Basil Everman

Front matter

RR SRA STI

REFERENCE LIBRARY OF HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

2 Park Street, Boston

Contents

. ‘Tar Saapow on A Bricut Day 1 . Motuer AND DAavUGHTER 13 . A WALTONVILLE COMMENCEMENT AND AN In- QUISITIVE STRANGER 28 . Mr. Utrerty MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF Mrs. Scorr 45 . Mr. UrrerRiLy CONTINUES HIS SEARCH 54 . A New Piano 67 . UTTERLY sPENDS A PLEASANT EVENING 83 . UTTERLY IS PUT UPON HIS METTLE 93 . Mrs. Scott’s Party 101 . “My Brotuer BASIL WAS DIFFERENT!” 119 . A DUET AND WHAT CAME OF IT 128 . GRowING PaIns 143 . RICHARD WRITES A NoTE 155 . An Anxious NIGHT 164 . EXPLANATIONS 176 . FurtTHER EXPLANATIONS 189 . Mrs. ListER TAKES TO HER BED 208 . Mrs. Lister HAS TWO CALLERS 223 . Mrs. ListeR OPENS AN OL_p BurEAU 234

. Bastw’s Room Has A NEw VISITOR 239 vi

XXI.

Chapter I The Shadow On A Bright Day

RicHarpD Listrer’s mother stood at the head of the stairs and called a little impatiently. She was a large, middle-aged woman who looked older than she was in the black silk dress and bonnet with strings which was the church- and party-going costume of women of her years and time. Middle age had not yet begun to dress in light colors and flowery hats like youth.

When, above the sound of a tinkling piano, a young voice answered, “I’m coming!”’ she returned to her room, without expecting, however, that Richard would keep his promise at once.

Walton College, on whose campus Mrs. Lister lived, of which her husband was president, and from which her only son was being graduated to-day, had not yet dreamed of being a “greater Walton.” Satisfied with its own modest aims, it had not opened its eyes to that “wider vision”’ of religion and education and “‘service”’ which was to be loudly proclaimed by the next generation. Even games with other colleges were as yet unheard of; the students were still kept at their books and it was expected of them that they learn their lessons. Each was required to deliver an oration on Commence-

Q BASIL EVERMAN ment Day, the first speaker saluting in old-fashioned English pronunciation Awditores, Curatores, Professores, and Comites, and making humorous allusions to puelle. Only in admitting the daughters of the professors, and once an ambitious girl from the village, was the college a little ahead of its own times.

Waltonville, like its college, belonged to an order which was elsewhere passing. Lying a little north of Mason and Dixon’s line, it resembled in many pleasant ways a Southern town. The broad streets were quiet and thickly shaded and the houses were plainly built of red brick with noble white pillars. The young people gathered in the twilight and talked and sang; occasionally a group of students lifted their voices in Integer Vite or “There’s Music in the Air’’; and those citizens who lived near the campus could hear a chanted “bonus-aum”’ or “amo-amas-amat”’ from the room of the Latin professor, who was a stern drillmaster. Otherwise the village was as quiet as the country.

The Civil War was still the chief topic of discussion among the older men. Dr. Lister, Dr. Scott, who was the teacher of English — Waltonville was careful about titles — and Dr. Green, the village physiclan, met many times in the long vacation and talked about Grant and Sherman and Lee. Dr. Lister had served a brief term at the end of the war; Dr. Scott had been too young to enlist, but had lost father and brothers; Dr. Green, who was still younger, had had no personal experience of war, nor, so far as any one knew, of its losses.

