LORD HILTON TAKES SUPPER WITH OLYMPIA.
She had fallen ill. The prima donna of a single hour was lying in
Olympia's bijou of a house, struggling with a nervous fever. The whole
town had been made aware of the mournful fact; for the manager had
spread the news broadcast through the journals, thus displacing
disappointment with such overwhelming sympathy as the distress of beauty
and genius is sure to excite. For more than a week, now, the prevailing
topic had been this young girl; first the promise of a brilliant debut,
then the momentary triumph and sudden breakdown; now came the news of
her illness, true, in so much that she was seriously ill, but
exaggerated into a romance which gave her out as dying with a shock of a
too sensitive nature.
Olympia sang gloriously to crowded houses. In the romance woven around
this young girl her parentage had been hinted at, and the practiced
woman of the stage had managed to turn the public rumor into popularity
for herself.
She had taken up the opera where Caroline had sunk down, and carried it
triumphantly forward, filling the world with admiration of herself and
sympathy for the girl.
On the morning when Caroline's illness was made public, some young men
were seated in the window of a club-house, and one of them threw down
the Times with an impatient movement.
"So we are not to have this new singer again to-morrow night or the
next," he said. "Here is Olympia's name in the bills, while the other is
ill with something on the brain or nerves."
"All a sham, to enhance the public interest, I dare say," answered
another, taking up the journal. "There is nothing these musical people
will not do for popularity. But it really was not needed here; the girl
has beauty enough to carry her forward, even without her glorious voice.
For my part, I am all in a fever to see her again."
A young man sat in this circle, apparently occupied by the panorama
drifting through the streets. As the conversation went on, the color
came and went in his face, and his eyes began to burn; but he said
nothing, while the others went on:
"Who is the girl? what is her real name? Some say she is an American;
others, that she is Olympia's own daughter, to whom all names are alike;
but, then, where was the woman Olympia born? Now and then a word drops
from the pretty lips which is purely American; but then she has been all
over the world, and has gathered something from all nations, so that one
can never make a true guess about her."
"Does this girl look like her?" inquired one of the young men, who had
not been at the opera last night.
"No, not exactly," was the answer. "She is taller, more queenly, in
fact; quite a different style. This new girl is superb."
"While Olympia is simply bewildering, changeable as the sky, erratic as
a comet. We all understand Olympia."
The young man, who had kept silent till now, joined in the conversation,
but his voice was constrained, and a little husky.
"Who is this woman, Olympia?"
The other young men laughed at the question.
"Who is Olympia? Why, the most bewitching, unprincipled, delightful bit
of wickedness that has been thrown on the world for years. Don't tell us
that you are to learn anything of Olympia at this time."
"I have heard of her, and seen her too, but only as a singer. What I ask
is about her life, her principles, her character as a woman."
"And you ask that of us, my dear fellow? What nonsense! Have we not said
that she is an actress?"
"Well, what then? An actress may be well-principled, honest, honorable,
and modest, too, as any woman living. I asked if this woman, Olympia,
the patroness, mother, or what you will, of this new singer, is one of
these?"
"Don't ask any of us to endorse or condemn Olympia. We know that she
gives the most delicious little suppers in the world, sings like a
siren, smiles like an angel, and gets more and more fascinating as she
grows older, as fruit ripens with age. No one ever thinks of asking her
how old she is, or where she was born. It is enough that her beauty is
in its summer, her voice perfect, and that she, who perhaps reigned over
our fathers, holds us as her slaves. As for honor, dignity, principle,
and all that, my dear fellow, who ever expects such things in a woman
like our Olympia?"
"Yet she has had the training of this new singer."
"Training? Why it is said that the girl is really her own daughter."
"I heard you say as much," answered the young man, drily.
Then another voice broke in.
"You seem so much interested in these people, Hilton,--why not go and
see for yourself? I will introduce you."
"When?"
"To-night. The Olympia has a little supper after the opera."
"But I thought the young lady was ill."
"Oh! that will make no difference. Olympia is a woman to enjoy herself,
if Death sat next door. She will be certain to have her little supper.
Will you go? Is it an engagement? If so, I will send her a note."
"Yes, I will go."
That night Olympia held high festival at her pretty house, which
overlooked one of the loveliest parks in London. Among her guests was
young Lord Hilton, the grandson of one of the proudest old earls in the
kingdom.
Olympia was delighted at the presence of this man, who had never before
been lured into her circle.
She had another reason for her satisfaction. The look which had
disturbed her still preyed on her mind. She had a keen desire to learn
how far it had relation to the young girl who lay ill up-stairs. In
order, if possible, to inform herself, she selected the young man to sit
next her at table, and artfully led the conversation to the night of
Caroline's failure.
"You were present," she said, "that night. Was ever success more
perfect, or failure more complete? It drove me wild!"
"I was present," said Hilton, very quietly, for he felt her eyes upon
him with that slow, sidelong glance that has so much cunning in it, and
this put him on his guard.
"She was coming out so magnificently," said Olympia, still vigilant, but
with the white lids drooping over her eyes, "when, all of a sudden, her
voice broke, and she fell. It must have been something in the audience."
"Perhaps," said the young man; "but what? I was looking at her all the
time, and saw nothing. In fact, the house was very still. I have seldom
seen a crowd so breathless."
