The Bostonians (35 page)

“Now there is one place where perhaps it would be indelicate to take a Mississippian,” Verena said, after this episode. “I mean the great place that towers above the others—that big building with the beautiful pinnacles, which you see from every point.” But Basil Ransom had heard of the great Memorial Hall;
²
he knew what memories it enshrined, and the worst that he should have to suffer there; and the ornate, overtopping structure, which was the finest piece of architecture he had ever seen, had moreover solicited his enlarged curiosity for the last half-hour. He thought there was rather too much brick about it, but it was buttressed, cloistered, turreted, dedicated, superscribed, as he had never seen anything; though it didn’t look old, it looked significant; it covered a large area, and it sprang majestic into the winter air. It was detached from the rest of the collegiate group, and stood in a grassy triangle of its own. As he approached it with Verena she suddenly stopped, to decline responsibility. “Now mind, if you don’t like what’s inside, it isn’t my fault.”

He looked at her an instant, smiling. “Is there anything against Mississippi?”

“Well, no, I don’t think she is mentioned. But there is great praise of our young men in the war.”

“It says they were brave, I suppose.”

“Yes, it says so in Latin.”

“Well, so they were—I know something about that,” Basil Ransom said. “I must be brave enough to face them—it isn’t the first time.” And they went up the low steps and passed into the tall doors. The Memorial Hall of Harvard consists of three main divisions: one of them a theatre, for academic ceremonies; another a vast refectory covered with a timbered roof, hung about with portraits and lighted by stained windows, like the halls of the colleges of Oxford; and the third, the most interesting, a chamber high, dim, and severe, consecrated to the sons of the university who fell in the long Civil War. Ransom and his companion wandered from one part of the building to another, and stayed their steps at several impressive points; but they lingered longest in the presence of the white, ranged tablets, each of which, in its proud, sad clearness, is inscribed with the name of a student-soldier. The effect of the place is singularly noble and solemn, and it is impossible to feel it without a lifting of the heart. It stands there for duty and honour, it speaks of sacrifice and example, seems a kind of temple to youth, manhood, generosity. Most of them were young, all were in their prime, and all of them had fallen; this simple idea hovers before the visitor and makes him read with tenderness each name and place-names often without other history, and forgotten Southern battles. For Ransom these things were not a challenge nor a taunt; they touched him with respect, with the sentiment of beauty. He was capable of being a generous foeman, and he forgot, now, the whole question of sides and parties; the simple emotion of the old fighting-time came back to him, and the monument around him seemed an embodiment of that memory; it arched over friends as well as enemies, the victims of defeat as well as the sons of triumph.

“It is very beautiful—but I think it is very dreadful!” This remark, from Verena, called him back to the present. “It’s a real sin to put up such a building, just to glorify a lot of bloodshed. If it wasn’t so majestic, I would have it pulled down.”

“That is delightful feminine logic!” Ransom answered. “If, when women have the conduct of affairs, they fight as well as they reason, surely for them too we shall have to set up memorials.”

Verena retorted that they would reason so well they would have no need to fight—they would usher in the reign of peace. “But this is very peaceful too,” she added, looking about her; and she sat down on a low stone ledge, as if to enjoy the influence of the scene. Ransom left her alone for ten minutes; he wished to take another look at the inscribed tablets, and read again the names of the various engagements, at several of which he had been present. When he came back to her she greeted him abruptly, with a question which had no reference to the solemnity of the spot. “If Miss Birdseye knew you were coming out to see me, can’t
she
easily tell Olive? Then won’t Olive make her reflections about your neglect of herself?”

“I don’t care for her reflections. At any rate, I asked Miss Birdseye, as a favour, not to mention to her that she had met me,” Ransom added.

Verena was silent a moment. “Your logic is almost as good as a woman’s. Do change your mind and go to see her now,” she went on. “She will probably be at home by the time you get to Charles Street. If she was a little strange, a little stiff with you before (I know just how she must have been), all that will be different today.”

“Why will it be different?”

“Oh, she will be easier, more genial, much softer.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Ransom; and his scepticism seemed none the less complete because it was light and smiling.

“She is much happier now—she can afford not to mind you.”

“Not to mind me? That’s a nice inducement for a gentleman to go and see a lady!”

“Well, she will be more gracious, because she feels now that she is more successful.”

