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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, Volume
+XV, by Robert Louis Stevenson
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, Volume XV
+
+Author: Robert Louis Stevenson
+
+Other: Andrew Lang
+
+Release Date: December 10, 2009 [EBook #30643]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORKS OF R.L. STEVENSON ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Marius Borror and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+       THE WORKS OF
+
+  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
+
+     SWANSTON EDITION
+
+        VOLUME XV
+
+
+
+
+  _Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five
+  Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS
+  STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies
+  have been printed, of which only Two Thousand
+  Copies are for sale._
+
+  _This is No ........._
+
+  [Illustration: R.L.S. AND MRS. STRONG
+
+  (_From an old tin-type, posed and taken by a strolling photographer at
+     a fair in Sydney, N.S.W., in 1892_)]
+
+
+
+
+   THE WORKS OF
+
+   ROBERT LOUIS
+    STEVENSON
+
+  VOLUME FIFTEEN
+
+  LONDON : PUBLISHED BY CHATTO AND
+  WINDUS : IN ASSOCIATION WITH CASSELL
+  AND COMPANY LIMITED : WILLIAM
+  HEINEMANN : AND LONGMANS GREEN
+  AND COMPANY      MDCCCCXII
+
+
+  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
+
+
+
+
+  CONTENTS
+
+
+                                        PAGE
+
+  DEACON BRODIE, OR THE DOUBLE LIFE        1
+
+  BEAU AUSTIN                             91
+
+  ADMIRAL GUINEA                         145
+
+  MACAIRE                                205
+
+
+
+
+         DRAMATIC WORKS
+               OF
+  R.L. STEVENSON & W.E. HENLEY
+
+
+
+
+                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,   > Robbers in the Deacon's Gang
+                   |
+  GEORGE SMITH,   /
+
+  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 parentheses, 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
+
+
+
+
+
+DEACON BRODIE
+
+OR THE DOUBLE LIFE
+
+
+
+
+  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 bedroom, in the style of an easy burgess
+  of about 1780. C., a door; L.C., 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. O, 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 work-box, 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 always be
+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 other 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's no' a house in Edinburgh safe. The law is
+clean helpless, clean helpless! A week syne it was auld Andra Simpson's
+in the Lawn-market. 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 down 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 you 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. O 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 with
+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 o'
+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._)
+
+SMITH. Is he alive?
+
+JEAN. I think there's something wrong with him.
+
+SMITH. 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 variegated. 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 gentleman?
+
+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 Wyndheid; 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.)
+
+SMITH (_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. Confound 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_). "Three 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 _h_elbow 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 the 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 way 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 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 _h_image, 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 Scots 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 gentleman 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 Scots 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 Dook, 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
+
+  _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._
+
+
+  SCENE I
+
+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. O, 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 home all 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,
+blackguardly 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!--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 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. _Ŕ 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. Deaking,
+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. O 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 twopence 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 Scots
+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! (_Pouring 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 fear'd Thou mayest 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._)
+
+  END OF THE FIRST ACT
+
+
+
+
+  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. (O, 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
+persecution?)
+
+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'll 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 ain.
+
+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, Jennie, 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
+awfu' 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, down-stairs, 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 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 dae 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 (_starting 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. _Voilŕ._
+
+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 Libberton'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 bonnie 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._) (_He goes
+out._)
+
+
+  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,
+although 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? O, 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 until 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 a 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 comes to our 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 cock-fights 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 do 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 goes 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 of 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, Dook.
+
+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! 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.
+
+OLD 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!
+
+  END OF THE SECOND ACT
+
+
+
+
+  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 a-going 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 retired 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 Scotsman 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 _h_article 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. Whatten 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 Cćsar. 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 as well?
+
+JEAN. I daur say ye would like fine to, 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 off 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, and 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 frien's o' mine, 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 an' 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, and me sae weak, and 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 won't you? You blow the
+gaff, and I'll pull you through. You don't, and I'll scrag 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 very 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, and 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, and
+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 no' 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 the 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. O, 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. Ah, 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 your 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 you 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, and 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 (_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 that 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 some one 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' yer 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 the 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? Ay 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.
+
+
+  END OF THE THIRD ACT
+
+
+
+
+  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
+  Court: "_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, crowbars, 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 centre-bit.
+
+SMITH. That's all you know. Here she is, bless her! Portrait of George
+as a gay _h_ironmonger.
+
+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 centre-bit.
+
+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 past, I'll break your back.
+(_AINSLIE retires._) Steady with the light. (_At work with centre-bit._)
+Hand up number four, George. (_At work with picklock._) That has it.
+
+SMITH. Well done, our side.
+
+BRODIE. Now the crowbar! (_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._) _Voilŕ!_ 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-lŕ!
+
+
+  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 haill 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 awfu'. (_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.
+
+  END OF THE FOURTH ACT
+
+
+
+
+  ACT V
+
+  TABLEAU VIII
+
+  THE OPEN DOOR
+
+  _The Stage represents the Deacon's room, as in Tableau I. Firelight.
+  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 een, 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 believe 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, 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...! 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 gaol 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, cosy old house ... and the rat a dead rat, and all
+saved. (_He lights the candles._) Your hand shakes, sir? Fie! And you
+saved, and 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,
+     _1st October, 1884_
+
+
+
+
+PERSONS REPRESENTED
+
+
+  GEORGE FREDERICK AUSTIN, called "Beau Austin"       _Ćtat._ 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.
+
+
+
+
+PROLOGUE
+
+  "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 hers--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!
+
+                                      W. E. H.
+
+
+
+
+BEAU AUSTIN
+
+MUSICAL INDUCTION: "Lascia ch'io pianga" (_Rinaldo_), HANDEL
+
+
+
+
+  ACT I
+
+  _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 the 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 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 encounter 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 letter
+down unopened, and sits to breakfast, BARBARA waiting._)
+
+MISS FOSTER (_to BARBARA, with plate_). Thanks, child; now you may give
+me some tea. Dolly, I must insist on your eating a good breakfast: I
+cannot away with your pale cheeks and that Patience-on-a-Monument kind
+of look. (Toast, Barbara!) At Edenside you ate and drank and looked like
+Hebe. What have you done with your appetite?
+
+DOROTHY. I don't know, aunt, I'm sure.
+
+MISS FOSTER. Then consider, please, and recover it as soon as you can: to
+a young lady in your position a good appetite is an attraction--almost a
+virtue. Do you know that your brother arrives this morning?
+
+DOROTHY. Dear Anthony! Where is his letter, Aunt Evelina? I am pleased
+that he should leave London and its perils, if only for a day.
+
+MISS FOSTER. My dear, there are moments when you positively amaze me.
+(Barbara, some _pâté_, if you please!) I beg you not to be a prude. All
+women, of course, are virtuous; but a prude is something I regard with
+abhorrence. The Cornet is seeing life, which is exactly what he wanted.
+You brought him up surprisingly well; I have always admired you for it;
+but let us admit--as women of the world, my dear--it was no upbringing
+for a man. You and that fine solemn fellow, John Fenwick, led a life
+that was positively no better than the Middle Ages; and between the two
+of you poor Anthony (who, I am sure, was a most passive creature!) was
+so packed with principle and admonition that I vow and declare he
+reminded me of Issachar stooping between his two burdens. It was high
+time for him to be done with your apron-string, my dear: he has all his
+wild oats to sow; and that is an occupation which it is unwise to defer
+too long. By the bye, have you heard the news? The Duke of York has done
+us a service for which I was unprepared. (More tea, Barbara!) George
+Austin, bringing the prince in his train, is with us once more.
+
+DOROTHY. I knew he was coming.
+
+MISS FOSTER. You knew, child? and did not tell? You are a public
+criminal.
+
+DOROTHY. I did not think it mattered, Aunt Evelina.
+
+MISS FOSTER. O do not make-believe. I am in love with him myself, and
+have been any time since Nelson and the Nile. As for you, Dolly, since
+he went away six months ago, you have been positively in the megrims. I
+shall date your loss of appetite from George Austin's vanishing. No, my
+dear, our family require entertainment: we must have wit about us, and
+beauty, and the _bel air_.
+
+BARBARA. Well, Miss Dorothy, perhaps it's out of my place: but I do hope
+Mr. Austin will come: I should love to have him see my necklace on.
+
+DOROTHY. Necklace? what necklace? Did he give you a necklace?
+
+BARBARA. Yes, indeed, Miss, that he did; the very same day he drove you
+in his curricle to Penshurst. You remember, Miss, I couldn't go.
+
+DOROTHY. I remember.
+
+MISS FOSTER. And so do I. I had a touch of ... Foster in the blood: the
+family gout, dears!... And you, you ungrateful nymph, had him a whole
+day to yourself, and not a word to tell me when you returned.
+
+DOROTHY. I remember. (_Rising._) Is that the necklace, Barbara? It does
+not suit you. Give it me.
+
+BARBARA. La, Miss Dorothy, I wouldn't for the world.
+
+DOROTHY. Come, give it me. I want it. Thank you: you shall have my
+birthday pearls instead.
+
+MISS FOSTER. Why, Dolly, I believe you're jealous of the maid. Foster,
+Foster: always a Foster trick to wear the willow in anger.
+
+DOROTHY. I do not think, madam, that I am of a jealous habit.
+
+MISS FOSTER. O, the personage is your excuse! And I can tell you, child,
+that when George Austin was playing Florizel to the Duchess's Perdita,
+all the maids in England fell a prey to green-eyed melancholy. It was
+the _ton_, you see: not to pine for that Sylvander was to resign from
+good society.
+
+DOROTHY. Aunt Evelina, stop; I cannot endure to hear you. What is he
+after all but just Beau Austin? What has he done--with half a century of
+good health, what has he done that is either memorable or worthy? Diced
+and danced and set fashions; vanquished in a drawing-room, fought for a
+word; what else? As if these were the meaning of life! Do not make me
+think so poorly of all of us women. Sure, we can rise to admire a better
+kind of man than Mr. Austin. We are not all to be snared with the eye,
+dear aunt; and those that are--O! I know not whether I more hate or pity
+them.
+
+MISS FOSTER. You will give me leave, my niece: such talk is neither
+becoming in a young lady nor creditable to your understanding. The world
+was made a great while before Miss Dorothy Musgrave; and you will do
+much better to ripen your opinions, and in the meantime read your
+letter, which I perceive you have not opened. (_DOROTHY opens and reads
+letter._) Barbara, child, you should not listen at table.
+
+BARBARA. Sure, madam, I hope I know my place.
+
+MISS FOSTER. Then do not do it again.
+
+DOROTHY. Poor John Fenwick! he coming here!
+
+MISS FOSTER. Well, and why not? Dorothy, my darling child, you give me
+pain. You never had but one chance, let me tell you pointedly; and that
+was John Fenwick. If I were you, I would not let my vanity so blind me.
+This is not the way to marry.
+
+DOROTHY. Dear aunt, I shall never marry.
+
+MISS FOSTER. A fiddlestick's end! every one must marry. (_Rising._) Are
+you for the Pantiles?
+
+DOROTHY. Not to-day, dear.
+
+MISS FOSTER. Well, well! have your wish, Dolorosa.--Barbara, attend and
+dress me.
+
+
+  SCENE III
+
+DOROTHY. How she tortures me, poor aunt, my poor blind aunt; and I--I
+could break her heart with a word. That she should see nothing, know
+nothing--there's where it kills. O, it is more than I can bear ... and
+yet, how much less than I deserve! Mad girl, of what do I complain? that
+this dear innocent woman still believes me good, still pierces me to the
+soul with trustfulness. Alas, and were it otherwise, were her dear eyes
+opened to the truth, what were left me but death?--He, too--she must
+still be praising him, and every word is a lash upon my conscience. If I
+could die of my secret: if I could cease--but one moment cease--this
+living lie; if I could sleep and forget and be at rest!--Poor John!
+(_reading the letter_) he at least is guiltless; and yet for my fault
+he too must suffer, he too must bear part in my shame. Poor John
+Fenwick! Has he come back with the old story: with what might have been,
+perhaps, had we stayed by Edenside? Eden? yes, my Eden, from which I
+fell. O, my old north country, my old river--the river of my innocence,
+the old country of my hopes--how could I endure to look on you now? And
+how to meet John?--John, with the old love on his lips, the old, honest,
+innocent, faithful heart! There was a Dorothy once who was not unfit to
+ride with him, her heart as light as his, her life as clear as the
+bright rivers we forded; he called her his Diana, he crowned her so with
+rowan. Where is that Dorothy now? that Diana? she that was everything to
+John? For O, I did him good; I know I did him good; I will still believe
+I did him good: I made him honest and kind and a true man; alas, and
+could not guide myself! And now, how will he despise me! For he shall
+know; if I die, he shall know all; I could not live, and not be true
+with him. (_She takes out the necklace and looks at it._) That he should
+have bought me from my maid! George, George, that you should have
+stooped to this! Basely as you have used me, this is the basest. Perish
+the witness. (_She treads the trinket under foot._) Break, break like my
+heart, break like my hopes, perish like my good name!
+
+
+  SCENE IV
+
+  _To her, FENWICK, C._
+
+FENWICK (_after a pause_). Is this how you receive me, Dorothy? Am I not
+welcome?--Shall I go then?
+
+DOROTHY (_running to him, with hands outstretched_). O no, John, not
+for me. (_Turning and pointing to the necklace._) But you find me
+changed.
+
+FENWICK (_with a movement towards the necklace_). This?
+
+DOROTHY. No, no, let it lie. That is a trinket--broken. But the old
+Dorothy is dead.
+
+FENWICK. Dead, dear? Not to me.
+
+DOROTHY. Dead to you--dead to all men.
+
+FENWICK. Dorothy, I loved you as a boy. There is not a meadow on
+Edenside but is dear to me for your sake, not a cottage but recalls your
+goodness, not a rock nor a tree but brings back something of the best
+and brightest youth man ever had. You were my teacher and my queen; I
+walked with you, I talked with you, I rode with you; I lived in your
+shadow; I saw with your eyes. You will never know, dear Dorothy, what
+you were to the dull boy you bore with; you will never know with what
+romance you filled my life, with what devotion, with what tenderness and
+honour. At night I lay awake and worshipped you; in my dreams I saw you,
+and you loved me; and you remember, when we told each other stories--you
+have not forgotten, dearest--that Princess Hawthorn that was still the
+heroine of mine: who was she? I was not bold enough to tell, but she was
+you! You, my virgin huntress, my Diana, my queen.
+
+DOROTHY. O silence, silence--pity!
+
+FENWICK. No, dear; neither for your sake nor mine will I be silenced. I
+have begun; I must go on and finish, and put fortune to the touch. It
+was from you I learned honour, duty, piety, and love. I am as you made
+me, and I exist but to reverence and serve you. Why else have I come
+here, the length of England, my heart burning higher every mile, my very
+horse a clog to me?--why, but to ask you for my wife? Dorothy, you will
+not deny me?
+
+DOROTHY. You have not asked me about this broken trinket?
+
+FENWICK. Why should I ask? I love you.
+
+DOROTHY. Yet I must tell you. Sit down. (_She picks up the necklace, and
+stands looking at it. Then, breaking down._) O John, John, it's long
+since I left home.
+
+FENWICK. Too long, dear love. The very trees will welcome you.
+
+DOROTHY. Ay, John, but I no longer love you. The old Dorothy is dead,
+God pardon her!
+
+FENWICK. Dorothy, who is the man?
+
+DOROTHY. O poor Dorothy! O poor dead Dorothy! John, you found me
+breaking this: me, your Diana of the Fells, the Diana of your old
+romance by Edenside. Diana--O what a name for me! Do you see this
+trinket? It is a chapter in my life. A chapter, do I say? my whole life,
+for there is none to follow. John, you must bear with me, you must help
+me. I have that to tell--there is a secret--I have a secret, John--O,
+for God's sake, understand. That Diana you revered--O John, John, you
+must never speak of love to me again.
+
+FENWICK. What do you say? How dare you?
+
+DOROTHY. John, it is the truth. Your Diana, even she, she whom you
+believed in, she who so believed in herself, came out into the world
+only to be broken. I met, here at the Wells, a man--why should I tell
+you his name? I met him, and I loved him. My heart was all his own; yet
+he was not content with that: he must intrigue to catch me, he must
+bribe my maid with this. (_Throws the necklace on the table._) Did he
+love me? Well, John, he said he did; and be it so! He loved, he
+betrayed, and he has left me.
+
+FENWICK. Betrayed?
+
+DOROTHY. Ay, even so; I was betrayed. The fault was mine that I forgot
+our innocent youth, and your honest love.
+
+FENWICK. Dorothy, O Dorothy!
+
+DOROTHY. Yours is the pain; but, O John, think it is for your good.
+Think in England how many true maids may be waiting for your love, how
+many that can bring you a whole heart, and be a noble mother to your
+children, while your poor Diana, at the first touch, has proved all
+frailty. Go, go and be happy, and let me be patient. I have sinned.
+
+FENWICK. By God, I'll have his blood.
+
+DOROTHY. Stop! I love him. (_Between FENWICK and door, C._)
+
+FENWICK. What do I care? I loved you too. Little he thought of that,
+little either of you thought of that. His blood--I'll have his blood!
+
+DOROTHY. You shall never know his name.
+
+FENWICK. Know it? Do you think I cannot guess? Do you think I had not
+heard he followed you? Do you think I had not suffered--O, suffered!
+George Austin is the man. Dear shall he pay it!
+
+DOROTHY (_at his feet_). Pity me; spare me; spare your Dorothy! I love
+him--love him--love him!
+
+FENWICK. Dorothy, you have robbed me of my happiness, and now you would
+rob me of my revenge.
+
+DOROTHY. I know it; and shall I ask, and you not grant?
+
+FENWICK (_raising her_). No, Dorothy, you shall ask nothing, nothing in
+vain from me. You ask his life; I give it you, as I would give you my
+soul; as I would give you my life, if I had any left. My life is done;
+you have taken it. Not a hope, not an end; not even revenge. (_He
+sits._) Dorothy, you see your work.
+
+DOROTHY. O God, forgive me!
+
+FENWICK. Ay, Dorothy, He will, as I do.
+
+DOROTHY. As you do? Do you forgive me, John?
+
+FENWICK. Ay, more than that, poor soul. I said my life was done, I was
+wrong; I have still a duty. It is not in vain you taught me; I shall
+still prove to you that it was not in vain. You shall soon find that I
+am no backward friend. Farewell.
+
+
+
+
+  MUSICAL INDUCTION: "The Lass of Richmond Hill"
+
+  ACT II
+
+
+  _The Stage represents George Austin's dressing-room. Elaborate
+  toilet-table, R., with chair; a cheval-glass so arranged as to
+  correspond with glass on table. Breakfast-table, L., front. Door, L.
+  The Beau is discovered at table in dressing-gown, trifling with
+  correspondence. MENTEITH is frothing chocolate_
+
+
+  SCENE I
+
+  AUSTIN, MENTEITH
+
+MENTEITH. At the barber's, Mr. George, I had the pleasure of meeting two
+of the Dook's gentlemen.
+
+AUSTIN. Well, and was his Royal Highness satisfied with his quarters?
+
+MENTEITH. Quite so, Mr. George. Delighted, I believe.
+
+AUSTIN. I am rejoiced to hear it. I wish I could say I was as pleased
+with my journey, Menteith. This is the first time I ever came to the
+Wells in another person's carriage; Duke or not, it shall be the last,
+Menteith.
+
+MENTEITH. Ah, Mr. George, no wonder. And how many times have we made
+that journey back and forth?
+
+AUSTIN. Enough to make us older than we look.
+
+MENTEITH. To be sure, Mr. George, you do wear well.
+
+AUSTIN. _We_ wear well, Menteith.
+
+MENTEITH. I hear, Mr. George, that Miss Musgrave is of the company.
+
+AUSTIN. Is she so? Well, well! well, well!
+
+MENTEITH. I've not seen the young lady myself, Mr. George; but the
+barber tells me she's looking poorly.
+
+AUSTIN. Poorly?
+
+MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George, poorly was his word.
+
+AUSTIN. Well, Menteith, I am truly sorry. She is not the first.
+
+MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George.
+
+(_A bell. MENTEITH goes out and re-enters with card._)
+
+AUSTIN (_with card_). Whom have we here? Anthony Musgrave?
+
+MENTEITH. A fine young man, Mr. George; and with a look of the young
+lady, but not so gentlemanly.
+
+AUSTIN. You have an eye, you have an eye. Let him in.
+
+
+  SCENE II
+
+  AUSTIN, MENTEITH, ANTHONY
+
+AUSTIN. I am charmed to have this opportunity, Mr. Musgrave. You belong
+to my old corps, I think? And how does my good friend, Sir Frederick? I
+had his line; but, like all my old comrades, he thinks last about
+himself, and gives me not of his news.
+
+ANTHONY. I protest, sir, this is a very proud moment. Your name is still
+remembered in the regiment. (_AUSTIN bows._) The Colonel--he keeps his
+health, sir, considering his age (_AUSTIN bows again and looks at
+MENTEITH_)--tells us young men you were a devil of a fellow in your
+time.
+
+AUSTIN. I believe I was--in my time. Menteith, give Mr. Musgrave a dish
+of chocolate. So, sir, we see you at the Wells.
+
+ANTHONY. I have but just alighted. I had but one thought, sir: to pay my
+respects to Mr. Austin. I have not yet kissed my aunt and sister.
+
+AUSTIN. In my time--to which you refer--the ladies had come first.
+
+ANTHONY. The women? I take you, sir. But then, you see, a man's
+relatives don't count. And besides, Mr. Austin, between men of the
+world, I am fairly running away from the sex: I am positively in flight.
+Little Hortense of the Opera; you know; she sent her love to you. She's
+mad about me, I think. You never saw a creature so fond.
+
+AUSTIN. Well, well, child! you are better here. In my time--to which you
+have referred--I knew the lady. Does she wear well?
+
+ANTHONY. I beg your pardon, sir!
+
+AUSTIN. No offence, child, no offence. She was a very lively creature.
+But you neglect your chocolate, I see?
+
+ANTHONY. We don't patronise it, Mr. Austin; we haven't for some years:
+the service has quite changed since your time. You'd be surprised.
+
+AUSTIN. Doubtless. I am.
+
+ANTHONY. I assure you, sir, I and Jack Bosbury of the Fifty-second----
+
+AUSTIN. The Hampshire Bosburys?
+
+ANTHONY. I do not know exactly, sir. I believe he is related.
+
+AUSTIN. Or perhaps--I remember a Mr. Bosbury, a cutter of coats. I have
+the vanity to believe I formed his business.
+
+ANTHONY. I--I hope not, sir. But as I was saying, I and this Jack
+Bosbury, and the Brummagem Bantam--a very pretty light-weight,
+sir--drank seven bottles of Burgundy to the three of us inside the
+eighty minutes. Jack, sir, was a little cut; but me and the Bantam went
+out and finished the evening on hot gin. Life, sir, life! Tom Cribb was
+with us. He spoke of you, too, Tom did: said you'd given him a wrinkle
+for his second fight with the black man. No, sir, I assure you, you're
+not forgotten.
+
+AUSTIN (_bows_). I am pleased to learn it. In my time, I had an esteem
+for Mr. Cribb.
+
+ANTHONY. O come, sir! but your time cannot be said to be over.
+
+AUSTIN. Menteith, you hear!
+
+MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George.
+
+ANTHONY. The Colonel told me that you liked to shake an elbow. Your big
+main, sir, with Lord Wensleydale, is often talked about. I hope I may
+have the occasion to sit down with you. I shall count it an honour, I
+assure you.
+
+AUSTIN. But would your aunt, my very good friend, approve?
+
+ANTHONY. Why, sir, you do not suppose I am in leading-strings?
+
+AUSTIN. You forget, child: a family must hang together. When I was
+young--in my time--I was alone; and what I did concerned myself. But a
+youth who has--as I think you have--a family of ladies to protect, must
+watch his honour, child, and preserve his fortune.... You have no
+commands from Sir Frederick?
+
+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 nor 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_), this 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 a while--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!... 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. 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!"
