 | CHAPTER XIX.
BEATRICE AND HER SECOND VISITOR. The Virginia comedians, or, Old days in the Old Dominion |  |
19. CHAPTER XIX.
BEATRICE AND HER SECOND VISITOR.
He knocked at the door which he saw close behind her, and,
being bid to come in, opened it and entered. The young girl
did not seem to be in a very amiable mood. Her brow was
knit, and her firmly closed lips appeared to indicate the expectation
on the part of their mistress, of an unwelcome
visitor.
No sooner had she caught sight of the young man, however,
than this expression of annoyance and ill-humor vanished
like magic: and, running forward, with the abandon and
fresh grace of a child, she held out her hands, saying:
“Oh, I am very glad to see you!”
Her beautiful face was, at that moment, lit up with such
joy, the eyes were so bright and happy looking, the parted
lips radiant with a smile of such tenderness and child-like
simplicity, that her companion stood, for a full minute, looking
at her in silent surprise. She had taken his hand, and
pressed it so warmly that, spite of himself, spite of the preoccupation,
caused by the interview which he had just passed,
he felt his heart throb with a new and delightful emotion.
“Oh!” said Beatrice, “this is very kind to come and see
us: have I kept you waiting?”
“No, madam,” he said, “and I am very happy to find
you so well. You are right in supposing that my visit was
to you and your father. We were all desirous of knowing
whether you had suffered any bad effects from your accident.”
“I am very well, sir, I believe,” replied Beatrice, becoming
more calm, “and I only have a slight cough which
will go off, I am sure: sit down, sir.”
He was on the point of saying that he only called to
ask the simple question to which she had just replied: but,
in spite of himself, he was swayed by the bright, tender
glance of the young girl, and sat down.
“I am afraid I interrupt you,” he said, “you are busy.”
“Oh no, sir: I have just returned from—from rehearsal.
You know I am an actress, sir,” she added, with a
slight blush; but, at once calling her pride to her assistance,
this blush disappeared, and she said calmly, “I have to play
to-night.”
He saw the blush, and perfectly well understood it.
“You said, `I am an actress,' with some hesitation,” he
replied. “I do not find in that fact any thing that you
should be ashamed of. It is an honest and worthy employment,
Hallam.”
“All do not think so, sir.”
“At least, I do; and do not expect to find in me the
mode of thinking which characterizes the wealthier classes of
the day. Nothing is derogatory which is undertaken in a
pure and elevated spirit—which is honest. It would take
much to persuade me that the `player,' to use the phrase of
Shakspeare, who labors honestly and nobly in his vocation,
should not rank above the idle gentleman, who consumes
merely, without producing any thing. I do not say this in
a fault-finding or bitter spirit: it seems simply true to me;
and thus I cannot understand why you should hesitate to
avow your profession.”
“I do not, sir,” said Beatrice softly; “but spite of myself,
I am affected by the popular opinion of my class and
find all my pride necessary to combat it. Oh yes, sir! it is
unjust—indeed it is!” added the young girl, earnestly;
“and though I do not like acting, and dread the approach
of every night, I cannot think the gentlemen are right in despising
us!”
“I am sure they do not think so of you,” he said; “and
though Mr. Effingham has behaved toward you in a manner
most unworthy of an honorable man, I cannot think he
meant a deliberate insult to a young girl. That were too
base,” he added, with the latent flash of the eye which characterized
him.
“Ah, sir!” said Beatrice, with the same cloud upon her
face, which had warned the manager upon the river, “do
not let us speak of Mr. Effingham—he does not treat me as
a gentleman should treat all persons, however much beneath
him. I feel that I am not beneath him, and I can forget the
suffering he causes me. Come! I won't talk of him any
more. I see your face becoming gloomy, and your anger
rising. Do let us leave all this, and not talk about it any
more.”
“Well, madam, you teach me a lofty lesson. If I am
indignant, I had the right to be; but there is something
greater than anger, that is forgiveness. Let this young
man, then, be no longer the subject of our thoughts; he is
beneath you far enough—I say it with no scoffing, much less
to flatter—far enough for you to pardon him.”
The face of the young girl flushed with feeling, and her
eyes filled.
“Oh! how different from the other,” she murmured,
turning away; “these words are a balm to me: they make
me happy, though I do not deserve his opinion.”
And looking at him with happy eyes, bathed in their
tender mist, she said softly:
“You are very kind to me, sir; you must have a noble
nature to speak thus to a poor young girl like myself.”
Never had he seen a more winning countenance—so much
purity and simple truth in human eyes. He began to look
at her more closely, surveying in turn the noble brow, the soft,
melting eyes, the tender, childlike mouth, the maidenly attitude,
so full of modesty and grace. She had just called
herself a poor girl, and he found himself looking upon her
as a princess.
