The Old Countess; or, The Two Proposals

Then Caroline took one of the volumes her new teacher had brought, and retreated to a latticed window, which had a cushioned seat in it large enough for two, though I really do not believe she thought of that. At any rate, he did not accuse her of it, even in his thoughts, but went quietly to the window and took a seat by her side, at which she blushed a little, but did not move.

Caroline was very well grounded in her Italian; so, instead of grammars, these young people fell to reading the native poets, and began with Tasso—a course of studies well calculated to produce more results than one; but Brown did not understand Italian, though he was a splendid musician, and repeated it like a parrot. Besides, what did Eliza know about Tasso, Petrarch, Dante, or any of those wild fellows that disseminate love-poison by the line?

When her teacher was ready to go, Brown asked his name. I have no idea that Caroline had thought of it. The young man seemed quite taken aback for a minute, but answered, after that, something that would have sounded like an English name rendered in Italian, had a thorough Italian scholar been present, which there was not.

Well, for three months those young people sat twice a week in the seat in the lattice-window, and read the poets together. Need I say more about that?

At the end of three months Olympia had an engagement in London, and sent for Brown to join her there with his charge.

CHAPTER V.

THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER IN OPPOSITION.

Caroline started up from her sweet sleep, disturbed and almost terrified.

"What is it, mamma?" she said, holding back the hair from her lovely face with both hands. "Is any one ill—Mr. Brown?"

Olympia sat down on her daughter's bed, and drew the cloak around her; not that she was cold, but to show that her resolution was taken.

"No one is ill, Caroline; as for Brown, I know nothing about him. But I come to prepare you; for this week we shall bring you out. In what opera have you practiced most?"

"Bring me out? Oh, mamma!"

The girl fell back on her pillow, dismayed, and clasping both hands, held them out imploringly.

"Oh! I thought you had given it up."

"Foolish child! I never give anything up. Ask Brown."

It was true; that woman never gave up her own will to any one. The possibility of sacrifice or willing concession could not enter her mind.

"But I cannot, I cannot! Oh, mother! think how little I have seen of crowds. To sing before one would kill me!"

"Mother!" repeated Olympia, "how often must I tell you that I hate the word!—an American vulgarism!"

"Forgive me, mamma; it was only because I was so frightened at the idea of singing in public. But I know that you did not mean it."

The poor girl made a pitiful attempt at disbelief, and tried to win acquiescence with a timid smile.

"I not only mean it, but will have no more evasion or protest. When we left New York, you were dying to get on the stage."

"Oh, that was before I knew—before I dreamed—"

"Before you knew—before you dreamed what?"

"That it made one so—so—"

"Well, speak out!"

"So unhappy. Indeed, indeed, I cannot say what I mean; only, I would rather die than put rouge on my face, and—oh, forgive me! I did not mean to make you look so angry!"

But Olympia was angry. The prima donna of a company does not usually bear much opposition, even in trifles, and here Olympia had great interests at stake.

Through the young girl before her she intended to run a second career, and thus crowd the enjoyment of two lives into one.

"This all comes of Brown," she said. "He would have you kept quiet, and out of the world, pretending that society would distract attention from your practice; but it was all an artful plan to keep you to himself. I have not been so busy as not to understand that, let me tell him."

Caroline started up in bed, almost as much excited as the actress.

There was plenty of good honest character in the girl; and, if she appeared timid, it was from delicacy, not weakness.

"You wrong Mr. Brown. There is not a selfish feeling in his heart. What he does, is always done for my good."

"Yes; I suppose it is for your good when he drinks too much!"

There was a sneer on Olympia's lip, an evil spirit in her eye, which destroyed all its beauty; but even this did not make the girl shrink; she only put out both her hands, and turned her head away.

"Oh! how can you?" she cried. "I never saw him in my life when he was not in all respects a gentleman."

"But I have! I have!"

"Ah, madam, it is cruel to say this. Mr. Brown was my friend, my only friend, long before—before you came and took me away from my poor little home. If you could make me think ill of him, would it be kind?"

"But he has been treacherous; he has taught you hatred of the profession which you were so crazy for at one time."

"No, no; it was not Mr. Brown. I saw for myself."

"Yes, the dark side; never in its brightness or its glory. But you shall, you shall."

Caroline lay back upon her pillow and covered her face with one hand. The sight of that beautiful woman, so hard in her resolve, so completely ignoring all feelings but her own, was hateful to her.

"Please let me rest to-night," she pleaded.

"To-night, yes. It is enough that you understand me now; but, after this, I shall expect no opposition. If you are so stupidly ignorant of the power which lies in your own beauty and genius, I am not. So try and come to your senses before morning. Good-night."

The woman went out, with her head aloft, and her cloak trailing behind her, for, in her excitement, she had flung it away from one shoulder, that she might gesticulate with the arm that was free.

Caroline turned upon her pillow and cried bitterly till morning.

Olympia was right. The girl had been scrupulously kept from all society that her freshness might be preserved, and her education completed.

She had been to the theatres, here and there, when some new piece was presented, but it was rather as a study than an amusement; and after a knowledge of the public idol in private life had slowly swept away all the romance of their first meeting, the innate coarseness of this beautiful, selfish woman was not long in revealing itself to the pure-minded girl, who soon began to grieve that she could not love and still admire the mother she had at first almost worshipped. Olympia, who had found it easy enough to dictate to managers, and oppress subordinates, had far different material to act upon when she broke in upon the midnight sleep of the girl Daniel Yates had grounded in the nobility of true womanhood.

The next day, being Sunday, was Olympia's great day of rest and amusement. She slept till long after mid-day, ate an epicurean breakfast in a little dressing-room with rose-tinted draperies, ran lazily over the pages of some French novel, in the silken depths of a pretty Turkish divan, heaped up with cushions, till long after dark; then threw herself into the mysteries of a superb toilet, and came into her exquisite little drawing-room like a princess—say Marguerite of Navarre—ready to entertain the guests, invariably invited on that evening, in a fashion that made her quite as popular in this particular social strata as she was behind the footlights.

