CHAPTER X.
BEATRICE.
It was natural that a young girl who had gone through so fearful anordeal should for some time feel its effects. Her situation excited thewarmest sympathy of all on board the ship; and her appearance was suchas might inspire a chivalrous respect in the hearts of those rough butkindly and sensitive sailors who had taken part in her rescue.
Her whole appearance marked her as one of no common order. There wasabout her an air of aristocratic grace which inspired involuntaryrespect; an elegance of manner and complete self-possession which markedperfect breeding. Added to this, her face had something which is greatereven than beauty--or at least something without which beauty itself isfeeble--namely, character and expression. Her soul spoke out in everylineament of her noble features, and threw around her the charm ofspiritual exaltation.
To such a charm as this Brandon did not seem indifferent. His usualself-abstraction seemed to desert him for a time. The part that he hadtaken in her rescue of itself formed a tie between them; but there wasanother bond in the fact that he alone of all on board could associatewith 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 thestuff that was in him, offered to take him for his servant. He said thathis name was Asgeelo, but he was commonly called Cato, and preferredthat name to any other. He regarded Brandon as his saviour, with all thesuperstition which Hindus can feel, and looked up to this saviour as asuperior being. The offer of employment was eagerly accepted, and Catoat once entered upon the few duties which his situation could require onship-board.
Meanwhile the young lady remained unknown. At first she spent thegreater 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 distantand respectful courtesy. No one knew her name, and no one asked it. Catowas ignorant of it. She and the old nurse had only been known to him asthe young missis and the old missis.
Brandon, roused from his indifference, did all in his power to mitigatethe gloom of this fair young creature, whom fate had thrown in his way.He found that his attentions were not unacceptable. At length she cameout more frequently, and they became companions on the quarter-deck.
Brandon was touched by the exhibition which she had made of hergratitude to himself. She persisted in regarding him alone as the oneto whom she owed her life, and apologized to him for her selfishness ingiving way so greatly to her grief. After a time she ventured to tellhim the story of the voyage which she had been making. She was on herway from China to England. Her father lived in England, but she hadpassed her life in Hong-Kong, having been brought up there by theold nurse, who had accompanied her on her voyage until that fearfulcalamity.
She told him at different times that her father was a merchant whohad business all over the world, and that he had of late taken up hisstation 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 couldremember. She believed, however, that she was born in England, but didnot know for certain. Her nurse had not known her till she had gone toChina.
It was certainly a curious life, but quite natural, when a busy merchantdevotes all his thoughts to business, and but little attention to hisfamily. She had no mother, but thought she must have died in India. Yetshe was not sure. Of all this, however, she expected to hear when shereached home and met her father.
By the time that she had been a month on board Brandon knew much ofthe events of her simple life. He saw the strange mixture of fear andlonging with which she looked forward to a meeting with her father. Helearned that she had a brother, also, whom she had never seen, forher father kept his son with himself. He could not help looking withinexpressible 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 finelytrained, for she had enjoyed the advantage of the instructions of anItalian maestro, who had been banished, and had gone out to Hong-Kong asband-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, fromthis very cause, and yet she said nothing about it. Brandon did not liketo 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 thelordliest 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 beenstained by the occupations of trade. All this Brandon thought.
Yet as he thought this, he was not insensible to the music of hersoft, low voice, the liquid tenderness of her eye, and the charm ofher manner. She seemed at once to confide herself to him--to own thesuperiority of his nature and seek shelter in it. Circumstances threwthem exclusively into one another's way, and they found each other socongenial that they took advantage of circumstances to the utmost.
There were others as well as Brandon who found it awkward not to haveany name by which to address her, and chief of these was the goodCaptain. After calling her Ma'am and Miss indifferently for about amonth he at last determined to ask her directly; so, one day at thedinner-table, he said:
"I most humbly beg your pardon, ma'am; but I do not know your name, andhave never had a chance to find it out. If it's no offense, perhaps youwould 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 embarrassmentsaid, very softly, "Beatrice."