THE SHADOW ON A BRIGHT DAY 3

Of Dr. Green, Waltonville knew comparatively little. Mrs. Lister remembered his single year at the college, whither he had come, self-prepared, to enter the senior class. An unexpected legacy had given him the opportunity, passionately desired and as passionately despaired of, of studying medicine. He was older than the other students, a tall, — dark, quiet man who allowed himself no diversions, who belonged to no fraternities, and who cared nothing apparently for girls. His companions knew, however, that he was not always silent. He burst occasionally into fierce and eloquent harangues, condemning and scorning those who wasted their time in idleness or love-making. His successful efforts to educate himself gave him an air of authority. The students knew also that he went now and then, as many of them did, to see Margie Ginter, the daughter of the hotel-keeper, but they believed that he went merely to be amused by her bad grammar, and that for him her round figure, her childish mouth, and the touches of her pretty hand on arm or knee had no temptation. When the Ginters left, Margie sent back to him letters with misspelled addresses which the students did not believe he answered.

After being entirely lost to the view of Waltonville, Green returned. He had become a physician, but the four years of preparation had lengthened to six, during which he had changed into a weary and disappointed man. He had come, he explained, to see old Dr. Percy, now retiring from his practice,

and offering the good-will of his business for sale.

‘He had hoped that Dr. Everman would recommend him and that others would remember him. When he heard that Dr. Everman had died, he expressed to Mrs. Lister so hearty an admiration __ for her imposing and learned father and so unfeigned a regret that he was gone, that he won at once her valuable support. It was not long before __ he ceased to look like a beaten man, histhinframe filled out, he walked briskly, and began to exhibit __ some of the scolding eloquence of his college days,

In Waltonville class distinctions Sone The hy college people, the clergymen, Dr. Green, and the b lawyers who attended a sleepy court in April and — August, made up one class; all other white persons another. The servants were negroes who lived in low, neat cabins along a grassy lane which bounded the town on its eastern side. Waltonville had never been a slave-holding community, but some of the older negroes had been attached to the same family for several generations. "Manda Gates, Mrs. Lister’s cook, had served her mother, and Miss | Thomasina Davis’s "Melia had held her in her — erie

arms the day she was born. a

There was neither strife nor envy between Waltonville’s classes. Mrs. Lister respected Mr. Underwood, the storekeeper, but did not invite him to dinner, and Mrs. Underwood would have been greatly disturbed at the prospect of entertaining Mrs. Lister.

The old house, in whose exact center Mrs. Lister stood when she called Richard, had been built sixty years earlier for her father, President Richard

: SHADOW ON Rene DAY 5 vedi and had descended to his son-in-law and successor. It was a broad, pleasant house with high | Sm and with woodwork of solid oak. One side Or ‘the first floor was divided into library and sitting- Revere en the other into dim, long double parlors.

: ee. they could easily have been drowned. She the only one of the three who was really afraid.

ner than his fear of danger.

“Steg waited for ten minutes, Mrs. Lister now returned to her post in the hall, and raised her voice in three successive calls. At the last impatient summons, the piano in the parlor ceased its clangor with a series of great chords, rolling under a fine, clear touch from the lowest of the yellowed keys to the uppermost treble. In the bass the tones were indescribably mournful, as though the aged instrument cried out in pain under the strong fingers of youth; in the treble they sounded a light cackle,

6 BASIL EVERMAN half childish, half senile, like the laughter of an old man. The piano, bought years ago for Basil, resembled an old man in many ways; its teeth were yellow, it creaked as though rheumatism had taken a permanent abode in its joints, and it was swathed in a covering of warm red felt. Though it was the only object in Mrs. Lister’s house which was not exactly adapted to the use to which it was put, and though it reminded her of misery, she would not have dreamed of selling it or of giving it away or of exchanging it for another instrument, any more than she would have sold or given away or exchanged an aged relative. A piano once was a piano forever, and no dismal sound from its depths, no fierce sarcasm from Richard could depreciate it in her eyes.

“Richard!” Before the player had righted the piano stool or had closed the square lid over the yellowed keys, Mrs. Lister called again.

“Yes, mother!”’

He took the stairway in four great leaps, the last of which his mother stepped aside to avoid. But she did not escape the bear’s hug with which he grasped her. He was a tall, spare young fellow, scarcely more than a lad, with crisp, light hair and dark eyes.

“Yes, mother! Yes, mother! Yes, mother!”

“Your cap and gown are there on my bed, and you must change your tie and do it quickly.”

