Even at the gates of Heron Grant sighed, for sounds of song came
roystering down the drive to meet him. A tambourine rattled
bravely, a piano banged, and that last instrument of depravity--the
bones--chattered cheerily in his ears. Verity’s Pierrots were getting
into their stride. The concert was beginning to loom definitely on the
horizon, and their repute had gone forth on all sides. It behoved them
to strain every nerve.
In the hall he found Larruppin’ Lyndesay sitting on a hard, polished
chair, hugging a large pile of music, and gloomily studying the pattern
of the parquet floor. He raised his head to nod funereally, and to
point to a second hard, polished chair beside him.
“It’s no use your tryin’ to see her,” he observed cheeringly. “If you
walk inside, she’ll only get the plumber or the fish-man to throw you
out again, an’ there’s no sense in takin’ risks. I’m just let in to
deal the music, an’ then I have to git. If you’ve come inspectin’, I
can give you my word that everythin’s O.K. and as strict as Leviticus.
Think it sounds a bit rowdy from outside? Oh, well, that’s _music_,
old man,--there’s no helpin’ _that_! Music is a great and glorious
gift of God--Martin Luther or some other Johnny said so, so you can’t
be disapprovin’. _In_side, it’s as flat as a funeral an’ as dull
as a donkey-race. It’s somethin’ distressin’ to see them strainin’
themselves an’ gettin’ thin, tryin’ to be humorous. Verity’s nothin’
but skin an’ bone. As for Larry Lyndesay, I haven’t had a decent dinner
this week, aeroplanin’ over to practices!”
From the drawing-room came the final crashing chords of “Boiling the
Old Black Pan,” and then a lugubrious bass began to sing “Queen Amang
the Heather.”
“Just listen to ’em!” Larry groaned miserably. “Harry Lauder in white
piqué! ’Tisn’t self-respectin’! I’m thinkin’ of writin’ to him about
it. An’ now Verity’s gettin’ her hair up again. There she goes! If
you feel like sailin’ in after _that_, you must be a double-barrelled
Balaclava broncho-buster!”
Verity’s voice had broken clear and commanding across the lumberings of
the embryo Harry Lauder.
“Begin again, please, right at the beginning, and get the thing
_along_! It’s as heavy as a stale loaf, at present; more like an
elephant trying to dance than anything else. This is how you sing it,
if you care to know.” (Faithful if uncomplimentary imitation.) “A great
deal more dash about it, please,--a _great_ deal more dash! And just
have a look at the notes, will you? You don’t seem even to have _seen_
those dotted quavers!”
“It hurts to hear her conversin’ like that!” Larrupper threw at the
silent parson by the drawing-room door. “She looks such a kind, soft
little thing, doesn’t she? She’s no business to be roarin’ like a
drill-sergeant fifty inches round the chest. She’s jolly clever, of
course, an’ she knows what she’s doin’, but it kind of makes me squirm
when she slogs at the grocer or starts bullyin’ the big fish-an’-chips.”
“It hurts me, too,” Grant said in a low voice, without turning.
“Yes, but it hurts me all over,” Larry mourned, his black eyes pools
of misery,--“inside an’ outside, my head an’ my heart an’ my charmin’
disposition. It only hurts _you_ in your parson-part, old man!”
Grant turned half an eye upon him, but made no effort to contradict
him. “Are you engaged to her?” he asked suddenly, apparently of
nothing but the grain of the drawing-room door, and the white china
finger-plate.
“Oh, yes, I’m engaged to her all right!” Larry pronounced firmly,
plunging into search after a missing copy, so that he did not see the
other’s back stiffen. “I should have thought you would have known that
without tellin’. I’m always gettin’ congratulatin’ letters. The only
worryin’ thing about it is that _she_ isn’t engaged to _me_!”
Grant gave a short laugh which might have meant either amusement or
relief.
“Do you think if I were to knock----?” he began, summoning his
determination, but was cut short by a fresh star within, swimming
soothingly into his ken with--“Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!”
There was no peremptory checking, this time, no request for “dash,” no
insulting recommendations as to quavers. The accompaniment murmured
tenderly beneath the pure, easy tenor, and the parson jumped round with
an unspoken question on his lips, to which Larry nodded a solemn assent.
