# Sister Sue/Chapter 23

pp. 293–10.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE OPPORTUNITY
The Lorings were very much astonished to have Sister Sue tell them she was going back to Gilmoreville right away. They were more astonished when she told them that she had decided, after all, not to go on with her music just at present.
Mr. Loring only smiled and said a polite something that meant nothing, and let the matter pass. But Mrs. Loring was not so easily satisfied. She seized the first opportunity, when they were alone together, to induce the girl to tell her more about it.
"Did that horrid man say bad things to you?" she began.
"Why, no indeed! Not a thing," laughed Sister Sue.
"But you played to him?"
"Yes, oh, yes. And he was perfectly lovely to me and seemed so interested! But another pupil had already come and so he asked me to wait till after she had gone. Then he would talk to me. But I did n't wait."
"You did n't wait?"
"Not till he came out, no. I—I got to thinking. May is going to need me very much this summer. And Gordon, too, really needs me. I think I'll go to them."
"And keep on sacrificing yourself! Oh, yes, of course!" commented Mrs. Loring with rising indignation.
Sister Sue laughed again. Then suddenly her eyes grew luminous. A deeper color came to her face.
"Somebody once, that I heard, called it opportunity, not sacrifice. Don't you think it would be lovely if we could think of it like that, Mrs. Loring?" she asked, a little shyly.
"'Opportunity'! Humph!" fumed Mrs. Loring, although plainly softening against her will. "Well, you've found your 'opportunity,' all right!"
Sister Sue only smiled and shook her head. But there was still in her eyes the wondrous glow as she hurried away to do her packing.
Just as Sister Sue was leaving the house the next morning the mail came and there were two letters for her. One from May—the other from Gordon. Slipping them unopened into her bag, she left them to be read when she should get all established in her seat on the train. But though unread they were not forgotten. All the way to the station they lay, as if lead, in her bag and on her mind.
"If only they had n't come to-day!" she sighed to herself. "Oh, I hate so to read them to-day, when—after all—I'm going back—to them."
She knew what was in them, of course. They were the first letters she had received since she had written her brother and sister declining to accept a home with them, and telling them she was going to Boston to take up her long-neglected music again. She could imagine just about what each would say.
Gordon's letter would be short and crisp and cutting. His opinion would be expressed energetically, and when she had read his letter there would be no doubt in her mind as to his opinion of her and her "crazy notion" as she knew he would call it. There would, too, probably be a caustic statement to the effect that of course that would n't count with her any more than they themselves, or their wishes, counted, or the fact that they had offered her a home with them—the best they had. This would be Gordon's letter.
May's letter would be longer. It would tell of Martin's continued ill-luck with "Blixie," and of Martia's fretfulness and exactingness. It would tell of her own ill feelings and despondency and of the extra amount of hard work she had to do now that they had moved out of the city, when really by good rights she should be in bed with a nurse to wait upon her. At the end, perhaps as a P.S., she would say, plaintively, that she was sure she hoped Sister Sue would have a pleasant time enjoying herself in Boston—if she could enjoy herself when all the time she would know that her only sister was simply pining away for the want of the strength and comfort and courage that her dear Sister Sue's presence would give her. This would be May's letter. And Sister Sue wanted to read it only a degree less than she wanted to read Gordon's.
"If only they hadn't come to-day!" she sighed again and again to herself. "If only I could have written to them that I was going to them, first to one, then to the other, before their letters to me came—scolding and complaining and blaming me—it would have been easier. But now—"
Steeling herself for the inevitable, however, Sister Sue resolutely took the letters from her bag. Holding them in her hands, she hesitated. Should she read Gordon's, or May's, first? Did she prefer to be smartly slapped, or to be pricked with countless little pin-thrusts first? After all, a slap was benumbing—in a way. It might dull the hurt of the pricks, she reflected, as with a little shrug she dropped May's letter back into the bag and slipped a hatpin under the flap of the other envelope.
With a resigned sigh she took out the letter and began to read, but, at the first line after the salutation, she suddenly stiffened into astonished attention.