+
+
+
+
+  MUSICAL INDUCTION: The "Minuet" from _Don Giovanni_
+
+  ACT III
+
+
+  _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 put 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. 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. Ah! 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, O 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 more word against your sister, and we quarrel.
+
+ANTHONY. You let it slip yourself, Jack: you know yourself she's not a
+virtuous girl.
+
+FENWICK. What do you know of virtue, whose whole boast is to be vicious?
+How dare you draw conclusions? Dolt and puppy! you can no more
+comprehend that angel's excellences than she can stoop to believe in
+your vices. And you talk morality? Anthony, I'm a man who has been
+somewhat roughly tried: take care.
+
+ANTHONY. You don't seem able to grasp the situation, Jack. It's very
+remarkable; I'm the girl's natural protector; and you should buckle-to
+and help, like a friend of the family. And instead of that, begad! you
+turn on me like all the rest.
+
+FENWICK. Now mark me fairly: Mr. Austin follows at my heels; he comes to
+offer marriage to your sister--that is all you know, and all you shall
+know; and if by any misplaced insolence of yours this marriage should
+miscarry, you have to answer, not to Mr. Austin only, but to me.
+
+ANTHONY. It's all a most discreditable business, and I don't see how you
+propose to better it by cutting my throat. Of course, if he's going to
+marry her, it's a different thing, but I don't believe he is, or he'd
+have asked me. You think me a fool? Well, see they marry, or they'll
+find me a dangerous fool.
+
+
+  SCENE VI
+
+  _To these, AUSTIN, BARBARA announcing_
+
+BARBARA. Mr. Austin. (_She shows AUSTIN in, and retires._)
+
+AUSTIN. You will do me the justice to acknowledge, Mr. Fenwick, that I
+have been not long delayed by my devotion to the Graces.
+
+ANTHONY. So, sir, I find you in my house----
+
+AUSTIN. And charmed to meet you again. It went against my conscience to
+separate so soon. Youth, Mr. Musgrave, is to us older men a perpetual
+refreshment.
+
+ANTHONY. You came here, sir, I suppose, upon some errand?
+
+AUSTIN. My errand, Mr. Musgrave, is to your fair sister. Beauty, as you
+know, comes before valour.
+
+ANTHONY. In my own house, and about my own sister, I presume I have the
+right to ask for something more explicit.
+
+AUSTIN. The right, my dear sir, is beyond question; but it is one, as
+you were going on to observe, on which no gentleman insists.
+
+FENWICK. Anthony, my good fellow, I think we had better go.
+
+ANTHONY. I have asked a question.
+
+AUSTIN. Which I was charmed to answer, but which, on repetition, might
+begin to grow distasteful.
+
+ANTHONY. In my own house----
+
+FENWICK. For God's sake, Anthony!
+
+AUSTIN. In your aunt's house, young gentleman, I shall be careful to
+refrain from criticism. I am come upon a visit to a lady: that visit I
+shall pay; when you desire (if it be possible that you desire it) to
+resume this singular conversation, select some fitter place. Mr.
+Fenwick, this afternoon, may I present you to his Royal Highness?
+
+ANTHONY. Why, sir, I believe you must have misconceived me. I have no
+wish to offend: at least at present.
+
+AUSTIN. Enough, sir. I was persuaded I had heard amiss. I trust we shall
+be friends.
+
+FENWICK. Come, Anthony, come: here is your sister. (_As FENWICK and
+ANTHONY go out, C., enter DOROTHY, L._)
+
+
+  SCENE VII
+
+  AUSTIN, DOROTHY
+
+DOROTHY. I am told, Mr. Austin, that you wish to see me.
+
+AUSTIN. Madam, can you doubt of that desire? can you question my
+sincerity?
+
+DOROTHY. Sir, between you and me these compliments are worse than idle:
+they are unkind. Sure, we are alone!
+
+AUSTIN. I find you in an hour of cruelty, I fear. Yet you have
+condescended to receive this poor offender; and, having done so much,
+you will not refuse to give him audience.
+
+DOROTHY. You shall have no cause, sir, to complain of me. I listen.
+
+AUSTIN. My fair friend, I have sent myself--a poor ambassador--to plead
+for your forgiveness. I have been too long absent; too long, I would
+fain hope, madam, for you; too long for my honour and my love. I am no
+longer, madam, in my first youth; but I may say that I am not unknown.
+My fortune, originally small, has not suffered from my husbandry. I have
+excellent health, an excellent temper, and the purest ardour of
+affection for your person. I found not on my merits, but on your
+indulgence. Miss Musgrave, will you honour me with your hand in
+marriage?
+
+DOROTHY. Mr. Austin, if I thought basely of marriage, I should perhaps
+accept your offer. There was a time, indeed, when it would have made me
+proudest among women. I was the more deceived, and have to thank you for
+a salutary lesson. You chose to count me as a cipher in your rolls of
+conquest; for six months you left me to my fate; and you come here
+to-day--prompted, I doubt not, by an honourable impulse--to offer this
+tardy reparation. No; it is too late.
+
+AUSTIN. Do you refuse?
+
+DOROTHY. Yours is the blame; we are no longer equal. You have robbed me
+of the right to marry any one but you; and do you think me, then, so
+poor in spirit as to accept a husband on compulsion?
+
+AUSTIN. Dorothy, you loved me once.
+
+DOROTHY. Ay, you will never guess how much: you will never live to
+understand how ignominious a defeat that conquest was. I loved and
+trusted you: I judged you by myself; think, then, of my humiliation,
+when, at the touch of trial, all your qualities proved false, and I
+beheld you the slave of the meanest vanity--selfish, untrue, base!
+Think, sir, what a humbling of my pride to have been thus deceived; to
+have taken for my idol such a commonplace imposture as yourself; to have
+loved--yes, loved--such a shadow, such a mockery of man. And now I am
+unworthy to be the wife of any gentleman; and you--look me in the face,
+George--are you worthy to be my husband?
+
+AUSTIN. No, Dorothy, I am not. I was a vain fool; I blundered away the
+most precious opportunity; and my regret will be lifelong. Do me the
+justice to accept this full confession of my fault. I am here to-day to
+own and to repair it.
+
+DOROTHY. Repair it? Sir, you condescend too far.
+
+AUSTIN. I perceive with shame how grievously I had misjudged you. But
+now, Dorothy, believe me, my eyes are opened. I plead with you, not as
+my equal, but as one in all ways better than myself. I admire you, not
+in that trivial sense in which we men are wont to speak of women, but as
+God's work: as a wise mind, a noble soul, and a most generous heart,
+from whose society I have all to gain, all to learn. Dorothy, in one
+word, I love you.
+
+DOROTHY. And what, sir, has wrought this transformation? You knew me of
+old, or thought you knew me? Is it in six months of selfish absence that
+your mind has changed? When did that change begin? A week ago? Sure,
+you would have written! To-day? Sir, if this offer be anything more than
+fresh offence, I have a right to be enlightened.
+
+AUSTIN. Madam, I foresaw this question. So be it: I respect, and I will
+not deceive you. But give me, first of all, a moment for defence. There
+are few men of my habits and position who would have done as I have
+done: sate at the feet of a young boy, accepted his lessons, gone upon
+his errand: fewer still, who would thus, at the crisis of a love, risk
+the whole fortune of the soul--love, gratitude, even respect. Yet more
+than that! For conceive how I respect you, if I, whose lifelong trade
+has been flattery, stand before you and make the plain confession of a
+truth that must not only lower me, but deeply wound yourself.
+
+DOROTHY. What means----?
+
+AUSTIN. Young Fenwick, my rival for your heart, he it was that sent me.
+
+DOROTHY. He? O disgrace! He sent you! That was what he meant? Am I
+fallen so low? Am I your common talk among men? Did you dice for me? Did
+he kneel? O John, John, how could you! And you, Mr. Austin, whither have
+you brought me down? shame heaping upon shame--to what end! O, to what
+end?
+
+AUSTIN. Madam, you wound me: you look wilfully amiss. Sure, any lady in
+the land might well be proud to be loved as you are loved, with such
+nobility as Mr. Fenwick's, with such humility as mine. I came, indeed,
+in pity, in good-nature, what you will. (See, dearest lady, with what
+honesty I speak: if I win you, it shall be with the unblemished truth.)
+All that is gone. Pity? it is myself I pity. I offer you not love--I am
+not worthy. I ask, I beseech of you: suffer me to wait upon you like a
+servant, to serve you with my rank, my name, the whole devotion of my
+life. I am a gentleman--ay, in spite of my fault--an upright gentleman;
+and I swear to you that you shall order your life and mine at your free
+will. Dorothy, at your feet, in remorse, in respect, in love--O such
+love as I have never felt, such love as I derided--I implore, I conjure
+you to be mine!
+
+DOROTHY. Too late! too late.
+
+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: "Chč farň" as the drop falls.)
+
+
+
+
+  MUSICAL INDUCTION: "Gavotte," _Iphigénie en Aulide_, GLUCK
+
+  ACT IV
+
+
+  _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 limes. 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
+positively unrivalled. Nobody knows Mr. George like his old attendant.
+The goodness of that gentleman--but, madam, you will soon be equally
+fortunate, if, as I understand, it is to be a match.
+
+MISS FOSTER. I hope, Menteith, you are not taking leave of your senses.
+Is it possible you mean my niece?
+
+MENTEITH. Madam, I have the honour to congratulate you. I put a second
+curl in Mr. George's hair on purpose.
+
+
+  SCENE II
+
+  _To these, AUSTIN. MENTEITH falls back, and AUSTIN takes his place in
+  front of MISS FOSTER, his attitude a counterpart of MENTEITH'S_
+
+AUSTIN. Madam, I hasten to present my homage.
+
+MISS FOSTER. A truce to compliments; Menteith, your charming fellow
+there, has set me positively crazy. Dear George Austin, is it true? Can
+it be true?
+
+AUSTIN. Madam, if he has been praising your niece he has been well
+inspired. If he was speaking, as I spoke an hour ago myself, I wish,
+Miss Foster, that he had held his tongue. I have indeed offered myself
+to Miss Dorothy, and she, with the most excellent reason, has refused
+me.
+
+MISS FOSTER. Is it possible? why, my dear George Austin, ... then I
+suppose it is John Fenwick after all?
+
+AUSTIN. Not one of us is worthy.
+
+MISS FOSTER. This is the most amazing circumstance. You take my breath
+away. My niece refuse George Austin? why, I give you my word, I thought
+she had adored you. A perfect scandal: it positively must not get
+abroad.
+
+AUSTIN. Madam, for that young lady I have a singular regard. Judge me as
+tenderly as you can, and set it down, if you must, to an old man's
+vanity--for, Evelina, we are no longer in the heyday of our youth--judge
+me as you will: I should prefer to have it known.
+
+MISS FOSTER. Can you? George Austin, you? My youth was nothing; I was a
+failure; but for you? no, George, you never can, you never must be old.
+You are the triumph of my generation, George, and of our old friendship
+too. Think of my first dance and my first partner. And to have this
+story--no, I could not bear to have it told of you.
+
+AUSTIN. Madam, there are some ladies over whom it is a boast to have
+prevailed; there are others whom it is a glory to have loved. And I am
+so vain, dear Evelina, that even thus I am proud to link my name with
+that of Dorothy Musgrave.
+
+MISS FOSTER. George, you are changed. I would not know you.
+
+AUSTIN. I scarce know myself. But pardon me, dear friend (_taking out
+his watch_), in less than four minutes our illustrious guest will
+descend amongst us; and I observe Mr. Fenwick, with whom I have a
+pressing business. Suffer me, dear Evelina!----
+
+
+  SCENE III
+
+  _To these, FENWICK. MISS FOSTER remains seated, L. AUSTIN goes R. to
+  FENWICK, whom he salutes with great respect_
+
+AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, I have played and lost. That noble lady, justly
+incensed at my misconduct, has condemned me. Under the burden of such a
+loss, may I console myself with the esteem of Mr. Fenwick?
+
+FENWICK. She refused you? Pardon me, sir, but was the fault not yours?
+
+AUSTIN. Perhaps to my shame, I am no novice, Mr. Fenwick; but I have
+never felt nor striven as to-day. I went upon your errand; but, you may
+trust me, sir, before I had done I found it was my own. Until to-day I
+never rightly valued her; sure, she is fit to be a queen. I have a
+remorse here at my heart to which I am a stranger. O! that was a brave
+life, that was a great heart that I have ruined.
+
+FENWICK. Ay, sir, indeed.
+
+AUSTIN. But, sir, it is not to lament the irretrievable that I intrude
+myself upon your leisure. There is something to be done, to save, at
+least to spare, that lady. You did not fail to observe the brother?
+
+FENWICK. No, sir, he knows all; and being both intemperate and
+ignorant----
+
+AUSTIN. Surely. I know. I have to ask you then to find what friends you
+can among this company; and if you have none, to make them. Let
+everybody hear the news. Tell it (if I may offer the suggestion) with
+humour: how Mr. Austin, somewhat upon the wane, but still filled with
+sufficiency, gloriously presumed and was most ingloriously set down by a
+young lady from the north: the lady's name a secret, which you will
+permit to be divined. The laugh--the position of the hero--will make it
+circulate;--you perceive I am in earnest;--and in this way I believe our
+young friend will find himself forestalled.
+
+FENWICK. Mr. Austin, I would not have dared to ask so much of you; I
+will go further: were the positions changed, I should fear to follow
+your example.
+
+AUSTIN. Child, child, you could not afford it.
+
+
+  SCENE IV
+
+  _To these, the ROYAL DUKE, C.; then, immediately, ANTHONY, L. FENWICK
+  crosses to MISS FOSTER, R. AUSTIN accosts the DUKE, C., in dumb show;
+  the muted strings take up a new air, Mozart's "Anglaise"; couples
+  passing under the limes, and forming a group behind AUSTIN and the
+  DUKE. ANTHONY in front, L., watches AUSTIN, who, as he turns from the
+  Duke, sees him, and comes forward with extended hand_
+
+AUSTIN. Dear child, let me present you to his Royal Highness.
+
+ANTHONY (_with necklace_). Mr. Austin, do you recognise the bribe you
+gave my sister's maid?
+
+AUSTIN. Hush, sir, hush! you forget the presence of the Duke.
+
+ANTHONY. Mr. Austin, you are a coward and a scoundrel.
+
+AUSTIN. My child, you will regret these words: I refuse your quarrel.
+
+ANTHONY. You do? Take that. (_He strikes AUSTIN on the mouth. At the
+moment of the blow----_)
+
+
+  SCENE V
+
+  _To these, DOROTHY, L. U. E. DOROTHY, unseen by AUSTIN, shrieks.
+  Sensation. Music stops. Tableau_
+
+AUSTIN (_recovering his composure_). Your Royal Highness, suffer me to
+excuse the disrespect of this young gentleman. He has so much apology,
+and I have, I hope, so good a credit, as incline me to accept this blow.
+But I must beg of your Highness, and, gentlemen, all of you here
+present, to bear with me while I will explain what is too capable of
+misconstruction. I am the rejected suitor of this young gentleman's
+sister; of Miss Dorothy Musgrave: a lady whom I singularly honour and
+esteem; a word from whom (if I could hope that word) would fill my life
+with happiness. I was not worthy of that lady; when I was defeated in
+fair field, I presumed to make advances through her maid. See in how
+laughable a manner fate repaid me! The waiting-girl derided, the
+mistress denied, and now comes in this very ardent champion who publicly
+insults me. My vanity is cured; you will judge it right, I am persuaded,
+all of you, that I should accept my proper punishment in silence; you,
+my Lord Duke, to pardon this young gentleman; and you, Mr. Musgrave, to
+spare me further provocation, which I am determined to ignore.
+
+DOROTHY (_rushing forward, falling at AUSTIN'S knees, and seizing his
+hand_). George, George, it was for me. My hero! take me! What you will!
+
+AUSTIN (_in an agony_). My dear creature, remember that we are in
+public. (_Raising her._) Your Royal Highness, may I present you Mrs.
+George Frederick Austin? (_The curtain falls on a few bars of "The Lass
+of Richmond Hill."_)
+
+
+
+
+ADMIRAL GUINEA
+
+
+
+
+           DEDICATED
+  WITH AFFECTION AND ESTEEM TO
+
+          ANDREW LANG
+
+      BY THE SURVIVORS OF
+         THE _WALRUS_
+
+
+SAVANNAH, _this 27th day of
+   September, 1884_
+
+
+
+
+  PERSONS REPRESENTED
+
+  JOHN GAUNT, called "ADMIRAL GUINEA," once Captain of the Slaver
+    _Arethusa_
+
+  ARETHUSA GAUNT, his Daughter
+
+  DAVID PEW, a Blind Beggar, once Boatswain of the _Arethusa_
+
+  KIT FRENCH, a Privateersman
+
+  MRS. DRAKE, Landlady of the "Admiral Benbow" Inn
+
+The Scene is laid in the neighbourhood of Barnstaple. The Time is about
+the year 1760. The Action occupies part of a day and night
+
+NOTE.--_Passages suggested for omission in representation are enclosed
+in parentheses, thus_ ( )
+
+
+
+
+
+ADMIRAL GUINEA
+
+
+
+
+  ACT I
+
+  _The Stage represents a room in Admiral Guinea's house: fireplace,
+  arm-chair, and table with Bible, L., towards the front; door C., with
+  window on each side, the window on the R. practicable; doors R. and
+  L., back; corner cupboard, a brass-strapped sea-chest fixed to the
+  wall and floor, R.; cutlasses, telescopes, sextant, quadrant, a
+  calendar, and several maps upon the wall; a ship clock; three wooden
+  chairs; a dresser against wall, R.C.; on the chimney-piece the model
+  of a brig and several shells. The centre bare of furniture. Through
+  the windows and the door, which is open, green trees and a small field
+  of sea_
+
+
+  SCENE I
+
+  _ARETHUSA is discovered, dusting_
+
+ARETHUSA. Ten months and a week to-day! Now for a new mark. Since the
+last, the sun has set and risen over the fields and the pleasant trees
+at home, and on Kit's lone ship and the empty sea. Perhaps it blew,
+perhaps rained; (_at the chart_) perhaps he was far up here to the
+nor'ard, where the icebergs sail; perhaps at anchor among these wild
+islands of the snakes and buccaneers. O, you big chart, if I could see
+him sailing on you! North and South Atlantic; such a weary sight of
+water and no land; never an island for the poor lad to land upon. But
+still God's there. (_She takes down the telescope to dust it._) Father's
+spy-glass again; and my poor Kit perhaps with such another, sweeping the
+great deep!
+
+
+  SCENE II
+
+  _ARETHUSA; to her, KIT, C. He enters on tiptoe, and she does not see
+  or hear him._
+
+ARETHUSA (_dusting telescope_). At sea they have less dust at least:
+that's so much comfort.
+
+KIT. Sweetheart, ahoy!
+
+ARETHUSA. Kit!
+
+KIT. Arethusa!
+
+ARETHUSA. My Kit! Home again--O my love!--home again to me!
+
+KIT. As straight as wind and tide could carry me!
+
+ARETHUSA. O Kit, my dearest. O Kit--O! O!
+
+KIT. Hey? Steady, lass: steady, I say. For goodness' sake, ease it off.
+
+ARETHUSA. I will, Kit--I will. But you came so sudden.
+
+KIT. I thought ten months of it about preparation enough.
+
+ARETHUSA. Ten months and a week; you haven't counted the days as I have.
+Another day gone, and one day nearer to Kit: that has been my almanac.
+How brown you are! how handsome!
+
+KIT. A pity you can't see yourself! Well, no, I'll never be handsome:
+brown I may be, never handsome. But I'm better than that, if the
+proverb's true; for I'm ten hundred thousand fathoms deep in love. I
+bring you a faithful sailor. What! you don't think much of that for a
+curiosity? Well, that's so: you're right; the rarity is in the girl
+that's worth it ten times over. Faithful? I couldn't help it if I tried!
+No, sweetheart, and I fear nothing: I don't know what fear is, but just
+of losing you. (_Starting._) Lord, that's not the Admiral?
+
+ARETHUSA. Aha, Mr. Dreadnought! you see you fear my father.
+
+KIT. That I do. But, thank goodness, it's nobody. Kiss me: no, I won't
+kiss you: kiss _me_. I'll give you a present for that. See!
+
+ARETHUSA. A wedding-ring!
+
+KIT. My mother's. Will you take it?
+
+ARETHUSA. Yes, will I--and give myself for it.
+
+KIT. Ah, if we could only count upon your father! He's a man every inch
+of him; but he can't endure Kit French.
+
+ARETHUSA. He hasn't learned to know you, Kit, as I have, nor yet do you
+know him. He seems hard and violent; at heart he is only a man
+overwhelmed with sorrow. Why else, when he looks at me and does not know
+that I observe him, should his face change, and fill with such
+tenderness, that I could weep to see him? Why, when he walks in his
+sleep, as he does almost every night, his eyes open and beholding
+nothing, why should he cry so pitifully on my mother's name? Ah, if you
+could hear him then, you would say yourself: Here is a man that has
+loved; here is a man that will be kind to lovers.
+
+KIT. Is that so? Ay, it's a hard thing to lose your wife; ay, that must
+cut the heart indeed. But for all that, my lass, your father is keen for
+the doubloons.
+
+ARETHUSA. Right, Kit: and small blame to him. There is only one way to
+be honest, and the name of that is thrift.
+
+KIT. Well, and that's my motto. I've left the ship; no more letters of
+marque for me. Good-bye to Kit French, privateersman's mate; and
+how-d'ye-do to Christopher, the coasting skipper. I've seen the very
+boat for me: I've enough to buy her, too; and to furnish a good house,
+and keep a shot in the locker for bad luck. So far, there's nothing to
+gainsay. So far it's hopeful enough; but still there's Admiral Guinea,
+you know--and the plain truth is that I'm afraid of him.
+
+ARETHUSA. Admiral Guinea? Now, Kit, if you are to be true lover of
+mine, you shall not use that name. His name is Captain Gaunt. As for
+fearing him, Kit French, you're not the man for me, if you fear anything
+but sin. He's a stern man because he's in the right.
+
+KIT. He is a man of God; I am what he calls a child of perdition. I was
+a privateersman--serving my country, I say; but he calls it pirate. He
+is thrifty and sober; he has a treasure, they say, and it lies so near
+his heart that he tumbles up in his sleep to stand watch over it. What
+has a harum-scarum dog like me to expect from a man like him? He won't
+see I'm starving for a chance to mend. "Mend," he'll say; "I'll be shot
+if you mend at the expense of my daughter"; and the worst of it is, you
+see, he'll be right.
+
+ARETHUSA. Kit, if you dare to say that faint-hearted word again, I'll
+take my ring off. What are we for but to grow better or grow worse? Do
+you think Arethusa French will be the same as Arethusa Gaunt?
+
+KIT. I don't want her better.
+
+ARETHUSA. Ah, but she shall be!
+
+KIT. Hark, here he is! By George, it's neck or nothing now. Stand by to
+back me up.
+
+
+  SCENE III
+
+  _To these, GAUNT, C._
+
+KIT (_with ARETHUSA'S hand_). Captain Gaunt, I have come to ask you for
+your daughter.
+
+GAUNT. Hum. (_He sits in his chair, L._)
+
+KIT. I love her, and she loves me, sir. I've left the privateering. I've
+enough to set me up and buy a tidy sloop--Jack Lee's; you know the boat,
+Captain; clinker built, not four years old, eighty tons burthen, steers
+like a child. I've put my mother's ring on Arethusa's finger; and if
+you'll give us your blessing, I'll engage to turn over a new leaf, and
+make her a good husband.
+
+GAUNT. In whose strength, Christopher French?
+
+KIT. In the strength of my good, honest love for her: as you did for her
+mother, and my father for mine. And you know, Captain, a man can't
+command the wind; but (excuse me, sir) he can always lie the best course
+possible, and that's what I'll do, so God help me.
