Aftersome search she lighted on a really pleasant room, clean and bright, at a rent of ten shillings weekly. It possessed a true Scotch bed, built into a cupboard in the wall. She had her box conveyed from the station, and that night slept comfortably enough in this curiously situated bed, in which confused dreams of authoresses who inhabited ruins, and hairy men who painted scenery in back gardens, appeared only an appropriate accompaniment.
The next afternoon she wended her way to Sauchiehall Street, and there made the acquaintance of Mr. Punter's six sons, old and young—including Pat, the youth who had first greeted her from the window. Then started scene-painting. She undertook to do a cottage window, draped with snowy muslin curtains. Pots of scarlet geraniums stood on the sill, a big flour-bin was underneath, while a green pasture with a lovely blue sky showed through the open lattice. Her effort evoked ardent admiration from the whole assembled Punter family. Indeed, Mrs. Punter's gratitude was such that she impulsively invited the artist in to tea.
Never had Evarne beheld such an extraordinary chamber as that upstairs one into which—as a guest of the family—she was now admitted. The first impression was of the wildest confusion—house-moving, or spring-cleaning at least. Here, as elsewhere throughout the house, the windows were cracked and broken. In one corner was ahuge bed, covered with a grimy patchwork quilt. Boxes stood around, some with open lids, others as yet uncorded, while two large empty crates placed side by side and covered with a cloth formed the table. There were several chairs and stools, piles of dishes, cups and saucers of varied hues and designs; some torn books, devoid of covers; a number of men's hats and outdoor coats; and a baby's cradle half-filled with potatoes.
The uncarpeted floor, on which lay a few small rugs, was decorated likewise by a considerable number of stage "properties" of many descriptions. The half-dozen large plaster statues that stood around doubtless came under this heading, but being all nude, they appeared indecently incongruous amidst this domestic confusion and makeshift. Evarne was now quite convinced that the Punters were merely "squatters"—that they paid no rent, that no public authority knew them to be here, that they had, in fact, taken up their temporary abode in what was really a deserted and supposedly uninhabitable house.
"I've been grieving all the night that you've not been engaged to play 'Highland Mary,'" commenced Mrs. Punter, after supplying her guest with tea. "You're so verra bonnie, just like what I imagine her."
Evarne was somewhat flattered.
"Will you care to hear 'Mary's' part?" asked Mr. Punter, and he then read aloud those scenes in which this damsel appeared. Since she breathed her last in the second act, and "Clarinda" then took her place as heroine, therôlewas but brief.
"Now read her the part of 'Jean Armour,'" said Mrs. Punter, and the obedient husband started off again.
As he ceased, he looked inquiringly at Evarne over the top of his spectacles.
The girl's genuine opinion was that never had she listened to such utter twaddle in all her life. There did not seem to be any plot at all, no vestige of even a centralthread of continuous story. Yet more and more was proudly read aloud, until at length nearly the whole manuscript had been gone through. It was really immensely funny, but, alas! this was quite unintentional. Its creator laboured under the belief that she had produced a poetical drama in blank verse, slightly bordering on a tragedy!
Evarne felt cold depression steal over her as she listened. Was it possible that such inane dulness would ever attract the public? But, concealing her fears, she inquired in respectful tones—
"Did it not take you a long time to write it?"
"Oh dear me, no," was Mrs. Punter's lightly spoken disclaimer. "I just dictated it to my husband in odd moments, while I'd be bustling about getting dinner. It was no trouble to me, I assure you."
It was on the tip of the girl's tongue to answer, "I thought not," but instinct whispered that such a supposition might not fall quite prettily upon the authoress's ears. Instead, she was just hypocrite enough to look as impressed as she could have done had Shakespeare himself stated a similar fact.
After this she rose to leave. Amiably enough they insisted on lending her several books concerning the hero of their drama; a volume of his poems, one called "Burns's Highland Mary," another entitled "Burns's Chloris," and yet another about his "Clarinda." Evarne thought it very unromantic and unpoetical of "Bobbie" to have worshipped at the shrines of so many "ladye-loves," but was well pleased to be supplied with so much reading matter.
Still, while all this was very well in its way, it was not business! Days passed. Mr. Sandy and "Highland Mary" did not arrive, neither did Evarne see any of her other fellow-artistes. As time went on and no rehearsal-call was given, while the demands upon her purse were constant, she commenced to make frequent and anxious inquiries.
Mr. Punter was evidently as much concerned as she was herself.
"But it's no use my gathering the company together here until Mr. Sandy has arrived. You must see that for yourself. The whole play circles round him, as you know. We must all wait a day or two longer. I admit I cannot account for his unexplained neglect, and am much displeased."
Evarne saw nothing for it but to be patient and make the best of a bad job, but it was indeed a very seriously bad job in her case. She had been prepared to find it difficult to make her money last out until she received her first week's salary, and this delay over even commencing the rehearsals was really terrible.
She was lonely as well as anxious. She recommenced sketching, studied Burns and his poems, stared in the shop-windows, visited the Corporation Picture Gallery, read in the Free Library. Despite all this, time hung heavily on her hands.
"What do the remainder of your company do?" she inquired of Mr. Punter one morning, on being informed, as usual, that no news had been heard of Mr. Sandy. She had that hour been forced to produce another half-sovereign for her lodgings, and was seriously alarmed at her situation. "Are the others submitting to be kept fooling around earning nothing and having to spend money every day, as I am?"
"They realise that it's no fault of mine, Miss Stornway," answered Mr. Punter severely, "and they do not add to my worries by reproaching me, even indirectly."
"That's all very well," retorted Evarne tartly. "You say most of them have homes in Glasgow. In that case it's not the same expense for them that it is to me, and they have their friends and families also, while I'm alone."
"As far as that goes, I'll tell you what I can do—yes, and I will do it."
This was stated with such an imposing and benevolent air that Evarne waited expectant to hear in what manner she was to be recompensed for this unjustifiable delay.
"Yes, I can quite do away with any trouble of that nature. I shall give your address in Shamrock Street to the very next of our lady artistes who calls here, and she will doubtless come to see you. It is really too bad that you should have no society."
"It's decidedly worse that I should have no work, and, consequently no salary," retorted the girl as she turned away.
The manager remembered his promise, for a couple of days later Evarne's landlady announced that Miss Kennedy had called from Mr. Punter.
