AGAIN SUSAN TAKES A HAND
That evening Daniel Burton told Susan. "Keith is to go home with Dr.
Stewart next week. The doctor will operate as soon as possible. Keith
will live at the sanatorium connected with the doctor's home and be
under his constant supervision."
Susan tried to speak, but instead of speaking she burst into tears.
"Why, Susan!" exclaimed the man.
"I know, I know," she choked, angrily dashing the drops from her eyes.
"An' me cryin' like this when I'm gettin' jest what I want, too!"
"But there's no certainty, Susan, that it'll be successful; remember
that," warned the man, his face clouding a little. "We can only--hope."
"An' there's the--the pay." Susan looked up, her voice vibrating with
fearful doubts.
"Oh, that's all right." The man lifted his head with the air of one
who at last has reached firm ground after a dangerous crossing on thin
ice. "The doctor's going to buy the highboy and that mirror in the
studio, and--oh, several other things."
"You mean that old chest of drawers in the settin'-room?" scorned
Susan openly.
"Yes." Daniel Burton's lips twitched a little.
"But will he PAY anything for 'em? Mr. Burton, you can't get nothin',
hardly, for second-hand furniture. My mother had a stove an' a real
nice bedstead, an' a red-plush parlor set, an' she sold 'em. But she
didn't get anything--not hardly anything, for 'em; an' they was 'most
new, some of 'em, too."
"That's the trouble, Susan--they were too new, probably," laughed the
man. "It's because these are old, very old, that he wants them, I
suspect.
"An' he'll really pay MONEY for 'em?" Plainly Susan still had her
doubts.
"He certainly will. I'd be almost ashamed to tell you HOW much he'll
pay, Susan," smiled the man. "It seemed to me sheer robbery on my
part. But he assures me they are very valuable, and that he's more
than delighted to have them even at that price."
"Lan' sakes! An' when I'd been worryin' an' worryin' so about the
money," sighed Susan; "an' now to have it fall plump into your lap
like that. It jest shows you not to hunt for bridges till you get your
feet wet, don't it? An' he's goin' jest next week?"
"Yes. The doctor and his daughter start Tuesday."
"You don't mean that girl Dorothy's goin' too?" Susan had almost
bounced out of her chair.
"Why, yes, Dr. Stewart SAID she was. What's the matter?"
"Matter? Matter enough! Why, if she goes--Say, why IS she taggin'
along, anyhow?" demanded Susan wrathfully.
"Well, I shouldn't exactly call it 'taggin' along' to go home with her
father for the Christmas vacation," shrugged the man. "As I understand
it, Dorothy's mother died several years ago. That's why the girl is
here in the East so much with her relatives, going to school. The
doctor's home has become practically a sanatorium--not the most
desirable place in the world to bring up a young daughter in, I should
say. Let's see, how old is Miss Dorothy?"
"Sixteen, Keith says. I asked him one day. She's about his age."
"Hm-m; well, however that may be, Susan, I don't see how we can help
ourselves very well. I fancy Miss Dorothy'll still--tag along," he
finished whimsically.
"Maybe, an' then maybe not," mumbled Susan darkly, as she turned away.
For two days after this Susan's kitchen, and even Keith himself,
showed almost neglect; persistently and systematically Susan was
running "down street" every hour or two--ostensibly on errands, yet
she bought little. She spent most of her time tramping through the
streets and stores, scrutinizing especially the face of every young
girl she met.
On the afternoon of the second day she met Dorothy Parkman coming out
of the post-office.
"Well, I've got you at last," she sighed, "though I'm free to confess
I was beginnin' to think I never would see you."
"Oh, yes, about Keith," cried the girl joyously. "Isn't it splendid!
I'm so glad! And he's going home with us right away, you know."
"Yes, I know. An' that's what--that is, I wanted--" stammered Susan,
growing red in her misery. "Oh, Miss Dorothy, you WOULD do anything
for that poor blind boy, wouldn't you?"
"Why, y-yes, of course," faltered Dorothy, stammering in her turn.
"I knew you would. Then please don't go home with your father this
time."
"Don't go home--with--my father!" exclaimed the girl, in puzzled
wonder.
"No. Because if you do--That is--Oh, I know it's awful for me to say
this, but I've got to do it for Keith. You see, if you go,--Keith
won't."
"If I go, he--I don't think--I quite understand." The girl drew back a
little haughtily. Her face showed a painful flush.
"No, no, of course you don't! An' please, PLEASE don't look like
that," begged Susan. "It's jest this. I found out. I wormed it out of
him the other day--why he won't let you come to see him. He says that
once, long ago, you said how you couldn't bear to look at blind
people, an'--"
"Oh, I never, never could have said such a cruel thing to--to a blind
boy," interposed the girl.
