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Alice Sit-By-The-Fire=
By
J. M. Barrie
Contents
I =
II =
III =
One would like to peep covertly into Amy's dia=
ry
(octavo, with the word 'Amy' in gold letters wandering across the soft brown
leather covers, as if it was a long word and, in Amy's opinion, rather a de=
ar).
To take such a liberty, and allow the reader to look over our shoulders, as
they often invite you to do in novels (which, however, are much more coquet=
tish
things than plays) would be very helpful to us; we should learn at once what
sort of girl Amy is, and why to-day finds her washing her hair. We should a=
lso
get proof or otherwise, that we are interpreting her aright; for it is our
desire not to record our feelings about Amy, but merely Amy's feelings abou=
t herself;
not to tell what we think happened, but what Amy thought happened. The book=
, to
be sure, is padlocked, but we happen to know where it is kept. (In the lower
drawer of that hand-painted escritoire.) Sometimes in the night Amy, waking=
up,
wonders whether she did lock her diary, and steals downstairs in white to m=
ake
sure. On these occasions she undoubtedly lingers among the pages, re-readin=
g the
peculiarly delightful bit she wrote yesterday; so we could peep over her
shoulder, while the reader peeps over ours. Then why don't we do it? Is it
because this would be a form of eavesdropping, and that we cannot be sure o=
ur
hands are clean enough to turn the pages of a young girl's thoughts? It can=
not
be that, because the novelists do it. It is because in a play we must tell
nothing that is not revealed by the spoken words; you must find out all you
want to know from them; there is no weather even in plays nowadays except in
melodrama; the novelist can have sixteen chapters about the hero's
grandparents, but we cannot even say he had any unless he says it himself.
There can be no rummaging in the past for us to show what sort of people ou=
r characters
are; we are allowed only to present them as they toe the mark; then the
handkerchief falls, and off they go.
So now we know why we must not spy into Amy's
diary. Perhaps we have not always been such sticklers for the etiquette of =
the
thing; but we are always sticklers on Thursdays, and this is a Thursday.
As you are to be shown Amy's room, we are
permitted to describe it, though not to tell (which would be much more
interesting) why a girl of seventeen has, as her very own, the chief room o=
f a
house. The moment you open the door of this room (and please, you are not to
look consciously at the escritoire as if you knew the diary was in it) you =
are
aware, though Amy may not be visible, that there is an uncommonly clever gi=
rl
in the house. The door does not always open easily, because attached theret=
o is
a curtain which frequently catches in it, and this curtain is hand-sewn
(extinct animals); indeed a gifted woman's touch is everywhere; if you are =
not
hand-sewn you are almost certainly hand-painted, but incompletely, for Amy =
in
her pursuit of the arts has often to drop one in order to keep pace with
another. Some of the chairs have escaped as yet, but their time will come. =
The table-cover
and the curtains are of a lovely pink, perforated ingeniously with many tiny
holes, which when you consider them against a dark background, gradually as=
sume
the appearance of something pictorial, such as a basket of odd flowers. The
fender stool is in brown velvet, and there are words on it that invite you =
to
sit down. Some of the letters of this message have been burned away. There =
are artistic
white bookshelves hanging lopsidedly here and there, and they also have pink
curtains, no larger than a doll's garments. These little curtains are for
covering the parts where there are no books as yet. The pictures on the wal=
ls
are mostly studies done at school, and include the well-known windmill, and=
the
equally popular old lady by the shore. Their frames are of fir-cones, glued
together, or of straws which have gone limp, and droop like streaks of
macaroni. There is a cosy corner; also a milking-stool, but no cow. The lam=
pshades
have had ribbons added to them, and from a distance look like ladies of the=
ballet.
The flower-pot also is in a skirt. Near the door is a large screen, such as
people hide behind in the more ordinary sort of play; it will be interestin=
g to
see whether we can resist the temptation to hide some one behind it.
A few common weeds rear their profane heads in
this innocent garden; for instance a cruet-stand, a basket of cutlery, and a
triangular dish of the kind in which the correct confine cheese. They have =
not
strayed here, they live here; indeed this is among other things the dining-=
room
of a modest little house in Brompton made beautiful, or nearly so, by a gir=
l,
who has a soul above food and conceals its accessories as far as possible f=
rom
view, in drawers, even in the waste-paper basket. Not a dish, not a spoon, =
not
a fork, is hand-painted, a sufficient indication of her contempt for them. =
Amy is present, but is not seen to the best
advantage, for she has been washing her hair, and is now drying it by the f=
ire.
Notable among her garments are a dressing-jacket and a towel, and her head =
is
bent so far back over the fire that we see her face nearly upside-down. Thi=
s is
no position in which we can do justice to her undoubted facial charm. Seated
near her is her brother Cosmo, a boy of thirteen, in naval uniform. Cosmo i=
s a
cadet at Osborne, and properly proud of his station, but just now he looks
proud of nothing. He is plunged in gloom. The cause of his woe is a telegra=
m,
which he is regarding from all points of the compass, as if in hopes of mak=
ing
it send him better news. At last he gives expression to his feelings. 'All I
can say,' he sums up in the first words of the play, 'is that if father tri=
es
to kiss me, I shall kick him.'
If Amy makes any reply the words arrive
upside-down and are unintelligible. The maid announces Miss Dunbar. Then Amy
rises, brings her head to the position in which they are usually carried; a=
nd
she and Ginevra look into each other's eyes. They always do this when they =
meet,
though they meet several times a day, and it is worth doing, for what they =
see
in those pellucid pools is love eternal. Thus they loved at school (in their
last two terms), and thus they will love till the grave encloses them. These
thoughts, and others even more beautiful, are in their minds as they gaze at
each other now. No man will ever be able to say 'Amy,' or to say 'Ginevra,'
with such a trill as they are saying it.
'Ginevra, my beloved.'
'My Amy, my better self.'
'My other me.'
There is something almost painful in love like
this.
'Are you well, Ginevra?'
'Quite well, Amy.'
Heavens, the joy of Amy because Ginevra is qui=
te
well.
'How did my Amy sleep?'
'I had a good night.'
How happy is Ginevra because Amy has had a good
night. All this time they have been slowly approaching each other, drawn by=
a
power stronger than themselves. Their intention is to kiss. They do so. Cos=
mo
snorts, and betakes himself to some other room, his bedroom probably, where=
a
man may be alone with mannish things, his razor, for instance. The maidens =
do
not resent his rudeness. They know that poor Cosmo's time will come, and th=
ey
are glad to be alone, for they have much to say that is for no other mortal
ears. Some of it is sure to go into the diary; indeed if we were to put our=
ear
to the drawer where the diary is we could probably hear its little heart
ticking in unison with theirs.
It is Ginevra who speaks first. She is indeed =
the
bolder of the two. She grips Amy's hand and says quite firmly, 'Amy, shall =
we
go to another to-night?' This does not puzzle Amy, she=
is
prepared for it, her honest grey eyes even tell that she has wanted it, but=
now
that it is come she quails a little. 'Another theatre?' she murmurs. 'Ginev=
ra,
that would be five in one week.'
Ginevra does not blanch. 'Yes,' she says
recklessly, 'but it is also only eight in seventeen years.'
'Isn't it,' says Amy, comforted. 'And they have
taught us so much, haven't they? Until Monday, dear, when we went to our fi=
rst
real play we didn't know what Life is.'
'We were two raw, unbleached school-girls,
Amy--absolutely unbleached.'
It is such a phrase as this that gives Ginevra=
the
moral ascendancy in their discussions.
'Of course,' Amy ventures, looking perhaps a
little unbleached even now, 'of course I had my diary, dear, and I do think
that, even before Monday, there were things in it of a not wholly ordinary
kind.'
'Nothing,' persists Ginevra cruelly, 'that
necessitated your keeping it locked.'
'No, I suppose not,' sadly enough. 'You are qu=
ite
right, Ginevra. But we have made up for lost time. Every night since Monday,
including the matinee, has been a revelation.'
She closes her eyes so that she may see the
revelations more clearly. So does Ginevra.
'Amy, that heart-gripping scene when the
love-maddened woman visited the ma=
n in his =
chambers
.'
'She wasn't absolutely love-maddened, Ginevra;=
she
really loved her husband best all the time.'
'Not till the last act, darling.'
'Please don't say it, Ginevra. She was most
foolish, especially in the crepe de chine, but we know
that she only went to the man's chambers to get back her letters. How I
trembled for her then.'
'I was strangely calm,' says Ginevra the stony
hearted.
'Oh, Ginevra, I had such a presentiment that t=
he
husband would call at those chambers while she was there. And he did. Ginev=
ra,
you remember his knock upon the door. Surely you trembled then?'
Ginevra knits her lips triumphantly.
'Not even then, Amy. Somehow I felt sure that =
in
the nick of time her lady friend would step out from somewhere and say that=
the
letters were hers .'
'Nobly compromising herself, Ginevra.'
'Amy, how I love that bit where she says so
unexpectedly, with noble self-renunciation, "He is my affianced
husband."'
'Isn't it glorious. Strange, Ginevra, that it =
happened
in each play.'
'That was because we always went to the thinki=
ng
theatres, Amy. Real plays are always about a lady and two men; and alas, on=
ly
one of them is her husband. That is Life, you know. It is called the odd, o=
dd triangle.'
'Yes, I know.' Appealingly, 'Ginevra, I hope it
wasn't wrong of me to go. A month ago I was only a school-girl.'
'We both were.'
'Yes, but you are now an art student, in lodgi=
ngs,
with a latchkey of your own; you have no one dependent on you, while I have=
a brother
and sister to--to form.'
'You must leave it to the Navy, dear, to form
Cosmo, if it can; and as the sister is only a baby, time enough to form her
when she can exit from her pram.'
'I am in a mother's place for the time being,
Ginevra.'
'Even mothers go to thinking theatres.'
'Whether mine does, Ginevra, I don't even know.
This is a very strange position I am in, awaiting the return from India of
parents I have not seen since I was twelve years old. I don't even know if =
they
will like the house. The rent is what they told me to give, but perhaps my =
scheme
of decoration won't appeal to them; they may think my housekeeping has been
defective, and may not make allowance for my being so new to it.'
Ginevra takes Amy in her arms. 'My ownest Amy,=
if
they are not both on their knees to you for the noble way in which you have
striven to prepare this house for them--'
'Darling Ginevra, all I ask is to be allowed t=
o do
my duty.'
'Listen, then, Amy: your duty is to be able to
help your parents in every way when they return. Your mother having been so
long in India can know little about Life; how sweet, then, for you to be ab=
le
to place your knowledge at her feet.'
'I had thought of that, dearest.'
'Then Amy, it would be simply wrong of us not =
to
go to another theatre to-night. I have three and ninepence, so that if you =
can
scrape together one and threepence--'
'Generous girl, it can't be.'
'Why not, Amy?'
The return of Cosmo handling the telegram more
pugnaciously than ever provides the answer.
'Cosmo, show Miss Dunbar the telegram.'
Miss Dunbar reads: 'Boat arrived Southampton t=
his
morning.'
'A day earlier than they expected,' Amy explai=
ns.
'It's the other bit I am worrying about,' Cosmo
says darkly. The other bit proves to be 'Hope to reach our pets this aftern=
oon.
Kisses from both to all. Deliriously excited. Mummy and Dad.'
Now we see why Cosmo has been in distress.
'Pets, kisses,' he cries. 'What can the telegr=
aph
people think.'
'Surely,' Amy says, 'you want to kiss your
mother.'
'I'm going to kiss her,' he replies stoutly. 'I
mean to do it. It's father I am worrying about; with his "kisses to both from <=
/span>all
." All I can say is that, if father comes slobbering over me, I'll
surprise him.'
Here the outer door slams, and the three start=
to
their feet as if Philippi had dawned. To Cosmo the slam sounds uncommonly l=
ike
a father's kiss. He immediately begins to rehearse the greeting which is me=
ant
to ward off the fatal blow. 'How are you, father? I'm glad to see you, fath=
er;
it's a long journey from India; won't you sit down?'
Amy is the first to recover. 'How silly of us,'
she says; 'it is only nurse with baby.'
Presumably what we hear is a perambulator back=
ing
into its stall in the passage. Then nurse is distinctly heard in the adjoin=
ing
room, and we may gather that this is for the nonce the nursery of the house=
, though
to most occupants it would be the back dining-room. There is a door between=
the
two rooms, and Cosmo, peeping through a chink in it, sounds to his
fellow-conspirators the All's Well.
'Poor nurse,' Amy says with a kind sigh, 'I
suppose I had better show her the telegram. She is sure to cry. She looks u=
pon
mother as a thief who has come to steal baby from her.'
Ginevra wags her head to indicate that this is
another slice of Life; and nurse being called in is confronted with the
telegram. She runs a gamut of emotion without words, implies that she is no=
body
and must submit, nods humbly, sets her teeth, is both indignant and servile=
, and
finally bursts into tears. Amy tries to comfort her, but gets this terrible
answer: 'They'll be bringing a black woman to nurse her--a yah-yah they call
them.'
Amy signs to Ginevra, and Ginevra signs to Amy.
These two souls perfectly understand each other, and the telegraphy means t=
hat
it will be better for dear Ginevra to retire for a time to dear Amy's sweet=
little
bedroom. Amy slips the diary into the hand of Ginevra, who pops upstairs wi=
th
it to read the latest instalment. Nurse rambles on. 'I have had her for
seventeen months. She was just two months old, the angel, when they sent he=
r to
England, and she has been mine ever since. The most of them has one look for
their mammas and one look for their nurse, but she knew no better than to h=
ave
both looks for me.' She returns to the nursery, wailing 'My reign is over.'=
'Do you think Molly will chuck nurse for mother?' asks Cosmo, to =
whom this
is a new thought.
'It is the way of children,' the more experien=
ced
Amy tells him.
'Shabby little beasts,' the man says.
'You mustn't say that, Cosmo; but still it is =
hard
on nurse. Of course,' with swimming eyes, 'in a sense it's hard on all of u=
s--I
mean to be expecting parents in these circumstances. There must be almost t=
he
same feeling of strangeness in the house as when it is a baby that is
expected.'
'I suppose it is a bit like that,' Cosmo says
gloomily. He goes to her as the awfulness of this sinks into him: 'Great Sc=
ott,
Amy, it can't be quite so bad as that.'
Amy, who is of a very affectionate nature, is =
glad
to have the comfort of his hand.
'What do we really know about mother, Cosmo?' =
she
says darkly.
They are perhaps a touching pair.
'There are her letters, Amy.'
'Can one know a person by letters? Does she kn=
ow
you, Cosmo, by your letters to her, saying that your motto is "Somethi=
ng
attempted, something done to earn a night's repose," and so on.'
'Well, I thought that would please her.'
'Perhaps in her letters she says things just to
please us.'
Cosmo wriggles.
'This is pretty low of you, damping a fellow w=
hen
he was trying to make the best of it.'
'All I want you to feel,' Amy says, getting cl=
oser
to him, 'is that as brother and sister, we are allies, you know--against the
unknown.'
'Yes, Amy,' Cosmo says, and gets closer to her=
.
This so encourages her that she hastens to call
him 'dear.'
'I want to say, dear, that I'm very sorry I us=
ed
to shirk bowling to you.'
'That's nothing. I know what girls are. Amy, i=
t's
all right, I really am fond of you.'
'I have tried to be a sort of mother to you,
Cosmo.'
'My socks and things--I know.' Returning anxio=
usly
to the greater question, 'Amy, do we know anything of them at all?'
'We know some cold facts, of course. We know t=
hat
father is much older than mother.'
'I can't understand why such an old chap shoul=
d be
so keen to kiss me.'
'Mother is forty,' Amy says in a low voice.
'I thought she was almost more than forty,' Co=
smo
says in a still lower voice.
Amy shudders. 'Don't be so ungenerous, Cosmo.'=
But
she has to add. 'Of course we must be prepared to see her look older.'
'Why?'
