Helen Ford

Mrs. Girdle looked at her with some curiosity. It was long since she had met with one so natural and transparent, and she hardly knew how to understand her. The world she had lived in did not abound in such characters.

“Now, my dear,” she said, after a pause, “since you are quite ready, and there is still a little time left, you had better run back to the stage and just hum over your songs to yourself. In that way you will be getting accustomed to the place.”

Seven o’clock came, and with it the opening of the doors. Then the audience began to assemble at first in small groups afterwards in larger parties, till by and by every available seat was taken. Among them came M’lle Fanchette, the aristocratic modiste, Helen’s fellow-lodger. She wore a superb bonnet of white satin, above which fluttered a feather of stately and imposing elevation, making her a very magnificent personage in her own opinion. She was in unusually good spirits, having secured the escort and attendance of the young clerk, whose youth she regarded as a compliment to her own juvenility, to which she still clung tenaciously. She had in her hand a large opera-glass, which she used with a freedom which made her more conspicuous than her companion desired.

The theatre was crowded—chiefly in consequence of the new play and the new actor. Soon the orchestra commenced playing, and a few minutes later the curtain rose.

The play, in some measure, disappointed the expectations of the audience. The star was but poorly supported by the stock company, who had been compelled to get up their parts at short notice. It was, perhaps, the consciousness of this poor support that made the leading actor’s personation less striking and effective than usual. The audience remained cold, and seldom indulged in applause. It seemed desirable, therefore, that the remaining parts of the performance should go off well.

Helen had watched the progress of the play from one of the wings. Her unpractised eyes could not detect deficiencies, and she became so absorbed as to forget for the time being that she herself was soon to take part. As the curtain fell, the manager walked hastily forward to the place where she stood.

“Miss Ford,” he said, “you will be called immediately. We shall expect you to do your best. Above all, don’t allow yourself to be frightened. Think as little as possible of the audience, and you will do well enough.”

Until this moment Helen had not thought of the possibility of failure. Now the conviction dawned upon her in all its force, that she was about to sing before two thousand people—she who had always lived in such perfect quiet and tranquillity. Her heart began to flutter like an imprisoned bird, and her color went and came. For a moment she felt that she would gladly be back in her humble room by her father’s side. At this trying moment she felt a gentle touch upon her arm. Turning quickly, her eyes rested on the kind face of Mrs. Girdle.

“Oh, Mrs. Girdle,” she whispered, in a tremulous tone. “I am so frightened. I don’t dare to go on.”

“Keep up your courage, Helen,” said her friend, gently pressing her hand. “I can understand your feelings, for I have passed through a similar ordeal. It is a trial, but one through which you will pass triumphantly. You have only to fancy that you are singing in your own room at home. Make a resolute effort, and you will succeed.”

“I will try,” said Helen, more composed.

“Miss Ford!”

It was the call-boy’s voice, and she hurried to the place from which she was to make her entrance upon the stage. Another moment and she stood before the audience. There was something so sweet and simple in her loveliness, that a general murmur of approbation was heard, and then there was a round of applause. This came near unnerving Helen. She caught a glimpse of the sea of faces that were turned towards her, and her head began to whirl. But Mrs. Girdle’s reassuring words came back to her. Above all, the thought of her father, in whose behalf she had taken this step, inspired her with a determination to succeed. The blush of momentary embarrassment which suffused her face did her no harm. It enlisted the warm sympathy of the audience, who again exhibited their good-will by a fresh outbreak of applause.

There was one present, however, who gazed at Helen as if petrified with astonishment.

“Look!” ejaculated M’lle Fanchette, convulsively clutching the arm of her companion. “If there isn’t Helen Ford on the stage. I can scarcely believe my eyes.”

“I believe you are right,” returned the young gentleman addressed. “I had no idea she was connected with the theatre.”

“It can’t be possible she’s going to sing!” ejaculated M’lle Fanchette. “Well, if ever–”

Just then the music struck up.

In a voice slightly tremulous, but gaining in strength as she proceeded, Helen commenced. There was no fear of failure now. She had forgotten the audience. She sang with all the freedom and joyousness of a bird, as if her whole heart was in the song. There was an indefinable charm about her manner, so thoroughly natural in its simplicity. She was evidently winning golden opinions.

