The drinking-song was hushed in its most exultant swell—the revellers drew around the fainting girl and carried her from the stage, helpless as an infant, white as the lace that clouded her.
The audience watched them bear her away in silence; then it broke into murmurs of regret and sympathy.
"The effort had been too much for her. Of course, such genius was accompanied with corresponding sensitiveness, but she would speedily recover. It was only a little interruption."
They were mistaken. The debutante did not return that night; but in her place came Olympia, with a little tragedy in her face, and a touching speech, which excited admiration for herself and unbounded sympathy for her protege; after which, she entered into the character of Violette, with a grace of action and a power of voice that carried the management through what had threatened to be a serious dilemma.
The truth is, this woman, Olympia, was a remarkably clever person, and knew how to manage her subjects a great deal better than some monarchs of England have done. But she was in a raging passion that night, and the excitement lent her force, which she exhausted in the part, while her child lay moaning on the dressing-room sofa.
In the midst of the first confusion, that young girl in the box had started up, and laid her hand on Hepworth Closs's arm.
"Go back to where they have taken her. You know the way. Tell my maid, Margaret, to come to me at once. No, no; take me with you. I may be of use. Poor girl! poor girl! They have almost killed her."
"But it is impossible," said Closs, looking toward Lady Hope, who was leaning against the side of the box, with her face turned away. "She would not permit it."
"She does not object. We need not be seen. No one will recognize us. Come! come!"
She took Hepworth's arm, and almost forced him from the box.