NEW TRIALS AND TROUBLES
After some 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 a huge 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, the _rôle_ was 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 central thread 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 between the 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!"