Annesley Beecher felt it “deuced odd” to be the travelling companion
and protector of a very beautiful girl of nineteen, to whose fresh youth
every common object of the road was a thing of wonderment and curiosity;
the country, the people, the scores of passengers arriving or departing,
the chance incidents of the way all amused her. She possessed that
power of deriving intense enjoyment from the mere aspect of life
that characterizes certain minds, and while thus each little incident
interested her, her gay and lively sallies animated one who without
her companionship had smoked his cigar in half-sulky isolation, voting
journey and fellow-travellers “most monstrous bores.” As they traversed
that picturesque tract between Chaude Fontaine and Verviers, her delight
and enjoyment increased. Those wonderful little landscapes which open
at the exit from each tunnel, and where to the darkness and the
gloom succeed, as if by magic, those rapid glances at swelling lawns,
deep-bosomed woods, and winding rivers, with peaceful homesteads dotting
the banks, were so many surprises full of marvellous beauty.
“Ah! Mr. Beecher,” said she, as they emerged upon one of these charming
spots, “I'm half relenting about my decision in regard to greatness. I
think that in those lovely valleys yonder, where the tall willows are
hanging over the river, there might possibly be an existence I should
like better than the life of even a duchess.”
“It's a much easier ambition to gratify,” said he, smiling.
“It was not of _that_ I was thinking,” said she, haughtily, “nor am I so
certain you are right there. I take it people can generally be that they
have set their heart on being.”
“I should like to be convinced of your theory,” cried he, “for I have
been I can't say how many years wishing for fifty things I have never
succeeded in attaining.”
“What else have you done besides wishing?” asked she, abruptly.
“Well, that is a hard question,” said he, in some confusion; “and after
all, I don't see what remained to me to do but wish.”
“If that were all, it is pretty clear you had no right to succeed. When
I said that people can have what they set their heart on, I meant what
they so longed for that no toil was too great, no sacrifice too painful
to deter them; that with eyes upturned to the summit they could breast
the mountain, not minding weariness, and even when, footsore and
exhausted, they sank down, they arose to the same enterprise, unshaken
in courage, unbroken in faith. Have you known this?”
“I can scarcely say I have; but as to the longing and pining after a
good turn of fortune, I'll back myself against any one going.”
“That's the old story of the child crying for the moon,” said she,
laughing. “Now, what was it you longed for so ardently?”
“Can't you guess?”
“You wanted to marry some one who would not have you, or who was beneath
you, or too poor, or too some-thing-or-other for your grand relations?”
“No, not that.”
“You aspired to some great distinction as a politician, or a soldier, or
perhaps a sailor?”
“No, by Jove! never dreamed of it,” burst he in, laughing at the very
idea.
“You sighed for some advancement in rank, or perhaps it was great
wealth?”
“There you have it! Plenty of money--lots of ready--with that all the
rest comes easy.”
“It must be very delightful, no doubt, to indulge every passing caprice,
without ever counting the cost; but, after a while, what a spoilt-child
weariness would come over one from all this cloying enjoyment,--how
tiresome would it be to shorten the journey between will and
accomplishment, and make of life a mere succession of 'tableaux'! I 'd
rather strive and struggle and win.”
“Ay, but one does n't always win,” broke he in.
“I believe one does--if one deserves it; and even when one does not, the
battle is a fine thing. How much sympathy, I ask you, have we for those
classic heroes who are always helped out of their difficulties by some
friendly deity? What do we feel for him who, in the thick of the fight,
is sure to be rescued by a goddess in a cloud?”
“I confess I do like a good 'book,' 'hedged' well all round, and
standing to win somewhere. I mean,” added he, in an explanatory tone, “I
like to be safe in this world.”
“Stand on the bank of the stream, then, and let bolder hearts push
across the river!”
“Well, but I 'm rather out of patience,” said he, in a tone of half
irritation. “I 've had many a venture in life, and too many of them
unfortunate ones.”
“How I do wonder,” said she, after a pause, “that you and papa are
such great friends; for I have rarely heard of two people who take
such widely different notions of life. _You_ seem to me all caution and
reserve; _he_, all daring and energy.”
“That's the reason, perhaps, we suit each other so well,” said Beecher,
laughing.
“It may be so,” said she, thoughtfully; and now there was silence
between them.
“Have you got sisters, Mr. Beecher?” said she, at length.
“No; except I may call my brother's wife one.”
“Tell me of her. Is she young?--is she handsome?”
“She is not young, but she is still a very handsome woman.”
“Dark or fair?”
“Very dark, almost Spanish in complexion; a great deal of haughtiness in
her look, but great courtesy when she pleases.”
“Would she like me?”
“Of course she would,” said he, with a smile and a bow; but a flush
covered his face at the bare thought of their meeting.
“I 'm not so certain you are telling the truth there,” said she,
laughing; “and yet you know there can be no offence in telling me I
should not suit some one I have never seen; do, then, be frank with me,
and say what would she think of me.”
“To begin,” said he, laughing, “she 'd say you were very beautiful--”
“'Exquisitely beautiful,' was the phrase of that old gentleman that got
into the next carriage; and I like it better.”
“Well, exquisitely beautiful,--the perfection of gracefulness,--and
highly accomplished.”
“She'd not say any such thing; she'd not describe me like a governess;
she 'd probably say I was too demonstrative,--that's a phrase in vogue
just now,--and hint that I was a little vulgar. But I assure you,” added
she, seriously, “I'm not so when I speak French. It is a stupid attempt
on my part to catch up what I imagine must be English frankness when
I talk the language that betrays me into all these outspoken
extravagances. Let us talk French now.”
“You 'll have the conversation very nearly to yourself then,” said
Beecher, “for I'm a most indifferent linguist.”
