And then commenced a riot in the theatre. The respectable portion of the audience escaped from the scene with the utmost precipitation:—but the occupants of the upper region, and some of the tenants of the pit, remained to exhibit their inclination for what they were pleased to term "a lark." The benches were torn up, and hurled upon the stage:—hats and orange-peel flew about in all directions;—and serious damage would have been done to the theatre, had not a body of police succeeded in restoring order.
In the mean time Markham and Ellen had been conducted to the Green Room, where a glass of wine was administered to each to restore their self-possession.
The manager was alone with them; and when Richard had time to collect his scattered ideas, he seemed to awake as from a horrible dream. But the ominous countenance of the manager met his glance;—and he knew that it was all a fearful reality.
Then did Markham bury his face in his hands, and weep bitterly—bitterly.
"Alas! young man," said the manager, "it was an evil day for both you and me, when you sought and I accorded my patronage. This business will no doubt injure me seriously. You are a young man of extraordinary talent;—but it will not avail you in this sphere again. You have enjoyed one signal triumph—you have experienced a most heart-rending overthrow. Never did defeat follow upon conquest so rapidly. The power of your genius will not vanquish the opinion of the public. I do not blame you: you were not compelled to communicate your former history to me;—and it was I who forced you to go forward."
Markham was consoled by the language of the manager, who spoke in a kind and sympathising tone of voice.
Thus the only man who would suffer in a pecuniary point of view—or, at least, he who would suffer most—by the fatal occurrence of that evening, was also the only one who attempted to solace the unhappy Markham.
As for poor Ellen—she was overwhelmed with grief.
"You gave me fifty guineas for that fatal—fatal drama," said Richard, after a long pause. "The money shall be returned to you to-morrow."
"No, my young friend—that must not be done!" exclaimed the manager, taking Richard's hand. "Your noble conduct in this respect raises you fifty per cent, in my opinion."
"Yes—he is noble, he is generous!" cried Ellen. "He has been a benefactor to myself and my father: it is at his house that we live; and never until this evening were we aware of each other's avocations, in respect to the stage."
"How singular a coincidence!" exclaimed the manager. "But I hope that I shall not lose the services of the principal attraction of my company?"
"Yes," said Ellen firmly: "I shall never more appear in public in that capacity of which I was lately so enamoured, but for which I have suddenly entertained an abhorrence."
"A few days' repose and rest will induce you to change your mind, I hope?" said the manager, who was really alarmed at the prospect of losing a figurante of such talent and an actress of such great promise.
"We shall see—I will reflect," returned Ellen, unwilling to add to the annoyances of the kind-hearted manager.
"You must not desert me," said this gentleman, "especially at a time when I shall require all the attractions possible to restore the reputation of my house."
Markham now rose to take his departure.
"I should not advise you to leave the house together," said the manager. "There may be a few mal-contents in the street;—and, at all events, it will be as well that the ladies and gentlemen of my company should not know of your intimate acquaintance with each other. Such a proceeding might only compromise Miss Fitzherbert."
Markham cordially acceded to this suggestion; and it was agreed that he should depart by the private door, and that Ellen should return home in the usual manner by herself.
But before they separated, the two young people agreed with each other that the strictest silence should be preserved at the Place, not only with respect to the events of that evening, but also in regard to the nature of the avocations in which they had both lately been engaged.
Markham succeeded in escaping unobserved from the theatre;—and, humiliated, cast down, heartbroken—bending beneath an insupportable burden of ignominy and shame—with the fainting form of Isabella before his eyes, and the piercing shriek of Mary-Anne, whom he had also recognised, in his ears—he pursued his precipitate retreat homewards.
But what a dread revelation had been made to him that evening! His mortal enemy—his inveterate foe had escaped from the death which, it was hitherto supposed, the miscreant had met in the den of infamy near Bird-Cage Walk some months previously:—his ominous voice still thundered in Markham's ears;—and our unhappy hero once more saw all his prospects ruined by the unmitigated hatred of the Resurrection Man.
CHAPTER XCII.
THE ITALIAN VALET.
ELLEN retired to her private dressing-room, and hastily threw aside her theatrical garb.
She assumed her usual attire, and then stole away from the establishment, without waiting to say farewell either to the manager or any of her acquaintances belonging to the company.
As she left the private door of the theatre, she saw several persons loitering about—probably in hopes of catching a glimpse of the author who had been so signally disgraced that evening, and whose previous departure from the house was unperceived.
She drew her veil closely over her countenance; but not before one fellow, more impudent than the rest, and whose cadaverous countenance, shaggy eye-brows, and sinister expression, struck a momentary terror into her soul, had peered beneath her bonnet.
Fortunately, as Ellen considered it, a cab was close by; and the driver was standing on the pavement with his hand grasping the door-latch, as if he were expecting some one.
"Cab, ma'am?" said he, as Ellen approached.
Ellen answered in the affirmative, mentioned her address, and stepped into the vehicle.
The driver banged the door, and mounted his box.
The man with the cadaverous countenance watched Ellen into the vehicle, and exchanged a sign of intelligence with the driver.
The cab then drove rapidly away.
Another cab was standing at a little distance; and into this the man with the cadaverous countenance stepped. There was already an individual in it, who, when the former opened the door, said, "All right?"
"All right," was the reply.
This second cab, containing these two individuals, then followed rapidly in the traces of the first.
Meantime Ellen had thrown herself back in the vehicle, and had given way to her reflections.
The events of that memorable evening occupied her attention. A coincidence, of a nature fitted only for the pages of a romance, had revealed to Markham and herself the history of each other's pursuits. While she had been following the occupation of a figurante, he was devoting his time to dramatic composition. He had retained his employment a secret: she had dissembled hers. He had accidentally applied for the patronage of the same manager who had taken her by the hand. He had assumed a false name: so had she. Chance led her to take a part in his drama;—her talent had materially contributed to its success. A triumph was achieved by each;—and then came the overwhelming, crushing denunciation which turned his joy to mourning—his honour to disgrace—his glory to shame. She felt as if she were identified with his fate in this one respect:—he was her benefactor; she esteemed him: and she seemed to partake in his most painful emotions as she pondered