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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/719-0.txt b/719-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..832010a --- /dev/null +++ b/719-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9677 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. +Stevenson, by Robert Louis Stevenson, et al + + +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 Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson + + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + + + +Release Date: March 10, 2013 [eBook #719] +[This file was first posted on November 22, 1996] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PLAYS OF W. E. HENLEY AND R. +L. STEVENSON*** + + +Transcribed from the 1907 William Heinemann edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + The Plays + of + W. E. Henley and + R. L. Stevenson + +Deacon Brodie Beau Austin +Admiral Guinea Robert Macaire + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + London + + William Heinemann + + 1907 + + * * * * * + + _Copyright_ +_All rights reserved_ + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +DEACON BRODIE 1 +BEAU AUSTIN 111 +ADMIRAL GUINEA 177 +ROBERT MACAIRE 251 + + + + +DEACON BRODIE +OR THE DOUBLE LIFE +A MELODRAMA IN FIVE ACTS +AND EIGHT TABLEAUX + + +PERSONS REPRESENTED + + +WILLIAM BRODIE, Deacon of the Wrights, Housebreaker and Master Carpenter. + +OLD BRODIE, the Deacon’s Father. + +WILLIAM LAWSON, Procurator-Fiscal, the Deacon’s Uncle. + +ANDREW AINSLIE, HUMPHREY MOORE, GEORGE SMITH, Robbers in the Deacon’s +gang. + +CAPTAIN RIVERS, an English Highwayman. + +HUNT, a Bow Street Runner. + +A DOCTOR. + +WALTER LESLIE. + +MARY BRODIE, the Deacon’s Sister. + +JEAN WATT, the Deacon’s Mistress. + + VAGABONDS, OFFICERS OF THE WATCH, MEN-SERVANTS. + +The Scene is laid in Edinburgh. The Time is towards the close of the +Eighteenth Century. The Action, some fifty hours long, begins at eight +p.m. on Saturday and ends before midnight on Monday. + +NOTE.—_Passages suggested for omission in representation are enclosed in +square brackets_, _thus_ [ ]. + + + +SYNOPSIS OF ACTS AND TABLEAUX + + ACT I. +TABLEAU I. The Double Life. +TABLEAU II. Hunt the Runner. +TABLEAU III. Mother Clarke’s. + ACT II. +TABLEAU IV. Evil and Good. + ACT III. +TABLEAU V. King’s Evidence. +TABLEAU VI. Unmasked. + ACT IV. +TABLEAU VII. The Robbery. + ACT V. +TABLEAU VIII. The Open Door. + +LONDON: PRINCE’S THEATRE + + + 2_d_ _July_ 1884 + +DEACON BRODIE, Mr. E. J. HENLEY. +WALTER LESLIE, Mr. CHARLES CARTWRIGHT. +WILLIAM LAWSON, Mr. JOHN MACLEAN. +ANDREW AINSLIE, Mr. FRED DESMOND. +HUMPHREY MOORE, Mr. EDMUND GRACE. +GEORGE SMITH, Mr. JULIAN CROSS. +HUNT, Mr. HUBERT AKHURST. +OLD BRODIE, Mr. A. KNIGHT. +CAPTAIN RIVERS, Mr. BRANDON THOMAS. +MARY BRODIE, Miss LIZZIE WILLIAMS. +JEAN WATT, Miss MINNIE BELL. + +MONTREAL + + + 26_th_ _September_ 1887 + +DEACON BRODIE, Mr. E. J. HENLEY. +WALTER LESLIE, Mr. GRAHAM STEWART. +WILLIAM LAWSON, Mr. EDMUND LYONS. +ANDREW AINSLIE, Mr. FRED DESMOND. +HUMPHREY MOORE, Mr. EDMUND GRACE. +GEORGE SMITH, Mr. HORATIO SAKER. +HUNT, Mr. HENRY VERNON. +CAPTAIN RIVERS, Mr. BRUCE PHILIPS. +MARY BRODIE, Miss ANNIE ROBE. +JEAN WATT, Miss CARRIE COOTE. + +ACT I. + + +TABLEAU I. +THE DOUBLE LIFE. + + +_The Stage represents a room in the Deacon’s house_, _furnished partly as +a sitting-_, _partly as a bed-room_, _in the style of an easy burgess of +about_ 1780. _C._, _a door_; _L. C._, _a second and smaller door_; _R. +C._, _practicable window_; _L._, _alcove_, _supposed to contain bed_; _at +the back_, _a clothes-press and a corner cupboard containing bottles_, +_etc._ MARY BRODIE _at needlework_; OLD BRODIE, _a paralytic_, _in +wheeled chair_, _at the fireside_, _L._ + + +SCENE I + + + _To these_ LESLIE, _C._ + +LESLIE. May I come in, Mary? + +MARY. Why not? + +LESLIE. I scarce knew where to find you. + +MARY. The dad and I must have a corner, must we not? So when my +brother’s friends are in the parlour he allows us to sit in his room. +’Tis a great favour, I can tell you; the place is sacred. + +LESLIE. Are you sure that ‘sacred’ is strong enough? + +MARY. You are satirical! + +LESLIE. I? And with regard to the Deacon? Believe me, I am not so +ill-advised. You have trained me well, and I feel by him as solemnly as +a true-born Brodie. + +MARY. And now you are impertinent! Do you mean to go any further? We +are a fighting race, we Brodies. Oh, you may laugh, sir! But ’tis no +child’s play to jest us on our Deacon, or, for that matter, on our +Deacon’s chamber either. It was his father’s before him: he works in it +by day and sleeps in it by night; and scarce anything it contains but is +the labour of his hands. Do you see this table, Walter? He made it +while he was yet a ’prentice. I remember how I used to sit and watch him +at his work. It would be grand, I thought, to be able to do as he did, +and handle edge-tools without cutting my fingers, and getting my ears +pulled for a meddlesome minx! He used to give me his mallet to keep and +his nails to hold; and didn’t I fly when he called for them! and wasn’t I +proud to be ordered about with them! And then, you know, there is the +tall cabinet yonder; that it was that proved him the first of Edinburgh +joiners, and worthy to be their Deacon and their head. And the father’s +chair, and the sister’s workbox, and the dear dead mother’s +footstool—what are they all but proofs of the Deacon’s skill, and tokens +of the Deacon’s care for those about him? + +LESLIE. I am all penitence. Forgive me this last time, and I promise +you I never will again. + +MARY. Candidly, now, do you think you deserve forgiveness? + +LESLIE. Candidly, I do not. + +MARY. Then I suppose you must have it. What have you done with Willie +and my uncle? + +LESLIE. I left them talking deeply. The dear old Procurator has not +much thought just now for anything but those mysterious burglaries— + +MARY. I know!— + +LESLIE. Still, all of him that is not magistrate and official is +politician and citizen; and he has been striving his hardest to undermine +the Deacon’s principles, and win the Deacon’s vote and interest. + +MARY. They are worth having, are they not? + +LESLIE. The Procurator seems to think that having them makes the +difference between winning and losing. + +MARY. Did he say so? You may rely upon it that he knows. There are not +many in Edinburgh who can match with our Will. + +LESLIE. There shall be as many as you please, and not one more. + +MARY. How I should like to have heard you! What did uncle say? Did he +speak of the Town Council again? Did he tell Will what a wonderful +Bailie he would make? O why did you come away? + +LESLIE. I could not pretend to listen any longer. The election is +months off yet; and if it were not—if it were tramping upstairs this +moment—drums, flags, cockades, guineas, candidates, and all!—how should I +care for it? What are Whig and Tory to me? + +MARY. O fie on you! It is for every man to concern himself in the +common weal. Mr. Leslie—Leslie of the Craig!—should know that much at +least. + +LESLIE. And be a politician like the Deacon? All in good time, but not +now. I hearkened while I could, and when I could no more I slipped out +and followed my heart. I hoped I should be welcome. + +MARY. I suppose you mean to be unkind. + +LESLIE. Tit for tat. Did you not ask me why I came away? And is it +usual for a young lady to say ‘Mr.’ to the man she means to marry? + +MARY. That is for the young lady to decide, sir. + +LESLIE. And against that judgment there shall be no appeal? + +MARY. O, if you mean to argue!— + +LESLIE. I do not mean to argue. I am content to love and be loved. I +think I am the happiest man in the world. + +MARY. That is as it should be; for I am the happiest girl. + +LESLIE. Why not say the happiest wife? I have your word, and you have +mine. Is not that enough? + +MARY. Have you so soon forgotten? Did I not tell you how it must be as +my brother wills? I can do only as he bids me. + +LESLIE. Then you have not spoken as you promised? + +MARY. I have been too happy to speak. + +LESLIE. I am his friend. Precious as you are, he will trust you to me. +He has but to know how I love you, Mary, and how your life is all in your +love of me, to give us his blessing with a full heart. + +MARY. I am sure of him. It is that which makes my happiness complete. +Even to our marriage I should find it hard to say ‘Yes’ when he said +‘No.’ + +LESLIE. Your father is trying to speak. I’ll wager he echoes you. + +MARY (_to_ OLD BRODIE). My poor dearie! Do you want to say anything to +me? No? Is it to Mr. Leslie, then? + +LESLIE. I am listening, Mr. Brodie. + +MARY. What is it, daddie? + +OLD BRODIE. My son—the Deacon—Deacon Brodie—the first at school. + +LESLIE. I know it, Mr. Brodie. Was I not the last in the same class? +(_To_ MARY.) But he seems to have forgotten us. + +MARY. O yes! his mind is wellnigh gone. He will sit for hours as you +see him, and never speak nor stir but at the touch of Will’s hand or the +sound of Will’s name. + +LESLIE. It is so good to sit beside you. By and by it will be always +like this. You will not let me speak to the Deacon? You are fast set +upon speaking yourself? I could be so eloquent, Mary—I would touch him. +I cannot tell you how I fear to trust my happiness to any one else—even +to you! + +MARY. He must hear of my good fortune from none but me. And besides, +you do not understand. We are not like families, we Brodies. We are so +clannish, we hold so close together. + +LESLIE. You Brodies, and your Deacon! + +OLD BRODIE. Deacon of his craft, sir—Deacon of the Wrights—my son! If +his mother—his mother—had but lived to see! + +MARY. You hear how he runs on. A word about my brother and he catches +it. ’Tis as if he were awake in his poor blind way to all the Deacon’s +care for him and all the Deacon’s kindness to me. I believe he only +lives in the thought of the Deacon. There, it is not so long since I was +one with him. But indeed I think we are all Deacon-mad, we Brodies. Are +we not, daddie dear? + +BRODIE (_without_, _and entering_). You are a mighty magistrate, +Procurator, but you seem to have met your match. + + +SCENE II + + + _To these_, BRODIE and LAWSON. + +MARY (_curtseying_). So, uncle! you have honoured us at last. + +LAWSON. _Quam primum_, my dear, _quam primum_. + +BRODIE. Well, father, do you know me? (_He sits beside his father and +takes his hand_.) + +[OLD BRODIE. William—ay—Deacon. Greater man—than—his father. + +BRODIE. You see, Procurator, the news is as fresh to him as it was five +years ago. He was struck down before he got the Deaconship, and lives +his lost life in mine. + +LAWSON. Ay, I mind. He was aye ettling after a bit handle to his name. +He was kind of hurt when first they made me Procurator.] + +MARY. And what have you been talking of? + +LAWSON. Just o’ thae robberies, Mary. Baith as a burgher and a Crown +offeecial, I tak’ the maist absorbing interest in thae robberies. + +LESLIE. Egad, Procurator, and so do I. + +BRODIE (_with a quick look at_ LESLIE). A dilettante interest, +doubtless! See what it is to be idle. + +LESLIE. Faith, Brodie, I hardly know how to style it. + +BRODIE. At any rate, ’tis not the interest of a victim, or we should +certainly have known of it before; nor a practical tool-mongering +interest, like my own; nor an interest professional and official, like +the Procurator’s. You can answer for that, I suppose? + +LESLIE. I think I can; if for no more. It’s an interest of my own, you +see, and is best described as indescribable, and of no manner of moment +to anybody. [It will take no hurt if we put off its discussion till a +month of Sundays.] + +BRODIE. You