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Mr. Effingham knocked at the door of the young girl's
apartment, but being in doubt whether he heard her voice,
was about to retire. He decided, however, after a moment's
reflection, to enter, and opening the door, which yielded to
his push, found himself in presence of Beatrice. She was
sitting at the window, and leaned her head upon her hand,
which lay upon the sill. She did not move when Mr. Effingham
entered, and a second glance proved to him that she
was asleep.

For a moment, Mr. Effingham gazed at the beautiful
head bent down, the forehead moist with the dews of sleep,
the small hand hanging down, from which the volume of
Shakspeare, she had been reading, had fallen to the floor.
None of these things escaped him, and for a moment he
paused, silent, motionless, his eyes becoming softer, his
brow less gloomy. Then the shadow returned; thought,
like a hound, again struck the trail, for a moment lost, and
the eye of the young man assumed its habitual fire, his lips
their curl of scornful and gloomy listlessness.

Beatrice stirred in her sleep and awoke; it might have
been supposed that the glittering eye fixed on her face, had
not permitted the sleeper to continue insensible to the presence
of the visitor. She opened her eyes and sat up,
placing her hand, with an instinctive movement, on her disordered
hair.

Mr. Effingham approached her. “I knocked,” he said,
negligently, “but was uncertain whether you answered or
not, so I entered. How is Miss Beatrice to-day?”

“I am not well, sir,” she said, resigning herself to her
fate.

“Not well?”

“I am worn out, sir.”

“Worn out?”

“Yes, sir; the exceedingly late hours I have kept lately,
have injured me.”

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“All imaginary; you are accustomed to them.”

Beatrice made no reply to these words, which Mr. Effingham
uttered with careless indifference as he sat down.

“Have you been to the theatre, this morning?” he added.

“Yes, sir.”

“Rehearsal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, that wore you out. That fellow, Pugsby, is
enough to put any one to sleep, he's so somniferous.”

“He did not come.”

“And so after rehearsal, you came here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And went to sleep?”

“I tried to study, but could not.”

“True; there is your Shakspeare on the floor.”

Mr. Effingham picked the volume up with a yawn, and
politely restored it to the young girl.

“By the by,” he said, “when shall we appear together?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“Come, now; wouldn't you prefer me as your vis-à-vis
in acting to Pugsby?”

“It is perfectly indifferent to me whom I play with, sir.”

“Amiable, at least! But we are going to play together
soon.”

“Are we, sir?”

“Yes, madam, the duchess! By heaven, you must
have been born in a court, or you never could have caught
the imperial air so perfectly! `Are we, sir?'” continued
Mr. Effingham, mimicking the frigid tones of the young
girl's voice; “the devil! you carry acting into private
life!”

“No, sir; I am not sufficiently fond of it.”

“You hate it?”

“I do not like playing.”

“You would prefer quiet domestic happiness, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, marry me,” said Mr. Effingham, with perfect
coolness, “I have half ruined myself for you.”

Beatrice looked at him fixedly.

“Your great pleasure in life is to scoff at me, Mr. Effingham,”
she said, calmly.

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“No, by heaven! There's my hand. Take it. I am
just in the mood to-day to follow any whim which seizes
me.”

Beatrice was silent.

“You won't accept me, then?” said Mr. Effingham.
“Well, that is wrong in you. Effingham Hall yonder comes
to me, and you might indulge your dreams of rank and station
to any extent, as we are of tolerably good family.”

“I have no such dreams, sir.”

“Well, then, your dreams of domestic happiness, but
now discoursed of.”

Beatrice was again silent; and Mr. Effingham burst into
a harsh laugh.

“Ah, ah!” he said, “you don't reply, but I know very
well what the expression of your ladyship's face signifies.
You mean, Madam Beatrice, that you would have very little
domestic happiness as the wife of reprobate Mr. Champ
Effingham! Hey? Come, now, let us chat like tender
friends, as we are. Is not that your thought?”

“I do not think we should be happy together, sir?”

“Why?”

“We are not congenial.”

“Bah! we were cut out for each other.”

“No, sir; indeed we were not.”

“We were! Come, now, I'll prove it. We are both
hypocritical—”

“Sir!”

“Both exceedingly worldly and unamiable—”

“Mr. Effingham!”

