Helen Ford

THE TALENTED YOUNG VOCALIST,MISS HELEN FORD,WILL MAKE HER SECOND APPEARANCE THIS EVENING IN A POPULAR SONG

“It is very strange,” said Mr. Ford, stopping short as he read this announcement; “some one having the same name with you, Helen?”

“No, papa,” said she, in a low voice.

“No?” repeated her father, in surprise. “Then you don’t see the name.”

“Will you promise not to be angry with me, papa, if I tell you all.”

“Angry! Am I often angry with you, Helen?”

“No, no! I did not mean that. But perhaps you will think I have done wrong.”

“I am still in the dark, Helen.”

“Then,” said the young girl, hurriedly, and with flushed face, “that is my name. I am the Helen Ford whose name is on the bill.”

“You, Helen!” exclaimed her father, in undisguised amazement.

“Yes, papa. I have been wanting to tell you all this morning; but I hardly knew how.”

“I don’t understand. Have you ever sung there?”

“Last night, for the first time.”

Helen proceeded to give her father a circumstantial account of her interview with the manager, her repulse at first, and her subsequent engagement. She added that she had hesitated to tell him, lest he should object to her accepting it. She next spoke of her first appearance upon the stage,—how at first she was terrified at sight of the crowded audience, but had succeeded in overcoming her timidity, and lost all consciousness of her trying position in the enjoyment of singing.

“You have forgotten one thing, Helen,” said her father, gravely. “You have not told me what first gave you the idea of singing in public.”

“It was Martha,” said Helen, in some embarrassment, foreseeing what was coming. “One day I sang in her room, and she was so well pleased, that she told me I might one day become a public singer.”

“And that was all, Helen?”

“What else should there be, papa?” she answered, evasively.

“Indeed, I do not know. I thought it might be because you supposed we were poor, and wished to earn some money. But you see, Helen, there is no need of that;” and he drew out his pocket-book, and displayed to the child’s astonished gaze the roll of bills which Mr. Sharp had insisted on loaning him the day previous.

“Indeed, papa, I had no idea you were so rich.”

“A kind friend lent me this money yesterday.”

“Who was it, papa?”

“You remember a man who came to see us a fortnight since,—a tall man with a white hat?”

“Yes, papa.”

“He lent me the money.”

“Did you ask him, papa?”

“No; it was his own generous offer.”

“But suppose he should want you to pay it by and by, and you did not have the money?” suggested Helen, uneasily.

“There is no fear on that score. He desires to assist me with my invention, and suggested, very properly, that with improved materials my progress would become more rapid. Once let me succeed, and I shall be able to repay the loan, if it were twice as large. He will never think of asking me for it before. He is a very generous-hearted man, Helen, and he only called it a loan because he knew that I should be unwilling to accept a gift.”

Helen could not gainsay her father’s words. She could not conceive of any evil purpose on the part of Mr. Sharp; yet, somehow, an unaccountable sense of anxiety and apprehension of coming evil, in connection with this loan, would force itself upon her mind.

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Ford, with a sudden thought, “you may need something that I can buy you,—some article of dress, or perhaps you may require an additional sum for the purchase of our daily necessaries. I am so much occupied in other ways that I do not always think of these things.”

“No, papa,” said Helen, hurriedly. “I do not need anything.”

Then, yielding to an uncontrollable impulse, she exclaimed, “Dear papa, do not use any of this money. Pray, return it to this man, and tell him you do not need it.”

“But it will be very useful to me, Helen. Besides, it would be a very uncivil way of meeting such a generous offer. You are a foolish child. What has put this fancy into your head?”

“I don’t know,” said Helen, slowly; “but I feel as if this money may do us some harm.”

“What possible harm can come of it?” asked Mr. Ford, surprised at the child’s earnestness.

“I do not like to think that you are in anybody’s power, papa.”

“We are all in the power of God, my child.”

“I did not mean that, papa.”

“And He is abundantly able to shield us from evil. Is it not so, Helen?”

