# The Return of the Soldier (Van Druten)/Act III

Layout 2
ACT III
Scene : The same.
Time : Early afternoon, a week later.
When the curtain rises, Chris is sitting on the Chesterfield, reading a bound volume of “Punch” and nursing a Pekinese dog.
Jenny comes in L.
Jenny : Hullo, Chris.
Chris : Hullo. I say, whose is this fellow? Yours?
Jenny : No, Kitty’s.
Chris : Kitty’s? Is she fond of dogs?
Jenny : No, I don’t think so . . . not really. She bought him about a year ago, when you first went out to France.
Chris : As a substitute for me?
Jenny : Just as a whim . . . petted him for a week and then forgot him. Never noticed him again; left him to the servants.
Chris : He’s a nice chap. What’s his name?
Jenny : Confucius.
Chris (fondling the dog) : Affectionate little beggar, too.
Jenny : Yes . . . he’s not much used to petting any more, I’m afraid.
Chris : Margaret was playing with him yesterday. She found him in the corridor, begging to be taken notice of. I hadn’t seen him before.
Jenny : What are you reading, Chris?
Chris : Punch. Back numbers . . . 1914. Trying to catch up with history. I spent all the morning ​in the library over the files of The Times. Jenny, it can’t be true . . . that they did all that to Belgium? Those funny, quiet, stingy people! Has the world gone mad?
Jenny : I think so, Chris.
Chris : Punch gives me the only feeling of sanity. If they could still joke about it. . . . And, Jenny, the casualty lists . . . the names I knew. And it’s still going on, out there . . . every day . . . now, while we’re talking. It’s unbelievable. But, Jenny, I can’t sit here doing nothing, day after day, like this.
Jenny : You’ve done your bit, Chris.
Chris : Have I? I wish I could remember. It’s so awful, Jenny . . . to be right out of the world as I am, out of touch with it all. Not to know . . . to take it all second-hand, what one’s told, and know nothing. Everyone’s in it . . . doing something . . . every man I’ve asked after is either dead or fighting. I’m alone . . . in a world of my own. I don’t know . . . I don’t understand anything that’s happening. (Half whispering) Jenny . . . I’m frightened.
Jenny : Poor old Chris . . . it’s all right. We’re all here to look after you.
Chris (ignoring her) : Only when Margaret’s here can I forget. I remember, when I broke my shoulder playing Rugger, they gave me something . . . some drug . . . to keep me quiet. ​I remember it all slipping away, the pain and everything. I wasn’t unconscious, but just . . . at peace. That’s how it is when I’m with her.
Jenny : Yes, Chris.
Chris : Where is she? She’s late, surely.
Jenny : She'll be here soon. You haven’t forgotten, Chris . . . that Dr. Gilbert Anderson is coming to-day?
Chris : Is he?
Jenny : He’s here now, in the library with Kitty.
Chris : He won’t keep me long, will he? I mustn’t miss Margaret.
Jenny : She’ll wait for you, Chris.
[Kitty comes in R.
Kitty : Chris, the doctor wants to see you. He’s in the library.
Chris : All right, I’ll come. (He rises.) You won't let her go away, Jenny?
Jenny : Of course not, Chris.
Chris : All right, then. Shan’t be long.
[He goes to the door and puts the dog down.
Run along, Confucius. [The dog runs out.
Kitty : I’ll take you, Chris. By the way, Jenny, will you tell Mrs. Grey the doctor would like to see her too?
[They go out together.
Jenny is left alone. She wanders around wretchedly ​twisting her hands, fidgeting with the music on the piano. Ellen comes in R., announces: “Mr. Baldry,” shows in Frank, and retires.
Jenny : Frank!
Frank : Hullo, Jenny.
Jenny : What are you doing here?
Frank : I had to be in town this morning. I thought I’d come and see how you were getting on. I hope I’m not in the way?
Jenny : Of course not. Come and sit down.
Frank : How is everything?
Jenny : Just the same.
Frank : And Chris?
Jenny : Also just the same.
Frank : Has he seen a doctor?
Jenny : A doctor? Dozens, every day. There’s one here now.
Frank : Well, what do they say?
Jenny : Nothing. They come and stand round him, and look at him like a plumber looking at a leak. They can’t do anything. They’ve tried hypnotism.
Frank : Doesn’t he submit?
Jenny : Oh, yes, he submits . . . very good-naturedly, to please them; just as he might let himself be blindfolded at a children’s party. But . . .
​Frank : There’s no result?
Jenny : Oh, yes. When he’s hypnotised he knows everything . . . remembers Kitty and me and the war . . . but he comes out just the same . . . blank as ever.
Frank : Dear, dear, dear, dear!
Jenny (viciously) : Yes, that expresses what we all feel!
Frank : Does she come here at all?
