Dawn

  CHAPTER XXIII

  JOHN McGUIRE

  So imperative was the knock at the kitchen door at six o'clock thatJuly morning that Susan almost fell down the back stairs in her hasteto obey the summons.

  "Lan' sakes, Mis' McGuire, what a start you did give--why, Mis'McGuire, what is it?" she interrupted herself, aghast, as Mrs.McGuire, white-faced and wild-eyed, swept past her and began to paceup and down the kitchen floor, moaning frenziedly:

  "It's come--it's come--I knew't would come. Oh, what shall I do? Whatshall I do?"

  "What's come?"

  "Oh, John, John, my boy, my boy!"

  "You don't mean he's--dead?"

  "No, no, worse than that, worse than that!" moaned the woman, wringingher hands. "Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?"

  With a firm grasp Susan caught the twisting fingers and gently butresolutely forced their owner into a chair.

  "Do? You'll jest calm yourself right down an' tell me all about it,Mis' McGuire. This rampagin' 'round the kitchen like this don't do nosort of good, an' it's awful on your nerves. An' furthermore an'moreover, no matter what't is that ails your John, it can't be worse'ndeath; for while there's life there's hope, you know."

  "But it is, it is, I tell you," sobbed Mrs. McGuire still swaying herbody back and forth. "Susan, my boy is--BLIND." With the utterance ofthe dread word Mrs. McGuire stiffened suddenly into rigid horror, hereyes staring straight into Susan's.

  "MIS' MCGUIRE!" breathed Susan in dismay; then hopefully, "But maybe'twas a mistake."

  The woman shook her head. She went back to her swaying from side toside.

  "No, 'twas a dispatch. It came this mornin'. Just now. Mr. McGuire wasgone, an' there wasn't anybody there but the children, an' they'reasleep. That's why I came over. I HAD to. I had to talk to some one!"

  "Of course, you did! An' you shall, you poor lamb. You shall tell meall about it. What was it? What happened?"

  "I don't know. I just know he's blind, an' that he's comin' home. He'son his way now. My John--blind! Oh, Susan, what shall I do, what shallI do?"

  "Then he probably ain't sick, or hurt anywheres else, if he's on hisway home--leastways, he ain't hurt bad. You can be glad for that, Mis'McGuire."

  "I don't know, I don't know. Maybe he is. It didn't say. It just saidblinded," chattered Mrs. McGuire feverishly. "They get them home justas soon as they can when they're blinded. We were readin' about itonly yesterday in the paper--how they did send 'em home right away.Oh, how little I thought that my son John would be one of 'em--myJohn!"

  "But your John ain't the only one, Mis' McGuire. There's other Johns,too. Look at our Keith here."

  "I know, I know."

  "An' I wonder how he'll take this--about your John?"

  "HE'LL know what it means," choked Mrs. McGuire.

  "He sure will--an' he'll feel bad. I know that. He ain't hisself,anyway, these days."

  "He ain't?" Mrs. McGuire asked the question abstractedly, her mindplainly on her own trouble; but Susan, intent on HER trouble, did notneed even the question to spur her tongue.

  "No, he ain't. Oh, he's brave an' cheerful. He's awful cheerful, evencheerfuler than he was a month ago. He's too cheerful, Mis' McGuire.There's somethin' back of it I don't like. He--"

  But Mrs. McGuire was not listening. Wringing her hands she had sprungto her feet and was pacing the floor again, moaning: "Oh, what shall Ido, what shall I do?" A minute later, only weeping afresh at Susan'severy effort to comfort her, she stumbled out of the kitchen andhurried across the yard to her own door.

  Watching her from the window, Susan drew a long sigh.

  "I wonder how he WILL take--But, lan' sakes, this ain't gettin' mybreakfast," she ejaculated with a hurried glance at the clock on thelittle shelf over the stove.

  There was nothing, apparently, to distinguish breakfast that morningfrom a dozen other breakfasts that had gone before. Keith and hisfather talked cheerfully of various matters, and Susan waited uponthem with her usual briskness. If Susan was more silent than usual,and if her eyes sought Keith's face more frequently than was herhabit, no one, apparently, noticed it. Susan did fancy, however, thatshe saw a new tenseness in Keith's face, a new nervousness in hismanner; but that, perhaps, was because she was watching him soclosely, and because he was so constantly in her mind, owing to herapprehension as to how he would take the news of John McGuire'sblindness.

  From the very first Susan had determined not to tell her news untilafter Mr. Burton had left the house. She could not have explained iteven to herself, but she had a feeling that it would be better to tellKeith when he was alone. She planned, also, to tell him casually, asit were, in the midst of other conversation--not as if it were the onething on her mind. In accordance with this, therefore, she forcedherself to finish her dishes and to set her kitchen in order beforeshe sought Keith in the living-room.

