CHAPTER XXI
THE REVOLT
Only Gordon came to the funeral. Mabel was sick at home and May telegraphed that neither Martin nor herself would be able to come, explaining by letter that Martia had too heavy a cold to risk going and that she could n't think of such a thing as going all by herself in the winter in all that snow. They sent a very beautiful wreath, however.
When it was all over and Gordon and Sister Sue sat alone in the living-room with the heavy scent of roses bringing back the scene of the morning, Gordon cleared his throat a little self-consciously.
"Well, Sister Sue, this will mean a change, of course, for you. You won't want to stay here alone, surely."
"No. Oh, no. I should n't want to stay here alone." Sister Sue repeated the words a little mechanically.
"Well, you know, of course, that our latchstring is always out. We'd be very glad to have you come to live with us."
"Thank you—but—"
"Oh, no 'buts' now. Don't go to feeling sensitive, my dear," interrupted Gordon, a trifle patronizingly. "You won't be a bit in the way, so don't feel that you'll be a burden. On the contrary, you'll be a real help, and you'll find plenty to do, I'll warrant, so that you'll be paying for your board and keep all right," he laughed. "Grocery clerks with my pay can't afford maids, you know, and Mabel is so poorly, and has so much to do, what with the baby and all. Oh, you'll find plenty to do all right. Just remember that we'll be glad to have you, that's all—glad to have you. And now I must go if I'm going to catch that train," he finished, rising to his feet.
Sister Sue smiled faintly and thanked him for his invitation and said he was very kind. But not until after Gordon was in the train on his way home did he suddenly remember that Sister Sue had not told him whether she would accept his offer of a home or not.
Two days after the funeral came a letter from May. It was a very cordial letter, even a loving one. May wrote, she said, to assure her dear sister Sue that she would be most welcome to a home with them. And she said that Sister Sue need not worry at all about being under obligations nor feel as if she was accepting charity. That it would n't be so at all. They really needed her. She was such a splendid nurse that she would be a valuable addition to the family. And with the new baby coming in June her presence would be really a great comfort and help. Therefore, she need feel no hesitation on that score.
"So, now, come right along," she finished, signing herself as "Your affectionate and loving sister May."
For three days after this letter came, Sister Sue still went from room to room sorting, arranging, putting in order, doing the innumerable tasks that must always be done whenever one among us lays down her work for the last time. On the fourth day she went into Mrs. Preston's kitchen, where the old lady sat by the window in the sun. Wearily Sister Sue dropped into a chair.
"Well, Mrs. Preston, I—I've decided," she began, flushing a little.
"About—"
"What to do. I'm—going. I've got to go, Mrs. Preston. You don't know, but all these days—since since Father went—I've been fighting a battle."
"Yes, my dear." There was just enough but not too much interest in the voice of the little shrewd old lady.
"They want me. Gordon wants me, and May wants me. They say I need n't feel I'm a burden, nor that it's charity to give me a home."
The little old woman gave an indignant sniff, but Sister Sue went on without seeming to notice it.
"They say I can do enough, plenty enough, for my board and keep."
The old lady sniffed again, but Sister Sue still kept on unheeding.
"And it's true, I can do enough. I know I can. I'm really needed in both places, and that's the worst of it. I know I'm needed, but—I'm going to run away."
She paused, but only for breath.
"Mrs. Preston, I've got to run away. I know I'm a good cook and a good nurse and a good manager and a good seamstress, and I know I could help out a lot in either family. But I'm tired of helping out. That sounds dreadful, I know. But it's the truth. I'm tired of helping out! The other day I read of a little girl who was asked what she was going to be when she grew up, and she answered, 'I'm going to be myself.' Mrs. Preston, that's what I want to be. I want to be myself. And I never have been. All my life I've been only Sister Sue. I now want the biggest apple and the biggest piece of cake, and I don't want to tie anybody's shoestrings but my own—for a while. Oh, I know that sounds selfish and horrid, and you don't know what I mean, anyway. But I can't help it. I am selfish and horrid to-day. Mrs. Preston, I'm nearly twenty-seven years old now. Am I selfish and horrid to want to be—be myself for a little while?"
"My land's sakes, child! No!" emphasized the old woman vigorously. "You're just right!"
"Thanks. That helps a lot," sighed the girl, "even if I do know it's not so. You see, I've made up my mind I'm not going to May's or Gordon's, though I'm going to Boston. I'm going to Signor Bartoni's and study again. I'm going to try to be what I've longed all my life to be—a concert pianist. You don't know, Mrs. Preston, how hungry I am for music, real music. And I'm going to hear, oh, such a lot of it when I get to Boston. And I'll teach, of course, after a while. I'll have to for the money. But I've got enough to start with, and there'll be a little more, I suppose, from the estate. Mr. Loring's attending to that, of course. And we're going to keep the old place in the family, Mrs. Preston, so don't worry about having to move."
"That's good; I'm glad," breathed the old woman fervently. "When are you going?"
"Next week. Monday morning. I'm going the first minute I can get away. I've got to have some things to wear, of course. I'll get some here, but I'll get more in Boston. Boston! Oh, Mrs. Preston, you don't know what just the sound of that word means to me!"
"Don't I?"
"You can't! Nobody can! And to think that I'm going just next Monday! And so I shall write to May and Gordon, but I shan't write till Saturday. I don't want to be here when they answer. I want to be already gone. I shall tell them to address me in Boston, care of Mr. Loring. I don't know where I'll be in Boston. I'm going first to Mr. Loring's, but I shan't stay there. I want to get away from here, anyway, as soon as I can. I see Father everywhere—in the awful way he's been the past few years. I'm hoping down to Boston to get my real Father back in my memory, the one I used to know. That's another reason why I'm in such a hurry to get there, get there!" she cried, rising to her feet and stretching out her arms in an abandonment of longing.
