The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson

Brodie. I suppose you want my consent?

Mary. Can you ask?

Brodie. I didn’t know. You seem to have got on pretty well without it so far.

Mary. O shame on you! shame on you!

Brodie. Perhaps you may be able to do without it altogether. I hope so. For you’ll never have it… Mary!.. I hate to see you look like that. If I could say anything else, believe me, I would say it. But I have said all; every word is spoken; there’s the end.

Mary. It shall not be the end. You owe me explanation; and I’ll have it.

Brodie. Isn’t my ‘No’ enough, Mary?

Mary. It might be enough for me; but it is not, and it cannot be, enough for him. He has asked me to be his wife; he tells me his happiness is in my hands – poor hands, but they shall not fail him, if my poor heart should break! If he has chosen and set his hopes upon me, of all women in the world, I shall find courage somewhere to be worthy of the choice. And I dare you to leave this room until you tell me all your thoughts – until you prove that this is good and right.

Brodie. Good and right? They are strange words, Mary. I mind the time when it was good and right to be your father’s daughter and your brother’s sister.. Now!.

Mary. Have I changed? Not even in thought. My father, Walter says, shall live and die with us. He shall only have gained another son. And you – you know what he thinks of you; you know what I would do for you.

Brodie. Give him up.

Mary. I have told you: not without a reason.

Brodie. You must.

Mary. I will not.

Brodie. What if I told you that you could only compass your happiness and his at the price of my ruin?

Mary. Your ruin?

Brodie. Even so.

Mary. Ruin!

Brodie. It has an ugly sound, has it not?

Mary. O Willie, what have you done? What have you done? What have you done?

Brodie. I cannot tell you, Mary. But you may trust me. You must give up this Leslie.. and at once. It is to save me.

Mary. I would die for you, dear, you know that. But I cannot be false to him. Even for you, I cannot be false to him.

Brodie. We shall see. Let me take you to your room. Come. And, remember, it is for your brother’s sake. It is to save me.

Mary. I am true Brodie. Give me time, and you shall not find me wanting. But it is all so sudden.. so strange and dreadful! You will give me time, will you not? I am only a woman, and.. O my poor Walter! It will break his heart! It will break his heart! (A knock.)

Brodie. You hear!

Mary. Yes, yes. Forgive me. I am going. I will go. It is to save you, is it not? To save you. Walter.. Mr. Leslie.. O Deacon, Deacon, God forgive you! (She goes out.)

Brodie. Amen. But will He?

SCENE VII

Brodie, Hunt

Hunt (hat in hand). Mr. Deacon Brodie, I believe?

Brodie. I am he, Mr. —

Hunt. Hunt, sir; an officer from Sir John Fielding of Bow Street.

Brodie. There can be no better passport than the name. In what can I serve you?

Hunt. You’ll excuse me, Mr. Deacon.

Brodie. Your duty excuses you, Mr. Hunt.

Hunt. Your obedient. The fact is, Mr. Deacon [we in the office see a good deal of the lives of private parties; and I needn’t tell a gentleman of your experience it’s part of our duty to hold our tongues. Now], it’s come to my knowledge that you are a trifle jokieous. Of course I know there ain’t any harm in that. I’ve been young myself, Mr. Deacon, and speaking —

Brodie. O, but pardon me. Mr. Hunt, I am not going to discuss my private character with you.

Hunt. To be sure you ain’t. [And do I blame you? Not me.] But, speaking as one man of the world to another, you naturally see a great deal of bad company.

Brodie. Not half so much as you do. But I see what you’re driving at; and if I can illuminate the course of justice, you may command me. (He sits, and motions Hunt to do likewise.)

Hunt. I was dead sure of it; and ’and upon ’art, Mr. Deacon, I thank you. Now (consulting pocket-book), did you ever meet a certain George Smith?

Brodie. The fellow they call Jingling Geordie? (Hunt nods.) Yes.

Hunt. Bad character.

Brodie. Let us say.. disreputable.

Hunt. Any means of livelihood?

Brodie. I really cannot pretend to guess, I have met the creature at cock-fights [which, as you know, are my weakness]. Perhaps he bets.

Hunt. [Mr. Deacon, from what I know of the gentleman, I should say that if he don’t – if he ain’t open to any mortal thing – he ain’t the man I mean.] He used to be about with a man called Badger Moore.

Brodie. The boxer?

Hunt. That’s him. Know anything of him?

Brodie. Not much. I lost five pieces on him in a fight; and I fear he sold his backers.

Hunt. Speaking as one admirer of the noble art to another, Mr. Deacon, the losers always do. I suppose the Badger cockfights like the rest of us?