University of Virginia Library

39. CHAPTER XXXIX.
HOW MR. EFFINGHAM BECAME THE INSTRUMENT OF PROVIDENCE

The apartment occupied by Mr. Manager Hallam was an
odd place, and we regret that, from its want of importance to
the present narrative, we cannot give a description of it. It
is sufficient to say, that the bed was covered with heterogeneous
costumes, of all ages and nations—the table with
prompt-books and rolls of paper containing “parts”—the
floor with shoes, buskins, and sandals, which had trodden
many stages in their day.

In one corner a large trunk, with heavy iron binding, and
knobs, contained the manager's finer costumes. This trunk
he approached, and unlocked with a key which he took from
the breast-pocket of his doublet.

“Now, sir,” he said, raising the lid, “I think I shall
find what we want.”

“Good,” said Mr. Effingham, leaning over his shoulders.

The manager took out several parcels.

“Those are the fops,” he said.

“Of course, they would not suit me,” said Mr. Effingham,
with his usual disdainful indifference.

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Effingham.

“These are the first class costumes—for the heroes,”
said the manager, unrolling another parcel.

“That would suit me as little,” replied Mr. Effingham.

“Yes, sir—I mean—”

Luckily Mr. Manager Hallam was relieved from his lame
apology. A servant entered, and said:

“There's a gentleman, sir—Mr. Joyce, sir—to see you—
to get a private box at the theatre, sir.”

Hallam rose quickly, which possibly might be owing to
a slight love of money.

“Say I am coming,” he replied to the servant: then
turning to Mr. Effingham, he added, “just wait for me, sir—
I'll be back in a minute. These business matters must be
attended to.”

And with these words he hurried out of the room, puffing

and red in the face. Mr. Effingham had received this
speech with extreme indifference, and gazed with great disdain
on the half-emptied trunk: then he seemed to change
his mind, and stooping down he turned over and tossed the
costumes about, carelessly. Suddenly his eye fell upon one
which seemed to suit perfectly his purpose. It was a dark
military coat, with heavy embossed buttons, and an embroidered
collar. He took it up, and said aloud:

“Well, here is what will answer my purpose, I suppose
—a pretty heavy bundle! Come, let us try it on.”

Had he done so, the whole course of this narrative,
thereafter, would have been different—how different no one
can tell. But he changed his mind before unrolling it, and
added:

“Bah! I cannot judge!—let us go to Madam Beatrice,
and ask her opinion. Doubtless she will afford me her valuable
advice most willingly and sweetly. Of course she
will.”

And leaving the trunk open, he walked carelessly along
the passage, and scarcely taking the trouble to knock, entered
Beatrice's apartment.

The young girl was engaged as usual, in studying, and
looked completely exhausted. Her eyes were heavy and
red, her cheeks pale and thin; in her very attitude there was
an indescribable air of weariness and sorrow which was
painful to behold. The round shoulders drooped, the head
inclined toward one side—seemed to be bent down by some
ever-present grief: the bosom labored and heaved: she
seemed to draw breath with difficulty. For a moment Mr.
Effingham stood looking at this eloquent picture, returning
her silent and cold gaze.

“Ah,” he said, at length, “studying as usual, I see!
Really, madam, you will injure your health, which, as you
know, is very dear to me.”

There was great bitterness in these words: but Beatrice
made no reply.

“You do not answer,” he said, still more bitterly; “perhaps
I am not worth answering, madam.”

Beatrice raised her cold, heavy eyes, and looked at him
fixedly.

“Mr. Effingham, I am in no humor to converse this
morning,” she replied, coldly.

“With me: you never are, madam.”

“With no one, sir.”

“Are you sure, madam?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps your dear friend is an exception.”

“What friend, sir?”

“The Chevalier Waters,” replied Mr. Effingham, with a
sneer.

A flush of pain and wretchedness threw a lurid glow
upon the young girl's brow, and she trembled.

“Come, now, madam, get angry if you please. That is
your favorite amusement when I chance to address you.”

