ACTRESS.
Feeling that she had all the world before her where to choose, and that
her next step ought to take her up at least one round higher on the
ladder she was climbing, Christie decided not to try going out to
service again. She knew very well that she would never live with Irish
mates, and could not expect to find another Hepsey. So she tried to get
a place as companion to an invalid, but failed to secure the only
situation of the sort that was offered her, because she mildly objected
to waiting on a nervous cripple all day, and reading aloud half the
night. The old lady called har an “impertinent baggage,” and Christie
retired in great disgust, resolving not to be a slave to anybody.
Things seldom turn out as we plan them, and after much waiting and
hoping for other work Christie at last accepted about the only
employment which had not entered her mind.
Among the boarders at Mrs. Flint’s were an old lady and her pretty
daughter, both actresses at a respectable theatre. Not stars by any
means, but good second-rate players, doing their work creditably and
earning an honest living. The mother had been kind to Christie in
offering advice, and sympathizing with her disappointments. The
daughter, a gay little lass, had taken Christie to the theatre several
times, there to behold her in all the gauzy glories that surround the
nymphs of spectacular romance.
To Christie this was a great delight, for, though she had pored over
her father’s Shakespeare till she knew many scenes by heart, she had
never seen a play till Lucy led her into what seemed an enchanted
world. Her interest and admiration pleased the little actress, and
sundry lifts when she was hurried with her dresses made her grateful to
Christie.
The girl’s despondent face, as she came in day after day from her
unsuccessful quest, told its own story, though she uttered no
complaint, and these friendly souls laid their heads together, eager to
help her in their own dramatic fashion.
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it! All hail to the queen!” was the cry that one
day startled Christie as she sat thinking anxiously, while sewing
mock-pearls on a crown for Mrs. Black.
Looking up she saw Lucy just home from rehearsal, going through a
series of pantomimic evolutions suggestive of a warrior doing battle
with incredible valor, and a very limited knowledge of the noble art of
self-defence.
“What have you got? Who is the queen?” she asked, laughing, as the
breathless hero lowered her umbrella, and laid her bonnet at Christie’s
feet.
“You are to be the Queen of the Amazons in our new spectacle, at half a
dollar a night for six or eight weeks, if the piece goes well.”
“No!” cried Christie, with a gasp.
“Yes!” cried Lucy, clapping her hands; and then she proceeded to tell
her news with theatrical volubility. “Mr. Sharp, the manager, wants a
lot of tallish girls, and I told him I knew of a perfect dear. He said:
‘Bring her on, then,’ and I flew home to tell you. Now, don’t look
wild, and say no. You’ve only got to sing in one chorus, march in the
grand procession, and lead your band in the terrific battle-scene. The
dress is splendid! Red tunic, tiger-skin over shoulder, helmet, shield,
lance, fleshings, sandals, hair down, and as much cork to your eyebrows
as you like.”
Christie certainly did look wild, for Lucy had burst into the room like
a small hurricane, and her rapid words rattled about the listeners’
ears as if a hail-storm had followed the gust. While Christie still sat
with her mouth open, too bewildered to reply, Mrs. Black said in her
cosey voice:
“Try it, me dear, it’s just what you’ll enjoy, and a capital beginning
I assure ye; for if you do well old Sharp will want you again, and
then, when some one slips out of the company, you can slip in, and
there you are quite comfortable. Try it, me dear, and if you don’t like
it drop it when the piece is over, and there’s no harm done.”
“It’s much easier and jollier than any of the things you are after.
We’ll stand by you like bricks, and in a week you’ll say it’s the best
lark you ever had in your life. Don’t be prim, now, but say yes, like a
trump, as you are,” added Lucy, waving a pink satin train temptingly
before her friend.
“I will try it!” said Christie, with sudden decision, feeling that
something entirely new and absorbing was what she needed to expend the
vigor, romance, and enthusiasm of her youth upon.
With a shriek of delight Lucy swept her off her chair, and twirled her
about the room as excitable young ladies are fond of doing when their
joyful emotions need a vent. When both were giddy they subsided into a
corner and a breathless discussion of the important step.