"Oh, show her in, and make tea for two, please," said the girl, and a minute later the visitor entered.
She was a slender little creature, barely eighteen years of age. In appearance she was one of those who seem to have been manufactured in wholesale batches. Her figure was practically identical with that of thousands of other girls, and her countenance likewise had very little that was at all distinctive. The grey eyes were—well, they were what Miss Kennedy looked around the world with, nothing more nor less! All her other features were equally nondescript. Her light hair, much frizzled in front and tied in a catagon behind, was neither dark nor fair, neither thin nor ample. The little face was not unattractive, but promised very average intelligence and no force of character. She bore not the least likeness to the popular conception of an actress. Her face was entirely free from the least artificial aid to beauty, while her plain serge coat and skirt, scarlet tam-o'-shanter and black cotton gloves were equally unpretentious.
As far as appearance went, she was in every way a contrast to beautiful, stately Evarne, with her aristocratic bearing, yet there was already a bond of sympathy betweenthe two girls, and in less than five minutes they were forming a kind of duet to complain of the perfidious behaviour of the Punters.
"It's really perfectly scandalous," declared Jessie Kennedy. "They promised me the rehearsals were to begin ten days ago. They've got no right to get their company together—or almost together—like this, until they were really going to make a start. And to bring you all the way down from London too! I suppose they paid your fare?"
"Yes, they did that, or I couldn't have come. Still, it's a great shame. They must know people generally can't afford to live in idleness like this. Yet what can we do?"
"Well, I shall accept another engagement in a couple of days if they don't begin, and so I shall tell them."
"What part have you got?"
"I understudy you, I believe, but otherwise I'm not actually in the play itself. I'm the pianist. Of course, we're only a 'fit-up,' and don't have an orchestra, but I'm at the piano all the time between the acts, and I play soft music during the love scenes, the death-beds, and the visions."
"Then I should fancy you're kept very busy?"
"Yes, there is plenty for me to do, but I don't mind that. I only want to start and do it."
"I wonder how the remainder of the company is taking this miserable idleness? Do you know any of them?"
"Oh yes; nearly all, more or less. One, Harry Douglas, lives in my street, and he and I have done double turns at music halls. He's got a voice like a seraph. He's the most glorious tenor you ever heard. He's limes-man in this company."
"Do we have limelight, then?"
"Rather, where 'Highland Mary' appears as a vision, and one or two other places."
"And what does Mr. Douglas think of it all?"
"It doesn't matter so much to him. He's working in a carpenter's shop until we start."
"Fancy! Can't he do a lot of things!"
"But you should just hear him sing. Oh, my! It's angels! It is really!"
Jessie Kennedyturned out to be a very companionable little person, and after this first interview the two girls spent a good deal of time with each other.
But the question of funds was of infinitely greater consequence than any social intercourse, and with alarming rapidity Evarne had arrived at the point when her resources were no longer represented by even the smallest gold coin of the realm. This thoroughly aroused her, and the very next time she was again put off by excuses, her usual gentleness was swept away beneath one of those torrents of hot wrath that were a heritage from her mother. Her beautiful dark eyes seemed to positively flash fire as she fiercely declared that this sort of thing would have to stop, that Mr. Punter's action in offering her this mock engagement, and so preventing her from seeking genuine work, was absolutely unjustifiable and infamous; that it was not far short, if at all, from cheating and defrauding! She concluded by hotly stating that if Mr. Sandy could not or would not come, his part, in mere justice to others, ought to be given at once to an actor who would take it. She finished up by the statement that she was voicing the opinion of others besides her own.
These words did not fall on barren ground. Mr. Punter definitely settled on the evening of the following day for the long-deferred first rehearsal, and further announced that Mr. Sandy had now finally lost his splendid chance, forPat should go out immediately and telegraph for Mr. Heathmore, an even better actor, whom he knew to be anxiously longing for the opportunity of appearing in "Caledonia's Bard."
On the strength of all this Evarne allowed herself to be pacified, and was amiably willing to admit that perhaps the real blame rested with the faithless Mr. Sandy alone. Hereupon Mr. Punter had a suggestion to make.
"My wife and I have been talking the matter over, and we have decided to offer you—you, Miss Stornway—therôleof 'Highland Mary' in place of that of 'Bess.' It is not a very long part, and you'll soon learn it. Your remuneration then would be twenty-three and six in place of a guinea. There now! Does not the notion appeal to you?"
"I don't mind," replied the girl dubiously. "If you could have told me sooner than the very day before the rehearsals are at length to start—but there, if you give me the script at once, I'll commence to study it. But what about costumes?"
"Quite simple! Mrs. Punter herself has resolved to undertake therôleof 'Jean Armour,' so she will buy one of your dresses for the purpose. She says the blue cotton you showed her will serve nicely for you to wear when you go to meet 'Burns' in the glen, and with the money she gives you for the other you can buy some white stuff and make a robe that will do to die in, and likewise for the vision."
"I agree then, willingly. Who is to play 'Bess'?"
"We see no reason why Miss Kennedy should not undertake that inferior part. Madame Cheape—our 'Clarinda,' you remember—will arrive in a day or so, thus all the femalerôleswill be most satisfactorily filled."
As Evarne walked back to Shamrock Street, she thought somewhat ruefully that she had fallen among a very queer and reckless—not to say shady—set of people. Everythingconnected with them and their enterprise seemed a matter of makeshifts. She could not help smiling to recall the grandiose announcements printed at the head of the official notepaper. "Company of Star Artistes," indeed! Fancy herself, then, never having yet set foot upon the boards or spoken one word in public, being created leading lady amid these universal stars! Still, it was such a silly soft part in such a silly soft play she had to act, that she was troubled by no apprehensions as to whether she was sufficiently powerful, or emotional, or capable, or anything else. She was fully convinced of her ability to rise to equal heights with the other stars—at all events as far as those constellations, Mrs. Punter and Jessie, were concerned.
The following evening, sure enough, rehearsals of a sort did indeed commence. Mr. Heathmore was not forthcoming, and "Caledonia's Bard" without "Bobbie" was even worse than "Hamlet" without the "Prince of Denmark." Still, it was a comfort to make a start of any sort.
