CHAPTER XXVI
MAZIE AGAIN
It came to be the accepted thing almost at once, then, that KeithBurton and John McGuire should spend their mornings together on theMcGuires' back porch. In less than a fortnight young McGuire evencrossed the yard arm in arm with Keith to the Burtons' back porch andsat there one morning. After that it was only a question as to whichporch it should be. That it would be one of them was a foregoneconclusion.
Sometimes the two boys talked together. Sometimes they worked on oneof Keith's raised picture puzzles. Sometimes Keith read aloud from oneof his books. Whatever they did, their doing it was the source ofgreat interest to the entire neighborhood. Not only did Mrs. McGuireand Susan breathlessly watch from their respective kitchens, butfriends and neighbors fabricated excuses to come to the two houses inorder to see for themselves; and children gathered along thedivisional fence and gazed with round eyes of wonder. But they gazedsilently. Everybody gazed silently. Even the children seemed tounderstand that the one unpardonable sin was to let the blind boys onthe porch know that they were the objects of any sort of interest.
One day Mazie Sanborn came. She brought a new book for Mrs. McGuire toread--an attention she certainly had never before bestowed on JohnMcGuire's mother. She talked one half-minute about the book--and fiveminutes about the beautiful new friendship between the two blind youngmen. She insisted on going into the kitchen where she could see thetwo boys on the porch. Then, before Mrs. McGuire could divine herpurpose and stop her, she had slipped through the door and out on tothe porch itself.
"How do you do, gentlemen," she began blithely. "I just--"
But the terrified Mrs. McGuire had her by the arm and was pulling herback into the kitchen before she could finish her sentence.
On the porch the two boys had leaped to their feet, John McGuire, inparticular, looking distressed and angry.
"Who was that? Is anybody--there?" he demanded.
"No, dear, not now." In the doorway Mrs. McGuire was trying to nodassurance to the boys and frown banishment to Mazie Sanborn at one andthe same moment.
"But there was--some one," insisted her son sharply.
"Just some one that brought a book to me, dearie, an' she's gone now."Frantically Mrs. McGuire was motioning Mazie to make her assertion thetruth.
John McGuire sat down then. So, too, did Keith. But all the rest ofthe morning John was nervously alert for all sounds. And his ears werefrequently turned toward the kitchen door. He began to talk again,too, bitterly, of the little tin cup for the pennies and the sign"Pity the Poor Blind." He lost all interest in Keith's books andpuzzles, and when he was not railing at the tragedy of his fate, hewas sitting in gloomy silence.
Keith told Susan that afternoon that if Mrs. McGuire did not keeppeople away from that porch when he was out there with John, he wouldnot answer for the consequences. Susan told Mrs. McGuire, and Mrs.McGuire told Mazie Sanborn, at the same time returning the loanedbook--all of which did not tend to smooth Miss Mazie's already ruffledfeelings.
To Dorothy Mazie expressed her mind on the matter.
"I don't care! I'll never go there again--never!" she declaredangrily; "nor speak to Mrs. McGuire, nor that precious son of hers,nor Keith Burton, either. So there!"
"Oh, Mazie, but poor Keith isn't to blame," remonstrated Dorothyearnestly, the color flaming into her face.
"He is, too. He's just as bad as John McGuire. He jumped up and lookedjust as cross as John McGuire did when I went out on to that porch.And he doesn't ever really want to see us. You know he doesn't. Hejust stands us because he thinks he's got to be polite."
"But, Mazie, dear, he's so sensitive, and he feels his afflictionkeenly, and--"
"Oh, yes, that's right--stand up for him! I knew you would," snappedMazie crossly. "And everybody knows it, too--running after him the wayyou do."
"RUNNING AFTER HIM!" Dorothy's face was scarlet now.
"Yes, running after him," reiterated the other incisively; "and youalways have--trotting over there all the time with books and puzzlesand candy and flowers. And--"
"For shame, Mazie!" interrupted Dorothy, with hot indignation. "As iftrying to help that poor blind boy to while away a few hours of histime were RUNNING AFTER HIM."
"But he doesn't WANT you to while away an hour or two of his time. AndI should think you'd see he didn't. You could if you weren't so deadin love with him, and--"
"Mazie!" gasped Dorothy, aghast.
