CHAPTER VII
SUSAN TO THE RESCUE
It was when the nurse was resting and Susan was with Keith that theboy came to a full, realizing sense of himself, on his lips thetime-worn question asked by countless other minds back from thatmysterious land of delirium:
"Where am I?"
Susan sprang to her feet, then dropped on her knees at the bedside.
"In your own bed--honey."
"Is that--Susan?" No wonder he asked the question. Whenever before hadSusan talked like that?
"Sure it's Susan."
"But I can't--see you--or anything. Oh-h!" With a shudder and aquivering cry the boy flung out his hands, then covered his eyes withthem. "I know, now, I know! It's come--it's come! I am--BLIND!"
"There, there, honey, don't, please don't. You'll break Susan's heart.An' you're SO much better now."
"Better?"
"Yes. You've been sick--very sick."
"How long?"
"Oh, several weeks. It's October now."
"And I've been blind all that time?"
"Yes."
"But I haven't known I was blind!"
"No."
"I want to go back--I want to go back, where I didn't know--again."
"Nonsense, Keith!" (Susan was beginning to talk more like herself.)"Go back to be sick? Of course you don't want to go back an' be sick!Listen!
Don't you worry, an' don't you fret. Somethin' better is comin' yet. Somethin' fine! What'll you bet? It's jest the thing you're wantin' ter get!
Come, come! We're goin' to have you up an' out in no time, now, boy!"
"I don't want to be up and out. I'm blind, Susan."
"An' there's your dad. He'll be mighty glad to know you're better.I'll call him."
"No, no, Susan--don't! Don't call him. He won't want to see me. Nobodywill want to see me now. I'm blind, Susan--blind!"
"Shucks! Everybody will want to see you, so's to see how splendid youare, even if you are blind. Now don't talk any more--please don't;there's a good boy. You're gettin' yourself all worked up, an' then,oh, my, how that nurse will scold!"
"I shan't be splendid," moaned the boy. "I shan't be anything, now. Ishan't be Jerry or Ned or dad. I shall be just ME. And I'll be pointedat everywhere; and they'll whisper and look and stare, and say, 'He'sblind--he's blind--he's blind.' I tell you, Susan, I can't stand it. Ican't--I can't! I want to go back. I want to go back to where Ididn't--KNOW!"
The nurse came in then, and of course Susan was banished in disgrace.Of course, too, Keith was almost in hysterics, and his fever had goneaway up again. He still talked in a high, shrill voice, and stillthrashed his arms wildly about, till the little white powder the nursegave him got in its blessed work. And then he slept.
Keith was entirely conscious the next day when Susan came in to sitwith him while the nurse took her rest. But it was a very differentKeith. It was a weary, spent, nerveless Keith that lay back on thepillow with scarcely so much as the flutter of an eyelid to show life.
"Is there anything I can get you, Keith?" she asked, when a long-drawnsigh convinced her that he was awake.
Only a faint shake of the head answered her.
"The doctor says you're lots better, Keith."
There was no sort of reply to this; and for another long minute Susansat tense and motionless, watching the boy's face. Then, with almost aguilty look over her shoulder, she stammered:
"Keith, I don't want you to talk to me, but I do wish you'd just SPEAKto me."
But Keith only shook his head again faintly and turned his face awayto the wall.
By and by the nurse came in, and Susan left the room. She wentstraight to the kitchen, and she did not so much as look towardKeith's father whom she met in the hall. In the kitchen Susan caughtup a cloth and vigorously began to polish a brass faucet. The faucetwas already a marvel of brightness; but perhaps Susan could not seethat. One cannot always see clearly--through tears.
Keith was like this every day after that, when Susan came in to sitwith him--silent, listless, seemingly devoid of life. Yet the doctordeclared that physically the boy was practically well. And the nursewas going at the end of the week.
On the last day of the nurse's stay, Susan accosted her in the hallsomewhat abruptly.
"Is it true that by an' by there could be an operator on that boy'seyes?"
"Oper--er--oh, operation! Yes, there might be, if he could only getstrong enough to stand it. But it might not be successful, even then."
"But there's a chance?"
"Yes, there's a chance."
"I s'pose it--it would be mighty expulsive, though."
"Expulsive?" The young woman frowned slightly; then suddenly shesmiled. "Oh! Oh, yes, I--I'm afraid it would--er--cost a good deal ofmoney," she nodded over her shoulder as she went on into Keith's room.
That evening Susan sought her employer in the studio. Daniel Burtonspent all his waking hours in the studio now. The woods and fieldswere nothing but a barren desert of loneliness to Daniel Burton--withoutKeith.
