Dawn

  CHAPTER VI

  LIGHTS OUT

  And so Keith waited, through the summer and into another winter. AndApril came. Keith was not listening to Susan's rhymes and jingles now,nor was he tramping through the woods in search of the first sign ofspring. Both eyes had become badly affected now. Keith knew that and--

  THE FOG HAD COME. Keith had seen the fog for several days before heknew what it was. He had supposed it to be really--fog. Then one dayhe said to Susan:

  "Where's the sun? We haven't had any BRIGHT sun for days and days--justthis horrid old foggy fog."

  "Fog? Why, there ain't any fog!" exclaimed Susan. "The sun is asbright----" She stopped short. Keith could not see her face veryclearly--Keith was not seeing anything clearly these days. "Nonsense,Keith, of course, the sun is shinin'!" snapped Susan. "Now don't getsilly notions in your head!" Then she turned and hurried from theroom.

  And Keith knew. And he knew that Susan knew.

  Keith did not mention the fog to his father--dad did not likedisagreeable subjects. But somebody must have mentioned it--Susan,perhaps. At all events, before the week was out Keith went with hisfather again to Boston.

  It was a sorry journey. Keith did not need to go to Boston. Keith knewnow. There was no one who could tell him anything. Dad might laugh andjoke and call attention to everything amusing that he wanted to--itwould make no difference. Besides, as if he could not hear the shakein dad's voice under all the fun, and as if he could not feel thetremble in dad's hand on his shoulder!

  Boston was the same dreary round of testing, talk, and questions,hushed voices and furtive glances, hurried trips from place to place;only this time it was all sharper, shorter, more decisive, and therewas no operation. It was not the time for that now, the doctors said.Moreover, this time dad did not laugh, or joke, or even talk on thehomeward journey. But that, too, made no difference. Keith alreadyknew.

  He knew so well that he did not question him at all. But if he had notknown, he would have known from Susan the next day. For he found Susancrying three times the next forenoon, and each time she snapped out soshort and sharp about something so entirely foreign from what he askedher that he would have known that Susan knew.

  Keith did wonder how many months it would be. Some way he had an ideait would be very few now. As long as it was coming he wished it wouldcome, and come quick. This waiting business--On the whole he was gladthat Susan was cross, and that his father spent his days shut away inhis own room with orders that he was not to be disturbed. For, as fortalking about this thing--

  It was toward the last of July that Keith discovered how indistinctwere growing the outlines of the big pictures on the wall at the endof the hall. Day by day he had to walk nearer and nearer before hecould see them at all. He wondered just how many steps would bring himto the wall itself. He was tempted once to count them--but he couldnot bring himself to do that; so he knew then that in his heart he didnot want to know just how many days it would be before--

  But there came a day when he was but two steps away. He told himselfit would be in two days then. But it did not come in two days. It didnot come in a week. Then, very suddenly, it came.

  He woke up one morning to find it quite dark. For a minute he thoughtit WAS dark; then the clock struck seven--and it was August.

  Something within Keith seemed to snap then. The long-pent strain ofmonths gave way. With one agonized cry of "Dad, it's come--it's come!"he sprang from the bed, then stood motionless in the middle of theroom, his arms outstretched. But when his father and Susan reached theroom he had fallen to the floor in a dead faint.

  It was some weeks before Keith stood upright on his feet again. Hisillness was a long and serious one. Late in September, Mrs. McGuire,hanging out her clothes, accosted Susan over the back-yard fence.

  "I heard down to the store last night that Keith Burton was goin' toget well."

  "Of course he's goin' to get well," retorted Susan with emphasis. "Iknew he was, all the time."

  "All the same, I think it's a pity he is." Mrs. McGuire's lips cametogether a bit firmly. "He's stone blind, I hear, an' my John says--"

  "Well, what if he is?" demanded Susan, almost fiercely. "You wouldn'tkill the child, would you? Besides SEEIN' is only one of hisfacilities. He's got all the rest left. I reckon he'll show you he cando somethin' with them."

  Mrs. McGuire shook her head mournfully.

  "Poor boy, poor boy! How's he feel himself? Has he got his senses, hisreal senses yet?"

  "He's just beginnin' to." The harshness in Susan's voice betrayed herdifficulty in controlling it. "Up to now he hain't sensed anything,much. Of course, part of the time he hain't known ANYTHING--jest laythere in a stupid. Then, other times he's jest moaned of-of thedark--always the dark.

  "At first he--when he talked--seemed to be walkin' through the woods;an' he'd tell all about what he saw; the 'purple sunsets,' an''dancin' leaves,' an' the merry little brooks hurryin' down thehillside,' till you could jest SEE the place he was talkin' about. Butnow--now he's comin' to full conscientiousness, the doctor says; an'he don't talk of anything only--only the dark. An' pretty quickhe'll--know."

  "An' yet you want that poor child to live, Susan Betts!"

  "Of course I want him to live!"

  "But what can he DO?"

