The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson
by William Ernest Henley · English · Gutenberg #719 · 371,573 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson
Author: William Ernest Henley
Robert Louis Stevenson
Release date: November 1, 1996 [eBook #719]
Most recently updated: March 10, 2013
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/719
Credits: Transcribed from the 1907 William Heinemann edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PLAYS OF W. E. HENLEY AND R. L. STEVENSON ***
Transcribed from the 1907 William Heinemann edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
The Plays
of
W. E. Henley and
R. L. Stevenson
Deacon Brodie Beau Austin
Admiral Guinea Robert Macaire
[Picture: Decorative graphic]
London
William Heinemann
1907
* * * * *
_Copyright_
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
PAGE
DEACON BRODIE 1
BEAU AUSTIN 111
ADMIRAL GUINEA 177
ROBERT MACAIRE 251
DEACON BRODIE
OR THE DOUBLE LIFE
A MELODRAMA IN FIVE ACTS
AND EIGHT TABLEAUX
PERSONS REPRESENTED
WILLIAM BRODIE, Deacon of the Wrights, Housebreaker and Master Carpenter.
OLD BRODIE, the Deacon’s Father.
WILLIAM LAWSON, Procurator-Fiscal, the Deacon’s Uncle.
ANDREW AINSLIE, HUMPHREY MOORE, GEORGE SMITH, Robbers in the Deacon’s
gang.
CAPTAIN RIVERS, an English Highwayman.
HUNT, a Bow Street Runner.
A DOCTOR.
WALTER LESLIE.
MARY BRODIE, the Deacon’s Sister.
JEAN WATT, the Deacon’s Mistress.
VAGABONDS, OFFICERS OF THE WATCH, MEN-SERVANTS.
The Scene is laid in Edinburgh. The Time is towards the close of the
Eighteenth Century. The Action, some fifty hours long, begins at eight
p.m. on Saturday and ends before midnight on Monday.
NOTE.—_Passages suggested for omission in representation are enclosed in
square brackets_, _thus_ [ ].
SYNOPSIS OF ACTS AND TABLEAUX
ACT I.
TABLEAU I. The Double Life.
TABLEAU II. Hunt the Runner.
TABLEAU III. Mother Clarke’s.
ACT II.
TABLEAU IV. Evil and Good.
ACT III.
TABLEAU V. King’s Evidence.
TABLEAU VI. Unmasked.
ACT IV.
TABLEAU VII. The Robbery.
ACT V.
TABLEAU VIII. The Open Door.
LONDON: PRINCE’S THEATRE
2_d_ _July_ 1884
DEACON BRODIE, Mr. E. J. HENLEY.
WALTER LESLIE, Mr. CHARLES CARTWRIGHT.
WILLIAM LAWSON, Mr. JOHN MACLEAN.
ANDREW AINSLIE, Mr. FRED DESMOND.
HUMPHREY MOORE, Mr. EDMUND GRACE.
GEORGE SMITH, Mr. JULIAN CROSS.
HUNT, Mr. HUBERT AKHURST.
OLD BRODIE, Mr. A. KNIGHT.
CAPTAIN RIVERS, Mr. BRANDON THOMAS.
MARY BRODIE, Miss LIZZIE WILLIAMS.
JEAN WATT, Miss MINNIE BELL.
MONTREAL
26_th_ _September_ 1887
DEACON BRODIE, Mr. E. J. HENLEY.
WALTER LESLIE, Mr. GRAHAM STEWART.
WILLIAM LAWSON, Mr. EDMUND LYONS.
ANDREW AINSLIE, Mr. FRED DESMOND.
HUMPHREY MOORE, Mr. EDMUND GRACE.
GEORGE SMITH, Mr. HORATIO SAKER.
HUNT, Mr. HENRY VERNON.
CAPTAIN RIVERS, Mr. BRUCE PHILIPS.
MARY BRODIE, Miss ANNIE ROBE.
JEAN WATT, Miss CARRIE COOTE.
ACT I.
TABLEAU I.
THE DOUBLE LIFE.
_The Stage represents a room in the Deacon’s house_, _furnished partly as
a sitting-_, _partly as a bed-room_, _in the style of an easy burgess of
about_ 1780. _C._, _a door_; _L. C._, _a second and smaller door_; _R.
C._, _practicable window_; _L._, _alcove_, _supposed to contain bed_; _at
the back_, _a clothes-press and a corner cupboard containing bottles_,
_etc._ MARY BRODIE _at needlework_; OLD BRODIE, _a paralytic_, _in
wheeled chair_, _at the fireside_, _L._
SCENE I
_To these_ LESLIE, _C._
LESLIE. May I come in, Mary?
MARY. Why not?
LESLIE. I scarce knew where to find you.
MARY. The dad and I must have a corner, must we not? So when my
brother’s friends are in the parlour he allows us to sit in his room.
’Tis a great favour, I can tell you; the place is sacred.
LESLIE. Are you sure that ‘sacred’ is strong enough?
MARY. You are satirical!
LESLIE. I? And with regard to the Deacon? Believe me, I am not so
ill-advised. You have trained me well, and I feel by him as solemnly as
a true-born Brodie.
MARY. And now you are impertinent! Do you mean to go any further? We
are a fighting race, we Brodies. Oh, you may laugh, sir! But ’tis no
child’s play to jest us on our Deacon, or, for that matter, on our
Deacon’s chamber either. It was his father’s before him: he works in it
by day and sleeps in it by night; and scarce anything it contains but is
the labour of his hands. Do you see this table, Walter? He made it
while he was yet a ’prentice. I remember how I used to sit and watch him
at his work. It would be grand, I thought, to be able to do as he did,
and handle edge-tools without cutting my fingers, and getting my ears
pulled for a meddlesome minx! He used to give me his mallet to keep and
his nails to hold; and didn’t I fly when he called for them! and wasn’t I
proud to be ordered about with them! And then, you know, there is the
tall cabinet yonder; that it was that proved him the first of Edinburgh
joiners, and worthy to be their Deacon and their head. And the father’s
chair, and the sister’s workbox, and the dear dead mother’s
footstool—what are they all but proofs of the Deacon’s skill, and tokens
of the Deacon’s care for those about him?
LESLIE. I am all penitence. Forgive me this last time, and I promise
you I never will again.
MARY. Candidly, now, do you think you deserve forgiveness?
LESLIE. Candidly, I do not.
MARY. Then I suppose you must have it. What have you done with Willie
and my uncle?
LESLIE. I left them talking deeply. The dear old Procurator has not
much thought just now for anything but those mysterious burglaries—
MARY. I know!—
LESLIE. Still, all of him that is not magistrate and official is
politician and citizen; and he has been striving his hardest to undermine
the Deacon’s principles, and win the Deacon’s vote and interest.
MARY. They are worth having, are they not?
LESLIE. The Procurator seems to think that having them makes the
difference between winning and losing.
MARY. Did he say so? You may rely upon it that he knows. There are not
many in Edinburgh who can match with our Will.
LESLIE. There shall be as many as you please, and not one more.
MARY. How I should like to have heard you! What did uncle say? Did he
speak of the Town Council again? Did he tell Will what a wonderful
Bailie he would make? O why did you come away?
LESLIE. I could not pretend to listen any longer. The election is
months off yet; and if it were not—if it were tramping upstairs this
moment—drums, flags, cockades, guineas, candidates, and all!—how should I
care for it? What are Whig and Tory to me?
MARY. O fie on you! It is for every man to concern himself in the
common weal. Mr. Leslie—Leslie of the Craig!—should know that much at
least.
LESLIE. And be a politician like the Deacon? All in good time, but not
now. I hearkened while I could, and when I could no more I slipped out
and followed my heart. I hoped I should be welcome.
MARY. I suppose you mean to be unkind.
LESLIE. Tit for tat. Did you not ask me why I came away? And is it
usual for a young lady to say ‘Mr.’ to the man she means to marry?
MARY. That is for the young lady to decide, sir.
LESLIE. And against that judgment there shall be no appeal?
MARY. O, if you mean to argue!—
LESLIE. I do not mean to argue. I am content to love and be loved. I
think I am the happiest man in the world.
MARY. That is as it should be; for I am the happiest girl.
LESLIE. Why not say the happiest wife? I have your word, and you have
mine. Is not that enough?
MARY. Have you so soon forgotten? Did I not tell you how it must be as
my brother wills? I can do only as he bids me.
LESLIE. Then you have not spoken as you promised?
MARY. I have been too happy to speak.
LESLIE. I am his friend. Precious as you are, he will trust you to me.
He has but to know how I love you, Mary, and how your life is all in your
love of me, to give us his blessing with a full heart.
MARY. I am sure of him. It is that which makes my happiness complete.
Even to our marriage I should find it hard to say ‘Yes’ when he said
‘No.’
LESLIE. Your father is trying to speak. I’ll wager he echoes you.
MARY (_to_ OLD BRODIE). My poor dearie! Do you want to say anything to
me? No? Is it to Mr. Leslie, then?
LESLIE. I am listening, Mr. Brodie.
MARY. What is it, daddie?
OLD BRODIE. My son—the Deacon—Deacon Brodie—the first at school.
LESLIE. I know it, Mr. Brodie. Was I not the last in the same class?
(_To_ MARY.) But he seems to have forgotten us.
MARY. O yes! his mind is wellnigh gone. He will sit for hours as you
see him, and never speak nor stir but at the touch of Will’s hand or the
sound of Will’s name.
LESLIE. It is so good to sit beside you. By and by it will be always
like this. You will not let me speak to the Deacon? You are fast set
upon speaking yourself? I could be so eloquent, Mary—I would touch him.
I cannot tell you how I fear to trust my happiness to any one else—even
to you!
MARY. He must hear of my good fortune from none but me. And besides,
you do not understand. We are not like families, we Brodies. We are so
clannish, we hold so close together.
LESLIE. You Brodies, and your Deacon!
OLD BRODIE. Deacon of his craft, sir—Deacon of the Wrights—my son! If
his mother—his mother—had but lived to see!
MARY. You hear how he runs on. A word about my brother and he catches
it. ’Tis as if he were awake in his poor blind way to all the Deacon’s
care for him and all the Deacon’s kindness to me. I believe he only
lives in the thought of the Deacon. There, it is not so long since I was
one with him. But indeed I think we are all Deacon-mad, we Brodies. Are
we not, daddie dear?
BRODIE (_without_, _and entering_). You are a mighty magistrate,
Procurator, but you seem to have met your match.
SCENE II
_To these_, BRODIE and LAWSON.
MARY (_curtseying_). So, uncle! you have honoured us at last.
LAWSON. _Quam primum_, my dear, _quam primum_.
BRODIE. Well, father, do you know me? (_He sits beside his father and
takes his hand_.)
[OLD BRODIE. William—ay—Deacon. Greater man—than—his father.
BRODIE. You see, Procurator, the news is as fresh to him as it was five
years ago. He was struck down before he got the Deaconship, and lives
his lost life in mine.
LAWSON. Ay, I mind. He was aye ettling after a bit handle to his name.
He was kind of hurt when first they made me Procurator.]
MARY. And what have you been talking of?
LAWSON. Just o’ thae robberies, Mary. Baith as a burgher and a Crown
offeecial, I tak’ the maist absorbing interest in thae robberies.
LESLIE. Egad, Procurator, and so do I.
BRODIE (_with a quick look at_ LESLIE). A dilettante interest,
doubtless! See what it is to be idle.
LESLIE. Faith, Brodie, I hardly know how to style it.
BRODIE. At any rate, ’tis not the interest of a victim, or we should
certainly have known of it before; nor a practical tool-mongering
interest, like my own; nor an interest professional and official, like
the Procurator’s. You can answer for that, I suppose?
LESLIE. I think I can; if for no more. It’s an interest of my own, you
see, and is best described as indescribable, and of no manner of moment
to anybody. [It will take no hurt if we put off its discussion till a
month of Sundays.]
BRODIE. You are more fortunate than you deserve. What do you say,
Procurator?
LAWSON. Ay is he! There is no a house in Edinburgh safe. The law is
clean helpless, clean helpless! A week syne it was auld Andra Simpson’s
in the Lawnmarket. Then, naething would set the catamarans but to
forgather privily wi’ the Provost’s ain butler, and tak’ unto themselves
the Provost’s ain plate. And the day, information was laid before me
offeecially that the limmers had made infraction, _vi et clam_, into
Leddy Mar’get Dalziel’s, and left her leddyship wi’ no sae muckle’s a
spune to sup her parritch wi’. It’s unbelievable, it’s awful, it’s
anti-christian!
MARY. If you only knew them, uncle, what an example you would make! But
tell me, is it not strange that men should dare such things, in the midst
of a city, and nothing, nothing be known of them—nothing at all?
LESLIE. Little, indeed! But we do know that there are several in the
gang, and that one at least is an unrivalled workman.
LAWSON. Ye’re right, sir; ye’re vera right, Mr. Leslie. It had been
deponed to me offeecially that no a tradesman—no the Deacon here
himsel’—could have made a cleaner job wi’ Andra Simpson’s shutters. And
as for the lock o’ the bank—but that’s an auld sang.
BRODIE. I think you believe too much, Procurator. Rumour’s an ignorant
jade, I tell you. I’ve had occasion to see some little of their
handiwork—broken cabinets, broken shutters, broken doors—and I find them
bunglers. Why, I could do it better myself!
LESLIE. Gad, Brodie, you and I might go into partnership. I back myself
to watch outside, and I suppose you could do the work of skill within?
BRODIE. An opposition company? Leslie, your mind is full of good
things. Suppose we begin to-night, and give the Procurator’s house the
honours of our innocence?
MARY. You could do anything, you two!
LAWSON. Onyway, Deacon, ye’d put your ill-gotten gains to a right use;
they might come by the wind but they wouldna gang wi’ the water; and
that’s aye _a solatium_, as we say. If I am to be robbit, I would like
to be robbit wi’ decent folk; and no think o’ my bonnie clean siller
dirling among jads and dicers. [Faith, William, the mair I think on’t,
the mair I’m o’ Mr. Leslie’s mind. Come the night, or come the morn, and
I’se gie ye my free permission, and lend ye a hand in at the window
forbye!
BRODIE. Come, come, Procurator, lead not our poor clay into temptation.
(LESLIE _and_ MARY _talk apart_.)
LAWSON. I’m no muckle afraid for your puir clay, as ye ca’t.] But hark
i’ your ear: ye’re likely, joking apart, to be gey and sune in
partnership wi’ Mr. Leslie. He and Mary are gey and pack, a body can see
that.
[BRODIE. ‘Daffin’ and want o’ wit’—you know the rest.
LAWSON. _Vidi_, _scivi_, _et audivi_, as we say in a Sasine, William.]
Man, because my wig’s pouthered do ye think I havena a green heart? I
was aince a lad mysel’, and I ken fine by the glint o’ the e’e when a
lad’s fain and a lassie’s willing. And, man, it’s the town’s talk;
_communis error fit jus_, ye ken.
[OLD BRODIE. Oh!
LAWSON. See, ye’re hurting your faither’s hand.
BRODIE. Dear dad, it is not good to have an ill-tempered son.
LAWSON. What the deevil ails ye at the match? ’Od, man, he has a nice
bit divot o’ Fife corn-land, I can tell ye, and some Bordeaux wine in his
cellar! But I needna speak o’ the Bordeaux; ye’ll ken the smack o’t as
weel’s I do mysel’; onyway it’s grand wine. _Tantum et tale_. I tell ye
the _pro’s_, find you the _con.’s_, if ye’re able.]
BRODIE. [I am sorry, Procurator, but I must be short with you.] You are
talking in the air, as lawyers will. I prefer to drop the subject [and
it will displease me if you return to it in my hearing].
LESLIE. At four o’clock to-morrow? At my house? (_to_ MARY).
MARY. As soon as church is done. (_Exit_ MARY.)
LAWSON. Ye needna be sae high and mighty, onyway.
BRODIE. I ask your pardon, Procurator. But we Brodies—you know our
failings! [A bad temper and a humour of privacy.]
LAWSON. Weel, I maun be about my business. But I could tak’ a
doch-an-dorach, William; _superflua non nocent_, as we say; an extra dram
hurts naebody, Mr. Leslie.
BRODIE (_with bottle and glasses_). Here’s your old friend, Procurator.
Help yourself, Leslie. Oh no, thank you, not any for me. You strong
people have the advantage of me there. With my attacks, you know, I must
always live a bit of a hermit’s life.
LAWSON. ’Od, man, that’s fine; that’s health o’ mind and body. Mr.
Leslie, here’s to you, sir. ’Od, it’s harder to end than to begin wi’
stuff like that.
SCENE III
_To these_, SMITH and JEAN, _C._
SMITH. Is the king of the castle in, please?
LAWSON (_aside_). Lord’s sake, it’s Smith!
BRODIE (_to_ SMITH). I beg your pardon?
SMITH. I beg yours, sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. Brodie at home,
sir?
BRODIE. What do you want with him, my man?
SMITH. I’ve a message for him, sir, a job of work, sir!
BRODIE (_to_ SMITH; _referring to_ JEAN). And who is this?
JEAN. I am here for the Procurator, about my rent. There’s nae offence,
I hope, sir.
LAWSON. It’s just an honest wife I let a flat to in Libberton’s Wynd.
It’ll be for the rent?
JEAN. Just that, sir.
LAWSON. Weel, ye can just bide here a wee, and I’ll step down the road
to my office wi’ ye. (_Exeunt_ BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE, _C._)
SCENE IV
SMITH, JEAN WATT, OLD BRODIE.
SMITH (_bowing them out_). Your humble and most devoted servant, George
Smith, Esquire. And so this is the garding, is it? And this is the
style of horticulture? Ha, it is! (_At the mirror_.) In that case
George’s mother bids him bind his hair. (_Kisses his hand_.) My dearest
Duchess,—(_To_ JEAN.) I say, Jean, there’s a good deal of difference
between this sort of thing and the way we does it in Libberton’s Wynd.
JEAN. I daursay. And what wad ye expeck?
SMITH. Ah, Jean, if you’d cast affection’s glance on this poor but
honest soger! George Lord S. is not the nobleman to cut the object of
his flame before the giddy throng; nor to keep her boxed up in an old
mouse-trap, while he himself is revelling in purple splendours like
these. He didn’t know you, Jean: he was afraid to. Do you call that a
man? Try a man that is.
JEAN. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I’ll tak’ nane o’ that sort of
talk frae you. And what kind o’ a man are you to even yoursel’ to the
likes o’ him? He’s a gentleman.
SMITH. Ah, ain’t he just! And don’t he live up to it? I say, Jean,
feel of this chair.
JEAN. My! look at yon bed!
SMITH. The carpet too! Axminster, by the bones of Oliver Cromwell!
JEAN. What a expense!
SMITH. Hey, brandy! The deuce of the grape! Have a toothful, Mrs.
