Behind the curtain opinion was almost as much divided as before it. Kemble was in his grimmest humour; disinclined, as many said, both then and afterwards, to give his Vortigern fair play. Some of the inferior actors, taking their tune from him, certainly abstained from exerting themselves, and even made no secret beforehand of their design to abstain. It was a play cumbrous in construction, and even in the very names of the dramatis personæ, such as Wortimerus and Catagrinus; but it had been accepted by the management, and the company, as it was afterwards urged, and with justice, should have done their best for it. Mrs. Powell and Mrs. Jordan vied with one another in encouraging William Henry, who remained all the evening behind the scenes. The former made a magnificent Edmunda; the latter, of whom the greatest of our dramatic critics writes, ‘Delightful Mrs. Jordan, whose voice did away with the cares of the whole house before they saw her come in,’ surpassed herself. If beauty and vivacity could have saved the piece she would have saved it, single-handed. There was a great deal of opposition, but at first the play went fairly well. The swell and roll of its sonorous lines hid their lack of ideas, and in a fashion supported themselves unaided. ‘We are safe now, the “Vortigern“ will succeed, Henry,’ said Mrs. Jordan cheerfully, as she left the stage at the close of the second act. William Henry did not answer; his face, pale and haggard as it had been throughout the evening, had suddenly assumed a look of horror. ‘What is the matter with you, lad?’ exclaimed Mrs. Powell. ‘You would make a good actor, but a very bad author; you could not look more desponding if the play was your own. It is going all right; you must not mind a hiss or two.’ ‘I fear him,’ whispered William Henry, hoarsely. ‘That is his hateful voice; it is all over.’ The two ladies looked at one another significantly; they had seen young fathers of promising plays on first nights before, but here was a mere godfather worse than any of them. They thought that the young fellow had taken leave of his wits. ‘I tell you it is all over,’ continued the wretched youth; ‘he has come here to damn me.’ ‘If you mean the Devil, that is nothing new,’ said Mrs. Powell; ‘he is always, so we are told, in the play-house.’ She spoke very sharply; she thought it the right remedy to apply under the circumstances, just as she might have recommended bending back the fingers in an extreme case of hysterics. ‘Come here,’ said Mrs. Jordan, leading the young man to a spot where, through a chink in the curtain, they could get a view of the box where his father and cousin sat. ‘Look at your Margaret yonder; she is not a coward like you.’ Indeed, the more the people hissed, the calmer and the more indifferent Margaret seemed to be, though under that unmoved exterior she suffered agonies. She was thinking of her Willie, though she could not see him, and love enhanced her beauty.