Chapter 7

THE OPERATIC SUPPER.

"Indeed, Mr. Closs, I insist!"

"But, my dear child, I have no particular desire to go."

"That is because you think that I care about it. Why should I? In fact, it is unbearable that you should have the idea."

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.