University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII
IN THE SQUIRES BOX.

The first act ended without the appearance of Portia or
Nerissa; the scene in which they hold their confidential—
though public and explanatory—interview having been omitted.
The audience seemed to be much pleased, and the
actors received a grateful guerdon of applause.

In the box opposite that one occupied by Mr. Lee and
his daughters, sat the squire, Will, and Kate, and—proh
pudor!—no less a personage than Parson Tag. Let us not
criticise the worthy parson's appearance in a play-house, too
severely, however. Those times were not our times, nor
those men, the men of to-day. If parsons drank deep then,
and hunted Reynard, and not unwillingly took a hand at
cards,—and they did all this and more—why should they
not also go and see the “good old English drama?” Certain
are we, that when the squire proposed to the parson a
visit to town, for the purpose of witnessing the performance
of the “Merchant of Venice,”—that worthy made no sort
of objection:—though it must be said, in justice to him, also,
that he expressed some fears of finding his time thrown away.
He now sat on the front seat beside the squire, with solemn
gravity, and rubicund nose, surveying from his respectable
position the agitated pit. Miss Alethea had remained at
home: but, beside the squire, Will and Kate were exchanging
criticisms on the splendid novelty they had just witnessed.
They remembered it for years afterwards—this, their
beautiful, glittering, glorious, magical first play!

“Not so bad as you predicted—eh, parson?” said the
squire. “I don't think that fellow Antonio acts so badly.”

“Very well—very well,” replied the parson, who was in
the habit of echoing the squire's opinions.

“And the audience seem delighted. Look at that
scamp of a son of mine, strutting up to friend Lee's box,
and smoothing those enormous ruffles like a turkey-cock.”

“Harmless devices of youth, sir.”

“Yes, and innocent, at least: he'll reform in time, sir, I
tell you.”

“Beyond all doubt.”

“There's good in Champ.”

“A most amiable young man.”

“Who abused your homilies,” laughed the squire.

“Oh! that is forgotten, my respected friend—a mere
youthful jest—the words of a thoughtless youth.”

The parson was evidently in a most Christian state of
mind, and had plainly left his usual severity at home. The
fact was, that the worthy man felt no little complaisance
at being seen the honored companion of “one of the aristocracy,”
as Mr. Hallam would have said, in that public
place. It flattered him—he thought he heard the gallery
say to the pit, “Who is that fine-looking gentleman in Squire
Effingham's box?”—and the pit audibly replied, “That
is the Reverend Mr. Tag, the distinguished clergyman.”

The parson was, therefore, in a forgiving state of mind,
and at that moment would not have refused to agree with
the squire if that gentleman had stated his opinion that
Mr. Effingham's natural genius and moral purity were sublime.

Suddenly, however, the parson's face clouded over, and
catching hold of the squire's arm, he said:

“There, sir! look there! That is the young man I spoke
of, Charles Waters—below us!”

“What of him?”

“Have you forgotten, sir?”

“Perfectly,” said the good-humored squire. “Oh, yes!
now I recollect, the young man who—”

“Has been propagating those treasonable opinions, sir—
one of the lower classes turned statesman, as you very
eloquently observed! What business has he to be there?—

the gallery is his place, among the servants and laborers.
I wonder he is not in the boxes, by us gentlemen!”

The squire followed the indignant finger of the parson,
and saw beneath them in the pit a young man clad in gray
cloth, and gazing with a thoughtful and fixed look upon
the curtain. Plainly, however, he was unconscious of thus
staring out of countenance the poor curtain—his own
thoughts, it was evident, pre-occupied his mind. He was apparently
twenty-two or three, and his countenance was full
of truth and nobility:—the hair short, chestnut-colored and
unpowdered—the eyes large and clear,—the mouth firm, but
somewhat sorrowful. Altogether, the face of this young
man would have attracted much attention from close observers
of character; and it was not without its effect on the
generous mind of the squire.

“You may say what you please of young Waters, parson,”
he said, “but he's no fool; you may see that in his
countenance.”

“I fear he is much more knave than fool, honored sir,”
said his companion.

“If what you said of him is true, he's both,” said the
bluff squire, suddenly recollecting the young man's alleged
opinions on education, “but let him go—we came here to
be amused—and I shall not talk politics. Come, let us question
the juveniles here. How did you like the play, Kate,
was it pretty?”

Kate clapped her hands, and said:

“Oh, lovely, papa!”

“And you, Will?”

“Pretty good,” said Master Will, endeavoring to smooth
his modest ruffles after the manner of his brother Champ,
whom he secretly admired and venerated as the model of a
gentleman and cavalier. “I think it's pretty well, sir—but
not up to my anticipations—hum!”

“My goodness, Willie!” cried Kate, in the midst of the
squire's laughter at this magniloquent speech, “you just said
to me a minute ago that you were delighted.”

“I said so to satisfy you,” said Master Will, grandly.

“To satisfy me, indeed!”

“Yes. I never argue with women.”

The squire seemed much delighted with this speech, and

endeavoring to command his risible muscles, asked Kate
“what she had to reply to that?”

“He says he never argues with women!” answered Kate,
pouting and shaking her little fresh-looking head up and
down, “never mind! I'll catch him at it before long. Never
argues with women!” adds Kate, “as if he was not arguing
with me all the time 'most!”

“Let us dismiss the subject,” says Will, gently caressing
his upper lip as Mr. Champ was doing opposite, “if that's
the way you're going on when we are married, I'll have a
time of it.”

“I won't marry you!” says Kate, “to be quarrelling all
the time—”

“I quarrel!”

“Yes!” pouts Kate, wiping her eyes.

“Well, I won't any more,” says Will, descending from his
heroics, and endeavoring to make friends; “don't cry, Kate.
You know how devoted I am to you—”

“I won't be friends!”

“Now, Kate!”

“You needn't be squeezing my hand.”

“I'll get you the silk for Carlo's foot.”

“Will you?”

“Yes, from cousin Clare.”

“To-morrow?”

“This very night.”

“Then,” says Kate, smiling, “I won't quarrel: and you
musn't.”

“I? never!”

“How pretty Carlo will be!”

“Lovely—and we're engaged?”

“Oh, yes!” says Kate, absorbed in the imaginary contemplation
of Carlo's foot, “but hush! Willie, they are going
on with the play, and you musn't be making love to me,
you know, where every body can hear you!”

“Never!” says Will, with Roman dignity and firmness.

The audience utter a prolonged “Sh-h-h-h!” and the
curtain rises.