Helen was silenced, but not wholly convinced. This was the more remarkable, since nothing was more foreign to her nature than to cherish distrust of any living thing. Even now, her feeling was rather an instinctive foreboding than any clearly-defined suspicion. The presence of Mr. Sharp, polite and affable as he appeared, had not impressed her pleasantly,—why, she could not tell. Oftentimes children are truer in their instinctive perception of character than their elders. It is fortunate that, in the absence of that knowledge which experience alone can give, they should be provided with this safeguard against the evil designs of those who might injure them.

Nine o’clock pealed from the lofty steeple of Trinity. Helen heard the strokes as one by one they rang out upon the air, and she was warned of the near approach of the hour for rehearsal.

“It is nearly time for rehearsal,” she said, looking up in her father’s face. “Shall I go?”

“Do you really wish to go, Helen?”

“I really wish it, papa.”

“Then I will not interfere to prevent you. I have so much confidence in you, my child, that I am willing to trust you where others might suffer harm.”

The father and child parted. One returned to his humble lodging in the fourth story back; the other wended her way to the theatre.

CHAPTER XV.

THE OPPOSITE LODGER

During the day Helen, in ascending the stairs, encountered M’lle Fanchette.

“So you have become quite a public character, Miss Ford,” said the modiste, superciliously.

Helen looked up, but did not speak.

“I heard you sing at the theatre, last evening.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Nothing would have induced me to come forward so publicly at your age. However, I suppose you don’t mind it.”

“No,” said Helen, with rising color; “I don’t mind it, since it enables me to earn money for my father.”

“Isn’t your father well? It isn’t usual for children to be called upon to support their parents.”

“Good morning, M’lle Fanchette,” said Helen, abruptly. The implied censure upon her father kindled her resentment as no insult to herself would have done.

M’lle Fanchette looked after her with a sneer. “So my lady is putting on airs, is she? I don’t believe her father’s invention will ever come to anything. Perhaps I had better take no further notice of her.”

Just as Helen reached the door of her father’s room, she saw the occupant of the opposite apartment standing at his door. He was a young man of middle height, with a face whose boyish bloom had hardly given place to the more mature expression of manhood.

“Good morning, Miss Ford,” he said, pleasantly.

“Good morning, Mr. Coleman.”

“I was just about to ask a favor of you and your father.”

Helen thought he might be intending to ask a loan of some little article, for it had come to her knowledge that he was boarding himself.

“I am sure we shall be happy to grant it,” she said, cheerfully.

“I suppose you know that I am an artist, or trying to be,” said the young man. “I have just finished a picture for exhibition at the Academy. No one has seen it yet, and I, perhaps, am not a fair judge of its merits. I should be very glad if you and Mr. Ford would take a look at it, and favor me with your opinion of it.”

“I shall be delighted to see it, and so will papa, I know,” returned Helen. “I will speak to him immediately.”

“Papa,” she said, entering the room, “Mr. Coleman is kind enough to invite us to look at a picture he has painted.”

“I beg your pardon, my dear,” said Mr. Ford, looking up abstractedly. “Did you speak?”

Helen repeated the invitation.

“I shall be most happy,” said Mr. Ford, courteously. “Let us go at once.”

The opposite room was fitted up as an artist’s studio,—plainly enough, for young Coleman was, as yet, only a struggling aspirant, without a name and without orders.

On an easel was the picture of which he had spoken. The subject was, “A country farm-house at sunrise.” Broad and low, suggestive less of beauty than of substantial comfort, it stood prominently out. The farmer in his shirt-sleeves was leaning carelessly against the fence, watching a group of cattle who were just emerging from the barn, followed by the farmer’s son, a stout boy of fourteen. There was a cart in the yard near the house, a plough, and a variety of accessories carefully selected to imitate nature as scrupulously as possible. The whole painting was exceedingly natural.

“It is beautiful,” said Helen, with childish enthusiasm.

“Thank you,” said the young man, smiling.

“It looks very familiar to me,” said Mr. Ford. “It seems to me as if I had seen the very farm-house you have represented.”

“Thank you. I may dare to hope, then, that I have been reasonably true to nature.”

“In that respect I think you have succeeded wonderfully. You must have been born in the country, Mr. Coleman.”

“Yes, sir; I am a farmer’s son.”

“What made you think of becoming an artist?” asked Helen.

“I believe it was a severe punishment I received at school.”

Helen looked surprised.

