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.