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.”