NEW PROJECTS.
Helen had been long and anxiously considering in what manner she could
employ herself so as to earn a sufficient amount to defray the expenses
of living. Every day the little stock of money remaining in her purse
became less. They lived very frugally, but there was the rent, and two
persons cannot live on air. So the little hoard diminished, and five
dollars were now all that remained to Helen. Five dollars! it might keep
them ten days, but certainly would not last longer, economize as they
might. From her father Helen could hope for no present assistance. He
was always at work, but his labor, however well it might be compensated
in the future, brought in no money now. And for money there would soon
be pressing occasion. Helen grew very uneasy at the thought that they
might be turned penniless into the street. Hitherto they had never been
without money. The five dollars that remained was the last instalment of
a small property left her father by his mother.
One morning Helen sat at the table, leaning her head upon her hand,
plunged in anxious thought. At first she could think of no possible
resource. But when everything looks dark, and all paths seem closed to
us, suddenly from out the thick darkness there sometimes streams a ray
of hope to cheer and sustain the sinking heart.
So it was in the present case.
In her humility, Helen had never dreamed that she possessed
extraordinary musical powers, and it was only through the warm
commendation of Martha Grey that this fact became known to her. Why
should she not employ these in her father’s service? At the theatre a
singer, but little older than herself, and as Martha declared inferior
in talent, had won the popular applause. Why should not she gain
employment in a similar capacity? Full of these thoughts, she entered
Martha’s room.
The seamstress sat at the open window. The cool breeze that found its
way in, lent a faint flush to her pale cheeks. In the cage over her head
a canary bird sang—Martha’s solitary extravagance. As she sat alone from
morning till night engaged in her monotonous task, the bird supplied the
place of human company, and beguiled a portion of the weary time.
Helen came in and seated herself on a cricket at Martha’s feet.
Martha’s face brightened, for she had already learned to love the child.
“I am glad to see you, Helen,” she said. “How is your father, to-day?”
“Papa is much as usual.”
“Hard at work as ever, I suppose.”
“Yes; he allows himself no time to rest. I really think he ought. But,
Martha, I am going to ask your advice about something very important to
me,” said the child, gravely.
“Thank you for your confidence, Helen. Whatever is of importance to you
will be of interest to me.”
“You remember telling me the other day that you liked my singing, and
that I might some day become a great singer. You know I told you at the
time how glad I was to hear you say so.”
“Yes, Helen; I remember it.”
“I did not tell you then why I felt glad; but I will now.”
Helen paused a moment, and then in a frank tone, which showed how little
she was affected by the conventional shame some feel in disclosing their
poverty, continued: “My father and I are very poor. We have been so for
some time, but I got a little money by sewing, and that helped along.
Now, you know, business is dull, and I can get no more work to do. The
little money we have left will not last a fortnight, though I am _very_
economical. So you see, Martha, it is quite necessary that I should find
some way of earning more money at once.”
“Does your father know how near you are to destitution?” inquired the
seamstress.
“No,” was the child’s reply; “and I hope he will not find out. I cannot
bear to trouble him with that, when he has so much to think of. It can’t
be very long before he finishes his model, and then we shall have plenty
of money. If I can only earn enough to keep us along till that time I
shall be very glad.”
“Poor child!” thought Martha, compassionately; “it will be long enough
before your father’s invention fills your purse.”
She was about to offer to procure Helen some work from the establishment
where she was employed, but when she looked at the bright face of the
young girl, and thought to what hours and days of weariness it would
consign her, how it would steal one by one the roses from her cheeks,
and the freshness from her heart, leaving her with little to enjoy in
the present and less to hope for in the future, she had not the heart to
offer her the destiny which she had been compelled to accept for
herself; nor could she bear to dim the child’s trustful confidence in
her father’s success by the expression of a single doubt.
She remained silent.
Finding that Martha said nothing, Helen continued: “When I came to see
you the other day, Martha, I had been trying to think of some way in
which I could help poor papa, but I could think of nothing. Then when I
sang to you and you liked it, I thought it possible that others might
like it, too. Do you think,” she asked, lifting her eyes with a look of
earnest expectation; “do you think they would hire me to sing at the
theatre?”
