# Sister Sue/Chapter 7

pp. 89–105.
CHAPTER VII
WHAT DOES IT MATTER?
As yet Martin Kent had not visited the Gilmores at all. He was to have come once, and the day was set by himself; but when Sister Sue wrote him that Katy had just gone and gave a very amusing account of the household under her somewhat unskilled management, he had written back at once that he could not think of adding his presence to her already overburdened shoulders; and that the last thing they should have under the circumstances was company. He added that he was glad he had the sense and considerateness to refuse, even though they were so kind as still to ask him to come. He sent a book and an expensive box of candy; and his letter to Sister Sue was very kind and affectionate.
Sister Sue reminded herself of this last very earnestly in the first flush of her disappointment that he was not coming. Not until the letter had arrived saying that he would not spend the week-end with them, after all, had she quite realized how much she had been looking forward to the little visit as a welcome break in the dead monotony of her existence. Not until she knew that she was not to see him did she remember what a lot of things she was treasuring up to tell him—funny occurrences that would make him put back his head and laugh (how she loved to hear Martin Kent laugh!), unique speeches that he might like for copy. She wanted to ask his advice, too, about numberless matters. Most of all, she wanted somebody out of the old life just to sit down and talk with, so that she might forget, for one little minute, perhaps, that the old life was not still hers.
And when the letter came, and she knew that all these anticipated pleasures were not to be, she was disappointed and perhaps just a bit angry at first. Then is when very hastily and very earnestly she reminded herself of how affectionate and tender the letter was, and that after all he was really doing it for her good so as not to add to her burdens. She said this to May, too, when May showed great anger at the news; but May only expressed her vexation even more vehemently, and added the tart assertion:
"Well, if he was my lover, Sue Gilmore, and he turned down a visit to me like that, I'd know the reason why or he'd get a piece of my mind."
"Nonsense! Why, he told the reason, didn't he? He said he did n't want to—to add to our burdens."
"Humph! If he'd wanted to see us very badly, I fancy he would n't stop to think whether he was adding to anybody's burdens or not."
But Sister Sue said "Pshaw," and "Hush, hush," and "Nonsense," very sharply; but quickly, and with so much emphasis, that it looked almost as if she had thought of that same thing herself.
And she had. That had been one of the reasons why she had so hurriedly reminded herself that the letter was very affectionate and very lover-like. It was at times like these that Sister Sue could not help remembering the promise to marry him in July which she had never been asked to renew. Not that she wanted him to ask it, of course, if he did not want to, she always assured herself hastily; but when one had once agreed to a date, it made one feel queer not to have one's lover say something—
At this point Sister Sue always put the thought resolutely out of her mind. There were some things, she decided, that it certainly did no good to think of. This was one; and another was what Signer Bartoni had said to her that wonderful day of the recital. It did not help her to bake beans and stir up bread to be thinking all the time of that "Encore! Encore" Susanna Gilmore! Encore!" The only great "arteest" she had any prospect of being at present had to do with flour-sifters and rolling-pins. Better to keep her mind then on the flour-sifter and the rolling-pin, she declared.
But however earnestly she thus adjured herself, and however "foolish" it might be to allow such thoughts to occupy her mind, there were times when Sister Sue found herself utterly unable to walk the strait and narrow path that led through pots and pans and kettles to her kitchen stove. In her thoughts—though they were bitterly hopeless thoughts now—she was still swaying countless thousands by the magic of her fingers, and she was still bowing her thanks to the clamorous "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore!"
All this was in her thoughts. But in her speech—in her speech there were only the pots and pans and dustcloths of her everyday living. Sister Sue could control her tongue if not her thoughts. If it did no good, but rather harm, to think of joys that had been, it certainly could do even less good to talk of them. So Sister Sue laughed and joked, and made light of pies that "ran out" and cakes that burned; and merrily, many times a day she said, "Oh, well, it doesn't matter!" or, "It might be a whole lot worse!" or words of like import, hoping in this way really to help the others and herself along the hard road they were traveling. And she honestly thought she was doing it.
