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.