Chapter VI: 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.

BEAU AUSTIN

DEDICATED
WITH ADMIRATION AND RESPECT
TO
GEORGE MEREDITH

* * * * *

BOURNEMOUTH:
1_st_ _October_ 1884.

PERSONS REPRESENTED

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.

HAYMARKET THEATRE

_Monday_, _November_ 3_d_, 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