The Return of the Soldier (Van Druten)/Act I
ACT I
Scene: The drawing-room at Baldry Court, Harrow Weald. It is a large and lovely room. The back wall consists of French windows, leading on to a garden. Two steps lead down from the back wall to the rest of the room. The fireplace is in the centre of the L. wall and has a bench before it. Down stage L., a door. There are other windows in the R. wall, with a window-seat below them, and another door down stage R., leading to the hall. A large grand piano stands in the corner up stage R., so that the player has his back to the French windows and faces the audience. A large Chesterfield. There is an armchair facing the fire and another above it, facing the audience. The room is furnished with taste and beauty. It is about 2.30 on a spring afternoon in 1916.
When the curtain rises, Jenny comes in L. She is a tall, good-looking, dark young woman of thirty-five. She goes over to the door R., opens it, goes out into the hall, returns disappointed, closes the door, comes back, and rings a bell by the fireplace. Ellen, a tidy, trim parlourmaid, comes in R.
Ellen : You rang, miss?
Jenny : Yes. Has the afternoon post come yet, Ellen?
Ellen : Not yet, miss.
Jenny : It’s terribly late, surely?
Ellen : Yes, miss.
Jenny : Has he gone by, do you suppose?
Ellen : No, miss. I’ve been watching for him, ever since lunch.
Jenny : Yes . . . we all do, these days.
Ellen : Excuse me, miss. I think that’s him now.
[She goes out R.
Jenny stands waiting, expectantly. She returns with two letters on a salver, which she hands to Jenny, who takes them eagerly and looks at them with disappointment.
Jenny : Bills. (As Ellen is going) Have you heard from your young man lately, Ellen?
Ellen : Not since last week, miss, and then only just one of those printed postcards. It’s not the same thing as a letter, is it?
Jenny : No. Still, it lets you know he’s safe and well. And that’s the main thing.
Ellen : Yes, miss. You’re worrying about the master, miss?
Jenny : A little. It’s a fortnight now—more.
Ellen : P’raps he’s busy, miss . . . what with one thing and another . . . can’t find time to write.
Jenny : Yes, I suppose so.
Ellen : Still, it’s hard waiting, and a letter does make all the difference, doesn’t it? Just a word, like. The mistress bears up wonderful.
Jenny : Yes.
Ellen : Cook says it'll all be over by July. And that’s what the paper said, too. But, then, that’s how they’ve gone on talking ever since it began. First it was Christmas, and then the summer, and then the next Christmas. What do you think?
Jenny : I don’t know, Ellen. I don’t think anyone knows.
Ellen : It’s dreadful, isn’t it? The war, I mean. I don’t know that I’d thought about it properly till I went to see those war pictures the other week. The fillums, I mean. Fairly upset me, they did. I could hardly sleep for thinking of them, not for nights after. I wanted cook to go . . . because it seemed as if it was something everyone ought to see . . . brings the war home to you, like . . . but cook’s got no taste for horrors, she says. At least, not that kind . . . though she does like the News of the World of a Sunday. But it fairly opened my eyes and set me thinking, it did, indeed. And I just can’t get it out of my head . . . and it isn’t only me, neither, nor you and the mistress, but it’s all of us, isn’t it? I mean, I daresay there isn’t hardly a woman in England what hasn’t got someone out there . . . and wondering if he’s safe.
Jenny : Yes. (A pause.) Thank you, Ellen. That will do.
Ellen : Very good, miss.
[She goes.
Jenny sits alone, looking at the unopened letters. Kitty comes in L., a small, dark, exquisitely pretty woman of a little over thirty.
Kitty : Oh, here you are. Letters?
Jenny : Only bills. (Hands them to her.)
Kitty (opening them) : Langworthy’s . . .
Jenny : I wish we could hear from Chris. It’s a fortnight since he wrote.
Kitty : Oh, don’t begin to fuss. If a woman began to worry in these days because her husband hadn’t written to her for a fortnight . . . ! Besides, if he’d been anywhere interesting, anywhere where the fighting was really hot, he’d have found some way of telling me instead of just leaving it as “somewhere in France.” He’ll be all right.
Jenny : Kitty, you’re amazing. Anyone would think you didn’t care.
Kitty : Why? Just because I won’t sit around wailing and carrying on like the Trojan women? What’s the use?
Jenny : No. None, I know. Only . . .
Kitty : Only you think me unfeeling. Don’t you?
Jenny : No . . .
Kitty : Oh, yes. You think I’m callous. I’ve often watched you thinking it. I’m not callous, Jenny. At least, I hope I’m not . . . but it’s just that I’m not made that way. I can’t see the use in worrying and fretting when there’s nothing you can do.
Jenny : I know—there is no use in it.
Kitty : It’s a question of temperament, I suppose. I know how you fret over Chris, but I don’t think you’re any fonder of him than I am.
Jenny : Of course not.
Kitty : All these women you see making a show of their misery and their anxiety . . . I don’t mean you, Jenny, you know that . . . and Chris is only your cousin, anyway . . . but wives and mothers, like Mrs. Baird and Mrs. Latimer . . . parading it about . . .it’s a form of exhibitionism, and self-indulgence. It sickens me.
