Helen Ford

“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.