Act-Drop
The Stage represents the Deacon’s room,as in Tableau I.Fire light.Stage dark.A pause.Then knocking at the door,C.Cries without of‘Willie!’ ‘Mr. Brodie!’The door is burst open.
Doctor,Mary, aMaidservantwith lights.
Doctor. The apartment is unoccupied.
Mary. Dead, and he not here!
Doctor. The bed has not been slept in. The counterpane is not turned down.
Mary. It is not true; it cannot be true.
Doctor. My dear young lady, you must have misunderstood your brother’s language.
Mary. O no; that I did not. That I am sure I did not.
Doctor(looking at door). The strange thing is . . . the bolt.
Servant. It’s unco strange.
Doctor. Well, we have acted for the best.
Servant. Sir, I dinna think this should gang nae further.
Doctor. The secret is in our keeping. Affliction is enough without scandal.
Mary. Kind heaven, what does it mean?
Doctor. I think there is no more to be done.
Mary. I am here alone, Doctor; you pass my uncle’s door?
Doctor. The Procurator-Fiscal? I shall make it my devoir. Expect him soon. (Goes out withMaid.)
Mary(hastily searches the room). No, he is not there. She was right! O father, you can never know, praise God!
Mary,to whomJeanand afterwardsLeslie
Jean(at door). Mistress . . . !
Mary. Ah! Who is there? Who are you?
Jean. Is he no hame yet? I’m aye waitin’ on him.
Mary. Waiting for him? Do you know the Deacon? You?
Jean. I maun see him. Eh, lassie, it’s life and death.
Mary. Death . . . O my heart!
Jean. I maun see him, bonnie leddie. I’m a puir body, and no fit to be seen speakin’ wi’ the likes o’ you. But O lass, ye are the Deacon’s sister, and ye hae the Deacon’s e’en, and for the love of the dear kind Lord, let’s in and hae a word wi’ him ere it be ower late. I’m bringin’ siller.
Mary. Siller? You? For him? O father, father, if you could hear! What are you? What are you . . . to him?
Jean. I’ll be the best frien’ ’at ever he had; for, O dear leddie, I wad gie my bluid to help him.
Mary. And the . . . the child?
Jean. The bairn?
Mary. Nothing! O nothing! I am in trouble, and I know not what I say. And I cannot help you; I cannot help you if I would. He is not here; and I believed he was; and ill . . . ill; and he is not—he is . . . O, I think I shall lose my mind!
Jean. Ay, it’s unco business.
Mary. His father is dead within there . . . dead, I tell you . . . dead!
Jean. It’s mebbe just as weel.
Mary. Well? Well? Has it come to this? O Walter, Walter! come back to me, or I shall die. (Leslieenters,C.)
Leslie. Mary, Mary! I hoped to have spared you this. (ToJean.) What—you? Is he not here?
Jean. I’m aye waitin’ on him.
Leslie. What has become of him? Is he mad? Where is he?
Jean. The Lord A’michty kens, Mr. Leslie. But I maun find him; I maun find him.
Mary,Leslie
Mary. O Walter, Walter! What does it mean?
Leslie. You have been a brave girl all your life, Mary; you must lean on me . . . you must trust in me . . . and be a brave girl till the end.
Mary. Who is she? What does she want withhim? And he . . . where is he? Do you know that my father is dead, and the Deacon not here? Where has he gone? He may be dead, too. Father, brother . . . O God, it is more than I can bear!
Leslie. Mary, my dear, dear girl . . . when will you be my wife?
Mary. O, do not speak . . . not speak . . . of it to-night. Not to-night! O not to-night!
Leslie. I know, I know dear heart! And do you think that I whom you have chosen, I whose whole life is in your love—do you think that I would press you now if there were not good cause?
Mary. Good cause! Something has happened. Something has happened . . . to him! Walter . . . ! Is he . . . dead?
Leslie. There are worse things in the world than death. There is O . . . Mary, he is your brother!
Mary. What? Dishonour! . . . The Deacon! . . . My God!
Leslie. My wife, my wife!
Mary. No, no! Keep away from me. Don’t touch me. I’m not fit . . . not fit to be near you. What has he done? I am his sister. Tell me the worst. Tell me the worst at once.
Leslie. That, if God wills, dear, that you shall never know. Whatever it be, think that I knew it all, and only loved you better; think that your true husband is with you, and you are not to bear it alone.
Mary. My husband? . . . Never.
Leslie. Mary . . . !
Mary. You forget, you forget what I am. I am his sister. I owe him a lifetime of happiness and love; I owe him even you. And whatever his fault, however ruinous his disgrace, he is my brother—my own brother—and my place is still with him.
Leslie. Your place is with me—is with your husband. With me, with me; and for his sake most of all. What can you do for him alone? how can you help him alone? It wrings my heart to think how little. But together is different. Together . . . I join my strength, my will, my courage to your own, and together we may save him.
Mary. All that is over. Once I was blessed among women. I was my father’s daughter, my brother loved me, I lived to be your wife. Now . . . ! My father is dead, my brother is shamed; and you . . . O how could I face the world, how could I endure myself, if I preferred my happiness to your honour?
Leslie. What is my honour but your happiness? In what else does it consist? Is it in denying me my heart? is it in visiting another’s sin upon the innocent? Could I do that, and be my mother’s son? Could I do that, and bear my father’s name? Could I do that, and have ever been found worthy of you?
Mary. It is my duty . . . my duty. Why will you make it so hard for me? So hard, Walter so hard!
Leslie. Do I pursue you only for your good fortune, your beauty, the credit of your friends, your family’s good name? That were not love, and I love you. I love you, dearest, I love you. Friend, father, brother, husband . . . I must be all these to you. I am a man who can love well.
Mary. Silence . . . in pity! I cannot . . . O, I cannot bear it.