Jenny : Of course.
Kitty : I’m not emotional. I know that. I’ve never cried in my life except out of temper, as a baby. Never, not even when the child died.
Jenny : I know.
Kitty : You thought that strange, then. You resented it. Chris didn’t . . . he understood; at least, I think he did. But it doesn’t mean I don’t feel things.
Jenny : Kitty, my dear, I’m not reproaching you.
Kitty : You were . . . a little . . . because I won’t worry now over Chris because he hasn’t written . . . because I won’t go about with sick eyes and not sleeping properly. Does that mean I don’t care? I’m his wife, aren’t I? But I won’t let myself brood . . . it does no good. Look at you, Jenny, strained and sleepless. Where’s the sense in it?
Jenny : None. I can’t help it, that’s all. I’m just conscious of it all the time, going on out there. You’re lucky, Kitty.
Kitty : There is such a thing as self-control, isn’t there?
Jenny : Naturally.
Kitty : Well, then. (Pause.) What’s the time?
Jenny : About half-past two.
Kitty (rising) : No one’s likely to call. I want Emery to wash my hair. You might tell Ellen I’m not at home, in case anyone does come. I’m going to dry it by the sun in the nursery. You might come up and talk to me. You’re not going out?
Jenny : I was going for a walk, that’s all. It doesn’t matter.
Kitty : The nursery’s the sunniest room in the house. It’s absurd of Chris to want it kept like that, when there’s no chance . . . (Deliberately) I’m thinking of making it into a boudoir.
Jenny : Oh, Kitty, no.
Kitty (with something like a gleam of vindictive pleasure) : Why not? What’s the use of keeping it locked up like a living tomb? Great heavens, five years . . . and everything kept as it was. It’s morbid. Naturally, at first, when we still hoped . . . but now, it’s ridiculous and unhealthy. What’s the good of being sentimental like that ? All those toys—a whole ottoman full—some child would be glad of them. We ought to send them all to the Children’s Hospital.
Jenny : Kitty . . . you can’t.
Kitty : Why not?
Jenny : Chris wanted it kept that way.
Kitty : I know, but it’s ridiculous. It’s like . . . mummifying the child. I know Chris wanted it; there’s a curious sentimental streak in him. I don’t believe in all this tying of oneself to things . . . embalming memories . . . keepsakes and locks of hair; it’s . . . Victorian . . . Marcus Stone . . . photographs even. The only photo of the child in the house is in your bedroom.
Jenny : I know. I tried to reason with Chris . . . but you can’t change it now, while he’s away . . . behind his back. It’s . . . treachery.
Kitty : Oh, Chris has forgotten by now.
Jenny : Kitty!
Kitty (a trifle ashamedly) : No, I didn’t mean that . . . but . . . it isn’t even like the rest of this house . . . full of old associations for Chris. It’s part of the new wing that he built when we married. I’m almost tempted to be jealous sometimes of what this place means to you and him . . . all the memories it has for you . . . of your childhood. But that’s a thing I can respect, even if I don’t share it. If you’d spent your childhood as I did, in about a dozen different houses and all over the place, perhaps you’d understand my feeling about these things. Oh, but that’s another matter. I love Baldry Court, even if it doesn’t mean to me what it does to you. I’m proud of it . . . Chris has made it beautiful.
Jenny : He certainly has. It’s a show place . . . now.
Kitty : Why not? However, it doesn’t matter now. Forgive me for being horrid. I’m going up. You’ll come?
Jenny : Of course.
[Ellen enters R. with a card on a salver.
Kitty : What’s that, Ellen? Has somebody called?
Ellen : Yes, ma’am. [She presents the card.
Kitty : How annoying . . . just when I wanted . . . Who is it? (She looks at the card.) “Mrs. William Grey, Mariposa, Ladysmith Road, Wealdstone.” I don’t know anyone in Wealdstone . . . loathsome place. It’s a stain on the neighbourhood. Do I know her, Ellen? Has she been here before?
Ellen : Oh, no, ma’am.
Kitty : Oh! What sort of a person, Ellen? Is she a lady?
Ellen : Well, ma’am, I hardly . . .
Kitty : Oh, very well, I’ll see her. (Ellen goes.) What an awful card. Printed, not engraved. What can she want? Isn’t it infuriating the people who break into one’s nice, quiet day? But I’d better see her . . . she may need something . . . perhaps there’s something I can do, and I ought specially to be kind to people while Chris is away. One wants to deserve well of Heaven. And now who’s being sentimental, eh?
Jenny : Oh, Kitty . . . don’t think me accusing . . .
Kitty : Of course not. I understand, Jenny, perfectly. (Kisses her.) It’s only that we don’t react to things the same way. But underneath we feel the same . . . don’t we?
[Ellen shows in Mrs. Grey. She is a faded, dowdy woman of about thirty-six. She was obviously attractive once—her figure is still good and her face still pretty—but her clothes are poor and shabby—and She shows the ravages of ten years of marriage in pinched circumstances, housework, and dreary living. She wears a raincoat and carries an umbrella.
