Sister Sue/Chapter 9

the twentieth of July, when Martin Kent arrived at the Inn, Sister Sue's class was well established; and it was known as "Sister Sue's class," too. Sometimes the children forgot and even addressed her as "Miss Sister Sue," much to Sister Sue's amusement and their own blushing confusion. Sister Sue herself should have become accustomed to this title by this time, for so in the habit was her family of speaking, not only to her, but of her, as "Sister Sue," that others fell naturally into the way of it also. Gilmoreville had always known her as "Sister Sue," for from babyhood May and Gordon had answered most questions with "I don't know. Sister Sue'll tell you. She knows." Gilmoreville now, therefore, was taking lessons of, not Miss Susanna Gilmore, but Sister Sue.

Martin Kent did not like Sister Sue's class in pianoforte playing. He found that out very soon. He had not been there a week before he said so to his fiancée.

"I don't get a minute, hardly, to see you—not a minute, only evenings," he complained.

"I know it. But, Martin, I have to. Don't you see? And only think of all the money I'm earning—peeling those potatoes."

"Doing—what?"

Sister Sue laughed and told the story of her interview with Mrs. Preston—a story which Martin Kent chuckled over and thoroughly appreciated.

"She's a character and no mistake," he nodded. "But I notice it was you who likened your work to peeling potatoes for that banquet."

"It was. I did." She smiled, but she sighed, too. "And it is peeling potatoes, Martin, and that kitchen is mighty stupid and lonesome when you can't help thinking all the time of the banquet-hall with all its light and laughter and music and excitement! You see, the children— Martin, they are awful. Why, they don't know a scale from an octave, some of them! And it is so hard to hear them singsong their one-two-three, one-two-three, when—when—oh, I do so want to be carving that turkey!"

"And that's what you should be doing."

"Oh, but you forget those foundations," she reminded him with a shrug. "And, of course, they are necessary; only I—I happen to be one that would prefer to build the cupolas."

"I don't blame you! It's a shame!" he declared. "But you just wait till my book gets to going. We won't be—er—peeling potatoes then."

She laughed and colored again.

"But meanwhile I am earning money," she said. "I want May to go on with her studies. Gordon—we've decided not to try to send him back to his old school. He'll stay and graduate here. Gilmoreville has a very fine High School, I am told. After that, we'll see. I'm hoping for college. But May—May must go, that's all. You know what talent she's got."

"Yes, I know, and I'm going to help her this summer. We were talking this morning while you were laboring with that little Smith girl. May read me that last little story she's written. It's very good."

"Is it really? Oh, I'm so glad! It seemed good—to me."

"Yes. Oh, it needs pruning and condensing, and she has some bad habits that need correction. And, as I said, I'm going to try to help her this summer. We're planning to have a session every morning on the piazza—'First Aid to Short-Story Writing,' while you're teaching."

"Oh, Martin, how perfectly splendid! That's awfully good of you. And it'll help her so much."

"She seems to think so."

"Of course it will. I hope she appreciates it. And for you to take your time like that, and for a tyro like May! Oh, well,"—she smiled whimsically,—"you'll be peeling potatoes now, Martin!"

Martin Kent shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps. Still, it is n't proved yet, you know, that I—I could carve the turkey if I wanted to. But you just wait till 'Trixie' is out. You wait!"

"Oh, we're waiting," she retorted a bit saucily. Then, with sweet gravity, she added: "But I do think it's dear of you, Martin, to help May; and I love you for it."

"I'm glad you love me for something, you little will-o'-the-wisp," he sighed plaintively. "Do you know what's going to happen? Some day I'm going to bunch the whole dozen of those tiresome one-two-three-fourers, and dump them into the river. Then while they're scrambling out and drying themselves off, I'll see if I can have you a little while to myself!"

"But you do have me evenings and Sundays, and some of the time days," she protested with a merry laugh.

"Oh, yes, some of the time days—when you're eating your dinner, for instance."

"Well, anyhow, they're better dinners than they used to be—those you've tried. Now, are n't they?" she challenged.

