“Do, pray, my dear O’Brien, and I only wish—”
“Wish what, Peter? shall I tell you what I wish?—that if I find her; you’ll give her to me for my trouble.”
We then turned round to General O’Brien and Celeste.
“Captain O’Brien,” said the general.
“Sir Terence O’Brien, if you please, general. His Majesty has given me a handle to my name.”
“I congratulate you, Sir Terence,” said the general, shaking him by the hand; “what I was about to say is, that I hope you will take up your quarters at this hotel, and we will all live together. I trust we shall soon find Ellen: in the meanwhile, we have no time to lose, in our exposure of Lord Privilege. Is the woman in town?”
“Yes, and under lock and key; but the devil a fear of her. Millions would not bribe her to wrong him who risked his life for her husband. She’s Irish, general, to the back-bone. Nevertheless, Peter, we must go to our solicitor, to give the intelligence, that he may take the necessary steps.”
For three weeks, O’Brien was diligent in his search for Ellen, employing every description of emissary without success. In the meanwhile, the general and I were prosecuting our cause against Lord Privilege. One morning, Lord Belmore called upon us, and asked the general if we would accompany him to the theatre, to see two celebrated pieces performed. In the latter, which was a musical farce, a new performer was to come out of whom report spoke highly. Celeste consented, and after an early dinner, we joined his lordship in his private box, which was above the stage, on the first tier. The first piece was played, and Celeste, who had never seen the performance of Young, was delighted. The curtain then drew up for the second piece. In the second act, the new performer, a Miss Henderson, was led by the manager on the stage; she was apparently much frightened and excited, but three rounds of applause gave her courage, and she proceeded. At the very first notes of her voice I was startled, and O’Brien, who was behind, threw himself forward to look at her; but as we were almost directly above, and her head was turned the other way, we could not distinguish her features. As she proceeded in her song, she gained courage, and her face was turned towards us, and she cast her eyes up—saw me—the recognition was mutual—I held out my arm, but could not speak—she staggered, and fell down in a swoon.
“’Tis Ellen!” cried O’Brien, rushing past me; and, making one spring down on the stage, he carried her off, before any other person could come to her assistance. I followed him, and found him with Ellen still in his arms, and the actresses assisting in her recovery. The manager came forward to apologise, stating that the young lady was too ill to proceed, and the audience, who had witnessed the behaviour of O’Brien and myself, were satisfied with the romance in real life which had been exhibited. Her part was read by another, but the piece was little attended to, every one trying to find out the occasion of this uncommon occurrence. In the meantime, Ellen was put into a hackney-coach by O’Brien and me, and we drove to the hotel, where we were soon joined by the general and Celeste.