Leslie. And say it was I who had fallen. Say I had played my neck and lost it . . . that I were pushed by the law to the last limits of ignominy and despair. Whose love would sanctify my jail to me? whose pity would shine upon me in the dock? whose prayers would accompany me to the gallows? Whose but yours? Yours! . . . And you would entreat me—me!—to do what you shrink from even in thought, what you would die ere you attempted in deed!
Mary. Walter . . . on my knees . . . no more, no more!
Leslie. My wife! my wife! Here on my heart! It is I that must kneel . . . I that must kneel to you.
Mary. Dearest! . . . Husband! You forgive him? O, you forgive him?
Leslie. He is my brother now. Let me take you to our father. Come.
After a pause,Brodie,through the window
Brodie. Saved! And the alibi! Man, but you’ve been near it this time—near the rope, near the rope. Ah boy, it was your neck, your neck you fought for. They were closing hell-doors upon me, swift as the wind, when I slipped through and shot for heaven! Saved! The dog that sold me, I settled him; and the other dogs are staunch. Man, but your alibi will stand! Is the window fast? The neighbours must not see the Deacon, the poor, sick Deacon, up and stirring at this time o’ night. Ay, the good old room in the good, cozy old house . . . and the rat a dead rat, and all saved. (He lights the candles.) Your hand shakes, sir? Fie! And you saved, and you snug and sick in your bed, and it but a dead rat after all? (He takes off his hanger and lays it on the table.) Ay, it was a near touch. Will it come to the dock? If it does! You’ve a tongue, and you’ve a head, and you’ve an alibi; and your alibi will stand. (He takes off his coat,takes out the dagger,and with a gesture of striking) Home! He fell without a sob. ‘He breaketh them against the bosses of his buckler!’ (Lays the dagger on the table.) Your alibi . . . ah Deacon, that’s your life! . . . your alibi, your alibi. (He takes up a candle and turns towards the door.) O! . . . Open, open, open! judgment of God, the door is open!
Brodie,Mary.
Brodie. Did you open the door?
Mary. I did.
Brodie. You . . . you opened the door?
Mary. I did open it
Brodie. Were you . . . alone?
Mary. I was not. The servant was with me; and the doctor.
Brodie. O . . . the servant . . . and the doctor. Very true. Then it’s all over the town by now. The servant and the doctor. The doctor? What doctor? Why the doctor?
Mary. My father is dead. O Will, where have you been?
Brodie. Your father is dead. O yes! He’s dead, is he? Dead. Quite right. Quite right . . . How did you open the door? It’s strange. I bolted it.
Mary. We could not help it, Will, now could we? The doctor forced it. He had to, had he not?
Brodie. The doctor forced it? The doctor? Was he here? He forced it? He?
Mary. We did it for the best; it was I who did it . . . I, your own sister. And O Will, my Willie, where have you been? You have not been in any harm, any danger?
Brodie. Danger? O my young lady, you have taken care of that. It’s not danger now, it’s death. Death? Ah! Death! Death! Death! (Clutching the table.Then,recovering as from a dream.) Death? Did you say my father was dead? My father? O my God, my poor old father! Is he dead, Mary? Have I lost him? is he gone? O, Mary dear, and to think of where his son was!
Mary. Dearest, he is in heaven.
Brodie. Did he suffer?
Mary. He died like a child. Your name . . . it was his last.
Brodie. My name? Mine? O Mary, if he had known! He knows now. He knows; he sees us now . . . sees me! Ay, and sees you, left how lonely!
Mary. Not so, dear; not while you live. Wherever you are, I shall not be alone, so you live.
Brodie. While I live? I? The old house is ruined, and the old master dead, and I! . . . O Mary, try and believe I did not mean that it should come to this; try and believe that I was only weak at first. At first? And now! The good old man dead, the kind sister ruined, the innocent boy fallen, fallen . . . ! You will be quite alone; all your old friends, all the old faces, gone into darkness. The night (with a gesture) . . . it waits for me. You will be quite alone.
Mary. The night!
Brodie. Mary, you must hear. How am I to tell her, and the old man just dead! Mary, I was the boy you knew; I loved pleasure, I was weak; I have fallen . . . low . . . lower than you think. A beginning is so small a thing! I never dreamed it would come to this . . . this hideous last night.
Mary. Willie, you must tell me, dear. I must have the truth . . . the kind truth . . . at once . . . in pity.
Brodie. Crime. I have fallen. Crime.
Mary. Crime?
Brodie. Don’t shrink from me. Miserable dog that I am, selfish hound that has dragged you to this misery . . . you and all that loved him . . . think only of my torments, think only of my penitence, don’t shrink from me.
Mary. I do not care to hear, I do not wish, I do not mind; you are my brother. What do I care? How can I help you?
Brodie. Help? helpme? You would not speak of it, not wish it, if you knew. My kind good sister, my little playmate, my sweet friend! was I ever unkind to you till yesterday? Not openly unkind? you’ll say that when I am gone.
Mary. If you have done wrong, what do I care? If you have failed, does it change my twenty years of love and worship? Never!
Brodie. Yet I must make her understand . . . !
Mary. I am your true sister, dear. I cannot fail, I will never leave you, I will never blame you. Come! (Goes to embrace.)
Brodie(recoiling). No, don’t touch me, not a finger, not that, anything but that!
Mary. Willie, Willie!
Brodie(taking the bloody dagger from the table). See, do you understand that?
Mary. Ah! What, what is it!
Brodie. Blood. I have killed a man.
Mary. You? . . .
Brodie. I am a murderer; I was a thief before. Your brother . . . the old man’s only son!
Mary. Walter, Walter, come to me!
Brodie. Now you see that I must die; now you see that I stand upon the grave’s edge, all my lost life behind me, like a horror to think upon, like a frenzy, like a dream that is past. And you, you are alone. Father, brother, they are gone from you; one to heaven, one . . . !
