it?’ agreed Mrs Ross, and she and Henry and Dinah suddenly burst out laughing at the recollection of this scene, and for a minute or two they all reminded each other of the exquisite facetiæ in the second act of Shop Windows. The rector listened with a nervous smile; Miss Prentice and Miss Campanula with tightly-set lips. At last the squire looked round the table with brimming eyes and asked what they were all waiting for.
‘I’ll move we do Shop Windows,’ he said. ‘That in order?’
‘I’ll second it,’ said Dr Templett.
‘No doubt I am in error,’ said Miss Campanula, ‘but I was under the impression that my poor suggestion was before the meeting, seconded by Miss Prentice.’
The rector was obliged to put this motion to the meeting.
‘It is moved by Miss Campanula,’ he said unhappily, ‘and seconded by Miss Prentice, that Simple Susan be the play chosen for the production. Those in favour –’
‘Aye,’ said Miss Campanula and Miss Prentice.
‘And the contrary?’
‘No,’ said the rest of the meeting with perfect good humour.
‘Thank you,’ said Miss Campanula. ‘Thank you. Now we know where we are.’
‘You wait till you start learning your parts in this thing,’ said Jocelyn cheerfully, ‘and you won’t know whether you’re on your head or your heels. There’s an awful lot of us three, isn’t there?’ he continued, turning the pages. ‘I suppose Eleanor will do the Duchess and Miss Campanula will be the other one – Mrs Thing or whoever she is! Gertrude! That the idea?’
‘That was my idea,’ said Mrs Ross.
‘If I may be allowed to speak,’ said Miss Campanula, ‘I should like to say that it is just within the bounds of possibility that it may not be ours.’
‘Perhaps, Jernigham,’ said the rector, ‘you had better put your motion.’
But of course the squire’s motion was carried. Miss Campanula and Miss Prentice did not open their lips. Their thoughts were alike in confusion and intensity. Both seethed under the insult done to Simple Susan, each longed to rise and, with a few well-chosen words, withdraw from the meeting. Each was checked by a sensible reluctance to cut off her nose to spite her face. It was obvious that Shop Windows would be performed whether they stayed in or flounced out. Unless all the others were barefaced liars, it seemed that there were two outstandingly good parts ready for them to snap up. They hung off and on, ruffled their plumage, and secretly examined each other’s face.
III
Meanwhile with the enthusiasm that all Jernighams brought to a new project Jocelyn and his son began to cast the play. Almost a century ago there had been what Eleanor, when cornered called an ‘incident’ in the family history. The Mrs Jernigham of that time was a plain silly woman and barren into the bargain. Her Jocelyn, the fourth of that name, had lived openly with a very beautiful and accomplished actress and had succeeded in getting the world to pretend that his son by her was his lawful scion, and had jockeyed his wife into bringing the boy up as her own. By this piece of effrontery he brought to Pen Cuckoo a dram of mummery, and ever since those days most of the Jernighams had had a passion for theatricals. It was as if the lovely actress had touched up the family portraits with a stick of rouge. Jocelyn and Henry had both played in the OUDS. They both had the trick of moving about a stage as if they grew out of the boards, and they both instinctively bridged that colossal gap between the stage and the front row of the stalls. Jocelyn thought himself a better actor than he was, but Henry did not realize how good he might be. Even Miss Prentice, a Jernigham, as the squire had pointed out, on her mother’s side, had not escaped that dram of player’s blood. Although she knew nothing about theatre, mistrusted and disliked the very notion of the stage as a career for gentle people, and had no sort of judgement for the merit of a play, yet in amateur theatricals she was surprisingly composed and perfectly audible, and she loved acting. She knew now that Idris Campanula expected her to refuse to take part in Shop Windows, and more than half her inclination was so to refuse. ‘What,’ she thought. ‘To have my own play put aside for something chosen by that woman! To have to look on while they parcel out the parts!’ But even as she pondered on the words with which she would offer her resignation, she pictured Lady Appleby of Moorton Grange accepting the part that Jocelyn said was so good. And what was more, the rector would think Eleanor herself uncharitable. That decided her. She waited for a pause in the chatter round Jocelyn, and then she turned to the rector.
‘May I say just one little word?’ she asked.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Mr Copeland. ‘Please, everybody. Order!’
‘It’s only this,’ said Miss Prentice, avoiding the eye of Miss Campanula. ‘I do hope nobody will think I am going to be disappointed or hurt about my little play. I expect it is rather out-of-date, and I am only too pleased to think that you have found one that is more suitable. If there is anything I can do to help, I shall be only too glad. Of course.’
She received, and revelled in, the rector’s beaming smile, and met Idris Campanula’s glare with a smile of her own. Then she saw Selia Ross watching her out of the corners of her eyes and suddenly she knew that Selia Ross understood her.
‘That’s perfectly splendid,’ exclaimed Mr Copeland. ‘I think it is no more than we expected of Miss Prentice’s generosity, but we are none the less grateful.’ And he added confusedly, ‘A very graceful gesture.’
Miss Prentice preened and Miss Campanula glowered. The others, vaguely, aware that something was expected of them, made small appreciative noises.
‘Now, how about casting the play?’ said Dr Templett.
IV
There was no doubt that the play had been well chosen. With the exception of one character, it practically cast itself. The squire was to play the General; Miss Prentice, the Duchess; Miss Campanula, of whom everybody felt extremely frightened, was cast for Mrs Arbuthnot, a good character part. Miss Campanula, when offered this part, replied ambiguously:
‘Who knows?’ she looked darkly. ‘Obviously, it is not for me to say.’
‘But you will do it, Idris?’ murmured Miss Prentice.
‘I have but one comment,’ rejoined Miss Campanula. ‘Wait and see.’ She laughed shortly, and the rector, in a hurry, wrote her name down opposite the part. Dinah and Henry were given the two young lovers, and Dr Templett said he would undertake the French Ambassador. He began to read some of the lines in violently broken English. There remained the part of Hélène, a mysterious lady who had lost her memory and who turned up in the middle of the first act at a country house-party.
‘Obviously, Selia,’ said Dr Templett, ‘you must be Hélène.’
‘No, no,’ said Mrs Ross, ‘that isn’t a bit what I meant. Now do be quiet, Billy, or they’ll think I came here with an ulterior motive.’
With the possible exception of the squire, that was precisely what they all did think, but not even Miss Campanula had the courage to say so. Having accepted Mrs Ross’s play they could do nothing but offer her the part, which as far as lines went, was not a long one. Perhaps only Dinah realized quite how good Hélène was. Mrs Ross protested and demurred.
‘If you are quite sure you want me,’ she said, and looked sideways at the squire. Jocelyn, who had glanced through the play and found that the General had a love scene with Hélène, said heartily that they wanted her very much indeed. Henry and Dinah, conscious of their own love-scenes, agreed, and the rector formally asked Mrs Ross if she would take the part. She accepted with the prettiest air in the world. Miss Prentice managed to maintain her gentle smile and Miss Campanula’s behaviour merely became a degree more darkly ominous. The rector put on his glasses and