“Well, Mr. Burrage was certainly very kind to us—no one could have been more thoughtful,” Olive said; and she coloured a little at the look with which Verena greeted this tribute of appreciation from Miss Chancellor to a single gentleman.
“I am so glad you were struck with that, because I do think we have been a little rough to him.” Verena’s we was angelic. “He was particularly attentive to you, my dear; he has got over me. He looked at you so sweetly. Dearest Olive, if you marry him——!” And Miss Tarrant, who was in high spirits, embraced her companion, to check her own silliness.
“He wants you to stay there, all the same. They haven’t given that up,” Olive remarked, turning to a drawer, out of which she took a letter.
“Did he tell you that, pray? He said nothing more about it to me.
“When we came in this afternoon I found this note from Mrs. Burrage. You had better read it.” And she presented the document, open, to Verena.
The purpose of it was to say that Mrs. Burrage could really not reconcile herself to the loss of Verena’s visit, on which both she and her son had counted so much. She was sure they would be able to make it as interesting to Miss Tarrant as it would be to themselves. She, Mrs. Burrage, moreover, felt as if she hadn’t heard half she wanted about Miss Tarrant’s views, and there were so many more who were present at the address, who had come to her that afternoon (losing not a minute, as Miss Chancellor could see), to ask how in the world they too could learn more—how they could get at the fair speaker and question her about certain details. She hoped so much, therefore, that even if the young ladies should be unable to alter their decision about the visit they might at least see their way to staying over long enough to allow her to arrange an informal meeting for some of these poor thirsty souls. Might she not at least talk over the question with Miss Chancellor? She gave her notice that she would attack her on the subject of the visit too. Might she not see her on the morrow, and might she ask of her the very great favour that the interview should be at Mrs. Burrage’s own house? She had something very particular to say to her, as regards which perfect privacy was a great consideration, and Miss Chancellor would doubtless recognise that this would be best secured under Mrs. Burrage’s roof. She would therefore send her carriage for Miss Chancellor at any hour that would be convenient to the latter. She really thought much good might come from their having a satisfactory talk.
Verena read this epistle with much deliberation; it seemed to her mysterious, and confirmed the idea she had received the night before—the idea that she had not got quite a correct impression of this clever, worldly, curious woman on the occasion of her visit to Cambridge, when they met her at her son’s rooms. As she gave the letter back to Olive she said, “That’s why he didn’t seem to believe we are really leaving to-morrow. He knows she had written that, and he thinks it will keep us.”
“Well, if I were to say it may—should you think me too miserably changeful?”
Verena stared, with all her candour, and it was so very queer that Olive should now wish to linger that the sense of it, for the moment, almost covered the sense of its being pleasant. But that came out after an instant, and she said, with great honesty, “You needn’t drag me away for consistency’s sake. It would be absurd for me to pretend that I don’t like being here.”
“I think perhaps I ought to see her.” Olive was very thoughtful.
“How lovely it must be to have a secret with Mrs. Burrage!” Verena exclaimed.
“It won’t be a secret from you.”
“Dearest, you needn’t tell me unless you want,” Verena went on, thinking of her own unimparted knowledge.
“I thought it was our plan to divide everything. It was certainly mine.”
“Ah, don’t talk about plans!” Verena exclaimed, rather ruefully. “You see, if we are going to stay to-morrow, how foolish it was to have any. There is more in her letter than is expressed,” she added, as Olive appeared to be studying in her face the reasons for and against making this concession to Mrs. Burrage, and that was rather embarrassing.
“I thought it over all the evening—so that if now you will consent we will stay.”
“Darling—what a spirit you have got! All through all those dear little dishes—all through ‘Lohengrin!’ As I haven’t thought it over at all, you must settle it. You know I am not difficult.”
“And would you go and stay with Mrs. Burrage, after all, if she should say anything to me that seems to make it desirable?”
Verena broke into a laugh. “You know it’s not our real life!”
Olive said nothing for a moment; then she replied: “Don’t think I can forget that. If I suggest a deviation, it’s only because it sometimes seems to me that perhaps, after all, almost anything is better than the form reality may take with us.” This was slightly obscure, as well as very melancholy, and Verena was relieved when her companion remarked, in a moment, “You must think me strangely inconsequent;” for this gave her a chance to reply, soothingly:
“Why, you don’t suppose I expect you to keep always screwed up! I will stay a week with Mrs. Burrage, or a fortnight, or a month, or anything you like,” she pursued; “anything it may seem to you best to tell her after you have seen her.”
“Do you leave it all to me? You don’t give me much help,” Olive said.
“Help to what?”
“Help to help you.”
“I don’t want any help; I am quite strong enough!” Verena cried, gaily. The next moment she inquired, in an appeal half comical, half touching, “My dear colleague, why do you make me say such conceited things?”
“And if you do stay—just even to-morrow-shall you be—very much of the time—with Mr. Ransom?”