  "Do? There ain't nothin' he can't do. Why, Mis' McGuire, listen! I'vebeen readin' up. First, I felt as you do--a little. I--I didn't WANThim to live. Then I heard of somebody who was blind, an' what he did.He wrote a great book. I've forgotten its name, but it was somethin'about Paradise. PARADISE--an' he was in prison, too. Think of writin'about Paradise when you're shut up in jail--an' blind, at that! Well,I made up my mind if that man could see Paradise through them prisonbars with his poor blind eyes, then Keith could. An' I was goin' tohave him do it, too. An' so I went down to the library an' asked MissHemenway for a book about him. An' I read it. An' then she told meabout more an' more folks that was blind, an' what they had done. An'I read about them, too."

  "Well, gracious me, Susan Betts, if you ain't the limit!" commentedMrs. McGuire, half admiringly, half disapprovingly.

  "Well, I did. An'--why, Mis' McGuire, you hain't any inception of anidea of what those men an' women an'--yes, children--did. Why, one of'em wasn't only blind, but deaf an' dumb, too. She was a girl. An' nowshe writes books an' gives lecturin's, an', oh, ev'rything."

  "Maybe. I ain't sayin' they don't. But I guess somebody else has to doa part of it. Look at Keith right here now. How are you goin' to takecare of him when he gets up an' begins to walk around? Why, he can'tsee to walk or--or feed himself, or anything. Has the nurse gone?"

  Susan shook her head. Her lips came together grimly.

  "No. Goes next week, though. Land's sakes, but I hope that woman isexpulsive enough! Them entrained nurses always cost a lot, I guess.But we've just had to have her while he was so sick. But she's goin'next week."

  "But what ARE you goin' to do? You can't tag him around all day an' doyour other work, too. Of course, there's his father--"

  "His father! Good Heavens, woman, I wonder if you think I'd trust thatboy to his father?" demanded Susan indignantly. "Why, once let him gethis nose into that paint-box, an' he don't know anything--notanything. Why, I wouldn't trust him with a baby rabbit--if I cared forthe rabbit. Besides, he don't like to be with Keith, nor see him, northink of him. He feels so bad."

  "Humph! Well, if he does feel bad I don't think that's a very nice wayto show it. Not think of him, indeed! Well, I guess he'll find SOMEone has got to think of him now. But there! that's what you mightexpect of Daniel Burton, I s'pose, moonin' all day over those sillypictures of his. As my John says--"

  "They're not silly pictures," cut in Susan, flaring into instantwrath. "He HAS to paint pictures in order to get money to live, don'the? Well, then, let him paint. He's an artist--an extinguishedartist--not just a common storekeeper." (Mr. McGuire, it might bementioned in passing, kept a grocery store.) "An' if you'reartistical, you're different from ot
her folks. You have to be."

  "Nonsense, Susan! That's all bosh, an' you know it. What if he doespaint pictures? That hadn't ought to hinder him from takin' propercare of his own son, had it?"

  "Yes, if he's blind." Susan spoke with firmness and decision. "Youdon't seem to understand at all, Mis' McGuire. Mr. Burton is anartist. Artists like flowers an' sunsets an' clouds an' brooks. Theydon't like disagreeable things. They don't want to see 'em or thinkabout 'em. I know. It's that way with Mr. Burton. Before, when Keithwas all right, he couldn't bear him out of his sight, an' he was goin'to have him do such big, fine, splendid things when he grew up. Now,since he's blind, he can't bear him IN his sight. He feels that bad.He just won't be with him if he can help it. But he ain't forgettin'him. He's thinkin' of him all the time. _I_ KNOW. An' it's tellin' onhim. He's lookin' thin an' bad an' sick. You see, he's sodisappointed, when he'd counted on such big things for that boy!"

  "Humph! Well, I'll risk HIM. It's Keith I'm worry in' about. Who isgoing to take care of him?"

  Susan Betts frowned.

  "Well, _I_ could, I think. But there's a sister of Mr. Burton's--she'scomin'."

  "Not Nettie Colebrook?"

  "Yes, Mis' Colebrook. That's her name. She's a widow, an' hain't gotanything needin' her. She wrote an' offered, an' Mr. Burton said yes,if she'd be so kind. An' she's comin'."

  "When?"

  "Next week. The day the nurse goes. Why? What makes you look so queer?Do you know--Mis' Colebrook?"

  "Know Nettie Burton Colebrook? Well, I should say I did! I went toboardin'-school with her."

  "Humph!" Susan threw a sharp glance into Mrs. McGuire's face. Susanlooked as if she wanted to ask another question. But she did not askit. "Humph!" she grunted again; and turned back to the sheet she washanging on the line.

  There was a brief pause, then Mrs. McGuire commented dryly:

  "I notice you ain't doin' no rhymin' to-day, Susan."

  "Ain't I? Well, perhaps I ain't. Some way, they don't come out now sonatural an' easy-like."

  "What's the matter? Ain't the machine workin'?"

  Susan shook her head. Then she drew a long sigh. Picking up her emptybasket she looked at it somberly.

  "Not the way it did before. Some way, there don't seem anything insideof me now only dirges an' funeral marches. Everywhere, all day,everything I do an' everywhere I go I jest hear: 'Keith's blind,Keith's blind!' till it seems as if I jest couldn't bear it."

  With something very like a sob Susan turned and hurried into thehouse.