“Yes he is,” said Mrs. Bell, “and I have promised that she shall take
it.” Susan as she heard this sank gently into the chair behind her, and
her eyes became full of tears. The intimation was almost too much for
her.
“Oh, mother!” said Hetta.
“But I particularly said that it was to mean nothing.”
“Oh, mother, that makes it worse.”
Why should Hetta interfere in this way, thought Susan to herself. Had
she interfered when Mr. Beckard gave Hetta a testament bound in Morocco?
Had not she smiled, and looked gratified, and kissed her sister, and
declared that Phineas Beckard was a nice dear man, and by far the most
elegant preacher at the Springs? Why should Hetta be so cruel?
“I don’t see that, my dear,” said the mother. Hetta would not explain
before her sister, so they all went to bed.
On the Thursday evening the drawing was finished. Not a word had been
said about it, at any rate in his presence, and he had gone on working
in silence. “There,” said he, late on the Thursday evening, “I don’t
know that it will be any better if I go on daubing for another hour.
There, Miss Susan; there’s another bridge. I hope that will neither
burst with the frost, nor yet be destroyed by fire,” and he gave it a
light flip with his fingers and sent it skimming over the table.
Susan blushed and smiled, and took it up. “Oh, it is beautiful,” she
said. “Isn’t it beautifully done, mother?” and then all the three got up
to look at it, and all confessed that it was excellently done.
“And I am sure we are very much obliged to you,” said Susan after a
pause, remembering that she had not yet thanked him.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said he, not quite liking the word “we.”
On the following day he returned from his work to Saratoga about noon.
This he had never done before, and therefore no one expected that he
would be seen in the house before the evening. On this occasion,
however, he went straight thither, and as chance would have it, both the
widow and her elder daughter were out. Susan was there alone in charge
of the house.
He walked in and opened the parlour door. There she sat, with her feet
on the fender, with her work unheeded on the table behind her, and the
picture, Aaron’s drawing, lying on her knees. She was gazing at it
intently as he entered, thinking in her young heart that it possessed
all the beauties which a picture could possess.
“Oh, Mr. Dunn,” she said, getting up and holding the tell-tale sketch
behind the skirt of her dress.
“Miss Susan, I have come here to tell your mother that I must start for
New York this afternoon and be there for six weeks, or perhaps longer.”
“Mother is out,” said she; “I’m so sorry.”
“Is she?” said Aaron.
“And Hetta too. Dear me. And you’ll be wanting dinner. I’ll go and see
about it.”
Aaron began to swear that he could not possibly eat any dinner. He had
dined once, and was going to dine again;--anything to keep her from
going.
“But you must have something, Mr. Dunn,” and she walked towards the
door.
But he put his back to it. “Miss Susan,” said he, “I guess I’ve been
here nearly two months.”
“Yes, sir, I believe you have,” she replied, shaking in her shoes, and
not knowing which way to look.
“And I hope we have been good friends.”
“Yes, sir,” said Susan, almost beside herself as to what she was saying.
“I’m going away now, and it seems to be such a time before I’ll be
back.”
“Will it, sir?”
“Six weeks, Miss Susan!” and then he paused, looking into her eyes, to
see what he could read there. She leant against the table, pulling to
pieces a morsel of half-ravelled muslin which she held in her hand; but
her eyes were turned to the ground, and he could hardly see them.
“Miss Susan,” he continued, “I may as well speak out now as at another
time.” He too was looking towards the ground, and clearly did not know
what to do with his hands. “The truth is just this. I--I love you
dearly, with all my heart. I never saw any one I ever thought so
beautiful, so nice and so good;--and what’s more, I never shall. I’m not
very good at this sort of thing, I know; but I couldn’t go away from
Saratoga for six weeks and not tell you.” And then he ceased. He did not
ask for any love in return. His presumption had not got so far as that
yet. He merely declared his passion, leaning against the door, and there
he stood twiddling his thumbs.
Susan had not the slightest conception of the way in which she ought to
receive such a declaration. She had never had a lover before; nor had
she ever thought of Aaron absolutely as a lover, though something very
like love for him had been crossing over her spirit. Now, at this
moment, she felt that he was the beau-idéal of manhood, though his boots
were covered with the railway mud, and though his pantaloons were tucked
up in rolls round his ankles. He was a fine, well-grown, open-faced
fellow, whose eye was bold and yet tender, whose brow was full and
broad, and all his bearing manly. Love him! Of course she loved him. Why
else had her heart melted with pleasure when her mother said that that
second picture was to be accepted?