Watt. [(_Sings_)—
‘Says Bacchus to Venus,
There’s brandy between us,
And the cradle of love is the bowl, the bowl!’]
JEAN. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith.
SMITH. What brings the man from stuff like this to rotgut and spittoons
at Mother Clarke’s; but ah, George, you was born for a higher spear! And
so was you, Mrs. Watt, though I say it that shouldn’t. (_Seeing_ OLD
BRODIE _for the first time_.) Hullo! it’s a man!
JEAN. Thonder in the chair. (_They go to look at him_, _their backs to
the door_.)
GEORGE. Is he alive?
JEAN. I think there’s something wrong with him.
GEORGE. And how was you to-morrow, my valued old gentleman, eh?
JEAN. Dinna mak’ a mock o’ him, Geordie.
OLD BRODIE. My son—the Deacon—Deacon of his trade.
JEAN. He’ll be his feyther. (HUNT _appears at door C._, _and stands
looking on_.)
SMITH. The Deacon’s old man! Well, he couldn’t expect to have his
quiver full of sich, could he, Jean? (_To_ OLD BRODIE.) Ah, my
Christian soldier, if you had, the world would have been more varigated.
Mrs. Deakin (_to_ JEAN), let me introduce you to your dear papa.
JEAN. Think shame to yoursel’! This is the Deacon’s house; you and me
shouldna be here by rights; and if we are, it’s the least we can do to
behave dacent. [This is no the way ye’ll mak’ me like ye.]
SMITH. All right, Duchess. Don’t be angry.
SCENE V
_To these_, HUNT, _C._ (_He steals down_, _and claps each one suddenly
on the shoulder_.)
HUNT. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr. Procurator-Fiscal?
SMITH (_pulling himself together_). D—n it, Jerry, what do you mean by
startling an old customer like that?
HUNT. What, my brave un’? You’re the very party I was looking for!
SMITH. There’s nothing out against me this time?
HUNT. I’ll take odds there is. But it ain’t in my hands. (_To_ OLD
BRODIE.) You’ll excuse me, old genelman?
SMITH. Ah, well, if it’s all in the way of friendship! . . . I say,
Jean, [you and me had best be on the toddle.] We shall be late for
church.
HUNT. Lady, George?
SMITH. It’s a—yes, it’s a lady. Come along, Jean.
HUNT. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe? [That was the name, I think?] Won’t
Mrs. Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz?
JEAN (_unmuffling_). I’ve naething to be ashamed of. My name’s Mistress
Watt; I’m weel kennt at the Wynd heid; there’s naething again me.
HUNT. No, to be sure, there ain’t; and why clap on the blinkers, my
dear? You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like Jerry Hunt
that might be your born father? [But all this don’t tell me about Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal.]
GEORGE (_in an agony_). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (_Going with
attempted swagger_.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry.
SCENE VI
_To these_, _C_, BRODIE and LAWSON (greatcoat, muffler, lantern).
LAWSON (_from the door_). Come your ways, Mistress Watt.
JEAN. That’s the Fiscal himsel’.
HUNT. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe?
LAWSON. That’s me. Who’ll you be?
HUNT. Hunt the Runner, sir; Hunt from Bow Street; English warrant.
LAWSON. There’s a place for a’ things, officer. Come your ways to my
office, with me and this guid wife.
BRODIE (_aside to_ JEAN, _as she passes with a curtsey_). How dare you
be here? (_Aloud to_ SMITH.) Wait you here, my man.
SMITH. If you please, sir. (BRODIE _goes out_, _C._)
SCENE VII
BRODIE, SMITH.
BRODIE. What the devil brings you here?
SMITH. _Con_found it, Deakin! Not rusty?
[BRODIE. And not you only: Jean too! Are you mad?
SMITH. Why, you don’t mean to say, Deakin, that you have been stodged by
G. Smith, Esquire? Plummy old George?]
BRODIE. There was my uncle the Procurator—
SMITH. The Fiscal? He don’t count.
BRODIE. What d’ye mean?
SMITH. Well, Deakin, since Fiscal Lawson’s Nunkey Lawson, and it’s all
in the family way, I don’t mind telling you that Nunkey Lawson’s a
customer of George’s. We give Nunkey Lawson a good deal of brandy—G. S.
and Co.’s celebrated Nantz.
BRODIE. What! does he buy that smuggled trash of yours?
SMITH. Well, we don’t call it smuggled in the trade, Deakin. It’s a
wink, and King George’s picter between G. S. and the Nunks.
BRODIE. Gad! that’s worth knowing. O Procurator, Procurator, is there
no such thing as virtue? [_Allons_! It’s enough to cure a man of vice
for this world and the other.] But hark you hither, Smith; this is all
damned well in its way, but it don’t explain what brings you here.
SMITH. I’ve trapped a pigeon for you.
BRODIE. Can’t you pluck him yourself?
SMITH. Not me. He’s too flash in the feather for a simple nobleman like
George Lord Smith. It’s the great Capting Starlight, fresh in from York.
[He’s exercised his noble art all the way from here to London. ‘Stand
and deliver, stap my vitals!’] And the north road is no bad lay, Deakin.
BRODIE. Flush?
SMITH (_mimicking_). ‘The graziers, split me! A mail, stap my vitals!
and seven demned farmers, by the Lard—’
BRODIE. By Gad!
SMITH. Good for trade, ain’t it? And we thought, Deakin, the Badger and
me, that coins being ever on the vanish, and you not over sweet on them
there lovely little locks at Leslie’s, and them there bigger and uglier
marine stores at the Excise Office . . .
BRODIE (_impassible_). Go on.
SMITH. Worse luck! . . . We thought, me and the Badger, you know, that
maybe you’d like to exercise your helbow with our free and galliant
horseman.
BRODIE. The old move, I presume? the double set of dice?
SMITH. That’s the rig, Deakin. What you drop on the square you pick up
again on the cross. [Just as you did with G. S. and Co.’s own agent and
correspondent, the Admiral from Nantz.] You always was a neat hand with
the bones, Deakin.
BRODIE. The usual terms, I suppose?
SMITH. The old discount, Deakin. Ten in the pound for you, and the rest
for your jolly companions every one. [_That’s_ the way _we_ does it!]
BRODIE. Who has the dice?
SMITH. Our mutual friend, the Candleworm.
BRODIE. You mean Ainslie?—We trust that creature too much, Geordie.
SMITH. He’s all right, Marquis. He wouldn’t lay a finger on his own
mother. Why, he’s no more guile in him than a set of sheep’s trotters.
[BRODIE. You think so? Then see he don’t cheat you over the dice, and
give you light for loaded. See to that, George, see to that; and you may
count the Captain as bare as his last grazier.
SMITH. The Black Flag for ever! George’ll trot him round to Mother
Clarke’s in two twos.] How long’ll you be?
BRODIE. The time to lock up and go to bed, and I’ll be with you. Can
you find your way out?
SMITH. Bloom on, my Sweet William, in peaceful array. Ta-ta.
SCENE VIII
BRODIE, OLD BRODIE; to whom, MARY.
MARY. O Willie, I am glad you did not go with them. I have something to
tell you. If you knew how happy I am, you would clap your hands, Will.
But come, sit you down there, and be my good big brother, and I will
kneel here and take your hand. We must keep close to dad, and then he
will feel happiness in the air. The poor old love, if we could only tell
him! But I sometimes think his heart has gone to heaven already, and
takes a part in all our joys and sorrows; and it is only his poor body
that remains here, helpless and ignorant. Come, Will, sit you down, and
ask me questions—or guess—that will be better, guess.
BRODIE. Not to-night, Mary; not to-night. I have other fish to fry, and
they won’t wait.
MARY. Not one minute for your sister? One little minute for your little
sister?
BRODIE. Minutes are precious, Mary. I have to work for all of us, and
the clock is always busy. They are waiting for me even now. Help me
with the dad’s chair. And then to bed, and dream happy things. And
to-morrow morning I will hear your news—your good news; it must be good,
you look so proud and glad. But to-night it cannot be.
MARY. I hate your business—I hate all business. To think of chairs, and
tables, and foot-rules, all dead and wooden—and cold pieces of money with
the King’s ugly head on them; and here is your sister, your pretty
sister, if you please, with something to tell, which she would not tell
you for the world, and would give the world to have you guess, and you
won’t?—Not you! For business! Fie, Deacon Brodie! But I’m too happy to
find fault with you.
BRODIE. ‘And me a Deacon,’ as the Procurator would say.
MARY. No such thing, sir! I am not a bit afraid of you—nor a bit angry
neither. Give me a kiss, and promise me hours and hours to-morrow
morning.
BRODIE. All day long to-morrow, if you like.
MARY. Business or none?
BRODIE. Business or none, little sister! I’ll make time, I promise you;
and there’s another kiss for surety. Come along. (_They proceed to push
out the chair_, _L.C._) The wine and wisdom of this evening have given
me one of my headaches, and I’m in haste for bed. You’ll be good, won’t
you, and see they make no noise, and let me sleep my fill to-morrow
morning till I wake?
MARY. Poor Will! How selfish I must have seemed! You should have told
me sooner, and I wouldn’t have worried you. Come along.
(_She goes out_, _pushing chair_.)
SCENE IX
BRODIE
(_He closes_, _locks_, _and double-bolts both doors_)
BRODIE. Now for one of the Deacon’s headaches! Rogues all, rogues all!
(_Goes to clothes-press_, _and proceeds to change his coat_.) On with
the new coat and into the new life! Down with the Deacon and up with the
robber! (_Changing neck-band and ruffles_.) Eh God! how still the house
is! There’s something in hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we
seem, what would the world be? [The city has its vizard on, and we—at
night we are our naked selves. Trysts are keeping, bottles cracking,
knives are stripping; and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the man of
men he is!]—How still it is! . . . My father and Mary—Well! the day for
them, the night for me; the grimy cynical night that makes all cats grey,
and all honesties of one complexion. Shall a man not have _half_ a life
of his own?—not eight hours out of twenty-four? [Eight shall he have
should he dare the pit of Tophet.] (_Takes out money_.) Where’s the
blunt? I must be cool to-night, or . . . steady, Deacon, you must win;
damn you, you must! You must win back the dowry that you’ve stolen, and
marry your sister, and pay your debts, and gull the world a little
longer! (_As he blows out the lights_.) The Deacon’s going to bed—the
poor sick Deacon! _Allons_! (_Throws up the window_, _and looks out_.)
Only the stars to see me! (_Addressing the bed_.) Lie there, Deacon!
sleep and be well to-morrow. As for me, I’m a man once more till
morning. (_Gets out of the window_.)
TABLEAU II.
HUNT THE RUNNER
_The Scene represents the Procurator’s Office_.
SCENE I
LAWSON, HUNT
[LAWSON (_entering_). Step your ways in, Officer. (_At wing_.) Mr.
Carfrae, give a chair to yon decent wife that cam’ in wi’ me. Nae news?
A VOICE WITHOUT. Naething, sir.
LAWSON (_sitting_). Weel, Officer, and what can I do for you?]
HUNT. Well, sir, as I was saying, I’ve an English warrant for the
apprehension of one Jemmy Rivers, _alias_ Captain Starlight, now at large
within your jurisdiction.
LAWSON. That’ll be the highwayman?
HUNT. That same, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. The Captain’s given me a hard
hunt of it this time. I dropped on his marks first at Huntingdon, but he
was away North, and I had to up and after him. I heard of him all along
the York road, for he’s a light hand on the pad, has Jemmy, and leaves
his mark. [I missed him at York by four-and-twenty hours, and lost him
for as much more. Then I picked him up again at Carlisle, and we made a
race of it for the Border; but he’d a better nag, and was best up in the
road; so I had to wait till I ran him to earth in Edinburgh here and
could get a new warrant.] So here I am, sir. They told me you were an
active sort of gentleman, and I’m an active man myself. And Sir John
Fielding, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, he’s an active gentleman, likewise,
though he’s blind as a himage, and he desired his compliments to you,
[sir, and said that between us he thought we’d do the trick].
LAWSON. Ay, he’ll be a fine man, Sir John. Hand me owre your papers,
Hunt, and you’ll have your new warrant _quam primum_. And see here,
Hunt, ye’ll aiblins have a while to yoursel’, and an active man, as ye
say ye are, should aye be grinding grist. We’re sair forfeuchen wi’ our
burglaries. _Non constat de personâ_. We canna get a grip o’ the
delinquents. Here is the _Hue and Cry_. Ye see there is a guid two
hundred pounds for ye.
HUNT. Well, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal [I ain’t a rich man, and two hundred’s
two hundred. Thereby, sir], I don’t mind telling you I’ve had a bit of a
worry at it already. You see, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I had to look into
a ken to-night about the Captain, and an old cock always likes to be sure
of his walk; so I got one of your Scotch officers—him as was so polite as
to show me round to Mr. Brodie’s—to give me full particulars about the
’ouse, and the flash companions that use it. In his list I drop on the
names of two old lambs of my own; and I put it to you, Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal, as a genleman as knows the world, if what’s a black
sheep in London is likely or not to be keeping school in Edinburgh?
LAWSON. _Coelum non animum_. A just observe.
HUNT. I’ll give it a thought, sir, and see if I can’t kill two birds
with one stone. Talking of which, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I’d like to
have a bit of a confab with that nice young woman as came to pay her
rent.
LAWSON. Hunt, that’s a very decent woman.
HUNT. And a very decent woman may have mighty queer pals, Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal. Lord love you, sir, I don’t know what the profession
would do without ’em!
LAWSON. Ye’re vera richt, Hunt. An active and a watchful officer. I’ll
send her in till ye.
SCENE II
HUNT (_solus_)
Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One burglary after another,
and these Scotch blockheads without a man to show for it. Jock runs
east, and Sawney cuts west; everything’s at a deadlock; and they go on
calling themselves thief-catchers! [By jingo, I’ll show them how we do
it down South! Well, I’ve worn out a good deal of saddle leather over
Jemmy Rivers; but here’s for new breeches if you like.] Let’s have
another queer at the list. (_Reads_.) ‘Humphrey Moore, otherwise Badger;
aged forty, thick-set, dark, close-cropped; has been a prize-fighter; no
apparent occupation.’ Badger’s an old friend of mine, ‘George Smith,
otherwise the Dook, otherwise Jingling Geordie; red-haired and curly,
slight, flash; an old thimble-rig; has been a stroller; suspected of
smuggling; an associate of loose women.’ G. S., Esquire, is another of
my flock. ‘Andrew Ainslie, otherwise Slink Ainslie; aged thirty-five;
thin, white-faced, lank-haired; no occupation; has been in trouble for
reset of theft and subornation of youth; might be useful as king’s
evidence.’ That’s an acquaintance to make. ‘Jock Hamilton, otherwise
Sweepie,’ and so on. [’Willie M’Glashan,’ hum—yes, and so on, and so
on.] Ha! here’s the man I want. ‘William Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights,
about thirty; tall, slim, dark; wears his own hair; is often at Clarke’s,
but seemingly for purposes of amusement only; [is nephew to the
Procurator-Fiscal; is commercially sound, but has of late (it is
supposed) been short of cash; has lost much at cock-fighting;] is proud,
clever, of good repute, but is fond of adventures and secrecy, and keeps
low company.’ Now, here’s what I ask myself: here’s this list of the
family party that drop into Mother Clarke’s; it’s been in the hands of
these nincompoops for weeks, and I’m the first to cry Queer Street! Two
well-known cracksmen, Badger and the Dook! why, there’s Jack in the
Orchard at once. This here topsawyer work they talk about, of course
that’s a chalk above Badger and the Dook. But how about our
Mohock-tradesman? ‘Purposes of amusement!’ What next? Deacon of the
Wrights? and wright in their damned lingo means a kind of carpenter, I
fancy? Why, damme, it’s the man’s trade! I’ll look you up, Mr. William
Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights. As sure as my name’s Jerry Hunt, I
wouldn’t take one-ninety-nine in gold for my chance of that ’ere two
hundred!
SCENE III
HUNT; to him JEAN
HUNT. Well, my dear, and how about your gentleman friend now? How about
Deacon Brodie?
JEAN. I dinna ken your name, sir, nor yet whae ye are; but this is a
very poor employ for ony gentleman—it sets ill wi’ ony gentleman to cast
my shame in my teeth.
HUNT. Lord love you, my dear, that ain’t my line of country. Suppose
you’re not married and churched a hundred thousand times, what odds to
Jerry Hunt? Jerry, my Pamela Prue, is a cove as might be your parent; a
cove renowned for the ladies’ friend [and he’s dead certain to be on your
side]. What I can’t get over is this: here’s this Mr. Deacon Brodie
doing the genteel at home, and leaving a nice young ’oman like you—as a
cove may say—to take it out on cold potatoes. That’s what I can’t get
over, Mrs. Watt. I’m a family man myself; and I can’t get over it.
JEAN. And whae said that to ye? They lee’d whatever. I get naething
but guid by him; and I had nae richt to gang to his house; and O, I just
ken I’ve been the ruin of him!
HUNT. Don’t you take on, Mrs. Watt. Why, now I hear you piping up for
him, I begin to think a lot of him myself. I like a cove to be
open-handed and free.
JEAN. Weel, sir, and he’s a’ that.
HUNT. Well, that shows what a wicked world this is. Why, they told me—.
Well, well, ‘here’s the open ’and and the ’appy ’art.’ And how much, my
dear—speaking as a family man—now, how much might your gentleman friend
stand you in the course of a year?
JEAN. What’s your wull?
HUNT. That’s a mighty fancy shawl, Mrs. Watt. [I should like to take
its next-door neighbour to Mrs. Hunt in King Street, Common Garden.]
What’s about the figure?
JEAN. It’s paid for. Ye can sweir to that.
HUNT. Yes, my dear, and so is King George’s crown; but I don’t know what
it cost, and I don’t know where the blunt came from to pay for it.
JEAN. I’m thinking ye’ll be a vera clever gentleman.
HUNT. So I am, my dear; and I like you none the worse for being artful
yourself. But between friends now, and speaking as a family man—
JEAN. I’ll be wishin’ ye a fine nicht. (_Curtsies and goes out_.)
SCENE IV
HUNT (_solus_)
HUNT. Ah! that’s it, is it? ‘My fancy man’s my ’ole delight,’ as we say
in Bow Street. But which _is_ the fancy man? George the Dock, or
William the Deacon? One or both? (_He winks solemnly_.) Well, Jerry,
my boy, here’s your work cut out for you; but if you took one-nine-five
for that ’ere little two hundred you’d be a disgrace to the profession.
TABLEAU III.
MOTHER CLARKE’S
SCENE I
_The Stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance_: _settles_,
_spittoons_, _etc._; _sanded floor_. _A large table at back_, _where_
AINSLIE, HAMILTON, _and others are playing cards and quarrelling_. _In
front_, _L. and R. smaller tables_, _at one of which are_ BRODIE _and_
MOORE, _drinking_. MRS. CLARKE _and women serving_.