(Sotto voce) Oh, my Lord . . . look! (She advances, sweetly) Mrs. Grey?
Margaret : Yes. (A slight pause.) Are you Mrs. Baldry?
Kitty : Yes. Won’t you sit down?
Margaret : Oh, thank you . . . it’s quite all right. [She sits.
Kitty : Let me take your umbrella.
Margaret : Please . . . please don’t trouble, It’ll be quite all right here.
[She lays it beside the chair.
Kitty (sitting also) : Well, is there something I can do for you?
Margaret : No . . . oh, no . . . it’s not that. You see, it’s like this. . . . Well, there, I hardly know how to begin. (Another pause.) You see, my daily maid is sister to your second housemaid.
Kitty : I see. Then you’ve come about a reference?
Margaret : Oh, no. No. I’m not thinking of changing. I’ve only had Gladys a little while—I couldn’t afford a maid before—but I’ve found her a very good girl. (Looking round) Not for a house like this, perhaps, but, you see, my house is quite small and . . . oh, no, it’s not a reference.
Kitty : Well, then . . .
Margaret : But girls talk, you know. You mustn’t blame them.
Kitty : Really, Mrs. Grey, I’m afraid I take no interest in servants’ gossip. If that’s all that brought you here . . .
Margaret : Oh no, no! Please, you mustn’t think that. It isn’t servants’ gossip that I came about. I only mentioned Gladys because . . . well, because that’s how I heard you didn’t know.
Kitty : That I didn’t know?
Margaret : Yes. So, you see, I thought it my duty when Gladys told me . . . well, I mean . . . that’s why I came.
Kitty : Mrs. Grey, forgive me, but, really, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What is it that I don’t know?
Margaret (avoiding her eyes): About Mr. Baldry. I’m sorry, but . . . I don’t know his rank.
Kitty : Captain Baldry. What is it that I don’t know about him?
Margaret : Why, that he’s . . . hurt.
Kitty : Hurt?
Margaret : Yes.
Kitty: Wounded, do you mean?
Margaret : Yes, wounded . . . at least . . .
Kitty : He’s dead??
Margaret : No . . . oh, no.
Kitty : What, then?
Margaret (miserably) : Well, I . . . I don’t know exactly how to explain. You see, he . . . he’s not exactly wounded. It’s more . . . you see, there was a shell burst, and . . . and . . . well, it’s shell-shock. Anyway . . . he’s not well.
Kitty : Not well? Is he dangerously ill?
Margaret : No . . . oh, no . . . not dangerously ill. But he’s not well . . . he’s in the Queen Mary Hospital at Bullone.
Kitty (suspiciously): Indeed! And how do you know all this?
Margaret (with a pitiful glibness): A man who used to be a clerk along with my husband is in Mr. Baldry’s regiment. So, you see . . .
[Her voice dies away.
Kitty : Oh! And what regiment is that?
Margaret (in dumb agony): I . . . I don’t know . . . I never thought to ask.
Kitty : Well, your friend’s name, then? Something? You can’t expect us to swallow a story like this uncorroborated.
Margaret : But he’s ill! He’s ill, don’t you understand? And I came to tell you . . .
Kitty : Jenny, do you see what this is? I know exactly what she’s doing! She’s read in the Harrow Observer or somewhere that Chris is at the Front, and come to tell us this story in the hope of getting money out of us. I’ve read of these cases in the papers. (Rising, to Margaret) Mrs. Grey, how dare you? And the transparency of it! Don’t you realise that if anything had happened to my husband I should have been informed by the War Office? It’s outrageous! Please go, and you may think yourself very lucky that I don’t hand you over to the police.
Jenny : Kitty!
Margaret (rising, angry): It’s you who are being . . . (She breaks off.) Oh, you don’t understand.
Jenny (gently) : Kitty, there’s some mistake—perhaps got the name wrong or something. Won’t you tell us all about it? You needn’t be frightened.
Margaret : Oh, thank you. Thank you. I’m sorry if I upset you, I am, indeed. I didn’t mean to . . . but when you know a thing like that, it isn’t in flesh and blood to keep it from his wife. It isn’t fair. I’m a married woman myself, and I know. It isn’t true what I said about my husband’s friend. I made that up, because I didn’t know how to tell you . . . how to make you believe. But the rest is true, all true.
Jenny : But how do you know this?
Margaret : Well, that’s just it. You see, I used to know Mr. Baldry fifteen years ago.
Kitty : You?
Margaret : Yes—quite a friend of the family, he was. But we lost sight of each other. It’s fifteen years now since we met, and I hadn’t seen nor heard of him, nor thought to do again, till I got this a week ago. (She undoes her purse and takes out a telegram.) This telegram. He isn’t well . . . he’s lost his memory and thinks . . . he thinks he still knows me. You’ll see, if you read it. (She hands the telegram to Kitty, who reads it.) You see, it’s addressed to Margaret Allington—that’s my maiden name, and I’ve been married these ten years. But he doesn’t know . . . and it’s sent to my old home, where he used to know me . . . Monkey Island, down at Bray. Father kept the inn there. It’s fifteen years, close on, since we left it. I shouldn’t never have got this telegram now if me and my husband hadn’t been down there last September and told the folks who keep it now who I was.
