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."