MOORE. You’ve got the devil’s own luck, Deacon, that’s what you’ve got.
BRODIE. Luck! Don’t talk of luck to a man like me! Why not say I’ve
the devil’s own judgment? Men of my stamp don’t risk—they plan, Badger;
they plan, and leave chance to such cattle as you [and Jingling Geordie.
They make opportunities before they take them].
MOORE. You’re artful, ain’t you?
BRODIE. Should I be here else? When I leave my house I leave an _alibi_
behind me. I’m ill—ill with a jumping headache, and the fiend’s own
temper. I’m sick in bed this minute, and they’re all going about with
the fear of death on them lest they should disturb the poor sick Deacon.
[My bedroom door is barred and bolted like the bank—you remember!—and all
the while the window’s open, and the Deacon’s over the hills and far
away. What do you think of me?]
MOORE. I’ve seen your sort before, I have.
BRODIE. Not you. As for Leslie’s—
MOORE. That was a nick above you.
BRODIE. Ay was it. He wellnigh took me red-handed; and that was better
luck than I deserved. If I’d not been drunk, and in my tantrums, you’d
never have got my hand within a thousand years of such a job.
MOORE. Why not? You’re the King of the Cracksmen, ain’t you?
BRODIE. Why not! He asks me why not! Gods, what a brain it is! Hark
ye, Badger, it’s all very well to be King of the Cracksmen, as you call
it; but however respectable he may have the misfortune to be, one’s
friend is one’s friend, and as such must be severely let alone. What!
shall there be no more honour among thieves than there is honesty among
politicians? Why, man, if under heaven there were but one poor lock
unpicked, and that the lock of one whose claret you’ve drunk, and who has
babbled of woman across your own mahogany—that lock, sir, were entirely
sacred. Sacred as the Kirk of Scotland; sacred as King George upon his
throne; sacred as the memory of Bruce and Bannockburn.
MOORE. Oh, rot! I ain’t a parson, I ain’t; I never had no college
education. Business is business. That’s wot’s the matter with me.
BRODIE. Ay, so we said when you lost that fight with Newcastle Jemmy,
and sent us all home poor men. That was a nick above _you_.
MOORE. Newcastle Jemmy! Muck: that’s my opinion of him: muck. I’ll mop
the floor up with him any day, if so be as you or any on ’em ’ll make it
worth my while. If not, muck! That’s my motto. Wot I now ses is, about
that ’ere crib at Leslie’s, wos I right, I ses? or wos I wrong? That’s
wot’s the matter with you.
BRODIE. You are both right and wrong. You dared me to do it. I was
drunk; I was upon my mettle; and I as good as did it. More than that,
black-guardly as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is my friend. He had
dined with me that day, and I felt like a man in a story. I climbed his
wall, I crawled along his pantry roof, I mounted his window-sill. That
one turn of my wrist—you know it I—and the casement was open. It was as
dark as the pit, and I thought I’d won my wager, when, phewt! down went
something inside, and down went somebody with it. I made one leap, and
was off like a rocket. It was my poor friend in person; and if he’d
caught and passed me on to the watchman under the window, I should have
felt no viler rogue than I feel just now.
MOORE. I s’pose he knows you pretty well by this time?
BRODIE. ’Tis the worst of friendship. Here, Kirsty, fill these glasses.
Moore, here’s better luck—and a more honourable plant!—next time.
MOORE. Deacon, I looks towards you. But it looks thundering like rotten
eggs, don’t it?
BRODIE. I think not. I was masked, for one thing, and for another I was
as quick as lightning. He suspects me so little that he dined with me
this very afternoon.
MOORE. Anyway, you ain’t game to try it on again, I’ll lay odds on that.
Once bit, twice shy. That’s your motto.
BRODIE. Right again. I’ll put my _alibi_ to a better use. And, Badger,
one word in your ear: there’s no Newcastle Jemmy about _me_. Drop the
subject, and for good, or I shall drop you. (_He rises_, _and walks
backwards and forwards_, _a little unsteadily_. _Then returns_, _and
sits L._, _as before_.)
SCENE II
_To these_, HUNT, _disguised_
_He is disguised as a_ ‘_flying stationer_’ _with a patch over his eye_.
_He sits at table opposite_ BRODIE’S _and is served with bread and cheese
and beer_.
HAMILTON (_from behind_). The deevil tak’ the cairts!
AINSLIE. Hoot, man, dinna blame the cairts.
MOORE. Look here, Deacon, I mean business, I do. (HUNT _looks up at the
name of_ ‘_Deacon_.’)
BRODIE. Gad, Badger, I never meet you that you do not. [You have a set
of the most commercial intentions!] You make me blush.
MOORE. That’s all blazing fine, that is! But wot I ses is, wot about
the chips? That’s what I ses. I’m after that thundering old Excise
Office, I am. That’s my motto.
BRODIE. ’Tis a very good motto, and at your lips, Badger, it kind of
warms my heart. But it’s not mine.
MOORE. Muck! why not?
BRODIE. ’Tis too big and too dangerous. I shirk King George; he has a
fat pocket, but he has a long arm. [You pilfer sixpence from him, and
it’s three hundred reward for you, and a hue and cry from Tophet to the
stars.] It ceases to be business; it turns politics, and I’m not a
politician, Mr. Moore. (_Rising_.) I’m only Deacon Brodie.
MOORE. All right. I can wait.
BRODIE (_seeing_ HUNT). Ha, a new face,—and with a patch! [There’s
nothing under heaven I like so dearly as a new face with a patch.] Who
the devil, sir, are you that own it? And where did you get it? And how
much will you take for it second-hand?
HUNT. Well, sir, to tell you the truth (BRODIE _bows_) it’s not for
sale. But it’s my own, and I’ll drink your honour’s health in anything.
BRODIE. An Englishman, too! Badger, behold a countryman. What are you,
and what part of southern Scotland do you come from?
HUNT. Well, your honour, to tell you the honest truth—
[BRODIE (_bowing_). Your obleeged!]
HUNT. I knows a gentleman when I sees him, your honour [and, to tell
your honour the truth—
BRODIE. _Je vous baise les mains_! (_Bowing_.)]
HUNT. A gentleman as is a gentleman, your honour [is always a gentleman,
and to tell you the honest truth]—
BRODIE. Great heavens! answer in three words, and be hanged to you!
What are you, and where are you from?
HUNT. A patter-cove from Seven Dials.
BRODIE. Is it possible? All my life long have I been pining to meet
with a patter-cove from Seven Dials! Embrace me, at a distance. [A
patter-cove from Seven Dials!] Go, fill yourself as drunk as you dare,
at my expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. Clarke. He’s a patter-cove from
Seven Dials. Hillo! what’s all this?
AINSLIE. Dod, I’m for nae mair! (_At back_, _and rising_.)
PLAYERS. Sit down, Ainslie.—Sit down, Andra.—Ma revenge!
AINSLIE. Na, na, I’m for canny goin’. (_Coming forward with bottle_.)
Deacon, let’s see your gless.
BRODIE. Not an inch of it.
MOORE. No rotten shirking, Deacon!
[AINSLIE. I’m sayin’, man, let’s see your gless.
BRODIE. Go to the deuce!]
AINSLIE. But I’m sayin’—
BRODIE. Haven’t I to play to-night?
AINSLIE. But, man, ye’ll drink to bonnie Jean Watt?
BRODIE. Ay, I’ll follow you there. _A la reine de mes amours_!
(_Drinks_.) What fiend put this in your way, you hound? You’ve filled
me with raw stuff. By the muckle deil!—
MOORE. Don’t hit him, Deacon; tell his mother.
HUNT (_aside_). Oho!
SCENE III
_To these_, SMITH, RIVERS.
SMITH. Where’s my beloved? Deakin, my beauty, where are you? Come to
the arms of George, and let him introduce you. Capting Starlight Rivers!
Capting, the Deakin: Deakin, the Capting. An English nobleman on the
grand tour, to open his mind, by the Lard!
RIVERS. Stupendiously pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deakin,
split me!
[BRODIE. We don’t often see England’s heroes our way, Captain, but when
we do, we make them infernally welcome.
RIVERS. Prettily put, sink me! A demned genteel sentiment, stap my
vitals!]
BRODIE. Oh Captain! you flatter me. [We Scotsmen have our qualities, I
suppose, but we are but rough and ready at the best. There’s nothing
like your Englishman for genuine distinction. He is nearer France than
we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. That d—d thing, the _je ne sais
quoi_, too! Lard, Lard, split me! stap my vitals! O such manners are
pure, pure, pure. They are, by the shade of Claude Duval!]
RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin [this is passatively too much]. What
will you sip? Give it the _h_anar of a neam.
BRODIE. By these most _h_anarable hands now, Captain, you shall not. On
such an occasion I could play host with Lucifer himself. Here, Clarke,
Mother Midnight! Down with you, Captain! (_forcing him boisterously into
a chair_.) I don’t know if you can lie, but, sink me! you shall sit.
(_Drinking_, _etc._, _in dumb-show_.)
MOORE (_aside to_ SMITH). We’ve nobbled him, Geordie!
SMITH (_aside to_ MOORE). As neat as ninepence! He’s taking it down
like mother’s milk. But there’ll be wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger!
It’ll be tuppence and toddle with George Smith.
MOORE. O muck! Who’s afraid of him? (_To_ AINSLIE.) Hang on, Slinkie.
HUNT (_who is feigning drunkenness_, _and has overheard; aside_). By
jingo!
[RIVERS. Will you sneeze, Mr. Deakin, sir?
BRODIE. Thanks; I have all the vices, Captain. You must send me some of
your rappee. It is passatively perfect.]
RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, I do myself the _h_anar of a sip to you.
BRODIE. Topsy-turvy with the can!
MOORE (_aside to_ SMITH). That made him wink.
BRODIE. Your high and mighty hand, my Captain! Shall we dice—dice—dice?
(_Dumb-show between them_.)
AINSLIE (_aside to_ MOORE). I’m sayin’—?
MOORE. What’s up now?
AINSLIE. I’m no to gie him the coggit dice?
MOORE. The square ones, rot you! Ain’t he got to lose every brass
farden?
AINSLIE. What’ll like be my share?
MOORE. You mucking well leave that to me.
RIVERS. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will have me shake a
_h_elbow—
BRODIE. Where are the bones, Ainslie? Where are the dice, Lord George?
(AINSLIE _gives the dice and dice-box to_ BRODIE; _and privately a second
pair of dice_.) Old Fortune’s counters the bonnie money-catching,
money-breeding bones! Hark to their dry music! Scotland against
England! Sit round, you tame devils, and put your coins on me!
SMITH. Easy does it, my lord of high degree! Keep cool.
BRODIE. Cool’s the word, Captain—a cool twenty on the first?
RIVERS. Done and done. (_They play_.)
HUNT (_aside to_ MOORE, _a little drunk_). Ain’t that ’ere Scotch
gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir?
MOORE. You hold your jaw; that’s what’s the matter with you.
AINSLIE. He’s waur nor he looks. He’s knockit the box aff the table.
SMITH (_picking up box_). That’s the way we does it. Ten to one and no
takers!
BRODIE. Deuces again! More liquor, Mother Clarke!
SMITH. Hooray our side! (_Pouting out_.) George and his pal for ever!
BRODIE. Deuces again, by heaven! Another?
RIVERS. Done!
BRODIE. Ten more; money’s made to go. On with you!
RIVERS. Sixes.
BRODIE. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment? Double or quits?
RIVERS. Drive on! Sixes.
SMITH. Fire away, brave boys! (_To_ MOORE) It’s Tally-ho-the-Grinder,
Hump!
BRODIE. Treys! Death and the pit! How much have you got there?
RIVERS. A cool forty-five.
BRODIE. I play you thrice the lot.
RIVERS. Who’s afraid?
SMITH. Stand by, Badger!
RIVERS. Cinq-ace.
BRODIE. My turn now. (_He juggles in and uses the second pair of
dice_.) Aces! Aces again! What’s this? (_Picking up dice_.) Sold! . . .
You play false, you hound!
RIVERS. You lie!
BRODIE. In your teeth. (_Overturns table_, _and goes for him_.)
MOORE. Here, none o’ that. (_They hold him back_. _Struggle_.)
SMITH. Hold on, Deacon!
BRODIE. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I’ll not touch him. (_Stands
weighing dice in his hand_.) But as for that thieving whinger, Ainslie,
I’ll cut his throat between this dark and to-morrow’s. To the bone.
(_Addressing the company_.) Rogues, rogues, rogues! (_Singing
without_.) Ha! what’s that?
AINSLIE. It’s the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver’s. And O
Deacon, if ye’re a Christian man—
THE PSALM WITHOUT:—
‘Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord,
Should’st mark iniquity?
But yet with Thee forgiveness is,
That feared Thou may’st be.’
BRODIE. I think I’ll go. ‘My son the Deacon was aye regular at kirk.’
If the old man could see his son, the Deacon! I think I’ll—Ay, who
_shall_ stand? There’s the rub! And forgiveness, too? There’s a long
word for you! I learnt it all lang syne, and now . . . hell and ruin are
on either hand of me, and the devil has me by the leg. ‘My son, the
Deacon . . . !’ Eh, God! but there’s no fool like an old fool!
(_Becoming conscious of the others_.) Rogues!
SMITH. Take my arm, Deacon.
BRODIE. Down, dog, down! [Stay and be drunk with your equals.]
Gentlemen and ladies, I have already cursed you pretty heavily. Let me
do myself the pleasure of wishing you—a very—good evening. (_As he goes
out_, HUNT, _who has been staggering about in the crowd_, _falls on a
settle_, _as about to sleep_.)
* * * * *
ACT-DROP.
ACT II.
TABLEAU IV.
EVIL AND GOOD
_The Stage represents the Deacon’s workshop_; _benches_, _shavings_,
_tools_, _boards_, _and so forth_. _Doors_, _C. on the street_, _and L.
into the house_. _Without_, _church bells_; _not a chime_, _but a slow
broken tocsin_.
SCENE I
BRODIE (_solus_). My head! my head! It’s the sickness of the grave.
And those bells go on . . . go on! . . . inexorable as death and
judgment. [There they go; the trumpets of respectability, sounding
encouragement to the world to do and spare not, and not to be found out.
Found out! And to those who are they toll as when a man goes to the
gallows.] Turn where I will are pitfalls hell-deep. Mary and her dowry;
Jean and her child—my child; the dirty scoundrel Moore; my uncle and his
trust; perhaps the man from Bow Street. Debt, vice, cruelty, dishonour,
crime; the whole canting, lying, double-dealing, beastly business! ‘My
son the Deacon—Deacon of the Wrights!’ My thoughts sicken at it. [Oh
the Deacon, the Deacon! Where’s a hat for the Deacon? where’s a hat for
the Deacon’s headache? (_searching_). This place is a piggery. To be
respectable and not to find one’s hat.)
SCENE II
_To him_, JEAN, _a baby in her shawl_. _C._
JEAN (_who has entered silently during the Deacon’s last words_). It’s
me, Wullie.
BRODIE (_turning upon her_). What! You here again? [you again!]
JEAN. Deacon, I’m unco vexed.
BRODIE. Do you know what you do? Do you know what you risk? [Is there
nothing—nothing!—will make you spare me this idiotic, wanton
prosecution?]
JEAN. I was wrong to come yestreen; I ken that fine. But the day it’s
different; I but to come the day, Deacon, though I ken fine it’s the
Sabbath, and I think shame to be seen upon the streets.
BRODIE. See here, Jean. You must go now. I come to you to-night; I
swear that. But now I’m for the road.
JEAN. No till you’ve heard me, William Brodie. Do ye think I came to
pleasure mysel’, where I’m no wanted? I’ve a pride o’ my ains.
BRODIE. Jean, I am going now. If you please to stay on alone, in this
house of mine, where I wish I could say you are welcome, stay (_going_).
JEAN. It’s the man frae Bow Street.
BRODIE. Bow Street?
JEAN. I thocht ye would hear me. Ye think little o’ me; but it’s mebbe
a braw thing for you that I think sae muckle o’ William Brodie . . . ill
as it sets me.
BRODIE. [You don’t know what is on my mind, Jeannie, else you would
forgive me.] Bow Street?
JEAN. It’s the man Hunt: him that was here yestreen for the Fiscal.
BRODIE. Hunt?
JEAN. He kens a hantle. He . . . Ye maunna be angered wi’ me, Wullie!
I said what I shouldna.
BRODIE. Said? Said what?
JEAN. Just that ye were a guid frien’ to me. He made believe he was
awful sorry for me, because ye gied me nae siller; and I said, ‘Wha tellt
him that?’ and that he lee’d.
BRODIE. God knows he did! What next?
JEAN. He was that soft-spoken, butter wouldna melt in his mouth; and he
keept aye harp, harpin’; but after that let out, he got neither black nor
white frae me. Just that ae word and nae mair; and at the hinder end he
just speired straucht out, whaur it was ye got your siller frae.
BRODIE. Where I got my siller?
JEAN. Ay, that was it! ‘You ken,’ says he.
BRODIE. Did he? and what said you?
JEAN. I couldna think on naething, but just that he was a gey and clever
gentleman.
BRODIE. You should have said I was in trade, and had a good business.
That’s what you should have said. That’s what you would have said had
you been worth your salt. But it’s blunder, blunder, outside and in
[upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady’s chamber]. You women! Did he see
Smith?
JEAN. Ay, and kennt him.
BRODIE. Damnation!—No, I’m not angry with you. But you see what I’ve to
endure for you. Don’t cry. [Here’s the devil at the door, and we must
bar him out as best we can.]
JEAN. God’s truth, ye are nae vexed wi’ me?
BRODIE. God’s truth, I am grateful to you. How is the child? Well?
That’s right. (_Peeping._) Poor wee laddie! He’s like you, Jean.
JEAN. I aye thocht he was liker you.
BRODIE. Is he? Perhaps he is. Ah, Jeannie, you must see and make him a
better man than his father.
JEAN. Eh man, Deacon, the proud wumman I’ll be gin he’s only half sae
guid.
BRODIE. Well, well, if I win through this, we’ll see what we can do for
him between us. (_Leading her out_, _C._) And now, go—go—go.
LAWSON (_without_, _L._). I ken the way, I ken the way.
JEAN (_starring to door_). It’s the Fiscal; I’m awa. (BRODIE, _L._).
SCENE III
_To these_, LAWSON, _L._
LAWSON. A braw day this, William. (_Seeing_ JEAN.) Eh Mistress Watt?
And what’ll have brocht you here?
BRODIE (_seated on bench_). Something, uncle, she lost last night, and
she thinks that something she lost is here. _Voilà_.
LAWSON. Why are ye no at the kirk, woman? Do ye gang to the kirk?
JEAN. I’m mebbe no what ye would just ca’ reg’lar. Ye see, Fiscal, it’s
the wean.
