by Ngaio Marsh
The rector, a widower whose classic handsomeness made him the prey of such women, was, so Dinah had told Henry, secretly terrified of both these ladies who loomed so large in parochial affairs. Eleanor Prentice had a sort of coy bedside manner with the rector. She spoke to him in a dove-smooth voice and frequently uttered little musical laughs. Idris Campanula was bluff and proprietary, called him “my dear man” and watched him with an intensity that made him blink, and aroused in his daughter a conflicting fury of disgust and compassion.
Henry laid aside the fur coat and hurried to Dinah. He had known Dinah all his life, but while he was at Oxford and later, when he did a course with a volunteer air-reserve unit, he had seen little of her. When he returned to Pen Cuckoo, Dinah had finished her dramatic course, and had managed to get into the tail end of a small repertory company where she remained for six weeks. The small repertory company then fell to pieces and Dinah returned home, an actress. Three weeks ago he had met her unexpectedly on the hills above Cloudyfold, and with that encounter came love. He had felt as if he saw her for the first time. The bewildering rapture of discovery was still upon him. To meet her gaze, to speak to her, to stand near her, launched him upon a flood of bliss. His sleep was tinged with the colour of his love and when he woke he found her already waiting in his thought. “She is my whole desire,” he said to himself. And, because he was not quite certain that she loved him in return, he had been afraid to declare himself until yesterday, in the shabby, charming old drawing-room at the rectory, when Dinah had looked so transparently into his eyes that he began to speak of love. And then, through the open door, he had seen Eleanor, a still figure, in the dark hall beyond. Dinah saw Eleanor a moment later and, without a word to Henry, went out and welcomed her. Henry himself had rushed out of the rectory and driven home to Pen Cuckoo in a white rage. He had not spoken to Dinah since then, and now he looked anxiously at her. Her wide grey eyes smiled at him.
“Dinah?”
“Henry?”
“When can I see you?”
“You see me now,” said Dinah.
“Alone. Please?”
“I don’t know. Is anything wrong?”
“Eleanor.”
“Oh, Lord!” said Dinah.
“I must talk to you. Above Cloudyfold where we met that morning? To-morrow, before breakfast. Dinah, will you?”
“All right,” said Dinah. “If I can.”
Idris Campanula’s conversation flowed in upon their consciousness. Henry was suddenly aware that she had asked him some sort of question.
“I’m so sorry,” he began. “I’m afraid I — ”
“Now, Henry,” she interrupted, “where are we to go? You’re forgetting your duties, gossiping there with Dinah.” And she laughed her loud rocketting bray.
“The study, please,” said Henry. “Will you lead the way?”
She marched into the study, shook hands with Jocelyn and exchanged pecks with Eleanor Prentice.
“Where’s Dr. Templett?” she asked.
“He hasn’t arrived yet,” answered Miss Prentice. “We must always make allowances for our medical men, mustn’t we?”
“He’s up beyond Cloudyfold,” said the rector. “Old Mrs. Thrinne is much worse. The third Cain boy has managed to run a nail through his big toe. I met Templett in the village and he told me. He said I was to ask you not to wait.”
“Beyond Cloudyfold?” asked Miss Prentice sweetly. Henry saw her exchange a glance with Miss Campanula.
“Mrs. Ross doesn’t have tea till five,” said Miss Campanula, “which I consider a silly ostentation. We certainly will not wait for Dr. Templett. Ha!”
“Templett didn’t say anything about going to Mrs. Ross’s,” said the rector, innocently, “though to be sure it is on his way.”
“My dear good man,” said Miss Campanula, “if you weren’t a saint — however! I only hope he doesn’t try and get her into our play.”
“Idris dear,” said Miss Prentice. “May I?”
She collected their attention and then said very quietly:
“I think we are all agreed, aren’t we, that this little experiment is to be just among ourselves? I have got several little plays here for five and six people and I fancy Dinah has found some too.”