Jessie Kennedy at once brought up Harry Douglas, and presented him to Miss Stornway. He was undertaking two minorrôlesin addition to managing the limelight and helping to shift scenery, and within the first five minutes' conversation this all-round genius had incidentally remarked that for several years he had been a professional lightweight prize-fighter.
Two men—besides the ubiquitous "Bobbie"—had dialogue parts with Evarne.
Joe Harold—who played her stage father—she had heard much of already. Jessie had procured him this engagement, and had confided to her new friend that ere the tour ended she hoped to have brought to pass another engagement of a more romantic and lasting type. He was absolutely the dearest boy alive, she declared. He was a Jew, his real name being Joe Moses, but no one would ever guess it. He hadn't got a hook nose, and he would share his last penny with a pal. He had only onefailing in the world, sometimes he took a "wee drappie" too much to drink, but she would help him to conquer that weakness. He was a commercial traveller, but, being out of a job, had been pleased to join her in "Caledonia's Bard."
John Montgomery—the stage doctor who had to aid "Bess" to persuade "Mary" to die respectably in bed—had great pretensions to good looks; moreover, he was both tall and stalwart. But he was no more a professional actor than the remainder of the company—as a rule he earned his bread as a compositor.
There was, indeed, one taller than Montgomery, one whose height numbered two or three inches over six feet, but who paid for longitude by a painful meagreness. Archie—for so Jessie called him—was, in very sooth, a protracted tragedy. The son of a groom, he had been, until the age of fifteen or thereabouts, the tiniest, lightest little chap imaginable. Always amid horses, his one ambition was to become a jockey, and he might have succeeded in attaining this aspiration, had not cruel Nature taken it into her head to make him grow! He had sprouted almost visibly, beneath the horrified eyes of his horsey friends, and ere he came to eighteen years had reached the proud—yet hated—height of six feet three. Poor Archie's ambition being thus hopelessly blighted, he had made no effort to settle to any less fascinating career, but earned his daily bread by doing more or less badly whatever came next to hand.
Of such consisted the "star company"! Evarne deemed them all quite suitable individuals to be thus secretly conglomerated in an empty room of a deserted house hidden away behind a hoarding and seemingly forgotten in the very heart of Glasgow. Strange fate that had brought her to form one of the conspiracy!
The rehearsals now proceeded daily, Mr. Punter always giving the cues of "Burns's" and "Clarinda's" parts. The chief difficulty lay in remembering "who was whom" atany given moment. Without exception, all the men played a couple of characters, in some cases even three separate and distinctrôles. Mad-looking Charles Stuart appeared as a prince and as "Clarinda's" footman—a proceeding that appeared to Evarne as the height of absurdity. Charlie swore he had no intention of visiting the barber, and no one, having once seen that weird head above royal robes, could possibly fail to recognise it again, even though the appended body might, next time, chance to be clad in servant's livery. They would at once discern the prince in disguise in "Clarinda's" establishment, and would accordingly look for intricacies of plot—doomed to be disappointed.
If it had not all been really a matter of such serious consequence to her, the girl would have spent her time during these rehearsals in struggling with inopportune laughter. As it was, her expression grew habitually more and more serious as the conviction forced itself like unto a barbed arrow into her brain: "This play is to fail! It is bound to fail! It can never succeed, never; and what can I do then?"
For the present, at all events, there was neither inaction nor loneliness. She made the more intimate acquaintance of Joe Harold and John Montgomery by inviting them, together with Jess, to her lodging one evening for a little private rehearsal of the death-bed scene. To her amusement the men had purchased sausage-rolls, cakes and ginger-beer from the shop round the corner, and the business over, they produced these edibles and invited themselves and their hostess to supper.
The unappetising topic that opened the meal was the universal poverty that prevailed. All had been out of work for some time, it appeared, and, like Evarne, were subsisting painfully on a few paltry and fast-failing savings, until the first week's salary from Mr. Punter should arrive to relieve the situation.
It was the second time in her short career that Evarne had been introduced into an absolutely fresh world. Live and learn! Had the girl given her opinion a month ago, it would probably have been to the effect that all commercial travellers, compositors, and daughters of scene-shifters (for this Jess owned had been her father's avocation in life) were necessarily common and uneducated—even though worthy enough folk. But there was very little either in the speech or ways of her three humble friends that could have appeared either absurd or offensive to the most dainty lady in the land, while Mont, the printer, was remarkably well-informed, handsome, and interesting. Thus for so long, at all events, as Evarne and her commercial traveller and her printer had mutual interests in "Caledonia's Bard," she found them infinitely more congenial than had been the majority of those men in the higher walks of life whom Morris had presented to her.
As a matter of fact, the nature of the society by which she had been surrounded in those bygone days had, from first to last, presented itself as one of the drawbacks of her unfortunate position. Time's progress had, to some considerable extent, blunted the keenness of her susceptibilities in this direction. Still, she now found it passing sweet to receive once again that vague indescribable deference and respect that distinguishes so subtly—perchance so unconsciously—a man's manner towards a "good" woman, from that which he assumes to one whose morals are understood to be "easy."
Yet more strongly did she experience a similar charm in the society of Jessie. The young girl—"who would sooner marry Joe with all his faults and without a penny, because she truly loved him, than marry a lord she didn't care for"—might not have been as witty, as merry, as brightly amusing as some other women whom Evarne could have named, but she was the first self-respecting and respectable member of her own age and sex—saveMargaret—whom the girl had known since she left Heatherington.
Those years given to Morris—however brightened and redeemed by her pouring forth the most disinterested and sweetest affection—had been really very lonely—very desolate. When she had first been thrown into contact with the female associates that Morris's men friends had been willing to introduce to her, she had instinctively disliked and shrank from them, even although she had been far too childishly innocent at first to realise to the full the depravity of these "kept" women.
Even in the days of her naïve ignorance of the real nature of their purchased love—when the consciousness of her own high impulses, combined with the all-embracing instinct of charity in her disposition, had led her to attribute only her own really beautiful motives and emotions to these other women, who led lives outwardly corresponding to her own—she, and they likewise, had felt that there was really nothing in common between them. They belonged to different worlds.
