THE BOSTONIANS. Генри Джеймс

of all these middle-aged feminine eyes, conscious of curls, rather limp, that depended from dusky bonnets, of heads poked forward, as if with a waiting, listening, familiar habit, of no one being very bright or gay — no one, at least, but that girl he had noticed before, who had a brilliant head, and who now hovered on the edge of the conclave. He met her eye again; she was watching him too. It had been in his thought that Mrs. Farrinder, to whom his cousin might have betrayed or misrepresented him, would perhaps defy him to combat, and he wondered whether he could pull himself together (he was extremely embarrassed) sufficiently to do honour to such a challenge. If she would fling down the glove on the temperance question, it seemed to him that it would be in him to pick it up; for the idea of a meddling legislation on this subject filled him with rage; the taste of liquor being good to him, and his conviction strong that civilisation itself would be in danger if it should fall into the power of a herd of vociferating women (I am but the reporter of his angry formulae) to prevent a gentleman from taking his glass. Mrs. Farrinder proved to him that she had not the eagerness of insecurity; she asked him if he wouldn’t like to give the company some account of the social and political condition of the South. He begged to be excused, expressing at the same time a high sense of the honour done him by such a request, while he smiled to himself at the idea of his extemporising a lecture. He smiled even while he suspected the meaning of the look Miss Chancellor gave him: “Well, you are not of much account after all!” To talk to those people about the South — if they could have guessed how little he cared to do it! He had a passionate tenderness for his own country, and a sense of intimate connexion with it which would have made it as impossible for him to take a roomful of Northern fanatics into his confidence as to read aloud his mother’s or his mistress’s letters. To be quiet about the Southern land, not to touch her with vulgar hands, to leave her alone with her wounds and her memories, not prating in the marketplace either of her troubles or her hopes, but waiting as a man should wait, for the slow process, the sensible beneficence, of time — this was the desire of Ransom’s heart, and he was aware of how little it could minister to the entertainment of Miss Birdseye’s guests.

      “We know so little about the women of the South; they are very voiceless,” Mrs. Farrinder remarked. “How much can we count upon them? in what numbers would they flock to our standard? I have been recommended not to lecture in the Southern cities.”

      “Ah, madam, that was very cruel advice — for us!” Basil Ransom exclaimed, with gallantry.

      “I had a magnificent audience last spring in St. Louis,” a fresh young voice announced, over the heads of the gathered group — a voice which, on Basil’s turning, like every one else, for an explanation, appeared to have proceeded from the pretty girl with red hair. She had coloured a little with the effort of making this declaration, and she stood there smiling at her listeners.

      Mrs. Farrinder bent a benignant brow upon her, in spite of her being, evidently, rather a surprise. “Oh, indeed; and your subject, my dear young lady?”

      “The past history, the present condition, and the future prospects of our sex.”

      “Oh, well, St. Louis — that’s scarcely the South,” said one of the ladies.

      “I’m sure the young lady would have had equal success at Charleston or New Orleans,” Basil Ransom interposed.

      “Well, I wanted to go farther,” the girl continued, “but I had no friends. I have friends in St. Louis.”

      “You oughtn’t to want for them anywhere,” said Mrs. Farrinder, in a manner which, by this time, had quite explained her reputation. “I am acquainted with the loyalty of St. Louis.”

      “Well, after that, you must let me introduce Miss Tarrant; she’s perfectly dying to know you, Mrs. Farrinder.” These words emanated from one of the gentlemen, the young man with white hair, who had been mentioned to Ransom by Doctor Prance as a celebrated magazinist. He, too, up to this moment, had hovered in the background, but he now gently clove the assembly (several of the ladies made way for him), leading in the daughter of the mesmerist.

      She laughed and continued to blush — her blush was the faintest pink; she looked very young and slim and fair as Mrs. Farrinder made way for her on the sofa which Olive Chancellor had quitted. “I have wanted to know you; I admire you so much; I hoped so you would speak tonight. It’s too lovely to see you, Mrs. Farrinder.” So she expressed herself, while the company watched the encounter with a look of refreshed inanition. “You don’t know who I am, of course; I’m just a girl who wants to thank you for all you have done for us. For you have spoken for us girls, just as much as — just as much as — — “ She hesitated now, looking about with enthusiastic eyes at the rest of the group, and meeting once more the gaze of Basil Ransom.

      “Just as much as for the old women,” said Mrs. Farrinder genially. “You seem very well able to speak for yourself.”

      “She speaks so beautifully — if she would only make a little address,” the young man who had introduced her remarked. “It’s a new style, quite original,” he added. He stood there with folded arms, looking down at his work, the conjunction of the two ladies, with a smile; and Basil Ransom, remembering what Miss Prance had told him, and enlightened by his observation in New York of some of the sources from which newspapers are fed, was immediately touched by the conviction that he perceived in it the material of a paragraph.

      “My dear child, if you’ll take the floor, I’ll call the meeting to order,” said Mrs. Farrinder.

      The girl looked at her with extraordinary candour and confidence. “If I could only hear you first — just to give me an atmosphere.”

      “I’ve got no atmosphere; there’s very little of the Indian summer about me! I deal with facts — hard facts,” Mrs. Farrinder replied. “Have you ever heard me? If so, you know how crisp I am.”

      “Heard you? I’ve lived on you! It’s so much to me to see you. Ask mother if it ain’t!” She had expressed herself, from the first word she uttered, with a promptness and assurance which gave almost the impression of a lesson rehearsed in advance. And yet there was a strange spontaneity in her manner, and an air of artless enthusiasm, of personal purity. If she was theatrical, she was naturally theatrical. She looked up at Mrs. Farrinder with all her emotion in her smiling eyes. This lady had been the object of many ovations; it was familiar to her that the collective heart of her sex had gone forth to her; but, visibly, she was puzzled by this unforeseen embodiment of gratitude and fluency, and her eyes wandered over the girl with a certain reserve, while, within the depth of her eminently public manner, she asked herself whether Miss Tarrant were a remarkable young woman or only a forward minx. She found a response which committed her to neither view; she only said, “We want the young — of course we want the young!”

      “Who is that charming creature?” Basil Ransom heard his cousin ask, in a grave, lowered tone, of Matthias Pardon, the young man who had brought Miss Tarrant forward. He didn’t know whether Miss Chancellor knew him, or whether her curiosity had pushed her to boldness. Ransom was near the pair, and had the benefit of Mr. Pardon’s answer.

      “The daughter of Doctor Tarrant, the mesmeric healer — Miss Verena. She’s a high-class speaker.”

      “What do you mean?” Olive asked. “Does she give public addresses?”

      “Oh yes, she has had quite a career in the West. I heard her last spring at Topeka. They call it inspirational. I don’t know what it is — only it’s exquisite; so fresh and poetical. She has to have her father to start her up. It seems to pass into her.” And Mr. Pardon indulged in a gesture intended to signify the passage.

      Olive Chancellor made no rejoinder save a low, impatient sigh; she transferred her attention to the girl, who now held Mrs. Farrinder’s hand in both her own, and was pleading with her just to prelude a little. “I want a starting-point — I want to know where I am,” she said. “Just two or three of your grand old thoughts.”

      Basil stepped nearer to his cousin; he remarked to her that Miss Verena was very pretty. She turned an instant, glanced at him, and then said, “Do you think