Helen Ford

CHAPTER XLII.
HOW YES BECAME NO

Herbert Coleman had finished his scanty and unsatisfying breakfast, and was seated before his easel, on which was an unfinished picture. He gazed at it mournfully, for the conviction was deepening in his mind that he must bid farewell to art. Chosen mistress of his affections, she had treated him but coldly. She had admitted him to the threshold of her domain. He was permitted to view the glories in which he must not share. A career was opened before him, which it would have been his highest happiness to follow,—in which he could see others making their way successfully; but Necessity, with stern and forbidding countenance, waved him back as with a sword.

Yes, he must bid farewell to art. At the age of twenty-one, he felt that the happiness of his life was over. Henceforth, he must cherish in his heart aspirations which he would never be able to realize. He must descend from the clouds, and plod on in the prosaic way in which his uncle, with more common tastes, had found happiness and prosperity. But the transition from art to groceries was indeed great. Yet there seemed no alternation. If it were possible to find employment for a part of the day, sufficient to defray expenses reduced to the lowest amount compatible with health, that would be preferable. But this was uncertain, and, meanwhile, his purse was almost empty.

“I might as well accept my uncle’s offer, at once,” he said, to himself, despondently. “Nothing is likely to turn up in twenty-four hours to affect my decision. Come, I will write the letter now, and not mail it till to-morrow.”

Feeling that his mind would be relieved by taking a decisive step, he opened his desk, and, taking out a sheet of note-paper, had got as far as “Dear Uncle,” when there was a little tap at his door. He rose, and, opening it, discovered Helen and Mr. Sharp.

“Good morning, Helen,” he said, cheered, he knew not why, by her expression; “I am glad to see you.”

“Herbert, you have heard me speak of Mr. Sharp, papa’s friend. He desires to make your acquaintance.”

“I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Sharp,” said the young artist, looking a little curiously at the perpetual white hat, whose general appearance age had, by no means, improved.

“Thank you, Mr. Herbert,” said the lawyer, nodding pleasantly. “Excuse my familiar use of your name, but Miss Helen has not mentioned any other.”

“Mr. Coleman, excuse me,” said Helen, blushing a little. “How stupid I am!”

“By no means, my dear young lady. But, Mr. Coleman, Miss Helen has told me that you were an artist, and her commendations of one of your pictures have excited my interest; and I have come to ask, as a favor, that you will allow me to look at it.”

“Certainly, sir. I am afraid, however, that you will find Miss Helen’s friendship has dulled her critical powers. This is probably the painting to which you refer.”

In a moment of despondency, he had turned his painting of the “Country Farm-house” to the wall. The high hopes which he had formed of its success, and their signal failure, produced a revulsion of feeling, which made it unpleasant for him to look at it.

“This is indeed beautiful!” exclaimed Mr. Sharp, admiringly. (In this case he was sincere, though, had it been the merest daub, he would have expressed equal admiration.) “Mr. Coleman, I congratulate you. There are touches in that painting which indicate genius of a high order. I predict that you will, ere many years, achieve a high place in the roll of our native artists.”

Herbert smiled sadly, and glanced significantly at Helen. This praise, coming at a time when he had resolved to cut adrift from the profession of his love, was a source of pain rather than pleasure. He felt the more that it would be a fatal mistake, but, nevertheless, one that seemed inevitable.

Helen’s expression perplexed him. It was one of quiet happiness. Yet she must know the necessity that was upon him.

“I like this painting,” continued the lawyer, “chiefly because of its truth to nature. The highest praise I can give it is that I have seen precisely such a farm-house. The scene is one familiar to those who know anything of country-life. May I inquire, Mr. Coleman, whether this painting is for sale?”

“Yes, sir,” said Herbert, brightening up a little, though he hardly judged, from Mr. Sharp’s appearance, that he was likely to become a patron of art. “Young artists cannot afford to keep their works on hand. I may add, frankly, that my circumstances are such that I shall be very glad to find a purchaser.”

“I don’t ask in my own behalf,” said Mr. Sharp. “Though I am passionately fond of fine paintings, my means are restricted, and my professional income will not permit me to indulge in such luxuries. But I am authorized by one of my clients, to purchase him a painting. He confides implicitly to my taste. May I inquire what price you set upon this painting?”