From these little suppers Caroline had been carefully excluded up to this time; but the morning after she had left the young girl in tears upon her pillow, Olympia broke into her day of luxurious repose by sending for her agent, with whom she had a rather stormy interview in the dressing-room, from which Brown came out pale as death, but with an uprightness of the person, and an expression in the eyes that no one had ever seen there before.

About an hour after he had departed, Olympia's French maid was seen hurrying up stairs to the chamber which Caroline occupied, and where she stood that moment, just as she had sprung from her chair, with a wild and startled look; for every knock she heard seemed to come from her mother, whose appearance she dreaded terribly that morning. But, instead of Olympia, the French maid came in, with a creamy-white dress of India gauze thrown over her arm, its whiteness broken up by the blue ripple of a broad sash, with a purple tinge in it; and in her hands the woman carried some half-open moss-roses, with a delicate perfume absolutely breaking from their hearts, as if they were the outgrowth of a generous soil—which they were not, however difficult it might be to decide from a first or second look; these French are so like nature in everything but themselves.

The French maid laid these things daintily on Caroline's bed, where the roses glowed out, as if cast upon the crust of a snow-bank. Then, looking upon the girl's magnificent hair, which was simply turned back from her forehead and done in braids behind, she said, with pretty, broken speech:

"I will do it in crimp and puffs, if mademoiselle pleases. With her face, it will be charming."

Caroline drew a deep breath, and cast a half-frightened, half-pleased glance at her maid, Eliza, who stood near by, looking grimly at preparations she could not understand. This was not half so dreadful as the presence she had expected, and the dress was so lovely that she could not keep her eyes from it.

"What is it all about?" questioned staunch America, with a look at France which was not altogether friendly.

"It is," answered the French maid, spreading out her little hands, "It is that madame will have mademoiselle down to her little supper. The evening will be very charming because of mademoiselle."

Caroline glanced at the blush-roses, and her eyes began to sparkle. Then she caught a glimpse of Eliza's face, and turned her glance resolutely away, looking penitent. Eliza knew something of madame's little suppers, but Caroline did not. If bursts of laughter and a soft tangle of voices sometimes came up to her room in the night, she had no means of knowing that the noise was not from the servants' hall, and Eliza would have died rather than enlighten her. Besides, she had nothing absolutely wrong to tell, for some of the first young noblemen in England came to Olympia's little entertainments; and when Eliza heard their names announced she had not a word to say, having lived long enough to attain a reverence for titles.

In fact, it is doubtful if she did not value her charge a little more highly from the fact that she lived in a house where noblemen came and went with such evident sociability.

At first Eliza had darted fiery glances at the robe of India gauze, thinking it a theatrical costume; but when she learned that it was only a dress which would introduce her darling into the best society, from which a selfish mother had rigidly excluded her, she allowed her features to relax, and absolutely smiled on the little French woman.

Then the smile, which had been struggling all the time about Caroline's mouth, broke over her whole face. She could neither keep her hands from the dress or the moss-roses, but touched them daintily, half doubtful, indeed, if they were intended for her.

"If mademoiselle will please," said the little French woman, drawing a low chair before the dressing-table, and taking an ivory brush, carved at the back like a Chinese puzzle, in her hand.

Caroline sat down, smiling in spite of herself. Eliza stood a little on one side, resolved to be upon her guard.

While she was looking, down came that abundant hair in a torrent, tress upon tress, wave after wave, with tinges of gold rippling through and through the brown. The little French woman held up both hands, brush and all, in astonishment, and burst out in a noisy cataract of French, which delighted Eliza all the more because she could not understand a word of it.

But Caroline did understand, and this outburst of genuine admiration pleased her so much that, in a moment, her face was glowing like a whole thicket of roses, and she hadn't the courage to lift her eyes, from fear that Eliza would see how foolish she was to care about what the little French woman said.

Eliza saw all this, but it only made that grim smile broader and deeper on her own face; and when the golden-brown hair was frizzed and rolled, and dropped in two rich curls on that white shoulder, she turned her face upon the French woman and said, "Very nice!" in a way that made the little woman put her head on one side, and nod it half a dozen times, while she answered:

"Yes, I tink so."

India gauze was dropped like a cloud over Caroline's head; the sash of purplish blue was girded around her waist, and bunched up in superb bows behind; then the cloudy stuff was gathered up in drapery from a silken under-skirt, tinted like the sash, and fastened back with clusters of the moss-roses.

This completed the toilet. No jewels were there, not even a string of pearls, though Olympia had ropes of them; and Caroline rather sighed for their completeness when she took a full-length view of herself in the mirror, as foolish girls will, who never learn the value of simplicity and freshness until both are lost.

Then the little French woman went away to Olympia, giving Caroline plenty of time for reflection. The first thing the girl did was to look shyly at Eliza, who pursed up her lips, and did her best to keep from smiling. Then she took courage, and said:

"Eliza."

"I hear," answered the grim hand-maiden.

"Eliza, do you think he would know me in this dress? Or, if so, would he like it, as he did that dear Italian costume?"

"I don't know," answered Eliza. "Them Italians have queer notions about dress. Now, for my part, them short skirts and low-necked waists did well enough for common-sized girls; but you're too tall, and carry your head too high, for anything but a skirt that sweeps out and puffs up like that."

"Still, I shall always like the dear old costume, Eliza. Oh, what a happy, happy life madame broke up when she sent for us!"

"Yes, I suppose so. You seemed to enjoy it; and as for that young fellow, what with his boating on the river, his shooting birds—which I hate—on the hills, and his lessons—well, really, he might about as well have lived with us."

"Oh! Eliza, shall we ever be so happy again?" cried the girl, kindling up with bright memories.