And then came the incident of the beefsteak-pie. It was not a good pie. The meat was tough, and the crust, though light, was very yellow, with darker yellow spots like plums scattered through it. The spots did not taste at all like plums, however. They had a curious, most unpleasant flavor not unlike the flavor of the crust itself, only much worse. The top of the pie, when Sister Sue brought it to the table, displayed a beautiful golden-brown crust, and looked most appetizing. Perhaps for that reason the disappointment was all the greater when the pie was cut and served, and May and Gordon, avowedly "starved to death," took generous mouthfuls of that yellow crust, each mouthful, as it happened, splotched with a big, dark yellow "plum."
"Great Scott!" sputtered Gordon, as soon as he could clear his mouth and speak. "What are you giving us now? Did you build this with soap?"
At the same minute May reached for her glass of water.
"Ugh! Sue, Sister Sue! "she choked. "What is it?"
Sister Sue, flushing hotly, nibbled at the crust and made a wry face.
"I haven't the least idea," she sighed, with a shrug as of resignation. "Mrs. Preston told me just how to make it, and I did it."
John Gilmore, his face plainly indicative of the bad taste in his mouth, carefully poked with his fork the pie-crust to one side of his plate. He looked up as Sister Sue spoke.
"But why don't you let Katy do the cooking?" he asked, with gentle irritation, giving another poke at the offending food upon his plate.
"Katy isn't here, Father." It was perhaps already twenty times that Sister Sue had told him this; but there was only a half-suppressed sigh as she told it now for the twenty-first time.
"You bet she is n't!" corroborated Gordon meaningly, making a very great show of trying to cut a piece of meat.
"Yes, I guess we know that all right," chimed in May, in an aggrieved voice.
Sister Sue laughed lightly.
"Now that is n't a mite complimentary to my cooking," she pouted in mock dismay. "But, come, it might be a lot worse! The gravy's good, anyway. I'm glad of that. It'll be lovely on the baked potatoes."
"Will it, indeed? I'm glad you think so!" Gordon spoke with the sarcasm of a hungry man who has been offered a stone for bread.
But it was from May that came the avalanche.
"Glad? Of course she's glad! She's glad for everything!" stormed the girl, with sudden wrath. "She likes things here, Gordon! She likes the house and the town and the people in it! She likes to be without lights and gas and hot water, and no maid at all! She likes it, likes it!"
"Why, May!" gasped Sister Sue unbelievingly.
"Well, you do, you know you do!" retorted May. "You don't mind things here at all, and you know it. You don't mind horrid old smelly kerosene lamps, and wearing old clothes, and doing your own work. You're always laughing and saying it might be worse, and never mind! And you don't care a bit how we're suffering. You try to make us like it, too. Here you are even trying to make us like this old soapy pie to-day! But you can't do it! We're hungry! We want something to eat! And you laugh and tell us to eat the gravy on our baked potatoes; that it'll be lovely! Lovely, indeed! If you'd only show some sympathy with what we have to bear, we should n't mind it. We could stand things. But you don't care! You know you don't care! You like it here! You laugh, no matter what 't is, and tell us it might be worse. But I tell you it could n't be worse! Nothing could be worse than what we have here every single day of our lives—here!"
And with a choking sob May pushed back her chair and rushed from the room.
And Sister Sue—Sister Sue sat motionless, her eyes looking straight ahead. In her ears were ringing May's words, "You like it here you—like it!" But in her ears also was ringing, like an echo, away off in the distance, "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! Encore!"
A hand plucked at her sleeve.
"Sue, Sue, Sister Sue, why don't you answer me? I said what was May talking about?"
Sister Sue turned. She gave a weary little smile.
"Nothing, Father, that you would understand—or that she understands either. Don't try to eat the crust. Let me give you some bread for that gravy," she finished, reaching for his plate.
The meal was then concluded in silence, save for the one remark from John Gilmore, apropos of nothing:
"I should think, Sue, you would have Katy do the cooking."
Sister Sue's hands shook a little when she was clearing off the table that noon. They still were not quite steady all the while she was washing the dishes and putting the kitchen in order—May did not come in to help. But Sister Sue was yet apparently very cool and calm when she ran up the back stairs at two o'clock to Mrs. Preston's rooms.
"Mrs. Preston, what is it that ails things when they're yellow, and taste awfully, like—like soap?" she demanded a little breathlessly, dropping herself into a chair.