'She will be rather yellow, coming from India,=
you
know. They will both be a little yellow.'
They exchange forlorn glances, but Cosmo says
manfully, 'We shan't be any the less fond of them for that, Amy.'
'No, indeed.'
They clasp hands on it, and Cosmo has an
inspiration.
'Do you think we should have these yellow flow=
ers
in the room? They might feel--eh?'
'How thoughtful of you, dear. I shall remove t=
hem
at once. After all, Cosmo, we seem to know a good deal about them; and then=
we
know some other things by heredity.'
'Heredity? That's drink, isn't it?'
She who has been to so many theatres smiles at
him. 'No, you boy! It's something in a play. It means that if we know ourse=
lves
well, we know our parents also. From thinking of myself, Cosmo, I know moth=
er.
In her youth she was one who did not love easily; but when she loved once it
was for aye. A nature very difficult to understand, but profoundly interest=
ing.
I can feel her within me , as she =
was
when she walked down the aisle on that strong arm, to honour and obey him h=
enceforth
for aye. What cared they that they had to leave their native land, they wer=
e together
for aye. And so--' Her face is flushed. Cosmo interrupts selfishly.
'What about father?'
'Very nice, unless you mention rupees to him. =
You
see the pensions of all Indian officers are paid in rupees, which means that
for every 2s. due to them they get only 1s. 4d. If you mention rupees to any
one of them he flares up like a burning paper.'
'I know. I shall take care. But what would you=
say
he was like by heredity?'
'Quiet, unassuming, yet of an intensely proud
nature. One who if he was deceived would never face his fellow-creatures, b=
ut
would bow his head before the wind and die. A strong man.'
'Do you mean, Amy, that he takes all that from
me?'
'I mean that is the sort of man my mother would love.'
Cosmo nods. 'Yes, but he is just as likely to =
kiss
me as ever.'
The return of Ginevra makes him feel that this
room is no place for him.
'I think,' he says, 'I'll go and walk up and d=
own
outside, and have a look at them as they're getting out of the cab. My plan,
you see, is first to kiss mother. Then I've made up four things to say to
father, and it's after I've said them that the awkward time will come. So t=
hen I
say, "I wonder what is in the evening papers"; and out I slip, an=
d when
I come back you will all have settled down to ordinary life, same as other
people. That's my plan.' He goes off, not without hope, and Ginevra shrugs =
her
shoulders forgivingly.
'How strange boys are,' she reflects. 'Have you
any "plan," Amy?'
'Only this, dear Ginevra, to leap into my moth=
er's
arms.'
Ginevra lifts what can only be called a trouser
leg, because that is what it is, though they are very seldom seen alone. 'W=
hat
is this my busy bee is making?'
'It's a gentleman's leg,' Amy explains, not
without a sweet blush. 'You hand-sew them and stretch them over a tin cylin=
der,
and they are then used as umbrella stands. Art in the Home says they are all the rage.'
'Oh, Amy, =
span>Boudoir
Gossip says they have quite gone o=
ut.'
'Again! Every art decoration I try goes out be=
fore
I have time to finish it.'
She remembers the diary.
'Did my Ginevra like my new page?'
'Dearest, that is what I came down to speak ab=
out.
You forgot to give me the key.'
'Ginevra, can you ever forgive me? Let us go up
and read it together.'
With arms locked they seek the seclusion of Am=
y's
bedroom. Cosmo rushes in to tell them that there is a suspicious-looking cab
coming down the street, but finding the room empty he departs again to reco=
nnoitre.
A cab draws up, a bell rings, and soon we hear the voice of Colonel Grey. He
can talk coherently to Fanny, he can lend a hand in dumping down his luggag=
e in
the passage, he can select from a handful of silver wherewith to pay his
cabman: all impossible deeds to his Alice, who would drop the luggage on yo=
ur
toes and cast all the silver at your face rather than be kept another minute
from her darlings. 'Where are they?' she has evidently cried just before we=
see
her, and Fanny has made a heartless response, for it is a dejected Alice th=
at
appears in the doorway of the room.
' All out!'
she echoes wofully, 'even--even baby?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
The poor mother, who had entered the house lik=
e a
whirlwind, subsides into a chair. Her arms fall empty by her side: a moment=
ago
she had six of them, a pair for each child. She cries a little, and when Al=
ice cries,
which is not often for she is more given to laughter, her face screws up li=
ke
Molly's rather than like Amy's. She is very unlike the sketch of her lately
made by the united fancies of her son and daughter; and she will dance them
round the room many times before they know her better. Amy will never be so
pretty as her mother, Cosmo will never be so gay, and it will be years befo=
re
either of them is as young. But it is quite a minute before we suspect this=
; we
must look the other way while the Colonel dries her tears. He is quite a gr=
izzled
veteran, and is trying hard to pretend that having done without his children
for so many years, a few minutes more is no great matter. His adorable Alic=
e is
this man's one joke. Some of those furrows in his brow have come from tryin=
g to
understand her, he owes the agility of his mind to trying to keep up with h=
er;
the humorous twist in his mouth is the result of chuckling over her.
She flutters across the room. 'Robert,' she sa=
ys,
thrilling. 'I daresay my Amy painted that table.'
'Yes, ma'am, she did,' says Fanny.
'Robert, Amy's table.'
'Yes, but keep cool, memsahib.'
'I suppose, ma'am, I'm to take my orders from =
you
now,' the hard-hearted Fanny inquires.
'I suppose so,' Alice says, so timidly that Fa=
nny
is encouraged to be bold.
'The poor miss, it will be a bit trying for her
just at first.'
Alice is taken aback.
'I hadn't thought of that, Robert.'
Robert thinks it time to take command.
'Fiddle-de-dee. Bring your mistress a cup of t=
ea,
my girl.'
'Yes, sir. Here is the tea-caddy, ma'am. I can=
't
take the responsibility; but this is the key.'
'Robert,' Alice says falteringly. 'I daren't b=
reak
into Amy's caddy. She mightn't like it. I can wait.'
'Rubbish. Give me the key.' Even Fanny cannot =
but
admire the Colonel as he breaks into the caddy.
'That makes me feel I'm master of my own house
already. Don't stare at me, girl, as if I was a housebreaker.'
'I feel that is just what we both are,' his wi=
fe
says; but as soon as they are alone she cries, 'It's home, home! India done,
home begun.'
He is as glad as she.
'Home, memsahib. And we've never had a real one
before. Thank God, I'm able to give it you at last.'
She darts impulsively from one object in the r=
oom
to another.
'Look, these pictures. I'm sure they are all A=
my's
work. They are splendid.' With perhaps a moment's misgiving, 'Aren't they?'=
' I couldn't have done them,' the Colonel sa=
ys
guardedly. He considers the hand-painted curtains. 'She seems to have stopp=
ed everything
in the middle. Still I couldn't have done them. I expect this is what is ca=
lled
a cosy corner.'
But Alice has found something more precious. S=
he
utters little cries of rapture.
'What is it?'
'Oh, Robert, a baby's shoe. My baby.' She pres=
ses
it to her as if it were a dove. Then she is appalled. 'Robert, if I had met=
my
baby coming along the street I shouldn't have known her from other people's=
babies.'
'Yes, you would,' the Colonel says hurriedly. =
'Don't
break down now . Just think, Alice;
after to-day, you will know your baby anywhere.'
'Oh joy, joy, joy.'
Then the expression of her face changes to 'Oh
woe, woe, woe.'
'What is it now, Alice?'
'Perhaps she won't like me.'
'Impossible.'
'Perhaps none of them will like me.'
'My dear Alice, children always love their mot=
her,
whether they see much of her or not. It's an instinct.'
'Who told you that?'
'You goose. It was yourself.'
'I've lost faith in it.'
He thinks it wise to sound a warning note. 'Of
course you must give them a little time.'
'Robert, Robert. Not another minute. That's not
the way people ever love me. They mustn't think me over first or anything of
that sort. If they do I'm lost; they must love me at once.'
'A good many have done that,' Robert says,
surveying her quizzically as if she were one of Amy's incompleted works.
'You are not implying, Robert, that I ever--. =
If I
ever did I always told you about it afterwards, didn't I? And I certainly never did it until I was sure you were
comfortable.'
'You always wrapped me up first,' he admits. <= o:p>
'They were only boys, Robert--poor lonely boys.
What are you looking so solemn about, Robert?'
'I was trying to picture you as you will be wh=
en
you settle down.'
She is properly abashed. 'Not settled down
yet--with a girl nearly grown up. And yet it's true; it's the tragedy of Al=
ice
Grey.' She pulls his hair. 'Oh, husband, when shall I settle down?'
'I can tell you exactly--in a year from to-day.
Alice, when I took you away to that humdrummy Indian station I was already
quite a middle-aged bloke. I chuckled over your gaiety, but it gave me lumb=
ago
to try to be gay with you. Poor old girl, you were like an only child who h=
as to
play alone. When for one month in the twelve we went to--to--where the boys
were, it was like turning you loose in a sweet-stuff shop.'
'Robert, darling, what nonsense you do talk.' =
He makes rather a wry face. 'I didn't always l=
ike
it, memsahib. But I knew my dear, and could trust her; and I often swore to
myself when I was shaving, "I won't ask her to settle down until I have
given her a year in England." A year from to-day, you harum-scarum. By
that time your daughter will be almost grown-up herself; and it wouldn't do=
to let
her pass you.'
'Robert, here is an idea; she and I shall come=
of
age together. I promise; or I shall try to keep one day in front of her, li=
ke
the school-mistresses when they are teaching boys Latin. Dearest, you haven=
't
been disappointed in me as a whole, have you? I haven't paid you for all yo=
ur
dear kindnesses to me--in rupees, have I?'
His answer is of no consequence, for at this
moment there arrives a direct message from heaven. It comes by way of the
nursery, and is a child's cry. The heart of Alice Grey stops beating for
several seconds. Then it says, 'My Molly!' The nurse appears, starts, and i=
s at
once on the defensive.
NURSE. 'Is it--Mrs. Grey?'
ALICE hastily, 'Yes. Is my--child in there?' <= o:p>
NURSE. 'Yes, ma'am.'
COLONEL, ready to catch her if she falls, 'Ali=
ce,
be calm.'
ALICE, falteringly, 'May I go in, nurse?'
NURSE, cold-heartedly, 'She's sleeping, ma'am,=
and
I have made it a rule to let her wake up naturally. But I daresay it's a bad
rule.'
ALICE, her hands on her heart, 'I'm sure it's a
good rule. I shan't wake her, nurse.'
COLONEL, showing the stuff he is made of, 'Gad=
, I will.
It's the least she can do to let herself be wakened.'
ALICE, admiring the effrontery of the man, 'Do=
n't
interfere, Robert.'
COLONEL. 'Sleeping? Why, she cried just now.' =
NURSE. 'That is why I came out--to see who was
making so much noise.'
An implacable woman this, and yet when she is
alone with Molly a very bundle of delight.
'I'm vexed when she cries--I daresay it's
old-fashioned of me. Not being a yah-yah I'm at a disadvantage.'
ALICE, swelling, 'After all, she is my child.'
COLONEL, firmly, 'Come along. Alice,'
ALICE. 'I would prefer to go alone, dear.'
COLONEL. 'All right. But break it to her that =
I'm
kicking my heels outside.'
Alice gets as far as the door. The nurse
discharges a last duty.
NURSE. 'You won't touch her, ma'am; she doesn't
like to be touched by strangers.'
ALICE. 'Strangers!'
COLONEL. 'Really, nurse.'
ALICE. 'It's quite true.'
NURSE. 'She's an angel if you have the right w=
ay
with her.'
ALICE. 'Robert, if I shouldn't have the right =
way
with her.'
COLONEL. 'You.'
But the woman has scored again.
ALICE, willing to go on her knees, 'Nurse, what
sort of a way does she like from strangers?'
NURSE. 'She's not fond of a canoodlin' way.' <= o:p>
ALICE, faintly, 'Is she not?'
She departs to face her child, and the natural
enemy follows her, after giving Colonel Grey a moment in which to discharge=
her
if he dares, that is if he wishes to see his baby wither and die. One may a=
s well
say here that nurse weathered this and many another gale, and remained in t=
he
house for many years to be its comfort and its curse.
Fanny, with the tea-tray, comes and goes witho=
ut
the Colonel's being aware of her presence. He merely knows that he has waved
someone away. The fact is that the Colonel is engrossed in a rather undigni=
fied
pursuit. He is listening avidly at the nursery door, and is thus discovered=
by
another member of his family who has entered cautiously. This is Master Cos=
mo,
who, observing the tea-tray, has the happy notion of interposing it between
himself and his father's possible osculatory intentions. He lifts the tray,=
and
thus armed introduces himself.
COSMO. 'Hullo, father.'
His father leaves the door and strides to him.=
COLONEL. 'Is it--it's Cosmo.'
COSMO, with the tray well to the fore, 'I'm
awfully glad to see you--it's a long way from India.'
COLONEL. 'Put that down, my boy, and let me get
hold of you.'
COSMO, ingratiatingly, 'Have some tea, father.=
'
COLONEL. 'Put it down.'
Cosmo does so, and prepares for the worst. The=
Colonel
takes both his hands.
'Let's have a look at you. So this is you.'
He waggles his head, well-pleased, while Cosmo
backs in a gentlemanly manner.
COSMO, implying that this first meeting is now=
an
affair of the past, 'Has Mother gone to lie down?'
COLONEL. 'Lie down? She's in there.'
Cosmo steals to the nursery door and softly cl=
oses
it.
'Why do you do that?'
COSMO. 'I don't know. I thought it would
be--best.' In a burst of candour, 'This is not the way I planned it, you se=
e.'
COLONEL. 'Our meeting? So you've been planning=
it.
My dear fellow, I was planning it too, and my plan--' He is certainly coming
closer.
COSMO, hurriedly, 'Yes, I know. Now that's
over--our first meeting, I mean; now we settle down.'
COLONEL. 'Not yet. Come here, my boy.'
He draws him to a chair; he evidently thinks t=
hat
a father and his boy of thirteen can sit in the same chair. Cosmo is burnin=
g to
be nice to him, but of course there are limits.
COSMO. 'Look here, father. Of course, you
see--ways change. I daresay they did it, when you were a boy, but it isn't =
done
now.'
COLONEL. 'What isn't done, you dear fellow?' <= o:p>
COSMO. 'Oh--well!--and then taking both hands =
and
saying 'Dear fellow'--'It's gone out, you know.'
The Colonel chuckles and forbears. 'I'm uncomm=
on
glad you told me, Cosmo. Not having been a father for so long, you see, I'm
rather raw at it.'
COSMO, relieved, 'That's all right. You'll soon
get the hang of it.'
COLONEL. 'If you could give me any other tips?=
'
COSMO, becoming confidential, 'Well, there's m=
y beastly
name. Of course you didn't mean any harm when you christened me Cosmo, but-=
-I always
sign myself "C. Grey"--to make the fellows think I'm Charles.'
COLONEL. 'Do they call you that?'
COSMO. 'Lord, no, they call me Grey.'
COLONEL. 'And do you want me to call you Grey?=
'
COSMO, magnanimously, 'No, I don't expect that.
But I thought that before people, you know, you needn't call me anything. If
you want to attract my attention you could just say "Hst!"--like
that.'
COLONEL. 'Right you are. But you won't make yo=
ur
mother call you Hst.'
COSMO, sagaciously, 'Oh no--of course women are
different.'
COLONEL. 'You'll be very nice to her, Cosmo? S=
he
had to pinch and save more than I should have allowed--to be able to send y=
ou
into the navy. We are poor people, you know.'
COSMO. 'I've been planning how to be nice to h=
er.'
COLONEL. 'Good lad. Good lad.'
Cosmo remembers his conversation with Amy, and
thoughtfully hides the 'yellow flowers' behind a photograph. This may be ca=
lled
one of his plans for being nice to mother.
COSMO. 'You don't have your medals here, fathe=
r?'
