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On the next morning, just as Beatrice was binding up her
hair before the single mirror of her small sitting-room, she
heard a knock at the door, and answering, “Come in,” she
saw through the open door Mr. Champ Effingham, who entered
the apartment with a smile.

“Ah, good morning, charming Miss Beatrice!” he said,
with a pleased air, too elaborate indeed not to be somewhat
affected; “how is your ladyship to-day?”

Beatrice uttered a sigh of despair, with which no little
irritation was commingled. She, however, remembered the
wish her father had expressed, that she should not receive
her visitor harshly, and this consideration silenced the
haughty reply which rose to her lips, though it could not
subdue the flash in her proud, brilliant eye.

“I am very well, sir,” she said.

“For which reason,” replied Mr. Effingham, playing
with his ruffle, and sitting down languidly, “you receive me
very ill.”

“No, sir; my reception is neither the one nor the other;
but you have no right to expect a very friendly reception.”

“Why not friendly?”

“Can you ask, sir!”

“Certainly.”

“I have nothing to reply, then, sir.”

“Ah, ah!” said Mr. Effingham, first smoothing the
feather in his cocked hat, then negligently playing with the
bright hilt of his short sword; “ah, you are thinking about
my naughty behavior in the theatre the other evening.”

“I have forgotten all, sir,” she said calmly.

“Well, well, I have come to-day to ask your ladyship
to pardon these various exhibitions of ill-humor. My unfortunate
ruffle, which you, no doubt, observed, had suffered
somewhat in the melée, proved to me the next morning that
I must have been rather violent. The fact is, I was in a
bad humor—out of temper—a most mortifying acknowledgment
for a star of fashion and nonchalance like myself;
but still true.”

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Beatrice made no reply.

“Granted! I was out of sorts—nervous, in a bad
humor; but, this morning, I am in a delightful state of
mind. I feel as if I could embrace the whole world, yourself
included, with the most fraternal and enthusiastic
regard. Am I not in an enviable state of mind? But
this is nothing to you. Ah! you take very little interest
in my welfare, I am really afraid, and have not forgiven, as
such a lovely saint should, what I have been guilty of.
Come, my charming Miss Beatrice, exert your amiability,
and pardon all.”

Beatrice, with her quick eye, easily discerned the painful
emotion beneath this raillery—the fire concealed beneath
the ashes. For a moment she hesitated, then said:

“I am not revengeful or unforgiving, sir, and the painful
ordeal you subjected me to in the theatre is already forgotten.
Now, sir, I must go to rehearsal.”

“Bah! don't be in a hurry, Beatrice, and, above all,
don't pity me; I am not a man to be pitied; and, as to
rehearsal, that can wait a little, while we have a short conversation.
You have a charming voice, and this morning I
am really wearied to death. Come, amuse me.”

“I have no time to converse, sir; I must leave you.”

“Come, come: don't be so unamiable—you may go directly!”

Beatrice sat down, with a sigh of resignation, instead of
leaving the room, as she felt tempted to do. Her father's
wish made her patient.

“Where were you yesterday?”

“We went to the river, sir, for a sail.”

“To the James?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you not send me word?”

“Send you word—why, sir?”

“Why, my new sailboat is just launched, and we might
have had a delightful day in her.”

“We had a very good one.”

“Any adventures?”

“I fell into the river, sir.”

“The devil! And how did you get to land?”

“A gentleman rescued me.”

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“A gentleman—who, in heaven's name?”

Beatrice felt her face flush, half with embarassment—
half with anger, at this persevering cross-examination. For a
moment she hesitated; but her frank and fearless nature
made her reply almost instantly,

“Mr. Charles Waters, sir.”

“Charles Waters!” cried Mr. Effingham, with a sudden
pallor, and a flash of the eye, which revealed the volcano
beneath his affected carelessness.

“Mr. Charles Waters,” said Beatrice, calmly and firmly,
“to him I am indebted for my existence, at this moment.”

A flush of hatred passed over Mr. Effingham's brow,
and he said, with a sneer:

“Ah, your cavalier! I had forgotten, Madam.”