“Six,” said Miss Campanula very firmly. “Five characters won’t do, Eleanor. We’ve three ladies and three men. And if the rector — ”
“No,” said the rector, “I shall not appear. If there’s any help I can give behind the scenes, I shall be only too delighted, but I really don’t want to appear.”
“Three ladies and three men, then,” said Miss Campanula. “Six.”
“Certainly no more,” said Miss Prentice.
“Well,” said the squire, “if Mrs. Ross is very good at acting, and I must say she’s an uncommonly attractive little thing — ”
“No, Jocelyn,” said Miss Prentice.
“She is very attractive,” said Henry.
“She’s got a good figure,” said Dinah. “Has she had any experience?”
“My dear child,” said Miss Campanula loudly, “she’s as common as dirt and we certainly don’t want her. I may say that I myself have seen Eleanor’s plays and I fully approve of Simple Susan. There are six characters: three men and three ladies. There is no change of scene, and the theme is suitable.”
“It’s rather old,” said Dinah dubiously.
“My dear child,” repeated Miss Campanula, “if you think we’re going to do one of your modern questionable problem-plays you’re very greatly mistaken.”
“I think some of the modern pieces are really not quite suitable,” agreed Miss Prentice gently.
Henry and Dinah smiled.
“And as for Mrs. Selia Ross,” said Miss Campanula, “I believe in calling a spade a spade and I have no hesitation in saying I think we’ll be doing a Christian service to poor Mrs. Templett, who we all know is too much an invalid to look after herself, if we give Dr. Templett something to think about besides — ”
“Come,” said the rector desperately, “aren’t we jumping our fences before we meet them? We haven’t appointed a chairman yet and so far nobody has suggested that Mrs. Ross be asked to take part.”
“They’d better not,” said Miss Campanula.
The door was thrown open by Taylor, who announced:
“Mrs. Ross and Dr. Templett, sir.”
“What!” exclaimed the squire involuntarily.
An extremely well-dressed woman and a short rubicund man walked into the room.
“Hullo! Hullo!” shouted Dr. Templett. “I’ve brought Mrs. Ross along by sheer force. She’s a perfectly magnificent actress and I tell her she’s got to come off her high horse and show us all how to set about it. I know you’ll be delighted.”
CHAPTER TWO
Six Parts and Seven Actors
i
It was Henry who rescued the situation when it was on the verge of becoming a scene. Neither Miss Campanula nor Miss Prentice made the slightest attempt at cordiality. The squire uttered incoherent noises, shouted “What!” and broke out into uncomfortable social laughter. Dinah greeted Mrs. Ross with nervous civility. The rector blinked and followed his daughter’s example. But on Henry the presence of Dinah acted like a particularly strong stimulant and filled him with a vague desire to be nice to the entire population of the world. He shook Mrs. Ross warmly by the hand, complimented Dr. Templett on his idea, and suggested, with a beaming smile, that they should at once elect a chairman and decide on a play.
The squire, Dinah, and the rector confusedly supported Henry. Miss Campanula gave a ringing sniff. Miss Prentice, smiling a little more widely than usual, said:
“I’m afraid we are short of one chair. We expected to be only seven. Henry dear, you will have to get one from the dining-room. I’m so sorry to bother you.”
“I’ll share Dinah’s chair,” said Henry happily.
“Please don’t get one for me,” said Mrs. Ross. “Billy can perch on
my arm.”
She settled herself composedly in a chair on the rector’s left and Dr. Templett at once sat on the arm. Miss Prentice had already made sure of her place on the rector’s right hand and Miss Campanula, defeated, uttered a short laugh and marched to the far end of the table.
“I don’t know whether this is where I am bidden, Eleanor,” she said, “but the meeting seems to be delightfully informal, so this is where I shall sit. Ha!”
Henry, his father, and Dinah took the remaining chairs.
