The Old Countess; or, The Two Proposals Part 37

"Take your choice, young lady, take your choice! Either consent to have your name on the bills for Monday night, or leave my house, bag and baggage, one and all of you! Either obey me or go! I wash my hands of the whole affair."

Here Olympia rubbed one soft white hand over the other, and shook them apart, as if she were already was.h.i.+ng off the annoyance that proud girl had given her.

Caroline was deathly pale. She had grown thin and languid with the illness that still hung about her. Around her enlarged eyes lay faint, purplish shadows, that deepened their sad expression; but, with all her weakness, a look of settled resolution lay on her face.

"Be it so, then!" she said, with pathetic sadness. "If my own mother--"

"Mother? Hush that! I don't believe a word of it! Brown may talk, and swear that he never lost sight of you, but he needn't tell me! My daughter! why don't you glory in the stage, then? Why don't you go down on your knees and thank me for that voice? Don't dare to call me mother till you can learn how to obey me!"

"I cannot obey you in this. If you drive me out to perish in the street I will not!"

"Then into the street you go! Let Brown try his hand at earning a living for you. It is more his duty than mine."

Caroline turned a wild, wistful look on the woman as she said this; then she moved a step toward her, and the tones of her voice, as they came through her white lips, were mournful and stormy, like wind over snow.

"What do you mean, madam? What is it that you insinuate?"

"Only this," answered Olympia, with a malicious laugh. "As you are resolved--as you never will be anything to me again, and are determined to throw away all your advantages, I think the truth will bring down your pride a little, and so mean to give it just for once. I really do suppose that you are my daughter--else, where did you get the voice you are giving to the wind? But, if you are, that man Brown is your father, for he was my husband once."

Caroline stood looking at the woman, white and still, her large eyes widening, all her features in a tumult. Then she fell upon her knees, covered her face with both hands, and cried out:

"Oh, my G.o.d! is this good man my father? Are these the thrills of joy that a child knows for its parent?"

A man who had opened the door of Olympia's boudoir was arrested on the threshold by these words.

Olympia saw him and sank to a chair, laughing maliciously.

"Ask him," she said, pointing to the man; "ask him. Don't look so astonished, Brown. I have told her all about it, and you see how white it has made her. She does not seem to relish you for a father much more than she does the stage!"

Caroline dashed the tears from her eyes, and arose, with a smile breaking through the scattered moisture.

"Not like him! He has always been kind, good, generous. I did not need this to make me love him. Father, _my_ father! how many times I have called you so, but this is real! Oh, G.o.d be thanked that you are my father!"

"Ask him how he intends to support you," broke in Olympia, was.h.i.+ng her hands over again in dumb show, and drawing in her breath till it hissed through her white teeth, as if a snake had crept up from her bad heart.

"I _will_ support her! G.o.d helping me, I will! Don't feel down-hearted, my poor child. You shall not be ashamed of me. For your sake I will do anything. I can go into an orchestra."

"What! I ashamed of you, my father? Why, it gives us to each other. I have something in this wide world to love!"

Brown's eyes filled with tears. He was trembling violently.

"Father, my dear father!" murmured Caroline, drawing close to him, with a feeling that he was all the friend she had in the world, "do not look so troubled. This gives me such joy that I cannot bear to see tears in your eyes, my father."

Brown did not speak; he had no power of voice, but stood, with her hands in his, looking into her face in pathetic silence.

Olympia arose.

"It is a pretty scene, and well acted," she said; "but I am tired of being sole audience. When you have settled upon anything, I shall have the pleasure of bidding you farewell. I must go to rehearsal now. When I come back, it will be convenient to have the house to myself. I give a little supper this evening, and I remember you do not exactly approve of my little suppers, and, for the world, would not shock the young lady!

Good morning, Caroline. Good morning, Brown. You see our pretty experiment has failed, and we have got to part again. I think this time will be forever!"

Olympia swept out of the room and entered her carriage, looking like a baffled fury.

Then those two were left together, and for half an hour they sat, looking at each other with sad, wistful eyes, talking of the past in s.n.a.t.c.hes, till slowly and sadly their minds turned to the future, and that looked blank enough to them. What could they do? Olympia had never been generous to her daughter or the agent. They had neither money nor valuables. How were they to live, even for a week?

"I can, perhaps, obtain a situation in some orchestra."

Poor Brown spoke under his breath, for he knew well enough that Olympia would never permit him to earn his bread in that way, so long as her influence in the theatres could prevent it; but it was the only hopeful idea he could think of, and so he suggested it with desponding hesitation. But, to the young girl, there was encouragement even in this.

"And I can take pupils. You remember the young lady that came to me that night in the dressing-room--Lord Hope's daughter?"

"Remember her!" exclaimed Brown, brightening all over, "I should think so! When she turned her face upon me and said, 'Don't be so anxious, sir. She is better now,' I longed to fall down on my knees and wors.h.i.+p her!"

Tears came into Caroline's eyes. Her nature was n.o.ble and full of grat.i.tude. She could endure wrong and cruelty without weeping, but generous and kind actions melted her heart.

"Ah, how good she was; we can trust her, my father."

How falteringly, and with what pathos she used this grand old word now!

Before, she had done it in affectionate play, but now, a solemn feeling of tenderness thrilled the syllables, as "father" dropped from her lips, and made the heart swell in his bosom with a tremulous response.

"She will speak to Lady Hope, and they will recommend pupils to us. Oh, if we could only go back to Italy!"

As this exclamation was on her lips, the servant in blue and silver came through the door with a salver in his hand, on which lay a letter. The seal and monogram had struck his eye, and he brought the missive in with an excess of ceremony that would have been laughable at another time. He brought the letter to Caroline. She tore it open, and an eager, almost wild look of thankfulness swept over her face as she read it.

"Oh, father, father! See what the good G.o.d has done for us!"

The servant, who lingered in the room, was so astonished at hearing that sacred name used with thanksgiving or reverence in Olympia's house, that he dropped the silver tray and stood open-mouthed regarding the young lady.

"Read it! read it! Oh, this will be Heaven to us. Remark, please, you are to come with me and Eliza. Let us start by the very next train."

It was Lady Clara's letter, which, of course, contained an invitation from the old countess. Clara had added a little hospitality of her own, and suggested that Brown should come to Houghton for awhile, and give her music lessons--she was getting so out of practice. As usual, the girl had her way, and that letter was the result. But Brown's face grew thoughtful as he read.

"What is the matter?" inquired Caroline, anxiously.

"But how are we to get there?"

All the anxiety that made Brown's heart heavy under this good news, broke out in these words. Caroline's face clouded, and her voice faltered.

"Let me call Eliza and Margaret; perhaps they can point out something."

She rang the bell, and directly both the maids were informed of the dilemma they were in.

What was to be done? It was impossible to remain a day longer in Olympia's house. The thought was intolerable. Margaret and Eliza stood looking at each other in blank helplessness. What was to be done? All at once Margaret gave her head a fling and brightened all over.

"Never mind," she said, with one of her old coquettish gestures. "I may, I may--who knows?"

Without further explanation the girl went up-stairs, got out her most becoming hat and feather--for she had never been restricted, like an English servant, in such matters--wrapped a scarlet shawl over her flounced dress, and, after practising a little before the mirror, came down with a glittering parasol in her hand.

"Eliza, just come here and see if my pannier is looped properly," she said, giving that article a shake as she looked in at the door.