Itwas a fresh and beautiful morning when she arrived in London town. The sun shone, the sparrows chirruped merrily, violets and mimosa were displayed at the street-corners; English spring was at its best. Evarne changed the remainder of her French gold at the station, and then wandered out of its main entrance—aimlessly—ignorant of where to go—which way to turn.
In the station yard she narrowly escaped being run over by the numerous 'buses that were constantly either entering or leaving. Her first impulse was to mount one of these and let it take her where it would, but condemning this as a foolish fancy, she crossed the road, and commenced to wander down the street directly facing the station. But the wide grandeur of Victoria Street was oppressive. She was anxious to find the cheaper parts of London, and get settled in a moderate-priced hotel or boarding-house without delay. This feeling of absolute homelessness was dreadful.
She was passing an attractive-looking refreshment-shop. It was now about twenty to twelve, and at noon she was accustomed to her first serious meal. She became aware that she was sinking for lack of food, and entering, ordered something to eat.
The neighbouring establishment was devoted to the sale of religious pictures, crucifixes and other church requisites, but taking advantage of the great width of the pavement, the enterprising proprietor had placed outsidehis window some tressels and a board, which was now covered with numerous second-hand books, under the protection of a small boy.
As Evarne ate her meal she distracted her thoughts by watching a girl who was seemingly proposing to purchase a volume, for she was bestowing upon them a protracted study. First one was picked up and glanced into, then another, but Evarne soon saw that it was not the printed wisdom that was filling her mind. Every few seconds her eyes cast anxious glances in the direction of the station, and ere long she abandoned even the pretence of book-gazing, and stood there, frankly waiting and watching for somebody.
She had obviously made her toilette with great care and attention to detail. She wore a long coat and a white hat with a black feather drooping over towards her shoulder. She had on spotless white kid gloves and smart shoes, and a little bunch of blossoms was fastened at her throat by a small pearl brooch. Noticing all this, Evarne guessed at once what it was that kept this girl loitering about thus long, gazing so earnestly towards the station. "She is in love—I can see plainly. Little fool! It will only bring her misery," was the verdict of this young cynic, for suddenly the far-distant temple at Karnak had risen again in her memory; she could see the cruel eye, the set lips, of the Egyptian goddess of Love—of Sekhet—in her implacable silent power.
At length Evarne felt compelled to take her departure. But to where? Who could advise her? She studied the countenance of the damsel by whom she had been waited upon. It was not unpretty, but oh! so sadly shallow and unsympathetic. No kindly aid would be forthcoming from that quarter. Silently she quitted the shop.
Not far from the door stood the girl who had already attracted her attention. She certainly did not look as if she could be much acquainted with the shifts of poverty,but she did look as if she could be kind and willing to be helpful. Yielding this time to an impulse, Evarne approached, and without preamble asked where one could obtain cheap lodgings in London.
To her relief the girl with the plume did not evince the least surprise. She appeared to consider it quite natural to be asked such a question by a daintily-clad stranger, and calmly proceeded to consider the matter.
"How cheap do you mean?" she inquired. "There are a great many boarding-houses in Bloomsbury—near the British Museum, you know—where you would be made quite comfortable for two pounds a week, or even less. Still, there are much cheaper ways of living than that, if you prefer."
Evarne decided that Fate had guided her to one who was, seemingly, an authority on precisely the class of knowledge she was seeking. Two pounds a week was certainly very moderate, but when one is possessed of less than eight pounds in the world—no, that was beyond her means. She could not allow her whole fortune to be dissipated on a month's riotous living!
"Please tell me about the cheaper ways. How—do you happen to know where girls live who can only spare one pound a week?"
"Well, it chiefly depends on the girl. Some hire cubicles in clubs, or homes, or places of that sort, and get most of their meals out. But it's not nice—they treat you as if you were a child—I've never known any one with any 'go' in them who liked it. Shall I tell you what I should do myself?"
"Yes, please do."
"I should go to the stage-door of this music-hall just here"—and she carelessly waved her hand in the direction of the edifice she mentioned. "Then ask the doorkeeper for some addresses, and he will tell you where the artistes stay when they are engaged at the hall."
Here she broke off, and took a short step sideways in order to see between the people passing to and fro, but in a minute turned her attention again to Evarne.
"You can get a room and attendance for ten shillings a week, or thereabouts, and arrange what you'll eat according to the state of the exchequer. I've done that myself, so I know it isn't half-bad. You do your own marketing, you understand, and the landlady does the cooking."
Somewhat surprised at this confidence, Evarne thanked her gratefully.
"Am I not fortunate in having ventured to ask you?" she said in her sweetest voice. "I should never have dreamed of such a nice way on my own account."
The girl with the plume seemed pleased, and accompanied her the few steps to the corner of the side-street in which the stage-entrance of the music-hall was to be found; there they parted, and Evarne proceeded on her exploring expedition alone. Sure enough, she soon beheld a very narrow, red folding-door, over which "Stage Door" appeared enticingly in white letters. The flaps were already slightly ajar, and, pushing them wider open, she peered inside the sacred portals.
There was a commissionaire's box sure enough, but no official of any description to grace it. Nothing daunted, Evarne climbed a winding flight of stairs that was just ahead. This ended in a big, square landing, on to which opened several doors. All were closed but one, which, standing wide open, exposed to view a row of washing-basins on a high table, a portion of uncarpeted floor on which lay a jester's cap and a stuffed dog, a huge truss of hay propped up in a corner, together with a couple of guns, and a chair covered with a pile of garments.
Since, save for these rooms, the landing was a blank alley, Evarne was about to descend when a step was heard, and a very young man appeared in the open doorway.Partly with a view to accounting for her trespassing, the girl explained: "I want to find the hall-porter."
The youth's response was far from useful.
"Well, he isn't here now, and I don't know where he is, or when he will be back."
The idea came to Evarne that possibly this stranger might serve as well as the porter.
"I wanted to ask if he could tell me of any nice lodgings about here," she said.
The youth at once waxed quite enthusiastic.
"Well, I can jolly well tell you that! We are staying at the only decent place in the neighbourhood. We go there about four times a year, and we wouldn't go to anybody else than Mrs. Burling, not for toffee. When are you coming in?"
