The Old Countess; or, The Two Proposals Part 28

Alas, alas! he had witnessed her defeat, her bitter humiliation!

Why had she not told him before, that her mother was an actress, a singer, of whose reputation he had heard; that her own destiny must be guided by this woman, and could hardly have a higher aim than she had already reached. He would think that she had deceived him, and she had, but with no premeditation. She had honestly intended to tell him everything, but the suddenness of their departure from Italy had rendered all explanation impossible. What could she do but hide herself forever from him and the whole world? She forgot the bursts of applause that had followed the first effort of her voice, and sank everything together in one sweep of bitter shame.

"My darling! my poor darling!"

It was Brown who had crept into her room, crest-fallen and drooping, like a man stunned by some heavy blow. Caroline started up.

"Oh! my friend! You are sorry for me, yet I have disappointed you so; my heart aches! my heart aches! but what can I do?"

"Never mind," answered the tender-hearted man. "It was the fright, stage fright--a terrible thing; but it seldom comes twice. Why, that woman, your mother I mean, broke down over and over again, but the parts were so small, no one observed it enough to clap or hiss, while you sang like an angel, up to the very minute you fainted. I never saw anything like it."

Caroline sank back to her pillow, moaning. She was still in her theatrical costume, and its glitter sickened her.

"Don't take on so," persisted the kind musician. "It was not a failure.

No one will consider it so. On the contrary, it can be made to tell, and your next appearance will be an ovation."

Caroline started to her elbow again.

"My next appearance! and you say that! You! you! Oh! Mr. Brown, I did not think you would turn against me!"

"Turn against you, my child?" Tears trembled in the man's voice, and the words quivered on his lips as he added: "My poor darling. Do you not know that old Brown would die for you?"

"Then keep me from the stage; s.n.a.t.c.h me from a life that I loathe. I tell you, all this is against my nature. I have no genius to carry me forward, no ambition, no hope. Oh! that is gone, quite."

"But it is an honorable profession," faltered Brown, in his distress.

"Think how many n.o.ble geniuses have found immortality on the stage."

"I know it, I know it well; but they were led that way, heart and soul, while I have no wish for fame or anything that it could bring. What does a woman want with immortality--above all, a poor young girl like me, whose very heart trembles in her bosom, when a crowd of strange eyes are turned upon her, as they were on me to-night?"

"But you will soon get over that."

"No. I never shall. This one night has broken up my life, and well nigh killed me. Let what may come, I will starve rather than tread that stage again."

"Hush! dear, hush! This pa.s.sion will make you worse."

"But I mean it, Eliza, and I say it here and now, when you and Mr.

Brown, the only friends I have on earth, are standing by. Think for me, Eliza, and you also, my kind, kind guardian!"

"Ah, if I had the power," said Brown, answering Eliza's appealing look with a mournful shake of the head; "but the madame will never give her up."

"She must," said Caroline, kindling with desperate opposition: "I am not her slave. G.o.d does not give up the soul and conscience of a child to her mother."

"Especially one who never did a thing for her child, but left her for others to bring up," broke in Eliza, uttering a bitter truth, in her angry pity for the girl. "Mr. Brown, all that I have got to say is this: you and I must stand by this young cretur, let her do what she will. She is more our child than hers. I stand by that. If she don't want to put on this splendiferous dress again, why it shall not come within a rod of her. If her heart is set against singing on the stage, we are not the people to see her dragged there against her will. You stand by me, I'll stand by you, and we'll roll ourselves like a rock in that woman's way, if she attempts to force our child into the theatre again."

"But how can we oppose her? She has the power. We have not, at this moment, five pounds among us."

Eliza's face fell as if it had been suddenly unlocked.

"No more we have, and in a strange country, too," she said, dolefully.

Here Caroline joined in.

"But I can teach. If I please all those people, surely I can teach."

"Sure enough!" said Eliza, brightening a little. "What do you say to that, Mr. Brown?"

"We must take time. Perhaps there will be no cause for trouble. When it comes in earnest, you shall not fight alone, Eliza. So comfort yourself, my child. The old man would rather beg for bread on the highway than see you forced to anything that is so distasteful. Now try and sleep."

