"Oh, thank you," said Miss Birdseye, "I shouldn't like to lose it; it
was given me by Mirandola!" He had been one of her refugees in the old
time, when two or three of her friends, acquainted with the limits of
his resources, wondered how he had come into possession of the trinket.
She had been diverted again, after her greeting with Doctor and Mrs.
Tarrant, by stopping to introduce the tall, dark young man whom Miss
Chancellor had brought with her to Doctor Prance. She had become
conscious of his somewhat sombre figure, uplifted against the wall, near
the door; he was leaning there in solitude, unacquainted with
opportunities which Miss Birdseye felt to be, collectively, of value,
and which were really, of course, what strangers came to Boston for. It
did not occur to her to ask herself why Miss Chancellor didn't talk to
him, since she had brought him; Miss Birdseye was incapable of a
speculation of this kind. Olive, in fact, had remained vividly conscious
of her kinsman's isolation until the moment when Mrs. Farrinder lifted
her, with a word, to a higher plane. She watched him across the room;
she saw that he might be bored. But she proposed to herself not to mind
that; she had asked him, after all, not to come. Then he was no worse
off than others; he was only waiting, like the rest; and before they
left she would introduce him to Mrs. Farrinder. She might tell that lady
who he was first; it was not every one that would care to know a person
who had borne such a part in the Southern disloyalty. It came over our
young lady that when she sought the acquaintance of her distant kinsman
she had indeed done a more complicated thing than she suspected. The
sudden uneasiness that he flung over her in the carriage had not left
her, though she felt it less now she was with others, and especially
that she was close to Mrs. Farrinder, who was such a fountain of
strength. At any rate, if he was bored, he could speak to some one;
there were excellent people near him, even if they _were_ ardent
reformers. He could speak to that pretty girl who had just come in--the
one with red hair--if he liked; Southerners were supposed to be so
chivalrous!
Miss Birdseye reasoned much less, and did not offer to introduce him to
Verena Tarrant, who was apparently being presented by her parents to a
group of friends at the other end of the room. It came back to Miss
Birdseye, in this connexion, that, sure enough, Verena had been away for
a long time--for nearly a year; had been on a visit to friends in the
West, and would therefore naturally be a stranger to most of the Boston
circle. Doctor Prance was looking at her--at Miss Birdseye--with little,
sharp, fixed pupils; and the good lady wondered whether she were angry
at having been induced to come up. She had a general impression that
when genius was original its temper was high, and all this would be the
case with Doctor Prance. She wanted to say to her that she could go down
again if she liked; but even to Miss Birdseye's unsophisticated mind
this scarcely appeared, as regards a guest, an adequate formula of
dismissal. She tried to bring the young Southerner out; she said to him
that she presumed they would have some entertainment soon--Mrs.
Farrinder could be interesting when she tried! And then she bethought
herself to introduce him to Doctor Prance; it might serve as a reason
for having brought her up. Moreover, it would do her good to break up
her work now and then; she pursued her medical studies far into the
night, and Miss Birdseye, who was nothing of a sleeper (Mary Prance,
precisely, had wanted to treat her for it), had heard her, in the
stillness of the small hours, with her open windows (she had fresh air
on the brain), sharpening instruments (it was Miss Birdseye's mild
belief that she dissected), in a little physiological laboratory which
she had set up in her back room, the room which, if she hadn't been a
doctor, might have been her "chamber," and perhaps was, even with the
dissecting, Miss Birdseye didn't know! She explained her young friends
to each other, a trifle incoherently, perhaps, and then went to stir up
Mrs. Farrinder.
Basil Ransom had already noticed Doctor Prance; he had not been at all
bored, and had observed every one in the room, arriving at all sorts of
ingenious inductions. The little medical lady struck him as a perfect
example of the "Yankee female"--the figure which, in the unregenerate
imagination of the children of the cotton-States, was produced by the
New England school-system, the Puritan code, the ungenial climate, the
absence of chivalry. Spare, dry, hard, without a curve, an inflexion or
a grace, she seemed to ask no odds in the battle of life and to be
prepared to give none. But Ransom could see that she was not an
enthusiast, and after his contact with his cousin's enthusiasm this was
rather a relief to him. She looked like a boy, and not even like a good
boy. It was evident that if she had been a boy, she would have "cut"
school, to try private experiments in mechanics or to make researches in
natural history. It was true that if she had been a boy she would have
borne some relation to a girl, whereas Doctor Prance appeared to bear
none whatever. Except her intelligent eye, she had no features to speak
of. Ransom asked her if she were acquainted with the lioness, and on her
staring at him, without response, explained that he meant the renowned
Mrs. Farrinder.
