The Barn Stormers: being the tragical side of a comedy

Chapter I

" All out of work, and cold for action." " WANTED — For extensive repertoire, juvenile lead ing lady. Must be tall, handsome, young, have fine figure, and fashionable wardrobe on and off the stage. Send photo, and write immediately, stating experience, age, weight, and lowest salary, to Scott Ambler Comedy Company, Bagra, Ohio, week of 2ISt-28th." Monica Nairne laid down the paper, which was suggestively entitled The New York Clipper, and walked deliberately towards the mirror attached to an article of furniture she had lately learned to designate as her bureau. The cat, which had been coiled in her lap, jumped down with a mewing protest, but Monica turned to reprove it as she moved across the room. " I can't afford to support you any longer, you know," she declared ; " and when we can't afford to support a A mere under-bred cat one's adopted from ship-board it's a sign that one has fallen upon evil times."

She stared into the mirror, her elbows resting on the cushion of her handkerchief case, her face be tween her hands. " You're far from bad-looking," she said, addressing the reflection that returned her eminently critical gaze, for Monica had lived alone for the space of two months, and had contracted the first habit of the hermit — talking to herself; "/ should distinctly call you pretty, if not handsome. I wonder if you would be Mr. Scott Ambler's ' style ' ? You are honestly 'juvenile,' too. Only I have a vague idea that that expression has some esoteric meaning in stage parlance, which I don't exactly comprehend. Goodness alone knows what you weigh, though, my dear ! And what business that is of Mr. Scott Ambler's I should be glad to have explained ! " She went back to the Clipper again, and there seemed to be a subtle attraction about the smell of fresh printer's ink, as she carefully conned the im portant paragraph once more.

Looking up from it into space, she tried to project upon the virgin camera of her mind a prophetic photograph of Mr. Scott Ambler and his Comedy Company. But the magician, Experience, was absent, and the instrument refused to work. On the first page of the paper was a coarsely re produced portrait of an exuberant young woman, in a low gown and a Gainsborough hat. Monica imagined herself thus apparelled, and there was a certain shuddering fascination in the idea. She had never yet possessed a really low-necked dress. In the French convent, where she had spent half her life, she had even been obliged to take her daily bath in a robe ample as charity, lest her guardian angel, a spirit of the masculine gender, supposed never to leave his post, should be offended by her nakedness. But she was going to be an actress now, and could only hope that her tutelary genius might be ready to accommodate himself to circumstances.

" Not that I would wear a hat with it," she re assured herself, with pride of nationality. " I would show them that, though it may be all well enough before audiences in the States, it would never be considered good form at home. I daresay they would soon begin copying the English ways." ■ They " meant the members of the Scott Ambler Comedy Company, for already Monica had more than half resolved to answer the advertisement. On the table were writing paper and pens. There was a short article, partially completed, on " Poverty as a Crime," which Monica had begun the previous evening. She had herself been driven to the sin of tight-lacing, because she had out-grown all her old frocks, and could not afford to buy any new ones ; and she had even had visions of cheating a tramcar conductor with a false coin which, through another's dishonesty, had come into her possession.

But here was hope ; and she need not, perhaps, resort as yet to the desperate expedient of turning her own mis fortunes into " copy." She was glad of this, for her efforts in journalism had so far been unsuccessful, though she had still abundant faith in herself as an actress. After wrestling for a time with an illusive pocket, she eventually excavated her purse, and placed it as a warning between the Clipper and yesterday's abortive bid for literary fortune. The morocco sides of the receptacle in question came together like a pair of sucked-in cheeks. Elephants, not to say mastodons, might have trod upon the thing for years, ruefully thought Monica ; and yet she had considered herself so wealthy only eight weeks ago, when she had landed from South ampton, with an independent fortune consisting of thirty pounds.