A moment later Mrs. Preston found herself alone.
Sister Sue wrote her letters on Saturday, and on Monday she left for Boston just as she had planned.
On Tuesday Mrs. Preston was confronted by a wild-eyed young woman and a scarcely less wild-eyed young man. Mrs. Martin Kent had evidently found the snow and the winter and the trip all alone no obstruction whatever to her coming to Gilmoreville—this time. She and her brother had met at the station and had gone to the house together. Indignantly, then, they had accosted Mrs. Preston with the demand:
"Where is my sister?"
A sudden gleam leaped to the eyes of the little old lady, though at the same time a quiet smile came to her lips. For reasons of her own Mrs. Preston preferred not to antagonize the pair before her just yet. There were certain things that she wished to say to them before they left.
"Miss Gilmore? Why, she went to Boston just yesterday. What a pity, and you just missed her! Come in and sit down."
"Yes, yes, I know," interrupted Mrs. May hurriedly, dropping herself into the offered chair with plain reluctance. "We knew she was going, but not so soon— We came up to—to stop her."
"Yes, to stop her," echoed the young man nervously, as he also took a seat.
"Stop her?" This time it was a question from the little old lady, and again the peculiar gleam leaped to her eyes.
"Yes, yes," answered two voices. And then the young woman added: "It was so absurd, her starting off like this all alone to Boston! Why, we wrote her to come to us—to live with us. We offered her a home. We both did."
"A home!" The word had caused the gleam to leap into flame now. "Yes, and what kind of a home would it be?" demanded the little old woman, sitting suddenly erect. "What kind of a home would it be?"
Then, before either of the astonished and bewildered young people sitting there could speak, she went on to answer her own question. And right loyally she answered it. In emphatic, but very plainly-to-be-understood English she told just what kind of a home it would be, with Sister Sue at the beck and call of every one in it, with no life or will or wish of her own. She drew a picture of what Sister Sue's life had been thus far, and it was a very vivid picture.
Cleverly, from what she had heard and seen and known and guessed, she put together and built a very good mosaic of Sister Sue's daily living from the time her mother had died. And she pictured, too, the life Sister Sue had wanted to live, and so potent were her words that they themselves could see their sister Sue bowing her thanks to the applauding multitudes who acclaimed her the world's greatest pianist. This little old woman made them see then what Sister Sue had given up all these years, from the larger apple to the larger life, and how she had given it up for them. They had gone away to school, to camp, and to pay visits. They had married and left home. They had gone and come as they pleased. She had stayed. And now when the chance had come, and she had snatched at the years remaining to her, hoping still to be "herself" yet once before she died, what had they done?
"Here ye be the—both of ye," accused the old woman severely, "grudgin' her the few minutes she's got left, an' teasin' her ter keep on bein' Sister Sue till the end of her days jest so's ye can keep on havin' that biggest apple ter the last."
Mrs. Martin Kent gave an inarticulate gasp; her brother said a short word under his breath. But that the irate little old woman had found a chord somewhere within them that vibrated to her appeal was evident, for chokingly then the young woman questioned:
"But what are we to do?"
"Do? Ye can go home. An' when yer sister Sue writes she has played a tune or seen a show or met somebody she used ter know, or done anything else she wants ter do, tell her ye're glad an' ye hope she'll do it ag'in, an' don't ye say one word about baby's croup or yer own cold or yer husband's terrible sore toe, or anything else that would make her imagine, maybe, she ought ter be there ter take care of it. Just let her be her own self for once an' tell her ye're glad she can be. An' ter-night, on yer knees, thank the good Lord that you've got a sister Sue.
"Oh! Ye ain't the only one. There's others, lots of 'em, right in this town, an' other towns, too, I s'pose. There's any amount of Sister Sues, always stayin' home themselves an' sendin' everybody else off; always givin' up what they want fer what somebody else don't want; always takin' a back seat so's everybody else can have the front; always stayin' in the kitchin an' peelin' pertaters for somebody else ter eat. Yer own Sister Sue said she was doin' that last herself; I heard her; so ye can see how she felt. An' they ain't appreciated. They never be. Just 'cause they don't stand out in front an' wave a flag when the percession goes by, they ain't noticed. Ten ter one they're in the kitchin that minute fryin' doughnuts for that same percession ter eat when they git through marchin'. Though, when they git Over There, they'll be appreciated. What'll ye bet their crowns won't be so bright with stars it'll make one blind just ter look at 'em?
"Oh! I know I'm talkin'—I'm talkin' a lot. But I feel a lot, an' if I talked all night I could n't half finish tellin' ye what I feel. But I'm just tryin' ter tell ye that 't ain't always the folks that goes off an' writes books an' plays the fiddle an' sings in the opery that does the most good fer their towns. It's jest as apt—an' a little more so—ter be the Sister Sues that stay at home an' play in Sunday-School an' prayer-meetin's an' gittin' the boys an' girls together an' givin' 'em sings an' candy-pulls an' keeps 'em off the streets. But nobody ever pays ter see 'em or meets 'em with bands playin' at the railroad station. An' that's why I'm tryin' ter tell ye that I hope sometime you'll appreciate the Sister Sue you've got. There! I—I guess I've said enough."
Mrs. Martin Kent wiped her eyes openly. "I—I hope what you've said will—will do me some good," she stammered.
Gordon went over to the window and, looking out, muttered: "I've been a blamed idiot."