Sister Sue/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV
REVELATIONS
February passed and March came. "Trixie" had reached the hundred-thousand mark now—and was still selling, so Martin Kent wrote. Martin Kent's letters to his fiancée were still frequent, still affectionate, still brightly full of his doings and of the honors being showered upon him. He was tenderly solicitous of her health and welfare—but he said nothing whatever about being married.
Sister Sue's letters in return were also frequent, affectionate, and frequently full of the doings and sayings in the Gilmore household—but they also said nothing whatever about marriage. The subject was tacitly tabooed.
In Gilmoreville Sister Sue pursued her daily round with at least a semblance of serenity and good cheer. In reality she was still humming that meaningless little tune of—the woman who does not want to think. She was so busy, however, through the day that she had little time to think, and she was so tired when it came night that her insistent counting of sheep jumping over a wall usually brought the desired sleep.
And Sister Sue was, indeed, busy. The number of her pupils had increased, and she was teaching in the Gilmoreville Graded School, as well as in the school at the Junction—ten miles away. In a rash moment of sympathy for a much-harassed minister, she had taken upon herself the playing of the piano for the Sunday-School. The rehearsals of her home-talent orchestra made still more demands on her time, to say nothing of the increasing popularity of her sings and candy-pulls. Even May had to be counted in for no small share of attention, for May was already trying to sell her stories, and when they came back, flanked with their cruel rejection slips, there was no one quite like Sister Sue to soothe her, and give her comfort and sympathy and to put those undiscerning editors where they belonged with a few well-chosen words of sharp, stinging rebuke which May only wished they could have heard.
And above all else, always there was for Sister Sue the childish old man, who was growing day by day more exacting.
Indeed, there was no doubt that Sister Sue was busy that winter in Gilmoreville. She told Mrs. Preston sometimes that she was very, very busy peeling those potatoes; that she would n't mind her backaches and headaches if she were only doing something really worth while. But to be so utterly weary and then have nothing to show for it but a pan of peeled potatoes—! And then she would make up a wry little face and shrug her shoulders and, with a merry twinkle in her eyes, glance over to Mrs. Preston, who would always remark: "I'm a-thinkin' more folks is needin' potatoes ter-day than turkey." Then both of them would laugh.
But it all helped and made it easier to go back to the potato-peeling.
In June Gordon was graduated from the High School. He was valedictorian of his class. His sister was proud of him and told him so. He was eighteen years old that spring. He had told Sister Sue that he had carefully considered the matter from all sides and had decided not to go to college. He was going into business, he said. And he said it with a very brave show of meaning it, too, but she was not so easily deceived by his words. She detected the "Oh, I wish I could go" under his effort to appear indifferent.
So Sister Sue laughed and said "Nonsense!" That he was going to do no such thing; that she could arrange beautifully now to send him, she was sure, if he would n't mind being a little economical and did n't choose too expensive a college and would perhaps help a little himself.
And Gordon kissed her (a quite extraordinary tribute for him to pay) and said she was a peach, and a brick, and he'd wanted to go all the time, only he did n't want to be a selfish pig about it. And of course he'd help pay his way. He'd black boots, or wait on tables, or shovel paths, or anything—She'd see! He said he could begin this summer to earn some money, but, in thinking it over, he did n't believe he would after all. Better start fresh in the fall. Besides, he had another chance to go camping this summer where he had such a good time last year, and he knew Sister Sue would want him to do that. And Sister Sue said, "Yes, yes, indeed! Of course!"
And so on the first of July he went.
Martin Kent came the sixth. All the spring he had been writing his fiancée that he was coming to Gilmoreville for a vacation. He said it was just the place he needed, and he was really looking forward to the quiet of the old town with its quaint, comfortable Inn. To say nothing of his longing to see her—his dear sweetheart.
He arrived at five o'clock, and at eight o'clock he walked down the long, elm-shaded street leading to the big, white colonial house known as the old Gilmore homestead. Sister Sue was first to see him coming. She was sitting on the veranda with May and her father. She gave one comprehensive look at the tall figure exhibiting so unmistakably the handiwork of a city tailor, even at that distance, then she hurriedly rose to her feet.
"Come, Father. It's time we were going in, I think." And she took firm hold of his arm.