But then she had taken up her quarters at a really good New York boarding-house, recommended by a travelled friend, and the leanness of her purse was, if she had only known it, decidedly a foregone con clusion. She had believed in her own gifts as extraordinary, had been convinced that an English girl of good breeding and good appearance had but to pick and choose among theatrical managers in the States. She had also fancied herself practical in deciding that the proper beginning was to secure a desirable address, and then nonchalantly wait for something to turn up. " But things don't turn up," she had had to con clude in sadness, " except the points of one's patent leather boots, worn out in trying for engagements. And nothing ever does seem to come off in my life — except buttons." Yet, after many days, behold something had " turned up " — this rakish Clipper, left in a tramcar by her nearest neighbour.

It merely remained to be seen whether it also would " come off," and that could only be ascertained by writing, and wait ing in forced patience for an answer. She wrote accordingly, and soliloquised, tearing up two or three sheets of paper in the laudable effort to do herself full justice, without unduly exaggerating in description. " Age, twenty-one, and waist measure to match (at least I think I can still manage it !). Height, five feet four ; hair, dark brown, naturally wavy, warranted no curl papers ; eyes, bluish grey, black lashes, considered effective ; mouth said to be mobile ; features expressive ; nose better suited to comedy than tragedy ; good contralto voice, much praised by teacher of elocution in England. H'm ! I trust these are the sort of points one is supposed to mention.

It seems like describing a 'lost, strayed, or stolen.' I can't think of anything more. Oh, yes — complexion ! Lights up well on the stage, with a little rouge. That's business-like! And teeth — a most important item. Exceptionally fine, though perhaps safer not to mention that I haven't yet cut the four wisdom ones in the corners. Experience ! Ah, there's the rub ! Let me see." At this critical juncture there was considerable biting ofthe more business-like end ofthe pen. " Have played successfully in England, ' Pauline' in ' The Lady of Lyons,' and ' Polly Eccles ' in ' Caste ' (that'll show them how versatile I am) ; beside a great many other parts of equal importance. If I go on to say it was only as an amateur, they won't have me. I've learned enough in my two months' dreary round of New York managers and dramatic agents to be sure of that.

How can I ever gain any experience if nobody will give me a chance ? How am I to go on living if I can't get work? And I don't want the other thing yet. Not that I'd so much mind dying, but there'd be the awful waste of time in staying dead. ' Poverty as a Crime' again! that's one more example. Here I am now, in self-defence, pledged to a course of deceit." The salary to be decided upon was another stumbling-block, and, at last, leaving a space for the insertion, and a blank to be filled in with the item of her weight, she obeyed the summons of the luncheon bell. Though Mrs. Potter's boarding-house was in Madison Avenue, a fashionable street, and an ex orbitant price was charged for the tiny fifth-storey back bedroom occupied by the English girl, rigid economy was practised in the matter of luncheons.

The dashing young gentlemen from Wall Street were mercifully absent at that hour, and as Mrs. Potter did not consider the appetites of her own sex worth consulting, the menu, like history, had a way of repeating itself. "The same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever," Monica had felt inclined to quote from Hebrews, chapter xiii., and 8th verse, when she had been treated to tinned corn beef and pickles six days out of the seven. But, after all, she was young, and to her mind, as yet, dinner was a mere incident of dining. She recked little what she ate, and to-day less than ever. " How much should you think that I weighed ? " she inquired abruptly, when the tinned beef had gracefully given way to apple sauce and cookies. Mrs. Potter looked as though she were not quite sure whether or no an invidious though veiled allusion to her catering was intended.

Otherwise she did not appear to be surprised. Evidently the question of a human being's weight formed an ordinary topic of conjecture in America. " Would you like me," she asked agreeably, " to guess much or little ? " " That's the trouble. I'm not quite sure which is required," answered Monica ; " and a great deal may depend upon a stone or two." She looked cautiously around. The last boarder was about leaving the table. People did not wait sor ceremony at Mrs. Potter's, and luncheon was a moveable feast. " You see," Monica went on confidentially, " I am thinking of taking an engagement ; and they — er — want to know how much I weigh." " Oh ! One hundred and fifteen pounds," retorted Mrs. Potter, without hesitation, surveying Monica's proportions as though she had been a joint of meat. " A very proper weight for a young lady."

