THE TRAGEDY.
At length the evening, upon which the tragedy was to be represented for
the first time, arrived.
Markham in the mean time had seen little of the manager, and had not
attended a single rehearsal, his presence for that purpose not having
been required. Moreover, true to his original intentions, he had not
acquainted a soul with his secret relative to the drama. The manager
still knew him only as Edward Preston; and the advertisements in the
newspapers had announced the "forth-coming tragedy" as one that had
"emanated from the pen of a young author of considerable promise, but
who had determined to maintain a strict _incognito_ until the public
verdict should have been pronounced upon his piece."
A short time before the doors opened, Richard proceeded to the theatre,
and called upon the manager, who received him in his own private
apartment.
"Well, Mr. Preston," said the theatrical monarch, "this evening will
decide the fate of the tragedy. A few hours, and we shall know more."
"I hope you still think well of it," returned Markham.
"My candid opinion is that the success will be triumphant," said the
manager. "I have spared no expense to get up the piece well; and I am
very sanguine. Besides, I have another element of success."
"What is that?" inquired Richard.
"My principal ballet-dancer, who is a beautiful creature and a general
favourite--Miss Selina Fitzherbert--"
"I have heard of her fame," said Markham, "but have never seen her.
Strange as it may appear, I never visit theatres--I have not done so for
years."
"You will visit them often enough if your productions succeed," observed
the manager with a smile. "But, as I was saying, Miss Fitzherbert has
lately manifested a passionate desire to shine in tragedy; and she will
make her _debut_ in that sphere to-night, in your piece. She will play
the _Baron's Daughter_."
"Which character does not appear until the commencement of the third
act," said Markham.
"Precisely," observed the manager. "But time is now drawing on. Where
will you remain during the performance?"
"I shall proceed into the body of the house," returned Markham, "and
take my seat in one of the central boxes--I mean those precisely
fronting the stage. I shall be able to judge of the effect better in
that part of the house than elsewhere."
"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
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 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 by the sides of those wives
and daughters, whose purity was now supposed to be tainted because a man
who had undergone an infamous punishment, but who could _there_ set no
bad example, had contributed to their entertainment!
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.