She bent down and made no reply: and this seemed to
irritate her visitor more than any words.

“Really your ladyship is in a charming mood to-day,”
he said, with a scornful curl of the lip; “you have chosen a
new and brilliant means of insulting me.”

“Mr. Effingham,” said Beatrice, raising her head with
cold solemnity, and speaking in a voice hoarse with sorrow,
“I insult no one, sir. I have said that I was not disposed
to converse to-day. I am not well, sir.”

“You are always sick when I visit you,” said the young
man, pitilessly: his passion had changed his whole character:
“you hate my very face, I believe. My presence is
a discord. I have given up every thing for you, and you
scorn me! Beware, Beatrice Hallam! God will punish
you!”

Her lip quivered, and she looked strangely at him.

“Have you come to make me more unwell than I am,
sir?” she said, pressing her hand upon her breast.

“No, madam,” he said, with his former bitterness. “I
came on business, strictly professional.”

“What is that, sir?”

“To ask your most respectable opinion of my costume,
in the character of Benedick. Having determined to ruin
myself, I wish to do it handsomely—with the best bow I
have and in the most appropriate costume!”

“Well, sir,” said Beatrice, taking no notice of his terrible
irony, “I listen.”

And she closed her book.

“This, which I hold in my hand, madam, appears to me
to be very suitable for the character of Benedick.”

“I do not know, sir.”

“He was a gentleman, you know, madam.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ruined.”

“I do not remember, sir.”

“Yes, ruined in the wars—like myself, by this infatuation
I have for you: wounded and scarred as I am by your
scorn.”

“Mr. Effingham, we waste time.”

“Oh, pardon me, madam, my grief and agony are nothing
to you—I had forgotten.”

“My own occupy my whole thoughts, sir.”

“Really! then you have griefs too.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Agony perhaps.”

“Overpowering agony, sir,” she said, hoarsely, and with
a trembling lip. He looked at her in silence, and said, with
some feeling,

“Then, you really suffer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Deeply?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then have some pity on my own,” he said, in a voice
of anguish, which was most affecting. “I love you, you scorn
me! Do you know what that means? It means days and
nights of agony—hours of despair, such as the bitterest
foe would not inflict on his worst enemy—sleepless hours in
the dim night, when the rain pours, and the winds groan, and
your own groans reply. Have you no pity, Beatrice?”

He stopped, overcome with so many conflicting and terrible
emotions, bending down his head and groaning.

“Did you only know what it is to love, and know that
love can never solace your life!” he continued, passionately;
“to see the paradise open and then close upon you! to love
madly, and feel the cold hand of fate pushing you back inexorably!”

These broken words painted her own condition with such
truth that Beatrice uttered a moan.

“I know it,” she said, hoarsely.

“Then pity me!”

“I do, sir, from my heart!”

His face flushed.

“And nothing more?” he said, in a low tone.

“No, sir—no, no!” she said, shrinking back.

“Ah, you despise me—you hate me!”

“No, sir.”

“I ruin myself for you, and you meet me with a contemptuous
smile.”

“I do not, sir.”

“You will not love me.”

“I cannot, sir!”

“You love another, perhaps, madam—already you have
selected your future husband!” he said, becoming again
bitter and scornful as before.

Beatrice turned pale.

“I shall never marry,” she replied, in a low voice.

“I am not good enough for you, I make no doubt,
madam!”

“You taunt me, sir.”

“I do not—I offer you my hand!”

“I cannot accept it.”

“Never?”

“Never!”

“Then we shall see,” said Mr. Effingham, with that
bitter and reckless laugh which at times issued from his lips,
“force against force!”

Beatrice colored, and said, coldly:

“That is a defiance, sir.”

“Yes—to the death.”

“I despise it,” she answered, with haughty coldness;
then murmured, turning away, “God pardon me!”

“Ah, that is not singular; contempt for the person necessarily
comprehends as much for all he can effect.”

