CHAPTER XII

Evenat 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’smusic, 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’.Inside, 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 afterthat, 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 thingalong! 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,—agreatdeal more dash! And just have a look at the notes,will you? You don’t seem even to haveseenthose 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 hurtsyouin 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 thatsheisn’t engaged tome!”

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 whatIwas brought up to, either, if it comes to that, but perhaps we’re a bit old-fashioned, an’ ought to keep movin’. Hecandance, 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 Cantacuteought 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!Idon’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!”

“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 asa 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 parsonstruggling 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 anythingspecial, 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 mindreckoning 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 ofhis 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’treallylike 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 justifiedin “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—