are more fortunate than you deserve. What do you say, +Procurator? + +LAWSON. Ay is he! There is no a house in Edinburgh safe. The law is +clean helpless, clean helpless! A week syne it was auld Andra Simpson’s +in the Lawnmarket. Then, naething would set the catamarans but to +forgather privily wi’ the Provost’s ain butler, and tak’ unto themselves +the Provost’s ain plate. And the day, information was laid before me +offeecially that the limmers had made infraction, _vi et clam_, into +Leddy Mar’get Dalziel’s, and left her leddyship wi’ no sae muckle’s a +spune to sup her parritch wi’. It’s unbelievable, it’s awful, it’s +anti-christian! + +MARY. If you only knew them, uncle, what an example you would make! But +tell me, is it not strange that men should dare such things, in the midst +of a city, and nothing, nothing be known of them—nothing at all? + +LESLIE. Little, indeed! But we do know that there are several in the +gang, and that one at least is an unrivalled workman. + +LAWSON. Ye’re right, sir; ye’re vera right, Mr. Leslie. It had been +deponed to me offeecially that no a tradesman—no the Deacon here +himsel’—could have made a cleaner job wi’ Andra Simpson’s shutters. And +as for the lock o’ the bank—but that’s an auld sang. + +BRODIE. I think you believe too much, Procurator. Rumour’s an ignorant +jade, I tell you. I’ve had occasion to see some little of their +handiwork—broken cabinets, broken shutters, broken doors—and I find them +bunglers. Why, I could do it better myself! + +LESLIE. Gad, Brodie, you and I might go into partnership. I back myself +to watch outside, and I suppose you could do the work of skill within? + +BRODIE. An opposition company? Leslie, your mind is full of good +things. Suppose we begin to-night, and give the Procurator’s house the +honours of our innocence? + +MARY. You could do anything, you two! + +LAWSON. Onyway, Deacon, ye’d put your ill-gotten gains to a right use; +they might come by the wind but they wouldna gang wi’ the water; and +that’s aye _a solatium_, as we say. If I am to be robbit, I would like +to be robbit wi’ decent folk; and no think o’ my bonnie clean siller +dirling among jads and dicers. [Faith, William, the mair I think on’t, +the mair I’m o’ Mr. Leslie’s mind. Come the night, or come the morn, and +I’se gie ye my free permission, and lend ye a hand in at the window +forbye! + +BRODIE. Come, come, Procurator, lead not our poor clay into temptation. +(LESLIE _and_ MARY _talk apart_.) + +LAWSON. I’m no muckle afraid for your puir clay, as ye ca’t.] But hark +i’ your ear: ye’re likely, joking apart, to be gey and sune in +partnership wi’ Mr. Leslie. He and Mary are gey and pack, a body can see +that. + +[BRODIE. ‘Daffin’ and want o’ wit’—you know the rest. + +LAWSON. _Vidi_, _scivi_, _et audivi_, as we say in a Sasine, William.] +Man, because my wig’s pouthered do ye think I havena a green heart? I +was aince a lad mysel’, and I ken fine by the glint o’ the e’e when a +lad’s fain and a lassie’s willing. And, man, it’s the town’s talk; +_communis error fit jus_, ye ken. + +[OLD BRODIE. Oh! + +LAWSON. See, ye’re hurting your faither’s hand. + +BRODIE. Dear dad, it is not good to have an ill-tempered son. + +LAWSON. What the deevil ails ye at the match? ’Od, man, he has a nice +bit divot o’ Fife corn-land, I can tell ye, and some Bordeaux wine in his +cellar! But I needna speak o’ the Bordeaux; ye’ll ken the smack o’t as +weel’s I do mysel’; onyway it’s grand wine. _Tantum et tale_. I tell ye +the _pro’s_, find you the _con.’s_, if ye’re able.] + +BRODIE. [I am sorry, Procurator, but I must be short with you.] You are +talking in the air, as lawyers will. I prefer to drop the subject [and +it will displease me if you return to it in my hearing]. + +LESLIE. At four o’clock to-morrow? At my house? (_to_ MARY). + +MARY. As soon as church is done. (_Exit_ MARY.) + +LAWSON. Ye needna be sae high and mighty, onyway. + +BRODIE. I ask your pardon, Procurator. But we Brodies—you know our +failings! [A bad temper and a humour of privacy.] + +LAWSON. Weel, I maun be about my business. But I could tak’ a +doch-an-dorach, William; _superflua non nocent_, as we say; an extra dram +hurts naebody, Mr. Leslie. + +BRODIE (_with bottle and glasses_). Here’s your old friend, Procurator. +Help yourself, Leslie. Oh no, thank you, not any for me. You strong +people have the advantage of me there. With my attacks, you know, I must +always live a bit of a hermit’s life. + +LAWSON. ’Od, man, that’s fine; that’s health o’ mind and body. Mr. +Leslie, here’s to you, sir. ’Od, it’s harder to end than to begin wi’ +stuff like that. + + +SCENE III + + + _To these_, SMITH and JEAN, _C._ + +SMITH. Is the king of the castle in, please? + +LAWSON (_aside_). Lord’s sake, it’s Smith! + +BRODIE (_to_ SMITH). I beg your pardon? + +SMITH. I beg yours, sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. Brodie at home, +sir? + +BRODIE. What do you want with him, my man? + +SMITH. I’ve a message for him, sir, a job of work, sir! + +BRODIE (_to_ SMITH; _referring to_ JEAN). And who is this? + +JEAN. I am here for the Procurator, about my rent. There’s nae offence, +I hope, sir. + +LAWSON. It’s just an honest wife I let a flat to in Libberton’s Wynd. +It’ll be for the rent? + +JEAN. Just that, sir. + +LAWSON. Weel, ye can just bide here a wee, and I’ll step down the road +to my office wi’ ye. (_Exeunt_ BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE, _C._) + + +SCENE IV + + + SMITH, JEAN WATT, OLD BRODIE. + +SMITH (_bowing them out_). Your humble and most devoted servant, George +Smith, Esquire. And so this is the garding, is it? And this is the +style of horticulture? Ha, it is! (_At the mirror_.) In that case +George’s mother bids him bind his hair. (_Kisses his hand_.) My dearest +Duchess,—(_To_ JEAN.) I say, Jean, there’s a good deal of difference +between this sort of thing and the way we does it in Libberton’s Wynd. + +JEAN. I daursay. And what wad ye expeck? + +SMITH. Ah, Jean, if you’d cast affection’s glance on this poor but +honest soger! George Lord S. is not the nobleman to cut the object of +his flame before the giddy throng; nor to keep her boxed up in an old +mouse-trap, while he himself is revelling in purple splendours like +these. He didn’t know you, Jean: he was afraid to. Do you call that a +man? Try a man that is. + +JEAN. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I’ll tak’ nane o’ that sort of +talk frae you. And what kind o’ a man are you to even yoursel’ to the +likes o’ him? He’s a gentleman. + +SMITH. Ah, ain’t he just! And don’t he live up to it? I say, Jean, +feel of this chair. + +JEAN. My! look at yon bed! + +SMITH. The carpet too! Axminster, by the bones of Oliver Cromwell! + +JEAN. What a expense! + +SMITH. Hey, brandy! The deuce of the grape! Have a toothful, Mrs. +Watt. [(_Sings_)— + + ‘Says Bacchus to Venus, + There’s brandy between us, + And the cradle of love is the bowl, the bowl!’] + +JEAN. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith. + +SMITH. What brings the man from stuff like this to rotgut and spittoons +at Mother Clarke’s; but ah, George, you was born for a higher spear! And +so was you, Mrs. Watt, though I say it that shouldn’t. (_Seeing_ OLD +BRODIE _for the first time_.) Hullo! it’s a man! + +JEAN. Thonder in the chair. (_They go to look at him_, _their backs to +the door_.) + +GEORGE. Is he alive? + +JEAN. I think there’s something wrong with him. + +GEORGE. And how was you to-morrow, my valued old gentleman, eh? + +JEAN. Dinna mak’ a mock o’ him, Geordie. + +OLD BRODIE. My son—the Deacon—Deacon of his trade. + +JEAN. He’ll be his feyther. (HUNT _appears at door C._, _and stands +looking on_.) + +SMITH. The Deacon’s old man! Well, he couldn’t expect to have his +quiver full of sich, could he, Jean? (_To_ OLD BRODIE.) Ah, my +Christian soldier, if you had, the world would have been more varigated. +Mrs. Deakin (_to_ JEAN), let me introduce you to your dear papa. + +JEAN. Think shame to yoursel’! This is the Deacon’s house; you and me +shouldna be here by rights; and if we are, it’s the least we can do to +behave dacent. [This is no the way ye’ll mak’ me like ye.] + +SMITH. All right, Duchess. Don’t be angry. + + +SCENE V + + + _To these_, HUNT, _C._ (_He steals down_, _and claps each one suddenly + on the shoulder_.) + +HUNT. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr. Procurator-Fiscal? + +SMITH (_pulling himself together_). D—n it, Jerry, what do you mean by +startling an old customer like that? + +HUNT. What, my brave un’? You’re the very party I was looking for! + +SMITH. There’s nothing out against me this time? + +HUNT. I’ll take odds there is. But it ain’t in my hands. (_To_ OLD +BRODIE.) You’ll excuse me, old genelman? + +SMITH. Ah, well, if it’s all in the way of friendship! . . . I say, +Jean, [you and me had best be on the toddle.] We shall be late for +church. + +HUNT. Lady, George? + +SMITH. It’s a—yes, it’s a lady. Come along, Jean. + +HUNT. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe? [That was the name, I think?] Won’t +Mrs. Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz? + +JEAN (_unmuffling_). I’ve naething to be ashamed of. My name’s Mistress +Watt; I’m weel kennt at the Wynd heid; there’s naething again me. + +HUNT. No, to be sure, there ain’t; and why clap on the blinkers, my +dear? You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like Jerry Hunt +that might be your born father? [But all this don’t tell me about Mr. +Procurator-Fiscal.] + +GEORGE (_in an agony_). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (_Going with +attempted swagger_.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry. + + +SCENE VI + + + _To these_, _C_, BRODIE and LAWSON (greatcoat, muffler, lantern). + +LAWSON (_from the door_). Come your ways, Mistress Watt. + +JEAN. That’s the Fiscal himsel’. + +HUNT. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe? + +LAWSON. That’s me. Who’ll you be? + +HUNT. Hunt the Runner, sir; Hunt from Bow Street; English warrant. + +LAWSON. There’s a place for a’ things, officer. Come your ways to my +office, with me and this guid wife. + +BRODIE (_aside to_ JEAN, _as she passes with a curtsey_). How dare you +be here? (_Aloud to_ SMITH.) Wait you here, my man. + +SMITH. If you please, sir. (BRODIE _goes out_, _C._) + + +SCENE VII + + + BRODIE, SMITH. + +BRODIE. What the devil brings you here? + +SMITH. _Con_found it, Deakin! Not rusty? + +[BRODIE. And not you only: Jean too! Are you mad? + +SMITH. Why, you don’t mean to say, Deakin, that you have been stodged by +G. Smith, Esquire? Plummy old George?] + +BRODIE. There was my uncle the Procurator— + +SMITH. The Fiscal? He don’t count. + +BRODIE. What d’ye mean? + +SMITH. Well, Deakin, since Fiscal Lawson’s Nunkey Lawson, and it’s all +in the family way, I don’t mind telling you that Nunkey Lawson’s a +customer of George’s. We give Nunkey Lawson a good deal of brandy—G. S. +and Co.’s celebrated Nantz. + +BRODIE. What! does he buy that smuggled trash of yours? + +SMITH. Well, we don’t call it smuggled in the trade, Deakin. It’s a +wink, and King George’s picter between G. S. and the Nunks. + +BRODIE. Gad! that’s worth knowing. O Procurator, Procurator, is there +no such thing as virtue? [_Allons_! It’s enough to cure a man of vice +for this world and the other.] But hark you hither, Smith; this is all +damned well in its way, but it don’t explain what brings you here. + +SMITH. I’ve trapped a pigeon for you. + +BRODIE. Can’t you pluck him yourself? + +SMITH. Not me. He’s too flash in the feather for a simple nobleman like +George Lord Smith. It’s the great Capting Starlight, fresh in from York. +[He’s exercised his noble art all the way from here to London. ‘Stand +and deliver, stap my vitals!’] And the north road is no bad lay, Deakin. + +BRODIE. Flush? + +SMITH (_mimicking_). ‘The graziers, split me! A mail, stap my vitals! +and seven demned farmers, by the Lard—’ + +BRODIE. By Gad! + +SMITH. Good for trade, ain’t it? And we thought, Deakin, the Badger and +me, that coins being ever on the vanish, and you not over sweet on them +there lovely little locks at Leslie’s, and them there bigger and uglier +marine stores at the Excise Office . . . + +BRODIE (_impassible_). Go on. + +SMITH. Worse luck! . . . We thought, me and the Badger, you know, that +maybe you’d like to exercise your helbow with our free and galliant +horseman. + +BRODIE. The old move, I presume? the double set of dice? + +SMITH. That’s the rig, Deakin. What you drop on the square you pick up +again on the cross. [Just as you did with G. S. and Co.’s own agent and +correspondent, the Admiral from Nantz.] You always was a neat hand with +the bones, Deakin. + +BRODIE. The usual terms, I suppose? + +SMITH. The old discount, Deakin. Ten in the pound for you, and the rest +for your jolly companions every one. [_That’s_ the way _we_ does it!] + +BRODIE. Who has the dice? + +SMITH. Our mutual friend, the Candleworm. + +BRODIE. You mean Ainslie?