Overture to Death

‘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 tomorrow.’

‘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 French man; 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 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 tomorrow?’

‘After tomorrow,’ murmured Dinah.

CHAPTER 7 Vignettes (#ulink_af066e84-b25c-50d8-88d3-63e9f1e661c5)

‘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. You 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 in sin.’