The very poise of Susan's head spelt aggressive determination as sheentered the studio; and Daniel Burton shifted uneasily in his chair ashe faced her. Nor did he fail to note that she carried some foldedpapers in her hand.
"Yes, yes, Susan, I know. Those bills are due, and past due," he criednervously, before Susan could speak. "And I hoped to have the money,both for them and for your wages, long before this. But----"
Susan stopped him short with an imperative gesture.
"T ain't bills, Mr. Burton, an't ain't wages. It's--it's somethin'else. Somethin' very importune." There was a subdued excitement inSusan's face and manner that was puzzling, yet most promising.
Unconsciously Daniel Burton sat a little straighter and lifted hischin--though his eyes were smiling.
"Something else?"
"Yes. It's--poetry."
"Oh, SUSAN!" It was as if a bubble had been pricked, leaving nothingbut empty air.
"But you don't know--you don't understand, yet," pleaded Susan,unerringly reading the disappointment in her employer's face. "It's tosell--to get some money, you know, for the operator on the poor lamb'seyes. I--I wanted to help, some way. An' this is REAL poetry--truly itis!--not the immaculate kind that I jest dash off! I've worked an'worked over this, an' I'm jest sure it'll sell, It's GOT to sell, Mr.Burton. We've jest got to have that money. An' now, I--I want to read'em to you. Can't I, please?"
And this from Susan--this palpitating, pleading "please"! DanielBurton, with a helpless gesture that expressed embarrassment, dismay,bewilderment, and resignation, threw up both hands and settled back inhis chair.
"Why, of--of course, Susan, read them," he muttered as clearly as hecould, considering the tightness that had come into his throat.
And Susan read this:
SPRING
Oh, gentle Spring, I love thy rills, I love thy wooden, rocky rills, I love thy budsome beauty. But, oh, I hate o'er anything, Thy mud an' slush, oh, gentle Spring, When rubbers are a duty.
"That's the shortest--the other is longer," explained Susan, still theextraordinary, palpitating Susan, with the shining, pleading eyes.
"Yes, go on." Daniel Burton had to clear his throat before he couldsay even those two short words.
"I called this 'Them Things That Plague,'" said Susan. "An' it'sreally true, too. Don't you know? Things DO plague worse nights, whenyou can't sleep. An' you get to thinkin' an' thinkin'. Well, that'swhat made me write this." And she began to read:
THEM THINGS THAT PLAGUE
They come at night, them things that plague, An' gather round my bed. They cluster thick about the foot, An' lean on top the head.
They like the dark, them things that plague, For then they can be great, They loom like doom from out the gloom, An' shriek: "I am your Fate!"
But, after all, them things that plague Are cowards--Say not you?-- To str
ike a man when he is down, An' in the darkness, too.
For if you'll watch them things that plague, Till comin' of the dawn, You'll find, when once you're on your feet, Them things that plague--are gone!
"There, ain't that true--every word of it?" she demanded. "An' thereain't hardly any poem license in it, too. I think they're a ways lotsbetter when there ain't; but sometimes, of course, you jest have touse it. There! an' now I've read 'em both to you--an' how much do yous'pose I can get for 'em--the two of 'em, either singly or doubly?"Susan was still breathless, still shining-eyed--a strange, exoticSusan, that Daniel Burton had never seen before. "I've heard thatwriters--some writers--get lots of money, Mr. Burton, an' I can writemore--lots more. Why, when I get to goin' they jest comeautocratically--poems do--without any thinkin' at all; an'--But howmuch DO you think I ought to get?"
"Get? Good Heavens woman!" Daniel Burton was on his feet now trying toshake off the conflicting emotions that were all but paralyzing him."Why, you can't get anything for those da----" Just in time he pulledhimself up. At that moment, too, he saw Susan's face. He sat downlimply.
"Susan." He cleared his throat and began again. He tried to speakclearly, judiciously, kindly. "Susan, I'm afraid--that is, I'm notsure--Oh, hang it all, woman"--he was on his feet now--"send them, ifyou want to--but don't blame me for the consequences." And with agesture, as of flinging the whole thing far from him, he turned hisback and walked away.
"You mean--you don't think I can get hardly anything for 'em?" Anextraordinarily meek, fearful Susan asked the question.
Only a shrug of the back-turned shoulders answered her.
"But, Mr. Burton, we--we've got to have the money for that operator;an', anyhow, I--I mean to try." With a quick indrawing of her breathshe turned abruptly and left the studio.
