A STRANGE INTRODUCTION TO THE PROFESSION
Depositing her 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 residence
_ought_ to be. Unless he camped in the shadow of 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 blanketed youth, 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 title _rôle_, 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
a _nom-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.