SCENE III.

SCENE: _The same, next morning._

[MERTON _looking worried and anxious comes hastily into the room and takes up his letters that are lying in a pile, evidently having come by the morning post. He looks through them as he stands. Enter_ MRS PLANT].

MRS PLANT [_stands silent for a moment; he looks up, then goes on with his letters_]. Might I speak to you for a moment, sir?

MERTON [_irritably_]. I'm sorry, Mrs Plant--not now--I haven't a moment.

MRS PLANT. It's only that I don't know what to do for the best. [MERTON _has sat down and is cutting open his letters, throwing things into waste-paper basket, etc_]. If it were only for one night it wouldn't matter so much.

MERTON. One night! What do you mean?

MRS PLANT. It's about the spare room, sir. At least--at least--Jane's in such a state.

MERTON. I can't discuss Jane now.

MRS PLANT. She's been so dreadfully frightened because she went into the room and that--person--pointed a revolver at her. [MERTON _looks up quickly, perturbed_]. And now she is shrieking and carrying on so that I am afraid people will hear her in the street.

MERTON [_dashing his letters down_]. Shrieking? What hysterical fools women are. Where is she?

MRS PLANT. In the basement, sir.

[MERTON _goes out hastily and angrily_. MRS PLANT _alone, listens. Shakes her head. A ring at the door._ MRS PLANT _goes out to open, leaving door open. Then comes in again._]

[MRS PLANT _shows in_ LADY GAIRLOCH _and her daughter_].

LADY GAIRLOCH [_smiling, to_ MRS PLANT]. We've come very early, I fear. Will you tell Dr Merton that we are leaving for Scotland to-day instead of to-morrow, and we have come in on our way to King's Cross as I wanted to explain something to him about his journey when he comes to us next week? Is he very busy? I won't keep him a moment.

MRS PLANT. He will be here directly, my lady. He's just speaking to someone.

LADY GAIRLOCH. Oh, don't disturb him. We have a few minutes to spare. We are a little earlier than I thought.

MRS PLANT. Thank you, my lady. [_She goes out_].

LADY GAIRLOCH. Betty!... I'm rather agitated--I can't help it.

BETTY [_smiling_]. About our coming so early?

LADY GAIRLOCH. About the whole thing.

BETTY. Dear mother, you needn't be.

LADY GAIRLOCH. I wonder if we know him well enough.

BETTY. Surely we saw enough of him during Mary's illness to know him very well indeed, and after all, since he saved my sister's life I ought to be grateful to him, and perhaps something more. [_Smiling_].

LADY GAIRLOCH. Yes, I suppose he did save her life--at any rate she got well when he was attending her.

BETTY. Oh, mother, of course he saved it. And how delightful he was all through that anxious time.

LADY GAIRLOCH. Are you quite sure of yourself?

BETTY. Absolutely.

LADY GAIRLOCH. Because I do feel that by asking him to stay at Gairloch we are giving him an answer.

BETTY [_smiling happily_]. Yes, before he has definitely asked the question!

LADY GAIRLOCH. I think he has been afraid of what the answer would be.

BETTY [_smiling_]. He need have no fear.

LADY GAIRLOCH [_with a smile and a sigh_]. Well, no one will be able to say it's a brilliant marriage, or a worldly marriage.

BETTY. I'm not a worldly person. Nor is he, I am sure. There is nothing small or mean about him.

LADY GAIRLOCH. I wonder what your father would have said to it.

BETTY. I believe my dear father would have wanted me to be happy whatever kind of marriage it was. Come, darling mother, don't have any more misgivings. I feel as certain of myself as--that the sun is shining in at that window!

[LADY GAIRLOCH _smiles and kisses her. They go towards the window at the back, into which the sun is shining_].

BETTY. Even the view from Devonshire Street looks passable on such a morning as this!

[_As they are standing at the back window looking out, so that the door in front room is hidden from them_, MERTON _bursts in, followed by_ JANE].

JANE [_violently_]. I've always been used to be respectable, sir, and I won't stay, not another hour, in the house with that female as you brought in to sleep last night. And then her trying to shoot me dead when I went into the room! I leave your service to-night, sir, and I won't stay where there are such goings on.

MERTON [_furious_]. Look here, if you want to go, go to the devil! and be damned! Not another word will I hear. [_He pushes her out and shuts the door, turns back into the room_]. Damn it all! What shall I do?

[LADY GAIRLOCH _and her daughter look at one another, horrified. They come forward._ MERTON _starts on seeing them, and stands rooted to the ground. He recovers himself and speaks in his usual tones_].

MERTON. Lady Gairloch! I didn't know you were here. I ought to have been told. I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. [_He shakes hands with her, and then with_ BETTY]. Won't you sit down?

LADY GAIRLOCH. Oh, thank you, we really have hardly a moment [_they remain standing, embarrassed_]. We came in on our way to King's Cross to tell you about the cross-country journey to Gairloch. Your housekeeper said you were speaking to somebody and that you would be here directly. So I told her not to disturb you. [_A pause_].

MERTON. I'm afraid you must have heard that very unpleasant scene I had with one of my maids.

LADY GAIRLOCH [_not quite knowing what to say_]. We couldn't help hearing.

MERTON. She's a hysterical sort of girl.

LADY GAIRLOCH. Oh, is she?

MERTON [_attempting to speak lightly_]. It's rather difficult sometimes for a bachelor to deal with his household.

[_Looks smiling at_ LADY GAIRLOCH, _who also smiles, but looks uncomfortable. He is standing with his back to the door. It opens slowly while he is speaking and_ KIRSTIN _stands in the doorway_. DR MERTON _sees_ LADY GAIRLOCH _looking at the door_. _He turns round and sees_ KIRSTIN. _She comes forward a step and looks at_ MERTON _with an appealing smile_].

MERTON. Oh, Kirstin--[_then he turns to_ LADY GAIRLOCH]--This is Miss Thwaite who came last night. Kirstin, I am sorry, I'm very much engaged just now, would you mind going to your room again till I call you? [_Goes and opens the door._ KIRSTIN _goes out silently, looking at him as she goes. He comes back into the room--an embarrassed silence_]

LADY GAIRLOCH. Miss Thwaite, did you say?

MERTON [_hesitating_]. Yes, I knew her in Australia. She arrived in England yesterday, and she came here for the night.

LADY GAIRLOCH [_coldly_]. I see.

BETTY [_to help him out_]. From Australia? A long way.

MERTON. Very--she comes from the wilds, you know. [_Talking as though to cover his embarrassment_]. She's quite uncivilised, really.

BETTY. Is she quite in her right mind? She looked so strange.

MERTON [_catching at suggestion_]. No, I don't think she is quite right--that's the difficulty.

LADY GAIRLOCH. It must be a grave responsibility for you.

MERTON. It really is. To tell the truth I was utterly taken aback when she appeared--I was rather horrified, in fact. [_Making up his mind_]. It's rather a long story--[_Enter_ KIRSTIN].

MERTON. Kirstin.... [_she stops him_].

KIRSTIN. You needn't to send me away again. I'm going off myself. But first I want to tell you that I've heard what you was saying. I didn't know where to go as your housekeeper was upstairs--and so I just waited in the passage and I couldn't help hearing what you said. I have terrible good ears, as you know, and I heard you tell these two ladies that I'm not in my right mind. I suppose that means I'm mad. [_To_ LADY GAIRLOCH]. I want to tell you that I'm not mad.

[LADY BETTY, _evidently alarmed, draws nearer to her mother_. LADY GAIRLOCH _not quite sure_].

LADY GAIRLOCH. I am afraid, Dr Merton, we must not wait any longer.

KIRSTIN. Will you wait for one moment while I tell you the truth, instead of what you've been told? I _am_ in my right mind, and it's a lie to say I am not--even if you do think I look so. I want to tell you why I came here. I came because he asked me.

[LADY GAIRLOCH _starts, and looks at_ MERTON _for corroboration_].

Fifteen years ago he was nearly killed in Australia. My father and I found him lying by the roadside and picked him up for dead. We took him home and kept him and looked after him. When we had made him well and he went away back to England, he told me I was to come and see him in London, at his house. I am a rough woman and know nothing of fine folks' ways, and I didn't know but they spoke the truth like us. So I came.

[BETTY _draws near to her mother and looks at her as much as to say, 'Can this be true?'_]

KIRSTIN [_answering_ BETTY'S _gesture_]. It's all true. Here is the paper he wrote out for me with his name on it, and the street he lived in, and the number of his house and all for me to come. It's got very rubbed out--it was written fifteen years ago, you see. [_Reads aloud from paper_] 'Henry Merton, 147 Devonshire Street, London. Come to London, Kirstin. Don't forget.'

[_She hands the paper to_ LADY GAIRLOCH, _who reads it to herself_, BETTY _looking over her shoulder_].

LADY GAIRLOCH [_returning paper to_ KIRSTIN]. Yes, I see. [_A pause_].

KIRSTIN. I didn't forget. He did.

LADY GAIRLOCH [_looks at watch_]. Come, Betty, it is more than time for us to go. [_They go towards door_].

