There was a strange and ominous murmur of voices, a shuffling of feet
in the gallery, a silence, which was like the silence before a storm.
Anna, who had sung the first verse of her song, looked around the
house, a little surprised at the absence of the applause which had
never yet failed her. She realized in a moment what had happened. Even
though the individual faces of her audience were not to be singled
out, she had been conscious from the first moment of her appearance
that something was wrong. She hesitated, and for a moment thought of
omitting her second verse altogether. The manager, however, who stood
in the wings, nodded to her to proceed, and the orchestra commenced
the first few bars of the music. Then the storm broke. A long shrill
cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. Then a roar of
hisses. They came from every part, from the pit, the circle and the
gallery, even from the stalls. And there arose too, a background of
shouts.
"Who killed her husband?"
"Go and nurse him, missus!"
"Murderess!"
Anna looked from left to right. She was as pale as death, but she
seemed to have lost the power of movement. They shouted to her from
the wings to come off. She could not stir hand or foot. A paralyzing
horror was upon her. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of
those hideous shouts. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery
hit her upon the cheek. The stage manager came out from the wings, and
taking her hand led her off. There was more shouting.
The stage manager reappeared presently, and made a speech. He
regretted--more deeply than he could say--the occurrence of this
evening. He fancied that when they had had time to reflect, they would
regret it still more. ("No, no.") They had shown themselves grossly
ignorant of facts. They had chosen to deliberately and wickedly insult
a lady who had done her best to entertain them for many weeks. He
could not promise that she would ever appear again in that house.
("Good job.") Well, they might say that, but he knew very well that
before long they would regret it. Of his own certain knowledge he
could tell them that. For his own part he could not sufficiently
admire the pluck of this lady, who, notwithstanding all that she had
been through, had chosen to appear this evening rather than break her
engagement. He should never sufficiently be able to regret the return
which they had made to her. He begged their attention for the next
turn.
He had spoken impressively, and most likely Anna, had she reappeared,
would have met with a fair reception. She, however, had no idea of
doing anything of the sort. She dressed rapidly and left the theatre
without a word to any one. The whole incident was so unexpected that
neither Courtlaw nor Brendon were awaiting. The man who sat behind a
pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment
absent. Anna stood on the step and looked up and down the street for a
hansom. Suddenly she felt her wrist grasped by a strong hand. It was
Ennison, who loomed up through the shadows.