Verity put a hand round the curtain and waved wildly, and Larruppin’
Lyndesay, who had been at the beck of those fingers too long not
to recognise them under any circumstances, stopped trying to sell
programmes to people who had them already, and shouldered his way on
to the stage, where a crowd of piqué nightmares, rather terrible in
their exaggerated make-up, were busy settling themselves upon insecure
pedestals.
The gas smelt vilely, and already the whole place was hot and airless.
Larry tugged uneasily at his stiff collar, and wriggled uncomfortably
in his evening clothes. He was frightfully sleepy too, having been out
on the moor all day, and he wondered how on earth he should ever pull
through the sing-song without a snore. He met Verity’s agitation rather
unsympathetically, looking gloomily at the dainty little figure in its
short skirt and coquettish hat, and wished she were out in the rain
with him in a Burberry, and only the painting of Nature on her face.
Billy-boy Blackburn, it seemed, had not yet put in an appearance, and
Verity was beginning to be alarmed.
“Oh, of course I can start out an’ hunt for him, if you like,” Larry
said morosely. “I shan’t have to go scoutin’ very far. The Red Lion
is his favourite restin’-place. If not, there’s the Brown Cow,--just
as soothin’. Never say die. But if he doesn’t turn up without bein’
booted, I should say leave him where he’s roostin, an’ plank along
without him.”
“We can’t! He’s the making of the whole thing. Everybody depends on
him.” Verity looked worried and rather helpless, a totally fresh
attitude to which the young man’s heart warmed. “Do have a look for
him, Larry! We ought to start in a minute.”
“All right. I’ll see where the bounder’s hidin’,”--Larry turned,
obedient though disapproving,--“but I warn you I shall make a point of
usin’ my own discretion. If I find him goin’ strong, I shall detain
him on licensed premises, an’ you can send old Grange runnin’ at ten
o’clock to shove us both under the pump!”
Verity’s heart smote her for a moment. Perhaps it was scarcely fair to
send young Lionel Lyndesay scouring after a doubtful blacksmith through
a series of equally doubtful pubs; and moreover she was a little afraid
of her black donkey, to-night. He looked older, and, being tired, much
less sunny and complaisant. Indeed, there was something almost grim
about his bullet head and big shoulders and his grumbling bass. For the
first time she felt him tug at his leading-strings.
She laid her hand rather timidly on his arm, and he wanted to kiss
her on the one bit of eyebrow which had escaped the pencil, but the
whole effect was distasteful to him, and again he thought longingly
of Burberries and a certain bog on the moor that had played him
desperately false.
“You’ll do no more of this sort of thing, do you hear?” he added,
almost roughly. “It’s not fittin’! This isn’t the time for jawin’, but
I’ve been meanin’ to say somethin’ for weeks, an’ the Lord only knows
what it’s been like, holdin’ it in. This is goin’ to be the wind-up of
your private Hippodrome, so you can just be makin’ the most of it, an’
gettin’ ready for shuttin’ down!”
He stumped off again, and fell almost into the arms of Grant, sitting
in the middle of the front row. He greeted him moodily.
“Goin’ to start an opposition meetin’, old man? Verity’s agitatin’
somethin’ alarmin’ because that prize squawker of hers hasn’t turned up
yet.”
“Do you mean Blackburn?” Grant got up, paling slightly, and Larry
nodded.
“He’s found missin’, an’ I’m off Sherlock-Holmesin’ round the village
pubs, an’ if he’s not in drawin’-room form I’ll have an amusin’ evenin’
entertainin’ him on my own. You can trust me for that.”
“I’ll come with you,” Grant said impulsively, but Larry would have none
of him.
“Thanks. I can stand up to Billy all right without any parsons holdin’
my hat,” he returned unkindly. (Larry, as well as Christian, had
figured in the ring, but had been pronounced unsafe.) “If you’re
hankerin’ after bein’ useful, you can start in sellin’ the programmes,”
he added, thrusting the pink papers into Grant’s hands, “an’ be sure
you’re on the spot an’ throwin’ flowers if any of the squawkers gets a
really bad drop.”