And even now, between Evarne and her lowly Scotch friends—honest and agreeable though they might be—there was still a barrier, that of caste, culture, habit. It might be totally disregarded amongst them by common consent, but was not thus easily annihilated. They were of an entirely different station—of another stamp—from the daughter of the refined Oxford student, with his lengthy pedigree and old traditions. They and their equals could never have entered thus intimately into her daily life had she not beendéclassée. In one way or another, Evarne was indeed cut off from all open companionship with those men—and especially those women—who would have been really suited to one possessed of her training, her general refinement, her personal character and nature. Had her few brief years of love's happiness foredoomed her to leadfor evermore the lonely life? Was it partly this that was foreboded in the grim smile of Sekhet?
But as comrades the four amalgamated splendidly, and at length the date on which the tour was to really start was actually settled. Mr. Heathmore and Madame Cheape were going direct from their homes to Ayr, since "Bobbie's" birthplace was to have the honour of witnessing the first performance of "Caledonia's Bard." The other members of the company were to leave Glasgow on Monday, rehearse with "Bobbie" for the first time that same evening, and open on Wednesday night.
Butbefore then Evarne was reduced to what was indeed a harrowing necessity—a surreptitious visit to the pawnshop. For some days ere this she had been gradually eating less and less in a despairing endeavour to hinder the steady lightening of her purse. But even porridge and tea, bread and salt butter, rice and brown sugar, however cheap, and alas! correspondingly nasty, cost something.
One terrible morning, on returning from the day's meagre shopping, she sat down to grapple with the fact that all the money she possessed amounted to five pennies and one farthing.
The only article of any value that she still owned was her simple little enamel-cased watch.
The dire necessity of creeping into a pawnshop, to raise money on her father's last gift, distressed the girl beyond measure. She sat playing with the poor little thing, turning it over and over tenderly in her hands, while tears of mingled shame and grief gathered behind her eyelids. At length she was learning the truly humiliating side of abject poverty. She had asked Mr. Punter to advance a portion of her first week's salary, and had been refused. Now, not only was she terrified and appalled as she heard the violent scratching of the gaunt wolf against her slender shaking door, but abashed and mortified at what must be done to ward off these cruel fangs yet a little longer.
However, she talked logic and practical common senseto herself, and after twilight had shrouded the city in a kindly veil, sought out an establishment decorated by three balls, and as unobtrusively as possible sneaked inside its portals.
An old man behind the counter of the small cubby-hole in which she found herself, looked at her watch and inquired how much she wanted on it? She had half anticipated being called upon to prove that it was legally hers, but questions of any other nature were quite unexpected. On the spur of the moment, fearful of asking too much, she said softly, "Twenty-five shillings, please." But even at this the old man pouted out his lips for a minute, then said:
"We couldna gie ye mair nor fifteen shillin's."
With the colour rising to her cheeks Evarne agreed, whereupon her embarrassment was increased by the unlooked-for fact of her name being demanded. With a half-sovereign and five shillings in her purse, and her watch represented by a horrible pawn-ticket, she slipped from the shop, feeling relieved and degraded at the same time.
She clung to the idea of the ultimate success of "Caledonia's Bard" with a tenacity that was pitiful. It must, it should triumph! She dared not look onward and contemplate what might be her lot if this unpromising venture should indeed fail. The future had seemed black enough while she still possessed a few pounds and one or two trinkets. Now she had nothing—nothing!
On the company arriving at Ayr on Monday afternoon they proceeded direct to the Drill Hall, where the "fit-up" was to be erected. There—to the frank surprise of some of the more incredulous—they actually discovered both Mr. Heathmore and Madame Cheape awaiting them. The parts of "Burns" and "Clarinda" were not, then, to be undertaken at the last moment by Mr. Punter and Evarne respectively, as had been whispered.
The girls were scarcely prepossessed by Madame Cheape.Evidently quite a middle-aged woman, she obviously objected to this fact being known, and strove to conceal it by the use of golden hair-dye and face powder, of which quantity endeavoured to compensate for quality. This very forgivable weakness in the lady's nature could have been overlooked, but her affected airs and languid drawl were, somehow, irritating in the last degree.
She inquired if Evarne and Jess were settled in "diggings" yet, and suggested that all three should put up together. The girls glanced questioningly at one another. They had already arranged to divide expenses, and now, on the score of further economy, agreed to the newcomer's proposition.
And certainly, it was largely the business-like capacities of Madame Cheape that enabled them to get rooms for twelve-and-six the week for the three. For this sum they were to have a sitting-room on the ground floor, a double-bedded front and a small back bedroom upstairs. By common consent Madame Cheape was accorded the privilege of solitary grandeur.
The house stood in an eminently respectable street, one end of which opened on to the banks of a canal. The sitting-room was really quite pretty, with clean curtains, pictures, and cheerful coloured cushions. Moreover, in the corner stood a piano, its brightly-polished candle-holders and embroidered key-cover suggesting that it was the pride of its owner's heart.
That evening took place what had promised to be the first real rehearsal, but lo! it seemed totally impossible to get a full cast together. "Clarinda" and "Burns" were on hand now, sure enough, but that much-needed personage, Charles Stuart—scene painter and shifter—prince and footman—had run away! He added insult to injury by leaving a message that he was "safely out of it," and "Caledonia's Bard" knew him no more.
His mantle descended upon two of Mr. Punter's sons,who donned it reluctantly enough. These lads, Pat and Billie, nervous gawks of seventeen and nineteen, were both seemingly of such timorous dispositions as to be unable to speak above a whisper. The lost Charlie had roared his words like the Bull of Bashan. He would have been audible, at all events.
Mr. Heathmore repeatedly assured everyone that he had only received his script that Saturday. Since some of the scenes consisted almost entirely of soliloquies on Burns's part, and since the poet, even in casual conversation, had a little way of giving utterance to speeches of over a page in length, poor Mr. Heathmore was still far from having committed the part to memory. He unblushingly carried the voluminous script in his hand as he acted, but held out hopes of knowing it pretty well by the fateful Wednesday night. But if he really believed this himself, no one else shared his confidence on the point.
Even had the performance been a fortnight instead of a couple of days ahead, the company would have appeared in a hopelessly backward and muddled state. Dismay was universal.
"This is no ordinary theatrical concern, is it?" inquired Evarne despondently, and thereby aroused a regular storm.
"Heavens, no! It's a howling swindle! Ayr will probably see the beginning and the end of the whole idiotic show." All agreed that the play itself was a bit of rubbish, the management a regular humbugging affair, and the prospects of the tour—nil!
