Читать книгу Helen Ford - Alger Horatio Jr., Thomas Chandler Haliburton - Страница 7

Seated in the theatre, Helen looked about her in bewilderment. She had never been within the walls of a theatre. In the street the sun shone brightly. Here the sun was rigorously excluded, and gas took its place. It seemed to the unsophisticated child like a sudden leap from noon to night. She could hear the rumbling of vehicles in the streets, but it appeared to her, somehow, as if they were far away, and that she had come into a different world. She wondered what there was behind that broad green curtain in front, and why the lights should be arranged so oddly at the foot of it.

“Lor’, child, that’s the stage,” was the lucid explanation of Martha’s cousin, to whom she applied for information. “Haven’t you ever been to the theatre before?”

“No, never,” said Helen.

The cousin looked at her with some curiosity, as if there must be something out of the common way about a person who had never been to the theatre, and expressed her decided conviction that Helen’s education had been shockingly neglected.

“Why,” said she, “before I was half as high as you, I had been to the theatre ever so many times.”

She spoke with so much complacency that Helen imagined she must be a very superior person, and possessed great knowledge of the world.

While these and other thoughts were passing through her mind, the bell rang twice, and then the curtain rose.

Helen nearly uttered an exclamation of surprise, so unprepared was she for the spectacle which was presented to her dazzled gaze. The play was a fairy extravaganza, which depended for its success chiefly upon scenery and stage effect. In the first scene was represented the palace of the Queen of the fairies, crowning the summit of a hill, rising in the centre of a beautiful island. Above floated fleecy clouds, from a break in which streamed the sunshine, lending its glory to the scene.

In the foreground stood a circle of children about Helen’s age or younger, who figured as sylphs. With united voices they sang a song in honor of the Queen of the fairies, who directly afterwards was seen floating through the air above the stage, arrayed in such style as seemed befitting her illustrious rank.

So complete was the illusion to Helen, that she gazed with suspended breath and a feeling, half of awe, as if the scene she looked upon was really one of enchantment.

“Is she really a fairy?” she asked of Martha’s cousin.

“No, child, of course not. It’s Henrietta Blake. I’ve seen her in the street many a time. Once I was introduced to her.”

“What a beautiful creature she must be!” said Helen, admiringly.

“Beautiful!” repeated the cousin, with some disdain. “For my part, I don’t think she’s anything to boast of in that line. Just notice what a poor complexion she has. You’d see it if it wasn’t for the paint. You wouldn’t have thought her very fairy-like if you had seen her in at Taylor’s the other evening, eating oysters.”

Helen could scarcely believe her ears. It seemed to be almost like sacrilege to associate such a gross idea with the etherial being that floated before her in all the majestic beauty of a fairy queen. It took from the scene before her something of the charm with which her fancy had invested it. Still it was with a feeling of intense enjoyment that she followed the play to its conclusion, watching scene after scene pass before her, and the music was truly enchanting.

At length the play was finished, and the curtain dropped. This, however, did not conclude the performance. After a short pause the curtain rose once more, and a young girl came forward and sang the well-known little Scotch song, “Comin’ thro’ the Rye.” It was sung correctly and in good taste, but with no remarkable display of power. Still it was vociferously encored, and, on its repetition, was applauded warmly.

There was an afterpiece, but, as it was already late in the afternoon, Martha and her cousin decided not to remain.

“Well, how did you like it?” asked the cousin, patronizingly.

“Oh, it was beautiful!” exclaimed Helen, enthusiastically. “I am so much obliged to you for taking me.”

“They have better plays sometimes,” returned the cousin, with an air of superior knowledge of the world. “I didn’t think much of the acting to-day, for my part. I’ll take you again some time when they’ve got something else.”

Even after she was fairly in the street, Helen found it difficult to throw off the illusion of the stage. She could still see in imagination the gorgeous spectacle, the splendid fairy palace, the graceful sylphs, and the queen in her regal magnificence. She was so entirely under the dominion of fancy that to her the outer world seemed unreal, and that which she had seen, the real. She walked on, heeding little, till she was suddenly roused from her reverie in a very forcible manner, by coming in collision with some person. It proved to be a very fat old lady, who was walking, or rather waddling, slowly along the sidewalk, with her head thrown back. At the unexpected collision, she screamed, and gasped for breath, eyeing Helen, meanwhile, with no very amiable expression of countenance.