“I see you don’t understand how that should have had such an influence in determining my career. Let me explain. I used from time to time to draw upon the slate pictures of my school-mates, which were regarded by the originals as very successful. One winter the Prudential Committee selected as teacher a young man of very singular appearance. His nose was immensely large, and of odd shape. One day, after finishing my sums in arithmetic, the fancy seized me to draw a picture of the teacher. I became interested in the portrait, so that when my class was called up I did not hear the summons, but kept on with my sketch. Seeing how I was employed, Mr. Hargrave stepped up behind me on tiptoe, and to his inexpressible anger beheld the counterfeit presentment of himself, in which full justice was done to his leading deformity. He was probably sensible of his lack of beauty, and correspondingly sensitive. At all events, he was so far from appreciating my efforts, that he seized me by the collar, swung me out into the middle of the school-room, and gave me a cruel punishment, from which I did not for some time recover. I did not go back to school, my father being too indignant with the teacher for his unreasonable severity. He was desirous of seeing the sketch which had excited so strong a resentment. I accordingly reproduced it with a pencil as carefully as I could, and my father took the trouble to have it framed, and hung up in the sitting-room, where it attracted considerable attention and many encomiums. I believe it was this incident which led me to think seriously of becoming an artist by profession. Twelve months since my father gave me what little money he could spare, and I came to New York to establish myself.”

“And what encouragement have you received, Mr. Coleman?” asked Mr. Ford, with kindly interest.

“Of pecuniary encouragement, none,” was the reply. “That, however, it is too early to expect. I have been a part of the time in the studio of an established artist,—till two months since in fact,—obtaining what knowledge I absolutely required. Then I transferred my studio to this room. You see before you the result of my two months’ labor.”

“You have made an excellent beginning. I feel safe in predicting your success.”

“Thank you, sir. You asked me what encouragement I had received. Your kind anticipation is among the most valuable.”

“I do not, of course, profess to be a competent judge,” said Mr. Ford; “but I think an inexperienced eye will see much to commend in your painting. It’s truth to nature is very striking. It is a pity you could not study abroad.”

“It is my ardent wish,” said the young man, “but quite beyond my power to compass. I have now been a year in the city, learning much, as I hope, but earning nothing. This has nearly brought me to the end of my scanty resources. I shall not be able to continue thus much longer. I confess to have built some hopes upon the picture I have just painted. If I could secure a purchaser at a fair price, it would enable me to protract my residence, which otherwise must soon be brought to an end.”

“There is one bond of fellowship between us, then,” said Mr. Ford, smiling; “that of poverty. I, too, am working on in present need, hoping some day to achieve success, and with it money. But in one respect I have the advantage of you. My little daughter, here,” placing his hand affectionately on Helen’s head, “cheers me with her presence and sympathy, and is of more substantial help besides. I don’t know what I should do without her.”

“O father!” said Helen.

“It is all true, my child. Even now, she has obtained an engagement to sing at the theatre, chiefly, as I think, though she will not admit it, because she thinks the money will be of use to me.”

“Indeed!” said the young artist. “I observed in this morning’s paper a very flattering account of the début of a young singer bearing your daughter’s name, but I had no idea it was she. Wait a moment, here it is.”

The young man pointed out the paragraph to Mr. Ford, who read it with proud gratification. It was pleasant to him to find that the daughter who was so dear to him should be appreciated by the public.

“Helen, I shall become proud of you,” he said.

“And I shall return the compliment, papa,—you know when. Papa, I want to whisper to you a moment.”

“Certainly, my dear; that is, if Mr. Coleman will excuse the impoliteness.”

“Don’t mention it, sir. I hope you will consider me so far a friend, as to treat me unceremoniously.”

“Mr. Coleman,” said Mr. Ford, after his whispered conference with Helen, “my daughter desires me to invite you to dine with us. I trust you will feel inclined to accept the invitation.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” said the young man, his face brightening up.

“I need hardly tell you that we do not fare very sumptuously.”

The young man laughed. “And I need hardly assure you, sir, that I am quite unused to sumptuous fare. Frankly, but for your invitation, my dinner would have consisted of some dry bread and a couple of sausages.”

