Raped on the Railway

SIXTY MILES AN HOUR

The painter felt a slight tremor run through his limbs, then, with a toss of his head, he jumped into the compartment in which the lad was seated, saying to himself: “Humph! it smells of odor femina here…”

Brandon cast another glance at the lady and noticed that her appearance was quite distinguished, and that her apparel denoted elegance and good taste.

Employing then a simple ruse, but which is nearly always successful, the artist closed the door and put his head out of the window, so as to deter any other travellers from coming into his compartment.

His heart was beating with force, and he was not quite reassured until he heard the signal given to start.

When the train began slowly to leave the station, the painter left the window and turned towards the lady, who was seated in the opposite corner of the carriage.

He noticed, with some vexation, that instead of looking towards him, she had half turned round and was looking out of the window on her side at the network of lines, and was apparently taking a great interest in the men who were shunting the carriages.

At all events the London North Western Railway is not like some other lines, and does not keep the passengers in semi-darkness. The lamps give a fairly bright light, and enable travellers to see one another, and even tolerably well. Brandon was therefore able to take stock of the lady, and make up his mind as to what her social condition was.

He noticed that she was rather a little woman, but exceedingly well-made, as he was able to see, for she had not put on any shawls or wraps — the weather indeed being too warm to render them necessary — and she wore a tightly fitting tailor-made costume which showed off her figure to perfection. She had crossed one leg over the other, and thus displayed a neat foot and a pretty ankle, the latter encased in openwork, black, silk stockings. On her head was a coquettish gray felt hat, and fastened round it was a large white veil, which completely covered, though it did not conceal altogether, the lady's features.

Brandon was able to notice her face tolerably well, and saw that she had a very pretty mouth, though he judged from the lips that they were not only eminently kissable, but would return a kiss with interest, or indeed, he thought, give even a warmer proof of affection if their owner wished it and was enamoured of a man. The rather wide nostrils of the delicately tip-tilted nose seemed to confirm this theory. The hair was wavy, and of that rich chestnut brown which always grows in profusion — and not only on the head, as Brandon was well aware, for he had seen many nude models in the course of his artistic career. The eyes, which, as we have said, were very bright, had long eyelashes which served to intensify the sudden glances which were shot from behind them. On the whole Brandon came to the conclusion that he had seldom seen a prettier little woman.

“To what class of society does this woman belong?” thought the painter, vexed at not attracting her attention. “She is rich, undoubtedly, and her exterior as far as I can judge, denotes a woman of the world… but of which world? Is she a great lady? No, she would not travel alone… A rich bourgeoise? It may be, but I doubt it, for she has in her manners a certain air of distinction and independence which is almost exclusively the appendage of artistes… Yes, she must be an artiste… or else perhaps a kept-woman…

Before Brandon could make up his mind on these points the train had glided rapidly through the suburbs of London, and having once shaken off «villadom» was speeding along at a rate which would not cease increasing till it exceeded sixty miles an hour, towards Crewe, the first stopping-place on this long journey.

The painter was not one of those enterprising Don Juans who cannot find themselves in tete-a-tete with a woman without feeling an imperative desire to effect her conquest, but he was fond of adventure, of the mysterious and unexpected everything that makes a great impression on the imagination.

If, instead of hiding her features beneath an almost impenetrable veil, the lady with whom he found himself had allowed him to see her face, it is probable that he would have limited himself to the exchange of a few polite words with her without seeking to push his gallantry any further.

But the indifference with which she seemed to regard him piqued his pride, and he determined to oblige her to take notice of him.

Like most artists, Brandon sometimes neglected parliamentary forms, and spoke out with a degree of familiarity rather unusual in aristocratic drawing-rooms.

Determined to force his travelling companion to answer him, he got up, and going right up to her, he took off his cap, and bowing low, said to her:

“Will you be good enough, Madam, not to be offended at the request I am about to make to you?…”

The lady, who had turned briskly round when the painter advanced towards her, looked him in the face, and answered rather haughtily:

“I have not authorized you to speak to me, Sir.

“That is true, and I humbly confess my fault.

“Well, what is it you wish?”

“Pray excuse the boldness of an artist, who has the misfortune much oftener to frequent studios than drawing-rooms.”

“Ah! you are an artist?” said the lady in an almost amiable tone.

“Yes, Madam; Brandon, a painter no doubt unworthy to reproduce the divine features which you so obstinately persist in hiding beneath that ugly lace armour;” replied the painter, boldly, taking his seat in front of the lady.

