The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 15

Fenwick. Good God, who told you?

Anthony. Ay, Jack; it’s hard on me, Jack. But you’ll stand my friend in spite of this, and you’ll take my message to the man, won’t you? For it’s got to come to blood, Jack: there’s no way out of that. And perhaps your poor friend will fall, Jack; think of that: like Villiers. And all for an unworthy sister.

Fenwick. Now, Anthony Musgrave, I give you fair warning; see you take it: one more word against your sister, and we quarrel.

Anthony. You let it slip yourself, Jack: you know yourself she’s not a virtuous girl.

Fenwick. What do you know of virtue, whose whole boast is to be vicious? How dare you draw conclusions? Dolt and puppy! you can no more comprehend that angel’s excellences than she can stoop to believe in your vices. And you talk morality? Anthony, I’m a man who has been somewhat roughly tried: take care.

Anthony. You don’t seem able to grasp the situation, Jack. It’s very remarkable; I’m the girl’s natural protector; and you should buckle-to and help, like a friend of the family. And instead of that, begad! you turn on me like all the rest.

Fenwick. Now mark me fairly: Mr. Austin follows at my heels; he comes to offer marriage to your sister – that is all you know, and all you shall know; and if by any misplaced insolence of yours this marriage should miscarry, you have to answer, not to Mr. Austin only, but to me.

Anthony. It’s all a most discreditable business, and I don’t see how you propose to better it by cutting my throat. Of course, if he’s going to marry her, it’s a different thing, but I don’t believe he is, or he’d have asked me. You think me a fool? Well, see they marry, or they’ll find me a dangerous fool.

SCENE VI

To these, Austin, Barbara announcing

Barbara. Mr. Austin. (She shows Austin in, and retires.)

Austin. You will do me the justice to acknowledge, Mr. Fenwick, that I have been not long delayed by my devotion to the Graces.

Anthony. So, sir, I find you in my house —

Austin. And charmed to meet you again. It went against my conscience to separate so soon. Youth, Mr. Musgrave, is to us older men a perpetual refreshment.

Anthony. You came here, sir, I suppose, upon some errand?

Austin. My errand, Mr. Musgrave, is to your fair sister. Beauty, as you know, comes before valour.

Anthony. In my own house, and about my own sister, I presume I have the right to ask for something more explicit.

Austin. The right, my dear sir, is beyond question; but it is one, as you were going on to observe, on which no gentleman insists.

Fenwick. Anthony, my good fellow, I think we had better go.

Anthony. I have asked a question.

Austin. Which I was charmed to answer, but which, on repetition, might begin to grow distasteful.

Anthony. In my own house —

Fenwick. For God’s sake, Anthony!

Austin. In your aunt’s house, young gentleman, I shall be careful to refrain from criticism. I am come upon a visit to a lady: that visit I shall pay; when you desire (if it be possible that you desire it) to resume this singular conversation, select some fitter place. Mr. Fenwick, this afternoon, may I present you to his Royal Highness?

Anthony. Why, sir, I believe you must have misconceived me. I have no wish to offend: at least at present.

Austin. Enough, sir. I was persuaded I had heard amiss. I trust we shall be friends.

Fenwick. Come, Anthony, come: here is your sister. (As Fenwick and Anthony go out, C., enter Dorothy, L.)

SCENE VII

Austin, Dorothy

Dorothy. I am told, Mr. Austin, that you wish to see me.

Austin. Madam, can you doubt of that desire? can you question my sincerity?

Dorothy. Sir, between you and me these compliments are worse than idle: they are unkind. Sure, we are alone!

Austin. I find you in an hour of cruelty, I fear. Yet you have condescended to receive this poor offender; and, having done so much, you will not refuse to give him audience.

Dorothy. You shall have no cause, sir, to complain of me. I listen.

Austin. My fair friend, I have sent myself – a poor ambassador – to plead for your forgiveness. I have been too long absent; too long, I would fain hope, madam, for you; too long for my honour and my love. I am no longer, madam, in my first youth; but I may say that I am not unknown. My fortune, originally small, has not suffered from my husbandry. I have excellent health, an excellent temper, and the purest ardour of affection for your person. I found not on my merits, but on your indulgence. Miss Musgrave, will you honour me with your hand in marriage?