Jenny : Yes, every day.
Frank : Is that wise?
Jenny : Wise? Wise? Frank, she’s all he’s got.
Frank : Still, Jenny, you must remember, he’s a married man and she’s a married woman. Of course, I know she’s not attractive, but . . .
Jenny : Frank, don’t be an idiot. She’s the only thing that keeps him sane. She’s marvellous.
Frank : Do you see her?
Jenny : Only when she comes and goes. They go for walks together, or sit in the garden. We’ve had lovely weather this week . . . spring at last. Frank, it’s wonderful what she does for him. He doesn’t see her as we do, as I feared he would—shabby and bedraggled. He sees her as she was . . . transformed. It’s incredible . . . but those things don’t matter to lovers. She gives him peace. You couldn’t deny him that. She mothers his soul. And there’s another thing ​that scares me. Supposing they do cure him . . . bring him back to knowledge . . . don’t you see what it will mean? Sending him back to France . . . to danger, perhaps to death . . . all that horror and anxiety and misery beginning again?
Frank : Don’t you want him to be cured?
Jenny : I don’t know. While he’s with her like this he’s safe. She’s protecting him, his body as well as his soul. While he’s like this they can’t send him back to that hell out there. Oh, I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what’s best. I’m out of my depth. I don’t understand. I used to dread his being killed, or wounded. But this . . . I could never have imagined anything like this. Why has it happened?
Frank : Who knows? There are more things in heaven and earth . . .
Jenny : Don’t!
Frank : And how is Kitty?
Jenny : Bearing up. I don’t know how.
Frank : God gives fortitude to bear our trials.
Jenny : Don’t talk to me about God, Frank, or I shall lose my temper.
Frank : My dear Jenny . . .
Jenny : Does God care? Has this anything to do with Him?
Frank : My dear Jenny, if that is the attitude you are going to adopt . . .
​Jenny : Gives us fortitude to bear our trials! Who cares whether we bear them or not? Listen, Frank. I had a dream the other night. I used to dream of Chris in France . . . all the horrors I’d ever heard or read about . . . but this was something different. Perhaps it wasn’t a dream . . . perhaps it was a vision . . . a revelation. It was out in France, somewhere behind the lines, in a wrecked village with a church that had no tower left, and a few houses and shops . . . filthy, tumbledown places, and dirty, bare-armed, slouchy women sitting at their doors. And in one of the shops was Chris, standing talking across a counter to an old man in a blouse—an old man with a scar running into his beard, and smiling . . . a curious smile, lewd and yet benevolent . . . somehow complete . . . like the soul of the universe smiling, knowing everything and disregarding everything . . . seeing me and seeing the slouchy woman at her door . . . and seeing both of us alike . . . equally important . . . or unimportant. And Chris was leaning against the counter with his eyes glazed. It was his spirit . . . not his body. That lay rotting out there in the mud. He was looking at two crystals that the old man was showing him . . . looking into them. In one of them was Margaret . . . oh, not as we see her in her raincoat and that awful hat, but transfigured . . . eternal. And ​in the other were Kitty and I, in bright dresses, walking through the garden . . . just as we are for always. There’s nothing more to us than what you see. He looked into Margaret’s crystal for a long time, and gave just a glance at ours before he put out his hand . . . for hers . . . and his sleeve caught our ball and sent it on to the floor, shivered into a thousand pieces. The old man went on smiling, just the same . . . no more interested in us than in the bare-armed woman next door.
Frank : Well?
Jenny : That’s all.
Frank : I don’t understand.
Jenny : No, I don’t know that I expected you to.
Frank : Unless you mean it as a parable of the most offensive and blasphemous kind.
Jenny : It’s all inhuman . . . fantastic cruelty. Nobody cares.
Frank : My dear Jenny, that is a state of mind that cannot possibly bring you any comfort. . . .
Jenny : It doesn’t. It’s how I see it. That’s all.
[Ellen announces: “Mrs. Grey.”? Margaret comes in.
Jenny : Oh, good afternoon. (They shake hands.) You know my cousin, I think?
Margaret : (bowing to Frank) : Yes. He was here the first time. I left my hat and coat in the ​hall. I hope it’s all right. I’m getting quite used to the house. Where is Chris?
Jenny : The doctor’s talking to him.
Margaret : Oh, dear, I hope he doesn’t worry him.
Jenny : He would like to see you, too.
Margaret : Me? The doctor? Oh, of course . . . if he wants to . . .
Jenny : I expect he’ll come in when he’s finished with Chris.
Margaret : Yes. It’s not right to keep a doctor waiting in these times . . . so over-worked they are, poor men, since the war.
Frank : Who is this man, Jenny?
Jenny : Dr. Gilbert Anderson. The psychotherapist. He’s rather our last hope.