"Do let's work hard, though. Do let's make it a success if we can," begged poor Evarne, but indeed no one stood in need of any such prompting. All would willingly have rehearsed from morning to night, but Mr. Heathmore insisted on being left in peace on Tuesday afternoon to try to master at least some of his endless part. Thus the remainder of the company were at liberty to visit Burns'sCottage, the Kirk o' Alloway, and to wander along "Ye banks and braes o' Bonnie Doon."
In the evening, after another rehearsal, the girls held a reception and supper-party in their sitting-room. It was not a wild extravagance—indeed rather an economy—though maybe there was something of "eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die," in the feeling that prompted it. The supper was a joint-stock affair; everyone who was invited was in the same breath likewise asked to produce fourpence towards the banquet. Jess expended the fund of three shillings thus raised on bread and cheese, honest unpretentious beer, a monstrous hot rice pudding with jam sauce, mixed biscuits and a couple of bunches of watercress. All the shareholders were fully satisfied, and united in a vote of thanks to the caterer.
After supper an impromptu concert was organised. Everyone was able to contribute to the general entertainment, save Evarne herself, and Pat and Billie Punter, whom nobody heeded. But Evarne fulfilled her share of social duties by presiding over all, and surely never had such a gracious and tactful young hostess held sway over such a strangely mixed gathering.
The piano—the well-tuned, well-polished piano—was an immense assistance. Mont sang, Jessie played, and Douglas was enabled to show off his much-belauded tenor notes. And exquisite they were, in sooth—those tender, heart-stirring and dulcet strains. It was indeed a glorious singing-bird that was confined in this ex-prize fighter's throat.
The hostess's only trouble was Madame Cheape. That languid individual had spent the afternoon with the landlady, Mrs. Sargeant, and the evening likewise, presumably, for she had not turned up at the seven o'clock rehearsal.
And alack! this protracted confabulation had very evidently not been carried on without the aid of a certain amount of liquid refreshment—and that, too, of a more exhilarating nature than mere tea. Thus, after a bumperof beer at supper, the sentiment of the tenor's love-songs proved too trying. The final strains of "Sweet Géneviève" were still lingering on the air, when the hush that Douglas's enchanted notes evoked was ruthlessly broken in upon by Madame Cheape. She proclaimed that they were all getting "a confounded sight too solemn," and that she would liven them up with a dance. Thereupon the poor old thing, seizing her skirts, proceeded to "liven them up a bit."
Jess, who was seated at the piano, promptly strummed a merry dance-tune, and all laughed to watch Madame Cheape's absurd caperings. There had been a time when Evarne would immediately have been outraged by the painful spectacle, but now, to behold a half-drunken woman providing merriment for a roomful of men was no longer strange or instantly repulsive. She laughed too, until she suddenly realised that she had been enabled to discover that Madame Cheape wore red garters, and remembered that she was in the society of presumably respectable men.
She became scandalised, and, springing to her feet, called, to Jess to cease playing at once. Then, since the dancing was continued with renewed vigour to compensate for the absence of music, Evarne laid her hands on the shoulders of the skittish performer, and suggested that "Clarinda" should retire and have a nice long night in readiness for the morrow. But dear "Clarinda," not being taken by this notion, declined to act upon it. She hadn't nearly done her dance yet. Let Miss Stornway be off to bed herself. But Evarne was determined to get the intoxicated woman out of the room, and rapidly crossing to the door, flung it open as a preliminary to bringing "gentle strength" to reinforce her wise advice.
Outside a surprise awaited Evarne.
She found herself face to face with the flabbergasted Mrs. Sargeant, who was standing on the doormat.
"You were just coming in, I suppose?" inquired Evarne politely.
The landlady stammered, and at length confessed that she had been listening. But her explanation made the action appear forgivable—even touching. Her son was a sailor, she said; he used to sing "Sweet Géneviève," and until this evening she had not heard it since he went away to sea.
Evarne believed her, and was moved to sympathy.
"Would you very much like to hear it again?" she asked. "I'm sure Mr. Douglas won't mind repeating it."
Gratefully the woman entered the room and stood by the piano, her eyes fixed on the singer, as once more his exquisite notes sweetened the air. Then, full of thanks, she went out, taking the unsentimental Madame Cheape with her, and ere long the party broke up.
Atlength the feared and fateful Wednesday dawned. The morning was devoted to a final rehearsal that only left everyone more confused—more hopeless—than ever. Not a solitary actor was word-perfect in all therôlesthat fell to his share. Evarne and Jess, with a single part apiece, were the most promising, but both were absolutely inexperienced, and now rather frightened.
In the afternoon the actors erected the "fit-up," under the supervision of Brown, the baggage-man, while the girls looked on and encouraged their struggles. Evarne, who had only that very morning been able to get the money for her brown costume from Mrs. Punter, had spent it on white butter-muslin for the "vision" gown. She now sat hastily stitching away at the interminable, seams of a flowing, snowy, shroud-like garment, whilst Madame Cheape—sober again—poured into her presumably maiden ear lamentations concerning the woes of married life.
By the evening, the whole company was in a state of irritable nervousness and apprehension. They ate what tea they could—and in some cases that implied what they were able to get—and were all gathered in the hall, with ample time not only to dress, but to stand around in knots, conversing in ominous whispers. Archie, the soured, even went so far as to assert that they were all very likely to be lynched by an infuriated public.
It was difficult to avoid some feelings of sympathy with poor old Mrs. Punter, as she handed each member of the company a leaf from some species of herb, which she confidently declared would bring them luck. She also made it understood that she was going to celebrate the first night by standing drinks all round, and solemnly wrote down on a slip of paper each individual's fancy in this direction.
This did something towards producing a more universally good-natured state of mind, but the reaction was sudden and disgust loud and undisguised, when—after the elaborate ceremony of putting everyone's wishes into writing and duly receiving their thanks—all that did verily make its appearance was one bottle of lemonade—small size!
And the performance! A fiasco had been anticipated, but it proved to be even worse than the wildest nightmare had pictured. Evarne really did know her part, and had rehearsed her dying scene with Mont and Jess until they presented it—or so they flattered themselves—in a manner that would cause it to come as a refreshing little oasis in the midst of the evening's confusion. But to rehearse in private and to appear in public are two different matters. Jess repeatedly forgot her words, and would then unblushingly demand in loud, flurried whispers, "What's next, for Heaven's sake?" That was bad enough, but Mont was far worse. He not only forgot hisrôleas completely as if he had never learned it, but seemingly every other word but one in the whole Scottish language likewise.
