Dawn

  CHAPTER II

  DAD

  Keith's chin was still high and his gaze still straight ahead when hereached the foot of Harrington Hill. Perhaps that explained why he didnot see the two young misses on the fence by the side of the roaduntil a derisively gleeful shout called his attention to theirpresence.

  "Well, Keith Burton, I should like to know if you're blind!"challenged a merry voice.

  The boy turned with a start so violent that the girls giggled againgleefully. "Dear, dear, did we scare him? We're so sorry!"

  The boy flushed painfully. Keith did not like girls--that is, he SAIDhe did not like them. They made him conscious of his hands and feet,and stiffened his tongue so that it would not obey his will. Theprettier the girls were, the more acute was his discomfiture.Particularly, therefore, did he dislike these two girls--they were theprettiest of the lot. They were Mazie Sanborn and her friend DorothyParkman.

  Mazie was the daughter of the town's richest manufacturer, and Dorothywas her cousin from Chicago, who made such long visits to her Easternrelatives that it seemed sometimes almost as if she were as much of aHinsdale girl as was Mazie herself.

  To-day Mazie's blue eyes and Dorothy's brown ones were full ofmischief.

  "Well, why don't you say something? Why don't you apologize?" demandedMazie.

  '"Pol--pologize? What for?" In his embarrassed misery Keith resortedto bravado in voice and manner.

  "Why, for passing us by in that impertinent fashion," returned Mazieloftily. "Do you think that is the way ladies should be treated?"(Mazie was thirteen and Dorothy fourteen.) "The idea!"

  For a minute Keith stared helplessly, shifting from one foot to theother. Then, with an inarticulate grunt, he turned away.

  But Mazie was not to be so easily thwarted. With a mere flit of herhand she tossed aside a score of years, and became instantly nothingmore than a wheedling little girl coaxing a playmate.

  "Aw, Keithie, don't get mad! I was only fooling. Say, tell me, HAVEyou been up to Uncle Joe Harrington's?"

  Because Mazie had caught his arm and now held it tightly, the boyperforce came to a stop.

  "Well, what if I have?" he resorted to bravado again.

  "And is he blind, honestly?" Mazie's voice became hushed andawestruck.

  "Uh-huh." The boy nodded his head with elaborate unconcern, but heshifted his feet uneasily.

  "And he can't see a thing--not a thing?" breathed Mazie.

  "'Course he can't, if he's blind!" Keith showed irritation now, andpulled not too gently at the arm still held in Mazie's firm littlefingers.

  "Blind! Ugghh!" interposed Miss Dorothy, shuddering visibly. "Oh, howcan you bear to look at him, Keith Burton? I couldn't!"

  A sudden wave of red surged over the boy's face. The next instant ithad receded, leaving only a white, strained terror.

  "Well, he ain't to blame for it, if he is blind, is he?" chattered theboy, a bit incoherently. "If you're blind you're blind, and you can'thelp yourself." And with a jerk he freed himself from Mazie's graspand hurried down the road toward home.

  But when he reached the bend of the road he turned and looked back.The two girls had returned to their perch on the fence, and weredeeply absorbed in something one of them held in her hand.

  "And she said she couldn't bear--to look at 'em--if they were blind,"he whispered. Then, wheeling about, he ran down the road as fast as hecould. Nor did he stop till he had entered his own gate.

  "Well, Keith Burton, I should like to know where you've been," criedthe irate voice of Susan Betts from the doorway.

  "Oh, just walking. Why?"

  "Because I've been huntin' and huntin' for you.

  But, oh, dear me, You're worse'n a flea, So what's the use of talkin'? You always say, As you did to-day, I've just been out a-walkin'!"

  "But what did you want me for?"

  "I didn't want you. Your pa wanted you. But, then, for that matter,he's always wantin' you. Any time, if you look at him real good an'hard enough to get his attention, he'll stare a minute, an' then say:'Where's Keith?' An' when he gets to the other shore, I suppose he'lldo it all the more."

  "Oh, no, he won't--not if it's talking poetry. Father never talkspoetry. What makes you talk it so much, Susan? Nobody else does."

  Susan laughed good-humoredly.

  "Lan' sakes, child, I don't know, only I jest can't help it. Why,everything inside of me jest swings along to a regular tune--kind ofkeeps time, like. It's always been so. Why, Keithie, boy, it's been myjoy--There, you see--jest like that! I didn't know that was comin'. Itjest--jest came. That's all. I can make a rhyme 'most any time. Oh, ofcourse, most generally, when I write real poems, I have to sit downwith a pencil an' paper, an' write 'em out. It's only the spontaneouscombustion kind that comes all in a minute, without predisposedthinkin'. Now, run along to your pa, child. He wants you. He's beenfrettin' the last hour for you, jest because he didn't know exactlywhere you was. Goodness me! I only hope I'll never have to live withhim if anything happens to you."