+
+GAUNT. Arethusa, you at least are the child of many prayers; your eyes
+have been unsealed; and to you the world stands naked, a morning watch
+for duration, a thing spun of cobwebs for solidity. In the presence of
+an angry God, I ask you: Have you heard this man?
+
+ARETHUSA. Father, I know Kit, and I love him.
+
+GAUNT. I say it solemnly, this is no Christian union. To you,
+Christopher French, I will speak nothing of eternal truths: I will speak
+to you the language of this world. You have been trained among sinners
+who gloried in their sin: in your whole life you never saved one
+farthing; and now, when your pockets are full, you think you can begin,
+poor dupe, in your own strength. You are a roysterer, a jovial
+companion; you mean no harm--you are nobody's enemy but your own. No
+doubt you tell this girl of mine, and no doubt you tell yourself, that
+you can change. Christopher, speaking under correction, I defy you! You
+ask me for this child of many supplications, for this brand plucked from
+the burning: I look at you: I read you through and through; and I tell
+you--no! (_Striking table with his fist._)
+
+KIT. Captain Gaunt, if you mean that I am not worthy of her, I'm the
+first to say so. But, if you'll excuse me, sir, I'm a young man, and
+young men are no better'n they ought to be; it's known; they're all like
+that; and what's their chance? To be married to a girl like this! And
+would you refuse it to me? Why, sir, you yourself, when you came
+courting, you were young and rough; and yet I'll make bold to say that
+Mrs. Gaunt was a happy woman, and the saving of yourself into the
+bargain. Well, now, Captain Gaunt, will you deny another man, and that
+man a sailor, the very salvation that you had yourself?
+
+GAUNT. Salvation, Christopher French, is from above.
+
+KIT. Well, sir, that is so; but there's means, too; and what means so
+strong as the wife a man has to strive and toil for, and that bears the
+punishment whenever he goes wrong? Now, sir, I've spoke with your old
+shipmates in the Guinea trade. Hard as nails, they said, and true as the
+compass: as rough as a slaver, but as just as a judge. Well, sir, you
+hear me plead: I ask you for my chance; don't you deny it to me.
+
+GAUNT. You speak of me? In the true balances we both weigh nothing. But
+two things I know: the depth of iniquity, how foul it is; and the agony
+with which a man repents. Not until seven devils were cast out of me did
+I awake; each rent me as it passed. Ay, that was repentance.
+Christopher, Christopher, you have sailed before the wind since first
+you weighed your anchor, and now you think to sail upon a bow-line? You
+do not know your ship, young man: you will go to le'ward like a sheet of
+paper; I tell you so that know--I tell you so that have tried, and
+failed, and wrestled in the sweat of prayer, and at last, at last, have
+tasted grace. But, meanwhile, no flesh and blood of mine shall lie at
+the mercy of such a wretch as I was then, or as you are this day. I
+could not own the deed before the face of heaven, if I sanctioned this
+unequal yoke. Arethusa, pluck off that ring from off your finger.
+Christopher French, take it, and go hence.
+
+KIT. Arethusa, what do you say?
+
+ARETHUSA. O Kit, you know my heart. But he is alone, and I am his only
+comfort; and I owe all to him; and shall I not obey my father? But, Kit,
+if you will let me, I will keep your ring. Go, Kit; go, and prove to my
+father that he was mistaken; go and win me. And O, Kit, if ever you
+should weary, come to me--no, do not come! but send a word--and I shall
+know all, and you shall have your ring. (_GAUNT opens his Bible and
+begins to read._)
+
+KIT. Don't say that, don't say such things to me; I sink or swim with
+you. (_To GAUNT._) Old man, you've struck me hard; give me a good word
+to go with. Name your time; I'll stand the test. Give me a spark of
+hope, and I'll fight through for it. Say just this--"Prove I was
+mistaken," and by George, I'll prove it.
+
+GAUNT (_looking up_). I make no such compacts. Go, and swear not at all.
+
+ARETHUSA. Go, Kit! I keep the ring.
+
+
+  SCENE IV
+
+  ARETHUSA, GAUNT
+
+ARETHUSA. Father, what have we done that you should be so cruel?
+
+GAUNT (_laying down Bible, and rising_). Do you call me cruel? You speak
+after the flesh. I have done you this day a service that you will live
+to bless me for upon your knees.
+
+ARETHUSA. He loves me, and I love him: you can never alter that; do what
+you will, father, that can never change. I love him, I believe in him, I
+will be true to him.
+
+GAUNT. Arethusa, you are the sole thing death has left me on this earth;
+and I must watch over your carnal happiness and your eternal weal. You
+do not know what this implies to me. Your mother--my Hester--tongue
+cannot tell, nor heart conceive the pangs she suffered. If it lies in
+me, your life shall not be lost on that same reef of an ungodly husband.
+(_Goes out, C._)
+
+
+  SCENE V
+
+ARETHUSA. I thought the time dragged long and weary when I knew that Kit
+was homeward bound, all the white sails a-blowing out towards England,
+and my Kit's face turned this way! (_She begins to dust._) Sure, if my
+mother were here she would understand and help us; she would understand
+a young maid's heart, though her own had never an ache; and she would
+love my Kit. (_Putting back the telescope._) To think she died: husband
+and child--and so much love--she was taken from them all. Ah, there is
+no parting but the grave! And Kit and I both live, and both love each
+other; and here am I cast down? O, Arethusa, shame! And your love home
+from the deep seas, and loving you still; and the sun shining; and the
+world all full of hope? O, Hope, you're a good word!
+
+
+  SCENE VI
+
+  _ARETHUSA; to her, PEW_
+
+PEW (_singing without_)--
+
+           "Time for us to go!
+            Time for us to go!
+  And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away,
+            For it's time for us to go."
+
+ARETHUSA. Who comes here? a seaman by his song, and father out! (_She
+tries the air._) "Time for us to go!" It sounds a wild kind of song.
+(_Tap-tap; PEW passes the window._) O, what a face--and blind!
+
+PEW (_entering_). Kind Christian friends, take pity on a poor blind
+mariner, as lost his precious sight in the defence of his native
+country, England, and God bless King George!
+
+ARETHUSA. What can I do for you, sailor?
+
+PEW. Good Christian lady, help a poor blind mariner to a mouthful of
+meat. I've served His Majesty in every quarter of the globe; I've spoke
+with 'Awke and glorious Anson, as I might with you: and I've tramped it
+all night long upon my sinful feet, and with a empty belly.
+
+ARETHUSA. You shall not ask bread and be denied by a sailor's daughter
+and a sailor's sweetheart; and when my father returns he shall give you
+something to set you on your road.
+
+PEW. Kind and lovely lady, do you tell me that you are in a manner of
+speaking alone? or do my ears deceive a poor blind seaman?
+
+ARETHUSA. I live here with my father, and my father is abroad.
+
+PEW. Dear, beautiful, Christian lady, tell a poor blind man your
+honoured name, that he may remember it in his poor blind prayers.
+
+ARETHUSA. Sailor, I am Arethusa Gaunt.
+
+PEW. Sweet lady, answer a poor blind man one other question: Are you in
+a manner of speaking related to Cap'n John Gaunt? Cap'n John as in the
+ebony trade were known as Admiral Guinea?
+
+ARETHUSA. Captain John Gaunt is my father.
+
+PEW (_dropping the blind man's whine_). Lord, think of that now! They
+told me this was where he lived, and so it is. And here's old Pew, old
+David Pew, as was the Admiral's own bo'sun, colloguing in his old
+commander's parlour, with his old commander's gal (_seizes ARETHUSA_).
+Ah, and a bouncer you are, and no mistake.
+
+ARETHUSA. Let me go! how dare you?
+
+PEW. Lord love you, don't you struggle, now, don't you. (_She escapes
+into front R. corner, where he keeps her imprisoned._) Ah, well, we'll
+get you again, my lovely woman. What a arm you've got--great god of
+love--and a face like a peach! I'm a judge, I am. (_She tries to
+escape; he stops her._) No, you don't; O, I can hear a flea jump! (But
+it's here where I miss my deadlights. Poor old Pew; him as the ladies
+always would have for their fancy man and take no denial; here you are
+with your commander's daughter close aboard, and you can't so much as
+guess the colour of her lovely eyes. [_Singing_]--
+
+  "Be they black like ebony,
+   Or be they blue like to the sky."
+
+Black like the Admiral's? or blue like his poor dear wife's? Ah, I was
+fond of that there woman, I was; the Admiral was jealous of me.)
+Arethusa, my dear,--my heart, what a 'and and arm you _have_ got; I'll
+dream o' that 'and and arm, I will!--but as I was a-saying, does the
+Admiral ever in a manner of speaking refer to his old bo'sun David Pew?
+him as he fell out with about the black woman at Lagos, and almost
+slashed the shoulder off of him one morning before breakfast?
+
+ARETHUSA. You leave this house.
+
+PEW. Hey? (_he closes and seizes her again_). Don't you fight, my lovely
+one: now don't make old blind Pew forget his manners before a female.
+What! you will? Stop that, or I'll have the arm right out of your body.
+(_He gives her arm a wrench._)
+
+ARETHUSA. O! help, help!
+
+PEW. Stash your patter, damn you. (_ARETHUSA gives in._) Ah, I thought
+it: Pew's way, Pew's way. Now look you here, my lovely woman. If you
+sling in another word that isn't in answer to my questions, I'll pull
+your j'ints out one by one. Where's the Commander?
+
+ARETHUSA. I have said: he is abroad.
+
+PEW. When's he coming aboard again?
+
+ARETHUSA. At any moment.
+
+PEW. Does he keep his strength?
+
+ARETHUSA. You'll see when he returns. (_He wrenches her arm again._) Ah!
+
+PEW. Is he still on piety?
+
+ARETHUSA. O, he is a Christian man!
+
+PEW. A Christian man, is he? Where does he keep his rum?
+
+ARETHUSA. Nay, you shall steal nothing by my help.
+
+PEW. No more I shall (_becoming amorous_). You're a lovely woman, that's
+what you are; how would you like old Pew for a sweetheart, hey? He's
+blind, is Pew, but strong as a lion; and the sex is his 'ole delight.
+Ah, them beautiful, beautiful lips! A kiss! Come!
+
+ARETHUSA. Leave go, leave go!
+
+PEW. Hey? you would?
+
+ARETHUSA. Ah! (_She thrusts him down, and escapes to door, R._)
+
+
+  SCENE VII
+
+PEW (_picking himself up_). Ah, she's a bouncer, she is! Where's my
+stick? That's the sort of female for David Pew. Didn't she fight? and
+didn't she struggle? and shouldn't I like to twist her lovely neck for
+her? Pew's way with 'em all: the prettier they was, the uglier he were to
+'em. Pew's way: a way he had with him; and a damned good way too.
+(_Listens at L. door._) That's her bedroom, I reckon; and she's
+double-locked herself in. Good again: it's a crying mercy the Admiral
+didn't come in. But you always loses your 'ed, Pew, with a female: that's
+what charms 'em.--Now for business. The front door. No bar; on'y a big
+lock (_trying keys from his pocket_). Key one; no go. Key two; no go. Key
+three; ah, that does it. Ah! (_feeling key_) him with the three wards and
+the little 'un: good again! Now if I could only find a mate in this
+rotten country 'amlick: one to be eyes to me; I can steer, but I can't
+conn myself, worse luck! If I could only find a mate. And to-night about
+three bells in the middle watch, old Pew will take a little cruise, and
+lay aboard his ancient friend the Admiral; or, barring that, the
+Admiral's old sea-chest--the chest he kept the shiners in aboard the
+brig. Where is it, I wonder? in his berth, or in the cabin here? It's big
+enough, and the brass bands is plain to feel by. (_Searching about with
+stick._) Dresser--chair (_knocking his head on the cupboard_). Ah!--O,
+corner cupboard. Admiral's chair--Admiral's table--Admiral's--hey! what's
+this?--a book--sheepskin--smells like a 'oly Bible. Chair (_his stick
+just avoids the chest_). No sea-chest. I must have a mate to see for me,
+to see for old Pew: him as had eyes like a eagle! Meanwhile, rum. Corner
+cupboard, of course (_tap-tapping_). Rum--rum--rum. Hey? (_He listens._)
+Footsteps. Is it the Admiral? (_With the whine._) Kind Christian
+friends----
+
+
+  SCENE VIII
+
+  _PEW; to him, GAUNT_
+
+GAUNT. What brings you here?
+
+PEW. Cap'n, do my ears deceive me? or is this my old commander?
+
+GAUNT. My name is John Gaunt. Who are you, my man, and what's your
+business?
+
+PEW. Here's the facks, so help me. A lovely female in this house was
+Christian enough to pity the poor blind; and lo and be'old! who should
+she turn out to be but my old commander's daughter! "My dear," says I to
+her, "I was the Admiral's own particular bo'sun."--"La, sailor," she
+says to me, "how glad he'll be to see you!"--"Ah," says I, "won't he
+just--that's all."--"I'll go and fetch him," she says; "you make
+yourself at 'ome." And off she went; and, Commander, here I am.
+
+GAUNT (_sitting down_). Well.
+
+PEW. Well, Cap'n?
+
+GAUNT. What do you want?
+
+PEW. Well, Admiral, in a general way, what I want in a manner of
+speaking is money and rum. (_A pause._)
+
+GAUNT. David Pew, I have known you a long time.
+
+PEW. And so you have; aboard the old _Arethusa_; and you don't seem that
+cheered up as I'd looked for, with a old shipmate dropping in, one as
+has been seeking you two years and more--and blind at that. Don't you
+remember the old chantie?--
+
+       "Time for us to go,
+        Time for us to go,
+  And when we'd clapped the hatches on,
+        'Twas time for us to go."
+
+What a note you had to sing, what a swaller for a pannikin of rum, and
+what a fist for the shiners. Ah, Cap'n, they didn't call you Admiral
+Guinea for nothing. I can see that old sea-chest of yours--her with the
+brass bands, where you kept your gold dust and doubloons: you know!--I
+can see her as well this minute as though you and me was still at it
+playing put on the lid of her.... You don't say nothing, Cap'n?...
+Well, here it is: I want money and I want rum. You don't know what it is
+to want rum, you don't: it gets to that p'int that you would kill a 'ole
+ship's company for just one guttle of it. What? Admiral Guinea, my old
+Commander, go back on poor old Pew? and him high and dry? (Not you! When
+we had words over the negro lass at Lagos, what did you do? fair
+dealings was your word: fair as between man and man; and we had it out
+with p'int and edge on Lagos sands. And you're not going back on your
+word to me, now I'm old and blind! No, no! belay that, I say. Give me
+the old motto: Fair dealings, as between man and man.)
+
+GAUNT. David Pew, it were better for you that you were sunk in fifty
+fathom. I know your life; and first and last, it is one broadside of
+wickedness. You were a porter in a school, and beat a boy to death; you
+ran for it, turned slaver, and shipped with me, a green hand. Ay, that
+was the craft for you; that was the right craft, and I was the right
+captain; there was none worse that sailed to Guinea. Well, what came of
+that? In five years' time you made yourself the terror and abhorrence of
+your messmates. The worst hands detested you; your captain--that was me,
+John Gaunt, the chief of sinners--cast you out for a Jonah. (Who was it
+stabbed the Portuguese and made off inland with his miserable wife? Who,
+raging drunk on rum, clapped fire to the baracoons and burned the poor
+soulless creatures in their chains?) Ay, you were a scandal to the
+Guinea coast, from Lagos down to Calabar; and when at last I sent you
+ashore, a marooned man--your shipmates, devils as they were, cheering
+and rejoicing to be quit of you--by heaven, it was a ton's weight off
+the brig!
+
+PEW. Cap'n Gaunt, Cap'n Gaunt, these are ugly words.
+
+GAUNT. What next? You shipped with Flint the Pirate. What you did then I
+know not; the deep seas have kept the secret; kept it, ay, and will keep
+against the Great Day. God smote you with blindness, but you heeded not
+the sign. That was His last mercy; look for no more. To your knees, man,
+and repent. Pray for a new heart; flush out your sins with tears; flee
+while you may from the terrors of the wrath to come.
+
+PEW. Now, I want this clear: Do I understand that you're going back on
+me, and you'll see me damned first?
+
+GAUNT. Of me you shall have neither money nor strong drink: not a guinea
+to spend in riot; not a drop to fire your heart with devilry.
+
+PEW. Cap'n, do you think it wise to quarrel with me? I put it to you
+now, Cap'n, fairly, as between man and man--do you think it wise?
+
+GAUNT. I fear nothing. My feet are on the Rock. Begone! (_He opens the
+Bible and begins to read._)
+
+Pew (_after a pause_). Well, Cap'n, you know best, no doubt; and David
+Pew's about the last man, though I says it, to up and thwart an old
+Commander. You've been 'ard on David Pew, Cap'n: 'ard on the poor blind;
+but you'll live to regret it--ah, my Christian friend, you'll live to
+eat them words up. But there's no malice here: that ain't Pew's way;
+here's a sailor's hand upon it.... You don't say nothing? (_GAUNT turns
+a page._) Ah, reading, was you? Reading, by thunder! Well, here's my
+respecks. (_Singing_)--
+
+        "Time for us to go,
+         Time for us to go,
+  When the money's out, and the liquor's done,
+         Why, it's time for us to go."
+
+(_He goes tapping up to door, turns on the threshold, and listens. GAUNT
+turns a page. PEW, with a grimace, strikes his hand upon the pocket with
+the keys, and goes._)
+
+
+
+
+  ACT II
+
+
+  _The Stage represents the parlour of the "Admiral Benbow" inn.
+  Fireplace, R., with high-backed settles on each side; in front of
+  these, and facing the audience, R., a small table laid with a cloth.
+  Tables, L., with glasses, pipes, etc. Broadside ballads on the wall.
+  Outer door of inn, with half-door in L., corner back; door, R., beyond
+  the fireplace; window with red half-curtains; spittoons; candles on
+  both the front tables; night without_
+
+
+  SCENE I
+
+  _PEW; afterwards MRS. DRAKE, out and in._
+
+PEW (_entering_). Kind Christian friends----(_listening, then dropping
+the whine_). Hey? nobody! Hey? A grog-shop not two cable-lengths from
+the Admiral's back-door, and the Admiral not there? I never knew a
+seaman brought so low: he ain't but the bones of the man he used to be.
+Bear away for the New Jerusalem, and this is what you run aground on, is
+it? Good again; but it ain't Pew's way; Pew's way is rum.--Sanded floor.
+Rum is his word, and rum his motion.--Settle--chimbly--settle
+again--spittoon--table rigged for supper. Table--glass. (_Drinks
+heeltap._) Brandy and water; and not enough of it to wet your eye; damn
+all greediness, I say. Pot (_drinks_), small beer--a drink that I ab'or
+like bilge! What I want is rum. (_Calling and rapping with stick on
+table._) Halloa, there! House, ahoy!
+
+MRS. DRAKE (_without_). Coming, sir, coming. (_She enters, R._) What can
+I do----? (_Seeing PEW._) Well, I never did! Now, beggar-man, what's for
+you?
+
+PEW. Rum, ma'am, rum; and a bit o' supper.
+
+MRS. DRAKE. And a bed to follow, I shouldn't wonder!
+
+PEW. _And_ a bed to follow: _if_ you please.
+
+MRS. DRAKE. This is the "Admiral Benbow," a respectable house, and
+receives none but decent company; and I'll ask you to go somewhere else,
+for I don't like the looks of you.
+
+PEW. Turn me away? Why, Lord love you, I'm David Pew--old David Pew--him
+as was Benbow's own particular cox'n. You wouldn't turn away old Pew
+from the sign of his late commander's 'ed? Ah, my British female, you'd
+have used me different if you'd seen me in the fight! (There laid old
+Benbow, both his legs shot off, in a basket, and the blessed spy-glass
+at his eye to that same hour: a picter, ma'am, of naval daring: when a
+round shot come, and took and knocked a bucketful of shivers right into
+my poor daylights. "Damme," says the Admiral, "is that old Pew, _my_ old
+Pew?" he says.--"It's old Pew, sir," says the first lootenant, "worse
+luck," he says.--"Then damme," says Admiral Benbow, "if that's how they
+serve a lion-'arted seaman, damme if I care to live," he says; and,
+ma'am, he laid down his spy-glass.)
+
+MRS. DRAKE. Blind man, I don't fancy you, and that's the truth; and I'll
+thank you to take yourself off.
+
+PEW. Thirty years have I fought for country and king, and now in my
+blind old age I'm to be sent packing from a measly public-'ouse? Mark
+ye, ma'am, if I go, you take the consequences. Is this a inn? Or hain't
+it? If it is a inn, then by act of parleyment, I'm free to sling my
+'ammick. Don't you forget: this is a act of parleyment job, this is. You
+look out.
+
+MRS. DRAKE. Why, what's to do with the man and his acts of parliament? I
+don't want to fly in the face of an act of parliament, not I. If what
+you say is true----
+
+PEW. True? If there's anything truer than a act of parleyment--Ah! you
+ask the beak. True? I've that in my 'art as makes me wish it wasn't.
+
+MRS. DRAKE. I don't like to risk it. I don't like your looks, and you're
+more sea-lawyer than seaman to my mind. But I'll tell you what: if you
+can pay, you can stay. So there.
+
+PEW. No chink, no drink? That's your motto, is it? Well, that's sense.
+Now, look here, ma'am, I ain't beautiful like you; but I'm good, and
+I'll give you warrant for it. Get me a noggin of rum, and suthin' to
+scoff, and a penny pipe, and a half-a-foot of baccy; and there's a
+guinea for the reckoning. There's plenty more in the locker; so bear a
+hand, and be smart. I don't like waiting; it ain't my way. (_Exit MRS.
+DRAKE, R. PEW sits at the table, R. The settle conceals him from the
+upper part of the stage._)
+
+MRS. DRAKE (_re-entering_). Here's the rum, sailor.
+
+PEW (_drinks_). Ah, rum! That's my sheet-anchor; rum and the blessed
+Gospel. Don't you forget that, ma'am: rum and the Gospel is old Pew's
+sheet-anchor. You can take for another while you're about it; and, I
+say, short reckonings make long friends, hey? Where's my change?
+
+MRS. DRAKE. I'm counting it now. There, there it is, and thank you for
+your custom. (_She goes out, R._)
+
+PEW (_calling after her_). Don't thank me, ma'am; thank the act of
+parleyment! Rum, fourpence; two penny pieces and a Willi'm-and-Mary
+tizzy makes a shilling; and a spade half-guinea is eleven and six
+(_re-enter MRS. DRAKE with supper, pipe, etc._); and a blessed majesty
+George the First crown-piece makes sixteen and six; and two shilling
+bits is eighteen and six; and a new half-crown makes--no it don't! O no!
+Old Pew's too smart a hand to be bammed with a soft tusheroon.
+
+MRS. DRAKE (_changing piece_). I'm sure I didn't know it, sailor.
+
+PEW (_trying new coin between his teeth_). In course you didn't, my
+dear; but I did, and I thought I'd mention it. Is that my supper, hey?
+Do my nose deceive me? (_Sniffing and feeling._) Cold duck? sage and
+onions? a round of double Gloster? and that noggin o' rum? Why, I
+declare if I'd stayed and took pot-luck with my old commander, Cap'n
+John Gaunt, he couldn't have beat this little spread, as I've got by act
+of parleyment.
+
+MRS. DRAKE (_at knitting_). Do you know the captain, sailor?
+
+PEW. Know him? I was that man's bo'sun, ma'am. In the Guinea trade, we
+was known as "Pew's Cap'n" and "Gaunt's Bo'sun," one for the other like.
+We was like two brothers, ma'am. And a excellent cold duck, to be sure;
+and the rum lovely.
+
+MRS. DRAKE. If you know John Gaunt, you know his daughter Arethusa.