But what was she to say? Anything but the open truth; she well knew
that. The open truth would not do at all. What would her mother say and
Hetta if she were rashly to say that? Hetta, she knew, would be dead
against such a lover, and of her mother’s approbation she had hardly
more hope. Why they should disapprove of Aaron as a lover she had never
asked herself. There are many nice things that seem to be wrong only
because they are so nice. Maybe that Susan regarded a lover as one of
them. “Oh, Mr. Dunn, you shouldn’t.” That in fact was all that she could
say.
“Should not I?” said he. “Well, perhaps not; but there’s the truth, and
no harm ever comes of that. Perhaps I’d better not ask you for an answer
now, but I thought it better you should know it all. And remember
this--I only care for one thing now in the world, and that is for your
love.” And then he paused, thinking possibly that in spite of what he
had said he might perhaps get some sort of an answer, some inkling of
the state of her heart’s disposition towards him.
But Susan had at once resolved to take him at his word when he suggested
that an immediate reply was not necessary. To say that she loved him was
of course impossible, and to say that she did not was equally so. She
determined therefore to close at once with the offer of silence.
When he ceased speaking there was a moment’s pause, during which he
strove hard to read what might be written on her down-turned face. But
he was not good at such reading. “Well, I guess I’ll go and get my
things ready now,” he said, and then turned round to open the door.
“Mother will be in before you are gone, I suppose,” said Susan.
“I have only got twenty minutes,” said he, looking at his watch. “But,
Susan, tell her what I have said to you. Good-bye.” And he put out his
hand. He knew he should see her again, but this had been his plan to get
her hand in his.
“Good-bye, Mr. Dunn,” and she gave him her hand.
He held it tight for a moment, so that she could not draw it
away,--could not if she would. “Will you tell your mother?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, quite in a whisper. “I guess I’d better tell her.”
And then she gave a long sigh. He pressed her hand again and got it up
to his lips.
“Mr. Dunn, don’t,” she said. But he did kiss it. “God bless you, my own
dearest, dearest girl! I’ll just open the door as I come down. Perhaps
Mrs. Bell will be here.” And then he rushed up stairs.
But Mrs. Bell did not come in. She and Hetta were at a weekly service at
Mr. Beckard’s meeting-house, and Mr. Beckard it seemed had much to say.
Susan, when left alone, sat down and tried to think. But she could not
think; she could only love. She could use her mind only in recounting to
herself the perfections of that demigod whose heavy steps were so
audible overhead, as he walked to and fro collecting his things and
putting them into his bag.
And then, just when he had finished, she bethought herself that he must
be hungry. She flew to the kitchen, but she was too late. Before she
could even reach at the loaf of bread he descended the stairs, with a
clattering noise, and heard her voice as she spoke quickly to Kate
O’Brien.
“Miss Susan,” he said, “don’t get anything for me, for I’m off.”
“Oh, Mr. Dunn, I am so sorry. You’ll be so hungry on your journey,” and
she came out to him in the passage.
“I shall want nothing on the journey, dearest, if you’ll say one kind
word to me.”
Again her eyes went to the ground. “What do you want me to say, Mr.
Dunn?”
“Say, God bless you, Aaron.”
“God bless you, Aaron,” said she; and yet she was sure that she had not
declared her love. He however thought otherwise, and went up to New York
with a happy heart.
Things happened in the next fortnight rather quickly. Susan at once
resolved to tell her mother, but she resolved also not to tell Hetta.
That afternoon she got her mother to herself in Mrs. Bell’s own room,
and then she made a clean breast of it.
“And what did you say to him, Susan?”
“I said nothing, mother.”
“Nothing, dear!”
“No, mother; not a word. He told me he didn’t want it.”
She forgot how she had used his Christian name in bidding God bless him.
“Oh dear!” said the widow.
“Was it very wrong?” asked Susan.
“But what do you think yourself, my child?” asked Mrs. Bell after a
while. “What are your own feelings.”
Mrs. Bell was sitting on a chair and Susan was standing opposite to her
against the post of the bed. She made no answer, but moving from her
place, she threw herself into her mother’s arms, and hid her face on her
mother’s shoulder. It was easy enough to guess what were her feelings.
