CHAPTER XXXII. THE COUPÉ ON THE RAIL.
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.