Kitty (folding up the telegram) : This is a likely story.
Margaret (pathetically) : It’s true . . . please, it’s true. I wouldn’t deceive you.
Kitty : There’s nothing about shell-shock in this wire.
Margaret : There . . . there was a letter, too
Kitty : Give it to me.
Margaret : Oh, no. I couldn’t do that . . . please, I couldn’t.
Kitty : Why not?
Margaret : I can’t. Indeed, I can’t. You mustn’t ask me, please. I tell you, he thinks it’s all like it was fifteen years ago. It’s like a letter out of the past. I can’t show it you. Oh, I’m sorry; I am, indeed. But that’s how it is. And I just had to come and tell you. I couldn’t keep it back. And I tell you it’s fifteen years since I’ve seen him. (Seeing Kitty’s face, moving to her.) Oh, please . . . it’s not as bad as all that. He’ll get better. I know he will. It’s only shell-shock. They do get better. A lady friend of mine whose son’s got it . . . the doctors say he’ll get better with rest and care. And Chris is strong . . . at least, he used to be. Please, you mustn’t take it so hard. (She touches her arm.)
Kitty : Don’t . . . don’t touch me. Jenny . . .
[She puts out her hand to Jenny, who takes it. Margaret stands shaken.
I think, Mrs. Grey, if that’s all, you’d better go.
Margaret : Yes, I’ll go. He’s at that hospital I said.
Kitty : What is it, Ellen?
Ellen : It’s Mr. Baldry, ma’am, Mr. Frank Baldry.
Kitty : Frank? Frank? Jenny, what can he want? What can he be doing here?
Jenny : Kitty . . .
[They look at each other, with surmise in their eyes.
Kitty : You think . . . perhaps it’s something about Chris?
Jenny : It might be. What would he be doing here, away from Devonshire?
Kitty : One moment, Ellen. Mrs. Grey . . . I wonder if you’d mind waiting in another room for a little?
Margaret : I was just going.
Kitty : I know . . . but I should be obliged if you could wait . . . now . . . just for a little.
Margaret : Very well, I’ll wait. I’ve told you all I know.
Kitty : Yes . . . but if you wouldn’t mind. Show Mrs. Grey into the library, Ellen, and ask Mr. Baldry in, will you?
Ellen : Very good, ma’am. (To Margaret) This way, ma’am.
Kitty : Jenny . . . do you believe this?
Jenny : Yes, Kitty.
Kitty : Oh, but it can’t—it can’t be true. What can it mean? Think . . . think of something it can mean that isn’t horrible.
Jenny : It’s all a mystery. You didn’t help much to clear it up.
Kitty : Oh, I know you think I was rude. But it’s all so ghastly . . . I can’t believe it. Chris . . . our Chris . . . and that woman . . .
[She breaks off as Ellen shows in Rev. Frank Baldry, R., a clergyman in the early forties.
Frank! What is it? Have you news of Chris?
Frank : Kitty, you must be calm.
Kitty : It is Chris?
Frank : Yes, Kitty . . . but it’s not what you fear. He’s alive.
Kitty : Alive?
Frank : Yes, alive and well . . . in body.
Kitty : In body? You mean . . . ?
Frank : Kitty, please . . . you must be calm.
Kitty : Calm! You mean he’s mad?
Frank : Kitty, please. I’ve news for you—grave news—but I can’t tell it unless you’ll listen quietly.
Kitty : For God’s sake, Frank! Tell me, Chris is mad . . . is that it?
Frank : Kitty, please. It’s absurd to jump to conclusions like that. Of course he’s not mad.
Kitty : What did you mean, then, when you said well in body?
Frank : Kitty, please . . . won’t you sit down? It’s a long story I’ve got to tell you. I can’t tell it you like this. You must control yourself . . . please . . . for all our sakes. Sit down and listen quietly. Come.
[He puts her, dazed, into a chair, and takes Margaret’s chair himself. His foot strikes the umbrella. He stoops and picks it up.
What’s this?
Kitty : It’s her umbrella.
Frank : Hers? Jenny’s?
Kitty : That woman’s. Mrs. Grey’s.
Frank : Mrs. Grey?
Kitty : Margaret . . . what was her name . . . Allington?
Frank (with a jump) : Margaret Allington? Did you say Margaret Allington?
Kitty : Yes . . . Chris’s woman.
Jenny : Kitty!
Frank : Kitty . . . then you know? How did you know?
Kitty : Then it’s true? It is true? Oh, God . . . (She turns away with a moan.)
Frank : But . . . but how did you know? You say that’s her umbrella? (He inspects it, as one might a relic.) How did it come here?
Kitty : She brought it . . . she’s here now.
Frank : Here? (He looks round.)
Kitty : In the library.
Frank : But how . . . how did she come here?
Kitty : Oh, never mind that. Tell us . . . tell us what you know.
Frank : But I . . . it’s so staggering . . . you seem to know before me.
