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Beatrice had just come in, and was sitting in front of the
fire, gazing sadly and thoughtfully into the blaze, when Mr.
Effingham's entrance caused her to turn round. For a moment
these two persons who sustained toward each other
such strange and anomalous relations, maintained perfect
silence.

At last Mr. Effingham, pale and gloomy, yet gazing at
the young girl with passionate love, said abruptly, and in a
low tone—

“We meet again; I trust you are well after the ball.”

“Yes, sir,” said Beatrice, in a tone of quiet, uncomplaining
sorrow; “I do not think I feel worse than usual.”

“You do not ask me how I am,” he said, with painful
earnestness.

“Pardon me, sir,” she said, in the same low, sad tones.
“I hope you are well.”

“No; I am far from it—I feel as if my brain was
bursting.”

“I am sorry, sir—sincerely.”

“You are so cold,” he said, leaning on the mantelpiece,
and gazing at her with fixed, stony eyes. “You have no
pity on me.”

“I pity you, Mr. Effingham!”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” he said. “We know
each other now. I mean that you meet all my love with
coldness—a freezing coldness; or, if not, with cold indifference—
with contempt! I mean that you do not cast your
proud eyes down on the man who suffers, kneeling at your
feet, because you despise him and his love. I mean that
you have nothing but scorn for me, when I have nothing but
passionate, devouring love for you. I mean that I love you—
love you with all the power of my soul, with all my
strength, with my whole being, and that you disdain to speak
to me!”

“Indeed I do not, sir—oh, no! If I have been harsh
or cruel, or unwomanly, I beg you to pardon it. I believe

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that I have spoken harsh words to you sometimes—I regret
them. I have no right to scorn any human being, sir.
God does not approve of such feelings. Pardon me!”

The earnest, low-toned voice went to his poor, bruised
heart—her soft, sorrowful face took away all his anger.

“Oh, why will you not love me?” he said, with painful
earnestness. “Why does your heart still remain closed to
me? See me here at your feet, Beatrice, with my pride
broken, my wilfulness all gone, seeing you only in the universe!
You are to me the sole light which shines on the
dark waters of my life—you know it, why so indifferent to
me? Oh, I love you so passionately! so purely! I follow
you with yearning eyes—I live in you and through you!
Why still despise me?”

“I do not, sir—I must not feel so toward any human
being.”

“I have been criminally harsh—I have repented of it in
the long hours of the gloomy night—repented bitterly.”

“I have forgotten it, sir,” said Beatrice.

“Then, for pity's sake, do not look at me so coldly!”

“I am not well to-day, sir.”

He looked at her with inexpressible love, and said:

“Did you only know how much I suffer when you
suffer!”

“I do not complain, sir.

“You must have had a trying ordeal last night.”

“Yes; very trying.”

“You were the queenliest of them all,” he said, gazing
on her with passionate love and pride. “Why should you
not give me the right to lead you forth in the eyes of the
world, as I did before that assembly?”

“Mr. Effingham, I cannot be your wife,” she said. “We
have said much upon this subject. It only distresses me.”

“Why, Beatrice? Give me some reason for my wretchedness.”

A deep flush covered the young girl's sad pale brow, as
she thought of Charles Waters.

“We are not suited to each other,” she said.

He saw the blush, and his own brow flushed. His supernaturally
active mind discerned the hidden reason—left unexpressed—
and a pang shot through his heart.

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“That is not the real reason,” he said, a shadow passing
over his face.

“I can give no other,” she said, with a deeper blush than
before.

Anger began to invade the young man's heart like a bitter
and poisonous vapor.

“The true reason is, that you love another,” he said, with
a cruel groan.

“Mr. Effingham!”

“Yes, yes; my rudeness is insulting—my plainness repulsive,
I know it!” he said, bitterly. “But how can I
feel my heart breaking, and not speak? You love that
man!”

“Mr. Effingham, you must know”—she murmured, suffering
painfully—“this is obtrusive, sir—I—”

“Oh, do not deny it, madam!” he said, giving way to
his bitter and feverish emotion. “You scorn me and my
love—you refuse my hand, because your heart could not go
with it!”

“You agitate me, sir!” she said, “I am not well!
These conversations can lead to nothing!”

“You mistake, madam!” he replied, with his old, gloomy
bitterness, “they lead to despair, for I love you.”

“I cannot prevent your suffering, sir—I cannot command
you to leave me—if I could—”

“You would,” he interposed, “you need not assure me
of that, madam. You hate me—you scorn me—because you
love that man who insulted me in your presence, here. Wo
to him!”

And Mr. Effingham's brows grew darker, his eyes flashed
with hatred.

“Remember he is my relative, sir,” said Beatrice, flushing
crimson.

“And your lover!”

“Mr. Effingham!”

“Oh, madam, do not cry out according to your wont. I
have ruined myself for you, and naturally feel some objection
to being robbed of you by a common boor.”

“Sir!”

