‘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 undependable 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 indeed 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 scatheless figures. It would have seemed impossible to them that their love for each other could hold 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 possessed 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 eyes 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. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, 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