Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
[Illustration: "I MUST GO, NOW, I--MUST--GO!"]
DAWN
BY
ELEANOR H. PORTER
With Illustrations by Lucius Wolcott Hitchcock
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
1919
To My Friend
MRS. JAMES D. PARKER
CONTENTS
I. THE GREAT TERROR
II. DAD
III. FOR JERRY AND NED
IV. SCHOOL
V. WAITING
VI. LIGHTS OUT
VII. SUSAN TO THE RESCUE
VIII. AUNT NETTIE MEETS HER MATCH
IX. SUSAN SPEAKS HER MIND
X. AND NETTIE COLEBROOK SPEAKS HERS
XI. NOT PATS BUT SCRATCHES
XII. CALLERS FOR "KEITHIE"
XIII. FREE VERSE--A LA SUSAN
XIV. A SURPRISE ALL AROUND
XV. AGAIN SUSAN TAKES A HAND
XVI. THE WORRY OF IT
XVII. DANIEL BURTON TAKES THE PLUNGE
XVIII. "MISS STEWART"
XIX. A MATTER OF LETTERS
XX. WITH CHIN UP
XXI. THE LION
XXII. HOW COULD YOU, MAZIE?
XXIII. JOHN MCGUIRE
XXIV. AS SUSAN SAW IT
XXV. KEITH TO THE RESCUE
XXVI. MAZIE AGAIN
XXVII. FOR THE SAKE OF JOHN
XXVIII. THE WAY
XXIX. DOROTHY TRIES HER HAND
XXX. DANIEL BURTON'S "JOB"
XXXI. WHAT SUSAN DID NOT SEE
XXXII. THE KEY
XXXIII. AND ALL ON ACCOUNT OF SUSAN
ILLUSTRATIONS
"I must go, now. I--must--go!"
Susan Betts talking with Mrs. McGuire over the back-yard fence
"Want you? I always want you!"
"You've helped more--than you'll ever know"
He gave her almost no chance to say anything herself
Keith's arm shot out and his hand fell, covering hers
It was well that the Japanese screen on the front piazza was down
CHAPTER I
THE GREAT TERROR
It was on his fourteenth birthday that Keith Burton discovered the
Great Terror, though he did not know it by that name until some days
afterward. He knew only, to his surprise and distress, that the
"Treasure Island," given to him by his father for a birthday present,
was printed in type so blurred and poor that he could scarcely read
it.
He said nothing, of course. In fact he shut the book very hastily,
with a quick, sidewise look, lest his father should see and notice the
imperfection of his gift.
Poor father! He would feel so bad after he had taken all that pains
and spent all that money--and for something not absolutely necessary,
too! And then to get cheated like that. For, of course, he had been
cheated--such horrid print that nobody could read.
But it was only a day or two later that Keith found some more horrid
print. This time it was in his father's weekly journal that came every
Saturday morning. He found it again that night in a magazine, and yet
again the next day in the Sunday newspaper.
Then, before he had evolved a satisfactory explanation in his own mind
of this phenomenon, he heard Susan Betts talking with Mrs. McGuire
over the back-yard fence.
Susan Betts began the conversation. But that was nothing strange:
Susan Betts always began the conversation.
"Have you heard about poor old Harrington?" she demanded in what Keith
called her "excitingest" voice. Then, as was always the case when she
spoke in that voice, she plunged on without waiting for a reply, as if
fearful lest her bit of news fall from the other pair of lips first.
"Well, he's blind--stone blind. He couldn't see a dollar bill--not if
you shook it right before his eyes."
"Sho! you don't say!" Mrs. McGuire dropped the wet sheet back into the
basket and came to the fence on her side concernedly. "Now, ain't that
too bad?"
"Yes, ain't it? An' he so kind, an' now so blind! It jest makes me
sick." Susan whipped open the twisted folds of a wet towel. Susan
seldom stopped her work to talk. "But I saw it comin' long ago. An' he
did, too, poor man!"
Mrs. McGuire lifted a bony hand to her face and tucked a flying wisp
of hair behind her right ear.
"Then if he saw it comin', why couldn't he do somethin' to stop it?"
she demanded.
