CHAPTER XVII
DANIEL BURTON TAKES THE PLUNGE
Dr. Stewart's second operation on Keith's eyes took place late inNovember. It was not a success. Far from increasing his vision, itlessened it. Only dimly now could he discern light at all.
In a letter to Daniel Burton, Dr. Stewart stated the case freely andfrankly, yet he declared that he had not given up hope--yet. He had aplan which, with Mr. Burton's kind permission, he would carry out. Hethen went on to explain.
In Paris there was a noted specialist in whom he had great confidence.He wished very much that this man could see Keith. To take Keith overnow, however, as war conditions were, would, of course, be difficultand hazardous. Besides, as he happened to know, this would not benecessary, for the great man was coming to this country some time inMay. To bring Keith to his attention then would be a simple matter,and a chance well worth waiting for. Meanwhile, the boy was ascomfortable where he was as he could be anywhere, and, moreover, therewere certain treatments which should still be continued. With DanielBurton's kind permission, therefore, the doctor would keep Keith wherehe was for the present, pending the arrival of the great specialist.
It was a bitter blow. For days after the letter came, Daniel Burtonshut himself up in his studio refusing to see any one but Susan, andalmost refusing to see her. Susan, indeed, heart-broken as she washerself, had no time to indulge her own grief, so busy was she tryingto concoct something that would tempt her employer to break a fastthat was becoming terrifying to her.
Then came Keith's letter. He wrote cheerfully, hopefully. He told ofnew games that he was playing, new things of interest that he was"seeing." He said nothing whatever about the operation. He did saythat there was a big doctor coming from Paris, whom he was going to"see" in May, however. That was all.
When the doctor's letter had come, telling of the failure of thesecond operation, Susan had read it and accepted it with sternlycontrolled eyes that did not shed one tear. But when Keith's lettercame, not even mentioning the operation, her self-control snapped, andshe burst openly into tears.
"I don't care," she sobbed, in answer to Daniel Burton's amazedexclamation. "When I think of the way that blessed boy is holdin' uphis head an' marchin' straight on; an' you an' me here--oh, lan'sakes, what's the use of TRYIN' to say it!" she despaired, turning andhurrying from the room.
In December Dr. Stewart came on again to take his daughter back forthe holidays. He called at once to see Mr. Burton, and the two had along conference in the studio, while Susan feverishly moved from roomto room downstairs, taking up and setting down one object afteranother in the aimless fashion of one whose fingers are not controlledby the mind.
When the doctor had gone, Susan did not wait for Daniel Burton to seekher out. She went at once to the studio.
"No, he had nothing new to say about Keith," began the man, answeringthe agonized question in her eyes before her lips could frame thewords.
"But didn't he say NOTHIN'?"
"Oh, yes, he said a great deal--but it was only a repetition of whathe had said before in the letter." Daniel Burton spoke wearily,constrainedly. His face had grown a little white. "The doctor boughtthe big sofa in the hall downstairs, and the dropleaf table in thedining-room."
"Humph! But will he PAY anything for them things?"
"Yes, he will pay well for them. And--Susan."
"Yes, sir." Something in the man's face and voice put a curious noteof respect into Susan's manner as sudden as it was unusual.
"I've been intending to tell you for some time. I--I shall wantbreakfast at seven o'clock to-morrow morning. I--I am going to work inMcGuire's store."
"You are goin' to--what?" Susan's face was aghast.
"To work, I said," repeated Daniel Burton sharply. "I shall wantbreakfast at seven o'clock, Susan." He turned away plainly indicatingthat for him the matter was closed.
But for Susan the matter was not closed.
"Daniel Burton, you ain't goin' to demean yourself like that!" shegasped;--"an artistical gentleman like you! Why, I'd rather work myhands to the bones--"
"That will do, Susan. You may go."
And Susan went. There were times when Susan did go.
But not yet for Susan was the matter closed. Only an hour later Mrs.McGuire "ran over" with a letter from her John to read to Susan. Butbarely had she finished reading the letter aloud, when the real objectof her visit was disclosed by the triumphant:
"Well, Susan Betts, I notice even an artist has to come down to bein'a 'common storekeeper' sometimes."
Susan drew herself up haughtily.
"Of course, Mis' McGuire, 't ain't for me to pretense that I don'tknow what you're inferrin' to. But jest let me tell you this: it don'tmake no difference how many potatoes an' molasses jugs an' kerosenecans Daniel Burton hands over the counter he won't never be jest acommon storekeeper. He'll be THINKIN' flowers an' woods an' sunsetsjest the same. Furthermore an' moreover, in my opinion it's a veryhonorary an' praiseful thing for him to do, to go out in the hedgesan' byways an' earn money like that, when, if the world only knewenough to know a good thing when they see it, they'd be buy in' thempictures of his, an' not subjugate him to the mystification of earnin'his bread by the sweat of his forehead."
