University of Virginia Library

49. CHAPTER XLIX.
HOW MR. EFFINGHAM AND BEATRICE DANCED A MINUET AT THE
BALL.

Mr. Effingham entered under the full light of the central
chandelier, with Beatrice on his arm. He carried his head
proudly erect, his eye was clear and steady, his lip calm and
only slightly sarcastic:—his whole carriage displayed perfect
and unaffected self-possession. The thousand eyes bent
on him vainly sought in his eyes, or lips, any thing going to
show that he felt conscious of the dreadful, the awful social
enormity, which he was committing.

Mr. Effingham was dressed with extraordinary richness.
He was always elegant in his costume, on that night he was
splendid. His coat of rich cut velvet, was covered with
embroidery, and sparkled with a myriad of chased gold buttons;
his lace ruffles at breast and wrist were point-de-venise,
his fingers were brilliant with rings, and his powdered hair
waved from his clear pale temples like a stream of silver
dust. He looked like a courtier of the days of Louis XIV.,
dressed for a royal reception.

And how did Beatrice compare with this brilliant star
of fashion—this thunderbolt of war, and prince of modern
wits, as the muse in powdered hair and ruffles had characterized
him. Poor Beatrice was quite eclipsed by her cavalier.
Her simple, unassuming dress, of pearl color, looped
back with plain ribbon, and without a single flower, or any
ornament whatever, looked strangely out of place, thrown in
contrast with the brilliant silks, and velvets, and gold buttons,
and diamonds of her companion: her modest, tender
face, and drooping head, with its unpretending coiffure,
looked quite insignificant beside the bold, defiant countenance
of Mr. Effingham, which returned look for look, and
gaze for gaze, with an insulting nonchalance and easy hauteur.
We know how reluctantly Beatrice had come thither
—rather how bitter a trial it was to her, and we may understand
why she looked pale and troubled, and—spite of the
fact that she had just encountered the gaze of a curious and
laughing audience, without any emotion—now felt her spirit

die within her. It was not because she shrunk from comment,
half so much, as from the fact that each moment she
expected to see opposite to her the cold, pale face, and sick,
reproachful eyes of Clare Lee—of Clare, who had thrown
aside the prejudices of class, even forgot the jealousy of a
wronged and wretched rival, to press in her arms the rival
who had made all her woe, and that rival a common actress.
It was the dread of her eye which made poor Beatrice tremble—this
alone made her lip quiver and her brow droop.

His excellency Governor Fauquier came forward to welcome
his guests, but started at the sight of Beatrice, and
almost uttered an exclamation. For a moment he was staggered,
and said nothing. This soon passed, however, and
by the time Mr. Effingham had accomplished his easy bow,
the governor was himself again, and like the elegant gentleman
he was, made a low inclination before Beatrice. Then
he made a pleasant allusion to the weather—that much
abused subject, which has extricated so many perishing conversations—and
so, smiling agreeably, passed on.

Mr. Effingham advanced through the opening, on each
side of which extended a row of brilliant forms, sparkling
with lace and jewels, without any apparent consciousness
that he and his companion were the observed of all observers
—without being conscious, one would have said, of those
murmured comments which greeted, on every side, the
strange and novel scene. His manner to Beatrice, as he
bent down to speak to her, was full of respectful and chivalric
feeling; his eye was soft, his lip smiling; the highest
lady of the land might well have felt an emotion of pleasure
in so elegant and noble an exhibition of regard. And this
was not affected by Mr. Effingham. By no means. We
have failed to convey a truthful impression of this young
gentleman's character, if the reader has not, before this
time, perceived that, with all his woful faults and failings,
Mr. Champ Effingham had much in his character of the
bold gentleman—the ancient knight. With those thousand
satirical or scornful eyes bent on her, Beatrice was dearer to
him than she had ever been before. Those elegant ladies
and gallant gentlemen were saying, with disdain, “a common
actress!” Well, he would espouse the cause of that girl
they scorned against them all, and treat her like a queen!

Never had she had more complete possession of his heart—
never had his heart thrilled so deliciously at the contact of
her hand, resting upon his arm.

