CHAPTER VI.
SO FAR, SO GOOD
Lewis Rand had displayed his usual sagacity in selecting Mr. Sharp as his agent in the affair which now occupied so large a share of his attention. The worthy attorney was not particularly scrupulous, and the thought that he was lending his aid to defraud, did not have the least effect in disturbing Mr. Sharp’s tranquillity. Indeed, he considered it a stroke of remarkably good luck that he should have secured so promising a client, through whom his rather limited income was likely to receive so important an accession. To do him justice he intended to devote his best exertions to the case now in his hands, and insure the success of his client if it could in any manner be compassed.
For several evenings subsequent to the interview described in the last chapter, Mr. Sharp found it convenient to walk for an hour or more towards the close of the afternoon. Singularly enough he never varied his promenade, always selecting the neighborhood of the Park. It was his custom to walk slowly up and down, attentively scanning the different groups that passed under his eye. But among the thousands who passed him, he could for some time discover none that resembled the description furnished by his client.
It chanced that Helen and her father had suspended their walks for a few days, in consequence of a slight indisposition on the part of the latter. This, however, Mr. Sharp could not be expected to know. His hopes of ultimate success diminished, and although he continued his daily walks, he began to be apprehensive that they would result in nothing. But one evening as he was glancing restlessly about him, his eye fell upon a plainly-dressed man, above the middle height, but stooping, walking hand in hand with a young girl. Their ages seemed to correspond with those given by Lewis Rand.
The thought flashed upon Mr. Sharp that these might be the two persons of whom he was in search. Judging that they might let fall something in their conversation which would decide the matter, he followed closely behind them. But unluckily for the lawyer’s purpose, Mr. Ford was in one of his not uncommon fits of abstraction, and maintained an unbroken silence.
Mr. Sharp pondered, and set his wits to work to devise some method by which he could gain the information he desired. At length it occurred to him that the little girl’s name was Helen, and this might help to identify her.
After a while Helen and her father slackened their pace. Mr. Sharp took up a position behind them. Assuming an air of unconcern, he pronounced, in a low tone, the word “Helen,” at the same time slipping dexterously behind an old gentleman of somewhat aldermanic proportions who had just come up.
On hearing her name pronounced, Helen turned quickly around as Mr. Sharp had anticipated. Her eyes rested on the grave features of the respectable old gentleman before alluded to. He was not even looking at her. Evidently it could not be he. She did not observe the somewhat flashily attired gentleman behind, whose red locks contrasted so vividly with the grayish white hat somewhat jauntily perched on the side of his head. Supposing, therefore, that her ears must have deceived her, she turned away. Her sudden movement, however, had not been unobserved by the watchful eyes of the lawyer.
“That must be she,” he said to himself. “She would scarcely have turned round so quickly on hearing any other name than her own. That’s the first link in the chain, Sharp. You’ve got a little to build upon now. Now we’ll see how well you will succeed in following it up.”
Mr. Sharp was in the habit of apostrophizing himself in such familiar terms as “old fellow,” and would indulge in commendations, or otherwise, of his conduct, as if of a second person.
When Helen and her father left the spot, they were followed at a little distance by the lawyer, whose object of course, was to ascertain where they lived. His curiosity was gratified. Helen entered Mother Morton’s boarding-house, quite unconscious that she had been followed. A rapid glance satisfied Mr. Sharp of the name and number which were at once transferred to his note-book.
“So far, so good,” thought he, with inward satisfaction. “I must inform my client forthwith, and then we can decide upon further steps.”
So elated was Mr. Sharp by the discovery that he had made, that he stepped into a saloon on Broadway, and indulged in potations so very generous, that he narrowly escaped arrest by a policeman on the way home.