"I want a room at once."
"Well, I can't say what she's got vacant. We've got—let me see—a sitting-room, and one, two, three bedrooms."
"Would you mind telling me what you pay for that?"
"Well, we're charged a pound a week for our lot, and that's inclusive, coals and light and everything. I'll give you the address. You can't better it, I'll take my oath."
He scribbled an address, and Evarne again sought the outer air. At the corner of the street was the girl with the plume, still waiting, who inquired after her success.
Evarne showed her the slip of paper.
"It's the Vauxhall Bridge Road. Is that near by?" she asked.
"Oh yes; just cross over and go straight ahead, past that clock."
But to get across this crowded thoroughfare was an undertaking that Evarne, with her shaken nerves, was scarcely capable of managing. Again and again she set out only to return, startled and alarmed, to the pavement. Undue timidity was so new to her that her pretty brow deepened into wrinkles. It was dreadful that stress ofmental suffering should have reduced her to this foolishly weak and incapable condition of mind and body.
The girl with the plume once more came to the rescue.
"You're not used to London, I can see. I'll take you across. And now I'll just show you the right road," she continued, when they had reached the opposite pavement in safety.
"I do hope," declared Evarne slyly, "that nobody specially interesting will happen to come along over there while you are being so kind as to see after me."
Her companion looked for a moment as if she had suddenly discovered herself to be in the society of a clairvoyante. Then she answered lightly enough—
"It doesn't matter much if she does."
But Evarne was not to be deceived by the feminine pronoun.
In a couple of minutes the girl with the plume stopped.
"Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand, "and good luck."
Evarne was sorry to have to say farewell. She clasped the hand that was offered her.
"Good-bye," she said roguishly, "and I do hope that then he—um—I mean she——"
The girl with the plume interrupted her by a little laugh of amusement. Evarne laughed too, and thus they parted.
It was just a stray meeting—a momentary friendship never to be renewed—but it put Evarne in a new frame of mind. Whether it was owing to the meal, or to having so far forgotten her own woes as to indulge in the fun of bantering another girl, or whether it was to the practical kindness and help she had received in finding apied-à-terre, she knew not; but certainly she walked down Vauxhill Bridge Road with a considerably brighter expression than heretofore.
The number found, her knock was answered by Mrs.Burling in person. Evarne inquired after accommodation and terms.
"Are you a pro, miss?" inquired Mrs. Burling.
"A pro?"
"I mean, are you on the stage yourself? But there, I can see you ain't."
The girl acknowledged it.
"Does that matter?"
"Not a bit; come in, my dear."
Evarne entered, and trying to close her nostrils against the smell of onions that was wafted along the passage, followed Mrs. Burling into a sitting-room. This apartment was overcrowded by a suite of shiny black furniture, and decorated lavishly with antimacassars, and objects of one description and another under glass cases. The girl thought it hideous, and almost unbearable to have to live amid such surroundings.
"Take a seat, miss. I've only got a 'combined' vacant now, but next week——"
"I don't want to pay much," confessed Evarne frankly. "How much is the 'combined,' and may I see it?"
She hadn't the least idea of what a "combined" might happen to be, but was not going to display her ignorance twice within the first three minutes.
Mrs. Burling led the way up a couple of steep flights of stairs, into a smallish room that she herself probably thought charmingly harmonious and attractive. Its walls were covered with a dull yellowish paper whereon was a design of pink poppies as big as one's head, with ramping green leaves of a size to correspond. There were two cupboards painted white, but picked out with green, while the threadbare carpet was likewise of a verdant hue. By the window was a writing-table, covered with an ink-stained emerald cloth, and the wicker arm-chair that stood before it tried to render itself cosy and enticing by means of a couple of thin cushions—both green, sure enough, butscarcely a happy combination of the shades of that colour to be reposing cheek by jowl. In the corner stood a spotlessly white fluffy-looking bed; there was a wardrobe with a disfiguring mirror for the door; a washing-stand—with china pink and green—altogether it was complete enough, but oh!—Evarne's artistic soul shuddered.
However, she had made up her mind that the poor must be easily pleased, and on learning that she could become mistress of this domain for ten shillings weekly, inclusive, she accepted the position without demur.
"'Ave you got any more luggage at the station?" inquired the landlady, "because my Tommy's got a 'and-cart that he can bring it along in."
Evarne said that the bag she had left in the hall downstairs was all she owned in that direction.
"It's my custom to ask for part of the rent in advance, miss," promptly announced Mrs. Burling.
Without comment, Evarne meekly opened her purse and produced half-a-sovereign.
"Send up my bag, please," she said, and in another five minutes found herself alone with all her worldly possessions in her first independent home in London. Her new life had indeed started.
Bythe time darkness fell solitude had become unendurable. She did not know a single person in London whom she could visit, so resolved to go forth into the open streets. Even to see strangers passing and repassing would be better than the companionship of her own haunting memories.
She wandered around aimlessly, half-confused and somewhat entertained by her first contact with busy London after nightfall. She had soon strolled down Victoria Street, and crossed Westminster Bridge, and was amid the activity of the populous and poor south side of the Thames.
After a while, the sight of a noisy flaring street-market in full swing, reminded her that she must make some purchases if she wanted dinner on the morrow. Accordingly—after commencing operations by buying a capacious wicker marketing-basket, in emulation of the busy purchasers who were evidently experienced housewives—she set about considering her next day'smenu.
Despite her quiet demeanour, she attracted a great deal of notice. Many heads were turned to gaze after her; nudgings and whisperings heralded her approach. She disliked this attention, and unaware that her face, apart from its arresting beauty, still bore traces of the emotional anguish she had so recently passed through, put it all down to her attire. She could not fail to see that her costume—albeit the simplest in her late wardrobe—was of an entirelydifferent stamp to that worn by her surrounding sister-women, and resolved on the morrow to get a really cheap skirt and blouse for such occasions. That night, the purchase of food required all her thought.
All went off well, save at the butcher's. There she considered she made a fool of herself! Although it was Monday night, each shop of this description was surrounded by a crowd of carnivorous humanity. "Buy, buy, buy!" the salesman was shouting encouragingly. "Here's a lovely little joint. Walk up and look—no call to buy. Prime beef. Buy, buy, buy! Walk up, people, walk up!"
