The Mysteries of London. George W. M. Reynolds
of scene or amusement would probably operate favourably upon his daughter's mind, and bring her spirits back to their proper tone; and in this resolution was he confirmed, when in the course of that Sunday evening, he saw the confirmation of his suspicion. He could no longer doubt:—a thousand little incidents proved to him the attachment of his daughter to Richard Markham; and his quick glance convinced him that she was not loved by her tutor in return.
That night Mr. Gregory lay awake, pondering upon the best course to pursue. At one moment he thought of communicating to Markham the state of his daughter's heart (for he could not suppose that Richard was aware of the passion of which he was the object), and permitting the young couple to look upon each other as destined to be one day united:—at another moment, he imagined that it would be better to allow things to take their chance for a short time, and thereby ascertain whether the attachment gained ground on the part of his daughter, and whether it would become mutual (for he was entirely ignorant of Markham's love for another); and at length he resolved upon dispensing with the services of Richard, and trusting to time to eradicate the seeds of the unfortunate passion from the heart of Mary-Anne.
This plan Mr. Gregory put into execution in the course of a few days—indeed, the very next time that Richard called at his house.
"Mr. Markham," said the father, "I deeply regret that certain circumstances, which it is not necessary for me to explain to you, compel me to dispense with your farther attendance upon my children."
"I hope," said Markham, "that I have given you no cause——"
"Not at all—not in the least," interrupted Mr. Gregory, shaking Richard cordially by the hand: then, in a serious tone, he added, "my daughter's health requires rest—repose—and quiet. I shall see no visitors for some time."
Markham was satisfied. Mr. Gregory had heard nothing prejudicial to his character; but he had evidently penetrated into the state of Mary-Anne's feelings. Richard was delighted to be thus dismissed from a house where his presence was only calculated to destroy the more profoundly the peace of one of its inmates:—indeed, he himself had already entertained serious ideas of severing his connexion with that family.
"If I can at any time be of service to you, Mr. Markham, in any way, you may command me," said Mr. Gregory, when the former rose to depart; "and do not think that I am merely uttering a cold ceremonial phrase, when I desire you to make use of me as a friend, should you ever require one."
Richard thanked Mr. Gregory for his kindness, and took leave of him. He also bade adieu to Gustavus and Lionel, both of whom were deeply affected at the idea of losing the visits of their tutor:—but Mary-Anne had been purposely sent to pass a few days with some friends in the country.
CHAPTER XCI.
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