As Verena for the moment appeared ironically-minded, she might have found a fresh subject for hilarity in the tremulous, tentative tone in which Olive made this inquiry. But it had not that effect; it produced the first manifestation of impatience—the first, literally, and the first note of reproach—that had occurred in the course of their remarkable intimacy. The colour rose to Verena’s cheek, and her eye for an instant looked moist.
“I don’t know what you always think, Olive, nor why you don’t seem able to trust me. You didn’t, from the first with gentlemen. Perhaps you were right then—I don’t say, but surely it is very different now. I don’t think I ought to be suspected so much. Why have you a manner as if I had to be watched, as if I wanted to run away with every man that speaks to me? I should think I had proved how little I care. I thought you had discovered by this time that I am serious; that I have dedicated my life; that there is something unspeakably dear to me. But you begin again, every time—you don’t do me justice. I must take everything that comes. I mustn’t be afraid. I thought we had agreed that we were to do our work in the midst of the world, facing everything, keeping straight on, always taking hold. And now that it all opens out so magnificently, and victory is really sitting on our banners, it is strange of you to doubt of me, to suppose I am not more wedded to all our old dreams than ever. I told you the first time I saw you that I could renounce, and knowing better to-day, perhaps, what that means, I am ready to say it again. That I can, that I will! Why, Olive Chancellor,” Verena cried, panting, a moment, with her eloquence, and with the rush of a culminating idea, “haven’t you discovered by this time that I have renounced?”
The habit of public speaking, the training, the practice, in which she had been immersed, enabled Verena to unroll a coil of propositions dedicated even to a private interest with the most touching, most cumulative effect. Olive was completely aware of this, and she stilled herself, while the girl uttered one soft, pleading sentence after another, into the same rapt attention she was in the habit of sending up from the benches of an auditorium. She looked at Verena fixedly, felt that she was stirred to her depths, that she was exquisitely passionate and sincere, that she was a quivering, spotless, consecrated maiden, that she really had renounced, that they were both safe, and that h
er own injustice and indelicacy had been great. She came to her slowly, took her in her arms and held her long-giving her a silent kiss. From which Verena knew that she believed her.
XXXII
The hour that Olive proposed to Mrs. Burrage, in a note sent early the next morning, for the interview to which she consented to lend herself, was the stroke of noon; this period of the day being chosen in consequence of a prevision of many subsequent calls upon her time. She remarked in her note that she did not wish any carriage to be sent for her, and she surged and swayed up the Fifth Avenue on one of the convulsive, clattering omnibuses which circulate in that thoroughfare. One of her reasons for mentioning twelve o’clock had been that she knew Basil Ransom was to call at Tenth Street at eleven, and (as she supposed he didn’t intend to stay all day) this would give her time to see him come and go. It had been tacitly agreed between them, the night before, that Verena was quite firm enough in her faith to submit to his visit, and that such a course would be much more dignified than dodging it. This understanding passed from one to the other during that dumb embrace which I have described as taking place before they separated for the night. Shortly before noon, Olive, passing out of the house, looked into the big, sunny double parlour, where, in the morning, with all the husbands absent for the day and all the wives and spinsters launched upon the town, a young man desiring to hold a debate with a young lady might enjoy every advantage in the way of a clear field. Basil Ransom was still there; he and Verena, with the place to themselves, were standing in the recess of a window, their backs presented to the door. If he had got up, perhaps he was going, and Olive, softly closing the door again, waited a little in the hall, ready to pass into the back part of the house if she should hear him coming out. No sound, however, reached her ear; apparently he did mean to stay all day, and she should find him there on her return. She left the house, knowing they were looking at her from the window as she descended the steps, but feeling she could not bear to see Basil Ransom’s face. As she walked, averting her own, towards the Fifth Avenue, on the sunny side, she was barely conscious of the loveliness of the day, the perfect weather, all suffused and tinted with spring, which sometimes descends upon New York when the winds of March have been stilled; she was given up only to the remembrance of that moment when she herself had stood at a window (the second time he came to see her in Boston), and watched Basil Ransom pass out with Adeline—with Adeline who had seemed capable then of getting such a hold on him but had proved as ineffectual in this respect as she was in every other. She recalled the vision she had allowed to dance before her as she saw the pair cross the street together, laughing and talking, and how it seemed to interpose itself against the fears which already then—so strangely—haunted her. Now that she saw it so fruitless—and that Verena, moreover, had turned out really so great—she was rather ashamed of it; she felt associated, however remotely, in the reasons which had made Mrs. Luna tell her so many fibs the day before, and there could be nothing elevating in that. As for the other reasons why her fidgety sister had failed and Mr. Ransom had held his own course, naturally Miss Chancellor didn’t like to think of them.