Margaret : Oh, don’t say that.
[Conversation drops.
Frank : I hope your husband is well, Mrs. Grey?
Margaret : Oh, yes . . . he’s pretty well, thank you. Of course, his chest was always weak, but now that the fine weather’s coming along . . . Seems almost as if spring had come at last, doesn’t it? He’s always better in the spring.
Frank (doing his best) : Have you any children?
Margaret : No . . . I’ve no children.
Frank : By the way, Jenny, does Chris know . . . about his child?
​Jenny : No, we didn’t want to remind him.
Margaret (stunned) : Has Chris a child?
Jenny : He had. A boy . . . he died five years ago.
Margaret : Five years ago?
Jenny : Yes. Why?
Margaret : He died five years ago, my Dick.
[A pause.
How old was he?
Jenny : Just two.
Margaret : My Dick was two. Oh . . . why did he die?
Jenny : We never knew. He was the loveliest boy, but delicate from his birth. At the end he just faded away with the merest cold.
Margaret : So did my Dick—a chill. Just an ordinary chill. We thought he would be up and about the next day, and he just . . .
[She makes a weak, piteous gesture.
How strange it is . . . it’s as if . . . they each had half a life! Oh, poor Chris, I never knew . . . and he’s got to remember that. He always wanted a boy. He always said if we . . .
Jenny : Sh . . . I think I hear them coming.
[Kitty and Dr. Gilbert Anderson come in R. He is a bluff, hearty little man in the fifties.
Doctor (talking as he enters) : Yes, Mrs. Baldry, a complete case of amnesia. . . .
[He stops on seeing Margaret and Jenny.
Kitty : Oh . . . this is Miss Baldry, my husband’s cousin . . . Dr. Gilbert Anderson. Mr. Frank Baldry, another cousin. This is Mrs. Grey.
Doctor : Mrs. Grey? Ah, yes, I want to see you.
Margaret : Yes, doctor.
Doctor : Won’t you all sit down?
[They sit. Margaret aloof on the window-seat. He stands professionally before the fire.
Frank (a trifle officiously) : How do you find him, doctor?
Doctor : You know perfectly well how I find him. You’ve seen for yourself. As I was saying, it’s an obvious case of amnesia. His unconscious self is refusing to let him resume his relations with his normal life, and so we get this loss of memory.
Kitty : I’ve always said that if he would make an effort . . .
Doctor : Effort! The mental life that can be controlled by effort isn’t the mental life that matters. You’ve been stuffed up when you were were young with talk about a thing called self-control. A sort of barmaid of the soul that says, “Time’s up, gentlemen!” and, “Here, you’ve had enough.” There’s no such thing. But there is a deep self in a man, an essential self, and that has it’s wishes. And if those wishes are thwarted or suppressed by the superficial self—the self ​that makes, as you say, efforts, and usually makes them, by the way, with the sole idea of putting up a good show before the neighbours, then the real self takes its revenge.
Frank : How?
Doctor : I’ll tell you. Into the model villa of behaviour that the superficial self has erected it sends an obsession. Often enough you’ll find that obsession doesn’t seem to bear any relation to the suppressed wish at all. That’s because the superficial self’s not candid . . . gives it a twist. You know . . . a man who really wants to leave his wife develops a hatred for pickled cabbage which may find vent in performances that lead straight to the asylum. But that’s all technical—my business to understand it, not yours.
Frank : It’s extremely interesting.
Doctor : That’s as may be.
Frank : I don’t know that I quite follow you, but . . .
Doctor : My dear man, it doesn’t matter two straws whether you do or whether you don’t. The point is, Captain Baldry’s obsession—that he can’t remember the latter years of his life. Well—what’s the suppressed wish of which it’s the manifestation?
Frank : You said the obsession may have no relation to the wish.
Doctor (impatiently): I said “may seem to ​have”; of course it has a relation. But it really doesn’t matter what I said. What we’ve got to get at is what’s the suppressed wish in this case.
Kitty : He wished for nothing. He was fond of us; he had plenty of money. He wished for nothing.
Doctor : Ah, but he must have. Quite obviously he has forgotten his life here because he was discontented with it. What clearer proof can you need than what you were telling me before I saw him—that the reason the War Office didn’t wire to you when he was wounded was that he had forgotten to register his address? Don’t you see what that means?
Kitty : Forgetfulness. He isn’t business-like.
Doctor : One forgets only those things that one wants to forget. It’s our business to find out why he wanted to forget this life.
Frank: Are you suggesting that all this is deliberate?
Doctor (attempting patience) : Please, do you mind not interrupting. It doesn’t help, you know.
Frank (hurt) : I only wanted to understand.
Kitty : He can remember quite well when he’s hypnotised.
