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

Layout 2
ACT II
Scene: The same. The following afternoon.
When the curtain rises, Jenny is playing the piano. Frank come in L. Jenny stops playing.
Frank : Don’t stop, Jenny, on my account.
Jenny (rising and coming from the piano) : It’s all right. I’ve been playing for over an hour.
Frank : That was rather a jolly thing. What was it?
Jenny : Mozart.
Frank : German? Was Mozart a German? Austrian, wasn’t he? Do you think you ought . . .
Jenny : Oh, Frank, don’t be absurd.
Frank : Oh, not for myself. I’m broad-minded enough to realise it doesn’t mean anything. But there is the example to others.
Jenny : What others?
Frank : Well, the servants . . . and the neighbours. One has to consider other people.
Jenny : Do you really imagine the servants will know that was Mozart that I was playing . . . or that Mozart was a German? Oh, Frank, don’t be so ridiculous.
Frank : Ridiculous? Yes, I’m always ridiculous to you.
Jenny : Oh, Frank!
Frank : Where’s Chris?
Jenny : Out, walking.
Frank : But it’s raining.
Jenny : Chris has been out in the rain before.
​Frank : Did he go alone?
Jenny : Yes. He couldn’t stand being in the house any longer, and I can’t say I blame him. It’s pretty ghastly here, isn’t it?
Frank : It’s a sad time for all of us. We must all be patient and forbearing.
Jenny : How long are you staying, Frank?
Frank : I must be off to-morrow. I’ve been away a week as it is. Why? Do you want me to go?
Jenny : Of course not. Only . . . it’s hardly a time for visits, is it?
Frank : I only stayed because I thought there might be something I could do . . . some help that I might give . . . to you and Kitty in your trouble.
Jenny : And has there been?
Frank : What do you mean? If sympathy is of any help . . .
Jenny : I’m afraid it isn’t just now.
Frank : What else can I do?
Jenny : Have you tried prayer? A little service in the drawing-room? The power of prayer is very wonderful, I’ve always heard.
Frank : Jenny, please don’t mock at me!
Jenny : Oh, Frank, I’m sorry. Forgive me, only I’m so wretched . . .
Frank : Jenny, my dear, I know. My heart ​bleeds for you . . . and Kitty. It’s worse for Kitty.
Jenny : Is it?
Frank : Surely. She’s his wife.
Jenny : Yes.
Frank : You ask me why I stayed. I thought you might care to have me by you . . . in your hour of trouble. I should like to feel that I could give you comfort . . . spiritual comfort. You know how attached I am to you. We don’t see each other very often any more . . . but I assure you, Jenny, that makes no difference. I still feel the same towards you.
Jenny (her mind away from him) : Even though I’m thirty-five?
Frank : What do you mean?
Jenny : Did you see Chris’s face . . . when he looked at me? He’d thought of me as a girl, with my hair just up and my frocks just down . . . and he saw me as a woman. I don’t think I’m vain, but that stare that he gave me . . . the look that came into his eyes . . .
Frank : My dear, is that what’s worrying you?
Jenny : That?
Frank : That you’re getting old . . . older? It’s a thing that comes to us all. We’re none of us as young as we were. I’ve a few grey hairs myself. I’m only forty . . . but I’ve noticed lately a tendency to . . . (with an eye to his figure) well, crudely, ​to increasing girth. I find I can’t run as I used . . . I get winded quickly. I’ve noticed it at tennis. Yet I don’t consider myself old. I’m still young spiritually . . . mentally. At least, I hope I may call myself so. I still . . . don’t laugh at me, Jenny . . . I still love you. The fact that I have not mentioned it lately does not mean that my affections have changed.
Jenny : Are you proposing to me again, Frank?
Frank : It’s not kind of you to laugh, Jenny. I was not proposing, because you have given me to understand . . . many times . . . that there was no hope. If I thought that you had changed . . . softened towards me . . . is there, Jenny, any chance of your reconsidering?
Jenny : None, Frank. I’m sorry.
Frank : We’re not boy and girl any longer. Doesn’t the fact that I still care for you . . . with the same regard . . . after all these years, count for anything?
Jenny : Fifteen years, Frank, since you first proposed to me. And I still see you as I did then. I might be Chris.
Frank : Jenny, in former days I thought you refused me because of Chris. I’m ashamed to admit that I was jealous of him. I imagined that you were in love with him. But it can’t still be that.
Jenny (her face averted) : No.
​Frank : What is it, then? Why won’t you marry me?
Jenny : I’m sorry, but I don’t love you, Frank.
Frank : Love? I wonder if we don’t misuse that word . . . what exactly we mean by it? One has romantic ideas when one is young . . . not that I ever had; I think I always realised the true inwardness of these things . . . but you, perhaps, may have felt otherwise. I know that I have never been a romantic figure. I have no illusions on that score. But you must have outgrown schoolgirl notions by now. Listen, Jenny; I care for you very deeply. I believe I have it in my power to make you happy. You cannot doubt that I should be a good husband to you. I need not tell you that there is no one else in my life. There never has been. I don’t think that there’s anyone in yours. Surely, Jenny, you cannot wish to remain a spinster. Your chances are not exactly likely to increase, and you know that I would care for you, look after you. Won’t you reconsider your decision?
Jenny : Oh, no, Frank . . . No . . . it’s no good. I’m cut out for an old maid. Leave it at that . . .