Mary. Hush, dear, hush! Kneel, pray; it is not too late to repent. Think of our father dear; repent. (She weeps,straining to his bosom.) O Willie, my darling boy, repent and join us.
To these,Lawson,Leslie,Jean
Lawson. She kens a’, thank the guid Lord!
Brodie(toMary). I know you forgive me now; I ask no more. That is a good man. (ToLeslie.) Will you take her from my hands? (LeslietakesMary.) Jean, are ye here to see the end?
Jean. Eh man, can ye no fly? Could ye no say that it was me?
Brodie. No, Jean, this is where it ends. Uncle, this is where it ends. And to think that not an hour ago I still had hopes! Hopes! Ay, not an hour ago I thought of a new life. You were not forgotten, Jean. Leslie, you must try to forgive me . . . you, too!
Leslie. You are her brother.
Brodie(toLawson). And you?
Lawson. My name-child and my sister’s bairn!
Brodie. You won’t forget Jean, will you? nor the child?
Lawson. That I will not.
Mary. O Willie, nor I.
To these,Hunt
Hunt. The game’s up, Deacon. I’ll trouble you to come along with me.
Brodie(behind the table). One moment, officer: I have a word to say before witnesses ere I go. In all this there is but one man guilty; and that man is I. None else has sinned; none else must suffer. This poor woman (pointing toJean) I have used; she never understood. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, that is my dying confession. (He snatches his hanger from the table,and rushes uponHunt,who parries,and runs him through.He reels across the stage and falls.) The new life . . . the new life! (He dies.)
Curtain.
DEDICATEDWITH ADMIRATION AND RESPECTTOGEORGE MEREDITH
Bournemouth:1stOctober1884.
George Frederick Austin, called ‘Beau Austin’
Ætat. 50
John Fenwick, of Allonby Shaw
,, 26
Anthony Musgrave, Cornet in the Prince’s Own
,, 21
Menteith, the Beau’s Valet
,, 55
A Royal Duke(Dumb show.)
Dorothy Musgrave, Anthony’s Sister
,, 25
Miss Evelina Foster, her Aunt
,, 45
Barbara Ridley, her Maid
,, 20
Visitors to the Wells
The Time is 1820. The Scene is laid at Tunbridge Wells. The Action occupies a space of ten hours.
Monday,November3d, 1890
CAST
George Frederick Austin
Mr.Tree
John Fenwick
Mr.Fred Terry
Anthony Musgrave
Mr.Edmund Maurice
Menteith
Mr.Brookfield
A Royal Duke
Mr.Robb Harwood
Dorothy Musgrave
Mrs.Tree
Miss Evelina Foster
MissRose Leclercq
Barbara Ridley
MissAylward
Visitors to the Wells
Spoken byMr. Treein the character of Beau Austin
‘To all and singular,’ as Dryden says,We bring a fancy of those Georgian days,Whose style still breathed a faint and fine perfumeOf old-world courtliness and old-world bloom:When speech was elegant and talk was fitFor slang had not been canonised as wit;When manners reigned, when breeding had the wall,And Women—yes!—were ladies first of all;When Grace was conscious of its gracefulness,And man—though Man!—was not ashamed to dress.A brave formality, a measured ease,Were his—and her’s—whose effort was to please.And to excel in pleasing was to reignAnd, if you sighed, never to sigh in vain.
But then, as now—it may be, something more—Woman and man were human to the core.The hearts that throbbed behind that quaint attireBurned with a plenitude of essential fire.They too could risk, they also could rebel,They could love wisely—they could love too well.In that great duel of Sex, that ancient strifeWhich is the very central fact of life,They could—and did—engage it breath for breath,They could—and did—get wounded unto death.As at all times since time for us beganWoman was truly woman, man was man,And joy and sorrow were as much at homeIn trifling Tunbridge as in mighty Rome.
Dead—dead and done with! Swift from shine to shadeThe roaring generations flit and fade.To this one, fading, flitting, like the rest,We come to proffer—be it worst or best—A sketch, a shadow, of one brave old time;A hint of what it might have held sublime;A dream, an idyll, call it what you will,Of man still Man, and woman—Woman still!
Musical Induction: ‘Lascia ch’io pianga’ (Rinaldo).
Handel.
The Stage represents Miss Foster’s apartments at the Wells.Doors,L. and C.;a window,L. C.,looking on the street;a table R.,laid for breakfast.
Barbara;to herMiss Foster
Barbara(out of window). Mr. Menteith! Mr. Menteith! Mr. Menteith!—Drat his old head! Will nothing make him hear?—Mr. Menteith!
Miss Foster(entering). Barbara! this is incredible: after all my lessons, to be leaning from the window, and calling (for unless my ears deceived me, you were positively calling!) into the street.
Barbara. Well, madam, just wait until you hear who it was. I declare it was much more for Miss Dorothy and yourself than for me; and if it was a little countrified, I had a good excuse.
Miss Foster. Nonsense, child! At least, who was it?
Barbara. Miss Evelina, I was sure you would ask. Well, what do you think? I was looking out of window at the barber’s opposite—
Miss Foster. Of which I entirely disapprove—
Barbara. And first there came out two of the most beautiful—the Royal livery, madam!
Miss Foster. Of course, of course: the Duke of York arrived last night. I trust you did not hail the Duke’s footmen?
Barbara. O no, madam, it was after they were gone. Then, who should come out—but you’ll never guess!
Miss Foster. I shall certainly not try.
Barbara. Mr. Menteith himself!
Miss Foster. Why, child, I never heard of him.
Barbara. O madam, not the Beau’s own gentleman?
Miss Foster. Mr. Austin’s servant. No? Is it possible? By that, George Austin must be here.
Barbara. No doubt of that, madam; they’re never far apart. He came out feeling his chin, madam, so; and a packet of letters under his arm, so; and he had the Beau’s own walk to that degree you couldn’t tell his back from his master’s.