“You can reserve those till to-morrow, then. I really don’t know what Helen will give us. She allows no dictation in the commissary department.”

“Now, papa,” remonstrated Helen, “what will Mr. Coleman think of me? You are making me out to be a dreadful tyrant.”

“I thought it best to put him on his guard. Since you are kind enough to accept our invitation, Mr. Coleman, Helen will knock at your door when dinner is ready. Good morning.”

“Good morning, sir. I shall be quite ready for the summons.”

The artist went back to his work, but the image of Helen’s childish beauty occasionally rose up before him, and he could not help wishing that Heaven had given him such a sister.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE MUFFLED FACE

Apparently brighter days had dawned upon Helen and her father. With Mr. Sharp’s loan and Helen’s weekly salary they were no longer obliged to practice the pinching economy which, until now, had been a necessity. Helen could now venture to add an occasional luxury to their daily fare without being compelled to consider anxiously how many dollars yet remained in the common purse. The landlady’s call for the rent was now cheerfully received. Helen always had the amount carefully laid aside. No one rejoiced more sincerely in their new prosperity than the worthy landlady, who though forced to look after her own interests, had a large heart, full of kindly sympathy for those who were doing their best in the struggle of life.

“I only wish all my lodgers were equally prompt, my dear,” she said, one day. “It’s really disagreeable to call on some of them; they look as if you were the last person they wanted to see, and pay down their rent just for all the world as if it was something you had no right to, but were trying to exact from them. Now you always look cheerful, and pay me as if it was a pleasure for you to do it.”

“And so it is,” said Helen, blithely. “But it wasn’t so always. I think, Mother Morton, that the pleasure of paying away money depends upon whether you are sure of any more after that is gone.”

“I don’t know but you are right,” said the landlady. “But I know it isn’t so with some. There’s Mrs. Ferguson used to occupy my first floor front, living on her income, of which she didn’t spend half. I suppose she never had less than two or three hundred dollars on hand in her trunk lying idle, but she’d put me off as long as she could about paying, for no earthly reason except because she hated to part with her money. I stood it as long as I could, till one day I told her plainly that I knew she had the money, and she must pay it or go. She took a miff and went off, and I didn’t mourn much for her. But, bless my soul! here I am running on, when I ought to be down stairs giving orders about the dinner.”

Mr. Ford invested a portion of his borrowed capital in a variety of articles which he conceived would assist him in his invention. Although to outward appearance success was quite as distant as ever, it was perhaps a happy circumstance for Mr. Ford that he constantly believed himself on the eve of attaining his purpose. Indeed, he labored so enthusiastically that his health began to suffer. The watchful eyes of Helen detected this, and she felt that it was essential that her father should have a greater variety and amount of exercise. She determined, therefore, to propose some pleasant excursion, which would have the effect of diverting his thoughts for a time from the subject which so completely engrossed them.

Accordingly, one Saturday morning, having no duties at the theatre during the day, she said to her father, as he was about to settle himself to his usual employment, “Papa, I have a favor to ask.”

“Well, my child?”

“I don’t want you to work to-day.”

“Why,” said Mr. Ford, half absently; “it isn’t Sunday, is it?”

“No,” said Helen, laughing; “but it is Saturday, and I think we ought to take a holiday.”

“To be sure,” said Mr. Ford, thinking that Helen needed one. “I ought to have spoken of it before. And what shall we do, Helen? what would you like to do?”

“I’ll tell you, papa, of a grand plan; I thought of it yesterday, as I was looking at the advertisements in the paper. Suppose we go to Staten Island in the steamboat.”

“I believe I should enjoy it,” said Mr. Ford, brightening up. “It will do both of us good; when shall we go?”

“Let me see, it is eight o’clock; I think we can get ready to take the nine o’clock boat.”

Having once determined upon the plan, Mr. Ford showed an almost childish eagerness to put it into execution; he fidgeted about nervously while Helen was sweeping the floor and setting the room to rights, and inquired half a dozen times, “Most ready, Helen?”

Helen hailed with no little satisfaction this sign of interest on the part of her father, and resolved that if she could accomplish it these excursions should henceforth be more frequent.

