SCENE IV
BRODIE, LESLIE
BRODIE enters by the window with assurance and ease, closes it
silently, and proceeds to traverse the room. As he moves, LESLIE
leaps upon and grapples him.
LESLIE. Take off that mask!
BRODIE. Hands off!
LESLIE. Take off the mask!
BRODIE. Leave go, by God, leave go!
LESLIE. Take it off!
BRODIE (OVERPOWERED). Leslie ....
LESLIE. Ah! you know me! (SUCCEEDS IN TEARING OFF THE MASK.)
Brodie!
BRODIE (IN THE MOONLIGHT). Brodie.
LESLIE. You . . . you, Brodie, you?
BRODIE. Brodie, sir, Brodie as you see.
LESLIE. What does it mean? What does it mean, my God? Were you
here before? Is this the second time? Are you a thief, man? are
you a thief? Speak, speak, or I'll kill you.
BRODIE. I am a thief.
LESLIE. And my friend, my own friend, and . . . Mary, Mary! . .
. Deacon, Deacon, for God's sake, no!
BRODIE. God help me!
LESLIE. 'We Brodies! We Brodies!'
BRODIE. Leslie -
LESLIE. Stand off! Don't touch me! You're a thief!
BRODIE. Leslie, Leslie
LESLIE. A thief's sister! Why are you here? why are you here?
Tell me! Why do you not speak? Man, I know you of old. Are you
Brodie, and have nothing to say?
BRODIE. To say? Not much - God help me - and commonplace,
commonplace like sin. I was honest once; I made a false step; I
couldn't retrace it; and . . . that is all.
LESLIE. You have forgot the bad companions!
BRODIE. I did forget them. They were there.
LESLIE. Commonplace! Commonplace! Do you speak to me, do you
reason with me, do you make excuses? You - a man found out,
shamed, a liar, a thief - a man that's killed me, killed this
heart in my body; and you speak! What am I to do? I hold your
life in my hand; have you thought of that? What am I to do?
BRODIE. Do what you please; you have me trapped.
(JEAN WATT IS HEARD SINGING WITHOUT TWO BARS OF 'WANDERIN'
WILLIE,' BY WAY OF SIGNAL.)
LESLIE. What is that?
BRODIE. A signal.
LESLIE. What does it mean?
BRODIE. Danger to me; there is someone coming.
LESLIE. Danger to you?
BRODIE. Some one is coming. What are you going to do with me?
(A KNOCK AT THE DOOR.)
LESLIE (AFTER A PAUSE). Sit down. (KNOCKING.)
BRODIE. What are you going to do with me?
LESLIE. Sit down. (BRODIE SITS IN DARKEST PART OF STAGE.
LESLIE OPENS DOOR, AND ADMITS LAWSON. DOOR OPEN TILL END OF
ACT.)
SCENE V
BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE
LAWSON. This is an unco' time to come to your door; but eh,
laddie, I couldna bear to think o' ye sittin' your lane in the
dark.
LESLIE. It was very good of you.
LAWSON. I'm no very fond of playing hidee in the dark mysel';
and noo that I'm here -
LESLIE. I will give you a light. (HE LIGHTS THE CANDLES.
LIGHTS UP.)
LAWSON. God A'michty! William Brodie!
LESLIE. Yes, Brodie was good enough to watch with me.
LAWSON. But he gaed awa' . . . I dinna see . . . an' Lord be
guid to us, the window's open!
LESLIE. A trap we laid for them: a device of Brodie's.
BRODIE (TO LAWSON). Set a thief to catch a thief. (PASSING TO
LESLIE, ASIDE.) Walter Leslie, God will reward. (JEAN SIGNALS
AGAIN.)
LAWSON. I dinna like that singin' at siccan a time o' the nicht.
BRODIE. I must go.
LAWSON. Not one foot o' ye. I'm ower glad to find ye in guid
hands. Ay, ye dinna ken how glad.