"Well, I don't know as I ought to say that I'm acquainted with her; but
I've heard her on the platform. I have paid my half-dollar," the doctor
added, with a certain grimness.
"Well, did she convince you?" Ransom inquired.
"Convince me of what, sir?"
"That women are so superior to men."
"Oh, deary me!" said Doctor Prance, with a little impatient sigh; "I
guess I know more about women than she does."
"And that isn't your opinion, I hope," said Ransom, laughing.
"Men and women are all the same to me," Doctor Prance remarked. "I don't
see any difference. There is room for improvement in both sexes. Neither
of them is up to the standard." And on Ransom's asking her what the
standard appeared to her to be, she said, "Well, they ought to live
better; that's what they ought to do." And she went on to declare,
further, that she thought they all talked too much. This had so long
been Ransom's conviction that his heart quite warmed to Doctor Prance,
and he paid homage to her wisdom in the manner of Mississippi--with a
richness of compliment that made her turn her acute, suspicious eye upon
him. This checked him; she was capable of thinking that _he_ talked too
much--she herself having, apparently, no general conversation. It was
german to the matter, at any rate, for him to observe that he believed
they were to have a lecture from Mrs. Farrinder--he didn't know why she
didn't begin. "Yes," said Doctor Prance, rather dryly, "I suppose that's
what Miss Birdseye called me up for. She seemed to think I wouldn't want
to miss that."
"Whereas, I infer, you could console yourself for the loss of the
oration," Ransom suggested.
"Well, I've got some work. I don't want any one to teach me what a woman
can do!" Doctor Prance declared. "She can find out some things, if she
tries. Besides, I am familiar with Mrs. Farrinder's system; I know all
she has got to say."
"Well, what is it, then, since she continues to remain silent?"
"Well, what it amounts to is just that women want to have a better time.
That's what it comes to in the end. I am aware of that, without her
telling me."
"And don't you sympathise with such an aspiration?"
"Well, I don't know as I cultivate the sentimental side," said Doctor
Prance. "There's plenty of sympathy without mine. If they want to have a
better time, I suppose it's natural; so do men too, I suppose. But I
don't know as it appeals to me--to make sacrifices for it; it ain't such
a wonderful time--the best you _can_ have!"
This little lady was tough and technical; she evidently didn't care for
great movements; she became more and more interesting to Basil Ransom,
who, it is to be feared, had a fund of cynicism. He asked her if she
knew his cousin, Miss Chancellor, whom he indicated, beside Mrs.
Farrinder; _she_ believed, on the contrary, in wonderful times (she
thought they were coming); she had plenty of sympathy, and he was sure
she was willing to make sacrifices.
Doctor Prance looked at her across the room for a moment; then she said
she didn't know her, but she guessed she knew others like her--she went
to see them when they were sick. "She's having a private lecture to
herself," Ransom remarked; whereupon Doctor Prance rejoined, "Well, I
guess she'll have to pay for it!" She appeared to regret her own
half-dollar, and to be vaguely impatient of the behaviour of her sex.
Ransom became so sensible of this that he felt it was indelicate to
allude further to the cause of woman, and, for a change, endeavoured to
elicit from his companion some information about the gentlemen present.
He had given her a chance, vainly, to start some topic herself; but he
could see that she had no interests beyond the researches from which,
this evening, she had been torn, and was incapable of asking him a
personal question. She knew two or three of the gentlemen; she had seen
them before at Miss Birdseye's. Of course she knew principally ladies;
the time hadn't come when a lady-doctor was sent for by a gentleman, and
she hoped it never would, though some people seemed to think that this
was what lady-doctors were working for. She knew Mr. Pardon; that was
the young man with the "side-whiskers" and the white hair; he was a kind
of editor, and he wrote, too, "over his signature"--perhaps Basil had
read some of his works; he was under thirty, in spite of his white hair.