By nine o’clock they were on board the boat. A large number of passengers had already gathered on the deck. The unusual beauty of the morning had induced many to snatch from the harassing toils of business a few hours of communion with the fresh scenes of nature. Both decks were soon crowded with passengers. Helen, to whom this was a new experience, enjoyed the scene not a little. She felt her spirits rising, and it seemed to her difficult to imagine a more beautiful spectacle than the boat with its white awnings and complement of well-dressed passengers. They had scarcely found comfortable seats on the promenade deck before the signal was given, and the boat cast loose from the wharf. There is nothing more nearly approaching the act of flying than the swift-gliding movement of a steamboat as it cleaves its way easily and gracefully through the smooth water.

Mr. Ford looked thoughtfully back upon the spires and roofs of the city momentarily receding.

“How everything has changed,” he said slowly, “since I last crossed in a row-boat more than twenty years ago! And all this change has been effected by the tireless energy of man. Does it not seem strange that the outward aspect of inanimate nature should be so completely altered?”

Half an hour landed them at the island. Helen took her father’s hand and assumed the office of guide. They gazed with interest at the gay crowds as they availed themselves of the means of amusement which the place afforded. Helen even left her father long enough to take her turn in swinging, and, flushed with the exercise, returned to him. They next sauntered to a wooden inclosure, where wooden horses, each bearing a rider, were revolving under the impulse of machinery. The riders consisted partly of boys, and partly of others who were compelled to labor hard on other days, but had been tempted, by the cheapness of the trip, to a day’s recreation.

Leaving Helen and her father to amuse themselves in their quiet way, we turn our attention to others.

Among those who were rambling hither and thither as caprice dictated, was a young man whose pale face and attenuated figure indicated some sedentary pursuit. His face, though intellectual, was not pleasing. There was something in the lines about the mouth which argued moral weakness.

Is this description sufficient to bring back to the reader’s recollection Jacob Wynne, the copyist, whose services had been called into requisition by Lewis Rand?

He was better dressed than when last introduced to the reader. The money furnished by Rand in return for his services had supplied the means for this outward improvement. On his arm leaned a young girl, or rather a young woman, for she appeared about twenty-five years of age. He was conversing with her in a low tone, but upon what subject could not be distinguished. She listened, apparently not displeased. They walked slowly, now in one direction, now in another. If they had not been so occupied with one another, they might have observed that they were followed at a little distance by a woman who kept her burning gaze fixed upon them steadily, apparently determined not to lose sight of them a single moment.

This woman seemed out of place in the festive scene into which she had introduced herself. She presented a strong contrast to the gay, well-dressed groups through which she passed without seeming to heed their presence.

She was dressed in a faded calico dress, over which, notwithstanding the heat, a ragged shawl was carelessly thrown. On her head was a sun-bonnet, so large that it nearly concealed her features from view. One or two who had the curiosity to look at the face, so carefully concealed, started in alarm at the hard, fierce expression which they detected there. Her face was very pale, save that at the centre of each cheek there glowed a vivid red spot. It was evident that the heart of this woman was the seat of conflicting passions. She continued to follow Jacob Wynne, with what object it was not evident. It seemed that she did not wish to make her presence known to him, at least in his present company, since, on his casually turning his glances in her direction, she drew her bonnet more closely about her features, so as to elude the closest scrutiny, and with apparent carelessness turned away. When she saw that his attention was again occupied by his companion she resumed her espionage.

At length they separated for a few minutes. Jacob’s companion expressed a wish for a glass of water. Leaving her seated on the grass, he hastened away to comply with her request. The woman who had followed them so closely, as soon as she saw this, moved rapidly towards the companion he had left, and dropped into her lap a few words written in pencil upon a slip of paper. The latter, picking it up in surprise, read as follows: “Beware of the man who has just left you, or you will repent it when too late. He is not to be trusted.”

She looked up, but could see no one likely to have given it to her. At a little distance her eyes fell upon a shabbily-dressed woman who was walking rapidly away, but it never crossed her mind that she had anything to do with the warning just given. If she had watched longer she would have seen the meeting of this woman with Jacob Wynne, for it was of him she had gone in pursuit. The latter was returning with a glass of water when she threw herself in his path. With a glance of surprise he was about to pass by, when she planted herself again in his way.