Mrs. Preston's shrewd blue eyes twinkled as she answered:
"Sal'ratus, most likely. What is the matter now? "
"But you told me to use it, Mrs. Preston! You said when I used sour milk to put in saleratus. And I did."
"How much?"
"Oh, I put in enough!" cried Sister Sue quickly. "I know I did that; for after I got the dough almost mixed—it was for a beef steak-pie-crust—I could n't remember whether I'd put in the saleratus or not. So I put in the full dose then, so's to be sure to have plenty. I knew enough not to try to be economical over that!" she finished, in obvious pride of well-doing.
"Oh, you did! Well, I guess you did put in—a plenty." Mrs. Preston's shoulders were shaking with poorly suppressed mirth.
Sister Sue lifted her chin a little.
"Well, what have I done now?" she demanded. "Oh, I know I've done something, of course!" She spoke with much bravado; but there was a tense harshness in her voice that hinted at tragedy, which should have given warning—but it did not.
"You put in just two times too much, child; an' sal'ratus ain't a thing ter stand no triflin'. Oh, I know how it looked—yaller's saffron, an' brown spots all through it that tasted—"
"I found out how they tasted," interrupted Sister Sue bitterly. The bravado was all gone now. There was left only the tragedy in her voice.
She fell silent then, her eyes moodily fixed out the window.
For a time the little old woman watched her over the tops of her glasses. Then she spoke:
"Now, listen, dearie. I just would n't let a little thing like too much sal'ratus sp'ile my life," she began soothingly.
But Sister Sue, as if stung into instant action, sprang to her feet.
"Spoil it? Why, of course not," she cried in a blithe voice, beginning to pace up and down the room. "But, then, I could n't spoil it, Mrs. Preston. You don't understand. I like the town and the house and the people! I like to be without lights and hot water and gas and telephones! I like kerosene lamps and old clothes! And I like beefsteak-pie that's all yellow and brown and tastes like soap!"
Sister Sue stopped for breath, but only for breath. Before the dumbfounded little woman in the big chair could speak, Sister Sue was hurrying on again, her feet still restlessly pacing up and down the room.
"And I have n't a bit of sympathy with anybody who doesn't like them! I'm always laughing and singing, and saying that it does n't matter, and it might be worse, and, anyhow, we can be glad the gravy's good for the baked potatoes; and so of course I have n't any sympathy. And that's because I like it! I like it! I like it! And—" But Sister Sue did not finish her sentence. With a little choking sob she threw herself into a chair and covered her face with her hands.
For a few moments she sobbed on, unmolested. Mrs. Preston was still watching her over the tops of her glasses. There was no dumbfounded amazement on Mrs. Preston's face now. There were indignation and sympathy; but there was also a shrewd look of understanding.
When the sobs had become quieter and a little less frequent, Mrs. Preston spoke:
"So that's what they've been say in' to ye, is it, dearie—that you hain't no sympathy with 'em?"
The girl straightened up with a jerk. A dismayed look came into her eyes.
"Oh, what have I said, what have I said?" she moaned. "Forget it! It wasn't anything, really. I—I was just talking. I—I'm tired, Mrs. Preston. Please forget it!" And again Sister Sue sprang to her feet and began to pace up and down the room.
"Come, come, child, I ain't deaf nor blind," declared the irate little old woman, with an impatient gesture; "an' I ain't such a big fool as some folks thinks I am. Now you might just as well own up. They said it—that brother an' sister of yours. They said you did n't have no sympathy with 'em, just because you don't growl an' scold an' find fault all the time like they do."
Sister Sue wheeled agitatedly and stopped short.
"Oh, Mrs. Preston, I did n't—I never did say—that!"
"Maybe not; but I did," smiled the old woman grimly. "An' 't was true, too. You can't deny it."
Sister Sue flushed a painful scarlet.
"I know; but—that is, I mean," she stammered, "they did n't say it just like that; and—and I ought not to have said anything, anyway. They—they were just hungry, and disappointed over that pie, you know. And, really, Mrs. Preston, it did taste awfully—that pie!"
