Sister Sue/Chapter 14
CHAPTER XIV
A "BEST SELLER" AND A POSTPONED MARRIAGE
"Trixie" came out the first of November. It did not prove to be the Great American Novel, but it did become that other will-o'-the-wisp and unexplainable surprise, a "best seller." It was the sort of a book of which one person, having read it, immediately says to his neighbors on both sides of him, "Have you read 'Trixie'? Well, you want to, right away." That's the kind of book nothing can stop. The publisher, with the feeling of an engineer catching on to a train that has astonished him by starting off on its own accord, begins to advertise it widely. Half the critics laud it to the skies, while the other half either ignore it entirely or spend perfectly good time and perfectly good space, not in reviewing it, but in heaping anathemas on those who have reviewed it favorably. By December it had sold forty thousand copies. Christmas swelled it another forty thousand, and New Year's saw it still going strong with the hundred-thousand mark in sight.
Martin Kent accepted his success gratefully, even modestly in a way, though to his fiancée he did write a trifle boastfully: "What did I tell you?"
From her and from May, as from all his friends, he received hearty congratulations. May, in particular, wrote him that she was fairly green with envy. He was interviewed, dined, and banqueted. In magazines and newspapers appeared his portrait together with his quoted opinion (occasionally accurate, but usually otherwise) on all manner of subjects ranging from the best time to eat apples to the worst habits of the Fiji Islanders. From all over the country came letters requesting autographs and locks of hair. Movie Men and Screen Bureaus approached him with offers; and "Trixie" drinks, cigars, pajamas, and silk stockings appeared on the market.
In February the successful author, pleased and proud, but a little dazed with it all, ran up to Gilmoreville to see his fiancée.
"I just tore myself away," he said, "and I've got to go back to-morrow. I'm guest of honor at a banquet, and I have to speak before a Woman's Club the next day. But I've been trying for so long to get here."
In the evening, when John Gilmore had been put to bed and May and Gordon had left the two lovers to themselves, Martin Kent told why especially he had come. He said that surely now there need be no further delay. He wanted to be married, and he could be married now that this blessed book had made it possible.
He was very tender, very affectionate. He uttered some very beautiful sentiments that would have thrilled any girl's heart and that certainly would thrill the heart of a very tired little girl who, for so long, had borne the weight of heavy, heavy burdens. And they did thrill Sister Sue, to whom all eyes had turned, all hands had reached, and all feet had run when anything under the sun was wanted.
It was with a very long sigh of utter weariness, then, but with a measure of content as well, that Sister Sue said yes, she would marry him. She would marry him in two months—yes, in one month, if he liked.
"Fine! In one month, then, please! My little sweetheart—my wife," breathed the man with a fervent kiss. "And down there with me, once away from this, we'll have those roses back in your cheeks, dearie."
"Away from this!" She drew back, startled. "Why—Martin, you know I can't leave—here—"
"Nonsense! Of course you can leave. You did n't think I was coming here to live, did you, sweetheart?"
"Why, y-yes, I did, Martin. I—I thought that was what we'd always planned." Her eyes were troubled now.
He laughed lightly.
"But plans change, you know, when circumstances change. Surely, darling, you were n't thinking of making me spend the rest of my days in Gilmoreville, were you?"
"You—you would n't want to, then, even for—for a time?"
He laughed again lightly.
"I'm afraid not, my dear."
"But you liked it—you said you liked it, last summer."
"So I did—for a visit." He frowned a bit impatiently. "But to live here is quite another matter. Why, Sue! I'd stifle here—starve—grow mad! As for thinking of writing here—impossible! I'm sure, dear, you don't want to quite spoil my career, now."
"Oh! No, no. Of course not!" She spoke quickly, but her eyes were still troubled. "I was thinking, of course, of Father." She paused. The man said nothing. After a moment she went on, more slowly, "I'm afraid he won't be so contented anywhere else, and it's easier here, where he knows everybody and everybody knows him, to take care of him and keep him occupied."
"Of course, of course! I would n't think of moving him," said the man in cordial agreement.
The girl turned sharply.
"You—mean—you don't mean for us to go and leave him here?" she cried incredulously.
"But I do, dear." The man spoke pleasantly, with a cheerful, matter-of-course manner. "Your sister May is here, and Gordon, and you have Delia in the kitchen. And Mrs. Preston is right in the house. Your father will be all right, dear. Don't worry. Besides, you can run up yourself to see him now and then."