Though she had consented, Christie had endless doubts and fears, but
Lucy removed many of the former, and her own desire for pleasant
employment conquered many of the latter. In her most despairing moods
she had never thought of trying this. Uncle Enos considered
“play-actin’” as the sum of all iniquity. What would he say if she went
calmly to destruction by that road? Sad to relate, this recollection
rather strengthened her purpose, for a delicious sense of freedom
pervaded her soul, and the old defiant spirit seemed to rise up within
her at the memory of her Uncle’s grim prophecies and narrow views.
“Lucy is happy, virtuous, and independent, why can’t I be so too if I
have any talent? It isn’t exactly what I should choose, but any thing
honest is better than idleness. I’ll try it any way, and get a little
fun, even if I don’t make much money or glory out of it.”
So Christie held to her resolution in spite of many secret misgivings,
and followed Mrs. Black’s advice on all points with a docility which
caused that sanguine lady to predict that she would be a star before
she knew where she was.
“Is this the stage? How dusty and dull it is by daylight!” said
Christie next day, as she stood by Lucy on the very spot where she had
seen Hamlet die in great anguish two nights before.
“Bless you, child, it’s in curl-papers now, as I am of a morning. Mr.
Sharp, here’s an Amazon for you.”
As she spoke, Lucy hurried across the stage, followed by Christie,
wearing any thing but an Amazonian expression just then.
“Ever on before?” abruptly asked, a keen-faced, little man, glancing
with an experienced eye at the young person who stood before him bathed
in blushes.
“No, sir.”
“Do you sing?”
“A little, sir.”
“Dance, of course?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just take a turn across the stage, will you? Must walk well to lead a
march.”
As she went, Christie heard Mr. Sharp taking notes audibly:
“Good tread; capital figure; fine eye. She’ll make up well, and behave
herself, I fancy.”
A strong desire to make off seized the girl; but, remembering that she
had presented herself for inspection, she controlled the impulse, and
returned to him with no demonstration of displeasure, but a little more
fire in “the fine eye,” and a more erect carriage of the “capital
figure.”
“All right, my dear. Give your name to Mr. Tripp, and your mind to the
business, and consider yourself engaged,”—with which satisfactory
remark the little man vanished like a ghost.
“Lucy, did you hear that impertinent ‘my dear’?” asked Christie, whose
sense of propriety had received its first shock.
“Lord, child, all managers do it. They don’t mean any thing; so be
resigned, and thank your stars he didn’t say ‘love’ and ‘darling,’ and
kiss you, as old Vining used to,” was all the sympathy she got.
Having obeyed orders, Lucy initiated her into the mysteries of the
place, and then put her in a corner to look over the scenes in which
she was to appear. Christie soon caught the idea of her part,—not a
difficult matter, as there were but few ideas in the whole piece, after
which she sat watching the arrival of the troop she was to lead. A most
forlorn band of warriors they seemed, huddled together, and looking as
if afraid to speak, lest they should infringe some rule; or to move,
lest they be swallowed up by some unsuspected trap-door.
Presently the ballet-master appeared, the orchestra struck up, and
Christie found herself marching and counter-marching at word of
command. At first, a most uncomfortable sense of the absurdity of her
position oppressed and confused her; then the ludicrous contrast
between the solemn anxiety of the troop and the fantastic evolutions
they were performing amused her till the novelty wore off; the martial
music excited her; the desire to please sharpened her wits; and natural
grace made it easy for her to catch and copy the steps and poses given
her to imitate. Soon she forgot herself, entered into the spirit of the
thing, and exerted every sense to please, so successfully that Mr.
Tripp praised her quickness at comprehension, Lucy applauded heartily
from a fairy car, and Mr. Sharp popped his head out of a palace window
to watch the Amazon’s descent from the Mountains of the Moon.
When the regular company arrived, the troop was dismissed till the
progress of the play demanded their reappearance. Much interested in
the piece, Christie stood aside under a palm-tree, the foliage of which
was strongly suggestive of a dilapidated green umbrella, enjoying the
novel sights and sounds about her.