Helen, meanwhile, was becoming daily more and more troubled in mind. Her father was so wrapped up in his model that he could think of nothing else. To her, accordingly, had been committed the common purse, and upon her had devolved the duty of providing for their daily wants, as well as discharging the rent which was due once in four weeks. She therefore knew more of their pecuniary condition than her father. She had been repeatedly alarmed at the rapid diminution of the funds placed in her hands, and this, notwithstanding she exercised the strictest economy in all their expenses. For some time, as we have seen, she had eked out their scanty means by working for the slop-shops. Now, however, there was a lull in the clothing business, and this resource was temporarily cut off. How heavily upon the young and inexperienced falls the burden of pecuniary trouble! Helen saw with a feeling of dismay that a few weeks would find their means exhausted. What would become of them then, she did not dare to think. If only her father’s invention could be completed before that time, she thought, in her simplicity, that all would be well. Of the long years before even a successful invention can be made profitable, she knew nothing. She trusted implicitly to her father’s confident assurances, and never doubted that some time they would become rich through his discovery. This consideration, however, did not afford her present relief. Although her father labored assiduously, it did not appear to her unpractised eye that he was any nearer the end than he had been six months before. Confident as she was of his final success, the question how they should live in the mean time assumed grave importance, and occasioned her not a little perplexity.
If Helen could have shared her doubts and anxieties with some one who might have sympathized with her, she would have felt less troubled. But there seemed to be no one to whom she could speak freely. She was only too anxious to keep it from her father, who, she felt instinctively, could give her little or no assistance. She thought of speaking to Mrs. Morton, but the fear lest, if she should acknowledge her poverty, the latter might be unwilling to allow them to retain their room any longer, restrained her.
We have before mentioned the humble seamstress, Martha Grey, who occupied the room beneath that of Mr. Ford. Though plain in appearance, and of quiet demeanor, Helen had been attracted by the expression of goodness which lighted up her face. Sometimes, when her father seemed wholly immersed in his labors, she would steal down stairs and spend a quiet hour in Martha’s company.
On one of these occasions Martha had a visitor. Although introduced as a cousin, one could scarcely imagine a greater contrast than existed between her and Martha. Her dress was more showy than tasteful, and evidently occupied a large share of her attention. She was employed in a millinery establishment where she earned good wages,—twice as much as Martha,—but saved nothing, expending everything upon personal adornment. She lacked entirely the refinement and quiet dignity of her cousin. In spite of her humble circumstances, Martha would have been recognized by any one possessing discernment as a lady. Her cousin, in spite of her dress, was never in any danger of being mistaken for one. Her manner towards Martha, however, was a patronizing one, and she evidently considered herself as occupying a much higher position than the seamstress.
“I am astonished, Martha,” said she, glancing contemptuously at the plain room, and plainer furniture, “that you should be willing to live in such a hole. I believe if I was cooped up here I should die of loneliness in less than a week.”
“I find it very comfortable,” said Martha, composedly.
“Yes, I suppose it will do. It will keep out the rain and wind, and is better than nothing, of course. But I want something better than that.”
“I am very well contented,” said Martha, “and even if I were not, I could afford no better.”
“Do you stay here all the time? Don’t you ever go to concerts or the theatre?”
“No.”
“What a humdrum life you must lead! It’s Wednesday afternoon. Suppose we go to the theatre. There’s going to be a splendid play.”
Martha hesitated.
There is so little to excite or interest in the monotonous life of a hard-working seamstress, that she really longed to throw aside the needle, and accept her cousin’s invitation.
“I should like to go,” she said at length, “but I am afraid I ought not to spend either the time or the money.”
“Then I’ll make you a fair offer. If you’ll spare the time, I’ll spare the money. I’ll buy the tickets. Won’t you go, too?” she continued, turning to Helen. “I’ll pay for you.”
Helen looked at Martha who nodded kindly, and said, “Did you ever go to the theatre, Helen!”
“No, Martha.”
“Then you had better come. You can come back with me.”
“Thank you,” said Helen. “I will see if father needs me.”
She hastened up stairs, but found that her father, absorbed in his engrossing employment, had not even been aware of her absence.
“Do you think you can spare me for two or three hours, papa?” she asked. “I have been invited to go out.”
She had to repeat the question before her father comprehended.
“Go, by all means, my dear child,” he answered. “I am afraid you confine yourself too much on my account.”
Helen was soon ready. She went out with Martha Grey and her cousin, and a few minutes found them standing before a large building with a spacious entrance.
“This is the theatre,” said Martha, addressing herself to Helen.
Helen little thought of the consequences that were to follow this—her first entrance within the walls of a theatre.
