by Henry James
His companion turned upon him, slowly and mildly, and each of her glasses, in her aspect of reproach, had the glitter of an enormous tear. “Do you regard us, then, simply as lovely baubles?”
The effect of this question, as coming from Miss Birdseye, and referring in some degree to her own venerable identity, was such as to move him to irresistible laughter. But he controlled himself quickly enough to say, with genuine expression, “I regard you as the dearest thing in life, the only thing which makes it worth living!”
“Worth living for—you! But for us?” suggested Miss Birdseye.
“It’s worth any woman’s while to be admired as I admire you. Miss Tarrant, of whom we were speaking, affected me, as you say, in this way—that I think more highly still, if possible, of the sex which produced such a delightful young lady.”
“Well, we think everything of her here,” said Miss Birdseye. “It seems as if it were a real gift.”
“Does she speak often—is there any chance of my hearing her now?”
“She raises her voice a good deal in the places round—like Framingham and Billerica. It seems as if she were gathering strength, just to break over Boston like a wave. In fact she did break, last summer. She is a growing power since her great success at the convention.”
“Ah! her success at the convention was very great?” Ransom inquired, putting discretion into his voice.
Miss Birdseye hesitated a moment, in order to measure her response by the bounds of righteousness. “Well,” she said, with the tenderness of a long retrospect, “I have seen nothing like it since I last listened to Eliza P. Moseley.”
“What a pity she isn’t speaking somewhere to-night!” Ransom exclaimed.
“Oh, to-night she’s out in Cambridge. Olive Chancellor mentioned that.”
“Is she making a speech there?”
“No; she’s visiting her home.”
“I thought her home was in Charles Street?”
“Well, no; that’s her residence—her principal one—since she became so united to your cousin. Isn’t Miss Chancellor your cousin?”
“We don’t insist on the relationship,” said Ransom, smiling. “Are they very much united, the two young ladies?”
“You would say so if you were to see Miss Chancellor when Verena rises to eloquence. It’s as if the chords were strung across her own heart; she seems to vibrate, to echo with every word. It’s a very close and very beautiful tie, and we think everything of it here. They will work together for a great good!”
“I hope so,” Ransom remarked. “But in spite of it Miss Tarrant spends a part of her time with her father and mother.”
“Yes, she seems to have something for every one. If you were to see her at home, you would think she was all the daughter. She leads a lovely life!” said Miss Birdseye.
“See her at home? That’s exactly what I want!” Ransom rejoined, feeling that if he was to come to this he needn’t have had scruples at first. “I haven’t forgotten that she invited me, when I met her.”
“Oh, of course she attracts many visitors,” said Miss Birdseye, limiting her encouragement to this statement.
“Yes; she must be used to admirers. And where, in Cambridge, do her family live?”
“Oh, it’s on one of those little streets that don’t seem to have very much of a name. But they do call it—they do call it–-” she meditated audibly.
This process was interrupted by an abrupt allocution from the conductor. “I guess you change here for your place. You want one of them blue cars.”
The good lady returned to a sense of the situation, and Ransom helped her out of the vehicle, with the aid, as before, of a certain amount of propulsion from the conductor. Her road branched off to the right, and she had to wait on the corner of a street, there being as yet no blue car within hail. The corner was quiet and the day favourable to patience—a day of relaxed rigour and intense brilliancy. It was as if the touch of the air itself were gloved, and the street-colouring had the richness of a superficial thaw. Ransom, of course, waited with his philanthropic companion, though she now protested more vigorously against the idea that a gentleman from the South should pretend to teach an old abolitionist the mysteries of Boston. He promised to leave her when he should have consigned her to the blue car; and meanwhile they stood in the sun, with their backs against an apothecary’s window, and she tried again, at his suggestion, to remember the name of Doctor Tarrant’s street. “I guess if you ask for Doctor Tarrant, any one can tell you,” she said; and then suddenly the address came to her—the residence of the mesmeric healer was in Monadnoc Place.
“But you’ll have to ask for that, so it comes to the same,” she went on. After this she added, with a friendliness more personal, “Ain’t you going to see your cousin too?”
“Not if I can help it!”
Miss Birdseye gave a little ineffectual sigh. “Well, I suppose every one must act out their ideal. That’s what Olive Chancellor does. She’s a very noble character.”
“Oh yes, a glorious nature.”
“You know their opinions are just the same—hers and Verena’s,” Miss Birdseye placidly continued. “So why should you make a distinction?”
“My dear madam,” said Ransom, “does a woman consist of nothing but her opinions? I like Miss Tarrant’s lovely face better, to begin with.”
“Well, she is pretty-looking.” And Miss Birdseye gave another sigh, as if she had had a theory submitted to her—that one about a lady’s opinions—which, with all that was unfamiliar and peculiar lying behind it, she was really too old to look into much. It might have been the first time she really felt her age. “There’s a blue car,” she said, in a tone of mild relief.