Yellow-faced gentlemen and sleepy-eyed ladies roamed languidly about
with much incoherent jabbering of parts, and frequent explosions of
laughter. Princes, with varnished boots and suppressed cigars, fought,
bled, and died, without a change of countenance. Damsels of
unparalleled beauty, according to the text, gaped in the faces of
adoring lovers, and crocheted serenely on the brink of annihilation.
Fairies, in rubber-boots and woollen head-gear, disported themselves on
flowery barks of canvas, or were suspended aloft with hooks in their
backs like young Hindoo devotees. Demons, guiltless of hoof or horn,
clutched their victims with the inevitable “Ha! ha!” and vanished
darkly, eating pea-nuts. The ubiquitous Mr. Sharp seemed to pervade the
whole theatre; for his voice came shrilly from above or spectrally from
below, and his active little figure darted to and fro like a critical
will-o-the-wisp.
The grand march and chorus in the closing scene were easily
accomplished; for, as Lucy bade her, Christie “sung with all her
might,” and kept step as she led her band with the dignity of a
Boadicea. No one spoke to her; few observed her; all were intent on
their own affairs; and when the final shriek and bang died away without
lifting the roof by its din, she could hardly believe that the dreaded
first rehearsal was safely over.
A visit to the wardrobe-room to see her dress came next; and here
Christie had a slight skirmish with the mistress of that department
relative to the length of her classical garments. As studies from the
nude had not yet become one of the amusements of the elite of Little
Babel, Christie was not required to appear in the severe simplicity of
a costume consisting of a necklace, sandals, and a bit of gold fringe
about the waist, but was allowed an extra inch or two on her tunic, and
departed, much comforted by the assurance that her dress would not be
“a shock to modesty,” as Lucy expressed it.
“Now, look at yourself, and, for my sake, prove an honor to your
country and a terror to the foe,” said Lucy, as she led her _protégée_
before the green-room mirror on the first night of “The Demon’s
Daughter, or The Castle of the Sun!! The most Magnificent Spectacle
ever produced upon the American Stage!!!”
Christie looked, and saw a warlike figure with glittering helmet,
shield and lance, streaming hair and savage cloak. She liked the
picture, for there was much of the heroic spirit in the girl, and even
this poor counterfeit pleased her eye and filled her fancy with martial
memories of Joan of Arc, Zenobia, and Britomarte.
“Go to!” cried Lucy, who affected theatrical modes of speech. “Don’t
admire yourself any longer, but tie up your sandals and come on. Be
sure you rush down the instant I cry, ‘Demon, I defy thee!’ Don’t break
your neck, or pick your way like a cat in wet weather, but come with
effect, for I want that scene to make a hit.”
[Illustration: CHRISTIE AS QUEEN OF THE AMAZONS.]
Princess Caremfil swept away, and the Amazonian queen climbed to her
perch among the painted mountains, where her troop already sat like a
flock of pigeons shining in the sun. The gilded breast-plate rose and
fell with the quick beating of her heart, the spear shook with the
trembling of her hand, her lips were dry, her head dizzy, and more than
once, as she waited for her cue, she was sorely tempted to run away and
take the consequences.
But the thought of Lucy’s good-will and confidence kept her, and when
the cry came she answered with a ringing shout, rushed down the
ten-foot precipice, and charged upon the foe with an energy that
inspired her followers, and quite satisfied the princess struggling in
the demon’s grasp.
With clashing of arms and shrill war-cries the rescuers of innocence
assailed the sooty fiends who fell before their unscientific blows with
a rapidity which inspired in the minds of beholders a suspicion that
the goblins’ own voluminous tails tripped them up and gallantry kept
them prostrate. As the last groan expired, the last agonized squirm
subsided, the conquerors performed the intricate dance with which it
appears the Amazons were wont to celebrate their victories. Then the
scene closed with a glare of red light and a “grand tableau” of the
martial queen standing in a bower of lances, the rescued princess
gracefully fainting in her arms, and the vanquished demon scowling
fiercely under her foot, while four-and-twenty dishevelled damsels sang
a song of exultation, to the barbaric music of a tattoo on their
shields.