Doctor : Oh, hypnotism! That’s a silly trick. All it does is to release the memory of a dissociated personality which you can’t relate—not possibly in an obstinate case as this—to the waking personality. Oh, I can do it talking to ​him, getting him to tell me his dreams. But you . . . it would be such a help if you could give me any clue to this discontent.
Kitty (angrily) : I tell you . . . he was not discontented till he went mad.
Doctor : Ah, madness is an indictment not of the people one lives with, only of the high gods. (With gentle flattery) If there was anything, it’s evident that it was not your fault. You, Mr. Baldry, you’ve known him longest. I take it you were boys together. Can you suggest anything?
Frank : I—er—Chris and I have never been really intimate. We haven’t a great deal in common. We played together as boys . . . I was a little older than he . . . but when I was ordained . . . I’m afraid he had very little sympathy. . . . No . . . no. . . . I—I can suggest nothing. He has never confided in me to any great extent. When he did so occasionally as a boy, he used to accuse me of preaching at him. Nothing was further from my intention, but that was his attitude always and . . .
Doctor (cutting in) : You, Miss Baldry?
Jenny : Nothing and everything was wrong. I’ve always felt it.
Kitty (with veiled hostility) : What do you mean, Jenny?
Jenny : I’ve felt for years that he wasn’t really happy.
​Kitty : You never said a word to me.
Doctor : Please . . . please don’t let us wrangle. Tell me, Miss Baldry, his relations with his father and mother, now?
Jenny : His father was old when he was born, and always a little jealous of him, I think. He relied on him, though. His mother was not his sort. She wanted a stupid son who would have been satisfied with shooting. Chris is rather romantic.
Doctor : He turned, then, to women with a peculiar need?
Margaret (speaking suddenly, rather tensely) : Yes, he was always dependent.
[There is for a moment a silence that is almost a gasp.
Doctor . . . what’s the use of talking? You can’t cure him . . . make him happy, I mean. All you can do is to make him ordinary . . . and that means unhappy again.
Doctor : I grant you that’s all I do. It’s my profession to bring people from various outlying districts of the mind back to the normal. There seems to be a general feeling that that’s where they should be. Sometimes I must confess I don’t see the urgency myself.
Margaret (sadly) : I know how you could bring him back.
​Doctor : Indeed?
Margaret : Yes. A memory that’s so strong that he’ll have to come back . . . in spite of everything . . . his discontent and all.
Doctor (surprised) : Well, I’m always willing to learn.
Margaret : Remind him of the boy.
Doctor : What boy?
Margaret : They had a boy.
Doctor (to Kitty) : You told me nothing of this!
Kitty (shivering slightly) : I didn’t think it mattered. He died five years ago.
Doctor : Ah! (Turning back to Margaret) How would you remind him?
Margaret : Suppose you gave him something the boy wore, some toy he played with.
Doctor : It would have to be you that did it.
[She bows her head.
Kitty : I don’t understand. How does it matter so much?
Doctor (after a slight pause) : I don’t know, but it does. (To Kitty) Have you any of the child’s things?
Kitty (after a silence) : Yes.
Jenny : The whole nursery is as it was. Nothing’s been touched.
​Doctor : Then I suggest you take Mrs. Grey to the nursery.
Kitty (with a sudden violence, amounting almost to a cry) : No! No . . . don’t let her go up . . . she’s not to go up!
Doctor : Mrs. Baldry.
Kitty (pulling herself together) : The things are all in a box, packed. All his toys and clothes and everything. I’ll have it brought down here. I don’t want her to go up.
Doctor : Oh, very well.
Kitty rings the bell. There is an ominous silence until Ellen comes.
Ellen : You rang, ma’am?
Kitty : Yes. Ellen, I want you to go up to the nursery, and bring down a trunk that’s by the window. Here’s the key.
[She gives it her from her bag.
You’ll probably find it rather heavy. You’d better ask Marsh or Webb to help you with it.
Frank : Shall I go and help?
Kitty : If you would, Frank.
Ellen : Very good, ma’am.
Kitty : Bring it down here. Do you understand?
Ellen : Yes, ma’am.
[She goes out L. Frank goes, too.
​Kitty (defiantly, after a pause) : This is only just in time. I packed the things myself this morning, because I was going to make a bonfire of them.
Jenny : Kitty!
Doctor (silkily) : Why were you going to do that, Mrs. Baldry?
Kitty (to Jenny, in a low vicious tone) : I spoke of it to you, Jenny, the other day, about dismantling the room. I didn’t really mean it then. I love the room. I only said it because you hurt me, hinting that I was callous about Chris. I made myself talk as I did; you goaded me to it. But these last days . . . when he didn’t belong to me any more . . . then I made up my mind to finish with the past . . . absolutely.
Doctor (very quietly) : What were your exact relations with your husband, Mrs. Baldry?
