And so the few days of his second sojourn3 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 wondrous4 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 paramount5. 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 honourable6 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.
“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 tenor9 of that conversation. Poor Susan was not told anything of all this. “Better not,” said Hetta the demure10. “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 thither11 Mr. Beckard rode after dinner. We need not narrate12 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 melancholy13. 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 lodgings14 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 decided15 that they might shake hands, but only in full conclave16. 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 bemoaned17 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 retired19 in obedience20 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 spoke7 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 perfectly21 what the upshot of it was. Many a man understands the purport22 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 disconsolate23. 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 embarrassment24. Had they all been compliant25 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, 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.
There had been something very consolatory27, very sweet, to the poor girl in her lover’s last words. And yet they had almost made her tremble. He had been so bold, and stern, and confident. He had seemed so utterly28 to defy the impregnable discretion29 of Mr. Beckard, so to despise the demure propriety30 of Hetta. But of this she felt sure, when she came to question her heart, that she could never, never, never cease to love him better than all the world beside. She would wait—patiently if she could find patience—and then, if he deserted31 her, she would die.
In another month Hetta became Mrs. Beckard. Susan brisked up a little for the occasion, and looked very pretty as bridesmaid. She was serviceable too in arranging household matters, hemming32 linen33 and sewing table-cloths; though of course in these matters she did not do a tenth of what Hetta did.
Then the summer came, the Saratoga summer of July, August, and September, during which the widow’s house was full; and Susan’s hands saved the pain of her heart, for she was forced into occupation. Now that Hetta was gone to her own duties, it was necessary that Susan’s part in the household should be more prominent.
Aaron did not come back to his work at Saratoga. Why he did not they could not then learn. During the whole long summer they heard not a word of him nor from him; and then when the cold winter months came and their boarders had left them, Mrs. Beckard congratulated her sister in that she had given no further encouragement to a lover who cared so little for her. This was very hard to bear. But Susan did bear it.
That winter was very sad. They learned nothing of Aaron Dunn till about January; and then they heard that he was doing very well. He was engaged on the Erie trunk line, was paid highly, and was much esteemed34. And yet he neither came nor sent! “He has an excellent situation,” their informant told them. “And a permanent one?” asked the widow. “Oh, yes, no doubt,” said the gentleman, “for I happen to know that they count greatly on him.” And yet he sent no word of love.
After that the winter became very sad indeed. Mrs. Bell thought it to be her duty now to teach her daughter that in all probability she would see Aaron Dunn no more. It was open to him to leave her without being absolutely a wolf. He had been driven from the house when he was poor, and they had no right to expect that he would return, now that he had made some rise in the world. “Men do amuse themselves in that way,” the widow tried to teach her.
“He is not like that, mother,” she said again.
“But they do not think so much of these things as we do,” urged the mother.
“Don’t they?” said Susan, oh, so sorrowfully; and so through the whole long winter months she became paler and paler, and thinner and thinner.
And then Hetta tried to console her with religion, and that perhaps did not make things any better. Religious consolation35 is the best cure for all griefs; but it must not be looked for specially18 with regard to any individual sorrow. A religious man, should he become bankrupt through the misfortunes of the world, will find true consolation in his religion even for that sorrow. But a bankrupt, who has not thought much of such things, will hardly find solace36 by taking up religion for that special occasion.
And Hetta perhaps was hardly prudent37 in her attempts. She thought that it was wicked in Susan to grow thin and pale for love of Aaron Dunn, and she hardly hid her thoughts. Susan was not sure but that it might be wicked, but this doubt in no way tended to make her plump or rosy38. So that in those days she found no comfort in her sister.
But her mother’s pity and soft love did ease her sufferings, though it could not make them cease. Her mother did not tell her that she was wicked, or bid her read long sermons, or force her to go oftener to the meeting-house.
“He will never come again, I think,” she said one day, as with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she leant with her head upon her mother’s bosom39.
“My own darling,” said the mother, pressing her child closely to her side.
“You think he never will, eh, mother?” What could Mrs. Bell say? In her heart of hearts she did not think he ever would come again.
“No, my child. I do not think he will.” And then the hot tears ran down, and the sobs40 came thick and frequent.
“My darling, my darling!” exclaimed the mother; and they wept together.
“Was I wicked to love him at the first,” she asked that night.
“No, my child; you were not wicked at all. At least I think not.”
“Then why—” Why was he sent away? It was on her tongue to ask that question; but she paused and spared her mother. This was as they were going to bed. The next morning Susan did not get up. She was not ill, she said; but weak and weary. Would her mother let her lie that day? And then Mrs. Bell went down alone to her room, and sorrowed with all her heart for the sorrow of her child. Why, oh why, had she driven away from her door-sill the love of an honest man?
On the next morning Susan again did not get up;—nor did she hear, or if she heard she did not recognise, the step of the postman who brought a letter to the door. Early, before the widow’s breakfast, the postman came, and the letter which he brought was as follows:—
“My dear Mrs. Bell,
“I have now got a permanent situation on the Erie line, and the salary is enough for myself and a wife. At least I think so, and I hope you will too. I shall be down at Saratoga to-morrow evening, and I hope neither Susan nor you will refuse to receive me.
“Yours affectionately,
“Aaron Dunn.”
That was all. It was very short, and did not contain one word of love; but it made the widow’s heart leap for joy. She was rather afraid that Aaron was angry, he wrote so curtly41 and with such a brusque business-like attention to mere42 facts; but surely he could have but one object in coming there. And then he alluded43 specially to a wife. So the widow’s heart leapt with joy.