"Not just in the same way; real folks never are. But I suppose people have a pretty equal share of the good and bad things of life, as they go along. Now I haven't an idea but that the young fellow thought all was up with him when he got the letter you left at the house."

"I should not wonder," said Caroline, and her bosom began to heave with an after-swell of the indignation which had stormed it, when she left Italy at an hour's notice. "It was a cruel thing. I never will forgive you or Mr. Brown. A few hours would have made no difference, and he was coming the next day."

"What then? If he was a teacher, Mr. Brown left his money, with two months' overpay."

"His money!" repeated Caroline, with infinite scorn.

"If not money, what did he come for?" questioned the hand-maiden, sharply.

"Eliza, you shall never think that—it degrades him and me. He never touched—he never thought of money. If Mr. Brown left it, as you say, I am sure he felt insulted."

"Then what did he come for?" inquired Eliza, with dry emphasis.

"Because—because he loved me, and could not live without seeing me, because I—I—"

"Loved him," said the maid.

But Caroline had broken down wholly with this first passionate confession. The poor girl sank to a couch, flushed all over with such shame as only a woman of fine sensibilities can feel for that of which she has no reason to be ashamed at all.

"Oh! Eliza, how can you be so cruel?" she exclaimed, dropping her hands, and revealing a face of crimson, wet with tears. "I never meant to keep it from you."

"Of course, you never meant it, and you didn't do it, which is more. You supposed I didn't know. Men may be blind as bats—they usually are; and our Brown is worse than the commonality. But trust an old maid for spying out a love secret. It's like exploring a strange land for her, you know. Lord! Miss Carry, you can't keep a secret from Eliza Casey; but then, why should you? Isn't she bound to be your staunch friend forever and ever?"

These words opened a new source of anxiety to the really unhappy girl, who forgot her love-shame, and plunged at once into a new subject.

"Oh! Eliza, if you could help me. Madame is determined. That is, she wishes me to go on the stage."

"Well, you have been told that from the first."

"I know—I know; but it seemed so far off then, like death, or any other evil that you know will come, but cannot tell when. But now she says it must be at once. Oh! Eliza, I never can do it. The very fear of it makes me shudder."

"But why? I remember, when we first came out here, you had no other wish but to be like her—your mother, I mean. Like her! I would rather see you dead!"

Eliza muttered the last words under her breath, and Caroline only heard the question.

"Yes, I know. Everything seemed so bright then—she brightest of all; but I was getting to shrink from it before we went up to that dear little villa, and since then it has seemed like death. Oh! tell her this, Eliza, and beg of her to let me be as I am."

"But shall I tell her all, and say that is the reason?"

"No, no, no! You may think it. Mr. Brown may think it. That is like myself having a secret; but do not tell her for the whole world."

"Tell her! Well, well, I aint likely to; but if she is set upon it, what can I say? Madame is not a woman to give up her plans, and you have got such a voice! Sometimes I think it would be splendid to see you taking the wind out of her sails."

"But it would kill me!"

"Poor thing! Well, never mind—I will stand by you, right or wrong; but this will be a tough battle. Tell me, though, did that young fellow have anything to do with setting you against the profession?"

"There it is, Eliza. He never knew that I thought of it, and used to speak of female performers with such careless contempt, as if they were ten thousand degrees beneath him."

"And he only a teacher!" said Eliza, lifting her head in the air.

"And he only a teacher; but so proud, so sensitive, so regal in all he said or did. Oh! Eliza, if he knew that Olympia, grand, beautiful, and worshipped as she is, were my mother, I fear he would never care for me again."

"Why, how on earth could you help that?"

"I could not, and it would be wicked to desire it. But, Eliza, I ought to have had the courage to tell him, and I put it off. Every day I said to myself, the very next time he comes, and at last you know how it was. I had no chance, and now I may never see him again. He will always think me Mr. Brown's daughter, and I shall feel like an impostor. I cannot help this; but to go on the stage, when he has said so much against it, that I will not do, unless forced there by my mother's authority."

"Well, as I said before, I will stand by you, right or wrong; and so will Mr. Brown, I know. I only wish he was your father."

"He could not be kinder if he was," said Caroline.

Just then the door opened, and Olympia's French maid looked through.

"Madame is in the drawing-room, and waits for mademoiselle."

"I will come! I will come!" exclaimed Caroline, breathlessly, and she hurried down stairs.

CHAPTER VI.

SOME OLD ACQUAINTANCES GET INTO A CONJUGAL DIFFICULTY.

These persons reached London on the very Saturday when Olympia was stricken with dismay by finding an empty seat or two in her usually well packed houses. When this discovery first broke upon the prima donna, Hepworth Closs was sitting quietly in the pit, where he found himself, as if by accident. They had reached town only in time for a late dinner, when the ladies, being greatly fatigued, proclaimed their intention of retiring early, which was, in fact, casting him adrift for the evening. Being thus let loose upon the world, he very naturally brought up at the opera, and was seated so near the stage that his eyes more than once caught those of Olympia, who gave him one of those quick glances of recognition, which seemed aimed at the whole audience, but hit only one person.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but isn't she a stunner!" said a voice, as the first act closed. Hepworth might not have recognized these words as addressed to himself, but for the weight of a large hand which was laid on his arm. As it was, he turned promptly, and encountered a stout, heavy man, handsomely dressed, but for a massive gold chain which passed across his bosom into his vest pocket, and drooped in glittering lengths far down the rotundity of his capacious person, and a large diamond that blazed on his plaited shirt bosom. From the chain and the diamond, Hepworth's first thought was, that the person must be some Californian or Australian acquaintance, belonging to his old mining days, but the man soon set that idea aside.

"You don't happen to remember me, Mr. Hepworth, but I knew you at the first sight. Ask my lady here. Didn't I say, Mrs. Stacy, that gentleman with the coal-black mustacher, and them splendid eyes, is Mr. Hepworth, if ever I set my two eyes on Mr. Hepworth, which I did many a time, when he used to come to Forty-third street?"

