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His attention was withdrawn from his own piece; and he determined to convince himself at once upon this head.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 with clapping of hands, waving of handkerchiefs, and shouts of applause—all prolonged to an unusual length of time, and frequently renewed with additional enthusiasm.
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