MYSTERIOUS TRAVELLERS.
Poor girl! she was timid, frightened. I saw at once that the man with
whom she was, and who packed her feet up so carefully in the travelling
rug in her state cabin, was not of her class. She could not have been
daintier in mien and shape than she appeared. Hands round and white as
pearls, feet as pretty as ever stole from a man's hand to the stirrup; a
sweet wee face, that had innocence and heart in it. Country bred, I
thought: nested in some Kentish village: a childhood amid the hops:
familiar with buttermilk and home-baked bread.
Who has not been blessed by looking upon such an English face: ruddy on
the cheek, and white and pink upon the brow and neck: the head poised
upon the shoulders with a wondrous delicacy? Such girls issue from
honest Englishmen's homes to gladden honeymoon cottages, and perpetuate
that which is virtuous and courageous in our Saxon race. She lay muffled
in shawls, pillowed upon a carpet-bag, softened with his fur coat,
frightened about the sea, and asking every few minutes whether we were
near the port.
He fell into conversation with me before we were clear of Folkestone
harbour. He was a travelled man, accustomed to do his journeying
socially, and not in the surly, self-contained, and selfish manner of
our countrymen generally. I confess--and it is a boldness, knowing all I
do know now--that I was drawn towards Daker at the outset. He had a
winning manner--just that manner which puts you on a friendly footing
with a stranger before you have passed an hour in his company. He began,
as though it was quite natural that we should become acquainted, in the
tone your neighbour at dinner assumes, although you are unacquainted
with his name. We were on an exact level: gentlemen, beyond fear or
reproach. I repeat emphatically, I liked Daker's manner, for it was easy
and polished, and it had--which you don't often get with much
polish--warmth. I was attracted by his many attentions to his young
wife. Who could be near her, and not feel the chivalry in his soul warm
to such a woman? But Daker's attentions were idiosyncrasies. While he
was talking to me at the cabin-door, he saw the fur coat slip, and
readjusted it. He divined when she wanted to move. He fanned her; and
she sought his eyes incessantly with the deep pure blue of hers, and
slaked her ever-thirsty love with long, passionate gazing. She took no
notice of me: he was all her world.
Daker was in an airy humour--a man I thought without guile or care,
passing away from England to happy connubial times along the enchanting
shores which the Mediterranean bathes. We fell, as fellow-travellers
generally do, upon old stories of the ways of the world we had seen. He
had taken wider ranges than my duties had ever entailed on me.
Autumn was cooling to winter; it was early November when we met.
"I have been," he said, "killing time and birds pleasantly enough in
Sussex."
Mrs. Daker overheard him, and smiled. Then we shifted carelessly, as far
as I was concerned, away. He continued--
"And now we're off on the usual tramp. My wife wants a warm winter, and
so do I, for the matter of that."
"Nice?" I asked.
A very decided "no" was the answer.
"I shall find some little sleepy Italian country-place, where we shall
lay up like dormice, and just give King Frost the go-by for once. Are
you bound south?"
"Only to Paris--as prosaic a journey as any cotton-spinner could
desire."
"Always plenty to be done in Paris," Daker said; "at least I have never
felt at a loss. But it's a bachelor's paradise."
"And a wife's," I interposed.
"Not a husband's, you think?" Daker asked, turning the end of his
moustache very tight. "I agree with you."
"I have no experience; but I have an opinion, which I have been at some
pains to gather--French society spoils our simple English women."
"Most decidedly," said Daker.
"They are too simple and too affectionate for the artificial,
diplomatic--shall I say heartless?--society of the salons. Their ears
burn at first at the conversation. They are presented to people who
would barely be tolerated in the upper circles of South Bank, St. John's
Wood."
"You are right; I know it well," said Daker, very earnestly, but
resuming his normal air of liveliness in an instant. "It's a bad
atmosphere, but decidedly amusing. The _esprit_ of a good salon is
delicious--nothing short of it. I like to bathe in it: it just suits me,
though I can't contribute much to it. We Englishmen are not alert enough
in mind to hold our own against our nimble neighbours. We shall never
fence, nor dance, nor rally one another as they can. We are men who
don't know how to be children. It's a great pity!"