He disappeared beyond the fast-filling seats; and as he went out at
the main entrance, Billy-boy slipped in by the stage-door. A minute
earlier, Larrupper would have discovered him, as he had prophesied,
fortifying the artistic temperament in the Red Lion; but he was still
sufficiently sober to read a clock, and an ironic Providence steered
him safely past Verity with a respectful salute to his place beside
the piano. The curve of the grand formed a comfortable prop, and his
trainer, beholding him decorously seated, breathed a sigh of relief and
took a final glance at the audience before ringing up the curtain.
The room was full now, the whole district being well represented, from
the dear old things who had known her from childhood and thought her
amazingly clever, to the dear young ones who were being brought up in
the same belief and the fear of Cantacute. They had come prepared to
enjoy themselves, confidently looking for a good programme. Verity
knew the standard they expected, and thought uncomfortably of one or
two doubtful items; then recollected Billy-boy’s magnetic genius for
keeping stragglers together, and took heart.
Christian and Mrs. Stanley were sitting in the second row, with
Rishwald within “collecting” distance just behind, and Callander,
looking uneasily for fire-exits and ventilators. The Bracewell girls,
inspired by the atmosphere, were trying to persuade the doctor to
join a choral society. Perhaps they remembered Garrick’s advice to
his tongue-tied acquaintance,--“If you c-c-c-c-can’t s-_speak_, why
d-d-don’t you _sing_?”
Deb had come with the Savaurys. Roger Lyndesay had a horror of stuffy
rooms and noisy entertainments. He liked best his own fireside, with
a pipe and some queer old book of Westmorland history that had long
“s’s” spiking up and down the page. Savaury purchased three programmes
from the somewhat abashed parson, and asked if the living required
supplementing; then buried his nose in the pink sheet, snorting
contemptuously as he recited the items aloud.
“‘I know a lovely garden’--h’m--that’s the chemist, isn’t it? Verbena
hairwash, I suppose, and camomile tea. ‘I see you on every side’--the
policeman’s wife with the squint. Mrs. Andrews--‘Come where my love
lies dreaming’--as if one _could_, when he’s been in the churchyard
these last ten years, and a very good thing, too! Here’s another
garden--‘Beautiful Garden of Roses’--(so _tiresome_ never to get away
from Nature!) and--dear, dear! This is really _too_ much--‘Leaving yet
Loving’--duet by the schoolmaster and the assistant teacher who has
just given notice. I shall complain to the County Council!”
Christian leaned back to ask Deborah some question about the
performance, and she answered casually, without lifting her eyes from
the programme. She had been stopping at Heron, helping Verity with
her preparations, so had only seen him once since that mystic hour
in the gloaming which had entrapped them both. The “once” had been
but a lightning interview snatched in the street while Verity threw
skirts at various squawkers’ doors, and they had had little chance of
improving the situation, either way. She had impressed silence upon
him rather fiercely, and had stayed awake half the night, recalling
his hurt and puzzled face. It was all wrong,--she felt it in every
nerve--and wondered how long the situation would last. She had started
at least half a dozen letters that would have brought it to an end,
but always some little thing had stopped her,--some chance word or
thought that sent all the springs of longing flowing back in the same
direction. How easily things might have been so graciously otherwise,
had those fatal words never been spoken on the old bridge! They cared
enough,--she almost believed,--understood enough, to have been happy
together, with the promise of something greater to come; but Slinker
stood between, and across the dawn of the new hope the old doubt
lingered in Christian’s eyes. She was taking him as she would have
taken Stanley--for Crump. His mother’s words--“You would have married
Christian on the same terms!”--haunted him, sleeping and waking,
torturing him past endurance. The affinity born of the long day in the
open and the quiet evening at dusk had vanished, leaving only a sense
of upheaval and strain and helpless bewilderment. Things _could_ not be
right, as they were; yet how to mend them? They groped for each other
in the dark, and, touching hands, found each a stranger where had been
a friend.
Going wearily over the same ground, her eyes resting miserably on the
back of Christian’s head, she became suddenly conscious that Callander
was watching her, and wrenched her attention back to Savaury and the
programme.
Callander had called, the day after the meet, to apologise for his
desertion.
“I thought you were coming, too,” he said bluntly, “or they’d never
have got me inside! I was just backing out when Lyndesay told Miss
Bracewell he was on his way to tea with you, so I knew you were all
right. He said something about a fender-stool and a brown tea-pot, and
made off after you. I suppose he caught you up?”
“Yes,--in the next field. What did he say about the tea-pot?”
