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On the next morning Mr. Champ Effingham made his appearance
in Williamsburg, accompanied by a mounted servant,
and the two horsemen drew up before the door of the
Raleigh Tavern. The portly landlord came forth, cap in
hand, to welcome him.

“Well, Master Boniface,” said Mr. Effingham, with elegant
pleasantry, “is the room my servant engaged—No. 6—
ready?”

“Yes, sir—quite ready, sir.”

“Carry up my portmanteau,” said Mr. Effingham to the
negro, who had brought that article behind him, “and then
return. Answer no foolish questions asked you do not
hear.”

“No, Massa Champ,” said Tom, with the grin of intelligence
peculiar to his race, “not by no means, sir.”

“And tell no lies either: if you do, I'll amputate your
ears.”

Having given this caution, and made this unmistakable
promise, which the negro received with a broader grin, as he
turned away, Mr. Effingham lounged into the ordinary.

“Where's Hallam?” he asked, sitting down carelessly.

“He's out somewhere, sir—at the theatre, I should say:
but this is nearly his rum hour,” laughed the landlord.

“Bring me a cup,” said Mr. Effingham; “or no, I'll
have some claret.”

The landlord hastened to bring the wine, and placed the
bottle at Mr. Effingham's elbow.

“A cracker!”

The cracker was brought with the same respectful rapidity,
or rather a basket of those edibles, placed generally at
hand, then as now, to refresh the company. Mr. Effingham
then betook himself to the agreeable employment of sipping
his claret, one leg being thrown carelessly over the arm of
his leather-bottomed chair: and when tired of this monotony,
he varied it by dipping a cracker in his wine-glass, and
throwing his leg over the other arm. The young gentleman

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was more than usually splendid: his coat of crimson cut
velvet, was ornamented with a mass of the richest embroidery,
and had chased gold buttons:—his waistcoat was of
yellow silk, with flowers worked in silver thread, and his new
cocked hat, just from London, was resplendent with its
sweeping feather. At his side dangled the finest of his
short swords, and, altogether, Mr. Champ Effingham seemed,
to judge from his “outward accoutrement,” the very pet of
fortune. His manner was not unsuited to his dress: it was,
if possible, more nonchalant and indifferent than ever; but
any one who would have taken the trouble to scan the handsome
face closely, would have perceived a dark shadow under
the eyes, which betokened sleepless nights, and a reckless,
mocking expression upon the lips, very much at variance
with the petit maitre airs assumed by the young gentleman.

Half an hour passed, and Mr. Effingham was visibly becoming
very impatient, when the entrance of the manager
caused him to lay down the “stupid gazette” he had been
reading and maligning for the last fifteen minutes.

“Ah! there you are at last, Hallam,” he said, “what the
devil kept you so long?”

The fat manager received this address with great good-humor,
and replied, that they had been getting up a play of
the “great Congreve” for that night's performance.

“You had better let Congreve alone, and stick to Shakespeare,”
said Mr. Effingham, “he won't take here among
these barbarous Virginians. But come here, and drink
some claret with me—I'm tired of it myself: bring me
some rum!”

The rum came, and Mr. Manager Hallam sat down.

“Good?” said Mr. Effingham.

“Very excellent indeed, sir,” said Hallam, smacking
his lips.

“Well, now, let us come to the matter I am thinking
about. Hallam, I am going to join the company.”

“The company, sir!”

“Yes—your company: what, the devil! Is there any
thing so astounding in that?”

“Really, sir—really now—you take me quite aback!
You join the company?”

“Yes! The `Virginia Company of Comedians.' Is

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there any thing strange in a Virginian belonging to that excellent
association of his Majesty's, or his Excellency's
players?”

“Upon my word, sir,” said the manager, laboring under
great astonishment, “never in my life—”

“Why, what surprises you?”

“That a gentleman of your wealth and standing should
join us.”

“Curse my wealth and standing! That is not your
look out.”

“But it is yours, sir,” said the manager, with a troubled
look, “if you knew about these things—your family, sir—
really a most extraordinary proposal—”

“Come, no humbug! Let us look at the matter. I am
a gentleman, you say, and I have a family to affect. That
is a mistake—any thing I do will not affect my family: and
if it does, I am a free man. Now, on the other side—I
rather flatter myself your house would be filled, when Champ
Effingham, Esq., was announced in some thrilling and overwhelming
part. What do you say to that? Drink there!
give me another cup.”

“You would really play, sir?” said the manager, surveying
his position with a hurried glance, “you would really
appear?”