“And we love each other devotedly. Could better
matches be found?”

“You are in a bitter humor this morning, sir,” said
Beatrice.

“I? Not in the least, as I believe I have replied to
similar charges on previous occasions. I never was in more
charming spirits. I have just had a little correspondence
which raised my spirits amazingly. Just fancy my respected
father writing me word that if I did not give you up, never
see you again, the paternal malediction would descend.
Think of it.”

“Oh, sir!—did your father write that about me?” said
Beatrice, suddenly losing her frigid indifference.

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“Yes.”

“Advising you to come away from this place?”

“Advising? not in the least!—commanding me.”

“Oh, sir! then obey that command! Recollect he is
your father! Remember that you will cause yourself to be
talked about, and I shall be the cause of all this!—I shall
be the means of distressing your father! Oh, sir, abandon
me; leave the company which you have so rashly united
yourself to; do not cause me the misery of standing between
father and son! Be reconciled, sir! Oh, do not stay here,
sir!”

Beatrice had risen, in the excess of her emotion, and
stood before the young man now pleading for mercy—mercy
for himself! Her eyes were full of earnestness and emotion,
her words impassioned and tearful, her hands clasped
before her in an attitude of what seemed irresistible entreaty.

Mr. Effingham leaned back, and looked at her with a
mocking smile.

“You are really exceedingly handsome,” he said, “and
upon my word the gentlemen, and even the ladies of the
colony, might show some cause for not liking you, and thinking
it very naughty in me to come near you. Talk about
me!—you think my infatuation for you will make me talked
about! My dear Miss Beatrice, don't be hypocritical. You
know well that I am at present the most interesting topic of
conversation in the colony of Virginia. I fancy I can hear the
tittering—the delightful gossip about my unworthy self, every
where—here, in the upper country, south side, every where.
Didn't you see how they stared at me, night after night, in
the theatre? And some of the moral and irreproachable
young ladies would no longer return my bows, if their respected
parents would permit them to quarrel with so illustrious
a nobleman as myself. Talked about? Bah! let us
be easy, madam; we are both the scoff of Virginia!”

“But your family, sir,” cried Beatrice, “much as you
affect to despise general opinion—”

“My family will not care much for me—a little worry,
and when the matter ends in some diabolical way, some annoyance:
that is all! Come, don't talk of my family—or
of any of these matters. Let us speak of acting.”

“Oh, sir! I am sick. You have made me feel so badly
by what you have said.”

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Mr. Effingham's laugh was the perfection of recklessness
and scorn.

“Bah!” he said, “let us talk of business matters. I
am going to act Benedick soon, and you shall play the part
of your namesake. Can you act it?”

“Yes, sir—but I do not wish to again,” said Beatrice,
sitting down, overcome with emotion.

“You must not have a voice in the matter—it suits me,
madam, and with all possible respect, I shall make my debût
in `Much Ado about Nothing.' What an exceedingly
apposite piece to appear in! It will be a practical epigram
upon public sentiment—the very title!”

“Will you really act, sir?”

“Yes: that will I! nothing can prevent me.”

“Then I am the most unhappy of created beings,” said
Beatrice, tearfully. “Oh! to be the occasion of this altercation
between father and son!”

“That is all arranged: and all will go on well now. We
will have a delightful time at the ball.”

“What ball, sir?”

“Have you not heard? Why, the Governor's. I am
going to take you. You will then have an opportunity of
seeing all the gentry of this noble colony.”

Beatrice looked at the young man with astonished eyes.

“You would escort me, then, sir?” she asked coldly.

“Certainly.”

“You must not, sir.”

“I will.”

“Oh, no, I will not go! I cannot go, sir—I am not invited,
sir.”

“Pshaw! I am, and of course I can bring any lady I
fancy.”

“Mr. Effingham!” said Beatrice, wildly, “I am not a
lady! I will not accompany you, and be the occasion of a
new and more distressing sorrow to your family. No, no,
sir—I will not!” and the young girl's face flushed.

“Well—here's my respected friend and manager:—good
morning, Hallam,” he added carelessly, as that gentleman
entered, smiling and rosy; “here, I have been talking to
Madam Beatrice about the ball.”

“At the Governor's, sir?”

p520-150

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