At length Evarne followed this advice, and did "walk up." The counter outside the shop consisted of a series of divisions marked by numbers ranging from four to ten, and each containing a mass of smallish portions of meat.
Those in number ten partition looked less dried and utterly repulsive than the rest, so, deciding on a tiny piece, the girl daintily touched it with the tip of her finger and inquired its price.
"Tenpence," shouted the noisy butcher, darting away to attend to another customer.
Evarne considered that was far too dear for such a wee portion. She wasn't going to be cheated because she was nicely dressed; she just wouldn't have that piece! Settling upon a thin chop, she once again made business-like inquiries concerning its price. Strange! This was even smaller than her first choice, yet it was tenpence likewise.
This was really puzzling. Ah! Perhaps it was tenpence a piece, regardless of size. It didn't seem likely, but if so, she would see that she got her money's worth, and lifting up the largest portion of all she once more succeeded in attracting the butcher's attention.
"How much is this bit, then?" she inquired.
The unkind butcher man actually got rude. "Lor' loveyer, can't yer 'ear me a-telling yer it'stenpence, and ain't it printed plain enough?"
Evarne was affronted by this unaccustomed disrespect.
"I'll take this piece, then," she announced with the air of a duchess, whereupon the man, in no ways abashed, promptly flung it out of sight under a row of hanging joints, into the interior of the shop.
Evarne remained stationary.
"Walk inside, miss," cried the man, as the crowd jostled, and others claimed his attention.
The girl obeyed. In its turn her choice was put on the scales.
"Thirteen ounces, sevenpence-halfpenny," cried the weigher, wrapping it up with all speed in a bit of newspaper and handing it over.
Only then did it dawn on Evarne that this universal price of tenpence meant nothing more nor less than tenpence a pound, and thus the mystery was explained! Until recently she would have laughed merrily over such an incident, but now all life was the colour of tragedy. She saw in this absurd little incident only an allegory of her all-round practical ignorance, her incapacity, her sordid position, and the general misery and humiliation of her probable future. She returned home weary and dejected, and that night likewise soaked her pillow with tears.
She breakfasted in bed, then dressed and went out to get a newspaper to study the list of situations vacant. Buying two or three she inquired the way to the nearest public gardens. The policeman directed her to Hyde Park, and ere long she was seated facing the Row, idly watching the equestrians as they cantered past.
How cheerful, how light-hearted, they all seemed!
People on foot, even though richly clad, often looked discontented and ill-natured. Those driving in the finest of motors, or the most splendid of carriages, with prancing horses and all outward tokens of luxury, might appeardreadfully bored with existence; but one and all who were mounted upon these well-groomed steeds on this fresh spring morning appeared to radiate health and happiness as they passed.
It was scarcely a kind Fate that brought Evarne to this spot, with the very papers in her hand in which she hoped to find the printed announcement of some quiet little corner in the labour market into which she might creep to earn mere bread and cheese. She looked with eyes that were frankly envious upon the riders. How unfair it seemed that some people should have so much money and others none at all unless they either slaved or sinned.
Had she been plunged into poverty with Morris still true—still loving her—she could have faced the turn of Fortune's wheel with a stout heart and a cheery smile. But the stroke that had been dealt to her affections seemed to have crushed her very spirit.
Nor had she any, save her own moral resources, upon which to lean for support. This would have seemed a period when the glorious and elevating influence of Socrates should have had power to lift her into lofty realms of philosophical resignation. But for the greatest of her griefs, the most gnawing, the most unendurable, the teacher was worse than useless. Scant comfort does he give to those whose love is unhappy. On the contrary, his words, his ideas, as they had been interpreted by Evarne, merely served to gall the wound, and she dared not dwell upon them.
She did not open her papers, but sat watching the passing throng. She smiled as two little girls came galloping by at full speed. They rode astride, and a groom led the pony of the youngest by a leading-rein. The hats of both tiny maidens had blown back, their flying curls rose and fell, their faces were flushed bright pink with excitement and delight. Next a young woman rode past at a walking pace. By her side was a man. She too lookedradiantly happy, but it was not the exhilaration of exercise that had brought that glad light into her eyes. Evarne looked after them sympathetically. Although her own story had ended in destruction and misery, she still found a pair of earnest young lovers the most interesting—the most attractive—sight in the world.
Numbers of elderly rotund gentlemen trotted along. For them the morning ride was but a doctor's prescription—still, they took it with a cheerful countenance—this delightful recipe! Then passed two women, both evidently over fifty; they still possessed elegant and slender figures, shown off by immaculate habits. They were mounted on magnificent horses—lithe, powerful, big—horses fit to carry heavy men, and to whom the weight of these slight women must have been a mere nothing. Evarne imagined that these two riders were wealthy maiden sisters—the great ladies of some country district—who came to London just for the season. She fancied they had lived side by side in state and dignity from infancy upwards, and that there had never been a hero in the story of either of their lives.
Immediately after them came a golden-haired damsel—gay,débonnaire, handsome—but marred by an irrefutable touch of vulgarity. Her fine form and shady morals had gone to make her a prosperous career! Her life had never been without a hero. Next came a youthful and highborn mother, cantering easily, looking down with smiling care and pride upon the gallant little son and heir who rode so manfully beside her on a shaggy white pony. Ah! there was life, happiness, health, wealth, love—everything! But she must waste no more time. Moving to a less prominent seat she opened her papers.
Doubtless if Evarne had been an artistic genius she would have declined to abandon entirely the pursuit of art. As it was, knowing her own incompetence, she at once hopelessly renounced all ideas of art as a profession.What then offered itself? If she had happened to possess a knowledge of shorthand there were many openings, but then she didn't happen to, so that was no use! A smart girl about eighteen was wanted to assist in a grill-room and make herself generally useful. A stifling grill-room! Horrible! Some bakers required a young lady as bookkeeper and to assist in shop. Arithmetic had never been her strong point. A barmaid was wanted. Heaven forbid! Another lady was required to push the boot trade. "Pushing" anything was also not her strong point.