As the last note died away, a storm of applause greeted her from all parts of the house. This recalled Helen to herself. No longer occupied by the song, she gazed around her half bewildered, with the air of a startled fawn. At this moment a magnificent bouquet, thrown from one of the boxes, alighted at her feet. Too little accustomed to the stage to understand that it was meant for her, she was about to withdraw without taking it, when a hoarse whisper was heard from one of the wings, “Pick it up.”

Mechanically she obeyed the direction, and bowing hastily, her cheeks burning with confusion, she retreated from the stage.

The manager met her.

“You have done very well, Miss Ford,” he said, encouragingly. “They are calling you back. You must go on the stage once more. And mind you don’t undo the favorable impression you have already produced.”

Go back again! Helen’s heart fluttered nervously, but there was no appeal. She drew a long breath, and went back.

Her re-appearance was greeted with enthusiasm. Then followed a profound silence—a hush of expectation. The clear voice of Helen once more broke the stillness, as she re-commenced her song. Helen’s eyes were directed towards the audience, but she saw them not. She was carried back in memory to the time when she sang this song at her mother’s knee, and unconsciously a gentle pathos and tone of repressed feeling blended with her notes that touched the audience, and hushed them to earnest attention.

There was a hard-featured Scotchman who sat in one of the front seats in the parquet, who, listening intently, furtively wiped a tear from his eye.

“She’s a sweet lassie,” he said, in a low tone, to his neighbor. “There’s a look about her that minds me of one I shall never see again.”

And the worthy Scotchman, whose heart was tender, though his manner was rough and his features hard, thought sadly of a flower that once bloomed in his home, but had faded early,—transplanted to the gardens of Paradise.

“Well!” remarked M’lle Fanchette, fanning herself violently, “to think of the forwardness of that child. If she had any modesty, she wouldn’t brazen it out before the public with so much boldness.”

“She seems modest enough,” replied Alphonso Eustace, to whom this remark was addressed, “and she certainly sings magnificently. Her voice is superb.”

“I saw nothing very remarkable about her singing,” returned the lady, fanning herself with increased violence. “I suppose there are other people that have voices as well as she. I used to sing myself, but nothing on earth would have tempted me to make such a public exhibition of myself.”

Her companion thought it extremely doubtful whether M’lle Fanchette would ever be tempted to break her resolution, but thought it most prudent to remain silent.

Meanwhile, Helen was greeted in a very different manner behind the scenes. Mrs. Girdle came forward, and congratulated her with a beaming smile upon her success.

“You have done beautifully, my dear child. Were you frightened when you first went on?”

“A little; but I remembered your words, and I succeeded in forgetting the audience. I am so glad you think I did well.”

“You couldn’t have done better.”

Of course, Helen was pleased and happy,—happy in the thought that she had pleased those who were interested for her. The thought that she had personally achieved a triumph never presented itself to her. For, in spite of her splendid endowments, she was singularly free from vanity, or even from the consciousness which would have led to such a feeling. Her chief thought was, that she should now be enabled to contribute to her father’s comforts by her pay at the theatre, and that thus he would be able to keep on with his labors, and perfect his invention.

Late at night she reached her humble lodging. Her father was already sleeping. Quickly undressing herself, she crept softly into bed, and in five minutes the weary child was sleeping also.

CHAPTER XIII.

ABSENT ON BUSINESS

The afternoon was already well advanced when Richard Sharp rose leisurely from the arm-chair in which he had been lounging. He threw aside the stump of a cigar which he had been smoking, and walking to the window, looked out.

“I wonder if it is going to rain,” he thought. “I must raise an umbrella somewhere.”

After passing his fingers through his bristling locks, which had the effect of giving each particular hair an upward tendency,—a favorite habit of Mr. Sharp, who regards it perhaps as the sign of an aspiring intellect,—our attorney put on his white hat and, opening the door of his office, stepped out upon the landing. Before locking the door he carefully affixed a card bearing upon it, in bold characters, “Absent on Business.” Mr. Sharp never dispenses with this little formality, even when he is only going round the corner to order an oyster-stew, or to a neighboring hotel to while away an hour at billiards. Entertaining broad and philosophic views of life, he regards any action, however trivial, in the light of business; and with this idea feels abundantly justified in leaving behind him this standing notice. And who shall say he is not right?

