Overture to Death

CHAPTER FOUR Cue For Music

i

As soon as Dinah had spoken those fatal words everybody round the table in the study at Pen Cuckoo thought of Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C. sharp Minor, and with the exception of Miss Campanula, everybody’s heart sank into his or her boots. For the Prelude was Miss Campanula’s speciality. In Pen Cuckoo she had the sole rights in this composition. She played it at all church concerts, she played it on her own piano after her own dinner parties, and, unless her hostess was particularly courageous, she played it after other people’s dinner parties, too. Whenever there was any question of music sounding at Pen Cuckoo, Miss Campanula offered her services, and the three pretentious chords would boom out once again: “Pom, pom, POM.” And then down would go Miss Campanula’s foot on the left pedal and the next passage would follow in a series of woolly but determined jerks. She even played it as a voluntary when Mr. Withers, the organist, went on his holidays and Miss Campanula took his place. She had had her photograph taken, seated at the instrument, with the Prelude on the rack. Each of her friends had received a copy at Christmas. The rector’s was framed, and he had not known quite what to do with it. Until three years ago when Eleanor Prentice had come to live at Pen Cuckoo, Idris Campanula and her Prelude had had it all their own way. But Miss Prentice also belonged to a generation when girls learnt the pianoforte from their governesses, and she, too, liked to be expected to perform. Her pièce de resistance was Ethelbert Nevin’s Venetian Suite, which she rendered with muffled insecurity, the chords of the accompaniment never quite synchronising with the saccharine notes of the melody. Between the two ladies the battle had raged at parish entertainments, Sunday School services, and private parties. They only united in deploring the radio and in falsely pretending that music was a bond between them.

So that when Dinah in her flurry asked, “What about music?” Miss Campanula and Miss Prentice both became alert.

Miss Prentice said, “Yes, of course. Now, couldn’t we manage that amongst ourselves somehow? It’s so much pleasanter, isn’t it, if we keep to our own small circle?”

“I am afraid my poor wits are rather confused,” began Miss Campanula. “Everything seems to have been decided out of hand. You must correct me if I'm wrong, but it appears that several of the characters in this delightful comedy — by the way, is it a comedy?”

“Yes,” said Henry.

“Thank you. It appears that some of the characters do not appear until somewhere in the second act. I don’t know which of the characters, naturally, as I have not yet looked between the covers.”

With hasty mumbled apologies they handed the play to Miss Campanula. She said:

“Oh, thank you. Don’t let me be selfish. I’m a patient body.”

When Idris Campanula alluded to herself jocularly as a “body” it usually meant that she was in a temper. They all said, “No, no! Please have it.” She drew her pince-nez out from her bosom by a patent extension and slung them across her nose. She opened the play and amidst dead silence she began to inspect it. First she read the cast of characters. She checked each one with a large bony forefinger, and paused to look round the table until she found the person who had been cast for it. Her expression, which was forbidding, did not change. She then applied herself to the first page of the dialogue. Still everybody waited. The silence was broken only by the sound of Miss Campanula turning a page. Henry began to feel desperate. It seemed almost as if they would continue to sit dumbly round the table until Miss Campanula reached the end of the play. He gave Dinah a cigarette and lit one himself. Miss Campanula raised her eyes and watched them until the match was blown out, and then returned to her reading. She had reached the fourth page of the first act. Mrs. Ross looked up at Dr. Templett who bent his head and whispered. Again Miss Campanula raised her eyes and stared at the offenders. The squire cleared his throat and said:

“Read the middle bit of Act II. Page forty-eight, it begins. Funniest thing I’ve come across for ages. It’ll make you laugh like anything.”

Miss Campanula did not reply, but she turned to Act II. Dinah, Henry, Dr. Templett, and Jocelyn waited with anxious smiles for her to give some evidence of amusement, but her lips remained firmly pursed, her brows raised, and her eyes fishy. Presently she looked up.

“I’ve reached the end of the scene,” she said. “Was that the funny one?”

“Don’t you think it’s funny?” asked the squire.

“My object was to find out if there was anybody free to play the entr’acte,” said Miss Campanula coldly. “I gather that there is. I gather that the Arbuthnot individual does not make her first appearance until halfway through the second act.”

“Didn’t somebody say that Miss Arbuthnot and the Duchess appeared together?” asked Miss Prentice to the accompaniment, every one felt, of the Venetian Suite.

“Possibly,” said Miss Campanula. “Do I understand that I am expected to take this Mrs. Arbuthnot upon myself?”

“If you will,” rejoined the rector. “And we hope very much indeed that you will.”