Frank : Jenny, you're crying.
Jenny : No.
Frank : But you are. Why, Jenny? Have I hurt you? Forgive me if I have. Nothing was further from my wish.
​Jenny : Of course not, Frank. I’m sorry. I never used to cry when you proposed to me, did I? I’m afraid I sometimes used to laugh. You see, I’m getting old. I can’t cope with proposals like I used. I’m out of practice for them. I get winded . . . like you at tennis.
Frank : Jenny, you needn’t make fun of me. I know you think I’m ridiculous, even when I’m proposing to you.
Jenny : I wasn’t making fun of you, Frank. I think I was making fun of myself. It’s about the only thing left to make.
[Kitty comes in L.
Kitty : Has Chris come back, Jenny?
Jenny : Not yet.
Kitty : The car’s gone?
Jenny : Yes.
Frank : Is that to fetch Mrs. Grey?
Jenny : Yes.
Kitty : You'll see her, Jenny? I can’t. At least I might be spared that humiliation.
Frank : It’s good of you to let her come here, Kitty.
Kitty (tonelessly) : Chris wants her.
Frank : You’re being very brave.
Kitty : Chris is being very . . . polite. The perfect gentleman. How beautifully he hid his disappointment over the car not being able to go this morning.
​Frank : It’s natural you should feel bitterly about it.
Kitty : Bitterly? Isn’t it true? Wasn’t his behaviour a lesson in good manners and consideration for my feelings . . . a stranger’s feelings?
Frank : We must all be charitable.
Kitty : Charitable? That’s what it is. Charity! I feel I’m living in this house on charity . . . his charity. In my own house! His wife . . . and he doesn’t even like me. He hates me. I can see it in his eyes, behind all his politeness.
Jenny : No, Kitty.
Kitty : Yes. You said yesterday, Frank, that when you spoke to him of me . . . in the hospital . . . he was . . . hostile. What did he say . . . exactly?
Frank : Kitty . . . does it matter . . . now?
Kitty : I think so.
Frank : Really, Kitty . . .
Kitty : I want to know.
Jenny : Kitty . . . you’re only hurting yourself.
Kitty : What did he say?
Frank : Kitty . . . it’s very hard. . . . He . . . he appeared to have formed an unreasoning prejudice against you. I described you to him, told him that you were small and dark and beautiful, and mentioned that you had a lovely ​high soprano voice. And he said . . . Kitty, I’m only repeating his words . . . you ask me what he said . . .
Kitty : Go on.
Frank : He said, “I don’t like little women, and I hate anybody, male or female, who sings. Oh, God, I don’t like this Kitty. Take her away.”
[There is a silence.
Kitty (low): He always said he liked my singing!
[There is another long, uncomfortable silence.
Kitty sits down sullenly.
Frank fidgets.
Frank : I think I’ll go and knock the balls about in the billiard-room. (Silence.) If there’s anything I can do . . . (Silence.) I shall be in the billiard-room . . . or the library.
[He goes out L.
The silence continues a moment, then Kitty turns to Jenny.
Kitty : Jenny, what’s going to happen?
Jenny : I’m terrified to think.
Kitty : When he sees her . . .
Jenny : He’ll see her aged and plain and shabby. He'll look in vain for the girl he knew in the ​woman he doesn’t know. At least you’ve been spared that, Kitty.
Kitty (bitterly) : Thank you. That gives me enormous consolation. Are you by any chance pitying her?
Jenny : Yes . . . I’m afraid I am. I can so picture their meeting, and his eyes, when he sees . . . and then her face. It’s cruel, Kitty. Cruel to him, too. It’s going to rob him even of his dreams . . . his last dream.
Kitty (stonily) : And me?
Jenny : Kitty, what can I say?
Kitty : Last night . . . is that what the rest of my life’s to be? Chris’s tact and politeness . . . those silences . . . all this blankness between us? And Chris a stranger, with the body I knew and a mind I’ve never known. (With a sudden ray of hope.) Jenny . . . if it’s going to be as you say . . . that when he sees her he’ll be . . . revolted . . . then do you think she’ll come?
Jenny : Yes. She’ll come.
Kitty : But won’t she realise . . . what it will mean? Will she dare to face him . . . knowing that? I shouldn’t.
Jenny : Not if you loved him?
Kitty : What do you mean?
Jenny : She loves him.
Kitty : No!
​Jenny : Yes. She loves him, and he wants her. She’ll come. She’s already said she’ll come, in answer to his letter that Barrett took down this morning.
Kitty : That letter! He was itching to write all last night . . . all the evening he was thinking of her, with us in the room. When he went to bed, I heard him come down again for paper. I saw the light under his door till four o’clock. Oh, yes, she said she would come . . . on the impulse of that letter . . . but when she thinks . . . when she looks in the glass . . . you remember yesterday . . . when she saw him in the garden . . . she wouldn’t stay then. She went away . . . because she was afraid.
Jenny : Not because she was afraid.
Kitty : Why, then?
Jenny : Because of you. Because she thought it was her duty to go, for your sake . . . because Chris was yours, and she couldn’t hurt you.
Kitty : Oh, you’d make the woman out a saint!
Jenny : I almost thought she was.
Kitty : How can you . . . take her part . . . against me?
Jenny : I’m not. You know I’m not.