Kitty : We were husband and wife. . . .
[Something catches in her throat, and she turns and walks quickly out of the room.
Margaret (after a pause) : It’s all so dreadful. . . .
Doctor (to Jenny) : Was the marriage ever a happy one?
Jenny (with a shrug) : You mustn’t ask me.
Margaret : She’s very beautiful. I’m sure Chris was always kind.
[There is another silence. Doctor Anderson walks slowly about the room. He finds the volume of ​“Punch” lying open on the Chesterfield, picks it up, glances at it and breaks into hearty laughter.
Doctor : I beg your pardon. Punch . . . tactless of me. I apologise.
[The door L. opens and Ellen and Frank come in, lugging a trunk. They put it down, down stage L.
Frank : Phew! It’s a weight.
Jenny : Thank you, Ellen. [Ellen goes.
Doctor : Mrs. Grey . . . you will know what to choose. I’ll leave it to you. If you’ll allow me, I think I'll go out in the garden. We professional men get so little fresh air.
Frank : I’ll come with you, if I may. I was extremely interested in what you were saying. These matters of psychology, though perhaps not quite in accordance with the older teachings . . .
[They go into the garden, Frank talking hard, Doctor Anderson resigned and bored.
Jenny turns to Margaret.
Margaret : I’m sorry she wouldn’t let me go to the nursery. I wanted to know Chris’s boy. But I do see she wouldn’t like . . . it’s hers. . . . I’m sure it’s a lovely room. You say it’s just as it was?
Jenny : Yes, Chris wanted the day nursery kept. The night nursery is just a bedroom now.
Margaret : I couldn’t afford to have two ​nurseries. It makes all the difference to the little things.
[Jenny kneels and opens the trunk, and begins to take out a child’s clothes.
Oh, the lovely little frocks! Did she make them?
[She kneels too.
Jenny : No.
Margaret : Ah, well, she’d hardly have the time, with this great house to see to. But I don’t care much for baby frocks. The babies themselves are none the happier for them. It’s all show, really. And all these toys! I expect his daddy spoiled him.
Jenny : Chris gave him a rocking-horse . . . it’s up there still.
Margaret : At two years old? But, of course . . . men always give them presents above their age—they’re in such a hurry for them to grow up. We like them to take their time, the loves.
[She rummages.
Where’s his engine? Didn’t he love the puffer trains? But of course he never saw them. You’re so far from the railway station. What a pity! He’d have loved them so. Dick was so happy when I stopped his pram on the railway-bridge on my way back from the shops, and he could sit up and see the puffers going by.
[She pulls out toys.
​Here’s his Noah’s Ark . . . and his bricks, and his picture-books. Lions and tigers. Did he love wild beasts? Did he have these in his bath? All these ducks and swans and frogs and everything? I’d love to have seen him in his bath.
[She arranges the toys on the floor, playing with them tenderly.
And the woolly animals . . . they’re loves.
[She snuggles a teddy-bear against her cheek.
Does it squeak?
[She pinches it; it grunts.
Did you hear it? Did he love that? Oh, the toys he had! His nurse didn’t let him have them all at once, did she? Oh! They’re lovely. She couldn’t burn them all . . . she couldn’t! (She begins to cry.) I thought perhaps my baby had left me because I had so little to give him. But if a baby could leave all this!
[She cries wretchedly, rocking herself over the toys, which she fingers lovingly and lingeringly . . . her words coming through her tears, half-unconsciously, as though in spite of herself.
Oh, I want a child . . . I want a child. Poor dear Chris . . . it’s all gone so wrong . . . everthing. They each had only half a life. Oh Chris . . . Dick . . . my baby.
[She bows her head and weeps in silence, hugging the teddy-bear.
Jenny : Please . . . please. You must be brave. I think these are the best things to take him. This is one of the blue jerseys he used to wear. This is the ball he and his father used to play with on the lawn.
Margaret (looking up, vaguely bewildered) : Yes . . . yes. You’ve chosen the very things he would remember. Oh, you poor girl!
[She inspects the jersey and the ball, and holds them to her face.
I think I know the kind of boy he was—a man from the first.
[Then she lays them down and rises from her knees. There, put them back.
Jenny (amazed) : What . . . what do you mean?
Margaret : I can’t do it. I thought I meant to take them to him. But, oh, how can I? How can I?
Jenny : But . . . but you said . . .