+
+PEW. What? Arethusa? Know her, says you? know her? Why, Lord love you, I
+was her godfather. ("Pew," says Jack Gaunt to me, "Pew," he says,
+"you're a man," he says; "I like a man to be a man," says he, "and
+damme," he says, "I like _you_; and sink me," says he, "if you don't
+promise and vow in the name of that new-born babe," he says, "why,
+damme, Pew," says he, "you're not the man I take you for.") Yes, ma'am,
+I named that female; with my own 'ands I did; Arethusa I named her; that
+was the name I give her; so now you know if I speak true. And if you'll
+be as good as get me another noggin of rum, why, we'll drink her 'elth
+with three times three. (_Exit MRS. DRAKE; Pew eating; MRS. DRAKE
+re-entering with rum._)
+
+MRS. DRAKE. If what you say be true, sailor (and I don't say it isn't,
+mind!), it's strange that Arethusa and that godly man her father have
+never so much as spoke your name.
+
+PEW. Why, that's so! And why, says you? Why, when I dropped in and paid
+my respecks this morning, do you think she knew me? No more'n a babe
+unborn! Why, ma'am, when I promised and vowed for her, I was the picter
+of a man-o'war's man, I was: eye like a eagle; walked the deck in a
+hornpipe, foot up and foot down; v'ice as mellow as rum; 'and upon 'art,
+and all the females took dead aback at the first sight, Lord bless 'em!
+Know me? Not likely. And as for me, when I found her such a lovely
+woman--by the feel of her 'and and arm!--you might have knocked me down
+with a feather. But here's where it is, you see: when you've been
+knocking about on blue water for a matter of two and forty year,
+shipwrecked here, and blown up there, and everywhere out of luck, and
+given over for dead by all your messmates and relations, why, what it
+amounts to is this: nobody knows you, and you hardly knows yourself, and
+there you are; and I'll trouble you for another noggin of rum.
+
+MRS. DRAKE. I think you've had enough.
+
+PEW. I don't; so bear a hand. (_Exit MRS. DRAKE; PEW empties the
+glass._) Rum, ah, rum, you're a lovely creature; they haven't never done
+you justice. (_Proceeds to fill and light pipe; re-enter MRS. DRAKE with
+rum._) And now, ma'am, since you're so genteel and amicable-like, what
+about my old commander? Is he, in a manner of speaking, on half pay? or
+is he living on his fortune, like a gentleman slaver ought?
+
+MRS. DRAKE. Well, sailor, people talk, you know.
+
+PEW. I know, ma'am; I'd have been rolling in my coach, if they'd have
+held their tongues.
+
+MRS. DRAKE. And they do say that Captain Gaunt, for so pious a man, is
+little better than a miser.
+
+PEW. Don't say it, ma'am; not to old Pew. Ah, how often have I up and
+strove with him! "Cap'n, live it down," says I. "Ah, Pew," says he,
+"you're a better man than I am," he says; "but damme," he says, "money,"
+he says, "is like rum to me." (_Insinuating._) And what about a old
+sea-chest, hey? a old sea-chest, strapped with brass bands?
+
+MRS. DRAKE. Why, that'll be the chest in his parlour, where he has it
+bolted to the wall, as I've seen with my own eyes; and so might you, if
+you had eyes to see with.
+
+PEW. No, ma'am, that ain't good enough; you don't bam old Pew. You never
+was in that parlour in your life.
+
+MRS. DRAKE. I never was! Well, I declare!
+
+PEW. Well, then, if you was, where's the chest? Beside the chimbley,
+hey? (_Winking._) Beside the table with the 'oly Bible?
+
+MRS. DRAKE. No, sailor, you don't get any information out of me.
+
+PEW. What, ma'am? Not to old Pew? Why, my god-child showed it me
+herself, and I told her where she'd find my name--P, E, W, Pew--cut out
+on the stern of it; and sure enough she did. Why, ma'am, it was his old
+money-box when he was in the Guinea trade; and they do say he keeps the
+rhino in it still.
+
+MRS. DRAKE. No, sailor, nothing out of me! And if you want to know, you
+can ask the Admiral himself! (_She crosses, L._)
+
+PEW. Hey? Old girl fly? Then I reckon I must have a mate, if it was the
+parish bull.
+
+
+  SCENE II
+
+  _To these, KIT, a little drunk_
+
+KIT (_looking in over half-door_). Mrs. Drake! Mother! Where are you?
+Come and welcome the prodigal!
+
+MRS. DRAKE (_coming forward to meet him as he enters; PEW remains
+concealed by the settle, smoking, drinking, and listening_). Lord bless
+us and save us, if it ain't my boy! Give us a kiss.
+
+KIT. That I will, and twenty if you like, old girl. (_Kisses her._)
+
+MRS. DRAKE. O Kit, Kit, you've been at those other houses, where the
+stuff they give you, my dear, it is poison for a dog.
+
+KIT. Round with friends, mother: only round with friends.
+
+Mrs. Drake. Well, anyway, you'll take a glass just to settle it from me.
+(_She brings the bottle and fills for him._) There, that's pure; that'll
+do you no harm. But O, Kit, Kit, I thought you were done with all this
+Jack-a-shoring.
+
+KIT. What cheer, mother? I'm only a sheet in the wind; and who's the
+worse for it but me?
+
+MRS. DRAKE. Ah, and that dear young lady; and her waiting and keeping
+single these two years for the love of you!
+
+KIT. She, mother? she's heart of oak, she's true as steel, and good as
+gold; and she has my ring on her finger, too. But where's the use? The
+Admiral won't look at me.
+
+MRS. DRAKE. Why not? You're as good a man as him any day.
+
+KIT. Am I? He says I'm a devil, and swears that none of his flesh and
+blood--that's what he said, mother!--should lie at my mercy. That's what
+cuts me. If it wasn't for the good stuff I've been taking aboard, and
+the jolly companions I've been seeing it out with, I'd just go and make
+a hole in the water, and be done with it, I would, by George!
+
+MRS. DRAKE. That's like you men. Ah, we know you, we that keeps a
+public-house--we know you, good and bad: you go off on a frolic and
+forget; and you never think of the women that sit crying at home.
+
+KIT. Crying? Arethusa cry? Why, dame, she's the bravest-hearted girl in
+all broad England! Here, fill the glass! I'll win her yet. I drink to
+her; here's to her bright eyes, and here's to the blessed feet she
+walks upon!
+
+PEW (_looking round the corner of the settle_). Spoke like a gallant
+seaman, every inch. Shipmate, I'm a man as has suffered, and I'd like to
+shake your fist, and drink a can of flip with you.
+
+KIT (_coming down_). Hullo, my hearty! who the devil are you? Who's
+this, mother?
+
+MRS. DRAKE. Nay, I know nothing about him. (_She goes out, R._)
+
+PEW. Cap'n, I'm a brother seaman, and my name is Pew, old David Pew, as
+you may have heard of in your time, he having sailed along of 'Awke and
+glorious Benbow, and a right-'and man to both.
+
+KIT. Benbow? Steady, mate! D'ye mean to say you went to sea before you
+were born?
+
+PEW. See now! The sign of this here inn was running in my 'ed, I reckon.
+Benbow, says you? no, not likely! Anson, I mean; Anson and Sir Edward
+'Awke: that's the pair: I was their right-'and man.
+
+KIT. Well, mate, you may be all that, and more; but you're a rum 'un to
+look at, anyhow.
+
+PEW. Right you are, and so I am. But what is looks? It's the 'art that
+does it: the 'art is the seaman's star; and here's old David Pew's a
+matter of fifty years at sea, but tough and sound as the British
+Constitootion.
+
+KIT. You're right there, Pew. Shake hands upon it. And you're a man
+they're down upon, just like myself, I see. We're a pair of plain,
+good-hearted, jolly tars; and all these 'longshore fellows cock a lip at
+us, by George. What cheer, mate?
+
+ARETHUSA (_without_). Mrs. Drake! Mrs. Drake!
+
+PEW. What, a female? hey? a female? Board her, board her, mate! I'm
+dark. (_He retires again behind, to table, R., behind settle._)
+
+ARETHUSA (_without_). Mrs. Drake!
+
+MRS. DRAKE (_re-entering and running to door_). Here I am, my dear; come
+in.
+
+
+  SCENE III
+
+  _To these, ARETHUSA_
+
+ARETHUSA. Ah, Kit, I've found you. I thought you would lodge with Mrs.
+Drake.
+
+KIT. What? are you looking for your consort? Whistle, I'm your dog; I'll
+come to you. I've been toasting you fathom deep, my beauty; and with
+every glass I love you dearer.
+
+ARETHUSA. Now, Kit, if you want to please my father, this is not the
+way. Perhaps he thinks too much of the guineas: well, gather them--if
+you think me worth the price. Go you to your sloop, clinker built,
+eighty tons burthen--you see I remember. Skipper Kit! I don't deny I
+like a man of spirit; but if you care to please Captain Gaunt, keep out
+of taverns; and if you could carry yourself a bit more--more elderly!
+
+KIT. Can I? Would I? Ah, just couldn't and just won't I, then!
+
+MRS. DRAKE. I hope, madam, you don't refer to my house; a publican I may
+be, but tavern is a word that I don't hold with; and here there's no bad
+drink, and no loose company; and as for my blessedest Kit, I declare I
+love him like my own.
+
+ARETHUSA. Why, who could help it, Mrs. Drake?
+
+KIT. Arethusa, you're an angel. Do I want to please Captain Gaunt? Why,
+that's as much as ask whether I love you. (I don't deny that his words
+cut me; for they did. But as for wanting to please him, if he was deep
+as the blue Atlantic, I would beat it out. And elderly, too? Aha, you
+witch, you're wise! Elderly? You've set the course; you leave me alone
+to steer it. Matrimony's my port, and love is my cargo.) That's a
+likely question, ain't it, Mrs. Drake? Do I want to please him! Elderly,
+says you? Why, see here: Fill up my glass, and I'll drink to Arethusa on
+my knees.
+
+ARETHUSA. Why, you stupid boy, do you think that would please him?
+
+KIT. On my knees I'll drink it! (_As he kneels and drains the glass,
+GAUNT enters, and he scrambles to his feet._)
+
+
+  SCENE IV
+
+  _To these, GAUNT_
+
+GAUNT. Arethusa, this is no place for you.
+
+ARETHUSA. No, father.
+
+GAUNT. I wish you had been spared this sight; but look at him, child,
+since you are here; look at God's image, so debased. And you, young man
+(_to KIT_), you have proved that I was right. Are you the husband for
+this innocent maid?
+
+KIT. Captain Gaunt, I have a word to say to you. Terror is your last
+word; you're bitter hard upon poor sinners, bitter hard and black--you
+that were a sinner yourself. These are not the true colours; don't
+deceive yourself; you're out of your course.
+
+GAUNT. Heaven forbid that I should be hard, Christopher. It is not I;
+it's God's law that is of iron. Think! if the blow were to fall now,
+some cord to snap within you, some enemy to plunge a knife into your
+heart; this room, with its poor taper light, to vanish; this world to
+disappear like a drowning man into the great ocean; and you, your brain
+still whirling, to be snatched into the presence of the Eternal Judge:
+Christopher French, what answer would you make? For these gifts wasted,
+for this rich mercy scorned, for these high-handed bravings of your
+better angel--what have you to say?
+
+KIT. Well, sir, I want my word with you, and by your leave I'll have it
+out.
+
+ARETHUSA. Kit, for pity's sake!
+
+KIT. Arethusa, I don't speak to you, my dear: you've got my ring, and I
+know what that means. The man I speak to is Captain Gaunt. I came to-day
+as happy a man as ever stepped, and with as fair a lookout. What did you
+care? what was your reply? None of your flesh and blood, you said,
+should lie at the mercy of a wretch like me! Am I not flesh and blood
+that you should trample on me like that? Is that charity, to stamp the
+hope out of a poor soul?
+
+GAUNT. You speak wildly; or the devil of drink that is in you speaks
+instead.
+
+KIT. You think me drunk; well, so I am, and whose fault is it but yours?
+It was I that drank; but you take your share of it, Captain Gaunt: you
+it was that filled the can.
+
+GAUNT. Christopher French, I spoke but for your good, your good and
+hers. "Woe unto him"--these are the dreadful words--"by whom offences
+shall come: it were better----" Christopher, I can but pray for both of
+us.
+
+KIT. Prayers? Now I tell you freely, Captain Gaunt, I don't value your
+prayers. Deeds are what I ask; kind deeds and words--that's the
+true-blue piety: to hope the best and do the best, and speak the
+kindest. As for you, you insult me to my face; and then you'll pray for
+me? What's that? Insult behind my back is what I call it! No, sir;
+you're out of the courses; you're no good man to my view, be you who you
+may.
+
+MRS. DRAKE. O Christopher! To Captain Gaunt?
+
+ARETHUSA. Father, father, come away!
+
+KIT. Ah, you see? She suffers too; we all suffer. You spoke just now of
+a devil; well, I'll tell you the devil you have: the devil of judging
+others. And as for me, I'll get as drunk as Bacchus.
+
+GAUNT. Come! (_Exit, with ARETHUSA._)
+
+
+  SCENE V
+
+  PEW, MRS. DRAKE, KIT
+
+PEW. (_coming out and waving his pipe_). Commander, shake! Hooray for
+old England! If there's anything in the world that goes to old Pew's
+'art, it's argyment. Commander, you handled him like a babby, kept the
+weather gauge, and hulled him every shot. Commander, give it a name, and
+let that name be rum!
+
+KIT. Ay, rum's the sailor's fancy. Mrs. Drake, a bottle and clean
+glasses.
+
+MRS. DRAKE. Kit French, I wouldn't. Think better of it, there's a dear!
+And that sweet girl just gone!
+
+PEW. Ma'am, I'm not a 'ard man; I'm not the man to up and force a act of
+parleyment upon a helpless female. But you see here: Pew's friends is
+sacred. Here's my friend here, a perfeck seaman, and a man with a 'ed
+upon his shoulders, and a man that, damme, I admire. He give you a
+order, ma'am--march!
+
+MRS. DRAKE. Kit, don't you listen to that blind man; he's the devil
+wrote upon his face.
+
+PEW. Don't you insinuate against my friend. _He_ ain't a child, I hope?
+_he_ knows his business? Don't you get trying to go a-lowering of my
+friend in his own esteem.
+
+MRS. DRAKE. Well, I'll bring it, Kit; but it's against the grain.
+(_Exit._)
+
+KIT. I say, old boy, come to think of it, why should we? It's been
+glasses round with me all day. I've got my cargo.
+
+PEW. You? and you just argy'd the 'ed off of Admiral Guinea? O stash
+that! _I_ stand treat, if it comes to that!
+
+KIT. What! Do I meet with a blind seaman and not stand him? That's not
+the man I am!
+
+MRS. DRAKE (_re-entering with bottle and glasses_). There!
+
+PEW. Easy does it, ma'am.
+
+KIT. Mrs. Drake, you had better trot.
+
+MRS. DRAKE. Yes, I'll trot; and I'll trot with a sick heart, Kit French,
+to leave you drinking your wits away with that low blind man. For a low
+man you are--a low blind man--and your clothes they would disgrace a
+scarecrow. I'll go to my bed, Kit; and O, dear boy, go soon to
+yours--the old room, you know; it's ready for you--and go soon and sleep
+it off; for you know, dear, they, one and all, regret it in the morning;
+thirty years I've kept this house, and one and all they did regret it,
+dear.
+
+PEW. Come now, you walk!
+
+MRS. DRAKE. O, it's not for your bidding. You a seaman? The ship for you
+to sail in is the hangman's cart.--Good-night, Kit, dear, and better
+company. (_Exit._)
+
+
+  SCENE VI
+
+  PEW, KIT
+
+  _They sit at the other table, L._
+
+PEW. Commander, here's _her_ 'ealth!
+
+KIT. Ay, that's the line: _her_ health! But that old woman there is a
+good old woman, Pew.
+
+PEW. So she is, Commander. But there's no woman understands a seaman;
+now you and me, being both bred to it, we splice by natur'. As for A.
+G., if argyment can win her, why, she's yours. If I'd a-had your 'ed for
+argyment, damme, I'd a-been a Admiral, I would! And if argyment won't
+win her, well, see here, you put your trust in David Pew.
+
+KIT. David Pew, I don't know who are you, David Pew; I never heard of
+you; I don't seem able to clearly see you. Mrs. Drake, she's a smart old
+woman, Pew, and she says you've the devil in your face.
+
+PEW. Ah, and why, says you? Because I up and put her in her place, when
+she forgot herself to you, Commander.
+
+KIT. Well, Pew, that's so; you stood by me like a man. Shake hands, Pew;
+and we'll make a night of it, or we'll know why, old boy!
+
+PEW. That's my way. That's Pew's way, that is. That's Pew's way all
+over. Commander, excuse the liberty; but when I was your age, making
+allowance for a lowlier station and less 'ed for argyment, I was as like
+you as two peas. I know it by the v'ice. (_Sings_)--
+
+ "We hadn't been three days at sea before we saw a sail,
+  So we clapped on every stitch would stand, although it blew a gale,
+  And we walked along full fourteen knots, for the barkie she did know,
+  As well as ever a soul on board, 'twas time for us to go."
+
+Chorus, Cap'n!
+
+PEW _and_ KIT (_in chorus_)--
+
+   "Time for us to go,
+    Time for us to go,
+  As well as ever a soul on board
+    'Twas time for us to go."
+
+PEW (_sings_)--
+
+ "We carried away the royal yard, and the stunsail boom was gone;
+  Says the skipper, 'They may go or stand, I'm damned if I don't crack
+     on;'
+  So the weather braces we'll round in, and the trysail set also,
+  And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away, for it's time for us to go."
+
+Give it mouth, Commander!
+
+PEW _and_ KIT (_in chorus_)--
+
+   "Time for us to go,
+    Time for us to go,
+  And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away,
+    For it's time for us to go."
+
+PEW. I ain't sung like that since I sang to Admiral 'Awke, the night
+before I lost my eyes, I ain't. "Sink me!" says he, says Admiral 'Awke,
+my old commander (_touching his hat_), "sink me!" he says, "if that
+ain't 'art-of-oak," he says: "'art-of-oak," says he, "and a pipe like a
+bloody blackbird!" Commander, here's my respecks, and the devil fly away
+with Admiral Guinea!
+
+KIT. I say, Pew, how's this? How do you know about Admiral Guinea? I
+say, Pew, I begin to think you know too much.
+
+PEW. I ax your pardon; but as a man with a 'ed for argyment--and that's
+your best p'int o' sailing, Commander; intelleck is your best p'int--as
+a man with a 'ed for argyment, how do I make it out?
+
+KIT. Aha, you're a sly dog, you're a deep dog, Pew; but you can't get
+the weather of Kit French. How do I make it out? I'll tell you. I make
+it out like this: Your name's Pew, ain't it? Very well. And you know
+Admiral Guinea, and that's his name, eh? Very well. Then you're Pew; and
+the Admiral's the Admiral; and you know the Admiral; and by George,
+that's all. Hey? Drink about, boys, drink about!
+
+PEW. Lord love you, if I'd a-had a 'ed like yours! Why, the Admiral was
+my first cap'n. I was that man's bo'sun, I was, aboard the _Arethusa_;
+and we was like two brothers. Did you never hear of Guinea-land and the
+black ivory business? (_Sings_)--
+
+ "A quick run to the south we had, and when we made the Bight,
+  We kept the offing all day long and crossed the Bar at night.
+  Six hundred niggers in the hold and seventy we did stow,
+  And when we clapped the hatches on, 'twas time for us to go."
+
+Lay forward, lads!
+
+KIT _and_ PEW (_in chorus_)--
+
+  "Time for us to go," etc.
+
+KIT. I say, Pew, I like you; you're a damned ugly dog; but I like you.
+But look ye here, Pew: fair does it, you know, or we part company this
+minute. If you and the Ad----the Admirable were like brothers on the
+Guinea coast, why aren't you like brothers here?
+
+PEW. Ah, _I_ see you coming. What a 'ed! what a 'ed! Since Pew is a
+friend of the family, says you, why didn't he sail in and bear a hand,
+says you, when you was knocking the Admiral's ship about his ears in
+argyment?
+
+KIT. Well, Pew, now you put a name to it, why not?
+
+PEW. Ah, why not? There I recko'nise you. Well, see here: argyment's my
+weakness, in a manner of speaking; I wouldn't a-borne down and spiled
+sport not for gold untold, no, not for rum, I wouldn't! And besides,
+Commander, I put it to you as between man and man, would it have been
+seaman-like to let on and show myself to a old shipmate, when he was
+yard-arm to yard-arm with a craft not half his metal, and getting blown
+out of water every broadside? Would it have been 'ansome? I put it to
+you, as between man and man.
+
+KIT. Pew, I may have gifts; but I never thought of that. Why, no: not
+seaman-like. Pew, you've a heart, that's what I like you for.
+
+PEW. Ah, that I have: you'll see. I wanted--now you follow me--I wanted
+to keep square with Admiral Guinea. Why? says you. Well, put it that I
+know a fine young fellow when I sees him; and put it that I wish him
+well; and put it, for the sake of argyment, that the father of that
+lovely female's in my power. Aha? Pew's power! Why, in my 'ands he's
+like this pocket 'andke'cher. Now, brave boy, do you see?
+
+KIT. No, Pew, my head's gone; I don't see.
+
+PEW. Why, cheer up, Commander! You want to marry this lovely female?
+
+KIT. Ay, that I do; but I'm not fit for her, Pew; I'm a drunken dog, and
+I'm not fit for her.
+
+PEW. Now, Cap'n, you'll allow a old seaman to be judge: one as sailed
+with 'Awke and blessed Benb----with 'Awke and noble Anson. You've been
+open and above-board with me, and I'll do the same by you: it being the
+case that you're hard hit about a lovely woman, which many a time and
+oft it has happened to old Pew; and him with a feeling 'art that bleeds
+for you, Commander; why, look here: I'm that girl's godfather; promised
+and vowed for her, I did; and I like you; and you're the man for her;
+and, by the living Jacob, you shall splice!
+
+KIT. David Pew, do you mean what you say?
+
+PEW. Do I mean what I say? Does David Pew? Ask Admiral 'Awke! Ask old
+Admiral Byng in his coffin, where I laid him with these 'ands! Pew does,
+is what those naval commanders would reply. Mean it? I reckon so.
+
+KIT. Then, shake hands. You're an honest man, Pew--old Pew!--and I'll
+make your fortune. But there's something else, if I could keep the run
+of it. Oh, ah! But _can_ you? That's the point. Can you? don't you see?
+
+PEW. Can I? You leave that to me; I'll bring you to your moorings; I'm
+the man that can, and I'm him that will. But only, look here, let's
+understand each other. You're a bold blade, ain't you? You won't stick
+at a trifle for a lovely female? You'll back me up? You're a man, ain't
+you? a man, and you'll see me through and through it, hey? Come; is that
+so? Are you fair and square and stick at nothing?
+
+KIT. Me, Pew? I'll go through fire and water.
+
+PEW. I'll risk it. Well, then, see here, my son: another swallow and we
+jog.
+
+KIT. No, not to-night, Pew, not to-night!
+
+PEW. Commander, in a manner of speaking, wherefore?
+
+KIT. Wherefore, Pew? 'Cause why, Pew? 'Cause I'm drunk, and be damned to
+you!
+
+PEW. Commander, I ax your pardon; but, saving your presence, that's a
+lie. What? drunk? a man with a 'ed for argyment like that? Just you get
+up, and steady yourself on your two pins, and you'll be as right as
+ninepence.
+
+KIT. Pew, before we budge, let me shake your flipper again. You're heart
+of oak, Pew, sure enough; and if you can bring the Adam--Admirable
+about, why, damme, I'll make your fortune! How you're going to do it, I
+don't know; but I'll stand by; and I know you'll do it if anybody can.
+But I'm drunk, Pew, you can't deny that; I'm as drunk as a Plymouth
+fiddler, Pew; and how you're going to do it is a mystery to me.
+
+PEW. Ah, you leave that to me. All I want is what I've got: your promise
+to stand by and bear a hand (_producing a dark lantern_). Now, here, you
+see, is my little glim; it ain't for me, because I'm blind, worse luck!
+and the day and night is the blessed same to David Pew. But you watch.