But how was she to tell Susan? She ran up stairs almost breathless with haste, to the bedroom door; but then she stopped; too much joy she had heard was as dangerous as too much sorrow; she must think it over for a while, and so she crept back again.
But after breakfast—that is, when she had sat for a while over her teacup—she returned to the room, and this time she entered it. The letter was in her hand, but held so as to be hidden;—in her left hand as she sat down with her right arm towards the invalid44.
“Susan dear,” she said, and smiled at her child, “you’ll be able to get up this morning? eh, dear?”
“Yes, mother,” said Susan, thinking that her mother objected to this idleness of her lying in bed. And so she began to bestir herself.
“I don’t mean this very moment, love. Indeed, I want to sit with you for a little while,” and she put her right arm affectionately round her daughter’s waist.
“Dearest mother,” said Susan.
“Ah! there’s one dearer than me, I guess,” and Mrs. Bell smiled sweetly, as she made the maternal45 charge against her daughter.
Susan raised herself quickly in the bed, and looked straight into her mother’s face. “Mother, mother,” she said, “what is it? You’ve something to tell. Oh, mother!” And stretching herself over, she struck her hand against the corner of Aaron’s letter. “Mother, you’ve a letter. Is he coming, mother?” and with eager eyes and open lips, she sat up, holding tight to her mother’s arm.
“Yes, love. I have got a letter.”
“Is he—is he coming?”
How the mother answered, I can hardly tell; but she did answer, and they were soon lying in each other’s arms, warm with each other’s tears. It was almost hard to say which was the happier.
Aaron was to be there that evening—that very evening. “Oh, mother, let me get up,” said Susan.
But Mrs. Bell said no, not yet; her darling was pale and thin, and she almost wished that Aaron was not coming for another week. What if he should come and look at her, and finding her beauty gone, vanish again and seek a wife elsewhere!
So Susan lay in bed, thinking of her happiness, dozing46 now and again, and fearing as she waked that it was a dream, looking constantly at that drawing of his, which she kept outside upon the bed, nursing her love and thinking of it, and endeavouring, vainly endeavouring, to arrange what she would say to him.
“Mother,” she said, when Mrs. Bell once went up to her, “you won’t tell Hetta and Phineas, will you? Not to-day, I mean?” Mrs. Bell agreed that it would be better not to tell them. Perhaps she thought that she had already depended too much on Hetta and Phineas in the matter.
Susan’s finery in the way of dress had never been extensive, and now lately, in these last sad winter days, she had thought but little of the fashion of her clothes. But when she began to dress herself for the evening, she did ask her mother with some anxiety what she had better wear. “If he loves you he will hardly see what you have on,” said the mother. But not the less was she careful to smooth her daughter’s hair, and make the most that might be made of those faded roses.
How Susan’s heart beat,—how both their hearts beat as the hands of the clock came round to seven! And then, sharp at seven, came the knock; that same short bold ringing knock which Susan had so soon learned to know as belonging to Aaron Dunn. “Oh mother, I had better go up stairs,” she cried, starting from her chair.
“No dear; you would only be more nervous.”
“I will, mother.”
“No, no, dear; you have not time;” and then Aaron Dunn was in the room.
She had thought much what she would say to him, but had not yet quite made up her mind. It mattered however but very little. On whatever she might have resolved, her resolution would have vanished to the wind. Aaron Dunn came into the room, and in one second she found herself in the centre of a whirlwind, and his arms were the storms that enveloped47 her on every side.
“My own, own darling girl,” he said over and over again, as he pressed her to his heart, quite regardless of Mrs. Bell, who stood by, sobbing48 with joy. “My own Susan.”
“Aaron, dear Aaron,” she whispered. But she had already recognised the fact that for the present meeting a passive part would become her well, and save her a deal of trouble. She had her lover there quite safe, safe beyond anything that Mr. or Mrs. Beckard might have to say to the contrary. She was quite happy; only that there were symptoms now and again that the whirlwind was about to engulf49 her yet once more.
“Dear Aaron, I am so glad you are come,” said the innocent-minded widow, as she went up stairs with him, to show him his room; and then he embraced her also. “Dear, dear mother,” he said.
On the next day there was, as a matter of course, a family conclave. Hetta and Phineas came down, and discussed the whole subject of the coming marriage with Mrs. Bell. Hetta at first was not quite certain;—ought they not to inquire whether the situation was permanent?
“I won’t inquire at all,” said Mrs. Bell, with an energy that startled both the daughter and son-in-law. “I would not part them now; no, not if—” and the widow shuddered50 as she thought of her daughter’s sunken eyes, and pale cheeks.
“He is a good lad,” said Phineas, “and I trust she will make him a sober steady wife;” and so the matter was settled.
During this time, Susan and Aaron were walking along the Balston road; and they also had settled the matter—quite as satisfactorily.
Such was the courtship of Susan Dunn.
The End
The End
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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eel
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| n.鳗鲡 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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narrate
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| v.讲，叙述 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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lodgings
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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bemoaned
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的过去式和过去分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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specially
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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embarrassment
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compliant
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sobbed
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consolatory
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utterly
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discretion
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propriety
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deserted
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hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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linen
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esteemed
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consolation
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solace
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prudent
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rosy
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bosom
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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curtly
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mere
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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engulf
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| vt.吞没，吞食 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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