University of Virginia Library

51. CHAPTER LI.
BEATRICE AND THE MANAGER.

Having thus briefly related the manner in which Mr.
Effingham returned to the ball, and sought for adventures
there like a second Don Quixote, though without the good
fortune of the noble gentleman of La Mancha, we shall now
go back to the moment when Beatrice re-entered her room,
after the trying ordeal she had passed through.

As we have said, Mr. Manager Hallam was sitting placidly
by the fire, which was far from uncomfortable at that
advanced season of the autumn. Upon Beatrice's entrance he
turned round, smiling. Beatrice was in tears, and sobbing.

“What in heaven's name is all this crying about?” asked
the manager, who, having emptied his nightly two bottles,
was in a most contented state of mind; “you are always
crying, Beatrice!”

“Oh, father!” she said, and then stopped.

“Well, well,” he said, impatiently, “speak.”

“I am not well.”

“How?”

“It was killing to me.”

“Bah! every thing kills you, but you always continue
alive, as I recollect hearing the great Congreve say, once on
a time.”

“I am really sick, sir.”

“Was the ball brilliant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was Mr. Effingham attentive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did the set-up women treat you badly?”

“No, sir.”

“You were treated politely?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And danced?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The governor bowed to you?”

“Very politely, sir.”

“Then in the name of all the fiends what are you crying
about, daughter? You are really a very extraordinary girl
You go to a brilliant ball, with a handsome and attentive
cavalier; you are not treated badly by the fine ladies, but
very kindly; you danced among the best, the governor of
Virginia made you a polite bow, and after all this, which
would turn the head of any common girl with joy, you come
back crying, instead of laughing, sorrowful instead of happy.
Basta! as the great Congreve was wont to say, you are
foolish!”

Beatrice sat down, wiping her eyes, and murmuring the
words she had read in Kate's Bible, before going—“Oh,
Lord, my strength and my Redeemer!”

“What is that you say?” asked Hallam, stretching his
feet luxuriously on the fender, and looking with muddy eyes
at the ceiling.

“Nothing, sir,” said the young girl, trying to command
her voice.

“Beatrice,” said Hallam, “you are perfectly ridiculous;
you are throwing away, by your folly and obstinacy, the

most excellent offer—I say it without hesitation—which was
ever made to an actress. One would really think that you
were a duchess, with your rent-roll and estates, instead of
the daughter of an actor, like myself.”

Beatrice listened with a strange feeling to these words.
Again that martial face rose for her from the far southern
land; again she saw the soldier dying, and her tears flowed
afresh.

“Instead of acting as you should do,” continued Hallam,
working himself into anger, “instead of being to this
young man the brilliant and fascinating woman which you
are—instead of managing him, and spurring him on, and
attracting him—instead of giving him hope, and you know
his intentions are perfectly honorable—instead of this, what
are you doing? You are making your eyes and face thin
with weeping, you are growing ugly from grief at having a
splendid position in society thrust on you—you are defying
my wishes, madam! You know I wish you to marry this
young fellow. Answer; are you not disobedient?” and the
manager pushed back his chair, angrily.

“Oh, father, father!” she cried, carried away by her
feelings, “I do not wish to be disobedient. I will do all
you wish me to do, but that! I will work day and night,
and never complain—but do not, do not ask me to marry,
or encourage this man! I do not like him, I shudder when
he approaches; all my good traits of character—and, indeed,
I have some—become changed to bad in his presence. He
repels me; something tells me that he will be my curse yet!
Oh, I cannot do as you command—I cannot smile and make
myself attractive, and show him that I like him—for I do
not! I should be the most miserable person living, were I
his wife!”

“Really!” cried the manager. “Truly, madam, the
countess is in her tantrums! You would be the most miserable
creature alive, as his wife?”

“Oh, miserable, sir!”

“He repels your ladyship!”

“I tremble when he comes near me!” she cried, weeping.

“You would not marry him?”

“Oh, no; for it would break the heart of a pure girl,
who loves him, and would have been his wife, if I had never
seen him!”

“Really, you are very magnanimous! Pray, who is that
girl?”

“Miss Lee, his cousin.”

“What does her fate concern you, pray, madam?”

“She forgave me, and took me in her arms, and kissed
me. Oh, God is my witness, that I would rather cut off my
right hand than make her suffer again!”

“Where the devil did you enact that fine drama?” said
the manager, frowning.

“I went to see her.”

“You?”

“Yes, sir; at her home, near Mr. Effingham's.”

“And, no doubt, told her how much you hated him;
that you were not to blame if her lover was infatuated about
you; that you had repulsed him, insulted him, asked him
to leave you, exhausted every means to make him abandon
his unworthy project, of marrying you—”

“Yes, sir—I did—”

“You did—`Yes, sir—I did!' sneered the manager;
“you had the boldness to go and say that to a person, who
will tell him every thing—”

“Oh, no, sir! for—”

“In future, madam,” said Hallam, angrily, “you do
not ride out without an escort. You might be guilty of
worse things than this audacious proceeding.”

At this unworthy insinuation, Beatrice felt the blood
rush to her face, and her heart begin to throb with bitter
and rebellious thoughts.

“Oh, father!” she cried, bursting into tears, “how can
you be so cruel?”

“Well,” he said, “I was wrong; but your conduct is
bad enough, madam. I suppose this child was at the ball—
his sweetheart?”

“Yes, sir. Miss Lee was present.”

“How did he treat her?”

“He did not see her.”