COLONEL. 'No, I don't carry them about. But yo=
ur
mother does, the goose. They are not very grand ones, Cosmo.'
COSMO, true blue, 'Yes, they are.'
An awkward silence falls. The Colonel has so m=
uch
to say that he can only look it. He looks it so eloquently that Cosmo's fea=
rs
return. He summons the plan to his help.
'I wonder what is in the evening papers. If you
don't mind, I'll cut out and get one.'
Before he can cut out, however, Alice is in the
room, the picture of distress. No wonder, for even we can hear the baby
howling.
ALICE, tragically, 'My baby. Robert, listen; t=
hat
is how I affect her.'
Cosmo cowers unseen.
COLONEL. 'No, no, darling, it isn't you who ha=
ve
made her cry. She--she is teething. It's her teeth, isn't it?' he barks at =
the
nurse, who emerges looking not altogether woeful. 'Say it's her teeth, woma=
n.'
NURSE, taking this as a reflection on her char=
ge.
'She had her teeth long ago.'
ALICE, the forlorn, 'The better to bite me wit=
h.'
NURSE, complacently, 'I don't understand it. S=
he
is usually the best-tempered lamb--as you may see for yourself, sir.'
It is an imitation that the Colonel is eager to
accept, but after one step toward the nursery he is true to Alice.
COLONEL. 'I decline to see her. I refuse to have anything to=
do
with her till she comes to a more reasonable frame of mind.'
The nurse retires, to convey possibly this
ultimatum to her charge.
ALICE, in the noblest spirit of self-abnegatio=
n,
'Go, Robert. Perhaps she--will like you better.'
COLONEL. 'She's a contemptible child.'
But that nursery door does draw him strongly. =
He
finds himself getting nearer and nearer to it. 'I'll show her,' with a happy
pretence that his object is merely to enforce discipline. The forgotten Cos=
mo
pops up again; the Colonel introduces him with a gesture and darts off to h=
is
baby.
ALICE, entranced, 'My son!'
COSMO, forgetting all plans, 'Mother!' She
envelops him in her arms, worshipping him, and he likes it.
ALICE. 'Oh, Cosmo--how splendid you are.'
COSMO, soothingly, 'That's all right, mother.'=
ALICE. 'Say it again.'
COSMO. 'That's all right.'
ALICE. 'No, the other word.'
COSMO. 'Mother.'
ALICE. 'Again.'
COSMO. 'Mother--mother--' When she has come to:
'Are you better now?'
ALICE. 'He is my son, and he is in uniform.' <= o:p>
COSMO, aware that allowances must be made, 'Ye=
s, I
know.'
ALICE. 'Are you glad to see your mother, Cosmo=
?'
COSMO. 'Rather! Will you have some tea?'
ALICE. 'No, no, I feel I can do nothing for the
rest of my life but hug my glorious boy.'
COSMO. 'Of course, I have my work.'
ALICE. 'His work! Do the officers love you,
Cosmo?'
COSMO, degraded, 'Love me! I should think not.=
'
ALICE. 'I should like to ask them all to come =
and
stay with us.'
COSMO, appalled, 'Great Scott, mother, you can=
't
do things like that.'
ALICE. 'Can't I? Are you very studious, Cosmo?=
'
COSMO, neatly, 'My favourite authors are Willi=
am
Shakespeare and William Milton. They are grand, don't you think?'
ALICE. 'I'm only a woman, you see; and I'm afr=
aid
they sometimes bore me, especially William Milton.'
COSMO, with relief, 'Do they? Me, too.'
ALICE, on the verge of tears again, 'But not h=
alf
so much as I bore my baby.'
COSMO, anxious to help her, 'What did you do to
her?'
ALICE, appealingly, 'I couldn't help wanting to
hold her in my arms, could I, Cosmo?'
COSMO, full of consideration, 'No, of course y=
ou
couldn't.' He reflects. 'How did you take hold of her?'
ALICE. 'I suppose in some clumsy way.'
COSMO. 'Not like this, was it?'
ALICE, gloomily, 'I dare say.'
COSMO. 'You should have done it this way.'
He very kindly shows her how to carry a baby. =
ALICE, with becoming humility, 'Thank you, Cos=
mo.'
He does not observe the gleam in her eye, and =
is
in the high good humour that comes to any man when any woman asks him to sh=
ow
her how to do anything.
COSMO. 'If you like I'll show you with a cushi=
on.
You see this'--scoops it up--'is wrong; but this'--he does a little sleight=
of
hand--'is right. Another way is this, with their head hanging over your
shoulder, and you holding on firmly to their legs. You wouldn't think it wa=
s comfortable,
but they like it.'
ALICE, adoring him. 'I see, Cosmo.' She practi=
ses
diligently with the cushion. 'First this way--then this.'
COSMO. 'That's first-class. It's just a knack.
You'll soon pick it up.'
ALICE, practising on him instead of the cushio=
n,
'You darling boy!'
COSMO. 'I think I hear a boy calling the eveni=
ng
papers.'
ALICE, clinging to him, 'Don't go. There can be
nothing in the evening papers about what my boy thinks of his mother.'
COSMO. 'Good lord, no.' He thinks quickly. 'You
haven't seen Amy yet. It isn't fair of Amy. She should have been here to ta=
ke
some of it off me.'
ALICE. 'Cosmo, you don't mean that I bore you
too!'
He is pained. It is now he who boldly encircles
her. But his words, though well meant, are not so happy as his action. 'I l=
ove
you, mother; and I don't think you're so yellow.'
ALICE, the belle of many stations, 'Yellow?' H=
er
brain reels. 'Cosmo, do you think me plain?'
COSMO, gallantly, 'No, I don't. I'm not one of=
the
kind who judge people by their looks. The soul, you know, is what I judge t=
hem
by.'
ALICE. 'Plain? Me.'
COSMO, the comforter, 'Of course it's all right
for girls to bother about being pretty.' He lures her away from the subject=
. 'I
can tell you a funny thing about that. We had theatricals at Osborne one ni=
ght,
and we played a thing called "The Royal Boots."'
ALICE, clapping her hands, ' I played in that, too, last year.'
COSMO. 'You?'
ALICE. 'Yes. Why shouldn't I?'
COSMO. 'But we did it for fun.'
ALICE. 'So did we.'
COSMO, his views on the universe crumbling, 'Y=
ou
still like fun?'
ALICE. 'Take care, Cosmo.'
COSMO. 'But you're our mother.'
ALICE. 'Mustn't mothers have fun?
COSMO, heavily, 'Must they? I see. You had pla=
yed
the dowager.'
ALICE. 'No, I didn't. I played the girl in the
Wellington boots.'
COSMO, blinking, 'Mother, I played the girl in the Wellington boots.=
'
ALICE, happily, 'My son--this ought to bring us
closer together.'
COSMO, who has not yet learned to leave well
alone, 'But the reason I did it was that we were all boys. Were there no yo=
ung
ladies where you did it, mother?'
ALICE. 'Cosmo.' She is not a tamed mother yet,=
and
in sudden wrath she flips his face with her hand. He accepts it as a smack.=
The
Colonel foolishly chooses this moment to make his return. He is in high goo=
d-humour,
and does not observe that two of his nearest relatives are glaring at each
other.
COLONEL, purring offensively, 'It's all right =
now,
Alice; she took to me at once.'
ALICE, tartly, 'Oh, did she!'
COLONEL. 'Gurgled at me--pulled my moustache.'=
ALICE. 'I hope you got on with our dear son as
well.'
COLONEL. 'Isn't he a fine fellow.'
ALICE. ' I have just been smacking his face.' She s=
its
down and weeps, while her son stands haughtily at attention.
COLONEL, with a groan, 'Hst, I think you had
better go and get that evening paper.'
Cosmo departs with his flag flying, and the
bewildered husband seeks enlightenment.
'Smacked his face. But why, Alice?'
ALICE. 'He infuriated me.'
COLONEL. 'He seems such a good boy.'
ALICE, the lowly, 'No doubt he is. It must be =
very
trying to have me for a mother.'
COLONEL. 'Perhaps you were too demonstrative?'=
ALICE. 'I daresay. A woman he doesn't know! No
wonder I disgusted him.'
COLONEL. 'I can't make it out.'
ALICE, abjectly, 'It's quite simple. He saw
through me at once; so did baby.'
The Colonel flings up his hands. He hears
whisperings outside the door. He peeps and returns excitedly.
COLONEL. 'Alice, there's a girl there with Cos=
mo.'
ALICE, on her feet, with a cry, 'Amy.'
COLONEL, trembling, 'I suppose so.'
ALICE, gripping him, 'Robert, if she doesn't love me I shall die.'
COLONEL. 'She will, she will.' But he has grown
nervous. 'Don't be too demonstrative, dearest.'
ALICE. 'I shall try to be cold. Oh, Amy, love =
me.'
Amy comes, her hair up, and is at once in her
father's arms. Then she wants to leap into the arms of the mother who craves
for her. But Alice is afraid of being too demonstrative, and restrains hers=
elf.
She presses Amy's hands only.
ALICE. 'It is you, Amy. How are you, dear?' She
ventures at last to kiss her. 'It is a great pleasure to your father and me=
to
see you again.'
AMY, damped, 'Thank you, mother----Of course I
have been looking forward to this meeting very much also.'
ALICE, shuddering, 'It is very sweet of you to=
say
so.'
'Oh how cold,' they are both thinking, while t=
he
Colonel regards them uncomfortably. Amy turns to him. She knows already that
there is safe harbourage there.
AMY. 'Would you have known me, father?'
COLONEL. 'I wonder. She's not like you, Alice?=
'
ALICE. 'No. I used
to be demonstrative, Amy----'
AMY, eagerly, 'Were you?'
ALICE, hurriedly, 'Oh, I grew out of it long a=
go.'
AMY, disappointed but sympathetic, 'The wear a=
nd
tear of life.'
ALICE, wincing, 'No doubt.'
AMY, making conversation, 'You have seen Cosmo=
?'
ALICE. 'Yes.'
AMY, with pardonable curiosity, 'What did you
think of him?'
ALICE. 'He--seemed a nice boy----'
AMY, hurt, 'And baby?'
ALICE. 'Yes--oh yes.'
AMY. 'Isn't she fat?'
ALICE. 'Is she?'
The nurse's head intrudes.
NURSE. 'If you please, sir--I think baby wants=
you again.'
The Colonel's face exudes complacency, but he =
has
the grace to falter.
COLONEL. 'What do you think, Alice?'
ALICE, broken under the blow, 'By all means go=
.'
COLONEL. 'Won't you come also? Perhaps if I am
with you--'
ALICE, after giving him an annihilating look, =
'No,
I--I had quite a long time with her.'
The Colonel tiptoes off to his babe with a
countenance of foolish rapture; and mother and daughter are alone.
AMY, wishing her father would come back, 'You
can't have been very long with baby, mother.'
ALICE. 'Quite long enough.'
AMY. 'Oh.' Some seconds elapse before she can
speak again. 'You will have some tea, won't you?'
ALICE. 'Thank you, dear.' They sit down to a
chilly meal.
AMY, merely a hostess, 'Both milk and sugar.' =
ALICE, merely a guest, 'No sugar.'
AMY. 'I hope you will like the house, mother.'=
ALICE. 'I am sure you have chosen wisely. I see
you are artistic.'
AMY. 'The decoration isn't finished. I haven't
quite decided what this room is to be like yet.'
ALICE. 'One never can tell.'
AMY, making conversation, 'Did you notice that
there is a circular drive to the house?'
ALICE. 'No, I didn't notice.'
AMY. 'That would be because the cab filled it;=
but
you can see it if you are walking.'
ALICE. 'I shall look out for it.' Grown desper=
ate,
'Amy, have you nothing more important to say to me?'
AMY, faltering, 'You mean--the keys? Here they
are; all with labels on them. And here are the tradesmen's books. They are =
all
paid up to Wednesday.' She sadly lets them go. They lie disregarded in her =
mother's
lap.
ALICE. 'Is there nothing else?'
AMY, with a flash of pride. 'Perhaps you have
noticed that my hair is up?'
ALICE. 'It so took me aback, Amy, when you came
into the room. How long have you had it up?'
AMY, with large eyes, 'Not very long. I--I beg=
an
only to-day.'
ALICE, imploringly, 'Dear, put it down again. =
You
are not grown up.'
AMY, almost sternly, 'I feel I am a woman now.=
'
ALICE, abject, 'A woman--you? Am I never to kn=
ow
my daughter as a girl!'
AMY. 'You were married before you were eightee=
n.'
ALICE. 'Ah, but I had no mother. And even at t=
hat
age I knew the world.'
AMY, smiling sadly, 'Oh, mother, not so well a=
s I
know it.'
ALICE, sharply, 'What can you know of the worl=
d?'
AMY, shuddering, 'More I hope, mother, than you
will ever know.'
ALICE, alarmed, 'My child!' Seizing her: 'Amy,
tell me what you know.'
AMY. 'Don't ask me, please. I have sworn not to
talk of it.'
ALICE. 'Sworn? To whom?'
AMY. 'To another.'
Alice, with a sinking, pounces on her daughter=
's
engagement finger; but it is unadorned.
ALICE. 'Tell me, Amy, who is that other?'
AMY, bravely, 'It is our secret.'
ALICE. 'Amy, I beg you--'
AMY, a heroic figure, 'Dear mother, I am so so=
rry
I must decline.'
ALICE. 'You defy me.' She takes hold of her
daughter's shoulders. 'Amy, you drive me frantic. If you don't tell me at o=
nce
I shall insist on your father--. Oh, you--'
It is not to be denied that she is shaking Amy
when the Colonel once more intrudes.
COLONEL, aghast, 'Good heavens, Alice, again! =
Amy,
what does this mean?'
AMY, as she runs, insulted and in tears, from =
the
room, 'It means, father, that I love you
very much.'
COLONEL, badgered, 'Won't you explain, Alice?'=
ALICE. 'Robert, I am in terror about Amy.'
COLONEL. 'Why?'
ALICE. 'Don't ask me, dear--not now--not till I
have spoken to her again.' She clings to her husband. 'Robert, there can't =
be
anything in it?'
COLONEL. 'If you mean anything wrong with our
girl, there isn't, memsahib. What great innocent eyes she has.'
ALICE, eagerly, 'Yes, yes, hasn't she, Robert.=
'
COLONEL. 'All's well with Amy, dear.'
ALICE. 'Of course it is. It was silly of me--My
Amy.'
COLONEL. 'And mine.'
ALICE. 'But she seems to me hard to understand=
.'
With her head on his breast, 'I begin to feel Robert that I should have come
back to my children long ago--or I shouldn't have come back at all.'
The Colonel is endeavouring to soothe her when
Stephen Rollo is shown in. He is very young--too young to be a villain, too
round-faced; but he is all the villain we can provide for Amy. His entrance=
is
less ostentatious than it might be if he knew of the role that has been ass=
igned
to him. He thinks indeed (sometimes with a sigh) that he is a very good you=
ng
man; and the Colonel and Alice (without the sigh) think so too. After warm
greetings:
STEVE. 'Alice, I daresay you wish me at Jerich= o; but it's six months since I saw you, and I couldn't wait till to-morrow.' <= o:p>
ALICE, giving him her cheek, 'I believe there's
someone in this house glad to see me at last; and you may kiss me for that,
Steve.'
STEVE, who has found the cheek wet, 'You are n=
ot
telling me they don't adore her?'
COLONEL. 'I can't understand it.'
STEVE. 'But by all the little gods of India, y=
ou
know, everyone has always adored Alice.'
ALICE, plaintively, 'That's why I take it so i=
ll,
Steve.'
STEVE. 'Can I do anything? See here, if the ho=
use
is upside down and you would like to get rid of the Colonel for an hour or =
two,
suppose he dines with me to-night? I'm dying to hear all the news of the Pu=
njab
since I left.'
COLONEL, with an eye on the nursery door, 'No,
Steve, I--the fact is--I have an engagement.'
ALICE, vindictively, 'He means he can't leave =
the
baby.'