“Mr. Effingham, I am weary—I have my part to study.”

“Well, madam, permit me to trespass upon your kind
patience for a moment still. I came to ask of your great
experience if this coat will suit my part.”

“You may see at a glance, sir,” she said, frigidly, “that
it is moth-eaten, and unsuitable.”

“Ah! I had not perceived that. Pray what shall I
wear?”

“I do not know, sir.”

“You act Beatrice in the comedy, I believe—or do some
of those delightful characters your father has picked up here
in the colony, and trained to murder dramas, take the part?”

“I know nothing of the matter, Mr. Effingham,” she
said, coldly.

“But Beatrice is young?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Brilliant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And very scornful?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Then it will suit you admirably. Young, brilliant,
and scornful! Could the description answer more perfectly!
Shakespeare must have known you!”

“Mr. Effingham, your great pleasure in life seems to lie
in insulting me.”

“Insulting? Really you are very unreasonable, madam—”

“What, sir—is not—?”

“No, madam, let me say, even at the expense of politeness—for
I know how ill-bred it is to interrupt you—no, it
is not an insult, only the truth! It is very amusing, very
laughable, but it is true—that you really scorn me. As to
the young and brilliant, that is undeniable in your ladyship's
presence.”

“Mr. Effingham, I am exhausted—your voice agitates
me—pray leave me, sir—”

Mr. Effingham listened to these coldly-uttered words of
dismissal with an internal rage, which broke forth and displayed
itself in a mocking and harsh laugh.

“Ah! you are very lofty, madam!” he said, with a sneer;
“you bring your queenly airs from the stage for me! Nothing
that I say, nothing that I do, provokes any thing but
scorn and contempt from you! I have not sacrificed enough
to you, perhaps! Do you know what trifling things—mere
trifles, madam—I have left to follow your diabolical eyes!
I have only forfeited the affection of my family, only lost
my position in society, only struck cruelly a pure young
girl's heart, who loves me! I have only left peace and happiness
for agony and rage!—only abandoned love and tenderness
for scorn and contempt—only given up loving faces

and caressing hands for a woman who hates me and repulses
me! These are mere trifles, madam!—they are nothing!
What is the love of Clare Lee—that is her name—to me,
compared to your overwhelming tenderness and affection?
True, we have loved each other, I may say, I think, for
years; true, we were bred together, and have always felt a
tenderness toward each other deeper than words could utter
or the eyes speak! True, her face filled with sunshine when
she saw me, as my heart overflowed with joy at her innocent
smiles! But what of that? You are all this to me and
more! Your love is a treasure greater than her own; what
matter if her heart is broken; what if she gazes from her
father's window on the Hall which she once thought she
would enter as my wife, and sobs and moans, and feels that
henceforth life is dark to her—as I feel it is to me? Your
tender heart, your loving nature, your mild, angelic soul,
your overwhelming love for me will more than make me
forget her. What matters it if the poor girl dies broken-hearted,
are you not all my own?”

And overpowered by rage, and remorse, and agony, his
brow wet with perspiration, his lips trembling, all his form
shaking with the terrible war of emotions so profound and
bitter, the unhappy young man, waiting for no reply, rushed
from the room. Beatrice rose from her seat, trembling with
excitement, and bursting into tears of agony, cried:

“Oh, is this really true! Is this a horrible dream, or
not! God has cursed me! all that I approach is ruined.
Oh, can I be the cause of this dreadful suffering, which I
feel myself, in the heart of a pure, young girl? God pity
me! But no, it shall not be!” she cried; “my life is lost
and ruined—my very soul is giving way! But this stain
shall not rest upon my memory—no, no! Oh, her name!
I heard it—near his father's house—I will go there—tell
her all—God give me strength!”

And hastening out, she ordered her horse, made her preparations
quickly, and was soon upon her way to Riverhead,
galloping feverishly.

So feverish had been her emotion, that she had not observed
the presence of an object, which Mr. Effingham had
dropped upon the floor of her apartment.