The Bostonians (50 page)

“I suppose it’s about time I should take my remedy again. It does seem as if she had found the right thing; don’t you think so?”

“Do you mean the contents of that tumbler? I shall be delighted to give it to you, and you must tell me how much you take.” And Basil Ransom, getting up, possessed himself of the glass on the table.

At the sound of his voice Miss Birdseye pushed back her straw-hat by a movement that was familiar to her, and twisting about her muffled figure a little (even in August she felt the cold, and had to be much covered up to sit out), directed at him a speculative, unastonished gaze.

“One spoonful—two?” Ransom asked, stirring the dose and smiling.

“Well, I guess I’ll take two this time.”

“Certainly, Doctor Prance couldn’t help finding the right thing,” Ransom said, as he administered the medicine; while the movement with which she extended her face to take it made her seem doubly childlike.

He put down the glass, and she relapsed into her position; she seemed to be considering. “It’s homœopathic,” she remarked, in a moment.

“Oh, I have no doubt of that; I presume you wouldn’t take anything else.”

“Well, it’s generally admitted now to be the true system.”

Ransom moved closer to her, placed himself where she could see him better. “It’s a great thing to have the true system,” he said, bending towards her in a friendly way; “I’m sure you have it in everything.” He was not often hypocritical; but when he was he went all lengths.

“Well, I don’t know that any one has a right to say that. I thought you were Verena,” she added in a moment, taking him in again with her mild, deliberate vision.

“I have been waiting for you to recognise me; of course you didn’t know I was here—I only arrived last night.”

“Well, I’m glad you have come to see Olive now.”

“You remember that I wouldn’t do that when I met you last?”

“You asked me not to mention to her that I had met you; that’s what I principally recall.”

“And don’t you remember what I told you I wanted to do? I wanted to go out to Cambridge and see Miss Tarrant. Thanks to the information that you were so good as to give me, I was able to do so.”

“Yes, she gave me quite a little description of your visit,” said Miss Birdseye, with a smile and a vague sound in her throat—a sort of pensive, private reference to the idea of laughter—of which Ransom never learned the exact significance, though he retained for a long time afterwards a kindly memory of the old lady’s manner at the moment.

“I don’t know how much she enjoyed it, but it was an immense pleasure to me; so great a one that, as you see, I have come to call upon her again.”

“Then, I presume, she
has
shaken you?”

“She has shaken me tremendously!” said Ransom, laughing.

“Well, you’ll be a great addition,” Miss Birdseye returned. “And this time your visit is also for Miss Chancellor?”

“That depends on whether she will receive me.”

“Well, if she knows you are shaken, that will go a great way,” said Miss Birdseye, a little musingly, as if even to her unsophisticated mind it had been manifested that one’s relations with Miss Chancellor might be ticklish. “But she can’t receive you now—can she?—because she’s out. She has gone to the post-office for the Boston letters, and they get so many every day that she had to take Verena with her to help her carry them home. One of them wanted to stay with me, because Doctor Prance has gone fishing, but I said I presumed I could be left alone for about seven minutes. I know how they love to be together; it seems as if one
couldn’t
go out without the other. That’s what they came down here for, because it’s quiet, and it didn’t look as if there was any one else they would be much drawn to. So it would be a pity for me to come down after them just to spoil it!”

“I am afraid I shall spoil it, Miss Birdseye.”

“Oh, well, a gentleman,” murmured the ancient woman.

“Yes, what can you expect of a gentleman? I certainly shall spoil it if I can.”

“You had better go fishing with Doctor Prance,” said Miss Birdseye, with a serenity which showed that she was far from measuring the sinister quality of the announcement he had just made.

“I shan’t object to that at all. The days here must be very long— very full of hours. Have you got the doctor with you?” Ransom inquired, as if he knew nothing at all about her.

“Yes, Miss Chancellor invited us both; she is very thoughtful. She is not merely a theoretic philanthropist—she goes into details,” said Miss Birdseye, presenting her large person, in her chair, as if she herself were only an item. “It seems as if we were not so much wanted in Boston, just in August.”

“And here you sit and enjoy the breeze, and admire the view,” the young man remarked, wondering when the two messengers, whose seven minutes must long since have expired, would return from the post-office.