“The procession will form in one half-hour, mother, and they can’t possibly begin till I tune up. I have half a mind to be late so I can see ’em

THE SHADOW ON A BRIGHT DAY 7 squirm.” Richard took the tie from his mother’s hand and stationed himself before the glass in her bedroom, where the walnut furniture was heaviest and most elaborately carved. “‘Think of it, my last morning in chapel! No more eight o’clocks! No more Pol Econ, no more Chemistry, no more worthless stuff of any sort!”’

“I hope you know your speech thoroughly, Richard.”

Pao, on, 1 do!”

**T could never memorize well, and I was always frightened when I had to say a piece in school. Are n’t you at all nervous?”

*Not at all. I’m cool-headed and cold-hearted. Morituri te salutamus, that is, ‘We, about to die, salute you!’”’

“You are not going to say that, Richard!”

*“No, mother, darling!”’ Richard folded his black gown about him. “I bow like this, till my long wings touch the ground, and I say, ‘Alius annus cum perpetua sua agitatione abit, et alia classis in vite limine est,’ ete. Would n’t old Jehu skin me alive if I failed? It is bad enough that Eleanor Bent is ahead of me, of me, if you please — faculty family and all that. Now, good-bye, mother. Have a little more faith in me than you look, or I may rush to your shoulder weeping.’ With a “ Farewell, great Queen, live forever,” and a light touch of lips on his mother’s broad, smooth cheek, he was gone, down the polished banister.

When the screen door had slammed, Mrs. Lister sat for a while quietly by her bed. There was, now that Richard was started, plenty of time. She had been up since six o’clock, but she was not tired, being a person of almost inexhaustible vigor. The house was in perfect order, >Manda was singing in the kitchen, and she had a short breathing space. She loved those moments in which, her tasks finished, she could sit perfectly still, almost without thinking, yet vividly conscious of her blessings, of her good husband, of her fine son, and of her pleasant home.

Above all, she was thankful that she was content, that she was driven by no wild impulses as was Thomasina Davis, who often sat with her in the morning and in the evening heard a concert in Baltimore. She visited Baltimore — which she called “‘Baltimer’’ — in the fall and again in the spring, after having made detailed, dignified, and long-announced plans, and there, with the aid of a commissionnaire, made her purchases for six months. She enjoyed these journeys, but she was always glad to get home with her silks and linens, her little stories of the courteous attentions of the Baltimoreans, of the baked blue-fish, and of the stately house of her old cousin on Fayette Street.

But now, even with all her morning’s work done and Richard started on his way, she was not at peace. His playing disturbed her, not because the piano was old and gave forth so many painful sounds, but because music had sad associations. She believed that it roused strange passions in the human heart, that it made men and women queer, abnormal, sometimes even wicked. It was con-

THE SHADOW ON A BRIGHT DAY 9 nected in her mind with a quality called “‘ genius” which animated the minds of poets and musicians and artists and made them a little more than human and at the same time a good deal less. It was a general conviction among quiet people of the time that those who could write or paint or sing beyond a mere amateur excellence were “wild,”’ like poor Mr. Poe, about whom a tradition lingered among her Baltimore cousins. Genius was not a necessary part of greatness; her father and her husband were great men, but they were also sober, dignified, comprehensible, reasonable, which geniuses were not.

Thomasina Davis had wrong ideas and she put them into Richard’s head. She had spent all but three years of her life in Waltonville, but those three in New York, under the instruction of a famous pianist, had made her wish to be a concert player. Fortunately family duties had called her home, and now, those duties long since done, she lived alone in the homestead set back in the garden on the street which led to the college. While she condemned Thomasina, Mrs. Lister remembered with a stirring of the heart all the hundreds of times she had pressed her latch. Thomasina had three pupils; Cora Scott, who attained technical correctness; Eleanor Bent, who played with all the imperfect brilliancy of one who learns easily; and Richard, who attained both correctness and brilliancy. Mrs. Lister explained to strangers that Thomasina did not need to give lessons; she blushed when her quarterly bill arrived, and shivered when she heard her talk to Richard about playing.

