CHAPTER XXXIII
AND ALL ON ACCOUNT OF SUSAN
Not one wink did Susan Betts sleep that night. To Susan her world wastumbling about her ears in one dizzy whirl of destruction.
Daniel Burton and Dorothy Parkman married and living there, and herbeloved blind boy banished to a home with one David Patch?Unthinkable! And yet----
Well, if it had got to be, it had got to be, she supposed--themarriage. But they might at least be decent about it. As for keepingthat poor blind boy harrowed up all the time and prolonging theagony--well, at least she could do something about THAT, thankgoodness! And she would, too.
When there was anything that Susan could do--particularly in the lineof righting a wrong--she lost no time in doing it. Within two days,therefore, she made her opportunity, and grasped it. A littleperemptorily she informed Miss Dorothy Parkman that she would like tospeak to her, please, in the kitchen. Then, tall, and cold, and verystern, she faced her.
"Of course, I understand, Miss Dorothy, I'm bustlin' in where I hain'tno business to. An' I hain't no excuse to offer except my boy, Keith.It's for him I'm askin' you to do it."
"To do--what, Susan?" She had changed color slightly, as she asked thequestion.
"Not let it be seen so plain--the love-makin'."
"Seen! Love-making!" gasped the girl.
"Well, the talkin' to him, then, an' whisperin', an' consultin's, an'runnin' here every day, an'----"
"I beg your pardon, Susan," interrupted the girl incisively. She hadgrown very white. "I am tempted to make no sort of reply to such anabsurd accusation; but I'm going to say, however, that you must belaboring under some mistake. I do not come here to see Mr. KeithBurton, and I've scarcely exchanged a dozen words with him formonths."
"I'm talkin' about Mr. Daniel, not Keith, an'----"
"Mr. DANIEL Burton!"
"Of course! Who else?" Susan was nettled now, and showed it. "I don'ts'pose you'll deny runnin' here to see him, an' talkin' to him, an'--"
"No, no, wait!--wait! Don't say any more, PLEASE!" The girl was halflaughing, half crying, and her face was going from white to red andback to white again. "Am I to understand that I am actually beingaccused of--of running after Mr. Daniel Burton?--of--of love-makingtoward HIM?" she choked incoherently.
"Why, y-yes; that is--er----"
"Oh, this is too much, too much! First Keith, and now--" She broke offhysterically. "To think that--Oh, Susan, how could you, how couldyou!" And this time she dropped into a chair and covered her face withher hands. But she was laughing. Very plainly she was laughing.
Susan frowned, stared, and frowned again.
"Then you ain't in love with--" Suddenly her face cleared, and brokeinto a broad smile. "Well, my lan', if that ain't the best joke ever!Of course, you ain't in love with him! I don't believe I ever more 'nhalf believed it, anyway. Now it'll be dead easy, an' all right, too."
"But--but what does it all mean?" stammered the girl.
"Why, it's jest that--that everybody thought you was after him, an'twould be a match--you bein' together so much. But even then I wouldn'thave said a thing if it hadn't been for Keith."
"Keith!"
"Yes--poor boy, he--an' it WAS hard for him, seein' you two togetherlike this, an' thinkin' you cared for each other. An' he'd got hisplans all made how when you was married he'd go an' live with DavidPatch."
"David Patch! But--why?"
"Why, don't you see? 'T wouldn't be very easy to see you married toanother man, would it?--an' lovin' you all the time hisself, an'--"
"LOVING ME!"
"That's what I said." Susan's lips came sharply together and her keeneyes swept the girl's face.
"But, I--I think you must be mistaken--again," faltered the girl,growing rosy.
"I ain't. I've always suspicioned it, an' now I know it."
"But, he--he's acted as if he didn't care for me at all--as if hehated me."
"That's because he cared so much."
"Nonsense, Susan!"
"'T ain't nonsense. It's sense. As I told you, I've always suspicionedit, an' last Saturday, when I heard him talk, I knew. He as good asowned it up, anyhow."
"But why didn't he--he tell me?" stammered the girl, growing stillmore rosy.
"Because he was blind."
"As if I'd minded----" She stopped abruptly and turned away her face.
Susan drew a resolute breath and squared her shoulders.
"Then why don't you do somethin'?" she demanded.
"Do something?"
"Yes, to--to show him that you don't mind."
"Oh, Susan, I--I couldn't do--that."