[Illustration: SUSAN BETTS TALKING WITH MRS. MCGUIRE OVER THE BACKYARD
FENCE]
"I don't know. But he couldn't. Dr. Chandler said he couldn't. An'
they had a man up from Boston--one of them eye socialists what doesn't
doctor anythin' but eyes--an' he said he couldn't."
Keith, on his knees before the beet-bed adjoining the clothes-yard,
sat back on his heels and eyed the two women with frowning interest.
He knew old Mr. Harrington. So did all the boys. Never was there a
kite or a gun or a jack-knife so far gone that Uncle Joe Harrington
could not "fix it" somehow. And he was always so jolly about it, and
so glad to do it. But it took eyes to do such things, and if now he
was going to be blind--
"An' you say it's been comin' on gradual?" questioned Mrs. McGuire.
"Why, I hadn't heard-"
"No, there hain't no one heard," interrupted Susan. "He didn't say
nothin' ter nobody, hardly, only me, I guess, an' I suspicioned it, or
he wouldn't 'a' said it to me, probably. Ye see, I found out he wa'n't
readin' 'em--the papers Mr. Burton has me take up ter him every week.
An' he owned up, when I took him ter task for it, that he couldn't
read 'em. They was gettin' all blurred."
"Blurred?" It was a startled little cry from the boy down by the
beet-bed; but neither Susan nor Mrs. McGuire heard--perhaps because at
almost the same moment Mrs. McGuire had excitedly asked the same
question.
"Blurred?" she cried.
"Yes; all run tergether like--the printin', ye know--so he couldn't
tell one letter from t'other. 'T wa'n't only a little at first. Why,
he thought 't was jest somethin' the matter with the printin' itself;
an'--"
"And WASN'T it the printing at ALL?"
The boy was on his feet now. His face was a little white and
strained-looking, as he asked the question.
"Why, no, dearie. Didn't you hear Susan tell Mis' McGuire jest now? 'T
was his EYES, an' he didn't know it. He was gettin' blind, an' that
was jest the beginnin'."
Susan's capable hands picked up another wet towel and snapped it open
by way of emphasis.
"The b-beginning?" stammered the boy. "But--but ALL beginnings
don't--don't end like that, do they?"
Susan Betts laughed indulgently and jammed the clothespin a little
deeper on to the towel.
"Bless the child! Won't ye hear that, now?" she laughed with a shrug.
"An' how should I know? I guess if Susan Betts could tell the end of
all the beginnin's as soon as they're begun, she wouldn't be hangin'
out your daddy's washin', my boy. She'd be sittin' on a red velvet
sofa with a gold cupola over her head a-chargin' five dollars apiece
for tellin' yer fortune. Yes, sir, she would!"
"But--but about Uncle Joe," persisted the boy. "Can't he really see--at
all, Susan?"
"There, there, child, don't think anything more about it. Indeed,
forsooth, I'm tellin' the truth, but I s'pose I hadn't oughter told it
before you. Still, you'd 'a' found it out quick enough--an' you with
your tops an' balls always runnin' up there. An' that's what the poor
soul seemed to feel the worst about," she went on, addressing Mrs.
McGuire, who was still leaning on the division fence.
"'If only I could see enough ter help the boys!' he moaned over an'
over again. It made me feel awful bad. I was that upset I jest
couldn't sleep that night, an' I had ter get up an' write. But it made
a real pretty poem. My fuse always works better in the night, anyhow.
'The wail of the toys'--that's what I called it--had the toys tell the
story, ye know, all the kites an' jack-knives an' balls an' bats that
he's fixed for the boys all these years, an' how bad they felt because
he couldn't do it any more. Like this, ye know:
'Oh, woe is me, said the baseball bat,
Oh, woe is me, said the kite.'
'T was real pretty, if I do say it, an' touchy, too."
"For mercy's sake, Susan Betts, if you ain't the greatest!" ejaculated
Mrs. McGuire, with disapproving admiration. "If you was dyin' I
believe you'd stop to write a poem for yer gravestone!"
Susan Betts chuckled wickedly, but her voice was gravity itself.
"Oh, I wouldn't have ter do that, Mis' McGuire. I've got that done
already."
"Susan Betts, you haven't!" gasped the scandalized woman on the other
side of the fence.