"I am not so sure of that," was the opinion I uttered. "We should lose
something deeper and better. We don't enjoy life--that is, the art of
living--as they do; but we reach deeper joys."
Daker smiled, and protested playfully--
"We are running into a subject that would carry us far, if we would let
it. I only know I wish I were a Frenchman with all my heart, and I'm not
the first Englishman who has said so. Proud of one's country, and all
that sort of thing: plucky, strong, master race of the world. I know it.
But I have seen bitter life on that side"--pointing to the faint white
line of Dover--"and I have enjoyed myself immensely on that"--pointing
to the growing height of Cape Grisnez.
I thought, as he spoke, that he must be an ungrateful fellow to say one
word against the country where he had found the sweet little lady whose
head was then pillowed upon his rough coat. I understood him afterwards.
He started a fresh conversation, after having made a tender survey of
the wraps and conveniences of Mrs. Daker, who followed him with the deep
eyes as he returned to my side with his open cigar-case, to offer me a
cheroot.
"Do you know anything of Amiens?" he said. "Is it a large place--busy,
thriving?"
I gave him my impression--a ten-year old one.
"Not a place a man could lose himself in, evidently," he joked; "and
they've been mowed down rather smartly by the cholera since you were
there."
I could not quite like the tone of this; and yet what tenderness was in
the man when he turned to his young wife! "St. Omer, Abbeville,
Montreuil, and the rest of the places on the line, are dreary holes, I
happen to know. You have been to Chantilly, of course?"
[Illustration: A PIC-NIC AT ENGHIEN]
I had lost a round sum of money in that delightful place, where our
ambassador was wont to refresh himself after his diplomatic labours and
ceremonials.
"I know the place," Daker went on; "I know Chantilly well. It wakes up a
curious dream of the long ago in my mind."
"And Enghien?"
"_Comme ma poche._" Daker knew his Enghien well--and Enghien was
profoundly acquainted with Daker. Daker appeared to be a man not yet
over his thirtieth year. He was fair, full-blooded, with a bright grey
eye, a lithe shapely build, and distinguished in air and movement
withal. There were no marks upon his face; his eyes were frank and
direct; his speech was firm and of a cheery ring; and emotions seemed to
come and go in him as in an unused nature. Yet his conversation, free
as it was, and wholly unembarrassed, cast out frequent hints at a
copious history and an eventful one, in which he had acted a part. I
concluded he was no common man, and that, until now, the world had not
treated him over well; albeit he had just received ample compensation
for the past in the girlish wife who had crept to his side, and who, the
swiftest runner might have read, loved him with all her soul. We all
pride ourselves on our skill in reading the characters of our
fellow-creatures. A man will admit any dulness except that which closes
the hearts of others to him. I was convinced that I had read the
character of Daker before we touched the quay at Boulogne: he was a man
of fine and delicate nature, whom the world had hit; who had been cheery
under punishment; and who had at length got his rich reward in Mrs.
Daker. I repeat this confession, and to my cost; for it is necessary as
part explanation of what follows.
My conversation with Daker was broken by the call of a sweet
voice--"Herbert!" We were crossing the bar at the entrance of Boulogne
harbour. The good ship rolled heavily, and Herbert was wanted! When the
passengers crowded to the side, pressing and jostling to effect an early
landing, and the fishwives were scrambling from the paddles to the deck,
I came upon Daker and his wife once more. She glanced shyly and not very
good-humouredly at me, and seemed to say, "It was you who diverted the
attention of my Herbert from me so long."
"Good morning," Daker said, meaning that there was an end of our
fortuitous intercourse, and that he should be just as chatty and
familiar with any man who might happen to be in the same carriage with
him between Boulogne and Paris. I watched him hand his wife into a
basket phaeton, smooth her dress, arrange her little parcels, satisfy
her as to her dressing-case, and then seat himself triumphantly at her
side, and call gaily to the saturnine Boulounais upon the box, "Allez!"
I confess that a pang of jealousy shot through me. It has been observed
by La Rochefoucauld that it is astonishing how cheerfully we bear the
ills of others; he might well have added that, on the other hand, it is
remarkable how we fret over the happiness of our neighbours. I envied
Daker when I saw him drive away to the station with the gentle girl at
his side; I knew that she was nestling against him, and half her illness
was only an excuse to get nearer to his heart. Why should I envy him?