She gave an impatient gesture.
"Run up and see him, indeed!" she scorned. "Martin, can't you understand? Can't you see that what you ask is impossible—simply impossible? You don't know how much he depends on me. He always did even before he was sick—they all did."
"Yes, I know they did," interposed Martin Kent gently.
She paid no attention to his interruption, but went on earnestly:
"He is not quite so well now, Martin. He's more restless, more confused. Lots of times he does n't know where he is, has to be told, led out of doors and down the street, and then led back, just to show him he really is at home, you know. And I have to do that always. Delia can't, of course, and May and Gordon can't. They have n't the patience. Why, Martin! I could n't leave him with May. She would n't consent, ever. Besides, she has her own work to do and she loves it. I don't want her life spoiled. I want her to do something worth while. She's too young, anyway, to be left like that with all the cares.
"Even if it was n't for Father, there's Gordon. You don't know, but Gordon was—was getting in a bad way, rough and coarse and out nights, and hanging around hotels and pool-rooms. But I've changed all that. May says this place is a regular clubhouse now—and I suppose it is, but I don't care. We've fitted up a big room upstairs with tables and games and books and magazines and an old billiard-table; and almost always some of the boys are there. And we have sings and candy-pulls and dances downstairs. You should hear me play ragtime and dance music! I never thought I could, but I do. Oh, I make them hear good music, too, and they're getting to like it. We've started a little orchestra; Gordon plays the bass viol—he loves it. But if I went away all this would stop and—he'd go back, I know he'd go back, to those awful pool-rooms again. Martin, don't you see? I can't leave them here—I can't. I shall have to take them with me. Can't you see that I shall?"
"No, I can't." Impatiently the man got to his feet and began to move restlessly up and down the room. Then abruptly he stopped and faced her.
"Sweetheart, can't you see that that is exactly what I want—to get you away from it all? You are wearing yourself all out. You've done enough. Let some one else take the burden now."
"Martin!"
"Yes, I know you think I'm urging you to do something wrong and selfish. But it's not that way at all. They're selfish themselves to want you to give up your whole life to them. Oh, yes, I know they depend on you. They always have. It's been, 'Sister Sue'll do it.' 'Sister Sue'll go.' 'Sister Sue'll stay.' But it's time all that was stopped. It's time Sister Sue had more chance to live her own life."
She smiled a little wistfully.
"Yes, I know. I sometimes have longed for a rest, just a little rest for a little while, but some one must do these things. What you say sounds all very pretty, but, Martin, you know as well as I do that there are some things that have to be done. I was going to live my own life—until that day when Father was brought home unconscious. Everything changed then. It had to change, Martin."
"Yes, yes. I understand," admitted the man irritably. "But that was then. Things are different now. 'Trixie' had n't made a hit then. I was n't in a position to do anything then. I am now. I want you and I need you. I need you for incentive, inspiration. Seems to me you ought to consider me and my needs a little."
"Oh, Martin!" She smiled at him reproachfully.
"Well, I do. I'm considering you. Seriously, dear, now listen. I want you to get away, quite away, from all this care. And it can be done—if you'll only be sensible and reasonable. If the people here can't take proper care of your father, we'll find a good sanitarium somewhere that can. Gordon will soon be going to college, and May'll be getting married. Until then they may stay with us."
"Thank you, Martin." The girl's voice trembled a little, though she was speaking now very quietly. "But Father would not be happy in a sanitarium, and to be away from me, too. Martin, I can't do that. I shall have to have him where I can look after him myself."
"But how can you stand it, dear, to see him like that? So broken and childish—not himself at all? I can't. It makes me positively ill. It unfits me for—everything. I can't bear—"
"You won't have to, Martin," interrupted the girl very quietly, but very pleasantly. "Come, we won't talk any more about it, please. It cannot do any good; you know we cannot possibly agree. As Father is now I can't marry you, for I can't leave him. Now, let's talk of something else—your book, your work, what you are doing that's new and interesting."
"But—but—dearest—"
"No—please, Martin. Don't let us spoil the whole of this one evening we are together." Determinedly and with brisk cheerfulness she began to talk of "Trixie" and the curious letters that had come to him from all over the country.
When he had gone an hour later, she still carried the same air of brisk cheerfulness upstairs to her room. She even hummed a meaningless little tune, just such a little tune as one would hum if one was trying very hard not—to—think.