Jenny : Tell us, Frank. We’ve no details.
Kitty : It’s all so impossible. Frank . . . is it true . . . that he’s forgotten . . . fifteen whole years . . . all our married life and more? It can’t be true.
Frank : I’m afraid it is true, Kitty . . . sadly enough . . . only too true . . . only too true.
Kitty : Well, tell me, then. I must face it.
Frank : I’ll tell you all I can . . . but you must let me tell it in my own way . . . as I meant to tell you when I came.
Kitty : Yes, I’m sure you’d prepared it beautifully . . . like a sermon.
Frank : Kitty!
Kitty : I’m sorry . . . I’m overwrought.
Frank (patiently) : I know, Kitty. It’s not to be wondered at. I take no offence. But you must understand it’s hard for me . . . to find myself forestalled, as it were.
Kitty : Go on, please.
Frank : I must begin at the beginning.
Jenny : Naturally.
Frank : Jenny, please . . .
Jenny : I’m sorry.
Frank : Well, it all started last Thursday, when I got a wire from Chris saying he had had concussion, though not seriously, and was in a hospital in Boulogne, where he would be glad to see me. It struck me as a little odd that the wire should have been sent to Ollenshaws, where I was curate fifteen years ago . . . but I thought perhaps he had forgotten my present address. Fortunately, though, I had always kept in touch with Sumpter—whom I do regard as the very best type of country clergyman—and he forwarded it without more than the necessary amount of delay. Well, I started that evening. I was a little surprised not to find you and Jenny on the boat, but I imagined you had preceded me and that I should find you at the hospital. Of course, I understand now how it was you knew nothing of it. When did you learn, by the way?
Kitty : To-day . . . from her. Go on, Frank.
Frank : Well, I breakfasted when I landed—a remarkably good French breakfast, I must say . . . coffee and omelette . . . really excellent—and then went off to look for the hospital. It’s a big girls’ school, which has been taken over by the Red Cross. I found it quite easily, but they wouldn’t let me see Chris just then. I had an hour to wait, so I went and sat about in the grounds. Some of the wounded soldiers who were around were rather rude because I was not in khaki. I did my best to explain that I was a priest of God, and that the feeling of the bishops was so strongly against the enlistment of the clergy, but . . .
Kitty : Is this necessary?
Jenny : More matter, with less art!
Frank : Jenny, please. . . . Well, anyway, then a nurse came out and took me in to see Chris. He was in a very nice room with three other officers . . . quite decent fellows . . . and he seemed glad to see me—more cordial towards me, I may say, than he had been for some years. He seemed better than I had expected, but somehow not quite himself . . . curiously boisterous, I thought. He talked a little about Harrow Weald and this place, and then, suddenly, after a pause, he made the most extraordinary statement, which, coming as it did, positively took my breath away. I understand it now, of course, as you do—but you can imagine how I felt, knowing nothing of his mental condition, when he announced, perfectly calmly and easily, that he was in love with a girl called Margaret Allington . . . (Kitty blenches) the daughter of an innkeeper down at Bray. Well, I have no words to express my amazement. I remonstrated with him, naturally, expressed my horror at the notion, and I asked him, among other things, how long this had been going on. And then he answered, “Why, ever since I went down to stay with Uncle Ambrose at Dorney, after I’d got my B.Sc.” Fifteen years, Kitty! Naturally, my thoughts went out to you. . . . I spoke of the disgracefulness of the whole affair, asked him how he could reconcile it with his duty to you. My dear Kitty, my heart bleeds for you; it was obvious that he had no idea of whom I was speaking. I had to inform him of the details of his marriage to you, Kitty Ellis, at St. George’s, Hanover Square, in April 1906. It was not until I mentioned that date that I realised. . . . All the blood seemed to leave his face, and he asked me, in a trembling voice, what year this was. When I said 1916, he fell back in a fainting condition. They hurried me away most unceremoniously. . . . I must say they seemed very unreasonably annoyed . . . but later they allowed me to see him again. He was looking at himself in a hand-mirror, and, as I entered, he looked up at me and said, “You’re right. I’m not twenty-one. I’m thirty-six.” It was quite pathetic to see him. He clung to my hand, but said very little . . . wouldn’t let me talk . . . he seemed afraid of what I might say. Once he asked after his father . . . you never knew him, I think, Kitty . . . a good man, though a little intolerant . . . but you can imagine how I felt at having to inform him that he passed away twelve years ago.
Jenny : Passed away! Good Lord, can’t you say he died?
Frank : Jenny . . . that’s just what Chris said.
Jenny : I’m not surprised.
Kitty : Please, please. Go on. Is there more?
Frank : Very little more.
Kitty : Did he speak of me . . . again?
Frank : Not for a long while. It seemed as though he could not bring himself to do so. He spoke of Jenny and this place, and at last, with an effort, he asked about you . . . what you were like. I did my best to describe you . . . you can imagine it was not easy for me . . . I did my best to make you out as attractive as possible, but———
[Jenny suddenly gives a yelp of almost hysterical laughter.
Jenny!
