WITH CHIN UP
Keith came in April. The day before he was expected, Susan, sweeping
off the side porch, was accosted by Mrs. McGuire.
It was the first warm spring-like day, and Mrs. McGuire, bareheaded
and coatless, had opened the back-yard gate and was picking her way
across the spongy turf.
"My, but isn't this a great day, Susan!" she called, with an ecstatic,
indrawn breath. "I only wish it was as nice under foot."
"Hain't you got no rubbers on?" Susan's disapproving eyes sought Mrs.
McGuire's feet.
Mrs. McGuire laughed lightly.
"No. That's the one thing I leave off the first possible minute. Some
way, I feel as if I was helpin' along the spring."
"Humph! Well, I should help along somethin' 'sides spring, I guess, if
I did it. Besides, it strikes me rubbers ain't the only thing you're
leavin' off." Susan's disapproving eyes had swept now to Mrs.
McGuire's unprotected head and shoulders.
"Oh, I'm not cold. I love it. As if this glorious spring sunshine
could do any one any harm! Susan, it's LIEUTENANT McGuire, now! I came
over to tell you. My John's been promoted."
"Sho, you don't say! Ain't that wonderful, now?" Susan's broom stopped
in midair.
"Not when you know my John!" The proud mother lifted her head a
little. "'For bravery an' valiant service'--Lieutenant McGuire! Oh
Susan, Susan, but I'm the proud woman this mornin'!"
"Yes, of course, of course, I ain't wonderin' you be!" Susan drew a
long sigh and fell to sweeping again.
Mrs. McGuire, looking into Susan's face, came a step nearer. Her own
face sobered.
"An' me braggin' like this, when you folks-! I know--you're thinkin'
of that poor blind boy. An' it's just to-morrow that he comes, isn't
it?"
Susan nodded dumbly.
"An' it's all ended now an' decided--he can't ever see, I s'pose,"
went on Mrs. McGuire. "I heard 'em talkin' down to the store last
night. It seems terrible."
"Yes, it does." Susan was sweeping vigorously now, over and over again
in the same place.
"I wonder how--he'll take it."
Susan stopped sweeping and turned with a jerk.
"Take it? He's got to take it, hain't he?" she demanded fiercely.
"He's GOT TO! An' things you've got to do, you do. That's all. You'll
see. Keith Burton ain't no quitter. He'll take it with his head up an'
his shoulders braced. I know. You'll see. Don't I remember the look on
his blessed face that day he went away, an' stood on them steps there,
callin' back his cheery good-bye?"
"But, Susan, there was hope then, an' there isn't any now--an' you
haven't seen him since. You forget that."
"No, I don't," retorted Susan doggedly. "I ain't forgettin' nothin'.
'But you'll see!"
"An' he's older. He realizes more. Why, he must be--How old is he,
anyway?"
"He'll be nineteen next June."
"Almost a man. Poor boy, poor boy--an' him with all these years of
black darkness ahead of him! I tell you, Susan, I never appreciated my
eyes as I have since Keith lost his. Seems as though anybody that's
got their eyes hadn't ought to complain of--anything. I was thinkin'
this mornin', comin' over, how good it was just to SEE the blue sky
an' the sunshine an' the little buds breakin' through their brown
jackets. Why, Susan, I never realized how good just seein' was--till I
thought of Keith, who can't never see again."
"Yes. Well, I've got to go in now, Mis' McGuire. Good-bye."
Words, manner, and tone of voice were discourtesy itself; but Mrs.
McGuire, looking at Susan's quivering face, brimming eyes, and set
lips, knew it for what it was and did not mistake it for--discourtesy.
But because she knew Susan would prefer it so, she turned away with a
light "Yes, so've I. Good-bye!" which gave no sign that she had seen
and understood.
Dr. Stewart came himself with Keith to Hinsdale and accompanied him to
the house. It had been the doctor's own suggestion that neither the
boy's father nor Susan should meet them at the train. Perhaps the
doctor feared for that meeting. Naturally it would not be an easy one.
Naturally too, he did not want to add one straw to Keith's already
grievous burden. So he had written:
I will come to the house. As I am a little uncertain as to the train I
can catch from Boston, do not try to meet me at the station.
"Jest as if we couldn't see through that subterranean!" Susan had
muttered to herself over the dishes that morning. "I guess he knows
what train he's goin' to take all right. He jest didn't want us to
meet him an' make a scenic at the depot. I wonder if he thinks I
would! Don't he think I knows anything?"
But, after all, it was very simple, very quiet, very ordinary. Dr.
Stewart rang the bell and Susan went to the door. And there they
stood: Keith, big and strong and handsome (Susan had forgotten that
two years could transform a somewhat awkward boy into so fine and
stalwart a youth); the doctor, pale, and with an apprehensive
uncertainty in his eyes.
"Well, Susan, how are you?" Keith's voice was strong and steady, and
the outstretched hand gripped hers with a clasp that hurt.