The young artist’s face brightened up with new-born hope. Perhaps he might be able to send a negative answer to his uncle, after all.

“Should you consider fifty dollars too large?” he said, hesitatingly, fearing lest it might exceed Mr. Sharp’s limit.

“Fifty dollars, Mr. Coleman! You surely cannot be in earnest.”

“I am a young artist,” stammered Herbert, “and, perhaps, may have set too high a value upon my work. You shall have it at your own price.”

“You mistake me, my young friend, if you will permit me to call you so. I was only surprised at the lowness of your price. My friend has authorized me to pay two hundred dollars for such a work as my taste approves. I shall not think of offering you less for this beautiful painting.”

“Two hundred dollars!” exclaimed Herbert, in joyful excitement. “Are you really in earnest?”

“Most unquestionably.”

“I am very grateful to you, sir; you can’t understand how great a service you have rendered me,” said Herbert, grasping Mr. Sharp’s hand, and wringing it with cordial energy. “Just as you came in I was on the point of writing a letter, accepting a proposition which would cut me off forever from my favorite work.”

“You won’t write it, now, Herbert?” said Helen, archly.

“I shall write a different letter, Helen. Once more, Mr. Sharp, let me thank you.”

“I do not deserve your thanks. Some day I will introduce you to the real purchaser of the painting. Meanwhile, I have a commission for you. I am authorized, by my friend, to order another picture at the same price. Will you undertake it?”

“Most willingly; most gratefully.”

“The subject shall be left to your own taste and judgment.”

“I hope to deserve this generous confidence.”

“Perhaps, Herbert, you would rather go into your uncle’s store,” said Helen, smiling happily.

“I am afraid Uncle Zebina must look elsewhere for an assistant,” said the young artist. “I must not forget, dear Helen, that my good fortune comes through you.”

“You have been very kind to me, Herbert. I hope I shall be able to do more for you hereafter.”

“I regret, Mr. Coleman,” said the lawyer, “that I am unable to pay you this morning for your painting. I hope to be able to pay you next week.”

“That will be quite satisfactory, sir.”

“Meanwhile, as one who understands the world a little better than yourself, to suggest that, if your painting could be on exhibition a few days,—at Goupil’s, for instance,—with the name of the artist, and the label, ‘Sold,’ it might be of assistance to you. It will give the impression that your works are in demand.”

“A most excellent suggestion, for which I thank you. If your friend would be willing?”

“I undertake to engage that there will be no objection. Depend upon it, my young friend, there is nothing succeeds so well as success.”

“You may be sure, sir, that I appreciate your friendly feeling no less than the liberal patronage I have received through you. You have probably determined my future.”

“That will be a source of proud satisfaction to me, Mr. Coleman,” said the lawyer. “Let me suggest that you lose no time in making an arrangement to exhibit your painting, as proposed. It might do no harm to affix the price for which it was sold.”

“Thank you, sir. It is well thought of. I shall certainly adopt your suggestion.”

“I believe I must now bid you good morning,” said the lawyer. “I have important business on hand, and have been beguiled already into remaining here too long. Good morning, Miss Helen. I shall take a very early opportunity to call again upon you and your worthy father. You will hear from me before long, Mr. Coleman, in a way that will, I trust, prove satisfactory to you.”

Mr. Sharp bowed his way down stairs, leaving two happy hearts behind him. He, too, was in excellent spirits. As Mr. Ford’s man of business, he would be liberally paid, and no longer be reduced to those shifts to which, in times past, he had been compelled to resort, for the purpose of “getting along.”

Helen lingered a moment after the lawyer departed.

“Now to finish Uncle Zebina’s letter,” said Herbert, briskly. “It will be a letter different from what I anticipated.”

The letter ran as follows:—

“Dear Uncle Zebina: I thank you for your very kind offer, though I shall be unable to accept it. I feel that I shall be happier as an artist, than I could be in any other vocation. I am confident that you will have no difficulty in securing an assistant who will suit you better than I should do. Give my love to aunt Desire. Tell her and all my friends that I hope to see them all at Thanksgiving.

“Your affectionate nephew,

“Herbert Coleman.