“Well, then, I must ask you to take my word for it, and believe that I
'm well bred when I can afford it. But your sister,--do tell me of her.”
“She is 'très grande dame,' as you would call it,” said Beecher; “very
quiet, very cold, extremely simple in language, dresses splendidly, and
never knows wrong people.”
“Who are wrong people?”
“I don't exactly know how to define them; but they are such as are to
be met with in society, not by claim of birth and standing, but because
they are very rich, or very clever, in some way or other,--people, in
fact, that one has to ask who they are.”
“I understand. But that must apply to a pretty wide circle of this
world's habitants.”
“So it does. A great part of Europe, and _all_ America,” said Beecher,
laughing.
“And papa and myself, how should we come through this formidable
inquiry?”
“Well,” said he, hesitating, “your father has always lived so much out
of the world,--this kind of world, I mean,--so studiously retired, that
the chances are that, in short--”
“In short, they 'd ask, 'Who are these Davises?'” She threw into her
face, as she spoke, such an admirable mimicry of proud pretension that
Beecher laughed immoderately at it “And when they 'd ask it,” continued
she, “I 'd be very grateful to you to tell me what to reply to them,
since I own to you it is a most puzzling question to myself.”
“Well,” said Beecher, in some embarrassment, “it is strange enough; but
though your father and I are very old friends,--as intimate as men
can possibly be,--yet he has never spoken to me about his family or
connections,--nay, so far has he carried his reserve, that, until
yesterday, I was not aware he had a daughter.”
“You don't mean to say he never spoke of me?”
“Never to _me_, at least; and, as I have told you, I believe no one
possesses a larger share of his confidence than myself.”
“That _was_ strange,” said she, in deep reflection. Then, after a few
minutes, she resumed: “If I had a story of my life I 'd tell it you; but
there is really none, or next to none. As a child, I was at school in
Cornwall. Later on, papa came and fetched me away to a small cottage
near Walmer, where I lived with a sort of governess, who treated me with
great deference,--in short, observed towards me so much respect that I
grew to believe I was something very exalted and distinguished, a sort
of 'Man in the Iron Mask,' whose pretensions had only to be known to
convulse half Europe. Thence I passed over to the Pensionnat at
the Three Fountains, where I found, if not the same homage, all the
indications of my being regarded as a privileged individual. I had my
maid; I enjoyed innumerable little indulgences none others possessed. I
'm not sure whether the pony I rode at the riding-school was my own
or not; I only know that none mounted him but myself. In fact, I was
treated like one apart, and all papa's letters only reiterated the same
order,--I was to want for nothing. Of course, these teachings could
impress but one lesson,--that I was a person of high rank and great
fortune; and of this I never entertained a doubt. Now,” added she, with
more energy, “so far as I understand its uses, I _do_ like wealth, and
so far as I can fancy its privileges, I love rank; but if the tidings
came suddenly upon me that I had neither one nor the other, I feel a
sort of self-confidence that tells me I should not be dispirited or
discouraged.”
Beecher gazed at her with such admiration that a deep blush rose to
her face, as she said, “You may put this heroism of mine to the test
at once, by telling me frankly what you know about my station. Am I a
Princess in disguise, Mr. Beecher, or am I only an item in the terrible
category of what you have just called 'wrong people'?”
If the dread and terror of Grog Davis had been removed from Annesley
Beecher's mind, there is no saying to what excess of confidence the
impulse of the moment might have carried him. He was capable of telling
her any and every thing. For a few seconds, indeed, the thought of being
her trusted friend so overcame his prudence that he actually took her
hand between his own, as the prelude of the revelations he was about to
open; when, suddenly, a vision of Davis swept before his mind,--Davis,
in one of his moods of wrath, paroxysms of passion as they were, wherein
he stopped at nothing. “He 'd send me to the dock as a felon; he 'd
shoot me down like a dog,” muttered he to himself, as, dropping her
hand, he leaned back in the carriage.
She bent over and looked calmly into his face. Her own was now perfectly
pale and colorless, and then, with a faint, sad smile, she said,--
“I see that you 'd like to gratify me. It is through some sense of
delicacy and reserve that you hesitate. Be it so. Let us be good friends
now, and perhaps, in time, we may trust each other thoroughly.”
Beecher took her hand once more, and, bending down, kissed it fervently.
What a strange thrill was that that ran through his heart, and what an
odd sense of desolation was it as he relinquished that fair, soft
hand, as though it were that by its grasp he held on to life and hope
together! “Oh,” muttered he to himself, “why was not she--why was not he
himself--twenty things that neither of them were?”
“I wish I could read your thoughts,” said she, smiling gently at him.
“I wish to heaven you could!” cried he, with an honest energy that his
nature had not known for many a day.
For the remainder of the way neither spoke, beyond some chance remark
upon the country or the people. It was as though the bridge between them
was yet too frail to cross, and that they trusted to time to establish
that interchange of thought and confidence which each longed for.
“Here we are at the end of our journey!” said he, with a sigh, as they
entered Aix.
“And the beginning of our friendship,” said she, with a smile, while she
held out her hand to pledge the contract.
So intently was Beecher gazing at her face that he did not notice the
action.
“Won't you have it?” asked she, laughing.
“Which,” cried he,--“the hand or the friendship?”
“I meant the friendship,” said she, quietly.
“Tickets, sir!” said the guard, entering. “We are at the station.”
Annesley Beecher was soon immersed in all those bustling cares which
attend the close of a journey; and though Lizzy seemed to enjoy the
confusion and turmoil that prevailed, he was far from happy amidst the
anxieties about baggage and horse-boxes, the maid and the groom each
tormenting him in the interests of their several departments. All was,
however, safe; not a cap-case was missing; Klepper “never lost a hair;”
and they drove off to the Hotel of the Four Nations in high spirits all.