Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  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 here?’

  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 she 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 wife 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. Stop. How long had she been here before I came?’

  RICHARDSON. ‘She — Her what you are speaking about—’

  AMY. ‘Come, I must know.’ The terrible admission 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 you 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 drawn curtains attract Amy’s eagle eye, and she looks behind them. There is no one 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 one 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—’

  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 says 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 you?’

  AMY, ardently, ‘You can do so much.’

  STEVE. ‘Perhaps if you will sit down—’

  Amy decides to humour him so far. She would like 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 not.’

  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 describe it to Ginevra, ‘What on earth—’

  AMY, suffering from a determination from the mouth of phrases she has collected in five theatres, ‘A chance discovery, Mr. Stephen 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 woman 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 a nice girl but dash it all. Whom can you 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 you. 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 wife.’

  AMY, blankly, ‘No wife! You are sure? Oh, think.’

  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 upon 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 Rollo, but I don’t leave this house without the letters.’

  STEVE, groaning, ‘Are they your letters?’

  AMY. ‘How dare you! They are the letters written 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 tonight. Tomorrow 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 frien
d 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 up 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 wish 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 kind 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 ball. ‘What is it?’

  RICHARDSON. ‘A gentleman downstairs, sir, wanting 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 brought him in. Then show her out.’

  RICHARDSON. ‘Oh, lor’.’

  AMY, rooting herself to the floor, ‘The letters!’

  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 the chop?’

  AMY. ‘If she should come while he is here!’

  RICHARDSON. ‘Come along, Miss. What’s the matter?’

  AMY. ‘I can’t go away. I am not going.’

  She darts into the cupboard. It is as if she had 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 rid 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 Alice 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 your 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.’

  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, Soldiering 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 closed, opens it slightly.

  The Colonel is presently aware that Steve is silently smiling to

  himself. The Colonel makes a happy guess. ‘Thinking of the ladies,

  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 have 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 good reason for not telling you her name.’

  COLONEL. ‘So? And she is not exactly young? Twice your age, Steve?’

  STEVE, with excusable heat, ‘Not at all. But she 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 closes the cupboard door. Steve continues to behave in the most gallant manner. ‘You must not quiz me, Colonel, for her circumstances are such that her partiality 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 hearthrug.

  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 hairpins — triumphantly 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 warmly acclaimed. She would not feel so much at ease if she knew who, hand on heart, has recognised her through the pantry keyhole.

  STEVE, as he makes Alice comfortable by the fire, ‘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 blackballed by my own baby. Robert, I dined in state with Cosmo, and he was so sulky that 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?’