MERTON. Lady Gairloch, I should like to explain--

LADY GAIRLOCH. I'm afraid we really mustn't stay now, or we shall miss our train.

MERTON [_at door with them_]. Then ... you kindly said you would tell me about the cross-country journey?

LADY GAIRLOCH [_after hesitating_]. I will write to you.

MERTON [_in a quick whisper to_ BETTY _as she goes out_]. May I tell you the whole story when I come to Scotland?

BETTY [_with a shade of constraint in her manner_]. I want you to tell me.

KIRSTIN [_who has overheard_]. Oh! [_She looks after them as much as to say, He is going to tell her about me_].

[MERTON _re-enters room, agitated_].

KIRSTIN. Oh, those things you said about me! they're too dreadful to think of.

MERTON. I'm sorry I said them, and I'm sorry you heard them. But what of the things you said about me, before that girl--the girl I want to marry?

KIRSTIN [_half to herself_]. To marry?

MERTON. Yes, to marry. Why should it surprise you?

KIRSTIN. I never thought of that.

MERTON. You have made her believe all sorts of things about me--that I'm an ungrateful cad, and that I had forgotten all you did for me.

KIRSTIN [_simply_]. But you had forgotten.

MERTON. I had forgotten till last night that I had written that paper, I must admit--but, after all, it was a sort of joke [_she looks at him_]. I never for a moment imagined you would come, and you said you wouldn't....

KIRSTIN. Oh, if I hadn't! But I thought you were so different. I thought you'd remember--and be like you were in Australia. Oh, I didn't know you'd be like this and that you would be--oh! _horrified_ when I came! Oh, if I could forget _that_! I almost can't believe it now. It's so dreadful--because I had believed something so different--when you was over there with us. I thought there could be no one else like you. I'd never seen such a fine gentleman before, and I thought there was no one else so clever or so good or so handsome. Though father he was always saying you was just like other folk, neither better nor worse. Oh, all those years that I've lived for you and thought you'd be glad when I came. When my father died and I was left, the first thing I thought was 'At last! Now I can go. Some day I'll go to him.' And you had told me you were poor and hadn't enough money and wanted more--and I made up my mind I'd bring you some. And I worked day after day--I worked that hard, to make money for you--and I made it, and I saved it, and when I had sold my sheep and got enough, I brought it to you and every day and every hour of that fearful long journey I've thought of when I should get here, and how strange it would be--and I should be rather frightened. But then I thought you'd be so glad to see me, and so glad I had brought you so much money. And then I got here ... and you weren't so very glad. I knew that last night. But I didn't know you were horrified. And you wouldn't take the money I had worked so hard to get. And you say I've spoilt everything--and it's all been for nothing, all these years--worse than nothing.

MERTON. Kirstin! What can I say.... I know it looks as if I had been such a rotten beast--but--

KIRSTIN [_stopping him_]. You needn't to say no more. I'm going away--I'm going back again. I'd best be in the wilds like you said. I can't understand what people are like here.

MERTON. No, no--you can't go away like that--I must know what you are going to do--I must see what we can arrange. [KIRSTIN _shakes her head_. MERTON _perturbed, looks at his watch_]. I was going out of London this morning--I ought to be leaving now. [_Hesitates, then makes up his mind_]. I'll telephone and say I'm prevented. I shan't be five minutes. Wait here for me. [_Goes out hastily_].

[KIRSTIN _alone, looks at the paper again, reads aloud '147 Devonshire Street, London'--looks round her as if taking a last look at the house, puts away the paper, takes from her neck the bale of notes which was still slung round her, and puts it on the table, opens door with precaution, listens, then goes swiftly out. Street door heard shutting_].

SLOW CURTAIN.

THE END.

THE PARACHUTE.

A Comedy in One Act.

_Characters in the order of their appearance_:

MRS MAITLAND. MARY (_her daughter_). TOM WELBURN. CANON HARTLEY (_the Rector of the Parish_). MRS WELBURN.

SCENE: MRS MAITLAND'S _little house, looking on to a village green_. MRS MAITLAND _knitting at a small table_ R., _a book open beside her_. MARY _doing nothing, sitting on chair down stage from window_ L.

MRS MAITLAND. My dear child, what is the matter? You never seem able to settle to anything now.

MARY. The truth is, mamma, I'm bored.

MRS MAITLAND. Bored, when after our long separation during the war you've come home to live with your mother?

MARY. That's just it.

MRS MAITLAND. What's just it?

MARY. I've come home to live with my mother.

MRS MAITLAND. Mary! Do you mean to say you don't like it?

MARY. Not at all.

MRS MAITLAND. Oh, how dreadful this is! Oh, the girls of the present age!

MARY. That's what you're always saying, mamma, but I can't help being of the present day, can I? I'd cheerfully be of another time if I could. [_Going to window_]. Nothing ever happens here--nothing exciting, and I, who have been a V.A.D. in France during the war, and have conveyed wounded officers by myself to hospitals at midnight [MRS MAITLAND _holds up her hands in horror_] look out of the window for months and see nothing at all. [_Goes aimlessly to window--gives a cry_].

MRS MAITLAND. What is it?

MARY. Something is happening at last! Look, look, something is coming down from the sky. Oh, what can it be? Yes, it's a parachute and a man hanging to it. He'll come down in the garden; I must render first aid quick.

[_Rushes out_].

MRS MAITLAND [_agitated, goes to window, looks out, starts_]. Yes. He has fallen! Oh, dear! Oh, I can't bear that kind of sight. He must be knocked to pieces. [_Covers her face with her hands_]. Mary has picked him up; she is wonderful.

[_Goes to door_ L. MARY _appears at door_ L, _supporting_ WELBURN].

MRS MAITLAND. Oh, Mary, is he dead?

WELBURN [_speaking very feebly_]. No, no, I think not--thank you very much.

MARY. He is suffering from shock. [_In a business-like tone_]. Lie down, warmth, and quiet--cover extremities.

WELBURN [_feebly_]. Yes, quite right--keep me warm and quiet and cover my extremities.

MARY. Now you are not to talk.

WELBURN. Very well, I won't. But I must tell you in case you should ask me--I remember nothing before it happened.

MARY. Of course, that's very customary with an accident.

WELBURN [_emphatically_]. It's more than that--I'm so anxious there should be no mistake about it--I've quite lost my memory. I've forgotten who I am--clean forgotten--it's no use your asking me, it would only excite me.

MRS MAITLAND. No, we won't, of course, my dear young man.

WELBURN. I like being called young man. It's a compliment when one's turned forty.

MARY [_alert_]. Oh, you do know that?

WELBURN [_alarmed_]. No, I don't. What did I say?

MARY. You said you were turned forty.

WELBURN. No, no, I couldn't have said that if I don't know who I am. I have no idea.

MRS MAITLAND. It's too sad, really. The poor fellow! He may have a wife and family, and we can't tell them he is here.

WELBURN. No, no, you can't. I should be sure to remember my wife if I had one. Don't tell me about it--it will excite me.

MARY. Mother, he really must be kept quiet.

MRS MAITLAND. Oh, dear, it's all so mysterious and disquieting, Mary. I shall go round to the Rectory and tell the Canon about it. He is so wise.

MARY [_anxious to get her away_]. Yes, do, mamma. I'm sure that will be the best thing.

MRS MAITLAND [_going out_]. I shall be back in a minute. I shan't put on my hat. I'll just take my parasol to look respectable.

WELBURN. Where is she going?

MARY. To the Rectory. It is just across the green.

WELBURN. That sounds very soothing--a Rectory across the green.

MARY. Yes. Now don't talk any more; try to be quite quiet. Are you comfortable?

WELBURN. Immensely.

MARY. Now close your eyes and I daresay you will go to sleep.

WELBURN. Yes, that's what I always do when I go to sleep--I close my eyes first.

MARY [_humouring him_]. Of course; then do it now.

WELBURN [_jumping up with a shriek_]. Ah, ha! you there! You standing there!

MARY. What is it? Why are you speaking so loud?

WELBURN. You don't think I'm mad? Don't you mind being left alone with someone who has dropped from the sky and has lost his memory?

MARY. Not in the least. I dealt with many worse things during the war.

WELBURN. Admirable one! Have you a good head, a ready brain, a resourceful mind?

MARY. Yes, I have all those.

WELBURN. I'll tell you what I want--I need a confederate.

MARY. What?

WELBURN. Oh, this time you think I'm mad, don't you?

MARY. Well, something like it.

WELBURN. Not in the least. I'm as sane as you are. Listen, I must have a confederate to get me out of this hole.

MARY. What hole?

WELBURN. Why, my disappearing from my home, jumping from an aeroplane, and tumbling into your garden.

MARY. Your home! But I thought you had forgotten it!

WELBURN. Nothing of the kind.

MARY. Not lost your memory?

WELBURN. Of course not. That was only to put you off the scent.

MARY. Off the scent?

WELBURN. Yes, yes, yes. Now look here, my dear young lady--can I trust you?