“Yes, I enjoy everything in this little old-world place; I didn’t suppose I should be satisfied to be so passive. It’s a great contrast to my former exertions. But somehow it doesn’t seem as if there were any trouble or any wrong round here; and if there should be, there are Miss Chancellor and Miss Tarrant to look after it. They seem to think I had better fold my hands. Besides, when helpful, generous minds begin to flock in from
your
part of the country,” Miss Birdseye continued, looking at him from under the distorted and discoloured canopy of her hat with a benignity which completed the idea in any cheerful sense he chose.

He felt by this time that he was committed to rather a dishonest part; he was pledged not to give a shock to her optimism. This might cost him, in the coming days, a good deal of dissimulation, but he was now saved from any further expenditure of ingenuity by certain warning sounds which admonished him that he must keep his wits about him for a purpose more urgent. There were voices in the hall of the house, voices he knew, which came nearer, quickly; so that before he had time to rise one of the speakers had come out with the exclamation—“Dear Miss Birdseye, here are seven letters for you!” The words fell to the ground, indeed, before they were fairly spoken, and when Ransom got up, turning, he saw Olive Chancellor standing there, with the parcel from the post-office in her hand. She stared at him in sudden horror ; for the moment her self-possession completely deserted her. There was so little of any greeting in her face save the greeting of dismay, that he felt there was nothing for him to say to her, nothing that could mitigate the odious fact of his being there. He could only let her take it in, let her divine that, this time, he was not to be got rid of. In an instant—to ease off the situation—he held out his hand for Miss Birdseye’s letters, and it was a proof of Olive’s having turned rather faint and weak that she gave them up to him. He delivered the packet to the old lady, and now Verena had appeared in the doorway of the house. As soon as she saw him, she blushed crimson; but she did not, like Olive, stand voiceless.

“Why, Mr. Ransom,” she cried out, “where in the world were you washed ashore?” Miss Birdseye, meanwhile, taking her letters, had no appearance of observing that the encounter between Olive and her visitor was a kind of concussion.

It was Verena who eased off the situation; her gay challenge rose to her lips as promptly as if she had had no cause for embarrassment. She was not confused even when she blushed, and her alertness may perhaps be explained by the habit of public speaking. Ransom smiled at her while she came forward, but he spoke first to Olive, who had already turned her eyes away from him and gazed at the blue sea-view as if she were wondering what was going to happen to her at last.

“Of course you are very much surprised to see me; but I hope to be able to induce you to regard me not absolutely in the light of an intruder. I found your door open, and I walked in, and Miss Birdseye seemed to think I might stay. Miss Birdseye, I put myself under your protection; I invoke you; I appeal to you,” the young man went on. “Adopt me, answer for me, cover me with the mantle of your charity!”

Miss Birdseye looked up from her letters, as if at first she had only faintly heard his appeal. She turned her eyes from Olive to Verena; then she said, “Doesn’t it seem as if we had room for all? When I remember what I have seen in the South, Mr. Ransom’s being here strikes me as a great triumph.”

Olive evidently failed to understand, and Verena broke in with eagerness, “It was by my letter, of course, that you knew we were here. The one I wrote just before we came, Olive,” she went on. “Don’t you remember I showed it to you?”

At the mention of this act of submission on her friend’s part Olive started, flashing her a strange look; then she said to Basil that she didn’t see why he should explain so much about his coming; every one had a right to come. It was a very charming place; it ought to do any one good. “But it will have one defect for you,” she added; “three-quarters of the summer residents are women!”

This attempted pleasantry on Miss Chancellor’s part, so unexpected, so incongruous, uttered with white lips and cold eyes struck Ransom to that degree by its oddity that he could not resist exchanging a glance of wonder with Verena, who, if she had had the opportunity, could probably have explained to him the phenomenon. Olive had recovered herself, reminded herself that she was safe, that her companion in New York had repudiated, denounced her pursuer; and, as a proof to her own sense of her security, as well as a touching mark to Verena that now, after what had passed, she had no fear, she felt that a certain light mockery would be effective.