Kitty : But, then, if she wouldn’t stay yesterday, why to-day?
​Jenny (gently) : He’s sent for her. He’s seen you . . . and he’s sent for her.
Kitty : Jenny!
Jenny (very gently) : She’ll come, Kitty.
Kitty (hopefully): And you think . . . that’s how it will be?
Jenny : I’m afraid so.
Kitty : Afraid?
Jenny : What will there be left? Nothing.
Kitty : Not by any chance . . . me?
Jenny : Oh, my dear . . .
Kitty : Do you believe this story of hers? Marriage? It’s impossible. She’s his mistress. That slut . . .
Jenny (moving to her) : Dear, you’re taking things all the wrong way. Chris is ill . . .
Kitty : He’s well enough to remember her all right. (A pause.) After all, I suppose I can sit down to it. Other women do. Teddy Rex runs a chorus girl, and Mrs. Rex has to grin and bear it. What else is it, do you think? It means that Chris is a man like other men. But I did think that bad women were pretty and smart. I suppose he’s had so much to do with pretty ones that a plain one’s a change.
Jenny : Kitty! Kitty! How can you!
Kitty : I suppose she’s . . . responsive. He once ​said I was cold. I know now what his standards were.
[Chris appears at the windows, back. Neither sees him.
He wants someone soft and easy . . . it’s the barmaid touch. They say it’s in all men . . . a taste for commonness, sexually. That’s what it is. This is all a blind. He’s pretending!
Jenny : Kitty! How dare you? (In a passion of rage) How dare you?
[She seizes her shoulders and shakes her violently and furiously.
Kitty (breaking down into a chair, half wailing) : Oh, why are you all against me?
[Chris comes into the room quickly and quietly.
Chris : Jenny . . . Jenny . . . let’s all be decent to each other. It’s all such a ghastly muddle, and it’s so rotten for all of us.
Kitty (rising) : Why don’t you say, “Jenny, you mustn’t be rude to visitors”? It’s how you feel, I know.
Chris : Kitty, my dear, I’m sorry.
Kitty : You needn’t apologise.
[His mind drifts away from her, and his gaze goes to the door.
Chris : Jenny, has . . .
​Kitty : No, she hasn’t come yet. But she’ll soon be here now.
[She goes out L.
Chris : Poor thing!
Jenny : You can’t remember her at all?
Chris : Oh, yes, in a sense. I know how she bows when you meet her in the street, how she dresses when she goes to church. I know her as one knows a woman staying in the same hotel . . . just like that.
Jenny : It’s a pity you can’t remember Kitty. All that a wife should be she’s been to you.
Chris : Jenny, is this true?
Jenny : That Kitty’s been a good wife?
Chris : That Kitty is my wife, that I am old, that . . . that . . . all of it . . . all this this house . . .
Jenny : It’s all true, Chris. She is your wife, and this place has changed—and it’s better and jollier in all sorts of ways, believe me—and fifteen years have passed . . .
Chris : Why did I marry her?
Jenny : Chris!
Chris : Why?
Jenny : You fell in love with her . . . down at the Elliotts’, after you came back from Mexico.
Chris : Mexico? Did I go to Mexico? Why?
​Jenny : Uncle Arthur sent you . . . your father . . . to look after the mines. They were in a bad way and you saved them. You don’t remember?
Chris : No. But it doesn’t matter. So I went to Mexico. And then I met Kitty and . . . oh, I can’t believe all this . . . that it’s all happened to me, and I don’t know it. I don’t mean I doubt you, Jenny . . . I know it’s true, but . . . it’s like . . . believing in prehistoric man . . . all the things archæologists tell us. You know it’s true . . . but you don’t believe it . . . quite. You don’t really believe anything you haven’t known for yourself. And that poor girl . . . Kitty . . . you say she’s my wife . . . that I married her. Why? Why didn’t I marry Margaret? I love her so terribly. You don’t know . . . how sweet and dear and lovely she is. Ever since the first time I went down there . . . from Uncle Ambrose’s on the other bank of the river . . . and she came across, as she always did, in the punt they used as a ferry, to bring me over, and gave me tea at the inn her father kept . . . I knew I loved her. I was going to marry her . . . I'd told her I loved her, and she loved me too. I remember there was a quarrel . . . oh, the stupidest quarrel . . . but it couldn’t have been that. I was jealous and foolish . . . but I wrote to make it up, I know I did, and . . . and then I can’t remember any more. And she’s all that matters to me . . . all that’s real or beautiful in life. If you’d seen her ​as I saw her . . . as I remember her last . . . under the trees in a white dress, and her lovely yellow hair, sweet and gentle and shy . . . you’d understand that I can’t say, “Yes, Kitty is my wife, and Margaret somehow just nothing at all.”
Jenny : Yes, I know.
Chris : And she’s coming this afternoon. I can hardly wait . . . I’m all on fire and trembling . . . to see her again.
Jenny : Chris . . . dear Chris . . . I know. But I must tell you. I’ve seen her. She came up here yesterday, so kind and sweet, to tell us you were wounded. She’s the greatest dear in the world, but she’s not as you think of her. She’s middle-aged, Chris. She isn’t beautiful any longer. She’s drearily married . . . and tired and sad and worn by poverty and work. She isn’t the Margaret you knew.