“That’s so,--but it’s no use disturbin’ yourself, old man. It’s
Billy-boy Blackburn, right enough, and can’t he just sing, bless his
dear, innocent little heart! Sounds like somethin’ in a surplice
with wings, doesn’t he? An’ now he’s dancin’,--you can hear the old
Nanki-Poo joinin’ in!”
“I’m going to speak to Miss Cantacute!” Grant announced sternly, but
Larry sprang up and grabbed him.
“Not on your life!” he said anxiously. “I’m Verity’s watch-dog, an’
it’s my job to see you don’t go bargin’ in to worry her. What’s the
use of excitin’ yourself, anyhow? Tisn’t what _I_ was brought up to,
either, if it comes to that, but perhaps we’re a bit old-fashioned, an’
ought to keep movin’. He _can_ dance, too, dear old thing! He won’t
smash anythin’. An’ Verity likes it.”
“She’s no business to like it!” Grant snapped angrily, opening the door
in spite of him. “Blackburn’s a wastrel,--a real outsider--and Miss
Cantacute ought not to have anything to do with him. She’s too young
and--and too pretty!” he finished defiantly. “And if you’re engaged to
her, as you seem to think other people think you think you are, you
shouldn’t have allowed it!”
Larruppin’ Lyndesay crimsoned indignantly.
“D’you think I’d have him on the same planet as my girl if I could
help it?” he asked hotly. “Don’t I know Billy-boy Blackburn’s winnin’
character as well as you an’ everybody else in the parish? But if
you imagine it’s any use sayin’ ‘no’ when Verity says ‘yes,’ you’re
labourin’ under a very highly-coloured delusion! You’ll get no good by
breakin’ in an’ makin’ yourself disliked, young feller-me-lad, and--oh,
very well, go to blazes! _I_ don’t care!”
Verity did not see the black figure at first as she bent earnestly over
the keys, looking up now and then to smile approval at the performer,
and joining heartily in the refrain.
“So the minutes slip away:
We get older, every day:
Soon we’ll be too old to play.
(Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!)
’Nother night we’ll both be dead:
’Nother couple dance instead:
Honey! Lift your pretty head--
Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!”
Billy-boy sank panting into a chair, and it was not until Verity had
finished applauding that she had time to perceive the intruder. The
perfection of Billy-boy’s ‘turn’ must have softened her heart, for she
rose with a smile and offered Grant a welcoming hand.
“I’m afraid you find us rather busy to-night. Are you wanting anything
important? If not, won’t you sit down and listen to a few of our items?
You may be able to make some suggestions.”
Grange, Larrupper’s chauffeur, offered the vicar his seat, which the
latter took after a moment’s hesitation, and sat in silence while
Larrupper himself, looking rather sheepish, doled out a fresh batch of
copies. He hated the job frankly. Larruppin’ Lyndesay hadn’t an ounce
of either self-consciousness or pride, but he did feel a bit of an
ass distributing “My sweet sweeting” and more of that ilk to his own
chauffeur. He had a strong suspicion that Grange thought him an ass,
likewise, for all that he looked like a bit of the furniture. Besides,
Grange could sing, and Larry couldn’t. Perhaps that was the rub.
It was certainly a very select troupe. Grant, looking round upon the
prim party of twenty, had to admit that;--decidedly O.K., as Larry
had put it. Billy-boy was its only blot, thought the parson, and
instantly his artistic sense (sternly repressed) responded that, on
the contrary, he was its only saving grace. For when Billy-boy sang,
the chorus were magnetised into rhythm, attack, spontaneity and life;
but when Billy was silent, they were merely so many stuffed dolls,
hanging heavy upon Verity’s little fingers. The audience, considering
the big, black-bearded smith, with his gentle voice, step as light as
a cat’s, and character,--well, not worth mentioning,--pondered sadly
upon the pitfalls of the artistic temperament. Not one of those present
but despised the man, shrugged a meaning shoulder when speaking of
him, or shook a condemning head; yet with one consent they bowed to
the artist in him, and paid it tribute by giving him of their best.
No wonder Verity had counted him as her leaven of magic in her barrel
of commonplace material! Yet he chafed to see the man under her roof,
sharing her society; for in his thoughts Verity floated always as the
whole host of heaven float in the top half of an old Italian canvas.