Miss Foster. My dear Barbara, you too frequently forget yourself. A young woman in your position must beware of levity.
Barbara. Madam, I know it; but la, what are you to make of me? Look at the time and trouble dear Miss Dorothy was always taking—she that trained up everybody—and see what’s come of it: Barbara Ridley I was, and Barbara Ridley I am; and I don’t do with fashionable ways—I can’t do with them; and indeed, Miss Evelina, I do sometimes wish we were all back again on Edenside, and Mr. Anthony a boy again, and dear Miss Dorothy her old self, galloping the bay mare along the moor, and taking care of all of us as if she was our mother, bless her heart!
Miss Foster. Miss Dorothy herself, child? Well, now you mention it, Tunbridge of late has scarcely seemed to suit her constitution. She falls away, has not a word to throw at a dog, and is ridiculously pale. Well, now Mr. Austin has returned, after six months of infidelity to the dear Wells, we shall all, I hope, be brightened up. Has the mail come?
Barbara. That it has, madam, and the sight of Mr. Menteith put it clean out of my head. (With letters.) Four for you, Miss Evelina, two for me, and only one for Miss Dorothy. Miss Dorothy seems quite neglected, does she not? Six months ago, it was a different story.
Miss Foster. Well, and that’s true, Barbara, and I had not remarked it. I must take her seriously to task. No young lady in her position should neglect her correspondence. (Opening a letter.) Here’s from that dear ridiculous boy, the Cornet, announcing his arrival for to-day.
Barbara. O madam, will he come in his red coat?
Miss Foster. I could not conceive him missing such a chance. Youth, child, is always vain, and Mr. Anthony is unusually young.
Barbara. La, madam, he can’t help that.
Miss Foster. My child, I am not so sure. Mr. Anthony is a great concern to me. He was orphaned, to be sure, at ten years old; and ever since he has been only as it were his sister’s son. Dorothy did everything for him: more indeed than I thought quite ladylike, but I suppose I begin to be old-fashioned. See how she worked and slaved—yes, slaved!—for him: teaching him herself, with what pains and patience she only could reveal, and learning that she might be able; and see what he is now: a gentleman, of course, but, to be frank, a very commonplace one: not what I had hoped of Dorothy’s brother; not what I had dreamed of the heir of two families—Musgrave and Foster, child! Well, he may now meet Mr. Austin. He requires a Mr. Austin to embellish and correct his manners. (Opening another letter.) Why, Barbara, Mr. John Scrope and Miss Kate Dacre are to be married!
Barbara. La, madam, how nice!
Miss Foster. They are: As I’m a sinful woman. And when will you be married, Barbara? and when dear Dorothy? I hate to see old maids a-making.
Barbara. La, Miss Evelina, there’s no harm in an old maid.
Miss Foster. You speak like a fool, child: sour grapes are all very well but it’s a woman’s business to be married. As for Dorothy, she is five-and-twenty, and she breaks my heart. Such a match, too! Ten thousand to her fortune, the best blood in the north, a most advantageous person, all the graces, the finest sensibility, excellent judgment, the Foster walk; and all these to go positively a-begging! The men seem stricken with blindness. Why, child, when I came out (and I was the dear girl’s image!) I had more swains at my feet in a fortnight than our Dorothy in—O, I cannot fathom it: it must be the girl’s own fault.
Barbara. Why, madam, I did think it was a case with Mr. Austin.
Miss Foster. With Mr. Austin? why, how very rustic! The attentions of a gentleman like Mr. Austin, child, are not supposed to lead to matrimony. He is a feature of society: an ornament: a personage: a private gentleman by birth, but a kind of king by habit and reputation. What woman could he marry? Those to whom he might properly aspire are all too far below him. I have known George Austin too long, child, and I understand that the very greatness of his success condemns him to remain unmarried.
Barbara. Sure, madam, that must be tiresome for him.
Miss Foster. Some day, child, you will know better than to think so. George Austin, as I conceive him, and as he is regarded by the world, is one of the triumphs of the other sex. I walked my first minuet with him: I wouldn’t tell you the year, child, for worlds; but it was soon after his famous rencounter with Colonel Villiers. He had killed his man, he wore pink and silver, was most elegantly pale, and the most ravishing creature!
Barbara. Well, madam, I believe that: he is the most beautiful gentleman still.
To these,Dorothy,L
Dorothy(entering). Good-morning, aunt! Is there anything for me? (She goes eagerly to table,and looks at letters.)
Miss Foster. Good-morrow, niece. Breakfast, Barbara.
Dorothy(with letter unopened). Nothing.
Miss Foster. And what do you call that, my dear? (Sitting.) Is John Fenwick nobody?
Dorothy(looking at letter.) From John? O yes, so it is. (Lays down letter unopened,and sits to breakfast,Barbarawaiting.)
Miss Foster(toBarbara,with plate). Thanks, child; now you may give me some tea. Dolly, I must insist on your eating a good breakfast: I cannot away with your pale cheeks and that Patience-on-a Monument kind of look. (Toast, Barbara.) At Edenside you ate and drank and looked like Hebe. What have you done with your appetite?
Dorothy. I don’t know, aunt, I’m sure.
Miss Foster. Then consider, please, and recover it as soon as you can: to a young lady in your position a good appetite is an attraction—almost a virtue. Do you know that your brother arrives this morning?
Dorothy. Dear Anthony! Where is his letter, Aunt Evelina? I am pleased that he should leave London and its perils, if only for a day.