—We trust that creature too much, Geordie. + +SMITH. He’s all right, Marquis. He wouldn’t lay a finger on his own +mother. Why, he’s no more guile in him than a set of sheep’s trotters. + +[BRODIE. You think so? Then see he don’t cheat you over the dice, and +give you light for loaded. See to that, George, see to that; and you may +count the Captain as bare as his last grazier. + +SMITH. The Black Flag for ever! George’ll trot him round to Mother +Clarke’s in two twos.] How long’ll you be? + +BRODIE. The time to lock up and go to bed, and I’ll be with you. Can +you find your way out? + +SMITH. Bloom on, my Sweet William, in peaceful array. Ta-ta. + + +SCENE VIII + + + BRODIE, OLD BRODIE; to whom, MARY. + +MARY. O Willie, I am glad you did not go with them. I have something to +tell you. If you knew how happy I am, you would clap your hands, Will. +But come, sit you down there, and be my good big brother, and I will +kneel here and take your hand. We must keep close to dad, and then he +will feel happiness in the air. The poor old love, if we could only tell +him! But I sometimes think his heart has gone to heaven already, and +takes a part in all our joys and sorrows; and it is only his poor body +that remains here, helpless and ignorant. Come, Will, sit you down, and +ask me questions—or guess—that will be better, guess. + +BRODIE. Not to-night, Mary; not to-night. I have other fish to fry, and +they won’t wait. + +MARY. Not one minute for your sister? One little minute for your little +sister? + +BRODIE. Minutes are precious, Mary. I have to work for all of us, and +the clock is always busy. They are waiting for me even now. Help me +with the dad’s chair. And then to bed, and dream happy things. And +to-morrow morning I will hear your news—your good news; it must be good, +you look so proud and glad. But to-night it cannot be. + +MARY. I hate your business—I hate all business. To think of chairs, and +tables, and foot-rules, all dead and wooden—and cold pieces of money with +the King’s ugly head on them; and here is your sister, your pretty +sister, if you please, with something to tell, which she would not tell +you for the world, and would give the world to have you guess, and you +won’t?—Not you! For business! Fie, Deacon Brodie! But I’m too happy to +find fault with you. + +BRODIE. ‘And me a Deacon,’ as the Procurator would say. + +MARY. No such thing, sir! I am not a bit afraid of you—nor a bit angry +neither. Give me a kiss, and promise me hours and hours to-morrow +morning. + +BRODIE. All day long to-morrow, if you like. + +MARY. Business or none? + +BRODIE. Business or none, little sister! I’ll make time, I promise you; +and there’s another kiss for surety. Come along. (_They proceed to push +out the chair_, _L.C._) The wine and wisdom of this evening have given +me one of my headaches, and I’m in haste for bed. You’ll be good, won’t +you, and see they make no noise, and let me sleep my fill to-morrow +morning till I wake? + +MARY. Poor Will! How selfish I must have seemed! You should have told +me sooner, and I wouldn’t have worried you. Come along. + + (_She goes out_, _pushing chair_.) + + +SCENE IX + + + BRODIE + + (_He closes_, _locks_, _and double-bolts both doors_) + +BRODIE. Now for one of the Deacon’s headaches! Rogues all, rogues all! +(_Goes to clothes-press_, _and proceeds to change his coat_.) On with +the new coat and into the new life! Down with the Deacon and up with the +robber! (_Changing neck-band and ruffles_.) Eh God! how still the house +is! There’s something in hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we +seem, what would the world be? [The city has its vizard on, and we—at +night we are our naked selves. Trysts are keeping, bottles cracking, +knives are stripping; and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the man of +men he is!]—How still it is! . . . My father and Mary—Well! the day for +them, the night for me; the grimy cynical night that makes all cats grey, +and all honesties of one complexion. Shall a man not have _half_ a life +of his own?—not eight hours out of twenty-four? [Eight shall he have +should he dare the pit of Tophet.] (_Takes out money_.) Where’s the +blunt? I must be cool to-night, or . . . steady, Deacon, you must win; +damn you, you must! You must win back the dowry that you’ve stolen, and +marry your sister, and pay your debts, and gull the world a little +longer! (_As he blows out the lights_.) The Deacon’s going to bed—the +poor sick Deacon! _Allons_! (_Throws up the window_, _and looks out_.) +Only the stars to see me! (_Addressing the bed_.) Lie there, Deacon! +sleep and be well to-morrow. As for me, I’m a man once more till +morning. (_Gets out of the window_.) + + +TABLEAU II. +HUNT THE RUNNER + + + _The Scene represents the Procurator’s Office_. + + +SCENE I + + + LAWSON, HUNT + +[LAWSON (_entering_). Step your ways in, Officer. (_At wing_.) Mr. +Carfrae, give a chair to yon decent wife that cam’ in wi’ me. Nae news? + +A VOICE WITHOUT. Naething, sir. + +LAWSON (_sitting_). Weel, Officer, and what can I do for you?] + +HUNT. Well, sir, as I was saying, I’ve an English warrant for the +apprehension of one Jemmy Rivers, _alias_ Captain Starlight, now at large +within your jurisdiction. + +LAWSON. That’ll be the highwayman? + +HUNT. That same, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. The Captain’s given me a hard +hunt of it this time. I dropped on his marks first at Huntingdon, but he +was away North, and I had to up and after him. I heard of him all along +the York road, for he’s a light hand on the pad, has Jemmy, and leaves +his mark. [I missed him at York by four-and-twenty hours, and lost him +for as much more. Then I picked him up again at Carlisle, and we made a +race of it for the Border; but he’d a better nag, and was best up in the +road; so I had to wait till I ran him to earth in Edinburgh here and +could get a new warrant.] So here I am, sir. They told me you were an +active sort of gentleman, and I’m an active man myself. And Sir John +Fielding, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, he’s an active gentleman, likewise, +though he’s blind as a himage, and he desired his compliments to you, +[sir, and said that between us he thought we’d do the trick]. + +LAWSON. Ay, he’ll be a fine man, Sir John. Hand me owre your papers, +Hunt, and you’ll have your new warrant _quam primum_. And see here, +Hunt, ye’ll aiblins have a while to yoursel’, and an active man, as ye +say ye are, should aye be grinding grist. We’re sair forfeuchen wi’ our +burglaries. _Non constat de personâ_. We canna get a grip o’ the +delinquents. Here is the _Hue and Cry_. Ye see there is a guid two +hundred pounds for ye. + +HUNT. Well, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal [I ain’t a rich man, and two hundred’s +two hundred. Thereby, sir], I don’t mind telling you I’ve had a bit of a +worry at it already. You see, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I had to look into +a ken to-night about the Captain, and an old cock always likes to be sure +of his walk; so I got one of your Scotch officers—him as was so polite as +to show me round to Mr. Brodie’s—to give me full particulars about the +’ouse, and the flash companions that use it. In his list I drop on the +names of two old lambs of my own; and I put it to you, Mr. +Procurator-Fiscal, as a genleman as knows the world, if what’s a black +sheep in London is likely or not to be keeping school in Edinburgh? + +LAWSON. _Coelum non animum_. A just observe. + +HUNT. I’ll give it a thought, sir, and see if I can’t kill two birds +with one stone. Talking of which, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I’d like to +have a bit of a confab with that nice young woman as came to pay her +rent. + +LAWSON. Hunt, that’s a very decent woman. + +HUNT. And a very decent woman may have mighty queer pals, Mr. +Procurator-Fiscal. Lord love you, sir, I don’t know what the profession +would do without ’em! + +LAWSON. Ye’re vera richt, Hunt. An active and a watchful officer. I’ll +send her in till ye. + + +SCENE II + + + HUNT (_solus_) + +Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One burglary after another, +and these Scotch blockheads without a man to show for it. Jock runs +east, and Sawney cuts west; everything’s at a deadlock; and they go on +calling themselves thief-catchers! [By jingo, I’ll show them how we do +it down South! Well, I’ve worn out a good deal of saddle leather over +Jemmy Rivers; but here’s for new breeches if you like.] Let’s have +another queer at the list. (_Reads_.) ‘Humphrey Moore, otherwise Badger; +aged forty, thick-set, dark, close-cropped; has been a prize-fighter; no +apparent occupation.’ Badger’s an old friend of mine, ‘George Smith, +otherwise the Dook, otherwise Jingling Geordie; red-haired and curly, +slight, flash; an old thimble-rig; has been a stroller; suspected of +smuggling; an associate of loose women.’ G. S., Esquire, is another of +my flock. ‘Andrew Ainslie, otherwise Slink Ainslie; aged thirty-five; +thin, white-faced, lank-haired; no occupation; has been in trouble for +reset of theft and subornation of youth; might be useful as king’s +evidence.’ That’s an acquaintance to make. ‘Jock Hamilton, otherwise +Sweepie,’ and so on. [’Willie M’Glashan,’ hum—yes, and so on, and so +on.] Ha! here’s the man I want. ‘William Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights, +about thirty; tall, slim, dark; wears his own hair; is often at Clarke’s, +but seemingly for purposes of amusement only; [is nephew to the +Procurator-Fiscal; is commercially sound, but has of late (it is +supposed) been short of cash; has lost much at cock-fighting;] is proud, +clever, of good repute, but is fond of adventures and secrecy, and keeps +low company.’ Now, here’s what I ask myself: here’s this list of the +family party that drop into Mother Clarke’s; it’s been in the hands of +these nincompoops for weeks, and I’m the first to cry Queer Street! Two +well-known cracksmen, Badger and the Dook! why, there’s Jack in the +Orchard at once. This here topsawyer work they talk about, of course +that’s a chalk above Badger and the Dook. But how about our +Mohock-tradesman? ‘Purposes of amusement!’ What next? Deacon of the +Wrights? and wright in their damned lingo means a kind of carpenter, I +fancy? Why, damme, it’s the man’s trade! I’ll look you up, Mr. William +Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights. As sure as my name’s Jerry Hunt, I +wouldn’t take one-ninety-nine in gold for my chance of that ’ere two +hundred! + + +SCENE III + + +HUNT; to him JEAN + +HUNT. Well, my dear, and how about your gentleman friend now? How about +Deacon Brodie? + +JEAN. I dinna ken your name, sir, nor yet whae ye are; but this is a +very poor employ for ony gentleman—it sets ill wi’ ony gentleman to cast +my shame in my teeth. + +HUNT. Lord love you, my dear, that ain’t my line of country. Suppose +you’re not married and churched a hundred thousand times, what odds to +Jerry Hunt? Jerry, my Pamela Prue, is a cove as might be your parent; a +cove renowned for the ladies’ friend [and he’s dead certain to be on your +side]. What I can’t get over is this: here’s this Mr. Deacon Brodie +doing the genteel at home, and leaving a nice young ’oman like you—as a +cove may say—to take it out on cold potatoes. That’s what I can’t get +over, Mrs. Watt. I’m a family man myself; and I can’t get over it. + +JEAN. And whae said that to ye? They lee’d whatever. I get naething +but guid by him; and I had nae richt to gang to his house; and O, I just +ken I’ve been the ruin of him! + +HUNT. Don’t you take on, Mrs. Watt. Why, now I hear you piping up for +him, I begin to think a lot of him myself. I like a cove to be +open-handed and free. + +JEAN. Weel, sir, and he’s a’ that. + +HUNT. Well, that shows what a wicked world this is. Why, they told me—. +Well, well, ‘here’s the open ’and and the ’appy ’art.’ And how much, my +dear—speaking as a family man—now, how much might your gentleman friend +stand you in the course of a year? + +JEAN. What’s your wull? + +HUNT. That’s a mighty fancy shawl, Mrs. Watt. [I should like to take +its next-door neighbour to Mrs. Hunt in King Street, Common Garden.] +What’s about the figure? + +JEAN. It’s paid for. Ye can sweir to that. + +HUNT. Yes, my dear, and so is King George’s crown; but I don’t know what +it cost, and I don’t know where the blunt came from to pay for it. + +JEAN. I’m thinking ye’ll be a vera clever gentleman. + +HUNT. So I am, my dear; and I like you none the worse for being artful +yourself. But between friends now, and speaking as a family man— + +JEAN. I’ll be wishin’ ye a fine nicht. (_Curtsies and goes out_.) + + +SCENE IV + + + HUNT (_solus_) + +HUNT. Ah! that’s it, is it? ‘My fancy man’s my ’ole delight,’ as we say +in Bow Street. But which _is_ the fancy man? George the Dock, or +William the Deacon? One or both? (_He winks solemnly_.) Well, Jerry, +my boy, here’s your work cut out for you; but if you took one-nine-five +for that ’ere little two hundred you’d be a disgrace to the profession. + + +TABLEAU III. +MOTHER CLARKE’S + +SCENE I + + +_The Stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance_: _settles_, + _spittoons_, _etc._; _sanded floor_. _A large table at back_, _where_ + AINSLIE, HAMILTON, _and others are playing cards and quarrelling_. _In + front_, _L. and R. smaller tables_, _at one of which are_ BRODIE _and_ + MOORE, _drinking_. MRS. CLARKE _and women serving_. + +MOORE. You’ve got the devil’s own luck, Deacon, that’s what you’ve got. + +BRODIE. Luck! Don’t talk of luck to a man like me! Why not say I’ve +the devil’s own judgment? Men of my stamp don’t risk—they plan, Badger; +they plan, and leave chance to such cattle as you [and Jingling Geordie. +They make opportunities before they take them]. + +MOORE. You’re artful, ain’t you? + +BRODIE. Should I be here else? When I leave my house I leave an _alibi_ +behind me. I’m ill—ill with a jumping headache, and the fiend’s own +temper. I’m sick in bed this minute, and they’re all going about with +the fear of death on them lest they should disturb the poor sick Deacon. +[My bedroom door is barred and bolted like the bank—you remember!—and all +the while the window’s open, and the Deacon’s over the hills and far +away. What do you think of me?] + +MOORE. I’ve seen your sort before, I have. + +BRODIE. Not you. As for Leslie’s— + +MOORE. That was a nick above you. + +BRODIE. Ay was it. He wellnigh took me red-handed; and that was better +luck than I deserved. If I’d not been drunk, and in my tantrums, you’d +never have got my hand within a thousand years of such a job. + +MOORE. Why not? You’re the King of the Cracksmen, ain’t you? + +BRODIE. Why not! He asks me why not! Gods, what a brain it is! Hark +ye, Badger, it’s all very well to be King of the Cracksmen, as you call +it; but however respectable he may have the misfortune to be, one’s +friend is one’s friend, and as such must be severely let alone. What! +shall there be no more honour among thieves than there is honesty among +politicians? Why, man, if under heaven there were but one poor lock +unpicked, and that the lock of one whose claret you’ve drunk, and who has +babbled of woman across your own mahogany—that lock, sir, were entirely +sacred. Sacred as the Kirk of Scotland; sacred as King George upon his +throne; sacred as the memory of Bruce and Bannockburn. + +MOORE. Oh, rot! I ain’t a parson, I ain’t; I never had no college +education. Business is business. That’s wot’s the matter with me. + +BRODIE. Ay, so we said when you lost that fight with Newcastle Jemmy, +and sent us all home poor men. That was a nick above _you_. + +MOORE. Newcastle Jemmy! Muck: that’s my opinion of him: muck. I’ll mop +the floor up with him any day, if so be as you or any on ’em ’ll make it +worth my while. If not, muck! That’s my motto. Wot I now ses is, about +that ’ere crib at Leslie’s, wos I right, I ses? or wos I wrong? That’s +wot’s the matter with you. + +BRODIE. You are both right and wrong. You dared me to do it. I was +drunk; I was upon my mettle; and I as good as did it. More than that, +black-guardly as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is my friend. He had +dined with me that day, and I felt like a man in a story. I climbed his +wall, I crawled along his pantry roof, I mounted his window-sill. That +one turn of my wrist—you know it I—and the casement was open. It was as +dark as the pit, and I thought I’d won my wager, when, phewt! down went +something inside, and down went somebody with it. I made one leap, and +was off like a rocket. It was my poor friend in person; and if he’d +caught and passed me on to the watchman under the window, I should have +felt no viler rogue than I feel just now. + +MOORE. I s’pose he knows you pretty well by this time? + +BRODIE. ’Tis the worst of friendship. Here, Kirsty, fill these glasses. +Moore, here’s better luck—and a more honourable plant!—next time. + +MOORE. Deacon, I looks towards you. But it looks thundering like rotten +eggs, don’t it? + +BRODIE. I think not. I was masked, for one thing, and for another I was +as quick as lightning. He suspects me so little that he dined with me +this very afternoon. + +MOORE. Anyway, you ain’t game to try it on again, I’ll lay odds on that. +Once bit, twice shy. That’s your motto. + +BRODIE. Right again. I’ll put my _alibi_ to a better use. And, Badger, +one word in your ear: there’s no Newcastle Jemmy about _me_. Drop the +subject, and for good, or I shall drop you. (_He rises_, _and walks +backwards and forwards_, _a little unsteadily_. _Then returns_, _and +sits L._, _as before_.) + + +SCENE II + + + _To these_, HUNT, _disguised_ + +_He is disguised as a_ ‘_flying stationer_’ _with a patch over his eye_. +_He sits at table opposite_ BRODIE’S _and is served with bread and cheese +and beer_. + +HAMILTON (_from behind_). The deevil tak’ the cairts! + +AINSLIE. Hoot, man, dinna blame the cairts. + +MOORE. Look here, Deacon, I mean business, I do. (HUNT _looks up at the +name of_ ‘_Deacon_.’) + +BRODIE. Gad, Badger, I never meet you that you do not. [You have a set +of the most commercial intentions!] You make me blush. + +MOORE. That’s all blazing fine, that is! But wot I ses is, wot about +the chips? That’s what I ses. I’m after that thundering old Excise +Office, I am. That’s my motto. + +BRODIE. ’Tis a very good motto, and at your lips, Badger, it kind of +warms my heart. But it’s not mine. + +MOORE. Muck! why not? + +BRODIE. ’Tis too big and too dangerous. I shirk King George; he has a +fat pocket, but he has a long arm. [You pilfer sixpence from him, and +it’s three hundred reward for you, and a hue and cry from Tophet to the +stars.] It ceases to be business; it turns politics, and I’m not a +politician, Mr. Moore. (_Rising_.) I’m only Deacon Brodie. + +MOORE. All right. I can wait. + +BRODIE (_seeing_ HUNT). Ha, a new face,—and with a patch! [There’s +nothing under heaven I like so dearly as a new face with a patch.] Who +the devil, sir, are you that own it? And where did you get it? And how +much will you take for it second-hand? + +HUNT. Well, sir, to tell you the truth (BRODIE _bows_) it’s not for +sale. But it’s my own, and I’ll drink your honour’s health in anything. + +BRODIE. An Englishman, too! Badger, behold a countryman. What are you, +and what part of southern Scotland do you come from? + +HUNT. Well, your honour, to tell you the honest truth— + +[BRODIE (_bowing_). Your obleeged!] + +HUNT. I knows a gentleman when I sees him, your honour [and, to tell +your honour the truth— + +BRODIE. _Je vous baise les mains_! (_Bowing_.)] + +HUNT. A gentleman as is a gentleman, your honour [is always a gentleman, +and to tell you the honest truth]— + +BRODIE. Great heavens! answer in three words, and be hanged to you! +What are you, and where are you from? + +HUNT. A patter-cove from Seven Dials. + +BRODIE. Is it possible? All my life long have I been pining to meet +with a patter-cove from Seven Dials! Embrace me, at a distance. [A +patter-cove from Seven Dials!] Go, fill yourself as drunk as you dare, +at my expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. Clarke. He’s a patter-cove from +Seven Dials. Hillo! what’s all this? + +AINSLIE. Dod, I’m for nae mair! (_At back_, _and rising_.) + +PLAYERS. Sit down, Ainslie.—Sit down, Andra.—Ma revenge! + +AINSLIE. Na, na, I’m for canny goin’. (_Coming forward with bottle_.) +Deacon, let’s see your gless. + +BRODIE. Not an inch of it. + +MOORE. No rotten shirking, Deacon! + +[AINSLIE. I’m sayin’, man, let’s see your gless. + +BRODIE. Go to the deuce!] + +AINSLIE. But I’m sayin’— + +BRODIE. Haven’t I to play to-night? + +AINSLIE. But, man, ye’ll drink to bonnie Jean Watt? + +BRODIE. Ay, I’ll follow you there. _A la reine de mes amours_! +(_Drinks_.) What fiend put this in your way, you hound? You’ve filled +me with raw stuff. By the muckle deil!