The English girl gasped. The computation sounded so enormous until she had hastily reckoned it into stones. " It's a travelling company," she continued, having already, earlier in her acquaintance with Mrs. Potter, briefly touched upon her aspirations. " I don't know at all what salary I ought to say. If I go I'm to have good parts." " You'll want to stop at the best hotels, of course, then," advised the landlady ; " and you'll have to buy plenty of handsome dresses. I should set my figure high. Yes, the weight low and the figure high! Say — well, say fifty dollars a week." " Ten pounds," Monica calculated, doing a sum upon her fingers. The very thought of so munificent a sum, pouring in weekly, made her feel already every inch an actress. Light of foot and of heart, she ran upstairs, carrying some food for Dinah, the ship's cat, for which she paid Mrs. Potter at the rate of a " dime " a week.

" I can afford to support you after all," she murmured, " if only Mr. Scott Ambler admires my photograph. Now, to fill up those blanks! Fifty dollars salary — one hundred and fifteen pounds in weight. What a pity it can't be somehow reversed." When Monica had posted the letter, big with her future fate, she allowed herself to stroll past the Broadway shops, even more brilliant than those of Bond Street. She had kept away from them before, being naturally an extravagant and impulsive little person, and not wishing to lead herself into tempta tion. But now she deliberately paused before that in which the most fascinating fripperies were displayed. Bewildering visions showed her to herself, clothed in the latest substitute for samite, mystic, wonderful, and, above all, delightfully expensive.

At last, in all probability, she was to have her chance. All her chances thus far had run away from her to other people, less deserving ; but something told her it would be different after to-day. Out of fifty dollars a week she could save at least twenty-five. There would be twenty pounds laid away in a month. Why, she would make her fortune at that rate. What would the hard-visaged, harder hearted woman, whose terrible words had sent her out of England, think if she could only be informed of the pariah's brilliant prospects ? She would probably grow even more wizened and yellow, and increase her daily doses of tea, from the rate of 1,460 cups per year to twice that number. Monica was pleased with this fancy. Even her mercurial spirits had been shadowed of late with the greyness and uncertainty of her own future.

But now she was happy. And, woman-like, she showed it by recklessly entering the shop, and revelling in the purchase of things she did not need. There were ups and downs of feeling during the two blank days that followed. Towards the end despair had the whip hand of hope. After all, it had only been chance which had brought her the advertisement, though now she had come to look upon an engagement with the Scott Ambler Comedy Com pany as her one means of salvation. On the third morning a letter arrived. She had tried to teach herself not to expect it before, but, as a matter of fact, she had nearly given it up. She had been too late, or the London photograph had not come up to Mr. Ambler's requirements for a "juvenile lead ! " But here was the letter at last, in a wonderful envelope, which she hardly knew whether to admire or to laugh at, with its bold advertisement of the company's tour and repertoire in lurid red and blue.

Her heart thumped like a hammer against her side as she opened it. Mr. Ambler's handwriting was hardly scholarly ; but that was a detail. " Pleased with photograph — nationality no ob jection — experience stated sounds promising — " (Monica's eyes began to sparkle.) " But — " (oh, there was a but!) "the salary named — far too large. Business does not run to more than eight dollars a week for juvenile lead — management also paying expenses, that is, board, travelling, etc. If terms are accepted, please wire, when railway fare will be telegraphed by management, to 42nd Street Dep6t, — to be called for at ticket office — shall expect to hear at once." The letter dropped from Monica's hand, alighting upon Dinah's back. Where were all the glorious visions now ? The sparkle had gone from her eyes, and her hopes, as from last night's champagne.

