Dawn

  CHAPTER XXVII

  FOR THE SAKE OF JOHN

  In due course Daniel Burton and his son Keith returned from thefuneral of their kinswoman, Mrs. Nancy Holworthy.

  The town, aware now of the stupendous change that had come to thefortunes of the Burton family, stared, gossiped, shook wise heads ofprophecy, then passed on to the next sensation--which happened to bethe return of four soldiers from across the seas; three crippled, oneblinded.

  At the Burton homestead the changes did not seem so stupendous, afterall. True, Daniel Burton had abandoned the peddling of peas and beansacross the counter, and had, at the earnest solicitation of his son,got out his easel and placed a fresh canvas upon it; but he obviouslyworked half-heartedly, and he still roamed the house after reading theevening paper, and spent even more time before the great war map onhis studio wall.

  True, also, disgruntled tradesmen no longer rang peremptory peals onthe doorbell, and the postman's load of bills on the first of themonth was perceptibly decreased. The dinner-table, too, bore evidencethat a scanty purse no longer controlled the larder, but no new chinaor cut-glass graced the board, and Susan's longed-for bouillon spoonshad never materialized. Locks and doors and sagging blinds hadreceived prompt attention, and already the house was being preparedfor a new coat of paint; but no startling alterations or improvementswere promised by the evidence, and Keith was still to be seen almostdaily on the McGuire back porch, as before, or on his own, with JohnMcGuire.

  It is no wonder, surely, that very soon the town ceased to stare andgossip, or even to shake wise heads of prophecy.

  Nancy Holworthy's death was two months in the past when one day Keithcame home from John McGuire's back porch in very evident excitementand agitation.

  "Why, Keith, what's the matter? What IS the matter?" demanded Susanconcernedly.

  "Nothing. That is, I--I did not know I acted as if anything was thematter," stammered the youth.

  "Well, you do. Now, tell me, what is it?"

  "Nothing, nothing, Susan. Nothing you can help." Keith was pacing backand forth and up and down the living-room, not even using his cane todefine the familiar limits of his pathway. Suddenly he turned andstopped short, his whole body quivering with emotion. "Susan, I can't!I can't--stand it," he moaned.

  "I know, Keith. But, what is it--now?"

  "John McGuire. He's been telling me how it is--over there. Why, Susan,I could see it--SEE it, I tell you, and, oh, I did so want to be thereto help. He told me how they held it--the little clump of trees thatmeant so much to US, and how one by one they fell--those brave fellowswith him. I could see it. I could hear it. I could hear the horrid dinof the guns and shells, and the crash of falling trees about us; andthe shouts and groans of the men at our side. And they neededmen--more men--to take the place of those that had fallen. Even one mancounted there--counted for, oh, so much!--for at the last there wasjust one man left----John McGuire. And to hear him tell it--it waswonderful, wonderful!"

  "I know, I know," nodded Susan. "It was like his letters--you couldSEE things. He MADE you see 'em. An' that's what he always did--madeyou see things--even when he was a little boy. His mother told me. Hewanted to write, you know. He was goin' to be a writer, before--thishappened. An' now----" The sentence trailed off into the silenceunfinished.

  "And to think of all that to-day being wasted on a blind baby tied toa picture puzzle," moaned Keith, resuming his nervous pacing of theroom. "If only a man--a real man could have heard him--one that couldgo and do a man's work--! Why, Susan, that story, as he told it, wouldmake a stone fight. I never heard anything like it. I never supposedthere could be anything like that battle. He never talked like this,until to-day. Oh, he's told me a little, from time to time. But to-day,to-day, he just poured out his heart to me--ME!--and there are somany who need just that message to stir them from their smugcomplacency--men who could fight, and win: men who WOULD fight, andwin, if only they could see and hear and know, as I saw and heard andknew this afternoon. And there it was, wasted, WASTED, worse thanwasted on--me!"

  Chokingly Keith turned away, but with a sudden cry Susan caught hisarm.

  "No, no, Keith, it wasn't wasted--you mustn't let it be wasted," shepanted. "Listen! You want others to hear it--what you heard--don'tyou?"

  "Why, y-yes, Susan; but----"

  "Then make 'em hear it," she interrupted. "You can--you can!"

  "How?"

  "Make him write it down, jest as he talks. He can--he wants to. He'salways wanted to. Then publish it in a book, so everybody can see itand hear it, as you did."

  "Oh, Susan, if we only could!" A dawning hope had come into KeithBurton's face, but almost at once it faded into gray disappointment."We couldn't do it, though, Susan. He couldn't do it. You know hecan't write at all. He's only begun to practice a little bit. He'dnever get it down, with the fire and the vim in it, learning to writeas he'd have to. What do you suppose Lincoln's Gettysburg Speech wouldhave been if he'd had to stop to learn how to spell and to write eachword before he could put it down?"