“Where is he now?”

“He went back, I believe.”

“To see her!” cried the manager; “your prospects are
ruined! Beatrice, from this moment—if it is not too late—
you act just as I bid you! I will have none of your disobedience

in future, madam! You shall not beard me with
your cryings, and entreaties, and childish tears. You shall
not ruin your own and my fortune in life. I command you,
madam, to behave yourself in future, better. Take care!”

Beatrice felt her rebellious heart grow more bitter; she
no longer thought of little Kate's Bible.

“I will have no nonsense, madam!” continued her father,
in a rage. “I will not have a child like you, setting at
naught all my wishes, and overturning all my plans in life,
by your ridiculous folly. In future, you take no more rides
to meet your lovers, or your lovers' sweethearts. Understand
me—I will not be dictated to by my own child! As
your father, I command you, in future, to give encouragement
to this young man. Don't frown and look rebellious
at me—I will not submit to any folly! If you choose to
act as you have done, I choose to tell you the truth. You
have ridden, Heaven knows where, to see, Heaven knows
who. You have nearly ruined your prospects; he is now
gone back, and if what you say about your interview with
her is true, she will tell him all, and he will never look at
you again! Madam!” cried the manager in a fury, “I
shall not endure this! As your father, I command you to
obey me! Take care—you have some silly religious feeling,
and that feeling will tell you, that if you dare to disobey
your father, God will take his account of you. I am
that father—see that you obey me!”

The young girl's feelings were worked up to the avowal,
her heart was agitated by rebellious and obstinate anger,
but she could not throw off, all at once, her habit of affection
and obedience. Still she could not remain silent, and
she cried, with passionate tears: “Oh, you are not my
father! God has revealed to me my real father. Mr.
Effingham brought here this frock!” And with a quick
movement, she drew from a drawer the child's garment.
“That God, you speak of, revealed my birth to me!” she
continued; “this letter has told me all. My father was
Ralph Waters; my name is Beatrice Waters!” And overwhelmed
with her emotion, the young girl sunk into a seat,
almost fainting.

The manager snatched the frock and the letter from her
in a violent rage. The truth all at once flashed on him—he

had no one to blame but himself, and with a furious hand he
tore his hair.

“Yes!” he cried, in a violent rage, “yes! you have
dared to read that letter! you have dared to pry into what
was my secret!”

“Oh, it was mine!” murmured Beatrice, bitterly.

“You have dared!”

And Mr. Manager Hallam again tore his hair.

“I could not help it, father!” cried Beatrice, calling on
God to calm her wicked feeling of rebellion, as she spoke;
“I felt compelled to read that letter! I did not mean—”

And she stopped, choked by her sobs. The manager
sank into the chair from which he had risen in the excess of
his rage.

“Oh, do not be angry with me, father!” cried Beatrice,
burying her head in his bosom. “I did not mean to do
wrong! I am your daughter still. Do not frown at me.”

The manager slowly became calmer.

“I love you as much as ever,” said Beatrice. “I felt
wrong just now, when you spoke such harsh words—so unjust!—but
now I am calm again!”

The manager began to cry—doubtless, like the great Congreve.

“Oh, father! I am so wretched!” exclaimed Beatrice.
“I did not mean to make you suffer!”

“To be defied by one whom I have always loved!” ejaculated
Hallam, half seriously, half from policy, giving way
afresh to his emotion; “whom I raised from infancy, trying
to find her family—defied by her!”

“Oh, I did not mean to defy you! indeed I did not!—
forgive me, father! I am your daughter still!”

“I am a poor, childless old man!” muttered the manager,
with his favorite choking cry.

“I will be your child!” cried Beatrice, weeping passionately.
“I will love you as dearly as I always have done,
you know, father—you have been so good to me! What
matter if I am not your daughter in reality. What matter
if I am the daughter of Ralph Waters—the brother of
Charles's father.” He started, but not with surprise; he
had felt that John Waters must be Beatrice's uncle, for
some days. “Why should I leave you, who have been so

kind to me, because I was born in Malta, where my father
died, and am not your daughter? You are my real father—
God sent you! My real name is Beatrice Waters; but I will
be Beatrice Hallam still. Oh, do not cry—you break my
heart!”

She again buried her face in his bosom; but, hearing a
noise, raised it again. Mr. Effingham stood before her, and
had plainly heard the words she had just uttered.

The scene which followed was one of those which are best
left to the reader's imagination. The pen can only describe
passions, or trace utterances to a certain point—beyond that
it yields the field to the painter, who alone can make the
highest passions, the most conflicting emotions, eloquent.
We may imagine the feelings of Mr. Effingham, on hearing
from the gloomy and agitated manager, that his own act had
revealed to Beatrice the secret of her birth; we may comprehend
the rage of the young man on finding that, by his
own agency, Beatrice had come to know that Charles Waters
was her cousin, his uncle her father; we may further understand
the despair of Hallam, the terrible agitation of Beatrice—we
cannot describe them.

When Mr. Effingham went away to his room that night,
he was a prey to one of his silent and sombre rages; he had
raised this new barrier himself. The instrument of fate, and
unknown to himself, his hand had opened that sealed book;
and what the young girl had read had for ever separated her
from him. That rival—bitterly hated before, now far more
bitterly—would be her lawful protector; and whether in
their duel he fell or conquered, nothing would be gained. A
thousand tumultuous thoughts like these chased themselves
through his mind—we cannot trace them—it is a repulsive
subject, and we pass on.