University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
ACTRESS AND GENTLEMAN.

The unknown lady was no gentle Virginia maiden, no “lady,”
as she had said, with perfect calmness, at their meeting in the
wood—only one of the company of Comedians. Her singular
expression when she uttered the words, “I think you will see
me again,” occurred to the young man, and he wondered that
this easy solution of the riddle had not occurred to him at once.

What was her name? Mr. Effingham drew forth his
bill, and saw opposite the name of Portia, Miss Beatrice
Hallam.

“Ah, yes,” he said, carelessly, “the same we were speculating
upon, this morning. Let us see how Portia looks,
and what change the foot-lights work in her face.”

He sat down in the corner of the stage upon a wicker
chair, and scanned Portia critically. Her costume was
faultless. It consisted of a gown and underskirt of fawn-colored
silk, trimmed with silver, and a single band of gold
encircled each wrist, clearly relieved against the white,
finely-rounded arm. Her hair, which was a beautiful chestnut,
had been carried back from the temples and powdered,
after the fashion of the time, and around her beautiful,
swan-like neck, the young woman wore a necklace of pearls
of rare brilliance. Thus the costume of the character defied
criticism, and Mr. Effingham passed on to the face and
figure. These we have already described. The countenance
of Beatrice Hallam wore the same simple, yet firm and
collected expression, which Mr. Effingham had observed in

their first interview, and her figure had the same indefinable
grace and beauty. Every movement which she made might
have suited a royal palace, and in her large brilliant eyes
Mr. Effingham in vain sought the least trace of confusion.
She surveyed the audience, while the Prince of Morocco
was uttering his speech, with perfect simplicity, but her eyes
not for a single moment rested on the young men collected
at the corners of the stage. For her they seemed to have
no existence, and she turned to the Prince again. That
gentleman having uttered his prescribed number of lines,
Portia advanced graciously toward him, and addressed him.
Her carelessness was gone; she no longer displayed either
indifference or coldness. She was the actress, with her rôle
to sustain. She commenced in a voice of noble and queen-like
courtesy, a voice of pure music, and clear utterance, so
to speak, such as few lips possess the power of giving forth.
Every word rang and told; there was no hurry, no slurring,
no hesitation; it was not an actress delivering a set speech,
but the noble Portia doing the honors of her beautiful
palace of Belmont. The scene ended with great applause—
the young woman had evidently produced a most favorable
impression on the audience. But she seemed wholly unconscious
of this compliment, and made her exit quite
calmly.

A buzz ran through the theatre: the audience were discussing
the merits of Portia. On the stage, too, she was the
subject of many comments; and this continued until Lancelot
made his appearance and went through his speech.
Then Portia's reappearance with the Prince was greeted with
great applause.

Mr. Effingham leaned forward and touched the young
woman's sleeve.

“Come,” he said, with easy carelessness, and scarcely
moderating his voice, “come, fair Portia, while that tiresome
fellow is making his speech, talk to me a little. We
are old acquaintances—and you are indebted to me for directing
you home.”

“Yes, sir,” said Beatrice, turning her head slightly,
“but pardon me—I have my part to attend to.”

“I don't care.”

“Excuse me, sir—but I do.”

“Really, madam, you are very stiff for an actress. Is
it so very unusual a thing to ask a moment's conversation?”

“I know that it is the fashion in London and elsewhere,
sir, but I dislike it. It destroys my conception of the character,”
she said, calmly.

Mr. Effingham laughed.

“Come here and talk to me,” he said, “did you not say
we should meet again?”

“Yes, sir. And I also said that I was not a lady.”

“Well—what is the meaning of that addition?”

“It means, sir, that being an actress, I am not at liberty
to amuse myself here as I might were I a lady in a drawing-room.
Pardon me, sir,” she added calmly, “I am neglecting
what I have engaged to do, play Portia.”

And the young woman quietly disengaging her sleeve
from Mr. Effingham's fingers, moved away to another portion
of the stage.