Dorothy. Mr. Austin, if I thought basely of marriage, I should perhaps accept your offer. There was a time, indeed, when it would have made me proudest among women. I was the more deceived, and have to thank you for a salutary lesson. You chose to count me as a cipher in your rolls of conquest; for six months you left me to my fate; and you come here to-day – prompted, I doubt not, by an honourable impulse – to offer this tardy reparation. No; it is too late.

Austin. Do you refuse?

Dorothy. Yours is the blame; we are no longer equal. You have robbed me of the right to marry any one but you; and do you think me, then, so poor in spirit as to accept a husband on compulsion?

Austin. Dorothy, you loved me once.

Dorothy. Ay, you will never guess how much: you will never live to understand how ignominious a defeat that conquest was. I loved and trusted you: I judged you by myself; think, then, of my humiliation, when, at the touch of trial, all your qualities proved false, and I beheld you the slave of the meanest vanity – selfish, untrue, base! Think, sir, what a humbling of my pride to have been thus deceived; to have taken for my idol such a commonplace imposture as yourself; to have loved – yes, loved – such a shadow, such a mockery of man. And now I am unworthy to be the wife of any gentleman; and you – look me in the face, George – are you worthy to be my husband?

Austin. No, Dorothy, I am not. I was a vain fool; I blundered away the most precious opportunity; and my regret will be lifelong. Do me the justice to accept this full confession of my fault. I am here to-day to own and to repair it.

Dorothy. Repair it? Sir, you condescend too far.

Austin. I perceive with shame how grievously I had misjudged you. But now, Dorothy, believe me, my eyes are opened. I plead with you, not as my equal, but as one in all ways better than myself. I admire you, not in that trivial sense in which we men are wont to speak of women, but as God’s work: as a wise mind, a noble soul, and a most generous heart, from whose society I have all to gain, all to learn. Dorothy, in one word, I love you.

Dorothy. And what, sir, has wrought this transformation? You knew me of old, or thought you knew me? Is it in six months of selfish absence that your mind has changed? When did that change begin? A week ago? Sure, you would have written! To-day? Sir, if this offer be anything more than fresh offence, I have a right to be enlightened.

Austin. Madam, I foresaw this question. So be it: I respect, and I will not deceive you. But give me, first of all, a moment for defence. There are few men of my habits and position who would have done as I have done: sate at the feet of a young boy, accepted his lessons, gone upon his errand: fewer still, who would thus, at the crisis of a love, risk the whole fortune of the soul – love, gratitude, even respect. Yet more than that! For conceive how I respect you, if I, whose lifelong trade has been flattery, stand before you and make the plain confession of a truth that must not only lower me, but deeply wound yourself.

Dorothy. What means – ?

Austin. Young Fenwick, my rival for your heart, he it was that sent me.

Dorothy. He? O disgrace! He sent you! That was what he meant? Am I fallen so low? Am I your common talk among men? Did you dice for me? Did he kneel? O John, John, how could you! And you, Mr. Austin, whither have you brought me down? shame heaping upon shame – to what end! O, to what end?

Austin. Madam, you wound me: you look wilfully amiss. Sure, any lady in the land might well be proud to be loved as you are loved, with such nobility as Mr. Fenwick’s, with such humility as mine. I came, indeed, in pity, in good-nature, what you will. (See, dearest lady, with what honesty I speak: if I win you, it shall be with the unblemished truth.) All that is gone. Pity? it is myself I pity. I offer you not love – I am not worthy. I ask, I beseech of you: suffer me to wait upon you like a servant, to serve you with my rank, my name, the whole devotion of my life. I am a gentleman – ay, in spite of my fault – an upright gentleman; and I swear to you that you shall order your life and mine at your free will. Dorothy, at your feet, in remorse, in respect, in love – O such love as I have never felt, such love as I derided – I implore, I conjure you to be mine!

Dorothy. Too late! too late.