MARY [_speaking very calmly_]. Certainly.

WELBURN. Very well then--this is my sad story. I'm tired of life--I'm tired of the world and of all the things that are happening in it.

MARY. And you wish to commit suicide? Yes, that is a very common symptom.

WELBURN. Not at all! On the contrary. I don't mean to take my own life--that is, I want to take it for my own and nobody else's. And my wife will insist on my sharing hers. It's a perfect mania with her, and I can't bear it any longer and I mean to disappear. She has opinions about everything in creation, and I have none!

MARY. None? That must be very dull.

WELBURN. Dull? If I were left to myself I shouldn't be dull for a moment. I have two cherished pursuits--golf and music. I play golf and I play the 'cello. And that would be enough for me. I don't want to know about the things they talk about in the papers. My wife does. She went to College, and a woman always comes away from the 'Varsity with her head chock full of ideas--I never knew one who didn't--it's something awful. And my wife has views about every blessed thing that's mentioned in the papers, and she will talk to me about them all. I can't stand it any longer. I don't want to hear about Politics or Commerce or New Art or Advanced Science, or the rates or the taxes or the Axes or inflammation of the lung or inflation of the currency or the Moplahs or the blacks or the whites or the browns, or the East and the West, and the Tigris, and the Thames, and Ireland, and Mesopotamia, and the Dublin Parliament whose name I can't pronounce, and the London Parliament whose doings I can't follow, and Bridge, and the film, and the censors, and the traffic, and the Czecho-Slovaks, and the Japanese, and the Murmanskis, and Bolsheviskis, and the Colonies, and the bank rate, and deferred shares, and preferred shares, and committees, and conferences, and Coalitions, or France, or Belgium, or Italy, or America, and the Colonies, and the Dominion, and Australia, and housing questions, and the servant problem, and the League of Nations, and amalgamations, or reparations, or war babies, or adoption, or the Church, or the stage, or the Cubists, or the psycho-analysts, or the unemployed, and the doles, and the Poles, the South Pole, or the North Pole, or the Polish Poles, or the telephone, or the penny postage, and the trams, and the strikes, and the weather, and prize-fighting, and the football matches. She has views on 'em all! And she tries to make me share them by suggestion. Can you wonder that I fly?

MARY. Oh, is that why you came by aeroplane?

WELBURN. No, no, you mistake. I use the word fly in a metaphorical sense. I mean, can you wonder that I keep trying to escape?

MARY. Oh, you have done it before?

WELBURN. I have tried four times. The first time by train, the next by steamer, the third by car, the fourth on foot, and every time that too devoted woman has got me back. The moment I disappear she circulates a description of me and I'm found at once. It's up in all the police offices. 'A man of good appearance, looking between 35 and 40, of middle height, pleasant and genial countenance. Probably suffering from loss of memory; answers to the name of Tom.' You see that's enough to identify me at once.

MARY. Then do you suffer from loss of memory?

WELBURN. Of course I don't. But when I'm found I have to say something, so I pretend I don't know who I am.

MARY. And what happens next?

WELBURN [_groaning_]. Well, then she tries bringing my memory back by suggestion! And when I can't bear that any longer, I pretend I've got it back. And now this last--the fifth--time I've tried a new way. I've come by aeroplane and jumped out.

MARY. That ought to cover up your tracks.

WELBURN. Yes, I'll tell you what I did. I have a pal who is mad on flying and who was going to do a stunt in Norfolk, somewhere near King's Lynn, so I went to Paddington and took a ticket for a small station due west of London to put them off the scent--a place I saw in Bradshaw called Camperton.

MARY. Camperton! Oh, yes.

WELBURN. Never heard of it before. We went off north-east--at least I hope we did, but I believe the fellow lost his way or something went wrong. He was turning round and round and his confounded things made such a row I couldn't make him hear, so I thought I'd chance it and I jumped out. I have practised jumping with his parachute several times before. And now I haven't an idea where I am, but a good bit north-east of London, I hope.

MARY. Wretched man, you are five miles from Camperton.

WELBURN. Good heavens! Then I'm undone! She'll come down in the car and find me as sure as I'm alive. Oh, my dear girl, what am I to do? You'll help me, won't you?

MARY. Of course I will. She'll never think of looking for you here.

WELBURN. Won't she!

MARY [_looking from window_]. Oh, there's my mother! and the Rector coming. Quick, quick, lie down again.

[WELBURN _lies down and is covered_].

WELBURN. Who is the Rector?

MARY. Canon Hartley.

WELBURN. Hartley--not Bob Hartley?

MARY. Yes, his name is Robert.

WELBURN. Good Lord! He was with me at Oxford. We used to make music together, and he used to pretend I played out of tune. Good gracious, what are we to do?

MARY. You be quiet, and remember you have lost your memory, and I'll play up. I'm a great authority on shocks and accidents.

[_Enter the_ RECTOR _and_ MRS MAITLAND].

RECTOR [_heartily, but speaking with a little precaution_]. Well, Miss Mary, at work again! at work again!

MARY. Take care, Rector, I think he's dozing.

RECTOR. He's lost his memory, Mrs Maitland tells me.

MARY. Entirely.

RECTOR. These cases are most distressing. Have you no clue at all to where he came from or who he is?

MARY [_firmly_]. None whatever. The only thing we can do is to let him lie still for the present.

[WELBURN _groans_].

RECTOR. He seems to be suffering, but it is uncertain. He may be quite unconscious that he is groaning. I have seen a good many of these cases and have indeed had a good deal of success in dealing with them. I should like to see this man, that I may judge for myself of his condition.

MARY. No, no, Rector--really if he is disturbed I will not answer for the consequences.

RECTOR [_stiffly_]. Really, my dear young lady, may I say that you take a little too much on yourself. It is most important to do everything we possibly can to prove this poor fellow's identity. As Rector of this parish I feel it to be my duty to investigate this case. [_Goes toward_ WELBURN, _and lifts up the cover_. WELBURN _rolls over with his face away from him and groans_].

RECTOR [_soothingly_]. Now, now, my poor friend, I won't disturb you. [WELBURN _groans again_]. I only want to help.

WELBURN. Keep off! Get out! Go away! [_rolls over_].

RECTOR. Do you know, I believe I know that voice!

MARY. You are exciting him dreadfully.

RECTOR. All the same, I think I know this man, and I must see his face. [_He bends over_ WELBURN _and succeeds in seeing his face_]. Yes, I do! Isn't that amazing!

MARY and MRS MAITLAND. You know him?

RECTOR. Yes, unless I'm strangely mistaken, we were at Oxford together; his name is Welburn.

MRS MAITLAND. How providential!

MARY. But are you sure you are not strangely mistaken?

RECTOR. My dear young lady, older people are right sometimes.

MARY. Everyone is mistaken at times.

MRS MAITLAND. Not the Rector.

RECTOR. It is my duty to do what we can to help my poor friend back to his normal condition. I shall interrogate him quite quietly--nothing to excite him. Welburn! Welburn! [WELBURN _looks at him vaguely_].

WELBURN. What does that mean?

RECTOR. Isn't that your name? Welburn, I said.

WELBURN. I can't remember what my name is. I don't know. I can't imagine.

RECTOR [_to the others_]. There isn't a doubt that it's Welburn. [_To_ WELBURN]. Look here, old boy, don't you remember the good old times we had at Oxford when we used to make music together?

WELBURN. Music? No.

RECTOR. Don't you remember the Beethoven Sonata in A and that place in the last movement where you always got that E on the A string out of tune--

WELBURN [_loudly_]. Out of tune!

RECTOR [_excited_]. There, you see he remembers! Yes, yes; you remember that E.

WELBURN [_catching himself up_]. What E?

RECTOR. The E on the A string.

WELBURN. What's an A string? Why is there an E on it?

RECTOR. You know that surely: you used to be such a good 'cello player.

WELBURN. Good what?

RECTOR. 'Cello player--this sort of thing, you know. [_Pretending to play on a 'cello._ WELBURN _looks at him vaguely, then tries to imitate him_].

WELBURN. Oh, is that what it is? Like that? No, I don't remember. Why should I have done like that?

MARY. I'm sure this must be doing him harm.

RECTOR. My dear girl, it is not. Leave him to me. He had a glimmer just now of recollection. It may gradually come back to him.--Come now, you remember the pretty girls at Somerville?

[WELBURN _shakes his head and groans again_].

RECTOR. Come now, nothing to groan at in that. Do you remember that charmer in pink? Who got a First, by Jove!

WELBURN. A First! [_Groans_].

RECTOR. Remember that?

WELBURN. Remember what?

RECTOR. The girl at Somerville.

WELBURN [_blankly_]. I don't know. The girl where?

RECTOR. At Somerville, dear friend, at Somerville. [_To the others_]. It needs an infinite patience and kindness to deal with these sad cases. At Somerville, the ladies' college, you know.

WELBURN. I don't know.

RECTOR. And yet at that time you seemed interested in her.

WELBURN. I tell you I don't remember. I remember nothing! I've lost my memory and I've lost my senses, and I don't know who I am or how I came here or anything. And I don't know who you are and why you're going on talking.