“P. S. I have just sold a painting for two hundred dollars, and have an order for another at the same price.”

 

This letter, it may be remarked, more especially the postscript, made quite a sensation in Herbert’s country home; and Uncle Zebina allowed that perhaps Herbert was doing better, after all, than if he had become a house painter.

CHAPTER XLIII.
MARTHA GREY IS SURPRISED

Lewis Rand submitted to what was inevitable, and, as Mr. Sharp predicted, interposed no obstacles in the way of a division of the property. He chose to retain in his own share the house and furniture of the late Mr. Rand, foreseeing that the house would rise annually in value. The remainder of the property consisted partly of real estate, but mainly of stocks and bonds. This rendered the division easy. At the end of ten days, Mr. Sharp was in a situation to deliver to his client the title to three houses situated in different parts of the city, and a quarter of a million in bank and railway shares.

Until matters were concluded, Helen desired that the fact of their good fortune should be kept strictly private. Neither Martha nor Herbert suspected that their humble neighbors had fallen heirs to a princely fortune.

One of the three houses referred to was situated in Twenty-second Street. It was nearly new, and thoroughly furnished. Fortunately, it had just been vacated by a family on the point of visiting Europe for a series of years. By Mr. Sharp’s advice, negotiations for the purchase of the furniture were entered into and satisfactorily completed. To this house Helen and her father proposed to remove.

Thanks to Helen’s good care, and the rest which she so much needed, Martha Grey had quite recovered from the attack brought on by excessive labor. She was anxious to resume work, but Helen had succeeded in putting her off.

“I shall certainly begin to-morrow,” said Martha, one evening. “I cannot consent longer to remain a burden upon you.”

“But if I were rich,” said Helen, with a smile.

“That would be different.”

“Well, Martha, I may become rich some day.”

“I hope you will, my dear child.”

“But you don’t expect it. Yet stranger things have happened. Now, Martha, I have a promise to exact of you. When I am rich, will you come and live with me?”

Martha smiled.

“Yes, Helen, when you are rich, I will come and live with you.”

“Mind you don’t forget your promise. I may remind you of it some day.”

“Poor child!” thought Martha. “She means, when her father has completed his invention. I am afraid it will be a long time before that will bring her a fortune.”

The next morning, Martha was sitting in her little rocking-chair, busy at her sewing, when Helen came in with a smile.

“Put down that sewing directly, Martha,” she said. “I have another plan for to-day.”

“But, my dear child, I must disobey you this time. It is quite time that I was again at work.”

“You can put off your sewing for a couple of hours. Mr. Sharp has been kind enough to invite you and papa and myself to take a ride.”

“He is very kind,” said Martha. “I don’t know why he should think of me.”

“Perhaps he thought it would do you good. He knew you had been sick.”

“But I have nothing fit to wear.”

“Am I very richly dressed?”

“No, but–”

“No objections, Martha. Get your bonnet and shawl directly.”

It was a beautiful morning,—an Indian summer day,—the air balmy and sweet as a day in early June. The seamstress yielded not unwillingly to the solicitations of Helen, and was quickly dressed for the drive.

Mr. Sharp was waiting below with a carriage.

“Good morning, Miss Grey,” he said, with his usual suavity; “I am truly glad to see that you have recovered from your illness. You are a little pale yet, but I hope we shall succeed in bringing back the roses to your cheek.”

“I am very much obliged to you for kindly remembering me, Mr. Sharp,” said Martha. “It is a charming day. I assure you I shall enjoy the drive.”

“It seems to me,” thought M’lle Fanchette, looking from her window, “that the Fords are growing extravagant. Such airs as that child puts on, merely because she sings in a theatre! and bless my soul, there’s the seamstress, Martha Grey, too! She’d better be at work. There’s the lawyer, too. It can’t be possible he is paying attentions to Helen Ford. No, she’s too young for that. Or is it Martha Grey? If it’s she, I don’t admire his taste, that’s all. She is most an old woman, and never had any beauty to boast of. (Martha was three years younger than M’lle Fanchette.) Well, well, its a queer world. That Helen may lose her situation by and by,—I’m sure, I don’t think much of her singing,—and then we sha’n’t have such gay doings.”

