"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."