“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: