CHAPTER XXII
THE LIFE WORTH WHILE
All the way to Boston Sister Sue caught herself looking furtively over her shoulder. She could not get rid of the idea that she was running away, and that she would be followed and taken back home, like a naughty child. Before her eyes always was, not the letters from her brother and sister, but the fact behind the letters, that she could be and would be a real benefit to either family if she were to accept their offer—of a home. Already she had brought about a wondrous improvement in Gordon's wife; she knew that; and she knew, too, that there was a chance for her to do a great deal more by the quiet influence of her own presence. And as for real, practical aid in the way of housework and nursing, there was no limit to the service she might be in that line to both families. It needed no imagination to picture herself being, in their homes, a self-sacrificing, long-suffering Sister Sue for the rest of her days. Unfortunately, however, there was still another home she pictured, and in which, with distressingly growing frequency, she was picturing herself—her own home; her own home where it would really be this time "all for love and the world well lost." This picture, though, was one that always came unbidden, and which was, if possible, put to rout at once with a scornful: "For shame! And he dead in love with a Beth who sings or a Helen who paints! And you knowing it all the time!" Determinedly, then, always Sister Sue would bring to mind that other picture, the picture which for so many years had been her star of promise—the picture of herself holding enthralled by the ends of her fingers the vast multitudes who had come to hear her play. And she told herself that now—now at last—she had her chance! And so she began to lay her plans. Plans in which there was no room for a Mabel who needed polishing, or a May who needed nursing, or yet a Donald Kendall who did not need loving—but was loved just the same.
Arrived in Boston, however, all pictures vanished. In Sister Sue's nostrils was the sooty smell of the engine smoke—to her a veritable perfume of Araby. In Sister Sue's eyes were the shifting throngs of moving people—to her a veritable kaleidoscope of charm and color. In Sister Sue's ears was the new yet ever familiar rush and roar of a great city—a veritable song of freedom to the long-restrained little woman who seemed to herself to be walking on air instead of on the somewhat dirty floor of a huge railroad station.
In the waiting-room she found Mr. Loring watching for her; and in the Lorings' beautiful home that night she slept the sleep of a tired child. For nearly a week she "just played and rested," as she termed it to Mrs. Loring. Begging to be left quite alone to her own devices, she foraged in the libraries and museums; fed her longing soul on concerts and plays; and then she would go home to a good book, a box of chocolates, and a luxurious couch with the lights just right.
And so, rested, refreshed, and fairly tingling with the joy of living, she went to see Signor Bartoni.
He was busy with a pupil, said the trim little maid ushering her into the old, familiar reception-room. Would she please wait? It would not be for long. Sister Sue drew a long breath then—and sat down. She was glad to wait. Perhaps her heart would not beat so fast nor her hands tremble quite so much after ten minutes of quiet rest in the dear old room.
Slipping off her coat and gloves, she got her music in readiness. On top was the same Liszt concerto she had played for him that memorable day years before when he had set the match to the gunpowder of her ambition. Underneath was a Beethoven sonata, a lyric from Schumann, something from Chopin, and several romantic and emotional little classics she had played for him in those old days, winning from him his "Gr-rand!" "Splend-eed, Mees Gilmore!"
From behind the closed door leading to the rear drawing-room came the sound of a Chopin nocturne, played rather indifferently and with frequent interruptions in Signor Bartoni's high-pitched, staccato voice. It came to an end at last, and the door opened to admit Signor Bartoni and a very pretty young girl. He came forward at once with outstretched hands.
"Mees Gilmore! It is Mees Gilmore!" he exclaimed. "I am delighted, delighted!" He took both her hands in his, and beamed upon her with his little twinkling eyes.
Sister Sue laughed and blushed and drew in her breath with an ecstatic little catch. Like a cloak, then, the intervening years fell away and left her in her own eyes the girl of twenty.
"I have come, yes—to learn to be the great artiste," she breathed.
Briefly, then, she told of her past few years and of her chance now to be herself. "And so, may I play to you? " she finished.
He said: "Yes, yes. By all means!" There was a little time now, but not much before the next pupil. But he would take time. Hear her play? Indeed, he would! And he led the way to the rear room, closing the door after them.
"You see I—I want to know what—what to do," stammered Sister Sue, a little breathlessly as she arranged the music. "I want to know—whether you want me to stay with you—or go to some one else."
"I see, I see," nodded the man.
Then Sister Sue began to play. She played the scherzo from the concerto, a Liszt rhapsody, a little of Beethoven, a bit of Chopin, then she rose from the piano.
Signor Bartoni, watch in hand, had given a sudden exclamation:
"My pupil! It is past time! Look!" he cried. "But, listen. Can you wait? She is the last to-day. One little half-hour and she will be gone. Then I talk to you. You'll wait?"
"Yes, oh, yes! I shan't mind waiting a bit!" cried Sister Sue, gathering up her music and hurrying toward the door.
In the outer room they found a young woman, and a very handsome, distinguished-looking older woman. Toward the latter Signor Bartoni rushed, with outstretched hands, even more excitedly than he had toward Sister Sue a short time before.
He turned then and presented Sister Sue, and, at the name, Sister Sue felt like pinching herself to make sure she was not asleep and dreaming, for it was the name borne by the greatest woman pianist the world knew.
"Now, wait, please, you two," begged the music-master. "I want to see you both. And I am glad.—You will be companee for each other." With that he vanished in the wake of his pupil.
Sister Sue found herself alone then with the Great One. In Sister Sue's mind she was just that—all capitals. Sister Sue had heard her play once—years ago. Since then the great pianist had been to Sister Sue the living embodiment of her own dreams. Hidden away in Sister Sue's desk was a little drawer containing pictures, magazine articles, newspaper clippings, anything and everything—that showed her fame or mentioned her name—that could be found. Over them Sister Sue had pored many times till she knew them all by heart. And to have before her now that wondrous being in the flesh, talk to her, hear her talk—! Even now Sister Sue could not believe but what she had fallen asleep over her desk of treasures at home, and was dreaming.
She was very much awake, however. The lady herself began to talk. She spoke of Signor Bartoni, his fine skill as a teacher, and of her own long friendship for him. Then she spoke of the weather and the snow in the streets, the bad "going," of a new book, the latest play. Amiably she chatted on, of nothing in particular, her hands idly toying with a letter she held. A little breathlessly at intervals, and according to the demands of the conversation, Sister Sue would make polite responses, but when there came a pause she burst in, a little incoherently, and very much as if the words were being impelled by a hidden power that could not be controlled:
"I can't—I can't sit here and talk to you like this—and not tell you, or at least try to tell you, what you've been to me all these years!"
"'Been' to you, my dear?"
"Yes, yes! Oh, if I only could tell you! I heard you play once—years ago—and, oh, I loved it so! "
"Why, I—I thank you, I'm sure," answered the lady, with an uncertain smile, evidently a little nonplussed at this sixteen-year-old-hero-worship exuberance suddenly bursting from the lips of the heretofore quiet little woman before her.
"You see, I—I loved to play even then, and I had dreams—oh, yes, dreams. But when I heard you—I knew. I knew just what I wanted to be. I wanted to be a concert pianist. I wanted to hold people as you held them. I wanted to say things at the ends of my fingers as you said them. I wanted to sing to them with my fingers of the beautiful, beautiful world, as I saw it. And to think that—that now—to-day—I should see you and be able to talk to you—! You, who have done so much—you, who have made your life, oh, so wonderfully worth while!"
Unexpectedly the great pianist turned with a sudden gesture.
"No, no! Don't say that—don't say that!" she cried. She was sitting erect in her chair, and speaking with curious passion. "You don't know—you don't understand. My life is n't the worth-while one.—It's the one there, right there in that letter, that's really worth while." She held up the letter she had been playing with—and tapped it with the forefinger of her other hand. Then, with a little laugh that yet ended in a sigh, she sat back in her chair, her eyes on Sister Sue's startled face. After a moment she went on speaking.
"You poor child! You don't know what to make of me, and no wonder. But what you said stirred me profoundly. I'd just been reading this letter. I received it at the hotel just as I started to come here, and while I was waiting for Signor Bartoni I opened it and read it. It's from a woman in a little town away up in Vermont. She was a schoolmate of mine. We used to talk and dream together of what we would be. I was all music—and wanted to become a great pianist. She had wonderful skill with the pencil and paint-brush—and said she wanted to be a great artist some day."
"Yes, yes. I understand," nodded Sister Sue, her eyes shining.
"Well, what happened? Do you want to know? Do you really want to know?"
"Yes, oh, yes. Please!" begged Sister Sue.
"Very well, then. I will tell you. I went away and studied. I became what I am. My friend—my friend did not go away. Just as I left town my friend's mother fell and broke her hip and became a lifelong cripple. There were younger children—four of them. And there was not much money. The father was a poor sort, rather shiftless, and never could seem to get much ahead. So my friend (her name is Mary) stepped in and 'put her shoulder to the wheel' as she expressed it. She said she had to."
"Yes, yes, I know." Sister Sue nodded her head again. Her eyes were not shining now.