"Oh, good gracious me, Susan Betts, how you do run on, when you getstarted!" ejaculated Mrs. McGuire impatiently, yet laughingly. "An' Imight have known what you'd say, too, if I'd stopped to think. Well, Imust be goin', anyhow. I only came over to show you the letter from myJohn. I'm sure I wish't was him comin' back to his old place behindthe counter instead of your Daniel Burton," she sighed. "I'd buy everypicture he ever painted (if I had the money), if 't would only bringmy John back, away from all those awful bombs an' shells an' shrapnelthat he's always writin' about."
"Them be nice letters he writes, I'm free to confess," commented Susangraciously. "Not that they tell so much what he's doin', though; but Is'pose they're censured, anyhow--all them letters be."
Mrs. McGuire, her eyes dreamily fixed out the window, nodded her headslowly.
"Yes, I s'pose so; but there's a lot left--there's always a lot left.And everything he writes I can just see. It was always like that withmy John. Let him go downtown an' come back--you'd think he'd been tothe circus, the wonderful things he'd tell me he'd seen on the way.An' he'd set 'em out an' describe 'em until I could just see 'emmyself! I'll never forget. One day he went to a fire. The old Babcockhouse burned, an' he saw it. He was twelve years old. I was sick inbed, an' he told me about it. I can see him now, standin' at the footof the bed, his cheeks red, his eyes sparklin' an' his little handsflourishin' right an' left in his excitement. As he talked, I couldjust see that old house burn. I could hear the shouts of the men, theroar an' cracklin' of the flames, an' see 'em creepin', creepin',gainin', gainin'-! Oh, it was wonderful--an' there I was right in myown bed, all the time. It was just the way he told it. That's why Iknow he could have been a writer. He could make others see--everything.But now--that's all over now. He'll never be--anything. I can see him.I can see all that horrible battle-field with the reelin' men, theflames, the smoke, the burstin' shells, an', oh, God--my John! Willhe ever, ever come back--to me?"
"There, there, Mis' McGuire, I jest wouldn't--" But Mrs. McGuire, witha shake of her head, and her eyes half covered with her hand, turnedaway and stumbled out of the kitchen.
Susan, looking after her, drew a long sigh.
"Worry never climbed a hill, Worry never--
There's some times when it's frank impertinence to tell folks not toworry," she muttered severely to herself, attacking the piled-updishes before her.
Daniel Burton went to work in McGuire's grocery store the nextmorning, after a particularly appetizing breakfast served to him by asilent, red-eyed, but very attentive Susan.
"An' 'twas for all the world like a lamb to the slaughter-house,"Susan moaned to the law-student lodger when she met him on the stairsat eight o'clock that morning. "An' if you want to see a realslaughter-hous
e, you jest come in here," she beckoned him, leading theway to the studio.
"But--but--that is--well--" stammered the young fellow, looking not alittle startled as he followed her, with half-reluctant feet.
In the studio Susan flourished accusing arms.
"Look at that, an' that, an' that!" she cried. "Why, it's like jestany extraordinary common-sense room now, that anybody might have, withthem pictures all put away, an' his easel hid behind the door, an' nota brush or a cube of paint in sight--an' him dolin' out vinegar an'molasses down to that old store. I tell you it made me sick, Mr.Jenkins, sick!"
"Yes, yes, that's so," murmured Mr. Jenkins, vaguely.
"Well, it did. Why, it worked me up so I jest sat right down an' madeup a poem on it. I couldn't help it. An' it came easy, too--'most likethe spontaneous combustion kind that I used to write, only I made itfree verse. You know that's all the rage now. Like this," shefinished, producing from somewhere about her person a half-sheet ofnote-paper.
"Alone an' dark The studio Waited: Waited for the sun of day. But when it rose, Alas! No lovely pictures greeted The fiery gob. Only their backs showed White an' sorry an' some dusty. No easel sprawled long legs To trip An' make you slip. No cubes of pig-lent gray Or black, Nor any other color lent brightness To this dank world. An' he--the artist? The bright soul who Bossed this ranch? Alas! Doomed to hide his bright talons In smelly kegs of kerosene An' molasses brown an' sticky. Alas, that I should see an' Know this Day.
There, now, ain't that about the way 'tis?" she demanded feelingly.
"Er--yes, yes, it is. That's so." Mr. Jenkins was backing out of theroom and looking toward the stairway. Mr. Jenkins had been a member ofthe Burton household long enough to have learned to take Susan at herown valuation, with no questions asked. "Yes, that's so," he repeated,as he plunged down the stairs.
To Daniel Burton himself Susan made no further protests or evencomments--except the silent comment of eager service with somefavorite dish for every meal. As Christmas drew near, and DanielBurton's hours grew longer, Susan still made no audible comment; butshe redoubled her efforts to make him comfortable the few hours leftto him at home.
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