"He wasn't blind then. He said he wasn't. But, it was when he was
'fraid he was goin' to be blind; an' he see you an' Mazie Sanborn at
the foot of Harrington Hill, one day. It was just after the old man
had got blind, an' Keith had been up to see him. It seems that Keith
was worryin' then for fear HE was goin' to be blind."
"He WAS?"
"Yes--things blurred, an' all that. Well, at the foot of the hill he
see you an' Mazie, an' you shuddered at his goin' up to see Mr.
Harrington, an' said how could he bear to look at folks that was
blind. That YOU couldn't. An' he never forgot it. Bein' worried for
fear he himself was goin' blind, you see, he was especially acceptable
to anything like that."
"Oh, but I--I--At home I always did hate to see all the poor blind
people that came to see father," she stammered. "But it--it was only
because I felt so bad--for them. And that's one reason why father
doesn't keep me at home any more. He says--But, about Keith--I--I
didn't mean to--" Dorothy came to a helpless pause.
"Yes, I know. You didn't mean to hurt him," nodded Susan. "But it did
hurt him. An' now he always thinks of it, if he knows you're 'round.
You see, worse'n anything else, he hates to be stared at or to have
folks think he's different. There ain't anything I can ever say to him
that makes him half so happy as to act as if he wa'n't blind."
"Yes, I--see," breathed Dorothy, her eyes brimming.
"An' so now you won't go, will you? Because if you go, he won't."
Miss Dorothy frowned in deep thought for a moment.
"I shall have to go," she said at last, slowly. "Father is just
counting on my being there Christmas, and he is so lonely--I couldn't
disappoint him. But, Keith--I won't have to see much of him, anyway.
I'll explain it to father. He won't mind. He's used to his patients
taking notions. It'll be all right. Don't worry," she nodded, her face
clearing.
"But you'll have to be with Keith--some."
"Oh, yes, a little. But he won't know who I am. I'm just Dr. Stewart's
daughter. Don't you see?"
"But--he'll know your voice."
"I shan't talk much. Besides, he never did hear me talk much. It was
always Mazie that talked most. And he hasn't heard me any for a year
or more, except that little bit that day at the house."
"But your name, Dorothy," still argued Susan dubiously.
"Father never calls me that. I'm always 'Puss' to him. And there won't
be anybody else with us on the journey. Don't you worry. You just send
Keith right along, and trust me for the rest. You'll see," she nodded
again brightly, as she turned away.
Susan went home then to her neglected work. There seemed really
nothing else that she could do. But that she was far from following
Miss Dorothy's blithe advice "not to worry" was very evident from her
frowning brow and preoccupied air all the rest of the time until
Tuesday morning when Keith went--until, indeed, Mr. Burton came home
from seeing Keith off on his journey. Then her pent-up perturbation
culminated in an onslaught of precipitate questions.
"Was he all right? Was that girl there? Did he know who she was? Do
you think he'll find out?"
"One at a time, Susan, one at a time," laughed the man. "Yes, he was
all right. He went off smiling, with the doctor's arm about his
shoulders. Yes, the young lady was there, but she kept well away from
Keith, so far as I could see. Friends had come evidently to see her
off, but I noticed she contrived to keep herself and them as far away
from Keith as possible. Of course, on the journey there'll be just the
three of them. The test will come then. But I wouldn't worry, Susan.
Remember your own advice about those bridges of yours. He's started,
and he's with the doctor. I don't think he'll turn back now."
"No, I s'pose not," sighed Susan. "But I wish I could really KNOW how
things are!" she finished, as she took up her work again.
Thirty-six hours later came the telegram from the doctor telling of
their safe arrival, and a week later came a letter from Keith himself
to Susan. It was written in lead-pencil on paper that had been
carefully perforated so as to form lines not too near together.
At the top of the page in parentheses were these words:
DEAR SUSAN: If you think dad would like it you may read him a part or
the whole of this letter. I was afraid I wouldn't write very well and
that he wouldn't like to see it. So I write to you instead. I know you
won't mind.
Below came the letter.
DEAR SUSAN: How do you and dad do? I am well and hope you are the
same.
This is an awfully pretty place with trees and big lawns all around
it, and walks and seats everywhere in the summer, they say. We aren't
sitting outdoors to-day, though. It's only four below!
We had a jolly trip out. The doctor's great. He spent half his time
talking to me about the things we were seeing out the window. We went
through a wonderful country, and saw lots of interesting things.
The doctor's daughter was along, too. But she didn't have much to say
on the trip. I've seen quite a lot of her since we've been here,
though, and she's ALL RIGHT. At first I didn't like her very well. It
was her voice, I guess. It reminded me of somebody I didn't like to be
reminded of. But after I got used to it I found she was really very
nice and jolly. She knows lots of games, and we play together a lot
now. She's so different from that girl she sounded like that I don't
mind her voice now. And I don't think she minds (here a rather
unsuccessful erasure showed that "playing with me" had been
substituted for "being with blind folks").