From the old chandelier a strong light was cast down on the eight faces round the table; on the squire, pink with embarrassment; on Miss Prentice, smiling; on Miss Campanula, like an angry mare, breathing hard through her nostrils; on Henry’s dark Jernigham features; on Dinah’s crisp and vivid beauty; on the rector’s coin-sharp priestliness and on Dr. Templett’s hearty undistinguished normality. It shone on Selia Ross. She was a straw-coloured woman of perhaps thirty-eight. She was not beautiful but she was exquisitely neat. Her hair curved back from her forehead in pale waves. The thick white skin of her face was beautifully made-up and her clothes were admirable. There was a kind of sharpness about her so that she nearly looked haggard. Her eyes were pale and you would have guessed that the lashes were white when left to themselves. Almost every human being bears some sort of resemblance to an animal and Mrs. Ross was a little like a ferret. But for all that she had a quality that arrested the attention of many women and most men. She had a trick of widening her eyes, and looking slantways. Though she gave the impression of fineness she was in reality so determined that any sensibilities she possessed were held in the vice of her will. She was a coarse-grained woman but she seemed fragile. Her manner was gay and good-natured, but though she went out of her way to do kindnesses, her tongue was quietly malicious. It was clear to all women who met her that her chief interest was men. Dinah watched her now and could not help admiring the cool assurance with which she met her frigid reception. It was impossible to guess whether Mrs. Ross was determined not to show her hurts or was merely so insensitive that she felt none. “She has got a cheek,” thought Dinah. She looked at Henry and saw her own thoughts reflected in his face. Henry’s rather startlingly fierce eyes were fixed on Mrs. Ross and in them Dinah read both awareness and appraisal. He turned his head, met Dinah’s glance, and at once his expression changed into one of such vivid tenderness that her heart turned over. She was drowned in a wave of emotion and was brought back to the world by the sound of Miss Prentice’s voice.
“——to elect a chairman for our little meeting. I should like to propose the rector.”
“Second that,” said Miss Campanula, in her deepest voice.
“There you are, Copeland,” said the squire, “everybody says ‘Aye’ and away we go.” He laughed loudly and cast a terrified glance at his cousin.
The rector looked amiably round the table. With the exception of Henry, of all the company he seemed the least embarrassed by the arrival of Mrs. Ross. If Mr. Copeland had been given a round gentle face with unremarkable features and kind shortsighted eyes it would have been a perfect expression of his temperament. But ironical nature had made him magnificently with a head so beautiful that to most observers it seemed that his character must also be on a grand scale. With that head he might have gone far and become an important dignitary of the church, but he was unambitious and sincere, and he loved Pen Cuckoo. He was quite content to live at the rectory as his forebears had lived, to deal with parish affairs, to give what spiritual and bodily comfort he could to his people, and to fend off the advances of Idris Campanula and Eleanor Prentice. He knew very well that both these ladies bitterly resented the presence of Mrs. Ross, and that he was in for one of those hideously boring situations when he felt exactly as if he was holding down with his thumb the cork of a bottle filled with seething ginger-pop.
He said, “Thank you very much. I don’t feel that my duties as chairman will be very heavy as we have only met to settle the date and nature of this entertainment, and when that is decided all I shall have to do is to hand everything over to the kind people who take part. Perhaps I should explain a little about the object we have in mind. The Young People’s Friendly Circle, which has done such splendid work in Pen Cuckoo and the neighbouring parishes, is badly in need of funds. Miss Prentice as president and Miss Campanula as secretary, will tell you all about that. What we want more than anything else is a new piano. The present instrument was given by your father, wasn’t it, squire?”
“Yes,” said Jocelyn. “I remember quite well. It was when I was about twelve. It wasn’t new then. I can imagine it’s pretty well a dead horse.”
