BEATRICE.
It was natural that a young girl who had gone through so fearful an
ordeal should for some time feel its effects. Her situation excited the
warmest sympathy of all on board the ship; and her appearance was such
as might inspire a chivalrous respect in the hearts of those rough but
kindly and sensitive sailors who had taken part in her rescue.
Her whole appearance marked her as one of no common order. There was
about her an air of aristocratic grace which inspired involuntary
respect; an elegance of manner and complete self-possession which marked
perfect breeding. Added to this, her face had something which is greater
even than beauty--or at least something without which beauty itself is
feeble--namely, character and expression. Her soul spoke out in every
lineament of her noble features, and threw around her the charm of
spiritual exaltation.
To such a charm as this Brandon did not seem indifferent. His usual
self-abstraction seemed to desert him for a time. The part that he had
taken in her rescue of itself formed a tie between them; but there was
another bond in the fact that he alone of all on board could associate
with her on equal terms, as a high-bred gentleman with a high-bred lady.
The Hindu had at once found occupation, for Brandon, who had seen the
stuff that was in him, offered to take him for his servant. He said that
his name was Asgeelo, but he was commonly called Cato, and preferred
that name to any other. He regarded Brandon as his saviour, with all the
superstition which Hindus can feel, and looked up to this saviour as a
superior being. The offer of employment was eagerly accepted, and Cato
at once entered upon the few duties which his situation could require on
ship-board.
Meanwhile the young lady remained unknown. At first she spent the
greater part of her time in her room, and only came out at meal-times,
when the sadness of her face prevented any thing except the most distant
and respectful courtesy. No one knew her name, and no one asked it. Cato
was ignorant of it. She and the old nurse had only been known to him as
the young missis and the old missis.
Brandon, roused from his indifference, did all in his power to mitigate
the gloom of this fair young creature, whom fate had thrown in his way.
He found that his attentions were not unacceptable. At length she came
out more frequently, and they became companions on the quarter-deck.
Brandon was touched by the exhibition which she had made of her
gratitude to himself. She persisted in regarding him alone as the one
to whom she owed her life, and apologized to him for her selfishness in
giving way so greatly to her grief. After a time she ventured to tell
him the story of the voyage which she had been making. She was on her
way from China to England. Her father lived in England, but she had
passed her life in Hong-Kong, having been brought up there by the
old nurse, who had accompanied her on her voyage until that fearful
calamity.
She told him at different times that her father was a merchant who
had business all over the world, and that he had of late taken up his
station in his own home and sent for her.
Of her father she did not say much, and did not seem to know much.
She had never seen him. She had been in Hong-Kong ever since she could
remember. She believed, however, that she was born in England, but did
not know for certain. Her nurse had not known her till she had gone to
China.
It was certainly a curious life, but quite natural, when a busy merchant
devotes all his thoughts to business, and but little attention to his
family. She had no mother, but thought she must have died in India. Yet
she was not sure. Of all this, however, she expected to hear when she
reached home and met her father.
By the time that she had been a month on board Brandon knew much of
the events of her simple life. He saw the strange mixture of fear and
longing with which she looked forward to a meeting with her father. He
learned that she had a brother, also, whom she had never seen, for
her father kept his son with himself. He could not help looking with
inexpressible pity on one so lovely, yet so neglected.
Otherwise, as far as mere money was concerned, she had never suffered.
Her accomplishments were numerous. She was passionately fond of music,
and was familiar with all the classic compositions. Her voice was finely
trained, for she had enjoyed the advantage of the instructions of an
Italian maestro, who had been banished, and had gone out to Hong-Kong as
band-master in the Twentieth Regiment. She could speak French fluently,
and had read almost every thing.
Now after finding out all this Brandon had not found out her name.
Embarrassments arose sometimes, which she could not help noticing, from
this very cause, and yet she said nothing about it. Brandon did not like
to ask her abruptly, since he saw that she did not respond to his hints.
