A FRESH TURNING
Miss Brodie had apologised for not having a spare bed.
"If it had been the morn's nicht, noo," she explained. "I've got ma
sister frae Lunnon stoppin' wi' me, she's in the only vacant room, but
she'll be awa' again the morn."
Of course, Evarne emphatically declared that she did not envy the sister
the spare room one jot, and soon after this they composed themselves to
rest.
But Evarne wooed sleep in vain. In silence and darkness and strangeness;
the excitement of the evening, with its sustaining power all past; the
company finally disbanded and deserted; everything chaos for the
present--and for the morrow----? She had now a shilling and a halfpenny
left in the world. Supposing she pawned some of her garments, and thus
got back to Glasgow, wherein had she at all bettered her position? What
could she do for the next night, let alone the nights to come? How long
would it be now before she was both hungry and penniless? Would she then
have to go into the workhouse--or what?
She shuddered in bed, and writhed her fingers as if suffering physical
agony. The cruel horror of the immediate future seemed to crush her as
she lay. For the sake of her bedfellow she forced herself to remain
silent and motionless for what seemed an interminable period. But giving
way to a sudden invincible panic induced by accumulated reflections on
many possibilities, she started up violently, and cried in a voice that
scarcely sounded her own--
"Oh Heaven! What am I to do?" Then, burying her face in her hands, she
wept unrestrainedly.
An arm crept round her waist, and she was gently drawn to the side of
her companion.
"Puir lassie," said the kindly voice. "You're o'er-rocht. Dinna greet,
but lie quiet and see what daylight brings. You've a' had a verra tryin'
time here, but you'll sune be hame aince mair wi' your frien's, and
mayhap a kind fayther or mither to welcome ye."
"Oh no, no!" sobbed the girl, "I've got no one--nothing--no parents, no
home or friends or anything! Oh, what shall I do? what will become of
me?"
Miss Brodie leaned out of bed and lit a candle.
"The dark is na cheerie," she declared.
Evarne managed to choke down her grief, and lay back upon the pillow
once more.
"I'm so sorry to have awakened you. Please go to sleep again. I'm going
to be quite still and quiet now."
"Dinna think o' me," said the kind-hearted Scots-woman. "What o'
yoursel', puir bairn? It's a terrible thing for a lassie to be a' her
lain i' the world."
Gradually Evarne was prevailed upon to confide the seriousness of her
plight. Miss Brodie grew more and more pitying and sympathetic.
"I'll consult wi' ma sister," she said, at length. "Jean has got verra
sharp wits frae being in Lunnon. She will advise ye. Anyway, ma lamb,
dinna think that I'll turn ye oot a' at aince, though ye had naething in
the whole world but a tongue to say 'thank ye' wi'."
Evarne kissed her again and again.
"I do meet kind friends, anyway," she whispered, and encircled by Miss
Brodie's motherly arms, she at length fell asleep.
Notwithstanding the disturbances of the night, the thrifty Scotswoman
rose as usual shortly after daybreak, and by the time Evarne had awoke,
dressed and wandered out into the kitchen, she found that her
difficulties and distresses had already been the subject of careful
debate between Martha and Jean Brodie.
The latter, a tall, angular young woman, with a somewhat careworn
expression, had justified her sister's confidence by almost instantly
producing a suggestion anent the vexed question of earning a livelihood
without a week's delay. Waiting only until Martha had ladled out a
plateful of porridge and set it before Evarne, she opened the subject
without any preliminary remarks.
"Are you at all a good needlewoman, Miss Stornway?"
"Only pretty fair," was the truthful response. "I've done a lot of
embroidery, but scarcely any plain sewing. I made this blouse I've got
on, though; but not without help."
"That will do. Now, if my sister didn't exaggerate, if you're really
penniless and don't know which way to turn----"
Evarne cast down her eyes.
"That's right enough," she said; "go on."
"In that case I can give you a job myself--that is, if you're not too
proud to work hard and live humbly."
Here was indeed a surprise.
"Only try me," declared the girl eagerly. "What is it?"
"Perhaps Martha told you I was a blousemaker by trade. I work for a
wholesale house in the City. I haven't got a big business, but I live by
it, and I always have a young girl under me as an apprentice to do
certain parts of the word. Generally, my assistant lives and boards with
me, I pay her half a crown a week and teach her the business. As soon as
the girl is past the apprentice stage she leaves me and I get another
beginner. My last one left me just before I came away for my holiday. My
girls are generally only about fourteen or fifteen; but if you care to
take the job for a time, it's open to you at once, and you'll get a
better berth presently like the others, if you choose to continue in the
needlework line. There's my offer."
"I daursay it seems a bit o' a come-doon i' the world to you,"
interposed Martha, "but when all's said and done it's a respectable,
God-fearin' business that no woman need be ashamed o'."
"Think it over while you eat your breakfast," advised Jean.
Evarne was distinctly startled at an entirely fresh career being thus
suddenly dangled before her gaze for inspection. The remuneration
offered, two-and-six weekly, likewise proved amazing. Still, board and
lodging were included in the bond, and, after the terrible pictures her
imagination had painted in the blackness of the past night, the certain
assurance of a sheltering roof, and of bread to ward off the pangs of
hunger, was alone sufficient to form a bright constellation of stars in
her dark sky. Not long did she stop to consider whether these
newly-risen orbs were of a colour and design pleasing to her fancy.
Between the fifth and sixth spoonfuls of porridge she had signified her
willingness to become a blouse apprentice.
"Then pack up your things as soon as you've done eating. We must catch
the half-past eleven train, because of my excursion ticket."
"How--I hadn't thought of that--how am I to get my fare?" faltered
Evarne painfully.
"I'm going to lend it to ye, lassie, and sure, you can pay me back week
by week," declared Martha.
Evarne endeavoured to express her gratitude, but the only answer she got
was--
"It's naething at a'. Jist keep your breath to cool your porridge, and
make haste too."
Speedily finishing her meal, the girl went upstairs to Mrs. Shiells's.
There, in the kitchen, she found a heated quarrel in progress. The
"loot" of the disbanded "Caledonia's Bard" was the bone of contention.
Archie had carefully packed the limes-box round with stage garments,
enclosed the whole in a drop-scene, tied it all up with gas-tubing, and
then calmly announced that this was his "little share." Since there was
not much left of any description, all the other members of the late
company, headed by Douglas, were vigorously protesting.
Already Archie had been discovered trying to palm off upon his landlady,
in lieu of money, a couple of long cylinders containing gas--dangerous,
explosive, useless objects to which no one would willingly even give
house-room. General indignation had been provoked by this attempt at
returning evil for good, and amid the general uproar it was some time
before Evarne could persuade the excited party to turn their attention
to her, and realise that she had come to bid them farewell.
The regrets expressed at this parting were perfectly sincere on both
sides. Evarne was being swooped off, leaving many mysteries unsolved.
Where was Madame Cheape? What would befall the piano that day? Would Mr.
Punter try to reclaim any of his stage belongings? Moreover, it appeared
that that gentleman's whereabouts were being eagerly inquired after by a
number of the leading tradesmen of the district, who had been persuaded
to pay cash down for advertisement spaces on the back of the company's
programmes, misled by the assurance of a prolonged local tour for
"Caledonia's Bard"--a fact that went a long way toward explaining the
whole strange business. Jess and Mont both undertook to write and tell
Evarne all the news, but ere she well knew how it had come to pass, she
found herself in the train being whirled back to London.
Another act in the "Drama of Reality" had commenced.