University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
HOW THEY WENT TO THE PLAY.

The reader will recollect that Mr. Lee had promised his
daughters to go with them to Williamsburg, to witness the
performance of the “Merchant of Venice” by those newly-arrived
Virginia Comedians, of whom every one was talking.
Mr. Champ Effingham had asked permission to be one of the
party, it will be remembered, and that permission had been
granted by Miss Henrietta with the merry speech we have
recorded.

So on the appointed day, Mr. Effingham, in his most becoming
riding suit, and mounted on his handsomest courser,
made his appearance at Riverhead.

The young ladies came down to him, already dressed for
their excursion to town—as Williamsburg was called, just
as they called London “the Town” in England—and Miss
Henrietta commenced immediately her accustomed amusement
of bantering their visitor. She was radiant in a dress
of surpassing elegance—flowered satin, yellow lace, jewels,
powdered hair, pearl pendants, and rich furbelows—and the
bright beauty of her laughing face well assorted with her
flashing and glittering costume. As for Clare, her dress
was much more subdued, just as her manner was more quiet,
than that of her sister. But Mr. Effingham, gazing at her
quietly, with little care for Miss Henrietta's sky-rockets,

thought he had never seen a more enchantingly beautiful
face; so soft and tender was it, with the bright hair gathered
back from the temples, and strewed all over with its pearly
powder; so warm and red were the girlish lips; so clear
and mild the large melting eyes. Mr. Effingham began to
think seriously of having in future a distinct aim in life—to
make his own this fairy creature, who had thus moved his
worn-out heart, making him feel once more some of the light
and joy and enthusiasm of his boyhood—that time passed
from him, it really seemed, long ages ago.

Clare did not return his gaze, but busied herself in turning
over the leaves of a new book from England, with an
affectation of interest which was the merest failure.

Really all my wit is thrown away upon Mr. Effingham,”
said Henrietta suddenly, with a beautiful pout; “he has
not done me the honor to listen, I believe—my last question
waiting a reply from him.”

Mr. Effingham waked up, so to speak, and turned round.

“What did you say, my dear cousin?” he asked indifferently.

“I say that my cousin, Mr. Effingham, is the most affected
personage I have ever known.”

“I affected! You have made that charge once before.
But what was your question?”

“I asked where you procured that ridiculous little muff
there on the settee, which you threw down so carelessly on
entering.”

“In London,” said Mr. Effingham, concisely.

“And are the London gallants such apers of the ladies
as to wear them?”

“I don't know; they are used.”

“And you imitate them?”

“I imitate nobody, my dear cousin Henrietta; it is too
troublesome. I do not wear a coat, or powder my hair, or
use ruffles from a desire to imitate any one.”

“I don't think you do; for I never saw such preposterous
ruffles in my life.”

“Eh?” said Mr. Effingham, with languid indiffernece.

“Or such red cheeks.”

“What of them?”

“They are as rosy as a girl's.”

“Your own are more so, and I think cousin Clare's more
so still,” returned Mr. Effingham; “but let us dismiss the
subject of ruffles and roses, and come to the play. Do you
anticipate much pleasure?”

“Oh, it will be delightful!” exclaimed Miss Henrietta,
always ready to run off upon any subject which afforded her
an opportunity to pour out her spirits and gayety.

“And you, cousin Clare—do you think these Virginia
Comedians, as they call themselves, will afford you a very
pleasant entertainment?”

“Oh, yes—I'm sure I shall be pleased,—you know I have
never seen a play.”

“But read a plenty?”

“Oh yes: and I like the `Merchant of Venice' very
much. The character of Portia is so delicate and noble.”

“Quite true—an excellent criticism: better than anything
in Congreve, I think, though I should hesitate to advance
such an opinion in London.”

“Who will act Portia?”

“I don't know: but can tell you without much difficulty.
Here is a play-bill which I sent to town for yesterday.”

And Mr. Effingham drew daintily from his coat pocket a
small roughly-printed handbill, which he spread out before
the eyes of Clare.

