Helen Ford

CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE SLAVE OF THE NEEDLE

Perhaps no employment is more confining and more poorly compensated than that of sewing. The narrow choice allowed to women, who are compelled to labor for their livelihood, leads to an unhealthy and disastrous competition in this department of toil, and enables employers to establish a disgracefully low scale of prices.¹ Fifteen hours out of the twenty-four are sometimes spent in unremitting labor, the results of which will scarcely keep soul and body together. The cook or house-maid enjoys a degree of comfort, and commands an income (including board) absolutely unattainable by the slave of the needle.

Hard work and an absence of nourishing food were beginning to tell on the delicate frame of Martha Grey. An expert needle-woman, she commanded, in good times, an abundant supply of work. But times had changed. The shops gave out less work, while the number who desired it seemed rather to have increased than diminished. The natural result followed,—a reduction in the compensation, already disgracefully low. Many could not obtain a chance to work at any price. Martha was allowed her usual supply, but at prices twenty per cent. lower than she had before received. The heart of the poor seamstress sank within her, as she walked home with a bundle of work, for which she was to be paid at the new rate. How was she to economize? It seemed before as if her wants were reduced to the minimum, and yet she had been able to lay by nothing. In addition to this, her health, never very firm, had shown some indications of failure. She was troubled with occasional dizziness and frequent nervous headaches, which rendered her enforced slavery to the needle a torture, but one from which she could not deliver herself.

But one alternative presented itself. She must contract her necessary expenditures, or increase her hours of work. She did not know how to compass the one, while the other would probably lead to sickness. She attempted a middle course. On a scantier diet she strove to work an hour more daily. The result was what might have been anticipated. Nature succumbed. One morning Helen, on returning from rehearsal, entered Martha’s room unceremoniously, as was her wont. Great was her dismay on discovering her friend lying insensible on the floor. Her work, on which she had been engaged up to the moment of her attack, had fallen from her hands, and lay beside her.

Helen was not unused to such cases. Though quite terrified, she had sufficient self-possession to apply the proper restoratives.

Martha soon opened her eyes, and, recognizing Helen, smiled faintly.

“How do you feel, Martha?” inquired Helen, anxiously.

“I am afraid I am going to be sick,” said Martha.

“When did you first feel it?”

“It has been coming on for several days. I have not been free from the headache for a week.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” asked Helen, reproachfully.

“Because you could have done me no good, my dear child.”

“Let me help you to the bed. Now you must lie down, and try to rest. I suppose you have worked just as usual, too, you imprudent Martha.”

“I can’t afford to lie still, you know.”

“You can afford to lie still better than to ruin your health.”

By this time Martha was lying on the bed.

“If you will pass me my work, Helen, I think I can sew while I am lying down.”

“No, Martha,” said Helen, shaking her head; “I shall not allow it. You are wholly unfit for work. You must have a good long rest.”

“But, Helen–”

“I know what you would say,—that you can’t afford to lie still. Just as if you had no friends, you unreasonable child. For a week to come, you must not touch your needle. During that time I will bring in your meals to you.”

“But, Helen–”

“Now don’t be perverse, Martha. Papa says I am a tyrant, and I mean to be in this case. To make sure that you don’t touch your work, I shall carry it away with me, and finish it myself.”

“But, Helen, you have your father to care for. I cannot consent to become a burden upon you.”

“Are you aware, Martha, how rich I am? For some weeks past, I have spent scarcely more than half my income. You see, therefore, that I am abundantly able to do what little I propose. But I sha’n’t allow you to talk any more. Try to go to sleep, and I will come in pretty soon. Mind I find you better.”

Helen left the room with the work in her hand. Martha ceased her opposition. She felt that the time had come when labor was no longer possible. She must have rest. How grateful the thought that, for a week, she should be free from the drudgery of the needle,—that her busy fingers might be folded in idleness, without the troubled thought that her bread depended upon her exertions. She lay back, and a sense of delicious rest came to her. She did not try to look beyond the week of rest. That seemed a long and blissful eternity. She was almost too weary to think. The sharp pain became less poignant, and at last she fell asleep. She slept for three hours, and, when she woke, it was to see the kind face of Helen bending over her.