“Your name is known to me, Sir, and better still, some of your works of art,” said the lady, inclining her head graciously, “and I think you calumniate yourself when you make yourself so humble.”

While the lady was speaking, the artist could notice the brilliant white of her neck, the opulent charms of her breast, the admirable contour of her chin, in which a voluptuous dimple nestled, and the seductive tone of her voice.

Nothing more was required to set fire to him, as is vulgarly said.

“Pray, Madam, do not treat me with so much indulgence,” he rejoined; “you would be authorizing me to give expression to my gratitude, and then…

“Oh! then, you might be wanting in respect to me?”

“Oh! Madam…”

“Let us come back to your request. What was it you were about to ask me?

“Pardon me, I pray you; the emotion you cause me is so great that I have quite forgotten what I wanted.”

“It was therefore but of very slight importance… If you can see no objection, Sir, I will try to go to sleep, for I feel tired; good night…”

The lady took up a cloak which was lying on the seat beside her, and throwing it round her so as to cover all the lower part of her face, she rested her head against one of the divisions which separate the seats, and closed her eyes.

Brandon bit his lips till they bled.

This sudden end of an adventure which had begun by giving him smiling hopes, wounded his vanity to the quick, and far from giving up the game, he determined to stake his all.

During about twenty minutes, the painter tried to renew hostilities with some serious chances of success.

The lady slept or appeared to sleep.

Her breathing was slow and regular, and from her whole person there emanated a fragrant odour of violets, which completed the intoxication of the artist.

He had suddenly fallen in love, he could not have said with whom. This woman, whom he supposed to be pretty because she was richly and elegantly dressed, had just made a claim upon his chivalrous sentiments, by falling asleep near to him without showing the slightest fear, and he dared not abuse her confidence.

And yet, it was not good-will that was wanting in him.

“Ah bah!” said he to himself, “I should be a great fool to go on acting like a timid school-boy. I am certain that the lady would not fail to laugh at me to-morrow morning.”

After having vainly troubled his brains to find a means of galvanizing the lovely sleeper, Brandon ended by employing the vulgar dodge, familiar to libertines who are getting old, and to unmannerly rakes and to timid lovers.

He slowly approached his foot to the lady's boot and gently touched it…

The lady did not budge.

Brandon pushed a little harder, he had even the audacity to slightly caress the tip of the foot of the fair sleeper. It seemed as if she had suddenly become petrified, for she made no movement to avoid the attack of her fellow-traveler.

Little by little the painter had become excited; his brain was on fire, his heart was throbbing, and he was shaken by furious desire…

He could no longer be mistaken, the lady was encouraging him by not resisting his amorous enterprises.

Carrying audacity to its utmost limits, Brandon tenderly pressed between his two feet the delicate ankle of the lady. He was about to lean forward towards her to take her hand, when she suddenly lifted her head, and said to him in a bantering tone:

“I should much like to know, Sir, why you persist in crushing my toes?”

The painter was for a moment silent, then taking courage, he replied:

“Because this is the most eloquent means I can employ to make known my sentiments to a pretty woman who pretends to be asleep.”

“And what sentiments, pray! can I inspire you with? You have never seen me.”

“My heart does not require the aid of my eyes to guess that you are as charming as witty.

“Granted; I am charming and possess much wit; what do you conclude therefrom?”

“Oh! Madam!” said Brandon, all on fire at once, “I do not believe, ever to have experienced in all my life, such exquisite sensations… You are an enchantress.”

At the same time he seized the hand of the fair unknown and imprinted on her wrist several ardent kisses…

The artist felt an unspeakable joy in noting the slight start she made, anticipating that she was about to give way to him…

But suddenly, releasing her arm by a sharp movement, the lady said to him in a severe tone:

“Cease, Sir, I command you. I wanted to see how far your audacity would venture. I know now. I consent to forgive your insulting enterprises, but on one condition; that you go back to the corner you at first occupied when you entered his carriage.”