The "C's" were all cashiers and clerks. Arithmetic and shorthand again. Useless! Oh, there was also a demand for cooks. Well, she could boil eggs and potatoes, and make toast, but that was hardly sufficient. Drapery establishments required ladies for various departments. That was decidedly the most promising so far. She would write to some of these. Dressmakers wanted hands, assistants, improvers and apprentices. Oh dear, dear! Several hotels wanted manageresses or housekeepers, and an infirmary required a female lunatic attendant. It was terribly disheartening work. Lady canvassers—that again required the gift of being pushing. Laundry-managers—mantle-machinists—milliners—servants. There ended the choice. Appalling!
However, she proceeded to answer a few of the advertisements, when the idea came to consult Mrs. Burling. The landlady was a practical working-woman, and therefore perhaps the very best possible adviser.
So Evarne to a certain extent became confidential. What did Mrs. Burling think was the easiest way of earning a livelihood for a girl who had not been taught any profession, and who, owing to deaths and unexpected losses, found herself obliged to earn money right away?
Without a moment's hesitation, Mrs. Burling suggested the stage. This was not unnatural, considering that the worthy matron spent her days waiting hand and foot uponplain, commonplace women and inane men, who, by that means, contrived to lead leisured lives. That was the one and only trade, business or profession she knew of that seemed to call for neither brains, industry, previous preparation, nor—in her opinion—any particular talent or qualification whatsoever.
"I do assure you, miss," she went on, "I've 'ad ladies and gents 'ere earning good money, who would 'ave been in the work'ouse if they wasn't in the profession."
Evarne considered. She was blankly ignorant of everything connected with life behind the scenes. True, she had met several so-called "actresses" in the society of Morris's friends, but these ladies never seemed to be acting, so she could not consider that they represented the genuine article. She had a vague idea—gleaned from she scarce knew where—that the men of the dramatic world were all vulgar and vain and familiar and inclined to drink, unless, on the other hand, they were popular, fascinating and romantic; while the women were jealous, rather rowdy, and overdressed, until those upper ranks were reached wherein they figured on picture postcards, when they were models of every public and domestic virtue. Still, to the girl's imagination, a stage life certainly seemed far more bearable than the vision of herself measuring out lace and ribbon from morn to eve; or serving round grilled chops; or fighting with lunatics.
"I really think I shall try that," she announced at length; "but I'm dreadfully ignorant about how to get a post. Does one go to the theatres, or write to the leading actors, or the managers, or what?"
"There's all sorts of ways," declared Mrs. Burling. "For one thing, you must 'ave a good photo of yourself to send round. What 'ave you got?"
Evarne confessed that she had nothing.
"Then you must 'ave one took, and 'ave sticky-backs made from it."
"Sticky-backs?"
"Yes, fifty a shilling. Don't you know 'em? I've got some stuck in my visitors' book. I'll get it, and let you see."
She returned in due course and presented the volume.
"I've got a message for you," she went on. "I jist mentioned to the ladies and gents in the sitting-room, when I went in to git the book, what I wanted it for, and when they 'eard you'd never bin on the stage and was thinking of starting, they sent up an invite that if you'd take supper with 'em when they return from the 'all this evening, they'd be very 'appy to give you some advice."
"Oh, that is kind of them," declared Evarne with alacrity. "Will you tell them I'll be very pleased to accept?"
Mrs. Burling took her departure, and the girl amused herself by studying the visitors' book. Clearly, no praise of the worthy landlady was deemed too exaggerated, and quite often tactful self-advertisements had been unblushingly inserted by the writers. Evarne studied the method by which it was achieved, with a view to future use. Thus "Wally Wentworth, Mrs. Wally Wentworth and Miss Arundale Sutherland, on highly successful return visit with sketch, 'The Perils of the Dark,' stopped here, and found complete satisfaction with both cooking and accommodation." Very ingenious!
Another, a gentleman whose jolly countenance was preserved to future ages through the medium of a "sticky-back," declared—
"Owing to being braced up by Mother Burling's high-class cookery, sang 'Cats a-walking on the tiles' and 'Lazy Lily's Lullaby' as never before! Brought down the house!"
"The Giggling Coon Girls" were also full of praises of Mrs. Burling, but did not forget to add that at the music hall they were "encored nightly."
Evarne was quite carried away by the childish self-complacency, the light-hearted tone of gaiety that pervaded this book, and began to wax quite enthusiastic over the idea of going on the stage herself. Perhaps she would be a great success, and become famous, and earn any amount of money. Then Morris, of course, would hear of her triumphs, and then——But she stayed these fairy visions with a stern hand as soon as Morris appeared in them. The pain grew too cruel. Nothing could ever undo the past.
She wondered if she could act well. She had never had any ambition in that direction, and so had never tried, not even as an amateur. But surely anyone could learn to undertake small parts quite easily. She did not expect to be called upon to play "Juliet" or "Pauline Deschapelles" immediately.
The hours passed. She found an old novelette in a drawer, and occupied her time in reading the rubbish, until a scream of laughter, the bang of a door and a general sense of uproar, proclaimed that the "sketch party" had returned from its evening labours. A few minutes later a tap came on the door, and in response to the injunction to "Come in," a tall, slender girl, with faint traces of "make-up" still clinging around her eyes, appeared on the threshold.
"We've come back, Miss Stornway," she announced in a friendly manner, "and I've come up to bring you down to have a bit of supper with us as arranged."
Willingly enough Evarne went downstairs. The meal was laid in readiness in the sitting-room, where two men and a buxom middle-aged female, all lounging around waiting for the first course to appear, seemed to fill the already overfurnished place to repletion.
The girl who had run up to conduct the guest downstairs now undertook the task of effecting a general introduction.
"This is Mr. Hal Cuthbert, the manager of our 'Fun in the Hayfield' sketch company," she commenced, indicating the elder of the two men. "This is Mrs. Hal Cuthbert." The lady in question bowed so deliberately and graciously that Evarne felt constrained to solemnly return the formal salutation. "This is Mr. Bertie Anderson." Here the girl exchanged smiles with her acquaintance at the hall. "My name is Margaret Macclesfield, and you are Miss Stornway, so now we all know one another."
Everyone hereupon started to speak at once, but Mrs. Burling appearing with a dish of soused mackerel, all subsided for a moment, took their seats, and the little meal commenced.