"All right. Settle back, then, an' do nothin'; an' he'll settle backan' do nothin', an' there'll be a pretty pair of you, eatin' yourhearts out with love for each other, an' passin' each other by withconverted faces an' highbrow chins; an' all because you're afraid ofoffendin' Mis' Grundy, who don't care no more about you than twosticks. But I s'pose you'd both rather be miserable than brace up an'defy the properties an' live long an' be happy ever after."
"But if I could be sure he--cared," spoke the girl, in a faint littlevoice.
"You would have been, if you'd seen him Saturday, as I did."
"And if----"
"If--if--if!" interrupted Susan impatiently. "An' there that poorblind boy sets an' thinks an' thinks an' thinks, an' longs for someone that loves him to smooth his pillow an' rumple his hair, an'----"
"Susan, I'm going to do it. I'M GOING TO DO IT!" vowed the girl,springing to her feet, her eyes like stars, her cheeks like twinroses.
"Do what?" demanded Susan.
"I don't know. But, I'm going to do SOMETHING. Anyhow, whatever I do Iknow I'm going to--to defy the 'properties,'" she babbled deliriously,as she hurried from the room, looking very much as if she were tryingto hide from herself.
Four days later, Keith, in his favorite chair, sat on the southpiazza. It was an April day, but it was like June, and the windowbehind him was wide open into the living-room. He did not hear DorothyParkman's light step up the walk. He did not know that she had pausedat sight of him sitting there, and had put her hand to her throat, andthen that she had almost run, light-footed, into the house, again verymuch as if she were trying to run away from herself. But he did hearher voice two minutes later, speaking just inside the window.
At the first sentence he tried to rise, then with a despairing gestureas if realizing that flight would be worse than to remain where hewas, he sat back in his chair. And this is what he heard DorothyParkman say:
"No, no, Mr. Burton, please--I--I can't marry you. You'll have tounderstand. No--don't speak, don't say anything, please. There'snothing you could say that--that would make a bit of difference. It'sjust that I--I don't love you and I do--love somebody else--Keith,your son--yes, you have guessed it. Oh, yes, I know we don't seem tobe much to each other, now. But--but whether we ever are, or not,there can't ever be--any one else. And I think--he cares. It's justthat--that his pride won't let him speak. As if his dear eyes didn'tmake me love him--
"But I mustn't say all this--to you. It's just that--that I wanted youto surely--understand. And--and I must go, now. I--must--go!"
And she went. She went hurriedly, a little noisily. She shut one door,and another; then, out on the piazza, she came face to face with KeithBurton.
"Dorothy, oh, Dorothy--I heard!"
And then it was well, indeed, that the Japanese screen on the frontpiazza was down, for Keith stood with his arms outstretched, andDorothy, with an ineffably contented little indrawn breath, walkedstraight into them. And with that light on his face, she would havewalked into them had he been standing in the middle of the sidewalkoutside.
IT WAS WELL THAT THE JAPANESE SCREEN ON THE FRONTPIAZZA WAS DOWN]
To Dorothy at that moment nobody in all the world counted for afeather's weight except the man who was holding her close, with hislips to hers.
Later, a little later, when they sat side by side on the piazzasettee, and when co
herence and logic had become attributes to theirconversation, Keith sighed, with a little catch in his voice:
"The only thing I regret about this--all this--the only thing thatmakes me feel cheap and mean, is that I've won where dad lost out.Poor old dad!"
There was the briefest of pauses, then a small, subdued voice said:
"I--I suspect, Keith, confession is good for the soul."
"Well?" he demanded in evident mystification.
"Anyhow, I--I'll have to do it. Your father wasn't there at all."
"But I heard you speaking to him, my dear."
She shook her head, and stole a look into his face, then caught herbreath with a little choking sob of heartache because he could not seethe love she knew was in her eyes. But the heartache only nerved herto say the words that almost refused to come. "He--he wasn't there,"she repeated, fencing for time.
"But who was there? I heard you call him by name, 'Mr. Burton,'clearly, distinctly. I know I did."
"But--but he wasn't there. Nobody was there. I--I was just talking tomyself."
"You mean--practicing what you were going to say?" questioned Keithdoubtfully. "And that--that he doesn't know yet that you are going torefuse him?"
