“I can't help that, Mr. Beecher,” said she, in that half-careless tone she sometimes used. “Just listen to me for one moment,” said she, earnestly, and fixing her eyes fully on him,—“just hear me attentively. From what I have gathered from your account of England and its habits, I am certainly now doing that which, to say the least, is most unusual and unwarrantable. Now, either there is a reason so grave for this that it makes a choice of evils imperative,—and, therefore, I ought to have my choice,—or there is another even worse interpretation—at least, a more painful one—to come.”
“Which is?” cried he.
“That I am not of that station to which such propriety attaches of necessity.”
She uttered these words with a cold sternness and determination that actually made Beecher tremble. “It was Davis's daughter spoke there,” thought he. “They are the words of one who declares that, no matter what be the odds against her, she is ready to meet the whole world in arms. What a girl it is!” muttered he, with a sense of mingled fear and admiration.
“Well, Mr. Beecher,” said she, at length, “I do think you owe me a little frankness; short as our acquaintance has been, I, at least, have talked in all the freedom of old friendship. Pray show me that I have not been indiscreet.”
“Hang me, if I know what to say or do!” cried Beecher, in dire perplexity. “If I were to tell you why your father hurried away from Brussels, he 'd bring me to book very soon, I promise you.”
“I do not ask that,” interrupted she, eagerly. “It is upon the other point my interest is most engaged.” He looked blankly at her, for he really did not catch to what she alluded. “I want you to tell me, in one word, who are the Davises? Who are we? If we are not recognizable by that high world you have told me of, who, then, are our equals? Remember that by an honest answer to my question you give guidance and direction to my future life. Do not shrink from fear of giving me pain,—there is no such pain as uncertainty; so be frank.”
Beecher covered his face with his hands to think over his reply. He did not dare to look at her, so fearful was he of her reading his very embarrassment.
“I will spare you, sir,” said she, smiling half superciliously; “but if you bad known me a little longer or a little better, you had seen how needless all this excessive caution on your part I have more of what you call 'pluck' than you give me credit for.”
“No, by Jove! that you have n't,” cried Beecher; “you have more real courage than all the men I ever knew.”