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, a series of blunders. In addition to this, the “star” had failed to make his appearance, and the prospect for a successful evening did not look very bright.
Under these circumstances it was not altogether surprising that Mr. Bowers should feel disappointed and irritated.
It was at this inauspicious moment that Helen was ushered into his presence. The manager looked up with visible vexation, serving to add to the embarrassment under which Helen was already laboring.
“Well?” he demanded, in a quick, impatient tone.
Helen felt that it would be a relief if the floor would open and swallow her up, or if she could escape in some other way. The interview, which had seemed comparatively easy in the quiet of her own room, had now become very formidable. She began to wonder at her own presumption in supposing herself capable of pleasing the public with her simple songs, and to feel that Martha’s partiality must have led astray her better judgment.
While these thoughts were passing through her mind, she sat silent, quite unable to frame a sentence. The manager regarded her with surprise, unable to account for her silence.
“What is your business with me?” he inquired, in a tone which indicated that his time was of great consequence, and the sooner he was left to himself the better he should be suited.
Helen understood the tone quite as readily as the words, and, imperative as it was, it assisted in recalling her to herself. She came to the point at once.
“Do you wish to engage any one to sing for you?”
She had said all that was necessary, and then she stopped, half-frightened at her own temerity.
It was the manager’s turn to look surprised. He had not taken the trouble to wonder what the child’s business was. He had only asked as a necessary form, preparatory to dismissing her. He looked more particularly at her now, noticing her childish form and air, and asked, abruptly,—
“Are you inquiring for yourself?”
“Yes, sir.”
She looked up earnestly in his face. Her bonnet had partly fallen back, revealing the rare loveliness of which she was unconscious. She waited breathlessly for the answer.
“Our company is full,” said Mr. Bowers, coldly. He turned again to his desk, and resumed his writing. His manner said, so plainly, “You may go,” that Helen prepared to obey the unspoken but implied direction. Her heart sank within her at this first disappointment. Thoughts of the coming destitution, which she had hoped to ward off by this means, crowded upon her, and she could scarcely keep back the rebellious tears, which, had she been alone would have had free course.
As she passed slowly out, a messenger hurriedly entered the office.
“Well, what now?” asked the manager, somewhat testily. “Any more blunders? It seems as if everything conspired against us. Has – made his appearance?”
“No, sir.”
“And won’t, I’ll be bound. These fellows claim the lion’s share of the profits, and trouble themselves little about the convenience of their employers.”
“Miss De Forrest is indisposed, sir, and will be unable to sing this evening.”
“Indisposed! Unable to appear!” repeated the manager, angrily. “And why the d—l must she take this particular evening to be sick? I don’t believe a word of it. Go to her, and tell her we can’t spare her.”
“It is reported,” said the messenger, deprecatingly, for Mr. Bowers was in one of those moods when it was difficult to make him listen to reason; “it is reported that she has a fever, and will not be able to appear for some time.”
“A fever! And what business has she to have a fever?” growled the manager. “Well,” said he, after a brief pause, “is there nobody to take her place?”
“I know of no one.”
Mr. Bowers mused a moment. “It won’t do,” he thought, “to omit the songs altogether, especially to-night, when we are likely to have so many other shortcomings. I have it, Jeffries,” he exclaimed. “Did you notice the child who left the office as you entered?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you think you should know her again?”
“I think so.”
“Then follow her immediately, and bring her back with you. Say I wish to see her.”
When Helen left the theatre, she walked very slowly, as if to gain time to become reconciled to her late disappointment. What a revulsion of feeling had a single half-hour wrought in her! Her high hopes had been dashed to the earth, and nothing was left but a sense of humiliation and rebuked presumption. Had she but been invited to sing, by way of testing her powers, that would have been something; but to have been refused so coldly and peremptorily, might well depress her.
Walking slowly, she had not proceeded far when she heard some one calling after her, “You are to come back. Mr. Bowers wishes to see you.”
Not supposing that she was intended, she did not turn till some one touched her arm, and looking back she recognized the young man who had entered the manager’s office as she left it.
“Did you just leave the theatre?” he inquired.
“Yes,” said Helen, with sudden hope.
“Mr. Bowers would like to see you again, then.”
Helen experienced another revulsion of feeling. The clouds seemed breaking. The recall was evidently favorable to her prospects of an engagement.
Five minutes found her once more in the manager’s presence.
“What is your name?” he asked, abruptly.
“Helen Ford.”
“Humph! that will do. Have you parents living?”
“Only a father.”
“And did he send you here?”
“No, sir,” said Helen.
“Does he know that you have come?”
Helen shook her head somewhat uneasily. New difficulties seemed to be springing up in her path.
