by Unknown
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 assigned to him. He thinks indeed (sometimes with a sigh) that he is a very good young man; and the Colonel and Alice (without the sigh) think so too. After warm greetings:
STEVE. ‘Alice, I daresay you wish me at Jericho; but it’s six months since I saw you, and I couldn’t wait till tomorrow.’
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 not telling me they don’t adore her?’
COLONEL. ‘I can’t understand it.’
STEVE. ‘But by all the little gods of India, you know, everyone has always adored Alice.’
ALICE, plaintively, ‘That’s why I take it so ill, Steve.’
STEVE. ‘Can I do anything? See here, if the house is upside down and you would like to get rid of the Colonel for an hour or two, suppose he dines with me tonight? I’m dying to hear all the news of the Punjab 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 stolen them from me. He has taken up his permanent residence in the nursery.’
COLONEL. ‘Pooh, fiddlededee. I shall probably come round tonight 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 prospering 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 in a lookingglass and is ashamed of it. ‘Alice, I wish it was you they loved.’
ALICE, with withering scorn, ‘Oh, go back to your 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 there 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 shakes 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 screen is close to the two girls, and they have so often in the last week seen stage figures pop behind screens that, mechanically as it were, they pop behind this one.
STEVE, who little knows that he is now entering on the gay career,
‘Listen to the infant.’
ALICE. ‘Isn’t it horrid of Robert to get on with her so well. Steve, say Robert’s a brute.’
STEVE, as he bids her good afternoon, ‘Of course 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 tonight, 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 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 white 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 tonight. 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 duty. Oh, Ginevra, what things there will be to put in my diary tonight.’
II
Night has fallen, and Amy is probably now in her bedroom, fully arrayed for her d
readful mission. She says goodbye to her diary — perhaps for aye. She steals from the house — to a very different scene, 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 ‘setting’ 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 decorated 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 being 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 occasionally the man’s Man, sleek, imperturbable, announcing the lady, the lady’s husband, the 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.
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 used 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 this, and has made none of the necessary arrangements; if one of his lamps is knocked over it will certainly explode; and there cannot be a secret door without its leading into the adjoining house. (Theatres keep special kinds of architects 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 comfortable 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 undoubtedly have put on evening dress if he had known she was coming. His man, Richardson, 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 would be disappointed. Steve, the wretched fellow, never had a Man, and Richardson is only his landlady’s slavey, aged about fifteen, and wistful at sight of food. 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 one 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, but 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 that dish.’
By the enemy he means the other chop: what a name 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 duchess 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 Missis 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.
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, madam?’
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 often 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 how 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 it.’
Steve lights his pipe; no real villain smokes a pipe.
STEVE. ‘Smoking is a blessed companion to a lonely 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 lick 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 jiffy. 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 presently to fling back with staggering effect. Just now her pale face is hiding behind 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 smile of knowledge.
AMY. ‘We shall see.’ She looks about her. Sharply, ‘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 triumph 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 trying 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!’