“You must read poetry, Richard, and feel it; that is the way and the only way for youth to gain emotional experience.

‘Magic mirror thou hast none Except thy manifest heart; and save thine own Anguish or ardor, else no amulet.’

When you have learned to feel, then you can play.”

Richard was not a genius —thank God! It seemed impossible that he should be graduating; that he should be no longer her lovely, placid baby, who had done so much to heal an old hurt. Though he would have to go away for a few years for further study, he would come back to teach in the college and would perhaps some day be its president, like his father and grandfather. Then she could stay on in the house which was like the outer shell of her soul, not to leave it until she left this life. Richard might marry — ought to marry — a pretty, biddable girl like Cora Scott. Cora would do her duty by her mother-in-law.

Mrs. Lister’s life, now so uneventful, had had its great sorrow, its unsatisfied passion. There was another love, stronger almost than that for husband and son, because its object needed no longer the loving affection which sought to serve him, had never, indeed, needed it while he lived.

It was at such times as this, upon holidays, anniversaries, and other great days, that she thought most of the past, most of her father in his white stock and his bands, he having been a clergyman as well as a scholar; of her mother who seemed to

THE SHADOW ON A BRIGHT DAY 11 her dim recollection very different from, but who was, nevertheless, very much like herself; and most of all of her brother Basil, for whom she had the rare and passionate affection of sister for brother of a Dorothy Wordsworth or a Eugénie de Guerin; that affection which equals in intensity a lover’s, which brooks no rival, and which is almost certain to result in misery.

She thought of them all now, sitting in her room. She could hear the laughter of the faculty and the boys and girls gathering for the procession; she knew that it was time for her to go, but she could not move. How long, long ago it all was! Yet how close they were, especially Basil, who had been of all most vivid, most bright.

Presently, moved by an irresistible impulse, she left her chair by the window and climbed the stairs into the low-pitched third story. There she laid her hand upon a door. She desired intensely to go in; the touch of the knob restored to her an old mood of grief, the phase in which one feels that seeking, importuning, one must find. Basil was here; his wide, bright gaze sought her eyes, as she often fancied, with reproach. All dead persons seemed to Mrs. Lister to look like that; her father did, as she remembered some little service unrendered, some command forgotten. Basil’s gaze was like his father’s, yet different. He seemed to reproach, not his sister, but his Creator for having laid him low, banishing him from the sunshine when his contemporaries still had years of life before them.

This was his room; here he had slept and idled and whistled and sung; here had been unpacked and put away his belongings sent home after he was dead; here lingered still an odor of disinfectants and still more subtly an odor of tobacco, not approved of in the Lister house; here were his pens and pencils and his books, shabby little editions of Greek plays, lined and annotated, which he carried about with him. Here he had sat by the window, indifferent to heat and cold, alone, doing, alas! nothing. Surely if she entered she would find him, would hear him speak, would see him smile! Surely —

Mrs. Lister took her hand from the knob and went down the steps. This was Richard’s Commencement Day; it was wrong to give her mind free course in the region which invited. Basil was at peace; must be at peace, nothing could disturb him. He was gone almost entirely from human recollection. The old fear that the world might come to know about him, that things might be ‘found out,’ was laid. She, too, must forget him; that was the only way to live. Dr. Lister had said, many years ago, that Basil’s belongings should be destroyed; that this was the first step toward her recovery. But Dr. Lister spoke of him no more and to Richard he was a vague ghost. Changes in the faculty of the college, the death of old friends in the town had contributed to forgetfulness. Most of all, Mrs. Lister’s own grief was of the variety which endures no mention of the dead and which creates the oblivion which it is likely most bitterly to resent. Basil was dead and forgotten. |

Chapter II Mother And Daughter

In a little house overlooking the fields on the far side of Waltonville, where Mrs. Margie Bent, of Waltonville’s middle class, lived with her daughter Eleanor, preparations for Commencement were in progress. The house was pale gray in color, and had about its little porch a mass of pink climbing roses with dark foliage and thick clusters of bloom. Before it lay a smooth lawn, and back of it a tiny garden, symmetrically divided by grass paths. There were no outbuildings, there was no stick or weed; the little establishment looked like a playhouse or the model for an architect’s picture. One did not ascribe to its inhabitants any academic aspirations.

