Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays. Various
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sent me that very postcard that by pure chance you picked up.
James. He should have written a letter.
Rosamund. Oh! I expect he couldn't wait. He was so impulsive. Well, on the night before he left England he came here and proposed to me. I remember I was awfully tired and queer. I had been giving a lecture in the afternoon on "How to Pickle Pork," and the practical demonstration had been rather smelly. However, the proposal braced me up. It was the first I had had—that year. Well, I was so sorry for him that I couldn't say "No" outright. It would have been too brutal. He might have killed himself on the spot, and spoilt this carpet, which, by the way, was new then. So I said, "Look here, Gerald—"
James. You called him "Gerald"?
Rosamund. Rather! "Look here, Gerald," I said; "you are going to Cyprus for four years. If your feeling towards me is what you think it is, come back to me at the end of those four years, and I will then give you an answer." Of course I felt absolutely sure that in the intervening period he would fall in and out of love half a dozen times at least.
James. Of course, half a dozen times at least; probably seven. What did he say in reply?
Rosamund. He agreed with all the seriousness in the world. "On this day four years hence," he said, standing just there [pointing], "I will return for your answer. And in the meantime I will live only for you." That was what he said—his very words.
James. And a most touching speech, too! And then?
Rosamund. We shook hands, and he tore himself away, stifling a sob. Don't forget, he was a boy.
James. Have the four years expired?
Rosamund. What is the date of that postcard? Let me see it. [Snatches it, and smiles at the handwriting pensively.] July 4th—four years ago.
James. Then it's over. He's not coming. To-day is July 5th.
Rosamund. But yesterday was Sunday. He wouldn't come on Sunday. He was always very particular and nice.
James. Do you mean to imply that you think he will come to-day and demand from you an affirmative? A moment ago you gave me to understand that in your opinion he would have—er—other affairs to attend to.
Rosamund. Yes. I did think so at the time. But now—now I have a kind of idea that he may come, that after all he may have remained faithful. You know I was maddeningly pretty then, and he had my photograph.
James. Tell me, have you corresponded?
Rosamund. No, I expressly forbade it.
James. Ah!
Rosamund. But still, I have a premonition he may come.
James [assuming a pugnacious pose]. If he does, I will attend to him.
Rosamund. Gerald was a terrible fighter. [A resounding knock is heard at the door. Both start violently, and look at each other in silence. Rosamund goes to the door and opens it.]
Rosamund [with an unsteady laugh of relief]. Only the postman with a letter. [She returns to her seat.] No, I don't expect he will come, really. [Puts letter idly on table. Another knock still louder. Renewed start.]
Rosamund. Now that is he, I'm positive. He always knocked like that. Just fancy. After four years! Jim, just take the chair behind that screen for a bit. I must hide you.
James. No, thanks! The screen dodge is a trifle too frayed at the edges.
Rosamund. Only for a minute. It would be such fun.
James. No, thanks. [Another knock.]
Rosamund [with forced sweetness]. Oh, very well, then....
James. Oh, well, of course, if you take it in that way—[He proceeds to a chair behind screen, which does not, however, hide him from the audience.]
Rosamund [smiles his reward]. I'll explain it all right. [Loudly.] Come in! [Enter Gerald O'Mara.]
Gerald. So you are in! [Hastens across room to shake hands.]
Rosamund. Oh, yes, I am in. Gerald, how are you? I must say you look tolerably well. [They sit down.]
Gerald. Oh, I'm pretty fit, thanks. Had the most amazing time in spite of the climate. And you? Rosie, you haven't changed a little bit. How's the cookery trade getting along? Are you still showing people how to concoct French dinners out of old bones and a sardine tin?
Rosamund. Certainly. Only I can do it without the bones now. You see, the science has progressed while you've been stagnating in Cyprus.
Gerald. Stagnating is the word. You wouldn't believe that climate!
Rosamund. What! Not had nice weather? What a shame! I thought it was tremendously sunshiny in Cyprus.
Gerald. Yes, that's just what it is, 97° in the shade when it doesn't happen to be pouring with malarial rain. We started a little golf club at Nicosia, and laid out a nine-hole course. But the balls used to melt. So we had to alter the rules, keep the balls in an ice-box, and take a fresh one at every hole. Think of that!
Rosamund. My poor boy! But I suppose there were compensations? You referred to "an amazing time."
Gerald. Yes, there were compensations. And that reminds me, I want you to come out and lunch with me at the Savoy. I've got something awfully important to ask you. In fact, that's what I've come for.
Rosamund. Sorry I can't, Gerald. The fact is, I've got something awfully important myself just about lunch time.
Gerald. Oh, yours can wait. Look here, I've ordered the lunch. I made sure you'd come. [Rosamund shakes her head.] Why can't you? It's not cooking, is it?
Rosamund. Only a goose.
Gerald. What goose?
Rosamund. Well—my own, and somebody else's. Listen, Gerald. Had you not better ask me this awfully important question now? No time like the present.
Gerald. I can always talk easier, especially on delicate topics, with a pint of something handy. But if you positively won't come, I'll get it off my chest now. The fact is, Rosie, I'm in love.
Rosamund. With whom?
Gerald. Ah! That's just what I want you to tell me.
Rosamund [suddenly starting]. Gerald! what is that dreadful thing sticking out of your pocket, and pointing right at me?
Gerald. That? That's my revolver. Always carry them in Cyprus, you know. Plenty of sport there.
Rosamund [breathing again]. Kindly take it out of your pocket and put it on the table. Then if it does go off it will go off into something less valuable than a cookery-lecturer.
Gerald [laughingly obeying her]. There. If anything happens it will happen to the screen. Now, Rosie, I'm in love, and I desire that you should tell me whom I'm in love with. There's a magnificent girl in Cyprus, daughter of the Superintendent of Police—
Rosamund. Name?
Gerald. Evelyn. Age nineteen. I tell you I was absolutely gone on her.
Rosamund. Symptoms?
Gerald. Well—er—whenever her name was mentioned I blushed terrifically. Of course, that was only one symptom.... Then I met a girl on the home steamer—no father or mother. An orphan, you know, awfully interesting.
Rosamund. Name?
Gerald. Madge. Nice name, isn't it? [Rosamund nods.] I don't mind telling you, I was considerably struck by her—still am, in fact.
Rosamund. Symptoms?
Gerald. Oh!... Let me see, I never think of her without turning absolutely pale. I suppose it's what they call "pale with passion." Notice it?
Rosamund