50. CHAPTER L.
MR. EFFINGHAM RETURNS TO THE BALL AND DISCOURSES ON THE
SUBJECT OF WAISTCOATS.
Mr. Effingham made his re-entrance into the ball-room,
with the same disdainful calmness which had characterized
him at first. If as many eyes were not turned toward him,
that was because he was no longer accompanied by the young
actress—was a single cavalier.
Near the door he encountered that group, which we have
twice listened to; and he approached with his satirical and
careless smile.
“Ah, really,” he said, to Sylvia, “I am charmed to see
you! Why, how adorably you are looking!”
And turning round before Miss Sylvia could reply, he
added to Leonella,
“Your coiffure is charming!”
The expression upon the faces of Miss Sylvia and Leonella
was so ludicrous, that Myrtilla burst out laughing.
“Ah!” said Mr. Effingham, in his most petit maître
tones, “how could I have so long neglected to place my
homage at the feet of the queen of beauty!”
Myrtilla laughed at this languid and elegant address to
her.
“I cannot pardon myself,” continued Mr. Effingham,
arranging his drop curls; “if Phillis scorns her Corydon,
and beats him with her crook, he cannot complain; his
humbled eyes dare not rise higher than the ribbons fluttering
on the bodice of his pastoral princess.”
The fashion of the time, must plead Mr. Effingham's
excuse for this extraordinary speech. Our lovely fore-mothers
relished these rural allusions, and started with
delight at the mention of Chloes, Phillises and crooks. And
so Myrtilla made a laughing courtesey: and Mr. Effingham
turned away. He found himself face to face with the small
gentleman who had criticised him so pleasantly, and whose
criticism his quick eye had seen reflected in his face, as the
young man had danced opposite to Beatrice.
“Oh! really a great pleasure!” said he, now, to this
gentleman, “are you here too?”
“Yes, sir,” said the small gentleman, sullenly.
“And with as long a waistcoat as ever,” continued Mr.
Effingham, smiling.
“Sir!”
“Yes, a pleasant ball—but the society is somewhat
mixed,” said Mr. Effingham, with courteous smiles, “things
are becoming changed. Is it not so, ladies? Gay, adorable
shepherdesses, clad in the bloom and freshness of the spring
—am I not right?”
“Yes, you are right, sir,” said Sylvia, tossing her little
head: a manœuver which Mr. Effingham rightly attributed
to the fact that the damsel meant to allude to Beatrice.
“Why, nothing could be plainer,” he continued.
“Nothing, sir!” here interposed the small gentleman,
with a frown. Mr. Effingham slightly turned round, as
much as to say “did you presume to reply to me, sir?” and
went on superciliously.
“Very mixed—shockingly,” he said; “every body is
beginning to mingle in society, and we now see all descriptions
of costume. I do not complain of the simple dress of
the lower class, yonder—I like it. What I allude to is different.
I refer to those individuals who endeavor to make
up by splendor what they lack in good-breeding, and who
load their dress with all manner of remarkable and extraordinary
ornament—”
Myrtilla began to laugh, mischievously glancing at the
small gentleman, who winced.
“Shocking taste, and shows their condition,” added Mr.
Effingham; “they even persist in wearing those abominable
waistcoats, as brilliant as the rainbow, and nearly as long—
invariable indication of the parvenu.”
And Mr. Effingham smiled amiably at the gentleman in
the long waistcoat, who was furious—raised his hand with an
air inexpressibly foppish, to the ladies, and moved on.
He encountered Jack Hamilton, who, in the midst of a
group of foxhunters like himself, was laughing and talking
at the top of his voice.
“Oh, here is Effingham!” said Hamilton, “where is
Miss Hallam?”
Mr. Effingham replied, calmly:
“She got tired, and I returned with her. You see,
however, that I have made my appearance again—my friends,
I fear, had not an opportunity to speak to me.”
And his cold eye told Hamilton very plainly what he
meant. Honest Jack laughed.
“By George! I believe they are all your very excellent
friends by this time,” he said; “they calculated without
their Virginia blood, when they spoke of resenting Miss
Hallam's appearance. They forgot that they were a dozen
men matched against one woman.”
“And a sword, Hamilton.”
“Come, come,” said Hamilton, “forget that, and don't
let the fellows here, who are jolly boys, as you know, into
our little secrets. They are waiting to be recognized by
Monseigneur.”
This was true; and when Mr. Effingham held out his
hand to the party, who were all slightly acquainted with him,
it was taken with hearty warmth, and not a few rough and
sincere compliments paid to Beatrice, though they did not
scruple to say as plainly that there “was no use in bringing
her.”
In consideration of their good feeling, our hero pardoned
this: and then leaning on Hamilton's arm, passed on. Ten
steps brought him in front of his Excellency—and that gentleman,
no longer checkmated by the presence of Beatrice,
turned away with great hauteur. Mr. Effingham only
smiled, and passed on, leaving Jack Hamilton behind.
He went through the room with his cold, disdainful smile,
seeking his adversaries:—strange to say, however, they
seemed to be far from those ferocious personages described
by Mr. Hamilton. He could find nothing to take umbrage
at, and so he returned towards the door. The simple fact
was, that, proud and disdainful as Mr. Effingham was, he
feared to encounter the eye of his father, or of Henrietta, or
Alethea, or Clare. He had understood the cause of the
young girl's sudden faintness perfectly well. She had entered
from the second room, and seen him dancing a minuet
with that rival, whom she had so generously forgiven, and
clasped to her pure, tender heart—and though Mr. Effingham
was ignorant of the fact of the interview, he was at no
loss to understand Clare's emotion.
This was the reason why he feared to meet her—and yet
with that dread was mingled a strange desire; as if he wished
to stand before her and give her look for look, and break
her heart and his own. Mr. Effingham began to feel a diseased
craving for excitement—he had become accustomed to
acute and painful emotions; he fed on them as his daily
bread.
Fortunately this insane desire was doomed to disappointment.
Clare had left the ball almost at the same moment
with himself and Beatrice: had entered the Effingham chariot
with the squire and his party just as his own carriage
drove off.
Once, as Mr. Effingham drew near the door, he encountered
the gaze of Henrietta, who had chosen to remain with
Hamilton: and with rage in his heart he made her a low
and exaggerated bow. Then passing by the gentleman in
the long waistcoat, with a meaning look full of disdain and
menace, he struck his hat upon his head, and rushed, almost,
from the room.
His infatuation for Beatrice had never so closely approached
madness as at that moment.