That evening, in her own room, Susan pored over the two inexpensivemagazines that came to the house. She was searching for poems and foraddresses.
As she worked she began to look more cheerful. Both the magazinespublished poems, and if they published one poem they would another, ofcourse, especially if the poem were a better one--and Susan could nothelp feeling that they were better (those poems of hers) than almostany she saw there in print before her. There was some SENSE to herpoems, while those others--why, some of them didn't mean anything, notanything!--and they didn't even rhyme!
With real hope and courage, therefore, Susan laboriously copied offthe addresses of the two magazines, directed two envelopes, and setherself to writing the first of her two letters. That done, she copiedthe letter, word for word--except for the title of the poem submitted.
It was a long letter. Susan told first of Keith and his misfortune,and the imperative need of money for the operation. Then she toldsomething of herself, and of her habit of turning everything intorhyme; for she felt it due to them, she said, that they know somethingof the person with whom they were dealing. She touched again on thepoverty of the household, and let it plainly be seen that she had highhopes of the money these poems were going to bring. She did not set aprice. She would leave that to their own indiscretion, she said inclosing.
It was midnight before Susan had copied this letter and prepared thetwo manuscripts for mailing. Then, tired, but happy, she went to bed.
It was the next day that the nurse went, and that Mrs. Colebrook came.
The doctor said that Keith might be dressed now, any day--that heshould be dressed, in fact, and begin to take some exercise. He hadalready sat up in a chair every day for a week--and he was in nofurther need of medicine, except a tonic to build him up. In fact, allefforts now should be turned toward building him up, the doctor said.That was what he needed.
All this the nurse mentioned to Mr. Burton and to Susan, as she wasleaving. She went away at two o'clock, and Mrs. Colebrook was not tocome until half-past five. At one minute past two Susan crept to thedoor of Keith's room and pushed it open softly. The boy, his face tothe wall, lay motionless. But he was not asleep. Susan knew that, forshe had heard his voice not five minutes before, bidding the nursegood-bye. For one brief moment Susan hesitated. Then, briskly, shestepped into the room with a cheery:
"Well, Keith, here we are, just ourselves together. The nurse is gonean' I am on--how do you like the weather?"
"Yes, I know, she said she was going." The boy spoke listlessly,wearily, without turning his head.
"What do you say to gettin' up?"
Keith stirred restlessly.
"I was up this morning."
"Ho!" Susan tossed her head disdainfully. "I don't mean THAT way. Imean up--really up with your clothes on."
The boy shook his head again.
"I couldn't. I--I'm too tired."
"Nonsense! A great boy like you bein' too tired to get up! Why Keith,it'll do you good. You'll feel lots better when you're up an' dressedlike folks again."
The boy gave a sudden cry.
"That's just it, Susan. Don't you see? I'll never be--like folksagain."
"Nonsense! Jest as if a little thing like bein' blind was goin' tokeep you from bein' like folks again!" Susan was speaking very loudly,very cheerfully--though with first one hand, then the other, she wasbrushing away the hot tears that were rolling down her cheeks. "Why,Keith, you're goin' to be better than folks--jest common folks. You'regoin' to do the most wonderful things that----"
"But I can't--I'm blind, I tell you!" cut in the boy. "I can'tdo--anything, now."
"But you can, an' you're goin' to," insisted Susan again. "You jestwait till I tell you; an' it's because you ARE blind that it's goin'to be so wonderful. But you can't do it jest lyin' abed there in thatlazy fashion. Come, I'm goin' to get your clothes an' put 'em right onthis chair here by the bed; then I'm goin' to give you twenty minutesto get into 'em. I shan't give you but fifteen tomorrow." Susan wasmoving swiftly around the room now, opening closet doors and bureaudrawers.
"No, no, Susan, I can't get up," moaned the boy turning his face backto the wall. "I can't--I can't!"
"Yes, you can. Now, listen. They're all here, everything you need, onthese two chairs by the bed."
"But how can I dress me when I can't see a thing?"
"You can feel, can't you?"
"Y-yes. But feeling isn't seeing. You don't KNOW."
Susan gave a sudden laugh--she would have told you it was a laugh--butit sounded more like a sob.
"But I do know, an' that's the funny part of it, Keith," she cried."Listen! What do you s'pose your poor old Susan's been doin'? You'dnever guess in a million years, so I'm goin' to tell you. For the lastthree mornin's she's tied up her eyes with a handkerchief an' thenDRESSED herself, jest to make sure it COULD be done, you know."