By this time the carriage had driven away, and M’lle Fanchette prepared to go to her shop.

Our party did not at once drive to Twenty-second street, but farther up on the island, through that portion of the city, then wholly unsettled, which is now occupied by the Central Park. It was a charming morning. Helen was in the best of spirits, and even Mr. Ford forgot, for the time, his invention, and drank in the sweet influences of the day. To Martha, confined in her room for so long, whose only prospect had been the brick wall opposite, it seemed like a dream of Paradise. Memories of her childhood came back to her, and her eyes involuntarily filled with tears as she thought of that sweet, unforgotten time. Mr. Sharp was in excellent spirits, livelier, and more affable even than usual, and kept up the spirits of the party by his jocular remarks.

At length the carriage stopped.

The driver jumped from his seat, and threw open the door of the carriage.

“We haven’t got home?” said Martha, a little bewildered.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said Helen; “Mr. Sharp has invited us to look over a house which he has just secured for some friends of his.”

“What a handsome house!” said Martha. “They must be rich people.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Sharp, with an incomprehensible smile, “I assure you that they are quite rich.”

“They wouldn’t object to our visit?” asked Martha, timidly.

“O no, not at all. In fact they gave me permission to bring you here.”

By this time they had entered the hall, and went in first to inspect the parlors. These were furnished in the style appropriate to such a house. To Martha, who had never before entered a house of such pretensions, it seemed very magnificent, and even palatial.

After they had examined the rooms on the lower floor they went up stairs. The chambers were furnished with equal taste. Helen felt that it would take some time to get accustomed to such a style of living after her humble lodgings at Mother Morton’s.

“I like this room very much,” said Martha. It was a broad, spacious chamber with a sunny aspect, very pleasant and home-like in its appearance.

“You would be willing to give up your room at Mrs. Morton’s if you could have this?” inquired Helen.

“If I could have as agreeable neighbors,” said Martha, with a smile.

“Very well,” said Helen, “I will take you at your word. You shall occupy this room.”

“What do you mean, Helen?” asked Martha, in surprise.

“I mean that it only depends upon your own consent to exchange your present room for this.”

“I don’t understand,” said Martha, bewildered.

“Then I will explain. The mistress of this house, who is a friend of Mr. Sharp, is desirous of securing a companion, and will take you if you will come.”

“Perhaps she may not like me.”

“I think there is no doubt on that point; do you papa?”

“No, I believe not,” said Mr. Ford.

“Then you will consent, Martha. You will be secure against want, and will have every comfort provided you.”

“It will be great good fortune for me,” said Martha. “But I cannot bear the thought of being separated from you, Helen.”

“You may learn to like the lady I refer to as well as me.”

“Never!” said Martha, with emphasis.

“Make no rash promises,” said Helen, “I shall be very much disappointed if you do not.”

“If I could see this lady.”

“So you shall. You will find her in the next room.”

More mystified than ever, Martha accompanied Helen into the next room. There was a large pier glass extending from floor to ceiling. Helen led the seamstress up to it, and standing beside her said, “There, Martha, there is the lady who invites you to be her companion.”

“But I see only yourself.”

“Well, and I am the one,” said Helen, smiling.

Then Helen explained to her astonished and delighted auditor the great change that had taken place in her circumstances. No longer obliged to toil for her daily bread, she would henceforth live in affluence.

“God has been very good to us, Martha,” she said, in conclusion. “I hope we shall not forget, in the happiness of the present, the poverty of the past. I hope we shall use His gift as He would have us.”

“Dear Helen, I am sure you will.”

“And you will come and live with me? I should be very lonely in this large house without a friend to lean upon. Dear Martha, it shall not be my fault if your future is not as sunny as your past has been dark.”

“How much happiness I shall owe you!” said Martha, with grateful tears.

“Hush, Martha,” said Helen, softly. “Do not thank me, for my happiness will be no less.”

That evening the household at Mother Morton’s was electrified by the announcement that Helen Ford had turned out a great heiress, and that Martha Grey was going to live with her. On the morrow Helen and her father transferred their home from their humble lodgings to Twenty-second Street.

“If I had only known,” thought M’lle Fanchette, regretfully, “I might have been in that sickly Martha Grey’s place. But who could ever have imagined that Helen Ford would turn out a rich woman? Well, it’s too late now!”