+You put the candle near me. Here's what there ain't many blind men could
+do, take the pick o' them! (_lighting a screw of paper, and with that,
+the lantern_). Hey? That's it. Hey? Go and pity the poor blind!
+
+KIT (_while PEW blows out the candles_). But I say, Pew, what do you
+want with it?
+
+PEW. To see by, my son. (_He shuts the lantern and puts it in his
+pocket. Stage quite dark. Moonlight at window._) All ship-shape? No
+sparks about? No? Come, then, lean on me and heave ahead for the lovely
+female. (_Singing sotto voce_)--
+
+        "Time for us to go,
+         Time for us to go,
+  And when we'd clapped the hatches on,
+        'Twas time for us to go."
+
+
+
+
+  ACT III
+
+
+  _The Stage represents the Admiral's house, as in Act I. GAUNT, seated,
+  is reading aloud; ARETHUSA sits at his feet. Candles_
+
+
+  SCENE I
+
+  ARETHUSA, GAUNT
+
+GAUNT (_reading_). "And Ruth said, Intreat me not to leave thee, or to
+return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and
+where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy
+God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried:
+the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and
+me." (_He closes the book._) Amen.
+
+ARETHUSA. Amen. Father, there spoke my heart.
+
+GAUNT. Arethusa, the Lord in His mercy has seen right to vex us with
+trials of many kinds. It is a little matter to endure the pangs of the
+flesh, the smart of wounds, the passion of hunger and thirst, the
+heaviness of disease; and in this world I have learned to take thought
+for nothing save the quiet of your soul. It is through our affections
+that we are smitten with the true pain, even the pain that kills.
+
+ARETHUSA. And yet this pain is our natural lot. Father, I fear to boast,
+but I know that I can bear it. Let my life, then, flow like common
+lives, each pain rewarded with some pleasure, each pleasure linked with
+some pain: nothing pure whether for good or evil: and my husband, like
+myself and all the rest of us, only a poor, kind-hearted sinner,
+striving for the better part. What more could any woman ask?
+
+GAUNT. Child, child, your words are like a sword. What would she ask?
+Look upon me whom, in the earthly sense, you are commanded to respect.
+Look upon me: do I bear a mark? is there any outward sign to bid a woman
+avoid and flee from me?
+
+ARETHUSA. I see nothing but the face I love.
+
+GAUNT. There is none: nor yet on the young man Christopher, whose words
+still haunt and upbraid me. Yes, I am hard; I was born hard, born a
+tyrant, born to be what I was, a slaver captain. But to-night, and to
+save you, I will pluck my heart out of my bosom. You shall know what
+makes me what I am; you shall hear, out of my own life, why I dread and
+deprecate this marriage. Child, do you remember your mother?
+
+ARETHUSA. Remember her? Ah, if she had been here to-day!
+
+GAUNT. It is thirteen years since she departed, and took with her the
+whole sunshine of my life. Do you remember the manner of her departure?
+You were a child, and cannot; but I can and do. Remember? shall I ever
+forget? Here or hereafter, ever forget! Ten years she was my wife, and
+ten years she lay a-dying. Arethusa, she was a saint on earth; and it
+was I that killed her.
+
+ARETHUSA. Killed her? my mother? You?
+
+GAUNT. Not with my hand; for I loved her. I would not have hurt one hair
+upon her head. But she got her death by me, as sure as by a blow.
+
+ARETHUSA. I understand--I can see; you brood on trifles,
+misunderstandings, unkindnesses you think them; though my mother never
+knew of them, or never gave them a second thought. It is natural when
+death has come between.
+
+GAUNT. I married her from Falmouth. She was comely as the roe; I see her
+still--her dove's eyes and her Smile! I was older than she; and I had a
+name for hardness, a hard and wicked man; but she loved me--my
+Hester!--and she took me as I was. O how I repaid her trust! Well, our
+child was born to us; and we named her after the brig I had built and
+sailed, the old craft whose likeness--older than you, girl--stands there
+above our heads. And so far, that was happiness. But she yearned for my
+salvation; and it was there I thwarted her. My sins were a burden upon
+her spirit, a shame to her in this world, her terror in the world to
+come. She talked much and often of my leaving the devil's trade I sailed
+in. She had a tender and a Christian heart, and she would weep and pray
+for the poor heathen creatures that I bought and sold and shipped in
+misery, till my conscience grew hot within me. I've put on my hat, and
+gone out and made oath that my next cargo should be my last; but it
+never was, that oath was never kept. So I sailed again and again for the
+Guinea coast, until the trip came that was to be my last indeed. Well,
+it fell out that we had good luck trading, and I stowed the brig with
+these poor heathen as full as she would hold. We had a fair run westward
+till we were past the line; but one night the wind rose, and there came
+a hurricane, and for seven days we were tossed on the deep seas, in the
+hardest straits, and every hand on deck. For several days they were
+battened down: all that time we heard their cries and lamentations, but
+worse at the beginning; and when at last, and near dead myself, I crept
+below--O, some they were starved, some smothered, some dead of broken
+limbs; and the hold was like a lazar-house in the time of the anger of
+the Lord!
+
+ARETHUSA. O!
+
+GAUNT. It was two hundred and five that we threw overboard: two hundred
+and five lost souls that I had hurried to their doom. I had many die
+with me before; but not like that--not such a massacre as that; and I
+stood dumb before the sight. For I saw I was their murderer--body and
+soul their murderer and, Arethusa, my Hester knew it. That was her
+death-stroke: it felled her. She had long been dying slowly; but from
+the hour she heard that story, the garment of the flesh began to waste
+and perish, the fountains of her life dried up; she faded before my
+face; and in two months from my landing--O Hester, Hester, would God I
+had died for thee!
+
+ARETHUSA. Mother! O poor soul! O poor father! O father, it was hard on
+you.
+
+GAUNT. The night she died, she lay there, in her bed. She took my hand.
+"I am going," she said, "to heaven. For Christ's sake," she said, "come
+after me, and bring my little maid. I'll be waiting and wearying till
+you come"; and she kissed my hand, the hand that killed her. At that I
+broke out, calling on her to stop, for it was more than I could bear.
+But no, she said she must still tell me of my sins, and how the thought
+of them had bowed down her life. "And O!" she said, "if I couldn't
+prevail on you alive, let my death."... Well, then, she died. What have
+I done since then? I've laid my course for Hester. Sin, temptation,
+pleasure, all this poor shadow of a world, I saw them not; I saw my
+Hester waiting, waiting and wearying. I have made my election sure; my
+sins I have cast them out. Hester, Hester, I will come to you, poor
+waiting one; and I'll bring your little maid: ay, dearest soul, I'll
+bring your little maid safe with me!
+
+ARETHUSA. O teach me how! Show me the way! only show me.--O mother,
+mother!--If it were paved with fire, show me the way, and I will walk it
+barefoot!
+
+GAUNT. They call me a miser. They say that in this sea-chest of mine I
+hoard my gold. (_He passes R. to chest, takes out key and unlocks it._)
+They think my treasure and my very soul are locked up here. They speak
+after the flesh, but they are right. See!
+
+ARETHUSA. Her watch? the wedding ring? O father, forgive me!
+
+GAUNT. Ay, her watch that counted the hours when I was away; they were
+few and sorrowful, my Hester's hours; and this poor contrivance numbered
+them. The ring--with that I married her. This chain, it's of Guinea
+gold; I brought it home for her, the year before we married, and she
+wore it to her wedding. It was a vanity: they are all vanities; but they
+are the treasure of my soul. Below here, see, her wedding dress. Ay, the
+watch has stopped: dead, dead. And I know that my Hester died of me; and
+day and night, asleep and awake, my soul abides in her remembrance.
+
+ARETHUSA. And you come in your sleep to look at them. O, poor father! I
+understand--I understand you now.
+
+GAUNT. In my sleep? Ay? do I so? My Hester!
+
+ARETHUSA. And why, why did you not tell me? I thought--I was like the
+rest!--I feared you were a miser. O, you should have told me; I should
+have been so proud--so proud and happy. I knew you loved her; but not
+this, not this.
+
+GAUNT. Why should I have spoken? It was all between my Hester and me.
+
+ARETHUSA. Father, may I speak? May I tell you what my heart tells me?
+You do not understand about my mother. You loved her--O, as few men can
+love. And she loved you: think how she loved you! In this world, you
+know--you have told me--there is nothing perfect. All we men and women
+have our sins; and they are a pain to those that love us, and the deeper
+the love, the crueller the pain. That is life; and it is life we ask,
+not heaven; and what matter for the pain, if only the love holds on? Her
+love held: then she was happy. Her love was immortal; and when she
+died, her one grief was to be parted from you, her one hope to welcome
+you again.
+
+GAUNT. And you, Arethusa: I was to bring her little maid.
+
+ARETHUSA. God bless her, yes, and me! But, father, can you not see that
+she was blessed among women?
+
+GAUNT. Child, child, you speak in ignorance; you touch upon griefs you
+cannot fathom.
+
+ARETHUSA. No, dearest, no. She loved you, loved you and died of it. Why
+else do women live? What would I ask but just to love my Kit, and die
+for him, and look down from heaven, and see him keep my memory holy and
+live the nobler for my sake?
+
+GAUNT. Ay, do you so love him?
+
+ARETHUSA. Even as my mother loved my father.
+
+GAUNT. Ay? Then we will see. What right have I----You are your mother's
+child: better, tenderer, wiser than I. Let us seek guidance in prayer.
+Good-night, my little maid.
+
+ARETHUSA. O father, I know you at last.
+
+
+  SCENE II
+
+  _GAUNT and ARETHUSA go out L., carrying the candles. Stage dark. A
+  distant clock chimes the quarters, and strikes one. Then the
+  tap-tapping of Pew's stick is heard without; the key is put into the
+  lock; and enter PEW, C.; he pockets key, and is followed by KIT, with
+  dark lantern_
+
+PEW. Quiet, you lubber! Can't you foot it soft, you that has daylights
+and a glim?
+
+KIT. All right, old boy. How the devil did we get through the door?
+Shall I knock him up?
+
+PEW. Stow your gab (_seizing his wrist_). Under your breath!
+
+KIT. Avast that! You're a savage dog, aren't you?
+
+PEW. Turn on that glim.
+
+KIT. It's as right as a trivet, Pew. What next? By George, Pew, I'll
+make your fortune.
+
+PEW. Here, now, look round this room, and sharp. D'ye see a old
+sea-chest?
+
+KIT. See it, Pew? why, d'ye think I'm blind?
+
+PEW. Take me across, and let me feel of her. Mum; catch my hand. Ah,
+that's her (_feeling the chest_), that's the Golden Mary. Now, see here,
+my bo, if you've the pluck of a weevil in a biscuit, this girl is yours;
+if you hain't, and think to sheer off, I'm blind, but I'm deadly.
+
+KIT. You'll keep a civil tongue in your head all the same. I'll take
+threats from nobody, blind or not. Let's knock up the Admiral and be
+done with it. What I want is to get rid of this dark lantern. It makes
+me feel like a housebreaker, by George.
+
+PEW (_seated on chest_). You follow this. I'm sick of drinking bilge,
+when I might be rolling in my coach, and I'm dog-sick of Jack Gaunt.
+Who's he to be wallowing in gold, when a better man is groping crusts in
+the gutter and spunging for rum? Now, here, in this blasted chest, is
+the gold to make men of us for life: gold, ay, gobs of it; and writin's
+too--things that if I had the proof of 'em I'd hold Jack Gaunt to the
+grindstone till his face was flat. I'd have done it single-handed; but
+I'm blind, worse luck: I'm all in the damned dark here, poking with a
+stick--Lord, burn up with lime the eyes that saw it! That's why I raked
+up you. Come, out with your iron, and prise the lid off. You shall touch
+your snack, and have the wench for nothing; ay, and fling her in the
+street, when done.
+
+KIT. So you brought me here to steal, did you?
+
+PEW. Ay did I; and you shall. I'm a biter: I bring blood.
+
+KIT. Now, Pew, you came here on my promise, or I'd kill you like a rat.
+As it is, out of that door! One, two, three (_drawing his cutlass_), and
+off!
+
+PEW (_leaping at his throat and with a great voice_). Help! murder!
+thieves!
+
+
+  SCENE III
+
+  _To these, ARETHUSA, GAUNT, with lights. Stage light, PEW has KIT
+  down, and is throttling him_
+
+PEW. I've got him, Cap'n. What, kill my old commander, and rob him of
+his blessed child? Not with old Pew!
+
+GAUNT. Get up, David; can't you see you're killing him? Unhand, I say.
+
+ARETHUSA. In heaven's name, who is it?
+
+PEW. It's a damned villain, my pretty; and his name, to the best of my
+belief, is French.
+
+ARETHUSA. Kit? Kit French? Never.
+
+KIT (_rising_). He's done for me. (_Falls on chest._)
+
+PEW. Don't you take on about him, ducky; he ain't worth it. Cap'n Gaunt,
+I took him and I give him up. You was 'ard on me this morning, Cap'n:
+this is my way--Pew's way, this is--of paying of you out.
+
+ARETHUSA. Father, this is the blind man that came while you were abroad.
+Sure you'll not listen to _him_. And you, Kit, you, what is this?
+
+KIT. Captain Gaunt, that blind devil has half-throttled me. He brought
+me here--I can't speak--he has almost killed me--and I'd been drinking
+too.
+
+GAUNT. And you, David Pew, what do you say?
+
+PEW. Cap'n, the rights of it is this. Me and that young man there was
+partaking in a friendly drop of rum at the "Admiral Benbow" inn; and I'd
+just proposed his blessed Majesty, when the young man he ups and says to
+me: "Pew," he says, "I like you, Pew: you're a true seaman," he says;
+"and I'm one as sticks at nothing; and damme, Pew," he says, "I'll make
+your fortune." (Can he deny as them was his words? Look at him, you as
+has eyes: no, he cannot. "Come along of me," he says, "and, damme, I'll
+make your fortune.") Well, Cap'n, he lights a dark lantern (which you'll
+find it somewhere on the floor, I reckon), and out we goes, me follerin'
+his lead, as I thought was 'art-of-oak and a true-blue mariner; and the
+next I knows is, here we was in here, and him a-askin' me to 'old the
+glim, while he prised the lid off of your old sea-chest with his
+cutlass.
+
+GAUNT. The chest? (_He leaps, R., and examines chest._) Ah!
+
+PEW. Leastways, I was to 'elp him, by his account of it, while he nailed
+the rhino, and then took and carried off that lovely maid of yours; for
+a lovely maid she is, and one as touched old Pew's 'art. Cap'n, when I
+'eard that, my blood biled. "Young man," I says, "you don't know David
+Pew," I says; and with that I ups and does my dooty by him, cutlass and
+all, like a lion-'arted seaman, though blind. (And then in comes you,
+and I gives him up: as you know for a fack is true, and I'll subscribe
+at the Assizes. And that, if you was to cut me into junks, is the truth,
+the 'ole truth, and nothing but the truth, world without end, so help
+me, amen; and if you'll 'and me over the 'oly Bible, me not having such
+a thing about me at the moment, why, I'll put a oath upon it like a
+man.)
+
+ARETHUSA. Father, have you heard?
+
+GAUNT. I know this man, Arethusa, and the truth is not in him.
+
+ARETHUSA. Well, and why do we wait? We know Kit, do we not?
+
+KIT. Ay, Captain, you know the pair of us, and you can see his face and
+mine.
+
+GAUNT. Christopher, the facts are all against you. I find you here in my
+house at midnight: you who at least had eyes to see, and must have known
+whither you were going. It was this man, not you, who called me up: and
+when I came in, it was he who was uppermost and who gave you up to
+justice. This unsheathed cutlass is yours; there hangs the scabbard,
+empty; and as for the dark lantern, of what use is light to the blind?
+and who could have trimmed and lighted it but you?
+
+PEW. Ah, Cap'n, what a 'ed for argyment!
+
+KIT. And now, sir, now that you have spoken, I claim the liberty to
+speak on my side.
+
+GAUNT. Not so. I will first have done with this man. David Pew, it were
+too simple to believe your story as you tell it; but I can find no
+testimony against you. From whatever reason, assuredly you have done me
+service. Here are five guineas to set you on your way. Begone at once;
+and while it is yet time, think upon your repentance.
+
+PEW. Cap'n, here's my respecks. You've turned a pious man, Cap'n; it
+does my 'art good to 'ear you. But you ain't the only one. O no! I came
+about and paid off on the other tack before you, I reckon: you ask the
+Chaplain of the Fleet else, as called me on the quarter-deck before old
+Admiral 'Awke himself (_touching his hat_), my old commander. ("David
+Pew," he says, "five-and-thirty year have I been in this trade, man and
+boy," that chaplain says, "and damme, Pew," says he, "if ever I seen the
+seaman that could rattle off his catechism within fifty mile of you.
+Here's five guineas out of my own pocket," he says; "and what's more to
+the p'int," he says, "I'll speak to my reverend brother-in-law, the
+Bishop of Dover," he says; "and if ever you leave the sea, and wants a
+place as beadle, why, damme," says he, "you go to him, for you're the
+man for him and him for you.")
+
+GAUNT. David Pew, you never set your foot on a King's ship in all your
+life. There lies the road.
+
+PEW. Ah, you was always a 'ard man, Cap'n, and a 'ard man to believe,
+like Didymus the 'Ebrew prophet. But it's time for me to go, and I'll be
+going. My service to you, Cap'n: and I kiss my 'and to that lovely
+female. (_Singing_)--
+
+       "Time for us to go,
+        Time for us to go,
+  And when we'd clapped the hatches on,
+        'Twas time for us to go."
+
+
+  SCENE IV
+
+  KIT, ARETHUSA, GAUNT
+
+ARETHUSA. Now, Kit?
+
+KIT. Well, sir, and now?
+
+GAUNT. I find you here in my house at this untimely and unseemly hour; I
+find you there in company with one who, to my assured knowledge, should
+long since have swung in the wind at Execution Dock. What brought you?
+Why did you open my door while I slept to such a companion? Christopher
+French, I have two treasures. One (_laying his hand on ARETHUSA'S
+shoulder_) I know you covet: Christopher, is this your love?
+
+KIT. Sir, I have been fooled and trapped. That man declared he knew you,
+declared he could make you change your mind about our marriage. I was
+drunk, sir, and I believed him: heaven knows I am sober now, and can see
+my folly; but I believed him then, and followed him. He brought me here,
+he told me your chest was full of gold that would make men of us for
+life. At that I saw my fault, sir, and drew my cutlass; and he, in the
+wink of an eye, roared out for help, leaped at my throat like a weasel,
+and had me rolling on the floor. He was quick, and I, as I tell you,
+sir, was off my balance.
+
+GAUNT. Is this man, Pew, your enemy?
+
+KIT. No, sir; I never saw him till to-night.
+
+GAUNT. Then, if you must stand the justice of your country, come to the
+proof with a better plea. What? lantern and cutlass yours; you the one
+that knew the house; you the one that saw; you the one overtaken and
+denounced; and you spin me a galley yarn like that? If that is all your
+defence, you'll hang, sir, hang.
+
+ARETHUSA. Ah!... Father, I give him up: I will never see him, never
+speak to him, never think of him again; I take him from my heart; I give
+myself wholly up to you and to my mother; I will obey you in every
+point--O, not at a word merely--at a finger raised! I will do all this;
+I will do anything--anything you bid me; I swear it in the face of
+heaven. Only--Kit! I love him, father, I love him. Let him go.
+
+GAUNT. Go?
+
+ARETHUSA. You let the other. Open the door again for my sake, father--in
+my mother's name--O, open the door and let him go.
+
+KIT. Let me go? My girl, if you had cast me out this morning, good and
+well: I would have left you, though it broke my heart. But it's a
+changed story now; now I'm down on my luck, and you come and stab me
+from behind. I ask no favour, and I'll take none; I stand here on my
+innocence, and God helping me I'll clear my good name, and get your love
+again, if it's love worth having. Now, Captain Gaunt, I've said my say,
+and you may do your pleasure. I am my father's son, and I never feared
+to face the truth.
+
+GAUNT. You have spoken like a man, French, and you may go. I leave you
+free.
+
+KIT. Nay, sir, not so: not with my will. I'm accused and counted guilty;
+the proofs are against me; the girl I love has turned upon me. I'll
+accept no mercy at your hands. Captain Gaunt, I am your prisoner.
+
+ARETHUSA. Kit, dear Kit----
+
+GAUNT. Silence! Young man, I have offered you liberty without bond or
+condition. You refuse. You shall be judged. Meanwhile (_opening the
+door, R._), you will go in here. I keep your cutlass. The night brings
+counsel: to-morrow shall decide. (_He locks KIT in, leaving the key in
+the door._)
+
+
+  SCENE V
+
+  _GAUNT, ARETHUSA, afterwards PEW_
+
+ARETHUSA. Father, you believe in him; you do; I know you do.
+
+GAUNT. Child, I am not given to be hasty. I will pray and sleep upon
+this matter. (_A knocking at the door, C._) Who knocks so late? (_He
+opens._)
+
+PEW (_entering_). Cap'n, shall I fetch the constable?
+
+GAUNT. No.
+
+PEW. No? Have ye killed him?
+
+GAUNT. My man, I'll see you into the road. (_He takes PEW by the arm,
+and goes out with him._)
+
+
+  SCENE VI
+
+  ARETHUSA
+
+ARETHUSA. (_Listens; then running to door, R._) Kit--dearest Kit! wait!
+I will come to you soon. (_GAUNT re-enters, C., as the drop falls._)
+
+
+
+
+  ACT IV
+
+
+  _The Stage represents the Admiral's house, as in Acts I. and III. A
+  chair, L., in front. As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark. Enter
+  ARETHUSA, L., with candle; she lights another; and passes to door, R.,
+  which she unbolts. Stage light_
+
+
+  SCENE I
+
+  ARETHUSA, KIT
+
+ARETHUSA. Come, dear Kit, come!
+
+KIT. Well, I'm here.
+
+ARETHUSA. O Kit, you are not angry with me.
+
+KIT. Have I reason to be pleased?
+
+ARETHUSA. Kit, I was wrong. Forgive me.
+
+KIT. O yes. I forgive you. I suppose you meant it kindly; but there are
+some kindnesses a man would rather die than take a gift of. When a man
+is accused, Arethusa, it is not that he fears the gallows--it's the
+shame that cuts him. At such a time as that, the way to help was to
+stand to your belief. You should have nailed my colours to the mast, not
+spoke of striking them. If I were to be hanged to-morrow, and your love
+there, and a free pardon and a dukedom on the other side--which would I
+choose?
+
+ARETHUSA. Kit, you must judge me fairly. It was not my life that was at
+stake, it was yours. Had it been mine--mine, Kit--what had you done,
+then?
+
+KIT. I am a downright fool; I saw it inside out. Why, give you up, by
+George!
+
+ARETHUSA. Ah, you see! Now you understand. It was all pure love. When he
+said that word--O! death and that disgrace!... But I know my father. He
+fears nothing so much as the goodness of his heart; and yet it conquers.
+He would pray, he said; and to-night, and by the kindness of his voice,
+I knew he was convinced already. All that is wanted is that you should
+forgive me.
+
+KIT. Arethusa, if you looked at me like that I'd forgive you piracy on
+the high seas. I was only sulky; I was boxed up there in the black dark,
+and couldn't see my hand. It made me pity that blind man, by George.
+
+ARETHUSA. O, that blind man! The fiend! He came back, Kit: did you hear
+him? he thought we had killed you--you!
+
+KIT. Well, well, it serves me right for keeping company with such a
+swab.
+
+ARETHUSA. One thing puzzles me: how did you get in? I saw my father lock
+the door.
+
+KIT. Ah, how? That's just it. I was a sheet in the wind, you see. How
+did we? He did it somehow.... By George, he had a key! He can get in
+again.
+
+ARETHUSA. Again? that man!
+
+KIT. Ay can he! Again! When he likes!
+
+ARETHUSA. Kit, I am afraid. O Kit, he will kill my father.