It chanced on this particular occasion, however, that Mr. Sharp’s business was really of a professional character.

On the stairs our lawyer met a stout, puffy little counsellor, whose business yielded him probably an income of from eight to ten thousand dollars a year. Mr. Sharp bowed with a mixture of condescension and affability. Passing a door on a lower floor, he noticed an umbrella standing outside. Was it in a fit of absence of mind that Mr. Sharp appropriated it, and with innocent unconsciousness raised it above his head when he got into the street? If so, his temporary abstraction served him in good stead since the rain was already beginning to fall.

Reaching the street he was accosted by a newsboy who was anxious to place in his hands a sheet containing a record of all the latest news that had transpired in both hemispheres—and all for the insignificant sum of five cents! Mr. Sharp took the paper. He then began to fumble about in his pocket for the required change.

“Bless me!” he exclaimed, after two or three dives which brought forth nothing, “I believe on my soul that I haven’t got any change. Such a ridiculously small sum, too!”

He looked pensively at the boy, who gazed at him in return in patient expectation.

After a moment’s pause the lawyer explained, suddenly, “Perhaps you can change a fifty?”

“Half a dollar!” said the boy, briskly, “Oh, yes!” and he forthwith pulled out a handful of small silver pieces mingled with pennies.

“My young friend,” remarked Mr. Sharp, graciously, “I meant a fifty-dollar bill.”

The newsboy whistled. “Perhaps you take me for a bank,” he remarked. “I can’t change no fifties. I can change a one or a two may be.”

“My boy,” said the attorney, with a gentle intonation. “I never carry small bills about with me. If you will call on me to-morrow, I will take another paper.”

The little newsboy looked in bewilderment after the retreating form of Mr. Sharp. There was something wrong unquestionably. He had parted with his paper, and had not obtained an equivalent. But how could he summon up confidence to dun a man of such magnificent conceptions that a bill representing his entire capital would be too small for him to carry about.

“I’d a good deal rather trade with people that ain’t so darned rich,” thought the newsboy, ruefully.

Then it occurred to him that his customer had asked him to call the next day, and he had not been told where to call. Mr. Sharp was still near, and he determined to run after him and inquire.

In a minute or two the lawyer was made sensible of a slight tugging at his coat-tail. Looking around, his eye rested on the little newsboy.

“Well, my friend,” said he, blandly, “in what way can I serve you?”

“You asked me to leave you a paper to-morrow, but I don’t know where you live.”

“O yes, certainly,” said Mr. Sharp, “how could I be so neglectful? You will find me at any time in my office, third story, round the corner. Anybody will tell you where. And now, as I am called away upon important business, I shall be compelled to request you to release your hold upon my coat-tail.”

So saying he smiled benignantly, and walked away.

“‘Third story, round the corner;’” slowly repeated the boy. “‘Anybody will tell me!’ What corner, I’d like to know? And how in thunder am I to know what third story it is, and who I am to ask for when I find it?”

The young merchant shook his head dubiously as these formidable queries suggested themselves to him, and came to the conclusion that he was no better off than before he inquired.

Meanwhile Mr. Sharp pursued his way, smiling complacently as he thought of the admirable manner in which he had obtained possession of the newspaper without rendering an equivalent.

“You’re a shrewd fellow, Sharp,” said he to himself. “There are not many who would have managed it so cleverly.”

Mr. Sharp kept on his way with quiet dignity, dispensing affable smiles to such acquaintances as he met. Sometimes his smiles were returned with cold nods, by such as were familiar with his unscrupulous character; but our lawyer was on such good terms with himself, that these little rebuffs appeared to have no effect upon him. At length he paused before Mrs. Morton’s boarding-house. Opening the outer door, he ascended three flights of stairs until he reached Mr. Ford’s apartment. He knocked, but although sounds were heard from within there was no response. Rightly judging that Mr. Ford was so preoccupied that he had not heard or noticed the knock, he knocked again, this time louder. As this too was disregarded, he opened the door softly and went in.