Jenny : I’m sorry, but . . . oh, Frank, really . . .
[She gurgles.
Frank : Jenny, please control yourself. This is sheer hysteria.
Jenny (weakly): I’m sorry . . . but, Frank . . . you . . . you . . .
Frank : Jenny, this is very painful for me.
Jenny (controlling herself) : I know, Frank. I’m sorry. I’ll be good. Go on.
[She turns away from them and sits with her back to them, staring out of the window.
Kitty (white and tense) : What did he say?
Frank (hesitant) : Kitty . . . I hardly . . . you see . . . he has no memory of you, of having married you . . . naturally, he seemed a little . . . well, a little hostile. Oh, not personally . . . I don’t mean that . . . but the idea of a wife he didn’t know . . . it’s very dreadful. He turned away from me then, told me to go . . . became almost abusive, and so insisted that I was finally forced to leave him. I spoke to the doctor later. He said he had satisfied himself that Chris was suffering from a loss of memory extending over fifteen years, and that he thought in the circumstances, I, as his cousin, should make arrangements for his removal home.
Kitty : And where is he now? Still . . . still in Boulogne?
Frank : No. I brought him home . . . yesterday. The doctor thought it best.
Kitty : And where is he? Not here?
Frank : I left him in London . . . at the Regent Palace Hotel. I thought I had better come down here to prepare you first.
Kitty : Why didn’t you write?
Frank : Well, I . . . I felt it was hardly a matter . . . considering its nature . . . which I could adequately explain in a letter. The shock . . . the incomprehensibility of it all. I thought it best to wait and tell you personally. We only arrived last night.
Kitty : How is he?
Frank : Very silent. He won’t talk. And, I’m afraid, very irritable. He seems to resent all my attempts at conversation. He just sits and broods. Once, last night in the train, he gave vent to an outburst about this Margaret . . . how much he loved her, how he must see her. Since then he’s hardly spoken a word . . . he just sits . . .
Kitty : Thinking . . . thinking of her.
[Her face darkens with jealousy.
Frank : I’m afraid so. . . . It’s terrible for you, Kitty. (He rises and pats her shoulder.) Please believe you have my very deepest sympathy, my dear.
Kitty : I must see him! I must see him! (Pathetically) Won’t he know me . . . when he sees me, Frank?
Frank : I greatly fear, Kitty, that he won’t. We must face it.
Kitty (muttering) : That woman! That woman!
Frank : You say . . . she’s here, now?
Kitty : Good God, yes. I’d forgotten.
[Jenny turns.
Frank : How did she come here?
Kitty : She lives near by . . . in some hovel in Wealdstone. She came with this story. I didn’t believe her. I couldn’t. I thought it was an invention.
Frank : What . . . what is she like?
Kitty : A drab!
Frank : A what?
Jenny : Not in the Shakespearean sense, Frank.
Kitty : A dowdy slut of a woman . . . common . . . shabby.
Frank : You amaze me! Chris gave me to understand that she was—well, very much the reverse of unattractive.
Jenny (a trifle bitterly) : Fifteen years, Frank. Haven’t we all changed?
[There comes a tap on the door.
Kitty : Who is it? (The tap ts repeated.) Come in.
[The door opens and Margaret steals tn timidly.
Margaret : Excuse me, but . . . I don’t wish to disturb you . . . but there’s no clock in that other room and I’m a bit afraid it’s getting late. You see, I’ve Mr. Grey’s tea to get, and he comes in at half-past and . . . .
[She is received in silence; her voice dwindles.
I don’t know that I can go on waiting. If you wouldn’t mind telling me the time. . . .
Jenny : About half-past three, I should think, Mrs. Grey.
Margaret : Oh, I think it must be gone that. You see, it was after three when I came. No, I remember now . . . the hall clock was fast. Well, that’s all right, then. I can wait a bit longer.
[She creeps back to the door.
Frank (whispering) : Is that . . . ?
Kitty : Yes. Mrs. Grey . . . just a moment.
[Margaret stops.
This is Mr. Frank Baldry, my husband’s cousin.
[Frank bows.
Margaret : Yes, I remember Chris speaking of you . . . his cousin that was in the Church.
Kitty : He has brought us news of my husband . . . corroborating your story.
Margaret: Yes?
Kitty : I want to understand . . . a little more clearly.
Margaret: Yes?
Kitty : I gather that you and my husband were . . . somewhat intimate fifteen years ago.
Margaret : That’s right. I told you.
Kitty : I assume . . . you were . . . his mistress?
Margaret (struck white) : No! . . . Oh, no! You don’t understand. We were going to be married.
Kitty (horror-struck) : Married??
Margaret : Yes.
Kitty : Married? Chris and you? Oh, no . . . not possible.
Frank : Wait, Kitty, I think I understand. Chris is a man of honour. If he had . . . betrayed this poor girl . . . naturally he would feel bound . . .
Margaret : Oh, please . . . no . . . it wasn’t that. You won’t understand. It isn’t what you think . . . you musn’t think that.
Kitty : Oh, really!
Jenny : Kitty, please!