Still — what was she to do ? There was the future to be faced, — no hope from New York managers or theatrical agents, who had seen other prettier faces than hers ; and the article on " Poverty as a Crime " (finished and despatched when doubt of Mr. Ambler's answer began to gnaw) had been already returned, rejected. Eight dollars over and above her board ! It was a pittance. She could not possibly accept it. She would even be ashamed to tell Mrs. Potter that it had been offered. What a drop from the magnificent fifty of her dreams ! Stay ! There were a few lines on the second page, which, until the sheet fell from Dinah's indignant back, Monica had not observed. Even men did not disdain postscripts, it would seem. " P.S. — If I do not hear from you by four o'clock on Tuesday afternoon, shall conclude you do not wish to close with offer, and shall accept services of another lady who has already applied for the position."

Good gracious ! And this was Wednesday morning ! The shock of those potent words, the " other lady," was too much for Monica's mental balance. Poignant jealousy set in. Rather than that greedy wretch should have the engagement, Monica would take it herself, even if there had been no salary attached at all. She dressed hastily, and pale with the excitement of her decision, flew out into thc street, and sent her acceptance along the wires to Mr. Scott Ambler, Colosseum Theatre, Bagra, Ohio.

Chapter II

" It shall be so my care To have you royally appointed as if The scene you play were mine." If a London detective were but informed that his quarry had escaped his clutches via Waterloo, or Euston, or Paddington Station, he would, at all events, know whether the scent was to be followed into the south, the north, or toward the setting sun. But this advantage would be lost at the 42nd Street " depot " in New York. As all roads are advertisingly supposed to lead to Earl's Court, so, contrariwise, all roads branch forth from 42nd Street. The big station is a labyrinth of railway trucks, a confusion of incoming and outgoing locomotives, a babel of strange and hideous noises. To Monica Nairne, who had never yet taken a journey since landing from Southampton in New York, the place was appalling.

She did not know what to do with her luggage. Nobody seemed in clined to enlighten her. She ran down the wrong platform, and had to rush frantically back again. She was obliged to unearth her ticket from a seques tered corner of her travelling bag, to be punched by J3 a supercilious potentate, just as the train she wanted began gliding slowly out of the station. With Dinah mewing advice from under one arm, and her bag swinging from the other, she ran along the platform. Somebody " boosted " her up — for regulations are not quite so strict in New York as in London, and charming young ladies are allowed to risk their lives, and their cats', if they please. Holding on by the iron railing, she scrambled up the steps, precipitated herself through a door and a vestibule, to sink down, panting, in a blue, brocaded chair.

She was in a compartment resembling a com fortable little library or drawing-room, and when she had collected her scattered wits, she gazed at her surroundings in surprise. " It can't be a train," she thought dazedly. But already the station was left behind, and through the curtained, plate-glass windows, the high bricked walls of a cutting were to be seen. " It's more like ' Alice's Adventures in Wonderland ' than anything else," Monica continued to reflect — for she had been taught to read on Lewis Carroll. " I've popped into the Rabbit Hole, and I'm falling now, though it doesn't feel like it. There are the shelves and the maps, only I don't see any jars of marmalade, and I've brought my Dinah with me." Beside the blue chairs there was a sofa with frilled silk cushions, a big, manly-looking writing desk, a table upholding the latest thing in typewriters, and Turkish rugs on a floor of polished wood.

Paintings of American scenery were set into panels between the wide windows ; over the table hung a map, and the remaining wall space was filled in with book shelves, protected by glass doors. One door at the end of the car led into the vestibule through which she had made her late desperate plunge, and another at the opposite end of the snug little apartment was hidden by an embroidered portiere. " I suppose the way into the Queen's beautiful garden lies behind that curtain, if only I dared look," soliloquised Monica. " The one thing missing is the glass table with the golden key." She allowed her eyes to rest upon the books attractively arranged along the four rows of shelves, and she wondered if they were placed there for the benefit of passengers. " Perhaps there's a slot, and I should be expected to drop a penny in it," she thought.