RECTOR. Quite so, quite so, don't excite yourself, pray.

WELBURN. It's you who are exciting me with all this chattering and wanting me to remember this and remember that. You're doing me a great deal of harm, and I tell you what, if I don't know anything that happened in the past I do know what's going to happen in the future, and that is that I shall punch your head in a minute if you ask me any more questions--so now! [_Behaves as if he were mad_].

[_He jumps up_].

RECTOR [_retreating_]. Oh, pray, dear sir, keep calm. [_Trying to smile_]. No need for you to punch my head or any one else's.

WELBURN. I'm not so sure.

RECTOR [_to the others_]. What a sad condition to find him in. But there isn't a doubt that he's Welburn.

WELBURN. What's that you're saying--that I'm Welburn? What's that? Don't call me names. You take care not to say it again.

RECTOR. My dear sir, I won't say it if you don't like it. I'll leave you to rest a little longer, and I will call again.

WELBURN. No, don't you call again, please.

RECTOR. Dear sir, don't be agitated.

MARY. Now you lie down again, and you shall not be disturbed.

WELBURN. Thank you very much. [_Lies down_--MARY _covers him and he draws the things over his head and groans_].

MRS MAITLAND. Oh, Rector, what do you think about it? I do depend on your advice.

RECTOR. My dear lady, you are positively trembling. These harrowing scenes are not good for you. Come out into the air for a few minutes. Walk across the green with me to the Rectory; the air will do you good.

MRS MAITLAND [_faintly_]. Yes, I think I will. [_To_ MARY]. We are within call if you want us.

MARY [_ironically_]. Thank you, mamma. [MARY _watches them out of window_]. They're gone.

[WELBURN _sits up_].

WELBURN. The old fool badgering me about Oxford! That was an inspiration, wasn't it, pretending to be mad. How was it? Was that all right?

MARY. Splendid.

WELBURN. Upon my word, I feel almost mad in reality when I think of his saying that I played out of tune, and raking up the Somerville girls, and all that.

MARY. Had you really forgotten the charmer in pink?

WELBURN. Forgotten her! [_Groans_]. How could I? I married her.

MARY. What! Was she--

WELBURN. My wife? Of course she was--of course she _is_--that's the point I mind most.

MARY. She must be very clever if she took a First.

WELBURN. That's just it. She is--that's the awful part. Now I'm not clever, you know. I didn't take a First. She knows that, so she thinks she has a better head than I have, and upon my soul, I don't know what to do about it.

MARY. About your head?

WELBURN. No, hers--I mean about hers and mine together. That's the mistake--

MARY. But you're trying to remedy it, by separating then?

WELBURN. Yes, but I have never succeeded. That's where the brains come in, you see. Each time I try to get away and hide from her, she gets me back again. Oh! if only I can pull it off this time.

[WELBURN _gets up, pulls his coat down, etc., and begins strolling up and down, his hands in his pockets while he thinks it out_].

MARY. Take care you're not seen from outside. It's all right--they're still talking at the Rectory gate. They're both wondering evidently what to do next.

WELBURN. I say, it's really awfully funny, isn't it?

[_They both laugh_].

MARY. I must say it is. But it'll take some doing, you know. What is your plan?

WELBURN. A very simple one. I shall be left some time with you to look after me, and when that happens you will avert your eyes for a moment, and I shall open the door and walk out. That's always the best thing to do when you're shut up anywhere if it can be managed.

MARY. If! Yes! But I'm game to do anything.

WELBURN. Look here, you really are one of the best. How can I ever thank you!

MARY. Well, really, I'm awfully grateful to you for having brought excitement into our lives.

WELBURN. Oh, they are coming back this way. Then I must subside again. [_Jumps on to couch._ MARY _covers him_].

MARY [_looking from window_]. Oh! this really is a wonderful day. Something else is happening. There's a car driving through the village--

WELBURN [_anxiously_]. A car?

MARY. It's going very slowly--it's going to stop.

WELBURN. It's detectives! I'm sure! I'm lost.

MARY. No, it's being driven by a lady--she's alone.

WELBURN. A lady! [_Gets under the rug_].

MARY. She is looking at a map. Now she is speaking to my mother. She must be asking the way--

WELBURN. Your mother will bring her in here, and I'm a dead man.

MARY. Yes--my mother is bringing her in.

[_Enter_ MRS MAITLAND _and the_ RECTOR, _with_ MRS WELBURN].

MRS MAITLAND. Mary, I want the large scale map. This lady is asking the way to Camperton.

MRS WELBURN. Thank you very much. [_She is tall and masculine looking, and speaks in a deep voice_].

MRS WELBURN [_looking at_ WELBURN]. You have an invalid here?

MRS MAITLAND. Yes, this poor gentleman fell from an aeroplane into our garden--at least he jumped from a parachute. He might have been killed.

MRS WELBURN. How much is he hurt?

MRS MAITLAND. I don't think he is very much hurt, but he is suffering from shock and loss of memory, and ought to be kept absolutely quiet.

MRS WELBURN. Loss of memory, indeed? I have a good deal of experience in dealing with loss of memory, as a near relation of mine frequently suffers from it. But I find that it always yields to suggestion. Have you tried that?

MARY. We have not. From the patient's condition it was evidently most essential that he should be kept quiet.

MRS WELBURN. Suggestion would do him no harm. You can suggest to a patient that he should be calm, and he becomes calm--and then after that it is very rare that loss of memory does not yield to further treatment--at least that is my experience.

RECTOR. I believe it would be a good thing to try suggestion in this case.

MRS WELBURN. Ah! You believe in it too? I am glad to hear this from one of your cloth.

RECTOR. I don't know that I do in every case. But this one has special interest for me, and I am anxious to try everything, as I know this man, although he has not so far recognised me.

MARY. He doesn't remember who he is himself.

MRS WELBURN. Quite a common symptom. But it is an extremely important factor in the case that you recognise him. Are you quite certain?

RECTOR. Absolutely. We were at Oxford together--his name is Welburn.

MRS WELBURN [_slowly_]. His name is Welburn? So is mine!

ALL. Yours!

MRS WELBURN [_advancing to couch and uncovering_ WELBURN]. Of course, yes, that's my husband. He is always doing it. Thomas!

[WELBURN _groans without moving_].

MRS WELBURN. Yes, that's the way he groans in his sleep when he has one of these attacks. He has had four of them--and he wanders away from home unconscious of his actions.

MRS MAITLAND. Oh, how sad!

MRS WELBURN. But he always recovers. Thomas! [_Shakes him_].

MARY. Oh, I'm afraid you will do him harm.

MRS WELBURN. Young lady, I am much obliged to you for your kind care of my husband, but now you had better leave him to me.

RECTOR. Quite so. [_He and_ MRS MAITLAND _nod at one another approvingly_].

[MRS WELBURN _pulls_ WELBURN _up--he sits up and looks blankly at her without recognition_].

MRS WELBURN. Thomas! Do you know me?

WELBURN. I don't. Who are you?

MRS WELBURN. I am your wife.

WELBURN. My wife? I don't think I've got one. At least I can't remember. [_As though trying to collect his thoughts_].

MRS WELBURN. Oh, you will remember presently. You'll get your memory back all right. Now look at me. Look straight into my eyes.

WELBURN. I don't like looking at you.

MRS WELBURN. He has these delusions at times, but they pass off. I will take him away with me in the car, at once, back to his home. Come, Thomas.

WELBURN. Where do you want me to go? [_To_ MARY, _with a forlorn hope_]. Can't you help me? I don't like going away with this stranger.

MARY [_to_ MRS WELBURN]. Do you mind my saying that we have no proof that this is your husband?

MRS MAITLAND. Oh, my dear Mary, it is so evident!

MRS WELBURN. No--now that was a sensible remark for a girl. Girls are generally foolish. You shall have proof. I can tell you what the motto and crest are on that signet ring he wears: the motto is _Semper Volans_ and the crest is a swallow. Though a goose would have been more appropriate. [_Takes his hand_]. There you may see for yourself.

RECTOR. So it is. Oh, my dear madam, we have every confidence in you, and we have only to congratulate you and your husband on being brought together by such a wonderful chance.

MRS WELBURN. Thank you very much. Come then, dear, we must go. [_Helping_ WELBURN _up_]. Lean on my arm--I daresay you still feel shaky.

[WELBURN _looks round him desperately, then thrusts his arm through hers. They go towards the door_].

MRS MAITLAND. Poor fellow!

MARY. Poor fellow, indeed!

RECTOR. I do hope he will soon recover his memory.

MRS WELBURN. I am quite sure he will. It always yields to suggestion.

[WELBURN _gives a loud groan, with one more look at_ MARY. _They go out_].

CURTAIN _as they pass out_.

A SECOND-CLASS DUKE.

The plot of this piece was suggested to the writer by the late Charles Brookfield. Under the title of _An Underground Journey_, it was successfully produced at a benefit matinée at the Comedy Theatre in February, 1893, with the following cast:

THE DUKE OF PECKHAM RYE CYRIL MAUDE. A RAILWAY GUARD WILLIAM WYES. MRS JENNINGS FANNY BROUGH.