“How do you feel now, Martha?”

“Better, much better.”

“Have you slept well?”

“Yes, I have slept nearly all the time since you were in? How long is that?”

“I came in at eleven. It is now nearly three.”

“Is it so long?”

“I thought you must be hungry, Martha, so I have brought in some chicken-broth for you. I hope you will like it.”

“Some chicken-broth? O Helen, I am afraid you have made it on purpose for me.”

“Well, and if I have?”

“I can’t bear to think I am making you so much trouble.”

“Then I will relieve you by saying that I didn’t make it expressly for you. Papa and I had it for dinner, and papa seemed to relish it amazingly. I don’t know when he has eaten so hearty a dinner.”

“I am glad of that. I think I shall like it, too. The smell of it quite revives me. I will get up immediately.”

“No, you shall stay where you are. Wait a moment and I will bring back a pillow from our room. Then I can prop you up in bed, and you shall eat in bed as the French do. Really, Martha, you are getting to be quite a fashionable lady.”

Martha’s sickness had been the result in part of a lack of proper food. The chicken-broth was relished as much as Helen could desire.

“I knew you would like it, Martha. Why, you are beginning to look better already.”

“I think I shall be able to go to work to-morrow.”

“Not to-morrow, nor this week. It will take you at least a week to recover.”

“But, Helen–”

“That is the third time you have said ‘But, Helen.’ Do you know, you unreasonable creature, that I allow no disobedience? I have undertaken to cure you, and I mustn’t have you interfering.”

“But it will not take a week for me to get well.”

“Don’t tell me that. I know the meaning of those pale cheeks. I ought to have noticed them before. In a few days, when you are strong enough, we will all take an excursion together, that is, papa and you and I, and perhaps Herbert—I mean Mr. Coleman—will go too. I want to see a little color in those cheeks.”

“How kind you are, Helen!” said Martha, gratefully.

“Wouldn’t you be as kind to me, if I were sick instead of you? tell me that, Martha?”

“Yes, I hope I should.”

“Then you see there is no reason for thanking me. I dare say I shall take a fancy to fall sick some day when you are quite well, and call you in to take care of me. I warn you beforehand that I shall make a dreadfully cross patient.”

Martha smiled. There was something contagious in Helen’s light heart and exuberance of cheerfulness. The world seemed a great deal brighter to her than it had done a few hours before.

“Now, Martha, as it must be dreadfully tiresome lying there staring at that white-washed wall, I will tell you what I am going to do. I was passing a circulating library just now, when I thought I would run in and get something to read to you. Shall you like it?”

“Very much. It is a long time since I have had a chance to read anything.”

“It will interest me, too. If you feel like it, I will sit down, and commence it now.”

“I wish you would.”

Helen drew a chair up to the bedside and began to read.

The book was a work of fiction, the heroine one who had to struggle with life very much as they had done. It was the work of a superior writer, and written with a charm of style that made it additionally attractive.

Helen read fifty pages, when the approach of evening made it necessary for her to pause.

“I will come in to-morrow morning, and read a little while,” she said. “Good night, Martha. I suppose I must be getting ready for the theatre.”

It was on this evening that Mr. Sharp had the memorable interview with Lewis Rand, which resulted in restoring to Helen and her father a magnificent fortune.

CHAPTER XL.
UNCLE ZEBINA’S OFFER

Helen and the young artist, who roomed opposite, remained fast friends. From the evening when, by a fortunate chance, he was enabled to defend her from insult he established himself as her evening escort from the theatre. These daily walks enabled each better to understand the other. They became mutual confidants. Helen indulged in sanguine anticipations of the success of her father’s invention,—anticipations in which the young man’s practical sense could not permit him to join, yet he was so careful of Helen’s feelings, that he never, by a word, sought to undermine her perfect trust in her father’s ability to achieve success.