CHAPTER VII.
A NEW TALENT
Seated in the theatre, Helen looked about her in bewilderment. She had never been within the walls of a theatre. In the street the sun shone brightly. Here the sun was rigorously excluded, and gas took its place. It seemed to the unsophisticated child like a sudden leap from noon to night. She could hear the rumbling of vehicles in the streets, but it appeared to her, somehow, as if they were far away, and that she had come into a different world. She wondered what there was behind that broad green curtain in front, and why the lights should be arranged so oddly at the foot of it.
“Lor’, child, that’s the stage,” was the lucid explanation of Martha’s cousin, to whom she applied for information. “Haven’t you ever been to the theatre before?”
“No, never,” said Helen.
The cousin looked at her with some curiosity, as if there must be something out of the common way about a person who had never been to the theatre, and expressed her decided conviction that Helen’s education had been shockingly neglected.
“Why,” said she, “before I was half as high as you, I had been to the theatre ever so many times.”
She spoke with so much complacency that Helen imagined she must be a very superior person, and possessed great knowledge of the world.
While these and other thoughts were passing through her mind, the bell rang twice, and then the curtain rose.
Helen nearly uttered an exclamation of surprise, so unprepared was she for the spectacle which was presented to her dazzled gaze. The play was a fairy extravaganza, which depended for its success chiefly upon scenery and stage effect. In the first scene was represented the palace of the Queen of the fairies, crowning the summit of a hill, rising in the centre of a beautiful island. Above floated fleecy clouds, from a break in which streamed the sunshine, lending its glory to the scene.
In the foreground stood a circle of children about Helen’s age or younger, who figured as sylphs. With united voices they sang a song in honor of the Queen of the fairies, who directly afterwards was seen floating through the air above the stage, arrayed in such style as seemed befitting her illustrious rank.
So complete was the illusion to Helen, that she gazed with suspended breath and a feeling, half of awe, as if the scene she looked upon was really one of enchantment.
“Is she really a fairy?” she asked of Martha’s cousin.
“No, child, of course not. It’s Henrietta Blake. I’ve seen her in the street many a time. Once I was introduced to her.”
“What a beautiful creature she must be!” said Helen, admiringly.
“Beautiful!” repeated the cousin, with some disdain. “For my part, I don’t think she’s anything to boast of in that line. Just notice what a poor complexion she has. You’d see it if it wasn’t for the paint. You wouldn’t have thought her very fairy-like if you had seen her in at Taylor’s the other evening, eating oysters.”
Helen could scarcely believe her ears. It seemed to be almost like sacrilege to associate such a gross idea with the etherial being that floated before her in all the majestic beauty of a fairy queen. It took from the scene before her something of the charm with which her fancy had invested it. Still it was with a feeling of intense enjoyment that she followed the play to its conclusion, watching scene after scene pass before her, and the music was truly enchanting.
At length the play was finished, and the curtain dropped. This, however, did not conclude the performance. After a short pause the curtain rose once more, and a young girl came forward and sang the well-known little Scotch song, “Comin’ thro’ the Rye.” It was sung correctly and in good taste, but with no remarkable display of power. Still it was vociferously encored, and, on its repetition, was applauded warmly.
There was an afterpiece, but, as it was already late in the afternoon, Martha and her cousin decided not to remain.
“Well, how did you like it?” asked the cousin, patronizingly.
“Oh, it was beautiful!” exclaimed Helen, enthusiastically. “I am so much obliged to you for taking me.”
“They have better plays sometimes,” returned the cousin, with an air of superior knowledge of the world. “I didn’t think much of the acting to-day, for my part. I’ll take you again some time when they’ve got something else.”
Even after she was fairly in the street, Helen found it difficult to throw off the illusion of the stage. She could still see in imagination the gorgeous spectacle, the splendid fairy palace, the graceful sylphs, and the queen in her regal magnificence. She was so entirely under the dominion of fancy that to her the outer world seemed unreal, and that which she had seen, the real. She walked on, heeding little, till she was suddenly roused from her reverie in a very forcible manner, by coming in collision with some person. It proved to be a very fat old lady, who was walking, or rather waddling, slowly along the sidewalk, with her head thrown back. At the unexpected collision, she screamed, and gasped for breath, eyeing Helen, meanwhile, with no very amiable expression of countenance.