  "I know, I know," nodded Susan. "It's that way with me in my poetry. Ijest HAVE to get right ahead while the fuse burns, an' spell 'emsomehow, anyhow, so's to get 'em down while I'm in the fit of it. Hecouldn't do it. I can see that now. But, Keith, couldn't YOU doit?--take it down, I mean, as he talked, like a stylographer?"

  Keith shook his head.

  "I wish I could. But I couldn't, I know I couldn't. I couldn't beginto do it fast enough to keep up with him, and 't would spoil it all tohave to ask him to slow down. When a man's got a couple of Huns comingstraight for him, and he knows he's got to get 'em both at once, youcan't very well sing out: 'Here, wait--wait a minute till I get thatlast sentence down!'"

  "I know, I know," nodded Susan again. She paused, drew a long sigh,and turned her eyes out the window. Up the walk was coming DanielBurton. His step was slow, his head was bowed. He looked like anythingbut the happy possessor of new wealth. Susan frowned as she watchedhim.

  "I wish your father----" she began. Suddenly she stopped. A new lighthad leaped to her eyes. "Keith, Keith," she cried eagerly. "I have it!Your father--he could do it--I know he could!"

  "Do what?"

  "Take down John McGuire's story. Couldn't he do it?"

  "Why, y-yes, he could, I think," hesitated Keith doubtfully. "Hedoesn't know shorthand, but he--he's got eyes" (Keith's voice broke alittle) "and he could SEE what he was doing, and he could take downenough of it so he could patch it up afterwards, I'm sure. But Susan,John McGuire wouldn't TELL it to HIM. Don't you see? He won't even seeanybody but me, and he didn't talk like this even to me until to-day.How's dad going to hear it to write it down? Tell me that?"

  "But he could overhear it, Keith. No, no, don't look like that," sheprotested hurriedly, as Keith began to frown. "Jest listen a minute.It would be jest as easy. He could be over on the grass right close,where he could hear every word; an' you could get John to talkin', an'as soon as he got really started on a story your father could begin towrite, an' John wouldn't know a thing about it; an'--"

  "Yes, you're quite right--John wouldn't know a thing about it," brokein Keith, with a passion so sudden and bitter that Susan fell back indismay.

  "Why, Keith!" she exclaimed, her startled eyes on his quivering face.

  "I wonder if you think I'd do it!" he demanded. "I wonder if youreally think I'd cheat that poor fellow into talking to me justbecause he hadn't eyes to see that I wasn't the only one in hisaudience!"

  "But, Keith, he wouldn't mind; he wouldn't mind a bit," urged Susan,"if he didn't know an'--"

  "Oh, no, he wouldn't mind being cheated and deceived and made a foolof, just because he couldn't see!"

  "No, he wouldn't mind," persisted Susan stoutly. "It wouldn't be amean listenin', nor sneak listenin'. It wouldn't be listenin' tothings he didn't want us to hear. He'd be glad, after it was all done,an'--"

  "Would he!" choked Keith, still more bitterly. "Maybe you think _I_was glad after it was all done, and I
found I'd been fooled andcheated into thinking the girl that was reading and talking to me andplaying games with me was a girl I had never known before--a girl whowas what she pretended to be, a new friend doing it all because shewanted to, because she liked to."

  "But, Keith, I'm sure that Dorothy liked--"

  "There, there, Susan," interposed Keith, with quickly uplifted hand."We'll not discuss it, please, Yes, I know, I began the subjectmyself, and it was my fault; but when I heard you say John McGuirewould be glad when he found out how we'd lied to his poor blind eyes,I--I just couldn't hold it in. I had to say something. But never mindthat now, Susan; only you'll--you'll have to understand I mean what Isay. There's no letting dad copy that story on the sly."

  "But there's a way, there must be a way," argued Susan feverishly."Only think what it would mean to that boy if we could get him startedto writin' books--what he's wanted to do all his life. Oh, Keith, why,he'd even forget his eyes then."

  "It would--help some." Keith drew in his breath and held it a momentsuspended. "And he'd even be helping us to win out--over there; for ifwe could get that story of his on paper as he told it to me, thefellow that reads it wouldn't need any recruiting station to send himover there. If there was only a way that father could--"

  "There is, an' we'll find it," interposed Susan eagerly. "I know wewill. An' Keith, it's goin' to be 'most as good for him as it is forJohn McGuire. He's nervous as a witch since he quit his job."

  "I know." A swift cloud crossed the boy's face. "But 'twasn't givingup his job that's made him nervous, Susan, as you and I both know verywell. However, we'll see. And you may be sure if there is a way I'llfind it, Susan," he finished a bit wearily, as he turned to goupstairs.