Many of his church-workers were present, and both his artistic and his
official sense pronounced violently that they were thoroughly out of
the picture. The girls were stiff; the men desperately polite. Grange,
in spite of his voice, looked as though he might touch his hat at
any moment. “My sweet sweeting” left them all unstirred; all except
Billy-boy Blackburn, on whose lips the old English words took instant
meaning and colour.
Grant, falling greatly, allowed himself to delay his special mission
until Billy had contributed his second solo, and again he marvelled,
for it was merely a simple lullaby, sung simply as only an artist could
sing it. His own mother had sung it often; yet he found himself unable
to resent either interpretation or interpreter. Art was the subtlest
lure of the devil, he concluded, sitting with closed eyes, the parson
struggling with the man. He had long ago decided that St. Paul’s thorn
in the flesh must have been the curse of the artistic temperament.
When the cradle-song finished, he rose nervously, his thin hand
grasping the back of the chair before him, his bright eyes fixed on
Verity’s face.
“You will think I am always a spoil-sport, Miss Cantacute, and I can
assure you I feel one, entering with an ulterior motive upon this
pleasant entertainment, but I have to remind my friend Blackburn of
a promise. He undertook some work for me, this winter, a position
in the service of my Master and his, which, lowly as it might seem
in your eyes, has a very great importance in mine. He has neglected
this undertaking for your rehearsals, Miss Cantacute, and those who
had grown to look for him and depend on him are now left a little
sadder, perhaps, than if he had never been. I went to see him about it,
naturally, and he told me that he was not in the least tired of his
work, but that Miss Verity wanted him, and therefore he couldn’t come.
You did tell me that, Blackburn, didn’t you?--just that--that Miss
Verity wanted you, and therefore you couldn’t come?”
Billy-boy, his blue eyes very solemn in his dark face, responded “Yes,
sir,” respectfully, touching an overhanging forelock, and Verity smiled
at him. She could afford to smile.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Grant,” she said frankly, with the honest sympathy
born of success. “Of course I didn’t know Billy was doing anything
special, but in any case I don’t see that we could have managed without
him. He makes all the difference, doesn’t he?” she added to the choir,
who replied affirmatively in various shades of tone, being divided
between their dislike of the man and the consciousness of their own
superior merit under the guidance of his genius.
“It is too bad, certainly, to leave you in the lurch,” Verity went on,
with maddening kindness, “but you see I want Billy simply frightfully
myself. I’d give him up if I could, but it’s out of the question. I’m
really awfully sorry, but I don’t see how I can help you, except,
perhaps, by finding you somebody else.”
I’m afraid she enjoyed that last knife-edged sentence. It is difficult
not to be a snob when flanked by twenty staunch flatterers of lower
degree.
Grant looked at her sadly and a little whimsically.
“Thank you, I think I know by now the extent of parish service
available,” he answered, with a faint smile. “We are almost on the
verge of the press-gang, as it is! But you see, this happens to be
Blackburn’s job, and nobody else’s. I’m not in the pulpit, but you
don’t need to be told that we all have our own job somewhere in the
world, and this was Billy’s. I shall be unhappy every day until I see
him back in it.”
“Was it very important?” Verity asked, touched in spite of herself by
his earnestness. “Really important?”
“As Christ counts importance, Miss Cantacute!”
“Then, if Billy will go, you may have him.”
Grant took an impulsive step forward, and there was an instant murmur
from the troupe. Faced with the possible loss of their star, there was
no shadow of doubt as to his value. One or two of the men started a
protest, but Verity ignored them, fixing her eyes upon the subject of
dispute.
“You have my permission to leave us, Billy, if you think it best. I
don’t like to feel that I’ve stood in the way of your duty. Will you
go? You know I wouldn’t keep you against your will. I’ll try to do
without you, if I must.”
Billy touched the overhanging lock again.
“Thank you, miss, but I think I’ll stop.”
“You mean that, Blackburn? You won’t think it over, and change your
mind?” Grant leaned towards him eagerly. “Miss Cantacute is kind enough
to say you may come. I fully appreciate the sacrifice, I assure you,
but I feel it my duty to accept it. Won’t you come back, my friend?