Very soon Evarne arrived at the conclusion that if this party was typical of theatrical ladies and gentlemen, she had been vastly mistaken in her estimate of such. They were evidently not unlike ordinary human beings, only rather jollier. They were very lively, very light-hearted, easily amused at not remarkably brilliant witticisms, whether the product of their own genius or that of their companions. They were, moreover, exceedingly frank and open, telling her all about themselves, their whole history and that of their respective families. They waxed enthusiastic on their past dramatic successes and their future hopes—future fears they seemed not to possess. Altogether Evarne quite forgot herself, and enjoyed the chatter after her period of involuntary solitude. It was not until the meal was over, and tobacco fumes filled the air, that the subject of her future on the stage was mooted.
But this little band of professionals was far less sanguine and encouraging than Mrs. Burling had been.
Mr. Hal Cuthbert opened the debate.
"It's a dreadfully overcrowded profession you are thinking of embarking on, Miss Stornway, and unless you have influence or money, even talent has a hard fight."
"I have no influence, and very little money, and Idon't really know that I've got any special talent," declared this applicant for stage honours, making no attempt to conceal the true state of affairs.
Mr. Cuthbert shook his head portentously.
"That is not a very hopeful prospect," he declared. "Haven't you got a voice? There's a piano yonder. Let's hear what you can do."
Evarne in her turn shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't sing," she said regretfully. "I've never had my voice trained at all."
A momentary silence seized the party.
"Perhaps you can dance?" suggested Margaret Macclesfield, hopefully.
"Only ordinary ballroom dances."
"That's no go," and a silence still more melancholy, more profound, held sway.
"There's no place for you on the halls, then. Perhaps you'd do all right in legitimate drama. Can you recite something?"
"I'm afraid I don't know anything dramatic," Evarne was obliged to confess, her cheeks growing pinker. "I don't know much poetry at all, and what I have learnt from time to time are only pretty little bits that have taken my fancy."
"Dear me——" Mr. Cuthbert was recommencing, when his wife broke in—
"Don't you do it, my dear. It's a dreadful profession for them as haven't got the gifts. It's a grinding, killing business. I'd as soon see a girl of mine in her grave."
"The old lady isn't far wrong," agreed Mr. Cuthbert. "You take my advice, Miss Stornway, and try something else."
"But," declared Evarne despairingly, "whatever I tried it would be just the same. I—I'm not properly qualified for anything. It's not my fault, but there it is! I didn't think of the stage when I found I'd got to earnmy own living, but now it has been suggested to me I feel sure I stand a better chance of earning money quickly that way than any other."
"You've got a real beautiful face, if you don't mind my being personal," said Margaret. "Perhaps you might get a thinking part, right enough—or there's pantomime. You're tall, aren't you? If you've got good legs and a fine figure——What's your waist?"
Yet once again Evarne was compelled to shake her head apologetically.
"I'm afraid——" she started, then stopped abruptly. However, frankness seemed to prevail here, so she continued after an imperceptible pause. "I don't think I've got what you mean by a fine figure. I need very careful and special dressing to look really nice. You see, I don't wear corsets, and so——"
"My dear!" interrupted both ladies simultaneously, "how can you manage without?"
"Well, I was brought up to it," explained the girl hastily.
"I should feel as if I'd got no backbone."
"I couldn't keep up. I should flop."
"But you can wear some now if you like."
"That's exactly what I can't do. I tried once, quite seriously, and it made me ill—really ill—and I don't suppose it gets any easier to change one's habits as one gets older."
Mrs. Cuthbert flourished her hands despairingly.
"It's no go, my dear. Put the idea of the stage out of your head at once. No voice, no talents, no experience, no money, and no waist!"
A general cry of expostulation greeted this rather cruelrésuméof poor Evarne's deficiencies.
"You've got a lovely face anyway, my dear," said Mr. Hal, "and you look to have a nice figure, whether you have really or not, if I may say as much. I think the old lady'sadvice is good, but you mustn't let your feelings be hurt."
"That's all right," declared the girl stoutly. "It's only too good of you to trouble about me at all, and you mustn't think me either vain or ungrateful if I say that I am still resolved to try my luck. I believe I could act, and I've never yet found my personal appearance a disadvantage to me; I expect that, even without corsets, I can manage to look as well as the average girl. I must start to earn money at once, that's sadly certain. I've been thinking over every other means, and none of them seem suitable, so if you would end up your kindness by giving me some hints as to how to get work on the stage at once I shall be infinitely obliged."
Their good-nature in no way disturbed by their unanimous judgment being thus flouted, they gave her advice as best they could. Like Mrs. Burling, they declared it was imperative she should have some photos of herself to send round. Then she must go to agents, and answer advertisements in the theatrical papers, and—well, really it was hard to say, engagements came somehow—if any of them got a chance they would certainly put in a word for her.
For this she was duly grateful, and a little later the party broke up.
Nextmorning, accompanied by the two younger of her new acquaintances, Evarne sallied forth in search of a photographer's.
Carefully they studied various photographic show-cases of modest pretensions. She was reluctant to spend any of her limited capital in so seemingly frivolous a manner, and was anxious to expend as small a sum as possible on this preliminary. But here it was clearly possible to be "penny wise, pound foolish," and she recoiled at the prospect of being made to look anything like the self-conscious, staring, pictured females that the really low-priced artists of the camera set forth as attractive products of their prowess—the specimens best calculated to tickle the vanity of the passers-by and draw them into the toils of the producer of such representations.
At length they discovered one whose masterpieces seemed less terrible than those of his rivals. Margaret undertook therôleof spokesman.
"Only one copy of each position is required," she said, "but they must be delivered without delay, as the young lady is on the stage, and needs them immediately for professional purposes," and she went on to bargain about reduced prices.
After the operator's shutter had made its significant click two or three times, the party wended their way to the Strand, and Evarne had her name duly inscribed upon several agents' books. In some cases this privilege cost money, and she returned home horrified by the rapiditywith which funds melted. True, Bertie Anderson had "stood" both girls their luncheon, but despite this, the day's output had been something alarming.