“Yes, I offend you!—make you hate me more bitterly:
but for that same reason that I am lost from seeing your

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fatal beauty, and have defied all the powers of this society,
I should be allowed to speak plainly, to throw aside the conventional
rules which I have trampled on for your sake.”

“I did not wish to go to that ball—it was a cruel trial,”
she said, coldly, and pressing her hand upon her heart as she
spoke, “my father exacted it.”

“You did not like your escort, I know,” he replied, bitterly;
“you were too good for him, as the vulgar expression
goes.”

“Mr. Effingham, this is unworthy!”

“Yes, madam! it is! I know it! But I cannot feel the
poisoned arrow in my side, like St. Sebastian, and be silent—
not cry out—not utter a groan! Oh, may you never know
what it is to love, and that hopelessly!—to turn and toss on
your sleepless couch through the long, weary hours of the
gloomy night—to rave and curse and weep—to utter prayers
and blessings, maledictions and blasphemies! may you never
suffer this cruel agony, which leaves the heart torn, the cheek
pale, the eyes heavy, the brain oppressed with a bitter and
poisonous mist! may you never love, and feel that love is
hopeless!”

And, overwhelmed with sour and gloomy emotion, he
turned away. His words went to her heart, but it was
almost her own situation which he painted, and this made
her flush and tremble. But by a great effort she became
calm again.

“You know not what you say,” she murmured, “you
know your own sufferings, not mine, sir.”

“Yours! you have suffered this—”

“I have suffered much, sir.”

“You have felt those pangs of despised love?”

“Mr. Effingham, you agitate me! you have no right to
intrude upon my privacy thus: I am not well, sir—my sufferings
do not concern yourself: pray leave me.”

“Whom do they concern, then, madam?”

“Mr. Effingham!”

“Perhaps your chivalric cousin, Mr. Waters!”

“You make me unwell, sir!” said the young girl, flushing.
The young man understood what this exhibition of
emotion sprung from, and gnawed his lip until it bled.

“You might pardon that, if you had a little charity,” he

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said, bitterly; “I believe that I was the instrument in revealing
your secret.”

“Yes, sir—unconsciously.”

“By which you mean, that no thanks are due me.”

“I mean nothing, sir.”

“Well, you are right, madam. I would have cut off my
right hand before I would have had any agency in revealing
that.”

“You are truly very friendly.”

“I do not pretend to be, where my love and despair are
concerned,” he said, gloomily; “I had some claim upon Beatrice
Hallam, the actress—I have much less on Miss Waters.”

“Mr. Effingham—I cannot bear this much longer!”

“You will leave the stage?” he went on, pitilessly.

“I do not know, sir.”

“You hope to?”

“I do, sir.”

“What a delightful time you will have with that noble
gentleman, your cavalier!” he said, with sombre irony.
“In future, I see that I shall not be allowed to kiss your
hand, or approach you, even.”

“Oh, leave me, sir!—”

“In future, my days must be without even your frowns
and insults.”

“Mr. Effingham, I am suffering!”

“You suffering!”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought, madam, that I monopolized the despair and
agony of the whole world.”

“You do not, sir.”

“And because you suffer, you consider that you have the
right to tear my heart. I am despised, because you suffer!
I admire your logic, madam!”

“No, sir,” she said, growing indignant at his insulting
tone, “though much of that suffering has been caused by
you.”

“Because I have told you my love.”

“No, sir—not that only.”

“What have I done?”

“Every thing to persecute me: but I say again, that I

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do not wish to remember that. I had forgotten it. Pray
leave me—I am not well, and cannot bear any more agitation.”

He gazed at her long and fixedly, with eyes burning yet
stony, cold yet fiery.

“Beatrice,” he said, in a gloomy and sombre voice, “this
is the crisis of my life. This moment makes or mars me.
I have given up all for you—left behind all that makes life
happy to follow the ignis-fatuus of your love. If you cast
me off, I am ruined—reflect.”

“You make me suffer cruelly,” said poor Beatrice,
turning away, “but—oh, I cannot, will not marry you, sir!—
I cannot!”

“For the last time!” he said, taking a step toward
her, with clenched hands, and grinding his teeth; “you
refuse?”

“Mr. Effingham, I—”

“You spurn my love—despise me and every thing connected
with me—still scorn me? Reflect, madam!”

“I cannot marry you, sir. This interview is killing me.
My breast is—”

“For the last time—yes or no?”

“No! then, sir: no!” cried Beatrice, rising, with her
hand upon her heart; “I cannot, will not!”

With one hand he tore his breast, until his nails were
stained with blood—the other opened and clenched, as
though in his fury he was grasping some deadly weapon.
He looked at her for a moment, with rage, despair, and
menace, shook from head to foot, and muttering, “Breast to
breast, then! force against force!” rushed wildly from the
room, and passed into his own, the door of which closed
with a crash. A quarter of an hour afterwards the boatmen
came out and went away; and in ten minutes Mr.
Effingham made his appearance, pale, and covered with
perspiration.

He held in his moist and nervous hand a Bank of England
note of large value; and muttering, “That, too, can
be arranged!” went toward the room occupied by the parson.

p520-309

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