Chris : Didn’t I tell you last night that that doesn’t matter? It’s something beyond what she looks—it’s what she is. Listen—in the garden of the inn, there was a little Greek temple, and one night we went down there together. It was a marvellous night—warm and blue and scented. The place was flooded with moonlight, and as she stood there I knew that it wouldn’t have mattered if her hair had been white or her face pale and silvered as it looked for a moment. I knew then that my love was changeless—beyond ​anything that time could do to it. She’s Margaret, that’s all. You can’t understand . . .
Jenny : I want to try, Chris. (She lays her hand on his arm.) Why, Chris, you’re wet.
Chris : Yes. It’s been raining.
Jenny : You must go and change. Don’t catch cold . . . don’t stay in wet things. Go along, dear. I’ll call you when Margaret comes.
Chris : All right. (He goes to the door L.) You’re a brick, Jenny . . . a real pal.
[He goes out.
Jenny goes over to the windows R., kneels on the window-seat, looking out. She cries a very little, quietly, touching her eyes with her handkerchief. Presently Ellen comes in R.
Ellen (announcing) : Mrs. Grey.
[She shows in Margaret. Ellen retires. Margaret comes in quietly, dressed as before.
Jenny : Oh, good afternoon!
Margaret : Good afternoon.
[She looks round.
Jenny : Chris is upstairs, changing. He went out for a walk in the rain. He’ll be down soon. Let me take your things.
Margaret : It’s all right. I’m not wet. It was nice of you to send the car. It’s a beautiful car.
Jenny : Still, you’ll feel more comfortable without your coat, won’t you? Let me help you. (Margaret takes off her coat.) And won’t you ​take your hat off, too? This isn’t just an ordinary visit, is it?
Margaret : Thank you.
Jenny : Would you like to come upstairs . . . to my room?
Margaret : It’s quite all right. I can see nicely in the glass here.
[She stands before the fire and removes her hat, patting her hair. Jenny takes the hat and rings the bell.
Jenny : You’ve lovely hair.
Margaret : I used to have nice hair, but these last few years I’ve let myself go. I know I shouldn’t make personal remarks, but Mrs. Baldry is lovely. It’s all lovely here . . . the house and everything. It’s nice to have everything ready that people can want and everything in its place. I used to try and do it at Monkey Island Inn. Of course, it wasn’t grand like this, but our visitors always came a second time.
[Ellen enters R.
Jenny : Would you take Mrs. Grey’s things, Ellen? And you’d like some tea, wouldn’t you?
Margaret : Oh . . . if it’s not too much trouble, it would be nice.
Jenny : It’s no trouble at all. Tea, please, Ellen . . . at once . . . for three. Captain Baldry will be down.
​Ellen : Very good, miss.
[She goes out with Margaret’s things.
Jenny : And now won’t you come and sit down and talk to me till Chris comes?
Margaret : It’s very kind of you, I’m sure . . . but you needn’t trouble about me.
Jenny : But I'd like it.
[They sit down. She offers cigarette-box.
Jenny : Do you smoke?
Margaret : No, I’ve never smoked. Girls didn’t when I was young, and since I’ve married . . . well, I’ve never thought of it, as you might say. (Jenny takes a cigarette.) How is he? Is he well?
Jenny : Quite well . . . and longing to see you.
Margaret : I know. He wrote to me last night. Oh, I don’t know if I’ve done right in coming. The other lady . . . Mrs. Baldry . . . she was upset yesterday. Even if Chris has forgotten, he’ll want to do what’s right. He couldn’t bear to hurt her.
Jenny : That’s true. You do know our Chris! But . . . it was she who sent for you . . . she told Chris to send for you.
Margaret : Oh, she must have a lovely nature!
Jenny : So, you see, it’s quite all right.
Margaret : Oh, I don’t know . . . poor girl. It’s dreadful for her. And Chris, too. My fine, ​splendid, handsome Chris . . . to be like that. (She cries weakly.) I’ve not been able to sleep for thinking of him . . . broken and queer, like that.
Jenny : Oh, don’t . . . don’t. He’s not so bad. He’ll get quite well.
Margaret : I know, I know. I don’t believe that anything bad could be allowed to happen to Chris for long. And I’m sure you’re looking after him beautifully. It isn’t that. But when a thing you thought had ended fifteen years ago starts all over again, and you're very tired . . . Oh, I suppose I ought to say he isn’t right in his head, and that I’m married, so we'd better not meet, but, oh . . . I want to see him so! It’s wrong, I know it’s wrong, but I am so glad Chris wants to see me too!
[Ellen enters with tea, which she places on table before Jenny, and goes.
Jenny : Come . . . tea will do you good. Milk and sugar?
Margaret : No sugar, thank you. I’ve given it up since the war. I thought it was the least I could do. Thank you. I’m glad of a cup of tea. I’ve been baking all the morning, and it takes it out of you. You can’t get a girl nowadays that understands the baking. And my kitchen gets so hot.
[Jenny passes bread and butter. Margaret takes a piece.
​You know, it’s a horrid little house, is Mariposa. They put cows into the field at the back, sometimes. I like that; but otherwise it isn’t very much.
Jenny : It’s got a very pretty name.