STEVE. 'It has taken to him ?'
COLONEL, swaggering, 'Enormously.'
ALICE, whimpering, 'They all have. He has stol=
en
them from me. He has taken up his permanent residence in the nursery.'
COLONEL. 'Pooh, fiddlededee. I shall probably =
come
round to-night to see you after dinner, Steve, and bring memsahib with me. =
In
the meantime--'
ALICE, whose mind is still misgiving her about
Amy, 'In the meantime I want to have a word with Steve alone, Robert.'
COLONEL. 'Very good.' Stealing towards the
nursery, 'Then I shall pop in here again. How is the tea business prosperin=
g in
London, Steve? Glad you left India?'
STEVE. 'I don't have half the salary I had in
India, but my health is better. How are rupees?'
COLONEL. 'Stop it.' He is making a doll of his
handkerchief for the further subjugation of Molly. He sees his happy face i=
n a
looking-glass and is ashamed of it. 'Alice, I wish it was you they loved.' =
ALICE, with withering scorn, 'Oh, go back to y=
our
baby.'
As soon as the Colonel has gone she turns
anxiously to Steve.
'Steve, tell me candidly what you think of my
girl.'
STEVE. 'But I have never set eyes on her.'
ALICE. 'Oh, I was hoping you knew her well. She
goes sometimes to the Deans and the Rawlings--all our old Indian friends--'=
STEVE. 'So do I, but we never happened to be t=
here
at the same time. They often speak of her though.'
ALICE. 'What do they say?'
STEVE. 'They are enthusiastic--an ideal, sweet
girl.'
ALICE, relieved, 'I'm so glad. Now you can go,
Steve.'
STEVE. 'It's odd to think of the belle of the
Punjab as a mother of a big girl.'
ALICE. 'Don't; or I shall begin to think it's
absurd myself.'
STEVE. 'Surely the boy felt the spell.' She sh=
akes
her head. 'But the boys always did.'
ALICE, wryly, 'They were older boys.'
STEVE. 'I believe I was the only one you never
flirted with.'
ALICE, smiling, 'No one could flirt with you,
Steve.'
STEVE, pondering, 'I wonder why.' The problem =
has
troubled him occasionally for years.
ALICE. 'I wonder.'
STEVE. 'I suppose there's some sort of want in
me.'
ALICE. 'Perhaps that's it. No, it's because you
were always such a good boy.'
STEVE, wincing, 'I don't know. Sometimes when I
saw you all flirting I wanted to do it too, but I could never think of how =
to
begin.' With a sigh, 'I feel sure there's something pleasant about it.'
ALICE, 'You're a dear, old donkey, Steve, but =
I'm
glad you came, it has made the place seem more like home. All these years I=
was
looking forward to home; and now I feel that perhaps it is the place I have=
left
behind me.' The joyous gurgling of Molly draws them to the nursery door; and
there they are observed by Amy and Ginevra who enter from the hall. The scr=
een
is close to the two girls, and they have so often in the last week seen sta=
ge
figures pop behind screens that, mechanically as it were, they pop behind t=
his
one.
STEVE, who little knows that he is now enterin=
g on
the gay career, 'Listen to the infant.'
ALICE. 'Isn't it horrid of Robert to get on wi=
th
her so well. Steve, say Robert's a brute.'
STEVE, as he bids her good afternoon, 'Of cour=
se
he is; a selfish beast.'
ALICE. 'There's another kiss to you for saying
so.' The doomed woman presents her cheek again.
STEVE. 'And you'll come to me after dinner
to-night, Alice? Here, I'll leave my card, I'm not half a mile from this
street.'
ALICE. 'I mayn't be able to get away. It will
depend on whether my silly husband wants to stay with his wretch of a baby.
I'll see you to the door. Steve, you're <=
/span>much
nicer than Robert.'
With these dreadful words she and the libertine
go. Amy and Ginevra emerge white to the lips; or, at least, they feel as wh=
ite
as that.
AMY, clinging to the screen for support, 'He
kissed her.'
GINEVRA, sternly, 'He called her Alice.'
AMY. 'She is going to his house to-night. An
assignation.'
GINEVRA. 'They will be chambers, Amy--they are
always chambers. And after dinner, he said--so he's stingy, too. Here is his
card: "Mr. Stephen Rollo.'"
AMY. 'I have heard of him. They said he was a =
nice
man.'
GINEVRA. 'The address is Kensington West. That=
's
the new name for West Kensington.'
AMY. 'My poor father. It would kill him.'
GINEVRA, the master mind, 'He must never know.=
'
AMY. 'Ginevra, what's to be done?'
GINEVRA. 'Thank heaven, we know exactly what to
do. It rests with you to save her.'
AMY, trembling, 'You mean I must go--to his
chambers?'
GINEVRA, firmly, 'At any cost.'
AMY. 'Evening dress?'
GINEVRA. 'It is always evening dress. And don'=
t be
afraid of his Man, dear; they always have a Man.'
AMY. 'Oh, Ginevra.'
GINEVRA. 'First try fascination. You remember =
how
they fling back their cloak--like this, dear. If that fails, threaten him. =
You
must get back the letters. There are always letters.'
AMY. 'If father should suspect and follow? They
usually do.'
GINEVRA. 'Then you must sacrifice yourself for
her. Does my dearest falter?'
AMY, pressing Ginevra's hand, 'I will do my du=
ty.
Oh, Ginevra, what things there will be to put in my diary to-night.'
Night has fallen, and Amy is probably now in h=
er
bedroom, fully arrayed for her dreadful mission. She says good-bye to her
diary--perhaps for aye. She steals from the house--to a very different scen=
e,
which (if one were sufficiently daring) would represent a Man's Chambers at
Midnight. There is no really valid excuse for shirking this scene, which is=
so popular
that every theatre has it stowed away in readiness; it is capable of 'setti=
ng'
itself should the stage-hands forget to do so.
It should be a handsome, sombre room in oak and dark red, with sinister easy chairs and couches, great curtains discreetly drawn, a door to enter by, a door to hide by, a carelessly strewn table on = which to write a letter reluctantly to dictation, another table exquisitely decor= ated for supper for two, champagne in an ice-bucket, many rows of books which on close examination will prove to be painted wood (the stage Lotharios not be= ing really reading men). The lamps shed a diffused light, and one of them is slightly odd in construction, because it is for knocking over presently in order to let the lady escape unobserved. Through this room moves occasional= ly the man's Man, sleek, imperturbable, announcing the lady, the lady's husband, t= he woman friend who is to save them; he says little, but is responsible for all the arrangements going right; before the curtain rises he may be conceived trying the lamp and making sure that the lady will not stick in the door. <= o:p>
That is how it ought to be, that is how Amy has
seen it several times in the past week; and now that we come to the grapple=
we
wish we could give you what you want, for you do want it, you have been use=
d to
it, and you will feel that you are looking at a strange middle act without =
it.
But Steve cannot have such a room as this, he has only two hundred and fifty
pounds a year, including the legacy from his aunt. Besides, though he is to=
be
a Lothario (in so far as we can manage it) he is not at present aware of th=
is,
and has made none of the necessary arrangements; if one of his lamps is kno=
cked
over it will certainly explode; and there cannot be a secret door without i=
ts
leading into the adjoining house. (Theatres keep special kinds of architect=
s to
design their rooms.) There is indeed a little cupboard where his crockery is
kept, and if Amy is careful she might be able to squeeze in there. We cannot
even make the hour midnight; it is eight-thirty, quite late enough for her =
to
be out alone.
Steve has just finished dinner, in his comfort=
able
lodgings. He is not even in evening dress, but he does wear a lounge jacket=
, which
we devoutly hope will give him a rakish air to Amy's eyes. He would undoubt=
edly
have put on evening dress if he had known she was coming. His man, Richards=
on,
is waiting on him. When we wrote that we deliberated a long time. It has an
air, and with a little low cunning we could make you think to the very end =
that
Richardson was a male. But if the play is acted and you go to see it, you w=
ould
be disappointed. Steve, the wretched fellow, never had a Man, and Richardso=
n is
only his landlady's slavey, aged about fifteen, and wistful at sight of foo=
d.
We introduce her gazing at Steve's platter as if it were a fairy tale. Steve
has often caught her with this rapt expression on her face, and sometimes, =
as
now, an engaging game ensues.
RICHARDSON, blinking, 'Are you finished, sir?'=
To
those who know the game this means, 'Are you to leave the other chop--the o=
ne
sitting lonely and lovely beneath the dish-cover?'
STEVE. 'Yes.' In the game this is merely a
tantaliser.
RICHARDSON, almost sure that he is in the right
mood and sending out a feeler, 'Then am I to clear?'
STEVE. 'No.' This is intended to puzzle her, b=
ut
it is a move he has made so often that she understands its meaning at once.=
RICHARDSON, in entranced giggles, 'He, he, he!=
'
STEVE, vacating his seat, 'Sit down.'
RICHARDSON. 'Again?'
STEVE. 'Sit down, and clear the enemy out of t=
hat
dish.'
By the enemy he means the other chop: what a n=
ame
for a chop. Steve plays the part of butler. He brings her a plate from the
little cupboard.
'Dinner is served, madam.'
RICHARDSON, who will probably be a great duche=
ss
some day, 'I don't mind if I does have a snack.' She places herself at the
table after what she conceives to be the manner of the genteelly gluttonous;
then she quakes a little. 'If Missis was to catch me.' She knows that Missi=
s is
probably sitting downstairs with her arms folded, hopeful of the chop for
herself.
STEVE. 'You tuck in and I'll keep watch.'
He goes to the door to peer over the banisters= ; it is all part of the game. Richardson promptly tucks in with horrid relish. <= o:p>
RICHARDSON. 'What makes you so good to me, sir=
?'
STEVE. 'A gentleman is always good to a lady.'=
RICHARDSON, preening, 'A lady? Go on.'
STEVE. 'And when I found that at my dinner hour
you were subject to growing pains I remembered my own youth. Potatoes, mada=
m?'
RICHARDSON, neatly, 'If quite convenient.'
The kindly young man surveys her for some time=
in
silence while she has various happy adventures.
STEVE. 'Can I smoke, Richardson?'
RICHARDSON. 'Of course you can smoke. I have o=
ften
seen you smoking.'
STEVE, little aware of what an evening the sex=
is
to give him, 'But have I your permission?'
RICHARDSON. 'You're at your tricks again.'
STEVE, severely, 'Have you forgotten already h=
ow I
told you a true lady would answer?'
RICHARDSON. 'I minds, but it makes me that shy=
.'
She has, however, a try at it. 'Do smoke, Mr. Rollo, I loves the smell of i=
t.'
Steve lights his pipe; no real villain smokes a
pipe.
STEVE. 'Smoking is a blessed companion to a lo=
nely
devil like myself.'
RICHARDSON. 'Yes, sir.' Sharply, 'Would you say
devil to a real lady, sir?'
Steve, it may be hoped, is properly confused, =
but
here the little idyll of the chop is brought to a close by the tinkle of a
bell. Richardson springs to attention.
'That will be the friends you are expecting?' =
STEVE. 'I was only half expecting them, but I
daresay you are right. Have you finished, Richardson?'
RICHARDSON. 'Thereabouts. Would a real lady li=
ck
the bone--in company I mean?'
STEVE. 'You know, I hardly think so.'
RICHARDSON. 'Then I'm finished.'
STEVE, disappearing, 'Say I'll be back in a ji=
ffy.
I need brushing, Richardson.'
Richardson, no longer in company, is about to =
hold
a last friendly communion with the bone when there is a knock at the door,
followed by the entrance of a mysterious lady. You could never guess who the
lady is, so we may admit at once that it is Miss Amy Grey. Amy is in evening
dress--her only evening dress--and over it is the cloak, which she is prese=
ntly
to fling back with staggering effect. Just now her pale face is hiding behi=
nd
the collar of it, for she is quaking inwardly though strung up to a terrible
ordeal. The room is not as she expected, but she knows that men are cunning=
.
AMY, frowning, 'Are these Mr. Rollo's chambers?
The woman told me to knock at this door.'
She remembers with a certain satisfaction that=
the
woman had looked at her suspiciously.
RICHARDSON, the tray in her hand to give her
confidence, 'Yes, ma'am. He will be down in a minute, ma'am. He is expecting
you, ma'am.'
Expecting her, is he! Amy smiles the bitter sm=
ile
of knowledge.
AMY. 'We shall see.' She looks about her. Shar=
ply,
'Where is his man?'
RICHARDSON, with the guilt of the chop on her
conscience, 'What man?'
AMY, brushing this subterfuge aside, 'His man.
They always have a man.'
RICHARDSON, with spirit, 'He is a man himself.=
'
AMY. 'Come, girl; who waits on him?'
RICHARDSON. 'Me.'
AMY, rather daunted, 'No man? Very strange.'
Fortunately she sees the two plates. 'Stop.' Her eyes glisten. 'Two persons
have been dining here!' Richardson begins to tremble. 'Why do you look so
scared? Was the other a gentleman?'
RICHARDSON. 'Oh, ma'am.'
AMY, triumphantly, 'It was not!' But her trium=
ph
gives way to bewilderment, for she knows that when she left the house her
mother was still in it. Then who can the visitor have been? 'Why are you tr=
ying
to hide that plate? Was it a lady? Girl, tell me was it a lady?'
RICHARDSON, at bay, 'He--he calls her a lady.'=
AMY, the omniscient, 'But you know better!'
RICHARDSON. 'Of course I know she ain't a real
lady.'
AMY. 'Another woman. And not even a lady.' She=
has
no mercy on the witness. 'Tell me, is this the first time she has dined her=
e?'
RICHARDSON, fixed by Amy's eye, 'No, ma'am--I
meant no harm, ma'am.'
AMY. 'I am not blaming you . Can you remember how often she has=
dined
here?'
RICHARDSON. 'Well can I remember. Three times =
last
week.'
AMY. 'Three times in one week, monstrous.'
RICHARDSON, with her gown to her eyes, 'Yes,
ma'am; I see it now.'
AMY, considering and pouncing, 'Do you think s=
he
is an adventuress?'
RICHARDSON. 'What's that?'
AMY. 'Does she smoke cigarettes?'
RICHARDSON, rather spiritedly, 'No, she don't.=
'
AMY, taken aback, 'Not an adventuress.'
She wishes Ginevra were here to help her. She
draws upon her stock of knowledge. 'Can she be secretly married to him? A w=
ife
of the past turned up to blackmail him? That's very common.'
RICHARDSON. 'Oh, ma'am, you are terrifying me.=
'
AMY. 'I wasn't talking to you. You may go. Sto=
p.
How long had she been here before I came?'
RICHARDSON. 'She--Her what you are speaking
about--'
AMY. 'Come, I must know.' The terrible admissi=
on
refuses to pass Richardson's lips, and of a sudden Amy has a dark suspicion.
'Has she gone! Is she here now?'
RICHARDSON. 'It was just a chop. What makes yo=
u so
grudging of a chop?'
AMY. 'I don't care what they ate. Has she gone=
?'
RICHARDSON. 'Oh, ma'am.'
The little maid, bearing the dishes, backs to =
the
door, opens it with her foot, and escapes from this terrible visitor. The d=
rawn
curtains attract Amy's eagle eye, and she looks behind them. There is no on=
e there.
She pulls open the door of the cupboard and says firmly, 'Come out.' No one
comes. She peeps into the cupboard and finds it empty. A cupboard and no on=
e in
it. How strange. She sits down almost in tears, wishing very much for the
counsel of Ginevra. Thus Steve finds her when he returns.
STEVE. 'I'm awfully glad, Alice, that you--' <= o:p>
He stops abruptly at sight of a strange lady. =
As
for Amy, the word 'Alice' brings her to her feet.
AMY. 'Sir.' A short remark but withering.