“I wanted to be quite clear. I dare say I’m making a great to-do about nothing but I’m a person that likes to know where she is. Now I gather, and you must correct me if I’m wrong, that if I do this part there is no just cause or impediment,” and here Miss Campanula threw a jocular glance at the rector, “why I should not take a little more upon myself and seat myself at the instrument. You may have other plans. You may wish to hire Mr. Joe Hopkins and his friends from Great Chipping, though on a Saturday night I gather they are rather more independable and tipsy than usual. If you have other plans then no more need be said. If not, I place myself at the committee’s disposal.”

“Well, that seems a most excellent offer,” the poor rector began. “If Miss Campanula — ”

“May I?” interrupted Miss Prentice sweetly. “May I say that I think it very kind of dear Idris to offer herself, but may I add that I do also think we are a little too inclined to take advantage of her generosity. She will have all the young folk to manage and she has a large part to learn. I do feel that we should be a little selfish if we also expected her to play for us on that dreadful old piano. Now, as the new instrument is to be in part, as my cousin says, a Pen Cuckoo affair, I think the very least I can do is to offer to relieve poor Idris of this unwelcome task. If you think my little efforts will pass muster I shall be very pleased to play the overture and entr’acte.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Eleanor, but I am quite capable — ”

“Of course you are, Idris, but at the same time — ”

They both stopped short. The antagonism that had sprung up between them was so obvious and so disproportionate that the others were aghast. The rector abruptly brought his palm down on the table and then, as if ashamed of a gesture that betrayed his thoughts, clasped his hands together and looked straight before him.

He said, “I think this matter can be decided later.”

The two women glanced quickly at him and were silent.

“That is all, I believe,” said Mr. Copeland. “Thank you, everybody.”

ii

The meeting broke up. Henry went to Dinah who had moved over to the fire.

“Ructions!” he said under his breath.

“Awful!” agreed Dinah. “You’d hardly believe it possible, would you?”

They smiled secretly and when the others crowded about Dinah, asking if they could have their parts before Monday, what sort of clothes would be needed, and whether she thought they would be all right, neither she nor Henry minded very much. It did not matter to them that they were unable to speak to each other, for their thoughts went forward to the morning, and their hearts trembled with happiness. They were isolated by their youth, two scathless figures. It would have seemed impossible to them that their love for each other could hold any reflection, however faint, of the emotions that drew Dr. Templett to Selia Ross, or those two ageing women to the rector. They would not have believed that there was a reverse side to love, or that the twin-opposites of love lay dormant in their own hearts. Nor were they to guess that never again, as long as they lived, would they know the rapturous expectancy that now pressed them.

Miss Prentice and Miss Campanula carefully avoided each other. Miss Prentice had seized her opportunity and had cornered Mr. Copeland. She could be heard offering flowers from the Pen Cuckoo greenhouses for a special service next Sunday. Miss Campanula had tackled Jocelyn about some enormity committed on her property by the local fox-hounds. Dr. Templett, a keen follower of hounds, was lugged into the controversy. Mrs. Ross was therefore left alone. She stood a little to one side, completely relaxed, her head slanted, a half-smile on her lips. The squire looked over Idris Campanula’s shoulder, and caught that half-smile.

“Can’t have that sort of thing,” he said vaguely. “I’ll have a word with Appleby. Will you forgive me? I just want — ”

He escaped thankfully and joined Mrs. Ross. She welcomed him with an air that flattered him. Her eyes brightened and her smile was intimate. It was years since any woman had smiled in that way at Jocelyn, and he responded with Edwardian gallantry. His hand went to his moustache and his eye brightened.

“You know, you’re a very alarming person,” said Jocelyn.

“Now what precisely do you mean by that?” asked Mrs. Ross.

He was delighted. This was the way a conversation with a pretty woman ought to start. Forgotten phrases returned to his lips, waggishly nonsensical phrases that one uttered with just the right air of significance. One laughed a good deal and let her know one noticed how damned well-turned-out she was.

“I see that we have a most important scene together,” said Jocelyn, “and I shall insist on a private rehearsal.”

“I don’t know that I shall agree to that,” said Selia Ross.

“Oh, come now, it’s perfectly safe.”

“Why?”

“Because you are to be the very charming lady who has lost her memory. Ha, ha ha! damn’ convenient, what!” shouted Jocelyn, wondering if this remark was as daring as it sounded. Mrs. Ross laughed very heartily and the squire glanced in a gratified manner round the room, and encountered the astonished gaze of his son.

“This’ll show Henry,” thought Jocelyn. “These modern pups don’t know how to flirt with an attractive woman.” But there was an unmistakably sardonic glint in Henry’s eye, and the squire, slightly shaken, turned back to Mrs. Ross. She still looked roguishly expectant and he thought, “Anyway, if Henry’s noticed her, he’ll know I’m doing pretty well.” And then Dr. Templett managed to escape Miss Campanula and joined them.