Everyone in the house continued to concern themselves over her welfare. Indeed, from the first hour of her arrival in London she had met with nothing but goodwill. Herein Heaven watched over her, for this general kindliness on the part of mankind at large was the best possible balm for her scorned and wounded affections. True, no care from others could really touch the injury inflicted by "the one," but it all served to help melt the ice that seemed gathered around her breast.
Her acquaintance with the merry, good-natured "Fun in the Hayfield" people proved a veritable salvation. Left to herself for any appreciable period, she weakly sank into a state of brooding despair, but save for the evening of the "photographer-hunting" day, she was in their society for practically the whole of the remainder of the week.
Mr. Cuthbert had offered to pass her into the music hall that night, but she declined the offer. She was tired, and shrank from the anticipated noise and glare. But once alone she regretted her decision. Memories of the past crowded thick upon her, with their train of regrets, hot indignation, bitter sorrow, and the thousand and one tearing passions that rendered thought unendurable. Solitude was—for the present at least—but a state of torture to be avoided at all costs. Distraction, company, variety was no longer a matter of choice, but an absolute necessity. She had vainly endeavoured to find relief from the agony of thought by mingling with the passing crowds. Despairing, she returned home and to bed, but her brain had worked itself into a tumult during the long evening hours, and no sleep came. Long she lay awake, weeping, hating, yearning and lamenting.
"You look paler than ever, Evarne, my dear! Whatever have you been doing to yourself?" cried Margaret,who came up to present her with some chocolates from a box that some admiring "chap" had sent round to the stage door. She was in high feather over the little gift.
"People think we get so many flowers given us we haven't vases to put them in, and so many pairs of gloves we haven't hands enough to wear them, and so many sweeties we haven't digestions enough to tackle them all, let alone cheques and presents of jewellery about once a week!" she exclaimed; "but I assure you that's a jolly big mistake, as you'll find out, dear. Come on, tuck in to chocs and take some of this row. They've got pinky cream, and you'll have to put some colour on from the outside, if you can't manage to provide it somehow from the inside," and she laughed gaily.
"I do hate to be alone," explained Evarne, brightening visibly at the effect of this chatter. "I—I've had great trouble lately, and when I'm by myself—well—I think!"
Margaret was full of sympathy.
"Poor dear, don't 'think' then, don't be alone. I know what we will do. I'm going to order Mrs. Burling to serve your meals along with ours, and we will see if we can't cheer you up among us."
"I should like that," cried Evarne, jumping at the idea. Thus until the following Sunday, when these kind friends moved on to play their "sketch" in a hall right out of London, she was scarcely left alone for an hour. Every night she went with Mrs. Cuthbert and Margaret to their dressing-room, where she assisted in arraying them, and was instructed in the many mysteries of "making-up." She learnt many things—the knack of melting cosmetic in a teaspoon and applying it to the eyelashes with a hairpin—how to fluff out her hair by combing it the wrong way—how to transform a skin of common lard into glorified face-grease, sweetly smelling of essence of bergamot—and a dozen other little tricks of the trade.
Either Margaret or Bertie accompanied her on her daily visits to the agents, and on Thursday morning—albeit shehad as yet no "sticky-backs"—they helped her study the new number of theStage. Her experienced friends warned her that the approach of summer was not a favourable time to find "a shop."
Nevertheless there seemed to Evarne a goodly and various demand in the "Wanted" column. There were openings for pretty attractive chorus girls, soubrettes, a good responsible lady, a powerful leading lady, a pathetic old lady, a show lady, an emotional juvenile lady, and a dashing heavy lady; and if one couldn't place one's self under any of these descriptions, then one could modestly seek to be a "chambermaid." Also there were sweeping invitations for whole companies to "write in." Accordingly Evarne "wrote in"—spent 1s. 3d. on stamps—then waited.
At the end of the week she was forced to part from her kind friends. She assured them that for their sakes she would henceforward and forever cherish an affectionate regard for the whole of the theatrical fraternity. Faithful promises of correspondence were exchanged, and then the girl found herself thrown upon her own society.
Mrs. Burling had already let her sitting-room for the coming week, but the two men who now occupied it—low comedians—appeared to fastidious Evarne as very low specimens of humanity likewise. So, when one of them—encountering her on the front doorstep—showed a tendency to be affable, she received the poor fellow's effort most coolly.
However, her time was now fully occupied. She marketed daily, haunted the theatrical agents, read poetry aloud in her best dramatic style in the privacy of her room, and occasionally expended a shilling on the gallery of some theatre to study acting and find out how it was done.
By the time the next theatrical paper appeared, she was the owner of fifty small replicas of the most attractive of her new photographs, and she desperately set to work to answer almost every advertisement—likely and unlikely. Alack and alas, not a single response crowned her efforts!
Then she nearly sank into utter despondency. Whatever was to be done? No work forthcoming, and her little hoard of money melting away like snow in a thaw. Why, it was enough to test the fortitude of the bravest! She was almost in despair by the time she had been in London two weeks, and was still as far from being a wage-earner as when she first arrived.
So the reaction was correspondingly great, when a day or two later she beheld a letter for herself with a Scotch postmark and addressed in a strange handwriting. Mrs. Burling—sympathetically excited—had hurried upstairs with the precious missive and proceeded to wipe some imaginary dust from a vase, while her young lodger tore open the envelope.
The notepaper was headed "Caledonia's Bard Co.," and beneath this was printed a few puffs of the aforesaid concern, which—if one went by its own account—carried a full cast of the most talented artistes, rich and handsome costumes, realistic scenery, etc.
The written address given was Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow, and the letter stated that the manager of "Caledonia's Bard" offered "the small yet effective part" of "Bess" in that production to Miss Stornway, at the remuneration of twenty-one shillings weekly. Miss Stornway was to provide her own costumes, which, however, were of the simplest description, and should she be still at liberty to accept the offer, a gentleman would call upon her to deliver into her hands a railway ticket to Glasgow. The communication was signed "P. Punter."
Its recipient beamed.
"I've got an offer, really!" she exclaimed. "Would you like to see it?" With these words she handed the letter over to Mrs. Burling, who perused it slowly from start to finish, then sniffed.