“Here is a pretty affair,” said Mr. Effingham to himself,
as he fell back, languidly, into the chair, from which,
however, he had not deigned to rise wholly when addressing
the young actress, “what are things coming to when an
actress treats a gentleman in this manner. I really believe
the girl thinks I am not good enough for her: `Pardon me,
sir!' was there ever such insufferable prudery and affectation!
No doubt she wishes to catch me, and commences
with this piquant piece of acting. Or perhaps,” added the
elegant young gentleman, smoothing his frill, “she fell in
love with me the other day, when we met, and is afraid she
will betray herself. Not talk when I desire to talk with
her, indeed—and yonder all those people have seen her
cavalier treatment of me, and are laughing at me. Fortunately
I am proof against their jeers—come, come, let
us see if Miss Portia will treat me as badly next time.”

Portia entered next with the Prince of Arragon, and
while that gentleman was addressing the caskets, Mr.
Effingham again applied himself to the task of forcing the
young woman to converse with him.

“Why did you treat me so, just now?” he said, with
abrupt carelessness.

“How, sir?”

“You refused to talk to me.”

“I had my part to perform.”

“That is no excuse.”

“Besides, sir,” added the young woman, surveying Mr.
Effingham with an indifferent glance, “I know you only
very slightly.”

“Know me only slightly,” cried Mr. Effingham, affecting
surprise.

“A chance meeting is very slight acquaintance, sir;
but I offer this as no apology for refusing to do what I
am now doing—converse with you on the stage.”

“Really, one would say you were a queen speaking to a
subject, instead of an actress—”

“Honored with the attentions of a gentleman, you would
add, sir,” she interrupted, quite calmly.

“As you please.”

“Pray, speak to me no more, sir—I forget my part.
And the audience are looking at you.”

“Let them.”

“I see some angry faces,” said the young woman, looking
at Charles Waters, “they do not understand the fashions
of London, sir.”

“What care I.”

“Please release my sleeve, sir—that is my line.”

The gallery uttered a prolonged hiss as Portia disengaged
her arm. Mr. Effingham turned round disdainfully,
and looked up to the gallery from which the hiss came.
This glance of haughty defiance might have provoked another
exhibition of the same sort, but Portia at that moment
commenced her speech.

Thereafter the young woman came no more near Mr.
Effingham, and treated that gentleman's moody glances with
supreme disregard. What was going on in Mr. Effingham's
mind, and why did he lose some of his careless listlessness
when, clasping her beautiful hands, the lovely girl, raising her
eyes to heaven, like one of the old Italian pictures, uttered
that sublime discourse on the “quality of mercy”? and
how did it happen that, when she sobbed, almost, in that tender,
magical voice,—

how did it chance that Mr. Effingham led the enthusiastic
applause, and absolutely rose erect in the excess of his enthusiasm?

As she passed him in going out, he made her a low bow,
and said, “Pardon me! you are a great actress!” A single
glance, and a calm movement of the head, were the only
reply to this speech; and with this Mr. Effingham was compelled
to remain content.

He returned to the side of Clare, thoughtful and pre-occupied.

“What were they hissing for?” asked Clare, from whom
the scene we have related had been concealed by the projection
of the wall, and the group of young men. Indeed,
scarcely any portion of the audience had witnessed it, the
gallery excepted, which overlooked the whole stage from its
great height.

“Some folly which deserved hissing, probably,” returned
Mr. Effingham, wondering at his own words as he spoke;
“but here are the actors again.”

The play proceeded, and ended amid universal applause.
Mr. Hallam led out Portia, in response to uproarious calls,
and thanked the audience for their kindness to his daughter.
Beatrice received all the applause with her habitual calmness;
and, inclining her head slightly, disappeared.

Mr. Effingham's eyes dwelt upon her to the last, and even
Clare spoke to him in vain.

“Bah! she's a mere scheming jade!” he said, at last,
disdainfully, and almost aloud; “come, cousin Clare, the
chariot is ready at the door. Take my arm.”

And so the audience separated, rolling, well pleased, to
their homes. But why did Mr. Effingham preserve such
inexplicable silence in the chariot? Why did Henrietta
tell him that the performance must have made him sleepy?
Why did he push his horse angrily as he galloped back from
Riverhead to Effingham Hall? Was he thinking of that
strange Portia?