+
+KIT. Afraid. I'm glad of that. Now, you'll see I'm worth my salt at
+something. Ten to one he's back to Mrs. Drake's. I'll after, and lay him
+aboard.
+
+ARETHUSA. O Kit, he is too strong for you.
+
+KIT. Arethusa, that's below the belt! Never you fear; I'll give a good
+account of him.
+
+ARETHUSA (_taking cutlass from wall_). You'll be none the worse for
+this, dear.
+
+KIT. That's so (_making cuts_). All the same, I'm half ashamed to draw
+on a blind man; it's too much odds. (_He leans suddenly against the
+table._) Ah!
+
+ARETHUSA. Kit! are you ill?
+
+KIT. My head's like a humming top; it serves me right for drinking.
+
+ARETHUSA. Oh, and the blind man! (_She runs, L., to the corner cupboard,
+brings a bottle and glass, and fills and offers glass._) Here, lad,
+drink that.
+
+KIT. To you! That's better. (_Bottle and glass remain on GAUNT'S
+table._)
+
+ARETHUSA. Suppose you miss him?
+
+KIT. Miss him! The road is straight; and I can hear the tap-tapping of
+that stick a mile away.
+
+ARETHUSA (_listening_). 'St! my father stirring in his room!
+
+KIT. Let me get clear; tell him why when I'm gone. The door----?
+
+ARETHUSA. Locked!
+
+KIT. The window!
+
+ARETHUSA. Quick, quick! (_She unfastens R. window, by which KIT goes
+out._)
+
+
+  SCENE II
+
+  _ARETHUSA, GAUNT entering L._
+
+ARETHUSA. Father, Kit is gone.... He is asleep.
+
+GAUNT. Waiting, waiting and wearying. The years, they go so heavily, my
+Hester still waiting! (_He goes R. to chest, which he opens._) That is
+your chain; it's of Guinea gold; I brought it you from Guinea. (_Taking
+out chain._) You liked it once; it pleased you long ago; O, why not
+now--why will you not be happy now?... I swear this is my last voyage;
+see, I lay my hand upon the Holy Book and swear it. One more
+venture--for the child's sake, Hester; you don't think upon your little
+maid.
+
+ARETHUSA. Ah, for my sake, it was for my sake!
+
+GAUNT. Ten days out from Lagos. That's a strange sunset, Mr. Yeo. All
+hands shorten sail! Lay aloft there, look smart!... What's that? Only
+the negroes in the hold.... Mr. Yeo, she can't live long at this; I have
+a wife and child in Barnstaple.... Christ, what a sea! Hold on, for
+God's sake--hold on fore and aft! Great God! (_as though the sea were
+making a breach over the ship at the moment_).
+
+ARETHUSA. O!
+
+GAUNT. They seem quieter down below there.... No water--no light--no
+air--seven days battened down, and the seas mountain high, and the ship
+labouring hell-deep! Two hundred and five, two hundred and five, two
+hundred and five--all to eternal torture!
+
+ARETHUSA. O pity him, pity him! Let him sleep, let him forget! Let her
+prayers avail in heaven, and let him rest!
+
+GAUNT. Hester, no, don't smile at me. Rather tears! I have seen you
+weep--often, often; two hundred and five times. Two hundred and five!
+(_With ring._) Hester, here is your ring (_he tries to put the ring on
+his finger_). How comes it in my hand? Not fallen off again? O no,
+impossible! it was made smaller, dear, it can't have fallen off! Ah, you
+waste away. You must live, you must, for the dear child's sake, for
+mine, Hester, for mine! Ah, the child. Yes. Who am I to judge? Poor Kit
+French! And she, your little maid, she's like you, Hester, and she will
+save him! How should a man be saved without a wife?
+
+ARETHUSA. O father, if you could but hear me thank and bless you! (_The
+tapping of PEW'S stick is heard approaching. GAUNT passes L. front and
+sits._)
+
+GAUNT (_beginning to count the taps_). One--two--two hundred and
+five----
+
+ARETHUSA (_listening_). God help me, the blind man! (_She runs to door,
+C.; the key is put into the lock from without, and the door opens._)
+
+
+  SCENE III
+
+  _ARETHUSA (at back of stage by the door); GAUNT (front L.); to these,
+  PEW, C._
+
+PEW (_sotto voce_). All snug. (_Coming down._) So that was you, my young
+friend Christopher, as shot by me on the road; and so you was hot foot
+after old Pew? Christopher, my young friend, I reckon I'll have the
+bowels out of that chest, and I reckon, you'll be lagged and scragged for
+it. (_At these words ARETHUSA locks the door, and takes the key._) What's
+that? All still. There's something wrong about this room. Pew, my 'art of
+oak, you're queer to-night; brace up and carry on. Where's the tool?
+(_Producing knife._) Ah, here she is; and now for the chest; and the
+gold; and rum--rum--rum. What! Open?... old clothes, by God!... He's done
+me; he's been before me; he's bolted with the swag; that's why he ran:
+Lord wither and waste him forty year for it! O Christopher, if I had my
+fingers on your throat! Why didn't I strangle the soul out of him? I
+heard the breath squeak in his weasand; and Jack Gaunt pulled me off. Ah,
+Jack, that's another I owe you. My pious friend, if I was God Almighty
+for five minutes! (_GAUNT rises and begins to pace the stage like a
+quarter-deck, L._) What's that? A man's walk. He don't see me, thank the
+blessed dark! But it's time to slip, my bo. (_He gropes his way
+stealthily till he comes to GAUNT'S table, where he burns his hand in the
+candle._) A candle--lighted--then it's bright as day! Lord God, doesn't
+he see me? It's the horrors come alive. (_GAUNT draws near and turns
+away._) I'll go mad, mad! (_He gropes to the door, stopping and
+starting._) Door. (_His voice rising for the first time, sharp with
+terror._) Locked? Key gone? Trapped! Keep off--keep off of me--keep away!
+(_Sotto voce again._) Keep your head, Lord have mercy, keep your head.
+I'm wet with sweat. What devil's den is this? I must out--out! (_He
+shakes the door vehemently._) No? Knife it is, then--knife--knife--knife!
+(_He moves with the knife raised towards GAUNT, intently listening and
+changing his direction as GAUNT changes his position on the stage._)
+
+ARETHUSA (_rushing to intercept him_). Father, father, wake!
+
+GAUNT. Hester, Hester! (_He turns, in time to see ARETHUSA grapple PEW
+in the centre of the stage, and PEW force her down._)
+
+ARETHUSA. Kit! Kit!
+
+PEW (_with the knife raised_). Pew's way!
+
+
+  SCENE IV
+
+  _To these, KIT_
+
+  (_He leaps through window, R., and cuts PEW down. At the same moment,
+  GAUNT, who has been staring helplessly at his daughter's peril, fully
+  awakes._)
+
+GAUNT. Death and blood! (_KIT, helping ARETHUSA, has let fall the
+cutlass. GAUNT picks it up and runs on PEW._) Damned mutineer, I'll have
+your heart out! (_He stops, stands staring, drops cutlass, falls upon
+his knees._) God forgive me! Ah, foul sins, would you blaze forth again?
+Lord, close your ears! Hester, Hester, hear me not! Shall all these
+years and tears be unavailing?
+
+ARETHUSA. Father, I am not hurt.
+
+GAUNT. Ay, daughter, but my soul--my lost soul!
+
+PEW (_rising on his elbow_). Rum? You've done me. For God's sake, rum.
+(_ARETHUSA pours out a glass, which KIT gives to him._) Rum? This ain't
+rum; it's fire! (_With great excitement._) What's this? I don't like
+rum? (_Feebly._) Ay, then, I'm a dead man, and give me water.
+
+GAUNT. Now even his sins desert him.
+
+PEW (_drinking water_). Jack Gaunt, you've always been my rock ahead.
+It's thanks to you I've got my papers, and this time I'm shipped for
+Fiddler's Green. Admiral, we ain't like to meet again, and I'll give you
+a toast; Here's Fiddler's Green, and damn all lubbers! (_Seizing GAUNT'S
+arm._) I say--fair dealings, Jack!--none of that heaven business:
+Fiddler's Green's my port, now, ain't it?
+
+GAUNT. David, you've hove short up, and God forbid that I deceive you.
+Pray, man, pray; for in the place to which you are bound there is no
+mercy and no hope.
+
+PEW. Ay, my lass, you're black, but your blood's red, and I'm all a-muck
+with it. Pass the rum, and be damned to you (_Trying to sing_)--
+
+  "Time for us to go,
+   Time for us----"
+
+(_He dies._)
+
+GAUNT. But for the grace of God, there lies John Gaunt! Christopher, you
+have saved my child; and _I_, I, that was blinded with self-righteousness,
+have fallen. Take her, Christopher; but O, walk humbly!
+
+
+
+
+MACAIRE
+
+  A MELODRAMATIC FARCE
+     IN THREE ACTS
+
+
+
+
+PERSONS REPRESENTED
+
+
+  ROBERT MACAIRE
+
+  BERTRAND
+
+  DUMONT, Landlord of the "Auberge des Adrets"
+
+  CHARLES, a Gendarme, Dumont's supposed Son
+
+  GORIOT
+
+  THE MARQUIS, Charles's Father
+
+  THE BRIGADIER of Gendarmerie
+
+  THE CURATE
+
+  THE NOTARY
+
+  A WAITER
+
+  ERNESTINE, Goriot's Daughter
+
+  ALINE
+
+  MAIDS, PEASANTS (_Male and Female_), GENDARMES
+
+The Scene is laid in the Courtyard of the "Auberge des Adrets," on the
+frontier of France and Savoy. The time 1820. The Action occupies an
+interval of from twelve to fourteen hours; from four in the afternoon
+till about five in the morning
+
+NOTE.--_The time between the acts should be as brief as possible, and
+the piece played, where it is merely comic, in a vein of patter_
+
+
+
+
+MACAIRE
+
+
+
+
+  ACT I
+
+  _The Stage represents the courtyard of the "Auberge des Adrets." It is
+  surrounded by the buildings of the inn, with a gallery on the first
+  story, approached, C., by a straight flight of stairs. L.C., the
+  entrance doorway. A little in front of this, a small grated office,
+  containing business table, brass-bound cabinet, and portable cash-box.
+  In front, R. and L., tables and benches; one, L., partially laid for a
+  considerable party_
+
+
+  SCENE I
+
+  _ALINE and MAIDS; to whom, FIDDLERS; afterwards DUMONT and CHARLES. As
+  the curtain rises, the sound of the violins is heard approaching.
+  ALINE and the inn servants, who are discovered laying the table, dance
+  up to door L.C., to meet the FIDDLERS, who enter likewise dancing to
+  their own music. Air: "Haste to the Wedding." The FIDDLERS exeunt
+  playing into house, R.U.E. ALINE and MAIDS dance back to table, which
+  they proceed to arrange_
+
+ALINE. Well, give me fiddles: fiddles and a wedding feast. It tickles
+your heart till your heels make a runaway match of it. I don't mind
+extra work, I don't, so long as there's fun about it. Hand me up that
+pile of plates. The quinces there, before the bride. Stick a pink in the
+Notary's glass: that's the girl he's courting.
+
+DUMONT (_entering; with CHARLES_). Good girls, good girls! Charles, in
+ten minutes from now what happy faces will smile around that board!
+
+CHARLES. Sir, my good fortune is complete; and most of all in this, that
+my happiness has made my father happy.
+
+DUMONT. Your father? Ah, well, upon that point we shall have more to
+say.
+
+CHARLES. What more remains that has not been said already? For surely,
+sir, there are few sons more fortunate in their father: and, since you
+approve of this marriage, may I not conceive you to be in that sense
+fortunate in your son?
+
+DUMONT. Dear boy, there is always a variety of considerations. But the
+moment is ill chosen for dispute; to-night, at least, let our felicity be
+unalloyed. (_Looking off L.C._) Our guests arrive: here is our good
+Curate, and here our cheerful Notary.
+
+CHARLES. His old infirmity, I fear.
+
+DUMONT. But, Charles--dear boy!--at your wedding feast! I should have
+taken it unneighbourly had he come strictly sober.
+
+
+  SCENE II
+
+  _To these, by the door L.C., the CURATE and the NOTARY arm in arm; the
+  latter owl-like and titubant_
+
+CURATE. Peace be on this house!
+
+NOTARY (_singing_). "Prove an excuse for the glass."
+
+DUMONT. Welcome, excellent neighbours! The Church and the Law.
+
+CURATE. And you, Charles, let me hope your feelings are in solemn
+congruence with this momentous step.
+
+NOTARY (_digging CHARLES in the ribs_). Married? Lovely bride? Prove an
+excuse!
+
+DUMONT (_to CURATE_). I fear our friend? perhaps? as usual? eh?
+
+CURATE. Possibly; I had not yet observed it.
+
+DUMONT. Well, well, his heart is good.
+
+CURATE. He doubtless meant it kindly.
+
+NOTARY. Where's Aline?
+
+ALINE. Coming, sir! (_NOTARY makes for her._)
+
+CURATE (_capturing him_). You will infallibly expose yourself to
+misconstruction. (_To CHARLES._) Where is your commanding officer?
+
+CHARLES. Why, sir, we have quite an alert. Information has been received
+from Lyons that the notorious malefactor, Robert Macaire, has broken
+prison, and the Brigadier is now scouring the country in his pursuit. I
+myself am instructed to watch the visitors to our house.
+
+DUMONT. That will do, Charles: you may go. (_Exit CHARLES._) You have
+considered the case I laid before you?
+
+NOTARY. Considered a case?
+
+DUMONT. Yes, yes. Charles, you know, Charles. Can he marry? under these
+untoward and peculiar circumstances, can he marry?
+
+NOTARY. Now, lemme tell you: marriage is a contract to which there are
+two constracting parties. That being clear, I am prepared to argue
+categorically that your son Charles--who, it appears, is not your son
+Charles--I am prepared to argue that one party to a contract being null
+and void, the other party to a contract cannot by law oblige or
+constrain the first party to constract or bind himself to any contract,
+except the other party be able to see his way clearly to constract
+himself with him. I donno if I make myself clear?
+
+DUMONT. No.
+
+NOTARY. Now, lemme tell you: by applying justice of peace might possibly
+afford relief.
+
+DUMONT. But how?
+
+NOTARY. Ay, there's the rub.
+
+DUMONT. But what am I to do? He's not my son, I tell you: Charles is not
+my son.
+
+NOTARY. I know.
+
+DUMONT. Perhaps a glass of wine would clear him?
+
+NOTARY. That's what I want. (_They go out, L.U.E._)
+
+ALINE. And now, if you've done deranging my table, to the cellar for the
+wine, the whole pack of you. (_Manet sola, considering table._) There!
+it's like a garden. If I had as sweet a table for my wedding, I would
+marry the Notary.
+
+
+  SCENE III
+
+  _The Stage remains vacant. Enter, by door L.C., MACAIRE, followed by
+  BERTRAND with the bundle; in the traditional costume_
+
+MACAIRE. Good! No police!
+
+BERTRAND (_looking off L.C._). Sold again!
+
+MACAIRE. This is a favoured spot, Bertrand: ten minutes from the
+frontier: ten minutes from escape. Blessings on that frontier line! The
+criminal hops across, and lo! the reputable man. (_Reading._) "'Auberge
+des Adrets,' by John Paul Dumont." A table set for company; this is
+fate: Bertrand, are we the first arrivals? An office; a cabinet; a
+cash-box--aha! and a cash-box, golden within. A money-box is like a
+Quaker beauty: demure without, but what a figure of a woman! Outside
+gallery: an architectural feature I approve; I count it a convenience
+both for love and war; the troubadour--twang-twang; the
+craftsmen----(_Makes as if turning key._) The kitchen window: humming
+with cookery; truffles, before Jove! I was born for truffles. Cock your
+hat: meat, wine, rest, and occupation; men to gull, women to fool, and
+still the door open, the great unbolted door of the frontier!
+
+BERTRAND. Macaire, I'm hungry.
+
+MACAIRE. Bertrand, excuse me, you are a sensualist. I should have left
+you in the stone-yard at Lyons, and written no passport but my own. Your
+soul is incorporate with your stomach. Am I not hungry too? My body,
+thanks to immortal Jupiter, is but the boy that holds the kite-string;
+my aspirations and designs swim like the kite sky-high, and overlook an
+empire.
+
+BERTRAND. If I could get a full meal and a pound in my pocket I would
+hold my tongue.
+
+MACAIRE. Dreams, dreams! We are what we are; and what are we? Who are
+you? who cares? Who am I? myself? What do we come from? an accident.
+What's a mother? an old woman. A father? the gentleman who beats her.
+What is crime? discovery. Virtue? opportunity. Politics? a pretext.
+Affection? an affectation. Morality? an affair of latitude. Punishment?
+this side the frontier. Reward? the other. Property? plunder. Business?
+other people's money--not mine, by God! and the end of life to live till
+we are hanged.
+
+BERTRAND. Macaire, I came into this place with my tail between my legs
+already, and hungry besides; and then you get to flourishing, and it
+depresses me worse than the chaplain in the gaol.
+
+MACAIRE. What is a chaplain? A man they pay to say what you don't want
+to hear.
+
+BERTRAND. And who are you after all? and what right have you to talk
+like that? By what I can hear, you've been the best part of your life in
+quod; and as for me, since I've followed you, what sort of luck have I
+had? Sold again! A boose, a blue fright, two years' hard, and the police
+hot-foot after us even now.
+
+MACAIRE. What is life? A boose and the police.
+
+BERTRAND. Of course, I know you're clever; I admire you down to the
+ground, and I'll starve without you. But I can't stand it, and I'm off.
+Good-bye: good luck to you, old man! and if you want the bundle----
+
+MACAIRE. I am a gentleman of a mild disposition, and, I thank my Maker,
+elegant manners; but rather than be betrayed by such a thing as you are,
+with the courage of a hare, and the manners, by the Lord Harry, of a
+jumping-jack----(_He shows his knife._)
+
+BERTRAND. Put it up, put it up: I'll do what you want.
+
+MACAIRE. What is obedience? fear. So march straight, or look for
+mischief. It's not _bon ton_, I know, and far from friendly. But what is
+friendship? convenience. But we lose time in this amiable dalliance.
+Come, now, an effort of deportment: the head thrown back, a jaunty
+carriage of the leg; crook gracefully the elbow. Thus. 'Tis better.
+(_Calling._) House, house here!
+
+BERTRAND. Are you mad? We haven't a brass farthing.
+
+MACAIRE. Now!--But before we leave!
+
+
+  SCENE IV
+
+  _To these, DUMONT_
+
+DUMONT. Gentlemen, what can a plain man do for your service?
+
+MACAIRE. My good man, in a roadside inn one cannot look for the
+impossible. Give one what small wine and what country fare you can
+produce.
+
+DUMONT. Gentlemen, you come here upon a most auspicious day, a
+red-letter day for me and my poor house, when all are welcome. Suffer
+me, with all delicacy, to inquire if you are not in somewhat narrow
+circumstances?
+
+MACAIRE. My good creature, you are strangely in error; one is rolling in
+gold.
+
+BERTRAND. And very hungry.
+
+DUMONT. Dear me, and on this happy occasion I had registered a vow that
+every poor traveller should have his keep for nothing, and a pound in
+his pocket to help him on his journey.
+
+MACAIRE. A pound in his pocket? \
+                                 |
+BERTRAND. Keep for nothing?      |
+                                  >  _Aside._
+MACAIRE. Bitten!                 |
+                                 |
+BERTRAND. Sold again!           /
+
+DUMONT. I will send you what we have: poor fare, perhaps, for gentlemen
+like you.
+
+
+  SCENE V
+
+  _MACAIRE, BERTRAND; afterwards CHARLES, who appears on the gallery and
+  comes down_
+
+BERTRAND. I told you so. Why will you fly so high?
+
+MACAIRE. Bertrand, don't crush me. A pound: a fortune! With a pound to
+start upon--two pounds, for I'd have borrowed yours--three months from
+now I might have been driving in my barouche, with you behind it,
+Bertrand, in a tasteful livery.
+
+BERTRAND (_seeing CHARLES_). Lord, a policeman!
+
+MACAIRE. Steady! What is a policeman? Justice's blind eye. (_To
+CHARLES._) I think, sir, you are in the force?
+
+CHARLES. I am, sir, and it was in that character----
+
+MACAIRE. Ah, sir, a fine service!
+
+CHARLES. It is, sir, and if your papers----
+
+MACAIRE. You become your uniform. Have you a mother? Ah, well, well!
+
+CHARLES. My duty, sir----
+
+MACAIRE. They tell me one Macaire--is not that his name, Bertrand?--has
+broken gaol at Lyons?
+
+CHARLES. He has, sir, and it is precisely for that reason--
+
+MACAIRE. Well, good-bye. (_Shaking CHARLES by the hand and leading him
+towards the door, L.U.E._) Sweet spot, sweet spot. The scenery is....
+(_kisses his finger-tips. Exit CHARLES._) And now, what is a policeman?
+
+BERTRAND. A bobby.
+
+
+  SCENE VI
+
+  _MACAIRE, BERTRAND; to whom, ALINE with tray; and afterwards MAIDS_
+
+ALINE (_entering with tray and proceeding to lay table, L._). My men,
+you are in better luck than usual. It isn't every day you go shares in a
+wedding feast.
+
+MACAIRE. A wedding? Ah, and you're the bride.
+
+ALINE. What makes you fancy that?
+
+MACAIRE. Heavens, am I blind?
+
+ALINE. Well, then, I wish I was.
+
+MACAIRE. I take you at the word: have me.
+
+ALINE. You will never be hanged for modesty.
+
+MACAIRE. Modesty is for the poor: when one is rich and nobly born, 'tis
+but a clog. I love you. What is your name?
+
+ALINE. Guess again, and you'll guess wrong. (_Enter the other servants
+with wine baskets._) Here, set the wine down. No, that is the old
+Burgundy for the wedding party. These gentlemen must put up with a
+different bin. (_Setting wine before MACAIRE and BERTRAND, who are at
+table, L._)
+
+MACAIRE (_drinking_). Vinegar, by the supreme Jove!
+
+BERTRAND. Sold again!
+
+MACAIRE. Now, Bertrand, mark me. (_Before the servants he exchanges the
+bottle for the one in front of DUMONT'S place at the head of the other
+table._) Was it well done?
+
+BERTRAND. Immense.
+
+MACAIRE (_emptying his glass into BERTRAND'S_). There, Bertrand, you may
+finish that. Ha! music?
+
+
+  SCENE VII
+
+  _To these, from the inn, L.U.E., DUMONT, CHARLES, the CURATE, the
+  NOTARY jigging; from the inn, R.U.E., FIDDLERS playing and dancing;
+  and through door, L.C., GORIOT, ERNESTINE, PEASANTS, dancing likewise.
+  Air: "Haste to the Wedding." As the parties meet, the music ceases_
+
+DUMONT. Welcome, neighbours! welcome, friends! Ernestine, here is my
+Charles, no longer mine. A thousand welcomes. O, the gay day! O, the
+auspicious wedding! (_CHARLES, ERNESTINE, DUMONT, GORIOT, CURATE, and
+NOTARY sit to the wedding feast; PEASANTS, FIDDLERS, and MAIDS, grouped
+at back drinking from the barrel._) O, I must have all happy around me.
+
+GORIOT. Then help the soup.
+
+DUMONT. Give me leave: I must have all happy. Shall these poor gentlemen
+upon a day like this drink ordinary wine? Not so; I shall drink it. (_To
+MACAIRE, who is just about to fill his glass._) Don't touch it, sir!
+Aline, give me that gentleman's bottle and take him mine: with old
+Dumont's compliments.
+
+MACAIRE. What?
+
+BERTRAND. Change the bottle?
+
+MACAIRE. Bitten!      \
+                       > _Aside._
+BERTRAND. Sold again! /
+
+DUMONT. Yes, all shall be happy.
+
+GORIOT. I tell 'ee, help the soup!
+
+DUMONT (_begins to help soup. Then, dropping ladle_). One word: a matter
+of detail; Charles is not my son. (_All exclaim._) O no, he is not my
+son. Perhaps I should have mentioned it before.