Margaret (aglow): Yes, isn’t it? Mariposa. It’s Spanish, you know, for butterfly. (Warming up) You know . . . it’s wrong of me, I suppose, but coming up here in the car like that, and everything . . . I can’t think of a meeting with Chris as anything but a kind of treat. I know it’s terrible the way we’re coming together, but I’ve got a sort of party feeling about it all. And I have so wanted to see him again . . . even though I’ve tried and pretended not to for Mr. Grey’s sake, and his, as well as my own . . . ever since we parted.
Jenny : How did you come to part?
Margaret (growing fifteen years younger as she dives back into the past) : Oh, it was the silliest quarrel. We had known how we felt for just a week. Such a week! Lovely weather we had . . . it’s pretty down there at Bray . . . I don’t know if you know it . . . and father hadn’t noticed anything. I didn’t want him to, because I thought he might want the marriage soon and think a delay a slight on me, and I knew we would have to wait. Chris had told me his father’s business was in a bad way and he might have to go ​abroad. Oh, I can remember saying to myself, “Perhaps five years,” trying to make it as bad as could be so that if we could marry sooner it would be a lovely surprise. We’d made so many plans . . . Chris had talked so much . . . he always wanted a son, he said. Perhaps five years! I never thought . . . (She cries again a little.) Oh, well . . . crying won’t help, and it’ll make my eyes red. I shouldn’t like Chris to think I’d been crying. I won’t cry.
[She fishes in her bag for her handkerchief, dabs her eyes, and drinks some tea.
Jenny : If you’d rather not talk about it . . .
Margaret : No, I'd like to. I’ve never told anyone . . . all these years . . . just kept it to myself . . . but they were happy times, and one can’t help thinking of them sometimes. Well . . . and then one afternoon—a Thursday it was—I’d gone on the backwater with Bert Batchard, nephew to Mr. B., who kept the inn at Surly Hall, and I was laughing out loud because he did row so funny! He’s a town chap, and he was handling those oars for all the world as though they were teaspoons. The old dinghy just sat on the water like a hen on its chicks, and didn’t move, and he so sure of himself. And me used to boats and the water all my life. I just sat and laughed and laughed. And then, all of a sudden, I heard the bell at the ferry, and there was Chris, ​standing up there among the poplars, with his eyes frowning and not a smile on him. And he was angry . . . oh, so angry . . . I couldn’t get near him all the afternoon. And then it struck me he wasn’t trusting me as he would a girl of his own class, and I told him so, and he went on being cruel. Oh, don’t make me remember the things we said to each other! It doesn’t help. And then he went away . . . still angry . . . the boy took him over in the punt . . . the only time ever that I hadn’t. And that was all. I never saw him again. I know now he had to go away suddenly . . . to Mexico . . . that’s what he’d come down to tell me . . . and he didn’t tell me because of our quarrel, and then father died suddenly . . . found him dead in his bed one morning, we did . . . and I had to sell the lease of the inn. I made the new woman promise she’d forward any letters. But she didn’t. I didn’t know . . . not till last year when Mr. Grey and I went down to see the place, and there were new people there . . . and after lunch Mr. Taylor took me into the office and said, “I’ve got something here that may interest you.” And he opened the roller desk that dad used to have, and out of the drawer he took twelve letters addressed to me in Chris’s handwriting. I didn’t know what to say. I thought I should faint . . . I never have . . . but that’s what it felt like. Anyway, I cried, and he was very kind and kept William . . . that’s ​Mr. Grey . . . out of the way as long as he could. And at last I said, “But Mrs. Hancock did say she’d send my letters on.” And he said, “Mrs. Hancock hadn’t been here three weeks before she bolted with a bookie from Bray, and after that Hancock mixed his drinks and got careless.” He said they’d found the letters stuffed into the desk.
Jenny : And what was in them?
Margaret : For a long time I didn’t read them. I thought I oughtn’t. I thought it was against my duty as a wife. But when I got that telegram saying he was wounded, I went upstairs and read them . . . sitting on my bed. Oh, those letters! (She weeps miserably for a moment.) There I am . . . crying again . . . and my face all red, and Chris coming. . . . Do I look awful? Will he see I’ve been crying?
[She rises to inspect herself in the glass.
Jenny : Put some powder on your face . . . it'll be all right.
Margaret : I haven’t any powder. I don’t use it. I never have.
Jenny (finding her bag) : Here . . . take mine.
[She takes out her vanity case and hands it to Margaret.
Margaret : I don’t know how.
[She looks doubtfully at the puff and makes a dab with it at her nose.
​Jenny : Wait. Let me do it for you.
[She powders Margaret’s face.
There!
Margaret (with a timid smile) : Isn’t it dreadful . . . me using powder! But I wouldn’t like Chris to see. . . . Thank you. You’re so kind. You love him, too, don’t you?
[Jenny turns away. The door L. opens, and Chris comes in. He stands on the threshold and gazes at Margaret. She rises and looks at him, long and hungrily.
Chris . . . oh, Chris!
Chris : Margaret . . . my darling . . . Margaret!
[Margaret’s arms go out to him in a piteous gesture. Jenny has her head averted, so as not to see. Chris moves to Margaret, slowly, as though sleep-walking; her arms enfold him, and he breaks into a flood of tears on her shoulder.
(Sobbing) Margaret . . . oh, Margaret!
Margaret (stroking his hair) Hush . . . hush . . . don’t cry . . . it’s all right. It’s quite all right. Chris, darling . . . Chrissie boy . . . my Chris.