LAWSON. A bairn’s an excuse; I ken that fine, Mistress Watt. But bairn
or nane, my woman, ye should be at the kirk. Awa wi’ ye! Hear to the
bells; they’re ringing in. (JEAN _curtsies to both_, _and goes out C._
_The bells which have been ringing quicker_, _cease_.)
SCENE IV
LAWSON (_to_ BRODIE, _returning C. from door_). _Mulier formosa
superne_, William: a braw lass, and a decent woman forbye.
BRODIE. I’m no judge, Procurator, but I’ll take your word for it. Is
she not a tenant of yours?
LAWSON. Ay, ay; a bit house on my land in Liberton’s Wynd. Her man’s
awa, puir body; or they tell me sae; and I’m concerned for her [she’s
unco bonnie to be left her lane]. But it sets me brawly to be finding
faut wi’ the puir lass, and me an elder, and should be at the plate.
[There’ll be twa words about this in the Kirk Session.] However, it’s
nane of my business that brings me, or I should tak’ the mair shame to
mysel’. Na, sir, it’s for you; it’s your business keeps me frae the
kirk.
BRODIE. My business, Procurator? I rejoice to see it in such excellent
hands.
LAWSON. Ye see, it’s this way. I had a crack wi’ the laddie, Leslie,
_inter pocula_ (he took a stirrup-cup wi’ me), and he tells me he has
askit Mary, and she was to speak to ye hersel’. O, ye needna look sae
gash. Did she speak? and what’ll you have said to her?
BRODIE. She has not spoken; I have said nothing; and I believe I asked
you to avoid the subject.
LAWSON. Ay, I made a note o’ that observation, William [and assoilzied
mysel’]. Mary’s a guid lass, and I’m her uncle, and I’m here to be
answered. Is it to be ay or no?
BRODIE. It’s to be no. This marriage must be quashed; and hark ye,
Procurator, you must help me.
LAWSON. Me? ye’re daft! And what for why?
BRODIE. Because I’ve spent the trust-money, and I can’t refund it.
LAWSON. Ye reprobate deevil!
BRODIE. Have a care, Procurator. No wry words!
LAWSON. Do you say it to my face, sir? Dod, sir, I’m the Crown
Prosecutor.
BRODIE. Right. The Prosecutor for the Crown. And where did you get
your brandy?
LAWSON. Eh?
BRODIE. Your brandy! Your brandy man! Where do you get your brandy?
And you a Crown official and an elder!
LAWSON. Whaur the deevil did ye hear that?
BRODIE. Rogues all! Rogues all, Procurator!
LAWSON. Ay, ay. Lord save us! Guidsake, to think o’ that noo! . . .
Can ye give me some o’ that Cognac? I’m . . . I’m sort o’ shaken,
William, I’m sort o’ shaken. Thank you, William! (_Looking_, _piteously
at glass_.) _Nunc est bibendum_. (_Drinks_.) Troth, I’m set ajee a
bit. Wha the deevil tauld ye?
BRODIE. Ask no questions, brother. We are a pair.
LAWSON. Pair, indeed! Pair, William Brodie! Upon my saul, sir, ye’re a
brazen-faced man that durst say it to my face! Tak’ you care, my bonnie
young man, that your craig doesna feel the wecht o’ your hurdies. Keep
the plainstanes side o’ the gallows. _Via trita_, _via tuta_, William
Brodie!
BRODIE. And the brandy, Procurator? and the brandy?
LAWSON. Ay . . . weel . . . be’t sae! Let the brandy bide, man, let the
brandy bide! But for you and the trust-money . . . damned! It’s felony.
_ Tutor in rem suam_, ye ken, _tutor in rem suam_. But O man, Deacon,
whaur is the siller?
BRODIE. It’s gone—O how the devil should I know? But it’ll never come
back.
LAWSON. Dear, dear! A’ gone to the winds o’ heaven! Sae ye’re an
extravagant dog, too. _Prodigus et furiosus_! And that puir lass—eh,
Deacon, man, that puir lass! I mind her such a bonny bairn.
BRODIE (_stopping his ears_). Brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy
LAWSON. William Brodie, mony’s the long day that I’ve believed in you;
prood, prood was I to be the Deacon’s uncle; and a sore hearing have I
had of it the day. That’s past; that’s past like Flodden Field; it’s an
auld sang noo, and I’m an aulder man than when I crossed your door. But
mark ye this—mark ye this, William Brodie, I may be no sae guid’s I
should be; but there’s no a saul between the east sea and the wast can
lift his een to God that made him, and say I wranged him as ye wrang that
lassie. I bless God, William Brodie—ay, though he was like my brother—I
bless God that he that got ye has the hand of death upon his hearing, and
can win into his grave a happier man than me. And ye speak to me, sir?
Think shame—think shame upon your heart!
BRODIE. Rogues all!
LAWSON. You’re the son of my sister, William Brodie. Mair than that I
stop not to inquire. If the siller is spent, and the honour tint—Lord
help us, and the honour tint!—sae be it, I maun bow the head. Ruin
shallna come by me. Na, and I’ll say mair, William; we have a’ our weary
sins upon our backs, and maybe I have mair than mony. But, man, if ye
could bring _half_ the jointure . . . [_potius quam pereas_] . . . for
your mither’s son? Na? You couldna bring the half? Weel, weel, it’s a
sair heart I have this day, a sair heart and a weary. If I were a better
man mysel’ . . . but there, there, it’s a sair heart that I have gotten.
And the Lord kens I’ll help ye if I can. [_Potius quam pereas_.]
SCENE V
BRODIE. Sore hearing, does he say? My hand’s wet. But it’s victory.
Shall it be go? or stay? [I should show them all I can, or they may pry
closer than they ought.] Shall I have it out and be done with it? To
see Mary at once [to carry bastion after bastion at the charge]—there
were the true safety after all! Hurry—hurry’s the road to silence now.
Let them once get tattling in their parlours, and it’s death to me. For
I’m in a cruel corner now. I’m down, and I shall get my kicking soon and
soon enough. I began it in the lust of life, in a hey-day of mystery and
adventure. I felt it great to be a bolder, craftier rogue than the
drowsy citizen that called himself my fellow-man. [It was meat and drink
to know him in the hollow of my hand, hoarding that I and mine might
squander, pinching that we might wax fat.] It was in the laughter of my
heart that I tip-toed into his greasy privacy. I forced the strong-box
at his ear while he sprawled beside his wife. He was my butt, my ape, my
jumping-jack. And now . . . O fool, fool! [Duped by such knaves as are
a shame to knavery, crime’s rabble, hell’s tatterdemalions!] Shorn to
the quick! Rooked to my vitals! And I must thieve for my daily bread
like any crawling blackguard in the gutter. And my sister . . . my kind,
innocent sister! She will come smiling to me with her poor little
love-story, and I must break her heart. Broken hearts, broken lives! . . .
I should have died before.
SCENE VI
BRODIE, MARY
MARY (_tapping without_). Can I come in, Will?
BRODIE. O yes, come in, come in! (MARY _enters_.) I wanted to be
quiet, but it doesn’t matter, I see. You women are all the same.
MARY. O no, Will, they’re not all so happy, and they’re not all Brodies.
But I’ll be a woman in one thing. For I’ve come to claim your promise,
dear; and I’m going to be petted and comforted and made much of, altho’ I
don’t need it, and . . . Why, Will, what’s wrong with you? You look . . .
I don’t know what you look like.
BRODIE. O nothing! A splitting head and an aching heart. Well! you’ve
come to speak to me. Speak up. What is it? Come, girl! What is it?
Can’t you speak?
MARY. Why, Will, what is the matter?
BRODIE. I thought you had come to tell me something. Here I am. For
God’s sake out with it, and don’t stand beating about the bush.
MARY. O be kind, be kind to me.
BRODIE. Kind? I am kind. I’m only ill and worried, can’t you see?
Whimpering? I knew it! Sit down, you goose! Where do you women get
your tears?
MARY. Why are you so cross with me? Oh, Will, you have forgot your
sister! Remember, dear, that I have nobody but you. It’s your own
fault, Will, if you’ve taught me to come to you for kindness, for I
always found it. And I mean you shall be kind to me again. I know you
will, for this is my great need, and the day I’ve missed my mother
sorest. Just a nice look, dear, and a soft tone in your voice, to give
me courage, for I can tell you nothing till I know that you’re my own
brother once again.
BRODIE. If you’d take a hint, you’d put it off till to-morrow. But I
suppose you won’t. On, then, I’m listening. I’m listening!
MARY. Mr. Leslie has asked me to be his wife.
BRODIE. He has, has he?
MARY. And I have consented.
BRODIE. And . . . ?
MARY. You can say that to me? And that is all you have to say?
BRODIE. O no, not all.
MARY. Speak out, sir. I am not afraid.
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?
BRODIE. I have met him in the pit.
HUNT. Well, it’s a pretty sport. I’m as partial to a main as anybody.
BRODIE. It’s not an elegant taste, Mr. Hunt.
HUNT. It costs as much as though it was. And that reminds me, speaking
as one sportsman to another, Mr. Deacon, I was sorry to hear that you’ve
been dropping a hatful of money lately.
BRODIE. You are very good.
HUNT. Four hundred in three months, they tell me.
BRODIE. Ah!
HUNT. So they say, sir.
BRODIE. They have a perfect right to say so, Mr. Hunt.
HUNT. And you to do the other thing? Well, I’m a good hand at keeping
close myself.
BRODIE. I am not consulting you, Mr. Hunt; ’tis you who are consulting
me. And if there is nothing else (_rising_) in which I can pretend to
serve you . . . ?
HUNT (_rising_). That’s about all, sir, unless you can put me on to
anything good in the way of heckle and spur? I’d try to look in.
BRODIE. O, come, Mr. Hunt, if you have nothing to do, frankly and flatly
I have. This is not the day for such a conversation; and so good-bye to
you. (_A knocking_, _C._)
HUNT. Servant, Mr. Deacon. (SMITH _and_ MOORE, _without waiting to be
answered_, _open and enter_, _C._ _They are well into the room before
they observe_ HUNT.) [Talk of the Devil, sir!]
BRODIE. What brings you here? (SMITH _and_ MOORE, _confounded by the
officer’s presence_, _slouch together to right of door_. HUNT, _stopping
as he goes out_, _contemplates the pair_, _sarcastically_. _This is
supported by_ MOORE _with sullen bravado_; _by_ SMITH, _with cringing
airiness_.)
HUNT (_digging_ SMITH _in the ribs_). Why, you are the very parties I
was looking for! (_He goes out_, _C._)
SCENE VIII
BRODIE, MOORE, SMITH
MOORE. Wot was that cove here about?
BRODIE (_with folded arms_, _half-sitting on bench_). He was here about
you.
SMITH (_still quite discountenanced_). About us? Scissors! And what
did you tell him?
BRODIE (_same attitude_). I spoke of you as I have found you. [I told
him you were a disreputable hound, and that Moore had crossed a fight.]
I told him you were a drunken ass, and Moore an incompetent and dishonest
boxer.
MOORE. Look here, Deacon! Wot’s up? Wot I ses is, if a cove’s got any
thundering grudge agin a cove, why can’t he spit it out, I ses.
BRODIE. Here are my answers (_producing purse and dice_). These are
both too light. This purse is empty, these dice are not loaded. Is it
indiscretion to inquire how you share? Equal with the Captain, I
presume?
SMITH. It’s as easy as my eye, Deakin. Slink Ainslie got letting the
merry glass go round, and didn’t know the right bones from the wrong.
That’s _h_all.
BRODIE. [What clumsy liars you are!
SMITH. In boyhood’s hour, Deakin, he were called Old Truthful. Little
did he think—]
BRODIE. What is your errand?
MOORE. Business.
SMITH. After the melancholy games of last night, Deakin, which no one
deplores so much as George Smith, we thought we’d trot round—didn’t us,
Hump? and see how you and your bankers was a-getting on.
BRODIE. Will you tell me your errand?
MOORE. You’re dry, ain’t you?
BRODIE. Am I?
MOORE. We ain’t none of us got a stiver, that’s wot’s the matter with
us.
BRODIE. Is it?
MOORE. Ay, strike me, it is! And wot we’ve got to is to put up the
Excise.
SMITH. It’s the last plant in the shrubbery Deakin, and it’s breaking
George the gardener’s heart, it is. We really must!
BRODIE. Must we?
MOORE. Must’s the thundering word. I mean business, I do.
BRODIE. That’s lucky. I don’t.
MOORE. O, you don’t, don’t you?
BRODIE. I do not.
MOORE. Then p’raps you’ll tell us wot you thundering well do?
BRODIE. What do I mean? I mean that you and that merry-andrew shall
walk out of this room and this house. Do you suppose, you blockheads,
that I am blind? I’m the Deacon, am I not? I’ve been your king and your
commander. I’ve led you, and fed you, and thought for you with this
head. And you think to steal a march upon a man like me? I see you
through and through [I know you like the clock]; I read your thoughts
like print. Brodie, you thought, has money, and won’t do the job.
Therefore, you thought, we must rook him to the heart. And therefore,
you put up your idiot cockney. And now you come round, and dictate, and
think sure of your Excise? Sure? Are you sure I’ll let you pack with a
whole skin? By my soul, but I’ve a mind to pistol you like dogs. Out of
this! Out, I say, and soil my home no more.
MOORE (_sitting_). Now look ’ere. Mr. bloody Deacon Brodie, you see
this ’ere chair of yours, don’t you? Wot I ses to you is, here I am, I
ses, and here I mean to stick. That’s my motto. Who the devil are you
to do the high and mighty? You make all you can out of us, don’t you?
and when one of your plants get cross, you order us out of the ken?
Muck! That’s wot I think of you. Muck! Don’t you get coming the nob
over me, Mr. Deacon Brodie, or I’ll smash you.
BRODIE. You will?
MOORE. Ay will I. If I thundering well swing for it. And as for
clearing out? Muck! Here I am, and here I stick. Clear out? You try
it on. I’m a man, I am.
BRODIE. This is plain speaking.
MOORE. Plain? Wot about your father as can’t walk? Wot about your
fine-madam sister? Wot about the stone-jug, and the dock, and the rope
in the open street? Is that plain? If it ain’t, you let me know, and
I’ll spit it out so as it’ll raise the roof off this ’ere ken. Plain!
I’m that cove’s master, and I’ll make it plain enough for him.
BRODIE. What do you want of me?
MOORE. Wot do I want of you? Now you speak sense. Leslie’s is wot I
want of you. The Excise is wot I want of you. Leslie’s to-night and the
Excise to-morrow. That’s wot I want of you, and wot I thundering well
mean to get.
BRODIE. Damn you!
MOORE. Amen. But you’ve got your orders.
BRODIE (_with pistol_). Orders? hey? orders?
SMITH (_between them_). Deacon, Deacon!—Badger, are you mad?
MOORE. Muck! That’s my motto. Wot I ses is, has he got his orders or
has he not? That’s wot’s the matter with him.
SMITH. Deacon, half a tick. Humphrey, I’m only a light weight, and you
fight at twelve stone ten, but I’m damned if I’m going to stand still and
see you hitting a pal when he’s down.
MOORE. Muck! That’s wot I think of you.
SMITH. He’s a cut above us, ain’t he? He never sold his backers, did
he? We couldn’t have done without him, could we? You dry up about his
old man, and his sister; and don’t go on hitting a pal when he’s knocked
out of time and cannot hit back, for, damme, I will not stand it.
MOORE. Amen to you. But I’m cock of this here thundering walk, and that
cove’s got his orders.
BRODIE (_putting pistol on bench_). I give in. I will do your work for
you once more. Leslie’s to-night and the Excise to-morrow. If that is
enough, if you have no more . . . orders, you may count it as done.
MOORE. Fen larks. No rotten shirking, mind.
BRODIE. I have passed you my word. And now you have said what you came
to say, you must go. I have business here; but two hours hence I am at
your . . . orders. Where shall I await you?
MOORE. What about that woman’s place of yours?
BRODIE. Your will is my law.
MOORE. That’s good enough. Now, Dock.
SMITH. Bye-bye, my William. Don’t forget.
SCENE IX
BRODIE. Trust me. No man forgets his vice, you dogs, or forgives it
either. It must be done: Leslie’s to-night and the Excise to-morrow. It
shall be done. This settles it. They used to fetch and carry for me,
and now . . . I’ve licked their boots, have I? I’m their man, their
tool, their chattel. It’s the bottom rung of the ladder of shame. I
sound with my foot, and there’s nothing underneath but the black
emptiness of damnation. Ah, Deacon, Deacon, and so this is where you’ve
been travelling all these years; and it’s for this that you learned
French! The gallows . . . God help me, it begins to dog me like my
shadow. _There’s_ a step to take! And the jerk upon your spine! How’s
a man to die with a night-cap on? I’ve done with this. Over yonder,
across the great ocean, is a new land, with new characters, and perhaps
new lives. The sun shines, and the bells ring, and it’s a place where
men live gladly; and the Deacon himself can walk without terror, and
begin again like a new-born child. It must be good to see day again and
not to fear; it must be good to be one’s self with all men. Happy like a
child, wise like a man, free like God’s angels . . . should I work these
hands off and eat crusts, there were a life to make me young and good
again. And it’s only over the sea! O man, you have been blind, and now
your eyes are opened. It was half a life’s nightmare, and now you are
awake. Up, Deacon, up, it’s hope that’s at the window! Mary! Mary!
Mary!
SCENE X
BRODIE, MARY, OLD BRODIE
(BRODIE has fallen into a chair, with his face upon the table. Enter
MARY, by the side door pushing her father’s chair. She is supposed to
have advanced far enough for stage purposes before BRODIE is aware of
her. He starts up, and runs to her.)
BRODIE. Look up, my lass, look up, and be a woman! I . . . O kiss me,
Mary I give me a kiss for my good news.
MARY. Good news, Will? Is it changed?
BRODIE. Changed? Why, the world’s a different colour! It was night,
and now it’s broad day and I trust myself again. You must wait, dear,
wait, and I must work and work; and before the week is out, as sure as
God sees me, I’ll have made you happy. O you may think me broken,
hounds, but the Deacon’s not the man to be run down; trust him, he shall
turn a corner yet, and leave you snarling! And you, Poll, you. I’ve
done nothing for you yet; but, please God, I’ll make your life a life of
gold; and wherever I am, I’ll have a part in your happiness, and you’ll
know it, by heaven! and bless me.
MARY. O Willie, look at him; I think he hears you, and is trying to be
glad with us.
BRODIE. My son—Deacon—better man than I was.
BRODIE. O for God’s sake, hear him!
MARY. He is quite happy, Will, and so am I . . . so am I.
BRODIE. Hear me, Mary. This is a big moment in our two lives. I swear
to you by the father here between us that it shall not be fault of mine
if this thing fails; if this ship founders you have set your hopes in. I
swear it by our father; I swear it by God’s judgments.