And M’lle Fanchette had to content herself with this philosophical reflection.

CHAPTER XLIV.
HELEN TAKES LEAVE OF THE STAGE

The next morning Helen, on reaching the theatre, sought the presence of Mr. Bowers.

The manager was seated in his office, as usual. He nodded carelessly as Helen entered, but did not invite her to be seated.

“Well, Miss Ford,” he said, after a while. “What can I do for you, this morning?”

“I should like to have you release me from my engagement, if you please, Mr. Bowers.”

“Release you from your engagement!” ejaculated the astonished manager. Then, in a tone of indignation, “I suppose you have had a larger offer elsewhere.”

“No, sir.”

“What can be your motive, then? I beg you to understand, Miss Ford, that a contract is a contract, and must be kept. Of course your place could be supplied, but it is annoying to make a change in the middle of the season.”

This last remark was thrown in, lest Helen should presume upon her value to the establishment to demand a higher salary. Indeed, the manager suspected that this was her object, and wished to anticipate her.

“I was afraid it might inconvenience you,” said Helen, gently; “and am willing, in requital, to refund the whole amount of wages that I have received from you.”

Mr. Bowers stared at Helen in undisguised astonishment. She must have had a very brilliant offer to warrant her in making such a proposal.

“Did I understand that you have had no other engagement offered you?” he inquired, abruptly.

“No, sir. I do not wish to sing any more in public.”

“It will pay you better than anything else you can do.”

“I ought to explain that I have had a fortune left me, or rather papa has, and under our new circumstances it would be inconvenient for me to come to the theatre every evening.”

“Indeed, Miss Ford!” said Mr. Bowers, his tone changing. “I congratulate you. I hope, for your sake, it is a large fortune.”

“Mr. Sharp tells me that it will be a few hundred thousand dollars,” said Helen, simply, without the least trace of exultation in her tone.

“A few hundred thousand dollars!” exclaimed Mr. Bowers, in profound astonishment. “Pray, take a seat, my dear Miss Ford. Hang my stupidity, why didn’t I think to offer you one before?”

And Mr. Bowers bustled about, and offered Helen a seat with as much deference as if she were a duchess. It was easy to see that she had risen immeasurably in his estimation.

“Did the property come from a relation?” he asked.

“Yes, sir; from my grandfather.”

“Was his name the same with yours, Miss Ford?”

“No, sir. His name was Rand.”

“Not the late Gerald Rand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why he was one of our most substantial citizens—lived on Fifth Avenue. And to think I should have had his granddaughter singing in my theatre! Well, wonders will never cease.”

“If it wouldn’t inconvenience you too much to release me,” said Helen, returning to her petition; “I like to be with papa in the evening. He is lonely without me.”

“By all means, Miss Ford, I would oblige you even were the inconvenience ten times as great,” said Mr. Bowers, obsequiously.

“Thank you, sir; you are very kind. I shall be willing to sing for you the rest of the week, so as to give you time to find some one to fill my place.”

“Will you?” asked the manager, eagerly, seeing at once how he might turn Helen’s accession of fortune to profitable account; “you will indeed confer a great favor upon me by so doing. It will take me some time to fill your place, and I cannot hope to obtain a substitute who will become such a favorite with the public.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Helen, rising to go. “Then I will go to rehearsal.”

“Thank you rather, my dear Miss Ford,” said the manager, rising from his seat and opening the door for her. “I shall not forget your kindness.”

Helen could not help wondering a little at the change in the manager’s manner, and, unversed as she was in the ways of the world, she could not help seeing that it was the result of her change of circumstances.

Meanwhile the manager was not idle. The morning papers contained the following paragraph, the authorship of which may at least be suspected.

Romance in Real Life. We understand that Miss Helen Ford, the young vocalist whose charming melodies have made her such a popular favorite, has just come into possession of a splendid fortune, inherited from her grandfather, Gerald Rand, Esq., the well-known capitalist, whose death was recently noticed in our columns. Miss Ford has kindly agreed to sing as usual through the present week, when she will leave the stage forever.

