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 pa.s.sionately fond of music, and was familiar with all the cla.s.sic 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.
Embarra.s.sments 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 n.o.ble, 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. Circ.u.mstances threw them exclusively into one another"s way, and they found each other so congenial that they took advantage of circ.u.mstances 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 embarra.s.sment 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, p.r.o.nounced 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 a.s.sociating 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sociated 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 a.s.sociation 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."