“It will be some moments before it gets here. Moreover, I don’t believe that at bottom they are Miss Tarrant’s opinions,” Ransom added.
“You mustn’t think she hasn’t a strong hold of them,” his companion exclaimed, more briskly. “If you think she is not sincere, you are very much mistaken. Those views are just her life.”
“Well, she may bring me round to them,” said Ransom, smiling.
Miss Birdseye had been watching her blue car, the advance of which was temporarily obstructed. At this, she transferred her eyes to him, gazing at him solemnly out of the pervasive window of her spectacles. “Well, I shouldn’t wonder if she did! Yes, that will be a good thing. I don’t see how you can help being a good deal shaken by her. She has acted on so many.”
“I see: no doubt she will act on me.” Then it occurred to Ransom to add: “By the way, Miss Birdseye, perhaps you will be so kind as not to mention this meeting of ours to my cousin, in case of your seeing her again. I have a perfectly good conscience in not calling upon her, but I shouldn’t like her to think that I announced my slighting intention all over the town. I don’t want to offend her, and she had better not know that I have been in Boston. If you don’t tell her, no one else will.”
“Do you wish me to conceal–-?” murmured Miss Birdseye, panting a little.
“No, I don’t want you to conceal anything. I only want you to let this incident pass—to say nothing.”
“Well, I never did anything of that kind.”
“Of what kind?” Ransom was half vexed, half touched by her inability to enter into his point of view, and her resistance made him hold to his idea the more. “It is very simple, what I ask of you. You are under no obligation to tell Miss Chancellor everything that happens to you, are you?”
His request seemed still something of a shock to the poor old lady’s candour. “Well, I see her very often, and we talk a great deal. And then—won’t Verena tell her?”
“I have thought of that—but I hope not.”
“She tells her most everything. Their union is so close.”
“She won’t want her to be wounded,” Ransom said ingeniously.
“Well, you are considerate.” And Miss Birdseye continued to gaze at him. “It’s a pity you can’t sympathise.”
“As I tell you, perhaps Miss Tarrant will bring me round. You have before you a possible convert,” Ransom went on, without, I fear, putting up the least little prayer to heaven that his dishonesty might be forgiven.
“I should be very happy to think that—after I have told you her address in this secret way.” A smile of infinite mildness glimmered in Miss Birdseye’s face, and she added: “Well, I guess that will be your fate. She has affected so many. I would keep very quiet if I thought that. Yes, she will bring you round.”
“I will let you know as soon as she does,” Basil Ransom said. “Here is your car at last.”
“Well, I believe in the victory of the truth. I won’t say anything.” And she suffered the young man to lead her to the car, which had now stopped at their corner.
“I hope very much I shall see you again,” he remarked, as they went.
“Well, I am always round the streets, in Boston.” And while, lifting and pushing, he was helping again to insert her into the oblong receptacle, she turned a little and repeated, “She will affect you! If that’s to be your secret, I will keep it,” Ransom heard her subjoin. He raised his hat and waved her a farewell, but she didn’t see him; she was squeezing further into the car and making the discovery that this time it was full and there was no seat for her. Surely, however, he said to himself, every man in the place would offer his own to such an innocent old dear.
END OF VOL. I
Bostonians: Volume II (of II)
BOOK SECOND (Continued)
XXIV
A little more than an hour after this he stood in the parlour of Doctor Tarrant’s suburban residence, in Monadnoc Place. He had induced a juvenile maid-servant, by an appeal somewhat impassioned, to let the ladies know that he was there; and she had returned, after a long absence, to say that Miss Tarrant would come down to him in a little while. He possessed himself, according to his wont, of the nearest book (it lay on the table, with an old magazine and a little japanned tray containing Tarrant’s professional cards—his denomination as a mesmeric healer), and spent ten minutes in turning it over. It was a biography of Mrs. Ada T. P. Foat, the celebrated trance-lecturer, and was embellished by a portrait representing the lady with a surprised expression and innumerable ringlets. Ransom said to himself, after reading a few pages, that much ridicule had been cast upon Southern literature; but if that was a fair specimen of Northern!—and he threw it back upon the table with a gesture almost as contemptuous as if he had not known perfectly, after so long a residence in the North, that it was not, while he wondered whether this was the sort of thing Miss Tarrant had been brought up on. There was no other book to be seen, and he remembered to have read the magazine; so there was finally nothing for him, as the occupants of the house failed still to appear, but to stare before him, into the bright, bare, common little room, which was so hot that he wished to open a window, and of which an ugly, undraped cross-light seemed to have taken upon itself to reveal the poverty. Ransom, as I have mentioned, had not a high standard of comfort and noticed little, usually, how people’s houses were furnished—it was only when they were very pretty that he observed; but what he saw while he waited at Doctor Tarrant’s made him say to himself that it was no wonder Verena liked better to live with Olive Chancellor. He even began to wonder whether it were for the sake of that superior softness she had cultivated Miss Chancellor’s favour, and whether Mrs. Luna had been right about her being mercenary and insincere. So many minutes elapsed before she appeared that he had time to remember he really knew nothing to the contrary, as well as to consider the oddity (so great when one did consider it) of his coming out to Cambridge to see her, when he had only a few hours in Boston to spare, a year and a half after she had given him her very casual invitation. She had not refused to receive him, at any rate; she was free to, if it didn’t please her. And not only this, but she was apparently making herself fine in his honour, inasmuch as he heard a rapid footstep move to and fro above his head, and even, through the slightness which in Monadnoc Place did service for an upper floor, the sound of drawers and presses opened and closed. Some one was “flying round,” as they said in Mississippi. At last the stairs creaked under a light tread, and the next moment a brilliant person came into the room.