"N-no--er--well, yes. That is, I mean, it's true. He--he doesn't knowI am going to refuse him." There was a hint of smothered laughter inthe girl's voice.
"Dorothy!" The arm about her waist perceptibly loosened and almostfell away. "Why, I don't feel now that--that you half belong to me,yet. And--and think of poor dad!"
The girl caught her breath and stole another look into his face.
"But, Keith, you--you don't understand. He--he hasn't proposed to meyet. That is, I mean," she amended hastily, "he--he isn't going topropose to me--ever."
"But he was. He--cares. And now he'll have to know about--us."
"But he wasn't--he doesn't. You don't understand, Keith. He--he neverthought of--of proposing to me. I know he didn't."
"Then why--what--Dorothy, what do you mean by all this?"
"Why, it's just that--that is--I--oh, Keith, Keith, why will you makeme tell you?" she cried between hysterical little laughs and sobs."And yet--I'd have to tell you, of course. I--I knew you were there onthe porch, and--and I knew you'd hear--what I said. And so, to makeyou understand--oh, Keith, it was awful, but I--I pretended that----"
"You--darling!" breathed an impassioned voice in her ear. "Oh, how Ilove you, love you--for that!"
"Oh, but, Keith, it really was awful of me," she cried, blushing andlaughing, as she emerged from his embrace. "Susan told me to defy the'properties' and--and I did it."
"Susan!"
She nodded.
"That's how I knew--for sure--that you cared."
"And so I owe it all--even my--er--proposal of marriage, to Susan," hebantered mischievously.
"Keith, I did NOT--er--it was not a proposal of marriage."
"No? But you're going to marry me, aren't you?"
Her chin came up.
"I--I shall wait till I'm asked," she retorted with dignity.
"Hm-m; well, I reckon it's safe to say you'll be asked. And so I oweit all to Susan. Well, it isn't the first good thing I've owed toher--bless her heart! And she's equal to 'most anything. But I'll wager,in this case, that even Susan had some stunt to perform. How did shedo it?"
"She told me that you--you thought your father and I cared for eachother, and that--that you cared for me; but that you were very braveand were going to go away, and--leave us to our happiness. Then, whenshe found there was nothing to the other part of it, and that I--Icared for you, she--well, I don't know how she did it, but shesaid--well, I did it. That's all."
Keith chuckled.
"Exactly! You couldn't have described it better. We've always donewhat Susan wanted us to, and we never could tell why. We--we just didit. That's all. And, oh, I'm so glad you did this, little girl, soglad!"
"Yes, but----" She drew away from him a little, and her voice becameseverely accusing. "Keith Burton, you--you should have done ityourself, and you know it."
He shook his head.
"I couldn't." A swift shadow fell like a cloud over his countenance."Darling, even now--Dorothy, do you fully realize what you are doing?All your life to be tied----"
"Hush!" Her finger was on his lips only to be kissed till she took itaway. "I won't let you talk like that a minute--not a single minute!But, Keith, there is something I want you to say." Her voice was halfpleading, half whimsical. Her eyes, through her tears, were studyinghis face, turned partly away from her. "Confession is good for thesoul."
"Well? Anything more?" He smiled faintly.
"Yes; only this time it's you. YOU'VE got to do it."
"I?"
"Yes." Her voice rang with firm decision. "Keith, I want to knowwhy--why all this time you've acted so--so that I had to find outthrough Susan that you--cared. And I want to know--when you stoppedhating me. And----"
"Dorothy--I never, never hated you!" cut in the man passionately.
"But you acted as if you did. Why, you--you wouldn't let me come nearyou, and you were so--angry with me."
"Yes, I--know." The man fell back in his chair and was silent.
There was a long minute of waiting.
"Keith."
"Yes, dear."
"I confessed mine, and yours can't be any harder than--mine was."
Still he hesitated; then, with a long breath he began to speak.
"Dorothy, it--it's just that I've had so much to fight. And--it hasn'tbeen easy. But, listen, dear. I think I've loved you from away back inthe days when you wore your hair in two thick pigtails down your back.You know I was only fourteen when--when the shadows began to come. Oneday, away back then, I saw you shudder once at--blindness. We weretalking about old Joe Harrington. And I never forgot it."
"But it was only because I pitied him."
"Yes; but I thought then that it was more aversion. You said youcouldn't bear to look at them. And you see I feared, even then, that Iwas going to be like old Joe some time."