"An' you told 'em to never mind, an' it might be worse, an' the gravy was good, anyhow. Now, did n't you?"
"Well, I—I only meant to—to help."
"An', of course, as long as you like it here so well, an' like ter cook an' wash dishes, an'—"
"Like it! Like it!" stormed the girl, turning suddenly and beginning her nervous pacing of the room again. "Do you suppose I can like it when all the time I'm thinking, thinking, of what I want to do—of what I might have done? And I was going to do it. I was going to do something really worth while. I was going to make them all proud of me. And I could—I know I could! I could feel it in me. And Signer Bartoni said—"
Once again she told the story. On and on she talked, feverishly, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushing, her whole self tingling with the joy and relief of pouring into sympathetic ears the pent-up yearnings and heart-burnings of long weeks of silence. And so vividly did she draw the picture that even the little old woman opposite, to whom music meant the church hymn-book and "The Maiden's Prayer," caught a fleeting vision of a radiant Sister Sue bowing her appreciation of a clamorous "Encore! Encore! Susanna Gilmore! Encore!"
Then for both of them came the sudden descent to earth.
"But what—what am I saying!" cried Sister Sue, sinking into her chair again. "I—I did n't mean to say—all that," she sighed wearily.
"Humph!" The little old woman's eyes were very bright. "They know about this, I suppose—your brother an' sister?"
"That I wanted to become a concert pianist? Oh, yes," nodded Sister Sue, with indifferent acquiescence.
"Then what makes 'em think you like—this?"
The girl laughed a little bitterly.
"Oh, I suppose because I—I'm always telling them that we can be glad the gravy's good with the potatoes, anyway," she shrugged.
"Eh? What? That the gravy's good with the—oh, I see," chuckled Mrs. Preston, the light of sudden understanding clearing her puzzled countenance.
"It was only that I was trying to help make things easier," sighed the girl, half apologetically, with a faint smile.
"An' they wa'n't in the mood ter have things made easier that way."
"Apparently not," agreed Sister Sue; then, with spirit, she amended: "But it really doesn't do any good to keep fretting over things we can't possibly help, you know."
"Maybe not. Still, I think I'd try it if I was you," suggested the little old woman imperturbably.
"You would—what?" frowned the girl.
"Try it. Try fretting. Join in—sympathize with them, you know. They wanted sympathy. Well, show 'em that you do sympathize with them—that you don't like things any better than they do."
Sister Sue stared frankly, her eyes incredulous. Then suddenly she laughed. With brisk alacrity she got to her feet.
"Granny Preston, you're a dear," she chuckled. "And I'll try it, I promise." Then, over her shoulder as she whisked out of the room, she called back: "It is n't only how much saleratus to put in sour milk that you know, is it?"
Behind her she left a little straight-backed old woman who sat smiling for a long time all by herself.
Sister Sue began that same afternoon to "sympathize."
Mrs. Whipple called. Sister Sue was looking over some beans to put to soak that night when May came into the kitchen to tell her that the lady was coming up the walk.
"Oh, dear!" Sister Sue scowled, but she did not rise from her chair. She picked up another handful of beans and spread them out on her firm, rosy palm.
"What a shame! You see her, May, there's a good girl."
May fell back in amazement.
"Why, Sue, are you crazy? You know I shan't see her! I never see these people! They simply drive me crazy, and you know it!"
The doorbell jangled sharply, and with an impatient gesture Sister Sue rose to her feet.
"Yes, I know, and I don't blame you for not liking to see them. I don't, either. They're stupid, tiresome things, most of them; and why they will insist on coming to see us, I don't understand. However, I've got to see her, of course, I suppose, since you won't." And she disappeared through the doorway, leaving behind her a girl with a slightly puzzled frown on her face.
When the caller had gone, Sister Sue went back to her beans. She looked up crossly when her sister May again entered the kitchen.
"You did n't finish my beans, I notice," she complained. "I should think 't was bad enough to see all the callers without having to come back out here and do the work besides."
Once more May fell back in obvious amazement.
"Why, Sister Sue, I—I never do—do that part of the work, and you know it!" she gasped.