+
+CHARLES. I am not your son, sir?
+
+DUMONT. O no, far from it.
+
+GORIOT. Then who the devil's son be he?
+
+DUMONT. O, I don't know. It's an odd tale, a romantic tale: it may amuse
+you. It was twenty years ago, when I kept the "Golden Head" at Lyons;
+Charles was left upon my doorstep in a covered basket, with sufficient
+money to support the child till he should come of age. There was no mark
+upon the linen, nor any clue but one: an unsigned letter from the father
+of the child, which he strictly charged me to preserve. It was to prove
+his identity; he, of course, would know the contents, and he only; so I
+keep it safe in the third compartment of my cash-box, with the ten
+thousand francs I've saved for his dowry. Here is the key; it's a patent
+key. To-day the poor boy is twenty-one, to-morrow to be married. I did
+perhaps hope the father would appear; there was a Marquis coming; he
+wrote me for a room; I gave him the best, Number Thirteen, which you
+have all heard of; I did hope it might be he, for a Marquis, you know,
+is always genteel. But no, you see. As for me, I take all to witness I'm
+as innocent of him as the babe unborn.
+
+MACAIRE. Ahem! I think you said the linen bore an M?
+
+DUMONT. Pardon me; the markings were cut off.
+
+MACAIRE. True. The basket white, I think?
+
+DUMONT. Brown, brown.
+
+MACAIRE. Ah! brown--a whitey-brown.
+
+GORIOT. I tell 'ee what, Dumont, this is all very well; but in that
+case, I'll be danged if he gets my daater. (_General consternation._)
+
+DUMONT. O Goriot, let's have happy faces!
+
+GORIOT. Happy faces be danged! I want to marry my daater; I want your
+son. But who be this? I don't know, and you don't know, and he don't
+know. He may be anybody; by Jarge, he may be nobody! (_Exclamations._)
+
+CURATE. The situation is crepuscular.
+
+ERNESTINE. Father, and Mr. Dumont (and you, too, Charles), I wish to say
+one word. You gave us leave to fall in love; we fell in love; and as for
+me, my father, I will either marry Charles or die a maid.
+
+CHARLES. And you, sir, would you rob me in one day of both a father and
+a wife?
+
+DUMONT (_weeping_). Happy faces, happy faces!
+
+GORIOT. I know nothing about robbery; but she cannot marry without my
+consent, and that she cannot get.
+
+DUMONT. O dear, O dear!              \
+                                      |
+ALINE. What, spoil the wedding?       |
+                                       > _Together._
+ERNESTINE. O father!                  |
+                                      |
+CHARLES. Sir, sir, you would not---- /
+
+GORIOT (_exasperated_). I wun't, and what's more I shan't.
+
+NOTARY. I donno if I make myself clear.
+
+DUMONT. Goriot, do let's have happy faces!
+
+GORIOT. Fudge! Fudge!! Fudge!!!
+
+CURATE. Possibly on application to this conscientious jurist, light may
+be obtained.
+
+ALL. The Notary; yes, yes; the Notary!
+
+DUMONT. Now, how about this marriage?
+
+NOTARY. Marriage is a contract, to which there are two constracting
+parties, John Doe and Richard Roe. I donno if I make myself clear?
+
+ALINE. Poor lamb!
+
+CURATE. Silence, my friend; you will expose yourself to misconstruction.
+
+MACAIRE (_taking the stage_). As an entire stranger in this painful
+scene, will you permit a gentleman and a traveller to interject one
+word? There sits the young man, full, I am sure, of pleasing qualities;
+here the young maiden, by her own confession bashfully consenting to the
+match; there sits that dear old gentleman, a lover of bright faces like
+myself, his own now dimmed with sorrow; and here--(may I be allowed to
+add?)--here sits this noble Roman, a father like myself, and like myself
+the slave of duty. Last you have me--Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de
+Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, the man of the world and the man of
+delicacy. I find you all--permit me the expression--gravelled. A
+marriage and an obstacle. Now, what is marriage? The union of two souls,
+and, what is possibly more romantic, the fusion of two dowries. What is
+an obstacle? the devil. And this obstacle? to me, as a man of family,
+the obstacle seems grave; but to me, as a man and a brother, what is it
+but a word? O my friend (_to GORIOT_), you whom I single out as the
+victim of the same noble failings with myself of pride of birth, of
+pride of honesty--O my friend, reflect. Go now apart with your
+dishevelled daughter, your tearful son-in-law, and let their plaints
+constrain you. Believe me, when you come to die, you will recall with
+pride this amiable weakness.
+
+GORIOT. I shan't, and what's more I wun't. (_CHARLES and ERNESTINE lead
+him up stage, protesting. All rise except NOTARY._)
+
+DUMONT (_front R., shaking hands with MACAIRE_). Sir, you have a noble
+nature. (_MACAIRE picks his pocket._) Dear, me, dear me, and you are
+rich.
+
+MACAIRE. I own, sir, I deceived you: I feared some wounding offer, and
+my pride replied. But to be quite frank with you, you behold me here,
+the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, and
+between my simple manhood and the infinite, these rags are all.
+
+DUMONT. Dear me, and with this noble pride, my gratitude is useless. For
+I, too, have delicacy. I understand you could not stoop to take a gift.
+
+MACAIRE. A gift? a small one? never!
+
+DUMONT. And I will never wound you by the offer.
+
+MACAIRE. Bitten!      \
+                       > _Aside._
+BERTRAND. Sold again! /
+
+GORIOT (_taking the stage_). But, look 'ee here, he can't marry.
+
+MACAIRE. Hey?     \
+                   |
+DUMONT. Ah!        |
+                   |
+ALINE. Heyday!     |
+                    > _Together._
+CURATE. Wherefore? |
+                   |
+ERNESTINE. O!      |
+                   |
+CHARLES. Ah!      /
+
+GORIOT. Not without his veyther's consent! And he hasn't got it; and
+what's more, he can't get it: and what's more, he hasn't got a veyther
+to get it from. It's the law of France.
+
+ALINE. Then the law of France ought to be ashamed of itself.
+
+ERNESTINE. O, couldn't we ask the Notary again?
+
+CURATE. Indubitably you may ask him.
+
+MACAIRE. Can't they marry? \
+                            |
+DUMONT. Can't he marry?     |
+                            |
+ALINE. Can't she marry?     |
+                             > _Together._
+ERNESTINE. Can't we marry?  |
+                            |
+CHARLES. Can't I marry?     |
+                            |
+GORIOT. Bain't I right?    /
+
+NOTARY. Constracting parties.
+
+CURATE. Possibly to-morrow at an early hour he may be more perspicuous.
+
+GORIOT. Ay, before he've time to get at it.
+
+NOTARY. Unoffending jurisconsult overtaken by sorrow. Possibly by
+applying justice of peace might afford relief.
+
+MACAIRE. Bravo!              \
+                              |
+DUMONT. Excellent!            |
+                              |
+CHARLES. Let's go at once!     > _Together._
+                              |
+ALINE. The very thing!        |
+                              |
+ERNESTINE. Yes, this minute! /
+
+GORIOT. I'll go. I don't mind getting advice, but I wun't take it.
+
+MACAIRE. My friends, one word: I perceive by your downcast looks that
+you have not recognised the true nature of your responsibility as
+citizens of time. What is care? impiety. Joy? the whole duty of man.
+Here is an opportunity of duty it were sinful to forego. With a word, I
+could lighten your hearts; but I prefer to quicken your heels, and send
+you forth on your ingenuous errand with happy faces and smiling
+thoughts, the physicians of your own recovery. Fiddlers, to your catgut!
+Up, Bertrand, and show them how one foots it in society; forward, girls,
+and choose me every one the lad she loves; Dumont, benign old man, lead
+forth our blushing Curate; and you, O bride, embrace the uniform of your
+beloved, and help us dance in your wedding-day. (_Dance, in the course
+of which MACAIRE picks DUMONT'S pocket of his keys, selects the key of
+the cash-box, and returns the others to his pocket. In the end, all
+dance out; the wedding-party, headed by FIDDLERS, L.C.; the MAIDS and
+ALINE into the inn, R.U.E. Manet, BERTRAND and MACAIRE._)
+
+
+  SCENE VIII
+
+  _MACAIRE, BERTRAND, who instantly takes a bottle from the
+  wedding-table, and sits with it, L._
+
+MACAIRE. Bertrand, there's a devil of a want of a father here.
+
+BERTRAND. Ay, if we only knew where to find him.
+
+MACAIRE. Bertrand, look at me: I am Macaire; I am that father.
+
+BERTRAND. You, Macaire?--you a father?
+
+MACAIRE. Not yet, but in five minutes. I am capable of anything.
+(_Producing key._) What think you of this?
+
+BERTRAND. That? Is it a key?
+
+MACAIRE. Ay, boy, and what besides? my diploma of respectability, my
+patent of fatherhood. I prigged it--in the ardour of the dance I prigged
+it; I change it beyond recognition, thus (_twists the handle of the
+key_); and now...? Where is my long-lost child? produce my young
+policeman, show me my gallant boy.
+
+BERTRAND. I don't understand.
+
+MACAIRE. Dear innocence, how should you? Your brains are in your fists.
+Go and keep watch. (_He goes into the office and returns with the
+cash-box._) Keep watch, I say.
+
+BERTRAND. Where?
+
+MACAIRE. Everywhere. (_He opens box._)
+
+BERTRAND. Gold.
+
+MACAIRE. Hands off! Keep watch. (_BERTRAND at back of stage._) Beat
+slower, my paternal heart! The third compartment! let me see.
+
+BERTRAND. S'st! (_MACAIRE shuts box._) No: false alarm.
+
+MACAIRE. The third compartment. Ay, here t----
+
+BERTRAND. S'st! (_Same business._) No: fire away.
+
+MACAIRE. The third compartment: it must be this.
+
+BERTRAND. S'st. (_MACAIRE keeps box open, watching BERTRAND._) All
+serene: it's the wind.
+
+MACAIRE. Now, see here! (_He darts his knife into the stage._) I will
+either be backed as a man should be, or from this minute out I'll work
+alone. Do you understand? I said alone.
+
+BERTRAND. For the Lord's sake, Macaire!----
+
+MACAIRE. Ay, here it is. (_Reading letter._) "Preserve this letter
+secretly; its terms are known only to you and me; hence when the time
+comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will recognise his father."
+Signed: "Your Unknown Benefactor." (_He hums it over twice and replaces
+it. Then, fingering the gold._) Gold! The yellow enchantress, happiness
+ready-made and laughing in my face! Gold: what is gold? The world; the
+term of ills; the empery of all; the multitudinous babble of the
+'Change, the sailing from all ports of freighted argosies; music, wine,
+a palace; the doors of the bright theatre, the key of consciences,
+and--love's--love's whistle! All this below my itching fingers; and to
+set this by, turn a deaf ear upon the siren present, and condescend once
+more, naked, into the ring with fortune--Macaire, how few would do it!
+But you, Macaire, you are compacted of more subtile clay. No cheap
+immediate pilfering: no retail trade of petty larceny; but swoop at the
+heart of the position, and clutch all!
+
+BERTRAND (_at his shoulder_). Halves!
+
+MACAIRE. Halves? (_He locks the box._) Bertrand, I am a father.
+(_Replaces box in office._)
+
+BERTRAND (_looking after him_). Well, I--am--damned!
+
+
+  DROP
+
+
+
+
+  ACT II
+
+
+  _When the curtain rises, the night has come. A hanging cluster of
+  lighted lamps over each table, R. and L. MACAIRE, R., smoking a
+  cigarette; BERTRAND, L., with a churchwarden: each with bottle and
+  glass_
+
+
+  SCENE I
+
+  MACAIRE, BERTRAND
+
+MACAIRE. Bertrand, I am content: a child might play with me. Does your
+pipe draw well?
+
+BERTRAND. Like a factory chimney. This is my notion of life: liquor, a
+chair, a table to put my feet on, a fine clean pipe, and no police.
+
+MACAIRE. Bertrand, do you see these changing exhalations do you see
+these blue rings and spirals, weaving their dance, like a round of
+fairies, on the footless air?
+
+BERTRAND. I see 'em right enough.
+
+MACAIRE. Man of little vision, expound me these meteors! What do they
+signify, O wooden-head? Clod, of what do they consist?
+
+BERTRAND. Damned bad tobacco.
+
+MACAIRE. I will give you a little course of science. Everything,
+Bertrand (much as it may surprise you), has three states: a vapour, a
+liquid, a solid. These are fortune in the vapour: these are ideas. What
+are ideas? the protoplasm of wealth. To your head--which, by the way, is
+solid, Bertrand--what are they but foul air? To mine, to my prehensile
+and constructive intellects, see, as I grasp and work them, to what
+lineaments of the future they transform themselves: a palace, a
+barouche, a pair of luminous footmen, plate, wine, respect, and to be
+honest!
+
+BERTRAND. But what's the sense in honesty?
+
+MACAIRE. The sense? You see me: Macaire: elegant, immoral, invincible in
+cunning; well, Bertrand, much as it may surprise you, I am simply damned
+by my dishonesty.
+
+BERTRAND. No!
+
+MACAIRE. The honest man, Bertrand, that's God's noblest work. He carries
+the bag, my boy. Would you have me define honesty? the strategic point
+for theft. Bertrand, if I'd three hundred a year, I'd be honest
+to-morrow.
+
+BERTRAND. Ah! don't you wish you may get it!
+
+MACAIRE. Bertrand, I will bet you my head against your own--the longest
+odds I can imagine--that with honesty for my spring-board, I leap
+through history like a paper hoop, and come out among posterity heroic
+and immortal.
+
+
+  SCENE II
+
+  _To these, all the former characters, less the NOTARY. The fiddles are
+  heard without playing dolefully. Air: "O dear, what can the matter
+  be?" in time to which the procession enters_
+
+MACAIRE. Well, friends, what cheer?
+
+ALINE. No wedding, no wedding!              \
+                                            |
+GORIOT. I told 'ee he can't, and 'ee can't. |
+                                            |
+DUMONT. Dear, dear me!                       > _Together._
+                                            |
+ERNESTINE. They won't let us marry.         |
+                                            |
+CHARLES. No wife, no father, no nothing!   /
+
+CURATE. The facts have justified the worst anticipations of our absent
+friend, the Notary.
+
+MACAIRE. I perceive I must reveal myself.
+
+DUMONT. God bless me, no!
+
+MACAIRE. My friends, I had meant to preserve a strict incognito, for I
+was ashamed (I own it!) of this poor accoutrement; but when I see a face
+that I can render happy, say, my old Dumont, should I hesitate to work
+the change? Hear me, then, and you (_to the others_) prepare a smiling
+countenance. (_Repeating._) "Preserve this letter secretly; its terms
+are known only to you and me: hence when the time comes, I shall repeat
+them, and my son will recognise his father.--Your Unknown Benefactor."
+
+DUMONT. The words! the letter! Charles, alas! it is your father!
+
+CHARLES. Good Lord! (_General consternation._)
+
+BERTRAND (_aside; smiting his brow_). I see it now; sublime!
+
+CURATE. A highly singular eventuality.
+
+GORIOT. Him? O well, then, I wun't. (_Goes up._)
+
+MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (_Business._) Ernestine, your second
+father waits to welcome you. (_Business._) Goriot, noble old man, I
+grasp your hand. (_He doesn't._) And you, Dumont, how shall your unknown
+benefactor thank you for your kindness to his boy? (_A dead pause._)
+Charles, to my arms!
+
+CHARLES. My father, you are still something of a stranger. I
+hope--er--in the course of time--I hope that may be somewhat mended. But
+I confess that I have so long regarded Mr. Dumont----
+
+MACAIRE. Love him still, dear boy, love him still. I have not returned
+to be a burden on your heart, nor much, comparatively, on your pocket. A
+place by the fire, dear boy, a crust for my friend, Bertrand. (_A dead
+pause._) Ah, well, this is a different home-coming from that I fancied
+when I left the letter: I dreamed to grow rich. Charles, you remind me
+of your sainted mother.
+
+CHARLES. I trust, sir, you do not think yourself less welcome for your
+poverty.
+
+MACAIRE. Nay, nay--more welcome, more welcome. O, I know
+your--(_business_) backs! Besides, my poverty is noble. Political....
+Dumont, what are your politics?
+
+DUMONT. A plain old republican, my lord.
+
+MACAIRE. And yours, my good Goriot?
+
+GORIOT. I be a royalist, I be, and so be my daater.
+
+MACAIRE. How strange is the coincidence! The party that I sought to
+found combined the peculiarities of both; a patriotic enterprise in
+which I fell. This humble fellow ... have I introduced him? You behold
+in us the embodiment of aristocracy and democracy. Bertrand, shake hands
+with my family. (_BERTRAND is rebuffed by one and the other in dead
+silence._)
+
+BERTRAND. Sold again!
+
+MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (_Business._)
+
+ERNESTINE. Well, but now that he has a father of some kind, cannot the
+marriage go on?
+
+MACAIRE. Angel, this very night: I burn to take my grandchild on my
+knees.
+
+GORIOT. Be you that young man's veyther?
+
+MACAIRE. Ay, and what a father!
+
+GORIOT. Then all I've got to say is, I shan't and I wun't.
+
+MACAIRE. Ah, friends, friends, what a satisfaction it is, what a sight
+is virtue! I came among you in this poor attire to test you; how nobly
+have you borne the test! But my disguise begins to irk me: who will lend
+me a good suit? (_Business._)
+
+
+  SCENE III
+
+  _To these, the MARQUIS, L.C._
+
+MARQUIS. Is this the house of John Paul Dumont, once of Lyons?
+
+DUMONT. It is, sir, and I am he, at your disposal.
+
+MARQUIS. I am the Marquis Villers-Cotterets de la Cherté de Médoc.
+(_Sensation._)
+
+MARCAIRE. Marquis, delighted, I am sure.
+
+MARQUIS (_to DUMONT_). I come, as you perceive, unfollowed; my errand,
+therefore, is discreet. I come (_producing notes from breast-pocket_)
+equipped with thirty thousand francs; my errand, therefore, must be
+generous. Can you not guess?
+
+DUMONT. Not I, my lord.
+
+MARQUIS (_repeating_). "Preserve this letter," etc.
+
+MARCAIRE. Bitten!
+
+BERTRAND. Sold again! (_Aside._) (_A pause._)
+
+ALINE. Well, I never did!
+
+DUMONT. Two fathers!
+
+MARQUIS. Two? Impossible.
+
+DUMONT. Not at all. This is the other.
+
+MARQUIS. This man?
+
+MARCAIRE. This is the man, my lord; here stands the father. Charles, to
+my arms! (_CHARLES backs._)
+
+DUMONT. He knew the letter.
+
+MARQUIS. Well, so did I.
+
+CURATE. The judgment of Solomon.
+
+GORIOT. What did I tell 'ee? he can't marry.
+
+ERNESTINE. Couldn't they both consent?
+
+MARQUIS. But he's my living image.
+
+MARCAIRE. Mine, Marquis, mine.
+
+MARQUIS. My figure, I think?
+
+MARCAIRE. Ah, Charles, Charles!
+
+CURATE. We used to think his physiognomy resembled Dumont's.
+
+DUMONT. Come to look at him, he's really like Goriot.
+
+ERNESTINE. O papa, I hope he's not my brother.
+
+GORIOT. What be talking of? I tell 'ee, he's like our Curate.
+
+CHARLES. Gentlemen, my head aches.
+
+MARQUIS. I have it: the involuntary voice of nature, at me, my son.
+
+MACAIRE. Nay, Charles, but look at me.
+
+CHARLES. Gentlemen, I am unconscious of the smallest natural inclination
+for either.
+
+MARQUIS. Another thought: what was his mother's name?
+
+MACAIRE. What was the name of his mother by you?
+
+MARQUIS. Sir, you are silenced.
+
+MACAIRE. Silenced by honour. I had rather lose my boy than compromise
+his sainted mother.
+
+MARQUIS. A thought; twins might explain it: had you not two foundlings?
+
+DUMONT. Nay, sir, one only; and, judging by the miseries of this
+evening, I should say, thank God!
+
+MACAIRE. My friends, leave me alone with the Marquis. It is only a
+father that can understand a father's heart. Bertrand, follow the
+members of my family. (_They troop out, L.U.E. and R.U.E., the fiddlers
+playing. Air: "O dear, what can the matter be?"_)
+
+
+  SCENE IV
+
+  MACAIRE, MARQUIS
+
+MARQUIS. Well, sir?
+
+MACAIRE. My lord, I feel for you. (_Business. They sit, R._)
+
+MARQUIS. And now, sir?
+
+MACAIRE. The bond that joins us is remarkable and touching.
+
+MARQUIS. Well, sir?
+
+MACAIRE (_touching him on the breast_). You have there thirty thousand
+francs.
+
+MARQUIS. Well, sir?
+
+MACAIRE. I was but thinking of the inequalities of life, my lord: that
+I, who, for all you know, may be the father of your son, should have
+nothing; and that you, who, for all I know, may be the father of mine,
+should be literally bulging with bank notes.... Where do you keep them
+at night?
+
+MARQUIS. Under my pillow. I think it rather ingenious.
+
+MACAIRE. Admirably so. I applaud the device.
+
+MARQUIS. Well, sir?
+
+MACAIRE. Do you snuff, my lord?
+
+MARQUIS. No, sir, I do not.
+
+MACAIRE. My lord, I am a poor man.
+
+MARQUIS. Well, sir? and what of that?
+
+MACAIRE. The affections, my lord, are priceless. Money will not buy
+them; or, at least, it takes a great deal.
+
+MARQUIS. Sir, your sentiments do you honour.
+
+MACAIRE. My lord, you are rich.
+
+MARQUIS. Well, sir?
+
+MACAIRE. Now follow me, I beseech you. Here am I, my lord; and there, if
+I may so express myself, are you. Each has a father's heart, and there
+we are equal; each claims yon interesting lad, and there again we are on
+a par. But, my lord--and here we come to the inequality, and what I
+consider the unfairness of the thing--you have thirty thousand francs,
+and I, my lord, have not a rap. You mark me! not a rap, my lord! My
+lord, put yourself in my position; consider what must be my feelings, my
+desires; and--hey?
+
+MARQUIS. I fail to grasp....
+
+MACAIRE (_with irritation_). My dear man, there is the door of the
+house; here am I; there (_touching MARQUIS on the breast_) are thirty
+thousand francs. Well, now?
+
+MARQUIS. I give you my word of honour, sir, I gather nothing; my mind is
+quite unused to such prolonged exertion. If the boy be yours, he is not
+mine; if he be mine, he is not yours; and if he is neither of ours, or
+both of ours ... in short, my mind....
+
+MACAIRE. My lord, will you lay those thirty thousand francs upon the
+table?
+
+MARQUIS. I fail to grasp ... but if it will in any way oblige you....
+(_Does so._)
+
+MARCAIRE. Now, my lord, follow me: I take them up; you see? I put them
+in my pocket; you follow me? This is my hat; here is my stick; and here
+is my--my friend's bundle.
+
+MARQUIS. But that is my cloak.
+
+MARCAIRE. Precisely. Now, my lord, one more effort of your lordship's
+mind. If I were to go out of that door, with the full intention--follow
+me close--the full intention of never being heard of more, what would
+you do?
+
+MARQUIS. I!--send for the police.
+
+MARCAIRE. Take your money! (_Dashing down the notes._) Man, if I met you
+in a lane! (_He drops his head upon the table._)
+
+MARQUIS. The poor soul is insane. The other man, whom I suppose to be
+his keeper, is very much to blame.
+
+MARCAIRE (_raising his head_). I have a light! (_To MARQUIS._) With
+invincible oafishness, my lord, I cannot struggle. I pass you by; I
+leave you gaping by the wayside; I blush to have a share in the progeny
+of such an owl. Off, off, and send the tapster!
+
+MARQUIS. Poor fellow! (_Exit._)
+
+
+  SCENE V
+
+  _MARCAIRE, to whom BERTRAND. Afterwards DUMONT_
+
+BERTRAND. Well?
