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Ten minutes' ride brought him to Effingham Hall, and, throwing
his bridle to a negro who ran forward to take it, he entered
the hall. Supper was soon served, and Mr. Effingham
was plied with questions as to his abrupt return, and moody
state of mind. These questions were received with very little
good-humor by the young man, who was in a furious ill-humor,
and he was soon left to himself. The squire was not
present, having some writing to do in the library, whither a
cup of chocolate was sent him.

After supper Mr. Effingham sat down moodily, resting
his feet on the huge grim-headed andirons, which shone
brightly in the cheerful light thrown out by some blazing
splinters, for the October evenings were becoming chilly.
Miss Alethea, who sat sewing busily, after pouring out tea,
endeavored in vain to extract a word from him.

Little Kate, who sat in the corner near Mr. Effingham,
on her own little cricket, paused in the midst of her work—
Carlo was going on bravely now—to ask cousin Champ what
made him feel bad, and was he sick? The child was Mr.
Effingham's favorite, and he was always ready to play with
her; but on the present occasion he replied that he was not
sick, and did not wish to be annoyed.

Kate looked much hurt, and Master Willie, who was
pouring over a wonderful book of travels at the table, manifested
some disapprobation, on hearing his future wife thus
rudely addressed.

“You are not mad with me, cousin Champ?” said little
Kate, piteously.

“No—no! I am angry with nobody,” said Mr. Effingham,
with some impatience, but more softly than before.

Kate, encouraged by these words, laid Carlo down, and
pouring some perfume from a bottle into her hand, stole up
to Mr. Effingham, and said:

“Oh, I know you've got a headache, cousin Champ!
Let me put this on your forehead.”

He would have refused, but the little face was so tender,
and the small hand so soft, that he could not.

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“I have no headache, Katy,” he said, “I am only annoyed—
no, I believe I am not even annoyed.”

And rising abruptly, he said to a servant:

“Order my horse!”

The negro hastened out.

“Why, where in the world can you be going at this
hour?” said Miss Alethea, writing busily.

Mr. Effingham either did not hear this question, or deigned
to take no notice of it: a circumstance which caused
Miss Alethea to toss her head, and preserve a dignified
silence.

“Well! my horse?” he said, as the servant re-entered.

“Be round directly, sir,—I told Dick to be quick.”

Kate stole up and took his hand.

“Cousin Champ,” she said, “it is getting cold. Won't
you wear my white comfort? I'll bring it in a minute.”

“No, no! I don't need it.”

Kate tip-toed, and whispered in his ear:

“I won't like cousin Clare, if she treats you badly.”

“Foolish child! for heaven's sake let me alone!”

Then, seeing that the little face looked hurt and mortified,
he added gloomily:

“I am not treated badly by any one, Kate: you attach
too much importance to my moods. There: I had no intention
of hurting your feelings, and I am not going to see anybody
in particular.”

“Did anybody ever!” said Miss Alethea, raising her
hands. “Apologise to a child, when my questions are met
with insult.”

Mr. Effingham treated this apostrophe to the unknown
personage, who finds himself called upon to express his sentiments
on such astounding occasions, with profound disregard,
and went out into the night. A servant held his
horse, and he vaulted into the saddle, and set forward at a
gallop—toward Williamsburg.

“That woman will be my fate!” he muttered, between
his clenched teeth; and with a reckless laugh, “I see the
abyss before me, and the mocking glances of the world are
plain to me. I, a gentleman, to trouble myself about an
actress! I suppose I will end by offering her my hand, and
then comes the storm! Married to an actress!—for, by

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heaven, if I wish to do so, I will do so in spite of fire and
tempest! They'll laugh when they read of my wedding—
I see them now, leering and smiling, and giggling: the well-bred
gentlemen wondering how I could throw myself away
so,—the eligible young ladies intensely indignant, at—what?
why, at the loss of a visitor and prospective husband. They
would scout the idea, truly! but I defy them to deny it—a
score of them. Marry an actress!—I am stamped with
degradation for ever by it. Well, I'm not fool enough for
that, quite yet; but every bound of this horse is a step in my
fate. Let it be!”

And digging his spurs into the animal's sides, he fled on
through the darkness like the wild huntsman; as furious
and fast. The lights of the town soon rose on his sight,
and clattering to the “Raleigh,” he gave his horse in charge
of an ostler, and repaired without brushing the dust from
his clothes, or wiping the perspiration from his brow, to the
theatre.