"Oh, I don't blame you for not liking it," retorted Sister Sue, dropping herself down to the table and diving her hand deep into the bag of beans. "I don't like it myself. If there's one thing in this world that's more deadly tiresome to do than housework, I should like to know what it is. It's just cook and wash dishes and clean up, and cook and do dishes and clean up from one day's end to the other; and I hate it! I hate it! And—"
She did not finish her sentence, for she found herself alone. May had fled. And Sister Sue smiled.
This was only the beginning. It was really surprising how many things Sister Sue found to fret about during the rest of the day. It was too hot. The air was horrid. Her feet ached. Her head ached. Her wrists pained her. The fire would n't burn. The lamp smoked. She hated kerosene, anyway. She never did see how anybody could cut the wick so there would n't be a horrid index finger somewhere. She really dreaded to go to bed. She would like to sleep in a decent bed once more before she died, but she never expected to. And where all the flies and mosquitoes came from, she could n't imagine. For her part she did n't see what such little pests were for, anyway. She supposed the world could have been made without such things in it!
And so it went. Not only did Sister Sue have these many grievances of her own to complain of, but she always joined heartily with whatever May or Gordon had to say about these annoyances. She never remonstrated with them—indeed, no. She agreed with them. She applauded them. She said she thought so, too, every time, and she never did see anything that was so perfectly horrid!
If she saw the puzzled frown and perplexed glances on the faces of her brother and sister, she gave no sign. Her own countenance was serenely non-committal, except when she was openly scolding; then it was fretful and scowling, as it would naturally be, of course.
The next morning Sister Sue was sleepy. She told the family at breakfast how she had hated to get up, and how perfectly horrid it was that they had to get up so early now. The sun was shining brightly, but she declared she knew it was going to rain before night. And when Gordon said he guessed it was going to be a pretty hot day, she said yes, indeed, it was; that in her opinion it was going to be the hottest yet. And that people might talk all they wanted to about the city's being hot, but if it was any hotter than Gilmoreville was already—and barely July yet—she would like to know it, that's all.
Gordon did not say any more then about the weather. He turned his attention to his breakfast. There were graham rolls, soggy graham rolls, with too much salt in them. Gordon did not like] them and he said so.
Sister Sue promptly agreed with him. She repeated what she had said to May the afternoon before about cooking, only adding a great deal more to it, and reiterating again how she hated it.
Gordon actually blinked a little at the vehemence of some of his sister's remarks; but he said no more about the rolls. Later, just as he was finishing, however, he did remark that he did wish there was something, something, in that deadest of dead towns that a fellow could do.
Sister Sue took up the matter at once with the deepest of sympathy. She said it was too bad. It was a shame. And that she certainly never saw such a forlorn place, and she hated it, too, and would give anything to get away from it. That she sympathized with him thoroughly.
At the word "sympathized" May sat suddenly erect in her chair.
"Sister Sue!" she cried accusingly. "Is that what you've been doing?"
"What do you mean?" In spite of herself, Sister Sue's lips twitched.
"Gordon!" May turned now to her brother. "She's been sympathizing with us; that's what she's been doing—sympathizing with us!"
"Oh, that?" Sister Sue interposed quickly, cheerfully. "Why, yes, of course that's what I've been doing. You said you wanted me to, you know—that 't would be lots easier for you if I would. And of course it's lots easier for me—to spit right out my feelings, you know; and as long as you want me to—"
"Want you to!" cut in two dismayed voices. Then Gordon exploded: "Well, by George, if that's what you've been doing—" He stopped helplessly.
"Yes, if that's what you've been doing," chimed in May; and she stopped, also.
They looked at each other, then at Sister Sue. Sister Sue's lips were still twitching. There was a moment's hesitation, then all three together they laughed.
There was nothing more said; but for at least one entire day the Gilmore family were astonishingly well content with their lot if appearances counted for anything. Even in the days that immediately followed, when the old fretful words would come back to the lips of Gordon and May—as come they most emphatically did—it needed only a demure "Well, I surely do sympathize with you, I do," from the lips of Sister Sue to bring about a prompt and significant silence accompanied, if in the case of Gordon, by a sheepish grin; if in the case of May, by a half-petulant shrug.
But it all helped. Even Gordon and May acknowledged that—to themselves. And Sister Sue knew it.