“Was—was she a Wesleyan too?”
“My dear boy, she’s playing lead … she’s Selina. Countess of Huntingdon. … There, now you can see them at work.”
They had rounded the wing and were now in full view of the front of the house, where all was activity and animation. A dozen or so men and women in eighteenth-century costume were standing in a circle singing strongly, while in their centre stood a small man in a long clerical coat and a full white wig, conducting them. A string band was playing not far off and round the singers clustered numerous men in shirt sleeves bearing megaphones, cinematograph cameras, microphones, sheaves of paper and arc lamps. Not far away, waiting their turn to be useful, stood a coach and four, a detachment of soldiers and some scene shifters with the transept of Exeter Cathedral in sections of canvas and matchboarding.
“The Colonel’s somewhere in that little crowd singing the hymn,” said the Bishop. “He was crazy to be allowed to come on as a super, and as he’s letting us the house dirt cheap Isaacs said he might. I don’t believe he’s ever been so happy in his life.”
As they approached the hymn stopped.
“All right,” said one of the men with megaphones. “You can beat it. We’ll shoot the duel now. I shall want two supers to carry the body. The rest of you are through for the afternoon.”
A man in a leather apron, worsted stockings and flaxen wig emerged from the retreating worshippers.
“Oh, please, Mr. Isaacs,” he said, “please may I carry the body?”
“All right, Colonel, if you want to. Run in and tell them in the wardrobe to give you a smock and a pitchfork.”
“Thank you so much,” said Colonel Blount, trotting off towards his house. Then he stopped. “I suppose,” he said, “I suppose it wouldn’t be better for me to carry a sword?”
“No, pitchfork, and hurry up about it or I shan’t let you carry the body at all; someone go and find Miss La Touche.”
The young lady whom Adam had seen in the motor car came down the steps of the house in a feathered hat, riding habit and braided cape. She carried a hunting crop in her hand. Her face was painted very yellow.
“Do I or do I not have a horse in this scene, Mr. Isaacs? I’ve been round to Bertie and he says all the horses are needed for the coach.”
“I’m sorry, Effie, you do not and it’s no good taking on. We only got four horses and you know that, and you saw what it was like when we tried to move the coach with two. So you’ve just got to face it. You comes across the fields on foot.”
“Dirty Yid,” said Effie La Touche.
“The trouble about this film,” said the Bishop, “is that we haven’t enough capital. It’s heartbreaking. Here we have a first-rate company, first-rate producer, first-rate scene, first-rate story and the whole thing being hung up for want of a few hundred pounds. How can he expect to get the best out of Miss La Touche if they won’t give her a horse? No girl will stand for that sort of treatment. If I were Isaacs I’d scrap the whole coach sooner. It’s no sense getting a star and not treating her right. Isaacs is putting everyone’s back up the way he goes on. Wanted to do the whole of my cathedral scene with twenty-five supers. But you’re here to give us a write up, aren’t you? I’ll call Isaacs across and let him give you the dope. … Isaacs!”
“Yuh?”
“Daily Excess here.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“I’ll be right over.” He put on his coat, buttoned it tightly at the waist and strode across the lawn, extending a hand of welcome. Adam shook it and felt what seemed to be a handful of rings under his fingers. “Pleased to meet you, Mister. Now just you ask me anything you want about this film because I’m just here to answer. Have you got my name? Have a card. That’s the name of the company in the corner. Not the one that’s scratched out. The one written above. The Wonderfilm Company of Great Britain
. Now this film,” he said, in what seemed a well-practised little speech, “of which you have just witnessed a mere fragment marks a stepping stone in the development of the British Film Industry. It is the most important All-Talkie super-religious film to be produced solely in this country by British artists and management and by British capital. It has been directed throughout regardless of difficulty and expense, and supervised by a staff of expert historians and theologians. Nothing has been omitted that would contribute to the meticulous accuracy of every detail. The life of that great social and religious reformer John Wesley is for the first time portrayed to a British public in all its humanity and tragedy. … Look here, I’ve got all this written out. I’ll have them give you a copy before you go. Come and see the duel. …
“That’s Wesley and Whitefield just going to start. Of course, it’s not them really. Two fencing instructors we got over from the gym at Aylesbury. That’s what I mean when I say we spare no expense to get the details accurate. Ten bob each we’re paying them for the afternoon.”
“But did Wesley and Whitefield fight a duel?”
“Well, it’s not actually recorded, but it’s known that they quarrelled and there was only one way of settling quarrels in those days. They’re both in love with Selina, Countess of Huntingdon, you see. She comes to stop them, but arrives too late. Whitefield has escaped in the coach and Wesley is lying wounded. That’s a scene that’ll go over big. Then she takes him back to her home and nurses him back