Brown bent down and smoothed the girl's hair with his hand. Then he turned from her with tears in his eyes, and crept out of the room.

Caroline followed him with wistful eyes until the door closed. Then she turned to Eliza.

"Oh! Eliza, do this one thing for me, if you can. Let, let no one come in to-night. I can endure no more."

"They'll have to knock me down and trample on me if they do, that is all," answered the hand-maiden. "My gracious! How I wish we were in our own little house again up in Sing-Sing."

"Oh! if we were!" sighed the girl. "Why did we ever leave it?"

"Because we were a couple of born fools, that's why!" answered the maid.

"Born fools! and I the biggest, the oldest, the most outrageous fool of all! Wasn't we independent? Couldn't you have took scholars, and I washing by the dozen? Hadn't we the sweetest little garden in that whole town? such cabbages, such onions, and lettuce headed like cabbage, and tender as--as flowers! Whenever I get sick over these French dishes, I think of that garden, and the cow, and the shoat that knew me when I came to the pen with corn in my ap.r.o.n, and gave a little grunt, as if I'd been his sister. Then my heart turns back to the old home, like a sunflower, and I say to myself, You perposterous old maid, you! what did you let that poor young thing come from under that honest roof for? You was old enough to know better, if she wasn't; but you had an idea of seeing the world, of dressing up and being a lady's maid, of hearing whole crowds of young men stamp and clap and whistle over that innocent young cretur. You didn't think that she might faint dead away, and--and be brought home heart-broken. Home, indeed! as if this box of gilding could be a home to any American woman! It's perposterous!"

Here Eliza broke off with a half-uttered word on her lips, for her speech had brought the old home back so vividly to the heart-sick girl that she was sobbing upon her pillow like a child.

A little bustle down stairs, a knock at the door, and, as Eliza ran forward, Olympia pushed it open and came in.

She saw Caroline prostrate on the bed, with that delicate robe wrapped around and crushed under her, and the lace shawl falling from the pillow to the carpet, like a trail of frost.

The sight urged her into one of those quick pa.s.sions that sometimes threw her whole household into consternation.

"Heavens! what extravagance!" she cried. "Does the creature know that lace like that is worth its weight in diamonds? A silk robe, too, which could not be purchased out of Paris, tumbled up in a wad, and one ma.s.s of wrinkles! I see! I see! the revenues of a duke would not meet such extravagance! Get up! Get up, I say! and if you must make a goose of yourself, do it at less cost!"

"Hush, madam! she's sick! She's broken-hearted!" retorted Eliza, turning fiercely red and planting herself before the shrinking girl.

"Well, she must break her heart in something less costly than a French dress worth thirty pounds, and point lace that cannot be got at any price! Just get up, my young lady, and do your crying in less expensive costume! The proper dress for tragedy is white muslin, but just now a night-gown will do."

Caroline arose without a word, and began to undress herself. She no longer shrank or trembled, for the indignant blood rushed to the surface, and pride gave her strength. Eliza took the robe as she cast it off, and folded it with an emphatic sweep of her hand.

"A pretty mess you have made of it," said Olympia, tossing the lace aside with her foot, and tearing it on the buckle of her shoe, "with your perverse obstinacy--broken up the most splendid debut I ever saw on any stage, and making yourself and your failure the town's talk! if the critics had not been my friends, the whole thing would have been utter ruination; and here you are, with cheeks like flame, looking as haughty as a d.u.c.h.ess."

"I am not haughty or perverse," said Caroline, wiping the hot tears from her eyes, "but weary and ill."

"Ill! with that color?" sneered Olympia.

"It is fever," Eliza broke in. "Ten minutes ago she was white as the pillow. You are making her worse and worse, I can tell you that."

"And I can tell you that impudent tongue will lose you a good place within the next ten minutes, if it is not bridled and well curbed. I stand no nonsense from servants. Understand that!"

Caroline cast an imploring glance on her maid, who dashed both hands down upon the dress she was folding, and ground her teeth in silent rage, as Olympia finished the threat with a little snap of her slender fingers.