University of Virginia Library

38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
IN WHICH THE TALK IS OF COSTUME.

Let us now descend from generalities to particular scenes,
and in order to make this descent, ascend to Mr. Effingham's
apartment in the “Raleigh.” Aloof from all the bustle, confusion
and laughter of the crowd, indifferent to it, or despising
it, the young man sat thinking in silence, and glancing at
times with a scornful smile on the merry groups, seen through
the window, passing up and down the street. His lips wore
that same bitter weary expression we have so often noted;
his cheek was more sallow, his eyes more gloomy. He was
clad as usual in the richest and most elegant manner, but
the gayety of his toilette—the lace, the embroidery, the feather
in his cocked hat, which lay beside him on the floor—was a
mockery, contrasted thus with the moody and exhausted
face.

The young man's lips moved, and he muttered, bitterly:

“Yes, now the die is really cast! While it rattled, I
might have drawn back—now the throw has been made, it
is but to raise the box, and the future is decided for the
player—he is a beggar! Yes, I am mad; I feel that this
infatuation amounts to madness!—this girl will ruin me!
I love her, and hate her! She is an angel, and a devil!
So pure and innocent in face, with such a bitter and scornful
heart. By heaven, I'll conquer her—she shall be mine!
And yet—and yet,” he murmured, looking down, “why not
draw back? There is time! And Kate! how I distressed
the tender child, who loves me so much, more than I deserve—who,
perhaps, saved me! I thought a ray of sunlight
fell upon me when she came. She would have persuaded
me; I feel it, I know it, I could not have resisted—
dear child!” and the poor, weary eyes were softened, the
mocking smile disappeared; “thank God, she loves me still.
Why should I not go back now? But Beatrice! Aye,
those chivalric gentlemen, who would display their courage
at my expense. Ah!” he continued, smiling bitterly again,
“they will not permit me to act as seems proper to me. By
heaven, we shall see!”

And his reckless, dare-devil eyes flashed haughtily. At
the same moment, the drums and trumpets of the cortège we
have seen, attracted his attention, and he gazed through the
window. There stood the noble Shylock, on the platform,
moving slowly, holding in his hand the banner, on which
was inscribed the words we have seen. The letters were
enormous, and Mr. Effingham read, without difficuly, “Miss
Beatrice Hallam, the delight of the noble aristocracy and
the wonder of the universal world.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling grimly, as the procession passed
slowly on; “yes, she is the delight of the noble aristocracy!
I am one of that noble aristocracy, I believe, and
she is my delight. Ah, Madam Beatrice! you go on now in
pride and happiness, scorning me, and all who are not your
abject slaves; but wait! You go to affect to-night, in the
character of Ophelia, griefs you have never known, sufferings
you can only imagine. Some day you will suffer really, and
I shall be avenged.”

He was not present at that interview with Charles
Waters, and had not heard those prayers, and sobs, and
despairing murmurs, or he would never have uttered that
bitter taunt. For a long time he sat thinking of her, and
would mutter curses and blessings in the same breath. He
had estimated justly his passion—it was not so much love
as infatuation. He did hate and love, respect and despise
her; at one moment he thought her a devil, at the next he
was convinced she was an angel. But, by degrees, these
conflicting emotions settled down into a collected recklessness,
so to speak—a careless, bitter, mocking unconcern, and
he rose up, with a sneer.

At the same moment the door opened, and Mr. Manager
Hallam made his appearance, jovial and smiling. Mr.
Effingham sat down again.

“What the devil puts you in such a good humor, Hallam?”
he said, with scornful carelessness.

“I am laughing at the people, sir.”

“The people?”

“Yes, their folly.”

“What folly?”

“At their surprise and wonder on seeing my placard.”

“Yes; that was foolish enough.”

“They absolutely looked all eyes, as the great Congreve
was accustomed to say.”

“Did they?”

“And the negroes!”

“What of them?”

“They looked like charcoal, with two lumps of fire
in it.”

“Eh? their eyes, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“They are a facetious race.”