"Well! Mary cooked and swept and washed and ironed and mended, and waited on her crippled mother day in and day out, year in and year out. She had a lover, but she gave him up. She could n't leave home, she told him. Of course she gave up all thought of painting. To learn to be a great artist took talent, time, money, and the freedom to leave home. She had none of these but the talent, and that was only an aggravation—worse than nothing alone. And so that has been her life; always listening to other people's troubles—never telling her own; always carrying other people's burdens—never sharing her own. Her mother died peacefully ten years ago. Her father a year later. Two sisters are married, and one brother has been sent through college; how, I don't know, but I'll warrant Mary does. She's 'Aunt' Mary now. Half a dozen nieces and nephews pour their troubles into her ears and find comfort. As I happen to know, her sisters and one brother depend utterly on her.
"And yet that woman, my friend Mary, in this letter here, has the presumption to tell me she's glad I've made my life so 'worth while'—that hers has been 'so barren.'"
She paused, but Sister Sue did not speak. The girl's eyes were turned away as if she were a little bewildered. After a moment the elder woman continued passionately:
"Barren! No woman is living a barren life who is needed by some one. My friend Mary's life was not 'barren.' Somebody wanted her,—somebody wanted her, every moment of the day. Is n't that worth anything? Nobody wants me, except when they want to be amused—perhaps. Why, Miss Gilmore! My friend Mary has made her life something 'worth while' twice over what mine is."
"You really believe—that?" Sister Sue turned now as she asked the question—a dawning something in her eyes that was quite new.
"Of course I mean it! Why, child! Look at what she has done! A crippled mother loved and cared for till the end. A father saved from drink—and I happen to know he was saved. A family of harum-scarum boys and girls kept together and reared to be honest, self-respecting members of society; and now their children being helped into the same path. A work done that nobody else in the world could have done under the circumstances. True! She did n't paint the pictures she had wanted to paint. But the pictures she did paint are living pictures—not dead canvases hung upon a wall for critics to wrangle and squabble over about perspectives and colorings and technique! And, perhaps you'll say it was a sacrifice, but fl would prefer the word opportunity—in this case."
"Opportunity?" Sister Sue's doubtful repetition of the word made it a question.
"Yes. Opportunity to make her life really 'worth while,'" emphasized the lady with a meaning smile. "Of course, if there had been no crippled mother, or weak-kneed father, or harum-scarum children who needed her, why, then let her paint her pictures. But when she calls her life 'barren'—well, I'm going to write to my friend Mary and see if I can convince her of her blindness of being needed!"
"Needed—needed!" Sister Sue echoed the words just above her breath.
"The very greatest blessing there is, as we who are not needed know only too well. If some one needs you, you are happy, indeed. But I am not needed—now. Once I had duties, but I left them for the prize of greatness, and the prize of greatness has burned to ashes in my hands." And the great pianist bowed her head in her hands and sobbed.
"Needed!" It was the triumphant cry of one who has made a sudden joyous decision. Sister Sue was on her feet, her face alight.
"Will you—would you—please tell Signor Bartoni that—that I suddenly found I must change my plans? Tell him I will write and explain. I—I don't want to talk to him just now.—Please?" And Sister Sue was gone.
Ten minutes later the music-master came out from the inner room with his pupil.
"Mees—Gilmore? She has gone?" He questioned in surprise as he turned back into the room after bowing his pupil through the outer door.
"Yes. She left a message for you. She said to tell you that suddenly she found she must change her plans. She will write and explain. She did n't want to stop to talk now."
"Good!" The Signor threw up both hands and spoke with surprising vehemence. "I did not want to talk—also! I am glad she is gone! I have been dreading all thees time to come back—into thees room—to see her."
With a gesture of despair he rolled his eyes heavenward. Then, at his visitor's obvious look of amazement, he shrugged his shoulders and explained.
"You are surprised. I spoke plain—too plain, maybe. But I was much distressed. Mees Gilmore—she play beautifully—once, but not now. Her touch—her fire—her poise, all gone. She has been too tired—too busy to practice—all these years, five, six—yes, six—I think it is. Her father's business—it—what do you call it—went smash. And his brain—that went smash, too, but all these years he lives. He lives—and Mees Gilmore—she do everything—cook, nurse, teach music, take care of everything, everybody.—Of course she could not practice—that could not be expected. But to-day—she comes. Her father is dead, her family married. She is free—and she thinks again to step right in, where she was years ago, and become now the great arteest—as she could once have been."
"Oh—!" breathed the lady, a great light of understanding on her face. "I think I begin to see."
"So—she comes and plays to me. And I—I cannot tell her the truth— Not with her shining eyes begging me, beseeching me— But it would be a pitee and a cr-rime to let her go on and on, thinking one day she will arrive— She will never arrive now— It is too late. But I cannot tell her— I cannot."
"You won't have to," smiled the woman who had told Sister Sue that the greatest blessing in all the world was to be needed by some one. "You won't have to; I'm sure you won't. She will write to you, and she will tell you that she has changed her mind. She does not want to be the great pianist."
"Thank Heaven! Let us hope you speak the truth," breathed the music-master fervently.