Waltonville was accustomed to think of the little

house as “back of”? the town. Yet the town was in a truer sense back of the little gray house, which looked out upon a wide sweep of open country. Before it the fields dipped in a long and beautiful slope, then rose a few miles away to a low range of blue hills. A part of the land was cultivated, but there remained many stretches of woodland, especially along a wandering stream whose silver course could be followed for a long distance, and from which rose mist, now in thick, obscuring masses, _ now in transparent vapor. Beyond the low hills was another higher range. Here and there in the pleasant valley were farmhouses and large barns whose dimensions and design were copied from the barns of Lancaster County not many miles away. Within the little house was the same clean prettiness. The furniture was simple and plain and there was a great deal of exquisite hand-sewing; hemstitching on the white curtains, heavy initials on the linen, and beautiful embroidery on Eleanor’s clothes in the closets. In the little parlor stood a bookease filled with handsome and well-chosen books, and in the dining-room there were both bookcase and desk, the latter now neatly closed. Little Mrs. Bent was helping her tall daughter into the Commencement dress which she had made with her own unresting hands. Her fair hair curled about her forehead, her short upper lip made her look like a little girl, and her whole appearance was at once attractive and pathetic. Mrs. Scott, whose Inquisitive spirit made her wish to know every one in Waltonville by sight and as much about each person as she could discover, said of Mrs. Bent that she looked and acted like a lady, though she was none. Thomasina Davis, whose kindly spirit made her judge her acquaintances with sympathy, said that she believed that Mrs. Bent was a good woman who had suffered cruelly. Thomasina remembered her perfectly as Margie Ginter, the daughter of the most unpleasant, sodden, law-breaking tavern-keeper Waltonville had ever had, but did not think evil of her on that account. She knew that Margie had been light as thistledown, too easily pleased, too careless of the company she kept, entirely too free with her smiles, and a source of anxiety to the mothers of the young men of the town and to those who had the well-being of the college boys at heart; but she did not believe any of the serious accusations made against her by the older women; had not believed them when they were made and did not believe them now that they were occasionally recalled.

Margie had left Waltonville long ago with her father for another tavern in another State, and after a few years had returned with a married name and with a little girl whom she called ‘‘ Nellie,” and with means for very simple living. Whether her income had its source in the ill-gotten gains of her father or in the property of a deceased husband, or in some other less creditable source, Waltonville did not know. A few persons speculated about her when she returned, but she and her little daughter were soon accepted and ignored.

If there had been any one to compare Margie Ginter with Mrs. Bent, he would scarcely have believed her to be the same person. Margie Ginter had lived indifferently in a miserable tavern; Mrs. Bent conducted her little house with the most exquisite tidiness, and maintained therein the most perfect order. Her linens were less elegant than Mrs. Lister’s, but they were no less beautifully laundered, no less elaborately marked. Margie had longed for constant company, and a succession of the most idle of pleasures; Mrs. Bent shrank even from the back-door calls of her neighbors.

Margie had been confident, assured in all her motions, and almost impertinent in her glances at those whose disapproval she surmised; Mrs. Bent was humble, even frightened. Margie had never gone to church, but Mrs. Bent took a little side pew in the college church and sat there at each service. To Margie had come some mighty metamorphosis, changing her instincts, changing her very soul, as completely as a human body could have changed its position at a “‘Right-about face.’’ The process had not been easy; it had written pathetic lines in the countenance which had once expressed only light-heartedness.

The tall daughter whom she was helping into her embroidered Commencement dress was as dark as her mother was fair and as direct of gaze as her mother was timid. Her gray eyes were singularly clear and bright; they held the glance so that her other features, beautiful as they were, became unimportant. Her other features, except her nose and her upper lip, were like her mother’s; she had evidently a maternal inheritance, permeated and strengthened by a different strain.