"Well, it's so. Anybody can see that--the way you color up every timehis name is mentioned, and the way you look at him, with your heart inyour eyes, and--"
"Mazie Sanborn!" gasped Dorothy again. Her face was not scarlet now.It had gone dead white. She was on her feet, horrified, dismayed, andvery angry.
"Well, I don't care. It's so. Everybody knows it. And when a fellowshows so plainly that he'd rather be let alone, how you can keepthrusting yourself--"
But Dorothy had gone. With a proud lifting of her head, and a sharp"Nonsense, Mazie, you are wild! We'll not discuss it any longer,please," she had turned and left the room.
But she remembered. She must have remembered, for she did not go nearthe Burton homestead for a week. Neither did the next week nor thenext see her there. Furthermore, though the little stand in her roomhad shown two new picture puzzles and a new game especially designedfor the blind, it displayed them no longer after those remarks ofMazie Sanborn's. Not that Keith had them, however. Indeed, no. Theywere buried deep under a pile of clothing in the farther corner ofDorothy's bottom bureau drawer.
At the Burton homestead Susan wondered a little at her absence. Sheeven said to Keith one day:
"Why, where's Dorothy? We haven't see her for two weeks."
"I don't know, I'm sure."
The way Keith's lips came together over the last word caused Susan tothrow a keen glance into his face.
"Now, Keith, I hope you two haven't been quarreling again," shefrowned anxiously.
"'Again'! Nonsense, Susan, we never did quarrel. Don't be silly." Theyouth shifted his position uneasily.
"I'm thinkin' tain't always me that's silly," observed Susan, withanother keen glance. "That girl was gettin' so she come over jestnatural-like again, every little while, bringin' in one thing oranother, if 'twas nothin' more'n a funny story to make us laugh. An'what I want to know is why she stopped right off short like this, for--"
"Nonsense!" tossed Keith again, with a lift of his chin. Then, with anattempt at lightness that was very near a failure, he laughed: "Ireckon we don't want her to come if she doesn't want to, do we,Susan?"
"Humph!" was Susan's only comment--outwardly. Inwardly she was vowingto see that young woman and have it out with her, once for all.
But Susan did not see her nor have it out with her; for, as ithappened, something occurred that night so all-absorbing and excitingthat even the unexplained absence of Dorothy Parkman became as nothingbeside it.
With the abrupt suddenness that sometimes makes the long-waited-forevent a real shock, came the news of the death of the poor old womanwhose frail hand had held the wealth that Susan had coveted for DanielBurton and his son.
The two men left the next morning on the four-hundred-mile journeythat would take them to the town where Nancy Holworthy had lived.
Scarcely had they left the house before Susan began preparations fortheir home-coming, as befitted their new estate. Her first move was toget out all the best silver and china. She was busy cleaning it whenMrs. McGuire came in at the kitchen door.
"What's the matter?" she began breathlessly.
"Where's Keith? John's been askin' for him all the mornin'. Is Mr.Burton sick? They just telephoned from the store that Mr. Burton hadsent word that he wouldn't be down for a few days. He isn't sick, ishe?--or Keith? I couldn't make out quite all they said; but there wassomethin' about Keith. They ain't either of 'em sick, are they?"
"Oh, no, they're both well--very well, thank you." There was an air,half elation, half superiority, about Susan that was va
guelyirritating to Mrs. McGuire.
"Well, you needn't be so secret about it, Susan," she began a littlehaughtily. But Susan tossed her head with a light laugh.
"Secret! I guess 't won't be no secret long. Mr. Daniel Burton an'Master Keith have gone away, Mis' McGuire."
"Away! You mean--a--a vacation?" frowned Mrs. McGuire doubtfully.
Susan laughed again, still with that irritating air of superiority.
"Well, hardly. This ain't no pleasure exertion, Mis' McGuire. Still,on the other hand, Daniel Burton wouldn't be half humane if he didn'tget some pleasure out of it, though he wouldn't so demean himself asto show it, of course. Mis' Nancy Holworthy is dead, Mis' McGuire. Wehad the signification last night."
"Not--you don't mean THE Nancy Holworthy--the one that's got themoney!" The excited interest in Mrs. McGuire's face and voice was asgreat as even Susan herself could have desired.
Susan obviously swelled with the glory of the occasion, though shestill spoke with cold loftiness.