+
+MARCAIRE. Bitten!
+
+BERTRAND. Sold again!
+
+MARCAIRE. Had he the wit of a lucifer-match! But what can gods or men
+against stupidity? Still, I have a trick. Where is that damned old man?
+
+DUMONT (_entering_). I hear you want me.
+
+MARCAIRE. Ah, my good old Dumont, this is very sad.
+
+DUMONT. Dear me, what is wrong?
+
+MARCAIRE. Dumont, you had a dowry for my son?
+
+DUMONT. I had; I have: ten thousand francs.
+
+MARCAIRE. It's a poor thing, but it must do. Dumont, I bury my old
+hopes, my old paternal tenderness.
+
+DUMONT. What? is he not your son?
+
+MARCAIRE. Pardon me, my friend. The Marquis claims my boy. I will not
+seek to deny that he attempted to corrupt me, or that I spurned his
+gold. It was thirty thousand.
+
+DUMONT. Noble soul!
+
+MARCAIRE. One has a heart.... He spoke, Dumont, that proud noble spoke,
+of the advantages to our beloved Charles; and in my father's heart a
+voice arose, louder than thunder. Dumont, was I unselfish? The voice
+said no; the voice, Dumont, up and told me to begone.
+
+DUMONT. To begone? to go?
+
+MARCAIRE. To begone, Dumont, and to go. Both, Dumont. To leave my son to
+marry, and be rich and happy as the son of another; to creep forth
+myself, old, penniless, broken-hearted, exposed to the inclemencies of
+heaven and the rebuffs of the police.
+
+DUMONT. This is what I had looked for at your hands. Noble, noble man!
+
+MARCAIRE. One has a heart ... and yet, Dumont, it can hardly have
+escaped your penetration that if I were to shift from this hostelry
+without a farthing and leave my offspring to wallow--literally--among
+millions, I should play the part of little better than an ass.
+
+DUMONT. But I had thought ... I had fancied....
+
+MARCAIRE. No, Dumont, you had not; do not seek to impose upon my
+simplicity. What you did think was this, Dumont: for the sake of this
+noble father, for the sake of this son whom he denies for his own
+interest--I mean, for his interest--no, I mean, for his own--well,
+anyway, in order to keep up the general atmosphere of sacrifice and
+nobility, I must hand over this dowry to the Baron Henri-Frédéric de
+Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest.
+
+DUMONT. Noble, O noble!           \
+                                   > _Together: eachshaking him by
+BERTRAND. Beautiful, O beautiful! /     the hand._
+
+DUMONT. Now Charles is rich he needs it not. For whom could it more
+fittingly be set aside than for his noble father? I will give it you at
+once.
+
+BERTRAND. At once, at once!
+
+MACAIRE (_aside to BERTRAND_). Hang on. (_Aloud._) Charles, Charles, my
+lost boy! (_He falls weeping at L. table. DUMONT enters the office and
+brings down cash-box to table R. He feels in all his pockets: BERTRAND
+from behind him making signs to MACAIRE, which the latter does not
+see._)
+
+DUMONT. That's strange. I can't find the key. It's a patent key.
+
+BERTRAND (_behind DUMONT, making signs to MACAIRE_). The key, he can't
+find the key.
+
+MACAIRE. O, yes, I remember. I heard it drop. (_Drops key._) And here it
+is before my eyes.
+
+DUMONT. That? That's yours. I saw it drop.
+
+MACAIRE. I give you my word of honour I heard it fall five minutes back.
+
+DUMONT. But I saw it.
+
+MACAIRE. Impossible. It must be yours.
+
+DUMONT. It is like mine, indeed. How came it in your pocket?
+
+MACAIRE. Bitten! (_Aside._)
+
+BERTRAND. Sold again! (_Aside_) ... You forget, Baron, it's the key of
+my valise; I gave it you to keep in consequence of the hole in my
+pocket.
+
+MACAIRE. True, true; and that explains.
+
+DUMONT. O, that explains. Now, all we have to do is to find mine. It's a
+patent key. You heard it drop.
+
+MACAIRE. Distinctly.
+
+BERTRAND. So I did: distinctly.
+
+DUMONT. Here, Aline, Babette, Goriot, Curate, Charles, everybody, come
+here and look for my key!
+
+
+  SCENE VI
+
+  _To these, with candles, all the former characters, except FIDDLERS,
+  PEASANTS, and NOTARY. They hunt for the key_
+
+DUMONT. It's bound to be here. We all heard it drop.
+
+MARQUIS (_with BERTRAND'S bundle_). Is this it?
+
+ALL (_with fury_). No.
+
+BERTRAND. Hands off, that's my luggage. (_Hunt resumed._)
+
+DUMONT. I heard it drop, as plain as ever I heard anything.
+
+MARQUIS. By the way (_all start up_), what are we looking for?
+
+ALL (_with fury_). O!!
+
+DUMONT. Will you have the kindness to find my key? (_Hunt resumed._)
+
+CURATE. What description of a key----
+
+DUMONT. A patent, patent, patent, patent key!
+
+MACAIRE. I have it. Here it is!
+
+ALL (_with relief_). Ah!!
+
+DUMONT. That? What do you mean? That's yours.
+
+MACAIRE. Pardon me.
+
+DUMONT. It is.
+
+MACAIRE. It isn't.
+
+DUMONT. I tell you it is: look at that twisted handle.
+
+MACAIRE. It can't be mine, and so it must be yours.
+
+DUMONT. It is NOT. Feel in your pockets. (_To the others._) Will you
+have the kindness to find my patent key?
+
+ALL. O!! (_Hunt resumed._)
+
+MACAIRE. Ah, well, you're right. (_He slips key into DUMONT'S pocket._)
+An idea: suppose you felt in your pocket?
+
+ALL (_rising_). Yes! Suppose you did!
+
+DUMONT. I will not feel in my pockets. How could it be there? It's a
+patent key. This is more than any man can bear. First, Charles is one
+man's son, and then he's another's, and then he's nobody's, and be
+damned to him! And then there's my key lost; and then there's your key!
+What is your key? Where is your key? Where isn't it? And why is it like
+mine, only mine's a patent? The long and short of it is this: that I'm
+going to bed, and that you're all going to bed, and that I refuse to
+hear another word upon the subject or upon any subject. There!
+
+MACAIRE. Bitten!      \
+                       > _Aside._
+BERTRAND. Sold again! /
+
+(_ALINE and MAIDS extinguish hanging lamps over tables, R. and L. Stage
+lighted only by guests' candles._)
+
+CHARLES. But, sir, I cannot decently retire to rest till I embrace my
+honoured parent. Which is it to be?
+
+MACAIRE. Charles, to my----
+
+DUMONT. Embrace neither of them; embrace nobody; there has been too much
+of this sickening folly. To bed!!! (_Exit violently R.U.E. All the
+characters troop slowly upstairs, talking in dumb show. BERTRAND and
+MACAIRE remain in front C., watching them go._)
+
+BERTRAND. Sold again, captain?
+
+MACAIRE. Ay, they will have it.
+
+BERTRAND. It? What?
+
+MACAIRE. The worst, Bertrand. What is man?--a beast of prey. An hour
+ago, and I'd have taken a crust and gone in peace. But no: they would
+trick and juggle, curse them: they would wriggle and cheat! Well, I
+accept the challenge: war to the knife.
+
+BERTRAND. Murder?
+
+MACAIRE. What is murder? A legal term for a man dying. Call it Fate, and
+that's philosophy; call me Providence, and you talk religion. Die? Why,
+that is what man is made for; we are full of mortal parts; we are all as
+good as dead already, we hang so close upon the brink: touch a button,
+and the strongest falls in dissolution. Now, see how easy: I take
+you----(_grappling him_).
+
+BERTRAND. Macaire--O no!
+
+MACAIRE. Fool! Would I harm a fly, when I had nothing to gain? As the
+butcher with the sheep, I kill to live; and where is the difference
+between man and mutton? pride and a tailor's bill. Murder? I know who
+made that name--a man crouching from the knife! Selfishness made it--the
+aggregated egotism called society; but I meet that with a selfishness as
+great. Has he money? Have I none--great powers, none? Well, then, I
+fatten and manure my life with his.
+
+BERTRAND. You frighten me. Who is it?
+
+MACAIRE. Mark well. (_The MARQUIS opens the door of Number Thirteen, and
+the rest, clustering round, bid him good-night. As they begin to
+disperse along the gallery he enters and shuts the door._) Out, out,
+brief candle! That man is doomed.
+
+
+  DROP
+
+
+
+
+  ACT III
+
+
+  _As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark and empty. Enter MACAIRE,
+  L.U.E., with lantern. He looks about_
+
+
+  SCENE I
+
+  MACAIRE, BERTRAND
+
+MACAIRE (_calling off_). S'st!
+
+BERTRAND (_entering L.U.E._). It's creeping dark.
+
+MACAIRE. Blinding dark; and a good job.
+
+BERTRAND. Macaire, I'm cold; my very hair's cold.
+
+MACAIRE. Work, work will warm you: to your keys.
+
+BERTRAND. No, Macaire, it's a horror. You'll not kill him; let's have no
+bloodshed.
+
+MACAIRE. None: it spoils your clothes. Now, see: you have keys and you
+have experience: up that stair and pick me the lock of that man's door.
+Pick me the lock of that man's door.
+
+BERTRAND. May I take the light?
+
+MACAIRE. You may not. Go. (_BERTRAND mounts the stairs and is seen
+picking the lock of Number Thirteen._) The earth spins eastward, and the
+day is at the door. Yet half an hour of covert, and the sun will be
+afoot, the discoverer, the great policeman. Yet half an hour of night,
+the good, hiding, practicable night; and lo! at a touch the gas-jet of
+the universe turned on; and up with the sun gets the providence of
+honest people, puts off his nightcap, throws up his window, stares out
+of house--and the rogue must skulk again till dusk. Yet half an hour
+and, Macaire, you shall be safe and rich. If yon fool--my fool--would
+but miscarry, if the dolt within would hear and leap upon him, I could
+intervene, kill both, by heaven--both!--cry murder with the best, and at
+one stroke reap honour and gold. For, Bertrand dead----
+
+BERTRAND (_from above_). S'st, Macaire.
+
+MACAIRE. Is it done, dear boy? Come down. (_BERTRAND descends._) Sit
+down beside this light: this is your ring of safety, budge not
+beyond--the night is crowded with hobgoblins. See ghosts and tremble
+like a jelly if you must; but remember men are my concern; and at the
+creak of a man's foot, hist! (_Sharpening his knife upon his sleeve._)
+What is a knife? A plain man's sword.
+
+BERTRAND. Not the knife, Macaire; O, not the knife.
+
+MACAIRE. My name is Self-Defence. (_He goes upstairs and enters Number
+Thirteen._)
+
+BERTRAND. He's in. I hear a board creak. What a night, what a night!
+Will he hear him? O Lord, my poor Macaire! I hear nothing, nothing. The
+night's as empty as a dream: he must hear him; he cannot help but hear
+him; and then--O Macaire, Macaire, come back to me. It's death, and it's
+death, and it's death. Red, red: a corpse. Macaire to kill, Macaire to
+die? I'd rather starve, I'd rather perish, than either: I'm not fit, I'm
+not fit for either! Why, how's this? I want to cry. (_A stroke, and a
+groan from above._) God Almighty, one of them's gone! (_He falls with
+his head on table, R. MACAIRE appears at the top of the stairs,
+descends, comes airily forward and touches him on the shoulder.
+BERTRAND, with a cry, turns, and falls upon his neck._) O, O, and I
+thought I had lost him. (_Day breaking._)
+
+MACAIRE. The contrary, dear boy. (_He produces notes._)
+
+BERTRAND. What was it like?
+
+MACAIRE. Like? Nothing. A little blood, a dead man.
+
+BERTRAND. Blood!... Dead! (_He falls at table sobbing. MACAIRE divides
+the notes into two parts; on the smaller he wipes the bloody knife,
+and folding the stains inward, thrusts the notes into BERTRAND'S face._)
+
+MACAIRE. What is life without the pleasures of the table?
+
+BERTRAND (_taking and pocketing notes_). Macaire, I can't get over it.
+
+MACAIRE. My mark is the frontier, and at top speed. Don't hang your jaw
+at me. Up, up, at the double; pick me that cash-box; and let's get the
+damned house fairly cleared.
+
+BERTRAND. I can't. Did he bleed much?
+
+MACAIRE. Bleed? Must I bleed you? To work, or I'm dangerous.
+
+BERTRAND. It's all right, Macaire; I'm going.
+
+MACAIRE. Better so: an old friend is nearly sacred. (_Full daylight:
+lights up. MACAIRE blows out lantern._)
+
+BERTRAND. Where's the key?
+
+MACAIRE. Key? I tell you to pick it.
+
+BERTRAND (_with the box_). But it's a patent lock. Where is the key? You
+had it.
+
+MACAIRE. Will you pick that lock?
+
+BERTRAND. I can't; it's a patent. Where's the key?
+
+MACAIRE. If you will have it, I put it back in that old ass's pocket.
+
+BERTRAND. Bitten, I think. (_MACAIRE dancing mad._)
+
+
+  SCENE II
+
+  _To these, DUMONT_
+
+DUMONT. Ah, friends, up so early? Catching the worm, catching the worm?
+
+MACAIRE. Good morning, good morning! \
+                                      > _Both sitting on the table and
+BERTRAND. Early birds, early birds.  /     dissembling box._
+
+DUMONT. By the way, very remarkable thing: I found that key.
+
+MACAIRE. No!
+
+BERTRAND. O!
+
+DUMONT. Perhaps a still more remarkable thing: it was my key that had
+the twisted handle.
+
+MACAIRE. I told you so.
+
+DUMONT. Now, what we have to do is to get the cash-box. Hallo! what's
+that you're sitting on?
+
+BERTRAND. Nothing.
+
+MACAIRE. The table! I beg your pardon.
+
+DUMONT. Why, it's my cash-box!
+
+MACIARE. Why, so it is!
+
+DUMONT. It's very singular.
+
+MACAIRE. Diabolishly singular.
+
+BERTRAND. Early worms, early worms!
+
+DUMONT (_blowing in key_). Well, I suppose you are still willing to
+begone?
+
+MACAIRE. More than willing, my dear soul: pressed, I may say, for time;
+for though it had quite escaped my memory, I have an appointment in
+Turin with a lady of title.
+
+DUMONT (_at box_). It's very odd. (_Blows in key._) It's a singular
+thing (_blowing_), key won't turn. It's a patent. Someone must have
+tampered with the lock (_blowing_). It's strangely singular, it's
+singularly singular! I've shown this key to commercial gentlemen all the
+way from Paris: they never saw a better key! (_more business_). Well,
+(_giving it up and looking reproachfully on key_,) that's pretty
+singular.
+
+MACAIRE. Let me try. (_He tries, and flings down the key with a curse._)
+Bitten!
+
+BERTRAND. Sold again!
+
+DUMONT (_picking up key_). It's a patent key.
+
+Macaire (_to BERTRAND_). The game's up: we must save the swag. (_To
+DUMONT._) Sir, since your key, on which I invoke the blight of Egypt,
+has once more defaulted, my feelings are unequal to a repetition of
+yesterday's distress, and I shall simply pad the hoof. From Turin you
+shall receive the address of my banker, and may prosperity attend your
+ventures. (_To BERTRAND._) Now, boy! (_To DUMONT._) Embrace my
+fatherless child! farewell! (_MACAIRE and BERTRAND turn to go off, and
+are met in the door by the GENDARMES._)
+
+
+  SCENE III
+
+  _To these, the BRIGADIER and GENDARMES_
+
+BRIGADIER. Let no man leave the house.
+
+MACAIRE. Bitten!      \
+                       > _Aside._
+BERTRAND. Sold again! /
+
+DUMONT. Welcome, old friend!
+
+BRIGADIER. It is not the friend that comes; it is the Brigadier. Summon
+your guests; I must investigate their passports. I am in pursuit of a
+notorious malefactor, Robert Macaire.
+
+DUMONT. But I was led to believe that both Macaire and his accomplice
+had been arrested and condemned.
+
+BRIGADIER. They were, but they have once more escaped for the moment,
+and justice is indefatigable. (_He sits at table, R._) Dumont, a bottle
+of white wine.
+
+MACAIRE (_to DUMONT_). My excellent friend, I will discharge your
+commission, and return with all speed. (_Going._)
+
+BRIGADIER. Halt!
+
+MACAIRE (_returning: as if he saw BRIGADIER for the first time_). Ha! a
+member of the force? Charmed, I'm sure. But you misconceive me: I
+return, at once, and my friend remains behind to answer for me.
+
+BRIGADIER. Justice is insensible to friendship. I shall deal with you in
+due time. Dumont, that bottle.
+
+MACAIRE. Sir, my friend and I, who are students of character, would
+grasp the opportunity to share and--may one add?--to pay the bottle.
+Dumont, three!
+
+BERTRAND. For God's sake! (_Enter ALINE and MAIDS._)
+
+MACAIRE. My friend is an author: so, in a humbler way, am I. Your
+knowledge of the criminal classes naturally tempts one to pursue so
+interesting an acquaintance.
+
+BRIGADIER. Justice is impartial. Gentlemen, your health.
+
+MACAIRE. Will not these brave fellows join us?
+
+BRIGADIER. They are on duty; but what matters?
+
+MACAIRE. My dear sir, what is duty? duty is my eye.
+
+BRIGADIER (_solemnly_). And Betty Martin. (_GENDARMES sit at table._)
+
+MACAIRE (_to BERTRAND_). Dear friend, sit down.
+
+BERTRAND (_sitting down_). O Lord!
+
+BRIGADIER (_to MACAIRE_). You seem to be a gentleman of considerable
+intelligence.
+
+MACAIRE. I fear, sir, you flatter. One has lived, one has loved, and one
+remembers: that is all. One's "Lives of Celebrated Criminals" has met
+with a certain success, and one is ever in quest of fresh material.
+
+DUMONT. By the way, a singular thing about my patent key.
+
+BRIGADIER. This gentleman is speaking.
+
+MACAIRE. Excellent Dumont! he means no harm. This Macaire is not
+personally known to you?
+
+BRIGADIER. Are you connected with justice?
+
+MACAIRE. Ah, sir, justice is a point above a poor author.
+
+BRIGADIER (_with glass_). Justice is the very devil.
+
+MACAIRE. My dear sir, my friend and I, I regret to say, have an
+appointment in Lyons, or I could spend my life in this society. Charge
+your glasses: one hour to madness and to joy! What is to-morrow? the
+enemy of to-day. Wine? the bath of life. One moment: I find I have
+forgotten my watch. (_He makes for the door._)
+
+BRIGADIER. Halt!
+
+MACAIRE. Sir, what is this jest?
+
+BRIGADIER. Sentry at the door. Your passports.
+
+MACAIRE. My good man, with all the pleasure in life. (_Gives papers. The
+BRIGADIER puts on spectacles and examines them._)
+
+BERTRAND (_rising and passing round to MACAIRE'S other side_). It's life
+and death: they must soon find it.
+
+MACAIRE (_aside_). Don't I know? My heart's like fire in my body.
+
+BRIGADIER. Your name is?
+
+MACAIRE. It is; one's name is not unknown.
+
+BRIGADIER. Justice exacts your name.
+
+MACAIRE. Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest.
+
+BRIGADIER. Your profession?
+
+MACAIRE. Gentleman.
+
+BRIGADIER. No, but what is your trade?
+
+MACAIRE. I am an analytical chemist.
+
+BRIGADIER. Justice is inscrutable. Your papers are in order. (_To
+BERTRAND._) Now, sir, and yours?
+
+BERTRAND. I feel kind of ill.
+
+MACAIRE. Bertrand, this gentleman addresses you. He is not one of us; in
+other scenes, in the gay and giddy world of fashion, one is his
+superior. But to-day he represents the majesty of law; and as a citizen
+it is one's pride to do him honour.
+
+BRIGADIER. Those are my sentiments.
+
+BERTRAND. I beg your pardon, I----(_Gives papers._)
+
+BRIGADIER. Your name?
+
+BERTRAND. Napoleon.
+
+BRIGADIER. What? In your passport it is written Bertrand.
+
+BERTRAND. It's this way: I was born Bertrand, and then I took the name
+of Napoleon, and I mostly always call myself either Napoleon or
+Bertrand.
+
+BRIGADIER. The truth is always best. Your profession?
+
+BERTRAND. I am an orphan.
+
+BRIGADIER. What the devil! (_To MACAIRE._) Is your friend an idiot?
+
+MACAIRE. Pardon me, he is a poet.
+
+BRIGADIER. Poetry is a great hindrance to the ends of justice. Well,
+take your papers.
+
+MACAIRE. Then we may go?
+
+
+  SCENE IV
+
+  _To these, CHARLES, who is seen on the gallery going to the door of
+  Number Thirteen. Afterwards all the characters but the NOTARY and the
+  MARQUIS._
+
+BRIGADIER. One glass more. (_BERTRAND touches MACAIRE, and points to
+CHARLES, who enters Number Thirteen._)
+
+MACAIRE. No more, no more, no more.
+
+BRIGADIER (_rising and taking MACAIRE by the arm_). I stipulate.
+
+MACAIRE. Engagement in Turin!
+
+BRIGADIER. Turin?
+
+MACAIRE. Lyons, Lyons!
+
+BERTRAND. For God's sake ...
+
+BRIGADIER. Well, good-bye!
+
+MACAIRE. Good-bye, good----
+
+CHARLES (_from within_). Murder! Help! (_Appearing._) Help here! The
+Marquis is murdered.
+
+BRIGADIER. Stand to the door. A man up there. (_A GENDARME hurries up
+staircase into Number Thirteen, CHARLES following him. Enter on both
+sides of gallery the remaining characters of the piece, except the
+NOTARY and the MARQUIS._)
+
+MACAIRE. Bitten, by God! \
+                          > _Aside._
+BERTRAND. Lost!          /
+
+BRIGADIER (_to DUMONT_). John Paul Dumont, I arrest you.
+
+DUMONT. Do your duty, officer. I can answer for myself and my own
+people.
+
+BRIGADIER. Yes, but these strangers?
+
+DUMONT. They are strangers to me.
+
+MACAIRE. I am an honest man: I stand upon my rights: search me; or
+search this person, of whom I know too little. (_Smiting his brow._) By
+heaven, I see it all! This morning----(_To BERTRAND._) How, sir, did
+you dare to flaunt your booty in my very face? (_To BRIGADIER._) He
+showed me notes; he was up ere day; search him, and you'll find. There
+stands the murderer.
+
+BERTRAND. O, Macaire! (_He is seized and searched and the notes are
+found._)
+
+BRIGADIER. There is blood upon the notes. Handcuffs. (_MACAIRE edging
+towards the door._)
+
+BERTRAND. Macaire, you may as well take the bundle. (_MACAIRE is stopped
+by sentry, and comes front, R._)
+
+CHARLES (_re-appearing_). Stop, I know the truth. (_He comes down._)
+Brigadier, my father is not dead. He is not even dangerously hurt. He
+has spoken. There is the would-be assassin.
+
+MACAIRE. Hell! (_He darts across to the staircase, and turns on the
+second step, flashing out the knife._) Back, hounds! (_He springs up the
+stair, and confronts them from the top._) Fools, I am Robert Macaire!
+(_As MACAIRE turns to flee, he is met by the Gendarme coming out of
+Number Thirteen; he stands an instant checked, is shot from the stage,
+and falls headlong backward down the stair. BERTRAND, with a cry, breaks
+from the Gendarmes, kneels at his side, and raises his head._)
+
+BERTRAND. Macaire, Macaire, forgive me. I didn't blab; you know I didn't
+blab.
+
+MACAIRE. Sold again, old boy. Sold for the last time; at least, the last
+time this side death. Death----what is death? (_He dies._)
+
+
+  CURTAIN
+
+
+
+
+  PRINTED BY CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E.C.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson,
+Volume XV, by Robert Louis Stevenson
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