Herbert, too, had his dreams of fame and fortune. He was an enthusiastic lover of his art. No future seemed so bright to him as that in which he figured himself an artist, achieving fame by his works. Others might become generals, judges, statesmen; he desired nothing better than to be admitted into the confidence of Nature, and to become her interpreter.

Many were the pleasant conversations on art which he held with Helen. She looked up to him with affectionate reverence, and believed in him fully. The compact into which they had entered, to regard each other as brother and sister, had been faithfully kept. Not seldom Herbert was an invited guest at Mr. Ford’s table. Helen presided on such occasions with proud delight, and with an assumption of matronly dignity, which lent her new charms in the eyes of her father and the young artist, who felt his isolation relieved by admittance to the humble home of the inventor.

But of late Helen perceived with some concern, not unmingled with surprise, that Herbert had grown less social and communicative. A shadow seemed to rest upon his features. She tried in gentle ways to lure him on to talk of himself, but without success. Something was evidently troubling him, and she was anxious to learn what it was.

She was saved the trouble of inquiring, for the young artist finally spoke himself. It was on the evening of the same day that Margaret was taken sick.

“My little sister,” said Herbert, “you have perhaps observed a change in me within a few days.”

“Yes, Herbert; I have been afraid that you were sick or in trouble, and I wanted to ask you what it was.”

“I am sick, Helen, sick at heart; I believe disappointment is harder to bear than physical pain, especially when, as in my case, it is the disappointment of a long-cherished hope. You know how often I have talked to you about art, and how I longed to achieve name and fame as an artist.”

“Yes, Herbert, you surely have not changed your mind.”

“Never!” said the young man, fervently. “Never has art appeared to me so divinely beautiful as now, when I fear I must renounce it. Never has my longing to attain its coveted rewards been stronger. And to think I must give it all up after the brief dream of enjoyment in which I have indulged,—this is, indeed, hard.”

“But why,” said Helen, puzzled; “why, if you still love it as much as ever, do you renounce it?”

“My little sister,” said the artist, sadly, “it is money that rules the world. Before its sway we must all bow, willing or unwilling. It is the want of money that drives me to abandon that which is the chief joy of my life.”

“But, Herbert, can’t you sell your pictures?”

“In art it is a crime to be a young man. If I were only well known! But I look too much like a boy. Don’t think,” he added, hastily, “that I consider this the only impediment to my success. I have doubtless much, very much, to learn. There is great room for improvement, and if I could I should be content to work on for years without selling a picture, striving only to improve myself, not achieving, but learning to achieve. Yet I have seen paintings sold for generous sums, on account of the artist’s name, no better than mine.”

“I am sure your ‘Country Farm-house’ is a beautiful painting,” said Helen, enthusiastically. “There must be a great many that would like to buy it.”

Herbert smiled bitterly.

“I tried to sell it, yesterday, to a dealer. He received me coldly, and after inquiring what else I had painted declined to buy it on any terms. Another offered me ten dollars, a little more than the cost of the frame. I had the curiosity to inquire the price of another painting which he had for sale, which I should certainly not admit to be superior to my own, and was told that it was one hundred and fifty dollars. One hundred and fifty dollars! if I could only realize that sum for mine, it would enable me to work six months longer. But wishes are cheap. Yesterday I decided to give up all my dreams of art, and go back to my country home.”

“O Herbert, what a pity!”

“Just as I had come to this conclusion I received a letter from an uncle of mine in my native town, which confirmed my resolution. He keeps a country store, partly grocery, partly dry goods, and wants an assistant. He writes that, so far as he can learn, I don’t find painting very profitable,—but hold, I will read you the letter.”