STEVE. 'I beg your pardon. I thought--the fact=
is
that I expected--You see you are a stranger to me--my name is Rollo--you are
not calling on me, are you?' Amy inclines her head in a way that Ginevra and
she have practised. Then she flings back her cloak as suddenly as an expert=
may
open an umbrella. Having done this she awaits results. Steve, however, has =
no
knowledge of how to play his part; he probably favours musical comedy. He s=
ays
lamely: 'I still think there must be some mistake.'
AMY, in italics, 'There is no mistake.'
STEVE. 'Then is there anything I can do for yo=
u?'
AMY, ardently, 'You can do so much.'
STEVE. 'Perhaps if you will sit down--'
Amy decides to humour him so far. She would li=
ke to
sit in the lovely stage way, when they know so precisely where the chair is
that they can sit without a glance at it. But she dare not, though Ginevra
would have risked it. Steve is emboldened to say: 'By the way, you have not=
told
me your name.'
AMY, nervously, 'If you please, do you mind my=
not
telling it?'
STEVE. 'Oh, very well.' First he thinks there =
is
something innocent about her request, and then he wonders if 'innocent' is =
the
right word. 'Well, your business, please?' he demands, like the man of the =
world
he hopes some day to be.
AMY. 'Why are you not in evening dress?'
STEVE, taken aback, 'Does that matter?'
AMY, though it still worries her, 'I suppose n=
ot.'
STEVE, with growing stiffness, 'Your business,=
if
you will be so good.'
Amy advances upon him. She has been seated in =
any
case as long as they ever do sit on the stage on the same chair.
AMY. 'Stephen Rollo, the game is up.'
She likes this; she will be able to go on now.=
STEVE, recoiling guiltily or so she will descr=
ibe
it to Ginevra, 'What on earth--'
AMY, suffering from a determination from the m=
outh
of phrases she has collected in five theatres, 'A chance discovery, Mr. Ste=
phen
Rollo, has betrayed your secret to me.'
STEVE, awed, 'My secret? What is it?' He rushes
rapidly through a well-spent youth.
AMY, risking a good deal, 'It is this: that wo=
man
is your wife.'
STEVE. 'What woman?'
AMY. 'The woman who dined with you here this
evening.'
STEVE. 'With me?'
AMY, icily, 'This is useless; as I have already
said, the game is up.'
STEVE, glancing in a mirror to make sure he is
still the same person, 'You look <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> a nice girl but dash it all. Whom can yo=
u be
taking me for? Tell me some more about myself.'
AMY. Please desist. I know everything, and in a
way I am sorry for you. All these years you have kept the marriage a secret,
for she is a horrid sort of woman, and now she has come back to blackmail y=
ou. That,
however, is not my affair.'
STEVE, with unexpected power of irony, 'Oh, I
wouldn't say that.'
AMY. 'I do say it, Mr. Stephen Rollo. I shall =
keep
your secret--'
STEVE. 'Ought you?'
AMY. '--on one condition, and on one condition
only, that you return me the letters.'
STEVE. 'The letters?'
AMY. 'The letters.'
Steve walks the length of his room, regarding =
her
sideways.
STEVE. 'Look here, honestly I don't know what =
you
are talking about. You know, I could be angry with you, but I feel sure you=
are
sincere.'
AMY. 'Indeed I am.'
STEVE. 'Well, then, I assure you on my word of
honour that no lady was dining with me this evening, and that I have no wif=
e.'
AMY, blankly, 'No wife! You are sure? Oh, thin=
k.'
STEVE. 'I swear it.'
AMY. 'I am very sorry.' She sinks dispiritedly
into a chair.
STEVE. 'Sorry I have no wife?' She nods through
her tears. 'Don't cry. How could my having a wife be a boon to you?'
AMY, plaintively, 'It would have put you in the
hollow of my hands.'
STEVE, idiotically, 'And they are nice hands,
too.'
AMY, with a consciousness that he might once u=
pon
a time have been saved by a good woman, 'I suppose that is how you got round
her.'
STEVE, stamping his foot, 'Haven't I told you =
that
she doesn't exist?'
AMY. 'I don't mean her--I mean her--'
He decides that she is a little crazy.
STEVE, soothingly, 'Come now, we won't go into
that again. It was just a mistake; and now that it is all settled and done
with, I'll tell you what we shall do. You will let me get you a cab--' She
shakes her head. 'I promise not to listen to the address; and after you have
had a good night you--you will see things differently.'
AMY, ashamed of her momentary weakness, and
deciding not to enter it in the diary, 'You are very clever, Mr. Stephen Ro=
llo,
but I don't leave this house without the letters.'
STEVE, groaning, 'Are they your letters?'
AMY. 'How dare you! They are the letters writt=
en
to you, as you well know, by--'
STEVE, eagerly, 'Yes?'
AMY. '--by a certain lady. Spare me the pain, =
if
you are a gentleman, of having to mention her name.'
STEVE, sulkily, 'Oh, all right.'
AMY. 'She is to pass out of your life to-night.
To-morrow you go abroad for a long time.'
STEVE, with excusable warmth, 'Oh, do I! Where=
am
I going?'
AMY. 'We thought--'
STEVE. 'We?'
AMY. 'A friend and I who have been talking it
over. We thought of Africa--to shoot big game.'
STEVE, humouring her, 'You must be very fond of
this lady.'
AMY. 'I would die for her.'
STEVE, feeling that he ought really to stick u=
p a
little for himself, 'After all, am I so dreadful? Why shouldn't she love me=
?'
AMY. 'A married woman!'
STEVE, gratified, 'Married?'
AMY. 'How can you play with me so, sir? She is=
my
mother.'
STEVE. 'Your mother? Fond of me!'
AMY. 'How dare you look pleased.'
STEVE. 'I'm not--I didn't mean to. I say, I wi=
sh
you would tell me who you are.'
AMY. 'As if you didn't know.'
STEVE, in a dream, 'Fond of me! I can't believe
it.' Rather wistfully: 'How could she be?'
AMY. 'It was all your fault. Such men as
you--pitiless men--you made her love you.'
STEVE, still elated, 'Do you think I am that k=
ind
of man?'
AMY. 'Oh, sir, let her go. You are strong and =
she
is weak. Think of her poor husband, and give me back the letters.'
STEVE. 'On my word of honour--' Here arrives
Richardson, so anxious to come that she is propelled into the room like a b=
all.
'What is it?'
RICHARDSON. 'A gentleman downstairs, sir, want=
ing
to see you.'
AMY, saying the right thing at once, 'He must =
not
find me here. My reputation--'
STEVE. 'I can guess who it is. Let me think.' =
He
is really glad of the interruption. 'See here, I'll keep him downstairs for=
a
moment. Richardson, take this lady to the upper landing until I have brough=
t him
in. Then show her out.'
RICHARDSON. 'Oh, lor'.'
AMY, rooting herself to the floor, 'The letter=
s!'
STEVE, as he goes, 'Write to me, write to me. I
must know more of this.'
RICHARDSON. 'Come quick, Miss.'
AMY, fixing her, 'You are not deceiving me? You
are sure it isn't a lady?'
RICHARDSON. 'Yes, Miss--he said his name was
Colonel Grey.'
Ginevra would have known that it must be the
husband, but for the moment Amy is appalled.
AMY, quivering, 'Can he suspect!'
RICHARDSON, who has her own troubles, 'About t=
he
chop?'
AMY. 'If she should come while he is here!'
RICHARDSON. 'Come along, Miss. What's the matt=
er?'
AMY. 'I can't go away. I am not going.'
She darts into the cupboard. It is as if she h=
ad
heard Ginevra cry, 'Amy, the cupboard.'
RICHARDSON, tugging at the closed door, 'Come =
out
of that. I promised to put you on the upper landing. You can't go hiding in
there, lady.'
AMY, peeping out, 'I can and I will. Let go the
door. I came here expecting to have to hide.'
She closes the door as her father enters with
Steve. The Colonel is chatting, but his host sees that Richardson is in
distress.
STEVE, who thinks that the lady has been got r=
id
of, 'What is it?'
RICHARDSON. 'Would you speak with me a minute,
sir?'
STEVE, pointedly, 'Go away. You have some work=
to
do on the stair. Go and do it. I'm sorry, Colonel, that you didn't bring Al=
ice
with you.'
COLONEL. 'She is coming on later.'
STEVE. 'Good.'
COLONEL. 'I have come from Pall Mall. Wanted to
look in at the club once more, so I had a chop there.'
RICHARDSON, with the old sinking, 'A chop!' She
departs with her worst suspicions confirmed.
STEVE, as they pull their chairs nearer to the
fire, 'Is Alice coming on from home?'
COLONEL. 'Yes, that's it.' He stretches out his
legs. 'Steve, home is the best club in the world. Such jolly fellows all the
members!'
STEVE. 'You haven't come here to talk about yo=
ur
confounded baby again, have you?'
COLONEL, apologetically, 'If you don't mind.' =
STEVE. 'I do mind.'
COLONEL. 'But if you feel you can stand it.' <= o:p>
STEVE. 'You are my guest, so go ahead.'
COLONEL. 'She fell asleep, Steve, holding my
finger.'
STEVE. 'Which finger?'
COLONEL. 'This one. As Alice would say, Soldie=
ring
done, baby begun.'
STEVE. 'Poor old chap.'
COLONEL. 'I have been through a good deal in my
time, Steve, but that is the biggest thing I have ever done.'
STEVE. 'Have a cigar?'
COLONEL. 'Brute! Thanks.'
Here Amy, who cannot hear when the door is clo=
sed,
opens it slightly. The Colonel is presently aware that Steve is silently
smiling to himself. The Colonel makes a happy guess. 'Thinking of the ladie=
s, Steve?'
STEVE, blandly, 'To tell the truth, I was thinking of one.'
COLONEL. 'She seems to be a nice girl.'
STEVE. 'She is not exactly a girl.'
COLONEL, twinkling, 'Very fond of you, Steve?'=
STEVE. 'I have the best of reasons for knowing
that she is.' We may conceive Amy's feelings though we cannot see her. 'On =
my
soul, Colonel, I think it is the most romantic affair I ever heard of. I ha=
ve
waited long for a romance to come into my life, but by Javers, it has come =
at
last.'
COLONEL. 'Graters, Steve. Does her family like
it?'
STEVE, cheerily, 'No, they are furious.'
COLONEL. 'But why?'
STEVE, judiciously, 'A woman's secret, Colonel=
.'
COLONEL. 'Ah, the plot thickens. Do I know her=
?'
STEVE. 'Not you.'
COLONEL. 'I mustn't ask her name?'
STEVE, with presence of mind, 'I have a very g=
ood
reason for not telling you her name.'
COLONEL. 'So? And she is not exactly young? Tw=
ice
your age, Steve?'
STEVE, with excusable heat, 'Not at all. But s=
he
is of the age when a woman knows her own mind--which makes the whole affair
extraordinarily flattering.' With undoubtedly a shudder of disgust Amy clos=
es
the cupboard door. Steve continues to behave in the most gallant manner. 'Y=
ou
must not quiz me, Colonel, for her circumstances are such that her partiali=
ty
for me puts her in a dangerous position, and I would go to the stake rather
than give her away.'
COLONEL. 'Quite so.' He makes obeisance to the
beauty of the sentiment, and then proceeds to an examination of the hearthr=
ug.
STEVE. 'What are you doing?'
COLONEL. 'Trying to find out for myself whether
she comes here.'
STEVE. 'How can you find that out by crawling
about my carpet?'
COLONEL. 'I am looking for hair-pins--triumpha=
ntly
holding up a lady's glove--'and I have found one!'
They have been too engrossed to hear the bell
ring, but now voices are audible.
STEVE. 'There is some one coming up.'
COLONEL. 'Perhaps it is she , Steve! No, that is Alice's voice. =
Catch,
you scoundrel,' and he tosses him the glove. Alice is shown in, and is warm=
ly
acclaimed. She would not feel so much at ease if she knew who, hand on hear=
t,
has recognised her through the pantry key-hole.
STEVE, as he makes Alice comfortable by the fi=
re,
'How did you leave them at home?'
ALICE, relapsing into gloom, 'All hating me.' =
STEVE. 'This man says that home is the most
delightful club in the world.'
ALICE. 'I am not a member; I have been blackba=
lled
by my own baby. Robert, I dined in state with Cosmo, and he was so sulky th=
at
he ate his fish without salt rather than ask me to pass it.'
COLONEL. 'Where was Amy?'
ALICE. 'Amy said she had a headache and went to
bed. I spoke to her through the door before I came out, but she wouldn't
answer.'
COLONEL. 'Why didn't you go in, memsahib?'
ALICE. 'I did venture to think of it, but she =
had
locked the door. Robert, I really am worried about Amy. She seems to me to
behave oddly. There can't be anything wrong?'
COLONEL. 'Of course not, Alice--eh, Steve?'
STEVE. 'Bless you, no.'
ALICE, smiling, 'It's much Steve knows about
women.'
STEVE. 'I'm not so unattractive to women, Alic=
e,
as you think.'
ALICE. 'Listen to him, Robert!'
COLONEL. 'What he means, my dear, is that you
should see him with elderly ladies.'
ALICE. 'Steve, this to people who know you.' H=
ere
something happens to Amy's skirt. She has opened the door to hear, then in
alarm shut it, leaving a fragment of skirt caught in the door. There, unsee=
n,
it bides its time.
STEVE, darkly, 'Don't be so sure you know me,
Alice.'
COLONEL, enjoying himself, 'Let us tell her,
Steve! I am dying to tell her.'
STEVE, grandly, 'No, no.'
COLONEL. 'We mustn't tell you, Alice, because =
it
is a woman's secret--a poor little fond elderly woman. Our friend is very p=
roud
of his conquest. See how he is ruffling his feathers. I shouldn't wonder yo=
u know,
though you and I are in the way to-night.'
But Alice's attention is directed in another
direction: to a little white object struggling in the clutches of a closed =
door
at the back of the room. Steve turns to see what she is looking at, and at =
the same
moment the door opens sufficiently to allow a pretty hand to obtrude, seize=
the
kitten, or whatever it was, and softly reclose the door. For one second Ali=
ce
did think it might be a kitten, but she knows now that it is part of a woma=
n's
dress. As for Steve thus suddenly acquainted with his recent visitor's
whereabouts, his mouth opens wider than the door. He appeals mutely to Alic=
e not
to betray his strange secret to the Colonel.
ALICE, with dancing eyes, 'May I look about me,
Steve? I have been neglecting your room shamefully.'
STEVE, alarmed, for he knows the woman, 'Don't=
get
up, Alice; there is really nothing to see.' But she is already making the
journey of the room, and drawing nearer to the door.
ALICE, playing with him, 'I like your clock.' =
STEVE. 'It is my landlady's. Nearly all the th=
ings
are hers. Do come back to the fire.'
ALICE. 'Don't mind me. What does this door lead
into?'
STEVE. 'Only a cupboard.'
ALICE. 'What do you keep in it?'
STEVE. 'Merely crockery--that sort of thing.' =
ALICE. 'I should like to see your crockery, St=
eve.
Not one little bit of china? May I peep in?'
COLONEL, who is placidly smoking, with his bac=
k to
the scene of the drama, 'Don't mind her, Steve; she never could see a door
without itching to open it.'
Alice opens the door, and sees Amy standing th=
ere
with her finger to her lips, just as they stood in all the five plays. Gine=
vra
could not have posed her better.
'Well, have you found anything, memsahib?'
It has been the great shock of Alice's life, a=
nd
she sways. But she shuts the door before answering him.
ALICE, with a terrible look at Steve, 'Just a =
dark
little cupboard.'
Steve, not aware that it is her daughter who i=
s in
there, wonders why the lighter aspect of the incident has ceased so suddenl=
y to
strike her. She returns to the fire, but not to her chair. She puts her arm=
s round
the neck of her husband; a great grief for him is welling up in her breast.=
COLONEL, so long used to her dear impulsive wa= ys, 'Hullo! We mustn't let on that we are fond of each other before company.' <= o:p>
STEVE, meaning well, though he had better have
held his tongue, 'I don't count; I am such an old friend.'