"Oh, no. I don't want to go in," he said gently, but decidedly.
"But we'll have to. Come, Father, come!" she cried. "Please come, quick!" And so urgent was her voice this time that it penetrated even the befogged brain of the mumbling old man, and he rose as if impelled by some hidden force. They were well out of sight, indoors, by the time the tall, well-groomed figure of the man came up the walk.
It seemed to Sister Sue, afterwards, that this little incident was portentous of all the experiences that followed during the next few weeks. As the days passed, always she was luring her father into the house, or upstairs, or out of doors, somewhere, anywhere, so that he might not offend the eyes of Martin Kent with his undesired presence. (All day Sister Sue might hum those meaningless little tunes so that she might not think—think—think; yet she always was remembering what Martin Kent had said about seeing her father. She did not have to think to remember that!)
Sometimes it seemed to her as if the task of keeping her father and Martin Kent apart was an impossible one. For a considerable time now John Gilmore had been showing himself more and more averse to being left alone. He wanted always to be with somebody. If left alone in his own room, it would n't be long before he would be seeking Sister Sue or May or Gordon, or even Delia in the kitchen. Only in his flower garden was he content to be by himself. And it was there, whenever possible, that his daughter would lead him at sight of Martin Kent coming down the street or up the walk. Fortunately, however, night found the old man very tired and he was always ready to go to bed early. For Sister Sue it left the evenings free from her ever-present fear that her father would walk into the room to show his box of paper pictures or to ask if she would n't please take him home, saying that he wanted to go home soon. The latter meant always that, if he was to be made happy, the two of them must put on their hats (and coats if necessary) and walk up or down the street and across to the other side, coming back again to their own doorway, which never failed then to elicit a contented "Oh, I'm so glad to get home," from the weary man at Sister Sue's side.
But it was this, all this, that Sister Sue did not want to happen in Martin Kent's presence. Hence her ceaseless endeavors to have her father well out of the way and happily occupied when her lover was in the house.
Not that Martin Kent himself said anything to make this necessary. On the contrary, he was always very pleasant, even gently cordial when, in spite of Sister Sue's vigilance, he and John Gilmore sometimes met. He often inquired, too, very solicitously, for his health. But Martin Kent was very affable, very gracious, in all his ways these days. He was all tenderness and sympathy for Sister Sue when he found her so tired in the evenings, and he was tireless in his efforts to help May in her short-story writing. May told Sister Sue he was perfectly lovely, and not spoiled a bit by all his wonderful success, and he was such a help to her! And Sister Sue smiled and said she was glad, very glad.
And Sister Sue really was glad. She was glad not only to have May so aided in her work, but she was glad that there was some one in the house who could help entertain Martin Kent and make up for her own delinquencies as a hostess. For with her father and her pupils Sister Sue was finding very little time to give to Martin Kent except the evenings. And Martin Kent was often there through the day. He liked the cozy, vine-shaded veranda, and he liked to help May all he could, he said. Besides, there was a chance, once in a while, that he might occasionally catch a peep at Sister Sue! he declared. So almost every day he came to sit on the vine-shaded veranda with May. Not that he always sat there. Quite frequently he suggested a walk. He said it was cooler up on the hill in the pine grove back of the house, and they could work up there better. That there was not the same chance up there of "catching a peep" at Sister Sue evidently did not occur to him.
But it did occur to Sister Sue. She was ashamed to admit it, even to herself. But a great many things were occurring to Sister Sue these days, instigated, she very well knew, by the chance sentences that had come to her ears one recent Sunday when she was on the way out of Sunday-School where she had been playing the piano for the singing. In front of her were two slow-moving teachers, and she was obliged to slacken her own eager steps for a moment. And it was at that moment that the sentence floated back to her.
"It was Sister Sue—yes—that played— And he's engaged to her but everybody says they should think 't was the other one—the way they're gallivanting off together all the time."
Unseen, Sister Sue slipped to one side through the crowd and waited until the two women were quite out of sight. Then she came down the steps and walked home—a little hurriedly and her cheeks pinker than usual.