Miss Foster. My dear, there are moments when you positively amaze. (Barbara, somepâté, if you please!) I beg you not to be a prude. All women, of course, are virtuous; but a prude is something I regard with abhorrence. The Cornet is seeing life, which is exactly what he wanted. You brought him up surprisingly well; I have always admired you for it; but let us admit—as women of the world, my dear—it was no upbringing for a man. You and that fine solemn fellow, John Fenwick, led a life that was positively no better than the Middle Ages; and between the two of you, poor Anthony (who, I am sure, was a most passive creature!) was so packed with principle and admonition that I vow and declare he reminded me of Issachar stooping between his two burdens. It was high time for him to be done with your apron-string, my dear: he has all his wild oats to sow; and that is an occupation which it is unwise to defer too long. By the bye, have you heard the news? The Duke of York has done us a service for which I was unprepared. (More tea, Barbara!) George Austin, bringing the prince in his train, is with us once more.
Dorothy. I knew he was coming.
Miss Foster. You knew, child? and did not tell? You are a public criminal.
Dorothy. I did not think it mattered, Aunt Evelina.
Miss Foster. O do not make-believe. I am in love with him myself, and have been any time since Nelson and the Nile. As for you, Dolly, since he went away six months ago, you have been positively in the megrims. I shall date your loss of appetite from George Austin’s vanishing. No, my dear, our family require entertainment: we must have wit about us, and beauty, and thebel air.
Barbara. Well, Miss Dorothy, perhaps it’s out of my place: but I do hope Mr. Austin will come: I should love to have him see my necklace on.
Dorothy. Necklace? what necklace? Did he give you a necklace?
Barbara. Yes, indeed, Miss, that he did: the very same day he drove you in his curricle to Penshurst. You remember, Miss, I couldn’t go.
Dorothy. I remember.
Miss Foster. And so do I. I had a touch of . . . Foster in the blood: the family gout, dears! . . . And you, you ungrateful nymph, had him a whole day to yourself, and not a word to tell me when you returned.
Dorothy. I remember. (Rising.) Is that the necklace, Barbara? It does not suit you. Give it me.
Barbara. La, Miss Dorothy, I wouldn’t for the world.
Dorothy. Come, give it me. I want it. Thank you: you shall have my birthday pearls instead.
Miss Foster. Why, Dolly, I believe you’re jealous of the maid. Foster, Foster: always a Foster trick to wear the willow in anger.
Dorothy. I do not think, madam, that I am of a jealous habit.
Miss Foster. O, the personage is your excuse! And I can tell you, child, that when George Austin was playing Florizel to the Duchess’s Perdita, all the maids in England fell a prey to green-eyed melancholy. It was theton, you see: not to pine for that Sylvander was to resign from good society.
Dorothy. Aunt Evelina, stop; I cannot endure to hear you. What is he after all but just Beau Austin? What has he done—with half a century of good health, what has he done that is either memorable or worthy? Diced and danced and set fashions; vanquished in a drawing-room, fought for a word; what else? As if these were the meaning of life! Do not make me think so poorly of all of us women. Sure, we can rise to admire a better kind of man than Mr. Austin. We are not all to be snared with the eye, dear aunt; and those that are—O! I know not whether I more hate or pity them.
Miss Foster. You will give me leave, my niece: such talk is neither becoming in a young lady nor creditable to your understanding. The world was made a great while before Miss Dorothy Musgrave; and you will do much better to ripen your opinions, and in the meantime read your letter, which I perceive you have not opened. (Dorothyopens and reads letter.) Barbara, child, you should not listen at table.
Barbara. Sure, madam, I hope I know my place.
Miss Foster. Then do not do it again.
Dorothy. Poor John Fenwick! he coming here!
Miss Foster. Well, and why not? Dorothy, my darling child, you give me pain. You never had but one chance, let me tell you pointedly: and that was John Fenwick. If I were you, I would not let my vanity so blind me. This is not the way to marry.
Dorothy. Dear aunt, I shall never marry.
Miss Foster. A fiddlestick’s end! every one must marry. (Rising.) Are you for the Pantiles?
Dorothy. Not to-day, dear,
Miss Foster. Well, well! have your wish, Dolorosa. Barbara, attend and dress me.
Dorothy
Dorothy. How she tortures me, poor aunt, my poor blind aunt; and I—I could break her heart with a word. That she should see nothing, know nothing—there’s where it kills. O, it is more than I can bear . . . and yet, how much less than I deserve! Mad girl, of what do I complain? that this dear innocent woman still believes me good, still pierces me to the soul with trustfulness. Alas, and were it otherwise, were her dear eyes opened to the truth, what were left me but death?—He, too—she must still be praising him, and every word is a lash upon my conscience. If I could die of my secret: if I could cease—but one moment cease—this living lie; if I could sleep and forget and be at rest!—Poor John! (reading the letter) he at least is guiltless; and yet for my fault he too must suffer, he too must bear part in my shame. Poor John Fenwick! Has he come back with the old story: with what might have been, perhaps, had we stayed by Edenside? Eden? yes, my Eden, from which I fell. O my old north country, my old river—the river of my innocence, the old country of my hopes—how could I endure to look on you now? And how to meet John?—John, with the old love on his lips, the old, honest, innocent, faithful heart! There was a Dorothy once who was not unfit to ride with him, her heart as light as his, her life as clear as the bright rivers we forded; he called her his Diana, he crowned her so with rowan. Where is that Dorothy now? that Diana? she that was everything to John? For O, I did him good; I know I did him good; I will still believe I did him good: I made him honest and kind and a true man; alas, and could not guide myself! And now, how will he despise me! For he shall know; if I die, he shall know all; I could not live, and not be true with him. (She takes out the necklace and looks at it.) That he should have bought me from my maid! George, George, that you should have stooped to this! Basely as you have used me, this is the basest. Perish the witness! (She treads the trinket under foot.) Break, break like my heart, break like my hopes, perish like my good name!
To her,Fenwick,C.
Fenwick(after a pause). Is this how you receive me, Dorothy? Am I not welcome?—Shall I go then?