“`Virginia Company of Comedians,'” he read, “`by
permission of his worship the Mayor—in the Old Theatre
near the Capitol, Thursday evening—a tragedy called “The
Merchant of Venice,” by Mr. William Shakespeare—boxes
seven shillings sixpence—vivat Rex et Regina—' here it is:
—`Shylock, Mr. Pugsby—Portia, Miss Beatrice Hallam:'
The part of Portia is to be performed by Miss Beatrice Hallam—I
have never seen or heard of her.”

“Which means,” said Henrietta, laughing, “that Miss
Beatrice cannot be very well worth going to see, as Mr.
Champ Effingham, just from London, and conversant with
all the celebrities there, has never heard of her existence.”

“My dear cousin Henrietta,” said Mr. Effingham, languidly,
“you really seem to sit in judgment on my wearisome
conversation. I do not profess to know any thing about celebrities:
true, I very frequently lounged into the theatres in
London, but I assure you, took very little interest in the plays

or performers. Life itself is enough of a comedy for me, and
I want nothing more. I know nothing of Miss Hallam—
she may be a new witch of Endor, or as beautiful as Cleopatra,
queen of Egypt, for all that I know. That I have
not heard of her proves nothing—the best actors and actresses
are often treated with neglect and indifference.”

“Well,” said Clare, smiling, “we shall soon see for ourselves,
for there is papa coming, all ready dressed to go, and
I hear the wheels of the chariot.”

Mr. Effingham took up his muff.

“Oh,” cried Henrietta, “how do you carry that funny
little thing while riding?—it's smaller than mine.”

“I swing it on my arm,” replied Mr. Effingham, indifferently.

“Let me relieve you of it—all the girls will then be
admiring my new London muff.”

“No, thank you. I will not trouble you.”

“Oh,” here is papa,” said Clare. Mr. Lee entered.

“Good morning, Champ,” he said, in his strong, hearty
voice, “how is your good father? have you dined? Yes?
Then let us get on to town. We have no time to lose, as the
play commences, I am informed, at seven.”

With which words the worthy gentleman led the way to
the door, where the large chariot, with its four pawing horses
and liveried coachman, awaited them. Mr. Effingham assisted
the ladies in with great elegance and gallantry. After
performing this social duty, he made a slight bow, and was
going toward his horse.

“Come, take a place in the chariot,” said Mr. Lee.

“Oh, yes,” cried the lively Henrietta, “don't go prancing
along out there, where I can't get at you to tease you.
There's room enough for a dozen in here.”

“No, no, my horse would get impatient.”

Mr. Effingham was waiting for Clare to invite him to
enter, and no one who looked at his face, and witnessed his
tell-tale gaze could doubt it. Clare stole a glance at him,
and said, with a slight blush,

“There's plenty of room.”

Mr. Effingham took two steps toward the chariot.

“But my horse,” he said.

Mr. Lee called to a servant, and ordered him to take the

animal to the stable. Mr. Effingham then yielded—he only
wanted the excuse, indeed—and entering the chariot, was
about to sit down by the old gentleman, opposite the young
girls.

“Ah! take care!” cried Mr. Lee, with a hearty and sudden
laugh, “my glasses are on the seat!”

Henrietta laughed too, and said, moving near to her side
of the carriage, and making room,

“Come! you may ride between us—mayn't he, Clary?
there's plenty of room for a bodkin.”

Mr. Effingham plainly had no objection, and, as before, in
the matter of riding within or without, waited for Clare's
manifesto on the subject. This time he would have been satisfied
with a simple glance granting him permission—so very
reasonable was this gentleman at bottom—but unfortunately
Clare did not invite him, either with her lips or eyes. The
consequence was that Mr. Effingham refused Henrietta's invitation,
with a graceful wave of his muff-ornamented arm,
and the glasses of the old gentleman having been transferred
from the seat to his nose, gently subsided into the softly-cushioned
space left free for him, smoothing his ruffles, and
arranging delicately the drop-curls of his powdered peruke.

The chariot rolled on, then, with dignified slowness, toward
“Town”—that is to say, the imperial metropolis of
Virginia, then, and now, known as Williamsburg.