Margaret : Oh, I know I was beneath him. I knew it then. But he did want me to marry him . . . he did love me. Oh, I don’t want to hurt you, but it’s all so long ago, and you must understand. He was only a boy. It was before he knew you, or I know he could never have thought of me. Oh, but he did love me!
Frank : Have you been in communication with him?
Margaret : Not since then—no, sir. Not till I got his telegram a week ago.
Kitty : Did you answer it?
Margaret: Yes, I answered it. It wouldn’t have been in flesh and blood not to.
Kitty : What did you say?
[Jenny makes a movement of protest.
Oh, haven’t I a right to know? Aren’t I his wife . . . even if he has forgotten me? I must know everything . . . if I’m to help him.
Margaret : It’s all right; I just said I was sorry he was ill and hoped he’d soon be better. I told him I’d moved . . . I told him where I was living. Oh, I know I shouldn’t have . . . I know. I knew I oughtn’t. All the way down to the post office I told myself I wouldn’t, that it wasn’t right, and then, when I got the pen in my hand, something just seemed to come over me. Chris was ill and he didn’t know, and perhaps he wanted to write.
Jenny : Did you say that you were married?
Margaret : No.
Kitty : Ah!
Margaret : Oh, don’t be angry. It wasn’t what you think. I wanted to tell him, but it isn’t a thing you can put into a telegram . . . they’re cold things. I didn’t mean to hide it from him, but he was ill and I couldn’t just put it plump out like that.
Jenny (moving to her) : Please . . . you needn’t apologise. We understand.
Margaret : I want to do what’s right . . . but you can’t hurt a person when they’re ill. But you needn’t fret. I wrote to him . . . a long letter . . . telling him everything as kind as I could . . .
Kitty (to Frank) : Did he get that letter?
Frank : No, I think not.
Kitty (suddenly) : Frank, you must fetch him . . . bring him here. I must see him . . . talk to him . . . tell him things. Mrs. Grey, I don’t think there’s anything further you can do.
Margaret : No, I’ll be going.
[She looks around.
My umbrella . . .
Frank (hands it) : Here.
Margaret : Thank you. Then I . . . I’ll say good-bye.
Kitty : Good-bye.
Margaret : I’m sorry if I upset you . . .
Jenny : I’ll see you out . . . or would you like to go through the garden?
Margaret : Thank you . . . it’s just as you like. It’s a lovely garden.
[She moves to the window, back, to look, and then starts back.
Oh! Oh! look! There he is! Chris!
Kitty : Chris?
Frank : Here?
Margaret (shrinking away from the window) : He musn’t see me. Oh, but he’s changed . . . changed.
Kitty : Mrs. Grey . . . please go.
Margaret : Yes, I’ll go. (To Jenny) Please don’t bother to come. I can find my way.
[She reaches the door and looks back longingly at the window.
Please . . . tell him about me . . . if he hasn’t had that letter.
Jenny (after a long pause, in a strained voice) : Chris is out there.
Kitty (backing from the window) : Can you see him?
Jenny (moving to the window, fearfully) : Yes. Yes. Oh, Chris!
Kitty : How. . . how does he look?
Jenny : He . . . he . . .
[She sinks on to the window-seat in tears.
Kitty (To Frank) : Did you tell him you were coming here?
Frank : No . . . I merely said I had business to see to.
Kitty : Then he came down on his own . . . to his old home . . . not to me.
Frank : Kitty, my poor girl . . .
Kitty : Frank, go and bring him in.
Frank : Here . . . now?
Kitty : Yes. I’ve got to face it. Why not now?
Frank : Very well. Kitty, you must be brave.
Kitty : Yes. [He goes to the window.
Frank!
Frank : What?
Kitty : Just one thing more. (With an intense effort.) Did you tell him . . . about Oliver?
Frank : Oliver?
Kitty : The child. Our child.
Frank : No . . . I . . . I’m afraid I had forgotten. Do you wish me to . . . now?
Kitty (hard) : No. I won’t hold him by sentiment or . . . or pity. Go and bring him in.
[Frank goes.
Jenny.
Jenny (rising and coming to her) : Oh, Kitty.
Kitty : What have I done to deserve this? I’ve been a good wife to him, haven’t I? I’ve done my best. I’ve loved him. And now this woman . . . he belongs to her. He isn’t ours any more.
Jenny : Kitty . . . he’s ill. Chris is ill.
Kitty : You’re saying what she said.
Jenny : But he is ill! What else is there to say?
Kitty : Jenny, he won’t know me. He’ll look at me and not know me. All these years . . . nothing. Even you he’ll know . . . you’re only his cousin . . . but me . . . his wife. No. I’m the stranger here . . . the only stranger . . . among you all. Are they coming?
Jenny (looking) : Yes.
[Kitty shudders and shrinks back against the fireplace, as though to huddle out of sight. Jenny stands, watching the window. Frank and Chris enter at the back. Chris stands a moment looking into the room, with a faintly puzzled expression. Then he sees Jenny. His face lights up and he moves to her, seizing both her hands.
Chris : Hullo, Jenny!
Jenny : Oh, Chris . . . I’m so glad!