"A guinea a week, find your own dresses, and go to Glasgow! 'Tain't up to much, to my way o' thinking, miss.And 'e don't tell you when the tour opens, nor where it ends up, nor no idea of 'ow long it's going to last, nor nothing about it."
Evarne had not noticed these deficiencies, and now did not heed them.
"Never mind! It's an engagement, and that's everything," she cried gleefully. "I shall hurry up and accept before someone else does;" and seizing pen and paper she wrote her reply.
At all events "P. Punter" appeared a prompt and businesslike individual. By return of post came a couple of pencil sketches and instructions concerning the costumes she was to provide for herself. There was also an illegibly written copy of her part, and the request that she would be in Glasgow to commence rehearsals by the following Wednesday.
Evarne smoothed out that most interesting document—the script of her first dramaticrôle—and studied it eagerly. She supposed "Caledonia's Bard" was Robert Burns, for references to "Bobbie" were frequent. She could not glean much idea of the plot from her part, nor did the words she was to utter appear likely to call forth any great histrionic talent that might be lying unsuspected within her breast. As far as she could gather, all the scenes of the play took place by the deathbed of "Highland Mary." She read out a speech to Mrs. Burling as a specimen.
"Now lie ye still, bonnie Mary, lie ye still. Sure, Bobbie will greet sair to see ye laid sae low. For his sake, Mary, ye must get the roses back agin into your bonnie cheeks, now sae white, Mary. Oh, doctor, is she no a wee bit better, think ye?"
Thus it went on. "Bonnie Mary" was obviously a most obstreperous patient, and it evidently called forth all "Bess's" powers of persuasion to make her die quietly in bed. "Mary" apparently took to seeing visions as the play waxed more thrilling, and "Bess" was required to employ "gentle strength" to persuade her chargeto obey the injunction, repeated with wearying reiteration, "Rest ye calm, Mary; rest ye calm." Indeed, the idea did flash across Evarne that she might almost as well have undertaken to tend lunatics in the privacy of an infirmary, as she was seemingly to do much the same sort of thing on the boards and under the public gaze.
"It's not very inspiring, is it?" she said rather despondently, but at the same time she was relieved to find that no serious demands were to be made upon her—as yet untried—dramatic abilities.
She went out to buy the brown serge and the blue cotton material necessary for her two costumes, and on her return was told that during her absence a gentleman from Scotland had called and gone.
"It must be my ticket," exclaimed the girl. "Didn't he leave it?"
Mrs. Burling handed her an envelope. In it Evarne found the return-half of a third-class ticket from Glasgow to London.
"Dear me, we are going to break the regulations of the railway company, I see," was her first thought.
However, the arrival of the ticket seemed to make the engagement real—a settled fact. She was now fully in the throes of an actress's life. As she sat studying her part and stitching away at her stage costumes, she recalled the early days of Mrs. Siddons and various other great theatrical stars, and tried hard to feel resigned concerning the past and the present, and hopeful for the future. She determined to force herself to become ambitious. She would live for and think only of professional success, and dream no more of Morris.
More of her precious money had to be expended. A "make-up" outfit was essential, also a small theatrical touring basket, together with several other more or less expensive items. Thus by the time she had settled her final account with Mrs. Burling, there was less than two pounds in her purse with which to set forth for Glasgow.
Depositingher box at the Glasgow station left-luggage office, she set out to discover Sauchiehall Street. In this, of course, no difficulty arose, but when it came to finding the actual house—well, that appeared a total impossibility. Evarne was almost inclined to believe that she had come to Scotland on a wild-goose chase, for there seemed to exist no such address as that with which Mr. Punter had headed his letters. There was the number above and the number below the very one she required, but between them—where the house she sought would naturally have been expected to stand—was merely a piece of unused building ground.
It was a forlorn, unkempt spot, with straggling grasses and weeds, amid which were piles of bricks and stone, fragments of torn paper, an old boot, and other such débris as will accumulate on waste ground, even though it be in the very centre of the principal street of a big city. As if to make it serve at least one useful purpose, there had been erected on it an enormous hoarding, covered with advertisements.
Here was a regular mystery! Inquiries respecting the address she was seeking were vain. She walked anxiously up and down Sauchiehall Street, half hoping to find the missing number somehow transported from its legitimate numerical position, but all to no avail. Again and again she returned to survey the deserted site where Mr. Punter's residenceoughtto be. Unless he camped in the shadowof the hoarding, as did one or two stray cats—a sudden thought flashed across her! Pushing past the small gate that hung partly open on its hinges, and ploughing her way through the long grass, she penetrated round to the back of the hoarding. There it was, after all—a house sure enough—partly tumbled down, it is true, with broken windows, fallen chimneys, and a general air of having been long abandoned by mankind; still, a house, even though half the roof had collapsed. More than that; close by, on a large wooden frame, hung a roughly painted theatrical drop-scene. The place was found!
But what a habitation for a civilised human being! What sort of a person was Mr. Punter? Was he a gipsy—a tramp? Was he in the last stages of poverty, or merely eccentric? The girl approached the front door. Its upper half was formed of thick panels of stained glass, now cracked and broken in a dozen places, but with brown paper carefully pasted on the inner side to cover the actual holes. Knocking boldly with the end of her umbrella, Evarne waited, though half prepared to receive no answer.
But after a moment's silence there came a sound of a window being thrown open, and a voice called out from somewhere aloft, "Hullo!"
She stepped back and looked upwards. A youth, wrapped in a blanket, was gazing down upon her.
"Oh, I suppose you are Madame Sheep, or Miss Stornway?" he exclaimed. "Stop a minute, and I'll be down."
With these words he vanished.
Decidedly "intrigued," the girl waited patiently. How very unlike was this reception to anything her wildest imagination had anticipated. An inhabited ruin, the occupant thereof clad in the bedclothes, peering down from an upper window to inquire if she was herself or some person who possessed the weird name of "Madame Sheep!" She felt as if it were part of a ridiculous dream.
Finally, the door was opened, not by the blanketedyouth, but by a middle-aged man, small and short, with a head beginning to grow bald and a face clean-shaven, save for curious old-fashioned side-whiskers.
