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“When an individual of violent temperament adopts a manner
of ease and unconcern, sedulously avoiding every thing
calculated to arouse his latent passion, the effect, after a
series of years, is undoubtedly beneficial. The character
takes the color of its nutriment in a great degree; and if it
is nourished upon strong emotions, and critical sensations,
will become more and more violent:—if upon quiet pleasures,
and moderate delights, the result will be just the reverse.
Still, there is this to be observed in such cases. The
mind of man is not unlike a river;—it may be directed into
a new channel, but scarcely arrested wholly in its course.
Build a dam of convention across it—bid it curb its waves,
arrest its current, and it will sweep all before it. The higher
you build the obstruction, the more violent the rush of the
waters, when once they have broken loose. This was the result
with my respected ancestor, Mr. Champ Effingham.
True, he declared often and believed, that he needed strong
emotion—novelty—passion, for his existence; but this was
a mistake. His passions were naturally strong enough, and
emotion was dangerous to himself and others. The quiet
life of his native country had allowed these passions to sleep
for a long time, and he fancied that he had none. He was,
as I have already declared, very greatly mistaken.

“The first view of young Miss Hallam had stirred up a
hurly-burly in his breast; not because she was so much
more beautiful than Miss Clare Lee, for whom, as the reader
of these pages has perceived, my respected ancestor had
begun to have something more than a friendly regard:—
not that she was one of those fiery phenomena, who, like
Cleopatra or Aspasia, dazzle the eyes, and set the brain and
heart on fire. The effect produced upon Mr. Effingham by
the young woman was attributable to the novelty and
freshness of her character, and the state of his own mind,
ripe for some great passion, and dissatisfied with the tranquil
affection of the little beauty at Riverhead. Miss Hallam's
reception of his advances had blown the vague and

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dubious spark into a blaze—her favorable smiles would in
all probability have extinguished it at once: and no one
who has read the human heart attentively, more especially
that strange chapter dedicated to love, will fail to understand
this simple fact. Love, I am convinced, is a mere
thing of the imagination at first: the heart seeks something
new and strange—something to ponder upon and treasure
up, and spend its passionate yearnings upon: tranquil, quiet,
unostentatious affection succeeds, and this is love indeed, but
the storm precedes the calm.

“These few words will explain what I mean when I add
that Mr. Effingham was not, properly speaking, in love with
Miss Hallam. He experienced for her a violent, passionate
emotion, which had ripened in a few days to full size and
vigor, and though many persons may say—if, indeed many
read these pages—that his love was `love at first sight,'
and genuine, still I must be permitted to doubt it; and I
hope to show conclusively, before ending this narrative, that
those views I have stated are correct. I am convinced that
it was a sort of infatuation, like that of the drunkard for the
draught of fire: if he comes near it, he seizes and swallows
it. Miss Hallam declined being swallowed; if I may be
permitted to make a very poor witticism; she was offended,
and I think very justly, at the manner in which Mr. Effingham
uniformly addressed her, and she did not take the
trouble to conceal her feelings. She showed him plainly
that she did not desire him to visit her, and the consequence
was a vast increase of Mr. Effingham's passion. We
have seen how inconsistently this violent emotion led him to
speak and behave:—now praising, then scoffing at the object
of his passion: at one time almost cursing her, as he said,
then blessing her, and declaring that she was a noble, high-souled
girl. The last interview he had with Miss Hallam,
at which the reader has been present, was the capstone to all
these passionate interviews; and the state of Mr. Effingham's
mind may very correctly be inferred from his mingled mockery
and earnestness, sincerity and sarcasm in Miss Hallam's
presence. After leaving her he left Williamsburg—just
when Mr. Waters entered it as we know—and launched himself,
like a flash of lightning, toward the Hall, overwhelmed
with rage and despair.”

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Thus far the writer of the MS., to whom we shall recur
whenever his narrative commentary on the events of this
narrative elucidates the posture of affairs, or the emotions
of the various personages.

Mr. Champ Effingham soon reached Effingham Hall,
and, throwing his bridle loose, hurried to his room. He did
not make his appearance again that day, sending word in
reply to the various messages dispatched to him, that he
was unwell, and wished to be left in quiet. The result of
two replies of this description to Miss Alethea's messenger,
was the desired quiet. The young gentleman made his appearance
on the next morning, at the breakfast-table, after the
squire's departure to ride over his farm, looking very much
out of sorts. The sallow rings beneath his eyes were darker
than ever, and he seemed to have spent a bad night, if indeed
he had slept at all before morning. Miss Alethea declared
her opinion, that he had not slumbered: and asked
an explanation of the stamping and striding over her head—
the noise of flying chairs, and rattling swords, hurled apparently
for amusement on the floor. She worded these
questions in such a manner, that the impression left upon all
minds, was to the effect that Mr. Champ Effingham was a
naughty boy, who had been behaving badly, and deserved a
scolding.

The reader will no doubt imagine, without any explanation
upon our part, the manner in which Mr. Effingham received
these observations. He looked at Miss Alethea, as a
mastiff does at a lapdog who is worrying him, and went on
with his breakfast. Miss Alethea was a lady of excellent
sense, and did not meddle with him any more during the
whole day. Mr. Effingham spent the day in gloomy thought—
varying this monotonous amusement, by hurling from his
path every thing which stood in his way. Orange, Miss
Alethea's lapdog, chanced to obstruct his steps, as he was
passing through the hall, and this unfortunate scion of a
royal race, found himself kicked twenty feet across the passage,
into the embraces of an astonished tortoise-shell cat,
his inveterate enemy. Orange was so completely astounded,
and overawed by this summary treatment on the enemy's
part, that he did not utter so much as a single whine. He
was cowed.