    Dear Sis: [ran the letter.] Bully for you! I say. Go in and win! And here's the best of luck to you! Telegraph me the date of your first concert and I'll be there and blister my hands with the biggest clap the old hall (wherever it is) ever heard. And, while I'm about it, just let me say that I don't know of any one who deserves success more than you. I'm not much on letter-writing, Sis, and I can't sling ink like my esteemed brother-in-law, but I wish I did know how to say how much I appreciate all you've done for us all these years—taking care of Father; taking care of May and me; taking care of the home; taking care of everything and anything but yourself. But I don't know how, so there's no use trying, I suppose. But for once I wish I could sling ink like Martin, then I'd make you see how I feel. However, here's where I hope you get your innings, Sister Sue! And I hope you make a home run! In all of which Mabel joins me—only she says she does n't know what a home run is. And, by the way, Mabel says she wishes she could thank you, too, for all you've done for her, which, she says, is a whole lot and a great deal more than you'll ever know.
Your affectionate brother Gordon
"Why! Bless the dear boy's heart!" breathed Sister Sue, trying to blink off the tears before her fellow-travelers saw them. "And when I was thinking— I almost wish now I'd saved him till the last."
Still blinking and trying to swallow the lump in her throat, Sister Sue put Gordon's letter back into her bag and took out her sister May's. Again as she began to read did she stiffen into astonished attention.
    My dear Sister: [May had written.] Your letter telling us your plans came duly to hand, and you don't know how glad I am that you are going to Boston to take up your beloved music again. And you will succeed; I know you will succeed. And we shall all be so proud of you!
    And I am so glad that after all these years your chance has come at last. I am afraid you have thought sometimes it never would come, you poor dear. And I am afraid you have thought sometimes we were pretty selfish and thoughtless, to let you take all the burden and care off our shoulders, for that's exactly what you have done all these years, dear Sister. I am afraid you sometimes thought, too, that we did n't appreciate it; and I know we have n't half appreciated what you have done for us all that time. As I think of it now, and look back on it, I am ashamed to think how little I have realized what a lot you were giving up for us all the time. But now that you are really going and are to take up your own work, I guess we shall begin to know and understand and appreciate, all right! You know you never miss the water till the well runs dry, and I suppose we never should have known what a big place Sister Sue filled in our lives if she just had n't walked out and left the big gaping hole! But we shall know it now, all right! And I was thinking only the other day, why! just what you did for Father was wonderful! To say nothing of all the watchful care you had of us! And I do hope that now you can get a little reward. And you will get it in your music. And to think I had the face to ask you to come and live with me, and keep right on doing for us, when all the time you had only just been waiting for a little freedom to go and live your own life as you wanted to! But I shan't again—I'll promise. And I am just as glad as glad can be that you are going to Boston and to your beloved music again. Now write and tell me all about it—and everything you are doing—we shall be so interested. And after you get all fixed I'll want to run into the city and see how you look. And we wish you the best of success now and always. Don't worry about us—don't worry a bit. Just enjoy yourself for once—if you can!
Always your loving sister May
"Why! what—what can have happened to them both?" thought Sister Sue as, with excited fingers, she dropped May's letter into the bag with Gordon's. "What can have happened to them?" She was still trying to blink away the tears, but her eyes behind the tears were now shining with a light never in them before.
It was on that same afternoon that Donald Kendall, in Gilmoreville, sharply rang the Gilmores' front-door bell. A moment later he stepped into the still hall in response to Mrs. Preston's invitation.
"Come right back into my room, please, Mr. Kendall," she directed him. "There ain't none of this part of the house open, ye know."
"Miss Gilmore is away, I take it, then," said the man as he sat down, with obvious impatience, in the chair Mrs. Preston offered him.
"Yes, sir."
"When did she go?—if I may ask," the latter words added as a somewhat ungracious afterthought.
"Why, just last week, Mr. Kendall. Monday, I think." Into the old lady's eyes had crept a curious twinkle, not at all the sort of look one would have expected in response to the unmistakable irritability of the questioner.
"When is she coming back?" (There was not even the ungracious afterthought this time.)
The old lady hesitated. Then, as if weighing each word, she said slowly:
"Well, she didn't say—when she left—except that 't would be quite a while, probably. Ye know she went down to Boston, to do her music again."
"No. I did n't know," snapped the man.
Once again into the old lady's eyes crept the curious twinkle, but her voice was still quiet, noncommittal.
"Well, she did. Oh, they offered her a home with them, her brother and sister—"
"Did they?" cut in the man sarcastically.