Hepworth started. Forty-third street! Was he to be forever haunted by the place and people connected with that awful tragedy? Why was this? The guilt was not his, yet he could not feel himself near any person, however remotely connected with it, without thrills of dread.

The man had been talking on, but Hepworth heard nothing at first, he had been too painfully startled; when he did listen, these words fell on his ear:

"That was an awful affair, Mr. Hepworth; most people was astonished, but I never was; always had my suspicions of that old woman; believe she robbed the house of lots and lots of things, after the lady was dead; in fact, am sure of it. Mrs. Stacy here is of my opinion. There was a girl in the house—perhaps you remember her, sir—Maggie we used to call her; she and the old woman Yates was thick as thieves, and both laid their heads together. It wasn't for nothing, let me tell you; their nests were feathered, you may believe. There never was a sharper girl than Maggie Casey."

"She was just a forerd, imperdent cretur as set her cap at you like a fiery draggon," broke out the woman, who occupied a seat by the stout man, and was evidently his wife; "a cretur as I wouldn't wipe my shoes on, after a long walk—no, not if she'd give me fifty pair for doing of it."

"I am not saying anything to the contrary, my dear, am I? That girl was after me sharp enough, but I never encouraged her. Mr. Hepworth can satisfy you on that point, my own Harriet, for I remember, as if it was yesterday, he and I talking about it the very day afore that murder, and we both agreed that her conduct was scandalous."

Hepworth shuddered. How well he remembered that artful conversation. How hideous it appeared to him now.

"But I don't think Mr. Hepworth remembers us for positive, even now," said the woman; "just look in my face, young gent, and say if you do."

"Harriet, my dear, isn't that a little, just a little, promiscous?" said the husband, as a broad, red face, with a pointed nose, turning up in the centre, and two small leaden blue eyes looking across it, was bent forward, and challenged Hepworth's inspection. "Remember, things have changed since we knew this gentleman."

"In course they have changed, and I haven't no doubt that is just what is a puzzling him now; but when I ask Mr. Hepworth if he remembers the first punken-pie he ever eat in his born days, and who made it, he'll be sure to remember Harriet, and I ain't ashamed to say that I am her, if I do wear an Injur shawl, and if that diment in your bozzom is a flashing right in his eyes. Self-made men, and women too, mayn't be of much account in England, but in New York, the aristocracy are always a trying to make out that they were born next door to the alms-house, and started life with just twenty-five cents in their pockets, so you and I needn't be ashamed."

Hepworth was not cosmopolitan, and managed to get the truth out of this confusion of cockney, Irish, and Yankee dialect. In fact, at the first moment, he had recognized Matthew Stacy and Harriet Long in the persons who claimed his acquaintance, and they stung his memory like a nest of serpents.

"You'll be glad to know," said Stacy, "that Harriet has been, in all respects, up to the 'casion whenever I've made a rise in the world. There's smartness in that woman, I can tell you. When I was elected alderman of our ward, she just went into the saloon and dealt out licker to my constituents with her own hand. There is no telling the number of votes she got for me by that perseeding. You'd be astonished."

Here the curtain went up with a rush, and Stacy could only make himself heard by sharp whispers, which reached Hepworth in fragments, when the music sank lowest.

"Got into a first-rate thing. Mayor with us—street contracts—cut through, widened—got hold of a dead charter—revived it—stock went up like winking—kept the Irish vote of the ward in my fist—no counting the presents that woman got. I never took one, of course; such a woman!"

Here Olympia's voice swept through the house, with an outpouring of melody that brought the audience to its feet, but when the tumult subsided, Hepworth found that the man had been talking on and on, with an under-tow of political gossip, that reached him in words at last.

"They wanted the Legislature, which wasn't to be had without money, you know; two or three men had been seen—nothing less than a hundred thousand would do it. I was president of the board, went up myself, saw the members, who sent me to their confidential men—jackals we call 'em, ha! ha!—got it done for sixty thousand—said nothing, but divided the rest—jackals got twenty, the other twenty—you understand. She got an Inger shawl out of that operation, the very one she has on."

"No, it isn't nothing of the sort. This one was the other," whispered Mrs. Stacy, holding up a corner of the magnificent shawl she wore.

Hepworth turned and gazed upon the shawl until his face grew white as death, in the gaslight. The very sight of that rich garment made him faint.

The mistake he had made had a silencing effect upon Stacy too. He had no wish that the history of that garment should be produced, and when his wife was about to speak, silenced her at once.

"My dear Harriet," he said, "how often have I told you that talking at a theater or the operer is awfully vulgar. I wonder you can persist in it, and Mr. Hepworth by. Just listen to that music! Haven't you no taste? If you haven't, just take a look around the boxes. That young feller there is the Prince of Wales."

Mrs. Stacy took a mother-of-pearl opera glass from her lap, and obediently turned it upon the royal box.

Before the performance was over, and while Hepworth was drawn back, in spite of himself, to the most painful scenes of his life, an usher came down the nearest passage, and put a little twisted note into his hand. It was from Olympia, inviting him to supper the next evening.

Hepworth crushed the pretty missive in his hand, while he turned to send a verbal refusal, but the usher had withdrawn, and he had no other way of sending a reply that night.

The opera was at its close now, and Hepworth left the house, irritated and restless. Could he find no place in which this miserable past would not haunt him? He had hardly made his way through the crowd when his arm was seized, and Stacy almost wheeled him around on the pavement.

"My dear sir, this way. Mrs. Stacy is already in the carriage. Of course we would not ride and let you go afoot. Have been a poor man myself once—needn't deny that to you. Know what it is to keep up a show without capital. But no old friend of mine shall go afoot while I have the wherewith to pay for a carriage, and an empty seat in it. Shall set in the back seat with Mrs. Stacy, upon my soul you shall, and that's an honor I don't offer to every man. Now just tell me where you are putting up."