As we have said, all drew back from the new comers,
and they entered through an open space, like a king leading
in his queen. Mr. Effingham looked round, with a cool and
easy smile, and led the young girl to a seat, near some
elderly dowagers, in turbans and diamonds, who had enthroned
themselves in state, to watch their daughters, and
see that those inexperienced creatures did not give too much
encouragement to ineligible personages. As Beatrice sank
into one of the red damask chairs, the surrounding chairs
suddenly retreated on their rollers, and the turbans agitated
themselves indignantly. Mr. Effingham smiled, with his
easy, mocking expression, and observing that one of the
diamond-decorated dowagers had dropped her fan, picked it
up, and presented it to her, with a bow. The indignant lady
turned away her head, with a frown.

“Ah,” said Mr. Effingham, politely, “I was mistaken.”

And fanning himself for a moment negligently, he placed
the richly feathered instrument in the hand of Beatrice.

“My fan, if you please, sir,” said the owner, suddenly
flushing with indignant fire.

“Your fan, madam?” asked Mr. Effingham, with polite
surprise.

“Yes, sir! you picked it up, sir!”

“A thousand pardons!” returned the young gentleman,
with a courteous smile; “did I?”

“Yes, sir! that is it, sir! In the hands of that—”

“Oh, I understand,” returned Mr. Effingham; and with
a low inclination to Beatrice, he said, holding out his hand,
“Will you permit me?”

The fan was restored by the young girl, just as she had
taken it—unconsciously; and the dowager received it with
the tips of her fingers, as if it had been contaminated. At
the same moment, the band struck up a minuet, and two
couples began to dance.

“How graceful the costume of our young ladies is becoming,”
said Mr. Effingham, bending down courteously to
Beatrice, on the back of whose chair he leaned.

Beatrice murmured, “Yes.”

“Much prettier, I think, than that of fifty years ago,”
continued Mr. Effingham, smiling, and glancing respectfully
at the elderly and indignant ladies, who were listening.

The fans waved furiously.

“There is a fitness about the fresh, new style,” he continued,
“and it suits youth. I do not quarrel, however,
with the former costume—turbans, and all that—it is also
suitable—for elderly ladies.”

And Mr. Effingham, smiling meekly, seemed perfectly
unconscious of the storm muttering around him. As he
spoke, honest Jack Hamilton, who had left the Riverhead
and Effingham party in the other room, approached, and
with a movement of his head, asked to be presented to
Beatrice.

The young girl could hardly return his bow; she felt
such anxiety, that the power of movement seemed almost
gone from her.

“Mr. Hamilton is one of my best friends, Miss Hallam,”
said the young man, who had rewarded honest Jack
with a bright smile; “but I shall claim your hand for the
first minuet.”

“Oh no,” murmured Beatrice; “I do not wish to dance.
Oh, sir! do not ask me to dance!”

And she stopped, overcome by her emotion.

“Oh, I insist upon it!” said Mr. Effingham, smiling;
“it seems to me that that minuet there is abominably performed,
and the music is shockingly fast.”

“Hallo, Brother Champ!” here said a voice, at his
elbow; “ain't I glad to see you!”

And turning round, Mr. Effingham found himself in front
of Master Will; but Master Will was so metamorphosed
that he scarcely recognized him. Willie had carried out his
threat to Kate, and had donned a complete cavalier's costume.
His hair was powdered, and gallantly tied into a
queue behind; his coat was embroidered and heavy cuffed;
his waistcoat nearly down to his knees; his frill irreproachable;
his stockings of most approved scarlet silk; and his
shoes rosetted with ribbon, and with such high red heels,
that the young gentleman walked as it were on tiptoe. Altogether,
with his long queue, and quick-moving little feet,
Will resembled a large rat, decked out with ribbons, and

—conscious of his frill and the good society he moved in,—
on his best behavior.

“I'm delighted to see you,” added Will, holding out his
hand.

Mr. Effingham shook hands.

“'Say,” whispered Will, “is that the girl you're in love
with?”

Will started back before the tremendous frown of his
brother; for Beatrice heard the words, and turned away her
head. Mr. Effingham raised his finger, and was about to
say something that would have annihilated the youthful
cavalier, when suddenly he felt a soft, warm, little hand take
his own, and turning round, he saw little Kate's bright,
smiling face.