"Do you expect me to say that, and to the former cook? Not much!" he fenced.

"Well, perhaps it would n't be quite safe," she smiled. "But we do think Delia's a splendid cook. And she's such a comfort in lots of ways! Oh, things are beautifully fixed up now."

Things did, indeed, seem to be "beautifully fixed up" at the Gilmores' those July days. Delia, in the kitchen, gave them good, nourishing food at a fraction of what the inexperienced Sister Sue had been spending for the table. Moreover, the wages she asked were not large. Did she not have much time to give to her mother, and was not little Paul allowed the glorious freedom of that wonderful back yard?

John Gilmore was better physically than he had been at all since the catastrophe. Mentally he was unchanged. He still found his chief delight in his picture-cutting and his jackstraw-playing, though just now his garden was running a close second in his favor, and he was spending more and more of the long hours digging and weeding and watering, all of which pleased and relieved Sister Sue very much; when he was in the garden she felt that he was safe and happy. More than that, she knew that he was not annoying Martin Kent, or any one else, with his gently insistent questions.

Gordon was away camping. A school friend (supplemented by the mother) had sent him an invitation; and Sister Sue, upon investigation, had given cordial consent.

May was much less fretful these days. With college a possible prospect, her present surroundings seemed more endurable; besides, since Martin Kent had come there was the wonderful inspiration of his encouraging assistance in her short-story writing. He usually gave up the entire forenoon to her now, greatly to her joy and appreciation. Rainy days they sat behind the screen of vines on the veranda; but on pleasant days they nearly always went up into the grove on the hill back of the house, or over to "Sunset Rock" on Flanders Hill—anywhere, so as to get away from the tiresome tum-tum-tum, tum-tum-tum of those lessons through the parlor windows.

As for Sister Sue herself—Sister Sue, too, was happier than she had been since the day her father was brought home unconscious; happier not only because the members of her family were obviously more contented, but happier on her own account. Disagreeable and tedious though her work was at times, it was yet growing in interest. She found herself eagerly watching for improvement in her young pupils, and very proud and gratified when she found it. Besides, there were coming to her now regularly three or four older girls from a neighboring town, and Annabelle Whipple, of Gilmoreville. These girls were more advanced, and two of them had real talent. Sister Sue was finding keen pleasure in the hours spent with them.

With it all she was very busy. The number of her pupils was increasing rapidly, and she was learning to fit them in, one after another, with no lost time between. The money that came in Sister Sue counted greedily, questioning always, was there going to be enough to send May to her beloved college? She had her fears. And yet Mr. Loring had said that there would be partly enough to live on, anyway, and if they were very economical—

But Sister Sue did not let her mind dwell on this. She would work, and work hard. She would procure all the pupils she could, and there were the schools in the autumn, besides.

In spite of her increasing number of pupils, Sister Sue always found time to see that her father was contented and well cared for. That he was so well physically made her burdens in this direction much lighter. Now that Martin Kent had come there was a new claimant for her time, one that refused to be denied and whom she did not wish to deny. It was very pleasant, after the long day of teaching, to be soothed and comforted and coddled a little, perhaps, until she was rested. It was very delightful to sit on the veranda through the long July twilights and talk, or sit quietly, as the mood willed, with a companion whose sympathy was so nicely attuned that it made no difference which she did. Martin Kent was really a comfort these days. He was tender, tactful, and sympathetic, full of fun and good cheer, with always something interesting to say. It was a particularly restful companionship after a long day of jangling discords and nerve-wearing "No, no, that is not right. It should be, 'One-two-three-four; one-two-three-four; one-two-three-four.'"

And there was still her piano. She had a good one now. True, it was a rented instrument, and it was not an expensive one; but it was in good tune and of fairly good tone. At all events, it was much better than the "tinkling cymbal" now remaining closed and silent below the framed coffin-plate in the corner across the room; and it responded with some measure of satisfaction to the mood that was on her.

And this—as well as all the rest—helped.