The “Raleigh Tavern” in Williamsburg had been selected
for a residence by Mr. Hallam and his company of
comedians, chiefly on the ground that there was no other
hostelry of any size in the good city at the period: and before
the Raleigh Mr. Effingham drew rein. A negro took
his horse, and, entering the broad doorway, the young man
found himself opposite to the manager himself.

“Give me some Jamaica,” he said to the portly landlord,
who bowed low to his well-known and richly-clad guest,
“and you, Mr. Hallam, come here and empty a cup with
me. I came to see Madam Portia. Where is she at the
present moment? I wish to pay her my respects.”

So far from displaying any ill-humor at these cavalier
words, the red-faced manager bowed as low as the landlord,
and expressed his perfect willingness to drink with Mr.
Effingham; which, judging from his voice and appearance,
he had performed in company with himself a number of
times already. He marched up, accordingly, to the sideboard—
in those simple times the bottles were set out freely
without any obstructing “bar”—and pouring out an abundant
supply of the heady rum, swallowed it at a gulp. Mr.
Effingham drank his own more leisurely, talking about the
performance on the preceding night.

“A fine house, sir! a most enlightened and intellectual

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

audience, such as I expected to find in this noble colony,”
said Mr. Hallam.

“What receipts?” asked Mr. Effingham.

“Nearly a hundred pounds, sir; as much as the great
Congreve's `Love for Love' ever brought me.”

“I should have thought the amount larger,—cursed
dust! I believe it has strangled me!”

“I saw you, sir, and your honorable party.”

“The devil you did! that's strange, for Shylock naturally
took up your whole attention.”

“Shylock was too drunk,” said Hallam, quite naturally;
“there he is, in the corner, now.”

“Let him stay there, then. You have not answered my
question.”

“Your question?”

“I asked where Portia was.”

“Oh, Beatrice! she is somewhere about.”

“I met and directed her on her way to town the other
day.—Send up, and say that Mr. Effingham wishes to see
her.”

“Certainly, sir.”

A messenger was dispatched to Miss Hallam's room,
and in a moment returned with the reply, that she was busy
studying her part.

“She can see you, though,” said Hallam, laughing;
“follow me, sir.”

Mr. Effingham followed the fat manager, and a flight of
stairs brought them to a door, which Hallam knocked at,
and a voice bidding him come in, he threw it open. It
afforded entrance to a small, neat room, the simple ornaments
of which were in perfect taste; the window of this room was
open, and at it sat the young girl, whom we have seen twice
before; once, in the bright autumn woods, and again on
the stage, in the character of Portia. Beatrice was clad
in a handsome morning dress of dove color, and her fine
hair was secured behind her statue-like head by a bow of
scarlet riband. She leaned one hand upon her book,—the
other supported her fair brow, and her classic profile was
clearly defined against the rich fall forest, visible through
the window.

At the noise made by the opening door she raised her

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

eyes, and for a moment gazed in silence upon the intruders
Then apparently resigning herself to her fate, she closed the
book and rose.

“I told the servant to say that I was engaged upon my
part, father,” she said, calmly, to Hallam. “I shall be badly
prepared if I am interrupted, sir.”

“Oh, plenty of time—and with your genius, child, you
can do any thing. She is as quick as lightning, Mr. Effingham,”
added the manager, discussing the young girl's
talents in her hearing without a thought of any indelicacy
in such a proceeding, “and when she catches hold of a rôle
it's done.”

Beatrice was silent.

“Come, now, talk with Mr. Effingham for a quarter of
an hour, since he is an acquaintance,” continued the manager,
smiling, “in that time you will lose nothing.” And
passing through the door, he descended into the lower part
of the tavern.

For a moment the two personages thus left alone surveyed
each other in silence. Before Mr. Effingham's bold
and careless glance, Beatrice's eyes did not lower for an
instant.

“Well, Mr. Effingham,” she said, at length, quite calmly,
“what would you have?”

“Simply, a little conversation with you, my charming
Beatrice,” said Mr. Effingham, carelessly.

“I am busy, sir, very. I act Juliet to-night, and am
now studying.”

“Oh, you can give me a few moments—”

“Well, sir,” she said, sitting down and pointing to a
chair.

“Especially,” continued her visitor, “as you refused
to say any thing to me last night.”

“That is a reproach, sir?”

“Yes.”

“It is unjust, as you know.”

