And that was the first time I ever experienced the honor of going before the curtain with a star. I supposed I had received the highest possible reward for my night's work; I forgot there were such things as newspapers in the town, but I was reminded of their existence the next day.
Never, never was I so astonished. Such notices as were given of the performance, and what was particularly dwelt upon, think you? Why, the tears. "Real tears—tears that left streaks on the girl's cheeks!" said one paper. "Who is she—have you seen her—the wonderful Columbus ballet-girl, who wins tears with tears, real ones, too?" asked another.
I was ashamed. I was afraid people would make fun of me at the theatre. At the box-office window that day many people were asking: "That girl that made the hit last night, is she really one of the ballet, or is it just a story, for effect?"
Some women asked, anxiously: "Will that girl cry to-night, do you think?"
It was very strange. One paper had a quieter article; it spoke of a rough diamond—of an earnest, honest method of addressing speeches directly to the character, instead of to the audience, as did many of the older actors. It claimed a future, a fair, bright future for the girl who could so thoroughly put herself in another's place, and declared it would watch with interest the movements of so remarkable a ballet-girl.
Now see how oddly we human dice are shaken about, and in what groups we fall, again and again. Among the honorable gentlemen sitting at that time in the Ohio Legislature was Colonel Donn Piatt, with the fever of the Southern marshes yet in his blood as a souvenir of his services through the war. He had gone languidly enough to the theatre that night, because there was nothing else for him to do—unless he swapped stories of the war in the hotel corridor with other ex-soldiers, and he was sick to death of that, and he was so surprised by what he saw that he was moved to write the article from which the last quotation is taken. Stopping in the same hotel, but quite unknown to him, was a young man, hardly out of boyhood, whose only lie, I honestly believe, was the one he told and swore to in order to raise his age to the proper military height that would admit him into the army. Bright, energetic, almost attaining perpetual motion in his own person, ambitious John A. Cockerill just then served in the double capacity of a messenger in the House and reporter on a paper. Diphtheria, which was almost epidemic that winter, visited the staff of the paper he was on, and in consequence he was temporarily assigned to its dramatic work—thus he wrote another of the notices of my first venture in the tearful drama. Every day these two men were in the State-house—every day I walked through its grounds on my way to and from the theater—each quite unconscious of the others.
But old Time shakes the box and casts the dice so many, many times, groupings must repeat themselves now and again, so it came about that after years filled with hard work and fair dreams, another shake of the box cast us down upon the table of Life, grouped together again—but each man knew and served me now faithfully, loyally; each giving me a hand to pull me up a step higher. They hated each other bitterly, vindictively, as journalists have been known to do occasionally; and as I knew the noble qualities of both, what better reward could I give for their goodness to me than to clasp their hands together and make them friends? It was not an easy task, it required finesse as well as courage, but that was the kind of task a woman loves—if she succeeds, and I succeeded.
They became friends, strong, earnest friends for the rest of their lives. Death severed the bond, if it is severed; I do not know, and they may not return to tell me—I only know that in the years that were to come, when each man headed a famous paper, Colonel John A. Cockerill, of the New York World, who wrote many a high word of praise for me when victory had at last perched on my banner, and Colonel Piatt, who with his brilliant wife made me known to many famous men and women in their hospitable Washington home, loved to recall that night in Columbus when, all unconsciously, we three came so near to each other, only to drift apart for years and come together again.
And once I said, "like motes," and Donn Piatt swiftly added, "and a sunbeam," and both men lifted their glasses and, nodding laughingly at me, cried: "To the sunbeam!" while Mrs. Piatt declared, "That's a very pretty compliment," but to me the unanimity of thought between those erstwhile enemies was the prettiest thing about it.
But even so small a success as that had its attendant shadows, as I soon found. Though I was then boarding, with Hattie McKee for my room-mate, I felt I still owed a certain duty and respect to Mrs. Bradshaw. Therefore, when this wonderful thing happened to me, I thought I ought to go and tell her all about it. I went; she gave me a polite, unsmiling good-morning and pointed to a chair. I felt chilled. Presently she remarked, with a small, forced laugh: "You have become so great a person, I scarcely expected to see you here to-day."