BRODIE (ASIDE TO LESLIE). Get me out of this. There's a man
there will stick at nothing.
LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, Brodie has done his shift. Why should we
keep him? (JEAN APPEARS AT THE DOOR, AND SIGNS TO BRODIE.)
LAWSON. Hoots! this is my trade. That's a bit o' 'Wanderin'
Willie.' I've had it before me in precognitions; that same stave
has been used for a signal by some o' the very warst o' them.
BRODIE (ASIDE TO LESLIE). Get me out of this. I'll never forget
to-night. (JEAN AT DOOR AGAIN.)
LESLIE. Well, good-night, Brodie. When shall we meet again?
LAWSON. Not one foot o' him. (JEAN AT DOOR.) I tell you, Mr.
Leslie -
SCENE VI
To these, JEAN
JEAN (FROM SHE DOOR). Wullie, Wullie!
LAWSON. Guid guide us, Mrs. Watt! A dacent wumman like
yoursel'! Whatten a time o' nicht is this to come to folks'
doors?
JEAN (TO BRODIE). Hawks, Wullie, hawks!
BRODIE. I suppose you know what you've done, Jean?
JEAN. I HAD to come, Wullie, he wadna wait another minit. He
wad have come himsel'.
BRODIE. This is my mistress.
LAWSON. William, dinna tell me nae mair.
BRODIE. I have told you so much. You may as well know all.
That good man knows it already. Have you issued a warrant for me
. . . . yet?
LAWSON. No, no, man: not another word.
BRODIE, (POINTING TO THE WINDOW). That is my work. I am the
man. Have you drawn the warrant?
LAWSON (BREAKING DOWN). Your father's son!
LESLIE (TO LAWSON). My good friend! Brodie, you might have
spared the old man this.
BRODIE. I might have spared him years ago; and you and my
sister, and myself. I might . . . would God I had! (WEEPING
HIMSELF.) Don't weep, my good old friend; I was lost long since;
don't think of me; don't pity me; don't shame me with your pity!
I began this when I was a boy. I bound the millstone round my
neck; [it is irrevocable now,] and you must all suffer . . . all
suffer for me! . . . [for this suffering remnant of what was once
a man]. O God, that I can have fallen to stand here as I do now.
My friend lying to save me from the gallows; my second father
weeping tears of blood for my disgrace! And all for what? By
what? Because I had an open hand, because I was a selfish dog,
because I loved this woman.
JEAN. O Wullie, and she lo'ed ye weel! But come near me nae
mair, come near me nae mair, my man; keep wi' your ain folks . .
. your ain dacent folks.
LAWSON. Mistress Watt, ye shall sit rent free as lang's there's
breath in William Lawson's body.
LESLIE. You can do one thing still . . . for Mary's sake. You
can save yourself; you must fly.
BRODIE. It is my purpose; the day after to-morrow. It cannot be
before. Then I will fly; and O, as God sees me, I will strive to
make a new and a better life, and to be worthy of your
friendship, and of your tears . . . your tears. And to be worthy
of you too, Jean; for I see now that the bandage has fallen from
my eyes; I see myself, O how unworthy even of you.
LESLIE. Why not to-night?
BRODIE. It cannot be before. There are many considerations. I
must find money.
JEAN. Leave me, and the wean. Dinna fash yoursel' for us.
LESLIE (OPENING THE STRONG-BOX, AND POURING GOLD UPON THE TABLE).
Take this and go at once.
BRODIE. Not that . . . not the money that I came to steal!
LAWSON. Tak' it, William; I'll pay him.
BRODIE. It is in vain. I cannot leave till I have said. There
is a man; I must obey him. If I slip my chain till he has done
with me, the hue and cry will blaze about the country; every
outport will be shut; I shall return to the gallows. He is a man
that will stick at nothing.
SCENE VII
To these, MOORE
MOORE. Are you coming?
BRODIE. I am coming.
MOORE (APPEARING IN THE DOOR). Do you want us all to get
thundering well scragged?
