Dawn Eleanor Porter (free novels to read txt) 📖

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," observed

Susan succinctly, as she, too, rose from her chair.

CHAPTER XXVII

FOR THE SAKE OF JOHN

In due course Daniel Burton and his son Keith returned from thefuneral of their kinswoman, Mrs. Nancy Holworthy.

The town, aware now of the stupendous change that had come to thefortunes of the Burton family, stared, gossiped, shook wise heads ofprophecy, then passed on to the next sensation—which happened to bethe return of four soldiers from across the seas; three crippled, oneblinded.

At the Burton homestead the changes did not seem so stupendous, afterall. True, Daniel Burton had abandoned the peddling of peas and beansacross the counter, and had, at the earnest solicitation of his son,got out his easel and placed a fresh canvas upon it; but he obviouslyworked half-heartedly, and he still roamed the house after reading theevening paper, and spent even more time before the great war map onhis studio wall.

True, also, disgruntled tradesmen no longer rang peremptory peals onthe doorbell, and the postman's load of bills on the first of themonth was perceptibly decreased. The dinner-table, too, bore evidencethat a scanty purse no longer controlled the larder, but no new chinaor cut-glass graced the board, and Susan's longed-for bouillon spoonshad never materialized. Locks and doors and sagging blinds hadreceived prompt attention, and already the house was being preparedfor a new coat of paint; but no startling alterations or improvementswere promised by the evidence, and Keith was still to be seen almostdaily on the McGuire back porch, as before, or on his own, with JohnMcGuire.

It is no wonder, surely, that very soon the town ceased to stare andgossip, or even to shake wise heads of prophecy.

Nancy Holworthy's death was two months in the past when one day Keithcame home from John McGuire's back porch in very evident excitementand agitation.

"Why, Keith, what's the matter? What IS the matter?" demanded Susanconcernedly.

"Nothing. That is, I—I did not know I acted as if anything was thematter," stammered the youth.

"Well, you do. Now, tell me, what is it?"

"Nothing, nothing, Susan. Nothing you can help." Keith was pacing backand forth and up and down the living-room, not even using his cane todefine the familiar limits of his pathway. Suddenly he turned andstopped short, his whole body quivering with emotion. "Susan, I can't!I can't—stand it," he moaned.

"I know, Keith. But, what is it—now?"

"John McGuire. He's been telling me how it is—over there. Why, Susan,I could see it—SEE it, I tell you, and, oh, I did so want to be thereto help. He told me how they held it—the little clump of trees thatmeant so much to US, and how one by one they fell—those brave fellowswith him. I could see it. I could hear it. I could hear the horrid dinof the guns and shells, and the crash of falling trees about us; andthe shouts and groans of the men at our side. And they needed men—more men—to take the place of those that had fallen. Even one mancounted there—counted for, oh, so much!—for at the last there wasjust one man left—-John McGuire. And to hear him tell it—it waswonderful, wonderful!"

"I know, I know," nodded Susan. "It was like his letters—you couldSEE things. He MADE you see 'em. An' that's what he always did—madeyou see things—even when he was a little boy. His mother told me. Hewanted to write, you know. He was goin' to be a writer, before—thishappened. An' now—-" The sentence trailed off into the silenceunfinished.

"And to think of all that to-day being wasted on a blind baby tied toa picture puzzle," moaned Keith, resuming his nervous pacing of theroom. "If only a man—a real man could have heard him—one that couldgo and do a man's work—! Why, Susan, that story, as he told it, wouldmake a stone fight. I never heard anything like it. I never supposedthere could be anything like that battle. He never talked like this,until to-day. Oh, he's told me a little, from time to time. But to-day, to-day, he just poured out his heart to me—ME!—and there are somany who need just that message to stir them from their smugcomplacency—men who could fight, and win: men who WOULD fight, andwin, if only they could see and hear and know, as I saw and heard andknew this afternoon. And there it was, wasted, WASTED, worse thanwasted on—me!"

Chokingly Keith turned away, but with a sudden cry Susan caught hisarm.

"No, no, Keith, it wasn't wasted—you mustn't let it be wasted," shepanted. "Listen! You want others to hear it—what you heard—don'tyou?"

"Why, y-yes, Susan; but—-"

"Then make 'em hear it," she interrupted. "You can—you can!"

"How?"

"Make him write it down, jest as he talks. He can—he wants to. He'salways wanted to. Then publish it in a book, so everybody can see itand hear it, as you did."

"Oh, Susan, if we only could!" A dawning hope had come into KeithBurton's face, but almost at once it faded into gray disappointment."We couldn't do it, though, Susan. He couldn't do it. You know hecan't write at all. He's only begun to practice a little bit. He'dnever get it down, with the fire and the vim in it, learning to writeas he'd have to. What do you suppose Lincoln's Gettysburg Speech wouldhave been if he'd had to stop to learn how to spell and to write eachword before he could put it down?"

"I know, I know," nodded Susan.