Mr. Effingham passed the whole of the day succeeding this
interview in a state of mind more easily imagined than described.
The reader will not have failed to perceive that his
reckless, and scornful indifference, his mocking laughter, were
but the mask which concealed a profound emotion of pain
and depression. Proud, headstrong, and passionate, he had
nevertheless experienced a sinking of the heart even in the
midst of his violent passion, on reading the bluff gentleman's
letter—and ill-advised as that letter undoubtedly was, he
already bitterly regretted the tone of his reply. The consequence
of these conflicting emotions was frightful:—he tossed
about, gesticulated, astounded the members of the Virginia

[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]

company of Comedians by replying to the simplest observations
with insult, and betrayed every indication of a mind ill
at ease, and charged with


“that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart.”
His brow was gloomy, his eye fiery, his walk hasty and
by starts. So the day passed, and the morning of the next.

In the afternoon he went to his apartment, and sitting
down, leaned his head gloomily on his hand. Where would
all this end? That abyss he had imagined to be awaiting
him, after the first interview he had passed through with
the young woman, now seemed to open visibly before him.
He had left his home—defied his friends—abandoned all
that made life tranquil and happy—for what, for whom?
For a woman who scorned him, and did not take the trouble
to conceal that scorn; for a beautiful demon, who met all
his advances with indifference or disdain, and, strong in her
weakness, defied him with looks and words. If he had
abandoned all that happy life for some angel of love and
purity, whose heart was a treasure grand enough to console
him for all the blasts of obloquy or the winds of scorn, there
might have existed some reason which would have calmed
him. But no! she hated him—scorned him—could not
bear his presence!

He rose, and with clenched hands stood looking at his
sneering and unhappy visage in the mirror over the fireplace.
There he stood, young, handsome, graceful; clad in the
costume appertaining to his rank of gentleman; the brow
untanned by sun or wind, the hand white and jewelled, not
brown, and hard and knotty with rude toil; every thing in
the image reflected from the mirror betrayed the enviable
position in the world which the young man sustained. The
plain gold ring upon his finger was the gift of Clare years
ago, when they were sweethearts; the beautiful cravat he
wore, with its gold and silver flowers, was worked by the
child at the Hall; the diamond pin in his bosom was a birthday
present from his father—lastly, the snuff-box peeping
from his waistcoat pocket had been given him by Lord
Botetourt when he had admired it one day in England.

All this flashed through the young man's mind; and
then, with a mental effort as rapid and comprehensive, he

[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]

surveyed his future. What would that future be? Young,
high-born, wealthy, heir to the estate of Effingham and representative
of that stately house, all honors and pleasures
were open to him, did he but sit down and wait quietly. No
exertion was necessary—the future was assured. Would
that be his future? Would he go on in life surrounded by
friends and tender relatives—gladdened by the smiles of
true-souled companions, the tender love of gentle woman—
and so passing his early youth, arrive at a middle age of influence
and honor; his old age finally to come to him, bright
with all that makes it fair and attractive—“as honor, love,
obedience, troops of friends?” Would he keep up the
honors of his ancient house—be a worthy representative of
his honorable name; would he find in that gentle girl whom
every one loved, the companion of his joys and sorrows, the
light illuminating his existence to its close?

Was this his future, he asked himself, with a bitter curl
of the distorted lip—could this be his destiny in life? No!
that was not for him; he had made his election—thrown
away the goblet of limpid and healthful water, to grasp the
bowl foaming with its fiery and poisonous draught. The
Circe had taken him captive—he was no longer human; no
longer had any power over his will; felt that he would not,
if he could, abandon the shore upon which he had cast himself
away. No! that bright and happy future was not for
him—he had forfeited it. Effingham Hall was closed to
him—Clare despised or pitied him—friends had deserted
him—he had stopped at the Siren isles, and never would
sail forth again for ever. The name of Effingham would
die if he had to uphold it—he would be stricken from the
annals of his house—nothing remaining of his name and
life but a sad and shameful recollection!

Again he gazed steadily at his sneering and unhappy
image in the mirror—upon his pale cheeks, fallen away so
quickly, upon his bloodshot eyes, his colorless, mocking lips,
and the point to which his thoughts had carried him, was
reflected in his visage so faithfully that a groan issued from
his inmost heart. Then his eye fell upon a pistol, lying on
the table, and he took it up and gazed gloomily at it:—a
harsher, more mocking smile, wreathed his proud lip, and,
cocking the weapon, he murmured the first words of the
soliloquy in Hamlet.

[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]

“Yes,” he said, “I know, now, what my lord Hamlet
meant, when he asked that question of his soul:

Then, looking with gloomy curiosity upon the murderous
instrument, he said, with a sigh which resembled a groan:
“Yes, now I understand those words:

There he stopped, with an expression painfully affecting;
and, sitting down, he covered his face with his hand, and was
silent for a time. Then, the hand was taken away, and the
head rose again—and on the lips the same mocking smile
played with terrible meaning. He looked again at the pistol,
and, with a sneer, placed the muzzle to his forehead.

“It is plain that I am a comedian,” he said, bitterly; “I
go for authority to plays! Well, now, if I were to play the
tragedy to the end—imitate the Moor! Is it not easy?
This little instrument ends all, at once!”—and his finger
touched the trigger.

Suddenly a tap at the door startled him, and hastily uncocking
the pistol, he thrust it into his bosom, and said,
harshly and gloomily, “Come in!”

The door opened softly, a light step was heard, and little
Kate Effingham entered the apartment. Kate, smiling and
fond; her fair hair falling on her shoulders in long girlish curls;
a tender, loving light in her mild, soft blue eyes; the little
hands stretched out to greet him; her face, and form, and
smile, and very dress redolent of home, and that happiness
which the weary heart but now looked back upon, as the wrecked
mariner clinging to the floating mast, about to be ingulfed in
the dark waves, launches a last thought back to the sunshine
and pure joy of his far inland home!

p520-154

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