MARY. I want no oaths, Will.
BRODIE. No, but I do. And prayers, Mary, prayers. Pray night and day
upon your knees. I must move mountains.
OLD BRODIE. A wise son maketh—maketh—
BRODIE. A glad father? And does your son, the Deacon, make you glad? O
heaven of heavens, if I were a good man.
* * * * *
ACT-DROP
ACT III.
TABLEAU V.
KING’S EVIDENCE
_The Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh_.
SCENE I
JEAN, SMITH, _and_ MOORE
(_They loiter in L._, _and stand looking about as for somebody not
there_. SMITH _is hat in hand to_ JEAN; MOORE _as usual_.)
MOORE. Wot did I tell you? Is he ’ere, or ain’t he? Now, then. Slink
by name and Slink by nature, that’s wot’s the matter with him.
JEAN. He’ll no be lang; he’s regular enough, if that was a’.
MOORE. I’d regular him; I’d break his back.
SMITH. Badger, you brute, you hang on to the lessons of your
dancing-master. None but the genteel deserves the fair; does they,
Duchess?
MOORE. O rot! Did I insult the blowen? Wot’s the matter with me is
Slink Ainslie.
SMITH. All right, old Crossed-in-love. Give him forty winks, and he’ll
turn up as fresh as clean sawdust and as respectable as a new Bible.
MOORE. That’s right enough; but I ain’t agoing to stand here all day for
him. I’m for a drop of something short, I am. You tell him I showed you
that (_showing his doubled fist_). That’s wot’s the matter with him.
(_He lurches out_, _R._)
SCENE II
SMITH _and_ JEAN, _to whom_ HUNT, _and afterwards_ MOORE
SMITH (_critically_). No, Duchess, he has not good manners.
JEAN. Ay, he’s an impident man.
SMITH. So he is, Jean; and for the matter of that he ain’t the only one.
JEAN. Geordie, I want nae mair o’ your nonsense, mind.
SMITH. There’s our old particular the Deacon, now. Why is he ashamed of
a lovely woman? That’s not my idea of the Young Chevalier, Jean. If I
had luck, we should be married, and retire to our estates in the country,
shouldn’t us? and go to church and be happy, like the nobility and
gentry.
JEAN. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye’d mairry me?
SMITH. Mean it? What else has ever been the ’umble petition of your
honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, and fellow-countryman? I know the
Deacon’s your man, and I know he’s a cut above G. S.; but he won’t last,
Jean, and I shall.
JEAN. Ay, I’m muckle ta’en up wi’ him; wha could help it?
SMITH. Well, and my sort don’t grow on apple-trees either.
JEAN. Ye’re a fine, cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad just let
me be.
SMITH. I know I ain’t a Scotchman born.
JEAN. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o’ ye even for that; if ye would
just let me be.
[HUNT (_entering behind_, _aside_). Are they thick? Anyhow, it’s a
second chance.]
SMITH. But he won’t last, Jean, and when he leaves you, you come to me.
Is that your taste in pastry? That’s the kind of harticle that I
present.
HUNT (_surprising them as in Tableau I_.). Why, you’re the very parties
I was looking for!
JEAN. Mercy me!
SMITH. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind.
HUNT. [Now this is what I call a picter of good fortune.] Ain’t it
strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like
this?
JEAN (_stolidly_). I hope ye’re middling weel, Mr. Hunt? (_Going_.)
Mr. Smith!
SMITH. Mrs. Watt, ma’am! (_Going_.)
HUNT. Hold hard, George. Speaking as one lady’s man to another, turn
about’s fair play. You’ve had your confab, and now I’m going to have
mine. [Not that I’ve done with you; you stand by and wait.] Ladies
first, George, ladies first; that’s the size of it. (_To_ JEAN,
_aside_.) Now, Mrs. Watt, I take it you ain’t a natural fool?
JEAN. And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt.
SMITH (_interfering_). Jean . . . !
HUNT (_keeping him off_). Half a tick, George. (_To_ JEAN.) Mrs. Watt,
I’ve a warrant in my pocket. One, two, three: will you peach?
JEAN. Whaten kind of a word’ll that be?
SMITH. Mum it is, Jean!
HUNT. _When_ you’ve done dancing, George! (_To_ JEAN.) It ain’t a
pretty expression, my dear, I own it. ‘Will you blow the gaff?’ is
perhaps more tenderer.
JEAN. I think ye’ve a real strange way o’ expressin yoursel’.
HUNT (_to_ JEAN). I can’t waste time on you, my girl. It’s now or
never. Will you turn king’s evidence?
JEAN. I think ye’ll have made a mistake, like.
HUNT. Well, I’m . . . ! (_Separating them_.) [No, not yet; don’t push
me.] George’s turn now. (_To_ GEORGE.) George, I’ve a warrant in my
pocket.
SMITH. As per usual, Jerry?
HUNT. Now I want king’s evidence.
SMITH. Ah! so you came a cropper with _her_, Jerry. Pride had a fall.
HUNT. A free pardon and fifty shiners down.
SMITH. A free pardon, Jerry?
HUNT. Don’t I tell you so?
SMITH. And fifty down? fifty?
HUNT. On the nail.
SMITH. So you came a cropper with her, and then you tried it on with me?
HUNT. I suppose you mean you’re a born idiot?
SMITH. What I mean is, Jerry, that you’ve broke my heart. I used to
look up to you like a party might to Julius Cæsar. One more of boyhood’s
dreams gone pop. (_Enter_ MOORE, _L._)
HUNT (_to both_). Come, then, I’ll take the pair, and be damned to you.
Free pardon to both, fifty down and the Deacon out of the way. I don’t
care for you commoners, it’s the Deacon I want.
JEAN (_looking off stolidly_). I think the kirks are scalin’. There
seems to be mair people in the streets.
HUNT. O that’s the way, is it? Do you know that I can hang you, my
woman, and your fancy man a well?
JEAN. I daur say ye would like fine, Mr. Hunt; and here’s my service to
you. (_Going_.)
HUNT. George, don’t you be a tomfool, anyway. Think of the blowen here,
and have brains for two.
SMITH (_going_). Ah, Jerry, if you knew anything, how different you
would talk! (_They go together_, _R._)
SCENE III
HUNT, MOORE
HUNT. Half a tick, Badger. You’re a man of parts, you are; you’re
solid, you’re a true-born Englishman; you ain’t a Jerry-go-Nimble like
him. Do you know what your pal the Deacon’s worth to you? Fifty golden
Georges and a free pardon. No questions asked, and no receipts demanded.
What do you say? Is it a deal?
MOORE (_as to himself_). Muck. (_He goes out_, _R._)
SCENE IV
HUNT, _to whom_ AINSLIE
HUNT (_looking after them ruefully_). And these were the very parties I
was looking for! [Ah, Jerry, Jerry, if they knew this at the office!]
Well, the market price of that ’ere two hundred is a trifle on the
decline and fall. (_Looking L._) Hullo! (_Slapping his thigh_). Send
me victorious! It’s king’s evidence on two legs. (_Advancing with great
cordiality to meet_ AINSLIE, _who enters L._) And so your name’s Andrew
Ainslie, is it? As I was saying, you’re the very party I was looking
for. Ain’t it strange, now, that I should have dropped across you
comfortable and promiscuous like this?
AINSLIE. I dinna ken wha ye are, an’ I’m ill for my bed.
HUNT. Let your bed wait, Andrew. I want a little chat with you; just a
quiet little sociable wheeze. Just about our friends, you know. About
Badger Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy Rivers, and Deacon Brodie,
Andrew. Particularly Deacon Brodie.
AINSLIE. They’re nae friens o’ mine’s, mister. I ken naething an’
naebody. An’ noo I’ll get to my bed, wulln’t I?
HUNT. We’re going to have our little talk out first. After that perhaps
I’ll let you go, and perhaps I won’t. It all depends on how we get along
together. Now, in a general way, Andrew, and speaking of a man as you
find him, I’m all for peace and quietness myself. That’s my usual game,
Andrew, but when I do make a dust I’m considered by my friends to be
rather a good hand at it. So don’t you tread upon the worm.
AINSLIE. But I’m sayin’—
HUNT. You leave that to me, Andrew. You shall do your pitch presently.
I’m first on the ground, and I lead off. With a question, Andrew. Did
you ever hear in your life of such a natural curiosity as a Bow Street
Runner?
AINSLIE. Aiblins ay an’ aiblins no.
HUNT. ‘Aiblins ay and aiblins no.’ Very good indeed, Andrew. Now, I’ll
ask you another. Did you ever see a Bow Street Runner, Andrew? With the
naked eye, so to speak?
AINSLIE. What’s your wull?
HUNT. Artful bird! Now since we’re getting on so cosy _and_ so free,
I’ll ask you another, Andrew. Should you like to see a Bow Street
Runner? (_Producing staff_.) ’Cos, if so, you’ve only got to cast your
eyes on me. Do you queer the red weskit, Andrew? Pretty colour, ain’t
it? So nice and warm for the winter too. (AINSLIE _dives_, HUNT
_collars him_.) No, you don’t. Not this time. Run away like that
before we’ve finished our little conversation? You’re a nice young man,
you are. Suppose we introduce our wrists into these here darbies? Now
we shall get along cosier and freer than ever. Want to lie down, do you?
All right! anything to oblige.
AINSLIE (_grovelling_). It wasna me, it wasna me. It’s bad companions;
I’ve been lost wi’ bad companions an’ the drink. An’ O mister, ye’ll be
a kind gentleman to a puir lad, an’ me sae weak, an’ fair rotten wi’ the
drink an’ that. Ye’ve a bonnie kind heart, my dear, dear gentleman; ye
wadna hang sitchan a thing as me. I’m no fit to hang. They ca’ me the
Cannleworm! An’ I’ll dae somethin’ for ye, wulln’t I? An’ ye’ll can
hang the ithers?
HUNT. I thought I hadn’t mistook my man. Now, you look here, Andrew
Ainslie, you’re a bad lot. I’ve evidence to hang you fifty times over.
But the Deacon is my mark. Will you peach, or wont you? You blow the
gaff, and I’ll pull you through. You don’t, and I’ll scragg you as sure
as my name’s Jerry Hunt.
AINSLIE. I’ll dae onything. It’s the hanging fleys me. I’ll dae
onything, onything no to hang.
HUNT. Don’t lie crawling there, but get up and answer me like a man.
Ain’t this Deacon Brodie the fine workman that’s been doing all these
tip-topping burglaries?
AINSLIE. It’s him, mister; it’s him. That’s the man. Ye’re in the very
bit. Deacon Brodie. I’ll can tak’ ye to his vera door.
HUNT. How do you know?
AINSLIE. I gi’ed him a han’ wi’ them a’. It was him an’ Badger Moore,
and Geordie Smith; an’ they gart me gang wi’ them whether or no; I’m that
weak, an’ whiles I’m donner’d wi’ the drink. But I ken a’, an’ I’ll tell
a’. And O kind gentleman, you’ll speak to their lordships for me, an’
I’ll no be hangit . . . I’ll no be hangit, wull I?
HUNT. But you shared, didn’t you? I wonder what share they thought you
worth. How much did you get for last night’s performance down at Mother
Clarke’s?
AINSLIE. Just five pund, mister. Five pund. As sure’s deith it wadna
be a penny mair. No but I askit mair: I did that; I’ll do deny it,
mister. But Badger kickit me, an’ Geordie, he said a bad sweir, an’ made
he’d cut the liver out o’ me, an’ catch fish wi’t. It’s been that way
frae the first: an aith an’ a bawbee was aye guid eneuch for puir Andra.
HUNT. Well, and why did they do it? I saw Jemmy dance a hornpipe on the
table, and booze the company all round, when the Deacon was gone. What
made you cross the fight, and play booty with your own man?
AINSLIE. Just to make him rob the Excise, mister. They’re wicked,
wicked men.
HUNT. And is he right for it?
AINSLIE. Ay is he.
HUNT. By jingo! When’s it for?
AINSLIE. Dear, kind gentleman, I dinna rightly ken: the Deacon’s that
sair angered wi’ me. I’m to get my orders frae Geordie the nicht.
HUNT. O, you’re to get your orders from Geordie, are you? Now look
here, Ainslie. You know me. I’m Hunt the Runner; I put Jemmy Rivers in
the jug this morning; I’ve got you this evening. I mean to wind up with
the Deacon. You understand? All right. Then just you listen. I’m
going to take these here bracelets off, and send you home to that
celebrated bed of yours. Only, as soon as you’ve seen the Dook you come
straight round to me at Mr. Procurator-Fiscal’s, and let me know the
Dook’s views. One word, mind, and . . . cl’k! It’s a bargain?
AINSLIE. Never you fear that. I’ll tak’ my bannet an’ come straucht to
ye. Eh God, I’m glad it’s nae mair nor that to start wi’. An’ may the
Lord bless ye, dear, kind gentleman, for your kindness. May the Lord
bless ye.
HUNT. You pad the hoof.
AINSLIE (_going out_). An’ so I wull, wulln’t I not? An’ bless, bless
ye while there’s breath in my body, wulln’t I not?
HUNT (_solus_). You’re a nice young man, Andrew Ainslie. Jemmy Rivers
and the Deacon in two days! By jingo! (_He dances an instant gravely_,
_whistling to himself_.) Jerry, that ’ere little two hundred of ours is
as safe as the bank.
TABLEAU VI.
UNMASKED
_The Stage represents a room in Leslie’s house_. _A practicable window_,
_C._, _through which a band of strong moonlight falls into the room_.
_Near the window a strong-box_. _A practicable door in wing_, _L._
_Candlelight_.
SCENE I
LESLIE, LAWSON, MARY, _seated_. BRODIE _at back_, _walking between the
windows and strong-box_.
LAWSON. Weel, weel, weel, weel, nae doubt.
LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, I am perfectly satisfied with Brodie’s word; I will
wait gladly.
LAWSON. I have nothing to say against that.
BRODIE (_behind_ LAWSON). Nor for it.
LAWSON. For it? for it, William? Ye’re perfectly richt there. (_To_
LESLIE.) Just you do what William tells you; ye canna do better than
that.
MARY. Dear uncle, I see you are vexed; but Will and I are perfectly
agreed on the best course. Walter and I are young. Oh, we can wait; we
can trust each other.
BRODIE (_from behind_). Leslie, do you think it safe to keep this
strong-box in your room?
LESLIE. It does not trouble me.
BRODIE. I would not. ’Tis close to the window.
LESLIE. It’s on the right side of it.
BRODIE. I give you my advice: I would not.
LAWSON. He may be right there too, Mr. Leslie.
BRODIE. I give him fair warning: it’s not safe
LESLIE. I have a different treasure to concern myself about; if all goes
right with that I shall be well contented.
MARY. Walter!
LAWSON. Ay, bairns, ye speak for your age.
LESLIE. Surely, sir, for every age; the ties of blood, of love, of
friendship, these are life’s essence.
MARY. And for no one is it truer than my uncle. If he live to be a
thousand, he will still be young in heart, full of love, full of trust.
LAWSON. All, lassie, it’s a wicked world.
MARY. Yes, you are out of sorts to-day; we know that.
LESLIE. Admitted that you know more of life, sir; admitted (if you
please) that the world is wicked; yet you do not lose trust in those you
love.
LAWSON. Weel . . . ye get gliffs, ye ken.
LESLIE. I suppose so. We can all be shaken for a time; but not, I
think, in our friends. We are not deceived in them; in the few that we
admit into our hearts.
MARY. Never in these.
LESLIE. We know these (_to_ BRODIE), and we think the world of them.
BRODIE (_at back_). We are more acquainted with each other’s tailors,
believe me. You, Leslie, are a very pleasant creature. My uncle Lawson
is the Procurator-Fiscal. I—What am I?—I am the Deacon of the Wrights,
my ruffles are generally clean. And you think the world of me? Bravo!
LESLIE. Ay, and I think the world of you.
BRODIE (_at back_, _pointing to_ LAWSON). Ask him.
LAWSON. Hoot-toot. A wheen nonsense: an honest man’s an honest man, and
a randy thief’s a randy thief, and neither mair nor less. Mary, my lamb,
it’s time you were hame, and had you beauty sleep.
MARY. Do you not come with us?
LAWSON. I gang the ither gate, my lamb. (LESLIE _helps_ MARY _on with
her cloak_, _and they say farewell at back_. BRODIE _for the first time
comes front with_ LAWSON.) Sae ye’ve consented?
BRODIE. As you see.
LAWSON. Ye’ll can pay it back?
BRODIE. I will.
LAWSON. And how? That’s what I’m wonderin’ to mysel’.
BRODIE. Ay, God knows that.
MARY. Come, Will.
SCENE II
LESLIE, LAWSON (_wrapping up_)
LESLIE. I wonder what ails Brodie?
LAWSON. How should I ken? What should I ken that ails him?
LESLIE. He seemed angry even with you.
LAWSON (_impatient_). Hoot awa’.
LESLIE. Of course, I know. But you see, on the very day when our
engagement is announced, even the best of men may be susceptible. You
yourself seem not quite pleased.
LAWSON (_with great irritation_). I’m perfectly pleased. I’m perfectly
delighted. If I werena an auld man, I’d be just beside mysel’ wi’
happiness.
LESLIE. Well, I only fancied.
LAWSON. Ye had nae possible excuse to fancy. Fancy? Perfect trash and
nonsense. Look at yersel’. Ye look like a ghaist, ye’re white-like,
ye’re black aboot the een; and do ye find me deavin’ ye wi’ fancies? Or
William Brodie either? I’ll say that for him.
LESLIE. ’Tis not sorrow that alters my complexion; I’ve something else
on hand. Come, I’ll tell you, under seal. I’ve not been in bed till
daylight for a week.
LAWSON. Weel, there’s nae sense in the like o’ that.
LESLIE. Gad, but there is though. Why, Procurator, this is town’s
business; this is a municipal affair; I’m a public character. Why? Ah,
here’s a nut for the Crown Prosecutor! I’m a bit of a party to a
robbery.
LAWSON. Guid guide us, man, what d’ye mean?
LESLIE. You shall hear. A week ago to-night, I was passing through this
very room without a candle on my way to bed, when . . . what should I
see, but a masked man fumbling at that window! How he did the Lord
knows. I suspect, Procurator, it was not the first he’d tried . . . for
he opened it as handily as his own front door.
LAWSON. Preserve me! Another of thae robberies!
LESLIE. That’s it. And, of course, I tried to seize him. But the
rascal was too quick. He was down and away in an instant. You never saw
a thing so daring and adroit.
LAWSON. Is that a’? Ye’re a bauld lad, I’ll say that for ye. I’m glad
it wasna waur.
LESLIE. Yes, that’s all plain sailing. But here’s the hitch. Why
didn’t I tell the Procurator-Fiscal? You never thought of that.