Hepworth laughed, in spite of his annoyance. The patronizing fussiness of the ex-alderman struck a keen sense of the ridiculous, which was strong in his character.

"If you insist," he said. "But you are too generous."

"Not at all, not at all. When Alderman Stacy does a thing, he does it handsomely. This way, this way!"

Hepworth seated himself in the carriage where Mrs. Stacy squeezed herself in one corner, and gathered up her skirts to make room for him, and Stacy had his foot on the step, when a new poster, just placed at the door of the opera house, struck his attention, and he stepped back to examine it.

"'First appearance of a young American, a protege of Olympia.' Just read that poster, Mr. Hepworth, and tell me what you think of it," he said, lifting himself into the carriage. "Mrs. Stacy, my dear, just look that way, and tell me if you can guess who it is that will make a first appearance Monday night? You know that young lady, and so does Mr. Hepworth. Now, make a guess."

"How can you?" said Mrs. Stacy. "You know, Matthew, dear, I never was good at conundrums and such like."

Matthew puffed himself out with a deep, long breath, and clasping two huge hands encased in flame-colored gloves on his knee, leaned toward Hepworth.

"You try, now."

Hepworth shook his head, and Stacy burst out with his mystery.

"It's the identical child that was brought up at the inquest in Forty-third street—Daniel Yates' little daughter."

"No!" exclaimed Mrs. Stacy. "That little creature?"

"It ain't nobody else—you may bet high on that, Mrs. Stacy."

Hepworth kept perfectly still, but his heart fairly stopped beating.

"But how did you find out, Matthew, dear?"

"Oh! we aldermen find out everything. The girl was brought up in the country, near Sing-Sing, in a cedar-post cottage that the executor wanted to raise some money on. I went up to see it, and had a good look at the girl. Yes, my dear, she was, to say, very handsome, but proud. Daniel Yates had brought her up like a queen, and I give you my word she looked it; but there was no mistake about it. The executor had just gobbled up everything Yates left, and there was no one to look after him, so that the girl was just nowhere financially. I found out that the cottage could not be sold or mortgaged, nor let either, according to law, though the executor tried it on hard, and came again and again about it, especially after she left it. So I found out everything about the girl. That primer donner took a fancy to her, and adopted her right out of hand because of her voice, and to-morrow night you can both of you see her, for I mean to have a box up among the British arrestocracy that night, and I invite you both free gratis for nothing."

"Are you sure of this?" questioned Hepworth, who had not spoken till now.

"Just as sure as I am that Alderman Stacy sits before you. But if you don't believe it, ask the girl yourself. I mean to call on her, and Mrs. Stacy will do likewise. You can go along. That is, we will call, if she comes out first chop on Monday night."

"Mr. Stacy," said the superb matron in the back seat, drawing herself up with wonderful dignity, "I don't mean to put on airs nor nothing because I'm your lady and richer than some folks, or Mr. Hepworth wouldn't be an honored guest in this here carriage; but I must set my foot square aginst actresses and primmer donners—in short, theatre-clers in general."

"Just you hear that," said Stacy, looking at Hepworth. "Isn't she coming it down strong, and lifting of her head high?"

"It isn't that, Mr. Stacy, but because I am a wife and a—a woman—that I feel called upon to stand between them creturs and the sect. Pay them your money, Mr. Stacy—pay them any amount of money from the front—but nothing beyond that, Mr. Stacy!"

"Oh, humbug," said Mr. Stacy; "that is putting it too strong, Harriet—as if I couldn't pay money or not, just as I please."

"It isn't humbug, Mr. Stacy, but a question of benignant morality, which it is every woman's duty to take up and hurl back, till she totters on the brink, martyr-like, between heaven and earth! Don't you think so, Mr. Hepworth?"

"Did you ever hear anything up to that?" exclaimed Stacy, swelling with pompous satisfaction. "Harriet is the sort of woman that a man of substance can depend on, morrerly, financierly, and—and—. Not that I'm going to give in, you know; but it's satisfaction to know that your money has lifted such a person into her proper spear."

"That's very kind of you, and I feel it, Stacy, dear; but when you speak of lifting me up with your money, who was it that owned the first five hundred dollars you, or me, Mr. Stacy?"

"Harriet!"

"It's no use thundering out my baptismal name against me, Mr. Stacy, for that's a thing I won't bear at no price! Truth is truth, Mr. Hepworth, and rich as that man is, rolling over and over in gold, like a porpose in salt water, it was my five hundred dollars that did it! Let him say if I didn't own that much?"

"But didn't I marry you, and then didn't you own me? Would you set down good looks, financial ability, and moral character A number one, at five hundred dollars, and you—"

What was coming next Hepworth was destined never to learn, for Mrs. Stacy, overcome by a fit of conjugal remorse, leaned forward and placed one substantial hand in the flame-colored glove of her husband.

"Matthew, forgive me! I didn't mean it. That mention of the primmer donner and her protager upset me; but I am your wife yet, Stacy, dear—your true and lawful wife—just as ready to travel with you into every tropical climate of Europe as I ever was."

Stacy would not clasp his flame-colored fingers around that hand, but let it drop with ignominious looseness, while he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and buried his face in it.

"Harriet! Harriet! you have hurt my feelings, mortified my—my manhood before an old friend!"

It was in the night, the carriage was close, the lamps dim, and Hepworth only knew that there a heap of drapery launched itself into the front seat, that a voice came from the midst, saying:

"Oh, Matthew! Matthew!"

Then the white handkerchief dropped like a flag at half mast, and the reconciliation was complete.

CHAPTER VII.

THE OPERATIC SUPPER.