At all events, what he did whenever wild glances from both girls told him that he had got to say something or other, was to repeat over and over again a phrase that sounded like "She's champing, she's champing." Evarne felt really angry at his stupidity in describing her as if she had been a fretful mare instead of a dying maiden. Finally, it dawned on her perception that this imbecile doctor was holding out hope to the weeping friends around her couch—assuringthem that the patient was "champion"!—Scotch for "in excellent health." What a monstrous lack of resource on Mont's part, when he knew right well that the curtain descended on the touching demise of this damsel whom he persisted in describing as "champion"!
As to poor "Highland Mary" herself, she was utterly tricked and sold. Where were all the graceful gestures to the perfecting of which so much practice had been devoted? Where those truly dramatic attempts to spring from the bed with outstretched arms, as beauteous visions assailed her dying eyes? Where the pathetic leaning over to one side to gently stroke the bent head of the weeping "Bess"? Where all those sweet and realistic little touches which were to have brought tears to the eyes of even a bored and irate audience? All impossible! Out of the question! Had investigation been made, the luckless "Mary" would have been found to be breathing out her last sigh upon a couple of chairs laid over on their sides, with two tin bonnet-boxes between them to render this makeshift couch sufficiently long.
As it was, her toes projected over the end of the lowest chair, while she suffered such anguish from knobs and spikes that it composed a mild form of torture. Yet whenever she dared to so much as wriggle, the tin-boxes creaked loudly, while had she attempted to gain genuine relief by actually shifting from her first position—had she not lain absolutely motionless, propped up on one elbow, which soon ached to distraction—tragedy would have been turned to comedy with a vengeance. Those rickety chairs would assuredly have over-tipped, and the audience would have beheld "Mary" and her improvised couch rolling pell-mell together down to the footlights.
Mr. Heathmore started by explaining to the audience that his part had been sent to him too late to be possibly learnt; then he undisguisedly proceeded to read it. In the "glen scene" Evarne found it truly disconcerting tohave to stand throughout these endless love-speeches, her waist tenderly encircled by "Burns's" arm sure enough, but with his head all the time turned right away from her in order to gaze on the script that he held in his other hand. As to the rest of the drama, she never had been able to learn properly who was whom, or what they were all up to, and even the first public performance threw no light on the puzzle.
The play was proceeded with to the bitter end, but a mere sprinkling of spectators remained to the finish. Quite early in the evening the quieter members of the disgusted audience had, in severe silence, left the hall. The more rowdy element remained to get what return they could for their money by hooting, cat-calling, whistling and shouting.
Jess stuck to her post at the hired piano, and played away heroically throughout the protracted intervals between the acts. The young girl was quite admirable, sitting alone amidst the defrauded audience, strumming away dauntlessly, regardless of the nutshells thrown at her, and the jeers and ribald questions by which she was assailed.
All the performers at least were heartily thankful when the miserable show was over for the night, and midst many "swear words" from the men and plaintive deep-breathed "Sh's!" from the girls, they wended their ways to their respective lodgings.
And next evening it all had to be gone through once more, and this time the supply of audience was strictly limited. It might be owing to the rain, which was descending in a steady Scotch drizzle. But the despondent mummers had a shrewd suspicion that the truth concerning "P. Punter's Magnificent Co." had spread throughout the length and breadth of Ayr. It was not merely the dejection caused by the snub expressed by the rows of empty benches that brought such frowns upon usually placid brows. The abject poverty prevailing in the companywas universal. Several of the young people were almost penniless, and made no secret of their destitute condition. So a deputation had waited upon the manager that afternoon to "protest," or "kick up a righteous row," as they put it—to "try to get the breeks off a Hielander," according to Mr. Punter's version. In plain words, there was a general demand that, in consideration of the long delay for rehearsals, a portion of the company's salary should be now paid in advance—at least sufficient to buy bread and cheese until the end of the week. After much argument, appeals, and threats, Mr. Punter had been brought to promise that the takings on that evening should be divided amidst the company after the show. Thus the tiny audience was a truly serious matter.
The second cause for anxious frownings was the statement of Archie that the eldest Punter boy had been overheard to tell the girl behind the bar in the "Ass and the Thistle," that the company was to be disbanded at the close of the three days at Ayr. No hint of this had been officially given, but it seemed so highly probable that it was generally accepted for fact. Evarne dared not contemplate it. The sorrows of the past seemed already years behind her, overlaid by the painful excitement and interest of the present, and sick anxiety and apprehension concerning the grey-shrouded future.
A little innovation was introduced that evening that certainly made things run smoother. Jess not only played in the intervals, but lifted up her voice and sang old familiar Scottish ballads. This was immediately popular. The audience joined in the chorus of some, and applauded all. Jess sang until her throat must have ached, and was undoubtedly the success of the evening.
After the "rag" had fallen for the last time, the audience dispersed howling, booing and hissing, out into the rain. Then the company gathered expectant around Mr. Punter, who accordingly handed out some coins. It was butsmall sums that he distributed, but it was something to go on with, and Evarne and Jessie came off far best of all with four shillings apiece.
By Friday morning the girls at least felt too abashed to willingly show themselves in the streets of Ayr. But another rehearsal call had been given for eleven o'clock—which at least sounded encouraging—so exhorting one another to be defiant and brazen, they wended their way towards the hall. As they neared it, Jess suddenly stood still, and clutched Evarne's arm. Three men had appeared from out the building, staggering beneath the weight of a piano. This they placed on a cart, carefully covered it with oil-skins, and drove away.
"Oh my! is that my piano gone?" gasped the little songstress. Impossible that their resource—their stand-by—should have been thus filched from them! Yet so it was. The owner of the piano, it seemed, had been present on the previous evening, and being perchance a prophet and able to foresee the future, had taken time by the forelock and demanded in advance the money due for the hire of his instrument. A quarrel with Mr. Punter had resulted, which ended by the man ruthlessly removing his piano.
