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.