“Oh! I wanted to come before, but couldn't,” she said,
leaning her bright little head against his side; “I'm so glad
to see you.”

And she pressed the hand she held harder.

Mr. Effingham's cynical smile became soft, his head
drooped toward the child; but suddenly Kate recognized
Beatrice, who had been concealed from her by Jack Hamilton,
motionless, coughing, trying to converse;—there was
the lady of the tavern—the actress—the person who had
caused them so much grief. She drew back sorrowfully,
and her little face was covered with a shadow. Mr. Effingham
saw it—divined the reason—and his face too was overshadowed.
He was about to speak, when—the first dance
having terminated some moments before—a second minuet
was commenced by the band.

“Come!” said he to Beatrice; and taking her hand, he
raised her, and led her forward.

“Not so fast,” he said, with a gesture of his hand, to
the musicians; “I cannot dance a minuet to a gavotte tune.”

And he entered into the broad, open space with Beatrice
the mark of a thousand eyes.

The group which we have paid some attention to already
—that group which had expressed such delight at the verses
of the accomplished (colonial) Earl of Dorset, and who had
uttered such a variety of comment on Dion, Cordelia, and
Beatrice—the group of which Myrtilla, Isadora, and the

Long waistcoat, were the shining stars—now gazed in horror
at the presumption and effrontery of Mr. Effingham.

“Just look!” said Sylvia; “he is positively going to
dance the second minuet!”

“With that actress!” said Isadora.

“The playing girl!” echoed Leonella, horrified.

“While we must wait!” added Myrtilla, with some
show of reason.

“It is presumptuous!”

“It is shocking!”

“It is insulting!”

“It is outrageous!”

“I will not stand it!” here interposed the gentleman in
the long waistcoat, boiling with indignation.

“Just look!” said Sylvia; “did anybody ever see such
ridiculous respect and ceremony in a gentleman before?”

“You would think that she was a queen, and he a subject!”

“What a bow!”

“See how he takes her hand, bending to her waist!”

“Ridiculous!”

“But he is very graceful,” hazarded Myrtilla, who, as
we know, defended faintly Mr. Effingham's character, when
it had been attacked by the censor.

“Well, suppose he does bow elegantly,” said Isadora,
spitefully, envying Beatrice her cavalier.

“True: we do not wish to have him for a partner,” said
Myrtilla, who was something of a wit.

“There, look at her!”

“Theatrical!”

“Affected!”

“Stiff!”

“Frightened!”

“She looks as if she was going to cry.”

“Poor thing!” said Myrtilla; “I think she does not
want to dance.”

“Does not want to?”

“Pshaw!”

“She is too artful for that!”

“But look! her eyes are moist, as she curtseys, and they
seem to beseech him for something,” said Myrtilla.

“What odious artfulness!” cried Sylvia; “she pretends
to look as if she was not dying for joy at being the partner
of the fascinating Mr. Effingham.”

“I suppose she would not ally herself with his family;
they are too low,” said Isadora, spitefully; “may be she has
refused his hand.”

“Quite probable!”

“Oh, of course!”

“Doubtless!”

And the pretty little damsels curled their handsome
little lips ironically.

“She is an odious-looking creature,” said Leonella; “did
any one ever see such evidences of low birth?”

“Oh, I am sure you are wrong!” cried Myrtilla, too
generous to keep silent; “I think she is very sweet.”

“Well, she is not so bad, but—”

“Tolerable, but—”

“A pretty arm, but—”

“Fine eyes, still—”

“Graceful, yet—”

“I think she is an odious, artful, designing creature, but
not at all too bad for her partner,” here interposed the gentleman
in the long waistcoat; and so the colloquy went on.