Jessie particularly was in a fine state of distress: with her it was a case of "Othello's occupation's gone," and her complaints and lamentations rang loud. "Caledonia's Bard" unrelieved by music! Terrible! At length, Heaven bestowed an inspiration upon the troubled Jessie. What about Mrs. Sargeant's piano? Surely if Harry Douglas went and asked for its loan, making a personal favour of the matter, he might succeed. If Mrs. Sargeant at first declined, and he forthwith broke out into the strains of "Sweet Géneviève," would he not be irresistible? Anyway, for goodness' sake let it be tried.
Procuring a trolley, and accompanied by Brown, the heroic Douglas set out upon this venture. In less than half an hour they returned. Wonder and delight! thenefforts of the modern Orpheus had been crowned with success. He had sung "Sweet Géneviève," and had thereby charmed either Mrs. Sargeant or her piano. Here it was! he stood by it smiling—proud and happy singer!
All that day it poured with rain. It was now the evening of the last performance of "Caledonia's Bard" at Ayr. What were Mr. Punter's arrangements for the morrow? So far he had given no clue. The weather added to the general depression; none ventured out into the downpour, but as twilight fell the figures of the actors and actresses, huddled under umbrellas, might be seen approaching the hall from various directions.
The conjectures, the suggestions, the hopes, the fears discussed in the dressing-rooms were of far greater interest to the members of the company than was the play itself. The time they spent on the stage—far from appearing in the light of the most important moments of the evening—seemed but breaks into the far more serious and enthralling "Drama of Reality" in which all were taking part.
It was now a generally known secret that Mr. Punter was unable to pay the nine pounds owing for the hire of the hall. Halfway through the evening it was further spread around—in mysterious murmurs and with bated breath—that the instant the curtain fell for the last time everyone must be prepared to look after themselves—their own interests—and, as far as possible, those of Mr. Punter. All were to promptly seize on their respective belongings for fear they might be claimed by the officials of the hall; the "fit-up" was to be rushed down—on the morrow all were returning to Glasgow, where more prosperous arrangements would be made for the future.
But this programme of events, even if originating in Mr. Punter's brain, was not destined to enjoy his co-operation. Suddenly Joe startled the girls by dashing almost without warning into their dressing-room.
"He's gone—he's off—the blaggard!" he shouted.
"Who? Where?"
"Why, that vile Punter. Somebody from the station has come and told Brown. Him and Mrs. Punter and the kids caught the five-to-ten to Glasgow. He was off with all the cash while we were finishing acting his rotten play! He's given us the slip, left us in the lurch without our salary! Got clean away with all the rest of the takings, such as they are!"
Both the girls gasped, and Evarne, homeless, friendless, with exactly five-and-twopence in the world, turned pale. A moment later, a sudden uproar on the stage caused them to both rush out excitedly. There, surrounded by irate actors and stage-hands, stood—or rather huddled together—Pat and Billie Punter.
"We've got them, anyway!" shouted Brown. "They'll have to pay something for their pa!"
Before any further threats could be either uttered or put into action, two men appeared in the entrance, closing dripping umbrellas, and with countenances as lowering as the weather without. They were the respective owners of the Drill Hall and of the hired piano. The latter strode straight up the gangway to the Punters.
"Here, you young thieving varmints. Where's my money for the two evenings you had my piano? Five-and-six a night, and three shillings for transport. I'll just thank you to hand over fourteen shillings."
"I'm afeared——" Pat was commencing feebly.
"No jaw! Hand over my fourteen shillings," repeated the man.
Pat accordingly remained silent, and fumbled in his pocket. The piano-owner's brow cleared somewhat, but only to cloud afresh as the youth merely produced his father's visiting-card.
"If you'll take this," faltered Pat, offering the piece of pasteboard.
"What! D'you think that's good enough! You andyour visiting-card be——" the irate creditor was beginning, when the owner of the hall interposed—
"Look here. I shall pay you this fourteen shillings out of my own pocket, and for my security I will retain possession of everything now in the place. Do you all understand?"—and he glanced sternly round at the assembled company. "You're at liberty to take yourselves off—the sooner the better—but if any of you attempt to remove any properties—yes, I mean either stage-truck, or what you choose to call your own—I will have in the police. Understand that now."
His listeners returned him no response, but unobtrusively wandered off to their respective dressing-rooms. Forewarned, everybody had practically completed their packing, and now the owner of the hall, penetrating behind the scenes, discovered the entire company to be fastening straps and hastily cramming various objects of one sort and another into pockets or blouses. Bags and boxes were vanishing with various figures who were drifting away towards the front entrance—striving to render themselves as small and insignificant as possible—yet departing with all good speed. In an instant he had made up his mind. He whispered to one of his satellites, and in half a minute all the gas was turned off, plunging the whole place into inky blackness.
Evarne was in the act of fastening the padlock to the end of the long metal rod of her basket, when this darkness as of Erebus suddenly descended. Finishing her task, she was groping her way between chairs and boxes to where she imagined the door to be, when she heard the welcome sound of Mont's voice.
"Are you here, Miss Stornway?"
"Yes, quite lost. What has happened?"
"He's done it on purpose. Here, Brown, strike that match now. Quickly, which is your box? We will carry it out for you."
The last match they owned between them flared and died out, and in the darkness the three groped their way from the hall. Evarne went ahead and tried to clear the track as best she could, but all stumbled and lurched against overturned chairs, and tripped over articles dropped in the hasty escape of those who had preceded them.
Settingdown the basket at the corner of a neighbouring street, the men went back to see what else could be thus rescued. Evarne sat on her box and waited. Her umbrella was lost. The rain was still pouring down steadily, persistently; along the gutters the water rushed in torrents, the skies and the earth were alike enveloped in damp obscurity. No living being appeared; indeed, practically the only sign of the existence of mankind was the feeble jet of the street lamp, which reflected its gleam in the wet pavement as in a lake.
So long did the girl wait, that, despite the discomfort of her unique situation, she fell into a sort of vague reverie, and a curious feeling of abstraction from her own personality crept over her. Was it really she indeed—Evarne Stornway—who was out here in the middle of the night in this drenching rain, seated in solitary misery upon the box containing all her worldly possessions, at some unknown street corner of a small town in Scotland? Unreasonably enough, it appealed to her as a most extraordinary thing thatsheshould be the individual chosen out of all humanity to be thus strangely circumstanced this night.