Silly gossip, of course. But what a pity! Must she forbid their going out at all together without a chaperon? She had never thought it necessary before to have a chaperon in this little country town, their own home town as well. And Martin Kent, the child's future brother-in-law, too! What a shame that idle tongues should try to make capital out of a simple daylight walk to the little pine grove on the hill back of their own home! And, too, when they obviously went with books in their hands to study there; and very plainly in an effort to get away from the tiresome thumping of her pupils at those eternal scales and five-finger exercises! How absurd! How wicked, too! Gossip like that always hurt a girl! It was a shame!
But to stop it; that was the problem. To say in so many words, you must not talk nor walk together any more. Oh, she could not do that! She never could! Why, it would look as if she distrusted them and was cheaply jealous of her own sister! And if she explained, told them about the gossip, that would be worse. It would make them self-conscious and—and impossible to be together. It would entirely spoil their frank comradeship, and of course put a stop to the "lessons" with all their wonderful aid and encouragement to May. And what a pity to do all that just because of a silly bit of gossip!
Of course, if there were any truth in it—
And just here it came to her with almost blinding force—What if it were true? What if they had begun to care for each other? What if But that was absurd, of course. She would not so misjudge them. Certainly she could drive such unworthy thoughts from her mind.
But this was just what she found she could not do. In spite of her determination and her scornful denials to herself, she found herself watching, always watching, whenever she saw them together. She found herself inventing excuses to go out on the veranda when her sister and Martin Kent were there, and she found herself knowing the minute they left the house for a walk to the pine grove on the hill, and watching the clock till they returned.
And she saw:
That Martin Kent's eyes lighted up when May came into the room, and that they followed her as she moved about; that he deferred to May's wishes and whims and opinions on all occasions; that he worried as to whether May was too warm or too cold, when it never seemed to occur to him that his fiancée might need a fan or an extra wrap; and that he and May had many little jokes and laughs together in which she herself had no part.
Not that any of these things of themselves were so very great, she told herself, but they were significant, and she admitted that. She began to admit something else, too. Would it, after all, be so very strange if Martin Kent did turn to her sister May? May was young, pretty, and very attractive. May had no cares. She was free to be with him whenever he wanted her. Moreover, there was the great bond of their common literary interests. They could spend hours talking plots, local color, and atmosphere. While as for herself—!
Sister Sue studied herself in the mirror one day. She flung the shade far up and let the sunlight in, and she was shocked. Undeniably she was looking old and careworn. She had grown thinner since coming to Gilmoreville, and the little hollows in her cheeks and the dark circles under her eyes were not becoming. Her hair showed lack of care, and not the simplicity of taste in arrangement, but the simplicity of haste—which is quite different in effect. Her dress, too, was plainly selected for its durability and not for its attractiveness. She remembered that she did n't have leisure to give Martin Kent whenever he sauntered over in search of companionship and amusement. The house—her father—a pupil, always there was something to detain her. And when evening came she was so utterly worn out with it all that very likely she was stupid and unattractive. Moreover, she did not have that "community of interest" with Martin. Plots, local color, atmosphere, bored her only to a degree less, perhaps, than her music bored him. He had never cared much for music. It might not, then, be so very strange, after all, if Martin Kent should turn to her sister May.
Prepared, however, as Sister Sue was for the thing, it came to her as a distinct shock when she came into the living-room late one afternoon and found May in Martin Kent's arms. With a little cry from May they sprang apart. Then May stood looking from one to the other, biting her lips and twisting her fingers nervously. The man's face had grown first colorless, then a dark, painful red. With a very obvious effort he began to speak, his eyes on the girl in the doorway who had stopped short and was standing there now quietly, her face a little white.
"There is n't anything I—I—can't, Sister Sue," implored the man.
Sister Sue stirred suddenly. It was as if the familiar appeal of "Sister Sue" had cleared away a fog of indecision. She came forward at once, at the same time slipping a ring from the third finger of her left hand. Very faintly she smiled.
"No, there is nothing you can say, Martin, except what you have said. It is—'Sister Sue.'" She dropped the ring on to the table by which he stood, then turned and left the room swiftly.
That evening, on the veranda, when it was so dark one's face could not be plainly seen, May came to her and dropped on a low stool at her feet.
"Sue, won't you just let me—talk to you?" she faltered.
"Why, certainly. Talk all you like." Sister Sue's voice was calmly expressionless.