Margaret : Oh, I can’t . . . I can’t. Either I never should have come or you should let him be. You can’t bring him back. You mustn’t. Oh, perhaps I should’nt have come. I didn’t know myself the second time whether I ought . . . seeing we were both married and that. ​When I got his letter asking me to come, I didn’t know. I prayed and prayed and read the Bible, but I couldn’t get any help. You don’t notice how little there is in the Bible really till you go to it for help. But I’ve lived a hard life, and I’ve always done my best for William, and I do know that nothing in the world matters so much as happiness. If anybody’s happy you ought to let them be. There’s not many as are. So I came again. Let him be; let him just go on being happy. If you knew how happy he was just pottering round the garden! Men do love a garden. He could just go on. It can go on so easily. You wouldn’t let them take him away to the asylum! You wouldn’t stop me coming. The other one might . . . Mrs. Baldry . . . but you’d see she didn’t. There’s no harm in it . . . you know that. Oh, do just let him be!
Jenny : But . . . but . . .
Margaret : Put it like this. If my boy had been a cripple—he wasn’t, he had the loveliest limbs—but if he had been, and the doctors had said to me, “We'll straighten your boy’s legs for you, but he’ll be in pain all the rest of his life,” do you think I’d have let them touch him? Do you? Well, it’s like that, isn’t it?
Jenny : Why . . . why did you tell the doctor about the boy?
Margaret : I don’t know. I seemed to have to . . . tell him I knew a way. I suppose it would ​have been sly to sit there and not tell him. I told him, anyhow. Oh, but I can’t do it. I can’t! Go out and put an end to the poor love’s happiness, remind him of all this . . . after the time he’s had, and the war and all. And then he’ll have to go back there . . . back to France. I can’t! I can’t! I oughtn’t to do it, ought I? You know . . . you love him, too. I oughtn’t.
Jenny (hardly above a whisper) : No . . . leave him . . . let him be happy.
[The door R. opens and Kitty comes in. She is carrying Confucius, the Pekinese dog. She freezes as she sees the two women and the toys on the floor.
Kitty : I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to disturb you. Haven’t you finished yet? Chris is waiting for you, Mrs. Grey.
[Margaret stares at her, open-mouthed. She passes on, averting her head from the toys, and goes out by the door L.
Margaret (staring after her) : Oh, the poor thing! The little dog’s hers? Chris thought it must be yours. He didn’t think she’d be fond of dogs.
Jenny : I’ve never seen her notice it before.
[A long silence.
I’ll put these things back.
Margaret (stonily) : No! Chris is a man. He’s grown up. He’s got to face things. It was ​cowardly of me to say I wouldn’t. We can’t leave him like a child always. A man’s got to live in the world. He'll get old, and then it’ll be horrible . . . a childish old man . . . people pretending not to notice . . . being kind about it. He’s got to be a man . . . a real man . . . whatever it means. He’d be like a child grown up in body and not in mind. It was selfish of me. Give me the jersey and the ball. The truth’s the truth, and he must know it.
Jenny : Mrs. Grey . . .
Margaret : It’s got to be, my dear. The truth’s the truth.
[She puts her arms round Jenny and kisses her. Then she takes the jersey and the ball and goes to the door R. She stops at the door and leans against the wall—her eyes closed, her face a mask of suffering. The door opens and Chris comes in. He does not see her.
Chris : Margaret! Jenny, where’s Margaret? She hasn’t gone? You didn’t let her go?
[Jenny moves instinctively to hide the trunk and the toys. Margaret comes forward, her face composed now.
Margaret : I’m here, Chris.
Chris (turning) : Oh, there. Kitty said the doctor was talking to you. He’s wasted so much of our time. Let’s go out in the garden.
​Margaret : Yes, Chris. In the garden. I want to talk to you.
[He slips his arm through hers and they go into the garden together.
Jenny stares agonisedly after them, and then sits wretchedly on the Chesterfield. Ellen comes in R.
Ellen : If you please, miss . . .
Jenny : What is it, Ellen?
Ellen : If you please, miss . . . Mr. Grey is here.
Jenny : Mr. Grey?
Ellen : Yes, miss. He’d like to see you or the mistress.
Jenny : Very well, Ellen. Show him in.
[Ellen withdraws and shows in Mr. Grey, announcing him and then retiring. He is a pathetic little middle-aged clerk, and carries his hat.
Jenny : Mr. Grey?
Mr. Grey : Yes. Are you Mrs. Baldry?
Jenny : Miss Baldry.
Mr. Grey : I hope I’m not intruding.
Jenny : Not at all.
Mr. Grey : I think my wife is here.
Jenny : Yes. She’s in the garden. Did you want to see her?
Mr. Grey : No, no, it wasn’t that. I don’t ​rightly know as how she’d like me coming here after her . . . it might look like spying. And it wasn’t that. (He stops nervously.) You see . . . well, I brought her umbrella.
Jenny (at a loss) : Yes?
Mr. Grey : I thought as how she might need it, walking home.
Jenny : That was very thoughtful of you—but the car will take her home.
Mr. Grey : I know. She’s come home in the car every day this week . . . and it does give the neighbours something to talk about. I did suggest she might stop it at the corner . . . just for the look of the thing. But she didn’t like to ask the chauffeur. Shy-like you know.