" What a relief it would be if they were only labelled, like the things in Alice's Wonderland, lTake me!' But I believe, at all events, I'll risk it." She placed Dinah on a rug so deep that the cat began to pick its way industriously out with curving claws. Then dedicating a grateful sigh to the generous railway company who threw in unlimited literature with the price of the ticket, she silently drew out a volume. It was a novel which she had wished for some time to read. As she was conscientiously reclosing the glass doors (Monica had been taught, since childhood, never to leave anything open, not even her mouth), the por tiere was pushed suddenly aside from the farther doorway. "The White Rabbit!" flashed, lightning-like, into Monica's Wonderland-haunted mind. But it was not the White Rabbit.

It was merely a man, neither very young nor very good-looking, but with a typical American face, keen-eyed, sharp-featured, clean shaven, and in his arms he held Dinah the cat. For an instant, surprise slightly arched his heavily marked brows. His glance quickly took in Monica, her travelling bag and her chosen novel. Then his eyes twinkled, and he smiled — a queer little three cornered smile, that lifted up one corner of his mouth. " I beg your pardon," he said. " Is this your cat ? " " Oh, yes, thank you," returned Monica, receiving the animal with gratitude. " She must have run out through that door when I wasn't looking; but I assure you it sha'n't happen again. I hope cats aren't forbidden ? " " Only to restaurant keepers ; they make them into rabbit-pies." " I mean in railway carriages," supplemented Monica, with dignity.

" They're not in this one, anyhow." " Oh ! Are you the — the conductor — if that is the right word ? " The sharp-featured man looked out upon the moving landscape, and smiled. " No, I'm not the conductor, I'm a — well, I guess I'm a sort of passenger. I hope you won't mind my coming in here, will you ? " " Not at all," she replied, still with purposeful primness. He had rather a nice voice for an American, Monica thought ; but she resented the whimsical element in his smile, and wished him to know it. Then, suddenly, she remembered that she was adventuring in the land of the free, in manners as well as in soul, and that, besides, she was now on her way toward becoming a full-fledged actress. She had cast off all the old traditions in which her past had been steeped, and begun life in a new world — alone.

It therefore behoved her to live up to her adopted role. " Everybody has an equal right here," she added, conciliatingly. " Well, hardly everybody, perhaps," corrected the stranger ; " but I guess no one is going to question either yours or mine." Monica murmured something polite and indefinite, settling herself among the cushions in the corner of the sofa with her book. The man also sat down at the desk, making a great show of rummaging among pens and papers, but not writing at all. Presently he spoke again. There was something attractive as well as shrewd in the expression of his face, and Monica was not blind to it. If she had been in England she would B have kept her eyes upon her book ; but it was not England. " Excuse me," he said, " wouldn't you like to look over some London papers and magazines?

There are plenty of them somewhere about." Monica could not help smiling. " You guessed I was English, then ? " "That wasn't very hard to find out. I know England fairly well myself." He got up, and dragging some papers from a rack beside the desk, selected a few, and laid them on the end of the sofa. Scarcely had he re-seated himself, when once more the portiere rings jingled along their rod of brass, and a singular-looking young man came in. He had the face of a boy, and the expression of an octogenarian. His eyes widened at sight of the grey frock on the blue sofa, and he stopped abruptly on the threshold. " You won't want me now, sir, I presume ? " he nasally inquired. " Not now," said the other ; " by and by, perhaps. Take the typewriter to your own place, and then we sha'n't disturb the — er — the passengers."