She gave me this paper, and told me the folks at home would like a
letter, she knew. That's why I'm writing it. And I guess that's enough
for this time.
Love to all. KEITH BURTON
P.S. I'm going to have the operation to-morrow, but they won't know
for quite a while whether it's successful or not, the doctor says.
KEITH
Susan read this letter, then took it at once to the studio and read it
again aloud.
"Now ain't that great?" she crowed, as soon as she had finished.
"Y-yes, but he didn't say much about himself or his treatment,"
demurred the man.
Susan made an impatient gesture.
"Why, yes, he did, too! Lan' sakes, Mr. Burton, he didn't talk about
nothin' else but himself an' his treatment, all the way through. Oh, I
know he didn't say anything about his occultist treatment, if that's
what you mean. But I didn't do no worryin' about that part. It was the
other part."
"The other part!"
"Yes. They're treatin' him as if he wa'n't different an' queer. An'
didn't you notice the way he wrote? Happy as a king tellin' about what
he SAW on the way out, an' the wonderful country they went through.
They're all right--them two are. I shan't do no more worryin' about
Keith. An' her fixin' that paper so cute for him to write on--I
declare I'm that zealous of her I don't know what to do. Why couldn't
_I_ 'a' thought of that?" she sighed, as she rose to leave the room.
Two days later came a letter from the doctor. The operation had been
performed and, so far as they could judge, all was well, though, as
Keith had written, the real results would not show until the bandages
were removed some time later.
When the schools opened again in January, Dorothy Parkman came back to
Hinsdale. Susan had been counting the days ever since Christmas, for
she knew Dorothy was coming, and she could scarcely wait to see her.
This time, however, she did not have to tramp through the streets and
stores looking for her, for Miss Dorothy came at once to the house and
rang the bell.
"I knew you'd want to hear all about Mr. Keith," she smiled brightly
into Susan's eyes. "And I'm glad to report that he's doing all right."
"Be them bandages off yet? Do you mean--he can see?" demanded Susan
excitedly, leading the way to the sitting-room.
"Oh, no--no--not that!" cried the girl quickly. "I mean--he's doing
all right so far. It's a week yet before the bandages can be removed,
and even then, he probably won't see much--if at all. There'll have to
be another one--later--father says--maybe two more."
"Oh!" Susan fell back, plainly disappointed. Then, suddenly, a new
interest flamed into her eyes.
"An' he ain't sensed yet who you are?" she questioned.
Miss Dorothy blushed, and Susan noticed suddenly how very pretty she
was.
"No. Though I must confess that at first, when he heard my voice, he
looked up much startled, and even rose from his seat. But I told him
lots of folks thought I talked like Dorothy Parkman; and I just
laughed and turned it off, and made nothing of it. And so pretty quick
he made nothing of it, too. After that we got along beautifully."
"I should say you did!" retorted Susan, almost enviously. "An' you
fixin' up that paper so fine for him to write on!"
Miss Dorothy blushed again--and again Susan noticed how very charming
was the combination of brown eyes and yellow-gold hair.
"Yes, he did like that paper," smiled the young girl. "He never
mentioned the lines, and neither did I. When I first suggested the
letter home he was all ready to refuse, I could see; but I wouldn't
give him the chance. Before he could even speak I had thrust the paper
into his hands, and I could see the wonder, interest, and joy in his
face as his fingers discovered the pricked lines and followed their
course from edge to edge. But he didn't let ME know he'd found them--not
much! 'Well, I don't know but they would like a letter,' was all
he said, casually. I knew then that I had won."
"Well, I should say you had. But HOW did you know how?" cried Susan.
"Oh, you told me first that I must talk to him as if he were not
blind. Then father told me the same thing. He said lots of his
patients were like that. So I always tried to do it that way. And it's
wonderful how, when you give it a little thought, you can manage to
tell them so much that they can turn about and tell somebody else,
just as if they really had seen it."
"I know, I know," nodded Susan. "An'--Miss Dorothy"--her voice grew
unsteady--"he really IS goin' to see by an' by, ain't he?"
The girl's face clouded.
"They aren't at all sure of that."
"But they can't tell YET?" Susan had grown a little white.
"Oh, no, not sure."
"An' they're goin' to give him all the chances there is?"
"Certainly. I only spoke because I don't want you to be too
disappointed if--if we lose. You must remember that fully half of the
cases do lose."
Susan drew a long sigh. Then, determinedly she lifted her chin.
"Well, I like to think we ain't goin' to belong to that half," she
said.