Dorothy(running to him,with hands outstretched). O no, John, not for me. (Turning,and pointing to the necklace.) But you find me changed.
Fenwick(with a movement towards the necklace). This?
Dorothy. No, no, let it lie. That is a trinket—broken. But the old Dorothy is dead.
Fenwick. Dead, dear? Not to me.
Dorothy. Dead to you—dead to all men.
Fenwick. Dorothy, I loved you as a boy. There is not a meadow on Edenside but is dear to me for your sake, not a cottage but recalls your goodness, not a rock nor a tree but brings back something of the best and brightest youth man ever had. You were my teacher and my queen; I walked with you, I talked with you, I rode with you; I lived in your shadow; I saw with your eyes. You will never know, dear Dorothy, what you were to the dull boy you bore with; you will never know with what romance you filled my life, with what devotion, with what tenderness and honour. At night I lay awake and worshipped you; in my dreams I saw you, and you loved me; and you remember, when we told each other stories—you have not forgotten, dearest—that Princess Hawthorn that was still the heroine of mine: who was she? I was not bold enough to tell, but she was you! You, my virgin huntress, my Diana, my queen.
Dorothy. O silence, silence—pity!
Fenwick. No, dear; neither for your sake nor mine will I be silenced. I have begun; I must go on and finish, and put fortune to the touch. It was from you I learned honour, duty, piety, and love. I am as you made me, and I exist but to reverence and serve you. Why else have I come here, the length of England, my heart burning higher every mile, my very horse a clog to me? why, but to ask you for my wife? Dorothy, you will not deny me.
Dorothy. You have not asked me about this broken trinket?
Fenwick. Why should I ask? I love you.
Dorothy. Yet I must tell you. Sit down. (She picks up the necklace,and stands looking at it.Then,breaking down.) O John, John, it’s long since I left home.
Fenwick. Too long, dear love. The very trees will welcome you.
Dorothy. Ay, John, but I no longer love you. The old Dorothy is dead, God pardon her!
Fenwick. Dorothy, who is the man?
Dorothy. O poor Dorothy! O poor dead Dorothy! John, you found me breaking this: me, your Diana of the Fells, the Diana of your old romance by Edenside. Diana—O what a name for me! Do you see this trinket? It is a chapter in my life. A chapter, do I say? my whole life, for there is none to follow. John, you must bear with me, you must help me. I have that to tell—there is a secret—I have a secret, John—O, for God’s sake, understand. That Diana you revered—O John, John, you must never speak of love to me again.
Fenwick. What do you say? How dare you?
Dorothy. John, it is the truth. Your Diana, even she, she whom you so believed in, she who so believed in herself, came out into the world only to be broken. I met, here at the Wells, a man—why should I tell you his name? I met him, and I loved him. My heart was all his own; yet he was not content with that: he must intrigue to catch me, he must bribe my maid with this. (Throws the necklace on the table.) Did he love me? Well, John, he said he did; and be it so! He loved, he betrayed, and he has left me.
Fenwick. Betrayed?
Dorothy. Ay, even so; I was betrayed. The fault was mine that I forgot our innocent youth, and your honest love.
Fenwick. Dorothy, O Dorothy!
Dorothy. Yours is the pain; but, O John, think it is for your good. Think in England how many true maids may be waiting for your love, haw many that can bring you a whole heart, and be a noble mother to your children, while your poor Diana, at the first touch, has proved all frailty. Go, go and be happy, and let me be patient. I have sinned.
Fenwick. By God, I’ll have his blood.
Dorothy. Stop! I love him. (BetweenFenwickand door,C.)
Fenwick. What do I care? I loved you too. Little he thought of that, little either of you thought of that. His blood—I’ll have his blood!
Dorothy. You shall never know his name.
Fenwick. Know it? Do you think I cannot guess? Do you think I had not heard he followed you. Do you think I had not suffered—O suffered! George Austin is the man. Dear shall he pay it!
Dorothy(at his feet). Pity me; spare me, spare your Dorothy! I love him—love him—love him!
Fenwick. Dorothy, you have robbed me of my happiness, and now you would rob me of my revenge.
Dorothy. I know it; and shall I ask, and you not grant?
Fenwick(raising her). No, Dorothy, you shall ask nothing, nothing in vain from me. You ask his life; I give it you, as I would give you my soul; as I would give you my life, if I had any left. My life is done; you have taken it. Not a hope, not an end; not even revenge. (He sits.) Dorothy, you see your work.
Dorothy. O God, forgive me.
Fenwick. Ay, Dorothy, He will, as I do.
Dorothy. As you do? Do you forgive me, John?
Fenwick. Ay, more than that, poor soul. I said my life was done, I was wrong; I have still a duty. It is not in vain you taught me; I shall still prove to you that it was not in vain. You shall soon find that I am no backward friend. Farewell.
Musical Induction: ‘The Lass of Richmond Hill.’
The Stage represents George Austin’s dressing-room.Elaborate toilet-table,R.,with chair;a cheval glass so arranged as to correspond with glass on table.Breakfast-table,L.,front.Door,L.The Beau is discovered at table,in dressing-grown,trifling with correspondence.Menteithis frothing chocolate.
Austin,Menteith
Menteith. At the barber’s, Mr. George, I had the pleasure of meeting two of the Dook’s gentlemen.
Austin. Well, and was his Royal Highness satisfied with his quarters?
Menteith. Quite so, Mr. George. Delighted, I believe.
Austin. I am rejoiced to hear it. I wish I could say I was as pleased with my journey, Menteith. This is the first time I ever came to the Wells in another person’s carriage; Duke or not, it shall be the last, Menteith.
Menteith. Ah, Mr. George, no wonder. And how many times have we made that journey back and forth?
Austin. Enough to make us older than we look.
Menteith. To be sure, Mr. George, you do wear well.
Austin.Wewear well, Menteith.
