THE QUARREL AND THE LETTER.
"Take your choice, young lady, take your choice! Either consent to have
your name on the bills for Monday night, or leave my house, bag and
baggage, one and all of you! Either obey me or go! I wash my hands of
the whole affair."
Here Olympia rubbed one soft white hand over the other, and shook them
apart, as if she were already washing off the annoyance that proud girl
had given her.
Caroline was deathly pale. She had grown thin and languid with the
illness that still hung about her. Around her enlarged eyes lay faint,
purplish shadows, that deepened their sad expression; but, with all her
weakness, a look of settled resolution lay on her face.
"Be it so, then!" she said, with pathetic sadness. "If my own mother--"
"Mother? Hush that! I don't believe a word of it! Brown may talk, and
swear that he never lost sight of you, but he needn't tell me! My
daughter! why don't you glory in the stage, then? Why don't you go down
on your knees and thank me for that voice? Don't dare to call me mother
till you can learn how to obey me!"
"I cannot obey you in this. If you drive me out to perish in the street
I will not!"
"Then into the street you go! Let Brown try his hand at earning a living
for you. It is more his duty than mine."
Caroline turned a wild, wistful look on the woman as she said this; then
she moved a step toward her, and the tones of her voice, as they came
through her white lips, were mournful and stormy, like wind over snow.
"What do you mean, madam? What is it that you insinuate?"
"Only this," answered Olympia, with a malicious laugh. "As you are
resolved--as you never will be anything to me again, and are determined
to throw away all your advantages, I think the truth will bring down
your pride a little, and so mean to give it just for once. I really do
suppose that you are my daughter--else, where did you get the voice you
are giving to the wind? But, if you are, that man Brown is your father,
for he was my husband once."
Caroline stood looking at the woman, white and still, her large eyes
widening, all her features in a tumult. Then she fell upon her knees,
covered her face with both hands, and cried out:
"Oh, my God! is this good man my father? Are these the thrills of joy
that a child knows for its parent?"
A man who had opened the door of Olympia's boudoir was arrested on the
threshold by these words.
Olympia saw him and sank to a chair, laughing maliciously.
"Ask him," she said, pointing to the man; "ask him. Don't look so
astonished, Brown. I have told her all about it, and you see how white
it has made her. She does not seem to relish you for a father much more
than she does the stage!"
Caroline dashed the tears from her eyes, and arose, with a smile
breaking through the scattered moisture.
"Not like him! He has always been kind, good, generous. I did not need
this to make me love him. Father, _my_ father! how many times I have
called you so, but this is real! Oh, God be thanked that you are my
father!"
"Ask him how he intends to support you," broke in Olympia, washing her
hands over again in dumb show, and drawing in her breath till it hissed
through her white teeth, as if a snake had crept up from her bad heart.
"I _will_ support her! God helping me, I will! Don't feel down-hearted,
my poor child. You shall not be ashamed of me. For your sake I will do
anything. I can go into an orchestra."
"What! I ashamed of you, my father? Why, it gives us to each other. I
have something in this wide world to love!"
Brown's eyes filled with tears. He was trembling violently.
"Father, my dear father!" murmured Caroline, drawing close to him, with
a feeling that he was all the friend she had in the world, "do not look
so troubled. This gives me such joy that I cannot bear to see tears in
your eyes, my father."
Brown did not speak; he had no power of voice, but stood, with her hands
in his, looking into her face in pathetic silence.
Olympia arose.
"It is a pretty scene, and well acted," she said; "but I am tired of
being sole audience. When you have settled upon anything, I shall have
the pleasure of bidding you farewell. I must go to rehearsal now. When I
come back, it will be convenient to have the house to myself. I give a
little supper this evening, and I remember you do not exactly approve of
my little suppers, and, for the world, would not shock the young lady!
Good morning, Caroline. Good morning, Brown. You see our pretty
experiment has failed, and we have got to part again. I think this time
will be forever!"
Olympia swept out of the room and entered her carriage, looking like a
baffled fury.