It was the afternoon preceding Helen’s début at the theatre, and this accounted for her absence. Mr. Sharp was secretly glad to find it so, judging that Helen’s presence might possibly interfere with his object in calling.

“Mr. Ford,” he said, bowing benignantly, as that gentleman chanced to look up, “I beg you will pardon my entering so unceremoniously. I have availed myself of the polite invitation you so kindly extended some days since, to look in upon you and observe your progress. I knocked twice, but understanding that you were too absorbed to hear it, I took the liberty of opening the door without leave.”

Mr. Ford politely expressed his pleasure at seeing him, though it required an effort on his part to recall the name of his visitor, or the circumstances under which they had first met. “In spite of my numerous engagements,” resumed Mr. Sharp, “I could not forego the pleasure of looking in upon you at your labors. I have many times blessed the chance which procured me the acquaintance of yourself and your amiable daughter. I look upon you, my dear sir, as engaged in a work of infinite importance to society, and to the welfare of the human race. And in after years, when posterity shall have done ample justice to your merits, when your name has been elevated to its appropriate place beside those of Watt and Franklin—and—Christopher Columbus, it will be my proudest boast that I recognized your claims to the world’s gratitude in advance of others.”

To Mr. Ford, who was thoroughly convinced of the practicability of his invention, and its great importance to the world, this language did not seem extravagant. Never doubting his visitor’s sincerity, he could not but feel grateful for the meed of encouragement to which he was a stranger. At the request of Mr. Sharp he began to explain some of the chief features in his invention, the lawyer listening with the greatest apparent interest.

“It is admirable!” he exclaimed, with enthusiasm. “Take my word for it, it must and will succeed. But pardon me for suggesting that with better materials your model would be likely to prove more satisfactory. An inventor should be able to command large means in order to perfect his plans.”

“Of that I am aware,” said Mr. Ford, with hesitation. “But, as you have no doubt inferred, from the style in which Helen and I live, my means are very limited.”

“No more,” said Mr. Sharp, warmly, “I anticipate all that you would say. Yet, if you will pardon me the question, why do you not apply to your friends for a loan?”

Mr. Ford shook his head, smiling faintly. “It would be of no use,” he said.

“Sir,” said the worthy attorney, grasping the hand of the inventor with an effusion of emotion, “you do your friends injustice. To convince you of it, I, the unworthiest of those whose proud privilege it is to bear that title, offer to loan you two hundred dollars. It is not much–”

“But, my dear sir–”

“No, sir, you shall not object. I am determined to connect my name in some way with this important discovery. To satisfy your scruples, I will consent to your signing this note for the amount. You may affix your signature while I am counting the money.”

“But I may never be able to pay you.”

“That risk is mine. I ask no security. I claim no interest. It is enough that in this way I am able to link my name with modest merit, and aid in bringing forward a discovery which will prove of incalculable benefit to mankind.”

Poor Mr. Ford! He was tempted beyond his power of resistance. This timely aid would enable him to carry out plans which he thought likely to expedite his final triumph. Yes, he would accept what was so generally proffered. A little while and he would be able to repay the loan with interest. So at least he was sanguine enough to think.

“I cannot thank you sufficiently,” he said, warmly, “for this mark of generous and disinterested friendship towards a comparative stranger. The delicacy with which you tender this loan removes all the objections I might otherwise have to receiving it. Again I thank you.”

He signed the note and handed it to Mr. Sharp, who took from his pocket-book the sum mentioned and laid it on the table. The lawyer put the note into his pocket, saying, as he did so, “This strip of paper is to me of inestimable value in so far as it connects me with one whose name, I am sure, will be handed down to fame as one of the greatest of modern inventors. But, sir, my mission is accomplished, I will not further trespass upon your valuable time. I trust you will not scruple to use freely the money I have advanced for the furtherance of your great purpose. I shall claim the privilege of sometimes looking in upon you and witnessing your progress.”

“You will always be most welcome,” said Mr. Ford, cordially.

