by Ngaio Marsh
“Beginners, please.”
In front of Dinah, six privileged Friendly Young Girls, who were to sell programmes and act as ushers at the performance, sat in a giggling row to watch the dress rehearsal. Dr. Templett and Henry were their chief interest. Dr. Templett was aware of this and repeatedly looked round the curtain. He had insisted on making himself up, and looked as if he had pressed his face against a gridiron and then garnished his chin with the hearth-brush. Just as Dinah was about to ring up the curtain, his head again bobbed round the corner.
“Vy do you, ’ow you say, gargle so mooch?” he asked the helpers. A renewed paroxysm broke out.
“Dr. Templett!’ shouted Dinah. “Clear stage, please.”
“Ten thousand pardons, Mademoiselle,” said Dr. Templett. “I vaneesh.” He made a comic face and disappeared.
“All ready behind, Daddy?” shouted Dinah.
“I think so,” said the rector’s voice doubtfully.
“Positions, everybody. House lights, please.” Dinah was obliged to execute this last order herself, as the house lights switch was in the auditorium. She turned it off and the six onlookers yelped maddeningly.
“Ssh, please! Curtain!”
“Just a minute,” said the rector dimly.
The curtain rose in a series of uneven jerks, and the squire, who should have been at the telephone, was discovered gesticulating violently to someone in the wings. He started, glared into the house, and finally took up his position.
“Where’s that telephone bell?” demanded Dinah.
“Oh, dear!” said the rector’s voice dismally. He could be heard scuffling about in the prompt-corner and presently an unmistakable bicycle bell pealed. But Jocelyn had already lifted the receiver and, although the bell, which was supposed to summon him to the telephone, continued to ring off-stage, he embarked firmly on his opening lines:
“Hallo! Hallo! Well, who is it?”
The dress rehearsal had begun.
Actors say that a good dress rehearsal means a bad performance. Dinah hoped desperately that the reverse would prove true. Everything seemed to go wrong. She suspected that there were terrific rows in the dressing-rooms, but as she herself had no change to make, she stayed in front whenever she was not actually on the stage. Before the entrance of the two ladies in the second act, Henry came down and joined her.
“Frightful, isn’t it?” he asked.
“It’s the end,” said Dinah.
“My poor darling, it’s pretty bad luck for you. Perhaps it’ll pull through to-morrow.”
“I don’t see how—Dr. Templett!” roared Dinah. “What are you doing? You ought to be up by the fireplace. Go back, please.”
Miss Prentice suddenly walked straight across the stage, in front of Jocelyn, Selia Ross and Dr. Templett, and out at the opposite door.
“Miss Prentice!”
But she had gone, and could be heard in angry conversation with Georgie Biggins, the call-boy, and Miss Campanula.
“You’re a very naughty little boy, and I shall ask the rector to forbid you to attend the performance.”
“You deserve a sound whipping,” said Miss Campanula’s voice. “And if I had my way—”
The squire and Dr. Templett stopped short and stared into the wings.
“What is it?” Dinah demanded.
Georgie Biggins was thrust on the stage. He had painted his nose carmine, and Miss Prentice’s hat for the third act was on his head. He had a water pistol in his hand. The girls in the front row screamed delightedly.
“Georgie,” said Dinah with more than a suspicion of tears in her voice, “take that hat off and go home.”
“I never—” began Georgie.
“Do what I tell you.”
“Yaas, Miss.”
Miss Prentice’s arm shot through the door. The hat was removed. Dr. Templett took Georgie Biggins by the slack of his pants and dropped him over the footlights.
“Gatcha!” said Georgie and bolted to the back of the hall.
“Go on, please,” said poor Dinah.
Somehow or another they got through. Dinah took them back over the scenes that had been outstandingly bad. This annoyed and bored them all very much, but she was adamant.
“It’ll be all right on the night,” said Dr. Templett.
“Saturday’s the night,” said Dinah, “and it won’t.”