The youth, hiding an incipient grin with the palm of his long hand, seized the typewriter and vanished. " I should not have been at all disturbed," pro nounced Monica. "And I seem to be the only passenger in this compartment — beside yourself. It is odd, too, because I had heard that travelling was so crowded in the States." " That's so — in some ' compartments.' But there are different kinds, you know. This kind is — er — sort of reserved." " Oh, I hope I haven't got in first-class by mistake!" Monica exclaimed. " Mrs. Potter, that is my land lady, told me there were no such things as first and second and third class in America." " She was quite right, and so are you," soothed the fellow-passenger. " You just stay where you are, and make yourself comfortable." Monica had half started up, but sat down again, breathing more freely.

" This is the first time I've been in an American railway train," she vouchsafed, growing more and more friendly and at her ease. " It seems wonder fully nice. We've nothing half so smart at home." " Just you wait till lunch time," said her companion, " and you'll see something smarter yet. They — they do you very well on board of this car." " Oh, but," objected Monica modestly, " I've got my own lunch in my bag, and Dinah's too. Mrs. Potter put it up, so I know without looking what it will be. Corned beef, and, perhaps, if she felt very good-natured, a currant jelly sandwich made of bread." " Still, it's a pity to let the stuff in the dining-room go begging, isn't it ? " suggested the man. " It's — we get it for nothing, you know." " What a remarkable country ! " laughed Monica. " In that case I'll save Mrs. Potter's contribution for another occasion."

" I would. You're sure you haven't got any friends on board some other car you'd like to treat ? You might as well have them in, you know." " I haven't a friend in all America," she answered confidentially. " The — dickens you haven't ! What — over here alone ? Not a relation in the country ? " " Well, you see," blushing slightly, " I'm not a typical English girl — not the kind you read about in books written by Americans. I had very good reasons for coming. And — I only said I hadn't any friends. I have— at least I think I have — a relation ; but I haven't found her yet. Perhaps I sha'n't find her at all ; but I mean to try." " That sounds romantic," he commented. " It might be, in a story-book. But things seem different in real life — especially in one's own life, when one's got used to it.

I don't even know the name of this relation of mine now, though I have her photograph, taken a good many years ago. When I was in New York, I showed it to people I got ac quainted with, hoping they might recognise it — for one never can tell, and the world is such a little place." " I should think it would appear to be a pretty big one to a young lady without any blood relations to her name." "Oh, don't say blood relations, please!" smiled Monica. " That always seemed such a horrible, sanguinary expression to me, and ever since I was a child I have associated it with the only person I really hate. She is a ' blood relation,' if you like! But I will show you the photograph, if you don't mind. I should think that you had travelled over the country a great deal — haven't you ? " " I rather guess I have.

Do show it. I'll be very pleased." " I always carry it with me," explained Monica. Opening her little Gladstone, she fumbled about for a moment among brushes and combs and flasks of eau-de-cologne, bringing out at last a framed photograph, representing a pretty woman dressed in the fashion of fourteen or fifteen years before. " Of course it would be too good to be true that you should know her ? " she said, almost breathlessly, as the sharp-featured man examined the por trait. He shook his head. " No, I can't say I do. And yet, by Jove, there's something that looks kind of familiar about it, too ! I've always prided myself on my memory for faces. But — I'm not sure of this one. I shall begin looking round, now I've seen it, though; and who knows but I'll light on it some day ? •I suppose I mustn't ask what relation she is to you ?

" "No, I think you mustn't ask that 7 And Monica was demure again. " You'll have to let me know your name and address, if I'm to help you find your missing relative. Isn't that so ? " " My name is Monica Nairne, but the address won't be so easy. I am just going," — and she tried to keep the ring of self-importance from her voice — " to join a travelling theatrical company." " Oh, indeed ? " The sharp-featured man looked thoughtful. " Had any experience — on the other side the herring-pond ? " " No ! That was what all the agents asked me ! " Monica laughed. " They always glowered, and said, ' What have you done?' which I feared at first referred to my criminal record." " Do you know anything about the manager ? " " N — ot exactly. I answered an advertisement." " H'm ! Don't think me impertinent.