"The one and the same, Mis' McGuire."
"My stars an' stockin's, you don't say! An' they've gone to thefuneral?"
"They have."
"An' they'll get the money now, I s'pose."
"They will."
"But are you sure? You know sometimes when folks expect the money theydon't get it. It's been willed away to some one else."
"Yes, I know. But't won't be here," spoke Susan with decision. "Mis'Holworthy couldn't if she'd wanted to. It's all foreordained an' fixedbeforehand. Daniel Burton was to get jest the annual while she lived,an' then the whole in a plump sum when she died. Well, she's dead, an'now he gets it. An' a right tidy little sum it is, too."
"Was she awful rich, Susan?"
"More'n a hundred thousand. A hundred an' fifty, I've heard say."
"My gracious me! An' to think of Daniel Burton havin' a hundred andfifty thousand dollars! What in the world will he do with it?"
Susan's chin came up superbly.
"Well, I can tell you one thing he'll do, Mis' McGuire. He'll stoppeddlin' peas an' beans over that counter down there, an' retire to alife of ease an' laxity with his paint-brushes, as he ought to. An'he'll have somethin' fit to eat an' wear, an' Keith will, too. An'furthermore an' likewise you'll see SOME difference in this place, ormy name ain't Susan Betts. Them two men have got an awful lot to liveup to, an' I mean they shall understand it right away."
"Which explains this array of china an' silver, I take it," observedMrs. McGuire dryly.
"Eh? What?" frowned Susan doubtfully; then her face cleared. "Yes,that's jest it. They've got to have things now fitted up to their newestation. We shall get more, too. We need some new teaspoons an'forks. An' I want 'em to get some of them bunion spoons."
"BUNION spoons!"
"Yes--when you eat soup out of them two-handled cups, you know. Ormaybe you don't know," she corrected herself, at the odd expressionthat had come to Mrs. McGuire's face. "But I do. Mrs. ProfessorHinkley used to have 'em. They're awful pretty an' stylish, too. Andwe've got to have a lot of other things--new china, an' some cut-glass,an'--"
"Well, it strikes me," interrupted Mrs. McGuire severely, "that DanielBurton had better be puttin' his money into Liberty Bonds an' RedCross work, instead of silver spoons an' cut-glass, in these war-times.An'--"
"My lan', Mis' McGuire!" With the sudden exclamation Susan had droppedthe spoon she was polishing. Her eyes, wild and incredulous, werestaring straight into the startled eyes of the woman opposite. "Do youknow? Since that yeller telegram came last night tellin' us NancyHolworthy was dead, I hain't even once thought of--the war."
"Well, I guess you would think of it--if you had my John right beforeyou all the time." With a bitter sigh Mrs. McGuire had relaxed in herchair. "You wouldn't need anything else."
"Humph! I don't need anything else with Daniel Burton 'round."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, I mean that that man don't do nothin' but read war an' talk warevery minute he's in the house. An' what with them wheatless days an'meatless days, he fairly EATS war. You heard my poem on them meatless,wheatless days, didn't you?"
Mrs. McGuire shook her head listlessly. Her somber eyes were on thelonely figure of her son on the porch across the two back yards.
"You didn't? Well, I'll say it to you, then. 'Tain't much; still, it'skind of good, in a way. I hain't written hardly anything lately; but Idid write this:
We've a wheatless day, An' a meatless day, An' a tasteless, wasteless, sweetless day.
But with never a pause, For the good of the cause, We'd even consent to an eatless day.
"An' we would, too, of course.
"An' as far as that's concerned, there's a good many other kinds of'less days that I'm thinkin' wouldn't hurt none of us. How about afretless day an' a worryless day? Wouldn't they be great? An' onlythink what a talkless day'd mean in some households I could mention.Oh, of course, present comp'ny always accentuated," she hastened toadd with a sly chuckle, as Mrs. McGuire stirred into suddenresentment.
"Humph!" subsided Mrs. McGuire, still a little resentfully.