“We had a tuner up from Great Chipping,” said Miss Campanula, “and he says he can’t do anything more with it. I blame the scouts. Ever since the eldest Cain boy was made scout-master they have gone from bad to worse. He’s got no idea of discipline, that young man. On Saturday I found Georgie Biggins tramping up and down the keyboard in his boots and whanging the wires inside with the end of his pole. ‘If I were your scout-master,’ I said, ‘I’d give you a beating that you’d not forget in a twelvemonth.’ His reply was grossly impertinent. I told the eldest Cain that if he couldn’t control his boys himself he’d better hand them over to someone who could.”
“Dear me, yes,” said the rector hurriedly. “Young barbarians they are sometimes. Well now, the piano is of course not the sole property of the Y.P.F.C. It was a gift to the parish. But I have suggested that, as they use it a great deal, perhaps it would be well to devote whatever funds result from this entertainment to a piano fund, rather than to a general Y.P.F.C. fund. I don’t know what you all think about this.”
“How much would a new piano cost?” asked Dr. Templett.
“There’s a very good instrument at Preece’s in Great Chipping,” said the rector. “The price is £50.”
“We can’t hope to make that at our show, can we?” asked Dinah.
“I tell you what,” said the squire. “I’ll make up the difference. The piano seems to be a Pen Cuckoo affair.”
There was a general gratified murmur.
“Damned good of you, squire,” said Dr. Templett. “Very generous.”
“Very good indeed,” agreed the rector.
Miss Prentice, without moving, seemed to preen herself. Henry saw Miss Campanula look at her friend and was startled by the singularly venomous glint in her eye. He thought, “She’s jealous of Eleanor taking reflected glory from father’s offer.” And suddenly he was appalled by the thought of these two aging women united in so profound a dissonance.
“Perhaps,” said the rector, “we had better have a formal motion.”
They had a formal motion. The rector hurried them on. A date was fixed three weeks ahead for the performance in the parish hall. Miss Prentice who seemed to have become a secretary by virtue of her seat on the rector’s right hand, made quantities of notes. And all the time each of these eight people knew very well that they merely moved in a circle round the true matter of their meeting. What Miss Prentice called “the nature of our little entertainment” had yet to be determined. Every now and then someone would steal a covert glance at the small pile of modern plays in front of Dinah, and the larger pile of elderly French’s acting editions in front of Miss Prentice. And while they discussed prices of admission, and dates, through each of their minds raced their secret thoughts.
ii
The rector thought, “I cannot believe it of Templett. A medical man with an invalid wife! Besides, there’s his professional position. But what persuaded him to bring her here? He must have known how they would talk. I wish Miss Campanula wouldn’t look at me like that. She wants to see me alone again. I wish I’d never said confession was recognised by the Church, but how could I not? I wish she wouldn’t confess. I wish that I didn’t get the impression that she and Miss Prentice merely use the confessional as a means of informing against each other. Six parts and seven people. Oh; dear!”
The squire
thought, “Eleanor’s quite right, I was good in Ici on Parle Français. Funny how some people take to the stage naturally. Now, if Dinah and Henry try to suggest one of those modern things, as likely as not there will be nothing that suits me. What I’d like is one of those charming not-so-young men in a Marie Tempest comedy. Mrs. Ross could play the Marie Tempest part. Eleanor and old Idris wouldn’t have that at any price. I wonder if it’s true that they don’t really kiss on the stage because of the grease paint. Still, at rehearsals… I wonder if it’s true about Templett and Mrs. Ross. I’m as young as ever I was. What the devil am I going to do about Henry and Dinah Copeland? Dinah’s a pretty girl. Hard, though. Modern. If only the Copelands were a bit better off it wouldn’t matter. I suppose they’ll talk about me, both of them. Henry will say something clever. Blast and damn Eleanor! Why the devil couldn’t she hold her tongue, and then I shouldn’t have had to deal with it. Six parts and seven people. Why shouldn’t she be in it, after all? I suppose Templett would want the charming not-so-young part and they’d turn me into some bloody comic old dodderer.”