“Well, Selia,” he said, “if you’re ready I think I’d better take you home.”

“Doesn’t like me talking to her!” thought the squire in triumph. “The little man’s jealous.”

When Mrs. Ross silently gave him her hand, he deliberately squeezed it.

“Au revoir,” he said. “This is your first visit to Pen Cuckoo, isn’t it? Don’t let it be the last.”

“I shouldn’t be here at all,” she answered. “There have been no official calls, you know.”

Jocelyn made a slightly silly gesture and bowed.

“We’ll waive all that sort of nonsense,” he said. “Ha, ha, ha!”

Mrs. Ross turned to say good-bye to Eleanor Prentice.

“I have just told your cousin,” she said, “that I’ve no business here. We haven’t exchanged calls, have we?”

If Miss Prentice was at all taken aback, she did not show it. She gave her musical laugh and said, “I’m afraid I am very remiss about these things.”

“Miss Campanula hasn’t called on me either,” said Mrs. Ross. “You must come together. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, everybody,” said Mrs. Ross.

“I’ll see you to your car,” said the squire. “Henry!”

Henry hastened to the door. Jocelyn escorted Mrs. Ross out of the room and, as Dr. Templett followed them, the rector shouted after them:

“Just a minute, Templett. About the youngest Cain.”

“Oh, yes. Silly little fool! Look here, rector — ”

“I’ll come out with you,” said the rector.

Henry followed and shut the door behind them.

“Well!” said Miss Campanula. “Well!”

“Isn’t it?” said Miss Prentice. “Isn’t it?”

iii

Dinah, left alone with them, knew that the battle of the music was postponed in order that the two ladies might unite in abuse of Mrs. Ross. That it was postponed and not abandoned was evident in their manner, which reminded Dinah of stewed fruit on the turn. Its sweetness was impregnated by acidity.

“Of course, Eleanor,” said Miss Campanula, “I can’t for the life of me see why you didn’t show her the door. I should have refused to receive her. I should!”

“I was simply dumbfounded,” said Miss Prentice. “When Taylor announced them, I really couldn’t believe my senses. I am deeply disappointed in Dr. Templett.”

“Disappointed! The greatest piece of brazen effrontery I have ever encountered. He shan’t have my lumbago! I can promise him that.”

“I really should have thought he’d have known better,” continued Miss Prentice. “It isn’t as if we don’t know who he is. He should be a gentleman. I always thought he took up medicine as a vocation. After all, there have been Templetts at Chippingwood for—”

“For as long as there have been Jernighams at Pen Cuckoo,” said Miss Campanula. “But, of course, you wouldn’t know that.”

This was an oblique hit. It reminded Miss Prentice that she was a new-comer and not, strictly speaking, a Jernigham of Pen Cuckoo. Miss Campanula followed it up by saying, “I suppose in your position you could do nothing but receive her; but I must say I was astonished that you leapt at her play as you did.”

“I did not leap, Idris,” said Miss Prentice. “I hope I took the dignified course. It was obvious that everybody but you and me was in favour of her play.”

“Well, it’s a jolly good play,” said Dinah.

“So we have been told,” said Miss Campanula. “Repeatedly.”

“I was helpless,” continued Miss Prentice. “What could I do? One can do nothing against sheer common persistence. Of course she has triumphed.”

“She’s gone off now, taking every man in the room with her,” said Miss Campanula. “Ha!”

“Ah, well,” added Miss Prentice, “I suppose it’s always the case when one deals with people who are not quite. Did you hear what she said about our not calling?”

“I was within an ace of telling her that I understood she received men only.”

“But, Miss Campanula,” said Dinah, “we don’t know there’s anything more than friendship between them, do we? And even if there is, it’s their business.”

“Dinah, dear!” said Miss Prentice.

“As a priest’s daughter, Dinah — ” began Miss Campanula.

“As a priest’s daughter,” said Dinah, “I’ve got a sort of idea charity is supposed to be a virtue. And, anyway, I think when you talk about a parson’s family it’s better not to call him a priest. It sounds so scandalous, somehow.”

There was a dead silence. At last Miss Campanula rose to her feet.

“I fancy my car is waiting for me, Eleanor,” she said. “So I shall make my adieux. I am afraid we are neither of us intelligent enough to appreciate modern humour. Good-night.”

“Aren’t we driving you home?” asked Dinah.

“Thank you, Dinah, no. I ordered my car for six, and it is already half-past. Good-night”