"An' I'm free to confess that there's some kinds of 'less days thatwe've already got plenty of," went on Susan, after a moment'sthoughtful pause. "There is folks that take quite enough worklessdays, an' laughless days, an' pityless days, an' thankless days. Mylan', there ain't no end to them kind, as any one can see. An' therewas them heatless days last winter--I guess no one was hankerin' formore of THEM. Oh, 'course I understand that that was just preservationof coal, an' that 'twas necessary, an' all that. An' that's anotherthing, too--this preservation business. I'd like to add a few thingsto that, an' make 'em preserve in fault-findin', an' crossness, an'backbitin', an' gossip, as well as in coal, an' sugar, an' wheat, an'beef."
Mrs. McGuire gave a short laugh.
"My goodness, Susan Betts, if you ain't the limit, an' no mistake! Is'pose you mean CONservation."
"Heh? What's that? Well, CONservation, then. What's the difference,anyway?" she scoffed a bit testily. Then, abruptly, her face changed."But, there! this ain't settlin' what I'm going to do with DanielBurton," she finished with a profound sigh.
"Do with him?" puzzled Mrs. McGuire.
"Yes." Susan picked up the silver spoon and began indifferently topolish it. "'Tain't no use for me to be doin' all this. Daniel Burtonwon't know whether he's eatin' with a silver spoon or one made ofpewter. No more will he retire to a life of ease an' laxity with hispaint-brushes--unless they declarate peace to-morrow mornin'."
"You don't mean--he'll stay in the store?"
Susan made a despairing gesture.
"Goodness only knows what he'll do--I don't. I know what he does now.He's as uneasy as a fish out o' water, an' he roams the house from oneend to the other every night, after he reads the paper. He's got oneof them war maps on his wall, an' he keeps changin' the pins an'flags, an' I hear him mutterin' under his breath. You see, he has tokeep it from Keith all he can, for Keith hisself feels so bad 'causehe can't be up an' doin'; an' if he thought he was keepin' his fatherback from helpin', I don't know what the poor boy would do. But Ithink if 'twa'n't for Keith, Daniel Burton would try to enlist an' goover. Oh, of course, he's beyond the malicious age, so far as bein'drafted is concerned, an' you wouldn't naturally think such amild-tempered-lookin' man would go in much for killin'. But this war'sstirred him up somethin' awful."
"Well, who wouldn't it?"
"Oh, I know that; an' I ain't sayin' as how it shouldn't. But thatdon't make it no easier for Daniel Burton to keep his feelin's hidfrom his son, particularly when it's that son that's made him have thefeelin's, partly. There ain't no doubt but that one of the thingsthat's made Daniel Burton so fidgety an' uneasy, an' ready to jestfling hisself into that ravin' conflict over there is his unhappinessan' disappointment over Keith. He had such big plans for that boy!"
"Yes, I know. We all have big plans for--our boys." Mrs. McGuirechok
ed and turned away.
"An' girls, too, for that matter," hurried on Susan, with a quickglance into the other's face. "An' speakin' of girls, did you seeHattie Turner on the street last night?"
Dumbly Mrs. McGuire answered with a shake of her head. Her eyes hadgone back to her son's face across the yard.
"Well, I did. Her Charlie's at Camp Devens, you know. They say he'sinvited to more places every Sunday than he can possibly accept; an'that he's petted an' praised an' made of everywhere he goes, an'tended right up to so's he won't get lonesome, or attendunquestionable entertainments. Well, that's all right an' good, ofcourse, an' as it should be. But I wish somebody'd take up CharlieTurner's wife an' invite her to Sunday dinners an' take her to ride,an' see that she didn't attend unquestionable entertainments."
"Why, Susan Betts, what an idea!" protested Mrs. McGuire, suddenlysitting erect in her chair. "Hattie Turner isn't fightin' for hercountry."
"No, but her husband is," retorted Susan crisply. "An' she's fightin'for her honor an' her future peace an' happiness, an' she's doin' itall alone. She's pretty as a picture, an' nothin' but a child when hemarried her four months ago, an' we've took away her natural pervideran' entertainer, an' left her nothin' but her freedom for a ballastwheel. An' I say I wish some of the patriotic people who are jestshowerin' every Charlie Turner with attentions would please sprinklejest a few on Charlie's wife, to help keep her straight an' sweet an'honest for Charlie when he comes back."
"Hm-m, maybe," murmured Mrs. McGuire, rising wearily to her feet; "butthere ain't many that thinks of that."
"There'll be more think of it by an' by--when it's too late," observedSusan succinctly, as she, too, rose from her chair.
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