He was a great deal thought of in magazine circles. She believed he was
very bright--but she hadn't read anything. She didn't read much--not for
amusement; only the _Transcript_. She believed Mr. Pardon sometimes
wrote in the _Transcript_; well, she supposed he _was_ very bright. The
other that she knew--only she didn't know him (she supposed Basil would
think that queer)--was the tall, pale gentleman, with the black
moustache and the eye-glass. She knew him because she had met him in
society; but she didn't know him--well, because she didn't want to. If
he should come and speak to her--and he looked as if he were going to
work round that way--she should just say to him, "Yes, sir," or "No,
sir," very coldly. She couldn't help it if he did think her dry; if _he_
were a little more dry, it might be better for him. What was the matter
with him? Oh, she thought she had mentioned that; he was a mesmeric
healer, he made miraculous cures. She didn't believe in his system or
disbelieve in it, one way or the other; she only knew that she had been
called to see ladies he had worked on, and she found that he had made
them lose a lot of valuable time. He talked to them--well, as if he
didn't know what he was saying. She guessed he was quite ignorant of
physiology, and she didn't think he ought to go round taking
responsibilities. She didn't want to be narrow, but she thought a person
ought to know something. She supposed Basil would think her very
uplifted; but he had put the question to her, as she might say. All she
could say was she didn't want him to be laying his hands on any of _her_
folks; it was all done with the hands--what wasn't done with the tongue!
Basil could see that Doctor Prance was irritated; that this extreme
candour of allusion to her neighbour was probably not habitual to her,
as a member of a society in which the casual expression of strong
opinion generally produced waves of silence. But he blessed her
irritation, for him it was so illuminating; and to draw further profit
from it he asked her who the young lady was with the red hair--the
pretty one, whom he had only noticed during the last ten minutes. She
was Miss Tarrant, the daughter of the healer; hadn't she mentioned his
name? Selah Tarrant; if he wanted to send for him. Doctor Prance wasn't
acquainted with her, beyond knowing that she was the mesmerist's only
child, and having heard something about her having some gift--she
couldn't remember which it was. Oh, if she was his child, she would be
sure to have some gift--if it was only the gift of the g----well, she
didn't mean to say that; but a talent for conversation. Perhaps she
could die and come to life again; perhaps she would show them her gift,
as no one seemed inclined to do anything. Yes, she was pretty-appearing,
but there was a certain indication of anæmia, and Doctor Prance would be
surprised if she didn't eat too much candy. Basil thought she had an
engaging exterior; it was his private reflexion, coloured doubtless by
"sectional" prejudice, that she was the first pretty girl he had seen in
Boston. She was talking with some ladies at the other end of the room;
and she had a large red fan, which she kept constantly in movement. She
was not a quiet girl; she fidgeted, was restless, while she talked, and
had the air of a person who, whatever she might be doing, would wish to
be doing something else. If people watched her a good deal, she also
returned their contemplation, and her charming eyes had several times
encountered those of Basil Ransom. But they wandered mainly in the
direction of Mrs. Farrinder--they lingered upon the serene solidity of
the great oratress. It was easy to see that the girl admired this
beneficent woman, and felt it a privilege to be near her. It was
apparent, indeed, that she was excited by the company in which she found
herself; a fact to be explained by a reference to that recent period of
exile in the West, of which we have had a hint, and in consequence of
which the present occasion may have seemed to her a return to
intellectual life. Ransom secretly wished that his cousin--since fate
was to reserve for him a cousin in Boston--had been more like that.
By this time a certain agitation was perceptible; several ladies,
impatient of vain delay, had left their places, to appeal personally to
Mrs. Farrinder, who was presently surrounded with sympathetic
remonstrants. Miss Birdseye had given her up; it had been enough for
Miss Birdseye that she should have said, when pressed (so far as her
hostess, muffled in laxity, could press) on the subject of the general
expectation, that she could only deliver her message to an audience
which she felt to be partially hostile. There was no hostility there;
they were all only too much in sympathy. "I don't require sympathy," she
said, with a tranquil smile, to Olive Chancellor; "I am only myself, I
only rise to the occasion, when I see prejudice, when I see bigotry,
when I see injustice, when I see conservatism, massed before me like an
army. Then I feel--I feel as I imagine Napoleon Bonaparte to have felt
on the eve of one of his great victories. I _must_ have unfriendly
elements--I like to win them over."