Hailing the girl by name with the heartiness of an old friend, he led the way across the hall and into a large room on the ground floor. It was totally unfurnished, save for a rough wooden table, a bench and a couple of chairs. On one of these Evarne was invited to take a seat.
Yes, this little individual was "the" Mr. Punter in person. He proceeded to hold forth in enthusiastic terms concerning the future prospects of "Caledonia's Bard." The play had never been produced yet, that was why he had advertised for a full company. He anticipated that it would run for years. Not that he expected to be able to retain the original company all that time. Every part was so splendid—practically all were star-parts—that the artistes who had the good fortune to appear in them would soon be tempted away from him by London managers. Oh no, he hadn't written the drama himself. He only wished he was sufficiently gifted. But he was very proud to be able to acknowledge that it was, indeed, the fruit of the genius of one of his family. Such an inspiring subject. He had an intense admiration for Robert Burns. Was Miss Stornway, indeed, not intimately acquainted with the whole of that wonderful poet's works? Oh dear! dear! That was distressing, and must be remedied. She should be lent a book—several books. Mr. Sandy, the great actor who was to play the titlerôle, knew nearly all Burns's poems by heart, and it was chiefly owing to his appreciation of the acute study of the poet's character, in "Caledonia's Bard," that he had resolved to disappoint several other managers in order to join this company. The young lady who played "Highland Mary," the heroine, had not arrived yet. She lived in Northumberland. A really excellent actress, only second to Ellen Terry. Mr. Punter had gone to great expense to procure her services.Madame Cheape—not Sheep, my dear—was the "Clarinda." This spacious apartment had been retained especially for rehearsals.
Thus he ran on, apparently in emulation of Tennyson's brook, and Evarne had nothing to do but look intelligent, and interpose a brief question occasionally to show that she was attending.
He only ceased when the door opened to admit a little woman who had approached unheard. The newcomer was very pale, and looked fragile and subdued. Her thin hair was drawn neatly behind her ears, her shabby black gown hung in folds over her flat chest, and she slouched in list slippers so many sizes too large that had she ventured to lift her feet in walking, she would inevitably have stepped out of her footgear, and left it behind her on the floor.
"Ah ha! Allow me to introduce my wife," said Mr. Punter.
Evarne rose and shook hands.
"How do you like your part?" was the salutation of the lady of the house.
The girl discreetly avoided a direct answer.
"It has made me very anxious to hear the whole play."
Fortunately the little woman considered this response as entirely satisfactory. She smiled complacently, and commenced to nod her head so steadily, it appeared in danger of becoming loosened.
Mr. Punter likewise seemed to swell with pride. At length he could keep the great secret no longer.
"I may as well tell you first as last, Miss Stornway. You are now addressing the authoress of 'Caledonia's Bard.'"
Evarne was indeed taken aback at this piece of information. Barely succeeding in suppressing a start, she murmured something she fondly hoped was duly appropriate to the occasion. Evidently she was successful, for Mrs. Punter ceased nodding, and thanked her heartily.
"And now, where are you going to put up, my dear?" she inquired. "Do you know Glasgow at all?"
"I've never been here before, but I expect I can find diggings easily enough. Rehearsals begin to-morrow, don't they?"
"Well, that was what we expected," responded Mr. Punter. "But a few of the principals have not arrived yet. Still, a short delay will enable you to become word-perfect in your part, won't it? And that is so important."
"Yes-s. But when does the tour open, then?"
"Of course that depends entirely on how the rehearsals progress. Now, you must have something to eat before you start house-hunting. You won't mind going into the kitchen?"
Mrs. Punter slouched on ahead, and Evarne followed to another room at the rear of the house. This also was practically devoid of furniture, but doubtless derived its name from the small oil-stove that stood on the table.
The window looked out on to what had formerly been a garden, but which now wore that melancholy and desolate aspect that characterises a once well-tended spot that has long been utterly neglected. The lawn was a field; the flower-beds lost in weeds; the gravel walks overgrown; boisterous winds had snapped the slender stem of a young tree, which now lay wilted upon the ground. Altogether, it was a scene in no way conducive to high spirits.
The authoress set about performing culinary operations with a frying-pan and the oil-stove, and in due course a repast was evolved of fried ham and stale bread. Evarne found Mrs. Punter's skill at cookery on a par with the estimate she had already formed of her literary gifts. Eating heroically what she could, she rose to leave.
"But first I must introduce you to Charles Stuart," declared Mr. Punter, who had joined them.
"Yes. Who is he?"
"He does a little carpentering, and is to appear in the drama. He is now painting the scenery."
"Useful man," thought the girl, and almost forgave him for adopting such anom-de-théatre.
Wending their way to a tiny outhouse, they there found this valuable personage busily occupied in mixing paint. He turned round at their entry, and for the second time that hour Evarne with difficulty suppressed a gasp. The entire person of Charles Stuart, as far as could be seen, was so covered with black hair that at first glance he resembled a monkey. Quantities of fringe concealed his forehead, falling even over his massive eyebrows. Although quite young still, he not only had a heavy moustache, but a beard and whiskers that lost themselves in the thick mop covering his cranium, while his open shirt displayed a chest like unto a doormat. As he transferred the dripping paint-brush to his left hand and advanced towards Evarne with his hairy right arm outstretched, the girl felt rather like ignobly bolting away. What very extraordinary people she had fallen amidst, to be sure!
But she stood her ground, and spoke to the man as if he had been a natural-looking human being.
"What are you painting now, Mr. Stuart? I should like to see what you have done, if I may."
"Show Miss Stornway what you are working at, Charlie," suggested Mr. Punter, and as they all went out into the garden he explained—
"Stuart was for years the head scene-painter at one of the leading London theatres. You see, we mean to spare no expense."
Evarne found herself wishing that she had not been apparently the one exception in this determination concerning lavish expenditure.
Hanging against the wall of the house were three scenes—one a cottage interior, another a wild glen, and the third, a rustic landscape, scarcely commenced.
"I should like to watch you work," she said. "I paint a little myself."
"Perhaps you would like to help, then?" Mr. Punter promptly suggested. "All my sons work under Charlie. Come to-morrow, and we will find you an apron and brushes and see what you can manage to produce, eh?"
Laughingly, Evarne promised, and at length was allowed to depart.