“Bah! you don't know me. Of course I would: and
the fact would appear to you too, in adding up your receipts.
I needn't tell you that when a gentleman takes to
the stage, something more is due him than what your common
fellow gets—`a beggarly account of empty benches.'”

Hallam hesitated; evidently troubled.

“I would, you know, sir, be more than pleased—it would
make my fortune, sir—I feel, sir, that I ought not to hesitate—”

“Bah! don't hesitate, then. Can't you understand
that I would make a better Romeo, a better any thing, acting
with Beatrice, than that stupid fellow Pugsby?”

A light dawned on the muddy brain of Mr. Manager
Hallam. Here was the exciting cause: Beatrice was the
engine which had produced this extraordinary convulsion in
the heart of Mr. Effingham. And with the thought in his
mind, the course he ought to pursue became plainer. One

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of the darling projects of Mr. Manager Hallam was to
marry his accomplished and beautiful daughter to some
wealthy and high-born youth:—once married, Beatrice
would, of course, abandon the stage: that was the loss to
him—but the advantages of such connection would vastly
outweigh this. The manager was growing old, and getting
tired of his nomadic, restless life; tossed from inn to inn,
from country to country: and he wished to settle down.
Now, if Beatrice married, of course, her husband would not
separate the daughter from the father:—the consequence?
“I would live in clover all the rest of my life, in a fine
house, with plenty to drink, tictac every night, and nothing
to do but eat, drink, and sleep,” he said to himself. To eat,
drink, and sleep was the height of this worthy gentleman's
ambition, and he had already conceived the intention of performing
those agreeable ceremonies, for the rest of his days,
at Effingham Hall, if that were possible in the nature of
things.

The reader will now be able to understand the effect produced
upon the worthy manager by the mention of Beatrice's
name. That explained all. Mr. Effingham was desperately
enamored of her—his family no doubt scoffed at the connection—
he came to join the company—time would do the
rest; and, once married, a few dramatic scenes of father's
weeping and relenting—daughter-in-law kneeling in tears—
son promising to be immaculate in future, would make all
well again. He trusted to his theatrical experience to arrange
these little matters, and already dreamed of ending
his days tranquilly, in what he seemed to consider the place
of happiness—in “clover.”

So, when Mr. Effingham had repeated his disdainful question,
“Would he not make a better companion for Beatrice,
in every thing, than that stupid fellow, Pugsby?” Mr.
Manager Hallam melted from his doubtful state of mind
into increasing conviction, and said, that “He really felt—
hum—he must certainly acknowledge—hum—Pugsby was
certainly not what he had been; and, if Mr. Effingham was
bent on joining them, he did not feel himself at liberty to
refuse his most flattering proposal. As the great Congreve
had said to him, on one occasion, such common players as
himself could not feel too much flattered when gentlemen

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condescended to associate with them on terms of equality;
and nothing was more reasonable. He could not refuse Mr.
Effingham, whom he was proud to call his friend; he had
many such distinguished friends; among the most so, the
great Congreve. Therefore, if Mr. Effingham was still of
the same mind, he would be most proud, most flattered to
have him. He would find them a plain, honest set; and the
only drawback was on the delicate subject of his remuneration.
For, as to salary, he feared—”

“Curse the salary!” said Mr. Effingham, with disdainful
carelessness—he had listened to the above tirade with
perfect indifference—“I don't want your money, Hallam.
You don't think that I would join your set for a few pistoles,
do you? No, sir! I have quite sufficient; but what
I want is excitement, novelty, jovial society. I'm sick of
the well-bred insipidity of good society, and the `repose'
they consider the summum bonum and great desideratum
of human existence. I'm done with it—tired of it. I am
going to pick out a piece to act this very day. Go, and put
`Champ Effingham, Esq.,' on your roll of comedians.”

And Champ Effingham, Esq., rising from his seat, went
out, and stood at the door of the Raleigh, yawning and
frowning, and scowling on such members of that insipid good
society as passed in their coaches. He did not take the
trouble to return the nods of the gentlemen, or the smiles
of the ladies. He felt perfectly reckless, and cared, at that
moment, for no human being on earth. Yes, there was one
whom he loved and hated, blessed and cursed; and she
passed him, coming from the theatre, with a quick step, and
an averted face. Why, else, did the frown become deeper,
and the glance of the eye grow more gloomy and reckless?

Beatrice hurried up to her room, and Mr. Effingham re-entered,
and began again to converse again with the manager,
over a second bottle of claret.

p520-129

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