“Oh, sir, they would make great comedians, I assure
you. Now, there was one monkey-like boy, who went along,
blowing the trumpet through his hands, beating two stones
together for the drum, and at times sawing his left arm for
the fiddle—really, now, in a way indicating lofty talent.”

“In the low comedy?”

“Yes.”

“The buffoon?”

“Well, low comedy requires something like that. How
would a company of negro actors take here?”

“Take?”

“Yes, sir; would it attract?”

“Strongly—the attention of messieurs the justices. But
come, let us estimate the receipts to-night.”

“Impossible, sir.”

“Come, think.”

“Really can't say, sir.”

“As much, think you, as on the night I perform?” said
Mr. Effingham, with his usual disdainful coolness.

“Why, really—now—I should say not, sir. I calculate
that you would draw a large crowd.”

“There is but one obstacle to my acting.”

“And that, sir?”

“Miss Beatrice Hallam.”

“Beatrice!”

Mr. Effingham shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes,” he said.

“How is it possible?” began Hallam, with some indignation.

“Come, no exploding,” said Mr. Effingham, with cool
disdain; “do not affect astonishment. You know she does
not wish to appear with me.”

“Not wish, sir!”

“Yes.”

“Oh, you must be mistaken.”

“No, I am not,” said Mr. Effingham, gloomily.

“She is young, sir.”

“Well, what does that mean?”

“And diffident.”

“Bah!”

“She would prefer acting with her associates. But,
throw any obstacles in the way—I would soon stop that,
sir!”

“There is a virtuous father for you! You would command
your child to do what she wishes not to do?”

“She is full of whims, sir.”

“One of which whims is a contempt for the name of
Effingham; is it not?” said the young man, with a curling
lip.

“Oh, never, sir.”

“Come, now, deny—”

“She honors, and looks up to you, sir.”

“She has a queer way of showing it,” he said, with
gloomy scorn. “What makes her hate me so? I am really
curious to know.”

“On my word, sir, you astonish me, as the great Congreve
used to say: Beatrice, I am sure—”

“Well, no more protests, and curse the great Congreve!
Is the agreeable Shylock still determined to eat me for kicking
him down stairs?”

“No—no. He is a reasonable fellow, and will take no
more notice of the matter. I told him, sir, my opinion of
his disgraceful conduct to your fair young relative, and he
sincerely regrets it.”

“Very well: I will take no further note of the knave.
Only, on the next occasion, I shall pin him to the wall without
warning, like an enormous beetle—my sword for the pin.
He would be a striking object. Now, let us talk of my
first appearance.”

“Willingly—with pleasure, sir.”

“The town is full?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And more coming?”

“Yes: they are pouring in.”

“Well, if it is now full, and they are pouring in, by the
day of opening the House of Burgesses, that is in two days,
they will be sleeping in the streets.”

“Quite likely, sir.”

“And hence it follows,” continued Mr. Effingham, “that
there is no danger of having a thin house to greet me.”

“Oh, sir!”

“I understand you—”

“How could—”

“Yes! how could the fashionable Mr. Champ Effingham,
of Effingham Hall, turning comedian, fail of a crowded house?
You would say that?”

“Yes, sir: it is impossible.”

“Well—perhaps you are right. But I choose to wait,
and I have fixed upon the day after the opening of the
House, for my débût. I shall appear in `Much Ado about
Nothing.'”

“As you say, sir. Well, we can easily get it up. The
honor—”

“Bah: let us have no foolery! It's no honor to either
party. Now for the dress—the costume: I have none that
would suit the character.”

“I think I can serve you, sir—though my best military
dresses are still at Yorktown, in the sea trunks. I have not
needed them yet.”

“A military dress—rough soldier's costume, is indispensable:
you know very well that Benedick is just from the
wars.”

“Indispensable, as you say, sir.”

“Have you one here?”

“Let me see—”

And Mr. Manager Hallam, placing his fat finger upon his
puffy brow, repeated:

“I think there is such a costume in my private trunk,
in my room. Will you go see, sir?”

“Yes: I'll follow.”

And the two worthies went out, and closing the door,
bent their way to Mr. Manager Hallam's sleeping apartment,
situated on the same floor.