The effect of this paragraph may be imagined. That evening hundreds were turned away from the theatre, which was crowded to its utmost capacity. Never had such an audience been seen within its walls. When Helen appeared on the stage, quite unaware of the paragraph which had produced this effect, she was received with long-continued applause. The vast audience seemed inspired with a sudden enthusiasm.

Helen was surprised, but did not lose her self-possession. She sang with her usual sweetness, and was immediately encored. Again she sang, and this time was called before the curtain. Several bouquets were thrown her, which she picked up, and hastily withdrew.

If Helen had been older, she would have understood the meaning of this ovation. As it was, she only wondered.

Behind the curtain she met the manager, smiling, and rubbing his hands in evident glee.

“My dear Miss Ford,” he said, “this is indeed a triumph.”

“The house is very full,” said Helen.

“And hundreds turned away; never was such a house seen.”

“I am very glad of it,” said Helen.

“So am I; let me see, this is Tuesday evening. Friday you shall have a benefit. One third of the receipts. It is only fair, since you have drawn this immense audience.”

Helen would have declined the offer, but for a sudden thought. When she first became connected with the theatre she noticed a thin fragile girl, who danced between the plays. The exertion was evidently too great for her, for she was often seized with a violent fit of coughing after withdrawing from the stage. For a fortnight Helen had missed her. On inquiry, she learned that Alice (this was her name) was sick. “Poor girl,” added the prompter, who was her informant, “it is a great misfortune, for she has an invalid sister who is dependent upon her for support. I am afraid she won’t get along very well, for her salary was small, and now it is cut off altogether.”

It occurred to Helen that she could give the proceeds of her benefit to Alice. She accordingly thanked Mr. Bowers, and accepted his proposal.

The week was a series of triumphs. Every evening the doors of the theatre were besieged, and every evening hundreds were turned away.

Friday evening,—the evening of her benefit,—Helen found the house fuller, if possible, than before, the manager had taken the opportunity, in consequence of the great demand for seats, to raise temporarily the price of admission. As he anticipated, this did not in the least diminish the throngs who crowded for admittance.

On Saturday morning he handed Helen a check for five hundred dollars, as her share of the proceeds.

Helen’s eyes sparkled with joy, as she thought of the happiness which this sum would bring to the poor ballet girl.

She lost no time in seeking her out.

It was indeed a poor place, Helen would have been afraid of venturing into such a locality if she had not been accompanied by Herbert Coleman.

Up a rickety staircase she climbed, and was shown, by an untidy woman, into a room wholly destitute of comforts, where on a pallet reclined Alice and her sister, both sick.

“Is that you, Miss Ford?” asked Alice, her face lighting up. “How very kind you are to come and see me!”

“I am very sorry to find you so sick,” said Helen.

“I don’t think I am very sick,” said Alice. “But this is but a poor place, and I cannot get any one to take care of my sister Jennie. She has been an invalid for years.”

“There are better times in store,” said Helen, cheerfully, “First we must have you moved to a better room. Next you must have a nurse.”

“But,” said Alice, hesitatingly, “we are very poor. I never had anything but my salary to depend upon, and now that is cut off.”

Helen stooped and whispered a few words in her ear.

“Five hundred dollars!” repeated Alice, in astonishment, “that is a fortune. Who has been so generous?”

“Never mind!” said Helen, smiling. “You see, then, that you are not so poor as you imagined. Now do you think, if I sent a carriage for you in the course of the afternoon, you can move?”

“Yes,” said Alice, in a tone of deep thankfulness. “No one can tell how much I detest this horrible place. I think it will make me well only to move.”

Over the wasted face of her sister there stole an expression of deep and thankful joy.

“I think you are an angel,” she said, looking up into Helen’s beautiful face, radiant with sympathy.

Helen blushed.

“How pleasant it is to be able to make others happy!” she said, softly, to Herbert.

“Do you know, Helen,” said the young artist, “I am half tempted to agree with your patient there.”

“Brother Herbert,” said Helen, quickly, “you must not speak so. I am only doing what you would do in my place. I don’t like to be praised for only doing what is pleasant to me.”

Before night Alice and her sister were installed in a comfortably-furnished room, with a nurse in attendance, who was directed to do whatever was needful for the comfort and relief of her patients.