Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays - Various

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[somewhat coldly]. It seems to me the situation amounts to this. There are two girls. One is named Evelyn, and the thought of her makes you blush. The other is named Madge, and the thought of her makes you turn pale. You fancy yourself in love, and you wish me to decide for you whether it is Madge or Evelyn who agitates your breast the more deeply.

      Gerald. That's not exactly the way to put it, Rosie. You take a fellow up too soon. Of course I must tell you lots more yet. You should hear Evelyn play the "Moonlight Sonata." It's the most marvelous thing.... And then Madge's eyes! The way that girl can look at a fellow.... I'm telling you all these things, you know, Rosie, because I've always looked up to you as an elder sister.

      Rosamund [after a pause, during which she gazes into his face]. I suppose it was in my character of your elder sister, that you put a certain question to me four years ago last night?

      Gerald [staggered; pulls himself together for a great resolve; after a long pause]. Rosie! I never thought afterwards you'd take it seriously. I forgot it all. I was only a boy then. [Speaking quicker and quicker.] But I see clearly now. I never could withstand you. It's all rot about Evelyn and Madge. It's you I'm in love with; and I never guessed it! Rosie!... [Rushes to her and impetuously flings his arms around her neck.]

      James [who, during the foregoing scene, has been full of uneasy gestures; leaping with incredible swiftness from the shelter of the screen]. Sir!

      Rosamund [pushing Gerald quickly away]. Gerald!

      James. May I inquire, sir, what is the precise significance of this attitudinising? [Gerald has scarcely yet abandoned his amorous pose, but now does so quickly]. Are we in the middle of a scene from "Romeo and Juliet," or is this 9:30 A. M. in the nineteenth century? If Miss Fife had played the "Moonlight Sonata" to you, or looked at you as Madge does, there might perhaps have been some shadow of an excuse for your extraordinary and infamous conduct. But since she has performed neither of these feats of skill, I fail to grasp—I say I fail to grasp—er—

      Gerald [slowly recovering from an amazement which has rendered him mute]. Rosie, a man concealed in your apartment! But perhaps it is the piano-tuner. I am willing to believe the best.

      Rosamund. Let me introduce Mr. James Brett, my future husband. Jim, this is Gerald.

      James. I have gathered as much. [The men bow stiffly.]

      Rosamund [dreamily]. Poor, poor Gerald! [Her tone is full of feeling. James is evidently deeply affected by it. He walks calmly and steadily to the table and picks up the revolver.]

      Gerald. Sir, that tool is mine.

      James. Sir, the fact remains that it is an engine of destruction, and that I intend to use it. Rosamund, the tone in which you uttered those three words, "Poor, poor Gerald!" convinces me, a keen observer of symptoms, that I no longer possess your love. Without your love, life to me is meaningless. I object to anything meaningless—even a word. I shall therefore venture to deprive myself of life. Good-by! [To Gerald.] Sir, I may see you later. [Raises the revolver to his temples.]

      Rosamund [appealing to Gerald to interfere]. Gerald.

      Gerald. Mr. Brett, I repeat that that revolver is mine. It would be a serious breach of good manners if you used it without my consent, a social solecism of which I believe you, as a friend of Miss Fife's, to be absolutely incapable. Still, as the instrument happens to be in your hand, you may use it—but not on yourself. Have the goodness, sir, to aim at me. I could not permit myself to stand in the way of another's happiness, as I should do if I continued to exist. At the same time I have conscientious objections to suicide. You will therefore do me a service by aiming straight. Above all things, don't hit Miss Fife. I merely mention it because I perceive that you are unaccustomed to the use of firearms. [Folds his arms.]

      James. Rosamund, do you love me?

      Rosamund. My Jim!

      James [deeply moved]. The possessive pronoun convinces me that you do. [Smiling blandly.] Sir, I will grant your most reasonable demand. [Aims at Gerald.]

      Rosamund [half shrieking]. I don't love you if you shoot Gerald.

      James. But, my dear, this is irrational. He has asked me to shoot him, and I have as good as promised to do so.

      Rosamund [entreating]. James, in two hours we are to be married.... Think of the complications.

      Gerald. Married! To-day! Then I withdraw my request.

      James. Yes; perhaps it will be as well. [Lowers revolver.]

      Gerald. I have never yet knowingly asked a friend, even an acquaintance, to shoot me on his wedding-day, and I will not begin now. Moreover, now I come to think of it, the revolver wasn't loaded. Mr. Brett, I inadvertently put you in a ridiculous position. I apologize.

      James. I accept the apology. [The general tension slackens. Both the men begin to whistle gently, in the effort after unconcern.]

      Rosamund. Jim, will you oblige me by putting that revolver down somewhere. I know it isn't loaded; but so many people have been killed by guns that weren't loaded that I should feel safer.... [He puts it down on the table.] Thank you!

      James [picking up letter]. By the way, here's that letter that came just now. Aren't you going to open it? The writing seems to me to be something like Lottie Dickinson's.

      Rosamund [taking the letter]. It isn't Lottie's; it's her sister's. [Stares at envelope.] I know what it is. I know what it is. Lottie is ill, or dead, or something, and can't come and be a witness at the wedding. I'm sure it's that. Now, if she's dead we can't be married to-day; it wouldn't be decent. And it's frightfully unlucky to have a wedding postponed. Oh, but there isn't a black border on the envelope, so she can't be dead. And yet perhaps it was so sudden they hadn't time to buy mourning stationery! This is the result of your coming here this morning. I felt sure something would happen. Didn't I tell you so?

      James. No, you didn't, my dear. But why don't you open the letter?

      Rosamund. I am opening it as fast as I can. [Reads it hurriedly.] There! I said so! Lottie fell off her bicycle last night, and broke her ankle—won't be able to stir for a fortnight—in great pain—hopes it won't inconvenience us!

      James. Inconvenience! I must say I regard it as very thoughtless of Lottie to go bicycling the very night before our wedding. Where did she fall off?

      Rosamund. Sloane Street.

      James. That makes it positively criminal. She always falls off in Sloane Street. She makes a regular practice of it. I have noticed it before.

      Rosamund. Perhaps she did it on purpose.

      James. Not a doubt of it!

      Rosamund. She doesn't want us to get married!

      James. I have sometimes suspected that she had a certain tenderness for me. [Endeavoring to look meek.]

      Rosamund. The cat!

      James. By no means. Cats are never sympathetic. She is. Let us be just before we are jealous.

      Rosamund. Jealous! My dear James! Have you noticed how her skirts hang?

      James. Hang her skirts!

      Rosamund. You wish to defend her?

      James. On the contrary; it was I who first accused her. [Gerald, to avoid the approaching storm, seeks the shelter of the screen, sits down, and taking some paper from his pocket begins thoughtfully to write.]

      Rosamund. My dear James, let me advise you to keep quite, quite calm. You are a little bit upset.

      James. I am a perfect cucumber. But I can hear you breathing.

      Rosamund. If you are a cucumber, you are a very indelicate cucumber. I'm not breathing more than is necessary to sustain

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