Old Burt came into the room, and said, a little fiercely, as he saw the visitor,
“Well, Sir!”
Abel bowed.
“Well, Sir!” he repeated, more blandly, apparently mollified by something in the appearance of the youth.
“Mr. Burt,” said Abel, “I am sure you will excuse me when you understand the object of my call; although I am fully aware of the liberty I am taking in intruding upon your valuable time and the many important cares which must occupy the attention of a gentleman so universally known, honored, and loved in the community as you are, Sir.”
“Did you come here to compliment me, Sir?” asked Mr. Burt. “You’ve got some kind of subscription paper, I suppose.” The old gentleman began to warm up as he thought of it. “But I can’t give any thing. I never do—I never will. It’s an infernal swindle. Some deuced Missionary Society, or Tract Society, or Bible Society, some damnable doing-good society, that bleeds the entire community, has sent you up here, Sir, to suck money out of me with your smooth face. They’re always at it. They’re always sending boys, and ministers in the milk, by Jove! and women that talk in a way to turn the milk sour in the cellar, Sir, and who have already turned themselves sour in the face, Sir, and whom a man can’t turn out of doors, Sir, to swindle money out of innocent people! I tell you, young man, ‘twon’t work! I’ll, be whipped if I give you a solitary red cent!” And Christopher Burt, in a fine wrath, seated himself by the table, and wiped his forehead.
Abel stood patiently and meekly under this gust of fury, and when it was ended, and Mr. Burt was a little composed, he began quietly, as if the indignation were the most natural thing in the world:
“No, Sir; it is not a subscription paper—”
“Not a subscription paper!” interrupted the old gentleman, lifting his head and staring at him. “Why, what the deuce is it, then?”
“Why, Sir, as I was just saying,” calmly returned Abel, “it is a personal matter altogether.”
“Eh! eh! what?” cried Mr. Burt, on the edge of another paroxysm, “what the deuce does that mean? Who are you. Sir?”
“I am one of Mr. Gray’s boys, Sir,” replied Abel.
“What! what!” thundered Grandpa Burt, springing up suddenly, his mind opening upon a fresh scent. “One of Mr. Gray’s boys? How dare you, Sir, come into my house? Who sent you here, Sir? What right have you to intrude into this place, Sir? Hiram! Hiram!”
“Yes, Sir,” answered the man, as he came across the hall.
“Show this young man out.”
“He may have some message, Sir,” said Hiram, who had heard the preceding conversation.
“Have you got any message?” asked Mr. Burt.
“No, Sir; but I—”
“Then why, in Heaven’s name, don’t you go?”
“Mr. Burt,” said Abel, with placid persistence, “being one of Mr. Gray’s boys, I go of course to Dr. Peewee’s Church, and there I have so often seen—”
“Come, come, Sir, this is a little too much. Hiram, put this boy out,” said the old gentleman, quite beside himself as he thought of his grand-daughter. “Seen, indeed! What business have you to see, Sir?”
“So often seen your venerable figure,” resumed Abel in the same tone as before, while Mr. Burt turned suddenly and looked at him closely, “that I naturally asked who you were. I was told, Sir; and hearing of your wealth and old family, and so on, Sir, I was interested—it was only natural, Sir—in all that belongs to you.”
“Eh! eh! what?” said Mr. Burt, quickly.
“Particularly, Mr. Burt, in your—”
“By Jove! young man, you’d better go if you don’t want to have your head broken. D’ye come here to beard me in my own house? By George! your impudence stupefies me, Sir. I tell you go this minute!”
But Abel continued:
“In your beautiful—”
“Don’t dare to say it, Sir!” cried the old man, shaking his finger.
“Place,” said Abel, quietly.
The old gentleman glared at him with a look of mixed surprise and suspicion. But the boy wore the same look of candor. He held his cap in his hand. His black hair fell around his handsome face. He was entirely calm, and behaved in the most respectful manner.
“What do you mean, Sir?” said Christopher Burt, in great perplexity, as he seated himself again, and drew a long breath.
“Simply, Sir, that I am very fond of sketching. My teacher says I draw very well, and I have had a great desire to draw your place, but I did not dare to ask permission. It is said in school, Sir, that you don’t like Mr. Gray’s boys, and I knew nobody who could introduce me. But to-day, as I came by, every thing looked so beautifully, and I was so sure that I could make a pretty picture if I could only get leave to come inside the grounds, that almost unconsciously I found myself coming up the avenue and ringing the bell. That’s all, Sir; and I’m sure I beg your pardon for troubling you so much.”
Mr. Burt listened to this speech with a pacified air. He was perhaps a little ashamed of his furious onslaughts and interruptions, and therefore the more graciously inclined toward the request of the young man.
So the old man said, with tolerable grace,
“Well, Sir, I am willing you should draw my house. Will you do it this afternoon?”
“Really, Sir,” replied Abel, “I had no intention of asking you to-day; and as I strolled out merely for a walk, I did not bring my drawing materials with me. But if you would allow me to come at any time, Sir, I should be very deeply obliged. I am devoted to my art, Sir.”
“Oh! you mean to be an artist?”
“Perhaps, Sir.”
“Phit! phit! Don’t do any such silly thing, Sir. An artist! Why how much does an artist make in a year?”
“Well, Sir, the money I don’t know about, but the fame!”
“Oh! the fame! The fiddle, Sir! You are capable of better things.”
“For instance, Mr. Burt—”
“Trade, Sir, trade—trade. That is the way to fortune in this country. Enterprise, activity, shrewdness, industry, that’s what a young man wants. Get rid of your fol-de-rol notions about art. Benjamin West was a great man, Sir; but he was an exception, and besides he lived in England. I respect Benjamin West, Sir, of course. We all do. He made a good thing of it. Take the word of an old man who has seen life and knows the world, and remember that, with all your fine fiddling, it is money makes the mare go. Old men like me don’t mince matters, Sir. It’s money—money!”
Abel thought old men sometimes minced grammar a little, but he did not say so. He only looked respectful, and said, “Yes, Sir.”
“About drawing the house, come when you choose,” said Mr. Burt, rising.
“It may take more than one, or even three or four afternoons, Sir, to do it properly.”
“Well, well. If I’m not at home ask for Mrs. Simcoe, d’ye hear? Mrs. Simcoe. She will attend to you.”
Abel bowed very respectfully and as if he were controlling