  The boy had crossed the room; but with his hand on the door knob heturned sharply.

  "W-what do you mean by that?"

  Susan Betts gave a despairing gesture.

  "Lan' sakes, child, how you do hold a body up! I meant what I said--thatI didn't want the job of livin' with your pa if anything happenedto you. You know as well as I do that he thinks you're the very axlefor the earth to whirl 'round on. But, there, I don't know as Iwonder--jest you left, so!"

  The boy abandoned his position at the door, and came close to SusanBetts's side.

  "That's what I've always wanted to know. Other boys have brothers andsisters and--a mother. But I can't ever remember anybody only dad.Wasn't there ever any one else?"

  Susan Betts drew a long sigh.

  "There were two brothers, but they died before you was born. Thenthere was--your mother."

  "But I never--knew her?"

  "No, child. When they opened the door of Heaven to let you out sheslipped in, poor lamb. An' then you was all your father had left. Soof course he dotes on you. Goodness me, there ain't no end to the finethings he's goin' ter have you be when you grow up."

  "Yes, I know." The boy caught his breath convulsively and turned away."I guess I'll go--to dad."

  At the end of the hall upstairs was the studio. Dad would probably bethere. Keith knew that. Dad was always there, when he wasn't sleepingor eating, or out tramping through the woods. He would be sittingbefore the easel now "puttering" over a picture, as Susan called it.Susan said he was a very "insufficient, uncapacious" man--but that waswhen she was angry or tried with him. She never let any one else saysuch things about him.

  Still, dad WAS very different from other dads. Keith had toacknowledge that--to himself. Other boys' dads had offices and storesand shops and factories where they worked, or else they were doctorsor ministers; and there was always money to get things with--thingsthat boys needed; shoes and stockings and new clothes, and candy andbaseball bats and kites and jack-knives.

  Dad didn't have anything but a studio, and there never seemed to bemuch money. What there was, was an "annual," Susan said, whatever thatwas. Anyway, whatever it was, it was too small, and not nearly largeenough to cover expenses. Susan had an awful time to get enough to buytheir food with sometimes. She was always telling dad that she'd GOTto have a little to buy eggs or butter or meat with.

  And there were her wages--dad was always behind on those. And when thebills came in at the first of the month, it was always awful then: dadworried and frowning and unhappy and apologetic and explaining; Susancross and half-crying. Strange men, not overpleasant-looking, ringingthe doorbell peremptorily. And never a place at all where a boy mightfeel comfortable to stay. Dad was always talking then, especially, howhe was sure he was going to sell THIS picture. But he never sold it.At least, Keith never knew him to. And after a while he would begin anew picture, and be SURE he was going to sell THAT.

  But not only was dad different from
other boys' dads, but the housewas different. First it was very old, and full of very old furnitureand dishes. Then blinds and windows and locks and doors were alwaysgetting out of order; and they were apt to remain so, for there wasnever any money to fix things with. There was also a mortgage on thehouse. That is, Susan said there was; and by the way she said it, itwould seem to be something not at all attractive or desirable. Justwhat a mortgage was, Keith did not exactly understand; but, for thatmatter, quite probably Susan herself did not. Susan always liked touse big words, and some of them she did not always know the meaningof, dad said.

  To-day, in the hallway, Keith stood a hesitant minute before hisfather's door. Then slowly he pushed it open.

  "Did you want me, dad?" he asked.

  The man at the easel sprang to his feet. He was a tall, slender man,with finely cut features and a pointed, blond beard. Susan had oncedescribed him as "an awfully nice man to take care of, but not worth acent when it comes to takin' care of you." Yet there was everyevidence of loving protection in the arm he threw around his boy justnow.

  "Want you? I always want you!" he cried affectionately. "Look! Do youremember that moss we brought home yesterday? Well, I've got its twinnow." Triumphantly he pointed to the lower left-hand corner of thepicture on the easel, where was a carefully blended mass of greens andbrowns.

  "Oh, yes, why, so't is." (Keith had long since learned to see in hisfather's pictures what his father saw.) "Say, dad, I wish't you'd tellme about--my little brothers. Won't you, please?"

  "And, Keith, look--do you recognize that little path? It's the one wesaw yesterday. I'm going to call this picture 'The Woodland Path'--andI think it's going to be about the very best thing I ever did."

  Keith was not surprised that his question had been turned aside:questions that his father did not like to answer were always turnedaside. Usually Keith submitted with what grace he could muster; butto-day he was in a persistent mood that would not be denied.

  "Dad, WHY won't you tell me about my brothers? Please, what were theirnames, and how old were they, and why did they die?"

  "Want you? I always want you!"]

  "God knows why they died--I don't!" The man's arm about the boy'sshoulder tightened convulsively.

  "But how old were they?"