It has now been re-written and brought up to date.

F. B.

1922.

A SECOND-CLASS DUKE.

_Characters._

THE DUKE OF PECKHAM RYE. TOM (_his friend_). MRS JENNINGS. A TICKET COLLECTOR. A RAILWAY GUARD.

SCENE: _A second-class railway carriage on the S.E. Railway._

_At Victoria Station, S.E. Line. A railway carriage seen endways; a passenger_ (TOM) _in it reading a paper_.

GUARD [_opening door_]. Here you are, sir; this train for Penge.

[DUKE _jumps into carriage breathless_; GUARD _whistles, train goes off. Tom in corner of carriage, reading paper, looks up_].

TOM [_before seeing who it is_]. Ran it fine that time! [_Sees_ DUKE] Hallo, it's you, Pecky!

DUKE. You, Tom! What an age since we've met.

TOM. Yes, it's a long time since the old Oxford days.

DUKE. Do you live in London?

TOM. Well--I live in Brixton.

DUKE. Brixton, do you?

TOM. Yes, we call it London.

DUKE. Oh, do you? It's quite a nice name for it.

TOM. Yes, it sounds well. And which of your palaces are you living in at this moment?

DUKE. Only in Grosvenor Square. I'm going to sell Castle Peckham.

TOM. Are you?

DUKE. Of course.

TOM. What a pity.

DUKE. That's not the worst misfortune--I haven't a cook.

TOM. Has anybody?

DUKE. Very few, I believe--what _I_ call a cook.

TOM. Are you flying from London, then?

DUKE. I'm going to look for one.

TOM. Well done! At Brixton?

DUKE. No, further away--she's at Penge.

TOM. Funny place to look for a cook.

DUKE. Why?

TOM. You'll know when you get there.

DUKE. The person I'm really looking for is her employer. She has a little country retreat outside Penge, made of five workmen's cottages knocked into one.

TOM [_disapprovingly_]. Five!

DUKE. Yes, I suppose there were no more to be had.

TOM. Very probable. Who is the employer?

DUKE. The Princess Blakowska.

TOM. A Princess! That promises well for the cook.

DUKE. Yes, I've been up to London, to try to find her in Berkeley Square. She was out. Now I'm going to see if she's at Penge. We've exchanged letters already--we've had a wonderful correspondence, even though it began on what is generally considered an unromantic subject. She came across my life at a time when it was overshadowed by misfortune; my French chef had just left me to go to America.

TOM. To be sure--he would.

DUKE. But she brought light into the gloom. I took up the _Times_ one morning in despair.

TOM. Yes, lots of people feel that way when they take up the _Times_.

DUKE. But that day I found comfort in it. I scanned the advertisements; then I read, "A Russian Princess strongly recommends her admirable cook." Imagine! I wrote to the Princess in words of burning anxiety. She answered. I wrote again. She replied by a letter breathing sympathy and comprehension in every line. Listen. [_He draws out letter and reads it_]. "The Princess Blakowska presents her compliments to the Duke of Peckham Rye. She deeply sympathises with the unfortunate predicament in which he finds himself, and will indeed be glad to hear that he has secured the services of an artist like Susan Jennings." What feeling! What tenderness! How she understands! Don't you see her? Can you not evoke her?

TOM. Well, I never had your imagination, you know, Pecky, especially as regards the ladies.

[_Train stops. Voice outside_: Brixton!]

Good-bye, old boy; good luck to you.

[_Gets out, shuts door after him and remains a moment leaning on it._]

DUKE. Do you like living here?

TOM. Very much. I have a wife and three children--and a cook!

DUKE. Wonderful family life!

TOM. Well, you buck up and get a family life, too. You are beginning at the right end, by the cook. Good-bye. Why do you travel second-class?

DUKE. Is it second? I meant to come third, like everyone else. I didn't know there were still seconds on this line.

[_Whistle sounds_].

TOM. Well, I'll leave you to your second-class solitude, unmolested by the millionaire or the pauper. [_Goes off_]. Ta, ta.

VOICE [_outside_]. Stop, stop! [_Enter_ MRS JENNINGS _hurriedly_].

GUARD. Stop! We can't stop. Come along, ma'am, or you'll be left behind. [_Opens door_].

MRS JENNINGS [_on platform looking at carriage_]. Is it empty?

GUARD [_impatiently_]. This end's empty.

MRS JENNINGS [_looking in_]. But the other isn't. There's a man. Some careless woman's forgotten her husband in the carriage.

GUARD. Are you going to get in, ma'am? If you're not, the platform's empty. You can have that to yourself if you like.

[MRS JENNINGS _gets in unwillingly: Guard bangs door, whistles, train goes_].

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, what a dust! [_sneezes violently_].

DUKE [_waking with a start_]. Oh! I beg your pardon!

MRS JENNINGS [_leaning back and panting in her corner_]. What for?

DUKE. For--for--seeing you so suddenly.

MRS JENNINGS. Well, I could hardly come in gradually, could I?

DUKE. No, madam, no--certainly not.

[MRS JENNINGS _pants_].

DUKE [_sympathetically_]. You seem a little out of breath!

MRS JENNINGS [_sharply_]. Yes, I'm quite out of it for the moment. I hope to have another supply in shortly, if you would only let me be quiet.

DUKE. Certainly, certainly, madam. In fact I shall not be sorry to gasp a little more myself, too.

[_They both lean back_].

MRS JENNINGS [_after a pause, fanning herself_]. And the fellow putting me into a second-class carriage, too. I knew what would happen if I came second-class.

DUKE [_sympathetically_]. That you would pant?

MRS JENNINGS. Pant! No! I mean that in a second-class it's impossible to keep one's self _to_ one's self as one would wish.

DUKE. Oh! You find it easier to be exclusive going third?

MRS JENNINGS. Third! I wasn't going third; I was going first, but I arrived in such a hurry, that I got into the carriage without stopping to look.

DUKE. That is exactly what happened to me, except that I meant to go third.

MRS JENNINGS. Oh! What! Am I travelling alone with a third-class passenger!

DUKE. You need not be alarmed, madam, I am the most harmless of men.

MRS JENNINGS. I will say you don't look much to be afraid of.

DUKE [_mortified_]. Oh, indeed! Thank you--thank you.

[_Leans back with his eyes shut_].

MRS JENNINGS [_aside, looking at him_]. He does look an inoffensive creature certainly.

DUKE [_opening his eyes, turning his collar up_]. There is a great draught in this carriage, don't you think so?

MRS JENNINGS. Yes, it's rather like a breezy common.

DUKE. I think the wind is coming in at that side.

MRS JENNINGS. I have no doubt whatever about it. I can tell by my hat. [_Pulling her hat straight_].

DUKE. Suppose you were to sit in this corner opposite me? I think you would feel it less.

MRS JENNINGS. Thank you. Perhaps I should. [_Moves over_].

[DUKE _goes to other end and shuts window_].

MRS JENNINGS [_aside--looking at him_]. Friendly little man--a commercial traveller, of course. [_Aloud_]. Do you travel?

DUKE. Invariably, when I'm in the train.

MRS JENNINGS. Ah, but I mean in ribbons and laces and that sort of thing.

DUKE [_surprised_]. No, madam; I generally travel in tweed unless I am in London, when I wear a black coat, and generally a black face and hands as well, especially in the train.

MRS JENNINGS. It is true that the smuts are very disagreeable. I really have a hard struggle sometimes to be fit to be seen. [_Looking complacently at her clothes_].

DUKE. I must congratulate you, madam, on your success in the struggle.

MRS JENNINGS. In my position it is so very essential that I should be well dressed.

DUKE [_amused_]. In your position?

MRS JENNINGS [_firmly_]. Yes, in my position. Now I'm not going to tell you what it is, so you needn't think it.

DUKE. My dear madam, I never dreamt of being so indiscreet. I only meant that it is evident that you must shine in society.

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, I shine all right, no doubt about that.

DUKE [_gallantly_]. I can well imagine it. Have you been out much in London this season?

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, I've hardly had a moment to myself the whole of the summer.

DUKE. Indeed! Dinners, balls, parties, I suppose, every night?

MRS JENNINGS. Every night, yes!

DUKE. And which do you consider the most tiring form of entertainment?

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, dinners, certainly--especially those very long ones.

DUKE. Ah, I see that like the rest of your sex, you don't seem to care much about the noble art of dining.

MRS JENNINGS. I assure you, you are very much mistaken. I flatter myself that if anyone in Europe understands that art, I do.

DUKE. Oh, then, how much we have in common!

MRS JENNINGS [_scornfully_]. You and me?

DUKE. Yes, don't you feel it yourself?

MRS JENNINGS. No, I can't say that I do. I don't like having much in common with people I meet in the train.

DUKE. Why not?

MRS JENNINGS. One never knows who they are.

DUKE. That is the beauty of it. I think that going about unknown is rather enjoyable.

