University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
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
her 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 trapdoor.

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 élite 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

[ILLUSTRATION]

Christie as Queen of the Amazons.

[Description: 445EAF. Page 042. In-line image of Christie dressed in Amazon regalia -- holding sword and shield.]

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.”

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.

Charistie 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 mnch 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 turned 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
it if 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.