Won’t you?” But Billy shook a firm refusal.
“Not till this here’s over and by with, sir. I’m sorry, but Miss Verity
comes first, of course. I’ve always done for Miss Verity. She’s top-dog
in Cantacute, and always has been; and if Miss Verity wants me,--well,
sir, to put it plainly, I’m just there an’ nowhere else!”
There was a pause, while Grant’s hands clenched and unclenched on the
chair, his sorrowful mind reckoning up his defeat; and then Billy said
again--“Miss Verity’s always been top-dog in Cantacute!” and a sharp
echo of assent ran round the choir. Afterwards, they would remember
that they had followed Billy-boy’s lead, and be annoyed about it,--also
that they had shown him his importance far too obviously,--but at
the moment there were no side-issues, the point at stake loomed too
large. That murmur of assent showed Grant where he stood as nothing
else could have done,--showed him his opponent’s strength and his own
helplessness, the single-handedness of his own fight, and the long
power of her prestige.
Verity’s gaze was on the floor, and her attitude told nothing, yet he
knew as if he had heard it just what pæan of triumph was swelling her
conquering soul, with the inspiring word “salmon” as its passionate
motif. She had smitten him to the dust, although in a thoroughly
ladylike manner. She had humiliated him in the eyes of his own parish
without apparently raising a finger. She had won her victory and proved
her power by snatching back his hard-saved lamb to wander once more in
the wilderness.
He said nothing further,--just let his eyes travel round the group, not
reproachfully but rather wistfully, as if wondering by what reason one
man should be ready to die for a cause, while another simply yawned in
its face; and looked for one long, final moment at the bent head of his
conqueror,--and in that one moment thought, curiously enough, not of
his own shame and her treacherous subtlety, but of the way the light
played on the fine gold of her hair.
“I knew you’d make a bally ass of yourself!” Larry remarked
comfortingly, outside. “I knew you’d absolutely no earthly of any kind.
Why couldn’t you take a sportsman’s advice? You’ve gone an’ upset
Verity all for nothin’, an’ that means a devil of a time for Larry
Lyndesay. She’ll be as snarky as anythin’ after this, I can tell you.
She doesn’t _really_ like playin’ Alexander all round the place. No
nice woman does; only the hat-pin kind. I can’t think why parsons are
always bargin’ in an’ settin’ people by the ears!
“All the same, I was admirin’ you no end!” he added confidentially, on
the steps. “Grange was admirin’ you, too,--my shover, you know. I could
see him sketchin’ you on the back of that ‘Sweetin’’ thing. I’ll bag it
afterwards, and send it round. You might call it ‘Beardin’ the Begum.’
An’ don’t you get worried about Verity an’ Billy-boy. She’ll probably
post him along to-morrow, done up in a neat parcel. All Verity requires
is a little cultivatin’,--just cultivatin’. Haven’t you noticed that
most of the parishes round here are engineered by women? You can’t
get your Salic business runnin’ all in a minute, you know,--not in
Cantacute, anyhow. Just you take my tip, old man, an’ you’ll not regret
it. Try a little cultivatin’!”
Larry’s worldly diplomacy rang in poor Grant’s ears all the way home.
Would he really be justified in “cultivatin’” his proud little lady?
Didn’t it mean the sacrifice of his most rooted beliefs, the upheaval
of the foundations upon which his very life was set? As representative
of his Church, he was her spiritual superior; for all that, as man,
he longed to kiss her feet. To yield to her banner would be rank
treachery, and all the more because beneath it stood no foe but the
dear form of Verity Cantacute. All night he thought and fought and
prayed, and all night he sang without ceasing to her bent head--
“So the minutes slip away:
We get older, every day:
Soon we’ll be too old to play.
(Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!)
’Nother night we’ll both be dead:
’Nother couple dance instead:
Honey! Lift your pretty head--
Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!”
Was she right, after all?--argued Billy-boy’s song. Soon they would all
be in the dark, and the more fools they who had missed the sunshine and
the mirth! Perhaps he was hard, his creed damnably drear. Yet he had
been happy in it until he had heard Verity piping on the green. Had he
been harsh to her, the pretty, piping thing? Had he hurt her for the
sake of a soul that perhaps none could save?
Oh, Honey! Lift your pretty head!