HERBERT COLEMAN.
In course of time Helen’s engagement subjected her to a new
embarrassment. It was of course late in the evening before she was
released from the theatre, leaving her a distance to traverse of more
than a mile. At first Martha Grey called for her, but it soon became
evident that this was too much for the strength of the poor seamstress.
She did not complain, but Helen, with the quick eye of friendship, saw
her lassitude and the air of weariness which she strove in vain to
conceal, and would not allow her to continue her friendly service.
“But, my dear child,” said Martha, “how will you manage? You ought not
to go alone. It would not be proper.”
“I will try it,” said Helen, though her timid nature shrank from the
trial. “If necessary, I must get a lodging nearer the theatre.”
“And leave us? I should miss you sadly.”
“Oh, I should expect you to come too,” said Helen. “We would hire rooms
close together. But perhaps it will not be necessary.”
So Helen undertook to return from the theatre alone. She might indeed
have had her father’s escort by asking for it, but she feared it would
prove an interruption to his labors, and perhaps deprive him of the rest
which he required. But an incident happened on the second evening which
convinced her that it was not safe for her to walk home unattended.
Singing at a popular theatre, Helen’s face naturally became familiar to
those who frequented it. There were some among them who were struck by
her beauty, and desired to see her off the stage. It happened that a
young man was standing near the door of the theatre one evening when
Helen emerged from it. He quietly followed her until she reached an
unfrequented side street through which she was obliged to pass, and then
pressed to her side.
“Good evening, Miss Ford,” he said, accommodating his pace to hers.
Helen looked up startled, and met an unfamiliar face. She remained
silent through terror.
“Good evening,” repeated her unwelcome companion. “I hardly think you
heard me the first time.”
“I don’t know you, sir.”
“Allow me to remedy that. My name is Albert Grover, at your service.”
“I beg you will leave me, sir,” said Helen, her heart beating rapidly.
“I would rather not, indeed. You are alone, and require an escort.”
“I would rather not trouble you, sir; I shall do very well alone.”
“It is no trouble whatever—on the contrary, quite a pleasure. Will you
accept my arm?”
“No, sir, I would much rather not.”
“Upon my word, you are not treating me well. When I announce myself as
one of the warmest admirers of your charming voice, I am sure you will
not be cruel enough to repulse me. Let me insist, then, upon your
accepting my arm for the remainder of your walk.”
Helen was quite terrified by the young man’s persistency. Too young to
fear any peril except the annoyance of the present moment, she felt an
apprehension which she could not define.
“Pray, leave me, sir,” she said, in accents of entreaty.
“I am sure you don’t mean that,” returned her persecutor, endeavoring to
place her arm in his.
Helen screamed faintly. Her call was instantly answered.
“Leave this young lady alone,” said a manly voice, the owner of which
seized Mr. Albert Grover with a vigorous grasp.
“Who are you?” demanded the young man endeavoring, but without success,
to free himself from his unexpected assailant.
“What you do not appear to be,” was the prompt reply, “a gentleman. Are
you not ashamed to annoy a defenceless girl?”
“I only meant to see her home,” was the sulky reply.
“You can spare yourself the trouble. I will undertake that duty.”
“O Mr. Coleman, how glad I am you came up!” said Helen, clinging to her
new protector, in whom the reader has already recognized the opposite
lodger.
“So am I. But, Miss Ford, do you know how imprudent it is for you to be
out at this hour alone?”
“I suppose it is,” said Helen; “but I don’t know what else to do. Martha
Grey used to come for me, but I found it was too much for her. Papa
would come, but he works so hard that I don’t think he ought to come.
And there is no one else.”
“I see how it is,” said the young man. “I shall come for you myself.”
“You, Mr. Coleman! Oh, no, I could not think of troubling you.”
“Indeed, it will be no trouble.”
“If it were for only one evening. But every evening, it would be too
much.”
“On the contrary, it will be pleasant for me. I am in my room nearly all
day, hard at work. In the evening I cannot work, for painting requires
sunlight. So I shall only be taking the exercise I need, and coming for
you will give me an object which will insure my taking the exercise I
require. You see, therefore, that it is a selfish arrangement on my
part.”
“I see that you are very kind,” said Helen, gratefully. “I wish there
were any way in which I could repay you.”
“I have a young sister at home, about your age. If she were situated as
you are, I should want somebody to be kind to her. Let me look upon you
as my sister.”
“I shall be very glad to have you,” said Helen, her confidence
completely won.
“Then, of course, I shall not call you Miss Ford any longer.”
“Why not?”
“Because that would be too formal between brother and sister. I must
call you Helen.”
“Yes, if you like,” said the child, more and more pleased. “It is very
pleasant to have a brother.”
“Then you will call me Herbert?”
“Is that your name?”
“Yes. Will you call me so?”
“Perhaps so, by and by. I must get used to it, you know.”
“I think that will soon come, for we shall be a good deal together now.”
Helen felt quite relieved by this new arrangement. The next evening Mr.
Coleman presented himself promptly at the theatre, thereby disappointing
Albert Grover, who was in waiting to repeat his annoyance of the
previous evening.
“You may as well give it up,” said Helen’s escort, with a significant
glance at the young man. “Henceforth, this young lady will have an
escort able and willing to chastise all who are disposed to offer her
annoyance.”
Helen clung to his arm with a feeling of unspeakable relief.
“Don’t tremble, Helen,” said he, kindly. “You are safe with me.”
“You are very kind to me,” said Helen.
“That is my duty. You have promised to be my little sister, you know.”
“Have you begun a new picture yet?”
“Not yet. I thought I could see where I might make some alterations for
the better in the picture you have seen. I shall try to get it admitted
to the Academy by and by, unless I succeed first in obtaining a
purchaser.”
“It is so beautiful, I should think it would be easy to find a
purchaser.”
“If all looked at it with your partial eyes, Helen. But I have no
reputation, and an established name goes a great ways.”
“But you will become famous some day.”
“I hope so, but it will be many years first. I must work for bread and
butter before I work for fame.”
“Can’t you work for both at the same time?”
“I hope so. But sometimes an artist, under the spur of necessity, is
compelled to deny his highest aspirations, and work for present profit.
From that temptation I am relieved at present,” the young man added,
laughing, “since my pencil is not yet in demand.”
They had now reached the door of the lodging-house, and stumbled up the
dark staircase to their rooms.
“Good night, Mr. Coleman,” said Helen.
“So it is still Mr. Coleman?”
“Good night, Herbert,” said Helen, timidly.
“Good night, little sister. Good night, and pleasant dreams.”