— + +MOORE. Don’t hit him, Deacon; tell his mother. + +HUNT (_aside_). Oho! + + +SCENE III + + + _To these_, SMITH, RIVERS. + +SMITH. Where’s my beloved? Deakin, my beauty, where are you? Come to +the arms of George, and let him introduce you. Capting Starlight Rivers! +Capting, the Deakin: Deakin, the Capting. An English nobleman on the +grand tour, to open his mind, by the Lard! + +RIVERS. Stupendiously pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deakin, +split me! + +[BRODIE. We don’t often see England’s heroes our way, Captain, but when +we do, we make them infernally welcome. + +RIVERS. Prettily put, sink me! A demned genteel sentiment, stap my +vitals!] + +BRODIE. Oh Captain! you flatter me. [We Scotsmen have our qualities, I +suppose, but we are but rough and ready at the best. There’s nothing +like your Englishman for genuine distinction. He is nearer France than +we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. That d—d thing, the _je ne sais +quoi_, too! Lard, Lard, split me! stap my vitals! O such manners are +pure, pure, pure. They are, by the shade of Claude Duval!] + +RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin [this is passatively too much]. What +will you sip? Give it the _h_anar of a neam. + +BRODIE. By these most _h_anarable hands now, Captain, you shall not. On +such an occasion I could play host with Lucifer himself. Here, Clarke, +Mother Midnight! Down with you, Captain! (_forcing him boisterously into +a chair_.) I don’t know if you can lie, but, sink me! you shall sit. +(_Drinking_, _etc._, _in dumb-show_.) + +MOORE (_aside to_ SMITH). We’ve nobbled him, Geordie! + +SMITH (_aside to_ MOORE). As neat as ninepence! He’s taking it down +like mother’s milk. But there’ll be wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger! +It’ll be tuppence and toddle with George Smith. + +MOORE. O muck! Who’s afraid of him? (_To_ AINSLIE.) Hang on, Slinkie. + +HUNT (_who is feigning drunkenness_, _and has overheard; aside_). By +jingo! + +[RIVERS. Will you sneeze, Mr. Deakin, sir? + +BRODIE. Thanks; I have all the vices, Captain. You must send me some of +your rappee. It is passatively perfect.] + +RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, I do myself the _h_anar of a sip to you. + +BRODIE. Topsy-turvy with the can! + +MOORE (_aside to_ SMITH). That made him wink. + +BRODIE. Your high and mighty hand, my Captain! Shall we dice—dice—dice? +(_Dumb-show between them_.) + +AINSLIE (_aside to_ MOORE). I’m sayin’—? + +MOORE. What’s up now? + +AINSLIE. I’m no to gie him the coggit dice? + +MOORE. The square ones, rot you! Ain’t he got to lose every brass +farden? + +AINSLIE. What’ll like be my share? + +MOORE. You mucking well leave that to me. + +RIVERS. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will have me shake a +_h_elbow— + +BRODIE. Where are the bones, Ainslie? Where are the dice, Lord George? +(AINSLIE _gives the dice and dice-box to_ BRODIE; _and privately a second +pair of dice_.) Old Fortune’s counters the bonnie money-catching, +money-breeding bones! Hark to their dry music! Scotland against +England! Sit round, you tame devils, and put your coins on me! + +SMITH. Easy does it, my lord of high degree! Keep cool. + +BRODIE. Cool’s the word, Captain—a cool twenty on the first? + +RIVERS. Done and done. (_They play_.) + +HUNT (_aside to_ MOORE, _a little drunk_). Ain’t that ’ere Scotch +gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir? + +MOORE. You hold your jaw; that’s what’s the matter with you. + +AINSLIE. He’s waur nor he looks. He’s knockit the box aff the table. + +SMITH (_picking up box_). That’s the way we does it. Ten to one and no +takers! + +BRODIE. Deuces again! More liquor, Mother Clarke! + +SMITH. Hooray our side! (_Pouting out_.) George and his pal for ever! + +BRODIE. Deuces again, by heaven! Another? + +RIVERS. Done! + +BRODIE. Ten more; money’s made to go. On with you! + +RIVERS. Sixes. + +BRODIE. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment? Double or quits? + +RIVERS. Drive on! Sixes. + +SMITH. Fire away, brave boys! (_To_ MOORE) It’s Tally-ho-the-Grinder, +Hump! + +BRODIE. Treys! Death and the pit! How much have you got there? + +RIVERS. A cool forty-five. + +BRODIE. I play you thrice the lot. + +RIVERS. Who’s afraid? + +SMITH. Stand by, Badger! + +RIVERS. Cinq-ace. + +BRODIE. My turn now. (_He juggles in and uses the second pair of +dice_.) Aces! Aces again! What’s this? (_Picking up dice_.) Sold! . . . +You play false, you hound! + +RIVERS. You lie! + +BRODIE. In your teeth. (_Overturns table_, _and goes for him_.) + +MOORE. Here, none o’ that. (_They hold him back_. _Struggle_.) + +SMITH. Hold on, Deacon! + +BRODIE. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I’ll not touch him. (_Stands +weighing dice in his hand_.) But as for that thieving whinger, Ainslie, +I’ll cut his throat between this dark and to-morrow’s. To the bone. +(_Addressing the company_.) Rogues, rogues, rogues! (_Singing +without_.) Ha! what’s that? + +AINSLIE. It’s the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver’s. And O +Deacon, if ye’re a Christian man— + +THE PSALM WITHOUT:— + + ‘Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord, + Should’st mark iniquity? + But yet with Thee forgiveness is, + That feared Thou may’st be.’ + +BRODIE. I think I’ll go. ‘My son the Deacon was aye regular at kirk.’ +If the old man could see his son, the Deacon! I think I’ll—Ay, who +_shall_ stand? There’s the rub! And forgiveness, too? There’s a long +word for you! I learnt it all lang syne, and now . . . hell and ruin are +on either hand of me, and the devil has me by the leg. ‘My son, the +Deacon . . . !’ Eh, God! but there’s no fool like an old fool! +(_Becoming conscious of the others_.) Rogues! + +SMITH. Take my arm, Deacon. + +BRODIE. Down, dog, down! [Stay and be drunk with your equals.] +Gentlemen and ladies, I have already cursed you pretty heavily. Let me +do myself the pleasure of wishing you—a very—good evening. (_As he goes +out_, HUNT, _who has been staggering about in the crowd_, _falls on a +settle_, _as about to sleep_.) + + * * * * * + + ACT-DROP. + + + +ACT II. + + +TABLEAU IV. +EVIL AND GOOD + + + _The Stage represents the Deacon’s workshop_; _benches_, _shavings_, + _tools_, _boards_, _and so forth_. _Doors_, _C. on the street_, _and L. + into the house_. _Without_, _church bells_; _not a chime_, _but a slow + broken tocsin_. + + +SCENE I + + +BRODIE (_solus_). My head! my head! It’s the sickness of the grave. +And those bells go on . . . go on! . . . inexorable as death and +judgment. [There they go; the trumpets of respectability, sounding +encouragement to the world to do and spare not, and not to be found out. +Found out! And to those who are they toll as when a man goes to the +gallows.] Turn where I will are pitfalls hell-deep. Mary and her dowry; +Jean and her child—my child; the dirty scoundrel Moore; my uncle and his +trust; perhaps the man from Bow Street. Debt, vice, cruelty, dishonour, +crime; the whole canting, lying, double-dealing, beastly business! ‘My +son the Deacon—Deacon of the Wrights!’ My thoughts sicken at it. [Oh +the Deacon, the Deacon! Where’s a hat for the Deacon? where’s a hat for +the Deacon’s headache? (_searching_). This place is a piggery. To be +respectable and not to find one’s hat.) + + +SCENE II + + + _To him_, JEAN, _a baby in her shawl_. _C._ + +JEAN (_who has entered silently during the Deacon’s last words_). It’s +me, Wullie. + +BRODIE (_turning upon her_). What! You here again? [you again!] + +JEAN. Deacon, I’m unco vexed. + +BRODIE. Do you know what you do? Do you know what you risk? [Is there +nothing—nothing!—will make you spare me this idiotic, wanton +prosecution?] + +JEAN. I was wrong to come yestreen; I ken that fine. But the day it’s +different; I but to come the day, Deacon, though I ken fine it’s the +Sabbath, and I think shame to be seen upon the streets. + +BRODIE. See here, Jean. You must go now. I come to you to-night; I +swear that. But now I’m for the road. + +JEAN. No till you’ve heard me, William Brodie. Do ye think I came to +pleasure mysel’, where I’m no wanted? I’ve a pride o’ my ains. + +BRODIE. Jean, I am going now. If you please to stay on alone, in this +house of mine, where I wish I could say you are welcome, stay (_going_). + +JEAN. It’s the man frae Bow Street. + +BRODIE. Bow Street? + +JEAN. I thocht ye would hear me. Ye think little o’ me; but it’s mebbe +a braw thing for you that I think sae muckle o’ William Brodie . . . ill +as it sets me. + +BRODIE. [You don’t know what is on my mind, Jeannie, else you would +forgive me.] Bow Street? + +JEAN. It’s the man Hunt: him that was here yestreen for the Fiscal. + +BRODIE. Hunt? + +JEAN. He kens a hantle. He . . . Ye maunna be angered wi’ me, Wullie! +I said what I shouldna. + +BRODIE. Said? Said what? + +JEAN. Just that ye were a guid frien’ to me. He made believe he was +awful sorry for me, because ye gied me nae siller; and I said, ‘Wha tellt +him that?’ and that he lee’d. + +BRODIE. God knows he did! What next? + +JEAN. He was that soft-spoken, butter wouldna melt in his mouth; and he +keept aye harp, harpin’; but after that let out, he got neither black nor +white frae me. Just that ae word and nae mair; and at the hinder end he +just speired straucht out, whaur it was ye got your siller frae. + +BRODIE. Where I got my siller? + +JEAN. Ay, that was it! ‘You ken,’ says he. + +BRODIE. Did he? and what said you? + +JEAN. I couldna think on naething, but just that he was a gey and clever +gentleman. + +BRODIE. You should have said I was in trade, and had a good business. +That’s what you should have said. That’s what you would have said had +you been worth your salt. But it’s blunder, blunder, outside and in +[upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady’s chamber]. You women! Did he see +Smith? + +JEAN. Ay, and kennt him. + +BRODIE. Damnation!—No, I’m not angry with you. But you see what I’ve to +endure for you. Don’t cry. [Here’s the devil at the door, and we must +bar him out as best we can.] + +JEAN. God’s truth, ye are nae vexed wi’ me? + +BRODIE. God’s truth, I am grateful to you. How is the child? Well? +That’s right. (_Peeping._) Poor wee laddie! He’s like you, Jean. + +JEAN. I aye thocht he was liker you. + +BRODIE. Is he? Perhaps he is. Ah, Jeannie, you must see and make him a +better man than his father. + +JEAN. Eh man, Deacon, the proud wumman I’ll be gin he’s only half sae +guid. + +BRODIE. Well, well, if I win through this, we’ll see what we can do for +him between us. (_Leading her out_, _C._) And now, go—go—go. + +LAWSON (_without_, _L._). I ken the way, I ken the way. + +JEAN (_starring to door_). It’s the Fiscal; I’m awa. (BRODIE, _L._). + + +SCENE III + + + _To these_, LAWSON, _L._ + +LAWSON. A braw day this, William. (_Seeing_ JEAN.) Eh Mistress Watt? +And what’ll have brocht you here? + +BRODIE (_seated on bench_). Something, uncle, she lost last night, and +she thinks that something she lost is here. _Voilà_. + +LAWSON. Why are ye no at the kirk, woman? Do ye gang to the kirk? + +JEAN. I’m mebbe no what ye would just ca’ reg’lar. Ye see, Fiscal, it’s +the wean. + +LAWSON. A bairn’s an excuse; I ken that fine, Mistress Watt. But bairn +or nane, my woman, ye should be at the kirk. Awa wi’ ye! Hear to the +bells; they’re ringing in. (JEAN _curtsies to both_, _and goes out C._ +_The bells which have been ringing quicker_, _cease_.) + + +SCENE IV + + +LAWSON (_to_ BRODIE, _returning C. from door_). _Mulier formosa +superne_, William: a braw lass, and a decent woman forbye. + +BRODIE. I’m no judge, Procurator, but I’ll take your word for it. Is +she not a tenant of yours? + +LAWSON. Ay, ay; a bit house on my land in Liberton’s Wynd. Her man’s +awa, puir body; or they tell me sae; and I’m concerned for her [she’s +unco bonnie to be left her lane]. But it sets me brawly to be finding +faut wi’ the puir lass, and me an elder, and should be at the plate. +[There’ll be twa words about this in the Kirk Session.] However, it’s +nane of my business that brings me, or I should tak’ the mair shame to +mysel’. Na, sir, it’s for you; it’s your business keeps me frae the +kirk. + +BRODIE. My business, Procurator? I rejoice to see it in such excellent +hands. + +LAWSON. Ye see, it’s this way. I had a crack wi’ the laddie, Leslie, +_inter pocula_ (he took a stirrup-cup wi’ me), and he tells me he has +askit Mary, and she was to speak to ye hersel’. O, ye needna look sae +gash. Did she speak? and what’ll you have said to her? + +BRODIE. She has not spoken; I have said nothing; and I believe I asked +you to avoid the subject. + +LAWSON. Ay, I made a note o’ that observation, William [and assoilzied +mysel’]. Mary’s a guid lass, and I’m her uncle, and I’m here to be +answered. Is it to be ay or no? + +BRODIE. It’s to be no. This marriage must be quashed; and