At midnight she sat down in the third bench and said she supposed they had better stop. They all assembled in one of the Sunday School rooms behind the stage and gathered round a heater, while Mrs. Ross gave them a very good supper. She had insisted on making this gesture and had provided beer, whisky, coffee and sandwiches. Miss Campanula and Miss Prentice had both offered to make themselves responsible for this supper, and were furious that Mrs. Ross had got in first.
Dinah was astounded to learn from their conversation that they thought they had done quite well. The squire was delighted with himself; Dr. Templett still retained his character as a Frenchman; and Selia Ross said repeatedly that she thought both of them had been marvellous. The other two ladies spoke only to Mr. Copeland, and each waited until she could speak alone. Dinah saw that her father was bewildered and troubled.
“Oh, Lord!” thought Dinah. “What’s brewing now?” She wished that her father was a stronger character, that he would bully or frighten those two venomous women into holding their tongues. And suddenly, with a cold pang, she thought: “If he should lose his head and marry one of them!”
Henry brought her a cup of black coffee.
“I’ve put some whisky in it,” he said. “You’re as pale as a star, and you look frightened. What is it?”
“Nothing. I’m just tired.”
Henry bent his dark head and whispered:
“Dinah?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll talk to father on Saturday night when he’s flushed with his dubious triumphs. Did you get my letter?”
Dinah’s hand floated to her breast.
“Darling,” whispered Henry. “Yours, too. We can’t wait any longer. After to-morrow?’
“After to-morrow,” murmured Dinah.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Vignettes
“I HAVE SINNED,” said Miss Prentice, “in thought, word and deed by my fault, by my own fault, by my most grievous fault. Especially I accuse myself that since that last confession, which was a month ago, I have sinned against my neighbour. I have harboured evil suspicions of those with whom I have come in contact, accusing them in my heart of adultery, unfaithfulness and disobedience to their parents. I have judged my sister-woman in my heart and condemned her. I have listened many times to evil reports of a woman, and because I could not in truth say that I did not believe them—”
“Do not seek to excuse rather than to condemn yourself,” said the rector from behind the Norman confessional that his bishop allowed him to use. “Condemn only your own erring heart. Yon have encouraged and connived at scandal. Go on.”
There was a brief silence.
“I accuse myself that I have committed sins of omission, not performing what I believed to be my bounden Christian duty to the sick, not warning one whom I believe to be in danger of great unhappiness.”
The rector heard Miss Prentice turn a page of the notebook where she wrote her confessions. “I know what she’s getting at,” he thought miserably. But because he was a sincere and humble man, he prayed: “Oh, God, give me the strength of mind to tackle this woman. Amen.”
Miss Prentice cleared her throat in a subdued manner and began again. “I have consorted with a woman whom I believe to be of evil nature, knowing that by doing so I may have seemed to connive at sin.”
“Our Lord consorted with sinners and was sinless. Judge not that you be not judged. The sin of another should excite only compassion in your heart. Go on.”
“I have had angry and bitter thoughts of two young people who have injured someone who is—”
“Stop!” said the rector. “Do not accuse
others. Accuse only yourself. Examine your conscience. Be sure that you have come here with a contrite and humble heart. If it holds any uncharitable thoughts, repent and confess them. Do not try to justify your anger by relating the cause. God will judge how greatly you have been tempted.”
He waited. There was no response at all from his penitent. The church, beyond the confessional, seemed to listen with him for the next whisper.
“My daughter, I am waiting,” said the rector, and was horrified when he was answered by a harsh, angry sobbing.