She was aroused by hearing her name shouted in the distance. In response to her answering call a couple of figures appeared, and Mont's voice said—
"Couldn't find this blessed corner again in the mist. Jess has sent down a message that she's gone to supper with Joe, and will you come too? You had better. There's always a nice fire there of an evening, and you look soaked through."
"I only look what I am, then. Certainly I'll go, if Jess is there. What about my box?"
"Brown and I will carry it round to Mrs. Sargeant's and tell her you'll both be late. Do you know your way to our diggings?"
"I don't know where I am now, one bit."
Mont explained, and Evarne accordingly hurried off through the downpour.
On reaching her destination she was received with cheers. Most of the company seemed gathered in Mrs. Shiells's kitchen. The house itself was let out in tenements, and theatrical lodgings were obtainable on practically every floor. Thus all the actors were residing in the one building, and the kitchen of good-natured Mrs. Shiells was the general rendezvous.
In due course Mont and Brown returned, and with them came news of fresh complications. Madame Cheape had gone! She had been back to her room, packed up all her belongings and taken them with her, leaving behind only the assurance that the other young ladies had the money for her rent. Mrs. Sargeant had evidently been drinking again, but not to the point of forgetting the piano. It belonged to her daughter, it seemed; it had been lent without its lawful owner's leave, and if it was not in its place when that daughter returned at eleven, Mrs. Sargeant contemplated being half-slaughtered by her offspring, whose temper, when aroused, she described as "enough to make the 'air stand up on your 'ead."
"Oh dear! I forgot the piano," faltered Jess.
"I tried to get it out, I swear I did," avowed Douglas. "The owner of the hall made two men sit on it until thedoor was locked. He's going to keep it in pawn until he gets his nine pounds fourteen."
"And Madame Cheape never gave us any money, did she?"
"Not one farthing."
A grim silence prevailed. How were they to face this terrible Miss Sargeant? One of the lodgers and the piano, both departed—flitted away!
"I advise this," said Archie ultimately. "Let Miss Stornway's basket be brought round here, and you girls go and pack up all your other belongings and bring them along too. Then each pay Mrs. Sargeant your respective shares of the rent you had all agreed upon—twelve-and-six, wasn't it? That's four and twopence each. Tell her old Cheape has sloped, but that the piano is all right, and will come home sooner or later. Then if she still chooses to kick up a row, she can't stick to any of your props, that's one thing."
"We really oughtn't to be expected to suffer for either the Cheape's or the Punter's tricks, ought we?" demanded Jess, and so Archie's plan of campaign was adopted.
The interview passed off quite easily. The terrible Miss Sargeant had not yet returned; the old woman accepted their eight-and-fourpence without demur, and a blouse that Madame Cheape had overlooked as a substitute for the remaining four-and-twopence. Both girls united in assuring her that the precious piano was in safe keeping, and that she was to impress this fact upon her daughter.
They then hastened back to Mrs. Shiells's warm, cosy kitchen, feasted on hot broth and discussed the desperate state of affairs. At last it became needful to return to their own cheerless rooms to sleep. The men in a group escorted them through the dark, deserted roads. But Archie was in a thoroughly furious temper, and Douglas was never a sucking dove. As the group stood for a finalchat in the street outside Mrs. Sargeant's house, these two, from angry disputing, set to work to settle their differences of opinion by seeing who could hit hardest.
A general uproar resulted, starting peaceful Ayr from its first slumbers. All along the street, upper windows were flung open, and heads appeared, startled or curious. Suddenly yet another sound was clearly heard above all the confusion—the angry bang of a door, the sharp turning of a key, and the drawing of bolts. The girls were locked out!
A sudden hush descended, and for a moment everyone stood spellbound. Then Evarne quickly sped across the street, and banged with the knocker again and again. The only response took the form of a young woman appearing at an upper window.
"You folk don't seem to know that we keep a respectable house," she cried. "We are not going to have females here who don't know how to behave themselves, and who are thieves into the bargain. If you get over ma, who's a fool, and come stealing my piano—my piano, what I paid for myself—well, if ma lets herself be sucked in by a lot of sneaking scoundrels like you are, all of you, I tell you straight out we're not going to have women here who brawl in the streets in the middle of the night, as well as steal pianos; so you can take yourselves off, and if either of you two, who call yourselves ladies I dare say, show your noses here again, I'll have you clapped into prison for stealing a respectable woman's piano. You needn't think you're going to sleep beneath this roof to-night, so be off with you, piano thieves."
Here she banged down the window with such violence that the glass rattled in the casement. Dead silence prevailed in the street.
"I'm so sorry," faltered Douglas, quite subdued. "It's all my fault from beginning to end."
"Well, it's no use standing here, I suppose," declared Evarne in rather a shaking voice. "Come along, Jess;we'll go back to Mrs. Shiells and see what she can do for us. I'm sure she will let us sit in her kitchen till morning, anyway."
"Archie and I will give up our bed," cried remorseful Douglas, as the glum little procession, under the gauntlet of many eyes, turned to retrace its steps.
"What a bad, wicked creature to shut us out in the streets at this time of night," declared Jess with emphasis, then sniffed, suspiciously close to tears.
"Don't cry till you see the end of it," advised Evarne, stoical from very misery. "How can we know whether it be good or bad angels that have planned all these unforeseen events? Anything that appears to be entirely hateful—like this whole evening has been—may be but a preliminary to happiness!" But her heart was as heavy as lead as she spoke.
"Goodness gracious me! What a queer girl you are to talk like a minister in his pulpit while we are sloshing through the mud and the rain with nowhere to sleep!" laughed Jess, highly amused; whereupon Evarne smilingly inquired what more appropriate moment could be chosen.
Mrs. Shiells was kindness itself. Surely, she would find a haven for the puir lassies, she declared. Let them wait a moment.
After a brief absence she returned, accompanied by another brawny Scotch dame. She had believed Miss Brodie here had a vacant room, she said, but she was mistaken. However, it was nigh two o'clock. There wasn't much more of the night before them. She'd be pleased if one of the lassies would share her bed, and would the other sleep with Miss Brodie?
Gratefully the girls accepted this offer. It was arranged that Jess should stay with Mrs. Shiells, and in less than a quarter of an hour Evarne found herself lying in the darkness by the side of this new good Samaritan who had so recently appeared upon the scene.