“I didn’t quite grasp it. Something about you having one at Kilne. Miss
What’s-her-name said--‘Oh, I _quite_ understand! How sweet of you to
admire your poor relations’ tea-pots!’ and Christian looked at her for
a whole minute. Then he said--‘Miss Lyndesay and I have an ancestor who
made tea for his Queen in a brown tea-pot. Since then, it has been
the fashion in our family,’--and went away very politely; and Miss
What-d’you-call-her snapped at me for forgetting to shut the gate. She
must have put his back up, for Lyndesay never shoves his ancestors down
your throat. When we got inside, Miss Braces sent the silver tea-pot
back to the kitchen, and ordered an enamel thing with a cracked spout
that poured all over the place. Were you long in getting home?”
She forgot how she had answered that. Perhaps not at all. She knew by
now that Callander didn’t always need an answer.
“Everybody’s here from everywhere,” Savaury was saying, waving his
eyeglasses and turning to stare, as only he could stare, at the people
behind. “It’s astonishing how we all turn up at these tiresome old
things,--almost as if we couldn’t help it. I suppose we get into the
habit, like standing up for the National Anthem, and ordering the usual
Christmas dinner even if everybody in the house has dyspepsia. Of
course, Verity is quite clever and all that kind of thing, but she’s
not very good at taking suggestions. It’s so _tiresome_ when people
won’t follow really valuable advice. I often send her heaps of music,
but she’s never used a note of it yet. I see Mrs. Gardner is here in
her cinematograph dress,--sequins, you say?--oh, possibly, but just as
upsetting to the optic nerve. And really, somebody ought to tell Mrs.
Broughton that green velvet is unlucky, and you can’t be too _careful_
when you’re just out of the Divorce Court,--well, Petronilla, I
suppose Deborah has _heard_ of such a thing in this enlightened age,
and you’ve broken that fan over me once already!”
The curtain went up, then, and he settled himself blissfully to fresh
criticism.
“Now, did you ever--! I ask you--_did_ you? Is it paint or mortar, I
should like to know? And why white powder on a chin receding at least
45 degrees,--not to speak of ruddy rouge on a nose that certainly
shouldn’t be encouraged? Oh, of course Verity is quite charming,
but I’m not altogether sure that it’s quite the _thing_ to look as
stage-finished as all that. Too suggestive of our new peerage, don’t
you think? The singing? Oh, fair, yes, _fair_. A little unsteady,
perhaps, and a shade of difference in opinion as to---- Surely there
must be something wrong?”
There was certainly something wrong, and everybody in the room was
beginning to realise what it was. Verity had grasped it from the start
of the opening chorus, for Billy-boy had roused suddenly from his state
of somnolence and dashed spiritedly into his part. She could feel him
lurching against the piano as he put on pace with each verse. At first
there was merely an added swing to the usual rather tame opening, but
as the speed grew, and Verity’s fingers began to race along the keys,
the choir took fright. The last verse found everybody in a different
bar, and Billy finished first in a triumphant bellow, topping a
crashing discord that made Savaury jump clean out of his seat.
Verity hurriedly dragged out the next song, trying to look as if
nothing had happened, and beckoned to Harry Lauder to begin, praying
that her fallen star might recover during the next item, but the
soloist had barely got to his feet before the black-haired giant was in
front of him, pushing him aside.
“Now don’t you get shoving where you’re not wanted, Tom m’lad!” he
reproved him genially, barring his progress with a piqué arm. “My song
this--‘Honish’--you know ‘Honish,’ Tom m’lad? Men not shinging all to
sit down!”
He waved his arm pleasantly, and Harry-Lauder-Tom-m’lad sat down
instantly, not on his pedestal, unfortunately, but very sharply and
suddenly on the floor; while Verity, afraid to interfere, yet still
more afraid to let him continue, tried to order the rebel back to his
place.
“Your turn next after this, Billy!” she observed, with as
Pélissier-like ease as she could command. “It’s ‘Queen amang the
Heather’ now, you know. Give Mr. Bell a chance!”
But alas! Billy was beyond even her influence. He staggered to
the front of the stage and treated the scandalised audience to a
confidential wink.
“Goin’ to shing ‘Honish’!” he announced sweetly. “Honish my girl, as
everybody knowsh. Everybody got a honish, like me,--everybody in thish
room!” Here he fixed a pleasantly meaning gaze on Savaury, who went
pink all over and waved his glasses, and would have stood up and argued
the point had not Deb on one side, and Petronilla on the other, held
him firmly in his seat.