“Ah, Miss Olive, don’t pretend to think I love your sex so little, when you know that what you really object to in me is that I love it too much!” Ransom was not brazen, he was not impudent, he was really a very modest man; but he was aware that whatever he said or did he was condemned to seem impudent now, and he argued within himself that if he was to have the dishonour of being thought brazen he might as well have the comfort. He didn’t care a straw, in truth, how he was judged or how he might offend; he had a purpose which swallowed up such inanities as that, and he was so full of it that it kept him firm, balanced him, gave him an assurance that might easily have been confounded with a cold detachment. “This place will do me good,” he pursued; “I haven’t had a holiday for more than two years, I couldn’t have gone another day; I was finished. I would have written to you beforehand that I was coming, but I only started at a few hours’ notice. It occurred to me that this would be just what I wanted; I remembered what Miss Tarrant had said in her note, that it was a place where people could lie on the ground and wear their old clothes. I delight to lie on the ground, and all my clothes are old. I hope to be able to stay three or four weeks.”

Olive listened till he had done speaking; she stood a single moment longer, and then, without a word, a glance, she rushed into the house. Ransom saw that Miss Birdseye was immersed in her letters; so he went straight to Verena and stood before her, looking far into her eyes. He was not smiling now, as he had been in speaking to Olive. “Will you come somewhere apart, where I can speak to you alone?”

“Why have you done this? It was not right in you to come!” Verena looked still as if she were blushing, but Ransom perceived he must allow for her having been delicately scorched by the sun.

“I have come because it is necessary—because I have something very important to say to you. A great number of things.”

“The same things you said in New York? I don’t want to hear them again—they were horrible!”

“No, not the same—different ones. I want you to come out with me, away from here.”

“You always want me to come out! We can’t go out here; we are out, as much as we can be!” Verena laughed. She tried to turn it off—feeling that something really impended.

“Come down into the garden, and out beyond there—to the water, where we can speak. It’s what I have come for; it was not for what I told Miss Olive!”

He had lowered his voice, as if Miss Olive might still hear them, and there was something strangely grave—altogether solemn, indeed—in his tone. Verena looked around her, at the splendid summer day, at the much-swathed, formless figure of Miss Birdseye, holding her letter inside her hat. “Mr. Ransom!” she articulated then, simply; and as her eyes met his again they showed him a couple of tears.

“It’s not to make you suffer, I honestly believe. I don’t want to say anything that will hurt you. How can I possibly hurt you, when I feel to you as I do?” he went on, with suppressed force.

She said no more, but all her face entreated him to let her off, to spare her; and as this look deepened, a quick sense of elation and success began to throb in his heart, for it told him exactly what he wanted to know. It told him that she was afraid of him, that she had ceased to trust herself, that the way he had read her nature was the right way (she was tremendously open to attack, she was meant for love, she was meant for him), and that his arriving at the point at which he wished to arrive was only a question of time. This happy consciousness made him extraordinarily tender to her; he couldn’t put enough reassurance into his smile, his low murmur, as he said: “Only give me ten minutes; don’t receive me by turning me away. It’s my holiday—my poor little holiday ; don’t spoil it.”

Three minutes later Miss Birdseye, looking up from her letter, saw them move together through the bristling garden and traverse a gap in the old fence which inclosed the further side of it. They passed into the ancient ship-yard which lay beyond, and which was now a mere vague, grass-grown approach to the waterside, bestrewn with a few remnants of supererogatory timber. She saw them stroll forward to the edge of the bay and stand there, taking the soft breeze in their faces. She watched them a little, and it warmed her heart to see the stiff-necked young Southerner led captive by a daughter of New England trained in the right school, who would impose her opinions in their integrity. Considering how prejudiced he must have been he was certainly behaving very well; even at that distance Miss Birdseye dimly made out that there was something positively humble in the way he invited Verena Tarrant to seat herself on a low pile of weather-blackened planks, which constituted the principal furniture of the place, and something, perhaps, just a trifle too expressive of righteous triumph in the manner in which the girl put the suggestion by and stood where she liked, a little proudly, turning a good deal away from him. Miss Birdseye could see as much as this, but she couldn’t hear, so that she didn’t know what it was that made Verena turn suddenly back to him, at something he said. If she had known, perhaps his observation would have struck her as less singular—under the circumstances in which these two young persons met—than it may appear to the reader.