Hepworth Closs had in all loyalty told Lady Clara of the invitation he had received from Olympia, and, instead of resenting it as he expected, she met his vague desire more than half-way—one of the wisest things any woman can do, for half the sins in the world are committed because they are forbidden; not that this young girl knew of the wisdom. With her, it was half pride, half bravado; she was indignant that Hepworth should think of going—more indignant that he should have refused the invitation at once, without telling her of it.

The result was, she insisted on his accepting it, though her heart was burning with jealousy all the time.

Closs, as I have said somewhere, had learned many things in his travels; but in Japan and the frontier countries of America girls like Clara had not often come under his observation, and he was far too deeply in love for a cool examination of her character or actions.

So her impulse of unbounded generosity deceived him utterly, and having some shrinking curiosity regarding Daniel Yates' daughter, he resolved to accept Olympia's invitation.

Of course, Clara found a dozen absurd reasons for quarreling with him that day, not one of which seemed to relate to Olympia; yet that beautiful woman was the root of them all, if Hepworth could have understood it.

But he only comprehended that every room in that sumptuous dwelling was dull as a wilderness on that particular Sabbath day. Rachael kept her room; Clara would not make herself agreeable; and he felt it a relief when night came and took him to the little bijou of a mansion where Olympia was waiting the advent of her guests.

Hepworth had seen this woman in New York, and knew something of the fantastic elegance with which she could surround herself; but the house he entered surpassed anything he had ever seen in that republican city.

Nothing sad or even grave in art or nature was ever permitted to visit the Queen of Song in her own home. Her servants were expected to be smiling and cheerful. There was not a sombre corner in her dwelling.

The very hall was a marvel of art; statuettes of snow-white marble, airy and graceful as stone could be chiselled, seemed ready to escort the guest into the unique drawing-room beyond.

Delicate bric-a-brac occupied gilded brackets on the walls, or crowded the statuettes upon the floor; a laughing faun held back the silken curtain that concealed the entrance to that inner room where the goddess herself presided; a soft mellow light fell upon these treasures, making their beauty still more exquisite.

A servant in silver and blue livery admitted Hepworth, and pointed to the faun, who seemed inviting him forward with a fantastic gesture.

The servant disappeared, his duties ended when the outer door was opened.

Those who visited Olympia were supposed to know their way to her presence. Hepworth lingered a moment in the hall. Those beautiful marble people seemed enticing him to stay, and, for the instant, he felt an unaccountable reluctance to present himself before the actress; a feeling of humiliation came upon him that he should be willing to visit any woman whom the lady of his love could not meet on equal terms. What right had he there?

This question was almost upon his lips, when a silken rustle made him hold his breath. It was a young girl, tall, stately, beautiful, coming down the marble stairs. He was standing near the centre of the floor, but drew back, step by step, as the girl descended, turning white and cold, as if there had been some wrong in his admiration of an antique group in bronze, which occupied a bracket on the wall close by him.

The girl paused, looked toward him, and, after a little hesitation, crossed the hall.

"Permit me to show you the way," she said. "The servant should not have left you so."

Hepworth did not speak, but stood gazing upon her blankly. Her beauty had struck him dumb.

She made a little gesture with her hand and moved on. He followed, without a word, by the marble faun, through the lifted curtains, and into the presence of Olympia, who was walking up and down the Gobelin carpet, with the light of a Venetian chandelier falling over her.

She was becoming impatient for the arrival of her guests. Yet the room seemed peopled fully; for, on every hand, mirrors that seemed framed in a network of gold, threw back and duplicated the group that stood there, the rich coloring of the draperies, two vases of Malachite and Sevres, the gifts of emperors, and the carpet, where masses of blossoms seemed starting into fresh bloom, wherever a footstep trod them down.

"Mr. Hepworth!" cried Olympia; "my good American friend! This is a happiness!"

Hepworth bowed over the white hand she held out; but did not kiss it, as she might have expected, being used to all sorts of homage.

She looked at him in pleasant astonishment, dropped her hand with a faint laugh, and turned to the young girl.

"Caroline, you have never seen Mr. Hepworth, I think."

"Closs, Hepworth Closs, dear lady; you forget."

"Do I? Well, it is very likely, though, I am sure, we always called you Hepworth; but that's nothing; in our Bohemian set we generally preferred the given name, and sometimes only took half of that. Ah, ho! here come our friends at last!"

The curtain was flung back, revealing what seemed a crowd in the hall, which soon came forward, with little ceremony, and some rather riotous noise.

Olympia was in her element now. Heart and soul she loved society, and all these persons were picked people of her own choice—brilliant persons in their various capacities, each bringing a store of wit or some accomplishment to swell the general gaiety. Artists, dilettanti noblemen, epicures, and persons who would have accompanied Orpheus in all his explorations for the music he could give them.

Of course, there was high mirth and some sparkling wit among a group like this, in which several females mingled brilliantly, and sang like sirens after Olympia had set them the example. These were professional, of course, but wonderfully clever, and talked charmingly, as women who are reckless of criticism usually do; but in all that was said, a certain vein of doubtful license sometimes brought the color to Caroline's cheek. She could not thoroughly understand the conversation of these people. They seemed to have come out of another world to astonish and bewilder her. She knew that some of the men present were noblemen, and saw that their manners, and even the tones of their voices, changed when they addressed her.

From the secluded life she had led, this girl was incapable of making quick comparisons. She only knew that none of these men possessed the gentle tenderness or the proud bearing of the teacher, who had become to her a beau-ideal of true manhood. Of all the men present she felt the most sympathy with Hepworth Closs. He had been in America, had known the places she loved so well, and could understand her loneliness in a scene like that; but there was something even in this man that startled her a little.

His fine eyes were frequently lifted to her face with a look that troubled her, a look that seemed to go beyond her and far away into the past or future. What was he thinking of? Why were his answers about America so dreamy and vague? Why did he look so sad while the voice of Olympia was filling the whole house with such glorious bursts of music?