“Rather a clever operation that!” thought Mr. Sharp, as he threaded his way down stairs. “It was a capital idea, making out the note for three hundred dollars and only paying him two. I knew he would never detect it. After all, the extra hundred will do more good in my hands than in Ford’s, who would only waste it on his crazy invention. My client will never be the wiser. By the way, he must have some deep scheme on foot, or he would never throw away such a sum on a crack-brained enthusiast. I think, old fellow, you’ve earned a good oyster-supper, with a glass or so to make it go down. Talking has made me as dry as a herring.”

And the benevolent Mr. Sharp, who was so anxious to connect his name with an important discovery in science, gravely entered a neighboring saloon and called for something to drink. Human nature is not at all times heroic.

CHAPTER XIV.

HELEN MAKES KNOWN HER ENGAGEMENT

It was again morning. Helen sat at the window, which was thrown wide open to admit the pleasant breeze that rustled in and out like a restless sprite, laden, not with rich odors and sweet perfumes from green fields, but resonant with the noises of the crowded city streets.

There was an expression of doubt and perplexity in Helen’s face. She was considering whether it would be possible to make known to her father her engagement at the theatre, without, at the same time, revealing the motive which had led her to seek it. She was assured that her father would feel deeply pained if he knew the real state of the case, and she dreaded that he might object to her keeping her engagement. While she was hesitating, her father suddenly turned from his work and met her glance.

“A penny for your thoughts, Helen,” he said, with unwonted playfulness.

“My thoughts!” and she blushed consciously. “I am afraid, papa, they are not worth so much.”

“How cool and refreshing is the air!” mused Mr. Ford, as he stood for a moment at the window. “Mark how beautifully the clouds are tinged with the faintest flush of red. Well have the old poets spoken of morning as ‘rosy-fingered.’ Would you like to go out for a walk, Helen?”

Helen looked up at the clock. It lacked yet two hours of the time for rehearsal. There would be plenty of time for a walk, which, with her father, was never a long one.

“Perhaps I shall be able to say something about my engagement, on the way,” she thought.

She silently got her bonnet, and, placing her hand in that of her father, descended the stairs into the street. Here all was life and activity. In the early morning of a pleasant day the streets of a great city present a pleasant and cheerful aspect. Everything is full of stir and bustle. Even the jaded dray-horse pricks up his ears, and shows some signs of life. Boys and girls expend their superabundant activity in bounding along the sidewalk, and even the man of business seems lightened of a portion of his cares. There is a subtile electricity in the air, which unconsciously affects the spirits of all, and lights up many faces with vague hopefulness.

Helen yielded herself up to the influences of the morning, and a quiet sense of happiness stole over her. She thought how beautiful in itself is the gift of life, and how glad we ought to be for the bright sunshine, and the clear, refreshing air, and the beautiful earth. The conflicts of life were lost sight of. She forgot, in the exhilaration of her spirits, that the days were sometimes dark, and the clouds leaden. Her father seemed affected in a similar way. A faint flush crept to his wan cheek, and his step became more elastic.

“How the difficulties and embarrassments of our daily lives fade away in this glorious sunshine!” he said, musingly. “Sometimes I have had fears that my discovery would never prove available; but to-day success seems almost within my grasp. It would be a sin to doubt, when all Nature whispers auguries of hope.”

“You must succeed, papa,” said Helen, cheerfully.

“So I feel now. I catch the inspiration of this cooling breeze. It breathes new life into me. It gives me fresh courage to work, for the end draws near.”

Mr. Ford relapsed into silence, and Helen walked quietly by his side, occupied with her own thoughts. All at once she became sensible that she had attracted the attention of a little knot of boys, who were conversing together in a low tone, pointing first to her, and then to a large placard posted conspicuously on the wall beside her.

“That’s she!” she heard pronounced in an audible voice. “I saw her last night.”

Following the direction of their fingers, she started in surprise on reading, in large capitals, her own name. It was the bill of the evening’s entertainment in the theatre at which she was engaged. The surprise was so unexpected, that she uttered a half-exclamation, which, however, was sufficient to draw her father’s attention to the bill.