[She stands, holding him closely to her, while he cries.
Jenny steals to the door R., looks back at them, and then goes out with a little smothered sob.
(After a pause) Come and sit down, Chris.
Chris (raising his head) : Margaret . . . it’s such ​heaven to be with you . . . after all these strangers. It’s like coming out of prison.
Margaret : Yes, dear, I know. Come and sit down, now.
Chris (pointing to the armchair, facing audience) : You sit there. I’ll sit on the floor, by your side.
[She sits. He sits by her, on the floor, holding her hand.
(After a pause) Margaret . . . when I sit here with you . . . like this . . . I can’t believe all they tell me . . . all of that time that’s been wiped out. They told me you’d changed. You haven’t . . . to me. Tell me . . . do I seem old, to you?
Margaret : No, Chris.
Chris : Older? There’s grey in my hair. Does that matter?
Margaret : Of course it doesn’t, Chris, darling.
Chris : Say that again.
Margaret : What?
Chris : Chris, darling. I want to hear it in your voice. They’ve all called me dear and darling . . . strangers’ voices . . . and it meant nothing. But you . . . your voice. . . . Say it again.
Margaret : Chris, darling.
Chris (kissing her hand) : Oh, Margaret . . . beloved. (A silence.) This is peace! I wanted to take you into the garden . . . down to the pond. ​There’s a boat there . . . just like those other days. A punt . . . I always think of you in a punt, in your white dress, coming across from Monkey to take me over.
Margaret : It’s years since I used a punt now, Chris. I wonder if I could any more.
Chris : Of course you could. It’s not a thing you can forget. I must take you down to the pond. It’s raining to-day . . . you must come again. How is old Monkey Island? Do you ever go there now?
Margaret : William and I went down last September. William’s Mr. Grey . . . my husband.
Chris : You’re married, too. They told me so.
Margaret : Yes, ten years next June. I was a June bride.
Chris : You’ve no children?
Margaret (after a moment’s shadow across her face) : No.
Chris : Go on about Monkey. Did you leave there when you married?
Margaret : No . . . when dad died.
Chris : Is he dead? I’m sorry. I liked your father.
Margaret : Yes. He was kind, was dad. He liked you, too, Chris . . . but he never knew . . . about us. I’d never told him, I’ve never told anyone . . . till now.
​Chris : Nor I. At least, I suppose I haven’t. I don’t know what I’ve done these last fifteen years. I never meant to. Go on.
Margaret: William and I went down last September. I’d been wanting to go back for years, but we’d been living all over the place. William’s chest is weak, and for years he had to live by the sea . . . we were two years at Southend.
Chris : What made you come to Wealdstone?
Margaret : William’s father lived there. He died last year and left William the house . . . it’s not a nice house . . . but I was glad, because it reminded me of you and your home, being so near. Often I used to walk over and look at this place . . . it’s a lovely place.
Chris : It used to be. There are so many changes. They say I made them.
Margaret : It’s a big place. You must have worked hard to keep all this up. I used to look at it and think about you. I knew you were at the Front. I read it in the papers. I used to read the casualty lists, frightened to see your name . . . you were the only officer I knew. (Suddenly breaking off) Oh, Chris . . . I’m so sorry . . . have you had your tea?
Chris : Tea?
Margaret : Yes, I forgot all about it . . . sitting here. I’m so sorry.
​Chris : I don’t want tea.
Margaret (rising) : Oh, but you must have tea. I wonder if this has got cold. (Feels the pot.) Do have a cup . . . do let me give you some.
Chris : All right . . . if you want me to.
[He rises too.
Margaret (pouring out) : It used to be milk and three lumps.
Chris : It still is.
Margaret : These cups are smaller than the ones at Monkey Island. (She passes the cup. He sits.) Anything to eat?
Chris : No, thanks. I miss your ducks’ eggs.
Margaret (pleased) : Oh . . . the ducks’ eggs. No one ever had ducks’ eggs like father did. It was his way of feeding them. It didn’t pay, of course, but they were good. Do you know, Chris . . . when you came down first to Monkey Island, you were so fine and good-looking I thought you must be someone royal . . . and then, when you kept on coming, I thought it must be the ducks’ eggs. They were good!
Chris : Yes. (They smile happily at each other.) But that wasn’t why I came.
Margaret : No. And then when we went down last year, they gave us duck and green peas for lunch, and I did think of dad. They were nothing like as good as his ducks, but, then, I expect they paid. A nice couple they are, father ​and daughter just like me and dad, and Mr. Taylor’s something of dad’s cut, too. But Miss Taylor’s much handsomer than ever I was; a really big girl, she is, and such lovely red hair . . . hardly natural, it looks, but I don’t think she touches it up.
Chris : Did it look nice? The place, I mean, not her hair.
Margaret : Yes, very nice. Just like old times. Oh, it was queer being there again . . . and, do you know, when we got to the ferry, Mr. Grey says, “But, mercy, Margaret, there’s water all round it!’ And I said, “William, that’s just it.” More tea, Chris?
Chris : No, thanks.
Margaret : Just one more cup. (He passes it.) I did wish I was back there, but of course I could never have kept it on alone, and Mr. Grey has no experience of the innkeeping business, and I think he’d find it lonely. He’s a sociable man, and Monkey Island’s not much for company.
[She returns the cup.