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Mr. Effingham spent several days in this manner, scarcely
eating any thing, but sitting long after dinner, drinking
claret. The squire could extract nothing from him; and
soon little Kate, his favorite, was repulsed, to her sorrow
and mortification. The child prayed earnestly that night
for cousin Champ, and could not get her geography the
next day for sorrowing about him. As for Master Will,
that young gentleman preserved a rigid silence, and a respectful
distance from the irate Achilles, whose sombre mood
he regarded with astonishment and awe. He saw with dumb
astonishment that Mr. Effingham's hair had remained unpowdered
for a whole week, and that his ruffle was torn regularly
every evening.

One morning, Mr. Effingham was observed to sit with
his head bent down for more than an hour, in gloomy
thought; at the end of that time, he rose and ordered his
horse. Mounting, he directed his way, with a strange expression
on his lips, toward Riverhead. At the stream,
which ran across the road, a quarter of a mile from the house,
his new cocked-hat, with its magnificent feather, blew off into
the water, and was all muddied and draggled; and when,
after picking it up, he again mounted, he found that his
horse had by some means become suddenly lame.

“Well,” he said, bitterly, “fate is against my seeing
her. I will not go.” And returning to the Hall, he shut
himself up in his room, and did not issue forth again until
evening. It was the seventh day after the interview with
Beatrice Hallam; but it brought him no rest from his
harassing and gloomy thoughts. He was growing reckless;
burnt up by his complicated emotions, he began to regard
things in a mysterious and fateful light. Was this young
woman to be his curse, appointed by Heaven to ruin him
here in this world, for some dreadful sin he had committed?
He felt no penitence, shrank not, but with the same mocking,
reckless smile, entered the supper-room, where Miss
Alethea was preparing chocolate. He sat down in moody
silence, but was not long left to himself.

“Champ!” said Miss Alethea, as she finished the arrangement
of the table to her satisfaction, “you really must
have something on your mind.”

No reply.

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“What has made you so moody for several days? I
never saw you more disagreeable.”

The same silence.

“Have you addressed Clare Lee and been discarded?”

Mr. Effingham's face flushed, and he turned with an
irritated look toward Miss Alethea, which that lady understood
perfectly.

“Oh, well, sir!” she said. “If you are going to eat
me, I will not presume to speak. I should like to know
what there was so insulting in my question?” she added,
oblivious of her intention not to address the young man further,
on any consideration.

“It is no insult,” said Mr. Effingham, gloomily, “and
I have not seen Miss Clare Lee for a moment since the play,
more than a week ago. But I do not desire to have my
affairs meddled with.”

“Indeed!” replied Miss Alethea, indignant at the tone
of the young man, “perhaps they are better not meddled
with, they may not bear examination. I believe that that
young play-girl has something to do with the matter; and
Clare told me the other day, that some gentleman had told
her that you had met him in a distracted state of mind,
galloping from town. You had better take care, they are
already talking about you.”

Mr. Effingham's rage on hearing this intelligence, may
be better conceived than described. Clare Lee to know of
his infatuation! to hear of his acquaintance with Beatrice
Hallam! to be told of his violent, infatuated conduct! And
that impudent fellow who had dared to meddle with his
affairs! Mr. Effingham ground his teeth, and grasped his
sword-hilt with ominous meaning. This, then, was what he
was coming to be; the gossip of the country side. Clare
Lee, even, was one of the laughers, and pitied him, no doubt,
if she did not despise him. Pity or contempt! Mr. Effingham's
lip curled, and his brow contracted; then his face
resumed its gloomy look again, and he said: “Woe to those
who busy themselves with me. Who spoke of me to Miss
Clare Lee? Come, tell me, madam.”

Miss Alethea, though somewhat awed by his manner, replied,
that she did not consider herself called upon to cross-examine
Clare. The fact was bad enough.

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“What fact?” Mr. Effingham said, rudely.

“That you, my brother, sir,” replied Miss Alethea, bridling
up, “should make yourself the talk of every one:—in
love with a common actress!”

“Madam!” said Mr. Effingham, with a flash of the eye.

“You may scowl upon me as much as you choose, sir,”
said Miss Alethea, now thoroughly aroused, “but I say it is
disgraceful.”

Mr. Effingham bit his lip until it bled.

“Yes, disgraceful!” continued Miss Alethea, “for you
to be making yourself ridiculous—and not only yourself, but
me and all—by your infatuation for this woman, who would
not be permitted to enter a respectable house. Yes, sir!
you imagine because you have been to Europe, that you are
at liberty to do just as you choose, and to act without reference
to any one's pleasure but your own. Don't think to
awe me, Champ, for you cannot. I say it's a shame—a
burning shame! and you ought to be ashamed to treat Clare
so. You know it will break her heart, but this has no
weight with you. I don't mean to submit to your scowling
and growling, though,” added Miss Alethea, “I can tell
you, sir.”

Mr. Effingham rose and said to a servant who was going
out—

“Pack my portmanteau, and order my horse.”

And without further words he left the room, and was
seen by that lady no more. She half regretted her vehemence,
for she was a woman of excellent heart at bottom,
but her strong religious feelings, made her intolerant of conduct
like that attributed to Mr. Effingham; and the result
of an argument held with her conscience, was, that she had
not said a word too much.

Those words had put the capstone upon Mr. Effingham's
feelings, and he went to his room, pale, and with a sueer upon
his lip, which boded no good. Thenceforth he was perfectly
reckless.

p520-124

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