ALICE, slowly, 'Such an old friend!' Her husba=
nd
sees that she is struggling with some emotion.
COLONEL. 'Worrying about the children still,
Alice?'
ALICE, glad to break down openly, 'Yes, yes, I
can't help it, Robert.'
COLONEL, petting her, 'There, there, you fooli=
sh
woman. Joy will come in the morning; I never was surer of anything. Would y=
ou
like me to take you home now?'
ALICE. 'Home. But, yes, I--let us go home.'
COLONEL. 'Can we have a cab, Steve?'
STEVE. 'I'll go down and whistle one. Alice, I=
'm awfully
sorry that you--that I--'
ALICE. 'Please, a cab.'
But though she is alone with her husband now s=
he
does not know what she wants to say to him. She has a passionate desire tha=
t he
should not learn who is behind that door.
COLONEL, pulling her toward him, 'I think it is
about Amy that you worry most.'
ALICE. 'Why should I, Robert?'
COLONEL. 'Not a jot of reason.'
ALICE. 'Say again, Robert, that everything is =
sure
to come right just as we planned it would.'
COLONEL. 'Of course it will.'
ALICE. 'Robert, there is something I want to t=
ell
you. You know how dear my children are to me, but Amy is the dearest of all.
She is dearer to me, Robert, than you yourself.'
COLONEL. 'Very well, memsahib.'
ALICE. 'Robert dear, Amy has come to a time in=
her
life when she is neither quite a girl nor quite a woman. There are dark pla=
ces
before us at that age through which we have to pick our way without much he=
lp.
I can conceive dead mothers haunting those places to watch how their child =
is
to fare in them. Very frightened ghosts, Robert. I have thought so long of =
how
I was to be within hail of my girl at this time, holding her hand--my Amy, =
my
child.'
COLONEL. 'That is just how it is all to turn o=
ut,
my Alice.'
ALICE, shivering, 'Yes, isn't it, isn't it?' <= o:p>
COLONEL. 'You dear excitable, of course it is.=
'
ALICE, like one defying him, 'But even though =
it
were not, though I had come back too late, though my daughter had become a
woman without a mother's guidance, though she were a bad woman--'
COLONEL. 'Alice.'
ALICE. 'Though some cur of a man--Robert, it
wouldn't affect my love for her, I should love her more than ever. If all
others turned from her, if you turned from her, Robert--how I should love h=
er
then.'
COLONEL. 'Alice, don't talk of such things.' <= o:p>
But she continues to talk of them, for she sees
that the door is ajar, and what she says now is really to comfort Amy. Every
word of it is a kiss for Amy.
ALICE, smiling through her fears, 'I was only
telling you that nothing could make any difference in my love for Amy. That=
was
all; and, of course, if she has ever been a little foolish, light-headed--at
that age one often is--why, a mother would soon put all that right; she wou=
ld
just take her girl in her arms and they would talk it over, and the poor
child's troubles would vanish.' Still for Amy's comfort, 'And do you think I
should repeat any of Amy's confidences to you, Robert?' Gaily, 'Not a word,
sir! She might be sure of that.'
COLONEL. 'A pretty way to treat a father. But =
you
will never persuade me that there is any serious flaw in Amy.'
ALICE. 'I'll never try, dear.'
COLONEL. 'As for this little tantrum of locking
herself into her room, however, we must have it out with her.'
ALICE. 'The first thing to-morrow.'
COLONEL. 'Not a bit of it. The first thing the
moment we get home.'
ALICE, now up against a new danger, 'You forge=
t,
dear, that she has gone to bed.'
COLONEL. 'We'll soon rout her out of bed.'
ALICE. 'Robert! You forget that she has locked=
the
door.'
COLONEL. 'Sulky little darling. I daresay she =
is
crying her eyes out for you already. But if she doesn't open that door pret=
ty
smartly I'll force it.'
ALICE. 'You wouldn't do that?'
COLONEL. 'Wouldn't I? Oh yes, I would.'
Thus Alice has another problem to meet when St=
eve
returns from his successful quest for a cab.
'Thank you, Steve, you will excuse us running =
off,
I know. Alice is all nerves to-night. Come along, dear.'
ALICE, signing to the puzzled Steve that he mu=
st
somehow get the lady out of the house at once, 'There is no such dreadful
hurry, is there?' She is suddenly interested in some photographs on the wal=
l.
'Are you in this group, Steve?'
STEVE. 'Yes, it is an old school eleven.'
ALICE. 'Let us see if we can pick Steve out,
Robert.'
COLONEL. 'Here he is, the one with the ball.' =
ALICE. 'Oh no, that can't be Steve, surely. Is=
n't
this one more like him? Come over here under the light.'
Steve has his moment at the door, but it is
evident from his face that the hidden one scorns his blandishments. So he s=
igns
to Alice.
COLONEL. 'This is you, isn't it, Steve?'
STEVE. 'Yes, the one with the ball.'
COLONEL. 'I found you at once. Now, Alice, your
cloak.'
ALICE. 'I feel so comfy where I am. One does h=
ate
to leave a fire, doesn't one.' She hums gaily a snatch of a song.
COLONEL. 'The woman doesn't know her own mind.=
'
ALICE. 'You remember we danced to that once on=
my
birthday at Simla.'
She shows him how they danced at Simla.
COLONEL, to Steve, who is indeed the more
bewildered of the two, 'And a few minutes ago I assure you she was weeping =
on
my shoulder!'
ALICE. 'You were so nice to me that evening,
Robert--I gave you a dance.' She whirls him gaily round.
COLONEL. 'You flibberty jibbet, you make me
dizzy.'
ALICE. 'Shall we sit out the rest of the dance=
?'
COLONEL. 'Not I. Come along, you unreasonable
thing.'
ALICE. 'Unreasonable. Robert, I have a reason.=
I
want to see whether Amy will come.'
COLONEL. 'Come?'
STEVE. 'Come here?'
ALICE. 'I didn't tell you before, Robert, beca=
use
I had so little hope; but I called to her through the door that I was coming
here to meet you, and I said, "I don't believe you have a headache, Am=
y; I
believe you have locked yourself in there because you hate the poor mother =
who
loves you," and I begged her to come with me. I said, "If you won=
't
come now, come after me and make me happy."'
COLONEL. 'But what an odd message, Alice; so
unlike you.'
ALICE. 'Was it? I don't know. I always find it=
so
hard, Robert, to be like myself.'
COLONEL. 'But, my dear, a young girl.'
ALICE. 'She could have taken a cab; I gave her=
the
address. Don't be so hard, Robert, I am teaching you to dance.' She is off =
with
him again.
COLONEL. 'Steve, the madcap.'
He falls into a chair, but sees the room still
going round. It is Alice's chance; she pounces upon Amy's hand, whirls her =
out
of the hiding place, and seems to greet her at the other door.
ALICE. 'Amy!'
COLONEL, jumping up, 'Not really? Hallo! I nev=
er
for a moment--It was true, then. Amy, you are a good little girl to come.' =
AMY, to whom this is a not unexpected step in =
the
game, 'Dear father.'
STEVE, to whom it is a very unexpected step
indeed, 'Amy! Is this--your daughter, Alice?'
ALICE, wondering at the perfidy of the creatur=
e,
'I forgot that you don't know her, Steve.'
STEVE. 'But if--if this is your daughter--you =
are
the mother.'
ALICE. 'The mother?'
COLONEL, jovially, 'Well thought out, Steve. H=
e is
a master mind, Alice.'
STEVE. 'But--but----'
Mercifully Amy has not lost her head. She is h=
ere
to save them all.
AMY. 'Introduce me, father.'
COLONEL. 'He is astounded at our having such a=
big
girl.'
STEVE, thankfully, 'Yes, that's it.'
COLONEL. 'Amy, my old friend, Steve Rollo--Ste=
ve,
this is our rosebud.'
STEVE, blinking, 'How do you do?'
AMY, sternly, 'How do you do?'
COLONEL. 'But, bless me, Amy, you are a swell.=
'
AMY, flushing, 'It is only evening dress.'
COLONEL. 'I bet she didn't dress for us, Alice=
; it
was all done for Steve.'
ALICE. 'Yes, for Steve.'
COLONEL. 'But don't hang in me, chicken, hang =
in
your mother. Steve, why are you staring at Alice?'
We know why he is staring at Alice, but of cou=
rse
he is too gallant a gentleman to tell. Besides his astonishment has dazed h=
im.
STEVE. 'Was I?'
ALICE, with her arms extended, 'Amy, don't be
afraid of me.'
AMY, going into them contemptuously, 'I'm not.=
'
COLONEL, badgered, 'Then kiss and make it up.'=
Amy bestows a cold kiss upon her mother. Alice
weeps. 'This is too much. Just wait till I get you home. Are you both ready=
?'
It is then that Amy makes her first mistake. T=
he
glove that the Colonel has tossed to Steve is lying on a chair, and she
innocently begins to put it on. Her father stares at her; his wife does not
know why.
ALICE. 'We are ready, Robert. Why don't you co=
me?
Robert, what is it?'
COLONEL, darkening, 'Steve knows what it is; A=
my
doesn't as yet. The simple soul has given herself away so innocently that i=
t is
almost a shame to take notice of it. But I must, Steve. Come, man, it can't=
be difficult
to explain.'
In this Steve evidently differs from him.
ALICE. 'Robert, you frighten me.'
COLONEL. 'Still tongue-tied, Steve. Before you
came here, Alice, I found a lady's glove on the floor.'
ALICE, quickly, 'That isn't our affair, Robert=
.'
COLONEL. 'Yes; I'll tell you why. Amy has just=
put
on that glove.'
ALICE. 'It isn't hers, dear.'
COLONEL. 'Do you deny that it is yours, Amy?' =
Amy
has no answer to this. 'Is it unreasonable, Steve, to ask you when my daugh=
ter,
with whom you profess to be unacquainted, gave you that token of her esteem=
?'
STEVE, helpless, 'Alice.'
COLONEL. 'What has Alice to do with it?'
AMY, to the rescue, 'Nothing, nothing, I swear=
.'
COLONEL. 'Has there been something going on th=
at I
don't understand? Are you in it, Alice, as well as they? Why has Steve been
staring at you so?'
AMY, knowing so well that she alone can put th=
is
matter right, 'Mother, don't answer.'
STEVE. 'If I could see Alice alone for a momen=
t,
Colonel--'
ALICE. 'Yes.'
COLONEL. 'No. Good heavens, what are you all
concealing? Is Amy--my Amy--your elderly lady, Steve? Was that some tasteful
little joke you were playing on your old friend, her father?'
STEVE. 'Colonel, I--'
AMY, preparing for the great sacrifice, 'I for=
bid
him to speak.'
COLONEL. ' You forbid him.'
ALICE. 'Robert, Robert, let me explain. Steve-=
-'
AMY. 'Mother, you must not, you dare not.'
Grandly, 'Let all fall on me. It is not true,
father, that Mr. Rollo and I were strangers when you introduced us.'
ALICE, wailing, 'Amy, Amy.'
AMY, with a touch of the sublime, 'It is my
glove, but it had a right to be here. He is my affianced husband.'
Perhaps, but it is an open question, Steve is =
the
one who is most surprised to hear this. He seems to want to say something on
the subject, but a look of entreaty from Alice silences him.
COLONEL. 'Alice, did you hear her?'
ALICE. 'Surely you don't mean, Robert, that you
are not glad?'
COLONEL, incredulous, 'Is that how you take it?'
ALICE, heart-broken, 'How I take it! I am
overjoyed. Don't you see how splendid it is; our old friend Steve.'
COLONEL, glaring at him, 'Our old friend, Stev=
e.'
As for Amy, that pale-faced lily, for the mome=
nt
she stands disregarded. Never mind; Ginevra will yet do her justice.
ALICE. 'Oh, happy day!' Brazenly she takes Ste=
ve's
two hands, 'Robert, he is to be our son.'
COLONEL. 'You are very clever, Alice, but do y=
ou
really think I believe that this is no shock to you? Oh, woman, why has thi=
s deception
not struck you to the ground?'
ALICE. 'Deception? Amy, Steve, I do believe he
thinks that this is as much a surprise to me as it is to him! Why, Robert, I
have known about it ever since I saw Amy alone this afternoon. She told me =
at once.
Then in came Steve, and he--'
COLONEL. 'Is it as bad as that!'
ALICE. 'As what, dear?'
COLONEL. 'That my wife must lie to me.'
ALICE. 'Oh, Robert.'
COLONEL. 'I am groping only, but I can see now
that you felt there was something wrong from the first. How did you find ou=
t?'
ALICE, imploringly, 'Robert, they are engaged =
to
be married; it was foolish of them not to tell you; but, oh, my dear, leave=
it
at that.'
COLONEL. 'Why did you ask Amy to follow us her=
e?'
ALICE. 'So that we could all be together when =
we
broke it to you, dear.'
COLONEL. 'Another lie! My shoulders are broad;=
why
shouldn't I have it to bear as well as you?'
ALICE. 'There is nothing to bear but just a li=
ttle
folly.'
COLONEL. 'Folly! And neither of them able to s=
ay a
word?'
Indeed they are very cold lovers; Amy's lip is
curled at Steve. To make matters worse, the cupboard door, which has so far=
had
the decency to remain quiet, now presumes to have its say. It opens of itse=
lf a
few inches, creaking guiltily. Three people are so startled that a new
suspicion is roused in the fourth.
ALICE, who can read his face so well, 'She was=
n't
there, Robert, she wasn't.'
COLONEL. 'My God! I understand now; she didn't
follow us; she hid there when I came.'
ALICE. 'No, Robert, no.'
He goes into the cupboard and returns with
something in his hand, which he gives to Amy.
COLONEL. 'Your other glove, Amy.'
ALICE. 'I can't keep it from you any longer,
Robert; I have done my best.' She goes to Amy to protect her. 'But Amy is s=
till
my child.'
'What a deceiver' Amy is thinking.
COLONEL. 'Well, sir, still waiting for that
interview with my wife before you can say anything?'
STEVE, a desperate fellow, 'Yes.'
ALICE. 'You will have every opportunity of
explaining, Steve, many opportunities; but in the meantime--just now, please
go, leave us alone.' Stamping her foot: 'Go, please.'
Steve has had such an evening of it that he cl=
ings
dizzily to the one amazing explanation, that Alice loves him not wisely but=
too
well. Never will he betray her, never.
STEVE, with a meaning that is lost on her but =
is
very evident to the other lady present,
'Anything =
span>you
ask me to do, Alice, anything. I s=
hall
go upstairs only, so that if you want me--'
ALICE. 'Oh, go.' He goes, wondering whether he=
is
a villain or a hero, which is perhaps a pleasurable state of mind.
COLONEL. 'You are wondrous lenient to him; I s=
hall
have more to say. As for this girl--look at her standing there, she seems
rather proud of herself.'
ALICE. 'It isn't really hardness, Robert. It is
because she thinks that you are hard. Robert, dear, I want you to go away t=
oo,
and leave Amy to me. Go home, Robert; we shall follow soon.'
COLONEL, after a long pause, 'If you wish it.'=
ALICE. 'Leave her to her mother.'
When he has gone Amy leans across the top of a
chair, sobbing her little heart away. Alice tries to take her--the whole of
her--in her arms, but is rebuffed with a shudder.
AMY. 'I wonder you can touch me.'
ALICE. 'The more you ask of your mother the mo=
re
she has to give. It is my love you need, Amy; and you can draw upon it, and
draw upon it.'
AMY. 'Pray excuse me.'
ALICE. 'How can you be so hard! My child, I am=
not
saying one harsh word to you. I am asking you only to hide your head upon y=
our
mother's breast.'
AMY. 'I decline.'
ALICE. 'Take care, Amy, or I shall begin to
believe that your father was right. What do you think would happen if I wer=
e to
leave you to him!'
AMY. 'Poor father.'
ALICE. 'Poor indeed with such a daughter.'
AMY. 'He has gone, mother; so do you really th=
ink
you need keep up this pretence before me?'
