“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.”