CHAPTER XXIX
DOROTHY TRIES HER HAND
It was on a mild day early in February that Susan met Dorothy Parkmanon the street. She stopped her at once.
"Well, if I ain't glad to see you!" she cried. "I didn't know you'dgot back."
"I haven't been back long, Susan."
"You hain't been over to see us once, Miss Dorothy," Susan reproachedher.
"I--I have been very busy." Miss Dorothy seemed ill at ease, andanxious to get away.
"An' you didn't come for a long, long time when you was here lastfall." Susan had laid a detaining hand on the girl's arm now.
"Didn't I?" Miss Dorothy smiled brightly. "Well, perhaps I didn't. Butyou didn't need me, anyway. I've heard all about it--the splendid workMr. Burton and his son have done for John McGuire. And I'm so glad."
"Oh, yes, that's all right." Susan spoke without enthusiasm.
"And the book is going to be published?"
"Yes, oh, yes." Susan still spoke with a preoccupied frown.
"Why, Susan, what's the matter? I thought you'd be glad."
Susan drew a long sigh.
"I am glad, Miss Dorothy. I'm awful glad--for John McGuire. They sayit's wonderful, the change in him already. He's so proud an' happy tothink he's done it--not sinfully proud, you understand, but justhumbly proud an' glad. An' his ma says he's writin' other thingsnow--poems an' stories, an' he's as happy as a lark all day. An' I'mawful glad. But it's Keith hisself that I'm thinkin' of. You see, onlyyesterday I found him--cryin'."
"Crying!" Miss Dorothy seemed to have forgotten all about her haste toget away. She had Susan's arm in HER grasp now. She had pulled her toone side, too, where they could have a little sheltered place to talk,in the angle of two store windows.
"Yes, cryin'. You see, 't was like this," hurried on Susan. "Mis'McGuire was over, an' I'd been readin' a new poem to her an' him. 'Twas a real pretty one, too, if I do say it as shouldn't--the best Iever done; all about how fame an' beauty an' pleasure didn't countnothin' beside workin'. I got the idea out of something I found in amagazine. 'T was jest grand; an' it give me the perspiration rightaway to turn it into a poem. An' I did. An' 't was that I was readin'.I'd jest got it done that mornin'."
"Yes, yes," nodded Miss Dorothy. "I see."
"Well, I never thought of its meanin' anything to Keith, or of histakin' it nohow wrong; but after Mis' McGuire had gone home (she cameout an' set with me a spell first in the kitchen) I heard a queerlittle noise in the settin'-room, an' I went an' looked in. Keith wasat the table, his arms flung straight out in front of him, an' hishead bowed down. An', Miss Dorothy, he was cryin' like a baby."
"Oh, Susan, what did you do? What did you say?"
"Say? Nothin'!" Susan's eyes flashed her scorn. "Do you s'pose I'd letthat poor lamb know I see him cryin'? Well, I guess not! I backed outas soft as a feather bed, an' I didn't go near that settin'-room foran hour, nor let any one else. I was a regular dragon-fly guardin' it.Well, by an' by Keith comes out. His face was white an'strained-lookin'. But he was smiling, an' he handed out my poem--I'dleft it on the table when I come out with Mis' McGuire. 'I found thispaper on the table, Susan. It's your poem, isn't it?' he says realcheerful-like. Then he turns kind of quick an' leaves the room withoutanother word.
"Well, I didn't know then that't was the poem he'd been cryin' over. Ididn't know--till this mornin'. Then somethin' he said made me seeright off."
"Why, Susan, what was it?"
"It was somethin' about--work. But first you wouldn't understand it,unless you see the poem. An' I can show it to you, 'cause I've got itright here. I'm tryin' to memorialize it, so I keep it with me all thetime, an' repeat one line over an' over till I get it. It's right herein my bag. You'll find it's the best I've wrote, Miss Dorothy; I'msure you will," she went on a bit wistfully. "You see I used a lot ofthe words that was in the magazine--not that I pleasurized it any, ofcourse. Mine's different, 'cause mine is poetry an' theirs is prosy.There! I guess maybe you can read it, even if't is my writin'," shefinished, taking a sheet of note-paper from her bag and carefullyspreading it out for Miss Dorothy to read.
And this is what Dorothy read:
CONTENTMENT
Wealth I asked for the earth--but when in my hands It shriveled and crumbled away; And the green of its trees and the blue of its skies Changed to a somber gray.
Beauty I asked for the moon--but the shimmering thing Was only reflected gold, And vanished away at my glance and touch, And was then but a tale that is told.
Pleasure I asked for the stars--and lots of them came, And twinkled and danced for me; But the whirling lights soon wearied my gaze-- I squenched their flame in the sea.
Fame I asked for the sun!--but the fiery ball, Brought down from its home on high, Scorched and blistered my finger tips, As I swirled it back to the sky.