Then, in some way never quite clear to her, Susan found herself in the
big living-room with Keith and the doctor and Daniel Burton, all
shaking hands and all talking at once. They sat down then, and their
sentences became less broken, less incoherent. But they said only
ordinary things about the day, the weather, the journey home, John
McGuire, the war, the President's message, the entry of the United
States into the conflict. There was nothing whatever said about eyes
that could see or eyes that could not see, or operations that failed.
And by and by the doctor got up and said that he must go. To be sure,
the good-byes were a little hurriedly spoken, and the voices were at a
little higher pitch than was usual; and when the doctor had gone,
Keith and his father went at once upstairs to the studio and shut the
door.
Susan went out into the kitchen then and took up her neglected work.
She made a great clatter of pans and dishes, and she sang lustily at
her "mad song," and at several others. But every now and then, between
songs and rattles, she would stop and listen intently; and twice she
climbed halfway up the back stairs and stood poised, her breath
suspended, her anxious eyes on that closed studio door.
Yet supper that night was another very ordinary occurrence, with Keith
and his father talking of the war and Susan waiting upon them with a
cheerfulness that was almost obtrusive.
In her own room that night, however, Susan addressed an imaginary
Keith, all in the dark.
"You're fine an' splendid, an' I love you for it, Keith, my boy," she
choked; "but you don't fool your old Susan. Your chin is up, jest as I
said 'twould be, an' you're marchin' straight ahead. But inside, your
heart is breakin'. Do you think I don't KNOW? But we ain't goin' to
let each other KNOW we know, Keith, my boy. Not much we ain't! An' I
guess if you can march straight ahead with your chin up, the rest of
us can, all right. We'll see!"
And Susan was singing again the next morning when she did her
breakfast dishes.
At ten o'clock Keith came into the kitchen.
"Where's dad, Susan? He isn't in the studio and I've looked in every
room in the house and I can't find him anywhere." Keith spoke with the
aggrieved air of one who has been deprived of his just rights.
Susan's countenance changed. "Why, Keith, don't you--that is, your
father--Didn't he tell you?" stammered Susan.
"Tell me what?"
"Why, that--that he was goin' to be away."
"No, he didn't. What do you mean? Away where? How long?"
"Why, er--working."
"Sketching?--in this storm? Nonsense, Susan! Besides, he'd have taken
me. He always took me. Susan, what's the matter? Where IS dad?" A note
of uncertainty, almost fear, had crept into the boy's voice. "You're
keeping--SOMETHING from me."
Susan caught her breath and threw a swift look into Keith's unseeing
eyes. Then she laughed, hysterically, a bit noisily.
"Keepin' somethin' from you? Why, sure we ain't, boy! Didn't I jest
tell you? He's workin' down to McGuire's."
"WORKING! Down to MCGUIRE'S!" Keith plainly did not yet understand.
"Sure! An' he's got a real good position, too." Susan spoke jauntily,
enthusiastically.
"But the McGuires never buy pictures," frowned Keith, "or want--" He
stopped short. Face, voice, and manner underwent a complete change.
"Susan, you don't mean that dad is CLERKING down there behind that
grocery counter!"
Susan saw and recognized the utter horror and dismay in Keith's lace,
and quailed before it. But she managed in some way to keep her voice
still triumphant.
"Sure he is! An' he gets real good wages, too, an'--" But Keith with a
low cry had gone.
Before the noon dinner, however, he appeared again at the kitchen
door. His face was very white now.
"Susan, how long has dad been doing this?"
"Oh, quite a while. Funny, now! Hain't he ever told you?"
"No. But there seem to be quite a number of things that you people
haven't told me."
Susan winced, but she still held her ground jauntily.
"Oh, yes, quite a while," she nodded cheerfully. "An' he gets-"
"But doesn't he paint any more--at all?" interrupted the boy sharply.
"Why, no; no, I don't know that he does," tossed Susan airily. "An' of
course, if he's found somethin' he likes better--"
"Susan, you don't have to talk like that to me" interposed Keith
quietly. "I understand, of course. There are some things that can be
seen without--eyes."
"Oh, but honest, Keith, he--" But once again Keith had gone and Susan
found herself talking to empty air.
When Susan went into the dining-room that evening to wait at dinner,
she went with fear and trepidation, and she looked apprehensively into
the faces of the two men sitting opposite each other. But in the
kitchen, a few minutes later, she muttered to herself:
"Pooh! I needn't have worried. They've got sense, both of 'em, an'
they know that what's got to be has got to be. That's all. An' that it
don't do no good to fuss. I needn't have worried."
But Susan did worry. She did not like the look on Keith's face. She
did not like the nervous twitching of his hands. She did not like the
exaggerated cheerfulness of his manner.
And Keith WAS cheerful. He played solitaire with his marked cards and
whistled. He worked at his raised-picture puzzles and sang snatches of
merry song. He talked with anybody who came near him--talked very fast
and laughed a great deal. But behind the whistling and the singing and
the laughter Susan detected a tense strain and nervousness that she
did not like. And at times, when she knew Keith thought himself alone,
there was an expression on his face that disturbed Susan not a little.
But because, outwardly, it was all "cheerfulness," Susan kept her
peace; but she also kept her eyes on Keith.