“You’ve just about beaten the breath out of my body, you young trollop. Where was you brought up, I’d like to know, not to have any better manners?”
“I hope you’ll excuse me,” said Helen, humbly, somewhat ashamed of her preoccupation. “I didn’t mean to run against you.”
“Don’t tell me,” said the irritated old lady. “You did it a purpose. I know you did.”
“She might as well say you ran into her on purpose,” retorted Martha’s cousin.
“I didn’t speak to you, ma’am,” said the exasperated old lady. “It’s my belief that you’re all in league together, and I’ve a great mind to have you given in charge of the police.”
“Indeed!” said the cousin, ironically.
“Come away,” said Martha, in a low voice. “Don’t let us have a scene here.”
As quickly as possible they escaped from the irate old lady. She stood panting for breath, and glaring at them over the rims of her glasses, which had been accidentally misplaced. This encounter, ludicrous as it was, served to bring Helen back from the ideal world to the real, and without any further adventures she reached home.
It was already time to prepare their frugal meal. She found her father as busily occupied as ever. She was glad of this, for it showed that her presence had not been missed.
The next day Martha Grey was at work harder than ever. She felt that she must make up by extra exertion for the unwonted relaxation of the day before.
“What are you thinking of, Martha?” asked Helen, playfully, as she stole in unperceived, and placed her hands over the eyes of the seamstress. “Come, tell me before I take my hands away.”
“I was thinking,” said Martha, “that I should like to hear once more the song that was sung at the theatre yesterday.”
“You enjoyed it, then?”
“Very much.”
“Shall I sing it to you?” asked Helen, quietly.
“You, Helen?” asked Martha, lifting up her eyes in astonishment. “Can you sing? I never heard you.”
“I do not sing very often,” said Helen, sadly. “My mother taught me, and whenever I sing it brings up thoughts of her.”
“I should like very much to hear you sing, Helen,” said Martha; “but do not do it if it will make you sad.”
“Never mind, Martha. I will sing, if it will give you pleasure.”
Helen commenced the song, and sang it to the end in a voice of remarkable richness and power. She was gifted with a voice of extraordinary flexibility and compass, whose natural power had evidently been improved by cultivation. Martha, who, though no singer herself, was very fond of listening to music, and could judge when it had merit, listened with unaffected astonishment and delight. She felt that she had never heard a voice of equal sweetness and power.
“You have a beautiful voice,” she said, when Helen had finished the song. “You sang it much better than it was sung at the theatre yesterday. Some day you may become a great singer.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Helen, her eyes sparkling with delight. “I am very glad.”
Martha looked up in some surprise, not understanding why it was that Helen felt so much pleased. But a new thought had come to the child.
“Is there anything else you would like to hear?” she asked.
“I should like to hear ‘Home, Sweet Home.’”
It was a song which Helen had often sung, and to which she could do full justice. It was not difficult to account for the feeling which led Martha Grey to make choice of this song. She was one of a large family, who had never known sorrow or separation till the death of her parents, following each other in quick succession, turned them all adrift upon the world.
As the song proceeded, Martha called up in fancy the humble farm-house among the New Hampshire hills, with its comfortable barn and well-tilled acres around it. She recalled the broad, low kitchen, with its large fireplace and blazing back-log, around which the family was wont to gather in the cheerful winter evenings. She recalled her little sister Ruth, who was about the age of Helen when their home was broken up, but whom she had not seen since, Ruth having been placed in the family of an uncle. She recalled her happy school-days, her school companions, and, above all, her father and mother, who had never been otherwise than kind to her, and then looked about the small and desolate room which she now called home. She could not help contrasting her present lonely position with what it had been when she was at home in the midst of her family, and as the last strain died away upon Helen’s lips, she burst into tears.
Helen looked up in surprise at this unwonted display of emotion on the part of one, usually so quiet and composed as Martha Grey.
“Don’t mind me, Helen,” said Martha, through her tears. “It came over me, and I couldn’t help it. Some time, perhaps, I will tell you why it is that that song always makes me shed tears.”