In spite of her cold, Miss Campanula was happy. She was about to make her confession, and she felt at peace with the world and quite youthful and exalted. The terrible black mood that had come upon her when she woke up that morning had vanished completely She even felt fairly good-humoured when she thought of Eleanor playing her “Venetian Suite” at the performance to-morrow evening. With that Place on her finger, Eleanor was likely enough to make a hash of the music, and then everybody would think it was a pity that she, Idris Campanula, had not been chosen. That thought gave her a happy, warm feeling. Nowadays she was never sure what her mood would be. It changed in the most curious fashion from something like ecstasy, to a dreadful irritation that came upon her with such violence and with so little provocation that it quite frightened her. It was as if, like the people in the New Testament, she had a devil in her, a beast that could send her thoughts black and make her tremble with anger. She had confessed these fits of rage to Father Copeland (she and Eleanor called him that when they spoke of him together), and he had been kind and had prayed for her. He had also, rather to her surprise, suggested that she should see a doctor. But there was nothing wrong with her health, she reflected, except lumbago and the natural processes attached to getting a little bit older. She pushed that thought away quickly, as it was inclined to make her depressed, and when she was depressed the beast took advantage of her.
Her chauffeur drove her to church, but she was a few minutes early, so she decided that she would look in at the parish hall and see if the committee of the Y.P.F.C. had begun to get it ready for to-morrow night. The decorating, of course, would all be done in the morning under her supervision; but there were floors to be swept, forms shifted and tables moved. Perhaps Eleanor would be there—or even Father Copeland on his way to church. Another wave of ecstasy swept over her. She knew why she was so happy. He would perhaps be at Pen Cuckoo for this ridiculous “run through for words” at five o’clock; but, better than that, it was Reading Circle night in the rectory dining-room, and her turn to preside. After it was over she would look in at the study, and Father Copeland would be there alone and would talk to her for a little.
Telling her chauffeur to wait, she marched up the gravelled path to the hall.
It was locked. This was irritating. She supposed those young people imagined they had done enough for one day. You might depend upon it, they had made off, leaving half the work for to-morrow. She was just going away again when dimly, from within, she heard the sound of strumming. Someone was playing “Chopsticks” very badly, with the loud pedal on. Miss Campanula felt a sudden desire to know who had remained inside the hall to strum. She rattled the doors. The maddening noise stopped immediately.
“Who’s in there?” shouted Miss Campanula, in a cold-infected voice, and rattled again.
There was no answer.
“The back door!” she thought. “It may be open.” And she marched round the building. But the back door was shut, and although she pounded angrily on it, splitting her black kid gloves, nobody came to open it. Her face burned with exertion and rising fury. She started off again and completed the circuit of the hall. The frosted windows were all above the level of her eyes. The last one she came to was open at the bottom. Miss Campanula returned to the lane and saw that her chauffeur had followed her in the car from the church.
“Gibson!” she shouted. “Gibson, come here!”
He got out of the car and came towards her. He was a wooden-faced man with a fine physique; very smart in his dark maroon livery and shiny gaiters. He followed his mistress round the front of the hall to the far side.
“I want you to look inside that window,” said Miss Campanula. “There’s somebody in there who’s behaving suspiciously.”
“Very good, miss,” said Gibson.
He gripped the window sill. The muscles under his smart tunic swelled as he raised himself until his eyes were above the sill.
Miss Campanula sneezed violently, blew her nose on her enormous handkerchief drenched in eucalyptus, and said, “Cad you see annddythingk?”
“No, miss. There’s nobody there.”
“But there must be,” insisted Miss Campanula.
“I can’t see any one, miss. The place is all tidied up, like, for to-morrow.”
“Where’s the piano?”
“Down on the floor, miss, in front of the stage.” Gibson lowered himself.
“They bust have gone into one of the back rooms,” muttered Miss Campanula.
“Could whoever it was have come out at the front door, miss, while you were round at the back?”
“Did you see addybody?”
“Can’t say I did, miss. Not round the hall. But I was turning the car. They might have gone round the bend in the lane before I would notice.”
“I consider it bost peculiar and suspicious.”
“Yes, miss. There’s Miss Prentice just coming out of church, miss.”
“Is she?” Miss Campanula peered short-sightedly down the lane. She could see the south porch of St Giles and a figure in the doorway.
