by Unknown
AMY. ‘He asked her coldly — but always the perfect 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 said “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, listening 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 little child — came in — in her nightgown.’
GINEVRA. ‘Quick.’
AMY. ‘She came toddling down the stairs — she was 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 drew 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 two, 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, ‘Marry him?’
AMY. ‘Yes. I must dree my weird. Is it dree your 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 reply, 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 felt 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 obliterated quite long enough.
GINEVRA, with a touch of testiness in her tone, ‘Amy — introduce me.’
AMY. ‘Mr. Stephen Rollo — Miss Dunbar. Miss Dunbar 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 death 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, ‘Understand I can neither love nor honour you — at least at first — but I will obey you.’
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 gentleman 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 effect 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 tonight, ‘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.’
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 goodbye, I consent. Please be as brief as possible.’
Somehow they think that she is moving to the door, but she crosses only to the other side of the room and sits down with a book. 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 you, 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 exactly what are my feelings for you.’
STEVE, huskily, ‘How did he take it?’
ALICE. ‘Need you ask?’
&n
bsp; 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 — Mr. 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 assure you honestly I had no idea of it until tonight. I had thought you were only my friend. It dazed me; but as I ransacked my mind many little things came back 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 softer to me than when you were addressing other men.’
ALICE. ‘Let me look long at you, Mr. Rollo.’ She 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 myself 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. This is very painful to her. Will you please say goodbye.’
In the novel circumstances he does not quite know 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 that 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 so.’
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 physically.
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 theatre.’
STEVE. ‘Let me think.’
COLONEL. ‘Here is a chair for the very purpose. Now, think hard.’
STEVE. ‘But — but — then why did you pretend before 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 given 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 really 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 loved 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 woman as you, Alice — I lost touch of earth altogether; but now I’ve fallen back on it with a whack. But I’m glad — yes, I’m glad. You two kindest people Steve Rollo has ever known. — Oh, I say goodnight. I suppose you can’t overlook it, Alice.’
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 for 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 day. 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.’