“No!” replied Brandon, forcibly, for he was so excited that he was no longer master of himself. “I feel myself attracted to you so irresistibly, that I will hesitate before no consideration, before no danger to make you accept my homage…”

“Is it possible… such language to me?…

“It is that of a man madly in love… we are alone., no one will ever know what has taken place here, it is a minute of divine intoxication that we steal from heaven and the voluptuous remembrance of which will be the delight of our life… Give way to my prayers, I conjure you! Do not transform these instants of happiness into a barbarous struggle… Love me as I love you.”… Brandon had rushed towards the lady, he again seized her hand, and suddenly pulling aside her cloak, he implanted two burning kisses on her neck…

“Sir, Sir, I implore you…” murmured the fair traveler in a dying voice, the precursor of her defeat. “It is abominable of you to thus take advantage of my situation…”

“I love you! I love you!” cried the artist in the acme of excitement as he furiously pressed the unknown in his arms.

He would probably have triumphed over her last resistance when the speed of the train was suddenly slackened.

At once the railway porters ran along the platforms, shouting:

“Crewe! Crewe! Stop here ten minutes…

The doors flew open and most of the travellers hastened to get out.

Nothing can give an idea of the consternation depicted on Brandon's face at finding his amorous enterprises interrupted by the stoppage of the train. In a few seconds, ten different fears had crossed his mind.

The lady, having recovered her presence of mind, might henceforth keep him at a distance, claim the protection of the railway officials or change her carriage.

Other travellers might enter their compartment…

It was in fact this which was very nearly taking place.

A stout man, his head buried in a fur cap, and with his rug on his arm, got on to the step and was about to enter the compartment occupied by the artist. The latter, his face purple and his eyes glaring, stood suddenly before the intruder.

“Where are you going?” said he angrily.

“Why here!” said the traveler, astonished.

“There s no room.”

“I beg your pardon, I see only you and a lady in this compartment.

“I repeat to you, all the places are taken,” rejoined the painter boldly… “A family of six persons has just got down… Here they are, coming back…”

Brandon pointed at the same time to a family who were hastening up.

The stout gentleman made a gesture of annoyance, and hurried away grumbling.

The painter gave a sigh of relief, as he quickly closed the door, behind which he kept until the train had started again.

Delivered from his fears, Brandon hastened back to the side of the lady.

“Ah! Madam!” said he, putting his hand to his heart, “what anguish I have just gone through!”

“How so?” asked the lady, artfully.

“This man who was on the point of interposing himself between us… I saw the moment when it would have been necessary to renounce…!”

“Renounce what?” said the fair traveler.

“The happiness of embracing you, life of my soul…”

The artist sat down next to the lady, and, passing his arm round her waist, said to her:

“I implore of you, my angel, to let me contemplate those heavenly features I so burn to portray.”

“Do not count upon that, Sir.”

“But why? Oh! why?” The fair traveler again disengaged herself, and turning upon Brandon eyes which glistened like burning coals beneath her veil, she said to him in a hesitating tone:

“Promise me not to seek to see my features, and I may perhaps be weak enough to give way to your entreaties…”

“Are you then married?”

“What can it concern you? You will never meet me again, and the memory of me will soon be effaced from your mind like a dream…”

Brandon, in the paroxysm of desire, promised all the lady demanded.

“When we get to Glasgow,” she said to Brandon, “we shall separate, never more to see each other; such is my will; do not make me repent of my weakness…

“I love you! I love you to distraction!” exclaimed the artist with vehemence, “and now that you have half opened to me the gates of Heaven, you must be mine for ever! Come, adorable mistress, no longer hide from me thy divine features, for surely art thou a celestial creature…

At the same moment the painter seized hold of the corner of the veil hiding the features of the fair traveler, which he lifted up to the height of her forehead; but she promptly stood up and pulled it down again with such rapidity, that he had barely time to catch the ensemble of her features…

He was however able to recognize that this woman was a thousand times more lovely than he had supposed, and he had time to remark on her temple, a beauty spot of the size of a pea…

Irritated at the resistance of the fair unknown, and blinded by passion, the artist again advanced towards her to lift up her veil.

“Beware!” said the lady, pointing at him the muzzle of a little ivory-handled revolver; “if you advance but one step forward, you are a dead man.”

“To die by thy hand at this moment, is to seal my felicity,” replied Brandon, decided to brave the danger in order to satisfy his ardent wishes…

Was it written that he should NOT see the features of his mistress of one night?…

At the moment that he stretched forth his hand to seize her, she put her finger to the trigger of her revolver… The pistol did not go off, for there was a loud screech from the engine, and the powerful Westinghouse brakes brought the train to such a sudden standstill that the shock would have caused the lady to fall, if Brandon had not caught her in his arms.