Dawn
Copyright© 2024 by Eleanor H. Porter
Chapter 9: Susan Speaks Her Mind
“How’s Keith?”
It was Monday morning, and as usual Mrs. McGuire, seeing Susan in the clothes-yard, had come out, ostensibly to hang out her own clothes, in reality to visit with Susan while she was hanging out hers.
“About as usual.” Susan snapped out the words and a pillow-case with equal vehemence.
“Is he up an’ dressed?”
“I don’t know. I hain’t seen him this mornin’—but it’s safe to say he ain’t.”
“But I thought he was well enough to be up an’ dressed right along now.”
“He is WELL ENOUGH—or, rather he WAS.” Susan snapped open another pillow-case and hung it on the line with spiteful jabs of two clothespins.
“Why, Susan, is he worse? You didn’t say he was any worse. You said he was about as usual.”
“Well, so he is. That’s about as usual. Look a-here, Mis’ McGuire,” flared Susan, turning with fierce suddenness, “wouldn’t YOU be worse if you wasn’t allowed to do as much as lift your own hand to your own head?”
“Why, Susan, what do you mean? What are you talkin’ about?”
“I’m talkin’ about Keith Burton an’ Mis’ Nettie Colebrook. I’ve GOT to talk about ‘em to somebody. I’m that full I shall sunburst if I don’t. She won’t let him do a thing for himself—not a thing, that woman won’t!”
“But how can he do anything for himself, with his poor sightless eyes?” demanded Mrs. McGuire. “I don’t think I should complain, Susan Betts, because that poor boy’s got somebody at last to take proper care of him.”
“But it AIN’T takin’ proper care of him, not to let him do things for himself,” stormed Susan hotly. “How’s he ever goin’ to ‘mount to anything—that’s what I want to know—if he don’t get a chance to begin to ‘mount? All them fellers—them fellers that was blind an’ wrote books an’ give lecturin’s an’ made things—perfectly wonderful things with their hands—how much do you s’pose they would have done if they’d had a woman ‘round who said, ‘Here, let me do it; oh, you mustn’t do that, Keithie, dear!’ every time they lifted a hand to brush away a hair that was ticklin’ their nose?”
“Oh, Susan!”
“Well, it’s so. Look a-here, listen!” Susan dropped all pretense of work now, and came close to the fence. She was obviously very much in earnest. “That boy hain’t been dressed but twice since that woman came a week ago. She won’t let him dress himself alone an’ now he don’t want to be dressed. Says he’s too tired. An’ she says, ‘Of course, you’re too tired, Keithie, dear!’ An’ there he lies, day in an’ day out, with his poor sightless eyes turned to the wall. He won’t eat a thing hardly, except what I snuggle up when she’s out airin’ herself. He ain’t keen on bein’ fed with a spoon like a baby. No boy with any spunk would be.”
“But can he feed himself?”
“Of course he can—if he gets a chance! But that ain’t all. He don’t want to be told all the time that he’s different from other folks. He can’t forget that he’s blind, of course, but he wants you to act as if you forgot it. I know. I’ve seen him. But she don’t forget it a minute—not a minute. She’s always cryin’ an’ wringin’ her hands, an’ sighin’, ‘Oh, Keithie, Keithie, my poor boy, my poor blind boy!’ till it’s enough to make a saint say, ‘Gosh!’”
“Well, that’s only showin’ sympathy, Susan,” defended Mrs. McGuire.
“I’m sure she ought not to be blamed for that.”
“He don’t want sympathy—or, if he does, he hadn’t ought to have it.”
“Why, Susan Betts, I’m ashamed of you—grudgin’ that poor blind boy the comfort of a little sympathy! My John said yesterday—”
“‘T ain’t sympathy he needs. Sympathy’s a nice, soft little paw that pats him to sleep. What he needs is a good sharp scratch that will make him get up an’ do somethin’.”
“Susan, how can you talk like that?”
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