CHAPTER XIX.
AFTER THE FAILURE.
When Caroline reached home, after that involuntary retreat from the theatre, she went to her own room with Eliza, and falling upon the bed, lay perfectly still, so exhausted and crushed, that she scarcely breathed. She had disgraced herself, and she had seen him.
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."