MRS JENNINGS. It's a cheap enjoyment at any rate. [_Whistle heard_]. Oh, there's a horrid tunnel. Now we shall be smothered.

[_The stage becomes dark_].

DUKE [_loud_]. What a horrid noise!

MRS JENNINGS. What!

DUKE. What a horrid noise!

MRS JENNINGS. I can't hear.

DUKE. What?

MRS JENNINGS. I can't hear.

DUKE. I don't know what you say!

MRS JENNINGS. Hold your tongue--do!

DUKE [_shouting_]. What!

[_She makes him violent signs. The stage grows light again_].

MRS JENNINGS. What do you chatter for?

DUKE. Chatter, my dear madam? I thought you made a remark which I didn't quite catch.

MRS JENNINGS. You needn't have run after it in the tunnel.

DUKE. I really must apologise--it was my natural anxiety not to lose what you said.

MRS JENNINGS. Come, come, my good man, none of your cheap compliments. I'd keep those for third-class passengers if I were you.

DUKE [_dignified_]. Cheap, madam?

[_Voice outside_: Herne Hill!].

TICKET COLLECTOR [_opens door_]. Tickets, please.

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, I'm in the wrong class!

TICKET COLLECTOR. You must pay the difference, please, m'm.

MRS JENNINGS. Why?

TICKET COLLECTOR. Because it's the Company's rules. Come, be quick, please, m'm. A third-class passenger has no business in a second-class carriage.

MRS JENNINGS [_indignantly_]. Third-class! Now do I look like a third-class passenger?

TICKET COLLECTOR. Dear me, yes! Thirds is often smarter than firsts nowadays.

MRS JENNINGS. Well, I've got a first-class ticket. Now, perhaps you will tell me what the difference is and pay me.

TICKET COLLECTOR. No, I'm not going to pay you anything, m'm. It's no look-out of the Company's if parties choose to worsen themselves; but if you've got a first-class ticket, m'm, you may stay where you are, free of charge.

MRS JENNINGS [_sarcastically_]. Very kind, I'm sure.

DUKE. There'll be something to pay on my ticket. I think mine is a third-class.

TICKET COLLECTOR. Something to pay? I should rather think there is. Why can't you gents and ladies sort yourselves properly before you start, instead of mixing the Company's accounts in this way? It's sixteen and two-thirds per cent. since just before the Bank Holiday, added to 50 per cent. in January, 1918. [_Does a rapid sum_]. That comes to 4½d. from Victoria to Penge.

[DUKE _is also busy with a pencil and paper_].

DUKE. I can't check these figures in such a hurry. How is it worked?

TICKET COLLECTOR. By your paying me 4½d., now, if you please. The train's late as it is.

DUKE. The railway company must make a good deal of money in these days, I should think.

TICKET COLLECTOR [_pocketing money_]. Well, sir, if time is money as people say, the Company must have lost a good deal of it at this station, through you keeping me here talking. Why, all the windows of the train is black with heads sticking out of them to know what we're waiting here for.

[_Waves flag, whistles and disappears_].

MRS JENNINGS. If I had thought of it, I might have got into a first-class at Herne Hill, and have avoided all this bother.

DUKE. That would have been cruel of you.

MRS JENNINGS. Cruel? Why?

DUKE. Because you would have left me alone.

MRS JENNINGS. Now look here, my good friend, just stick to your travelling and don't make any more pretty speeches to me; that's the worst of third-class people, you never know what they will say next.

DUKE. But my dear madam, I trust I have not said anything very startling--as yet.

MRS JENNINGS. No, not as yet, but I daresay you will in a minute.

DUKE. Well--I might be able to think of something--

MRS JENNINGS. Now, you take care what you're about. I know what travellers are.

DUKE. I should have thought that travelling made people pleasanter.

MRS JENNINGS. Ah! I see you don't understand--Never mind, I might have expected it, for you don't look very bright. I wonder where I put my newspaper. Oh, there it is.

DUKE [_handing it to her_]. Allow me.

MRS JENNINGS [_opens it out; reads_]. Thank you.

DUKE. Do you consider the _Ladies' Pictorial_ an agreeable paper?

MRS JENNINGS [_behind paper_]. Particularly agreeable--when I can enjoy it in peace. [_Holding up paper between them_].

DUKE [_half to himself_]. I, on the contrary, dread being left alone with my own thoughts! For I am haunted, possessed by one idea--the thought of that beautiful unknown--that lovely Russian I am seeking. [_Looking cautiously at his companion_]. Don't go on reading too long, madam; do talk to me again. Your fresh unconventionality takes me out of myself.

MRS JENNINGS [_moves her paper to one side, and looks angrily at him_]. My fresh what?

DUKE. Unconventionality.

MRS JENNINGS [_returning to her paper_]. I'll thank you not to use that language to me.

DUKE. I beg your pardon, I'm sure.

MRS JENNINGS. Granted. Now do be quiet and let me read my paper in peace.

DUKE [_with a sigh_]. Very well. [_He sits silent_].

[MRS JENNINGS _returns to paper and reads. Then she gives a shriek._ DUKE, _startled, looks up_].

DUKE. Dear lady, what is it?

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, such a thing I've found in this paper.

DUKE. What is it? Has the Government gone out again?

MRS JENNINGS. Not it! Something much more important! Here's a recipe for tomatoes with cream, which I've been looking for all my life.

DUKE [_much excited_]. Tomatoes! Oh, how immensely interesting! I am passionately fond of tomatoes!

MRS JENNINGS. So am I!

DUKE. I've been longing to find a new way of cooking them.

MRS JENNINGS. So have I! And now I shall know it!

DUKE. So shall I!

MRS JENNINGS. Listen! "Cut off the tops, scoop out the seeds without breaking the outer skin--put them into a large stew pan--"

DUKE [_listening intently_]. The seeds?

MRS JENNINGS [_impatiently_]. No, no, man! The tomatoes! "Put them in a stew pan with a gill of oil"--that's the secret of frying, mind you. Oil, not butter! Frying oil, the very best oil!

DUKE. Oh, an intelligent woman!

MRS JENNINGS. "Chop up some button mushrooms, some parsley, some endive, some celery, some olives, some oysters, some minced ham, and some fat bacon; fry all together for five minutes, add the yolks of two eggs and a tablespoonful of the thickest cream; fill some patties with the mixture, bake for ten minutes and serve. This makes a delicious dish." I'm sure it must be! A dish fit for a Duke!

DUKE. For a Duke--it must, indeed!

MRS JENNINGS. And to think I should have taken up the paper accidentally and come upon it all at once!

DUKE [_with feeling_]. Yes, indeed! It was a rare piece of good fortune. I am glad to see, madam, that you are interested in cookery.

MRS JENNINGS. I am, indeed! More than in anything else.

DUKE. Oh, how I admire you for it! Now that is my ideal of what a woman's interest in life should be. I love to picture her graceful feminine intelligence playing round such things as--as--

MRS JENNINGS. Tomatoes--

DUKE. Exactly. Tomatoes, or some other fragrant product of the soil. There is to me something repulsive in the idea of a woman's mind endeavouring to grapple with magisterial problems or political research. No! Let her rather spend hours of patient investigation amongst her saucepans, endeavouring to wring from them their secrets.

MRS JENNINGS. It doesn't take me as long as that, I can tell you, to find out if a saucepan is clean or dirty.

DUKE. I was thinking of the finer problems of the saucepan, the delicate combinations which reveal the true artist. Tell me, dear lady, do you ever go into your kitchen, and play the part of tutelary genius of your establishment?

MRS JENNINGS. Into my kitchen!!! I should think so! I'm hardly ever out of it.

DUKE. I was sure of it. I picture you flitting to and fro, presiding over the culinary labours of the day, surrounded by a bevy of deft and noiseless maidens--

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, as to that, the less we say about them, the better. Kitchen-maids are a set of careless, chattering hussies. They break the plates and burn the vegetables, and then they say their mothers are ill and they must go away.

DUKE [_puzzled_]. Oh! Are they such good daughters?

MRS JENNINGS [_contemptuously_]. Good fiddle-de-dees!

[_Voice outside_: Dulwich!]

MRS JENNINGS [_in excitement_]. Oh, look!

DUKE [_springing up and looking out_]. What is it?

MRS JENNINGS. Can't you see for yourself?

DUKE [_craning_]. I see nothing particular.

MRS JENNINGS. Nothing particular? [_Pointing_].

DUKE. Except the Crystal Palace. Is _that_ what you mean?

MRS JENNINGS. Well, isn't that enough for you?

DUKE. Oh, quite enough, I assure you.

MRS JENNINGS. Of course it's the Crystal Palace; there it is, shining away like anything.

DUKE. Do you consider it beautiful?

MRS JENNINGS. Beautiful? Never thought about that, but it's a most wonderful place.

DUKE. Oh, yes. The concerts you mean, and the fireworks.

MRS JENNINGS. I don't hold much with concerts, or fireworks either. It's the restaurant I am thinking of--the most wonderful restaurant with a chef in it who's the best in Europe, they say.

