wantin' somebody else ter make yer beefsteak-pies fer ye, so you could eat the crust."

"Oh!" laughed Sister Sue. "Oh, ho!" Then she pouted with a playful grimace: "I can cook better than that now; indeed I can, Mrs. Preston!"

"I don't doubt it. But there ain't much money in it, just the same, is there? Well, there is in my plan. An' this minute there's at least eight all ready, with the dollar right in their fists, waitin'. An' I don't know how much the schools'll pay."

Sister Sue clapped her hands and drew a long breath quite after the fashion of her sister May.

"And you planned this all out. You've been planning it all this time, and never let me know!"

"Yes." The little old woman's eyes sparkled with an excitement almost as great as was the girl's. "Susie Smith's mother came first. She asked did I s'pose you would teach Susie. She did n't like to ask you herself. An' she told me that Nellie wanted to an' Julia Small, also. That gave me the idea. But I said wait. I told 'em ter say nothin' ter no one. An' so we waited. I knew the time would come, just as it has ter-day, when you'd want ter be earnin' some money."

"Susie Smith, Nellie French, and Julia Small,"