Chris : What did you do . . . after you left it?
Margaret : I had a bad time for a bit. I was a mother’s help, first of all with an Irish family that had seen better days . . . nice people they were . . . but they ran away and left me in a hotel in Brighton, with my wages owing and the bill not paid. Why did they do it? I liked them so. The baby was a darling, and Mrs. Murphy ​had such a nice way of speaking. But it almost makes one think evil of people when they do a thing like that. And the hotel people were so rude . . .
Chris : Oh, Margaret, Margaret! Where was I? Why did all this have to happen to you? My darling, why weren’t we together?
Margaret : You were away, Chris. You’d written, and I hadn’t had your letters.
Chris : Oh, if I'd known . . . if only I could remember. Didn’t you write to me?
Margaret : No, I . . . I didn’t like. You see, we'd quarrelled, you and I. Do you remember . . . a silly quarrel, but . . .
Chris : Yes, I remember.
[He falls on his knees beside her.
Oh, Margaret, forgive me. I was so stupid and jealous and cruel . . . do forgive me.
Margaret : Forgive you? After fifteen years, Chris?
Chris (deflated suddenly): Fifteen years? I’d forgotten. I thought it was last week. It’s the last I remember.
Margaret : It’s the last time I saw you.
Chris : Is it? Is it? Oh, Margaret . . . how cruel life can be. . . . Never to give us a chance to make it up and be happy . . . and it was all my selfish fault. Oh, my dear . . . my dear. . . .
[He buries his head in her lap.
​Margaret : Don’t, Chris . . . don’t take on like that!
Chris : Margaret, my darling . . .
[He raises his head, looks into her face; his arm goes round her shoulders.
Kiss me.
Margaret: No, Chris, we mustn’t. It’s not right.
Chris : Margaret, I love you . . . more than anything in the world, I love you.
Margaret (pleading desperately) : But, Chris, there’s your wife.
Chris : There isn’t . . . there isn’t! There’s no one in the world but you and me. The world’s mad . . . mad . . . we're boy and girl again. Margaret, I love you. I told you . . . down at Bray . . . that evening on the lawn by the river, with the sunset behind the church tower. It was yesterday . . . last week . . . don’t you remember? You let me kiss you then . . . you loved me, too. . . .
Margaret (weeping) : I know. I know. I did love you. I love you still. There, now I’ve said it. Oh, Chris!
Chris : Margaret . . . beloved.
[He kisses her and holds her for a moment in his arms. Then she wrenches free and rises, still weeping.
Margaret : It’s wrong, Chris. It’s wrong. We mustn’t. We’re not boy and girl . . . it wasn’t last week. We’re both married . . . we mustn’t.
​Chris : Margaret!
Margaret : Oh, I shouldn’t have come, I know that.
Chris : Don’t say that, for God’s sake. If you hadn’t come, I should have gone mad. Didn’t you want to come?
Margaret : Oh, yes . . . so badly.
Chris : Well, then.
Margaret : But, Chris . . . one can’t always do what one wants in life. One can’t hurt other people . . . can one? Can one?
Chris : No, I suppose not.
Margaret : You wouldn’t want to; you were always so kind and thoughtful. Oh, Chris, it’s no use. But it’s so awful . . . it’s like being shown a second chance and not allowed to take it. I must go away.
Chris : No . . . oh, no. Margaret . . . you mustn’t go. I shan’t be able to bear it. You can’t leave me . . . you mustn’t. I shall go mad!
Margaret (wringing her hands) : Oh, I don’t know what to do. I want to stay . . . I do want to stay . . . but it isn’t right.
Chris : Why? There’s no harm in our being together.
Margaret : Your wife, Chris.
Chris : She asked you to come to-day. She said I might see as much of you as I liked.
Margaret : Oh, poor thing. Chris, dear, listen. ​You’re married to her . . . you’ve had ten years of her life . . . the best years. I’m sure she’s been a good wife to you, Chris. All this isn’t fair to her. It was kind and brave of her to let me come, but she trusts us, Chris. You’re hers, you see. And we must be good and think of her, too. She’s your wife, Chris.
Chris : Yes . . . yes. You’re right. If only I could know it, really. Things are so strange. This suit that I’ve got on. I found it in the cupboard upstairs when I went up to change. It’s an old suit. I must have worn it hundreds of times, and yet I don’t remember it. (He pats the suit.) Here’s something in the pocket. Something I put there, I suppose. (He takes it out.) A pocket-book. And that’s mine, too, I suppose. It’s got my initials on it. Funny that I don’t know it. I wonder what’s inside. (He opens it.) A snapshot. (He takes it out.) Oh, look . . . that’s us, down at Monkey . . . do you remember . . . your father took it?
[He looks at it greedily.
Margaret : Yes, I remember. I’ve got one like it.
Chris : That afternoon. Do you remember the funny people who came in for tea, and how I waited on them for a lark? A big fat woman in a pink blouse and an old chap who’d been rowing in a tweed waistcoat?
​Margaret : Yes. And how cross you were when they tried to tip you for pushing the boat off?
Chris : Yes. Fifteen years ago . . . and it’s so much nearer than all this. That was the evening that I told you I loved you. . . . Oh, Margaret.
Margaret : Chris, dear.
Chris : Sit down again. Let’s be quiet . . . quiet . . . and think . . . not talk. I only want to be by you, that’s all . . . just to know that you’re there, beside me.