Before she could answer any of these questions, Olympia arose from the piano, and, with a light wave of her hand, said:

"Come, Caroline, let them hear what is in your voice."

How careless and natural it all seemed! What a tumult of smiles and entreaties followed these few caressing words!

They were words of iron to that proud, shrinking girl. She knew how much of stern, selfish power lay under the peach-like softness of that voice. Her color went and came; her lips parted in absolute terror. She understood now why she had been permitted to join her mother's guests for the first time.

"Come, my darling!"

Olympia's voice grew softer, sweeter; but there was an undertone in it that Caroline dared not disobey. She arose, white and cold, her limbs trembling, her eyes turned upon Olympia like those of a hunted doe appealing for its life; but there was no relenting in that beautiful face—nothing but smiles.

Hepworth Closs saw how cruelly the proud girl suffered, and was by her side in an instant. The firm clasp of his hand, as he led her to the piano, gave her strength. She thanked him with a look, and those frightened eyes implored him to stay by her, as if he were the only friend she recognized in the room.

It must be a terrible fright that can entirely overcome real genius.

The first notes of Caroline's voice trembled out from her lips like the cry of a young bird when it first tempts the air. The intense stillness with which the little group listened, took away her breath. But all this passed away; her voice gathered up its tones and swelled into a power of music that Olympia, in her best days, had never reached. She forgot the people around her—forgot everything but the glorious genius which thrilled her whole being with ecstasies of harmony. The nightingale, nested in clustering roses and bathed with moonlight, never poured forth its song with a sweeter impulse.

At first it was the desperation of genius, but that soon merged itself into an exquisite power that held her little audience in amazement.

Olympia grew restless. Had she, with her own hands, given her crown and sceptre to another? How superbly beautiful the creature looked with that glow of inspiration on her face! How her own devoted adorers crowded around the piano, leaving her on the outskirts of the crowd quite alone!

The woman's self-love and most active vanity were disturbed; but above that rose another passion that had of late years grown strong within her—avarice. She recognized the sure ring of gold in those notes, and exulted over it.

As Caroline turned from the piano flushed, and, as it were, inspired by a new life, a little storm of bravos broke over her. Just then the supper-room was thrown open; but even the exquisite picture it presented failed to draw the crowd from its new idol.

But Caroline was falling back to her normal state, and all this tumultuous admiration terrified her.

This annoyed Olympia, also. She made a signal to the servant who stood waiting, and his announcement, in a loud voice, that supper was served, broke up the crowd which held Caroline prisoner.

Olympia led the way into the most superb little supper-room that even an artist could imagine. It was, in fact, a temple, connected only by one compartment with the house.

A shallow dome, with ground glass, through which a tender light shone like sunbeams through sifted snow, by a gilded network over ground glass, which also reflected hidden lights like a chain of clouded stars.

This gallery was connected with the floor by slender marble shafts, around which passion flowers, white jessamines, creeping dwarf roses, and other clinging plants wove their blossoms up to the lighted gallery, whence they fell in delicate spray, forming arches of flowers all around the room.

The recesses thus garlanded in were lined with mirrors, in which the crimson cushions of couch and chair, the splendid supper table, with all its rich paraphernalia of frosted plate, sparkling glass, translucent wines, and fruit in all its mellow gorgeousness of coloring were reflected over and over again.

When that gay crowd came into the room, led by Olympia, every recess seemed to fill with its own merry company, and in each that handsome prima donna presided like a goddess; while the tall figure of a proud, beautiful girl sat near, looking strangely wild and anxious as a loud, bacchanalian spirit broke into the scene, and turned it into a revel. Amid the gurgle of wine and the mellow crush of fruit, some one called out:

"Fill up! fill up! A bumper to our new Queen of Song!"

With a half-suppressed shout and a waving of glasses, the party sprang up, drops of amber and ruby wine rained down to the table from a reckless overflow of the uplifted goblets.

Every recess gave back the picture with endless change of view; and then the voice called out again:

"To-morrow night we will show her how England can receive American genius and American beauty. Lady, we drink to you."

To-morrow night! Every vestige of color fled from that poor girl's face. She attempted to rise, supported herself with one hand on the table a moment, then in the midst of that riotous toast, sank back to her chair, with her face turned imploringly on Hepworth Closs.

When the revellers had drained their glasses and turned to look for a reward in the face they had pronounced divine, it had disappeared. Amid the confusion, Hepworth had led Caroline from the room.

"It is too much for her," said Olympia, tossing half a dozen peaches on the table in her search for the mellowest. "She is such a noble, grateful creature, and has not yet learned how to receive homage."

"While our Olympia almost disdains it. Fill up for our goddess, The Olympia!"

"Wait a minute!"

It was the young noble next the actress who spoke. He had taken some grape-leaves from a crystal vase near him, and was weaving the smallest amber-hued and purple clusters with them in a garland, with which he crowned the goddess before her libation was poured out. She accepted the homage, laughing almost boisterously, and when the grape-wreath was settled in her golden hair, stood up, a Bacchante that Rubens would have worshipped; for it made no difference to her in what form adulation came, so long as she monopolized it.

That moment Caroline was lying upon her bed up-stairs, shaking in every limb, and crying in bitterness of spirit.

CHAPTER VIII.

BEHIND THE SCENES.

Just as the audience began to pour in through the opened doors the carriage drove up to the stage entrance, and Olympia took a leap from the steps and held the carriage door open with her own hand, while Caroline descended more slowly. The light from a neighboring lamp fell upon her face, and revealed the tears that stood upon her cheeks, and a half rebellious look in the eyes, which Olympia saw, and met with angry bitterness.

"Crying again? Shooting spiteful looks at me, as if I were a monster, instead of a tender, considerate, self-sacrificing mother, ready to share everything with you, even my glory! Was ever such ingratitude?"

Caroline did not answer, but walked into the narrow door, and stood upon the dreary stage, panting for breath, like some superb animal from the wild woods, hunted down, and without hopes of escape.