“You’ve just about beaten the breath out of my body, you young trollop. Where was you brought up, I’d like to know, not to have any better manners?”

“I hope you’ll excuse me,” said Helen, humbly, somewhat ashamed of her preoccupation. “I didn’t mean to run against you.”

“Don’t tell me,” said the irritated old lady. “You did it a purpose. I know you did.”

“She might as well say you ran into her on purpose,” retorted Martha’s cousin.

“I didn’t speak to you, ma’am,” said the exasperated old lady. “It’s my belief that you’re all in league together, and I’ve a great mind to have you given in charge of the police.”

“Indeed!” said the cousin, ironically.

“Come away,” said Martha, in a low voice. “Don’t let us have a scene here.”

As quickly as possible they escaped from the irate old lady. She stood panting for breath, and glaring at them over the rims of her glasses, which had been accidentally misplaced. This encounter, ludicrous as it was, served to bring Helen back from the ideal world to the real, and without any further adventures she reached home.

It was already time to prepare their frugal meal. She found her father as busily occupied as ever. She was glad of this, for it showed that her presence had not been missed.

The next day Martha Grey was at work harder than ever. She felt that she must make up by extra exertion for the unwonted relaxation of the day before.

“What are you thinking of, Martha?” asked Helen, playfully, as she stole in unperceived, and placed her hands over the eyes of the seamstress. “Come, tell me before I take my hands away.”

“I was thinking,” said Martha, “that I should like to hear once more the song that was sung at the theatre yesterday.”

“You enjoyed it, then?”

“Very much.”

“Shall I sing it to you?” asked Helen, quietly.

“You, Helen?” asked Martha, lifting up her eyes in astonishment. “Can you sing? I never heard you.”

“I do not sing very often,” said Helen, sadly. “My mother taught me, and whenever I sing it brings up thoughts of her.”

“I should like very much to hear you sing, Helen,” said Martha; “but do not do it if it will make you sad.”

“Never mind, Martha. I will sing, if it will give you pleasure.”

Helen commenced the song, and sang it to the end in a voice of remarkable richness and power. She was gifted with a voice of extraordinary flexibility and compass, whose natural power had evidently been improved by cultivation. Martha, who, though no singer herself, was very fond of listening to music, and could judge when it had merit, listened with unaffected astonishment and delight. She felt that she had never heard a voice of equal sweetness and power.

“You have a beautiful voice,” she said, when Helen had finished the song. “You sang it much better than it was sung at the theatre yesterday. Some day you may become a great singer.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Helen, her eyes sparkling with delight. “I am very glad.”

Martha looked up in some surprise, not understanding why it was that Helen felt so much pleased. But a new thought had come to the child.

“Is there anything else you would like to hear?” she asked.

“I should like to hear ‘Home, Sweet Home.’”

It was a song which Helen had often sung, and to which she could do full justice. It was not difficult to account for the feeling which led Martha Grey to make choice of this song. She was one of a large family, who had never known sorrow or separation till the death of her parents, following each other in quick succession, turned them all adrift upon the world.

As the song proceeded, Martha called up in fancy the humble farm-house among the New Hampshire hills, with its comfortable barn and well-tilled acres around it. She recalled the broad, low kitchen, with its large fireplace and blazing back-log, around which the family was wont to gather in the cheerful winter evenings. She recalled her little sister Ruth, who was about the age of Helen when their home was broken up, but whom she had not seen since, Ruth having been placed in the family of an uncle. She recalled her happy school-days, her school companions, and, above all, her father and mother, who had never been otherwise than kind to her, and then looked about the small and desolate room which she now called home. She could not help contrasting her present lonely position with what it had been when she was at home in the midst of her family, and as the last strain died away upon Helen’s lips, she burst into tears.

Helen looked up in surprise at this unwonted display of emotion on the part of one, usually so quiet and composed as Martha Grey.

“Don’t mind me, Helen,” said Martha, through her tears. “It came over me, and I couldn’t help it. Some time, perhaps, I will tell you why it is that that song always makes me shed tears.”