Jenny (puzzled) : I see.
Mr. Grey : Still, the umbrella was an excuse.
Jenny : An excuse for what?
Mr. Grey : Well . . . for coming, like.
Jenny : I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why did you come?
Mr. Grey : That’s just it. (With a sudden boldness) Might I speak to you, miss?
Jenny : But of course. Won’t you sit down?
Mr. Grey : Thank you.
[He sits, nursing his hat.
Jenny : Well, what is it?
​Mr. Grey : Well, you see . . . it’s like this. I’m worried. She . . . she isn’t likely to come in and find me here, talking to you?
Jenny (with a glance at the window) : No . . . not just yet.
Mr. Grey : I shouldn’t like her to think me butting in . . . interfering or prying, like. But I had to come. You see . . . I’m worried.
Jenny : What about, Mr. Grey?
Mr. Grey : Well, about Margaret . . . about her. There’s something going on and I don’t know what it is. And she isn’t happy. And that’s the truth of it.
Jenny : I see.
Mr. Grey : Now, I don’t ask no questions. What Margaret likes to tell me she tells me, and what she doesn’t’s no business of mine. And I trust her, see?
Jenny : Of course.
Mr. Grey : But I can’t bear to see her unhappy. I don’t know what she comes up here for every afternoon—and I don’t want to know, see? She told me an old friend of hers had been wounded, and that’s enough for me. I take it she comes up here to see him.
Jenny : Yes. It’s my cousin, Captain Baldry.
Mr. Grey (fiercely) : I wasn’t asking for no names! (Subsiding) I beg your pardon, miss, for ​flaring out like that. I didn’t mean it, but the truth is, it’s getting on my nerves, the whole thing . . . seeing her like that . . . waking up and hearing her crying in the night and pretending it was nothing. I’m fond of her. She’s been a good wife to me, and I can’t bear to see her unhappy.
Jenny : Of course.
Mr. Grey : I didn’t mean to ask no questions, and of course I know I’ve got no right. . . . I didn’t mind the neighbours’ talk—I know Margaret—but when it came to hearing her cry like that . . . well, I just had to come. What is it? Is he dying—is that it?
Jenny : No . . . no, he’s not dying. In fact, he’s getting better. There was a doctor here this afternoon. He says he’ll be all right . . . quite soon.
Mr. Grey : I see. Does Margaret know that?
Jenny : Yes. The doctor told her just now.
Mr. Grey : Oh, that’s good. I’m glad of that. Margaret will be glad.
Jenny : Yes.
Mr. Grey : She’s been fretting herself something awful . . . coming to see him every day.
Jenny : Yes. I don’t suppose she'll be coming any more . . . now.
Mr. Grey : Out of danger, is he? I’m glad. Oh, it’s not that I mind her coming. Don’t ​think that, miss, please. But she’s had a hard time . . . and I’m not strong myself, and . . . well, it was getting so that I didn’t know what to do. But if he’s getting better, then it’ll be all right now. (Growing cheerful) She’s a great one with invalids, is Margaret. Many’s the time she’s had to nurse me . . . up all night, too, often as not . . . and never a word that wasn’t a kind one. But she’s tender-hearted, you know; takes things to heart. You should see her with animals. And children . . . she’s that fond of children.
[He looks at the toys on the floor.
You’ve children here, I see. All them toys . . .
Jenny (unable to bear it another moment) : Mr. Grey, your wife may be coming back at any minute.
Mr. Grey : Oh, then I’d better hop it.
Jenny : She’ll probably be going quite soon. If you'd like to wait in another room . . .
Mr. Grey : I don’t know as how she ought to find me here. Still, there’s the umbrella. Lucky she left it behind . . . gave me a chance to come. I hope you’ll forgive the liberty.
Jenny (going to the door) : It’s quite all right, Mr. Grey.
Mr. Grey : I’m glad your cousin’s going on so nicely. It’s quite relieved my mind, I tell you.
​Jenny (opening door R.) : If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the library . . . the first door on the left. I’ll call you when she’s ready.
Mr. Grey (as he goes) : Thank you, miss. And you won’t say anything to her? You see, I shouldn’t like her to think . . .
Jenny : Of course. I quite understand.
[He goes out. Jenny closes the door behind him and returns to the window. She sees something, and shrinks back to the settee, where she stands, waiting. Outside, Margaret approaches the window. She comes in. She is pale and trembling a little. She stands on the steps.
Jenny : Well . . . well?
Margaret : It’s all over.
Jenny : You mean . . . ?
Margaret : Yes, he’s cured.
[She comes down the steps.
Jenny : Where is he?
Margaret : He’s with her . . . Mrs. Baldry. He knows her. He knows everything now.
