Chapter 5

THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER IN OPPOSITION.

Of course there is no such thing as arousing all London into a fit of enthusiasm, because millions of people are not moved at the same moment by anything less than a revolution. But the West End, just then, wanted an excitement, and found it in the coming of Olympia. Her style was new, her action a little too free, perhaps, for the high-bred dames of the aristocracy; but they all went, and were amused, shocked, fascinated, and went again, but only to keep the young people, they said, from utter demoralization--the creature really was irresistible.

At any rate, Olympia was the fashion, and drew famously, till a rival novelty proclaimed itself. Then she was horror-stricken by seeing a few empty seats in the house. To Olympia, an empty seat was desolation.

That night Olympia went to her daughter's room the moment she reached her hotel after a late performance. The cloak which she had worn from the theatre still hung about her shoulders. Her cheeks blazed with rouge, her eyes were restless and anxious.

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.