Billy-boy set his feet squarely apart, and contrived to look over
his shoulder at the piano without actually taking a header into Mrs.
Andrews’ lap.
“Now then, come on, Honish, my dear!” he addressed his petrified
leader, with a particular brand of smile that had never yet come within
her experience. “Give us the twiddley-bitsh at the start, an’ we’ll
show ’em all whatsh what,--see if we don’t! Good little Honish--come
along!”
He filled his big chest without waiting for her, and let out one long,
pure, golden note, just as Verity, wringing the hands of her soul for
Larrupper scouring beer-shops, beheld Grant’s thin fingers snatch the
curtain-ropes from the paralysed attendant, and snap it down before
Billy-boy’s open mouth and astonished eyes. Christian and Callander
had risen to follow him when he made for the steps in a single bound,
but he frowned them back as he slid behind. Billy could give him half
a dozen inches and as many stone, but he had him off the stage and
into the green-room before the audible gasp of horror had died away.
“Go straight on!” he threw at Verity as they disappeared, and as the
audience broke into kindly applause which was none the less hopelessly
ironic, the curtain went up again on a bruised but heroic Harry Lauder.
He was trembling in every limb, and Verity’s hands shook as they struck
the keys, her eyes filling with tears of relief; but between them they
sang “Queen amang the Heather” into the very heart of the crowd, so
that the sixpennies, even at this early stage, caught the infection and
plunged into the chorus. This time, the applause covered no awkward
situation, and Verity smiled gratefully at the shaking station-master
as he trembled back to his seat, at the same time beckoning to a shy
bunch of curls to carry on the programme. In spite of Harry Lauder’s
gallantry, she had little hope of averting failure. The star’s
magnetism and the star’s songs were alike lost to them, and with them
the glory of the concert; and Curls, whose memory was as circuitous as
her hair, was scarcely likely to fill his place.
Her recitation was inaudible to any but the first four rows, and
Savaury so far forgot himself as to prompt at one of her many
sticking-points, to Petronilla’s utter confusion and shame; while the
last verses had an accompaniment of yawns and ribald remarks from the
sixpennies, who found this dull fare after the Highland lover. She was
not much more than a child, and she finished in a series of gulps, her
father and mother holding hands in the background and looking as though
they would cry themselves on the slightest encouragement, in spite of
their paint and giddy Pierrot hats; and though Christian tried to save
the situation by throwing her a large azalea which his housekeeper
had forced upon him at the last moment, a deadly panic fell upon the
unfortunate troupe. Indeed, the next “item” flatly refused to come
forward at all, and Verity, beseeching him in an imploring undertone,
was making up her mind to provide half the concert on her own account,
when a miracle occurred. Grant, in full Pierrot costume and armed with
a banjo, got Heaven knows where, marched gracefully on to the stage.
The first long moment of intense and unbelieving surprise was followed
by a thunderous burst of appreciation, in which the unhappy performers
joined with one accord; and having acknowledged it with a smiling bow,
the new comer utilised the tail of it as cover for a few quick words
with the stupefied lady at the piano. Then, stepping to the footlights,
and accompanying himself on the banjo, he sang the promised “Honey.”
Nobody but Savaury noticed that Billy-boy’s large clothes hung
painfully loosely upon the thin young parson. Nobody but Savaury had
a shock when they saw the clerical collar bravely announcing its
profession above the frivolous Pierrot frill. And even Savaury forgot
to gasp at the wicked little cap cocked above the ascetic face, in the
extreme excellence of the performance.
Such was the spectacle that greeted Larry, returning tired and cross
from his fruitless search,--fruitless, indeed, since Billy was
slumbering happily in the green-room, while Grant, in his astounding
costume, held the audience in close and sympathetic attention, backed
bravely enough now by the chorus, strung to action once more. Only
Verity sat silent by the piano, with her hands in her lap, and her eyes
on the floor, and in her heart a fighting mixture of thankfulness,
admiration, relief and shame.
“So the minutes slip away--” Grant sang sweetly, twanging the banjo
mechanically in the terrible nightmare which had suddenly caught him in
its grip; then missed Verity’s pretty voice behind him, and threw all
the soul of him into the refrain.