ALICE. 'Amy, what you need is a whipping.'
AMY. 'You ought to know what I need.'
The agonised mother again tries to envelop her=
unnatural
child.
ALICE. 'Amy, Amy, it was all Steve's fault.' <= o:p>
AMY, struggling as with a boa constrictor, 'You
needn't expect me to believe that.'
ALICE. 'No doubt you thought at the beginning =
that
he was a gallant gentleman.'
AMY. 'Not at all; I knew he was depraved from =
the
moment I set eyes on him.'
ALICE. 'My Amy! Then how--how--'
AMY. 'Ginevra knew too.'
ALICE. 'She knew!'
AMY. 'We planned it together--to treat him in =
the
same way as Sir Harry Paskill and Ralph Devereux.'
ALICE. 'Amy, you are not in your senses. You d=
on't
mean that there were others?'
AMY. 'There was Major--Major--I forget his nam=
e,
but he was another.'
ALICE, shaking her, 'Wretched girl.'
AMY. 'Leave go.'
ALICE. 'How did you get to know them?'
AMY. 'To know them? They are characters in pla=
ys.'
ALICE, bereft, 'Characters in plays? Plays!' <= o:p>
AMY. 'We went to five last week.'
Wild hopes spring up in Alice's breast.
ALICE. 'Amy, tell me quickly, when did you see
Steve for the first time?'
AMY. 'When you were saying good-bye to him this
afternoon.'
ALICE. 'Can it be true!'
AMY. 'Perhaps we shouldn't have listened; but =
they
always listen when there is a screen.'
ALICE. 'Listened? What did you hear?'
AMY. 'Everything, mother! We saw him kiss you =
and
heard you make an assignation to meet him here.'
ALICE. 'I shall whip you directly, but go on,
darling.'
AMY, childishly, 'You shan't whip me.' Then on=
ce
more heroic, 'As in a flash Ginevra and I saw that there was only one way to
save you. I must go to his chambers, and force him to return the letters.' =
ALICE, inspired, 'My letters?'
AMY. 'Of course. He behaved at first as they a=
ll
do--pretended that he did not know what I was talking about. At that moment=
, a
visitor; I knew at once that it must be the husband; it always is, it was; I
hid. Again a visitor. I knew it must be you, it was; oh, the agony to me in=
there.
I was wondering when he would begin to suspect, for I knew the time would c=
ome,
and I stood ready to emerge and sacrifice myself to save you.'
ALICE. 'As you have done, Amy?'
AMY. 'As I have done.'
Once more the arms go round her.
'I want none of that.'
ALICE. 'Forgive me.' A thought comes to Alice =
that
enthralls her. 'Steve! Does he know what you think--about me?'
AMY. 'I had to be open with him.'
ALICE. 'And Steve believes it? He thinks that
I--I--Alice Grey--oh, ecstasy!'
AMY. 'You need not pretend.'
ALICE. 'What is to be done?'
AMY. 'Though I abhor him I must marry him for =
aye.
Ginevra is to be my only bridesmaid. We are both to wear black.'
ALICE, sharply, 'You are sure you don't rather
like him, Amy?'
AMY. 'Mother!'
ALICE. 'Amy, weren't you terrified to come alo=
ne
to the rooms of a man you didn't even know? Some men--'
AMY. 'I was not afraid. I am a soldier's daugh=
ter;
and Ginevra gave me this.'
She produces a tiny dagger. This is altogether=
too
much for Alice.
ALICE. 'My darling!'
She does have the babe in her arms at last, and
now Amy clings to her. This is very sweet to Alice; but she knows that if s=
he
tells Amy the truth at once its first effect will be to make the dear one f=
eel ridiculous.
How can Alice hurt her Amy so, Amy who has such pride in having saved her? =
'You
do love me a little, Amy, don't you?'
AMY. 'Yes, yes.'
ALICE. 'You don't think I have been really bad,
dear?'
AMY. 'Oh, no, only foolish.'
ALICE. 'Thank you, Amy.'
AMY, nestling still closer, 'What are we to do
now, dear dear mother?'
Alice has a happy idea; but that, as the novel=
ists
say, deserves a chapter to itself.
We are back in the room of the diary. The diar=
y itself
is not visible; it is tucked away in the drawer, taking a nap while it may,=
for
it has much to chronicle before cockcrow. Cosmo also is asleep, on an ingen=
ious
arrangement of chairs. Ginevra is sitting bolt upright, a book on her knee,=
but
she is not reading it. She is seeing visions in which Amy plays a desperate
part. The hour is late; every one ought to be in bed.
Cosmo is perhaps dreaming that he is back at
Osborne, for he calls out, as if in answer to a summons, that he is up and
nearly dressed. He then raises his head and surveys Ginevra.
COSMO. 'Hullo, you've been asleep.'
GINEVRA. 'How like a man.'
COSMO. 'I say, I thought you were the one who =
had
stretched herself out, and that I was sitting here very quiet, so as not to
waken you.'
GINEVRA. 'Let us leave it at that.'
COSMO. 'Huffy, aren't you! Have they not come =
back
yet?'
GINEVRA. 'Not they. And half-past eleven has
struck. I oughtn't to stay any longer; as it is, I don't know what my landl=
ady
will say.'
She means that she does know.
COSMO. 'I'll see you to your place whenever you
like. My uniform will make it all right for you.'
GINEVRA. 'You child. But I simply can't go til=
l I
know what has happened. Where, oh where, can they be?'
COSMO. 'That's all right. Father told you he h=
ad a
message from mother saying that they had gone to the theatre.'
GINEVRA. 'But why?'
COSMO. 'Yes, it seemed to bother him, too.'
GINEVRA. 'The theatre. That is what she said .'
Here Cosmo takes up a commanding position on t=
he
hearthrug; it could not be bettered unless with a cigar in the mouth.
COSMO. 'Look here, Miss Dunbar, it may be that=
I
have a little crow to pick with mother when she comes back, but I cannot al=
low
anyone else to say a word against her. =
span>Comprenez?
'
Ginevra's reply is lost to the world because at
this moment Amy's sparkling eyes show round the door. How softly she must h=
ave
crossed the little hall!
GINEVRA. 'Amy, at last!'
AMY. 'Sh!' She speaks to some one unseen, 'The=
re
are only Ginevra and Cosmo here.'
Thus encouraged Alice enters. Despite her
demeanour they would see, if they knew her better, that she has been having=
a
good time, and is in hopes that it is not ended yet. She comes in, as it we=
re,
under Amy's guidance. Ginevra is introduced, and Alice then looks to Amy fo=
r instructions
what to do next.
AMY, encouragingly, 'Sit down, mother.'
ALICE. 'Where shall I sit, dear?' Amy gives her
the nicest chair in the room. 'Thank you, Amy.' She is emboldened to address
her son. 'Where is your father, Cosmo?'
Cosmo remembers his slap, and that he has swor= n to converse with her no more. He indicates, however, that his father is in the room overhead. Alice meekly accepts the rebuff. 'Shall I go to him, Amy?' <= o:p>
AMY, considerately, 'If you think you feel str=
ong
enough, mother.'
ALICE. 'You have given me strength.'
AMY. 'I am so glad.' She strokes her mother
soothingly. ' What will you tell h=
im?'
ALICE. 'All, Amy--all, all.'
AMY. 'Brave mother.'
ALICE. 'Who could not be brave with such a
daughter.' On reflection, 'And with such a son.'
Helped by encouraging words from Amy she depar=
ts
on her perilous enterprise. The two conspirators would now give a handsome
competence to Cosmo to get him out of the room. He knows it, and sits down.=
COSMO, 'I say, what is she going to tell fathe=
r?'
AMY, with a despairing glance at Ginevra, 'Oh,
nothing.'
GINEVRA, with a clever glance at Amy, 'Cosmo, =
you
promised to see me home.'
COSMO, the polite, 'Right O.'
GINEVRA. 'But you haven't got your boots on.' =
COSMO. 'I won't be a minute.' He pauses at the
door. 'I say I believe you're trying to get rid of me. Look here, I won't b=
udge
till you tell me what mother is speaking about to father.'
AMY. 'It is about the drawing-room curtains.' =
COSMO. 'Good lord!' As soon as he has gone they
rush at each other; they don't embrace; they stop when their noses are an i=
nch
apart, and then talk. This is the stage way for lovers. It is difficult to =
accomplish
without rubbing noses, but they have both been practising.
GINEVRA. 'Quick, Amy, did you get the letters?=
'
AMY. 'There are no letters.'
Ginevra is so taken aback that her nose bobs.
Otherwise the two are absolutely motionless. She cleverly recovers herself.=
GINEVRA. 'No letters; how unlike life. You are
quite sure?'
AMY. 'I have my mother's word for it.'
GINEVRA. 'Is that enough?'
AMY. 'And you now have mine.'
GINEVRA. 'Then it hadn't gone far?'
AMY. 'No, merely a painful indiscretion. But if
father had known it--you know what husbands are.'
GINEVRA. 'Yes, indeed. Did he follow her?'
Amy nods. 'Did you hide?' Amy nods again.
AMY. 'Worse than that, Ginevra. To deceive him=
I
had to pretend that I was the woman. And now--Ginevra, can you guess?--' He=
re
they have to leave off doing noses. On the stage it can be done for ever so
much longer, but only by those who are paid accordingly.
GINEVRA. 'You don't mean--?'
AMY. 'I think I do, but what do you mean?'
GINEVRA. 'I mean--the great thing.'
AMY. 'Then it is, yes. Ginevra, I am affianced=
to
the man, Steve!' Ginevra could here quickly drink a glass of water if there=
was
one in the room.
GINEVRA, wandering round her old friend, 'You =
seem
the same, Amy, yet somehow different.'
AMY, rather complacently, 'That is just how I
feel. But I must not think of myself. They are overhead, Ginevra. There is =
an
awful scene taking place--up there. She is telling father all.'
GINEVRA. 'Confessing?'
AMY. 'Everything--in a noble attempt to save me
from a widowed marriage.'
GINEVRA. 'But I thought she was such a hard
woman.'
AMY. 'Not really. To the world perhaps; but I =
have
softened her. All she needed, Ginevra, to bring out her finer qualities was=
a
strong nature to lean upon; and she says that she has found it in me. At th=
e theatre
and all the way home--'
GINEVRA. 'Then you did go to the theatre. Why?=
'
AMY, feeling that Ginevra is very young, 'Need=
you
ask? Oh, Ginevra, to see if we could find a happy ending. It was mother's
idea.'
GINEVRA. 'Which theatre?'
AMY. 'I don't know, but the erring wife confes=
sed
all--in one of those mousselines de soie that are so fashionable this year;=
and
mother and I sat--clasping each other's hands, praying it might end happily=
, though
we didn't see how it could.'
GINEVRA. 'How awful for you. What did the husb=
and
do?'
AMY. 'He was very calm and white. He went out =
of
the room for a moment, and came back so white. Then he sat down by the fire,
and nodded his head three times.'
GINEVRA. 'I think I know now which theatre it
was.'
AMY. 'He asked her coldly--but always the perf=
ect
gentleman----'
GINEVRA. 'Oh, that theatre.'
AMY. 'He asked her whether he was
to go or she.'
GINEVRA. 'They must part?'
AMY. 'Yes. She went on her knees to him, and s=
aid
"Are we never to meet again?" and he replied huskily
"Never." Then she turned and went slowly towards the door.'
GINEVRA, clutching her, 'Amy, was that the end=
?'
AMY. 'The audience sat still as death, listeni=
ng
for the awful click that brings the curtain down.'
GINEVRA, shivering, 'I seem to hear it.'
AMY. 'At that moment--'
GINEVRA. 'Yes, yes?'
AMY. 'The door opened, and, Ginevra, their lit=
tle
child--came in--in her night-gown.'
GINEVRA. 'Quick.'
AMY. 'She came toddling down the stairs--she w=
as
barefooted--she took in the whole situation at a glance--and, running to her
father, she said, "Daddy, if mother goes away what is to become of
me?"' Amy gulps and continues: 'And then she took a hand of each and d=
rew
them together till they fell on each other's breasts, and then--Oh, Ginevra,
then--Click!--and the curtain fell.'
GINEVRA, when they are more composed, 'How old=
was
the child?'
AMY. 'Five. She looked more.'
GINEVRA, her brows knitted, 'Molly is under tw=
o,
isn't she?'
AMY. 'She is not quite twenty months.'
GINEVRA. 'She couldn't possibly do it.'
AMY. 'No; I thought of that. But she couldn't,=
you
know, even though she was held up. Mother couldn't help thinking the scene =
was
a good omen, though.' They both look at the ceiling again. 'How still they =
are.'
GINEVRA. 'Perhaps she hasn't had the courage to
tell.'
AMY. 'If so, I must go on with it.'
GINEVRA, feeling rather small beside Amy, 'Mar=
ry
him?'
AMY. 'Yes. I must dree my weird. Is it dree yo=
ur
weird, or weird your dree?'
GINEVRA. 'I think they both do.' She does not
really care; nobler thoughts are surging within her. 'Amy, why can't I make
some sacrifice as well as you?'
Amy seems about to make a somewhat grudging re=
ply,
but the unexpected arrival of the man who has so strangely won her seals her
lips.
AMY. 'You!' with a depth of meaning, 'Oh, sir.=
'
STEVE, the most nervous of the company, 'I fel=
t I
must come. Miss Grey, I am in the greatest distress, as the unhappy cause of
all this trouble.'
AMY, coldly, 'You should have thought of that
before.'
STEVE. 'It was dense of me not to understand
sooner--very dense.' He looks at her with wistful eyes. 'Must I marry you, =
Miss
Grey?'
AMY, curling her lip, 'Ah, that is what you are
sorry for!'
STEVE. 'Yes--horribly sorry.' Hastily, 'Not for
myself. To tell you the truth, I'd be--precious glad to risk it--I think.' =
AMY, with a glance at Ginevra, 'You would?'
STEVE. 'But very sorry for you. It seems such a
shame to you--so young and attractive--and the little you know of me
so--unfortunate.'
AMY. 'You mean you could never love me?'
STEVE. 'I don't mean that at all.'
AMY. 'Ginevra!'
Indeed Ginevra feels that she has been obliter=
ated
quite long enough.
GINEVRA, with a touch of testiness in her tone,
'Amy--introduce me.'
AMY. 'Mr. Stephen Rollo--Miss Dunbar. Miss Dun=
bar
knows all.'
Ginevra makes a movement that the cynical might
describe as brushing Amy aside.
GINEVRA. 'May I ask, Mr. Rollo, what are your
views about woman?'
STEVE. 'Really I--'
GINEVRA. 'Is she, in your opinion, her husband=
's
equal, or is she his chattel?'
STEVE. 'Honestly, I am so beside myself--'
GINEVRA. 'You evade the question.'
AMY. 'He means chattel, Ginevra.'
GINEVRA. 'Mr. Rollo, I am the friend till deat=
h of
Amy Grey. Let that poor child go, sir, and I am prepared to take her place
beside you--Yes, at the altar's mouth.'
AMY. 'Ginevra.'
GINEVRA, making that movement again, 'Understa= nd I can neither love nor honour you--at least at first--but I will obey you.' <= o:p>
AMY. 'Ginevra, you take too much upon yourself=
.'
GINEVRA. 'I will make a sacrifice--I will.'
AMY. 'You shall not.'
GINEVRA. 'I feel that I understand this gentle=
man
as no other woman can. It is my mission, Amy--' The return of Alice is what
prevents Steve's seizing his hat and flying. It might not have had this eff=
ect had
he seen the lady's face just before she opened the door.
ALICE, putting her hand to her poor heart, 'You
have come here, Steve? Oh no, it is not possible.'
STEVE, looking things unutterable, 'How could I
help coming?'
AMY, to the rescue, 'Mother, have you--did you=
?'
ALICE, meekly, 'I have told him all.'
STEVE. 'The Colonel?'
Alice bows her bruised head.