“But, my darling,” said her mother, “you must not think that it is an
engagement.”
“No,” said Susan, sorrowfully.
“Young men say those things to amuse themselves.” Wolves, she would have
said, had she spoken out her mind freely.
“Oh, mother, he is not like that.”
The daughter contrived to extract a promise from the mother that Hetta
should not be told just at present. Mrs. Bell calculated that she had
six weeks before her; as yet Mr. Beckard had not spoken out, but there
was reason to suppose that he would do so before those six weeks would
be over, and then she would be able to seek counsel from him.
Mr. Beckard spoke out at the end of six days, and Hetta frankly accepted
him. “I hope you’ll love your brother-in-law,” said she to Susan.
“Oh, I will indeed,” said Susan; and in the softness of her heart at the
moment she almost made up her mind to tell; but Hetta was full of her
own affairs, and thus it passed off.
It was then arranged that Hetta should go and spend a week with Mr.
Beckard’s parents. Old Mr. Beckard was a farmer living near Utica, and
now that the match was declared and approved, it was thought well that
Hetta should know her future husband’s family. So she went for a week,
and Mr. Beckard went with her. “He will be back in plenty of time for me
to speak to him before Aaron Dunn’s six weeks are over,” said Mrs. Bell
to herself.
But things did not go exactly as she expected. On the very morning after
the departure of the engaged couple, there came a letter from Aaron,
saying that he would be at Saratoga that very evening. The railway
people had ordered him down again for some days’ special work; then he
was to go elsewhere, and not to return to Saratoga till June. “But he
hoped,” so said the letter, “that Mrs. Bell would not turn him into the
street even then, though the summer might have come, and her regular
lodgers might be expected.”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” said Mrs. Bell to herself, reflecting that she had
no one of whom she could ask advice, and that she must decide that very
day. Why had she let Mr. Beckard go without telling him? Then she told
Susan, and Susan spent the day trembling. Perhaps, thought Mrs. Bell, he
will say nothing about it. In such case, however, would it not be her
duty to say something? Poor mother! She trembled nearly as much as
Susan.
It was dark when the fatal knock came at the door. The tea-things were
already laid, and the tea-cake was already baked; for it would at any
rate be necessary to give Mr. Dunn his tea. Susan, when she heard the
knock, rushed from her chair and took refuge up stairs. The widow gave a
long sigh and settled her dress. Kate O’Brien with willing step opened
the door, and bade her old friend welcome.
“How are the ladies?” asked Aaron, trying to gather something from the
face and voice of the domestic.
“Miss Hetta and Mr. Beckard be gone off to Utica, just man-and-wife
like! and so they are, more power to them.”
“Oh indeed; I’m very glad,” said Aaron--and so he was; very glad to
have Hetta the demure out of the way. And then he made his way into the
parlour, doubting much, and hoping much.
Mrs. Bell rose from her chair, and tried to look grave. Aaron glancing
round the room saw that Susan was not there. He walked straight up to
the widow, and offered her his hand, which she took. It might be that
Susan had not thought fit to tell, and in such case it would not be
right for him to compromise her; so he said never a word.
But the subject was too important to the mother to allow of her being
silent when the young man stood before her. “Oh, Mr. Dunn,” said she,
“what is this you have been saying to Susan?”
“I have asked her to be my wife,” said he, drawing himself up and
looking her full in the face. Mrs. Bell’s heart was almost as soft as
her daughter’s, and it was nearly gone; but at the moment she had
nothing to say but, “Oh dear, oh dear!”
“May I not call you mother?” said he, taking both her hands in his.
“Oh dear--oh dear! But will you be good to her? Oh, Aaron Dunn, if you
deceive my child!”
In another quarter of an hour, Susan was kneeling at her mother’s knee,
with her face on her mother’s lap; the mother was wiping tears out of
her eyes; and Aaron was standing by holding one of the widow’s hands.
“You are my mother too, now,” said he. What would Hetta and Mr. Beckard
say, when they came back? But then he surely was not a wolf!
There were four or five days left for courtship before Hetta and Mr.
Beckard would return; four or five days during which Susan might be
happy, Aaron triumphant, and Mrs. Bell nervous. Days I have said, but
after all it was only the evenings that were so left. Every morning
Susan got up to give Aaron his breakfast, but Mrs. Bell got up also.