“’Nother night we’ll both be dead:
’Nother couple dance instead:
Honey! Lift your pretty head--
Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!”
He not only sang, he danced, danced like a leaf, like a feather, an
indiarubber ball,--danced as even Billy-boy had never danced! And from
that moment his clerical reputation was gone for ever.
Larrupper dropped into a chair beside Callander, and let out a volley
of demand, ejaculation and applause.
“Wish I’d been on the spot!” he muttered worriedly, when the other
had briefly put him in possession of the facts. “I’d have taught Mr.
Billy-boy an interestin’ sing-song with a dog-whip! But I was busy
crawlin’ behind settles an’ peerin’ into parlours, an’ gettin’ myself
disliked somethin’ amazin’, lookin’ for the drunken squawker. I’ll have
some charmin’ moments alone with him, by an’ by! But can’t old Grant
just sing an’ twiddle that banjo! Who’d have thought he’d got it in
him? You don’t look a bit like shoutin’, old man. One might think you
were used to it!”
“So I am,” Callander answered calmly. “I knew Grant intimately before
he was ordained. He was the crack entertainer of our particular
neighbourhood,--always figuring on somebody’s charitable platform. I’ve
heard him sing ‘Honey’ scores of times,--seen him as Pavlova, too, in
frills. He can play anything and sing anything that he’s once heard.
Mean to say you folks didn’t know? You’re mighty slow at picking up
facts! He’s as clever as they’re made, though he’s a little bit out of
practice--for him. Been starving himself for his thankless village, I
expect, poor little chap! I wonder what the Bishop will say when this
gets round to him?”
But Grant had left the Bishop in the green-room with Billy-boy and his
parson’s clothes, and had sunk every other consideration before the
success of Verity’s concert. And a success he made it indeed! Never
deliberately asserting himself, he was yet definitely behind each
performance, blending, guiding, smoothing over awkward places; and
once, when an accompaniment disappeared, he sat down at the piano and
played it by ear. At the end, dropping his banjo, he sang his mother’s
cradle-song, and when he had persistently refused demands for an
encore, some enterprising soul requested a speech. The cry was taken up
at once, and after a moment’s hesitation he got up and came back to the
footlights.
“I hope to Heaven he’s not goin’ to say anythin’ about Billy!”
Larrupper agitated, nearly pushing Callander off his chair. “So
upsettin’ for Verity, don’t you know? Hadn’t I better stop him jawin’
by callin’ three cheers?”
“Don’t you worry!” Callander said tranquilly, levering him gently
back into his own seat. “Grant knows the right thing to do as well as
anybody. He wasn’t _born_ a parson. And your Miss Verity may be jolly
thankful she had him at her back!”
Grant spoke in a rather low tone, looking pale against the painted
faces round him, and also rather exhausted. He was out of practice, as
Callander had said, and a young, unmarried parson has the poor very
much always with him, as well as (most often) a more or less inadequate
housekeeper.
“I want to thank you very much for your kindness,” he began, hugging
his banjo rather nervously. “We’ve all done our best,--I’m sure you
know that,--and your kind encouragement has helped some of us to do
better than our best. I expect some of you are a little surprised
to see me here to-night in this position,--perhaps even a little
shocked--so I should just like to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed it.
Some people think a parson doesn’t enjoy making a fool of himself
anywhere but in his own pulpit, but it isn’t true. ‘’Nother night we’ll
all be dead,’ and perhaps even a parson will be glad then that he had
a last dance. In any case, this parson is proud and happy to have
had a chance of serving Miss Verity Cantacute. You none of you need
telling what Miss Verity does for Cantacute; it’s before you every day,
speaking for itself. A gentleman of my acquaintance--and of hers--said
to me the other night just this--gave me this very pithy and definite
summing-up. ‘Miss Verity,’ he told me, ‘is top-dog here in Cantacute!’
That was his tribute to her--‘Miss Verity is top-dog in Cantacute.’
Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to subscribe to that tribute. In kindness,
in charm, in sweetness and sympathy, in our affection, our admiration
and our respect, Miss Verity is indeed top-dog in Cantacute!”
He stepped back, and Larry grinned delightedly, stumbling to his feet
at the call of the National Anthem.
“If that doesn’t send my little girl scootin’ Arevar way,” he told
himself gleefully, “all the Larry Lyndesays in the world will never do
it!”