So he conjectured and wondered. He thought that her name must be of the
lordliest kind, and that she for some reason wished to keep it a secret:
perhaps she was noble, and did not like to tell that name which had been
stained by the occupations of trade. All this Brandon thought.
Yet as he thought this, he was not insensible to the music of her
soft, low voice, the liquid tenderness of her eye, and the charm of
her manner. She seemed at once to confide herself to him--to own the
superiority of his nature and seek shelter in it. Circumstances threw
them exclusively into one another’s way, and they found each other so
congenial that they took advantage of circumstances to the utmost.
There were others as well as Brandon who found it awkward not to have
any name by which to address her, and chief of these was the good
Captain. After calling her Ma’am and Miss indifferently for about a
month he at last determined to ask her directly; so, one day at the
dinner-table, he said:
“I most humbly beg your pardon, ma’am; but I do not know your name, and
have never had a chance to find it out. If it’s no offense, perhaps you
would be so good as to tell it?”
The young lady thus addressed flushed crimson, then looked at Brandon,
who was gazing fixedly on his plate, and with visible embarrassment
said, very softly, “Beatrice.”
“B. A. Treachy,” said the Captain. “Ah! I hope, Miss Treachy, you will
pardon me; but I really found it so everlasting confusing.”
A faint smile crossed the lips of Brandon. But Beatrice did not smile.
She looked a little frightened, and then said:
“Oh, that is only my Christian name!”
“Christian name!” said the Captain. “How can that be a Christian name?”
“My surname is--” She hesitated, and then, with an effort, pronounced
the word “Potts.”
“‘Potts!’” said the Captain, quickly, and with evident surprise.
“Oh--well, I hope you will excuse me.”
But the face of Beatrice turned to an ashen hue as she marked the effect
which the mention of that name had produced on Brandon. He had been
looking at his plate like one involved in thought. As he heard the name
his head fell forward, and he caught at the table to steady himself. He
then rose abruptly with a cloud upon his brow, his lips firmly pressed
together, and his whole face seemingly transformed, and hurried from the
cabin.
She did not see him again for a week. He pleaded illness, shut himself
in his state-room, and was seen by no one but Cato.
Beatrice could not help associating this change in Brandon with the
knowledge of her name. That name was hateful to herself. A fastidious
taste had prevented her from volunteering to tell it; and as no one
asked her directly it had not been known. And now, since she had told
it, this was the result.
For Brandon’s conduct she could imagine only one cause. He had felt
shocked at such a plebeian name.
The fact that she herself hated her name, and saw keenly how
ridiculously it sounded after such a name as Beatrice, only made her
feel the more indignant with Brandon. “His own name,” she thought,
bitterly, “is plebeian--not so bad as mine, it is true, yet still it is
plebeian. Why should he feel so shocked at mine?” Of course, she knew
him only as “_Mr. Wheeler_.” “Perhaps he has imagined that I had
some grand name, and, learning my true one, has lost his illusion. He
formerly esteemed me. He now despises me.”
Beatrice was cut to the heart; but she was too proud to show any feeling
whatever. She frequented the quarter-deck as before; though now she had
no companion except, at turns, the good-natured Captain and the mate.
The longer Brandon avoided her the more indignant she felt. Her outraged
pride made sadness impossible.
Brandon remained in his state-room for about two weeks altogether. When
at length he made his appearance on the quarter-deck he found Beatrice
there, who greeted him with a distant bow.
There was a sadness in his face as he approached and took a seat near
her which at once disarmed her, drove away all indignation, and aroused
pity.
“You have been sick,” she said, kindly, and with some emotion.
“Yes,” said Brandon, in a low voice, “but now that I am able to go about
again my first act is to apologize to you for my rudeness in quitting
the table so abruptly as to make it seem like a personal insult to you.
Now I hope you will believe me when I say that an insult to you from me
is impossible. Something like a spasm passed over my nervous system, and
I had to hurry to my room.”