LAWSON. No, man. Why?
LESLIE. Aha! There’s the riddle. Will you guess? No? . . . I thought
I knew the man.
LAWSON. What d’ye say?
LESLIE. I thought I knew him.
LAWSON. Wha was’t?
LESLIE. Ah, there you go beyond me. That I cannot tell.
LAWSON. As God sees ye, laddie, are ye speaking truth?
LESLIE. Well . . . of course!
LAWSON. The haill truth?
LESLIE. All of it. Why not?
LAWSON. Man, I’d a kind o’ gliff.
LESLIE. Why, what were you afraid of? Had you a suspicion?
LAWSON. Me? Me a suspicion? Ye’re daft, sir; and me the Crown
offeecial! . . . Eh man, I’m a’ shakin’ . . . And sae ye thocht ye kennt
him?
LESLIE. I did that. And what’s more, I’ve sat every night in case of
his return. I promise you, Procurator, he shall not slip me twice.
Meanwhile I’m worried and put out. You understand how such a fancy will
upset a man. I’m uneasy with my friends and on bad terms with my own
conscience. I keep watching, spying, comparing, putting two and two
together, hunting for resemblances until my head goes round. It’s like a
puzzle in a dream. Only yesterday I thought I had him. And who d’you
think it was?
LAWSON. Wha? Wha was’t? Speak, Mr. Leslie, speak. I’m an auld man;
dinna forget that.
LESLIE. I name no names. It would be unjust to him; and, upon my word,
it was so silly it would be unfair to me. However, here I sit, night
after night. I mean him to come back; come back he shall; and I’ll tell
you who he was next morning.
LAWSON. Let sleeping dogs lie, Mr. Leslie; ye dinna ken what ye micht
see. And then, leave him alane, he’ll come nae mair. And sitting up a’
nicht . . . it’s a _factum imprestabile_, as we say: a thing impossible
to man. Gang ye to your bed, like a guid laddie, and sleep lang and
soundly, and bonnie, bonnie dreams to ye! (_Without_.) Let sleeping
dogs lie, and gang ye to your bed.
SCENE III
LESLIE
LESLIE (_calling_). In good time, never fear! (_He carefully bolts and
chains the door_.) The old gentleman seems upset. What for, I wonder?
Has he had a masked visitor? Why not? It’s the fashion. Out with the
lights. (_Blows out the candles_. _The stage is only lighted by the
moon through the window_.) He is sure to come one night or other. He
must come. Right or wrong, I feel it in the air. Man, but I know you, I
know you somewhere. That trick of the shoulders, the hang of the
clothes—whose are they? Where have I seen them? And then, that single
look of the eye, that one glance about the room as the window opened . . .
it is almost friendly; I have caught it over the glass’s rim! If it
should be . . . his? No, his it is not.
WATCHMAN (_without_). Past ten o’clock, and a fine moonlight night.
ANOTHER (_further away_). Past ten o’clock, and all’s well.
LESLIE. Past ten? Ah, there’s a long night before you and me, watchmen.
Heavens, what a trade! But it will be something to laugh over with Mary
and . . . with him? Damn it, the delusion is too strong for me. It’s a
thing to be ashamed of. ‘We Brodies’: how she says it! ‘We Brodies and
our Deacon’: what a pride she takes in it, and how good it sounds to me!
‘Deacon of his craft, sir, Deacon of the . . .! (BRODIE, _masked_,
_appears without at the window_, _which he proceeds to force_.) Ha! I
knew he’d come. I was sure of it. (_He crouches near and nearer to the
window_, _keeping in the shade_.) And I know you too. I swear I know
you.
SCENE IV
BRODIE, LESLIE
BRODIE _enters by the window with assurance and ease_, _closes it
silently_, _and proceeds to traverse the room_. _As he moves_, LESLIE
_leaps upon and grapples him_.
LESLIE. Take off that mask!
BRODIE. Hands off!
LESLIE. Take off the mask!
BRODIE. Leave go, by God, leave go!
LESLIE. Take it off!
BRODIE (_overpowered_). Leslie . . .
LESLIE. Ah! you know me! (_Succeeds in tearing off the mask_.) Brodie!
BRODIE (_in the moonlight_). Brodie.
LESLIE. You . . . you, Brodie, you?
BRODIE. Brodie, sir, Brodie as you see.
LESLIE. What does it mean? What does it mean, my God? Were you here
before? Is this the second time? Are you a thief, man? are you a thief?
Speak, speak, or I’ll kill you.
BRODIE. I am a thief.
LESLIE. And my friend, my own friend, and . . . Mary, Mary! . . .
Deacon, Deacon, for God’s sake, no!
BRODIE. God help me!
LESLIE. ‘We Brodies! We Brodies!’
BRODIE. Leslie—
LESLIE. Stand off! Don’t touch me! You’re a thief!
BRODIE. Leslie, Leslie
LESLIE. A thief’s sister! Why are you here? why are you here? Tell me!
Why do you not speak? Man, I know you of old. Are you Brodie, and have
nothing to say?
BRODIE. To say? Not much—God help me—and commonplace, commonplace like
sin. I was honest once; I made a false step; I couldn’t retrace it; and
. . . that is all.
LESLIE. You have forgot the bad companions!
BRODIE. I did forget them. They were there.
LESLIE. Commonplace! Commonplace! Do you speak to me, do you reason
with me, do you make excuses? You—a man found out, shamed, a liar, a
thief—a man that’s killed me, killed this heart in my body; and you
speak! What am I to do? I hold your life in my hand; have you thought
of that? What am I to do?
BRODIE. Do what you please; you have me trapped.
(JEAN WATT _is heard singing without two bars of_ ‘_Wanderin’ Willie_,’
_by way of signal_.)
LESLIE. What is that?
BRODIE. A signal.
LESLIE. What does it mean?
BRODIE. Danger to me; there is someone coming.
LESLIE. Danger to you?
BRODIE. Some one is coming. What are you going to do with me? (_A
knock at the door_.)
LESLIE (_after a pause_). Sit down. (_Knocking_.)
BRODIE. What are you going to do with me?
LESLIE. Sit down. (BRODIE _sits in darkest part of stage_. LESLIE
_opens door_, _and admits_ LAWSON. _Door open till end of Act_.)
SCENE V
BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE
LAWSON. This is an unco’ time to come to your door; but eh, laddie, I
couldna bear to think o’ ye sittin’ your lane in the dark.
LESLIE. It was very good of you.
LAWSON. I’m no very fond of playing hidee in the dark mysel’; and noo
that I’m here—
LESLIE. I will give you a light. (_He lights the candles_. _Lights
up_.)
LAWSON. God A’michty! William Brodie!
LESLIE. Yes, Brodie was good enough to watch with me.
LAWSON. But he gaed awa’ . . . I dinna see . . . an’ Lord be guid to us,
the window’s open!
LESLIE. A trap we laid for them: a device of Brodie’s.
BRODIE (_to_ LAWSON). Set a thief to catch a thief. (_Passing to_
LESLIE, _aside_.) Walter Leslie, God will reward. (JEAN _signals
again_.)
LAWSON. I dinna like that singin’ at siccan a time o’ the nicht.
BRODIE. I must go.
LAWSON. Not one foot o’ ye. I’m ower glad to find ye in guid hands.
Ay, ye dinna ken how glad.
BRODIE (_aside to_ LESLIE). Get me out of this. There’s a man there
will stick at nothing.
LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, Brodie has done his shift. Why should we keep him?
(JEAN _appears at the door_, _and signs to_ BRODIE.)
LAWSON. Hoots! this is my trade. That’s a bit o’ ‘Wanderin’ Willie.’
I’ve had it before me in precognitions; that same stave has been used for
a signal by some o’ the very warst o’ them.
BRODIE (_aside to_ LESLIE). Get me out of this. I’ll never forget
to-night. (JEAN _at door again_.)
LESLIE. Well, good-night, Brodie. When shall we meet again?
LAWSON. Not one foot o’ him. (JEAN _at door_.) I tell you, Mr. Leslie—
SCENE VI
_To these_, JEAN
JEAN (_from she door_). Wullie, Wullie!
LAWSON. Guid guide us, Mrs. Watt! A dacent wumman like yoursel’!
Whatten a time o’ nicht is this to come to folks’ doors?
JEAN (_to_ BRODIE). Hawks, Wullie, hawks!
BRODIE. I suppose you know what you’ve done, Jean?
JEAN. I _had_ to come, Wullie, he wadna wait another minit. He wad have
come himsel’.
BRODIE. This is my mistress.
LAWSON. William, dinna tell me nae mair.
BRODIE. I have told you so much. You may as well know all. That good
man knows it already. Have you issued a warrant for me . . . yet?
LAWSON. No, no, man: not another word.
BRODIE, (_pointing to the window_). That is my work. I am the man.
Have you drawn the warrant?
LAWSON (_breaking down_). Your father’s son!
LESLIE (_to_ LAWSON). My good friend! Brodie, you might have spared the
old man this.
BRODIE. I might have spared him years ago; and you and my sister, and
myself. I might . . . would God I had! (_Weeping himself_.) Don’t
weep, my good old friend; I was lost long since; don’t think of me; don’t
pity me; don’t shame me with your pity! I began this when I was a boy.
I bound the millstone round my neck; [it is irrevocable now,] and you
must all suffer . . . all suffer for me! . . . [for this suffering
remnant of what was once a man]. O God, that I can have fallen to stand
here as I do now. My friend lying to save me from the gallows; my second
father weeping tears of blood for my disgrace! And all for what? By
what? Because I had an open hand, because I was a selfish dog, because I
loved this woman.
JEAN. O Wullie, and she lo’ed ye weel! But come near me nae mair, come
near me nae mair, my man; keep wi’ your ain folks . . . your ain dacent
folks.
LAWSON. Mistress Watt, ye shall sit rent free as lang’s there’s breath
in William Lawson’s body.
LESLIE. You can do one thing still . . . for Mary’s sake. You can save
yourself; you must fly.
BRODIE. It is my purpose; the day after to-morrow. It cannot be before.
Then I will fly; and O, as God sees me, I will strive to make a new and a
better life, and to be worthy of your friendship, and of your tears . . .
your tears. And to be worthy of you too, Jean; for I see now that the
bandage has fallen from my eyes; I see myself, O how unworthy even of
you.
LESLIE. Why not to-night?
BRODIE. It cannot be before. There are many considerations. I must
find money.
JEAN. Leave me, and the wean. Dinna fash yoursel’ for us.
LESLIE (_opening the strong-box_, _and pouring gold upon the table_).
Take this and go at once.
BRODIE. Not that . . . not the money that I came to steal!
LAWSON. Tak’ it, William; I’ll pay him.
BRODIE. It is in vain. I cannot leave till I have said. There is a
man; I must obey him. If I slip my chain till he has done with me, the
hue and cry will blaze about the country; every outport will be shut; I
shall return to the gallows. He is a man that will stick at nothing.
SCENE VII
_To these_, MOORE
MOORE. Are you coming?
BRODIE. I am coming.
MOORE (_appearing in the door_). Do you want us all to get thundering
well scragged?
BRODIE (_going_). There is my master.
* * * * *
ACT-DROP
ACT IV.
TABLEAU VII.
THE ROBBERY
_The Stage represents the outside of the Excise Office in Chessel’s
Court_. _At the back_, _L.C._, _an archway opening on the High Street_.
_The door of the Excise in wing_, _R._; _the opposite side of the stage
is lumbered with barrels_, _packing-cases_, _etc._ _Moonlight_; _the
Excise Office casts a shadow over half the stage_. _A clock strikes the
hour_. _A round of the City Guard_, _with halberts_, _lanterns_, _etc._,
_enters and goes out again by the arch_, _after having examined the
fastenings of the great door and the lumber on the left_. _Cry without
in the High Street_: ‘_Ten by the bell_, _and a fine clear night_.’
_Then enter cautiously by the arch_, SMITH _and_ MOORE, _with_ AINSLIE
_loaded with tools_.
SCENE I
SMITH, MOORE, AINSLIE
SMITH (_entering first_). Come on. Coast clear.
MOORE (_after they have come to the front_.) Ain’t he turned up yet?
SMITH (_to_ AINSLIE). Now Maggot! The fishing’s a going to begin.
AINSLIE. Dinna cangle, Geordie. My back’s fair broke.
MOORE. O muck! Hand out them pieces.
SMITH. All right, Humptious! (_To_ AINSLIE.) You’re a nice old sort
for a rag-and-bone man: can’t hold a bag open! (_Taking out tools_.)
Here they was. Here are the bunchums, one _and_ two; and jolly old keys
was they. Here’s the picklocks, crow-bars, and here’s Lord George’s pet
bull’s eye, his old and valued friend, the Cracksman’s treasure!
MOORE. Just like you. Forgot the rotten centrebit.
SMITH. That’s all you know. Here she is, bless her! Portrait of George
as a gay hironmonger.
MOORE. O rot! Hand it over, and keep yourself out of that there
thundering moonlight.
SMITH (_lighting lantern_). All right, old mumble-peg. Don’t you get
carried away by the fire of old Rome. That’s your motto. Here are the
tools; a perfect picter of the sublime and beautiful; and all I hope is,
that our friend and pitcher, the Deakin, will make a better job of it
than he did last night. If he don’t, I shall retire from the
business—that’s all; and it’ll be George and his little wife and a black
footman till death do us part.
MOORE. O muck! You’re all jaw like a sheep’s jimmy. That’s my opinion
of you. When did you see him last?
SMITH. This morning; and he looked as if he was rehearsing for his own
epitaph. I never see such a change in a man. I gave him the office for
to-night; and was he grateful? Did he weep upon my faithful bosom? No;
he smiled upon me like a portrait of the dear departed. I see his ’art
was far away; and it broke my own to look at him.
MOORE. Muck! Wot I ses is, if a cove’s got that much of the nob about
him, wot’s the good of his working single-handed? That’s wot’s the
matter with him.
SMITH. Well, old Father Christmas, he ain’t single-handed to-night, is
he?
MOORE. No, he ain’t; he’s got a man with him to-night.
SMITH. Pardon me, Romeo; two men, I think?
MOORE. A man wot means business. If I’d a bin with him last night, it
ain’t psalm-singin’ would have got us off. Psalm-singin’? Muck! Let
’em try it on with me.
AINSLIE. Losh me, I heard a noise. (_Alarm; they crouch into the shadow
and listen_.)
SMITH. All serene. (_To_ AINSLIE) Am I to cut that liver out of you?
Now, am I? (_A whistle_.) ’St! here we are. (_Whistles a modulation_,
_which is answered_.)
SCENE II
_To these_ BRODIE
MOORE. Waiting for you, Deacon.
BRODIE. I see. Everything ready?
SMITH. All a-growing and a-blowing.
BRODIE. Give me the light. (_Briefly examines tools and door with
bull’s eye_.) You, George, stand by, and hand up the pieces. Ainslie,
take the glim. Moore, out and watch.
MOORE. I didn’t come here to do sentry-go, I didn’t.
BRODIE. You came here to do as I tell you. (MOORE _goes up slowly_.)
Second bunch, George. I know the lock. Steady with the glim. (_At
work_.) No good. Give me the centrebit.
SMITH. Right. (_Work continues_. AINSLIE _drops lantern_.)
BRODIE. Curse you! (_Throttling and kicking him_.) You shake, and you
shake, and you can’t even hold a light for your betters. Hey?
AINSLIE. Eh Deacon, Deacon . . .
SMITH. Now Ghost! (_With lantern_.)
BRODIE. ’St, Moore!
MOORE. Wot’s the row?
BRODIE. Take you the light.
MOORE (_to_ AINSLIE). Wo’ j’ yer shakin’ at? (_Kicks him_.)
BRODIE (_to_ AINSLIE). Go you, and see if you’re good at keeping watch.
Inside the arch. And if you let a footfall pass, I’ll break your back.
(AINSLIE _retires_.) Steady with the light. (_At work with centrebit_.)
Hand up number four, George. (_At work with picklock_.) That has it.
SMITH. Well done our side.
BRODIE. Now the crow bar! (_At work_.) That’s it. Put down the glim,
Badger, and help at the wrench. Your whole weight, men! Put your backs
to it! (_While they work at the bar_, BRODIE _stands by_, _dusting his
hands with a pocket-handkerchief_. _As the door opens_.)_ Voilà_! In
with you.
MOORE (_entering with light_). Mucking fine work too, Deacon!
BRODIE. Take up the irons, George!
SMITH. How about the P(h)antom?
BRODIE. Leave him to me. I’ll give him a look. (_Enters office_.)
SMITH (_following_). Houp-là!
SCENE III
AINSLIE; _afterwards_ BRODIE; _afterwards_ HUNT _and_ OFFICERS
AINSLIE. Ca’ ye that mainners? Ye’re grand gentry by your way o’t! Eh
sirs, my hench! Ay, that was the Badger. Man, but ye’ll look bonnie
hangin’! (_A faint whistle_.) Lord’s sake, what’s thon? Ay, it’ll be
Hunt an’ his lads. (_Whistle repeated_.) Losh me, what gars him
whustle, whustle? Does he think me deaf? (_Goes up_. BRODIE _enters
from office_, _stands an instant_, _and sees him making a signal through
the arch_.)
BRODIE. Rats! Rats! (_Hides L. among lumber_. _Enter noiselessly
through arch_ HUNT _and_ OFFICERS.)
HUNT. Birds caught?
AINSLIE. They’re a’ ben the house, mister.
HUNT. All three?
AINSLIE. The hale set, mister.
BRODIE. Liar!
HUNT. Mum, lads, and follow me. (_Exit_, _with his men_, _into office_.
BRODIE _seen with dagger_.)
HUNT (_within_). In the King’s name!
MOORE (_within_). Muck!
SMITH (_within_). Go it, Badger.
HUNT (_within_). Take ’em alive, boys!
AINSLIE. Eh, but that’s awful. (_The Deacon leaps out_, _and stabs
him_. _He falls without a cry_.)
BRODIE. Saved! (_He goes out by the arch_.)
SCENE IV
HUNT _and_ OFFICERS; _with_ SMITH _and_ MOORE _handcuffed_. _Signs of a
severe struggle_
HUNT (_entering_). Bring ’em along, lads! (_Looking at prisoners with
lantern_.) Pleased to see you again, Badger. And you too, George. But
I’d rather have seen your principal. Where’s he got to?
MOORE. To hell, I hope.
HUNT. Always the same pretty flow of language, I see, Hump. (_Looking
at burglary with lantern_.) A very tidy piece of work, Dook; very tidy!
Much too good for you. Smacks of a fine tradesman. It _was_ the Deacon,
I suppose?
SMITH. You ought to know G. S. better by this time, Jerry.
HUNT. All right, your Grace: we’ll talk it over with the Deacon himself.