Susan boldly declared her right to do so, and Mrs. Bell found no
objection which she could urge.
But after that Aaron was always absent till seven or eight in the
evening, when he would return to his tea. Then came the hour or two of
lovers’ intercourse.
But they were very tame, those hours. The widow still felt an undefined
fear that she was wrong, and though her heart yearned to know that her
daughter was happy in the sweet happiness of accepted love, yet she
dreaded to be too confident. Not a word had been said about money
matters; not a word of Aaron Dunn’s relatives. So she did not leave
them by themselves, but waited with what patience she could for the
return of her wise counsellors.
And then Susan hardly knew how to behave herself with her accepted
suitor. She felt that she was very happy; but perhaps she was most happy
when she was thinking about him through the long day, assisting in
fixing little things for his comfort, and waiting for his evening
return. And as he sat there in the parlour, she could be happy then too,
if she were but allowed to sit still and look at him,--not stare at him,
but raise her eyes every now and again to his face for the shortest
possible glance, as she had been used to do ever since he came there.
But he, unconscionable lover, wanted to hear her speak, was desirous of
being talked to, and perhaps thought that he should by rights be allowed
to sit by her, and hold her hand. No such privileges were accorded to
him. If they had been alone together, walking side by side on the green
turf, as lovers should walk, she would soon have found the use of her
tongue,--have talked fast enough no doubt. Under such circumstances,
when a girl’s shyness has given way to real intimacy, there is in
general no end to her power of chatting. But though there was much love
between Aaron and Susan, there was as yet but little intimacy. And then,
let a mother be ever so motherly--and no mother could have more of a
mother’s tenderness than Mrs. Bell--still her presence must be a
restraint. Aaron was very fond of Mrs. Bell; but nevertheless he did
sometimes wish that some domestic duty would take her out of the parlour
for a few happy minutes. Susan went out very often, but Mrs. Bell seemed
to be a fixture.
Once for a moment he did find his love alone, immediately as he came
into the house. “My own Susan, you do love me? do say so to me once.”
And he contrived to slip his arm round her waist. “Yes,” she whispered;
but she slipped like an eel from his hands, and left him only preparing
himself for a kiss. And then when she got to her room, half frightened,
she clasped her hands together, and bethought herself that she did
really love him with a strength and depth of love which filled her whole
existence. Why could she not have told him something of all this?
And so the few days of his second sojourn at Saratoga passed away, not
altogether satisfactorily. It was settled that he should return to New
York on Saturday night, leaving Saratoga on that evening; and as the
Beckards--Hetta was already regarded quite as a Beckard--were to be
back to dinner on that day, Mrs. Bell would have an opportunity of
telling her wondrous tale. It might be well that Mr. Beckard should see
Aaron before his departure.
On that Saturday the Beckards did arrive just in time for dinner. It may
be imagined that Susan’s appetite was not very keen, nor her manner very
collected. But all this passed by unobserved in the importance attached
to the various Beckard arrangements which came under discussion. Ladies
and gentlemen circumstanced as were Hetta and Mr. Beckard are perhaps a
little too apt to think that their own affairs are paramount. But after
dinner Susan vanished at once, and when Hetta prepared to follow her,
desirous of further talk about matrimonial arrangements, her mother
stopped her, and the disclosure was made.
“Proposed to her!” said Hetta, who perhaps thought that one marriage in
a family was enough at a time.
“Yes, my love--and he did it, I must say, in a very honourable way,
telling her not to make any answer till she had spoken to me;--now that
was very nice; was it not, Phineas?” Mrs. Bell had become very anxious
that Aaron should not be voted a wolf.
“And what has been said to him since?” asked the discreet Phineas.
“Why--nothing absolutely decisive.” Oh, Mrs. Bell! “You see I know
nothing as to his means.”
“Nothing at all,” said Hetta.
“He is a man that will always earn his bread,” said Mr. Beckard; and
Mrs. Bell blessed him in her heart for saying it.
“But has he been encouraged?” asked Hetta.
“Well; yes, he has,” said the widow.
“Then Susan I suppose likes him?” asked Phineas.