  But Keith was not in the living-room; neither was he on the porch oranywhere in the yard.

  With a troubled frown on her face Susan climbed the stairs to thesecond floor. Keith's room was silent, and empty, so far as humanpresence was concerned. So, too, was the studio, and every other roomon that floor.

  At the front of the attic stairs Susan hesitated. The troubled frownon her face deepened as she glanced up the steep, narrow stairway.

  She did not like to have Keith go off by himself to the attic, andalready now twice before she had found him up there, poking in thedrawers of an old desk that had been his father's. He had shut thedrawers quickly and had laughingly turned aside her questions when shehad asked him what in the world he was doing up there. And he had gotup immediately and had gone downstairs with her. But she had not likedthe look on his face. And to-day, as she hesitated at the foot of thestairs, she was remembering that look. But for only a moment.Resolutely then she lifted her chin, ran up the stairs, and opened theattic door.

  Over at the desk by the window there was a swift movement--but not soswift that Susan did not see the revolver pushed under some loosepapers.

  "Is that you, Susan?" asked Keith sharply. "Yes, honey. I jest came upto get somethin'."

  Susan's face was white like paper, and her hands were cold andshaking, but her voice, except for a certain breathlessness, wascheerfully steady. With more or less noise and with a running fire ofinconsequent comment, she rummaged among the trunks and boxes,gradually working her way to, ward the desk where Keith still sat.

  At the desk, with a sudden swift movement, she thrust the papers toone side and dropped her hand on the revolver. At the same momentKeith's arm shot out and his hand fell, covering hers.

  She saw his young face flush and harden and his mouth set into sternlines.

  "Susan, you'll be good enough, please, to take your hand off that," hesaid then sharply.

  There was a moment's tense silence. Susan's eyes, agonized andpleading, were on his face. But Keith could not see that. He couldonly hear her words a moment later--light words, with a hidden laughin them, yet spoken with that same curious breathlessness.

  "Faith, honey, an' how can I, with your own hand holdin' mine sotight?"

  Keith removed his hand instantly. His set face darkened.

  "This is not a joke, Susan, and I shall have to depend on your honorto let that revolver stay where it is. Unfortunately I am unable toSEE whether I am obeyed or not."

  It was Susan's turn to flush. She drew back at once, leaving theweapon uncovered on the desk between them.

  "I'm not takin' the pistol, Keith." The laugh was all gone fromSusan's voice now. So, too, was the breathlessness. The voice wassteady, grave, but very gentle. "We take matches an' pizen an' knivesaway from CHILDREN--not from grown men, Keith. The pistol is rightwhere you can reach it--if you want it."

  KEITH'S ARM SHOT OUT AND HIS HAND FELL, COVERING HERS]

  She saw the fingers of Keith's hand twitch and tighten. Otherwisethere was no answer. After a moment she went on speaking.

  "But let me say jest this: 'tain't like you to be a--quitter, Kei
th."She saw him wince, but she did not wait for him to speak. "An' afteryou've done this thing, there ain't any one in the world goin' to beso sorry as you'll be. You mark my words."

  It was like a sharp knife cutting a taut cord. The tense musclesrelaxed and Keith gave a sudden laugh. True, it was a short laugh, anda bitter one; but it was a laugh.

  "You forget, Susan. If--if I carried that out I wouldn't be in theworld--to care."

  "Shucks! You'd be in some world, Keith Burton, an' you know it. An'you'd feel nice lookin' down on the mess you'd made of THIS world,wouldn't you?"

  "Well, if I was LOOKING, I'd be SEEING, wouldn't I?" cut in the youthgrimly. "Don't forget, Susan, that I'd be SEEING, please."

  "Seein' ain't everything, Keith Burton. Jest remember that. There issome things you'd rather be blind than see. An' that's one of 'em.Besides, seein' ain't the only sensible you've got, an' there's such alot of things you can do, an'--"

  "Oh, yes, I know," interrupted Keith fiercely, flinging out both hishands. "I can feel a book, and eat my dinner, and I can hear theshouts of the people cheering the boys that go marching by my door.But I'm tired of it all. I tell you I can't stand it--I CAN'T, Susan.Yes, I know that's a cheap way out of it," he went on, after a chokingpause, with a wave of his hand toward the revolver on the desk;" and acowardly one, too. I know all that. And maybe I wouldn't have--havedone it to-day, even if you hadn't come. I found it last week, andit--fascinated me. It seemed such an easy way out of it. Since thenI've been up here two or three times just to--to feel of it. Somehow Iliked to know it was here, and that, if--if I just couldn't standthings another minute--

  "But--I've tried to be decent, honest I have. But I'm tired of beingamused and 'tended to like a ten-year-old boy. I don't want flowersand jellies and candies brought in to me. I don't want to read andplay solitaire and checkers week in and week out. I want to be overthere, doing a man's work. Look at Ted, and Tom, and Jack Green, andJohn McGuire!"

  "John McGuire!" It was a faltering cry from Susan, but Keith did noteven hear.

  "What are they doing, and what am I doing? Yet you people expect me tosit here contented with a dice-box and a deck of playing-cards, and beGLAD I can do that much. Oh, well, I suppose I ought to be. But when Isit here alone day after day and think and think--"

  "But, Keith, we don't want you to do that," interposed Susanfeverishly. "Now there's Miss Dorothy--if you'd only let her--"

  "But I tell you I don't want to be babied and pitied and 'tended to byyoung women who are SORRY for me. _I_ want to do the helping part ofthe time. And if I see a girl I--I could care for, I want to be ableto ask her like a man to marry me; and then if she says 'yes,' I wantto be able to take care of her myself--not have her take care of meand marry me out of pity and feed me fudge and flowers! And there's--dad."

  Keith's voice broke and stopped. Susan, watching his impassioned face,wet her lips and swallowed convulsively. Then Keith began again.

  "Susan, do you know the one big thing that drives me up here everytime, in spite of myself? It's the thought of--dad. How do you supposeI feel to think of dad peddling peas and beans and potatoes down toMcGuire's grocery store?--dad!"

  Susan lifted her head defiantly.

  "Well, now look a-here, Keith Burton, let me tell you that peddlin'peas an' beans an' potatoes is jest as honorary as paintin' pictures,an'--"

  "I'm not saying it isn't," cut in the boy incisively. "I'm merelysaying that, as I happen to know, he prefers to paint pictures--and Iprefer to have him. And he'd be doing it this minute--if it wasn't forhis having to support me, and you know it, Susan."

  "Well, what of it? It don't hurt him any."

  "It hurts me, Susan. And when I think of all the things he hoped--ofme. I was going to be Jerry and Ned and myself; and I was going tomake him so proud, Susan, so proud! I was going to make up to him allthat he had lost. All day under the trees up on the hill, I used tolie and dream of what I was going to be some day--the great pictures Iwas going to paint--for dad. The great fame that was going to come tome--for dad. The money I was going to earn--for dad: I saw dad, oldand white-haired, leaning on me. I saw the old house restored--all thelocks and keys and sagging blinds, the cracked ceilings and tatteredwallpaper--all made fresh and new. And dad so proud and happy in itall--so proud and happy that perhaps he'd think I really had made upfor Jerry and Ned, and his own lost hopes.

  "And, now, look at me! Useless, worse than useless--all my life aburden to him and to everybody else. Susan, I can't stand it. I CAN'T.That's why I want to end it all. It would be so simple--such an easyway--out."

  "Yes, 'twould--for quitters. Quitters always take easy ways out. Butyou ain't no quitter, Keith Burton. Besides, 't wouldn't end it. Youknow that. 'Twould jest be shuttin' the door of this room an' openin'the one to the next. You've had a good Christian bringin' up, KeithBurton, an' you know as well as I do that your eternal, immoral soulain't goin' to be snuffled out of existence by no pistol shot, nomatter how many times you pull the jigger."

  Keith laughed--and with the laugh his tense muscles relaxed.

  "All right, Susan," he shrugged a little grimly. "I'll concede yourpoint. You made it--perhaps better than you know. But--well, it isn'tso pleasant always to be the hook, you know," he finished bitterly.

  "The--hook?" frowned Susan.

  Keith laughed again grimly.

  "Perhaps you've forgotten--but I haven't. I heard you talking to Mrs.McGuire one day. You said that everybody was either a hook or an eye,and that more than half the folks were hooks hanging on to somebodyelse. And that's why some eyes had more than their share of hookshanging on to them. You see--I remembered. I knew then, when you saidit, that I was a hook, and--"

  "Keith Burton, I never thought of you when I said that," interruptedSusan agitatedly.

  "Perhaps not; but _I_ did. Why, Susan, of course I'm a hook--an old,bent, rusty hook. But I can hang on--oh, yes, I can hang on--toanybody that will let me! But, Susan, don't you see?--sometimes itseems as if I'd give the whole world if just for once I could feelthat I--that some one was hanging on to me! that I was of some usesomewhere."