Where’s the jackal? Here, you, Ainslie! Where are you? By jingo, I
thought as much. Stabbed to the heart and dead as a herring!
SMITH. Bravo!
HUNT. More of the Deacon’s work, I guess? Does him credit too, don’t
it, Badger?
MOORE. Muck. Was that the thundering cove that peached?
HUNT. That was the thundering cove.
MOORE. And is he corpsed?
HUNT. I should just about reckon he was.
MOORE. Then, damme, I don’t mind swinging!
HUNT. We’ll talk about that presently. M’Intyre and Stewart, you get a
stretcher, and take that rubbish to the office. Pick it up; it’s only a
dead informer. Hand these two gentlemen over to Mr. Procurator-Fiscal,
with Mr. Jerry Hunt’s compliments. Johnstone and Syme, you come along
with me. I’ll bring the Deacon round myself.
* * * * *
ACT-DROP
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
PROLOGUE
_Spoken by_ MR. TREE _in the character of Beau Austin_
‘To all and singular,’ as Dryden says,
We bring a fancy of those Georgian days,
Whose style still breathed a faint and fine perfume
Of old-world courtliness and old-world bloom:
When speech was elegant and talk was fit
For slang had not been canonised as wit;
When manners reigned, when breeding had the wall,
And Women—yes!—were ladies first of all;
When Grace was conscious of its gracefulness,
And man—though Man!—was not ashamed to dress.
A brave formality, a measured ease,
Were his—and her’s—whose effort was to please.
And to excel in pleasing was to reign
And, if you sighed, never to sigh in vain.
But then, as now—it may be, something more—
Woman and man were human to the core.
The hearts that throbbed behind that quaint attire
Burned with a plenitude of essential fire.
They too could risk, they also could rebel,
They could love wisely—they could love too well.
In that great duel of Sex, that ancient strife
Which is the very central fact of life,
They could—and did—engage it breath for breath,
They could—and did—get wounded unto death.
As at all times since time for us began
Woman was truly woman, man was man,
And joy and sorrow were as much at home
In trifling Tunbridge as in mighty Rome.
Dead—dead and done with! Swift from shine to shade
The roaring generations flit and fade.
To this one, fading, flitting, like the rest,
We come to proffer—be it worst or best—
A sketch, a shadow, of one brave old time;
A hint of what it might have held sublime;
A dream, an idyll, call it what you will,
Of man still Man, and woman—Woman still!
ACT I.
MUSICAL INDUCTION: ‘_Lascia ch’io pianga_’ (_Rinaldo_).
HANDEL.
_The Stage represents Miss Foster’s apartments at the Wells_. _Doors_,
_L. and C._; _a window_, _L. C._, _looking on the street_; _a table R._,
_laid for breakfast_.
SCENE I
BARBARA; _to her_ MISS FOSTER
BARBARA (_out of window_). Mr. Menteith! Mr. Menteith! Mr.
Menteith!—Drat his old head! Will nothing make him hear?—Mr. Menteith!
MISS FOSTER (_entering_). Barbara! this is incredible: after all my
lessons, to be leaning from the window, and calling (for unless my ears
deceived me, you were positively calling!) into the street.
BARBARA. Well, madam, just wait until you hear who it was. I declare it
was much more for Miss Dorothy and yourself than for me; and if it was a
little countrified, I had a good excuse.
MISS FOSTER. Nonsense, child! At least, who was it?
BARBARA. Miss Evelina, I was sure you would ask. Well, what do you
think? I was looking out of window at the barber’s opposite—
MISS FOSTER. Of which I entirely disapprove—
BARBARA. And first there came out two of the most beautiful—the Royal
livery, madam!
MISS FOSTER. Of course, of course: the Duke of York arrived last night.
I trust you did not hail the Duke’s footmen?
BARBARA. O no, madam, it was after they were gone. Then, who should
come out—but you’ll never guess!
MISS FOSTER. I shall certainly not try.
BARBARA. Mr. Menteith himself!
MISS FOSTER. Why, child, I never heard of him.
BARBARA. O madam, not the Beau’s own gentleman?
MISS FOSTER. Mr. Austin’s servant. No? Is it possible? By that,
George Austin must be here.
BARBARA. No doubt of that, madam; they’re never far apart. He came out
feeling his chin, madam, so; and a packet of letters under his arm, so;
and he had the Beau’s own walk to that degree you couldn’t tell his back
from his master’s.
MISS FOSTER. My dear Barbara, you too frequently forget yourself. A
young woman in your position must beware of levity.
BARBARA. Madam, I know it; but la, what are you to make of me? Look at
the time and trouble dear Miss Dorothy was always taking—she that trained
up everybody—and see what’s come of it: Barbara Ridley I was, and Barbara
Ridley I am; and I don’t do with fashionable ways—I can’t do with them;
and indeed, Miss Evelina, I do sometimes wish we were all back again on
Edenside, and Mr. Anthony a boy again, and dear Miss Dorothy her old
self, galloping the bay mare along the moor, and taking care of all of us
as if she was our mother, bless her heart!
MISS FOSTER. Miss Dorothy herself, child? Well, now you mention it,
Tunbridge of late has scarcely seemed to suit her constitution. She
falls away, has not a word to throw at a dog, and is ridiculously pale.
Well, now Mr. Austin has returned, after six months of infidelity to the
dear Wells, we shall all, I hope, be brightened up. Has the mail come?
BARBARA. That it has, madam, and the sight of Mr. Menteith put it clean
out of my head. (_With letters_.) Four for you, Miss Evelina, two for
me, and only one for Miss Dorothy. Miss Dorothy seems quite neglected,
does she not? Six months ago, it was a different story.
MISS FOSTER. Well, and that’s true, Barbara, and I had not remarked it.
I must take her seriously to task. No young lady in her position should
neglect her correspondence. (_Opening a letter_.) Here’s from that dear
ridiculous boy, the Cornet, announcing his arrival for to-day.
BARBARA. O madam, will he come in his red coat?
MISS FOSTER. I could not conceive him missing such a chance. Youth,
child, is always vain, and Mr. Anthony is unusually young.
BARBARA. La, madam, he can’t help that.
MISS FOSTER. My child, I am not so sure. Mr. Anthony is a great concern
to me. He was orphaned, to be sure, at ten years old; and ever since he
has been only as it were his sister’s son. Dorothy did everything for
him: more indeed than I thought quite ladylike, but I suppose I begin to
be old-fashioned. See how she worked and slaved—yes, slaved!—for him:
teaching him herself, with what pains and patience she only could reveal,
and learning that she might be able; and see what he is now: a gentleman,
of course, but, to be frank, a very commonplace one: not what I had hoped
of Dorothy’s brother; not what I had dreamed of the heir of two
families—Musgrave and Foster, child! Well, he may now meet Mr. Austin.
He requires a Mr. Austin to embellish and correct his manners. (_Opening
another letter_.) Why, Barbara, Mr. John Scrope and Miss Kate Dacre are
to be married!
BARBARA. La, madam, how nice!
MISS FOSTER. They are: As I’m a sinful woman. And when will you be
married, Barbara? and when dear Dorothy? I hate to see old maids
a-making.
BARBARA. La, Miss Evelina, there’s no harm in an old maid.
MISS FOSTER. You speak like a fool, child: sour grapes are all very well
but it’s a woman’s business to be married. As for Dorothy, she is
five-and-twenty, and she breaks my heart. Such a match, too! Ten
thousand to her fortune, the best blood in the north, a most advantageous
person, all the graces, the finest sensibility, excellent judgment, the
Foster walk; and all these to go positively a-begging! The men seem
stricken with blindness. Why, child, when I came out (and I was the dear
girl’s image!) I had more swains at my feet in a fortnight than our
Dorothy in—O, I cannot fathom it: it must be the girl’s own fault.
BARBARA. Why, madam, I did think it was a case with Mr. Austin.
MISS FOSTER. With Mr. Austin? why, how very rustic! The attentions of a
gentleman like Mr. Austin, child, are not supposed to lead to matrimony.
He is a feature of society: an ornament: a personage: a private gentleman
by birth, but a kind of king by habit and reputation. What woman could
he marry? Those to whom he might properly aspire are all too far below
him. I have known George Austin too long, child, and I understand that
the very greatness of his success condemns him to remain unmarried.
BARBARA. Sure, madam, that must be tiresome for him.
MISS FOSTER. Some day, child, you will know better than to think so.
George Austin, as I conceive him, and as he is regarded by the world, is
one of the triumphs of the other sex. I walked my first minuet with him:
I wouldn’t tell you the year, child, for worlds; but it was soon after
his famous rencounter with Colonel Villiers. He had killed his man, he
wore pink and silver, was most elegantly pale, and the most ravishing
creature!
BARBARA. Well, madam, I believe that: he is the most beautiful gentleman
still.
SCENE II
_To these_, DOROTHY, _L_
DOROTHY (_entering_). Good-morning, aunt! Is there anything for me?
(_She goes eagerly to table_, _and looks at letters_.)
MISS FOSTER. Good-morrow, niece. Breakfast, Barbara.
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 down
letter 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.
(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
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 so
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, haw
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.
ACT II.
MUSICAL INDUCTION: ‘_The Lass of Richmond Hill_.’
_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-grown_,
_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?
ANTHONY. None, sir, none.
AUSTIN. Shall I find you this noon upon the Pantiles? . . . I shall be
charmed. Commend me to your aunt and your fair sister. Menteith?
MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George. (_Shows Anthony out_.)
SCENE III
AUSTIN, MENTEITH, _returning_
AUSTIN. Was I ever like that, Menteith?
MENTEITH. No, Mr. George, you was always a gentleman.
AUSTIN. Youth, my good fellow, youth.
MENTEITH. Quite so, Mr. George.
AUSTIN. Well, Menteith, we cannot make no mend. We cannot play the
jockey with Time. Age is the test: of wine, Menteith, and men.
MENTEITH. Me and you and the old Hermitage, Mr. George, he-he!
AUSTIN. And the best of these, the Hermitage. But come: we lose our
day. Help me off with this. (MENTEITH _takes off_ AUSTIN’S
_dressing-gown_; AUSTIN _passes R. to dressing-table_, _and takes up
first cravat_.)
AUSTIN. Will the hair do, Menteith?
MENTEITH. Never saw it lay better, Mr. George. (AUSTIN _proceeds to
wind first cravat_. _A bell_: _exit_ MENTEITH. AUSTIN _drops first
cravat in basket and takes second_.)
AUSTIN (_winding and singing_)—
‘I’d crowns resign
To call her mine,
Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’
(_Second cravat a failure_. _Re-enter_ MENTEITH _with card_.) Fenwick?
of Allonby Shaw? A good family, Menteith, but I don’t know the
gentleman. (_Lays down card_, _and takes up third cravat_.) Send him
away with every consideration.
MENTEITH. To be sure, Mr. George. (_He goes out_. _Third cravat a
success_. _Re-enter_ MENTEITH.) He says, Mr. George, that he has an
errand from Miss Musgrave.
AUSTIN (_with waistcoat_). Show him in, Menteith, at once. (_Singing
and fitting waistcoat at glass_)—
‘I’d crowns resign
To call her mine,
Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’
SCENE IV
AUSTIN, _R. to him_ MENTEITH _and_ FENWICK
MENTEITH (_announcing_). Mr. Fenwick, Mr. George.
AUSTIN. At the name of Miss Musgrave, my doors fly always open.
FENWICK. I believe, sir, you are acquainted with my cousin, Richard
Gaunt?
AUSTIN. The county member? An old and good friend. But you need not go
so far afield: I know your good house of Allonby Shaw since the days of
the Black Knight. We are, in fact, and at a very royal distance,
cousins.
FENWICK. I desired, sir, from the nature of my business, that you should
recognise me for a gentleman.
AUSTIN. The preliminary, sir, is somewhat grave.
FENWICK. My business is both grave and delicate.
AUSTIN. Menteith, my good fellow. (_Exit_ MENTEITH.) Mr. Fenwick,
honour me so far as to be seated. (_They sit_.) I await your pleasure.
FENWICK. Briefly, sir, I am come, not without hope, to appeal to your
good heart.
AUSTIN. From Miss Musgrave?
FENWICK. No, sir, I abused her name, and am here upon my own authority.
Upon me the consequence.
AUSTIN. Proceed
FENWICK. Mr. Austin, Dorothy Musgrave is the oldest and dearest of my
friends, is the lady whom for ten years it has been my hope to make my
wife. She has shown me reason to discard that hope for another: that I
may call her Mrs. Austin.
AUSTIN. In the best interests of the lady (_rising_) I question if you
have been well inspired. You are aware, sir, that from such interference
there is but one issue: to whom shall I address my friend?
FENWICK. Mr. Austin, I am here to throw myself upon your mercy. Strange
as my errand is, it will seem yet more strange to you that I came
prepared to accept at your hands any extremity of dishonour and not
fight. The lady whom it is my boast to serve has honoured me with her
commands. These are my law, and by these your life is sacred.
AUSTIN. Then, sir (_with his hand upon the bell_), his conversation
becomes impossible. You have me at too gross a disadvantage; and, as you
are a gentleman and respect another, I would suggest that you retire.
FENWICK. Sir, you speak of disadvantage; think of mine. All my life
long, with all the forces of my nature, I have loved this lady. I came
here to implore her to be my wife, to be my queen; my saint she had been
always! She was too noble to deceive me. She told me what you know. I
will not conceal that my first mood was of anger: I would have killed you
like a dog. But, Mr. Austin—bear with me awhile—I, on the threshold of
my life, who have made no figure in the world, nor ever shall now, who
had but one treasure, and have lost it—if I, abandoning revenge,
trampling upon jealousy, can supplicate you to complete my misfortune—O
Mr. Austin! you who have lived, you whose gallantry is beyond the
insolence of a suspicion, you who are a man crowned and acclaimed, who
are loved, and loved by such a woman—you who excel me in every point of
advantage, will you suffer me to surpass you in generosity?
AUSTIN. You speak from the heart. (_Sits_.) What do you want with me?
FENWICK. Marry her.
AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, I am the older man. I have seen much of life, much
of society, much of love. When I was young, it was expected of a
gentleman to be ready with his hat to a lady, ready with his sword to a
man; to honour his word and his king; to be courteous with his equals,
generous to his dependants, helpful and trusty in friendship. But it was
not asked of us to be quixotic. If I had married every lady by whom it
is my fortune—not my merit—to have been distinguished, the Wells would
scarce be spacious enough for my establishment. You see, sir, that while
I respect your emotion, I am myself conducted by experience. And
besides, Mr. Fenwick, is not love a warfare? has it not rules? have not
our fair antagonists their tactics, their weapons, their place of arms?
and is there not a touch of—pardon me the word! of silliness in one who,
having fought, and having vanquished, sounds a parley, and capitulates to
his own prisoner? Had the lady chosen, had the fortune of war been
other, ’tis like she had been Mrs. Austin. Now I . . . You know the
world.
FENWICK. I know, sir, that the world contains much cowardice. To find
Mr. Austin afraid to do the right, this surprises me.
AUSTIN. Afraid, child?
FENWICK. Yes, sir, afraid. You know her, you know if she be worthy; and
you answer me with—the world: the world which has been at your feet: the
world which Mr. Austin knows so well how to value and is so able to rule.
AUSTIN. I have lived long enough, Mr. Fenwick, to recognise that the
world is a great power. It can make; but it can break.
FENWICK. Sir, suffer me: you spoke but now of friendship, and spoke
warmly. Have you forgotten Colonel Villiers?
AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Fenwick, you forget what I have suffered.
FENWICK. O sir, I know you loved him. And yet, for a random word you
quarrelled; friendship was weighed in vain against the world’s code of
honour; you fought, and your friend fell. I have heard from others how
he lay long in agony, and how you watched and nursed him, and it was in
your embrace he died. In God’s name have you forgotten that? Was not
this sacrifice enough? or must the world, once again, step between Mr.
Austin and his generous heart?
AUSTIN. Good God, sir, I believe you are in the right; I believe, upon
my soul I believe, there is something in what you say.
FENWICK. Something, Mr. Austin? O credit me, the whole difference
betwixt good and evil.
AUSTIN. Nay, nay, but there you go too far. There are many kinds of
good: honour is a diamond cut in a thousand facets, and with the true
fire in each. Thus, and with all our differences, Mr. Fenwick, you and I
can still respect, we can still admire each other.
FENWICK. Bear with me still, sir, if I ask you what is the end of life
but to excel in generosity? To pity the weak, to comfort the afflicted,
to right where we have wronged, to be brave in reparation—these noble
elements you have; for of what besides is the fabric of your dealing with
Colonel Villiers? That is man’s chivalry to man. Yet to a suffering
woman—a woman feeble, betrayed, unconsoled—you deny your clemency, you
refuse your aid, you proffer injustice for atonement. Nay, you are so
disloyal to yourself that you can choose to be ungenerous and unkind.
Where, sir, is the honour? What facet of the diamond is that?
AUSTIN. You forget, sir, you forget. But go on.
FENWICK. O sir, not I—not I but yourself forgets: George Austin forgets
George Austin. A woman loved by him, betrayed by him, abandoned by
him—that woman suffers; and a point of honour keeps him from his place at
her feet. She has played and lost, and the world is with him if he deign
to exact the stakes. Is that the Mr. Austin whom Miss Musgrave honoured
with her trust? Then, sir, how miserably was she deceived!
AUSTIN. Child—child—
FENWICK. Mr. Austin, still bear with me, still follow me. O sir, will
you not picture that dear lady’s life? Her years how few, her error thus
irreparable, what henceforth can be her portion but remorse, the
consciousness of self-abasement, the shame of knowing that her trust was
ill-bestowed? To think of it: this was a queen among women; and
this—this is George Austin’s work! Sir, let me touch your heart: let me
prevail with you to feel that ’tis impossible.
AUSTIN. I am a gentleman. What do you ask of me?
FENWICK. To be the man she loved: to be clement where the world would
have you triumph, to be of equal generosity with the vanquished, to be
worthy of her sacrifice and of yourself.
AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, your reproof is harsh—
FENWICK (_interrupting him_). O sir, be, just be just!—
AUSTIN. But it is merited, and I thank you for its utterance. You tell
me that the true victory comes when the fight is won: that our foe is
never so noble nor so dangerous as when she is fallen, that the crowning
triumph is that we celebrate over our conquering selves. Sir, you are
right. Kindness, ay kindness after all. And with age, to become
clement. Yes, ambition first; then, the rounded vanity—victory still
novel; and last, as you say, the royal mood of the mature man; to
abdicate for others . . . Sir, you touched me hard about my dead friend;
still harder about my living duty; and I am not so young but I can take a
lesson. There is my hand upon it: she shall be my wife.
FENWICK. Ah, Mr. Austin, I was sure of it.
AUSTIN. Then, sir, you were vastly mistaken. There is nothing of Beau
Austin here. I have simply, my dear child, sate at the feet of Mr.
Fenwick.