[Margaret sits again and he lies on the floor at her feet.
You’re all I’ve got to hold on to in life. There’s nothing wrong in it, is there? Is there?
Margaret (weakly) : I don’t know, Chris.
Chris : I’m happy, like this . . . just to be here with you. There can’t be anything wrong in that. She couldn’t grudge me that . . . she couldn’t.
[He puts his head in her lap.
She strokes his hair in silence for a while.
Margaret : It’s queer . . . us being here together . . . in this room. I’ve never known you in a house like this. It doesn’t seem to fit.
Chris : Margaret . . . it’s summer . . . a summer evening down at Monkey Island, with the twilight falling . . . and the bats wheeling in the half-light outside. Can you hear the river? This is the little parlour at the inn . . . and we’re ​just engaged, you and I. Do you remember how we walked back to the inn that evening? I can see you now standing against the parlour window, resting your cheek against the glass, looking in. I can hear the words you said.
Margaret (spellbound) : What did I say, Chris?
Chris : You said: “Think of me sitting in there, not knowing you loved me.”
Margaret : I didn’t know, Chris.
Chris : You know now.
Margaret : Yes, Chris.
Chris : That’s all I want . . . that you should know . . . that we both should know . . . that, and to be with you, quietly, like this. I can’t be unhappy when you’re with me. I don’t ask any more than that. Like this, I feel I can face anything . . . Kitty and all of them . . . be kind to them . . . if only you can be here sometimes, if I can only know I haven’t lost you quite. No more than that. Then I can manage everything. Without you, I’m lost . . . Margaret, dear.
Margaret : Chris, dear.
Chris : It’s all right? You will stay? You will come again? You won’t leave me?
Margaret : No, Chris. I won’t leave you.
Chris : My beloved.
[There is a long silence. He lies still, his head on her lap, she stroking his hair, crying quietly. Then the door L. opens quietly, and Kitty comes in. For ​a moment she does not see them, then she stops suddenly.
Kitty : Oh . . . I beg your pardon.
Chris (startled) : Who is it?
Margaret : It’s your wife, Chris.
Kitty : Yes . . . I’m sorry to intrude.
[She turns back to the door.
Chris (kindly) : Don’t go, Kitty.
Kitty : Why? What have I to do with you . . . in here?
Chris : Kitty, don’t.
[He scrambles to his feet.
It’s all right. I want to tell you that I know it is all right. Margaret has explained it to me.
Kitty : You mean, I suppose, that you know I’m your wife. I’m pleased that you describe that as knowing “it’s all right,” and grateful that you should have accepted it at last—on Mrs. Grey’s authority. This is an occasion that would make any wife proud.
Chris (wounded) : Kitty!
Margaret (shocked into protest) : Oh, please . . .
Kitty (repentant): I’m sorry, I . . .
Margaret (faintly) : I must be going.
Chris : Going?
Margaret : Yes. I’ve my home to get back to.
Kitty : The car will take you back.
Margaret : I’m sure it’s very kind of you.
​Chris : You'll come again . . . to-morrow?
Margaret : No . . . I . . . I think I'd better not. Really not. I’ve no right here.
Chris : I want you. Kitty . . . I know it’s brutal, but . . . but . . . she may come, mayn’t she?
Kitty : You want her, Chris?
Chris : Yes.
Kitty : Then, of course. As often as you like.
Margaret : It’s good of you.
Kitty : Please . . . don’t thank me. Chris wants you to come. (There is a tap at the door L.) Come in!
[Jenny comes in.
Jenny : Oh, you’re here, Kitty.
Kitty : Yes, I came in by mistake. I forgot to knock, as you did. Mrs. Grey is just going. I’ll go and see that the car is brought round.
[She goes out.
Margaret : Oh, it’s all so wrong!
Chris : I’m sorry for her . . . I don’t want to hurt her . . . she doesn’t mean to be unkind . . . but . . . but I don’t know her, and . . . and . . . oh . . . she must understand. You’ll come again . . . to-morrow?
Margaret : Yes, Chris. Please . . . where are my things?
Jenny : They’ll be in the hall. I'll get them.
Chris : I'll go. What were they?
Margaret : My hat and raincoat and an umbrella. Thank you so much.
[Chris goes out.
​Jenny : Well?
Margaret : Oh, poor boy. Poor boy . . . he’s so lost. And she . . . she’s hurt. What can I do? He wants me . . . he’s happy with me. I can’t stay away when he’s like this.
Jenny : Of course not.
Margaret : Oh, but it’s all so dreadful . . . for all of you. They must make him well . . . cure him . . . bring him back. They will, won’t they?
Jenny : I hope so.
Margaret : You’ll have doctors . . . brain doctors. They know so much. There are so many cases . . . now . . . since the war. They’ll cure him . . . give him back to you.
Jenny : If they can.
Margaret : Oh, they can . . . they will. I know they will. And till then . . . she mustn’t be jealous. I know it must hurt her . . . but he isn’t himself . . . it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just like . . . I was his nurse, that’s all. But he’ll get better . . . they’ll know how . . . they'll bring him back to her . . . and all of this.
Jenny (very gently) : And you? What about you?
Margaret : Till then . . . I’ll go on coming . . . because he wants me . . . till then. . . .
CURTAIN