“I am a poor man, too,” he said, “much poorer than
yourself. You have many things which I have not. How
grateful must the applause your genius excites sound to
you! I have no such pleasure,” he said with a smile at his
own sophistry.
“Ah! but you have liberty.”
“Have not you?”
“No—that is, I mean not your liberty.”
“What is mine?”
“Oh!” cried Beatrice; “you have the forest, the river,
and the clouds. Don't smile at me, sir; when I think of
them, I am a child again, and forget all my worry and every
thing.”
“And you love the woods?”
“Oh, dearly!”
“And the water.”
“More still.”
“Strange that your career has not made these simple
things distasteful,” he said, regarding her with more and
more attention.
“Never could any thing make me dislike them,” said
Beatrice, with a lovely rose-color in her beautiful cheek.
“I must have been born in the country—I never heard from
father, and I only recollect London—for it makes me happy
to get away among the leaves and flowers. I like autumn
in the wind for whole days. I have often thought the great
trees were men with grand souls, sheltering all that come
beneath them, and raising their heads to heaven without
fearing the lightning or storms!”
He had not taken his eyes from the animated face.
“And then on the river,” added Beatrice, with a happy
light in her eyes, “on the water I feel freer than ever. I
feel like dancing sometimes, and father was laughing at me
for calling after the waterfowl the other day—when you
saved me, you know,” she said, with a look which went to his
heart. He made a movement with his hand.
“I love the water,” she said, “and the clouds and waves,
and all—the sunlight makes me deeply joyful. I could
never have felt it again,” she added in a subdued voice, “but
for you—and who knows—who knows—”
The impulsive young girl passing, as was her wont, from
excitement to quiet, from joy to melancholy, paused, hanging
down her head.
“Who knows—you would say?” he asked, taking the
little hand which hung at her side, with scarcely a consciousness
of doing so.
“I am not fit to die,” said Beatrice, with tears in her
eyes, and turning away. There was a silence more eloquent
than any words. Her hand remained in his, and neither
spoke, but once their glances met, and then were withdrawn.
“God alone knows who is prepared for that voyage to
eternity,” her companion said at length, in a grave, serious
voice, releasing her hand as he spoke; “we are mere instruments—as
I was—in his hand: mere wood and metal, which
cannot see or know any thing—which are wielded by the
right hand of the Deity. But I am trespassing on your
time, Miss Hallam, and must go.”
“Oh no, sir—no.”
“Do not rate my service to you too highly,” he said,
taking no notice of this interruption, and rising; “if you sustain
no inconvenience, I need not say I shall be most happy
—as I am happy to have been near you when you fell; any
debt you owed me has been more than repaid by the pleasure
I have felt in this friendly conversation, and now I must go.
I fear that I have trespassed too much upon your time.”
“Oh no—please sit down: I am not busy,” said Beatrice,
been to rehearsal.”
“You play to-night?”
“Yes, sir: but will you do me a great favor?”
“Is it very great?” he said, gazing with a soft smile
upon the tender face. Beatrice caught the expression, and
her own countenance became so radiant and winning, so full
of happiness and tender feeling, that he felt his breast heave:
“What is the favor?” he added.
“To promise me not to come,” said Beatrice.
“To see you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“At the theatre?”
“To-night—yes, sir: I would rather you would not
come, to-night or ever.”
“Tell me why: we are friends, are we not—enough for
that?”
“Oh, you please me more than I can tell you, by saying
that,” said Beatrice; “indeed I wish you to have no worse
one than myself. But I cannot tell you why I do not wish
to see you ever at the theatre. I hope you will not come to
see me.”
“Well, I will not,” he said with a softness which was
uncommon with him, “at least to-night, but I may come and
see you here again?”
“Oh, will you?”
“Indeed—if you will permit me.”
“Oh, always—I so love to hear you talk.”
Beatrice seemed to be carried away by her feelings, and
afterwards blamed herself severely for acting in so childlike
a manner. Her companion said, as he exchanged a pressure
of the hand at parting,
“I will certainly come as often as I can—you have no
better friend than myself, believe me.”
And with these simple and sincere words, he took his
departure, thinking of the bright, fresh face, which seemed
to have risen for the first time, like a harvest moon, upon
his sight. As for Beatrice, she sat still for half an hour,
with her head bent down, pensively, and her eyes veiled with
their long lashes. At the end of that time she raised her
face, and said, with deep tenderness, and eyes that swam in
happy tears, “He is so good and noble!”
| CHAPTER XIX.
BEATRICE AND HER SECOND VISITOR. The Virginia comedians, or, Old days in the Old Dominion | |