"B. A. Treachy," said the Captain. "Ah! I hope, Miss Treachy, you willpardon 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, pronouncedthe 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 effectwhich the mention of that name had produced on Brandon. He had beenlooking at his plate like one involved in thought. As he heard the namehis head fell forward, and he caught at the table to steady himself. Hethen rose abruptly with a cloud upon his brow, his lips firmly pressedtogether, and his whole face seemingly transformed, and hurried from thecabin.
She did not see him again for a week. He pleaded illness, shut himselfin his state-room, and was seen by no one but Cato.
Beatrice could not help associating this change in Brandon with theknowledge of her name. That name was hateful to herself. A fastidioustaste had prevented her from volunteering to tell it; and as no oneasked her directly it had not been known. And now, since she had toldit, this was the result.
For Brandon's conduct she could imagine only one cause. He had feltshocked at such a plebeian name.
The fact that she herself hated her name, and saw keenly howridiculously it sounded after such a name as Beatrice, only made herfeel the more indignant with Brandon. "His own name," she thought,bitterly, "is plebeian--not so bad as mine, it is true, yet still it isplebeian. Why should he feel so shocked at mine?" Of course, she knewhim only as "_Mr. Wheeler_." "Perhaps he has imagined that I hadsome grand name, and, learning my true one, has lost his illusion. Heformerly esteemed me. He now despises me."
Beatrice was cut to the heart; but she was too proud to show any feelingwhatever. She frequented the quarter-deck as before; though now she hadno companion except, at turns, the good-natured Captain and the mate.The longer Brandon avoided her
the more indignant she felt. Her outragedpride made sadness impossible.
Brandon remained in his state-room for about two weeks altogether. Whenat length he made his appearance on the quarter-deck he found Beatricethere, who greeted him with a distant bow.
There was a sadness in his face as he approached and took a seat nearher which at once disarmed her, drove away all indignation, and arousedpity.
"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 aboutagain my first act is to apologize to you for my rudeness in quittingthe 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 meis impossible. Something like a spasm passed over my nervous system, andI had to hurry to my room."
"I confess," said Beatrice, frankly, "that I thought your suddendeparture had something to do with the conversation about me. I am verysorry 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 hateit."
Brandon looked at her with a sad, weary smile, and said nothing. "Youare sick," she said; "I am thoughtless. I see that my name, in some wayor other, recalls painful thoughts. How wretched it is for me to givepain 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. Thereseemed after this to be a mutual understanding between the two to avoidthe subject of her name, and although it was a constant mortificationto Beatrice, yet she believed that on his part there was no contempt forthe name, but something very different, something associated with bettermemories.
They now resumed their old walks and conversations. Every day bound themmore closely to one another, and each took it for granted that the otherwould be the constant companion of every hour in the day.
Both had lived unusual lives. Beatrice had much to say about herHong-Kong life, the Chinese, the British officers, and the festivitiesof garrison life. Brandon had lived for years in Australia, and wasfamiliar with all the round of events which may be met with in thatcountry. He had been born in England, and had lived there, as hasalready been mentioned, till he was almost a man, so that he had muchto say about that mother-land concerning which Beatrice felt suchcuriosity. Thus they settled down again naturally and inevitably intoconstant association with each other.
Whatever may have been the thoughts of Brandon during the fortnightof his seclusion, or whatever may have been the conclusion to which hecame, he carefully refrained from the most remote hint at the home orthe prospects of Beatrice. He found her on the seas, and he wascontent to take her as she was. Her name was a common one. She mightbe connected with his enemy, or she might not. For his part, he did notwish to know.
Beatrice also showed equal care in avoiding the subject. The effectwhich had been produced by the mention of her name was still remembered,and, whatever the cause may have been, both this and her own strongdislike to it prevented her from ever making any allusion either to herfather 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 havefigured most prominently--a man who had lived there for years, and givenher instruction in music. He was an Italian, of whom she knew nothingwhatever but his name, with the exception of the fact that he had beenunfortunate in Europe, and had come out to Hong-Kong as bandmaster ofthe Twentieth Regiment. His name was Paolo Langhetti.
"Do you like music?" asked Brandon, abruptly.