DUKE. Ah, that is wonderful, indeed.

MRS JENNINGS. I believe you. They say the Crystal Palace will soon get up again in the world if he stays there.

[_She is looking out of the window all this time. Whistle outside. Train goes on. She continues to read her paper_].

MRS JENNINGS [_reading her paper_]. Ah, here is something in your line--autumn fashions and materials.

DUKE. In my line?

MRS JENNINGS. Isn't that the line you take in your travelling?

DUKE [_gallantly_]. Sometimes, madam, when I am travelling my attention is forcibly called to these things--when I have such exquisite specimens of the art under my eyes.

MRS JENNINGS. There you are again with your pretty speeches--but I must say I think I do look rather nice to-day. I've a particular reason.

DUKE [_looking at her admiringly_]. It must be a very particular reason that would justify such a hat as that.

MRS JENNINGS. Yes, the hat I must admit is rather a triumph. You'd hardly believe that it's a last year's hat, would you?

DUKE. Last year's! Never!

MRS JENNINGS. It is though; it's a hat warmed up again, so to speak.

DUKE [_politely_]. But not hashed!

MRS JENNINGS. No, not hashed, I flatter myself. All my friends tell me it looks like a hat from Paris.

DUKE. So it does!

MRS JENNINGS. The fact is that last year, when I was in Paris, I saw one just like it and copied it.

DUKE. Ah, that explains everything. Do you know Paris well?

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, yes. I've been a good deal in Paris. I studied there--[_catching herself up_]

DUKE. Studied! What?

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, never you mind what; things a woman ought to know.

DUKE. I didn't know such things could be learnt in Paris.

MRS JENNINGS. Ah, that's because you're a John Bull, my good friend, and haven't seen enough of the world. You should try to get leave, and travel on the Continent for a month or so. It opens one's mind considerably.

DUKE. Have you been much abroad? Your mind seems to be particularly open.

MRS JENNINGS. Yes. I don't think there is much of the oyster about me.

DUKE. Where else have you been?

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, pretty much all over--to Germany, to Italy, and to all sorts of foreign watering places.

DUKE [_starting_]. Foreign watering places? Have you ever met any Russian Princesses?

MRS JENNINGS. Russian Princesses! I should think so, all over the place. They're as common as blackberries!

DUKE [_disconcerted_]. As common as blackberries!

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, dear, yes! Russian Princesses of all kinds, good, bad, and indifferent.

DUKE. I wonder to which of those kinds a Princess belongs that I am interested in?

MRS JENNINGS. What's her name?

DUKE. Princess Blakowska--

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, I know her quite well.

DUKE [_thrilled_]. You know her?

MRS JENNINGS. Intimately. [DUKE _is thrilled with excitement_]. I should call her one of the indifferent ones--indifferent to what people say about them, I mean.

DUKE. Princess Blakowska! But I imagine her to be a most delightful charming woman.

MRS JENNINGS. So she is, most beguiling--most fascinating, but, after all, that is not the way to prevent people talking about you. A good many people seem to talk about Princess Blakowska.

DUKE. Do they indeed? [_Saddened_].

MRS JENNINGS [_nodding her head_]. Lots.

DUKE. Oh, do tell me what sort of a woman she is.

MRS JENNINGS. Very good looking--

DUKE. I was sure of it--

MRS JENNINGS. Very elegant looking; she is about my height and figure. We can quite well wear each other's clothes. She's got rather a temper.

DUKE. A temper!

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, yes! And it's that--and other things that made it rather difficult--[_she checks herself_]. But in one respect she would be a woman after your own heart.

DUKE. I've no doubt she would!

MRS JENNINGS. She has a passion for cookery.

DUKE. I knew it!

MRS JENNINGS. She understands more about dining than any other woman I ever met.

DUKE. Oh, what a delightful friend to have!

MRS JENNINGS. Yes, she is! She has been a very good friend to me, I must say, until--until we parted company. But why are you so interested in her? Do you know her?

DUKE. No, I don't know her exactly--but--from what I have heard and imagine of her, I should like to.

MRS JENNINGS. I daresay you would. Lots of people feel the same.

DUKE. To tell you the truth, I have been making an attempt to see her to-day, but without success. I went to her house in Berkeley Square, but now I am trying elsewhere.

MRS JENNINGS. But I thought you didn't know her.

DUKE [_embarrassed_]. No more I do, but we've been exchanging letters.

MRS JENNINGS. Exchanging letters?

DUKE [_with a face of rapture_]. Yes, yes; I've had two letters from her.

MRS JENNINGS [_looking at him with a sudden thought_]. I wonder if you are looking for something, too?

DUKE. Something?

MRS JENNINGS [_archly_]. Something connected with a situation--for someone....

DUKE. I am, indeed.

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, I see; that explains everything.

DUKE [_puzzled_]. Explains everything?

MRS JENNINGS. Your interest in tomatoes....

[_Voice outside_: Sydenham Hill! _Train stops_].

MRS JENNINGS [_jumping up_]. Oh, look! look!

DUKE. What is it this time?

MRS JENNINGS [_pointing_]. Don't you see?

DUKE. I see the Crystal Palace again. Is it still that?

MRS JENNINGS. Of course. And here you get another view of it. You see that bulge in the roof?

DUKE. Oh, yes; you mean the dome--

MRS JENNINGS. Well, whatever it's called, there's where the restaurant is. Oh, it does shine, doesn't it? Oh, what a place, isn't it? I do love seeing it.

[_Loud whistle: train moves_].

There now we don't see it again till we get to Beckenham.

DUKE. What a pity! I get out at Penge.

MRS JENNINGS. Look here, my good friend, I'll give you a word of advice. It isn't my business, I daresay, but if I were you, I don't think I'd try for the Princess Blakowska.

DUKE [_embarrassed_]. Try--for her?

MRS JENNINGS. I don't think it's a situation you'd like.

DUKE. A situation I should like!

MRS JENNINGS. At least, I know it's a situation other people haven't liked.

DUKE. Other people!

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, dear me, yes! She's always changing!

DUKE. Always changing!

MRS JENNINGS. Always. You know your own business best, of course, but there's a word to the wise for you, if you choose to take it. After all, these things are always a gamble, one never knows how they will turn out.

DUKE [_bewildered_]. A gamble?

MRS JENNINGS. I'm embarked on the same sort of adventure myself--I'm going for the Duke of Peckham Rye.

DUKE [_bounding from his seat_]. What, madam?

MRS JENNINGS. I daresay it won't be an altogether easy job. They say he's a queer customer sometimes.

DUKE. Queer customer!

MRS JENNINGS. Yes, very.

DUKE. I wonder what else they say about him!

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, they say he's rather a fogey, of course.

DUKE. A fogey!

MRS JENNINGS. And very fond of the ladies.

DUKE [_pleased_]. Oh, is he?

MRS JENNINGS. And that he can't be five minutes with one without making himself agreeable to her.

DUKE. Well, I don't call that a fault.

MRS JENNINGS. No, I daresay not, but I know nothing about that, of course, as my relations with him have been entirely on a business footing.

DUKE. Your relations with him?

MRS JENNINGS. Yes, we have been exchanging letters for the last week.

DUKE. Exchanging letters for the last week! [_With a sudden idea--aside_]. Ha! can it be that--no--it is not possible!

MRS JENNINGS. You'd never guess what subject he's been corresponding with me about--not quite the sort of thing you'd expect from a Duke.

DUKE [_aside_]. I really believe it is! [_Aloud_] Can it be the subject we were speaking about just now? Is it--

MRS JENNINGS. Cooking? Yes, it is! Now what do you think of that for the Duke of Peckham Rye?

DUKE. Madam, [_with emotion_] your words almost convince me that what I have been expecting is a certainty--yes, I have guessed your secret!

MRS JENNINGS [_amazed_]. My secret. [_With an idea_]. Oh, you have guessed that what you are trying for, I am very near to?

DUKE [_bewildered_]. What I am trying for?

MRS JENNINGS. Well, then, to speak plainly--Princess Blakowska.

DUKE [_excited_]. Ah! You admit how nearly the mention of that name has touched you.

MRS JENNINGS. What's the use of denying it?

DUKE. No good! It would be useless, for my heart tells me too surely that I am right.

MRS JENNINGS. Your heart! What's that got to do with it?

DUKE. From the moment you spoke, I was interested in you. It began to dawn on me who you were--you spoke of being abroad in foreign watering places--interested in cookery. A wild thought darted into my mind, but I hardly dared to hope. [MRS JENNINGS _alarmed_]. Then you told me of your correspondence with the Duke, and my heart filled with delight.

MRS JENNINGS [_alarmed, aside_]. The man is mad, I do believe!

DUKE. Now I know that you are she whom I have been seeking! Oh, what unlooked for happiness! You are the Princess Blakowska!

MRS JENNINGS. I, the Princess Blakowska!

DUKE. Yes, I have discovered your secret--don't try to conceal it any more.

MRS JENNINGS [_terrified, looks at him_]. Oh!

DUKE. You are, aren't you? Oh, say I am right!

