“She was grieved because your picture was burnt,” said Mrs. Bell, putting some emphasis on the “your,” intending to show that her daughter had not regarded the drawing as her own. But the emphasis bore another meaning; and so the widow perceived as soon as she had spoken.
“Oh, I can do twenty more of the same if anybody wanted them,” said Aaron. “If I do another like it, will you let her take it, Mrs. Bell?—just to show that you have forgiven me, and that we are friends as we were before?”
Was he, or was he not a wolf? That was the question which Mrs. Bell scarcely knew how to answer. Hetta had given her voice, saying he was lupine. Mr. Beckard’s opinion she had not liked to ask directly. Mr. Beckard she thought would probably propose to Hetta; but as yet he had not done so. And, as he was still a stranger in the family, she did not like in any way to compromise Susan’s name. Indirectly she had asked the question, and, indirectly also, Mr. Beckard’s answer had been favourable.
“But it mustn’t mean anything, sir,” was the widow’s weak answer, when she had paused on the question for a moment.
“Oh no, of course not,” said Aaron, joyously, and his face became radiant and happy. “And I do beg your pardon for burning it; and the young ladies’ pardon too.” And then, he rapidly got out his cardboard, and set himself to work about another bridge. The widow, meditating many things in her heart, commenced the hemming of a handkerchief.
In about an hour the two girls came back to the room and silently took their accustomed places. Aaron hardly looked up, but went on diligently with his drawing. This bridge should be a better bridge than that other. Its acceptance was now assured. Of course it was to mean nothing. That was a matter of course. So he worked away diligently, and said nothing to anybody.
When they went off to bed the two girls went into the mother’s room. “Oh, mother, I hope he is not very angry,” said Susan.
“Angry!” said Hetta, “if anybody should be angry, it is mother. He ought to have known that Susan could not accept it. He should never have offered it.”
“But he’s doing another,” said Mrs. Bell.
“Not for her,” said Hetta.
“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 telltale 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
