Helen Ford. Alger Horatio Jr.
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for in the future, she had not the heart to offer her the destiny which she had been compelled to accept for herself; nor could she bear to dim the child’s trustful confidence in her father’s success by the expression of a single doubt.
She remained silent.
Finding that Martha said nothing, Helen continued: “When I came to see you the other day, Martha, I had been trying to think of some way in which I could help poor papa, but I could think of nothing. Then when I sang to you and you liked it, I thought it possible that others might like it, too. Do you think,” she asked, lifting her eyes with a look of earnest expectation; “do you think they would hire me to sing at the theatre?”
Martha started in surprise. As yet no thought of the child’s purpose had entered her mind. To one so unobtrusive and retiring by natural temperament, the thought of going forth at the head of an army would have seemed scarcely more formidable that that of standing before a public audience. Yet this was what Helen, so diffident always, actually proposed to do.
“Can you really be in earnest, Helen?” she asked; gazing in amazement at the child who cherished such bold aspirations.
She did not understand the power of the motive which influenced Helen; how she made everything subordinate to the promptings of filial affection, which was stronger than any other feeling of her nature. That gave her courage to think of what she would otherwise have shrunk from with nervous timidity. For her father she felt that she could dare all. It was a strange position, that of a young girl at her age, called upon to assume the oversight and care of providing for her father’s comfort and necessities. Stranger still was it, that with all the knowledge of her father’s dependence upon herself and his utter ignorance of the world and its ways, she should yet have retained so thorough a respect and reverence for him.
“Can you be in earnest?”
It was Helen’s turn to be surprised at the question.
“Why not?” she asked. “It is my duty to help poor papa, and if I can do so in this way, why should I not?”
“That is true, Helen, but think of standing before so many hundreds, or perhaps thousands of people, with every eye fixed upon you. How could you bear that?”
“I should not think of it at all, Martha. When I am singing I can see nothing and hear nothing. I seem to be mounting up—up into the air, and floating among the clouds. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy singing.”
As Helen spoke her eyes sparkled, and her face flushed with enthusiasm. The exhibition of deep natural feeling is always impressive. Martha felt it to be so, and could not help admiring and loving the child more than ever. Helen had almost persuaded her.
“But,” she continued with returning caution, “you may not always feel so. There would be times when you would not feel like singing, but sing only because you were obliged to. Then when you encountered the glances of so many eyes, would not your heart sink and your courage fail you?”
“Then, Martha,” said Helen, with simplicity, “I should think of poor papa, and how by my exertions I was able to make him comfortable, and how by and by, when he had succeeded, I should not be obliged to do anything more. Then I should think how much he had done for me, and how hard he is laboring even now. There would be a great satisfaction in that. I ought not to hesitate when I have an opportunity to do something for him, ought I, Martha?”
“You are a dear, good child,” said the seamstress, affectionately; “and I will not say a single word more against your plan. But you must not be too hopeful. You may meet with disappointment about getting a situation.”
“You mean that perhaps I shall not sing well enough, Martha,” said Helen. “But I shall do my best when I think how much my father’s comfort depends upon my success; and that will be sure to help me.”
“No, Helen; that was not what I meant. I never for a moment doubted that you would sing well enough. Why, you sing like an angel.”
“Did you ever hear an angel sing?” asked Helen, a little mischievously.
“In my dreams,” said Martha, smiling. “But that was not the difficulty I thought of. Would your father be willing to have you go on the stage?”
“He would not be willing at first, so I think I shall not tell him till I find out whether they are willing to employ me. Papa is so thoughtful of me that he would think I was attempting too much, or suspect it was poverty that led me to it. It will be better not to tell him at first.”
“Then there is another thing to be considered. Perhaps there will be as many singers employed as are required. It is not always easy to obtain an engagement, even where one is deserving. If you only had some influential friends–”
“I have you,” said Helen, archly.
Martha smiled faintly.
“I am afraid if that is all you have to rely upon that it will be leaning on a broken reed. However, we will hope for the best, and not despond till we have reason to do so.”
So the two conversed till Helen heard a neighboring clock striking five.
“Five o’clock!” she exclaimed. “I did not know it was so late. I must go up and prepare supper.”
She tripped lightly up stairs with a new hope in her heart. Unconscious of the cares which had fallen so early upon his daughter, Mr. Ford was laboring at his machinery. Helen came and stood by his side.
“Well, papa, what progress?” she asked, cheerfully.
“Very good, my child,” said the dreamer. “I have just succeeded in obviating a difficulty which has perplexed me for some time.”
“How very glad I am, papa. That ought to give you a good appetite for your supper. I shall have it ready in a few minutes.”
CHAPTER XI.
THE ENGAGEMENT
The next day Helen resolved to put her plan into execution. As soon as her morning duties were completed, and her father seated at his never-ending task, she dressed herself in the best manner her limited wardrobe would admit. Though inexperienced in the ways of the world, she felt instinctively the importance of making a favorable first impression. When she was quite ready, she left the room softly, and was soon mingling with the busy crowds that thronged Broadway. At first she walked rapidly, but, as she drew nearer her destination, and could see the imposing front of the theatre, her heart beat quick and her step became slower.
When she actually reached the entrance, a feeling of diffidence seized her, which she found it almost impossible to overcome. She felt that she could not enter, at least just then, and walked slowly by. After a while she walked back, but was withheld from entering again by a feeling scarcely less strong. Again she walked past, and again returned. This time she had schooled herself to the effort, and approaching, with hesitation, the office where tickets were sold for the evening’s entertainment, inquired, in a low voice, for the manager.
“Who did you wish to see?” inquired the clerk, with some surprise visible in his manner.
The request was repeated.
“The manager? Can’t say whether he’s in or not. You must go to the back entrance and turn to the left. Then knock at the first door.”
Helen looked bewildered.
“Have you been here before?”
“No, sir.”
“Stop a minute, and I will show you, then. I shall close the office directly.”
Helen was very glad of the delay, as it gave her time to assume an outward semblance of calmness.
Mr. Bowers, the manager, was seated in a small room connecting with the stage. He was a man of comfortable proportions, and bore the appearance of one whom the world had used not unkindly. Though, in general, good-tempered, he was, on this particular morning, “out of sorts.” A new play was to be brought out in the evening. The actors had been allowed very little time to “get up” their parts, and, as a natural consequence, the rehearsal of the morning had been, thus far,