"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 upon the incidents of that evening.
And then she retrospected over the recent events which had chequered her own life. The cast of her countenance embellished statues;—her likeness lent its attraction to pictures;—her bust was preserved in marble;—her entire form feasted the eyes of many a libertine in the private room of the photographic department of a gallery of science;—her virtue had become the prey of one who gave her a few pieces of paltry gold in exchange for the inestimable jewel of her purity;—her dreams had been sold to a mesmerist;—her dancing had captivated thousands;—her tragic talent had crowned the success of a drama. What remained for her now to sell? what talent did she possess which could now be turned to advantage? Alas! she knew not!
Her meditations were painful; and some time elapsed ere she awoke from her reverie.
At length she glanced towards the window: the night was beautifully clear, though piercing cold—for it was now the month of December; and the year 1839 was drawing to a close.
The vehicle was proceeding along a road skirted only by a few leafless trees, and wearing an aspect strange and new to her.
The country beyond, on either side, seemed to present to her view different outlines from those which frequent passage along the road leading to Markham Place had rendered familiar to her eyes. Again she gazed wistfully forth:—she lowered the window, and surveyed the adjacent scenery with redoubled interest.
And now she felt really alarmed; for she was convinced that the driver had mistaken the road.
She called to him, and expressed her fears.
"No—no, ma'am," he exclaimed, without relaxing the speed at which the vehicle was proceeding; "there's more ways than one of reaching the place where you live. Don't be afraid, ma'am—it's all right."
Ellen's fears were hushed for a short time; but as she leant partially out of the window to survey the country through which she was passing, the sounds of another vehicle behind her own fell upon her ears.
At any other time this circumstance would not have produced a second thought; but on this occasion Ellen felt a presentiment of evil. Whether the mournful catastrophe of the evening, or her recent sad reflections—or both united, had produced this morbid feeling, we cannot say. Sufficient is it for us to know that such was the state of her mind; and then she remembered the warning contained in the letter so mysteriously sent to her a short time previously at the theatre.
Again she addressed the cabman; but this time he made no answer; and in a few minutes he drove up to the door of a small house which stood alone by the side of that dreary road.
Scarcely had he alighted from his box, when the second cab came up and stopped also.
"Where am I?" demanded Ellen, now seriously