"Yes." The old lady was not looking at him now. She was carefully smoothing out a wrinkle across her knee. "They were very kind. They said that she need n't feel beholden to 'em at all or call it charity, that she could do enough for her board an' keep."
"Charity! Board and keep! Good Heavens!" exploded the man.
"Yes, sir." Mrs. Preston's eyes were still on the wrinkle she was smoothing. "But, as I said, she did n't go to them. She went to Boston to do her music."
"Can you blame her?"
"N-no. Perhaps not. Still, if 't was ter marry, now, an' go into a home of her own—" She let her sentence hang unfinished in the air.
"Miss Gilmore is not the marrying kind." The words were uttered in a voice that was a cross between a growl and a groan.
"How do ye know?"
"Wh-what?" The man turned sharply. But the little old lady met his eyes with serene unconcern. "Why, I—I don't know."
"I thought as much."
Again the man threw a sharp glance into the old lady's face—and again the little old lady met the glance with serene unconcern. The man jerked himself about in his chair.
"But I'm sure of it," he frowned. "I know that she has wanted to go on with her music—in Boston. Look at her now. That's where she's gone, is n't it?"
"Yes. She—went."
"Well! There's the proof for you. Miss Gilmore does not wish to marry."
"Did ye ever ask her?"
"Did I—" The man stopped, and got to his feet abruptly, his face dark with anger. But the little old lady was still smiling straight into his eyes.
"Well, why don't ye?" she queried imperturbably. Then, before he could carry out his very evident intention of leaving the room, she said with a brisk change of manner: "Come, come, Donald Kendall. Come back and sit down. I've got something ter say ter you—something ye want ter hear, too."
At the door the man paused irresolutely, his hand on the knob.
"Come, come!" reiterated the little old lady. "Ye don't mind an old woman like me, an old woman that fed ye cookies when ye was six—little cookies with seeds in 'em. An' ye did like them cookies, Donald Kendall! Now, come back an' sit down."
With a short laugh and a gesture of angry resignation, the man turned and came back to his chair.
"Mrs. Preston, you are incorrigible. I don't know why, I am sure, that I come back or why I have listened to you even as long as I have. I've been on the point of leaving a dozen times in the last five minutes," he finished crossly.
"I know why ye come back," nodded the little old lady, her shrewd eyes on his face; "ye ain't the big man now—the big fiddler that everybody claps—an' yells at. Ye're jes' the little boy I used ter know, an' ye're hopin' I've got another cooky for ye, an'—well, I have."
"What do you mean?"
"Donald Kendall, seein' as ye do love her, why don't ye ask her ter marry ye? Oh, now, don't bristle up," she smoothed him hurriedly, as he started to rise to his feet; "ye ain't goin' ter mind an old woman like me."
He fell back in his chair and turned his head away.
"How do you know I—I love her?" he asked in a muffled voice.
"My sakes! How do I know ye've got a nose on your face or hair on your head. As if a man could spend every minute he had over here playin' with a pretty girl an' not love her!"
"We were—were practicing, Mrs. Preston." He spoke with cold dignity.
"Sure ye were! I've seen that kind of practicin' before."
The man shrugged his shoulders irritably.
"Well! Well, suppose—I do," he snapped. "What, then? She has gone to Boston, has n't she? My proof still holds good! As I happen to know, Miss Gilmore's one great desire in life for many years has been to go on with her music. Well—she is now going on with it. What more proof do you want?"
With a low chuckle the little old lady thrust her hand into the pocket of her apron.
"I think maybe ye'd like—the cooky—now," she said, taking out a yellow envelope and handing it to him.
"Why—what—"
"Read it. It jes' came this noon."
A minute later he looked up with puzzled eyes.
"From Miss Gilmore. But she says—she is coming back," he stammered.
"This afternoon. Yes."
"But why?"
With a funny little shrug the old lady threw him a sidelong glance.
"She didn't say. An' I don't say—either. I don't know. But if I was a great big six-foot man, right here on the spot an' wanted ter find out, I'd—find out."
With a hearty laugh the man sprang quickly to his feet. His face had cleared. He looked suddenly alert—happy—sure of himself.
"Granny Preston, you're a wonder! I will find out! You need n't tell her, but—I'll be over this evening to—to 'practice.'"
"That's the talk! It'll be all warm in there—in her room. My husband's goin' ter start the furnace right away. Good-bye, an' good luck ter ye."