“I mustn’t be late,” she thought. “Eleanor has got in first, as usual.” And she ordered Gibson to wait for her outside the church. She crossed the lane and strode down to the lych-gate. Eleanor was still in the porch. One did not stop to gossip when going to confession; but she gave Eleanor her usual nod and was astonished to see that she looked ghastly.
“There’s something wrong with her,” thought Miss Campanula, and somewhere, in the shifting hinterland between her conscious and unconscious thoughts, lay the warm hope that the rector had been displeased with Eleanor at confession.
Miss Campanula entered the church with joy in her heart.
At the precise moment when Miss Prentice and Miss Campanula passed each other in the south porch, Henry, up at Pen Cuckoo, decided that he could remain indoors no longer. He was restless and impatient. He and Dinah had kept their pact, and since their morning on Cloudyfold had not met alone. Henry had announced their intention to his father at breakfast while Eleanor Prentice was in the room.
“It’s Dinah’s idea,” he had said “She calls it an armistice. As our affairs seem to be so much in the public eye, and as her father has been upset by the conversation you had with him last night, Cousin Eleanor, Dinah thinks it would be a good thing if we promised him we would postpone what you have described as our clandestine meetings for three weeks. After that I shall speak to the rector myself.” He had looked directly at Miss Prentice and added: “I shall be very grateful if you would not discuss the matter with him in the meantime. After all, it is primarily our affair.”
“I shall do what I believe to be my duty, Henry,” Miss Prentice had said; and Henry had answered, “I’m afraid you will,” and walked out of the room.
He and Dinah had written to each other. Henry had found Miss Prentice eyeing Dinah’s first letter as it lay beside his plate at breakfast. He had put it in the breast pocket of his coat, rather shocked at the look he had surprised in her face. After that morning he had come down early to breakfast.
During the three weeks’ truce, Jocelyn never spoke to his son of Dinah, but Henry knew very well that Miss Prentice nagged at the squire whenever a chance presented itself. Several times Henry had walked into the study to find Eleanor closeted with Jocelyn. The silence that invariably followed his entrance, his father’s uncomfortable attempts to break it, and Miss Prentice’s tight smile as she glided away, left Henry in no doubt a
s to the subject of their conversation.
This afternoon, Jocelyn was hunting. Miss Prentice would come back from church before three, and Henry could not face the prospect of tea alone with his cousin. She had refused a car, and would return tired and martyred. Although Jocelyn had taught her to drive, it was her infuriating custom to refuse a car. She would walk to church after dark, on pouring wet nights, and give herself maddening colds in the head. To-day, however, was fine with glints of watery sunlight. He took a stick and went out.
Henry walked through the trees into a lane that came out near the church. Perhaps there would be a job of work to be done at the hall. If Dinah was there she would be surrounded by helpers, so that would be all right.
But about half-way down he walked round a sharp bend in the lane and found himself face to face and alone with Dinah.
For a moment they stood and stared at each other. Then Henry said, “I thought I might be able to help in the hall.”
“We finished for to-day at two o’ clock.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just for a walk. I didn’t know you’d—I thought you’d be—”
“I didn’t know, either. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Your face is white,” said Henry, and his voice shook. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. It’s only the shock. Yours is white, too.”
“Dinah!”
“No, no. Not till to-morrow. We promised.”
As if moved by some compulsion outside themselves, they moved like automatons into each other’s arms.
When Miss Prentice, dry-eyed but still raging, came round the bend in the lane, Henry was kissing Dinah’s throat.
“I can’t see,” said Selia Ross, “that it matters what a couple of shocking, nasty old church-hens choose to say.”
“But it does,” answered Dr. Templett. He kicked a log on the fire. “Mine is one of the few jobs where your private life affects your practice. Why it should be so, the Lord alone knows. And I can’t afford to lose my practice, Selia. My brother went through most of what was left when my father died. I don’t want to sell Chippingwood, but it takes me all my time to keep it up. It’s a beastly situation, I know. Other things being equal, I still couldn’t ask Freda to divorce me. Lying there from one year’s end to another! Spinal paralysis isn’t much fun and—she’s still fond of me.”