[She catches at the arm of the settee.
Do you mind . . . if I sit down . . . just for a minute? I feel a bit . . . faint-like.
Jenny : Of course. (Margaret sits.) How is he? How was it?
Margaret : Don’t . . . don’t ask me that.
​Jenny : How does he look?
Margaret : He looks . . . he looks like a soldier. He went out there into the garden with me . . . like a boy . . . without a care in the world. You know, it was like that. He felt just like a boy . . . when he was with me. All this . . . he didn’t believe in it . . . really . . . he couldn’t. He was . . . happy . . . like that, and I had to break his heart for him. We went down to the pond . . . he loved the water so . . . and I showed him the toys . . . and talked to him . . . about his boy and my boy. Oh, it was awful . . . seeing it all come back into his eyes. He was so frightened . . . he held on to me and kept saying, “What does it mean? What does it mean?” But he knew. He looked back at the house . . . and it was . . . different. It meant something else to him now.
Jenny (low) : A prison.
Margaret : And his child. I saw him touch the jersey and remember. It was like he was touching the boy’s body.
Jenny : What did he say?
Margaret : He didn’t say anything. He just looked. And his mouth went . . . sort of funny. Oh, Chris! (She moans a little.) Then he spoke of her . . . his wife. He said, “How I must have hurt her.”
Jenny (muttering) : Her pride . . .
​Margaret : She loves him.
Jenny : As much as she can.
Margaret : She’s his wife. She gave him his child . . . his son. That’s what he said. And then he drew up all proud and like a man again . . . to go to her.
Jenny : And you . . . ?
Margaret : Me?
Jenny : What did he say . . . to you?
Margaret (bows her head) : I can’t! We said good-bye. At least we could do that. We never did before.
Jenny (taking her hands) : My dear.
Margaret : That’s all.
Jenny: And now . . . to come back to this . . . all it stands for . . . and the war. Did he speak of the war?
Margaret : Just as a joke. His eyes were scared, but he laughed. He said, “It’ll all be over by July, the papers say.” He said, “Shall I send you a postcard from Berlin?” And then, when he went back to the house, he smiled . . . a dreadful, decent smile . . . and he was whistling “Tipperary” and walking like a soldier. That’s how he’ll go back . . . out there . . . to France.
Jenny : Oh, my dear!
[She breaks down.
​Margaret : Don’t . . . don’t . . . don’t take on like that. It had to be. He’s cured. That’s all that matters. He’s a man again.
[She rises.
I must go home.
Jenny : Mrs. Grey, your husband’s here.
Margaret : William . . . here?
Jenny : Yes . . . you forgot your umbrella. He came to bring it for you.
Margaret : Wasn’t that thoughtful of him? He’s like that, you know.
Jenny : I’ll see about the car.
Margaret : No, don’t . . . please. I’d rather walk this afternoon. I would really. It’s the last time.
[She looks round, saying a silent good-bye to the room.
I knew it couldn’t last.
Jenny : I wish I could say something.
Margaret : Don’t . . . don’t try. There’s nothing to say. It had to be. Good-bye, my dear. You'll be kind to him.
[The two women kiss and remain still for a moment. Then Margaret gently releases herself.
I’ll get my things. Where is William?
Jenny : In the library. I'll tell him. I’ll bring your things.
[She goes out quickly.
Margaret, left alone, kneels for a moment with the toys, replaces a few in the box. Then she rises and stands waiting. Mr. Grey comes in, carrying her things.
Mr. Grey : It’s me, Margaret.
Margaret : Yes, darling.
Mr. Grey : I just came over, Margaret. You’d left your umbrella at home and it was looking sort of cloudy, so I thought I’d bring it over.
Margaret : Thank you, darling. It was nice of you to think of it. It’s a fine evening, though. I think I’d like to walk, now I’ve got you to come with me. Is that my coat?
Mr. Grey : Yes, the young lady asked me to bring it. She seemed upset.
Margaret (taking the hat and coat and putting them on) : She’s had a hard time, poor thing.
Mr. Grey (tentatively) : I hope you found your friend better to-day, Margaret?
Margaret : Yes, dear. He’s much better. He’s well again. I shan’t be coming any more. I’ll stay home with you. I’ve been neglecting you. Come along, dear, I’m quite ready.
Mr. Grey (as they go to the door) : It’s a fine house, this, Margaret.
Margaret : Yes, it’s a lovely house.
​Mr. Grey : Bit of a worry, though, keeping up a place like this. Mariposa gives you enough to do, eh?
[He looks at her.
You look as if you want a rest, now. I'm glad your friend’s better, though.
Margaret : Yes . . . yes . . . he’s better. He’s cured.
[She looks back a moment at the garden.
Come along, dear. Let’s go.
[They go.
CURTAIN