“Now, see the difference of opinion,” said Mr. Effingham,
smoothing his ruffles, daintily, “I think that nothing
could be more just. I reproach you justly, because you
have nothing but prudery to allege as an excuse for your
refusal.”

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

“I told you, sir, then, as I now do, that conversation on
the stage destroys my conception of the character I am
representing.”

“Bah! all theory.”

The young girl seemed to be somewhat irritated by the
disdainful expression of Mr. Effingham's voice.

“Mr. Effingham,” she said, “be pleased not to treat
me like your servant. I am no common attaché of the
stage, sir, such as you have met with, doubtless, in London
frequently. I say this, sir, in no spirit of self-approval, but
because it is true.”

“Why, Beatrice, you are really about to bowstring me,
or put me to some horrible death, I believe.”

“See, sir,” said the young girl, with noble calmness,
“we are very nearly perfect strangers, and you address me
as `Beatrice,' as familiarly as my own father.”

“May the devil take it—you quarrel with a mere habit.”

“Mr. Effingham,” said the young woman, rising, and
speaking in a tone of perfect calmness, “I quarrel neither
with you nor any one; above all, I do not presume to
criticise your habits, except when those habits, as in the
present instance, concern myself.”

“Bah!” repeated Mr. Effingham, with a laugh, “how,
pray?”

“You seem to think, sir, that it is my place to be thankful
when you address me intimately, and familiarly, as you
have done.”

“What harm is there?”

“That question is an insult, sir!”

“May the devil take me, but you are fruitful in imaginary
offences, and insults offered you.”

“No, sir—I do not exercise my imagination at all. Your
tone to me is disagreeable.”

“There it is again—you are really going to bite me, I
believe. Let us leave the subject, and discuss last night's
performance. Your acting was really not bad.”

The proud lip of the young woman moved slightly.

“Ah! ah!” said Mr. Effingham, laughing, “I see what
you mean by that scornful look. I am a poor critic, you
would say.”

“I say nothing, sir.”

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

“I have no taste, you would say: though I beg you to
observe, that inasmuch as I have praised your acting, that is
a false step in you.”

Beatrice repressed her rising anger, and bowed coldly.

Mr. Effingham received this exhibition of hauteur with
careless nonchalance, and picking up the volume which the
young girl had laid down on his entrance, said:

“You act Juliet to-night?”

“I do, sir.”

“I shall come.”

Beatrice made no reply.

“I beg, now,” continued Mr. Effingham, arranging one
of his ambrosial drop-curls daintily upon his cheek, “I beg
you will not put any of that ferocious feeling you now exhibit
into Juliet. The character is essentially tender and poetical,
and ranting would kill it.”

“I never rant, sir,” said Beatrice, apparently resigning
herself to the presence of her insulting visitor, and speaking
in a tone of utter coldness.

“That's right,” replied Mr. Effingham, indifferently;
“be subdued, quiet, but intense, and all that. Juliet is
deeply in love with Romeo, recollect, and love does not
express itself by tirade. Do you think it suits you? Come,
answer me.”

“I have played it before, sir.”

“That is no answer.”

“Please leave me to study my part, sir—time is passing.”

“Not before giving my views, Beatrice. I don't think
you will act Juliet well. It requires a tender, loving nature;
and you are minus the heart, it is plain; and you will
butcher the part.”

“Thanks for your compliment, sir.”

“Oh! I never compliment, or any thing of the sort.”

“I am losing time, sir.”

“Conversing with me, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The conversation, then, is very distasteful to you, my
charming Beatrice?”

“Yes, sir!” she said.

“You hate me, perhaps?”

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

The young girl made no reply.

“Or, perhaps, your ladyship despises me?” added Mr.
Effingham, betraying some irritation.

“I do neither, sir—you are indifferent to me.”

These words were uttered with so much coldness, that
Mr. Effingham's amour propre was deeply wounded. He
began to get angry.

“You are really a very amiable young lady,” he said.
“Here I ride all the way from the country for the sole purpose
of seeing you.”

“And insulting me, sir, add.”

“And you receive me,” continued Mr. Effingham, taking
no notice of the interruption, “as if I were a common
clodhopper, instead of a gentleman, paying you a friendly
visit.”

“Your friendly visits do not please me, sir.”

“I see they do not.”

“I am an actress, sir, and not of your class.”

“Bah! who speaks of classes?”

“You yourself this moment, sir!”