  "Ned was seven and Jerry was four, and they were the light of my eyes,and--But why do you make me tell you? Isn't it enough, Keith, thatthey went, one after the other, not two days apart? And then the sunwent out and left the world gray and cold and cheerless, for the nextday--your mother went."

  "And how about me, dad?"

  The man did not seem to have heard. Still with his arm about the boy'sshoulder, he had dropped back into the seat before the easel. His eyesnow were somberly fixed out the window.

  "Wasn't I--anywhere, dad?"

  With a start the man turned. His arm tightened again. His eyes grewmoist and very tender.

  "Anywhere? You're everywhere now, my boy. I'm afraid, at the first,the very first, I didn't like to see you very well, perhaps becauseyou were ALL there was left. Then, little by little, I found you werelooking at me with your mother's eyes, and touching me with thefingers of Ned and Jerry. And now--why, boy, you're everything. You'reNed and Jerry and your mother all in one, my boy, my boy!"

  Keith stirred restlessly. A horrible tightness came to his throat, yetthere was a big lump that must be swallowed.

  "Er--that--that Woodland Path picture is going to be great, dad,great!" he said then, in a very loud, though slightly husky, voice."Come on, let's----"

  From the hall Susan's voice interrupted, chanting in a high-pitchedsingsong:

  "Dinner's ready, dinner's ready, Hurry up, or you'll be late, Then you'll sure be cross and heady If there's nothin' left to ate."

  Keith gave a relieved whoop and bounded toward the door. Never hadSusan's "dinner-bell" been a more welcome sound. Surely, at dinner,his throat would have to loosen up, and that lump could then beswallowed.

  More slowly Keith's father rose from his chair.

  "How impossible Susan is," he sighed. "I believe she grows worse everyday. Still I suppose I ought to be thankful she's good-natured--whichthat absurd doggerel of hers proves that she is. However, I shouldlike to put a stop to it. I declare, I believe I will put a stop toit, too! I'm going to insist on her announcing her meals in a propermanner. Oh, Susan," he began resolutely, as he flung open the dining-roomdoor.

  "Well, sir?" Susan stood at attention, her arms akimbo.

  "Susan, I--I insist--that is, I wish----"

  "You was sayin'--" she reminded him coldly, as he came to a helplesspause.

  "Yes. That is, I was saying--" His eyes wavered and fell to the table."Oh, hash--red-flannel hash! That's fine, Susan!"

  But Susan was not to be cajoled. Her eyes still regarded him coldly.

  "Yes, sir, hash. We most generally does have beet hash after b'ileddinner, sir. You was sayin'?"

  "Nothing, Susan, nothing. I--I've changed my mind," murmured the manhastily, pulling out his chair. "Well, Keith, will you have some ofSusan's nice hash?"

  "Yes, sir," said Keith.

  Susan said nothing. But was there a quiet smile on her lips as sheleft the room? If so, neither the man nor the boy seemed to notice it.

  As for the very obvious change of attitude on the part of the man--Keithhad witnessed a like phenomenon altogether too often to give ita second thought. And as for the doggerel that had brought about thesituation--that, also, was too familiar to cause comment.

  It had been years since Susan first called them to dinner with her"poem"; but Keith could remember just how pleased she had been, andhow gayly she had repeated it over and over, so as not to forget it.

  "Oh, of course I know that 'ate' ain't good etiquette in that place,"she had admitted at the time. "It should be 'eat.' But 'eat' don'trhyme, an' 'ate' does. So I'm goin' to use it. An' I can, anyhow. It'spoem license; an' that'll let you do anything."

  Since then she had used the verse for every meal--except when she wasout of temper--and by substituting breakfast or supper for dinner, shehad a call that was conveniently universal.

  The fact that she used it ONLY when she was good-natured constitutedan unfailing barometer of the atmospheric condition of the kitchen,and was really, in a way, no small convenience--especially for littleboys in quest of cookies or bread-and-jam. As for the master of thehouse--this was not the first time he had threatened an energeticwarfare against that "absurd doggerel" (which he had cordiallyabhorred from the very first); neither would it probably be the lasttime that Susan's calm "Well, sir?" should send him into ignominiousdefeat before the battle was even begun. And, really, after all wassaid and done, there was still that one unfailing refuge for hisdiscomforted recollection: he could be thankful, when he heard it,that she was good-natured; and with Susan that was no small thing tobe thankful for, as everybody knew--who knew Susan.

  To-day, therefore, the defeat was not so bitter as to take all thesweetness out of the "red-flannel" hash, and the frown on DanielBurton's face was quite gone when Susan brought in the dessert. Nordid it return that night, even when Susan's shrill voice caroledthrough the hall:

  "Supper's ready, supper's ready, Hurry up, or you'll be late, Then you'll sure be cross and heady If there's nothin' left to ate."