The moment the curtain fell Markham hastened behind the scenes, and encountered Ellen in one of the slips.
Hastily grasping her by the hand, he said in a low but hurried tone "Do not be alarmed—I know all—I am here to thank you—not to blame you."
"Thank me, Richard!" exclaimed the young actress, partially recovering from the almost overwhelming state of alarm into which the sudden apparition of Markham had thrown her: "why should you thank me?"
"Thank you, Ellen—Oh! how can I do otherwise than thank you?" said Markham. "You have carried my tragedy through the ordeal—"
"Your tragedy, Richard?" cried Miss Monroe more and more bewildered.
"Yes, my tragedy, Ellen—it is mine! But, ah! there is a call for you—"
A moment's silence had succeeded the flattering expression of public opinion which arose at the termination of the performance; and then arose a loud cry for Selina Fitzherbert.
This was followed by a call for the author, and then a thousand voices ejaculated—"Selina Fitzherbert and the Author! Let them come together!"
The manager now hastened up to the place where Ellen and Richard were standing, and where the above hurried words had been exchanged between them.
"You must go forward, Miss Fitzherbert—and you too, Mr. Preston—"
Ellen glanced with an arch smile towards Richard, as much as to say, "You also have taken an assumed name."
Markham begged and implored the manager not to force him upon the stage;—but the call for "Selina Fitzherbert and the Author" was peremptory; and the "gods" were growing clamorous.
Popular will is never more arbitrary than in a theatre.
Markham accordingly took Ellen's hand:—the curtain rose, and he led her forward.
The appearance of that handsome couple—a fine dark-eyed and genteel young man leading by the hand a lovely woman—a successful author, and a favourite actress—this was the signal for a fresh burst of applause.
Richard was dazzled with the glare of light, and for some time could see nothing distinctly.
Myriads of human countenances, heaped together, danced before him; and yet the aspect and features of none were accurately delineated to his eyes. He could not have selected from amongst those countenances, even that of his long-lost brother, or that of his dearly beloved Isabella, had they been both or either of them prominent in that multitude of faces.
And Isabella was there, with her parents—impelled by the curiosity which had taken so many thither that evening.
Her surprise, and that of her father and mother, may therefore well be conceived, when, in the author of one of the most successful and beautiful dramatic compositions of modern times, they recognised Richard Markham!
The applause continued for three or four minutes—uninterrupted and enthusiastic—as if some mighty conqueror, who had just released his country from the thraldom of a foreign foe, was the object of adulation.
At length this expression of approbation ceased; and the spectators awaited in suspense, and with curiosity depicted upon their countenances, the acknowledgment of the honours showered upon the author.
At that moment the manager stepped forward, and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour to inform you that Mr. Edward Preston is the author of the successful tragedy upon which you have been pleased to bestow your approval. I consider it to be my duty to mention a name which the author's own modesty—a modesty which you will agree with me in pronouncing to be unnecessary under such circumstances—would not probably have allowed him to reveal to you."
The manager bowed and retired.
Fresh applause welcomed the announcement of the tragic author's name; and a thousand voices exclaimed, "Bravo, Edward Preston!"
By this time Markham had recovered his presence of mind and self-possession: and his joy was extreme when he suddenly recognised Isabella in a box close by the stage.
Oh! that was a glorious moment for him: she was there—she beheld his triumph—and doubtless she participated in his own happy feelings.
"Bravo, Edward Preston!" was re-echoed through the house.
And then a dead silence prevailed.
All were anxious to hear Richard speak.
But just at the moment when he was about to acknowledge the honours conferred upon him and his fair companion by the audience, a strange voice broke upon the stillness of the scene.
"It is false! his name is not Preston——"
"Silence!" cried numerous voices.
"His name is——"
"Turn out that brawler! turn him out!"
"His name is——"
"Hold your tongue!"
"Silence!"
"Turn him out! turn him out!"
"His name is Richard Markham—the Forger!"
A burst of indignation, mingled with strong expressions of incredulity, rose against the individual, who, from an obscure nook in the gallery, had interrupted the harmony of the evening.
"It is true—I say! he is Richard Markham who was condemned to two years' imprisonment for forgery!" thundered forth the hoarse and unpleasant voice.
A piercing scream—the scream of a female tone—echoed through the house: all eyes were turned towards the box whence it issued; and a young lady, with flaxen hair and pale complexion, was seen to sink senseless in the arms of the elderly gentleman who accompanied her.
And in another part of the house a young lady also sank, pale, trembling, and overcome with feelings of acute anguish, upon her father's bosom.
So deeply did that dread accusing voice affect the sensitive and astonished Mary-Anne, and the faithful Isabella!
All was now confusion. The audience rose from their seats in all directions; and the theatre suddenly appeared to be converted into a modern Babel.
Overwhelmed with shame, and so bewildered by this cruel blow, that he knew not how to act, Markham stood for some moments like a criminal before his judges. Ellen, forgetting where she was, clung to him for support.
At length, the unhappy young man seized Ellen abruptly by the hand, and led her from the public gaze.
The curtain fell as they passed behind the scenes.
The audience then grew more clamorous—none scarcely knew why. Some demanded that the man who had caused the interruption should be arrested by the police; but those in the gallery shouted out that he had suddenly disappeared. Others declared that the accusation ought to be investigated;—people in the pit maintained that, even if the story were true, it had nothing to do with the success of the accused as a dramatic author;—and gentlemen in the boxes expressed their determination never to support a man, in a public institution and in a public capacity, who had been condemned to infamous penalties for an enormous crime.
Thus all was noise, confusion, and uproar—argument, accusation, and recrimination—the buzzing of hundreds of tongues—the clamour of thousands of voices.
Some called "Shame!" upon the manager for introducing a discharged convict to the notice of Englishmen's wives and daughters—although the persons who thus clamoured did not utter a reproach against the immoral females who made no secret of their profligacy, and who appeared nightly upon the stage as its brightest ornaments—nor did they condescend to recall to mind the vicinity of that infamous saloon which vomited forth numbers of impure characters to occupy seats