Pausing before a shop window, Herbert took from his pocket a letter inclosed in a coarse yellow envelope, and read it as follows:—

“Dear Nephew,—

“I am in good health, and hope you are enjoying the same blessing. Your folks are pretty smart. Your father sold his yearling calf last week, and got a pretty good price for it. I expect you are not making much money by your painting. I always thought it a foolish piece of business letting you go into such an uncertain trade, and so I told brother, but he wouldn’t listen to me, though I expect now he is beginning to think about as I do. If it had been house painting now, there’d have been some sense in that. There’s Josiah Watson is making his two dollars and a half a day straight along, and I don’t believe you’re making a quarter of that. (’He’s right there,’ interpolated Herbert.) Now I’m going to make you an offer, and if you’re wise you’ll accept it. I’m getting old, and I find my business increasing. I need help in the store, and I’d rather give the situation to one that’s kin to me than to a stranger, especially as I can trust you, and may be I might get deceived in another. I’m willing to pay thirty-five dollars a month, and more when you’ve got a little used to things, so you can move round handy. I shall want you to begin work the first of next month. That’ll give you a fortnight to settle up your painting business in the city.

“Now, nephew Herbert, I’ve made you a fair offer, and you’ll do well to accept it. Your father thinks as I do about it; and the folks, I know, will like to have you at home again. I don’t want to make no promises, but bimeby I may find myself obliged to take a partner, and of course, if you give satisfaction, as I’ve no doubt you will, I sha’n’t be very apt to go out of the family. I shall want to hear from you as soon as you have made up your mind. Your aunt Desire sends her love, and hopes you will come. She would like to have you bring her a new pair of spectacles from the city. Her old pair got broken the other day (your cousin Mary stepped on them), and she’s pestered about seeing.

“Your uncle,

“Zebina Pratt.”

“A brilliant offer, isn’t it?” said the young artist. “I am invited to give up all my high aspirations,—all my dreams of artistic eminence,—and take my place behind the counter of a country-store, to weigh out tea and sugar for Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Jones, and chaffer with Mrs. Thompson about the extra half cent on a yard of calico. And all for thirty-five dollars a month!”

“The offer seems kindly meant,” said Helen.

“Yes, there is no doubt of that. Uncle Zebina is a worthy and kind-hearted man. I have no doubt he thinks he is consulting my best interests in making me such a proposal. And doubtless he is, so far as his views of life are concerned. I should be pretty sure to be admitted into partnership after a while, and eventually to succeed my uncle in business. I dare say I should become a thrifty trader, be elected selectman, assessor, town clerk, and perhaps in time be elected to a seat in the legislature. That is not so bad, is it? And what has art to offer me that will outweigh all these advantages? It will gratify my æsthetic tastes; it will give me that which my soul craves; it will open to me a world of beauty in which I can revel; but, alas! it will not give me bread. Helen, it is bread and butter that must decide this question. I believe I must send my uncle an affirmative answer. I must bid farewell to art, and sell soap and sugar. What do you advise?”

There was a bitterness in the young man’s tone that pained Helen. Accustomed to think for her father, she began to think for him. What would be best? It was not a question to be hastily decided. Bread and butter, humble and prosaic as it is, is not to be slighted. Yet she was convinced that Herbert would be very unhappy if transferred to his uncle’s store.

“I don’t know what to say, Herbert,” said Helen, at length. “I want to think it over. When do you propose to write to your uncle?”

“I can wait till day after to-morrow.”

“Then I will think it over till then. Perhaps, between us, we can think of something that will keep you in the city. I don’t know what I should do without you. Next to my father, I should miss you.”

“And one of my chief regrets in leaving the city would be that I must leave behind my little sister,” said the young artist, affectionately.

“Thank you, Herbert; goodnight!”

“Good night, Helen.”

CHAPTER XLI.
MR. SHARP MAKES AN IMPORTANT COMMUNICATION

Helen was engaged in rinsing up the breakfast dishes, thinking busily meantime what could be done for Herbert, when a gentle tap called her to the door. Wondering a little at so early a call, she looked up to meet the smiling face of Mr. Sharp.