Martha started in surprise. As yet no thought of the child’s purpose had
entered her mind. To one so unobtrusive and retiring by natural
temperament, the thought of going forth at the head of an army would
have seemed scarcely more formidable that that of standing before a
public audience. Yet this was what Helen, so diffident always, actually
proposed to do.
“Can you really be in earnest, Helen?” she asked; gazing in amazement at
the child who cherished such bold aspirations.
She did not understand the power of the motive which influenced Helen;
how she made everything subordinate to the promptings of filial
affection, which was stronger than any other feeling of her nature. That
gave her courage to think of what she would otherwise have shrunk from
with nervous timidity. For her father she felt that she could dare all.
It was a strange position, that of a young girl at her age, called upon
to assume the oversight and care of providing for her father’s comfort
and necessities. Stranger still was it, that with all the knowledge of
her father’s dependence upon herself and his utter ignorance of the
world and its ways, she should yet have retained so thorough a respect
and reverence for him.
“Can you be in earnest?”
It was Helen’s turn to be surprised at the question.
“Why not?” she asked. “It is my duty to help poor papa, and if I can do
so in this way, why should I not?”
“That is true, Helen, but think of standing before so many hundreds, or
perhaps thousands of people, with every eye fixed upon you. How could
you bear that?”
“I should not think of it at all, Martha. When I am singing I can see
nothing and hear nothing. I seem to be mounting up—up into the air, and
floating among the clouds. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy singing.”
As Helen spoke her eyes sparkled, and her face flushed with enthusiasm.
The exhibition of deep natural feeling is always impressive. Martha felt
it to be so, and could not help admiring and loving the child more than
ever. Helen had almost persuaded her.
“But,” she continued with returning caution, “you may not always feel
so. There would be times when you would not feel like singing, but sing
only because you were obliged to. Then when you encountered the glances
of so many eyes, would not your heart sink and your courage fail you?”
“Then, Martha,” said Helen, with simplicity, “I should think of poor
papa, and how by my exertions I was able to make him comfortable, and
how by and by, when he had succeeded, I should not be obliged to do
anything more. Then I should think how much he had done for me, and how
hard he is laboring even now. There would be a great satisfaction in
that. I ought not to hesitate when I have an opportunity to do something
for him, ought I, Martha?”
“You are a dear, good child,” said the seamstress, affectionately; “and
I will not say a single word more against your plan. But you must not be
too hopeful. You may meet with disappointment about getting a
situation.”
“You mean that perhaps I shall not sing well enough, Martha,” said
Helen. “But I shall do my best when I think how much my father’s comfort
depends upon my success; and that will be sure to help me.”
“No, Helen; that was not what I meant. I never for a moment doubted that
you would sing well enough. Why, you sing like an angel.”
“Did you ever hear an angel sing?” asked Helen, a little mischievously.
“In my dreams,” said Martha, smiling. “But that was not the difficulty I
thought of. Would your father be willing to have you go on the stage?”
“He would not be willing at first, so I think I shall not tell him till
I find out whether they are willing to employ me. Papa is so thoughtful
of me that he would think I was attempting too much, or suspect it was
poverty that led me to it. It will be better not to tell him at first.”
“Then there is another thing to be considered. Perhaps there will be as
many singers employed as are required. It is not always easy to obtain
an engagement, even where one is deserving. If you only had some
influential friends——”
“I have you,” said Helen, archly.
Martha smiled faintly.
“I am afraid if that is all you have to rely upon that it will be
leaning on a broken reed. However, we will hope for the best, and not
despond till we have reason to do so.”
So the two conversed till Helen heard a neighboring clock striking five.
“Five o’clock!” she exclaimed. “I did not know it was so late. I must go
up and prepare supper.”
She tripped lightly up stairs with a new hope in her heart. Unconscious
of the cares which had fallen so early upon his daughter, Mr. Ford was
laboring at his machinery. Helen came and stood by his side.
“Well, papa, what progress?” she asked, cheerfully.
“Very good, my child,” said the dreamer. “I have just succeeded in
obviating a difficulty which has perplexed me for some time.”
“How very glad I am, papa. That ought to give you a good appetite for
your supper. I shall have it ready in a few minutes.”