“After all,” thought the manager, “if she’s really worth engaging, her father’s consent is not essential. He will not object to her earning something by her voice. At any rate I’ll try her, and see if she has any talent.”
“What can you sing?” he asked, after a pause, in which Helen watched his face eagerly.
“What would you like to hear, sir?”
“Jeffries, what songs are announced for this evening?”
“‘The Widow Machree’ and ‘Comin’ thro’ the Rye,’ sir.”
“Can you sing these, Miss Ford?”
“I will try, sir.”
“Mind,” premised the manager, cautiously, “I don’t promise to engage you, even if your singing is satisfactory. As I said before, our company is already full, but there may be a vacancy some time; and if so, I shall want to know where to look for some one to fill it.”
Mr. Bowers threw himself back in his arm-chair, and, with a magisterial wave of the hand, signalled Helen to begin.
She paused a moment, as if to collect herself, resolutely putting aside the feeling of embarrassment which was stealing over her. She felt that she had too much at stake to hazard all by giving way to nervous weakness. It was not long that she suffered from timidity. She commenced singing in a low voice, but gradually confidence came to her, and it acquired strength. Her voice was wonderfully sweet and flexible. Mr. Bowers started slightly when she commenced, and at once became attentive. More than this, he was charmed. The whole room became vocal with melody. Even on the stage, where the actors were listlessly rehearsing their parts for the evening, Helen’s voice was heard, and they quietly gathered about the entrance, and listened in mute surprise, wondering what musical prodigy had so seasonably turned up to supply the place of Miss De Forrest.
The song ceased, and Helen stood in silence, awaiting the manager’s verdict.
Mr. Bowers had been delighted with an exhibition of talent so far surpassing his most sanguine expectations. But managers are not enthusiastic, and he was far too polite to express all he felt. That would have been quite unprofessional.
“You have done very well, Miss Ford,” he said, graciously. “You have not overrated your talents, as is the case with some who aspire to sing in public. Of whom have you taken lessons?”
“My mother taught me to sing.”
“Indeed! And was your mother a professional singer?”
“Oh, no, sir.”
“She has evidently taught you well. Your voice, too, is very fair,—very fair, indeed.”
“Do I sing well enough to appear in public, sir?” asked Helen, eagerly.
“Yes, or you may in time. Of course, you require training.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“When you were here, a few minutes since, I thought I had no place for you. I have been informed since that Miss De Forrest, my regular singer, is unexpectedly taken ill, and may not recover for some time. I will engage you for a week in her place if we can agree upon terms.”
“I am very much obliged to you, sir,” said Helen, with difficulty concealing her joy.
“I will pay you six dollars for the first week,” continued the manager. “Should you do well, and I have occasion to employ you longer, I may increase your compensation. But, of course, being a beginner, you cannot expect a large salary.”
Large! Six dollars seemed to Helen a small fortune. It would enable them to live better than she had dared to do since they became inmates of Mrs. Morton’s boarding-house.
“You will be expected to make your first appearance this evening, in the songs which you have already sung. You will present yourself at rehearsal to-morrow morning at ten o’clock. We will dispense with it to-day.”
“At what hour shall I come this evening?” asked Helen.
“The doors will open at seven. You may present yourself an hour earlier. It will be necessary for you to dress and become familiar with the stage before the performance commences.”
Helen hurried home, not as before with a heavy heart, but with a feeling of deep and thankful joy. It seemed as if she could not get over the ground fast enough. She was anxious to report her success to good Martha Grey, who, she felt sure, would sympathize with her. She bounded along, regardless of the stares and astonished looks of those with whom she came in collision, and never paused until she entered, breathless with haste, the room of her friend.
“What is the matter, Helen?” asked Martha, looking up from her work. “You seem quite wild with excitement.”
“I have succeeded, Martha. Only think of that. I am to sing to-night at the theatre. I am engaged for a week, and am to receive six dollars.”
“I am sincerely glad, my dear child,” said Martha, affectionately. “Wait till you have recovered your breath, and then you shall tell me all about it.”
As Martha listened to her glowing recital, she caught some of her enthusiasm, and never doubted that she must and would pass triumphantly through the trying ordeal of a first introduction to the public.
CHAPTER XII.
HELEN’S DEBUT
There was one difficulty attending the carrying out of her plan which occasioned Helen some embarrassment. She was to present herself at the theatre at six, and would, undoubtedly, be detained there until late in the evening. How she could absent herself so long without incurring her father’s suspicions, was a problem which she found it difficult to solve. Under any other circumstances she would have hesitated about taking a step so important with her father’s consent previously obtained, but now she was impelled, by her very affection for her father, to conceal what she proposed doing until she had taken the first step.