  "An' so you're goin' to be, honey. I know you be," urged Susaneagerly. "Just remember all them fellers that wrote books an' givelecturing an'--"

  "Oh, yes, I know," interposed Keith, with a faint smile. "You were agood old soul, Susan, to read me all those charming tales, and Iunderstood of course, what you were doing it for. You wanted me to goand do likewise. But I couldn't write a book to save my soul, Susan,and my voice would stick in my throat at the second word of a'lecturing.'"

  "But there'll be somethin', Keith, I know there'll be somethin'. Godnever locked up the doors of your eyes without givin' you the key tosome other door. It's jest that you hain't found it yet."

  "Perhaps. I certainly haven't found it--that's sure," retorted the ladbitterly. "And just why He saw fit to send me this blindness--"

  "We don't have to know," interposed Susan quickly; "an' questionin'about it don't settle nothin', anyhow. If we've got it, we've got it,an' if it's somethin' we can't possibly help, the only questionin'worth anything then is how are we goin' to stand it. You see, there'smore'n one way of standin' things."

  "Yes, I know there is." Keith stirred restlessly in his seat.

  "An' some ways is better than others."

  "There, there, Susan, I know just what you're going to say, and it'sall very true, of course," cried Keith, stirring still morerestlessly. "But you see T don't happen to feel like hearing it justnow. Oh, yes, I know I've got lots to be thankful for. I can hear, andfeel, and taste, and walk; and I should be glad for all of them. And Iam, of course. I should declare that all's well with the world, andthat both sides of the street are sunny, and that there isn't anyshadow anywhere. There, you see! I know all that you would say, Susan,and I've said it, so as to save you the trouble."

  "Humph!" commented Susan, bridling a little; then suddenly, she gave asly chuckle. "That's all very well an' good, Master Keith Burton, butth
ere's one more thing I would have said if I was doin' the sayin'!"

  "Well?"

  "About that both sides of the street bein' sunny--it seems to me thatthe man what says, yes, he knows one side is shady an' troublous, butthat he thinks it'll be healthier an' happier for him an' everybodyelse 'round him if he walks on the sunny side, an' then WALKS THERE--itseems to me he's got the spots all knocked off that feller whatsays there AIN'T no shady side!"

  Keith gave a low laugh--a laugh more nearly normal than Susan hadheard him give for several days.

  "All right, Susan, I'll accept your amendment and--we'll let it gothat one side is shady, and that I'm supposed to determinedly pick thesunny side. Anything more?"

  "M-more?"

  "That you came up to say to me--yes. You know I have just saved youthe trouble of saying part of it."

  "Oh!" Susan laughed light-heartedly. (This was Keith--her Keith thatshe knew.) "No that's all I--" She stopped short in dismay! All thecolor and lightness disappeared from her face, leaving it suddenlywhite and drawn. "That is," she faltered, "there was somethin' else--Iwas goin' to say, about--about John McGuire. He--"

  "I don't care to hear it." Keith had frozen instantly into frigidaloofness. Stern lines had come to his boyish mouth.

  "But--but, Keith, Mrs. McGuire came over to-"

  "To read another of those precious letters, of course," cut in Keithangrily, "but I tell you I don't want to hear it. Do you suppose acaged bird likes to hear of the woods and fields and tree-tops whilehe's tied to a three-inch swing between two gilt bars? Well, hardly!There's lots that I do have to stand, Susan, but I don't have to standthat."

  Susan caught her breath with a half sob.

  "But, Keith, I wasn't going to tell you of--of woods an' fields an'tree-tops this time. You see--now he's in a cage himself."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He's coming home. He's--blind."

  Keith leaped from his chair.

  "BLIND? JOHN McGUIRE?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh-h-h!" Long years of past suffering and of future woe filled theshort little word to bursting, as Keith dropped back into his chair.For a moment he sat silent, his whole self held rigid. Then,unsteadily he asked the question:

  "What--happened?"

  "They don't know. It was a dispatch that came this mornin'. He wasblinded, an' is on his way home. That's all."

  "That's--enough."

  "Yes, I knew you'd--understand."

  "Yes, I do--understand."

  Susan hesitated. Keith still sat, with his unseeing gaze straightahead, his body tense and motionless. On the desk within reach lay therevolver. Cautiously Susan half extended her hand toward it, then drewit back. She glanced again at Keith's absorbed face, then turned andmade her way quietly down the stairs.

  At the bottom of the attic flight she glanced back. "He won't touch itnow, I'm sure," she breathed. "An', anyhow, we only take knives an'pizen away from children--not grown men!"