AFTER THE FAILURE.
When Caroline reached home, after that involuntary retreat from the
theatre, she went to her own room with Eliza, and falling upon the bed,
lay perfectly still, so exhausted and crushed, that she scarcely
breathed. She had disgraced herself, and she had seen _him_.
Alas, alas! he had witnessed her defeat, her bitter humiliation!
Why had she not told him before, that her mother was an actress, a
singer, of whose reputation he had heard; that her own destiny must be
guided by this woman, and could hardly have a higher aim than she had
already reached. He would think that she had deceived him, and she had,
but with no premeditation. She had honestly intended to tell him
everything, but the suddenness of their departure from Italy had
rendered all explanation impossible. What could she do but hide herself
forever from him and the whole world? She forgot the bursts of applause
that had followed the first effort of her voice, and sank everything
together in one sweep of bitter shame.
"My darling! my poor darling!"
It was Brown who had crept into her room, crest-fallen and drooping,
like a man stunned by some heavy blow. Caroline started up.
"Oh! my friend! You are sorry for me, yet I have disappointed you so; my
heart aches! my heart aches! but what can I do?"
"Never mind," answered the tender-hearted man. "It was the fright, stage
fright--a terrible thing; but it seldom comes twice. Why, that woman,
your mother I mean, broke down over and over again, but the parts were
so small, no one observed it enough to clap or hiss, while you sang like
an angel, up to the very minute you fainted. I never saw anything like
it."
Caroline sank back to her pillow, moaning. She was still in her
theatrical costume, and its glitter sickened her.
"Don't take on so," persisted the kind musician. "It was not a failure.
No one will consider it so. On the contrary, it can be made to tell,
and your next appearance will be an ovation."
Caroline started to her elbow again.
"My next appearance! and you say that! You! you! Oh! Mr. Brown, I did
not think you would turn against me!"
"Turn against you, my child?" Tears trembled in the man's voice, and the
words quivered on his lips as he added: "My poor darling. Do you not
know that old Brown would die for you?"
"Then keep me from the stage; snatch me from a life that I loathe. I
tell you, all this is against my nature. I have no genius to carry me
forward, no ambition, no hope. Oh! that is gone, quite."
"But it is an honorable profession," faltered Brown, in his distress.
"Think how many noble geniuses have found immortality on the stage."
"I know it, I know it well; but they were led that way, heart and soul,
while I have no wish for fame or anything that it could bring. What does
a woman want with immortality--above all, a poor young girl like me,
whose very heart trembles in her bosom, when a crowd of strange eyes are
turned upon her, as they were on me to-night?"
"But you will soon get over that."
"No. I never shall. This one night has broken up my life, and well nigh
killed me. Let what may come, I will starve rather than tread that stage
again."
"Hush! dear, hush! This passion will make you worse."
"But I mean it, Eliza, and I say it here and now, when you and Mr.
Brown, the only friends I have on earth, are standing by. Think for me,
Eliza, and you also, my kind, kind guardian!"
"Ah, if I had the power," said Brown, answering Eliza's appealing look
with a mournful shake of the head; "but the madame will never give her
up."
"She must," said Caroline, kindling with desperate opposition: "I am not
her slave. God does not give up the soul and conscience of a child to
her mother."
"Especially one who never did a thing for her child, but left her for
others to bring up," broke in Eliza, uttering a bitter truth, in her
angry pity for the girl. "Mr. Brown, all that I have got to say is this:
you and I must stand by this young cretur, let her do what she will. She
is more our child than hers. I stand by that. If she don't want to put
on this splendiferous dress again, why it shall not come within a rod of
her. If her heart is set against singing on the stage, we are not the
people to see her dragged there against her will. You stand by me, I'll
stand by you, and we'll roll ourselves like a rock in that woman's way,
if she attempts to force our child into the theatre again."
"But how can we oppose her? She has the power. We have not, at this
moment, five pounds among us."
Eliza's face fell as if it had been suddenly unlocked.
"No more we have, and in a strange country, too," she said, dolefully.
Here Caroline joined in.
"But I can teach. If I please all those people, surely I can teach."
"Sure enough!" said Eliza, brightening a little. "What do you say to
that, Mr. Brown?"
"We must take time. Perhaps there will be no cause for trouble. When it
comes in earnest, you shall not fight alone, Eliza. So comfort yourself,
my child. The old man would rather beg for bread on the highway than see
you forced to anything that is so distasteful. Now try and sleep."
Brown bent down and smoothed the girl's hair with his hand. Then he
turned from her with tears in his eyes, and crept out of the room.
Caroline followed him with wistful eyes until the door closed. Then she
turned to Eliza.
"Oh! Eliza, do this one thing for me, if you can. Let, let no one come
in to-night. I can endure no more."
"They'll have to knock me down and trample on me if they do, that is
all," answered the hand-maiden. "My gracious! How I wish we were in our
own little house again up in Sing-Sing."
"Oh! if we were!" sighed the girl. "Why did we ever leave it?"
"Because we were a couple of born fools, that's why!" answered the maid.
"Born fools! and I the biggest, the oldest, the most outrageous fool of
all! Wasn't we independent? Couldn't you have took scholars, and I
washing by the dozen? Hadn't we the sweetest little garden in that whole
town? such cabbages, such onions, and lettuce headed like cabbage, and
tender as--as flowers! Whenever I get sick over these French dishes, I
think of that garden, and the cow, and the shoat that knew me when I
came to the pen with corn in my apron, and gave a little grunt, as if
I'd been his sister. Then my heart turns back to the old home, like a
sunflower, and I say to myself, You perposterous old maid, you! what did
you let that poor young thing come from under that honest roof for? You
was old enough to know better, if she wasn't; but you had an idea of
seeing the world, of dressing up and being a lady's maid, of hearing
whole crowds of young men stamp and clap and whistle over that innocent
young cretur. You didn't think that she might faint dead away, and--and
be brought home heart-broken. Home, indeed! as if this box of gilding
could be a home to any American woman! It's perposterous!"