Almost every group in the room was uttering something
similar to that which we have just listened to. The entrance
of Mr. Effingham into the open space, to dance the
second minuet of the evening, had caused an awful sensation.
As he glided through the stately dance to the slow-rolling
music, bowing profoundly, with his tender, lordly
smile, touching the young girl's hand with chivalric respect,
pressing his cocked hat to his heart at each inclination of
his handsome and brilliant head, all eyes had been bent
upon him, all tongues busy with him. And these eyes and
tongues had taken equal note of Beatrice. The young girl
moved through the old stately dance with that exquisite
grace and ease with which she performed every evolution,
and her tender, agitated face, as we have seen, tempered the
wrath of many an indignant damsel. After the first burst
of surprise and anger, the gentlemen, too, began to take the
part—as Virginia gentlemen always have done, and always
will do—of the lonely girl environed by so many hostile

eyes and slighting comments. They forgot the prepossessions
of rank, the prejudices of class—no longer remembered
that the young actress occupied upon the floor a position
to which she was not entitled;—they only saw a woman
who had all the rest against her; and their sympathy was
nearly powerful enough to make them lose sight of Mr.
Effingham's defiance.

A murmur rose as the music stopped, and he led her to
a seat; and then a species of undulation in the crowd, near
the entrance into the next room, attracted attention. Mr.
Effingham had his back turned, however, and did not observe
this incident. He was talking to Beatrice in a low
tone.

“You see,” he said, with his calm, nonchalant voice—
“you see, Beatrice, that this superb society, which you
fancied you would find yourself so much out of place in, is
not so very extraordinary after all. I think that I hazard
nothing in saying that the second minuet was better than
the first; you are, indeed, far more beautiful than that little
dame, whose ancestors, I believe, came over with the conqueror—Captain
Smith.”

And his cynical smile grew soft, as he gazed on the tender,
anxious face.

“It was not so dreadful an ordeal,” he added, “though
I must say we were the subject of much curiosity. I observed
a group, criticising me, which pleased me. There
was a fiery young gentleman in a long waistcoat, whom I offended
by not returning his bow some months since—and I
believe he was the orator of the occasion.”

With which words, Mr. Effingham's lip curled.

“See! the very same group—every body, in fact, is gazing
at us. Let them! you are lovelier than them all.”

And Mr. Effingham raised his head proudly and looked
around like an emperor. But Beatrice felt her heart die within
her: that minuet had exhausted her strength; each moment
she expected to see the pale cold face of Clare looking at her.
Mr. Effingham observed how faint she was, and leaning over,
took a smelling-bottle from the hand of the old dowager, who
had dropped the fan—bowing and smiling.

He presented it to Beatrice, but she put it away with
the back of her hand: whereupon Mr. Effingham, with a
second bow, restored it to the dowager, who, aghast at his

impudence, beaten by his superior coolness, and overwhelmed
with rage, took it without knowing what she did. Mr.
Effingham thereupon turned, smiling, to Beatrice again:

“There seems to be something going on yonder,” he said,
leaning on her chair, and directing the young girl's attention
to the flashing waves of the crowd, which moved to and fro
like foaming billows, in the light of the brilliant chandeliers.
Beatrice felt an indefinable and vague fear take possession
of her heart. At the same moment, Master Willie came
pushing and elbowing through the crowd.

“Cousin Clare is sick!” he said, “you'd better go and
see her, brother Champ. She liked to fainted just now!”

Beatrice understood all.

“Oh, sir! let me go!” she cried, “go out with me! I
shall die here!—oh, I cannot—that dance nearly killed me
—and now!—Oh, sir, have pity, give me your arm!”

And rising with a hurried movement, she placed her
hand on Mr. Effingham's arm. That gentleman smiled bitterly.

“Yes,” he said, “this is the tragedy after the comedy!
I understand this fainting.”

“Oh, sir, have pity—I must go!” cried Beatrice, “I
will go alone!”

Mr. Effingham held her back, and hesitated. At last
he said:

“Well, madam—as you please—I have had a pleasant
minuet—I will go.”

And with the same cold, defiant ease, he led the young
girl across the room, and issued forth into the open air.

Without speaking they traversed the walk, with its lindens
and variegated lanterns, passed through the crowd of
grooms and coachmen, who made way respectfully, and entered
the carriage which had brought them. In ten minutes
it stopped at the Raleigh, and Mr. Effingham, with a strange
throbbing of the heart, handed the young girl out. At that
moment he loved her so madly, so defiantly, that he would
have given the universe to clasp her to his bosom.

He knew how such a proceeding would be received, however,
and led her in silence to her room, where Mr. Manager
Hallam was sitting by the fire, toasting his enormous feet.

Then with a bow he closed the door, and returned to the
governor's palace.