"Thanks!" The man closed the door behind him. Then he opened it again to poke in his head boyishly.
"Oh—I say! I'm much obliged, Granny Preston, for—the cooky," he laughed. Then the door snapped shut.
At six o'clock Sister Sue arrived. Leaping flames in the big old fireplace of the living-room gave her a welcome no less cordial than the one Mrs. Preston bestowed upon her. And the biscuits and maple syrup rounded out a supper that made Sister Sue quite forget the long, cold ride up from Boston.
Mrs. Preston asked no questions, nor did she even have much to say when, after supper, Sister Sue commenced—a little diffidently:
"You see, I—I've changed my plans, Mrs. Preston. I—I am going to live with May, and Gordon, whichever one needs me the most—needs me, you know. I had two beautiful letters from them to-day."
"Yes, yes. Well, is that so?" murmured Mrs. Preston, who had been keeping a nervous eye on the clock for ten minutes past. "Well, I'm glad, if they wrote ye nice letters, I'm sure. But never mind that, now. Ye can tell me all about it to-morrow. You jes' go inter the sittin'-room an' rest, an'— My land! If there ain't the bell this minute. Now, who do you s'pose that can be?" she dissembled as she hurried into the front hall.
In the living-room, a minute later, Sister Sue was greeting Mr. Donald Kendall.
"Why, Mr. Kendall! You?" she cried.
And Mrs. Preston, catching a delighted glimpse of the quick color that flew to the girl's face, took herself out of the room with swift steps and a joyous chuckling all to herself.
"Yes. I came on for a couple of days' stay," said the man as the door closed behind Mrs. Preston. "I heard this afternoon you were to be here to-night, so I came over. You don't—mind? I did n't bring my violin—I feared you'd be too tired to play."
"I'm glad to see you," said Sister Sue. And because it seemed as if he must hear the quick beating of her heart, and read aright what she felt was a tell-tale color in her cheeks, she began to talk very fast of what he had been doing.
They spoke then of her father. And Donald Kendall said a few low words of sympathy, of his understanding of what all those years had meant to her and to her father. And, as he talked, it seemed to Sister Sue that it was a new Donald Kendall—a different Donald Kendall—there before her; a Donald Kendall with all the old charm, but with a softened, chastened something about him that doubled that charm and quite did away with his old imperious, disagreeable manner. She caught herself wondering if it were the Beth who sang or the Helen who painted that had brought about this wondrous change. Then, as she was wondering, she suddenly became aware of his asking her a question.
"But yourself. You have told me nothing of your own plans. You are—are you going back to Boston?"
She shook her head. There was a moment's hesitation, then she spoke.
"No. You remember—perhaps you do not remember—but I—I told you, once, that sometime I was going back to my music, if I could, and—and study for the concert stage."
"Yes, I remember." He had turned away his face, His voice sounded a little harsh.
"Well, I—after Father went and I was alone—I thought the time had come, and—I decided to go. I went to Boston. I even went so far as to play to Signor Bartoni."
"Yes."
"Then something—never mind what—made me change my mind, and—I came home."
He turned toward her quickly, his face alight.
"You mean—that you have given up all idea of going on with your music?" he demanded eagerly.
"Yes, and—"
"You mean that? You know you mean it?" he cut in eagerly.
"Why, yes. Yes, I do," she repeated, her startled eyes questioning him a little.
"Thank Heaven, then!" he breathed fervently. "That frees me. I can ask you now for myself. I can plead with you to come with me—"
But she stopped him with her hand upraised. She had grown very white.
"No, no. Please! Don't ask me. You don't understand. I am going to live with Gordon and May. That is why I came back, Mr. Kendall. They need me—so much."
"They need you! Well, how about my needing you?" It was unmistakably the old Donald Kendall who said this. The imperious, not-in-the-habit-of-being-denied Donald Kendall. So much so that Sister Sue, even perturbed and distressed as she was, caught herself thinking that, after all, the Beth who sang or the Helen who painted had not made so thorough a job of it.
"Oh, no! No! No! I could n't go with you!" she cried shudderingly.
In Sister Sue's distracted vision was a picture of herself, trailing from place to place, playing accompaniments for this man, who would, of course by that time, be married to a Beth who sang or a Helen who painted. To Sister Sue it was a bitter, cruel picture, unendurable even to think of, and her terror at it showed unmistakably in her face and voice as she repeated quiveringly:
"I couldn't go with you, Mr. Kendall. Oh, I could n't."