Labor I asked for a hoe, and I set me to work, And my red blood danced as I went: At night I rested, and looking back, I counted my day well spent.
"But, Susan, I don't see," began Miss Dorothy, lifting puzzled eyesfrom the last line of the poem, "I don't see what there is about thatto make Mr. Keith--cry."
"No, I didn't, till this mornin'; an' then--Well, Keith came out intothe kitchen an' begun one of them tramps of his up an' down the room.It always drives me nearly crazy when he does that, but I can't sayanything, of course. I did begin this mornin' to talk about JohnMcGuire an' how fine it was he'd got somethin' he could do. Ithought't would take the poor boy's mind off hisself, if I could gethim talkin' about John McGuire--he's been SO interested in John allwinter! An' so glad he could help him. You know he's always so wantedto HELP somebody hisself instead of always havin' somebody helpin'him. But, dear me, instead of its bein' a quieter now for him, it wasa regular stirrup.
"'That's just it, that's just it, Susan,' he moans. 'You've got tohave work or you die. There's nothin' in the whole world likework--YOUR WORK! John McGuire's got his work, an' I'm glad of it. Butwhere's mine? Where's mine, I tell you?'
"An' I told him he'd jest been havin' his work, helpin' John McGuire.You know it was wonderful, perfectly wonderful, Miss Dorothy, the waythem two men got hold of John McGuire. You know John wouldn't speak toanybody, not anybody, till Keith an' his father found some way to geton the inside of his shell. An' Keith's been so happy all winter doin'it; an' his father, too. So I tried to remind him that he'd been doin'his work.
"But it didn't do no good. Keith said that was all very well, an' hewas glad, of course; but that was only a little bit of a thing, an' 'twas all past an' gone, an' John didn't need 'em any more, an' therewasn't anything left for him now at all. Oh, Miss Dorothy, he talkedawfully. I never heard him run on so. An' I knew, from a lot of itthat he said, that he was thinkin' of that poem--he wouldn't ask forwealth or beauty or fame, or anything, an' that there didn't anythingcount but labor. You see?"
"Yes, I--see." Miss Dorothy's voice was very low. Her face was turnedquite away, yet Susan was very sure that there were tears in her eyes.
"An' his father!--he's 'most as bad as Keith," sighed Susan. "They'reboth as nervous as witches, what with the war an' all, an' they notbein' able to do anything. Oh, they do give money--lots of it--LibertyBonds an' Red Cross, an' drives, of course. You knew they'd got itnow--their money, didn't you, Miss Dorothy?"
"Yes, I had heard so."
"Not that it seems to do 'em any particular good," complained Susanwistfully. "Oh, of course things ain't so--so ambiguous as they was,an' we have more to eat an' wear, an' don't have to worry about bills.But they ain't any happier, as I can see. If only Keith could findsomethin'--"
"Yes, I know," sighed Miss Dorothy again, as she turned slowly away."I wish he--could."
"Well, come to see us, won't you?" urged Susan anxiously. "That'llhelp some--it'll help a lo
t."
But Miss Dorothy did not seem to have heard. At least she did notanswer. Yet not twenty-four hours later she was ringing the Burtons'doorbell.
"No, no--not there! I want to see YOU," she panted a littlebreathlessly, when Susan would have led the way to the living-room.
"But Keith would be so glad--" begged Susan.
"No, no! I particularly don't want him to know I am here," insistedDorothy.
And without further ado, but with rebellious lips and eyes, Susan ledthe way to the kitchen.
"Susan, I have a scheme, I think, that may help out Mr. Keith," beganthe young girl abruptly. "I'll have to begin by telling you somethingof what I've seen during these last two or three months, while I'vebeen away. A Mr. Wilson, an old college friend of my father's, hasbeen taking a lot of interest in the blind--especially since the war.He got to thinking of the blinded soldiers and wishing he could helpthem. He had seen some of them in Canada, and talked with them. Whathe thought of first for them was brooms, and basket-weaving andchair-caning, same as everybody does. But he found they had a perfecthorror of those things. They said nobody bought such things except outof pity--they'd rather have the machine-made kind. And these men didn'twant things bought of them out of pity. You see, they were big, well,strong, young fellows, like John McGuire here; and they were gropingaround, trying to find a way to live all those long years of darknessthat they knew were ahead of them. They didn't have any especialtalent. But they wanted to work,--do something that was necessary--notbe charity folks, as they called it."
"I know," responded Susan sympathetically.
"Well, this Mr. Wilson is at the head of a big electrical machinerymanufacturing company near Chicago, like Mr. Sanborn's here, you know.And suddenly one day it came to him that he had the very thing rightin his own shop--a necessary kind of work that the blind could betaught to do."