AMY, conducting her to a seat, 'Brave, brave. =
What
has he decided?'
ALICE. 'He hasn't decided yet. He is thinking =
out
what it will be best to do.'
STEVE. 'He knows? Then I am no longer--' His
unfinished sentence seems to refer to Amy.
AMY, proudly, 'Yes, sir, as he knows, you are,=
as
far as I am concerned, now free.'
GINEVRA, in a murmur, 'It's almost a pity.' She
turns to her Amy. 'At least, Amy, this makes you and me friends again.' We =
have
never quite been able to understand what this meant, but Amy knows, for she
puts Ginevra's hand to her sweet lips.
ALICE, who somehow could do without Ginevra
to-night, 'Cosmo is waiting for you, Miss Dunbar, to see you home.'
GINEVRA, with a disquieting vision of her
landlady, 'I must go.' She gives her hand in the coldest way to Mrs. Grey.
Then, with a curtsey to Steve that he can surely never forget, 'Mr. Rollo, =
I am
sure there is much good in you. Darling Amy, I shall be round first thing in
the morning.'
STEVE. 'Now that she has gone, can we--have a
talk?'
ALICE, looking down, 'Yes, Steve.'
AMY, gently, 'Mother, what was that you called
him?'
ALICE. 'Dear Amy, I forgot. Yes, Mr. Rollo.' <= o:p>
STEVE. 'Then, Alice--'
AMY. 'This lady's name, if I am not greatly
mistaken, is Mrs. Grey. Is it not so, mother?'
ALICE. 'Yes, Amy.'
STEVE. 'As you will; but it is most important =
that
I say certain things to her at once.'
ALICE. 'Oh, Mr. Rollo. What do you think, dear=
?'
AMY, reflecting, 'If it be clearly understood =
that
this is good-bye, I consent. Please be as brief as possible.'
Somehow they think that she is moving to the d=
oor,
but she crosses only to the other side of the room and sits down with a boo=
k.
One of them likes this very much.
STEVE, who is not the one, 'But I want to see =
her
alone.'
AMY, the dearest of little gaolers, 'That, I am
afraid, I cannot permit. It is not that I have not perfect confidence in yo=
u,
mother, but you must see I am acting wisely.'
ALICE. 'Yes, Amy.'
STEVE, to his Alice, 'What has come over you? =
You
don't seem to be the same woman.'
AMY. 'That is just it; she is not.'
ALICE. 'I see now only through Amy's eyes.'
AMY. 'They will not fail you, mother. Proceed,
sir.'
Steve has to make the best of it.
STEVE. 'You told him, then, about your feelings
for me?'
ALICE, studying the carpet, 'He knows now exac=
tly
what are my feelings for you.'
STEVE, huskily, 'How did he take it?'
ALICE. 'Need you ask?'
STEVE. 'Poor old boy. I suppose he wishes me to
stay away from your house now.'
ALICE. 'Is it unreasonable?'
STEVE. 'No, of course not, but--'
ALICE. 'Will it be terribly hard to you, St--M=
r.
Rollo?'
STEVE. 'It isn't that. You see I'm fond of the
Colonel, I really am, and it hurts me to think he thinks that I--It wasn't =
my
fault, was it?'
AMY. 'Ungenerous.'
ALICE. 'He quite understands that it was I who
lost my head.'
Steve is much moved by the generosity of this.=
He
lowers his voice.
STEVE. 'Of course I blame myself now; but I as=
sure
you honestly I had no idea of it until to-night. I had thought you were onl=
y my
friend. It dazed me; but as I ransacked my mind many little things came bac=
k to
me. I remembered what I hadn't noticed at the time--'
AMY. 'Louder, please.'
STEVE. 'I remembered--'
AMY. 'Is this necessary?'
ALICE. 'Please, Amy, let me know what he
remembered.'
STEVE. 'I remembered that your voice was softe=
r to
me than when you were addressing other men.'
ALICE. 'Let me look long at you, Mr. Rollo.' S=
he
looks long at him.
AMY. 'Mother, enough.'
ALICE. 'What more do you remember?'
STEVE. 'It is strange to me now that I didn't
understand your true meaning to-day when you said I was the only man you
couldn't flirt with; you meant that I aroused deeper feelings.'
ALICE. 'How you know me.'
AMY. 'Not the best of you, mother.'
ALICE. 'No, not the best, Amy.'
STEVE. 'I can say that I never thought of myse=
lf
as possessing dangerous qualities. I thought I was utterly unattractive to
women.'
ALICE. 'You must have known about your eyes.'
STEVE, eagerly, 'My eyes? On my soul I didn't.=
'
Amy wonders if this can be true. Alice rises. =
She
feels that she cannot control herself much longer.
ALICE. 'Steve, if you don't go away at once I
shall scream.'
STEVE, really unhappy, 'Is it as bad as that?'=
AMY, rising, 'You heard what Mrs. Grey said. T=
his
is very painful to her. Will you please say good-bye.'
In the novel circumstances he does not quite k=
now
how this should be carried out.
ALICE, also shy, 'How shall we do it, Amy? On =
the
brow?'
AMY. 'No, mother--with the hand.'
They do it with the hand, and it is thus that =
the
Colonel finds them. He would be unable to keep his countenance were it not =
for
a warning look from Alice.
COLONEL, one of the men who have a genius for
saying the right thing, 'Ha.'
STEVE. 'I am going, Colonel. I am very sorry t=
hat
you----At the same time I wish you to understand that the fault is entirely
mine.'
COLONEL, guardedly, 'Ha.'
AMY, putting an arm round her mother, who hugs=
it,
'Father, he came only to say goodbye. He is not a bad man, and mother has
behaved magnificently.'
COLONEL, cleverly, 'Ha.'
AMY. 'You must not, you shall not, be cruel to
her.'
ALICE. 'Darling Amy.'
COLONEL, truculently, 'Oh, mustn't I. We shall=
see
about that.'
STEVE. 'Come, come, Colonel.'
COLONEL, doing better than might have been
expected, 'Hold your tongue, sir.'
AMY. 'I know mother as no other person can know
her. I begin to think that you have no proper appreciation of her, father.'=
ALICE, basely, 'Dear, dear Amy.'
AMY. 'I daresay she has often suffered in the
past--'
ALICE. 'Oh, Amy, oh.'
AMY. 'By your--your callousness--your want of
sympathy--your neglect.'
ALICE. 'My beloved child.'
COLONEL, uneasily, 'Alice, tell her it isn't s=
o.'
ALICE. 'You hear what he says, my pet.'
AMY. 'But you don't deny it.'
COLONEL. 'Deny it, woman.'
ALICE. 'Robert, Robert.'
AMY. 'And please not to call my mother
"woman" in my presence.'
COLONEL. 'I--I--I----' He looks for help from
Alice, but she gives him only a twinkle of triumph. He barks, 'Child, go to
your room.'
AMY, her worst fears returning, 'But what are =
you
going to do?'
COLONEL. 'That is not your affair.'
STEVE. 'I must say I don't see that.'
AMY, gratefully, 'Thank you, Mr. Rollo.'
COLONEL. 'Go to your room.'
She has to go, but not till she has given her
mother a kiss that is a challenge to the world. Then to the bewilderment of
Steve two human frames are rocked with laughter.
ALICE. 'Oh, Robert, look at him. He thinks I
worship him.'
COLONEL. 'Steve, you colossal puppy.'
STEVE. 'Eh--what--why?'
ALICE. 'Steve, tell Robert about my voice being
softer to you than to other men; tell him, Steve, about your eyes.'
The unhappy youth gropes mentally and physical=
ly.
STEVE. 'Good heavens, was there nothing in it?=
'
COLONEL. 'My boy, I'll never let you hear the =
end
of this.'
STEVE. 'But if there's nothing in it, how could
your daughter have thought--'
COLONEL. 'She saw you kiss Alice here this
afternoon, you scoundrel, and, as she thought, make an assignation with you. There, it all came out of that=
. She
is a sentimental lady, is our Amy, and she has been too often to the theatr=
e.'
STEVE. 'Let me think.'
COLONEL. 'Here is a chair for the very purpose.
Now, think hard.'
STEVE. 'But--but--then why did you pretend bef=
ore
her, Alice?'
ALICE. 'Because she thinks that she has saved =
me,
and it makes her so happy. Amy has a passionate desire to be of some use in
this world she knows so well, and she already sees her sphere, Steve, it is=
to
look after me. I am not to be her chaperone, it is she who is to be mine. I=
have
submitted, you see.'
COLONEL, fidgeting, 'She seems to have quite g=
iven
me up for you.'
ALICE, blandly, 'Oh yes, Robert, quite.'
STEVE, gloomily, 'You will excuse my thinking =
only
of myself. What an ass I've been.'
ALICE. 'Is it a blow, Steve?'
STEVE. 'It's a come down. Ass, ass, ass! But I
say, Alice, I'm awfully glad it's I who have been the ass and not you. I re=
ally
am, Colonel. You see the tragedy of my life is I'm such an extraordinarily
ordinary sort of fellow that, though every man I know says some lady has lo=
ved him,
there never in all my unromantic life was a woman who cared a Christmas card
for me. It often makes me lonely; and so when I thought such a glorious wom=
an
as you, Alice--I lost touch of earth altogether; but now I've fallen back o=
n it
with a whack. But I'm glad--yes, I'm glad. You two kindest people Steve Rol=
lo
has ever known.--Oh, I say good-night. I suppose you can't overlook it, Ali=
ce.'
ALICE. 'Oh, yes, you goose, I can. We are both
fond of you--Mr. Rollo.'
COLONEL. 'Come in, my boy, and make love to me as
often as you feel lonely.'
STEVE. 'I may still come to see you? I say, I'm
awfully taken with your Amy.'
COLONEL. 'None of that, Steve.'
ALICE. ' We can drop in on you on the sly, Steve, to
admire your orbs; but you mustn't come here--until Amy thinks it is safe fo=
r me.'
When he has gone she adds, 'Until =
I think it is safe for Amy.'
COLONEL. 'When will that be?'
ALICE. 'Not for some time.'
COLONEL. 'He isn't a bad sort, Steve.'
ALICE. 'Oh, no--she might even do worse some d=
ay.
But she is to be my little girl for a long time first.'
COLONEL. 'This will give him a sort of glamour=
to
her, you know.'
ALICE. 'You are not really thinking, Robert, t=
hat
my Amy is to fall asleep to-night before she hears the whole true story. Co=
uld
I sleep until she knows everything!'
COLONEL. 'Stupid of me. I am a little like Ste=
ve
in one way, though; I don't understand why you have kept it up so long.'
ALICE. 'It isn't the first time you have thoug=
ht
me a harum-scarum.'
COLONEL. 'It isn't.'
ALICE. 'The sheer fun of it, Robert, went to my
head, I suppose. And then, you see, the more Amy felt herself to be my
protectress the more she seemed to love me. I am afraid I have a weakness f=
or
the short cuts to being loved.'
COLONEL. 'I'm afraid you have. The one thing y=
ou
didn't think of is that the more she loves you the less love she seems to h=
ave
for me.'
ALICE. 'How selfish of you, Robert.'
COLONEL, suspiciously, 'Or was that all part of
the plan?'
ALICE. 'There was no plan; there wasn't time f=
or
one. But you were certainly rather horrid, Robert, in the way you gloated o=
ver
me when you saw them take to you. I have been gloating a little perhaps in =
taking
them from you.'
COLONEL. 'Them? You are going a little too fas=
t,
my dear. I have still got Cosmo and Molly.'
ALICE. 'For the moment.'
COLONEL. 'Woman.'
ALICE. 'Remember, Amy said you must not call me
that.'
He laughs as he takes her by the shoulders.
'Yes, shake me; I deserve it.'
COLONEL. 'You do, indeed,' and he shakes her w=
ith
a ferocity that would have startled any sudden visitor. No wonder, then, th=
at
it is a shock to Cosmo, who comes blundering in. Alice is the first to see =
him,
and she turns the advantage to unprincipled account.
ALICE. 'Robert, don't hurt me. Oh, if Cosmo we=
re
to see you!'
COSMO. 'Cosmo does see him.' He says it in a
terrible voice. Probably Cosmo has been to a theatre or two himself.
ALICE. 'You here, Cosmo!'
She starts back from her assailant.
COLONEL, feeling a little foolish, 'I didn't h=
ear
you come in.'
COSMO, grimly, 'No, I'm sure you didn't.'
COLONEL, testily, 'No heroics, my boy.'
COSMO. 'Take care, father.' He stands between
them, which makes his father suddenly grin. 'Laugh on, sir. I don't know wh=
at
this row's about, but'--here his arm encircles an undeserving lady--'this l=
ady
is my mother, and I won't have her bullied. What's a father compared to a m=
other.'
ALICE. 'Cosmo, darling Cosmo.'
COLONEL, becoming alarmed, 'My boy, it was onl=
y a
jest. Alice, tell him it was only a jest.'
ALICE. 'He says it was only a jest, Cosmo.'
COSMO. 'You are a trump to shield him, mother.=
' He
kisses her openly, conscious that he is a bit of a trump himself, in which =
view
Alice most obviously concurs.
COLONEL, to his better half, 'You serpent.'
COSMO. 'Sir, this language won't do.'
COLONEL, exasperated, 'You go to bed, too.'
ALICE. 'He has sent Amy to bed already. Try to
love your father, Cosmo,' placing many kisses on the spot where he had been
slapped. Try for my sake , and try=
to
get Amy and Molly to do it, too.' Sweetly to her husband, 'They will love y=
ou
in time, Robert; at present they can think only of me. Darling, I'll come a=
nd
see you in bed.'
COSMO. 'I don't like to leave you with him--' =
ALICE. 'Go, my own; I promise to call out if I
need you.'
On these terms Cosmo departs. The long-sufferi=
ng
husband, arms folded, surveys his unworthy spouse.
COLONEL. 'You are =
span>a
hussy.'
ALICE, meekly, 'I suppose I am.'
COLONEL. 'Mind you, I am not going to stand
Cosmo's thinking this of me.'
ALICE. 'As if I would allow it for another hou=
r!
You won't see much of me to-night, Robert. If I sleep at all it will be in
Amy's room.'
COLONEL, lugubriously, 'You will be taking Mol=
ly
from me to-morrow.'
ALICE. 'I feel hopeful that Molly, too, will s=
oon
be taking care of me.' She goes to him in her cajoling way: 'With so many
chaperones, Robert, I ought to do well. Oh, my dear, don't think that I hav=
e learnt
no lesson to-night.'
COLONEL, smiling, 'Going to reform at last?' <= o:p>
ALICE, the most serious of women, 'Yes, Robert.
The Alice you have known is come to an end. To-morrow--'
COLONEL. 'If she is different to-morrow I'll
disown her.'
ALICE. 'It's summer done, autumn begun. Farewe=
ll,
summer, we don't know you any more. My girl and I are like the little figur=
es
in the weather-house; when Amy comes out, Alice goes in. Alice Sit-by-the-f=
ire henceforth.
The moon is full to-night, Robert, but it isn't looking for me any more. Ta=
xis
farewell--advance four-wheelers. I had a beautiful husband once, black as t=
he
raven was his hair--'
COLONEL. 'Stop it.'
ALICE. 'Pretty Robert, farewell. Farewell, Ali=
ce
that was; it's all over, my dear. I always had a weakness for you; but now =
you
must really go; make way there for the old lady.'
COLONEL. 'Woman, you'll make me cry. Go to your
Amy.'
ALICE. 'Robert--'
COLONEL. 'Go. Go. Go.'
As he roars it Amy peeps in anxiously. She is =
in
her nightgown, and her hair is down and her feet are bare, and she does not
look so very much more than five. Alice is unable to resist the temptation.=
ALICE, wailing, 'Must I go, Robert?'
AMY. 'Going away? Mother! Father, if mother go=
es
away, what is to become of me?'
She draws them together until their hands clas=
p.
There is now a beatific smile on her face. The curtain sees that its time h=
as
come; it clicks, and falls.
THE END