“You choose to misunderstand me. I said that my
visit was the friendly one of a well-bred man, not the impertinent
intrusion of a country bumpkin, like those knaves who
hissed me in the gallery, or that clodhopper who presumed
to bend his angry glances on me from the pit—Mr. Charles
Waters, I know him well—the young reformer, forsooth!”

Beatrice's face flushed.

“I saw no nobler countenance, sir,” she said, coldly,
“among all your aristocratic friends.”

“Ah! your cavalier, I perceive!” said Mr. Effingham,
bitterly; “really, I shall become jealous.”

“I do not know him, even, sir—your scoff is unjust.”

“Your true knight, who wished to run a tilt with me for
touching your arm! Perhaps he has but now left you, and
before going, devoted my humble self to the infernal gods for
daring to address you.”

“I repeat,” said Beatrice, indignantly, “that I have
seen him but once, and on the occasion you allude to.”

“Well, I believe you. But let such impertinent bumpkins
beware how they criticise my actions in future, even by
their looks.”

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

Beatrice sat down, with a mixture of weariness and scorn
on her beautiful countenance, and, taking up the book which
the young man had laid down, began to study her part.
This calmness seemed to enrage Mr. Effingham not a little,
and he put on his cocked hat with a flirt of irritation.

“Very well,” he said; “that means that you are weary
of me—I am not good enough for Miss Hallam—she is too
immaculate for me.”

“I have my part to study, sir.”

And she began to con her character in silence.

Mr. Effingham swung his short sword round angrily,
and without further words went hurriedly out of the room.
He brushed by Mr. Hallam, who was talking with Shylock,
and, mounting his horse, galloped from the town towards
the Hall.

The manager's good-humored greeting as he passed had
been completely disregarded; and thinking rightly that
something had happened to cause this abrupt departure, he
went up to his daughter's room.

“Why did the young man go so abruptly, my, child?”
he said.

“Because I would not return him my thanks for visiting
me,” said Beatrice, bitterly.

“Oh,” said the manager, laughing, “you are too prudish,
Beatrice. You should not complain of these visits, which
are customary, and not strange, when you are acquainted—
as you are with Mr. Effingham, he says. Your aim in life,
as you say you hate the stage so much, should be to marry
well—and I much misunderstand this young fellow, if he
would not marry you in the face of the world, if he
fancied.”

“I do not wish to marry him, or any one like him!”
said Beatrice, her face flushing, and her beautiful eyes filling
with angry tears.

“You are mad!—he is, the landlord tells me, of one of
the best and wealthiest families in the colony.”

“And because he is,” said Beatrice, wiping her eyes,
“he thinks he has the right to intrude upon me, and speak
in any tone he chooses. Father!” she added, passionately,
“I am sick of this eternal persecution!—in London—here—
every where. I shall go mad if I remain upon the stage,

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

exposed to this class of persons all my life—my head is hot
and burning now, my eyes feel like fire—oh! I wish I was
dead!”

Passionate tears followed these words, and Beatrice
covered her face with her hands, bending down and sobbing.
The good-hearted old fellow, who really had his daughter's
good at heart in all things, betrayed some feeling at this explosion
of grief; and betook himself to soothing the young
girl, with gentle words, and caresses, and assurances of his
own unchangeable love.

“Come, come,” he said, much affected, “I can't bear to
see you so much moved. Don't think too hardly of this young
man. He is thoughtless, perhaps, but does not mean any
offence. There now!” he said, caressing her disorderd hair,
“don't cry, Beatrice. You shall forget all this to-morrow,
when, as there will be no performance, we can go and have
the sail upon James River, which you said you would like
so much—will you go?”

“Yes, sir,” said Beatrice, growing calmer, “oh yes! I
want to get away from all this tormenting excitement, and
breathe the fresh river air. I am happiest in the woods, or
on the water. I won't cry any more, sir, and don't fear I
will not act my part well. I don't like acting, and at times
I feel a weariness and disgust which I cannot subdue: but
I will not let any of my bad feelings interfere with your
wishes. Indeed, I'll act very well, sir.”

“And don't be too angry at the young man—he meant
nothing, I know.”

“I have forgotten him, sir,” said the young girl, with
noble calmness.

“A mere thoughtless youth, who admires you highly—I
saw that well, when you were speaking in the trial scene last
night. Now I will leave you. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, father—kiss me, before you go.”

And Mr. Manager Hallam having retired, the young girl
growing gradually calm, again applied herself once more to
the study of her part.