Menteith. I hear, Mr. George, that Miss Musgrave is of the company.
Austin. Is she so? Well, well! well, well!
Menteith. I’ve not seen the young lady myself, Mr. George; but the barber tells me she’s looking poorly.
Austin. Poorly?
Menteith. Yes, Mr. George, poorly was his word.
Austin. Well, Menteith, I am truly sorry. She is not the first.
Menteith. Yes, Mr. George. (A bell.Menteithgoes out,and re-enters with card.)
Austin(with card). Whom have we here? Anthony Musgrave?
Menteith. A fine young man, Mr. George; and with a look of the young lady, but not so gentlemanly.
Austin. You have an eye, you have an eye. Let him in.
Austin,Menteith,Anthony
Austin. I am charmed to have this opportunity, Mr. Musgrave. You belong to my old corps, I think? And how does my good friend, Sir Frederick? I had his line; but like all my old comrades, he thinks last about himself, and gives me not of his news.
Anthony. I protest, sir, this is a very proud moment. Your name is still remembered in the regiment. (Austinbows.) The Colonel—he keeps his health, sir, considering his age (Austinbows again,and looks atMenteith)—tells us young men you were a devil of a fellow in your time.
Austin. I believe I was—in my time. Menteith, give Mr. Musgrave a dish of chocolate. So, sir, we see you at the Wells.
Anthony. I have but just alighted. I had but one thought, sir: to pay my respects to Mr. Austin. I have not yet kissed my aunt and sister.
Austin. In my time—to which you refer—the ladies had come first.
Anthony. The women? I take you, sir. But then you see, a man’s relatives don’t count. And besides, Mr. Austin, between men of the world, I am fairly running away from the sex: I am positively in flight. Little Hortense of the Opera; you know; she sent her love to you. She’s mad about me, I think. You never saw a creature so fond.
Austin. Well, well, child! you are better here. In my time—to which you have referred—I knew the lady. Does she wear well?
Anthony. I beg your pardon, sir!
Austin. No offence, child, no offence. She was a very lively creature. But you neglect your chocolate I see?
Anthony. We don’t patronise it, Mr. Austin; we haven’t for some years: the service has quite changed since your time. You’d be surprised.
Austin. Doubtless. I am.
Anthony. I assure you, sir, I and Jack Bosbury of the Fifty-Second—
Austin. The Hampshire Bosburys?—
Anthony. I do not know exactly, sir. I believe he is related.
Austin. Or perhaps—I remember a Mr. Bosbury, a cutter of coats. I have the vanity to believe I formed his business.
Anthony. I—I hope not, sir. But as I was saying, I and this Jack Bosbury, and the Brummagem Bantam—a very pretty light-weight, sir—drank seven bottles of Burgundy to the three of us inside the eighty minutes. Jack, sir, was a little cut; but me and the Bantam went out and finished the evening on hot gin. Life, sir, life! Tom Cribb was with us. He spoke of you, too, Tom did: said you’d given him a wrinkle for his second fight with the black man. No, sir, I assure you, you’re not forgotten.
Austin(bows). I am pleased to learn it. In my time, I had an esteem for Mr. Cribb.
Anthony. O come, sir! but your time cannot be said to be over.
Austin. Menteith, you hear?
Menteith. Yes, Mr. George.
Anthony. The Colonel told me that you liked to shake an elbow. Your big main, sir, with Lord Wensleydale, is often talked about. I hope I may have the occasion to sit down with you. I shall count it an honour, I assure you.
Austin. But would your aunt, my very good friend, approve?
Anthony. Why, sir, you do not suppose I am in leading-strings?
Austin. You forget, child: a family must hang together. When I was young—in my time—I was alone; and what I did concerned myself. But a youth who has—as I think you have—a family of ladies to protect, must watch his honour, child, and preserve his fortune. You have no commands from Sir Frederick?
Anthony. None, sir, none.
Austin. Shall I find you this noon upon the Pantiles? . . . I shall be charmed. Commend me to your aunt and your fair sister. Menteith?
Menteith. Yes, Mr. George. (Shows Anthony out.)
Austin,Menteith,returning
Austin. Was I ever like that, Menteith?
Menteith. No, Mr. George, you was always a gentleman.
Austin. Youth, my good fellow, youth.
Menteith. Quite so, Mr. George.
Austin. Well, Menteith, we cannot make no mend. We cannot play the jockey with Time. Age is the test: of wine, Menteith, and men.
Menteith. Me and you and the old Hermitage, Mr. George, he-he!
Austin. And the best of these, the Hermitage. But come: we lose our day. Help me off with this. (Menteithtakes offAustin’sdressing-gown;Austinpasses R. to dressing-table,and takes up first cravat.)
Austin. Will the hair do, Menteith?
Menteith. Never saw it lay better, Mr. George. (Austinproceeds to wind first cravat.A bell:exitMenteith.Austindrops first cravat in basket and takes second.)
Austin(winding and singing)—
‘I’d crowns resignTo call her mine,Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’
‘I’d crowns resignTo call her mine,Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’
(Second cravat a failure.Re-enterMenteithwith card.) Fenwick? of Allonby Shaw? A good family, Menteith, but I don’t know the gentleman. (Lays down card,and takes up third cravat.) Send him away with every consideration.
Menteith. To be sure, Mr. George. (He goes out.Third cravat a success.Re-enterMenteith.) He says, Mr. George, that he has an errand from Miss Musgrave.
Austin(with waistcoat). Show him in, Menteith, at once. (Singing and fitting waistcoat at glass)—
‘I’d crowns resignTo call her mine,Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’
‘I’d crowns resignTo call her mine,Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’
Austin,R. to himMenteithandFenwick
Menteith(announcing). Mr. Fenwick, Mr. George.
Austin. At the name of Miss Musgrave, my doors fly always open.
Fenwick. I believe, sir, you are acquainted with my cousin, Richard Gaunt?
