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.
Governess.
During the next few weeks Christie learned the
worth of many things which she had valued very lightly
until then. Health became a boon too precious
to be trifled with; life assumed a deeper significance
when death’s shadow fell upon its light, and
she discovered that dependence might be made endurable
by the sympathy of unsuspected friends.
Lucy waited upon her with a remorseful devotion which
touched her very much and won entire forgiveness for
the past, long before it was repentantly implored.
All her comrades came with offers of help and affectionate
regrets. Several whom she had most disliked now
earned her gratitude by the kindly thoughtfulness which
filled her sick-room with fruit and flowers, supplied
carriages for the convalescent, and paid her doctor’s
bill without her knowledge.
Thus Christie learned, like many another needy member
of the gay profession, that though often extravagant
and jovial in their way of life, these men and women
give as freely as they spend, wear warm, true hearts
under their motley, and make misfortune only another
link in the bond of good-fellowship which binds them
loyally together.
Slowly Christie gathered her energies after weeks
of suffering, and took up her life again, grateful
for the gift, and anxious to be more worthy of it.
Looking back upon the past she felt that she had made
a mistake and lost more than she had gained in those
three years. Others might lead that life of alternate
excitement and hard work unharmed, but she could not.
The very ardor and insight which gave power to the
actress made that mimic life unsatisfactory to the
woman, for hers was an earnest nature that took fast
hold of whatever task she gave herself to do, and
lived in it heartily while duty made it right, or
novelty lent it charms. But when she saw the
error of a step, the emptiness of a belief, with a
like earnestness she tried to retrieve the one and
to replace the other with a better substitute.
In the silence of wakeful nights and the solitude
of quiet days, she took counsel with her better self,
condemned the reckless spirit which had possessed
her, and came at last to the decision which conscience
prompted and much thought confirmed.