"Haven't I? Listen," challenged Susan Betts, striking an attitude. Her
face was abnormally grave, though her eyes were merry.
"Here lieth a woman whose name was Betts,
An' I s'pose she'll deserve whatever she gets;
But if she hadn't been Betts she might 'a' been Better,
She might even been Best if her name would 'a' let her."
"Susan!" gasped Mrs. McGuire once more; but Susan only chuckled again
wickedly, and fell to work on her basket of clothes in good earnest.
A moment later she was holding up with stern disapproval two socks
with gaping heels.
"Keith Burton, here's them scandalous socks again! Now, do you go tell
your father that I won't touch 'em. I won't mend 'em another once. He
must get you a new pair--two new pairs, right away. Do you hear?"
But Keith did not hear. Keith was not there to hear. Still with that
strained, white look on his face he had hurried out of the yard and
through the gate.
Mrs. McGuire, however, did hear.
"My stars, Susan Betts, it's lucky your bark is worse than your bite!"
she exclaimed. "Mend 'em, indeed! They won't be dry before you've got
your darnin' egg in 'em."
Susan laughed ruefully. Then she sighed:--at arms' length she was
holding up another pair of yawning socks.
"I know it. And look at them, too," she snapped, in growing wrath.
"But what's a body goin' to do? The boy'd go half-naked before his
father would sense it, with his nose in that paint-box. Much as ever
as he's got sense enough ter put on his own clothes--and he WOULDN'T
know WHEN ter put on CLEAN ones, if I didn't spread 'em out for him!"
"I know it. Too bad, too bad," murmured Mrs. McGuire, with a virtuous
shake of her head. "An' he with his fine bringin'-up, an' now to be so
shiftless an' good-for-nothin', an'--"
But Susan Betts was interrupting, her eyes flashing.
"If you please, I'll thank you to say no more like that about my
master," she said with dignity. "He's neither shiftless, nor
good-for-nothin'. His character is unbleachable! He's an artist an' a
scholar an' a gentleman, an' a very superlative man. It's because he
knows so much that--that he jest hain't got room for common things like
clothes an' holes in socks."
"Stuff an' nonsense!" retorted Mrs. McGuire nettled in her turn. "I
guess I've known Dan'l Burton as long as you have; an' as for his
bein' your master--he can't call his soul his own when you're around,
an' you know it."
But Susan, with a disdainful sniff, picked up her now empty
clothes-basket and marched into the house.
Down the road Keith had reached the turn and was climbing the hill
that led to old Mr. Harrington's shabby cottage.
The boy's eyes were fixed straight ahead. A squirrel whisked his tail
alluringly from the bushes at the left, and a robin twittered from a
tree branch on the right. But the boy neither saw nor heard--and when
before had Keith Burton failed to respond to a furred or feathered
challenge like that?
To-day there was an air of dogged determination about even the way he
set one foot before the other. He had the air of one who sees his goal
ahead and cannot reach it soon enough. Yet when Keith arrived at the
sagging, open gate before the Harrington cottage, he stopped short as
if the gate were closed; and his next steps were slow and hesitant.
Walking on the grass at the edge of the path he made no sound as he
approached the stoop, on which sat an old man.
At the steps, as at the gate, Keith stopped and waited, his gaze on
the motionless figure in the rocking-chair. The old man sat with hands
folded on his cane-top, his eyes apparently looking straight ahead.
Slowly the boy lifted his right arm and waved it soundlessly. He
lifted his left--but there was no waving flourish. Instead it fell
impotently almost before it was lifted. On the stoop the old man still
sat motionless, his eyes still gazing straight ahead.
Again the boy hesitated; then, with an elaborately careless air, he
shuffled his feet on the gravel walk and called cheerfully:
"Hullo, Uncle Joe."
"Hullo! Oh, hullo! It's Keith Burton, ain't it?"
The old head turned with the vague indecision of the newly blind, and
a trembling hand thrust itself aimlessly forward. "It IS Keith--ain't
it?"
"Oh, yes, sir, I'm Keith."
The boy, with a quick look about him, awkwardly shook the fluttering
fingers--Keith was not in the habit of shaking hands with people,
least of all with Uncle Joe Harrington. He sat down then on the step
at the old man's feet.