“You mean because she has brought you out? Oh, I have no doubt that has cleared the air for her immensely, and you have improved her very much. But I have got a charming impression out here, and I have no wish to put another—which won’t be charming, anyhow you arrange it—on top of it.”

“Well, she will be sure to know you have been round here, at any rate,” Verena rejoined.

“How will she know, unless you tell her?”

“I tell her everything,” said the girl; and now as soon as she had spoken, she blushed. He stood before her, tracing a figure on the mosaic pavement with his cane, conscious that in a moment they had become more intimate. They were discussing their affairs, which had nothing to do with the heroic symbols that surrounded them; but their affairs had suddenly grown so serious that there was no want of decency in their lingering there for the purpose. The implication that his visit might remain as a secret between them made them both feel it differently. To ask her to keep it so would have been, as it seemed to Ransom, a liberty, and, moreover, he didn’t care so much as that; but if she were to prefer to do so such a preference would only make him consider the more that his expedition had been a success.

“Oh, then, you can tell her this!” he said in a moment.

“If I shouldn’t, it would be the first——” And Verena checked herself.

“You must arrange that with your conscience,” Ransom went on, laughing.

They came out of the hall, passed down the steps, and emerged from the Delta, as that portion of the college precinct is called. The afternoon had begun to wane, but the air was filled with a pink brightness, and there was a cool, pure smell, a vague breath of spring.

“Well, if I don’t tell Olive, then you must leave me here,” said Verena, stopping in the path and putting out a hand of farewell.

“I don’t understand. What has that to do with it? Besides I thought you said you must tell,” Ransom added. In playing with the subject this way, in enjoying her visible hesitation, he was slightly conscious of a man’s brutality—of being pushed by an impulse to test her good-nature, which seemed to have no limit. It showed no sign of perturbation as she answered:

“Well, I want to be free—to do as I think best. And, if there is a chance of my keeping it back, there mustn’t be anything more—there must not, Mr. Ransom, really.”

“Anything more? Why, what are you afraid there will be—if I should simply walk home with you?”

“I must go alone, I must hurry back to mother,” she said, for all reply. And she again put out her hand, which he had not taken before.

Of course he took it now, and even held it a moment; he didn’t like being dismissed, and was thinking of pretexts to linger. “Miss Birdseye said you would convert me, but you haven’t yet,” it came into his head to say.

“You can’t tell yet; wait a little. My influence is peculiar; it sometimes comes out a long time afterwards!” This speech, on Verena’s part, was evidently perfunctory, and the grandeur of her self-reference jocular; she was much more serious when she went on quickly, “Do you mean to say Miss Birdseye promised you that?”

“Oh yes. Talk about influence! you should have seen the influence I obtained over her.”

“Well, what good will it do, if I’m going to tell Olive about your visit?”

“Well, you see, I think she hopes you won’t. She believes you are going to convert me privately—so that I shall blaze forth, suddenly, out of the darkness of Mississippi, as a first-class proselyte: very effective and dramatic.”

Verena struck Basil Ransom as constantly simple, but there were moments when her candour seemed to him preternatural. “If I thought that would be the effect, I might make an exception,” she remarked, speaking as if such a result were, after all, possible.

“Oh, Miss Tarrant, you will convert me enough, any way,” said the young man.

“Enough? What do you mean by enough?”

“Enough to make me terribly unhappy.”

She looked at him a moment, evidently not understanding; but she tossed him a retort at a venture, turned away, and took her course homeward. The retort was that if he should be unhappy it would serve him right—a form of words that committed her to nothing. As he returned to Boston he saw how curious he should be to learn whether she had betrayed him, as it were, to Miss Chancellor. He might learn through Mrs. Luna; that would almost reconcile him to going to see her again. Olive would mention it in writing to her sister, and Adeline would repeat the complaint. Perhaps she herself would even make him a scene about it; that would be, for him, part of the unhappiness he had foretold to Verena Tarrant.