Could I have seen through his face into his heart at that moment I
should have thanked God, who made me of simpler mould--a lonely, but an
honourable man.
We were on our way to Paris in due time. At Amiens, where we enjoyed the
usual twenty minutes' rest, Daker offered me a light. I saw him making
his way to the carriage in which his wife sat, with a basket of pears
and some _caramels_. The bell rang, and we all hurried to our seats. I
remarked that, at the point of starting, there was an unusual stir and
noise on the platform. _Messieurs les voyageurs_ were not complete;
somebody was missing from one of the carriages. The station-master and
the guard kept up a brisk and angry conversation, which ended in an
imperious wave of the hand to the engine-driver.
The guard and the commissioner (who travels in the interest of the
general vagrant public from London to Paris, making himself generally
useful by the way) shrugged their shoulders and got to their places, and
we went forward to Creil. Here the carriages were all searched
carefully. A lady was inquiring for the gentleman. My French companions
laughed, and answered in their native light manner; and again we were
_en route_ for Paris. Past Chantilly and Enghien and St. Denis we flew,
to where the low line of the fortifications warned us to dust ourselves,
fold our newspapers, roll up our rugs, and tell one another that which
was obvious to all--that we were in the centre of civilization once
more.
It was dark; and I was hungry, and out of humour, and impatient. I had
fallen in with unsympathetic companions. That half-hour in the
waiting-room, while the porters are arranging the luggage for
examination, is trying to most tempers. I am usually free from it; but
on this occasion I had some luggage belonging to a friend to look after.
I was waiting sulkily.
Presently the guard, the travelling commissioner, and half-a-dozen more
in official costume, appeared, surrounding a lady, who was in deep
distress. Had I seen a gentleman--fair, &c., &c.? I turned and beheld
Mrs. Daker. She darted at me, and I can never forget the look which
accompanied the question--
"You were with my husband on the boat. Where is he?"
He was not among the passengers who reached Paris. We telegraphed back
to Creil, and to Amiens. No English traveller, who had missed his train,
made answer. We questioned all the passengers in the waiting-room; one
had seen the _blonde_ Englishman buying pears at Amiens; this was all we
could hear. I say "we," because Mrs.
[Illustration: EXCURSIONISTS & EMIGRANTS. _Sketches in Paris_]
Daker at once fastened upon me: she implored my advice; she narrated all
that had passed between her husband and herself while the train was
waiting at Amiens. He had begged her not to stir--kind fellow that he
was--he had insisted upon fetching fruit and sweetmeats for her. I
calmed her fears, for they were exaggerated beyond all reason. He would
follow in the next train; I knew what Frenchmen were, and they would not
remark a single traveller, unless he had some strong peculiarity in his
appearance, and her husband had a travelled air which was cosmopolitan.
He spoke French like a Frenchman, she told me; and he had proved, on the
boat, that he was familiar with its idioms. I begged her to get her
luggage, go to her hotel, and leave me to watch and search. What hotel
were they to use? She knew nothing about it. Her husband hadn't told
her, for she was an utter stranger to Paris. I recommended the Windsor
(I thought it prudent not to say Mrs. Rowe's); and she was a child in my
hands. She looked even prettier in her distress than when her happy
eyes were beaming, as I first caught sight of them, upon Herbert Daker.
The tears trickled down her cheek; the little white hands shook like
flower bells in the wind. While the luggage was being searched
(fortunately she had the ticket in her reticule), I stood by and helped
her.
"But surely, madam, this is not all!" I remarked, when her two boxes had
been lightly searched. She caught my meaning. Where was her husband's
portmanteau?
"Mr. Baker's portmanteau was left behind at Boulogne--there was some
mistake; I don't know what exactly. I----"
At this moment she marked an expression of anxiety in my face. She gave
a sharp scream, that vibrated through the gloomy hall and startled the
bystanders. "Was madame ill? Would she have some _eau sucrée?_" She had
fainted! and her head lay upon my arm!
Unhappy little head, why stir again?