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diff --git a/30643.txt b/30643.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..39cfd4d --- /dev/null +++ b/30643.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9546 @@ +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: ASCII + +*** 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 persona._ 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. _A la reine de mes amours!_ +(_Drinks._) What fiend put this in your way, you hound? You've filled +me with raw stuff. By the muckle deil!---- + +MOORE. Don't hit him, Deacon; tell his mother. + +HUNT (_aside_). Oho! + + + SCENE III + + _To these, SMITH, RIVERS_ + +SMITH. Where's my beloved? Deakin, my beauty, where are you? Come to the +arms of George, and let him introduce you. Capting Starlight Rivers! +Capting, the Deakin: Deakin, the Capting. An English nobleman on the +grand tour, to open his mind, by the Lard! + +RIVERS. Stupendiously pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. 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. _Voila._ + +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 Caesar. 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._) _Voila!_ 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-la! + + + 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" _AEtat._ 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 _pate_, 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: "Che faro" as the drop falls.) + + + + + MUSICAL INDUCTION: "Gavotte," _Iphigenie 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-Frederic 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-Frederic 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 Cherte de Medoc. +(_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-Frederic 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-Frederic 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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORKS OF R.L. 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