"My lan', what was it? Think of blind folks goin' to work in a bigshop like Tom Sanborn's!"
"I know it. But there was something. It was wrapping the coils of wirewith tape. Mr. Wilson said they used hundreds of thousands of thesecoils all the time, and they had to be wrapped to insulate them. Itwas this work that he believed the blind could learn to do. Anyhow, hedetermined to try it. And try it he did. He sent for those soldiers hehad talked with in Canada, and he took two or three of father'spatients, and opened a little winding-room with a good electricalengineer in charge. And, do you know? it was wonderful, the way thosepoor fellows took hold of that work! Why, they got really skillful inno time, and they learned to do it swiftly, too."
"My lan'!" breathed Susan again.
"They did. He took me in to see them one day. It was just a big roomon the ground floor of an office building. He didn't put them in hisshop. He said he wanted to keep them separate, for the present,anyway. It had two or three long tables, and the superintendent movedup and down the room overseeing their work, and helping where it wasnecessary. There was a new man that morning, and it was perfectlywonderful how he took hold of it. And they were all so happy, laughingand talking, and having the best time ever; but they sobered up realearnest when Mr. Wilson introduced one or two of them to me. One manin particular--he was one of the soldiers, a splendid, great, blondfellow six feet tall, and only twenty-one--told me what this workmeant to them; how glad they were to feel of real use in the world.Then his face flushed, and his shoulders straightened a bit. 'Andwe're even helping a little to win the war,' he said, 'for these coilswe are winding now are for some armatures to go in some big motorsthat are going to be used in making munitions. So you see, we arehelping--a little.' Bless his heart! He didn't know how much he washelping every one, just by his big, brave courage.
"Well, Susan, all this gave me an idea, after what you said yesterdayabout Mr. Keith. And I wondered--why couldn't he wind coils, too? Andmaybe he'd get others to do it also. So I went to Mr. Sanborn, andhe's perfectly willing to let us give it a trial. He's pleased andinterested, and says he will furnish everything for the experiment,including a first-class engineer to superintend; only he can't spendany time over it himself, and we'll have to get somebody else to takecharge and make arrangements, about the place, and the starting of it,and all that. And, Susan, now comes my second idea. Could we--do yousuppose we could get Mr. Daniel Burton to take charge of it?"
"Oh, Miss Dorothy, if we only could!"
"It would be so fine for Mr. Keith, and for all the others. I've beenhearing everywhere how wonderfully he got hold of John McGuire."
"He did, he did," cried Susan, "an' he was like a different man allthe time he was doin' it. He hain't had no use for his paintin'lately, an' he's been so uneasy. I'm sure he'll do it, if you askhim."
"Good! Then I will. Is--is he at home to-day?"
"Yes, he's upstairs. I'll call him." Susan sprang to her feet withalacrity.
"But, Susan, just a minute!" Miss Dorothy had put out a detaininghand. "Is--is Mr. Keith here, too?"
"Yes, both of 'em. Keith is in the settin'-room an' I'll call hisfather down. 'T won't take but jest a minute." Susan was plainlychafing at the detaining hand.
"No, no, Susan!" Miss Dorothy, too, had sprung to her feet. "If--ifMr. Keith is here I'll wait. I want to see Mr. Daniel Burtonfirst--er--alone: to--to tell him about it, you know," she addedhastily, as Susan began to frown her disappointment.
"But I don't see why," argued Susan, her disapproving eyes on thegirl's flushed cheeks. "I should think you'd want to talk it up withboth of 'em."
"Yes, yes, of course; but not--not at first," stammered Miss Dorothy,plainly growing more and more embarrassed as she tried to appear lessso. "I would rather--er--that is, I think it would be better to askMr. Daniel Burton first, and then after we get it well started let himtell his son. So I'll come to-morrow in the morning--at ten. Mr. Keithis with Mr. John McGuire, then, isn't he? And over at his house? Iheard he was."
"Yes, he is, most generally."
"Then I'll come then. If--if you'll tell Mr. Daniel Burton, please,"hurried on Miss Dorothy, "and ask him to see me. And please, PLEASEkeep it from Mr. Keith, Susan. Truly, I don't want him to know a thingabout it till his father and I have--have got it all fixed up," shefinished.
"But, Miss Dorothy, I know that Keith would want----"
"Susan!" With an imperiousness quite foreign to her usual manner, MissDorothy cut in sharply. "If you don't promise to speak only to Mr.Daniel Burton about this matter I shall not come at all."
"Oh, lan' sakes! Well, well, have it your own way," snapped Susan.
"You promise?"
"Yes, I promise." Susan's lips obeyed, but her eyes were stillmutinous.
"Good! Thank you, Susan. Then I'll come to-morrow at ten," nodded MissDorothy, once again her smiling, gracious self, as she turned to leavethe room.