"This way—come this way," said Olympia, taking hold of her arm. "Perhaps you will remember that we are late. The audience was crowding in like a torrent when we passed the door. Come!"

Caroline allowed herself to be led along the stage, through yawning vistas of scenery ready placed for use, and along dark passages, until she came to Olympia's dressing-room, in which a blaze of light was reflected by half-a-dozen mirrors, and fell like sunshine on a pile of gorgeous vestments laid out for her use.

Caroline shrank back with a faint, sick feeling. Oh, how everything had changed since she was so fascinated by a scene like that! Her delicate, proud nature revolted from the splendid confusion. From her very heart she loathed the sumptuous garments with which Olympia had hoped to tempt her.

"Is there no hope?" she cried, desperately. "I would rather suffer anything than undertake this part!"

"Hope? Yes, there is everything to hope. The house is crowded already. There never was so fine an opening. Come, make ready!"

"Not if I have the power to resist."

She spoke in a low but resolute voice, which frightened Olympia, who stood gazing at the pale young face turned upon her with a frown of terrible anger gathering on her forehead.

"Caroline, you cannot resist. My word is given, the contract signed, my honor pledged. Would you disgrace me forever?"

"Your honor pledged, and I belong to you," said the girl. "I see, I see—there is no escaping! It is my miserable destiny!"

Caroline took off the cloak in which she was wrapped, flung down all her magnificent hair, and seated herself before one of the mirrors.

"Do with me as you please," she said, turning a weary glance upon the mirror. "It may be my death, but you will have it so."

The next moment that unhappy girl found herself in the hands of a clever French maid, who fairly revelled in her task, as she shook out that rich mass of hair, and held it up for the light to shine through. But Caroline took no heed. The toilet only reminded her of that most hideous one when Marie Antoinette was prepared for the scaffold. For the moment she almost wished it possible to change places with that unhappy woman.

But the French waiting-maid went on with her work, while Olympia stood by, directing her.

Not till she felt a soft touch on her cheek did the girl rebel. Then she started up, and, pushing the maid away, rubbed her cheek with a handkerchief so resolutely that the maid clapped her hands, declaring that it was enough—no roses could be more lovely.

Then she fell to her task again, muttering to herself:

"Oh, it will come in time! Youth is so satisfied with itself. But it all ends in that."

Here the maid nodded toward a tiny jar of rouge, as if to encourage it, and went on with her task.

"Now look at yourself!" said Olympia, tossing aside some garment that had been flung over the swinging-glass. "What do you think of that?"

Caroline looked, and saw a beautiful woman, with sweeping garments of rose-colored silk, and a cloud of frost-like lace flung over her head and trailing down her shoulders. Splendid jewels—whether real or false, she did not care to ask—twinkled like stars through the lace, both on her head and bosom. The pictures thus reflected were beautiful, but stormy.

Olympia saw that the rebellious spirit was but half subdued.

"What can I do?" she said, in her perplexity, addressing the maid, who lifted up both hands and shook her head as she answered:

"Ah, madame! if a toilet like that fails, who can say?"

"I will send for Brown. She will listen to him," said Olympia, driven to desperation. "With that spirit, she will never get the rollicking air for her first act."

She went to the door, and found the teacher lingering near, restless and anxious almost as herself.

"Brown—I say, Brown—come in! She is dressed, but so obstinate! If she were about to play Norma, it would be worth everything, but in this part—! Do come in, dear Brown, and get her up to the proper feeling."

Brown entered the room in absolute distress. He would gladly have kept that young creature from the stage; but having no power to aid her in avoiding it, was nervously anxious that she should make a success.

Caroline turned to him at once, and came forward with her hands held out.

"Oh, Mr. Brown, help me! It is not too late. Let them say I am sick. Indeed, indeed, it will be true! She can take the part, and leave me in peace. Ask her, beg of her; say that I will go into her kitchen, be her maid, go out as a teacher—anything on earth, if she will only spare me this once! Ask her, Mr. Brown. Sometimes she will listen to you!"

Brown held both her hands. They were cold as ice, and he felt that she was trembling all over.

"My dear, dear child! I have pleaded with her. I have done my best."

"But again—again! Oh, Mr. Brown, do!"

Brown drew Olympia on one side, and entreated her to give the unhappy girl more time; but he knew well enough that he was asking almost an impossibility—that the woman had no power to grant that which he implored of her. In her arrogant power she had pledged that young creature, body and soul, to the public. How could she draw back, when the crowding rush of the audience might now be heard from the place where they stood.

Still the man pleaded with her, for he loved the girl better than anything on earth, and, knowing something of the feelings which made the stage so repulsive to her, would have died to save her from the pain of that night's experience.

Olympia was impatient, nervous, angry. What did the man think? Was she to throw away the chances of a great success and a brilliant fortune, because a romantic girl did not know her own mind? Was she to disgrace herself before all London?

Brown had no answer. The whole thing was unreasonable—he knew that well enough; but his heart ached for the poor girl. So he had done his best, and failed miserably.

"Go back and cheer the foolish thing up," said Olympia. "You can do it. She loves you better than any one in the world. Now, if you want to oblige me, give her courage, soothe her. I never saw such a creature! With the genius and voice of an angel, she has no ambition; but it will come. Before the drinking song is over, she will forget herself. Go, Brown, and give her courage."

Brown went back to the dressing-room, feeling like an executioner.

Caroline met him eagerly; but when she saw his face, her heart turned to stone.

"I see! I see!" she said. "I am doomed! But, remember, I was forced into this. Of my own choice, I would have died first; but she is my mother, and, in my ignorance, I promised her. Tell him this, if you should ever see him. I never shall. After what he said of parts like this, I should perish with shame. Ha! what's that?"

"They are calling you," faltered Brown.

She caught a sharp breath and sprang away from him, like a deer when the hounds are in full cry.