Olympia turned one long glance on that face, and saw it was immovable in
all the strong, but finely-cut features. Her suspicions grew weaker now,
and she gave her attention more generally to the guests, who were
becoming a little impatient of the exclusive attention paid to Lord
Hilton; but the craft of this woman was as deep as her feelings were
superficial. She could not quite throw off the idea that, in some way,
this very person had been the cause of her defeat, and that his visit to
her house that night would end in some effort to obtain an interview
with the young creature who lay so ill up-stairs.
But she was mistaken. Hilton asked no questions, made no effort to draw
her out, but drifted into the general conversation pleasantly enough,
until the supper was near its close, and the wines had begun to do their
work.
Then the entertainment swept into an orgie; tongues were loosened, eyes
brightened and swam in moisture.
Snatches of bacchanalian songs broke from the laughing lips of Olympia.
She had been in a little awe of her new guest; but now her real nature
broke out. Her wit sparkled like the champagne with which her red lips
were continually moist; her eyes shone under the droop of those long
white lids. She grew confidential with the young noble, and was easily
led by the cool, versatile man, into conversation that she would have
stubbornly avoided earlier in the evening. In one of her bold snatches
of song she rounded off with a rollicking impromptu, which carried all
the richness and force of her voice with it. This threw the whole
company into a tumult of applause, but Hilton sat quietly and looked on,
with a smile of supreme contempt quivering about his lips.
"Ha," said Olympia, filling his glass with her own hands, "you neither
drink nor care for my singing. It is only the youth and beauty of my
daughter that can move Lord Hilton."
Her daughter! The face of the young man turned white, and his lips
closed sharply. He looked at the woman by his side, the flushed cheeks,
the soft, slumbrous eyes, with absolute repulsion. He hated the very
thought that the young creature he had found, like a bird, in that sweet
Italian home, could belong in anything to a woman like that. Still, she
had, in her reckless inadvertency, called her daughter, and though the
very idea drove the blood to his heart, it was only by a cold pallor
that the shock this one word had given to him was visible.
"Your daughter is very beautiful," he said, in a low voice.
"Did I call Caroline my daughter? Oh, well, it is no matter--the truth
will out sometime, though I would rather wait till her success is
assured. When she becomes famous, I shall glory in claiming her; but let
me warn you, it is a secret as yet. You will understand. One does not
care to own a girl as tall as that while the gloss is on one's hair.
Nothing but the most wonderful success will induce me to acknowledge her
before the world."
"But if she is your child--"
"I have said that she is my child; but it is a secret, and I did not
mean to talk about it. Tell me, now, did you discover no likeness?"
"I did not observe."
"Still, they think her so beautiful."
Lord Hilton made no answer. The conversation had become irksome to him;
but some person at the table took the last word from Olympia's lips and
repeated it aloud.
"Beautiful! You must be speaking of our new prima donna. In my opinion
she is perfect; but you, Lord Hilton, have only seen her from the
stage--can form no idea of her loveliness, or of her voice either. There
was nothing, the other night, that could compare with her singing at our
little supper here. Besides, her beauty, to be appreciated, must be
seen close. There is not a fault in her face or form, I can assure you."
Lord Hilton's face flushed angrily, then a slow whiteness crept over it
again, and he bent his head, unable to speak. The task he had imposed on
himself had become terribly painful.
Olympia was not particularly pleased with this high praise of another,
though all her ambitious hopes lay in the success of the person on whom
these encomiums were lavished. She began to shake up the sparkles in her
wine by swaying the glass to and fro with her hand, and a sullen frown
crept over her face.
"She is obstinate as a mule," she muttered; "tall and proud as
Lucifer--not at all like me. But they will rave about her beauty, just
as if she were more likely to live than to die."
"What did you say?" cried Lord Hilton, sharply; "die! die! Is there any
danger? Is she so ill?"
Olympia lifted her sleepy eyelids and flashed a suspicious glance at
him.
"Ah!" she exclaimed; "are you there! I thought so."
"You are not answering me," was the cold reply.
"You asked if there existed any danger, and I answer, yes. Did you think
we were practicing stage effects in the journals? My poor Caroline is
ill--very ill."
"And what made her ill?"
"What made her break down, after such glorious promise? Why, after she
sang before my friends here, as fresh as a lark, and drove them all so
wild that I, Olympia, was almost overlooked? There never were such
expectations; but see how it ended--a total failure, and brain fever."
"Did you say brain fever?"
The young man scarcely spoke above a breath.
"Yes, it is on the brain, or the nerves, I am not quite sure which; but
the doctors look terribly grave when I ask them about her, and speak as
if she would die."
"Would to God she might die!" exclaimed the young man, trembling from
head to foot with a burst of agitation that would not be suppressed
longer.
"What--What?" exclaimed Olympia, starting back in affright. The glass
fell from her hold, and a rivulet of amber-hued wine flashed along the
snow of the table-cloth while she sat gazing upon the young lord.
"Excuse me; I was thinking of something else," he said, with a strong
effort of self-control. "May I presume on your favor, and steal away,
now? The rest will not miss me, I think."
Olympia nodded her head hastily. The spilled wine was dripping on her
dress, so she started up, and Lord Hilton withdrew while she was shaking
the drops from its silken folds, and creating general confusion by her
laughing outcries.
Lord Hilton looked back as he crossed the passage, and shuddered at the
picture of riotous luxury that supper-table presented.
"And she was among them, in a scene like that," he said, as the door
closed after him.