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Deacon Brodie; or The Double Life, a play by Robert Louis Stevenson |
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ACT V - TABLEAU VIII. THE OPEN DOOR: SCENE I TO SCENE VII |
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_ 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!
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!
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.
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.
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 [THE END] _ |
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