Beatrice felt her heart throb with anger, and a scornful
answer arose to her lips: but she repressed these evidences
of feeling, and said coldly:

“Mr. Effingham, I will not exchange another word with
you, if I am to be insulted thus. Mr. Waters is, as you well
know, almost a perfect stranger to me, and I am nothing to
him:” with which the lip trembled: “he saved my life
yesterday, at the peril of his own, and I owe to him deep
gratitude. For this reason, sir, you will understand that
I am not the proper sympathizer with your dissatisfaction.
Now, sir, I must go.”

Mr. Effingham made a powerful effort over himself, and
burst into a laugh which was painful to hear.

“Well, well,” he said, in a voice which he in vain endeavored
to render careless and easy, “we won't quarrel
about the Chevalier Waters. I'm sure I am very much
obliged to him for restoring to the community so charming
an actress; though, as I always had a partiality for heroism,
especially being heroic myself, when nothing was to be lost
by it, I regret that the present grand effort was not made
by myself. Come! don't burn me with your eyes.”

“I must go, sir.”

“Without pardoning my naughty treatment of you in
the theatre? Wasn't it horrible?”

“Yes, sir!” said Beatrice, flushing; “it was unmanly.”

“Striking coincidence of opinion, at least. Yes, it was
dreadful; and do you know what occurred when I was

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making my exit, right of centre?—that is the phrase, I believe—
why, I very nearly ran over a young lady with whom I
am dead in love.”

Beatrice looked at the young man with a strange expression.
Had she met with a real life actor superior to herself?

“Just so,” continued Mr. Effingham, bursting into laughter;
“my chère amie, you know—one of the most beautiful,
highborn, and wealthy young girls in the colony; pretty,
fair hair, blue eyes, and all that—just opposed to your style.
Did you see her?”

“No, sir,” said Beatrice.

“Well, you might have done so. I'm certain she saw
you, and possibly had a view of the attack upon my ruffles,
when I accidentally scratched myself, you know. In going
out, I placed my foot upon her dress, and nearly tore a furbelow
away. What horrible awkwardness! I shall never
forgive myself.”

“Your tone is bitter, sir.”

“Bitter? Not at all! I am ready to laugh now, reflecting
on the melodrama. After the affair of the furbelow,
the hero made his exit—myself, that is to say—and then I
rode quietly away, accomplishing the first ten miles in fifteen
minutes, I believe.”

“Mr. Effingham, you seem to me to be laboring under
some bitter emotion; you shock me. If you love a lady, do
not, sir, do not abandon her for me. I know not what I say,
sir,—I only know that you banish all sunshine from my life.
I have not enough to spare, sir. For heaven's sake, leave me.”

“You are right,” said Mr. Effingham, losing his forced
gayety, “I am carried away by my infatuation—I love you.”

“Sir! you must not—”

“Bah!” he said, gloomily; “don't let us mince matters.”

“I must go, sir.”

“Not before giving me one word not altogether harsh.”

“I must go, sir—”

“Beatrice Hallam, you are the most bitter and unreasonable
of women. You choose to despise me, because I
seek you; you are not only unreasonable, you are a woman
without heart!”

Beatrice suppressed her emotion, and said:

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“No, sir; that is unjust. I am not a woman without
heart—I have feelings, deep feelings.'

“I have never discovered them.”

“You do not know me, sir.”

“Ah, you mistake, madam; I know you well.”

“For heaven's sake, go, sir.”

“I prefer remaining.”

“I must then leave you, sir.”

Mr. Effingham rose with a threatening gesture; but,
collecting himself, sat down again.

“Ah, madam,” he said, with gloomy bitterness; “you
are very prudish: you hate me—Mr. Charles Waters takes
you in his arms—I cannot approach you.”

“Sir!” said Beatrice, indignantly, “I avoid you, because
I feel that you are not a proper companion for me. No,
sir! I am not prudish—I am no silly girl. My life has
been hard and changeable—my fate adverse. I have embraced
the profession of the stage from necessity. My father
was an actor. I am an actress because I am his daughter.
As an actress, I know that I am exposed to a thousand
temptations, and a thousand insults. I know very well that
we are considered the bond slaves of the public, especially
of the aristocratic portion. But I will not accept the questionable
attentions of yourself, or any other young gentleman,
who is trained to look upon me, and upon persons
of my profession as infinitely beneath him—as so many
slaves. No, sir! I have chosen to go and exhibit myself
in public, that the bread I eat may be honestly procured.
After the theatre, I am a woman, and I will not have my
name tossed from mouth to mouth unworthily—remember,
sir.”