BRODIE (GOING). There is my master.
ACT-DROP
ACT IV.
TABLEAU VII. THE ROBBERY
The Stage represents the outside of the Excise Office in
Chessel's Court. At the back, L.C., an archway opening on the
High Street. The door of the Excise in wing, R.; the opposite
side of the stage is lumbered with barrels, packing-cases, etc.
Moonlight; the Excise Office casts a shadow over half the stage.
A clock strikes the hour. A round of the City Guard, with
halberts, lanterns, etc. enters and goes out again by the arch,
after having examined the fastenings of the great door and the
lumber on the left. Cry without in the High Street: 'Ten by the
bell, and a fine clear night.' Then enter cautiously by the
arch, SMITH and MOORE, with AINSLIE loaded with tools.
SCENE I
SMITH, MOORE, AINSLIE
SMITH (ENTERING FIRST). Come on. Coast clear.
MOORE (AFTER THEY HAVE COME TO THE FRONT.) Ain't he turned up
yet?
SMITH (TO AINSLIE). Now Maggot! The fishing's a going to begin.
AINSLIE. Dinna cangle, Geordie. My back's fair broke.
MOORE. O muck! Hand out them pieces.
SMITH. All right, Humptious! (TO AINSLIE.) You're a nice old
sort for a rag-and-bone man: can't hold a bag open! (TAKING OUT
TOOLS.) Here they was. Here are the bunchums, one AND two; and
jolly old keys was they. Here's the picklocks, crow-bars, and
here's Lord George's pet bull's eye, his old and valued friend,
the Cracksman's treasure!
MOORE. Just like you. Forgot the rotten centrebit.
SMITH. That's all you know. Here she is, bless her! Portrait
of George as a gay hironmonger.
MOORE. O rot! Hand it over, and keep yourself out of that there
thundering moonlight.
SMITH (LIGHTING LANTERN). All right, old mumble-peg. Don't you
get carried away by the fire of old Rome. That's your motto.
Here are the tools; a perfect picter of the sublime and
beautiful; and all I hope is, that our friend and pitcher, the
Deakin, will make a better job of it than he did last night. If
he don't, I shall retire from the business - that's all; and
it'll be George and his little wife and a black footman till
death do us part.
MOORE. O muck! You're all jaw like a sheep's jimmy. That's my
opinion of you. When did you see him last?
SMITH. This morning; and he looked as if he was rehearsing for
his own epitaph. I never see such a change in a man. I gave him
the office for to-night; and was he grateful? Did he weep upon
my faithful bosom? No; he smiled upon me like a portrait of the
dear departed. I see his 'art was far away; and it broke my own
to look at him.
MOORE. Muck! Wot I ses is, if a cove's got that much of the nob
about him, wot's the good of his working single-handed? That's
wot's the matter with him.
SMITH. Well, old Father Christmas, he ain't single-handed to-
night, is he?
MOORE. No, he ain't; he's got a man with him to-night.
SMITH. Pardon me, Romeo; two men, I think?
MOORE. A man wot means business. If I'd a bin with him last
night, it ain't psalm-singin' would have got us off. Psalm-
singin'? Muck! Let 'em try it on with me.
AINSLIE. Losh me, I heard a noise. (ALARM; THEY CROUCH INTO THE
SHADOW AND LISTEN.)
SMITH. All serene. (TO AINSLIE) Am I to cut that liver out of
you? Now, am I? (A WHISTLE.) 'St! here we are. (WHISTLES A
MODULATION, WHICH IS ANSWERED.)
SCENE II
To these BRODIE
MOORE. Waiting for you, Deacon.
BRODIE. I see. Everything ready?
SMITH. All a-growing and a-blowing.
BRODIE. Give me the light. (BRIEFLY EXAMINES TOOLS AND DOOR WITH
BULL'S EYE.) You, George, stand by, and hand up the pieces.
Ainslie, take the glim. Moore, out and watch.