“Good morning, Mr. Sharp,” she said, politely. “Won’t you come in and see papa?”

“Thank you, my dear Miss Ford; at the risk of interrupting your respected father in his valuable scientific labors I will yet do so. I am quite aware that I have called at an unseasonable hour. I should not have ventured to do it, but that I am summoned hither by business of an important character—business, which I may venture to hope, will make me welcome.”

“You are welcome, sir; we are always glad to see one who has shown himself a friend.”

“Thank you, my dear Miss Ford. Such a testimony is most grateful to my feelings, the more so that I feel, so far as my intentions are concerned, it is not wholly undeserved.”

“Papa, Mr. Sharp is here,” said Helen, going up to her father, and laying her hand lightly upon his shoulder.

Rousing at the touch, Mr. Ford advanced and welcomed the lawyer cordially.

“I was just apologizing to your charming daughter for calling so early,” said Mr. Sharp.

“There is no occasion for that,” said Mr. Ford, courteously. “We don’t stand on ceremony with our friends.”

“I hope you will ever include me in that number. But my call this morning is of a business character.”

“Shall I leave the room, papa?”

“No, my dear, I can have no business in which you are not equally interested.”

“By no means, my dear Miss Ford; I particularly desire that you should be present. Mr. Ford, I called on your cousin Lewis last evening.”

“And I suppose he renewed his offer,” said Mr. Ford, hastily. “Tell him from me that I shall accept no pittance at his hands. The only proposition to which I shall listen is one that will surrender to me half of my father’s estate.”

“He has consented to such a surrender,” said Mr. Sharp.

“My cousin has consented to yield me one half the estate!” exclaimed Mr. Ford, overwhelmed with astonishment.

Helen drew near, and listened intently, half believing she was dreaming.

“Read this,” said the lawyer, showing the document he had extorted from the fears of Lewis Rand.

“Can this be genuine?”

“There can be no doubt of that. Mr. Rand signed it in my presence.”

“But I cannot account for such a change in him.”

“I can,” said Mr. Sharp, smiling. “Indeed, I may say that it is entirely owing to my persuasions that the change is due.”

“You have, indeed, been a friend,” said Mr. Ford, grasping his hand, warmly; “but I am still at a loss–”

“To understand the secret of my influence?”

“Yes.”

“I will not conceal from you that your cousin acted very much against his will; but I employed an argument which he found it impossible to resist.”

“And that was–”

“A police officer, and a warrant for his arrest.”

“Have you arrested Lewis?”

“No, I only used these in terrorem. Threatening breaks no bones, but sometimes serves a useful purpose, as in this case. Not to keep you in suspense, however, a singular and unexpected chance threw in my way the proofs of your cousin’s complicity in a forged will by which he holds the estate. Acting as your unauthorized agent, yet feeling sure that you would give me a warrant for my proceedings, I brought these to bear upon him, but agreed in your name to stay further proceedings against him if he would quietly yield to you one half of all the property left by your late father. Was I right in making this agreement?”

“Quite so. I have no desire to subject my cousin to any legal penalties. It is enough that he has done me tardy justice. But how shall I thank you, Mr. Sharp, for your friendly and disinterested service?”

“My dear Mr. Ford,” said Mr. Sharp, with effusion, “I feel abundantly repaid in having been the humble agent of restoring to you and my charming young friend, Miss Helen, that property which rightfully belongs to you. Yet, if you desire to acknowledge in any way the obligation, I will suggest that you will probably require a man of business, to undertake the charge of your large property. I believe I am right in asserting that you will not desire so far to interrupt your scientific pursuits, for the petty details of business, to which an inferior capacity can equally well attend. Should you so far honor me with your confidence, as to intrust that business to my charge, to select me, in fact, as your lawyer and man of business, I trust I shall do all that is possible to any one to promote your interests.”