"Above all things." said Beatrice, with an intensity of emphasis whichspoke of deep feeling.
"Do you play?"
"Somewhat."
"Do you sing?"
"A little. I was considered a good singer in Hong-Kong; but that isnothing. I sang in the Cathedral. Langhetti was kind enough to praiseme; 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?" herepeated, interrogatively, and in a voice of singular sweetness.
"Very," returned Beatrice, musingly. "He always called me'Bice'--sometimes 'Bicetta,' 'Bicinola,' 'Bicina;' it was his prettyItalian way. But oh, if you could hear him play! He could make theviolin speak like a human voice. He used to think in music. He seemed tome 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 togratify, 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, witha motion of her hand. "Wait till we pass beyond this ocean. It seemshaunted."
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 theyentered the Atlantic Ocean, and sailed North. During all this time theirassociation was close and continuous. In her presence Brandon softened;the sternness of his features relaxed, and the great purpose of his lifegrew gradually fainter.
One evening, after they had entered the Atlantic Ocean, they werestanding by the stern of the ship looking at the waters, when Brandonrepeated his request.
"Would you be willing to sing now?" he asked, gently, and in the sametone of entreaty which he had used before.
Beatrice looked at him for a moment without speaking. Then she raisedher face and looked up at the sky, with a deep abstraction in hereyes, as though in thought. Her face, usually colorless, now, in themoonlight, looked like marble; her dark hair hung in peculiar folds overher brow--an arrangement which was antique in its style, and gaveher the look of a statue of one of the Muses. Her straight, Grecianfeatures, large eyes, thin lips, and well-rounded chin--all had the sameclassic air, and Brandon, as he looked at her, wondered if she knew howfair she was. She stood for a moment in silence, and then began. It wasa marvelous and a memorable epoch in Brandon's life. The scene aroundadded its inspiration to the voice of the singer. The ocean spread afaraway before them till the verge of the horizon seemed to blend sea andsky together. Overhead the dim sky hung, dotted with innumerable stars,prominent among which, not far above the horizon, gleamed that gloriousconstellation, the Southern Cross. Beatrice, who hesitated for a momentas if to decide upon her song, at last caught her idea from thisscene around her, and began one of the most magnificent of Italiancompositions:
"I cieli immensi narrano Del grand' Iddio la gloria."
"SHE GAVE HERSELF ENTIRELY UP TO THE JOY OF SONG."]
Her first notes poured forth with a sweetness and fullness that arrestedthe attention of all on board the ship. It was the first time she hadsung, as she afterward said, since Langhetti had left Hong-Kong, andshe gave herself entirely up to the joy of song. Her voice, long silent,instead of having been injured by the sorrow through which she hadpassed, was pure, full, marvelous, and thrilling. A glow like somedivine inspiration passed over the marble beauty of her classicfeatures; her eyes themselves seemed to speak of all that glory of whichshe sang, as the sacred fire of genius flashed from them.
At those wonderful notes, so generous and so penetrating with theirsublime meaning, all on board the ship looked and listened withamazement. The hands of the steersman held the wheel listlessly.Brandon's own soul was filled with the fullest effects. He stoodwatching her figure, with its inspired lineaments, and thought of thefabled prodigies of music spoken of in ancient story. He thought ofOrphe
us 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 thatwhich the song of Beatrice swept over his spirit.
But Beatrice saw nothing and heard nothing except the scene beforeher, with its grand inspiration and her own utterance of its praise.Brandon's own soul was more and more overcome; the divine voice thrilledover his heart; he shuddered and uttered a low sigh of rapture.
"My God!" he exclaimed as she ended; "I never before heard any thinglike this. I never dreamed of such a thing. Is there on earth anothersuch a voice as yours? Will I ever again hear any thing like it? Yoursong is like a voice from those heavens of which you sing. It is a newrevelation."
He poured forth these words with passionate impetuosity. Beatricesmiled.
"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 sinksaway, and all my will is weakened to nothingness."
Beatrice looked at him with a mournful smile. "Then you have the truepassion for music," she said, "if this be so. For my part it is the joyof 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.
Cord and Creese Page 10