“Well; yes, she does,” said the widow. And the conference ended in a
resolution that Phineas Beckard should have a conversation with Aaron
Dunn, as to his worldly means and position; and that he, Phineas, should
decide whether Aaron might, or might not be at once accepted as a lover,
according to the tenor of that conversation. Poor Susan was not told
anything of all this. “Better not,” said Hetta the demure. “It will only
flurry her the more.” How would she have liked it, if without consulting
her, they had left it to Aaron to decide whether or no she might marry
Phineas?
They knew where on the works Aaron was to be found, and thither Mr.
Beckard rode after dinner. We need not narrate at length, the
conference between, the young men. Aaron at once declared that he had
nothing but what he made as an engineer, and explained that he held no
permanent situation on the line. He was well paid at that present
moment, but at the end of summer he would have to look for employment.
“Then you can hardly marry quite at present,” said the discreet
minister.
“Perhaps not quite immediately.”
“And long engagements are never wise,” said the other.
“Three or four months,” suggested Aaron. But Mr. Beckard shook his head.
The afternoon at Mrs. Bell’s house was melancholy. The final decision of
the three judges was as follows. There was to be no engagement; of
course no correspondence. Aaron was to be told that it would be better
that he should get lodgings elsewhere when he returned; but that he
would be allowed to visit at Mrs. Bell’s house,--and at Mrs. Beckard’s,
which was very considerate. If he should succeed in getting a permanent
appointment, and if he and Susan still held the same mind, why then----
&c. &c. Such was Susan’s fate, as communicated to her by Mrs. Bell and
Hetta. She sat still and wept when she heard it; but she did not
complain. She had always felt that Hetta would be against her.
“Mayn’t I see him, then?” she said through, her tears.
Hetta thought she had better not. Mrs. Bell thought she might. Phineas
decided that they might shake hands, but only in full conclave. There
was to be no lovers’ farewell. Aaron was to leave the house at half-past
five; but before he went Susan should be called down. Poor Susan! She
sat down and bemoaned herself; uncomplaining, but very sad.
Susan was soft, feminine, and manageable. But Aaron Dunn was not very
soft, was especially masculine, and in some matters not easily
manageable. When Mr. Beckard in the widow’s presence--Hetta had retired
in obedience to her lover--informed him of the court’s decision, there
came over his face the look which he had worn when he burned the
picture. “Mrs. Bell,” he said, “had encouraged his engagement; and he
did not understand why other people should now come and disturb it.”
“Not an engagement, Aaron,” said Mrs. Bell piteously.
“He was able and willing to work,” he said, “and knew his profession.
What young man of his age had done better than he had?” and he glanced
round at them with perhaps more pride than was quite becoming.
Then Mr. Beckard spoke out, very wisely no doubt, but perhaps a little
too much at length. Sons and daughters, as well as fathers and mothers,
will know very well what he said; so I need not repeat his words. I
cannot say that Aaron listened with much attention, but he understood
perfectly what the upshot of it was. Many a man understands the purport
of many a sermon without listening to one word in ten. Mr. Beckard meant
to be kind in his manner; indeed was so, only that Aaron could not
accept as kindness any interference on his part.
“I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Bell,” said he. “I look upon myself as engaged
to her. And I look on her as engaged to me. I tell you so fairly; and I
believe that’s her mind as well as mine.”
“But, Aaron, you won’t try to see her--or to write to her,--not in
secret; will you?”
“When I try to see her, I’ll come and knock at this door; and if I write
to her, I’ll write to her full address by the post. I never did and
never will do anything in secret.”
“I know you’re good and honest,” said the widow with her handkerchief to
her eyes.
“Then why do you separate us?” asked he, almost roughly. “I suppose I
may see her at any rate before I go. My time’s nearly up now, I guess.”
And then Susan was called for, and she and Hetta came down together.
Susan crept in behind her sister. Her eyes were red with weeping, and
her appearance was altogether disconsolate. She had had a lover for a
week, and now she was to be robbed of him.
“Good-bye, Susan,” said Aaron, and he walked up to her without
bashfulness or embarrassment. Had they all been compliant and gracious
to him he would have been as bashful as his love; but now his temper was
hot. “Good-bye, Susan,” and she took his hand, and he held hers till he
had finished. “And remember this, I look upon you as my promised wife,
and I don’t fear that you’ll deceive me. At any rate I shan’t deceive
you.”
“Good-bye, Aaron,” she sobbed.
“Good-bye, and God bless you, my own darling!” And then without saying a
word to any one else, he turned his back upon them and went his way.