The young girl looked so lovely at that moment—her
beautiful eyes flashed such vivid lightning—her rosy face
was so eloquent with indignation, that Mr. Effingham found
words fail him—lost in, overwhelmed as he was by, her
splendid and fiery beauty.

“You are a strange actress,” he said at length, in a low,
deep-toned voice, “and certainly unlike any other I have
ever seen. Yes, I have seen many actresses, in France,
Italy, England, every where, and I find in you nothing like
them. Well: you say you are no common comedienne, and

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you see that I agree with you. You hint that I would be
apt to abuse any friendship you granted me—I do not say
you are wrong there. There is some truth in your views, and
I find no fault with you. But, at least, I should not scoff
at you:—I might bless you, or only mention your name with
a curse upon my lip—but I do not think I could do aught
else. For you are not indifferent to me. You smile: you
think I am very inconsistent. But when I say that I can
never treat your name as that of an indifferent woman, I
mean this: I mean that from our first meeting in the forest,
near the Hall yonder, your image has dwelt in my mind and
heart—or if not quite in my heart, to be frank, at least in
my memory. At the theatre we met again, and I treated
you as gentlemen are accustomed to treat actresses; for I
laughed at my feelings. You received that treatment as became
you—you are a noble girl—and I went away cursing
and loving you almost. I spent a bad night after the play,
and worse since—I came here to-day to jeer at you. In
place of further jeering, I bow to you, and offer you respect
and admiration, if not love, and ask your friendship in
return.”

Beatrice betrayed some feeling at these earnest words,
and no longer looked at the young man so disdainfully.

“I have listened to you, sir,” she said, “and I request
you to pardon any harshness in what I have but now said.
But, let me here say, what you will feel to be true, and no
less true than unchangeable—that there can be nothing in
common between us. You cannot be my friend—visiting
and talking unreservedly with me as friends may—without
causing a scandal in the Colony:—a scandal which will be
as injurious to yourself as to me. Now, sir, you had better
leave me. We may meet again—indeed, I have it not in
my power to refuse to meet you—in the theatre. This is
not an invitation, for I say again, there cannot and must not
be any thing in common between an actress, like myself, and
Mr. Effingham. Good evening, sir.”

Mr. Effingham stood looking at the young woman in
silence, with an expression upon his countenance which she
could not understand. At last he said, with a pale lip, and
very abruptly:

“Are you acting?”

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“No, sir!” said the young girl, indignantly.

“Then you are a prodigy of truth and nobleness,” he
said, with a lightning-like glance. “Come, come, let me
throw aside all this sophistry with which I am trying to deceive
myself. I love you!” he said, gloomily.

The young girl drew back.

`You shall love me in return!” he said.

And there was so much haughtiness in his tone that her
cheek flushed.

“You are consistent, sir,” she said; “just now, your regard
for me was slight, you said—at least, I thought so.”

“As you please—I do not know whether I love you or
not, and am sure I love another. But what I do know is,
that there is something about you, which tears me from all
else toward you, my beautiful diabolical syren!”

“Mr. Effingham, you really seem to have grown mad:
let our interview end here.”

“I am mad, and it is you who have driven me crazy.
Beatrice! mine is a family of fiery traits—we love or hate
strongly, and do nothing by halves. I am not unlike my
ancestors. Look at me! I am a petit maître—exhausting
my life in idleness and ease. Why? Because I need some
great passion. Now I have opened my breast to you, and I
add, that you will be my passion.”

“Mr. Effingham, dismiss all thought of me. I am an
actress, sir—an actress: my associates are players, those
who are now waiting for me yonder, sir—no other persons:
a barrier is raised between me and the world, by my profession.
For the hundredth time, I say we can have nothing in
common. Even now your presence is causing discussion in
the room below, and rude lips jeer me. Oh, sir! leave me,
for heaven's sake! If you have any regard for me, go, and
end this trying interview!”

He gazed at her for a moment in silence, and then, putting
his hat on, left the room, full of gloomy rage, but with a
sneering lip. Ten minutes afterwards he left the town.

p520-106

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