FENWICK. Ah, sir, your heart was counsellor enough.
AUSTIN. Pardon me. I am vain enough to be the judge: there are but two
people in the world who could have wrought this change: yourself and that
dear lady. (_Touches bell_.) Suffer me to dismiss you. One instant of
toilet, and I follow. Will you do me the honour to go before, and
announce my approach? (_Enter_ MENTEITH.)
FENWICK. Sir, if my admiration—
AUSTIN. Dear child, the admiration is the other way. (_Embraces him_.
MENTEITH _shows him out_.)
SCENE V
AUSTIN
AUSTIN. Upon my word, I think the world is getting better. We were none
of us young men like that—in my time, to quote my future brother. (_He
sits down before the mirror_.) Well, here ends Beau Austin. Paris,
Rome, Vienna, London—victor everywhere: and now he must leave his bones
in Tunbridge Wells. (_Looks at his leg_.) Poor Dolly Musgrave! a good
girl after all, and will make me a good wife; none better. The last—of
how many?—ay, and the best! Walks like Hebe. But still, here ends Beau
Austin. Perhaps it’s time. Poor Dolly—was she looking poorly? She
shall have her wish. Well, we grow older, but we grow no worse.
SCENE VI
AUSTIN, MENTEITH
AUSTIN. Menteith, I am going to be married.
MENTEITH. Well, Mr. George, but I am pleased to hear it. Miss Musgrave
is a most elegant lady.
AUSTIN. Ay, Mr. Menteith? and who told you the lady’s name?
MENTEITH. Mr. George, you was always a gentleman.
AUSTIN. You mean I wasn’t always? Old boy, you are in the right. This
shall be a good change for both you and me. We have lived too long like
a brace of truants: now is the time to draw about the fire. How much is
left of the old Hermitage?
MENTEITH. Hard upon thirty dozen, Mr. George, and not a bad cork in the
bin.
AUSTIN. And a mistress, Menteith, that’s worthy of that wine.
MENTEITH. Mr. George, sir, she’s worthy of you.
AUSTIN. Gad, I believe it. (_Shakes hands with him_.)
MENTEITH (_breaking down_). Mr. George, you’ve been a damned good master
to me, and I’ve been a damned good servant to you; we’ve been proud of
each other from the first; but if you’ll excuse my plainness, Mr. George,
I never liked you better than to-day.
AUSTIN. Cheer up, old boy, the best is yet to come. Get out the tongs,
and curl me like a bridegroom. (_Sits before dressing-glass_; MENTEITH
_produces curling irons and plies them_. AUSTIN _sings_)—
‘I’d crowns resign
To call her mine,
Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’
DROP
ACT III.
MUSICAL INDUCTION: the ‘Minuet’ from ‘_Don Giovanni_’
_The stage represents Miss Foster’s lodging as in Act I_.
SCENE I
DOROTHY, R., _at tambour_; ANTHONY, _C._, _bestriding chair_; MISS
FOSTER, _L.C._
ANTHONY. Yes, ma’am, I like my regiment: we are all gentlemen, from old
Fred downwards, and all of a good family. Indeed, so are all my friends,
except one tailor sort of fellow, Bosbury. But I’m done with him. I
assure you, Aunt Evelina, we are Corinthian to the last degree. I
wouldn’t shock you ladies for the world—
MISS FOSTER. Don’t mind me, my dear; go on.
ANTHONY. Really, ma’am, you must pardon me: I trust I understand what
topics are to be avoided among females—And before my sister, too! A girl
of her age!
DOROTHY. Why, you dear, silly fellow, I’m old enough to be your mother.
ANTHONY. My dear Dolly, you do not understand; you are not a man of the
world. But, as I was going on to say, there is no more spicy regiment in
the service.
MISS FOSTER. I am not surprised that it maintains its old reputation.
You know, my dear (_to_ DOROTHY), it was George Austin’s regiment.
DOROTHY. Was it, aunt?
ANTHONY. Beau Austin? Yes, it was; and a precious dust they make about
him still—a parcel of old frumps! That’s why I went to see him. But
he’s quite extinct: he couldn’t be Corinthian if he tried.
MISS FOSTER. I am afraid that even at your age George Austin held a very
different position from the distinguished Anthony Musgrave.
ANTHONY. Come, ma’am, I take that unkindly. Of course I know what
you’re at: of course the old pût cut no end of a dash with the Duchess.
MISS FOSTER. My dear child, I was thinking of no such thing; _that_ was
immoral.
ANTHONY. Then you mean that affair at Brighton: when he cut the Prince
about Perdita Robinson.
MISS FOSTER. No, I had forgotten it.
ANTHONY. O, well, I know—that duel! But look here, Aunt Evelina, I
don’t think you’d be much gratified after all if I were to be broke for
killing my commanding officer about a quarrel at cards.
DOROTHY. Nobody asks you, Anthony, to imitate Mr. Austin. I trust you
will set yourself a better model. But you may choose a worse. With all
his faults, and all his enemies, Mr. Austin is a pattern gentleman: You
would not ask a man to be braver, and there are few so generous. I
cannot bear to hear him called in fault by one so young. Better judges,
dear, are better pleased.
ANTHONY. Hey-day! what’s this?
MISS FOSTER. Why, Dolly, this is April and May. You surprise me.
DOROTHY. I am afraid, indeed, madam, that you have much to suffer from
my caprice. (_She goes out_, _L._)
SCENE II
ANTHONY, MISS FOSTER
ANTHONY. What is the meaning of all this, ma’am? I don’t like it.
MISS FOSTER. Nothing, child, that I know. You spoke of Mr. Austin, our
dear friend, like a groom; and she, like any lady of taste, took arms in
his defence.
ANTHONY. No, ma’am, that won’t do. I know the sex. You mark my words,
the girl has some confounded nonsense in her head, and wants looking
after.
MISS FOSTER. In my presence, Anthony, I shall ask you to speak of
Dorothy with greater respect. With your permission, your sister and I
will continue to direct our own affairs. When we require the
interference of so young and confident a champion, you shall know.
(_Curtsies_, _kisses her hand_, _and goes out_, _L._)
SCENE III
ANTHONY
ANTHONY. Upon my word, I think Aunt Evelina one of the most uncivil old
women in the world. Nine weeks ago I came of age; and they still treat
me like a boy. I’m a recognised Corinthian, too: take my liquor with old
Fred, and go round with the Brummagem Bantam and Jack Bosb— . . . O damn
Jack Bosbury. If his father was a tailor, he shall fight me for his
ungentlemanly conduct. However, that’s all one. What I want is to make
Aunt Evelina understand that I’m not the man to be put down by an old
maid who’s been brought up in a work-basket, begad! I’ve had nothing but
rebuffs all day. It’s very remarkable. There was that man Austin, to
begin with. I’ll be hanged if I can stand him. I hear too much of him;
and if I can only get a good excuse to put him to the door, I believe it
would give Dorothy and all of us a kind of a position. After all, he’s
not a man to visit in the house of ladies: not when I’m away, at least.
Nothing in it of course; but is he a man whose visits I can sanction?
SCENE IV
ANTHONY, BARBARA
BARBARA. Please, Mr. Anthony, Miss Foster said I was to show your room.
ANTHONY. Ha! Baby? Now, you come here. You’re a girl of sense, I
know.
BARBARA. La, Mr. Anthony, I hope I’m nothing of the kind.
ANTHONY. Come, come! that’s not the tone I want: I’m serious. Does this
man Austin come much about the house?
BARBARA. O Mr. Anthony, for shame! Why don’t you ask Miss Foster?
ANTHONY. Now I wish you to understand: I’m the head of this family.
It’s my business to look after my sister’s reputation, and my aunt’s too,
begad! That’s what I’m here for: I’m their natural protector. And what
I want you, Barbara Ridley, to understand—you whose fathers have served
my fathers—is just simply this: if you’ve any common gratitude, you’re
bound to help me in the work. Now Barbara, you know me, and you know my
Aunt Evelina. She’s a good enough woman; I’m the first to say so. But
who is she to take care of a young girl? She’s ignorant of the world to
that degree she believes in Beau Austin! Now you and I, Bab, who are not
so high and dry, see through and through him; we know that a man like
that is no fit company for any inexperienced girl.
BARBARA. O Mr. Anthony, don’t say that. (_Weeping_.)
ANTHONY. Hullo! what’s wrong?
BARBARA. Nothing that I know of. O Mr. Anthony, I don’t think there can
be anything.
ANTHONY. Think? Don’t think? What’s this?
BARBARA. O sir! I don’t know, and yet I don’t like it. Here’s my
beautiful necklace all broke to bits: she took it off my very neck, and
gave me her birthday pearls instead; and I found it afterwards on the
table, all smashed to pieces; and all she wanted it for was to take and
break it. Why that? It frightens me, Mr. Anthony, it frightens me.
ANTHONY (_with necklace_). This? What has this trumpery to do with us?
BARBARA. He gave it me: that’s why she broke it.
ANTHONY. He? who?
BARBARA. Mr. Austin did; and I do believe I should not have taken it,
Mr. Anthony, but I thought no harm, upon my word of honour. He was
always here: that was six months ago; and indeed, indeed, I thought they
were to marry. How would I think else with a born lady like Miss
Dorothy?
ANTHONY. Why, Barbara, God help us all, what’s this? You don’t mean to
say that there was—
BARBARA. Here it is, as true as true: they were going for a jaunt; and
Miss Foster had her gout; and I was to go with them; and he told me to
make-believe I was ill; and I did; and I stayed at home; and he gave me
that necklace; and they went away together; and, oh dear! I wish I’d
never been born.
ANTHONY. Together? he and Dolly? Good Lord! my sister! And since then?
BARBARA. We haven’t seen him from that day to this, the wicked villain;
and, Mr. Anthony, he hasn’t so much as written the poor dear a word.
ANTHONY. Bab, Bab, Bab, this is a devil of a bad business; this is a
cruel bad business, Baby; cruel upon me, cruel upon all of us; a family
like mine. I’m a young man, Barbara, to have this delicate affair to
manage; but, thank God, I’m Musgrave to the bone. He bribed a
servant-maid, did he? I keep his bribe; it’s mine now; dear bought, by
George! He shall have it in his teeth. Shot Colonel Villiers, did he?
we’ll see how he faces Anthony Musgrave. You’re a good girl, Barbara; so
far you’ve served the family. You leave this to me. And, hark ye, dry
your eyes and hold your tongue: I’ll have no scandal raised by you.
BARBARA. I do hope, sir, you won’t use me against Miss Dorothy.
ANTHONY. That’s my affair; your business is to hold your tongue. Miss
Dorothy has made her bed and must lie on it. Here’s Jack Fenwick. You
can go.
SCENE V
ANTHONY, FENWICK
ANTHONY. Jack Fenwick, is that you? Come here, my boy. Jack, you’ve
given me many a thrashing, and I deserved ’em; and I’ll not see you made
a fool of now. George Austin is a damned villain, and Dorothy Musgrave
is no girl for you to marry: God help me that I should have to say it.
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 word more 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 excellencies 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! oh, 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.
AUSTIN. No, no, not too late: not too late for penitence, not too late
for love.
DOROTHY. Which do you propose? that I should abuse your compassion, or
reward your treachery? George Austin, I have been your mistress, and I
will never be your wife.
AUSTIN. Child, dear child, I have not told you all: there is worse
still: your brother knows; the boy as good as told me. Dorothy, this is
scandal at the door—O let that move you: for that, if not for my sake,
for that, if not for love, trust me, trust me again.
DOROTHY. I am so much the more your victim: that is all, and shall that
change my heart? The sin must have its wages. This, too, was done long
ago: when you stooped to lie to me. The shame is still mine, the fault
still yours.
AUSTIN. Child, child, you kill me: you will not understand. Can you not
see? the lad will force me to a duel.
DOROTHY. And you will kill him? Shame after shame, threat upon threat.
Marry me, or you are dishonoured; marry me, or your brother dies: and
this is man’s honour! But my honour and my pride are different. I will
encounter all misfortune sooner than degrade myself by an unfaithful
marriage. How should I kneel before the altar, and vow to reverence as
my husband you, you who deceived me as my lover?
AUSTIN. Dorothy, you misjudge me cruelly; I have deserved it. You will
not take me for your husband; why should I wonder? You are right. I
have indeed filled your life with calamity: the wages, ay, the wages, of
my sin are heavy upon you. But I have one more thing to ask of your
pity; and O remember, child, who it is that asks it: a man guilty in your
sight, void of excuse, but old, and very proud, and most unused to
supplication. Dorothy Musgrave, will you forgive George Austin?
DOROTHY. O, George!
AUSTIN. It is the old name: that is all I ask, and more than I deserve.
I shall remember, often remember, how and where it was bestowed upon me
for the last time. I thank you, Dorothy, from my heart; a heart, child,
that has been too long silent, but is not too old, I thank God! not yet
too old, to learn a lesson and to accept a reproof. I will not keep you
longer: I will go—I am so bankrupt in credit that I dare not ask you to
believe in how much sorrow. But, Dorothy, my acts will speak for me with
more persuasion. If it be in my power, you shall suffer no more through
me: I will avoid your brother; I will leave this place, I will leave
England, to-morrow; you shall be no longer tortured with the
neighbourhood of your ungenerous lover. Dorothy, farewell!
SCENE VIII
DOROTHY; _to whom_, ANTHONY, _L._
DOROTHY (_on her knees_, _and reaching with her hands_.) George, George!
(_Enter_ ANTHONY.)
ANTHONY. Ha! what are you crying for?
DOROTHY. Nothing, dear! (_Rising_.)
ANTHONY. Is Austin going to marry you?
DOROTHY. I shall never marry.
ANTHONY. I thought as much. You should have come to me.
DOROTHY. I know, dear, I know; but there was nothing to come about.
ANTHONY. It’s a lie. You have disgraced the family. You went to John
Fenwick: see what he has made of it! But I will have you righted: it
shall be atoned in the man’s blood.
DOROTHY. Anthony! And if I had refused him?
ANTHONY. You? refuse George Austin? You never had the chance.
DOROTHY. I have refused him.
ANTHONY. Dorothy, you lie. You would shield your lover; but this
concerns not you only: it strikes my honour and my father’s honour.
DOROTHY. I have refused him—refused him, I tell you—refused him. The
blame is mine; are you so mad and wicked that you will not see?
ANTHONY. I see this: that man must die.
DOROTHY. He? never! You forget, you forget whom you defy; you run upon
your death.
ANTHONY. Ah, my girl, you should have thought of that before. It is too
late now.
DOROTHY. Anthony, if I beg you—Anthony, I have tried to be a good
sister; I brought you up, dear, nursed you when you were sick, fought for
you, hoped for you, loved you—think of it, think of the dear past, think
of our home and the happy winter nights, the castles in the fire, the
long shining future, the love that was to forgive and suffer always—O you
will spare, you will spare me this.
ANTHONY. I will tell you what I will do, Dolly: I will do just what you
taught me—my duty: that, and nothing else.
DOROTHY. O Anthony, you also, you to strike me! Heavens, shall I kill
them—I—I, that love them, kill them! Miserable, sinful girl! George,
George, thank God, you will be far away! O go, George, go at once!
ANTHONY. He goes the coward! Ay, is this more of your contrivance?
Madam, you make me blush. But to-day at least I know where I can find
him. This afternoon, on the Pantiles, he must dance attendance on the
Duke of York. Already he must be there; and there he is at my mercy.
DOROTHY. Thank God, you are deceived: he will not fight. He promised me
that; thank God I have his promise for that.
ANTHONY. Promise! Do you see this? (_producing necklace_) the thing he
bribed your maid with? I shall dash it in his teeth before the Duke and
before all Tunbridge. Promise, you poor fool? what promise holds against
a blow? Get to your knees and pray for him; for, by the God above, if he
has any blood in his body, one of us shall die before to-night. (_He
goes out_.)
DOROTHY. Anthony, Anthony! . . . O my God, George will kill him.
_Music_: ‘_Chè farò_,’ _as the drop falls_.
DROP.
ACT IV.
MUSICAL INDUCTION: ‘Gavotte;’ ‘_Iphigénie en Aulide_.’
GLUCK
_The Stage represents the Pantiles_: _the alleys fronting the spectators
in parallel lines_. _At the back_, _a stand of musicians_, _from which
the_ ‘_Gavotte_’ _is repeated on muted strings_. _The music continues
nearly through Scene I_. _Visitors walking to and fro beneath the
lines_. _A seat in front_, _L._
SCENE I
MISS FOSTER, BARBARA, MENTEITH; _Visitors_
MISS FOSTER (_entering_; _escorted by_ MENTEITH, _and followed by_
BARBARA). And so, Menteith, here you are once more. And vastly pleased
I am to see you, my good fellow, not only for your own sake, but because
you harbinger the Beau. (_Sits_, _L._; MENTEITH _standing over her_.)
MENTEITH. Honoured madam, I have had the pleasure to serve Mr. George
for more than thirty years. This is a privilege—a very great privilege.
I have beheld him in the first societies, moving among the first rank of
personages; and none, madam, none outshone him.
BARBARA. I assure you, madam, when Mr. Menteith took me to the play, he
talked so much of Mr. Austin that I couldn’t hear a word of Mr. Kean.
MISS FOSTER. Well, well, and very right. That was the old school of
service, Barbara, which you would do well to imitate. This is a child,
Menteith, that I am trying to form.
MENTEITH. Quite so, madam.
MISS FOSTER. And are we soon to see our princely guest, Menteith?
MENTEITH. His Royal Highness, madam? I believe I may say quite so. Mr.
George will receive our gallant prince upon the Pantiles (_looking at his
watch_) in, I should say, a matter of twelve minutes from now. Such,
madam, is Mr. George’s order of the day.
BARBARA. I beg your pardon, madam, I am sure, but are we really to see
one of His Majesty’s own brothers? That will be pure! O madam, this is
better than Carlisle.
MISS FOSTER. The wood-note wild: a loyal Cumbrian, Menteith.
MENTEITH. Eh? Quite so, madam.
MISS FOSTER. When she has seen as much of the Royal Family as you, my
good fellow, she will find it vastly less entertaining.
MENTEITH. Yes, madam, indeed; In these distinguished circles, life is
but a slavery. None of the best set would relish Tunbridge without Mr.
George; Tunbridge and Mr. George (if you’ll excuse my plainness, madam)
are in a manner of speaking identified; and indeed it was the Dook’s
desire alone that brought us here.
BARBARA. What? the Duke? O dear! was it for that?
MENTEITH. Though, to be sure, madam, Mr. George would always be charmed
to find himself (_bowing_) among so many admired members of his own set.
MISS FOSTER. Upon my word, Menteith, Mr. Austin is as fortunate in his
servant as his reputation.
MENTEITH. Quite so, madam. But let me observe that the opportunities I
have had of acquiring a knowledge of Mr. George’s character have been
p
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