“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!”