All went well that night, and when at last the girls doffed crown and
helmet, they confided to one another the firm opinion that the success
of the piece was in a great measure owing to their talent, their
exertions, and went gaily home predicting for themselves careers as
brilliant as those of Siddons and Rachel.
It would be a pleasant task to paint the vicissitudes and victories of
a successful actress; but Christie was no dramatic genius born to shine
before the world and leave a name behind her. She had no talent except
that which may be developed in any girl possessing the lively fancy,
sympathetic nature, and ambitious spirit which make such girls
naturally dramatic. This was to be only one of many experiences which
were to show her her own weakness and strength, and through effort,
pain, and disappointment fit her to play a nobler part on a wider
stage.
For a few weeks Christie’s illusions lasted; then she discovered that
the new life was nearly as humdrum as the old, that her companions were
ordinary men and women, and her bright hopes were growing as dim as her
tarnished shield. She grew unutterably weary of “The Castle of the
Sun,” and found the “Demon’s Daughter” an unmitigated bore. She was not
tired of the profession, only dissatisfied with the place she held in
it, and eager to attempt a part that gave some scope for power and
passion.
Mrs. Black wisely reminded her that she must learn to use her wings
before she tried to fly, and comforted her with stories of celebrities
who had begun as she was beginning, yet who had suddenly burst from
their grub-like obscurity to adorn the world as splendid butterflies.
“We’ll stand by you, Kit; so keep up your courage, and do your best. Be
clever to every one in general, old Sharp in particular, and when a
chance comes, have your wits about you and grab it. That’s the way to
get on,” said Lucy, as sagely as if she had been a star for years.
“If I had beauty I should stand a better chance,” sighed Christie,
surveying herself with great disfavor, quite unconscious that to a
cultivated eye the soul of beauty was often visible in that face of
hers, with its intelligent eyes, sensitive mouth, and fine lines about
the forehead, making it a far more significant and attractive
countenance than that of her friend, possessing only piquant
prettiness.
“Never mind, child; you’ve got a lovely figure, and an actress’s best
feature,—fine eyes and eyebrows. I heard old Kent say so, and he’s a
judge. So make the best of what you’ve got, as I do,” answered Lucy,
glancing at her own comely little person with an air of perfect
resignation.
Christie laughed at the adviser, but wisely took the advice, and,
though she fretted in private, was cheerful and alert in public. Always
modest, attentive, and obliging, she soon became a favorite with her
mates, and, thanks to Lucy’s good offices with Mr. Sharp, whose
favorite she was, Christie got promoted sooner than she otherwise would
have been.
A great Christmas spectacle was brought out the next season, and
Christie had a good part in it. When that was over she thought there
was no hope for her, as the regular company was full and a different
sort of performance was to begin. But just then her chance came, and
she “grabbed it.” The first soubrette died suddenly, and in the
emergency Mr. Sharp offered the place to Christie till he could fill it
to his mind. Lucy was second soubrette, and had hoped for this
promotion; but Lucy did not sing well. Christie had a good voice, had
taken lessons and much improved of late, so she had the preference and
resolved to stand the test so well that this temporary elevation should
become permanent.
She did her best, and though many of the parts were distasteful to her
she got through them successfully, while now and then she had one which
she thoroughly enjoyed. Her Tilly Slowboy was a hit, and a proud girl
was Christie when Kent, the comedian, congratulated her on it, and told
her he had seldom seen it better done.
To find favor in Kent’s eyes was an honor indeed, for he belonged to
the old school, and rarely condescended to praise modern actors. His
own style was so admirable that he was justly considered the first
comedian in the country, and was the pride and mainstay of the old
theatre where he had played for years. Of course he possessed much
influence in that little world, and being a kindly man used it
generously to help up any young aspirant who seemed to him deserving.