"Susan, did you, really?" For the first time a faint trace of interestcame into the boy's face.
"Sure I did! An' Keith, it was great fun, really, jest to see howsmart I could be, doin' it. An' I timed myself, too. It took metwenty-five minutes the first time. Dear, dear, but I was clumsy! ButI can do it lots quicker now, though I don't believe I'll ever do itas quick as you will."
"Do you think I could do it, really?"
"I know you could."
"I could try," faltered Keith dubiously.
"You ain't goin' to TRY, you're goin' to DO it," declared Susan. "Now,listen. I'm goin' out, but in jest twenty minutes I'm comin' back, an'I shall expect to find you all dressed. I--I shall be ashamed of youif you ain't." And without another glance at the boy, and before hecould possibly protest, Susan hurried from the room.
Her head was still high, and her voice still determinedly clear--butin the hall outside the bedroom, Susan burst into such a storm of sobsthat she had to hurry to the kitchen and shut herself in the pantrylest they be heard.
Later, when she had scornfully lashed herself into calmness, she cameout into the kitchen and looked at the clock.
"An' I've been in there five minutes, I'll bet ye, over that fool cryin'," she stormed hotly to herself. "Great one, I am, to take care ofthat b
oy, if I can't control myself better than this!"
At the end of what she deemed to be twenty minutes, and after afruitless "puttering" about the kitchen, Susan marched determinedlyupstairs to Keith's room. At the door she did hesitate a breathlessminute, then, resolutely, she pushed it open.
The boy, fully dressed, stood by the bed. His face was alight, almosteager.
"I did it--I did it, Susan! And if it hasn't been more than twentyminutes, I did it sooner than you!"
Susan tried to speak; but the tears were again chasing each other downher cheeks, and her face was working with emotion.
"Susan!" The boy put out his hand gropingly, turning his head with thepitiful uncertainty of the blind. "Susan, you are there, aren't you?"
Susan caught her breath chokingly, and strode into the room with abrisk clatter.
"Here? Sure I'm here--but so dumb with amazement an' admiration that Icouldn't open my head--to see you standin' there all dressed likethat! What did I tell you? I knew you could do it. Now, come, let's gosee dad." She was at his side now, her arm linked into his.
But the boy drew back.
"No, no, Susan, not there. He--he wouldn't like it. Truly, he--hedoesn't want to see me. You know he--he doesn't like to seedisagreeable things."
"'Disagreeable things,' indeed!" exploded Susan, her features workingagain. "Well, I guess if he calls it disagreeable to see his sondressed up an' walkin' around--"
But Keith interrupted her once more, with an even stronger protest,and Susan was forced to content herself with leading her charge out onto the broad veranda that ran across the entire front of the house.There they walked back and forth, back and forth.
She was glad, afterward, that this was all she did, for at the far endof the veranda Daniel Burton stepped out from a door, and stood for amoment watching them. But it was for only a moment. And when shebegged mutely for him to come forward and speak, he shook his headfiercely, covered his eyes with his hand, and plunged back into thehouse.
"What was that, Susan? What was that?" demanded the boy.
"Nothin', child, nothin', only a door shuttin' somewhere, or awindow."
At that moment a girl's voice caroled shrilly from the street.
"Hullo, Keith, how do you do? We're awfully glad to see you outagain."
The boy started violently, but did not turn his head--except to Susan.
"Susan, I--I'm tired. I want to go in now," he begged a little wildly,under his breath.
"Keith, it's Mazie--Mazie and Dorothy," caroled the high-pitched voiceagain.
But Keith, with a tug so imperative that Susan had no choice but toobey, turned his head quite away as he groped for the door to go in.
In the hall he drew a choking breath.
"Susan, I don't want to go out there to walk any more--NOT ANY MORE! Idon't want to go anywhere where anybody'll see me."
"Shucks!" Susan's voice was harshly unsteady again. "See you, indeed!Why, we're goin' to be so proud of you we'll want the whole world tosee you.
You jest wait An' see the fate That I've cut out for you. We'll be so proud We'll laugh aloud, An' you'll be laughin', too!
I made that up last night when I laid awake thinkin' of all the finethings we was goin' to have you do."
But Keith only shook his head again and complained of feeling, oh, sotired. And Susan, looking at his pale, constrained face, did not quoteany more poetry to him, or talk about the glorious future in store forhim. She led him to the easiest chair in his room and made him ascomfortable as she could. Then she went downstairs and shut herself inthe pantry--until she could stop her "fool cryin' over nothin'."