His reminiscence of her had been very pretty; but now that she had developed and matured, the little prophetess was prettier still. Her splendid hair seemed to shine; her cheek and chin had a curve which struck him by its fineness; her eyes and lips were full of smiles and greetings. She had appeared to him before as a creature of brightness, but now she lighted up the place, she irradiated, she made everything that surrounded her of no consequence; dropping upon the shabby sofa with an effect as charming as if she had been a nymph sinking on a leopard-skin, and with the native sweetness of her voice forcing him to listen till she spoke again. It was not long before he perceived that this added lustre was simply success; she was young and tender still, but the sound of a great applauding audience had been in her ears; it formed an element in which she felt buoyant and floated. Still, however, her glance was as pure as it was direct, and that fantastic fairness hung about her which had made an impression on him of old, and which reminded him of unworldly places—he didn’t know where—convent-cloisters or vales of Arcady. At that other time she had been parti-coloured and bedizened, and she had always an air of costume, only now her costume was richer and more chastened. It was her line, her condition, part of her expression. If at Miss Birdseye’s, and afterwards in Charles Street, she might have been a rope-dancer, to-day she made a “scene” of the mean little room in Monadnoc Place, such a scene as a prima donna makes of daubed canvas and dusty boards. She addressed Basil Ransom as if she had seen him the other week and his merits were fresh to her, though she let him, while she sat smiling at him, explain in his own rather ceremonious way why it was he had presumed to call upon her on so slight an acquaintance—on an invitation which she herself had had more than time to forget. His explanation, as a finished and satisfactory thing, quite broke down; there was no more impressive reason than that he had simply wished to see her. He became aware that this motive loomed large, and that her listening smile, innocent as it was, in the Arcadian manner, of mockery, seemed to accuse him of not having the courage of his inclination. He had alluded especially to their meeting at Miss Chancellor’s; there it was that she had told him she should be glad to see him in her home.
“Oh yes, I remember perfectly, and I remember quite as well seeing you at Miss Birdseye’s the night before. I made a speech—don’t you remember? That was delightful.”
“It was delightful indeed,” said Basil Ransom.
“I don’t mean my speech; I mean the whole thing. It was then I made Miss Chancellor’s acquaintance. I don’t know whether you know how we work together. She has done so much for me.”
“Do you still make speeches?” Ransom asked, conscious, as soon as he had uttered it, that the question was below the mark.
“Still? Why, I should hope so; it’s all I’m good for! It’s my life—or it’s going to be. And it’s Miss Chancellor’s too. We are determined to do something.”
“And does she make speeches too?”
“Well, she makes mine—or the best part of them. She tells me what to say—the real things, the strong things. It’s Miss Chancellor as much as me!” said the singular girl, with a generous complacency which was yet half ludicrous.
“I should like to hear you again,” Basil Ransom rejoined.
“Well, you must come some night. You will have plenty of chances. We are going on from triumph to triumph.”
Her brightness, her self-possession, her air of being a public character, her mixture of the girlish and the comprehensive, startled and confounded her visitor, who felt that if he had come to gratify his curiosity he should be in danger of going away still more curious than satiated. She added in her gay, friendly, trustful tone—the tone of facile intercourse, the tone in which happy, flower-crowned maidens may have
talked to sunburnt young men in the golden age—”I am very familiar with your name; Miss Chancellor has told me all about you.”
“All about me?” Ransom raised his black eyebrows. “How could she do that? She doesn’t know anything about me!”
“Well, she told me you are a great enemy to our movement. Isn’t that true? I think you expressed some unfavourable idea that day I met you at her house.”
“If you regard me as an enemy, it’s very kind of you to receive me.”
“Oh, a great many gentlemen call,” Verena said, calmly and brightly. “Some call simply to inquire. Some call because they have heard of me, or been present on some occasion when I have moved them. Every one is so interested.”
“And you have been in Europe,” Ransom remarked, in a moment.
“Oh yes, we went over to see if they were in advance. We had a magnificent time—we saw all the leaders.”
“The leaders?” Ransom repeated.