"I know there is n't anything I can say—not anything," choked the girl, "that will do do—any real good, or take away the—the awfulness of the thing. But I—I want you to know that—that—what you saw to-day—never happened before. It—it was the first time—and we—we were—were just as much surprised as you were."
"Were you!"
"Oh, I know, I know!" exclaimed May feverishly. "Nothing I can say will seem to do any good, when you saw with your own eyes. But, Sister Sue, listen. Thoughtless, and silly, and selfish, and everything else that I am that's bad and foolish, I don't lie. You know I don't lie. You do know that?"
"Yes. I know that, May."
"Well; then you must believe me when I say that that was the first time—what you saw—and that we never realized where we were drifting, until—until it was right on us, or that we cared—that way. And I want you to know that we're going to kill it—both of us. I'm going away."
"Nonsense, child! You'll do no such thing! As if I'd let you!"
"But, Sister Sue, we're in earnest, really. We're not going to meet again for a long, long time. Martin is going to write to you and—and explain—and ask you to forgive and forget and take back the ring. And he's going to bow in the dust. He said he was."
Sister Sue gave a short laugh.
"And does he think I want a lover—that he picks out of the dust? No, May. All that is impossible, quite impossible. You'll see it yourself after a little thought. Do you think for an instant that I would want to marry a man who cared for another woman, and that woman my sister who cared for him, too? Don't be absurd, May!"
"But we're so sorry! so heartbroken!"
"You shouldn't be. You should be glad that you've found it out before it's too late. I am."
"Are you, really?"
"Very glad. It would have been unfortunate, you know, if you had found it out after he had married me."
"But it looks—as if we'd been so false—" quivered May. "And, truly, Sister Sue, we never thought—we never dreamed—of such a thing," she hurried on feverishly. "And it was over such a silly little thing that we—we found out. I got a splinter in my finger out on the board fence when reaching through for nasturtiums, and when I came in I found Martin here, and I asked him to get it out, and he did, and—and— Honestly, Sister Sue, I don't know how it happened, but all of a sudden he had me in his arms and—and was kissing me and—and saying things. Then—you came. Oh! Sister Sue, it was awful! What did you think? And we were just as surprised as you were. But I know now that it—it's been coming on a long time with me. I always liked him, and thought he was perfectly lovely. Then when he began to help me, and we had such a lot of things to talk about—I know now that I was always watching for him, and that I was never so happy as when with him, and he says it's been the same way with him, too. He found himself watching for me and waiting for me, and glad when we could be off by ourselves. He told me that to-day—after you—you went away. But right off—we—we agreed that we'd kill it, and we will, Sister Sue, because I'm sure we can! Oh! We're going to try so hard and—"
"Nonsense!" interrupted Sister Sue, rousing herself briskly. "Don't talk that way any more, May. When I dropped that ring on the table I dropped myself quite out of Martin Kent's life—except, of course, as 'Sister Sue,'" she amended with a slight lift of the eyebrows. "Now, come. We know what is to be done. The only thing left is to decide how and when to do it. You will be married, of course. The sooner, the better, I think, under the circumstances, which will suit Martin Kent, I am sure. He wanted to marry me last March, so he'll be ready; merely a change in brides, that's all."
"Sister Sue! You—you're awful!"
"Awful? Not a bit of it. I hope I'm sensible. That's all."
"But—but Martin is going to write you."
"Very well. I'll answer. And he'll like my letter. Never fear. This is n't a penny dreadful or a stage melodrama that we're living, you know. There'll be no hysterics or heroics. We shall conduct the matter with dignity and with as little cause for gossip as is possible. You will go away to live, of course. I'm glad of that. It would n't be so easy to keep tongues quiet if you were here as a perpetual reminder."
"But—Sister Sue. You?" faltered May.
"Don't worry about me." Sister Sue's lips came together a bit grimly. "As I told you, there'll be no hysterics or heroics, and I shan't die of a broken heart. Never fear."
"Sister Sue, I—I think you're wonderful!" breathed the younger girl.
"Wonderful? Not a bit of it! I—I'm just Sister ue, that 'sail."
"Sue, Sue, Sister Sue—are you out here?" queried a man's voice from the doorway. Even her father called her "Sister Sue" sometimes.
"Yes, Father. I'm coming." With a sigh that was quickly stifled, Sister Sue got to her feet and went into the house.