If she had wondered what Mrs. Burrage wished so particularly to talk about, she waited some time for the clearing-up of the mystery. During this interval she sat in a remarkably pretty boudoir, where there were flowers and faiences and little French pictures, and watched her hostess revolve round the subject in circles the vagueness of which she tried to dissimulate. Olive believed she was a person who never could enjoy asking a favour, especially of a votary of the new ideas; and that was evidently what was coming. She had asked one already, but that had been handsomely paid for; the note from Mrs. Burrage which Verena found awaiting her in Tenth Street, on her arrival, contained the largest cheque this young woman had ever received for an address. The request that hung fire had reference to Verena too, of course; and Olive needed no prompting to feel that her friend’s being a young person who took money could not make Mrs. Burrage’s present effort more agreeable. To this taking of money (for when it came to Verena it was as if it came to her as well), she herself was now completely inured; money was a tremendous force, and when one wanted to assault the wrong with every engine one was happy not to lack the sinews of war. She liked her hostess better this morning than she had liked her before; she had more than ever the air of taking all sorts of sentiments and views for granted between them; which could only be flattering to Olive so long as it was really Mrs. Burrage who made each advance, while her visitor sat watchful and motionless. She had a light, clever, familiar way of traversing an immense distance with a very few words, as when she remarked, “Well then, it is settled that she will come, and will stay till she is tired.”
Nothing of the kind had been settled, but Olive helped Mrs. Burrage (this time) more than she knew by saying, “Why do you want her to visit you, Mrs. Burrage? why do you want her socially? Are you not aware that your son, a year ago, desired to marry her?”
“My dear Miss Chancellor, that is just what I wish to talk to you about. I am aware of everything; I don’t believe you ever met any one who is aware of more things than I.” And Olive had to believe this, as Mrs. Burrage held up, smiling, her intelligent, proud, good-natured, successful head. “I knew a year ago that my son was in love with your friend, I know that he has been so ever since, and that in consequence he would like to marry her to-day. I daresay you don’t like the idea of her marrying at all; it would break up a friendship which is so full of interest” (Olive wondered for a moment whether she had been going to say “so full of profit”), “for you. This is why I hesitated; but since you are willing to talk about it, that is just what I want.”
“I don’t see what good it will do,” Olive said.
“How can we tell till we try? I never give a thing up till I have turned it over in every sense.”
It was Mrs. Burrage, however, who did most of the talking; Olive only inserted from time to time an inquiry, a protest, a correction, an ejaculation tinged with irony. None of these things checked or diverted her hostess; Olive saw more and more that she wished to please her, to win her over, to smooth matters down, to place them in a new and original light. She was very clever and (little by little Olive said to herself), absolutely unscrupulous, but she didn’t think she was clever enough for what she had undertaken. This was neither more nor less, in the first place, than to persuade Miss Chancellor that she and her son were consumed with sympathy for the movement to which Miss Chancellor had dedicated her life. But how could Olive believe that, when she saw the type to which Mrs. Burrage belonged—a type into which nature herself had inserted a face turned in the very opposite way from all earnest and improving things? People like Mrs. Burrage lived and fattened on abuses, prejudices, privileges, on the petrified, cruel fashions of the past. It must be added, however, that if her hostess was a humbug, Olive had never met one who provoked her less; she was such a brilliant, genial, artistic one, with such a recklessness of perfidy, such a willingness to bribe you if she couldn’t deceive you. She seemed to be offering Olive all the kingdoms of the earth if she would only exert herself to bring about a state of feeling on Verena Tarrant’s part which would lead the girl to accept Henry Burrage.
“We know it’s you—the whole business; that you can do what you please. You could decide it to-morrow with a word.”
She had hesitated at first, and spoken of her hesitation, and it might have appeared that she would need all her courage to say to Olive, that way, face to face, that Verena was in such subjection to her. But she didn’t look afraid; she only looked as if it were an infinite pity Miss Chancellor couldn’t understand what immense advantages and rewards there would be for her in striking an alliance with the house of Burrage. Olive was so impressed with this, so occupied, even, in wondering what these mystic benefits might be, and whether after all there might not be a protection in them (from something worse), a fund of some sort that she and Verena might convert to a large use, setting as
ide the mother and son when once they had got what they had to give—she was so arrested with the vague daze of this vision, the sense of Mrs. Burrage’s full hands, her eagerness, her thinking it worth while to flatter and conciliate, whatever her pretexts and pretensions might be, that she was almost insensible, for the time, to the strangeness of such a woman’s coming round to a positive desire for a connection with the Tarrants. Mrs. Burrage had indeed explained this partly by saying that her son’s condition was wearing her out, and that she would enter into anything that would make him happier, make him better. She was fonder of him than of the whole world beside, and it was an anguish to her to see him yearning for Miss Tarrant only to lose her. She made that charge about Olive’s power in the matter in such a way that it seemed at the same time a tribute to her force of character.
“I don’t know on what terms you suppose me to be with my friend,” Olive returned, with considerable majesty. “She will do exactly as she likes, in such a case as the one you allude to. She is absolutely free; you speak as if I were her keeper!”