Austin. The county member? An old and good friend. But you need not go so far afield: I know your good house of Allonby Shaw since the days of the Black Knight. We are, in fact, and at a very royal distance, cousins.
Fenwick. I desired, sir, from the nature of my business, that you should recognise me for a gentleman.
Austin. The preliminary, sir, is somewhat grave.
Fenwick. My business is both grave and delicate.
Austin. Menteith, my good fellow. (ExitMenteith.) Mr. Fenwick, honour me so far as to be seated. (They sit.) I await your pleasure.
Fenwick. Briefly, sir, I am come, not without hope, to appeal to your good heart.
Austin. From Miss Musgrave?
Fenwick. No, sir, I abused her name, and am here upon my own authority. Upon me the consequence.
Austin. Proceed
Fenwick. Mr. Austin, Dorothy Musgrave is the oldest and dearest of my friends, is the lady whom for ten years it has been my hope to make my wife. She has shown me reason to discard that hope for another: that I may call her Mrs. Austin.
Austin. In the best interests of the lady (rising) I question if you have been well inspired. You are aware, sir, that from such interference there is but one issue: to whom shall I address my friend?
Fenwick. Mr. Austin, I am here to throw myself upon your mercy. Strange as my errand is, it will seem yet more strange to you that I came prepared to accept at your hands any extremity of dishonour and not fight. The lady whom it is my boast to serve has honoured me with her commands. These are my law, and by these your life is sacred.
Austin. Then, sir (with his hand upon the bell), his conversation becomes impossible. You have me at too gross a disadvantage; and, as you are a gentleman and respect another, I would suggest that you retire.
Fenwick. Sir, you speak of disadvantage; think of mine. All my life long, with all the forces of my nature, I have loved this lady. I came here to implore her to be my wife, to be my queen; my saint she had been always! She was too noble to deceive me. She told me what you know. I will not conceal that my first mood was of anger: I would have killed you like a dog. But, Mr. Austin—bear with me awhile—I, on the threshold of my life, who have made no figure in the world, nor ever shall now, who had but one treasure, and have lost it—if I, abandoning revenge, trampling upon jealousy, can supplicate you to complete my misfortune—O Mr. Austin! you who have lived, you whose gallantry is beyond the insolence of a suspicion, you who are a man crowned and acclaimed, who are loved, and loved by such a woman—you who excel me in every point of advantage, will you suffer me to surpass you in generosity?
Austin. You speak from the heart. (Sits.) What do you want with me?
Fenwick. Marry her.
Austin. Mr. Fenwick, I am the older man. I have seen much of life, much of society, much of love. When I was young, it was expected of a gentleman to be ready with his hat to a lady, ready with his sword to a man; to honour his word and his king; to be courteous with his equals, generous to his dependants, helpful and trusty in friendship. But it was not asked of us to be quixotic. If I had married every lady by whom it is my fortune—not my merit—to have been distinguished, the Wells would scarce be spacious enough for my establishment. You see, sir, that while I respect your emotion, I am myself conducted by experience. And besides, Mr. Fenwick, is not love a warfare? has it not rules? have not our fair antagonists their tactics, their weapons, their place of arms? and is there not a touch of—pardon me the word! of silliness in one who, having fought, and having vanquished, sounds a parley, and capitulates to his own prisoner? Had the lady chosen, had the fortune of war been other, ’tis like she had been Mrs. Austin. Now I . . . You know the world.
Fenwick. I know, sir, that the world contains much cowardice. To find Mr. Austin afraid to do the right, this surprises me.
Austin. Afraid, child?
Fenwick. Yes, sir, afraid. You know her, you know if she be worthy; and you answer me with—the world: the world which has been at your feet: the world which Mr. Austin knows so well how to value and is so able to rule.
Austin. I have lived long enough, Mr. Fenwick, to recognise that the world is a great power. It can make; but it can break.
Fenwick. Sir, suffer me: you spoke but now of friendship, and spoke warmly. Have you forgotten Colonel Villiers?
Austin. Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Fenwick, you forget what I have suffered.
Fenwick. O sir, I know you loved him. And yet, for a random word you quarrelled; friendship was weighed in vain against the world’s code of honour; you fought, and your friend fell. I have heard from others how he lay long in agony, and how you watched and nursed him, and it was in your embrace he died. In God’s name have you forgotten that? Was not this sacrifice enough? or must the world, once again, step between Mr. Austin and his generous heart?
Austin. Good God, sir, I believe you are in the right; I believe, upon my soul I believe, there is something in what you say.
Fenwick. Something, Mr. Austin? O credit me, the whole difference betwixt good and evil.
Austin. Nay, nay, but there you go too far. There are many kinds of good: honour is a diamond cut in a thousand facets, and with the true fire in each. Thus, and with all our differences, Mr. Fenwick, you and I can still respect, we can still admire each other.
Fenwick. Bear with me still, sir, if I ask you what is the end of life but to excel in generosity? To pity the weak, to comfort the afflicted, to right where we have wronged, to be brave in reparation—these noble elements you have; for of what besides is the fabric of your dealing with Colonel Villiers? That is man’s chivalry to man. Yet to a suffering woman—a woman feeble, betrayed, unconsoled—you deny your clemency, you refuse your aid, you proffer injustice for atonement. Nay, you are so disloyal to yourself that you can choose to be ungenerous and unkind. Where, sir, is the honour? What facet of the diamond is that?
Austin. You forget, sir, you forget. But go on.
Fenwick. O sir, not I—not I but yourself forgets: George Austin forgets George Austin. A woman loved by him, betrayed by him, abandoned by him—that woman suffers; and a point of honour keeps him from his place at her feet. She has played and lost, and the world is with him if he deign to exact the stakes. Is that the Mr. Austin whom Miss Musgrave honoured with her trust? Then, sir, how miserably was she deceived!