He had observed Christie, attracted by her intelligent face and modest
manners, for in spite of her youth there was a native refinement about
her that made it impossible for her to romp and flirt as some of her
mates did. But till she played Tilly he had not thought she possessed
any talent. That pleased him, and seeing how much she valued his
praise, and was flattered by his notice, he gave her the wise but
unpalatable advice always offered young actors. Finding that she
accepted it, was willing to study hard, work faithfully, and wait
patiently, he predicted that in time she would make a clever actress,
never a great one.
Of course Christie thought he was mistaken, and secretly resolved to
prove him a false prophet by the triumphs of her career. But she meekly
bowed to his opinion; this docility pleased him, and he took a paternal
sort of interest in her, which, coming from the powerful favorite, did
her good service with the higher powers, and helped her on more rapidly
than years of meritorious effort.
Toward the end of that second season several of Dickens’s dramatized
novels were played, and Christie earned fresh laurels. She loved those
books, and seemed by instinct to understand and personate the humor and
pathos of many of those grotesque creations. Believing she had little
beauty to sacrifice, she dressed such parts to the life, and played
them with a spirit and ease that surprised those who had considered her
a dignified and rather dull young person.
“I’ll tell you what it is, Sharp, that girl is going to make a capital
character actress. When her parts suit, she forgets herself entirely
and does admirably well. Her Miggs was nearly the death of me to-night.
She’s got that one gift, and it’s a good one. You’d better give her a
chance, for I think she’ll be a credit to the old concern.”
Kent said that,—Christie heard it, and flew to Lucy, waving Miggs’s cap
for joy as she told the news.
“What did Mr. Sharp say?” asked Lucy, turning round with her face half
“made up.”
“He merely said ‘Hum,’ and smiled. Wasn’t that a good sign?” said
Christie, anxiously.
“Can’t say,” and Lucy touched up her eyebrows as if she took no
interest in the affair.
Christie’s face fell, and her heart sunk at the thought of failure; but
she kept up her spirits by working harder than ever, and soon had her
reward. Mr. Sharp’s “Hum” did mean yes, and the next season she was
regularly engaged, with a salary of thirty dollars a week.
It was a grand step, and knowing that she owed it to Kent, Christie did
her utmost to show that she deserved his good opinion. New trials and
temptations beset her now, but hard work and an innocent nature kept
her safe and busy. Obstacles only spurred her on to redoubled exertion,
and whether she did well or ill, was praised or blamed, she found a
never-failing excitement in her attempts to reach the standard of
perfection she had set up for herself. Kent did not regret his
patronage. Mr. Sharp was satisfied with the success of the experiment,
and Christie soon became a favorite in a small way, because behind the
actress the public always saw a woman who never “forgot the modesty of
nature.”
But as she grew prosperous in outward things, Christie found herself
burdened with a private cross that tried her very much. Lucy was no
longer her friend; something had come between them, and a steadily
increasing coldness took the place of the confidence and affection
which had once existed. Lucy was jealous for Christie had passed her in
the race. She knew she could not fill the place Christie had gained by
favor, and now held by her own exertions, still she was bitterly
envious, though ashamed to own it.
Christie tried to be just and gentle, to prove her gratitude to her
first friend, and to show that her heart was unchanged. But she failed
to win Lucy back and felt herself injured by such unjust resentment.
Mrs. Black took her daughter’s part, and though they preserved the
peace outwardly the old friendliness was quite gone.
Hoping to forget this trouble in excitement Christie gave herself
entirely to her profession, finding in it a satisfaction which for a
time consoled her.
But gradually she underwent the sorrowful change which comes to strong
natures when they wrong themselves through ignorance or wilfulness.
Pride and native integrity kept her from the worst temptations of such
a life, but to the lesser ones she yielded, growing selfish, frivolous,
and vain,—intent on her own advancement, and careless by what means she
reached it. She had no thought now beyond her art, no desire beyond the
commendation of those whose opinion was serviceable, no care for any
one but herself.