At length Martha proposed that she should openly ask permission to attend the theatre in her company. Mr. Ford, of course, would never dream her real object. Perhaps this was the best plan that could have been devised. Her father only answered, “Certainly, my dear; I hope you will enjoy yourself.”
“But will you not be lonely, papa?”
“I shall be too busy for that, Helen,” he said, glancing at his unfinished model.
Relieved on this point, Helen made the necessary preparations and left the house in company with Martha, who had promised to bear her company as far as the theatre. She did not propose to be present, knowing that under the peculiar circumstances attending a first appearance, and the trying ordeal through which Helen was to pass, the presence of a friend might prove rather an additional embarrassment than a help.
At the stage entrance they parted.
“Keep up good courage, Helen,” said Martha, pressing her hand affectionately; “keep up good courage, and all will be well.”
Helen stood for a moment watching her receding form, and then as the strokes of a neighboring clock warned her to be punctual, knocked at the door. It was opened by Jeffries, the messenger of the morning.
“Miss Ford,” said he, respectfully, “I am directed to lead you at once to the dressing-room.”
Helen was ushered through a dark passage and up a narrow winding staircase to the room referred to. It was crowded with a heterogeneous collection of articles of dress, of every conceivable variety of shade, cut, and material. Here lay the rich robes of royalty in juxtaposition with the coarse attire of a milk-maid. Both had been in requisition the night before.
Helen looked about her with a feeling of bewilderment, when an elderly lady, with a pleasant expression, advanced towards her.
“I am glad to see you, Miss Ford,” she said. “So you are going to join us. I think you have never appeared before.”
“I have never been in a theatre but once before.”
“Bless me, where have you lived all your life?” exclaimed her companion, in unaffected amazement. Her own familiarity with the theatre made her look upon Helen as singularly unsophisticated.
“Papa and I have always lived very quietly,” said Helen, smiling, “and he never goes himself.”
“Before I select a dress for you,” said Mrs. Girdle, for such she informed Helen was her name, “I will show you the stage. You will want to know where to make your entrance and exit.”
Taking Helen’s hand, she led her forward until she stood on the stage—a place of mystery, which to the uninitiated who only see it from a distance in the glare of gas-light, seems like a land of enchantment, peopled by kings and nobles, fair ladies and gallant gentlemen. Now it was dreary and comfortless. A very faint light threw its sickly beams over coarsely-painted scenes and tawdry ornaments.
Was this the stage which had seemed so bright and beautiful to Helen only a few evenings before? It was, indeed, the same. She recognized the green curtain, the use of which had puzzled her, and the long rows of empty seats which stared her in the face when she proceeded to the front. The house itself had undergone as dreary a metamorphosis. Then it was alive with bright and eager faces. Now it was dark and cheerless.
But Helen had little time to spend in looking about her. She was summoned to the side of Mrs. Girdle, who in a business-like manner explained to her what it was necessary for her to know. Helen listened with attention, and promised to remember.
“It is very important that you should bear in mind all I have been telling you,” said Mrs. Girdle. “I can tell you that from my own experience. When I first appeared on the stage as a young girl, I paid less attention than I ought to this point. It was very easy finding my way off the stage in the daytime when there was nothing to distract my attention, but in the evening it was a different affair. I remember doing very well till it was time to withdraw. Then in my excitement I quite forgot all that I ought to have remembered. I turned about in confusion, and seemed to see every eye fixed upon me. I was seized with a nervous terror. The audience I thought were laughing at me. In my desperation I darted forward, little heeding where, and fell through a trap-door which had carelessly been left open. Fortunately I was not injured seriously, only receiving a salutary fright, which taught me to be more careful in future.”
“Do you appear to-night?” asked Helen, with interest.
“I do not play as much as formerly, scarcely at all in fact,” answered Mrs. Girdle, somewhat sadly. “New favorites have sprung up, and my services are no longer required, except in emergencies.”
They had reached the dressing-room, and Mrs. Girdle bestirred herself to find an appropriate dress for Helen. A plain white muslin was selected, looped at the sleeves with blue ribbons. Some little alterations were made in the arrangement of her hair, and Mrs. Girdle seemed satisfied.
“No need of artificial color here,” said she, with a glance at Helen’s flushed cheeks. “Nature has taken care of that. You are really very pretty, Miss Ford.”
“Thank you,” said Helen; “but it sounds strange to have you call me Miss Ford. Nobody calls me so.”
“What is your name, then?”
“Helen.”
“I am glad it is a pretty one. It suits you better. Does no one tell you that you are pretty?”
“Sometimes.”
“And does it not make you feel vain?”
“Why should it?” inquired Helen, seeming surprised.
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.