“Mr. Sharp,” said Mr. Ford, “if you will undertake that office, I shall regard it as a fresh kindness on your part. You are well aware that I have little business capacity. The accession of wealth I shall not permit materially to interfere with my scientific pursuits. Indeed, it is partly because it will facilitate them, that I am thankful for this change in my circumstances. Let me add, that I shall desire to compensate your services liberally.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Sharp, with feeling; “I feel grateful for this mark of your confidence. I will not hesitate even to accept the compensation to which you so delicately allude, and trust I shall be able to show you that I am sensible of the great privilege of being admitted to your friendship.”

“Mr. Sharp,” said Helen, thoughtfully, “can you give me any idea of the value of the property which has come to papa?”

“I cannot, of course, give you any definite statement, my dear Miss Ford. From investigations I have made, however, I can assure you that it will exceed half a million dollars.”

“I am so glad,” exclaimed Helen, looking quite radiant.

“Why, Helen,”, said her father, roused into surprise; “I had no idea you were grown so fond of money!”

“It is because of the good we can do with so much, papa. Indeed, I want to dispose of some at once.”

“Speak, Helen. It must be a large favor that I would not grant you.”

“But this is a hundred and fifty dollars, papa.”

“Half an hour since that would have seemed a large sum to me, Helen; now, I believe I can afford it. Tell me what use you wish to make of it.”

“You know Herbert Coleman, papa, the young artist opposite.”

“A very gentlemanly young man. Well, my dear?”

“He is in great trouble. His money is exhausted, and because he is so young and unknown, he cannot sell his picture. He has had an offer from his uncle to go into a country store to sell groceries, and fears he must abandon art and accept this offer, for want of money to keep him here in New York. He told me last evening that if he could only sell his picture—you have seen it, papa: the ‘Country Farm-house,’ you know—for a hundred and fifty dollars, he could remain in the city six months longer.”

“And you want me to buy the picture, Helen?”

“Yes, papa.”

“Very well, but I have not so much ready money. I do not understand such things. Mr. Sharp will know whether there will be any delay in coming into possession of this property.”

“Very little, sir, since there is no opposition to fear from the opposite party. In the course of a few days–”

“But he has got to decide to-day,” said Helen.

“If he is sure of a sale, however, he will wait for the money,” suggested the lawyer.

“But there is one thing,” said Helen. “I don’t want Herbert to know just at first that it is we who have bought his picture.”

“Leave that to me,” said Mr. Sharp. “I can tell him that I have a commission from a friend to purchase for him, without mentioning names, you know.”

“Yes, that will be just the thing,” said Helen, well satisfied. “Will you go in now?”

“By all means, if you desire it.”

“And I want to go with you,” said Helen. “I want to see how delighted he will look when he finds his picture is bought. Only please don’t tell him just yet that we are rich, papa and I.”

“Be assured, my dear Miss Ford, I will respect your wishes,” said Mr. Sharp, bowing. “Indeed, I honor you for your kind and generous desire to assist your struggling friends.”

“I think, Mr. Sharp,” said Mr. Ford, quietly, “that I will authorize you to pay Mr. Coleman two hundred dollars for his picture, and to order of him another at the same price, the subject to be entirely of his own selection. Do you approve, Helen?”

“Approve, papa? You are the dearest of all papas. You have made me very happy.”

“My dear child,” said her father, affectionately, “I feel that I ought to do what I can to make you happy. You have been my joy and comfort, and latterly my support, in the days of my poverty. Henceforth, it shall be mine to gratify you in all your reasonable desires.”

“Papa, you embolden me to ask another favor.”

“Well, Helen?”

“I will tell you by and by. Now, Mr. Sharp, let us go and see Herbert.”

“Herbert is a fortunate young man,” thought the lawyer. “He seems in favor with both father and daughter. If Helen were a little older, who can tell what would come of it. It will be worth my while to be polite to the young man.”