“The new theatre is going to be opened! Follow the manager! Follow the manager!” echoed a multitude of voices.
“Follow the manager!” echoed very disagreeably in Archer’s ear; but as he could not be left alone, he was also obliged to follow the manager. The moment that the door was unlocked, the crowd rushed in: the delight and wonder expressed at the sight was great, and the applause and thanks which were bestowed upon the manager were long and loud.
Archer at least thought them long, for he was impatient till his voice could be heard. When at length the acclamations had spent themselves, he walked across the stage with a knowing air, and looking round contemptuously.
“And is this your famous playhouse?” cried he. “I wish you had, any of you, seen the playhouse I have been used to?”
These words made a great and visible change in the feelings and opinions of the public. “Who would be a servant of the public? or who would toil for popular applause?” A few words spoken in a decisive tone by a new voice operated as a charm, and the playhouse was in an instant metamorphosed in the eyes of the spectators. All gratitude for the past was forgotten, and the expectation of something better justified to the capricious multitude their disdain of what they had so lately pronounced to be excellent.
Everyone now began to criticise. One observed, “that the green curtain was full of holes, and would not draw up.” Another attacked the scenes; “Scenes! they were not like real scenes—Archer must know best, because he was used to these things.” So everybody crowded to hear something of the other playhouse. They gathered round Archer to hear the description of his playhouse, and at every sentence insulting comparisons were made. When he had done, his auditors looked round, sighed and wished that Archer had been their manager. They turned from De Grey as from a person who had done them an injury. Some of his friends—for he had friends who were not swayed by the popular opinion—felt indignation at this ingratitude, and were going to express their feelings; but De Grey stopped them, and begged that he might speak for himself.
“Gentlemen,” said he, coming forward, as soon as he felt that he had sufficient command of himself. “My friends, I see you are discontented with me and my playhouse. I have done my best to please you; but if anybody else can please you better, I shall be glad of it. I did not work so hard for the glory of being your manager. You have my free leave to tear down—” Here his voice faltered, but he hurried on—“You have my free leave to tear down all my work as fast as you please. Archer, shake hands first, however, to show that there’s no malice in the case.”
Archer, who was touched by what his rival said, and, stopping the hand of his new partisan, Fisher, cried, “No, Fisher! no!—no pulling down. We can alter it. There is a great deal of ingenuity in it, considering.”
In vain Archer would now have recalled the public to reason,—the time for reason was passed: enthusiasm had taken hold of their minds. “Down with it! Down with it! Archer for ever!” cried Fisher, and tore down the curtain. The riot once begun, nothing could stop the little mob, till the whole theatre was demolished. The love of power prevailed in the mind of Archer; he was secretly flattered by the zeal of his party, and he mistook their love of mischief for attachment to himself. De Grey looked on superior. “I said I could bear to see all this, and I can,” said he; “now it is all over.” And now it was all over, there was silence. The rioters stood still to take breath, and to look at what they had done. There was a blank space before them.
In this moment of silence there was heard something like a voice. “Hush! What strange voice is that?” said Archer. Fisher caught fast hold of his arm. Everybody looked round to see where the voice came from. It was dusk. Two window-shutters at the farthest end of the building were seen to move slowly inwards. De Grey, and in the same instant Archer, went forward; and, as the shutters opened, there appeared through the hole the dark face and shrivelled hands of a very old gipsy. She did not speak; but she looked first at one and then at another. At length she fixed her eyes on De Grey. “Well, woman,” said he, “what do you want with me?”