MRS JENNINGS [_humouring--heartily_]. Of course, yes, of course! I am the Princess Blakowska.

DUKE. Oh, what unlooked for good fortune! That after thinking of you, dreaming of you, going across London to seek you in vain, Providence should bring us together!

MRS JENNINGS [_aside_]. This is horrible! He is quite out of his mind! Oh, what shall I do? Where is the cord of communication with the guard! Outside that window probably! [_Aloud_]. I feel a little faint--I should like to have some air. [_Goes to window_].

DUKE. Oh, pray let me!

MRS JENNINGS. No, thank you! I would rather do it myself!

[_Goes to window_, DUKE _standing too_].

DUKE. Do let me!

MRS JENNINGS. No, no, I tell you. [_Puts her hand out, gropes wildly about_]. Nothing! [_Tries to shut window_].

DUKE. Now, really, you must let me do that for you.

MRS JENNINGS [_returning quickly to her seat, aside_]. They're so fearfully strong at times!

DUKE [_struggling_]. This is certainly a stiff window.

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, where can that cord be? [_Sees a printed notice--reads it_]. No, the story of a man who was fined forty shillings for travelling in the wrong class. I shall have to pay £2 for travelling with a madman!

DUKE. At last!

[_Comes back and sits beside_ MRS JENNINGS. _She jumps into_ DUKE'S _seat opposite_].

DUKE [_smiling tenderly_]. And now, dear Princess, that I know your name, will you not try and guess mine?

MRS JENNINGS [_aside_]. This is positively awful! It's like a fairy tale. He'll eat me if I don't guess right.

DUKE. Can't you guess?

MRS JENNINGS. Well, I'm not sure!

DUKE. It is a name which is not unknown.

MRS JENNINGS [_pretending to have an idea_]. I have it; you are a dethroned king!

DUKE [_disappointed_]. No--you are laughing at me--I am not a king.

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, well--you are a Duke, then!

DUKE. A Duke, yes!

MRS JENNINGS [_aside_]. Lucky shot!

DUKE. Is it possible you can still doubt who I am, after the letters we have exchanged? [MRS JENNINGS _bewildered_]. I am the Duke of Peckham Rye!

MRS JENNINGS [_humouring him_]. Oh, indeed, yes! The Duke of Peckham Rye! Very nice, indeed!

DUKE [_aside_]. How curiously she takes it! She doesn't seem a bit interested. [_Aloud_]. I hoped, madam, after what had passed between us, that you would, perhaps, not be sorry that we should meet.

MRS JENNINGS. Of course, yes--I am delighted to make your acquaintance.

DUKE. Shall I confess to you with what a subtle mysterious charm my fancy had already, and rightly, invested you? The very paper on which your letters were written, the perfume which clung to them was dear to me.

MRS JENNINGS [_trying to conceal her uneasiness_]. Oh, yes, indeed, yes! Most kind of you, I'm sure!

DUKE. I have them next my heart--see, here they are!

[_Brings out packet of letters, shows her the cover of one_].

MRS JENNINGS [_starts and shrieks_]. What--what do I see! Princess Blakowska's hand-writing!

DUKE. Your own writing--yes, of course.

MRS JENNINGS [_agitated_]. But tell me--tell me quickly--how did you get that letter?

DUKE [_surprised_]. In the simplest way in the world, since it was addressed to me--my name's on the envelope!

MRS JENNINGS [_gasping_]. What--the Duke of Peckham Rye! It is not possible that you are really! Oh!

DUKE [_alarmed_]. What can be the matter, my dear Princess?

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, Princess! Was there ever such a situation as this? It is awful!

DUKE [_aside_]. Upon my word, I believe she is not quite right!

[MRS JENNINGS _suddenly bursts into fits of laughter_. DUKE _looks excessively alarmed_. MRS JENNINGS _hides her face in her hands, rocks backwards and forwards_].

DUKE [_looking at her terrified_]. That is the way a maniac laughs for nothing. I wonder if there is a cord. Perhaps, madam, you would like a little air? [_Goes to window, lets it down, and feels furtively about outside_]. [_Sadly_]. No, there is nothing.

MRS JENNINGS [_going into fresh fits of laughter_]. It's no use--I've already looked!

DUKE [_more and more mystified_]. You--have--already--looked?

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, I must laugh! I do beg your pardon, your Grace, but the whole thing is too extraordinarily absurd. You would never guess for whom I took you!

DUKE. For whom did you take me?

MRS JENNINGS. First for a commercial traveller--

DUKE. A commercial traveller!

MRS JENNINGS. And then--and then--oh, it is too dreadful!--for a cook!

DUKE. A cook! Me!

MRS JENNINGS. Yes, you, your Grace! Did you ever hear anything like it; but, after all, you took me for a Princess.

DUKE. But who are you, then? You told me you were the Princess Blakowska.

MRS JENNINGS. Yes, but I'm not--I told you that to humour you.

DUKE. Upon my word! To humour me?

MRS JENNINGS. Yes! Because I thought you were mad.

DUKE. And I thought _you_ were mad. One of us is, certainly!

MRS JENNINGS. It isn't me!

DUKE. Then why were you laughing in that insane way?

MRS JENNINGS [_laughing again_]. I was laughing to think how surprised you would be if you knew who I was.

DUKE. And who are you then? [_Impatiently_].

MRS JENNINGS [_hesitating_]. Oh, your Grace! you will never forgive me!

DUKE. Well, what is it?

MRS JENNINGS. Look inside your letter again, your Grace, the one Princess Blakowska wrote to you.

DUKE. What is all this mystery about? [_Opens letter and reads_]. "She will be glad to hear that he has secured the services of an artist like Susan Jennings." Well?

MRS JENNINGS. Now, can't you guess who I am? I am not the Princess Blakowska, your Grace, I am not, indeed; and yet--that letter concerns me.

DUKE [_gasping, looks at her transfixed_]. What! Is it possible that you are--

MRS JENNINGS. Susan Jennings! Yes! Oh, pray forgive me, it is not my fault that you thought I was the Princess.

DUKE. And you're the cook! [MRS JENNINGS _bows her head silently_]. What a precious fool I've been making of myself. But then why did you pretend you were somebody else? You said you were a first-class passenger.

MRS JENNINGS [_with dignity_]. Excuse me, your Grace! I didn't pretend. I had to come first because I'm on my way to call on your Grace. I'm still with the Princess at Penge till the end of the week. I went to your house at Grosvenor Gardens, and you were out, and now I am going back. I thought it was more suitable, everything considered, that I shouldn't run the risk of travelling with servants or people of inferior position.

DUKE. But my dear Princess--I mean, my dear madam--tut-tut--I mean, my good woman, what do you call yourself?

MRS JENNINGS. An artist.

DUKE. An artist! Yes, that was what the Princess said.

MRS JENNINGS. And, oh, your Grace, I _should_ like to try those tomatoes for you.

DUKE. Those tomatoes! Well, Mrs Jennings, if you are sure you can be discreet and silent, and will reveal to no one what has passed between us to-day--

MRS JENNINGS. Oh, the grave is chatty, I do assure you, compared to me.

[_Voice outside_: Penge! GUARD _puts his head inside window unseen by them_].

DUKE. Very well, then, you may consider yourself engaged.

MRS JENNINGS [_enraptured_]. Engaged! Oh!!

GUARD [_loud_]. Penge! [DUKE _and_ MRS JENNINGS _start and pick up papers, etc._]. Well, this is a business-like betrothal as ever I see! [_Aloud_]. This is your station, sir. Better come out and have the rest of the ceremony on the platform.

DUKE [_getting out_]. Look here, my man--none of your insolence!

[DUKE _gets out loftily_].

MRS JENNINGS [_speaking to_ GUARD _at window_]. You mustn't speak to him like that; he's the Duke of Peckham Rye.

GUARD. Ah, yes, likely! And you're a Member of Parliament, I suppose. _All_ right!

[_He walks a little further away_].

DUKE [_coming to window--says hesitatingly_]. One thing I should like to ask, Mrs Jennings--I believe it is customary--why did you leave Princess Blakowska?

MRS JENNINGS [_sarcastically_]. Why? Well, of course, I left her--with her goings on!

DUKE [_startled_]. What!

[CURTAIN _comes down quickly as the_ GUARD'S whistle is heard].

* * * * *

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE

Occasional missing punctuation has been silently added. In a very few instances, "you" was substituted for "your" and vice versa, as required by the context. A missing final "s" was added on a couple of occasions. In one instance, where the same word appeared at the end of one line and the beginning of the next, one of the two was removed.

The following substantive changes were made:

In KIRSTIN, scene III, "past" was changed to "post" in

[MERTON] (...) takes up his letters that are lying in a pile, evidently having come by the morning post

In the same scene, "It if" was changed to "If it" in Mrs Plant's speech:

If it were only for one night it wouldn't matter so much.

In THE PARACHUTE, near the beginning, the ending "ing" was added to the word "support" in:

[_Goes to door_ L. MARY _appears at door_ L, _supporting_ WELBURN].