THE CAREER OF "CALEDONIA'S BARD"
At length 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 the
_rôles_ that 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 his _rôle_ as 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--assuring them 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 to have 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 company was 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 but small 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! then efforts 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 and your 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.