“I confess,” said Beatrice, frankly, “that I thought your sudden
departure had something to do with the conversation about me. I am very
sorry indeed that I did you such a wrong; I might have known you better.
Will you forgive me?”
Brandon smiled, faintly. “You are the one who must forgive.”
“But I hate my name so,” burst out Beatrice.
Brandon said nothing.
“Don’t you? Now confess.”
“How can I--” he began.
“You do, you do!” she cried, vehemently; “but I don’t care--for I hate
it.”
Brandon looked at her with a sad, weary smile, and said nothing. “You
are sick,” she said; “I am thoughtless. I see that my name, in some way
or other, recalls painful thoughts. How wretched it is for me to give
pain to others!”
Brandon looked at her appealingly, and said, “You give pain? Believe me!
believe me! there is nothing but happiness where you are.”
At this Beatrice looked confused and changed the conversation. There
seemed after this to be a mutual understanding between the two to avoid
the subject of her name, and although it was a constant mortification
to Beatrice, yet she believed that on his part there was no contempt for
the name, but something very different, something associated with better
memories.
They now resumed their old walks and conversations. Every day bound them
more closely to one another, and each took it for granted that the other
would be the constant companion of every hour in the day.
Both had lived unusual lives. Beatrice had much to say about her
Hong-Kong life, the Chinese, the British officers, and the festivities
of garrison life. Brandon had lived for years in Australia, and was
familiar with all the round of events which may be met with in that
country. He had been born in England, and had lived there, as has
already been mentioned, till he was almost a man, so that he had much
to say about that mother-land concerning which Beatrice felt such
curiosity. Thus they settled down again naturally and inevitably into
constant association with each other.
Whatever may have been the thoughts of Brandon during the fortnight
of his seclusion, or whatever may have been the conclusion to which he
came, he carefully refrained from the most remote hint at the home or
the prospects of Beatrice. He found her on the seas, and he was
content to take her as she was. Her name was a common one. She might
be connected with his enemy, or she might not. For his part, he did not
wish to know.
Beatrice also showed equal care in avoiding the subject. The effect
which had been produced by the mention of her name was still remembered,
and, whatever the cause may have been, both this and her own strong
dislike to it prevented her from ever making any allusion either to her
father or to any one of her family. She had no scruples, however,
about talking of her Hong-Kong life, in which one person seemed to have
figured most prominently--a man who had lived there for years, and given
her instruction in music. He was an Italian, of whom she knew nothing
whatever but his name, with the exception of the fact that he had been
unfortunate in Europe, and had come out to Hong-Kong as bandmaster of
the Twentieth Regiment. His name was Paolo Langhetti.
“Do you like music?” asked Brandon, abruptly.
“Above all things.” said Beatrice, with an intensity of emphasis which
spoke of deep feeling.
“Do you play?”
“Somewhat.”
“Do you sing?”
“A little. I was considered a good singer in Hong-Kong; but that is
nothing. I sang in the Cathedral. Langhetti was kind enough to praise
me; but then he was so fond of me that whatever I did was right.”
Brandon was silent for a little while. “Langhetti was fond of you?” he
repeated, interrogatively, and in a voice of singular sweetness.
“Very,” returned Beatrice, musingly. “He always called me
‘Bice’--sometimes ‘Bicetta,’ ‘Bicinola,’ ‘Bicina;’ it was his pretty
Italian way. But oh, if you could hear him play! He could make the
violin speak like a human voice. He used to think in music. He seemed to
me to be hardly human sometimes.”
“And he loved to hear you sing?” said Brandon, in the same voice.
“He used to praise me,” said Beatrice, meekly. “His praise used to
gratify, but it did not deceive me. I am not conceited, Mr. Wheeler.”
“Would you sing for me?” asked Brandon, in accents almost of entreaty,
looking at her with an imploring expression.
Beatrice’s head fell. “Not now--not yet--not here,” she murmured, with
a motion of her hand. “Wait till we pass beyond this ocean. It seems
haunted.”