Then those two were left together, and for half an hour they sat,
looking at each other with sad, wistful eyes, talking of the past in
snatches, till slowly and sadly their minds turned to the future, and
that looked blank enough to them. What could they do? Olympia had never
been generous to her daughter or the agent. They had neither money nor
valuables. How were they to live, even for a week?
"I can, perhaps, obtain a situation in some orchestra."
Poor Brown spoke under his breath, for he knew well enough that Olympia
would never permit him to earn his bread in that way, so long as her
influence in the theatres could prevent it; but it was the only hopeful
idea he could think of, and so he suggested it with desponding
hesitation. But, to the young girl, there was encouragement even in
this.
"And I can take pupils. You remember the young lady that came to me that
night in the dressing-room--Lord Hope's daughter?"
"Remember her!" exclaimed Brown, brightening all over, "I should think
so! When she turned her face upon me and said, 'Don't be so anxious,
sir. She is better now,' I longed to fall down on my knees and worship
her!"
Tears came into Caroline's eyes. Her nature was noble and full of
gratitude. She could endure wrong and cruelty without weeping, but
generous and kind actions melted her heart.
"Ah, how good she was; we can trust her, my father."
How falteringly, and with what pathos she used this grand old word now!
Before, she had done it in affectionate play, but now, a solemn feeling
of tenderness thrilled the syllables, as "father" dropped from her lips,
and made the heart swell in his bosom with a tremulous response.
"She will speak to Lady Hope, and they will recommend pupils to us. Oh,
if we could only go back to Italy!"
As this exclamation was on her lips, the servant in blue and silver came
through the door with a salver in his hand, on which lay a letter. The
seal and monogram had struck his eye, and he brought the missive in with
an excess of ceremony that would have been laughable at another time. He
brought the letter to Caroline. She tore it open, and an eager, almost
wild look of thankfulness swept over her face as she read it.
"Oh, father, father! See what the good God has done for us!"
The servant, who lingered in the room, was so astonished at hearing that
sacred name used with thanksgiving or reverence in Olympia's house, that
he dropped the silver tray and stood open-mouthed regarding the young
lady.
"Read it! read it! Oh, this will be Heaven to us. Remark, please, you
are to come with me and Eliza. Let us start by the very next train."
It was Lady Clara's letter, which, of course, contained an invitation
from the old countess. Clara had added a little hospitality of her own,
and suggested that Brown should come to Houghton for awhile, and give
her music lessons--she was getting so out of practice. As usual, the
girl had her way, and that letter was the result. But Brown's face grew
thoughtful as he read.
"What is the matter?" inquired Caroline, anxiously.
"But how are we to get there?"
All the anxiety that made Brown's heart heavy under this good news,
broke out in these words. Caroline's face clouded, and her voice
faltered.
"Let me call Eliza and Margaret; perhaps they can point out something."
She rang the bell, and directly both the maids were informed of the
dilemma they were in.
What was to be done? It was impossible to remain a day longer in
Olympia's house. The thought was intolerable. Margaret and Eliza stood
looking at each other in blank helplessness. What was to be done? All at
once Margaret gave her head a fling and brightened all over.
"Never mind," she said, with one of her old coquettish gestures. "I may,
I may--who knows?"
Without further explanation the girl went up-stairs, got out her most
becoming hat and feather--for she had never been restricted, like an
English servant, in such matters--wrapped a scarlet shawl over her
flounced dress, and, after practising a little before the mirror, came
down with a glittering parasol in her hand.
"Eliza, just come here and see if my pannier is looped properly," she
said, giving that article a shake as she looked in at the door.
Eliza came out of the room, grim as ever, and gave the pannier a
discontented jerk or two.
"Now what are you up to?" she inquired, curtly, for she was sometimes a
little scandalized at her younger sister's coquettish airs.
"Never you mind, only tell me one thing, honest. Look at me. Ain't I
about as good looking as I ever was? If I am, tell them to wait till I
come back."
"Don't ask me!" was the curt answer. "Of course they'll wait, because
they can't help it."