hark ye, +Procurator, you must help me. + +LAWSON. Me? ye’re daft! And what for why? + +BRODIE. Because I’ve spent the trust-money, and I can’t refund it. + +LAWSON. Ye reprobate deevil! + +BRODIE. Have a care, Procurator. No wry words! + +LAWSON. Do you say it to my face, sir? Dod, sir, I’m the Crown +Prosecutor. + +BRODIE. Right. The Prosecutor for the Crown. And where did you get +your brandy? + +LAWSON. Eh? + +BRODIE. Your brandy! Your brandy man! Where do you get your brandy? +And you a Crown official and an elder! + +LAWSON. Whaur the deevil did ye hear that? + +BRODIE. Rogues all! Rogues all, Procurator! + +LAWSON. Ay, ay. Lord save us! Guidsake, to think o’ that noo! . . . +Can ye give me some o’ that Cognac? I’m . . . I’m sort o’ shaken, +William, I’m sort o’ shaken. Thank you, William! (_Looking_, _piteously +at glass_.) _Nunc est bibendum_. (_Drinks_.) Troth, I’m set ajee a +bit. Wha the deevil tauld ye? + +BRODIE. Ask no questions, brother. We are a pair. + +LAWSON. Pair, indeed! Pair, William Brodie! Upon my saul, sir, ye’re a +brazen-faced man that durst say it to my face! Tak’ you care, my bonnie +young man, that your craig doesna feel the wecht o’ your hurdies. Keep +the plainstanes side o’ the gallows. _Via trita_, _via tuta_, William +Brodie! + +BRODIE. And the brandy, Procurator? and the brandy? + +LAWSON. Ay . . . weel . . . be’t sae! Let the brandy bide, man, let the +brandy bide! But for you and the trust-money . . . damned! It’s felony. +_ Tutor in rem suam_, ye ken, _tutor in rem suam_. But O man, Deacon, +whaur is the siller? + +BRODIE. It’s gone—O how the devil should I know? But it’ll never come +back. + +LAWSON. Dear, dear! A’ gone to the winds o’ heaven! Sae ye’re an +extravagant dog, too. _Prodigus et furiosus_! And that puir lass—eh, +Deacon, man, that puir lass! I mind her such a bonny bairn. + +BRODIE (_stopping his ears_). Brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy + +LAWSON. William Brodie, mony’s the long day that I’ve believed in you; +prood, prood was I to be the Deacon’s uncle; and a sore hearing have I +had of it the day. That’s past; that’s past like Flodden Field; it’s an +auld sang noo, and I’m an aulder man than when I crossed your door. But +mark ye this—mark ye this, William Brodie, I may be no sae guid’s I +should be; but there’s no a saul between the east sea and the wast can +lift his een to God that made him, and say I wranged him as ye wrang that +lassie. I bless God, William Brodie—ay, though he was like my brother—I +bless God that he that got ye has the hand of death upon his hearing, and +can win into his grave a happier man than me. And ye speak to me, sir? +Think shame—think shame upon your heart! + +BRODIE. Rogues all! + +LAWSON. You’re the son of my sister, William Brodie. Mair than that I +stop not to inquire. If the siller is spent, and the honour tint—Lord +help us, and the honour tint!—sae be it, I maun bow the head. Ruin +shallna come by me. Na, and I’ll say mair, William; we have a’ our weary +sins upon our backs, and maybe I have mair than mony. But, man, if ye +could bring _half_ the jointure . . . [_potius quam pereas_] . . . for +your mither’s son? Na? You couldna bring the half? Weel, weel, it’s a +sair heart I have this day, a sair heart and a weary. If I were a better +man mysel’ . . . but there, there, it’s a sair heart that I have gotten. +And the Lord kens I’ll help ye if I can. [_Potius quam pereas_.] + + +SCENE V + + +BRODIE. Sore hearing, does he say? My hand’s wet. But it’s victory. +Shall it be go? or stay? [I should show them all I can, or they may pry +closer than they ought.] Shall I have it out and be done with it? To +see Mary at once [to carry bastion after bastion at the charge]—there +were the true safety after all! Hurry—hurry’s the road to silence now. +Let them once get tattling in their parlours, and it’s death to me. For +I’m in a cruel corner now. I’m down, and I shall get my kicking soon and +soon enough. I began it in the lust of life, in a hey-day of mystery and +adventure. I felt it great to be a bolder, craftier rogue than the +drowsy citizen that called himself my fellow-man. [It was meat and drink +to know him in the hollow of my hand, hoarding that I and mine might +squander, pinching that we might wax fat.] It was in the laughter of my +heart that I tip-toed into his greasy privacy. I forced the strong-box +at his ear while he sprawled beside his wife. He was my butt, my ape, my +jumping-jack. And now . . . O fool, fool! [Duped by such knaves as are +a shame to knavery, crime’s rabble, hell’s tatterdemalions!] Shorn to +the quick! Rooked to my vitals! And I must thieve for my daily bread +like any crawling blackguard in the gutter. And my sister . . . my kind, +innocent sister! She will come smiling to me with her poor little +love-story, and I must break her heart. Broken hearts, broken lives! . . . +I should have died before. + + +SCENE VI + + + BRODIE, MARY + +MARY (_tapping without_). Can I come in, Will? + +BRODIE. O yes, come in, come in! (MARY _enters_.) I wanted to be +quiet, but it doesn’t matter, I see. You women are all the same. + +MARY. O no, Will, they’re not all so happy, and they’re not all Brodies. +But I’ll be a woman in one thing. For I’ve come to claim your promise, +dear; and I’m going to be petted and comforted and made much of, altho’ I +don’t need it, and . . . Why, Will, what’s wrong with you? You look . . . +I don’t know what you look like. + +BRODIE. O nothing! A splitting head and an aching heart. Well! you’ve +come to speak to me. Speak up. What is it? Come, girl! What is it? +Can’t you speak? + +MARY. Why, Will, what is the matter? + +BRODIE. I thought you had come to tell me something. Here I am. For +God’s sake out with it, and don’t stand beating about the bush. + +MARY. O be kind, be kind to me. + +BRODIE. Kind? I am kind. I’m only ill and worried, can’t you see? +Whimpering? I knew it! Sit down, you goose! Where do you women get +your tears? + +MARY. Why are you so cross with me? Oh, Will, you have forgot your +sister! Remember, dear, that I have nobody but you. It’s your own +fault, Will, if you’ve taught me to come to you for kindness, for I +always found it. And I mean you shall be kind to me again. I know you +will, for this is my great need, and the day I’ve missed my mother +sorest. Just a nice look, dear, and a soft tone in your voice, to give +me courage, for I can tell you nothing till I know that you’re my own +brother once again. + +BRODIE. If you’d take a hint, you’d put it off till to-morrow. But I +suppose you won’t. On, then, I’m listening. I’m listening! + +MARY. Mr. Leslie has asked me to be his wife. + +BRODIE. He has, has he? + +MARY. And I have consented. + +BRODIE. And . . . ? + +MARY. You can say that to me? And that is all you have to say? + +BRODIE. O no, not all. + +MARY. Speak out, sir. I am not afraid. + +BRODIE. I suppose you want my consent? + +MARY. Can you ask? + +BRODIE. I didn’t know. You seem to have got on pretty well without it +so far. + +MARY. O shame on you! shame on you! + +BRODIE. Perhaps you may be able to do without it altogether. I hope so. +For you’ll never have it. . . . Mary! . . . I hate to see you look like +that. If I could say anything else, believe me, I would say it. But I +have said all; every word is spoken; there’s the end. + +MARY. It shall not be the end. You owe me explanation; and I’ll have +it. + +BRODIE. Isn’t my ‘No’ enough, Mary? + +MARY. It might be enough for me; but it is not, and it cannot be, enough +for him. He has asked me to be his wife; he tells me his happiness is in +my hands—poor hands, but they shall not fail him, if my poor heart should +break! If he has chosen and set his hopes upon me, of all women in the +world, I shall find courage somewhere to be worthy of the choice. And I +dare you to leave this room until you tell me all your thoughts—until you +prove that this is good and right. + +BRODIE. Good and right? They are strange words, Mary. I mind the time +when it was good and right to be your father’s daughter and your +brother’s sister . . . Now! . . . + +MARY. Have I changed? Not even in thought. My father, Walter says, +shall live and die with us. He shall only have gained another son. And +you—you know what he thinks of you; you know what I would do for you. + +BRODIE. Give him up. + +MARY. I have told you: not without a reason. + +BRODIE. You must. + +MARY. I will not. + +BRODIE. What if I told you that you could only compass your happiness +and his at the price of my ruin? + +MARY. Your ruin? + +BRODIE. Even so. + +MARY. Ruin! + +BRODIE. It has an ugly sound, has it not? + +MARY. O Willie, what have you done? What have you done? What have you +done? + +BRODIE. I cannot tell you, Mary. But you may trust me. You must give +up this Leslie . . . and at once. It is to save me. + +MARY. I would die for you, dear, you know that. But I cannot be false +to him. Even for you, I cannot be false to him. + +BRODIE. We shall see. Let me take you to your room. Come. And, +remember, it is for your brother’s sake. It is to save me. + +MARY. I am true Brodie. Give me time, and you shall not find me +wanting. But it is all so sudden . . . so strange and dreadful! You +will give me time, will you not? I am only a woman, and . . . O my poor +Walter! It will break his heart! It will break his heart! (_A knock_.) + +BRODIE. You hear! + +MARY. Yes, yes. Forgive me. I am going. I will go. It is to save +you, is it not? To save you. Walter . . . Mr. Leslie . . . O Deacon, +Deacon, God forgive you! (_She goes out_.) + +BRODIE. Amen. But will He? + + +SCENE VII + + +BRODIE, HUNT + +HUNT (_hat in hand_). Mr. Deacon Brodie, I believe? + +BRODIE. I am he, Mr.— + +HUNT. Hunt, sir; an officer from Sir John Fielding of Bow Street. + +BRODIE. There can be no better passport than the name. In what can I +serve you? + +HUNT. You’ll excuse me, Mr. Deacon. + +BRODIE. Your duty excuses you, Mr. Hunt. + +HUNT. Your obedient. The fact is, Mr. Deacon [we in the office see a +good deal of the lives of private parties; and I needn’t tell a gentleman +of your experience it’s part of our duty to hold our tongues. Now], it’s +come to my knowledge that you are a trifle jokieous. Of course I know +there ain’t any harm in that. I’ve been young myself, Mr. Deacon, and +speaking— + +BRODIE. O, but pardon me. Mr. Hunt, I am not going to discuss my +private character with you. + +HUNT. To be sure you ain’t. [And do I blame you? Not me.] But, +speaking as one man of the world to another, you naturally see a great +deal of bad company. + +BRODIE. Not half so much as you do. But I see what you’re driving at; +and if I can illuminate the course of justice, you may command me. (_He +sits_, _and motions_ HUNT _to do likewise_.) + +HUNT. I was dead sure of it; and ’and upon ’art, Mr. Deacon, I thank +you. Now (_consulting pocket-book_), did you ever meet a certain George +Smith? + +BRODIE. The fellow they call Jingling Geordie? (HUNT _nods_.) Yes. + +HUNT. Bad character. + +BRODIE. Let us say . . . disreputable. + +HUNT. Any means of livelihood? + +BRODIE. I really cannot pretend to guess, I have met the creature at +cock-fights [which, as you know, are my weakness]. Perhaps he bets. + +HUNT. [Mr. Deacon, from what I know of the gentleman, I should say that +if he don’t—if he ain’t open to any mortal thing—he ain’t the man I +mean.] He used to be about with a man called Badger Moore. + +BRODIE. The boxer? + +HUNT. That’s him. Know anything of him? + +BRODIE. Not much. I lost five pieces on him in a fight; and I fear he +sold his backers. + +HUNT. Speaking as one admirer of the noble art to another, Mr. Deacon, +the losers always do. I suppose the Badger cockfights like