"What did ye bring ter-day, my boy?" asked the man eagerly; then with
a quick change of manner, he sighed, "but I'm afraid I can't fix it,
anyhow."
"Oh, no, sir, you don't have to. I didn't bring anything to be mended
to-day." Unconsciously Keith had raised his voice. He was speaking
loudly, and very politely.
The old man fell back in his chair. He looked relieved, yet
disappointed.
"Oh, well, that's all right, then. I'm glad. That is, of course, if I
could have fixed it for you--His sentence remained unfinished. A
profound gloom settled over his countenance.
"But I didn't bring anything for you to fix," reiterated the boy, in a
yet louder tone.
"There, there, my boy, you don't have to shout." The old man shifted
uneasily hi his seat. "I ain't deaf. I'm only--I suppose you know,
Keith, what's come to me in my old age."
"Yes, sir, I--I do." The boy hitched a little nearer to the two
ill-shod feet on the floor near him. "And--and I wanted to ask you. Yours
hurt a lot, didn't they?--I mean, your eyes; they--they ached, didn't
they, before they--they got--blind?" He spoke eagerly, almost
hopefully.
The old man shook his head.
"No, not much. I s'pose I ought to be thankful I was spared that."
The boy wet his dry lips and swallowed.
"But, Uncle Joe, 'most always, I guess, when--when folks are going to
be blind, they--they DO ache, don't they?"
Again the old man stirred restlessly.
"I don't know. I only know about--myself."
"But--well, anyhow, it never comes till you're old--real old, does
it?" Keith's voice vibrated with confidence this time.
"Old? I ain't so very old. I'm only seventy-five," bridled Harrington
resentfully. "Besides anyhow, the doctor said age didn't have nothin'
ter do with this kind of blindness. It comes ter young folks, real
young folks, sometimes."
"Oh-h!" The boy wet his lips and swallowed again a bit convulsively.
With eyes fearful and questioning he searched the old man's face.
Twice he opened his mouth as if to speak; but each time he closed it
again with the words left unsaid. Then, with a breathless rush, very
much like desperation, he burst out:
"But it's always an awful long time comin', isn't it? Blindness is.
It's years and years before it really gets here, isn't it?"
"Hm-m; well, I can't say. I can only speak for myself, Keith."
"Yes, sir, I know, sir; and that's what I wanted to ask--about you,"
plunged on Keith feverishly. "When did you notice it first, and what
was it?"
The old man drew a long sigh.
"Why, I don't know as I can tell, exactly. 'T was quite a spell comin'
on--I know that; and't wasn't much of anything at first. 'T was just
that I couldn't see ter read clear an' distinct. It was all sort of
blurred."
"Kind of run together?" Just above his breath Keith asked the
question.
"Yes, that's it exactly. An' I thought somethin' ailed my glasses, an'
so I got some new ones. An' I thought at first maybe it helped. But it
didn't. Then it got so that't wa'n't only the printin' ter books an'
papers that was blurred, but ev'rything a little ways off was in a
fog, like, an' I couldn't see anything real clear an' distinct."
"Oh, but things--other things--don't look a mite foggy to me," cried
the boy.
"'Course they don't! Why should they? They didn't to me--once,"
retorted the man impatiently. "But now--" Again he left a sentence
unfinished.
"But how soon did--did you get--all blind, after that?" stammered the
boy, breaking the long, uncomfortable silence that had followed the
old man's unfinished sentence.
"Oh, five or six months--maybe more. I don't know exactly. I know it
came, that's all. I guess if 't was you it wouldn't make no difference
HOW it came, if it came, boy." "N-no, of course not," chattered Keith,
springing suddenly to his feet. "But I guess it isn't coming to me--of
course't isn't coming to me! Well, good-bye, Uncle Joe, I got to go
now. Good-bye!"
He spoke fearlessly, blithely, and his chin was at a confident tilt.
He even whistled as he walked down the hill. But in his heart--in his
heart Keith knew that beside him that very minute stalked that
shadowy, intangible creature that had dogged his footsteps ever since
his fourteenth birthday-gift from his father; and he knew it now by
name--The Great Terror.