XXVI

M
rs. Henry Burrage, at home Wednesday evening, March 26th, at half-past nine o’clock.” It was in consequence of having received a card with these words inscribed upon it that Basil Ransom presented himself, on the evening she had designated, at the house of a lady he had never heard of before. The account of the relation of effect to cause is not complete, however, unless I mention that the card bore, furthermore, in the left-hand lower corner, the words: “An Address from Miss Verena Tarrant.” He had an idea (it came mainly from the look and even the odour of the engraved pasteboard), that Mrs. Burrage was a member of the fashionable world, and it was with considerable surprise that he found himself in such an element. He wondered what had induced a denizen of that fine air to send him an invitation; then he said to himself that, obviously, Verena Tarrant had simply requested that this should be done. Mrs. Henry Burrage, whoever she might be, had asked her if she shouldn’t like some of her own friends to be present, and she had said, Oh yes, and mentioned him in the happy group. She had been able to give Mrs. Burrage his address, for had it not been contained in the short letter he despatched to Monadnoc Place soon after his return from Boston, in which he thanked Miss Tarrant afresh for the charming hour she had enabled him to spend at Cambridge? She had not answered his letter at the time, but Mrs. Burrage’s card was a very good answer. Such a missive deserved a rejoinder, and it was by way of rejoinder that he entered the streetcar which, on the evening of March 26th, was to deposit him at a corner adjacent to Mrs. Burrage’s dwelling. He almost never went to evening parties (he knew scarcely any one who gave them, though Mrs. Luna had broken him in a little), and he was sure this occasion was of festive intention, would have nothing in common with the nocturnal “exercises” at Miss Birdseye’s; but he would have exposed himself to almost any social discomfort in order to see Verena Tarrant on the platform. The platform it evidently was to be—private if not public—since one was admitted by a ticket given away if not sold. He took his in his pocket, quite ready to present it at the door. It would take some time for me to explain the contradiction to the reader; but Basil Ransom’s desire to be present at one of Verena’s regular performances was not diminished by the fact that he detested her views and thought the whole business a poor perversity. He understood her now very well (since his visit to Cambridge); he saw she was honest and natural; she had queer, bad lecture-blood in her veins, and a comically false idea of the aptitude of little girls for conducting movements; but her enthusiasm was of the purest, her illusions had a fragrance, and so far as the mania for producing herself personally was concerned, it had been distilled into her by people who worked her for ends which to Basil Ransom could only appear insane. She was a touching, ingenuous victim, unconscious of the pernicious forces which were hurrying her to her ruin. With this idea of ruin there had already associated itself in the young man’s mind, the idea—a good deal more dim and incomplete—of rescue; and it was the disposition to confirm himself in the view that her charm was her own, and her fallacies, her absurdity, a mere reflection of unlucky circumstance, that led him to make an effort to behold her in the position in which he could least bear to think of her. Such a glimpse was all that was wanted to prove to him that she was a person for whom he might open an unlimited credit of tender compassion. He expected to suffer—to suffer deliciously.

By the time he had crossed Mrs. Burrage’s threshold there was no doubt whatever in his mind that he was in the fashionable world. It was embodied strikingly in the stout, elderly, ugly lady, dressed in a brilliant colour, with a twinkle of jewels and a bosom much uncovered, who stood near the door of the first room, and with whom the people passing in before him were shaking hands. Ransom made her a Mississippian bow, and she said she was delighted to see him, while people behind him pressed him forward. He yielded to the impulsion, and found himself in a great saloon, amid lights and flowers, where the company was dense, and there were more twinkling, smiling ladies, with uncovered bosoms. It was certainly the fashionable world, for there was no one there whom he had ever seen before. The walls of the room were covered with pictures—the very ceiling was painted and framed. The people pushed each other a little, edged about, advanced and retreated, looking at each other with differing faces—sometimes blandly, unperceivingly, sometimes with a harshness of contemplation, a kind of cruelty, Ransom thought; sometimes with sudden nods and grimaces, inarticulate murmurs, followed by a quick reaction, a sort of gloom. He was now absolutely certain that he was in the best society. He was carried further and further forward, and saw that another room stretched beyond the one he had entered, in which there was a sort of little stage, covered with a red cloth, and an immense collection of chairs, arranged in rows. He became aware that people looked at him, as well as at each other, rather more, indeed, than at each other, and he wondered whether it were very visible in his appearance that his being there was a kind of exception. He didn’t know how much his head looked over the heads of others, or that his brown complexion, fuliginous eye, and straight black hair, the leonine fall of which I mentioned in the first pages of this narrative, gave him that relief which, in the best society, has the great advantage of suggesting a topic. But there were other topics besides, as was proved by a fragment of conversation, between two ladies, which reached his ear while he stood rather wistfully wondering where Verena Tarrant might be.