MOORE. I didn't come here to do sentry-go, I didn't.
BRODIE. You came here to do as I tell you. (MOORE GOES UP
SLOWLY.) Second bunch, George. I know the lock. Steady with
the glim. (AT WORK.) No good. Give me the centrebit.
SMITH. Right. (WORK CONTINUES. AINSLIE DROPS LANTERN.)
BRODIE. Curse you! (THROTTLING AND KICKING HIM.) You shake,
and you shake, and you can't even hold a light for your betters.
Hey?
AINSLIE. Eh Deacon, Deacon . . .
SMITH. Now Ghost! (WITH LANTERN.)
BRODIE. 'St, Moore!
MOORE. Wot's the row?
BRODIE. Take you the light.
MOORE (TO AINSLIE). Wo' j' yer shakin' at? (KICKS HIM.)
BRODIE (TO AINSLIE). Go you, and see if you're good at keeping
watch. Inside the arch. And if you let a footfall pass, I'll
break your back. (AINSLIE RETIRES.) Steady with the light. (AT
WORK WITH CENTREBIT.) Hand up number four, George. (AT WORK
WITH PICKLOCK.) That has it.
SMITH. Well done our side.
BRODIE. Now the crow bar! (AT WORK.) That's it. Put down the
glim, Badger, and help at the wrench. Your whole weight, men!
Put your backs to it! (WHILE THEY WORK AT THE BAR, BRODIE STANDS
BY, DUSTING HIS HANDS WITH A POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF. AS THE DOOR
OPENS.) VOILA! In with you.
MOORE (ENTERING WITH LIGHT). Mucking fine work too, Deacon!
BRODIE. Take up the irons, George!
SMITH. How about the P(h)antom?
BRODIE. Leave him to me. I'll give him a look. (ENTERS
OFFICE.)
SMITH (FOLLOWING). Houp-la!
SCENE III
AINSLIE; afterwards BRODIE; afterwards HUNT and OFFICERS
AINSLIE. Ca' ye that mainners? Ye're grand gentry by your way
o't! Eh sirs, my hench! Ay, that was the Badger. Man, but
ye'll look bonnie hangin'! (A FAINT WHISTLE.) Lord's sake,
what's thon? Ay, it'll be Hunt an' his lads. (WHISTLE
REPEATED.) Losh me, what gars him whustle, whustle? Does he
think me deaf? (GOES UP. BRODIE ENTERS FROM OFFICE, STANDS AN
INSTANT, AND SEES HIM MAKING A SIGNAL THROUGH THE ARCH.)
BRODIE. Rats! Rats! (HIDES L. AMONG LUMBER. ENTER NOISELESSLY
THROUGH ARCH HUNT AND OFFICERS.)
HUNT. Birds caught?
AINSLIE. They're a' ben the house, mister.
HUNT. All three?
AINSLIE. The hale set, mister.
BRODIE. Liar!
HUNT. Mum, lads, and follow me. (EXIT, WITH HIS MEN, INTO
OFFICE. BRODIE SEEN WITH DAGGER.)
HUNT. In the King's name! }
MOORE. Muck! } (WITHIN.)
SMITH. Go it, Badger. }
HUNT. Take 'em alive, boys! }
AINSLIE. Eh, but that's awful. (THE DEACON LEAPS OUT, AND STABS
HIM. HE FALLS WITHOUT A CRY.)
BRODIE. Saved! (HE GOES OUT BY THE ARCH.)
SCENE IV
HUNT and OFFICERS; with SMITH and MOORE handcuffed. Signs of a
severe struggle
HUNT (ENTERING). Bring 'em along, lads! (LOOKING AT PRISONERS
WITH LANTERN.) Pleased to see you again, Badger. And you too,
George. But I'd rather have seen your principal. Where's he got
to?
MOORE. To hell, I hope.
HUNT. Always the same pretty flow of language, I see, Hump.