Olive thought of Basil Ransom, and wondered whether he would do for an
unfriendly element. She mentioned him to Mrs. Farrinder, who expressed
an earnest hope that if he were opposed to the principles which were so
dear to the rest of them, he might be induced to take the floor and
testify on his own account. "I should be so happy to answer him," said
Mrs. Farrinder, with supreme softness. "I should be so glad, at any
rate, to exchange ideas with him." Olive felt a deep alarm at the idea
of a public dispute between these two vigorous people (she had a
perception that Ransom would be vigorous), not because she doubted of
the happy issue, but because she herself would be in a false position,
as having brought the offensive young man, and she had a horror of false
positions. Miss Birdseye was incapable of resentment; she had invited
forty people to hear Mrs. Farrinder speak, and now Mrs. Farrinder
wouldn't speak. But she had such a beautiful reason for it! There was
something martial and heroic in her pretext, and, besides, it was so
characteristic, so free, that Miss Birdseye was quite consoled, and
wandered away, looking at her other guests vaguely, as if she didn't
know them from each other, while she mentioned to them, at a venture,
the excuse for their disappointment, confident, evidently, that they
would agree with her it was very fine. "But we can't pretend to be on
the other side, just to start her up, can we?" she asked of Mr. Tarrant,
who sat there beside his wife with a rather conscious but by no means
complacent air of isolation from the rest of the company.
"Well, I don't know--I guess we are all solid here," this gentleman
replied, looking round him with a slow, deliberate smile, which made his
mouth enormous, developed two wrinkles, as long as the wings of a bat,
on either side of it, and showed a set of big, even, carnivorous teeth.
"Selah," said his wife, laying her hand on the sleeve of his waterproof,
"I wonder whether Miss Birdseye would be interested to hear Verena."
"Well, if you mean she sings, it's a shame I haven't got a piano," Miss
Birdseye took upon herself to respond. It came back to her that the girl
had a gift.
"She doesn't want a piano--she doesn't want anything," Selah remarked,
giving no apparent attention to his wife. It was a part of his attitude
in life never to appear to be indebted to another person for a
suggestion, never to be surprised or unprepared.
"Well, I don't know that the interest in singing is so general," said
Miss Birdseye, quite unconscious of any slackness in preparing a
substitute for the entertainment that had failed her.
"It isn't singing, you'll see," Mrs. Tarrant declared.
"What is it, then?"
Mr. Tarrant unfurled his wrinkles, showed his back teeth. "It's
inspirational."
Miss Birdseye gave a small, vague, unsceptical laugh. "Well, if you can
guarantee that----"
"I think it would be acceptable," said Mrs. Tarrant; and putting up a
half-gloved, familiar hand, she drew Miss Birdseye down to her, and the
pair explained in alternation what it was their child could do.
Meanwhile, Basil Ransom confessed to Doctor Prance that he was, after
all, rather disappointed. He had expected more of a programme; he wanted
to hear some of the new truths. Mrs. Farrinder, as he said, remained
within her tent, and he had hoped not only to see these distinguished
people but also to listen to them.
"Well, _I_ ain't disappointed," the sturdy little doctress replied. "If
any question had been opened, I suppose I should have had to stay."
"But I presume you don't propose to retire."
"Well, I've got to pursue my studies some time. I don't want the
gentlemen-doctors to get ahead of me."
"Oh, no one will ever get ahead of you, I'm very sure. And there is that
pretty young lady going over to speak to Mrs. Farrinder. She's going to
beg her for a speech--Mrs. Farrinder can't resist that."
"Well, then, I'll just trickle out before she begins. Good-night, sir,"
said Doctor Prance, who by this time had begun to appear to Ransom more
susceptible of domestication, as if she had been a small
forest-creature, a catamount or a ruffled doe, that had learned to stand
still while you stroked it, or even to extend a paw. She ministered to
health, and she was healthy herself; if his cousin could have been even
of this type Basil would have felt himself more fortunate.
"Good-night, Doctor," he replied. "You haven't told me, after all, your
opinion of the capacity of the ladies."
"Capacity for what?" said Doctor Prance. "They've got a capacity for
making people waste time. All I know is that I don't want any one to
tell _me_ what a lady can do!" And she edged away from him softly, as if
she had been traversing a hospital-ward, and presently he saw her reach
the door, which, with the arrival of the later comers, had remained
open. She stood there an instant, turning over the whole assembly a
glance like the flash of a watchman's bull's-eye, and then quickly
passed out. Ransom could see that she was impatient of the general
question and bored with being reminded, even for the sake of her rights,
that she was a woman--a detail that she was in the habit of forgetting,
having as many rights as she had time for. It was certain that whatever
might become of the movement at large, Doctor Prance's own little
revolution was a success.