Before the abject horror in her face the man fell back dismayed. His own face grew white.
"But if I could make you see what it means to me—I would wait—I'd be willing to wait—if you thought—that only sometime—" His voice broke and he fell silent.
"But—but it couldn't be—ever," she faltered with dry lips. "I don't seem to have made you understand. I have given up my music—as a public profession, I mean. I could n't play for you, and—"
"Play for me!" He had been walking up and down the room. He wheeled now and faced her—his face a blank of incomprehension. Then suddenly his countenance changed as with a flood of light. "For Heaven's sake, girl! What do you think I've been asking you to do?" he demanded.
It was Sister Sue's turn to fall back, her face showing almost consternation.
"Why, to to play your accompaniments on your concert tours, as you asked me to before," she stammered. "Was n't that what you meant?"
"Well, no, it wasn't." A curious mixture of emotions was struggling for expression on the man's face. Relief, doubt, hope, fear; they were all there. "I was trying to ask you to be—my wife."
"Wife? Why, I—I thought the Beth who sang or the Helen who—" At the sudden flame of a joyous something that flashed into his face she stopped short and turned quite away. She had suddenly realized what her words must have implied.
He was at her side instantly. "As if all the Beths or Helens that ever grew could be compared for one minute with you! Why, dear, I've wanted you—it seems now as if I'd wanted you always—not to play for me, though you will play for me sometimes, I know, but to be with me always. I need you, I—"
At the word need she turned—at the same time drawing away a little.
"No, no. Oh, I forgot. How could I have forgotten? I am going to May and Gordon. They need me. That is why I came back—to—"
But he would n't let her finish. He laughed, he stormed, he pleaded. He was masterful and beseeching by turns. He told her of the long, long months when he had kept away from her because he loved her too well to be with her and still know that he could not have her. He told her how he had made up his mind that never, never would he stand in the way of her accomplishing her dreamed-of career—if the chance ever came to her. And when her father died and the chance did come, he told her he thought he was then going to be brave and stay away.
"But I couldn't stay away," he declared. "I could n't. I had to come. I was in torture. All day I thought of you, and all night I dreamed of you. From away out West I turned my face toward the east—to Vermont where you were, dear. Right and left I canceled my engagements. I had to know whether or not you were going to take up your music.
"Then to-day, when I came, I found you—gone. Little girl, if you could have seen my heart at that moment—the blackness of despair. I knew then how much I had hoped from my journey."
"But you must have found right away that I was coming—to-night."
"I did. And right away I was in the Seventh Heaven of hope again. Surely, darling, after all that, you're going to give me—my reward?"
"But—what can I do about Gordon and May?"
He drew himself up into stern uncompromisingness.
"Now, look here, 'Sister Sue'—yes, I am calling you that on purpose; it's a dear name, and you'll be 'Sister Sue' to all of us as long as you live—you have given that blessed brother and sister of yours just—er—just twenty-five years of your life. That's May's age, if I mistake not. And that's enough. It is time you gave more thought to—I was going to say to—yourself, but of course you won't do that—Sister Sues never think of themselves—so I will say it is time you sacrificed for me for a while. Let me have what I want, and I want—you."
Sister Sue's eyes were luminous. An adorable color stole to her cheeks.
"Oh, just that wouldn't be any sacrifice! That is—I mean—" she began to correct herself hastily. But it was too late. With one triumphant sweep he had her hi his arms.
Later—some time later—when, a little breathlessly, she was smoothing back her ruffled hair and rearranging her rumpled collar, she said:
"Of course, it is n't as if—as if Gordon and May would n't be—be— Well, I had some beautiful letters from them just to-day about their wanting me to be happy—in my own way."
Donald Kendall sniffed his disdain with the superiority of one who looked down from the height of a goal attained.
"Oh, no doubt. I understand and fully appreciate the kind solicitude of Brother Gordon and Sister May. But all the same, whether they permit or not, I want them and you to understand that, from now henceforth and forevermore, you are going to be my 'Sister Sue.'" Then, with a low, tender laugh, he breathed: "'Sister' Sue is no more, but now," as he drew her into his arms, "my wife, Sue."
THE END
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