There came a moment when Barbara had her most effective bit of acting. It was Ophelia's entrance, and Beatrice was to rush to her with a glad cry at seeing her return from the grave. Grace, as Viola, stood directly in the center. Barbara, from the left of the stage, saw Ophelia crossing from the right, and sprang forward. Grace made a motion as if to free herself from something interfering with her skirt, short though it was, and stepped slightly forward, as she did so contriving to extend the point of her sword toward the swift feet of Beatrice. Barbara did not see—indeed, there was no time to see—the malicious act. She bounded forward, and fell headlong, face downward, on the stage. Mr. Lane, in the wings, directing and watching his play with all the nervousness of a young author, said something vigorous and excusable under the circumstances, turning whiter than he was before at the sight of the accident.
"The miserable girl!" he muttered. "She has spoiled the play!"
Tom, as Benedick, was not far off; standing near Grace, he saw plainly the entire action. With great presence of mind, he leaped to Barbara's assistance. Stooping, he raised her, helped her free her feet from her entangling skirt, and whispered: "Are you hurt, Bab? For goodness sake, pull yourself together and go on!"
Barbara was shaken by the force of her fall, and mortified almost beyond bearing. Tom's voice steadied her a little, and she managed to whisper: "Not seriously, Tom; but what shall I do?"
"Don't let that beast of a girl down you," he whispered back. "Say something in reply to me." Then, aloud, he said, laughing: "'Tis the first time, dear Lady Disdain, I have caught you tripping. That I should live to see the day that proud Beatrice throws herself at my feet! But, faith, dear lady, I have long guessed you liked me well."
Barbara tossed her head in approved Beatrician fashion. "'Tis my feet, and not my head, hath tripped, good my lord. 'Twas joy at sight of sweet Ophelia there somewhat overcame me, and at her feet, not yours, I lie prostrate. Ophelia, Ophelia, and are you really among the living?" And from this point the dialogue continued as in the manuscript.
There were many among the audience who understood what had happened, and the rest guessed; everybody recognized and admired the pluck that carried Barbara through a humiliating situation. The entire house rose and shouted, and from the wings came applause no less hearty. Mr. Lane was beside himself with delight. "Such a girl!" he cried rapturously to the world in general. "I never saw such grit! And she saved my play—she and Leighton, bless 'em! Her voice was shaking when she spoke, yet she got herself in hand and went on! I tell you, I never saw such grit."
At the end of the play, Barbara and Tom had to reply to a separate recall, an honor that made Grace set her teeth hard. Her spite had turned against herself; she was furious, humiliated, for many knew that she had acted as she had done purposely, and she felt sure that her chance of Mrs. Van Alyn's favor had gone forever.