by Unknown
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 out?’
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 here?’
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 little folly.’
COLONEL. ‘Folly! And neither of them able to say 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 itself 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 wasn’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 still 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 clings 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 you ask me to do, Alice, anything. I shall 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 shall 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 too, 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 more 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 your 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 were to leave you to him!’
AMY. ‘Poor father.’
ALICE. ‘Poor indeed with such a daughter.’
AMY. ‘He has gone, mother; so do you really think 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.’
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 don’t mean that there were others?’
AMY. ‘There was Major — Major — I forget his name, 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 plays.’
ALICE, bereft, ‘Characters in plays? Plays!’
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 goodbye 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 once 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 all 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 come, 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 alone to the rooms of a man you didn’t even know? Some men—’
AMY. ‘I was not afraid. I am a soldier’s daughter; 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 kn
ows that if she tells Amy the truth at once its first effect will be to make the dear one feel 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 novelists say, deserves a chapter to itself.
III
We are back in the room of the diary. The diary 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 ingenious 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 landlady 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 till I know what has happened. Where, oh where, can they be?’
COSMO. ‘That’s all right. Father told you he had 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 the 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 allow anyone else to say a word against her. 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 have crossed the little hall!
GINEVRA. ‘Amy, at last!’
AMY. ‘Sh!’ She speaks to some one unseen, ‘There 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 were, under Amy’s guidance. Ginevra is introduced, and Alice then looks to Amy for 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 sworn 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?’
AMY, considerately, ‘If you think you feel strong enough, mother.’
ALICE. ‘You have given me strength.’
AMY. ‘I am so glad.’ She strokes her mother soothingly. ‘What will you tell him?’
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 departs 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 father?’
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 budge till you tell me what mother is speaking about to father.’
AMY. ‘It is about the drawingroom 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 inch 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?—’ Here 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 the 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 confessed 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 husband 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.’