Overture to Death

“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 a

“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

I have si

“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. You have encouraged and co

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 note-book 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 ma

“Our Lord consorted with si

“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.

ii

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.