Brandon understood her tone and gesture.
But the weeks passed, and the months, and they went over the seas,
touching at Mauritius, and afterward at Cape Town, till finally they
entered the Atlantic Ocean, and sailed North. During all this time their
association was close and continuous. In her presence Brandon softened;
the sternness of his features relaxed, and the great purpose of his life
grew gradually fainter.
One evening, after they had entered the Atlantic Ocean, they were
standing by the stern of the ship looking at the waters, when Brandon
repeated his request.
“Would you be willing to sing now?” he asked, gently, and in the same
tone of entreaty which he had used before.
Beatrice looked at him for a moment without speaking. Then she raised
her face and looked up at the sky, with a deep abstraction in her
eyes, as though in thought. Her face, usually colorless, now, in the
moonlight, looked like marble; her dark hair hung in peculiar folds over
her brow--an arrangement which was antique in its style, and gave
her the look of a statue of one of the Muses. Her straight, Grecian
features, large eyes, thin lips, and well-rounded chin--all had the same
classic air, and Brandon, as he looked at her, wondered if she knew how
fair she was. She stood for a moment in silence, and then began. It was
a marvelous and a memorable epoch in Brandon’s life. The scene around
added its inspiration to the voice of the singer. The ocean spread afar
away before them till the verge of the horizon seemed to blend sea and
sky together. Overhead the dim sky hung, dotted with innumerable stars,
prominent among which, not far above the horizon, gleamed that glorious
constellation, the Southern Cross. Beatrice, who hesitated for a moment
as if to decide upon her song, at last caught her idea from this
scene around her, and began one of the most magnificent of Italian
compositions:
“I cieli immensi narrano
Del grand’ Iddio la gloria.”
[Illustration: “SHE GAVE HERSELF ENTIRELY UP TO THE JOY OF SONG.”]
Her first notes poured forth with a sweetness and fullness that arrested
the attention of all on board the ship. It was the first time she had
sung, as she afterward said, since Langhetti had left Hong-Kong, and
she gave herself entirely up to the joy of song. Her voice, long silent,
instead of having been injured by the sorrow through which she had
passed, was pure, full, marvelous, and thrilling. A glow like some
divine inspiration passed over the marble beauty of her classic
features; her eyes themselves seemed to speak of all that glory of which
she sang, as the sacred fire of genius flashed from them.
At those wonderful notes, so generous and so penetrating with their
sublime meaning, all on board the ship looked and listened with
amazement. The hands of the steersman held the wheel listlessly.
Brandon’s own soul was filled with the fullest effects. He stood
watching her figure, with its inspired lineaments, and thought of the
fabled prodigies of music spoken of in ancient story. He thought of
Orpheus hushing all animated nature to calm by the magic of his song.
At last all thoughts of his own left him, and nothing remained but that
which the song of Beatrice swept over his spirit.
But Beatrice saw nothing and heard nothing except the scene before
her, with its grand inspiration and her own utterance of its praise.
Brandon’s own soul was more and more overcome; the divine voice thrilled
over his heart; he shuddered and uttered a low sigh of rapture.
“My God!” he exclaimed as she ended; “I never before heard any thing
like this. I never dreamed of such a thing. Is there on earth another
such a voice as yours? Will I ever again hear any thing like it? Your
song is like a voice from those heavens of which you sing. It is a new
revelation.”
He poured forth these words with passionate impetuosity. Beatrice
smiled.
“Langhetti used to praise me,” she simply rejoined.
“You terrify me,” said he.
“Why?” asked Beatrice, in wonder.
“Because your song works upon me like a spell, and all my soul sinks
away, and all my will is weakened to nothingness.”
Beatrice looked at him with a mournful smile. “Then you have the true
passion for music,” she said, “if this be so. For my part it is the joy
of my life, and I hope to give up all my life to it.”
“Do you expect to see Langhetti when you reach England?” asked Brandon,
abruptly.
“I hope so,” said she, musingly.