"As you please," said the manager. "But mind and let me see you after the performance."
Richard promised compliance with this request, and then proceeded into the house, where he took a seat in the centre of the amphitheatre.
The doors had been opened a few minutes previously, and the house was filling fast. By half-past six it was crowded from pit to roof. The boxes were filled with elegantly-dressed ladies and fashionable gentlemen: there was not room to thrust another spectator into any one point at the moment when the curtain drew up.
The overture commenced. How long it appeared to Markham, passionately fond of music though he was!
At length it ceased; and the First Act commenced.
For some time a profound silence pervaded the audience:—not a voice, not a murmur, not a sigh, gave the slightest demonstration of either approbation or dislike.
But, at length, at the conclusion of a most impressive soliloquy, which was delivered by the hero of the piece, one universal burst of applause broke forth; and the theatre rang with the sounds of human tongues and the clapping of hands. When the First Act ended, the opinion of the audience was decisive in favour of the piece; and the manager felt persuaded that "it was a hit."
This was one of the happiest moments of Markham's existence—that existence which had latterly presented so few green spots to please the mental eye of the wanderer in the world's desert. His veins seemed to run with liquid fire!—a delirium of joy seized upon him—he was inebriated with excess of bliss.
Around him the spectators were expressing their opinions of the first act, little suspecting that the author of the piece was so near. All those sentiments were unequivocally in favour of the tragedy.
The Second Act began—progressed—terminated.
No pen can describe the enthusiasm with which the audience received the development of the drama, nor the interest which it seemed to excite.
Inspired by the applause that greeted them, the performers exerted all their efforts; and the excellence of the tragedy, united with the talent of the actors and the beauty of the scenery, achieved a triumph not often witnessed within the walls of that or any other theatre.
The Third Act commenced. Selina Fitzherbert appeared upon the stage; and her presence was welcomed with rapturous applause.
She came forward, and acknowledged the kindness of the audience with a graceful curtsey.
Markham surveyed her with interest, in consequence of the manner in which her name had been mentioned to him by the manager;—but that interest grew more profound, and was gradually associated with feelings of extreme surprise, suspense, and uncertainty, for he fancied that if ever he saw Ellen Monroe in his life, there was she—or else her living counterpart—before him—an actress playing a part in his own drama!
He was stupefied;—he strained his eyes—he leant forward—he borrowed the opera-glass of a gentleman seated next to him;—and the more he gazed, the more he felt convinced that he beheld Ellen Monroe in the person of Selina Fitzherbert.
At length the actress spoke: wonder upon wonder—it was Ellen's voice—her intonation—her accent—her style of speaking.
Markham was amazed—confounded.
He inquired of his neighbour whether Selina Fitzherbert was the young lady's real name, or an assumed one.
The gentleman to whom he spoke did not know.
"How long has she been upon the stage?"
"Between two and three months; and, strange to say, it is rumoured that she only took two months to render herself so proficient a dancer as she is. But she now appears to be equally fine in tragedy. Listen!"
Markham could ask no more questions; for his neighbour became all attention towards the piece.
Richard reviewed in a moment, in his mind, all the principal appearances and characteristics of Ellen's life during the last few months—the lateness of her hours—the constancy of her employment—and a variety of circumstances, which only now struck him, but which tended to ratify his suspicion that she was indeed Selina Fitzherbert.
His attention was withdrawn from his own piece; and he determined to convince himself at once upon this head.
Taking advantage of the termination of the first scene in the third act, he left the box, and proceeded behind the scenes of the theatre. But while he was on his way thither, it struck him that if his suspicions were correct, and if he appeared too suddenly in the presence of Ellen, he would perhaps so disconcert her as to render her unfit to proceed with the part entrusted to her. He accordingly concealed himself in a dark corner, behind some scene-boards, and whence he could see plainly, but where he himself could not be very readily discovered.
He did not wait long ere his doubts were cleared up. In a few minutes after he had taken his post in the obscure nook, Ellen passed close by him. She was conversing with another actress.
"Have you seen the author?" said the latter.
"No—not yet," replied Ellen. "But the manager has promised us that pleasure when the curtain fails."
"He has made a brilliant hit."
"Yes," said Ellen. "He need not have been so bashful if he had known his own powers, or foreseen this success. The greatest mystery has been preserved about him: he never once came to rehearsal; and the prompter who copied out my part for me from the original manuscript, tells me that he is convinced the author is quite a novice in dramatic composition, by the way in which the piece was written—I mean, there were not in the manuscript any of those hints and suggestions which an experienced writer would have introduced."
"I really quite long to see him," said Ellen's companion: "he must be quite—"
The two ladies passed on; and Richard heard no more.
His doubts were, however, cleared up:—Ellen Monroe was a figurante and an actress!
He was not so annoyed at this discovery as Ellen had imagined he would have been when she took such precautions to conceal the fact from the knowledge of him and her father. Richard could not help admiring the independent spirit which had induced her to seek the means of earning her own livelihood, and which he now fully comprehended:—at the same time, he was sorry that she had withheld the truth, and that she had embraced the stage in preference to any other avocation. Alas! he little suspected what scenes that poor girl had passed through:—he knew nothing of her connexion with the statuary, the artist, the sculptor, the photographer, Greenwood, and the mesmerist!
Having satisfied himself that Selina Fitzherbert and Ellen Monroe were one and the same person, and still amazed and bewildered by the discovery, Markham returned to the body of the theatre; but, instead of proceeding to his former seat, he repaired to the "author's box," which he found unoccupied, and which, being close to the stage, commanded a full view of the scene.
The tragedy proceeded with unabated success: the performance of Ellen was alone sufficient to give it an extraordinary éclat. Her beautiful countenance—the noble and dignified manner in which she carried her classic head—her elegant form—the natural grace and suavity of her manners—her musical voice—and the correct appreciation she evinced of the character in which she appeared—these were the elements of an irresistible appeal to the public heart. The tragedy would have been eminently successful by reason of its own intrinsic merits, and without Ellen:—but with her, that success was brilliant—triumphant—unparalleled in the annals of the modern stage!
The entire audience was enraptured with the charming woman who shone in two ways so essentially distinct—who had first captivated the sense as a dancer, and who now came forth a great tragic actress. Her lovely person and her talents united, formed a passport to favour which not a dissentient voice could question;—and when the curtain fell at the close of the fifth act, the approbation of the spectators was expressed