Chapter 25: Keith to the Rescue

John McGuire had not been home twenty-four hours before it was known that he “took it powerful hard.”

To Keith Susan told what she had learned.

“They say he utterly refuses to see any one outside the family; an’ that he’d rather not see even his own folks—that he’s always askin’ ‘em to let him alone.”

“Is he ill or wounded otherwise?” asked Keith.

“No, he ain’t hurt outwardly or infernally, except his eyes, an’ he says that’s the worst of it, one woman told me. He’s as sound as a nut, an’ good for a hundred years yet. If he’d only been smashed up good an’ solid, so’s he’d have some hope of dyin’ pretty quick, he wouldn’t mind it, he says. But to live along like this—!—oh, he’s in an awful state of mind, everybody says.”

“I can—imagine it,” sighed Keith. And by the way he turned away Susan knew that he did not care to talk any more.

An hour later Mrs. McGuire hurried into Susan’s kitchen. Mrs. McGuire was looking thin and worn these days. From her half-buttoned shoes to her half-combed hair she was showing the results of strain and anxiety. With a long sigh she dropped into one of the kitchen chairs.

“Well, Mis’ McGuire, if you ain’t the stranger!” Susan greeted her cordially.

“Yes, I know,” sighed Mrs. McGuire. “But, you see, I can’t leave—him.” As she spoke she looked anxiously through the window toward her own door. “Mr. McGuire’s with him, now, so I got away.”

“But there’s Bess an’ Harry,” began Susan,

“We don’t leave him with the children, ever,” interposed Mrs. McGuire,
with another hurried glance through the window. “We—don’t dare to.
You see, once we found—we found him with his father’s old pistol. Oh,
Susan, it—it was awful!”
“Yes, it—must have been.” Susan, after one swift glance into her visitor’s face, had turned her back suddenly. She was busy now with the dampers of her kitchen stove.

“Of course we took it right away,” went on Mrs. McGuire, “an’ put it where he’ll never get it again. But we’re always afraid there’ll be somethin’ somewhere that he WILL get hold of. You see, he’s SO despondent—in such a terrible state!”

“Yes, I know,” nodded Susan. Susan had abandoned her dampers, and had turned right about face again. “If only he’d see folks now.”

“Yes, an’ that’s what I came over to talk to you about,” cried Mrs. McGuire eagerly. “We haven’t been able to get him to see anybody—not anybody. But I’ve been wonderin’ if he wouldn’t see Keith, if we could work it right. You see he says he just won’t be stared at; an’ Keith, poor boy, COULDN’T stare, an’ John knows it. Oh, Susan, do you suppose we could manage it?”

“Why, of course. I’ll tell him right away, an’ he’ll go over; I know he’ll go!” exclaimed Susan, all interest at once.

“Oh, but that wouldn’t do at all!” cried Mrs. McGuire. “Don’t you see? John refuses, absolutely refuses, to see any one; an’ he wouldn’t see Keith, if I should ASK him to. But he’s interested in Keith—I KNOW he’s that, for once, when I was talkin’ to Mr. McGuire about Keith, John broke in an’ asked two or three questions, an’ he’s NEVER done that before, about anybody. An’ so I was pretty sure it was because Keith was blind, you know, like himself.”

“Yes, I see, I see.”

“An’ if I can only manage it so they’ll meet without John’s knowin’ they’re goin’ to, I believe he’ll get to talkin’ with him before he knows it; an’ that it’ll do him a world of good. Anyway, somethin’s got to be done, Susan—it’s GOT to be—to get him out of this awful state he’s in.”

“Well, we’ll do it. I know we can do it some way.”

“You think Keith’ll do his part?” Mrs. McGuire’s eyes were anxious.

“I’m sure he will—when he understands.”

“Then listen,” proposed Mrs. McGuire eagerly. “I’ll get my John out on to the back porch to-morrow mornin’. That’s the only place outdoors I CAN get him—he can’t be seen from the street there, you know. I’ll get him there as near ten o’clock as I can. You be on the watch, an’ as soon as I get him all nicely fixed, you get Keith to come out into your yard an’ stroll over to the fence an’ speak to him, an’ then come up on to the porch an’ sit down, just naturally. He can do that all right, can’t he? It’s just wonderful—the way he gets around everywhere, with that little cane of his!”

“Yes, oh, yes.”

“Well, I thought he could. An’ tell him to keep right on talkin’ every minute so my John won’t have a chance to get up an’ go into the house. Of course, I shall be there myself, at first. We never leave him alone, you know. But as soon as Keith comes, I shall go. They’ll get along better by themselves, I’m sure—only, of course, I shall be where I can keep watch out of the window. Now do you understand?”

“Yes, an’ we can do it. I know we can do it.”

“All right, then. I’m not so sure we can, but we’ll try it, anyway,” sighed Mrs. McGuire, rising to her feet, the old worry back on her face. “Well, I must be goin’. Mr. McGuire’ll have a fit. He’s as nervous as a witch when he’s left alone with John. There! What did I tell you?” she broke off, with an expressive gesture and glance, as a careworn-looking man appeared in the doorway of the house across the two back yards, and peered anxiously over at the Burtons’ kitchen door. “Now, don’t forget—ten o’clock to-morrow mornin’.”