Her love of admiration grew by what it fed on, till the sound of
applause became the sweetest music to her ear. She rose with this hope,
lay down with this satisfaction, and month after month passed in this
feverish life, with no wish to change it, but a growing appetite for
its unsatisfactory delights, an ever-increasing forgetfulness of any
higher aspiration than dramatic fame.
“Give me joy, Lucy, I’m to have a benefit next week! Everybody else has
had one, and I’ve played for them all, so no one seemed to begrudge me
my turn when dear old Kent proposed it,” said Christie, coming in one
night still flushed and excited with the good news.
“What shall you have?” asked Lucy, trying to look pleased, and failing
decidedly.
“‘Masks and Faces.’ I’ve always wanted to play Peg. and it has good
parts for you and Kent, and St. George I chose it for that reason, for
I shall need all the help I can get to pull me through, I dare say.”
The smile vanished entirely at this speech, and Christie was suddenly
seized with a suspicion that Lucy was not only jealous of her as an
actress, but as a woman. St. George was a comely young actor who
usually played lovers’ parts with Christie, and played them very well,
too, being possessed of much talent, and a gentleman. They had never
thought of falling in love with each other, though St. George wooed and
won Christie night after night in vaudeville and farce. But it was very
easy to imagine that so much mock passion had a basis of truth, and
Lucy evidently tormented herself with this belief.
“Why didn’t you choose Juliet: St. George would do Romeo so well?” said
Lucy, with a sneer.
“No, that is beyond me. Kent says Shakespeare will never be my line,
and I believe him. I should think you’d be satisfied with ‘Masks and
Faces,’ for you know Mabel gets her husband safely back in the end,”
answered Christie, watching the effect of her words.
“As if I wanted the man! No, thank you, other people’s leavings won’t
suit me,” cried Lucy, tossing her head, though her face belied her
words.
“Not even though he has ‘heavenly eyes,’ ‘distracting legs,’ and ‘a
melting voice?’” asked Christie maliciously, quoting Lucy’s own
rapturous speeches when the new actor came.
“Come, come, girls, don’t quarrel. I won’t ’ave it in me room. Lucy’s
tired to death, and it’s not nice of you, Kitty, to come and crow over
her this way,” said Mamma Black, coming to the rescue, for Lucy was in
tears, and Christie looking dangerous.
“It’s impossible to please you, so I’ll say good-night,” and Christie
went to her room with resentment burning hotly in her heart.
As she crossed the chamber her eye fell on her own figure reflected in
the long glass, and with a sudden impulse she tinned up the gas, wiped
the rouge from her cheeks, pushed back her hair, and studied her own
face intently for several moments. It was pale and jaded now, and all
its freshness seemed gone; hard lines had come about the mouth, a
feverish disquiet filled the eyes, and on the forehead seemed to lie
the shadow of a discontent that saddened the whole face. If one could
believe the testimony of that countenance things were not going well
with Christie, and she owned it with a regretful sigh, as she asked
herself, “Am I what I hoped I should be? No, and it is my fault. If
three years of this life have made me this, what shall I be in ten? A
fine actress perhaps, but how good a woman?”
With gloomy eyes fixed on her altered face she stood a moment
struggling with herself. Then the hard look returned, and she spoke out
defiantly, as if in answer to some warning voice within herself. “No
one cares what I am, so why care myself? Why not go on and get as much
fame as I can? Success gives me power if it cannot give me happiness,
and I must have some reward for my hard work. Yes! a gay life and a
short one, then out with the lights and down with the curtain!”
But in spite of her reckless words Christie sobbed herself to sleep
that night like a child who knows it is astray, yet cannot see the
right path or hear its mother’s voice calling it home.
On the night of the benefit, Lucy was in a most exasperating mood,
Christie in a very indignant one, and as they entered their
dressing-room they looked as if they might have played the Rival Queens
with great effect. Lucy offered no help and Christie asked none, but
putting her vexation resolutely out of sight fixed her mind on the task
before her.
