"You ought to like her--she hates our movement!" And Verena asked,
further, numerous questions about the brilliant Adeline; whether he saw
her often, whether she went out much, whether she was admired in New
York, whether he thought her very handsome. He answered to the best of
his ability, but soon made the reflexion that he had not come out to
Monadnoc Place to talk about Mrs. Luna; in consequence of which, to
change the subject (as well as to acquit himself of a social duty), he
began to speak of Verena's parents, to express regret that Mrs. Tarrant
had been sick, and fear that he was not to have the pleasure of seeing
her. "She is a great deal better," Verena said; "but she's lying down;
she lies down a great deal when she has got nothing else to do. Mother's
very peculiar," she added in a moment; "she lies down when she feels
well and happy, and when she's sick she walks about--she roams all round
the house. If you hear her on the stairs a good deal, you can be pretty
sure she's very bad. She'll be very much interested to hear about you
after you have left."
Ransom glanced at his watch. "I hope I am not staying too long--that I
am not taking you away from her."
"Oh no; she likes visitors, even when she can't see them. If it didn't
take her so long to rise, she would have been down here by this time. I
suppose you think she has missed me, since I have been so absorbed.
Well, so she has, but she knows it's for my good. She would make any
sacrifice for affection."
The fancy suddenly struck Ransom of asking, in response to this, "And
you? would you make any?"
Verena gave him a bright natural stare. "Any sacrifice for affection?"
She thought a moment, and then she said: "I don't think I have a right
to say, because I have never been asked. I don't remember ever to have
had to make a sacrifice--not an important one."
"Lord! you must have had a happy life!"
"I have been very fortunate, I know that. I don't know what to do when I
think how some women--how most women--suffer. But I must not speak of
that," she went on, with her smile coming back to her. "If you oppose
our movement, you won't want to hear of the suffering of women!"
"The suffering of women is the suffering of all humanity," Ransom
returned. "Do you think any movement is going to stop that--or all the
lectures from now to doomsday? We are born to suffer--and to bear it,
like decent people."
"Oh, I adore heroism!" Verena interposed.
"And as for women," Ransom went on, "they have one source of happiness
that is closed to us--the consciousness that their presence here below
lifts half the load of _our_ suffering."
Verena thought this very graceful, but she was not sure it was not
rather sophistical; she would have liked to have Olive's judgement upon
it. As that was not possible for the present, she abandoned the question
(since learning that Mr. Ransom had passed over Olive, to come to her,
she had become rather fidgety), and inquired of the young man,
irrelevantly, whether he knew any one else in Cambridge.
"Not a creature; as I tell you, I have never been here before. Your
image alone attracted me; this charming interview will be henceforth my
only association with the place."
"It's a pity you couldn't have a few more," said Verena musingly.
"A few more interviews? I should be unspeakably delighted!"
"A few more associations. Did you see the colleges as you came?"
"I had a glimpse of a large enclosure, with some big buildings. Perhaps
I can look at them better as I go back to Boston."
"Oh yes, you ought to see them--they have improved so much of late. The
inner life, of course, is the greatest interest, but there is some fine
architecture, if you are not familiar with Europe." She paused a moment,
looking at him with an eye that seemed to brighten, and continued
quickly, like a person who had collected herself for a little jump, "If
you would like to walk round a little, I shall be very glad to show
you."
"To walk round--with you to show me?" Ransom repeated. "My dear Miss
Tarrant, it would be the greatest privilege--the greatest happiness--of
my life. What a delightful idea--what an ideal guide!"
Verena got up; she would go and put on her hat; he must wait a little.
Her offer had a frankness and friendliness which gave him a new
sensation, and he could not know that as soon as she had made it (though
she had hesitated too, with a moment of intense reflexion), she seemed
to herself strangely reckless. An impulse pushed her; she obeyed it with
her eyes open. She felt as a girl feels when she commits her first
conscious indiscretion. She had done many things before which many
people would have called indiscreet, but that quality had not even
faintly belonged to them in her own mind; she had done them in perfect
good faith and with a remarkable absence of palpitation. This
superficially ingenuous proposal to walk around the colleges with Mr.
Ransom had really another colour; it deepened the ambiguity of her
position, by reason of a prevision which I shall presently mention. If
Olive was not to know that she had seen him, this extension of their
interview would double her secret. And yet, while she saw it grow--this
monstrous little mystery--she couldn't feel sorry that she was going out
with Olive's cousin. As I have already said, she had become nervous. She
went to put on her hat, but at the door of the room she stopped, turned
round, and presented herself to her visitor with a small spot in either
cheek, which had appeared there within the instant. "I have suggested
this, because it seems to me I ought to do something for you--in
return," she said. "It's nothing, simply sitting there with me. And we
haven't got anything else. This is our only hospitality. And the day
seems so splendid."
The modesty, the sweetness, of this little explanation, with a kind of
intimated desire, constituting almost an appeal, for rightness, which
seemed to pervade it, left a fragrance in the air after she had
vanished. Ransom walked up and down the room, with his hands in his
pockets, under the influence of it, without taking up even once the book
about Mrs. Foat. He occupied the time in asking himself by what
perversity of fate or of inclination such a charming creature was
ranting upon platforms and living in Olive Chancellor's pocket, or how a
ranter and sycophant could possibly be so engaging. And she was so
disturbingly beautiful, too. This last fact was not less evident when
she came down arranged for their walk. They left the house, and as they
proceeded he remembered that he had asked himself earlier how he could
do honour to such a combination of leisure and ethereal mildness as he
had waked up to that morning--a mildness that seemed the very breath of
his own latitude. This question was answered now; to do exactly what he
was doing at that moment was an observance sufficiently festive.