[He looks at her, and his face changes.
Chris . . . is it so bad? Chris?
Chris : Bad? Why?
Jenny : Have I changed so much?
[Pulling herself up.
Oh, Chris, it’s so wonderful to have you safe.
Chris : Safe?
Jenny (choking) : Oh, Chris!
[She releases her hands and turns away in tears. There is a silence.
Frank : Chris . . .
[Chris turns. He sees Kitty. There is a horrible pause, while he looks at her blankly.
Chris : You . . . you are . . .
Kitty (weakly) : Yes. I am your wife.
Chris (kindly) : Kitty?
Kitty : Yes. You don’t remember me?
Chris : I’m sorry . . . I . . .
[He moves to her, makes a movement as though to kiss her, and is arrested suddenly. His arms drop to his side.
Forgive me, I . . .
Kitty (bitterly) : You can’t kiss a stranger.
Chris (looking around) : It’s all so different here. This room . . . everything.
Kitty : Do you like it? You used to like my taste.
Chris : Yours? Why, yes . . . it’s charming. It used to be . . . in tapestry. That’s a new piano.
Kitty : Yes. A Steinway. You gave it me.
Chris : Did I? I’m glad. You play?
Kitty: Yes . . . a little.
Chris : Jenny used to play. Do you still?
Jenny : Sometimes. Won’t you sit down, Chris. You look tired.
Chris (sitting) : Kitty . . . you must forgive me. I . . . it’s not my fault.
Kitty : No. [She does not move.
Jenny (sitting beside him) : Of course not, Chris. You mustn’t worry.
Chris : This place has changed. . . .
Kitty : Yes, When we married, you bought a lot of land. You added to the house . . . altered it.
Chris : Yes . . . that new wing. I noticed it. It’s all rather rightening.
Kitty : Would you like tea? It must be almost time.
Chris : No . . . no, thanks. Not yet. I just want . . . to get my bearings. It’s good to be here, though. You keep the place beautifully. Beautifully. Do they still have trouble with foxes at Steppy End?
Kitty : I don’t know.
Chris : Griffiths will know. (A pause.) It’s stupid of me, I know . . . but . . . is Griffiths still here?
Kitty : No. He died . . . seven years ago.
Chris (shuddering) : I’m sorry. He was a good man.
Jenny : There are new people here, Chris, but they love you as the old ones did.
Chris (patting her hand) : I know, Jenny. It’s only that I can’t get used . . .
[Then he turns to Frank.
You never told me you were coming down here to-day.
Frank : My dear Chris, I . . . I thought it best to come alone, in advance, as it were . . . to prepare Kitty.
Chris: Yes. I must have followed you . . . almost at once.
Kitty : Had you been out there long, in the garden?
Chris : No, I . . . I came through Wealdstone.
Kitty (stiffening) : Wealdstone?
Chris : Yes. I had a call to make. (Pause.) Kitty, I’m sorry, but . . . we must be honest. It’s no good hiding things. There’s a woman . . .
Kitty : I know.
Chris : Frank told you? Kitty . . . forgive me. I know it must seem . . . almost deliberately insulting . . . but I must see her. She lives in Wealdstone. I called there on the way up. There was no one at home but a stupid maid whom I couldn’t make understand. But I must see her. Do forgive me, but . . . if I don’t see her, I shall die.
Kitty (icily) : You shall see her. (A pause. Then, with an effort) As a matter of fact, she has only just left.
Chris : Left? Left Wealdstone?
Kitty : No . . . here. She has been here this afternoon.
Chris (leaping up, with something like a shout) : Here? What are you saying? Margaret here? Where has she gone?
Kitty : Home . . . home to her husband.
Chris (deflated) : Her . . . ? Did you say her husband?
Kitty : Yes.
Chris : Margaret’s married?
Jenny : Chris, listen. She came here to-day to bring us news of you. She saw you in the garden, and she went because . . . because she thought she oughtn’t to see you, that she ought to leave you alone. She’s only just gone.
Chris : I must go after her.
Jenny : Chris, wait. I understand, Chris dear, I do indeed. . . . We all do. But you mustn’t be in a hurry. There are things you don’t realise. She’s married now . . . and middle-aged and . . .
Chris : As if that mattered! I must go to her. Let me go to her.
Kitty : You can’t go to her now. (Bitterly) She has her husband’s tea to get . . . and her house and her new maid to see to.
Chris (blindly) : I must see her.
Kitty : You shall see her. But wait . . . wait till to-morrow. I tell you she has her own life . . . her own affairs. You can’t disturb her to-night. Her husband will be there. To-morrow I will send the car down for her. You shall see her to-morrow. You shall see as much of her as you like.
Chris (subsiding weakly) : Thank you. I expect you're right. I mustn’t be impatient. It’s good of you, Kitty . . . believe me, I appreciate it. I do indeed. You’re all being so kind. . . . I’ll wait . . . till to-morrow . . . to-morrow.
Jenny : Chris, dear . . .
Chris : To-morrow . . .
[He sits looking at the closed door. They stand watching him helplessly.
CURTAIN