"Oh, Keith!"
"Well, it came. I was like old Joe--blind. And I knew that I was theobject of curiosity and pity, and, I believed, aversion, wherever Iwent. And, oh, I so hated it! I didn't want to be stared at, andpointed out, and pitied. I didn't want to be different. And above allI didn't want to know that you were turning away from me in aversionand disgust."
"Oh, Keith, Keith, as if I ever could!" faltered the girl.
"I thought you could--and would. I used to picture you all in thedark, as I used to see you with your bright eyes and pretty hair, andI could see the look on your face as you turned away shuddering.That's when I determined at all costs to keep out of your sight--untilI should be well again. I was going to be well, of course, then, youknow. Well, in time I went West, and on the way I met--Miss Stewart."
"Yes." Dorothy's voice was not quite steady.
"I liked Miss Stewart. She was wonderfully good to me. At first--atthe very first--she gave me quite a start. Her voice sounded so muchlike--Dorothy Parkman's. But very soon I forgot that, and just gavemyself up to the enjoyment of her companionship. I wasn't afraid withher--that her eyes were turned away in aversion and disgust. Some way,I just knew that she wasn't like--Dorothy Parkman. You see, I hadn'tforgotten Dorothy. Some day I was going back to her--seeing.
"Well, you know what happened--the operations, the specialists, theyears of waiting, the trip to London, then home, hopelessly blind. Itwas not easy then, Dorothy, but--I tried to be a man. Most of all Ifelt for--dad. He'd had so many hopes--But, never mind; and, anyhow,what Susan said the other day helped--But this has nothing to do withyou, dear. To go on: I gave you up then definitely. I know that allthe while I'd been having you back in my mind, young as I was--thatsome day I was going to be big and strong and rich and have my eyes;and that then I was going to ask you to marry me. But when I got home,hopelessly blind, that ended it. I didn't believe you would have me,anyway; but even if you would, I wasn't goi
ng to give you the chanceof always having to turn away in aversion and disgust from the sightof your husband."
"Oh, Keith, how could you!"
"I couldn't. But you see how I felt. Then, one day I heard MissStewart's voice in the hall, and, oh, how good it sounded to me! Ithink I must have caught her hand very much as the drowning man graspsat the straw. SHE would never turn away from me! With her I felt safe,happy, and at peace. I don't think I exactly understood my state ofmind myself. I didn't think I was in love with her, yet with her I washappy, and I was never afraid.
"But I didn't have a chance long to question. Almost at once came theday when Mazie Sanborn ran up the steps and spoke--to you. And I knew.My whole world seemed tumbling to destruction in one blinding crash.You can never know, dear, how utterly dismayed and angry and helplessI felt. All that I knew was that for months and months I had letDorothy Parkman read to me, play with me, and talk to me--that I hadbeen eager to take all the time she would give me; when all the whileshe had been doing it out of pity, of course, and I could see just howshe must have been shuddering and turning away her eyes all the long,long weeks she had been with me, at different times. But even morethan that, if possible, was the chagrin and dismay with which Irealized that all the while I had been cheated and deceived and made afool of, because I was blind, and could not see. I had been trickedinto putting myself in such a position."
"No, no! You didn't understand," protested the girl.
"Of course, I didn't understand, dear. Nobody who is blinded with rageand hurt pride can understand--anything, rightly."
"But you wouldn't let me explain afterwards."
"No, I didn't want you to explain. I was too sore, too deeply hurt,too--well, I couldn't. That's all. Besides, I didn't want you toknow--how much I was caring about it all. So, a little later, when Idid see you, I tried to toss it all off lightly, as of no consequencewhatever."
"Well, you--succeeded," commented Dorothy dryly.
"I had to, you see. I had found out then how much I really did care. Iknew then that somehow you and Miss Stewart were hopelessly mixed upin my heart, and that I loved you, and that the world without you wasgoing to be one big desert of loneliness and longing. You see, it hadnot been so hard to give you up in imagination; but when it came tothe real thing----"
"But, Keith, why--why did you insist that you must?"