She had not inherited, it was clear, from little Mrs. Bent the good mind which put her at the head of her class in college. Mrs. Bent was not a dull person, and she had certainly strength of will, but she had no aptitude for books even though she sat from time to time with one of Eleanor’s volumes in her hand and listened for hours together while Eleanor read to her. Sometimes when her daughter

was not about she looked in a puzzled, frightened

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER One way over what Eleanor had been reading, and she kept an old grammar hidden under a pile of neatly folded clothes in her bureau drawer.

Poor little Mrs. Bent made.a brave effort to follow her swan in her flight. She had not, however, risen far, even in her effort to speak as others spoke. Her mistakes were those of a low stratum. Falling from her pretty lips in her youth and heard by uncritical ears, they had not seemed so dreadful. Now they were shocking. In her anxiety to do well, she sometimes formed new words upon the analogy of those which she knew.

**I thicken it with cream and I thinnen it with vinegar,’ she would say sweetly.

Sometimes a sudden “them there,” long pruned from Eleanor’s speech, slipped from her mother’s tongue. “‘ Them there’’ Mrs. Bent knew was execrable and was tortured by that knowledge.

Eleanor was now almost twenty years old, and seldom do twenty years flow with such smooth current. She could not remember when she had come to Waltonville to live, and she could recall distinctly only one incident in her life before she started to the village school. Children, in families where the past is frequently referred to, recall, or imagine that they recall, many incidents, but to Eleanor nothing was recalled.

The single incident which she remembered was impressed upon her by terror. Her mother and she were walking together upon a shady street when a man stopped them and spoke to them. “‘So you’ve come back, Margie!”’ was all that Eleanor could remember but the words remained in her mind. The man had laid his hand on her mother’s arm, and Mrs. Bent had jerked away and had hurried down the street. Eleanor had seen the man a hundred times since, a heavy, dissipated creature named Bates who sat all day on the porch of the hotel.

When she went to school the teacher, a newcomer in Waltonville, asked her her father’s name and she had stood bewildered.

‘Her father is dead, I guess,” said the little girl next to her.

Eleanor nodded solemnly. A day or two later, when the teacher’s question came to her mind again, she repeated it to her mother. Mrs. Bent, whose experience had not prepared her for the questions of a first day in school, stared at her daughter.

“The teacher asked me, and a little girl said she guessed he was dead, and so I said he was dead. Was that right, mother?”’

Mrs. Bent’s face grew deathly pale, so that long afterwards the incident came back to Eleanor.

“Yes, that was right,”’ said she.

Another problem suggested itself.

- Were we ever away from here?”

“Why do you ask that?”’

“Because that man said, ‘So you’ve come back.’”

Mrs. Bent shivered. “Yes, we were away from here once. Don’t think of that man, and don’t ever speak to him. If he comes toward you, you run, Nellie.” Then Mrs. Bent took the little girl roughly by the arm. “Children should be seen and not heard — remember that!”’

From Eleanor’s first year in school a few vivid experiences remained. Racing home, she had fallen and had cut her head and several stitches had to be put in under her thick hair. A neighbor, running for the old doctor, had returned with the newcomer, Dr. Green, who had dismissed the spectators and had hurt her terribly. Then he had carried her to bed, where she slept for a long time and waked with a burning pain in her head, the first pain she had ever had.

When he came the next day, she was better and he had sat by her bed for a long time, asking her question after question about her lessons. He spoke in a stern, fierce tone, as though nothing about her education or about the world pleased him. He corrected savagely her inherited errors in speech as though he could re-make her language in a morning. Her eyes closed in the middle of a sentence, and when she woke he was no longer in the room. But it seemed to her that a voice was still about, going on and on and on. Another excited voice made answer after a long time, “‘I ain’t a-goin’ to do it!” If it was Dr. Green’s voice and if it was to Mrs. Bent that he was speaking, their knowledge of one another had advanced far beyond the stage of casual acquaintance. Their dialogue was not a conversation, but a quarrel.