Here Eliza broke off with a half-uttered word on her lips, for her
speech had brought the old home back so vividly to the heart-sick girl
that she was sobbing upon her pillow like a child.
A little bustle down stairs, a knock at the door, and, as Eliza ran
forward, Olympia pushed it open and came in.
She saw Caroline prostrate on the bed, with that delicate robe wrapped
around and crushed under her, and the lace shawl falling from the pillow
to the carpet, like a trail of frost.
The sight urged her into one of those quick passions that sometimes
threw her whole household into consternation.
"Heavens! what extravagance!" she cried. "Does the creature know that
lace like that is worth its weight in diamonds? A silk robe, too, which
could not be purchased out of Paris, tumbled up in a wad, and one mass
of wrinkles! I see! I see! the revenues of a duke would not meet such
extravagance! Get up! Get up, I say! and if you must make a goose of
yourself, do it at less cost!"
"Hush, madam! she's sick! She's broken-hearted!" retorted Eliza, turning
fiercely red and planting herself before the shrinking girl.
"Well, she must break her heart in something less costly than a French
dress worth thirty pounds, and point lace that cannot be got at any
price! Just get up, my young lady, and do your crying in less expensive
costume! The proper dress for tragedy is white muslin, but just now a
night-gown will do."
Caroline arose without a word, and began to undress herself. She no
longer shrank or trembled, for the indignant blood rushed to the
surface, and pride gave her strength. Eliza took the robe as she cast it
off, and folded it with an emphatic sweep of her hand.
"A pretty mess you have made of it," said Olympia, tossing the lace
aside with her foot, and tearing it on the buckle of her shoe, "with
your perverse obstinacy--broken up the most splendid debut I ever saw on
any stage, and making yourself and your failure the town's talk! if the
critics had not been my friends, the whole thing would have been utter
ruination; and here you are, with cheeks like flame, looking as haughty
as a duchess."
"I am not haughty or perverse," said Caroline, wiping the hot tears from
her eyes, "but weary and ill."
"Ill! with that color?" sneered Olympia.
"It is fever," Eliza broke in. "Ten minutes ago she was white as the
pillow. You are making her worse and worse, I can tell you that."
"And I can tell you that impudent tongue will lose you a good place
within the next ten minutes, if it is not bridled and well curbed. I
stand no nonsense from servants. Understand that!"
Caroline cast an imploring glance on her maid, who dashed both hands
down upon the dress she was folding, and ground her teeth in silent
rage, as Olympia finished the threat with a little snap of her slender
fingers.
"What was the matter with you? I have had no chance to ask, with your
countesses and duchesses swarming about, as if you had some
acquaintances that your own mother could not reach! What came over you?
I will know!"
"I was faint and frightened," said Caroline, in a low voice. "The whole
thing broke me down."
"But there was something else. I will know it!"
Caroline was silent.
"Will you speak, miss?"
"I have nothing more to say. You could see how ill I was."
"But not the cause; it is that I wish to understand."
Caroline sat down on the side of her bed and remained silent, with her
eyes on the floor. She had no answer to give.
"Will you tell the truth, or must I search it out? I was watching you; I
saw your eyes and the man whose glance struck you down."
Caroline gave a start, and covered her face with both hands.
"What have you in common with young Lord Hilton?"
The hands dropped from that burning face, and two great, dilating eyes,
in which the tears stood, were turned on the angry woman.
"Young Lord Hilton! I do not know him."
The words came faintly from the girl's lips--she was bewildered.
"Why did he drop his glass and bend over the box with that look in his
face, then? Why did you start and trample back on your train? Why did
you give him that piteous glance just as your eyes closed? The audience
might not have seen it, but I did, I did."
"I--I do not understand," faltered the girl.
"Do not understand, miss!"
"How should I, not knowing the person you speak of?"
"Don't lie to me, girl! I am an old bird, and have had my own flights
too often not to understand a look when I see it. You have met that man
before--I don't know where or how, but you have."
"You speak of a person I never saw or heard of," answered the girl,
trembling with inward doubt; "how can I tell you anything about him?"
Olympia almost believed her, and, for once, her acute penetration was
baffled; but a doubt remained, and she turned to Eliza.
"If you know anything about this, tell me now; it will be better for her
and for you."
"I haven't anything to tell, Mrs. Olympia; not a thing!"
"Was any one admitted to the house near Florence?"
"Yes, ma'am, there was."
"Well, a young gentleman?"
"Yes; one young un, and another, older."
"Who were they?"
"The man who taught her how to speak Italian and the music fellow."
"Only those two?"
"Not another soul came or went while we stayed in that house."
"And she conversed with no one on the way?"
"Not a soul."
Olympia turned to go out. She was not convinced; having no truth in
herself she found no power of faith in others; but, for the time, the
blunt honesty of the servant and proud sincerity of the girl silenced
her, and she went out, muttering:
"I shall get at the bottom of it yet."
Then Caroline turned to Eliza:
"Can it be? I saw no other."
"I haven't a doubt of it," said Eliza. "I always mistrusted him for an
Englishman."