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 gla.s.s, through which a tender light shone like sunbeams through sifted snow, by a gilded network over ground gla.s.s, which also reflected hidden lights like a chain of clouded stars.
This gallery was connected with the floor by slender marble shafts, around which pa.s.sion 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 gla.s.s, 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 G.o.ddess; while the tall figure of a proud, beautiful girl sat near, looking strangely wild and anxious as a loud, baccha.n.a.lian 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 b.u.mper to our new Queen of Song!"
With a half-suppressed shout and a waving of gla.s.ses, 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 gla.s.ses and turned to look for a reward in the face they had p.r.o.nounced 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 n.o.ble, grateful creature, and has not yet learned how to receive homage."
"While our Olympia almost disdains it. Fill up for our G.o.ddess, The Olympia!"
"Wait a minute!"
It was the young n.o.ble 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 cl.u.s.ters with them in a garland, with which he crowned the G.o.ddess 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.
Olympia had selected an auspicious time for the first appearance of her protege, as she always persisted in calling Caroline.
It was the fashion just then to recognize American genius with something like enthusiasm, and the very suddenness with which this young girl had been brought forward operated in her favor.
A glowing account of her voice and beauty had reached the public just at a time when no special excitement occupied it, and this served to draw a crowd around the opera house long before the hour of opening.
On the outskirts of this crowd, the carriage which contained Olympia and her victim--for such the heroine of the evening really was--made its way toward the stage door. Olympia leaned out of the window, and cried exultingly:
"Look, child, look! Hundreds of people waiting already!"
Caroline cast one frightened glance at the crowd, and shrank back with a faint moan.
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 ingrat.i.tude?"
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 pa.s.sed the door. Come!"
Caroline allowed herself to be led along the stage, through yawning vistas of scenery ready placed for use, and along dark pa.s.sages, 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 ma.s.s 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-gla.s.s. "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.