(LOOKING AT BURGLARY WITH LANTERN.) A very tidy piece of work,
Dook; very tidy! Much too good for you. Smacks of a fine
tradesman. It WAS the Deacon, I suppose?
SMITH. You ought to know G. S. better by this time, Jerry.
HUNT. All right, your Grace: we'll talk it over with the Deacon
himself. Where's the jackal? Here, you, Ainslie! Where are
you? By jingo, I thought as much. Stabbed to the heart and dead
as a herring!
SMITH. Bravo!
HUNT. More of the Deacon's work, I guess? Does him credit too,
don't it, Badger?
MOORE. Muck. Was that the thundering cove that peached?
HUNT. That was the thundering cove.
MOORE. And is he corpsed?
HUNT. I should just about reckon he was.
MOORE. Then, damme, I don't mind swinging!
HUNT. We'll talk about that presently. M'Intyre and Stewart,
you get a stretcher, and take that rubbish to the office. Pick
it up; it's only a dead informer. Hand these two gentlemen over
to Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, with Mr. Jerry Hunt's compliments.
Johnstone and Syme, you come along with me. I'll bring the
Deacon round myself.
ACT-DROP
ACT V.
TABLEAU VIII. THE OPEN DOOR
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.
SCENE I
DOCTOR, MARY, a MAIDSERVANT with 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 WITH MAID.)
MARY (HASTILY SEARCHES THE ROOM). No, he is not there. She was
right! O father, you can never know, praise God!
SCENE II
MARY, to whom JEAN and afterwards LESLIE
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. (LESLIE ENTERS, C.)
LESLIE. Mary, Mary! I hoped to have spared you this. (TO
JEAN.) 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.
SCENE III
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 with HIM? 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.
SCENE IV
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!
SCENE V
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? help ME? 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.
SCENE VI
To these, LAWSON, LESLIE, JEAN
LAWSON. She kens a', thank the guid Lord!
BRODIE (TO MARY). I know you forgive me now; I ask no more.
That is a good man. (TO LESLIE.) Will you take her from my
hands? (LESLIE TAKES MARY.) 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 (TO LAWSON). 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.
SCENE VII
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 TO JEAN) I have used; she
never understood. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, that is my dying
confession. (HE SNATCHES HIS HANGER FROM THE TABLE, AND RUSHES
UPON HUNT, WHO PARRIES, AND RUNS HIM THROUGH. HE REELS ACROSS
THE STAGE AND FALLS.) The new life . . . the new life! (HE
DIES.)
CURTAIN.
-----------------------------------------------------------
Play: BEAU AUSTIN
DEDICATED WITH ADMIRATION AND RESPECT TO GEORGE MEREDITH
BOURNEMOUTH: 1ST OCTOBER 1884.
PERSONS REPRESENTED
GEORGE FREDERICK AUSTIN, called 'Beau Austin' AEtat. 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.
HAYMARKET THEATRE MONDAY, NOVEMBER 3d, 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 MISS ROSE LECLERCQ
BARBARA RIDLEY MISS AYLWARD
VISITORS TO THE WELLS
PROLOGUE
SPOKEN BY MR. TREE IN 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 perfume
Of old-world courtliness and old-world bloom:
When speech was elegant and talk was fit
For 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 reign
And, 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 attire
Burned 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 strife
Which 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 began
Woman was truly woman, man was man,
And joy and sorrow were as much at home
In trifling Tunbridge as in mighty Rome.
Dead - dead and done with! Swift from shine to shade
The 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!
BEAU AUSTIN
MUSICAL INDUCTION: 'LASCIA CH'IO PIANGA' (RINALDO). HANDEL.
ACT I.
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.
SCENE I
BARBARA; to her MISS 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.
SCENE II
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, BARBARA WAITING.)
MISS FOSTER (TO BARBARA, 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, some PATE, 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 washigh 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 the
BEL 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 the TON, 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. (DOROTHY OPENS 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.
SCENE III
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!
SCENE IV
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.
