 | CHAPTER XLVI.
THE RIVALS AND THE GHOST. The Virginia comedians, or, Old days in the Old Dominion |  |
46. CHAPTER XLVI.
THE RIVALS AND THE GHOST.
The rivals stood face to face, and surveyed each other, with
glances which flashed and crossed like lightning.
They were both strong men: for one had the strength
of passion, the other the strength of resolute courage, and
great self-control.
How the singular interview would have commenced, it is
impossible to say—for all at once, the wheezy voice of Mr.
Manager Hallam was heard at the door, saying:
“Ah, Mr. Effingham! Mr. Effingham! I called after
you, and you have made me lose my breath, puffing after
you up the stairs. But here is metal more attractive, you
would say, after the great Congreve—or, rather, the grand
Shakspeare.”
With which words, the voice took to itself the semblance
of a puffy, red-faced gentleman, who entered smiling.
At sight of Charles Waters, however, the manager's face
fell.
“Good morrow, sir,” said Waters, calm and self-collected,
spite of the various emotions he still experienced.
“Welcome, sir,” said the manager, with some constraint.
“We have a very fine day, sir—hum!”
And Mr. Manager Hallam cleared his throat.
“We do not see you so often as our friend Mr. Effingham,”
he added, for the sake of saying something.
“Which is probably attributable to the fact that I live
here,” replied Mr. Effingham, coldly.
There was a pause.
“You look agitated, Beatrice,” continued the manager,
turning to his daughter with a constraint which was very
observable.
Beatrice turned away her head, and murmured,
“No, sir!”
“Are you sick?”
“Oh no, sir.”
“Mr. Waters left his father well, I trust?” he continued,
turning to the silent man.
“Perfectly, sir,” was the calm reply.
“Commend me to him when you return—I feel as if
we—had met before,” the manager said, with some hesitation.
His constraint was so plain, that Charles Waters determined
to remove it, by taking his departure. His presence
strange and mysterious revelation made to him by Beatrice
—a revelation which his mind still struggled in vain to realize—had
moved him, as we need not say, profoundly; and
the sight of the man who, beyond all doubt, knew and had
been the chief actor in the hidden drama, then threw him
into unwonted agitation. He wished for solitude and quiet
to collect his scattered thoughts, and with a few commonplace
words took his departure.
He had reached the top of the stairway, and was on the
point of descending, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder.
He turned round; Mr. Effingham stood before him.
“A moment, sir!” said that gentleman, haughtily.
“Well, sir,” said his opponent as coldly.
“Mr. Waters, I believe, who saved Miss Hallam's
life?”
“My name is Waters, sir.”
“And mine Effingham.”
His opponent inclined his head coldly.
“Ah!” said Mr. Effingham, haughtily; “you will not
understand; you are a marble statue. One would really
say that my name had struck upon your ears for the first
time.”
“No, sir; I have heard it before.”
“From Miss Hallam, doubtless?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Coupled with a highly favorable opinion, I suppose?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah! ah!—now we approach the point.”
“What point, sir? It is impossible for me to understand
your meaning.”
These cold words seemed to irritate Mr. Effingham more
and more.
“I mean, sir,” he said, “that you and Miss Beatrice
Hallam have been making me the subject of criticism—you
have been indulging in abusive words relating to myself.”
“You are mistaken, sir.”
“Ah! indeed!”
“Yes, sir; but as you have thrust this conversation on
me, I will add, that I have at different times spoken of
yourself—not abusively—for that is a species of conversation
confess.”
“Very well, sir. It only remains for you to repeat those
critical observations.”
“Mr. Effingham,” said his opponent, “look at my face.”
“Well, sir!”
“If you have ordinary acuteness, you must perceive that
I adopt this tone of calmness by a violent effort.”
“Well, sir; permit me to request that you will deign to
look at me. If I spoke my true feelings plainly, they would
cut as the edge of a sword cuts.”
“A sword, sir?”
“Yes; have you one at home, sir?”
“No.”
“Ah! I had forgotten—you do not wear this description
of weapon.”
His adversary's face flushed, and forgetting all his self-control,
he said:
“If I do not wear, I use the sword, sir.”
Mr. Effingham's eye flashed.
“Good! good!” he cried; “when shall we meet?”
“Meet, sir?”
“Yes!”
“Do you purpose defying me to mortal combat?”
“Precisely, sir.”
“The reason?”
“I am not aware that a gentleman need give another any
reason—I wish it. Is not that enough, sir?”
“I asked your reason, because it seemed to me, sir, that
if this challenge should be given at all, it should proceed
from me.”
“From you!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, pray, why, sir,” asked Mr. Effingham, haughtily.
“Because I am the aggrieved party.”
“You!”
“Yes, sir.”
“How, if it please you, sir?”
“I regret that 'tis not possible for me to explain—and
this I should have reflected upon before speaking.”
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Effingham, coldly, but cold only
by a violent effort, “it is a matter of little importance from
you do not send it, I will. There, sir! Is that plain?”
“Perfectly, sir,” said his opponent, turning pale with
anger at the disdainful coldness of Mr. Effingham's tone, and
losing at last, all his self-control.
“Well, your answer? I waive all discussions of rank.”
His adversary's brow flushed.
“Yes, yes, sir!” he said, “you are very courteous, and
I trust your lesson in the sword exercise will be more worthy
of attention than the present one you give me in politeness.”
“Politeness, sir!”
“I mean, sir, that you adopt towards me a tone which
is most insulting and unworthy.”
“Sir!”
“Yes, most unworthy. You will waive all discussions
of rank! By heaven, sir! I think the waiver should be on
my side. Yes, sir, you have overcome my self-control—by
pure force of continued insult driven me to anger. Well,
sir, you shall hear my thoughts now. You have thrown to the
winds all courtesy, you throw my station in society in my
teeth, you think me a peasant—a mere boor—who should
be whipped back to his place when he attempts to make his
breast the barrier between a strong, passionate man, and a
weak, feeble girl! For that is your real cause of quarrel,
sir; you hate me because I stand between yourself and that
young girl, yonder! Yes, sir, you hate me, and you imagine
that I will yield to you—that your sword will pass
through my heart, and that you will be left free to persecute
that child, as you have done already, without hindrance.
Undeceive yourself! I am no child! I promise you something
more than a weak struggle—the struggle of a girl endeavoring
to escape your approaches. Yes, sir! you shall
have a fair field, and my heart's blood if you can take it!
But guard well your own!”
Mr. Effingham was carried away by his rage—his eyes
filled with blood—and, grinding his teeth, he drew his sword.
Furious, blind, mad with passion, no one knows what he
might have done, when, suddenly, a loud “Diable!” was
heard, and Mr. Effingham found his sword knocked up by
the scabbard of another perfectly similar to it.
It was the ghost, who, coming out of his room, had heard
the altercation, and arrived just in time.
| CHAPTER XLVI.
THE RIVALS AND THE GHOST. The Virginia comedians, or, Old days in the Old Dominion | |