As the pleasant stir began all about her, actress-like, she felt her
spirits rise, her courage increase with every curl she fastened up,
every gay garment she put on, and soon smiled approvingly at herself,
for excitement lent her cheeks a better color than rouge, her eyes
shone with satisfaction, and her heart beat high with the resolve to
make a hit or die.
Christie needed encouragement that night, and found it in the hearty
welcome that greeted her, and the full house, which proved how kind a
regard was entertained for her by many who knew her only by a
fictitious name. She felt this deeply, and it helped her much, for she
was vexed with many trials those before the footlights knew nothing of.
The other players were full of kindly interest in her success, but Lucy
took a naughty satisfaction in harassing her by all the small slights
and unanswerable provocations which one actress has it in her power to
inflict upon another.
Christie was fretted almost beyond endurance, and retaliated by an
ominous frown when her position allowed, threatening asides when a
moment’s by-play favored their delivery, and angry protests whenever
she met Lucy off the stage.
But in spite of all annoyances she had never played better in her life.
She liked the part, and acted the warm-hearted, quick-witted,
sharp-tongued Peg with a spirit and grace that surprised even those who
knew her best. Especially good was she in the scenes with Triplet, for
Kent played the part admirably, and cheered her on with many an
encouraging look and word. Anxious to do honor to her patron and friend
she threw her whole heart into the work; in the scene where she comes
like a good angel to the home of the poor play-wright, she brought
tears to the eyes of her audience; and when at her command Triplet
strikes up a jig to amuse the children she “covered the buckle” in
gallant style, dancing with all the frolicsome abandon of the Irish
orange-girl who for a moment forgot her grandeur and her grief.
That scene was her best, for it is full of those touches of nature that
need very little art to make them effective; and when a great bouquet
fell with a thump at Christie’s feet, as she paused to bow her thanks
for an encore, she felt that she had reached the height of earthly
bliss.
In the studio scene Lucy seemed suddenly gifted with unsuspected skill;
for when Mabel kneels to the picture, praying her rival to give her
back her husband’s heart, Christie was amazed to see real tears roll
down Lucy’s cheeks, and to hear real love and longing thrill her
trembling words with sudden power and passion.
“That is not acting. She does love St. George, and thinks I mean to
keep him from her. Poor dear! I’ll tell her all about it to-night, and
set her heart at rest,” thought Christie; and when Peg left the frame,
her face expressed the genuine pity that she felt, and her voice was
beautifully tender as she promised to restore the stolen treasure.
Lucy felt comforted without knowing why, and the piece went smoothly on
to its last scene. Peg was just relinquishing the repentant husband to
his forgiving wife with those brave words of hers, when a rending sound
above their heads made all look up and start back; all but Lucy, who
stood bewildered. Christie’s quick eye saw the impending danger, and
with a sudden spring she caught her friend from it. It was only a
second’s work, but it cost her much; for in the act, down crashed one
of the mechanical contrivances used in a late spectacle, and in its
fall stretched Christie stunned and senseless on the stage.
A swift uprising filled the house with tumult; a crowd of actors
hurried forward, and the panic-stricken audience caught glimpses of
poor Peg lying mute and pallid in Mabel’s arms, while Vane wrung his
hands, and Triplet audibly demanded, “Why the devil somebody didn’t go
for a doctor?”
Then a brilliant view of Mount Parnassus, with Apollo and the Nine
Muses in full blast, shut the scene from sight, and soon Mr. Sharp
appeared to ask their patience till the after-piece was ready, for Miss
Douglas was too much injured to appear again. And with an unwonted
expression of feeling, the little man alluded to “the generous act
which perhaps had changed the comedy to a tragedy and robbed the
beneficiary of her well-earned reward at their hands.”
All had seen the impulsive spring toward, not from, the danger, and
this unpremeditated action won heartier applause than Christie ever had
received for her best rendering of more heroic deeds.
But she did not hear the cordial round they gave her. She had said she
would “make a hit or die;” and just then it seemed as if she had done
both, for she was deaf and blind to the admiration and the sympathy
bestowed upon her as the curtain fell on the first, last benefit she
ever was to have.