"Do you think I'd ask you or anybody to tie yourself to a helplesscreature who would probably finally end up on a street corner with atin cup for pennies? Besides, in your case, I had not forgotten theshudders and the averted eyes. I still was so sure----
"Then John McGuire came home blind; and after a while I found I couldhelp him. And, Dorothy, then is when I learned that--that perhaps YOUwere as happy in doing things for me as I had been in doing them forJohn McGuire. I sort of forgot the shudders and the averted eyes then.Besides, along about that time we had got back to almost our oldfriendliness--the friendliness and companionship of Miss Stewart andme. Then the money came and I knew that at least I never should haveto ask you to subsist on what the tin cup of pennies could bring! AndI had almost begun to--to actually plan, when all of a sudden youstopped coming, right off short."
"But I--I went away," defended the girl, a little faintly.
"Not at once. You were here in town a long time after that. I knewbecause I used to hear about you. I was sure then that--that you hadseen I was caring for you, and so you stayed away. Besides, it cameback to me again--my old fear of your pity and aversion, of your eyesturned away. You see, always, dear, that's been a sort of obsessionwith me, I guess. I hate to feel that any one is looking at me--watchingme. To me it seems like spying on me because I--I can't lookback. Yes, I know it's all very foolish and very silly; but we are allfoolish and silly over something. It's because of that feeling that I--Iso hate to enter a room and know that some one is there who won'tspeak--who tries to cheat me into thinking I am alone. I--I can't bearit, Dorothy. Just because I can't see them--"
"I know, I know," nodded the girl. "Well, in December you went away.Oh, I knew when you went. I knew a lot of things that YOU didn't knowI knew. But I was trying all those days to put you quite out of mymind, and I busied myself with John McGuire and told myself that I wassatisfied with my work; that I had put you entirely out of my life.
"Then you came back in February, and I knew I hadn't. I knew I lovedyou more than ever. Just at first, the very first, I thought you hadcome back to me. Then I saw--that it was dad. After that I tried--oh,you don't know how hard I tried--to kill that wicked love in my heart.Why, darling, nothing would have hired me to let you see it then. Letdad know that his loving you hurt me? Fail dad there, as I had failedhim everywhere else? I guess not! This was something I COULD do. Icould let him have you, and never, never let him know. So I buriedmyself in work and tried to--forget.
"Then to-day you came. At the first sound of your voice in there, whenI realized what you were saying (to dad, I supposed), I started up andwould have gone. Then I was afraid you would see me pass the window,and that it would be worse if I went than if I stayed. Besides, rightaway I heard words that made me so weak with joy and amazement that myknees bent under me and I had to sit down. And then--but you know therest, dear."
"Yes, I know the rest; and I'll tell you, some time, why I--I stoppedcoming last fall."
"All right; but even that doesn't matter to me now; for now, in spiteof my blind eyes, the way looks all rosy ahead. Why, dear, it's likethe dawn--the dawn of a new day. And I used to so love the dawn! Youdon't know, but years ago, with dad, I'd go camping in the woods, andsometimes we'd stay all night on the mountain. I loved that, for inthe morning we'd watch the sun come up and flood the world with light.And it seemed so wonderful, after the dark! And it's like that with meto-day, dear. It's my dawn--the dawn of a new day. And it's sowonderful--after the dark!"
"Oh, Keith, I'm so glad! And, listen, dear. It's not only dawn foryou, but for all those blind boys down there that you are helping. Youhave opened their eyes to the dawn of THEIR new day. Don't you see?"
Keith drew in his breath with a little catch.
"Have I? Do you think I have? Oh, I should like to think--that. Idon't know, of course, about them. But I do know about myself. And Iknow it's the most wonderful dawn ever was for me. And I know thatwith your little hand in mine I'll walk fearlessly straight on, withmy chin up. And now that I know dad doesn't care, and that he isn'tgoing to be unhappy about my loving you and your loving me, I haven'teven that to fear."
"And, oh, Keith, think, think what it would have been if--if I hadn'tdefied the 'properties,'" she faltered mistily.
"Dear old Susan--bless her heart! And that isn't all I owe her.Something she said the other day made me hope that maybe I hadn't evenquite failed--dad. And I so wanted to make good--for dad!"
"And you've done it, Keith."
"But maybe he--he doesn't think so."
"But he does. He told me."
"He TOLD you!"
"Yes--last night. He said that once he had great plans for you, greatambitions, but that he never dreamed he could be as proud of you as heis right now--what you had done for yourself, and what you were doingfor those boys down there."
"Did dad say that?"
"Yes."
"And to think of my having that, and you, too!" breathed the man, hisarm tightening about her.
THE END
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