The play had commenced nearly an hour before, and it
was with great difficulty that the young man—pushing by a
number of ladies, his acquaintances—could reach the stage,
upon which some dozen or more gentlemen were standing or
seated. In the middle box, his excellency, the Governor,
and his household, glittered in silk, embroidery and gold.

Just as he reached the stage, Juliet made her appearance
in the garden. Beatrice was the very impersonation
of the poet's conception—so tender, yet passionate; bold,
yet fearful, were her looks and tones, her gestures, and whole
rendering of the part. Her dewy eyes burned with a steady
and yet changeable flame; were now veiled with thought,
then radiant with passionate love, and like two moons, new
risen, swayed the quick currents of the blood. The audience
greeted her with enthusiastic applause, and Mr. Effingham
saw that the favorable impression she had made on the previous
night had now been much heightened.

In truth, nothing could be more splendid than her countenance,
as she hastened to meet the nurse, bringing her news
of her lover: and Mr. Effingham, spite of his agitation and
gloom, could not help hanging on her words and glances,
drinking in the music of her rare and wonderful voice with
greedy ears. A bitter smile distorted his features,

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however; for with every burst of applause—and no opportunity
was allowed by the audience to escape them—he felt more
and more how insignificant he was to this young girl, applauded,
caressed, overwhelmed with the intoxicating praise
lavished on her from a thousand hands—the incense ascending
in her honor there before him.

“What does she care for me!” he said, bitterly; “every
body praises her—all are delighted—those fools, there, are
devouring her with their eyes, and think her an angel of
genius and beauty from the skies. I tear my heart in vain.”

And with passionate anger Mr. Effingham grasped his
breast, and dug his nails into the flesh, until they were
stained with blood. The rich lace ruffle, rumpled and torn,
revealed in its crimson stain the excess of his rage.

He made no reply to the laughing words addressed to
him by his companions, and taking up a position almost
behind the scenes, arrested Beatrice in her passage as she
went out.

“You do not see me!” he said, abruptly.

“Good evening, sir,” said Beatrice, calmly; “I was absorbed
in my part.”

And she endeavored to pass on.

“Stop,” said Mr. Effingham, with a sneering laugh, “you
are really too much in a hurry.”

“I must look at my next speech, sir—I should have
known it but for your interruption this morning.”

“You hate me—do you not?” he said, clasping her arm.

“No, sir—please release me.”

“Ah! you have merely contempt for me, madam.”

“Mr. Effingham,” said Beatrice, raising her head with
cold dignity, “I despise no one. Your words are probably
ironical, as you ask me, an actress, if I despise you, a
wealthy gentleman; but I reply to you as if you were in
earnest. Now, sir, I must go.”

“Not until I have told you that you are a heartless and
unfeeling woman—a nature of stone—a cold and unimpressible
automaton!”

The young girl looked strangely at him.

“You have despised the honestly-offered courtesy of a
man against whom you know nothing. Stop, madam! You
have tormented me; yes, tormented me!—the humiliating

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truth will out!—tormented me by your coldness and contempt—
destroyed my temper;—since seeing you I am
another man, and a worse one. Look, my ruffle is rumpled
and bloody—your nails tore my flesh!”

“Oh, sir!” cried the young girl, starting back in horror,
“how could you—”

“A mere scratch, madam,” said Mr. Effingham, bitterly,
“and I used a mere figure of speech in saying that your
hand inflicted it. You only caused it!”

“Mr. Effingham, you frighten me. I must go.”

“You shall hear me.”

“I must go, sir; listen, the audience are becoming impatient.
Release my sleeve, sir,” she said, coldly and
firmly, again; and leaving him, she issued forth upon the
stage, and with a voice as firm and steady as ever—so wonderful
was her self-control—continued her character. As
she passed out after the scene, Mr. Effingham in vain
attempted to address her. Failing in this, he ground his
teeth, and clutching a second time the unfortunate lace at
his bosom, tore it into shreds. He turned, and almost
rushed from the theatre. As he brushed through the box,
he heard a little cry of astonishment, and a soft voice full of
surprise said, “Mr. Effingham!” He turned, and his eyes
met those of Clare, fixed on him with trouble and astonishment.

He bowed, said hurriedly something about regretting the
necessity of his departure, and left the theatre just as the
audience greeted the re-entrance of Beatrice with a burst of
applause. He hastened to the “Raleigh,” mounted his
horse, and fled out into the dark night like a phantom, full
of rage and despair, that joyous applause still ringing in
his ears.