University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
IN MR. LEE'S BOX.

Let us return for a moment to the box occupied by Mr. Lee
and his daughters. At the end of the first act Mr. Effingham
left his companions, with whom he had been interchanging
remarks during the performance, to the great disgust of
the pit, and sauntered to the side of Miss Clare Lee, who
sat nearest the stage. Clare was radiant with pleasure: she
had never seen a play before, and it was therefore as much
of a novelty to her as to little Kate. Never had she looked
more beautiful, with her bright eyes and soft rosy cheeks—
and this fact probably occurred to Mr. Effingham: for his
gaze betrayed unmistakable admiration. No one, however,
would have discovered it from his manner, which was as full
of languor as ever.

“How does my fair cousin relish the performance?” he
asked.

“Oh! I was never more pleased with any thing,” said
Clare, “and how do you like it?”

“Tolerably: but I never had a very great relish for these
things—”

“Because, to wit, life itself is a comedy,” said Henrietta,
laughing.

“Yes,” said Mr. Effingham, “and a very brilliant one it
would be, if all the world were Miss Henriettas. I hope,
my dear cousin, that compliment is sufficiently broad.”

“Thank you, sir—I know how to take your fine speeches:
don't think they deceive me.”

“There! you have it, Champ,” said Mr. Lee, who turned
round to greet a neighbor who had just entered.

“I'm rather a poor hand at compliments,” replied Mr.
Effingham, “but really it is hard to do you the injustice, my
fair cousin, of withholding them. Come! no reply, for I
see cousin Clare is going to say something more flattering
than what you are about to utter.”

Clare laughed, and said, blushing slightly:

“Oh, no! I was going to say only that Shylock really
frightened me.”

“It was very well done, much like Shuter at Castle Garden,”
said Mr. Effingham, “how did you like it, cousin Henrietta?
Come, your criticism.”

“Oh, what could you expect from a mere country girl
like me? Besides, there is Mr. Hamilton, my devoted admirer,
coming to speak to me.”

Mr. Hamilton, the fox-hunter, entered and took his seat,
and Henrietta was now engaged in a laughing and animated
conversation.

“How I envy them,” said Mr. Effingham, applying to
his nostrils, with a listless air, a delicate pinch of snuff,
“they are so gay.”

“Why are you not gay, cousin Champ?” said Clare, in a
timid voice, “you have no reason to be sad.”

“No—I do not say I have any reason. But I am out
of sorts.”

“Why are you?”

Mr. Effingham leaning over the velvet cushion, and
speaking in a tone audible to no one besides himself and
Clare, replied:

“I am out of sorts, because I am rusting.”

“Rusting!”

“Yes, more than rusting. I take interest in scarcely
any thing—I am wearied to death with every thing—what is
life worth? Here are some hundreds of persons, and they
all seem delighted with this play, which tires me to death.
I take no interest in it. Shylock and Antonio strut and
spout without amusing me—I am already weary, and every
body else seems to be impatient for the reappearance of
those wonders. Why are they so much amused? For my
part, I am sick of all this, and only stay,” Mr. Effingham
added, lowering his voice, “because you stay. The nearest
approach to happiness I make, is in your presence.”

Clare blushed this time in earnest, and yet, gathering
self-possession, looked into Mr. Effingham's face and smiled.

“How beautiful you are!” he said, with profound earnestness.

“Oh,” said Clare, the color of a peony, “you are jesting
with me.”

“I am not jesting.”

“Well, don't say any thing to make me feel so again—I
feel as if my face was as red as fire.”

There was so much childlike frankness in the tone with
which these words were uttered, that Mr. Effingham felt his
heart leaving him, and going quickly into the possession of
the owner of the red cheeks. Yet strange to say, he felt no
pain, but rather pleasure.

“I really believe I am growing less tired of the play, and
all,” he said to himself, with a smile: then added aloud:

“I really think you could charm away my misanthropy
and melancholy, if you desired, cousin.”

“How, pray?”

“By smiling at me.”

Clare smiled:

“There,” she said, “be merry, then. Indeed, cousin, you
could become gay again, if you chose. Do not determine to
find fault with every thing—and think every thing wearisome.
Seek novelty: you say that all here seem to take
pleasure in the play, while you do not. They are pleased
because it is new to them.—I have never seen a play, and I
am highly pleased. If you have been often to theatres, there
is nothing strange in your thinking this poor one excellent
—though it seems beautiful to me. But you will find novelty
and interest in other things. Try it, now, and see if my
philosophy is not true.”

The softness and earnestness in the tender voice of the
young girl, and the interest in himself betrayed by her tone,
was so plain that Mr. Effingham felt his languid heart beat.

“I know but one means,” he said.

“What is that?”

“To have a companion.”

“A companion?”

His meaning suddenly flashed upon her, and she turned
away her head.

“To have the philosopher always near me” said Mr.
Effingham, imprisoning in his own the hand which rested on
the railing.

The head was turned further away.

“Clare!—dearest Clare!” he whispered, “if you take
such a tender interest in my welfare—why not—”

“Sh—h—h—h!” came in a long murmur from the audience.

“True,” muttered Mr. Effingham, turning away, “how
ridiculous, here in the theatre!”

Suddenly his eyes fell upon one of the actresses, and he
almost uttered an exclamation. It was the unknown lady
of the wood.