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 letter down 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 me. (Barbara, some pâté, 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 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. 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 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, how 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. (Between Fenwick and 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”
ACT II
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-gown, trifling with correspondence. Menteith is frothing chocolate
SCENE I
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. We wear 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. Menteith goes 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.
SCENE II
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. (Austin bows.) The Colonel — he keeps his health, sir, considering his age (Austin bows again and looks at Menteith) — 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?
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) Page 405