the rest of +us? + +BRODIE. I have met him in the pit. + +HUNT. Well, it’s a pretty sport. I’m as partial to a main as anybody. + +BRODIE. It’s not an elegant taste, Mr. Hunt. + +HUNT. It costs as much as though it was. And that reminds me, speaking +as one sportsman to another, Mr. Deacon, I was sorry to hear that you’ve +been dropping a hatful of money lately. + +BRODIE. You are very good. + +HUNT. Four hundred in three months, they tell me. + +BRODIE. Ah! + +HUNT. So they say, sir. + +BRODIE. They have a perfect right to say so, Mr. Hunt. + +HUNT. And you to do the other thing? Well, I’m a good hand at keeping +close myself. + +BRODIE. I am not consulting you, Mr. Hunt; ’tis you who are consulting +me. And if there is nothing else (_rising_) in which I can pretend to +serve you . . . ? + +HUNT (_rising_). That’s about all, sir, unless you can put me on to +anything good in the way of heckle and spur? I’d try to look in. + +BRODIE. O, come, Mr. Hunt, if you have nothing to do, frankly and flatly +I have. This is not the day for such a conversation; and so good-bye to +you. (_A knocking_, _C._) + +HUNT. Servant, Mr. Deacon. (SMITH _and_ MOORE, _without waiting to be +answered_, _open and enter_, _C._ _They are well into the room before +they observe_ HUNT.) [Talk of the Devil, sir!] + +BRODIE. What brings you here? (SMITH _and_ MOORE, _confounded by the +officer’s presence_, _slouch together to right of door_. HUNT, _stopping +as he goes out_, _contemplates the pair_, _sarcastically_. _This is +supported by_ MOORE _with sullen bravado_; _by_ SMITH, _with cringing +airiness_.) + +HUNT (_digging_ SMITH _in the ribs_). Why, you are the very parties I +was looking for! (_He goes out_, _C._) + + +SCENE VIII + + +BRODIE, MOORE, SMITH + +MOORE. Wot was that cove here about? + +BRODIE (_with folded arms_, _half-sitting on bench_). He was here about +you. + +SMITH (_still quite discountenanced_). About us? Scissors! And what +did you tell him? + +BRODIE (_same attitude_). I spoke of you as I have found you. [I told +him you were a disreputable hound, and that Moore had crossed a fight.] +I told him you were a drunken ass, and Moore an incompetent and dishonest +boxer. + +MOORE. Look here, Deacon! Wot’s up? Wot I ses is, if a cove’s got any +thundering grudge agin a cove, why can’t he spit it out, I ses. + +BRODIE. Here are my answers (_producing purse and dice_). These are +both too light. This purse is empty, these dice are not loaded. Is it +indiscretion to inquire how you share? Equal with the Captain, I +presume? + +SMITH. It’s as easy as my eye, Deakin. Slink Ainslie got letting the +merry glass go round, and didn’t know the right bones from the wrong. +That’s _h_all. + +BRODIE. [What clumsy liars you are! + +SMITH. In boyhood’s hour, Deakin, he were called Old Truthful. Little +did he think—] + +BRODIE. What is your errand? + +MOORE. Business. + +SMITH. After the melancholy games of last night, Deakin, which no one +deplores so much as George Smith, we thought we’d trot round—didn’t us, +Hump? and see how you and your bankers was a-getting on. + +BRODIE. Will you tell me your errand? + +MOORE. You’re dry, ain’t you? + +BRODIE. Am I? + +MOORE. We ain’t none of us got a stiver, that’s wot’s the matter with +us. + +BRODIE. Is it? + +MOORE. Ay, strike me, it is! And wot we’ve got to is to put up the +Excise. + +SMITH. It’s the last plant in the shrubbery Deakin, and it’s breaking +George the gardener’s heart, it is. We really must! + +BRODIE. Must we? + +MOORE. Must’s the thundering word. I mean business, I do. + +BRODIE. That’s lucky. I don’t. + +MOORE. O, you don’t, don’t you? + +BRODIE. I do not. + +MOORE. Then p’raps you’ll tell us wot you thundering well do? + +BRODIE. What do I mean? I mean that you and that merry-andrew shall +walk out of this room and this house. Do you suppose, you blockheads, +that I am blind? I’m the Deacon, am I not? I’ve been your king and your +commander. I’ve led you, and fed you, and thought for you with this +head. And you think to steal a march upon a man like me? I see you +through and through [I know you like the clock]; I read your thoughts +like print. Brodie, you thought, has money, and won’t do the job. +Therefore, you thought, we must rook him to the heart. And therefore, +you put up your idiot cockney. And now you come round, and dictate, and +think sure of your Excise? Sure? Are you sure I’ll let you pack with a +whole skin? By my soul, but I’ve a mind to pistol you like dogs. Out of +this! Out, I say, and soil my home no more. + +MOORE (_sitting_). Now look ’ere. Mr. bloody Deacon Brodie, you see +this ’ere chair of yours, don’t you? Wot I ses to you is, here I am, I +ses, and here I mean to stick. That’s my motto. Who the devil are you +to do the high and mighty? You make all you can out of us, don’t you? +and when one of your plants get cross, you order us out of the ken? +Muck! That’s wot I think of you. Muck! Don’t you get coming the nob +over me, Mr. Deacon Brodie, or I’ll smash you. + +BRODIE. You will? + +MOORE. Ay will I. If I thundering well swing for it. And as for +clearing out? Muck! Here I am, and here I stick. Clear out? You try +it on. I’m a man, I am. + +BRODIE. This is plain speaking. + +MOORE. Plain? Wot about your father as can’t walk? Wot about your +fine-madam sister? Wot about the stone-jug, and the dock, and the rope +in the open street? Is that plain? If it ain’t, you let me know, and +I’ll spit it out so as it’ll raise the roof off this ’ere ken. Plain! +I’m that cove’s master, and I’ll make it plain enough for him. + +BRODIE. What do you want of me? + +MOORE. Wot do I want of you? Now you speak sense. Leslie’s is wot I +want of you. The Excise is wot I want of you. Leslie’s to-night and the +Excise to-morrow. That’s wot I want of you, and wot I thundering well +mean to get. + +BRODIE. Damn you! + +MOORE. Amen. But you’ve got your orders. + +BRODIE (_with pistol_). Orders? hey? orders? + +SMITH (_between them_). Deacon, Deacon!—Badger, are you mad? + +MOORE. Muck! That’s my motto. Wot I ses is, has he got his orders or +has he not? That’s wot’s the matter with him. + +SMITH. Deacon, half a tick. Humphrey, I’m only a light weight, and you +fight at twelve stone ten, but I’m damned if I’m going to stand still and +see you hitting a pal when he’s down. + +MOORE. Muck! That’s wot I think of you. + +SMITH. He’s a cut above us, ain’t he? He never sold his backers, did +he? We couldn’t have done without him, could we? You dry up about his +old man, and his sister; and don’t go on hitting a pal when he’s knocked +out of time and cannot hit back, for, damme, I will not stand it. + +MOORE. Amen to you. But I’m cock of this here thundering walk, and that +cove’s got his orders. + +BRODIE (_putting pistol on bench_). I give in. I will do your work for +you once more. Leslie’s to-night and the Excise to-morrow. If that is +enough, if you have no more . . . orders, you may count it as done. + +MOORE. Fen larks. No rotten shirking, mind. + +BRODIE. I have passed you my word. And now you have said what you came +to say, you must go. I have business here; but two hours hence I am at +your . . . orders. Where shall I await you? + +MOORE. What about that woman’s place of yours? + +BRODIE. Your will is my law. + +MOORE. That’s good enough. Now, Dock. + +SMITH. Bye-bye, my William. Don’t forget. + + +SCENE IX + + +BRODIE. Trust me. No man forgets his vice, you dogs, or forgives it +either. It must be done: Leslie’s to-night and the Excise to-morrow. It +shall be done. This settles it. They used to fetch and carry for me, +and now . . . I’ve licked their boots, have I? I’m their man, their +tool, their chattel. It’s the bottom rung of the ladder of shame. I +sound with my foot, and there’s nothing underneath but the black +emptiness of damnation. Ah, Deacon, Deacon, and so this is where you’ve +been travelling all these years; and it’s for this that you learned +French! The gallows . . . God help me, it begins to dog me like my +shadow. _There’s_ a step to take! And the jerk upon your spine! How’s +a man to die with a night-cap on? I’ve done with this. Over yonder, +across the great ocean, is a new land, with new characters, and perhaps +new lives. The sun shines, and the bells ring, and it’s a place where +men live gladly; and the Deacon himself can walk without terror, and +begin again like a new-born child. It must be good to see day again and +not to fear; it must be good to be one’s self with all men. Happy like a +child, wise like a man, free like God’s angels . . . should I work these +hands off and eat crusts, there were a life to make me young and good +again. And it’s only over the sea! O man, you have been blind, and now +your eyes are opened. It was half a life’s nightmare, and now you are +awake. Up, Deacon, up, it’s hope that’s at the window! Mary! Mary! +Mary! + + +SCENE X + + +BRODIE, MARY, OLD BRODIE + +(BRODIE has fallen into a chair, with his face upon the table. Enter +MARY, by the side door pushing her father’s chair. She is supposed to +have advanced far enough for stage purposes before BRODIE is aware of +her. He starts up, and runs to her.) + +BRODIE. Look up, my lass, look up, and be a woman! I . . . O kiss me, +Mary I give me a kiss for my good news. + +MARY. Good news, Will? Is it changed? + +BRODIE. Changed? Why, the world’s a different colour! It was night, +and now it’s broad day and I trust myself again. You must wait, dear, +wait, and I must work and work; and before the week is out, as sure as +God sees me, I’ll have made you happy. O you may think me broken, +hounds, but the Deacon’s not the man to be run down; trust him, he shall +turn a corner yet, and leave you snarling! And you, Poll, you. I’ve +done nothing for you yet; but, please God, I’ll make your life a life of +gold; and wherever I am, I’ll have a part in your happiness, and you’ll +know it, by heaven! and bless me. + +MARY. O Willie, look at him; I think he hears you, and is trying to be +glad with us. + +BRODIE. My son—Deacon—better man than I was. + +BRODIE. O for God’s sake, hear him! + +MARY. He is quite happy, Will, and so am I . . . so am I. + +BRODIE. Hear me, Mary. This is a big moment in our two lives. I swear +to you by the father here between us that it shall not be fault of mine +if this thing fails; if this ship founders you have set your hopes in. I +swear it by our father; I swear it by God’s judgments. + +MARY. I want no oaths, Will. + +BRODIE. No, but I do. And prayers, Mary, prayers. Pray night and day +upon your knees. I must move mountains. + +OLD BRODIE. A wise son maketh—maketh— + +BRODIE. A glad father? And does your son, the Deacon, make you glad? O +heaven of heavens, if I were a good man. + + * * * * * + + ACT-DROP + + + +ACT III. + + +TABLEAU V. +KING’S EVIDENCE + + + _The Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh_. + + +SCENE I + + + JEAN, SMITH, _and_ MOORE + +(_They loiter in L._, _and stand looking about as for somebody not +there_. SMITH _is hat in hand to_ JEAN; MOORE _as usual_.) + +MOORE. Wot did I tell you? Is he ’ere, or ain’t he? Now, then. Slink +by name and Slink by nature, that’s wot’s the matter with him. + +JEAN. He’ll no be lang; he’s regular enough, if that was a’. + +MOORE. I’d regular him; I’d break his back. + +SMITH. Badger, you brute, you hang on to the lessons of your +dancing-master. None but the genteel deserves the fair; does they, +Duchess? + +MOORE. O rot! Did I insult the blowen? Wot’s the matter with me is +Slink Ainslie. + +SMITH. All right, old Crossed-in-love. Give him forty winks, and he’ll +turn up as fresh as clean sawdust and as respectable as a new Bible. + +MOORE. That’s right enough; but I ain’t agoing to stand here all day for +him. I’m for a drop of something short, I am. You tell him I showed you +that (_showing his doubled fist_). That’s wot’s the matter with him. +(_He lurches out_, _R._) + + +SCENE II + + + SMITH _and_ JEAN, _to whom_ HUNT, _and afterwards_ MOORE + +SMITH (_critically_). No, Duchess, he has not good manners. + +JEAN. Ay, he’s an impident man. + +SMITH. So he is, Jean; and for the matter of that he ain’t the only one. + +JEAN. Geordie, I want nae mair o’ your nonsense, mind. + +SMITH. There’s our old particular the Deacon, now. Why is he ashamed of +a lovely woman? That’s not my idea of the Young Chevalier, Jean. If I +had luck, we should be married, and retire to our estates in the country, +shouldn’t us? and go to church and be happy, like the nobility and +gentry. + +JEAN. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye’d mairry me? + +SMITH. Mean it? What else has ever been the ’umble petition of your +honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, and fellow-countryman? I know the +Deacon’s your man, and I know he’s a cut above G. S.; but he won’t last, +Jean, and I shall. + +JEAN. Ay, I’m muckle ta’en up wi’ him; wha could help it? + +SMITH. Well, and my sort don’t grow on apple-trees either. + +JEAN. Ye’re a fine, cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad just let +me be. + +SMITH. I know I ain’t a Scotchman born. + +JEAN. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o’ ye even for that; if ye would +just let me be. + +[HUNT (_entering behind_, _aside_). Are they thick? Anyhow, it’s a +second chance.] + +SMITH. But he won’t last, Jean, and when he leaves you, you come to me. +Is that your taste in pastry? That’s the kind of harticle that I +present. + +HUNT (_surprising them as in Tableau I_.). Why, you’re the very parties +I was looking for! + +JEAN. Mercy me! + +SMITH. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind. + +HUNT. [Now this is what I call a picter of good fortune.] Ain’t it +strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like +this? + +JEAN (_stolidly_). I hope ye’re middling weel, Mr. Hunt? (_Going_.) +Mr. Smith! + +SMITH. Mrs. Watt, ma’am! (_Going_.) + +HUNT. Hold hard, George. Speaking as one lady’s man to another, turn +about’s fair play. You’ve had your confab, and now I’m going to have +mine. [Not that I’ve done with you; you stand by and wait.] Ladies +first, George, ladies first; that’s the size of it. (_To_ JEAN, +_aside_.) Now, Mrs. Watt, I take it you ain’t a natural fool? + +JEAN. And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt. + +SMITH (_interfering_). Jean . . . ! + +HUNT (_keeping him off_). Half a tick, George. (_To_ JEAN.) Mrs. Watt, +I’ve a warrant in my pocket. One, two, three: will you peach? + +JEAN. Whaten kind of a word’ll that be? + +SMITH. Mum it is, Jean! + +HUNT. _When_ you’ve done dancing, George! (_To_ JEAN.) It ain’t a +pretty expression, my dear, I own it. ‘Will you blow the gaff?’ is +perhaps more tenderer. + +JEAN. I think ye’ve a real strange way o’ expressin yoursel’. + +HUNT (_to_ JEAN). I can’t waste time on you, my girl. It’s now or +never. Will you turn king’s evidence? + +JEAN. I think ye’ll have made a mistake, like. + +HUNT. Well, I’m . . . ! (_Separating them_.) [No, not yet; don’t push +me.] George’s turn now. (_To_ GEORGE.) George, I’ve a warrant in my +pocket. + +SMITH. As per usual, Jerry? + +HUNT. Now I want king’s evidence. + +SMITH. Ah! so you came a cropper with _her_, Jerry. Pride had a fall. + +HUNT. A free pardon and fifty shiners down. + +SMITH. A free pardon, Jerry? + +HUNT. Don’t I tell you so? + +SMITH. And fifty down? fifty? + +HUNT. On the nail. + +SMITH. So you came a cropper with her, and then you tried it on with me? + +HUNT. I suppose you mean you’re a born idiot? + +SMITH. What I mean is, Jerry, that you’ve broke my heart. I used to +look up to you like a party might to Julius Cæsar. One more of boyhood’s +dreams gone pop. (_Enter_ MOORE, _L._) + +HUNT (_to both_). Come, then, I’ll take the pair, and be damned to you. +Free pardon to both, fifty down and the Deacon out of the way. I don’t +care for you commoners, it’s the Deacon I want. + +JEAN (_looking off stolidly_). I think the kirks are scalin’. There +seems to be mair people in the streets. + +HUNT. O that’s the way, is it? Do you know that I can hang you, my +woman, and your fancy man a well? + +JEAN. I daur say ye would like fine, Mr. Hunt; and here’s my service to +you. (_Going_.) + +HUNT. George, don’t you be a tomfool, anyway. Think of the blowen here, +and have brains for two. + +SMITH (_going_). Ah, Jerry, if you knew anything, how different you +would talk! (_They go together_, _R._) + + +SCENE III + + + HUNT, MOORE + +HUNT. Half a tick, Badger. You’re a man of parts, you are; you’re +solid, you’re a true-born Englishman; you ain’t a Jerry-go-Nimble like +him. Do you know what your pal the Deacon’s worth to you? Fifty golden +Georges and a free pardon. No questions asked, and no receipts demanded. +What do you say? Is it a deal? + +MOORE (_as to himself_). Muck. (_He goes out_, _R._) + + +SCENE IV + + + HUNT, _to whom_ AINSLIE + +HUNT (_looking after them ruefully_). And these were the very parties I +was looking for! [Ah, Jerry, Jerry, if they knew this at the office!] +Well, the market price of that ’ere two hundred is a trifle on the +decline and fall. (_Looking L._) Hullo! (_Slapping his thigh_). Send +me victorious! It’s king’s evidence on two legs. (_Advancing with great +cordiality to meet_ AINSLIE, _who enters L._) And so your name’s Andrew +Ainslie, is it? As I was saying, you’re the very party I was looking +for. Ain’t it strange, now, that I should have dropped across you +comfortable and promiscuous like this? + +AINSLIE. I dinna ken wha ye are, an’ I’m ill for my bed. + +HUNT. Let your bed wait, Andrew. I want a little chat with you; just a +quiet little sociable wheeze. Just about our friends, you know. About +Badger Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy Rivers, and Deacon Brodie, +Andrew. Particularly Deacon Brodie. + +AINSLIE. They’re nae friens o’ mine’s, mister. I ken naething an’ +naebody. An’ noo I’ll get to my bed, wulln’t I? + +HUNT. We’re going to have our little talk out first. After that perhaps +I’ll let you go, and perhaps I won’t. It all depends on how we get along +together. Now, in a general way, Andrew, and speaking of a man as you +find him, I’m all for peace and quietness myself. That’s my usual game, +Andrew, but when I do make a dust I’m considered by my friends to be +rather a good hand at it. So don’t you tread upon the worm. + +AINSLIE. But I’m sayin’— + +HUNT. You leave that to me, Andrew. You shall do your pitch presently. +I’m first on the ground, and I lead off. With a question, Andrew. Did +you ever hear in your life of such a natural curiosity as a Bow Street +Runner? + +AINSLIE. Aiblins ay an’ aiblins no. + +HUNT. ‘Aiblins ay and aiblins no.’ Very good indeed, Andrew. Now, I’ll +ask you another. Did you ever see a Bow Street Runner, Andrew? With the +naked eye, so to speak? + +AINSLIE. What’s your wull? + +HUNT. Artful bird! Now since we’re getting on so cosy _and_ so free, +I’ll ask you another, Andrew. Should you like to see a Bow Street +Runner? (_Producing staff_.) ’Cos, if so, you’ve only got to cast your +eyes on me. Do you queer the red weskit, Andrew? Pretty colour, ain’t +it? So nice and warm for the winter too. (AINSLIE _dives_, HUNT +_collars him_.) No, you don’t. Not this time. Run away like that +before we’ve finished our little conversation? You’re a nice young man, +you are. Suppose we introduce our wrists into these here darbies? Now +we shall get along cosier and freer than ever. Want to lie down, do you? +All right! anything to oblige. + +AINSLIE (_grovelling_). It wasna me, it wasna me. It’s bad companions; +I’ve been lost wi’ bad companions an’ the drink. An’ O mister, ye’ll be +a kind gentleman to a puir lad, an’ me sae weak, an’ fair rotten wi’ the +drink an’ that. Ye’ve a bonnie kind heart, my dear, dear gentleman; ye +wadna hang sitchan a thing as me. I’m no fit to hang. They ca’ me the +Cannleworm! An’ I’ll dae somethin’ for ye, wulln’t I? An’ ye’ll can +hang the ithers? + +HUNT. I thought I hadn’t mistook my man. Now, you look here, Andrew +Ainslie, you’re a bad lot. I’ve evidence to hang you fifty times over. +But the Deacon is my mark. Will you peach, or wont you? You blow the +gaff, and I’ll pull you through. You don’t, and I’ll scragg you as sure +as my name’s Jerry Hunt. + +AINSLIE. I’ll dae onything. It’s the hanging fleys me. I’ll dae +onything, onything no to hang. + +HUNT. Don’t lie crawling there, but get up and answer me like a man. +Ain’t this Deacon Brodie the fine workman that’s been doing all these +tip-topping burglaries? + +AINSLIE. It’s him, mister; it’s him. That’s the man. Ye’re in the very +bit. Deacon Brodie. I’ll can tak’ ye to his vera door. + +HUNT. How do you know? + +AINSLIE. I gi’ed him a han’ wi’ them a’. It was him an’ Badger Moore, +and Geordie Smith; an’ they gart me gang wi’ them whether or no; I’m that +weak, an’ whiles I’m donner’d wi’ the drink. But I ken a’, an’ I’ll tell +a’. And O kind gentleman, you’ll speak to their lordships for me, an’ +I’ll no be hangit . . . I’ll no be hangit, wull I? + +HUNT. But you shared, didn’t you? I wonder what share they thought you +worth. How much did you get for last night’s performance down at Mother +Clarke’s? + +AINSLIE. Just five pund, mister. Five pund. As sure’s deith it wadna +be a penny mair. No but I askit mair: I did that; I’ll do deny it, +mister. But Badger kickit me, an’ Geordie, he said a bad sweir, an’ made +he’d cut the liver out o’ me, an’ catch fish wi’t. It’s been that way +frae the first: an aith an’ a bawbee was aye guid eneuch for puir Andra. + +HUNT. Well, and why did they do it? I saw Jemmy dance a hornpipe on the +table, and booze the company all round, when the Deacon was gone. What +made you cross the fight, and play booty with your own man? + +AINSLIE. Just to make him rob the Excise, mister. They’re wicked, +wicked men. + +HUNT. And is he right for it? + +AINSLIE. Ay is he. + +HUNT. By jingo! When’s it for? + +AINSLIE. Dear, kind gentleman, I dinna rightly ken: the Deacon’s that +sair angered wi’ me. I’m to get my orders frae Geordie the nicht. + +HUNT. O, you’re to get your orders from Geordie, are you? Now look +here, Ainslie. You know me. I’m Hunt the Runner; I put Jemmy Rivers in +the jug this morning; I’ve got you this evening. I mean to wind up with +the Deacon. You understand? All right. Then just you listen. I’m +going to take these here bracelets off, and send you home to that +celebrated bed of yours. Only, as soon as you’ve seen the Dook you come +straight round to me at Mr. Procurator-Fiscal’s, and let me know the +Dook’s views. One word, mind, and . . . cl’k! It’s a bargain? + +AINSLIE. Never you fear that. I’ll tak’ my bannet an’ come straucht to +ye. Eh God, I’m glad it’s nae mair nor that to start wi’. An’ may the +Lord bless ye, dear, kind gentleman, for your kindness. May the Lord +bless ye. + +HUNT. You pad the hoof. + +AINSLIE (_going out_). An’ so I wull, wulln’t I not? An’ bless, bless +ye while there’s breath in my body, wulln’t I not? + +HUNT (_solus_). You’re a nice young man, Andrew Ainslie. Jemmy Rivers +and the Deacon in two days! By jingo! (_He dances an instant gravely_, +_whistling to himself_.) Jerry, that ’ere little two hundred of ours is +as safe as the bank. + + +TABLEAU VI. +UNMASKED + + +_The Stage represents a room in Leslie’s house_. _A practicable window_, +_C._, _through which a band of strong moonlight falls into the room_. +_Near the window a strong-box_. _A practicable door in wing_, _L._ +_Candlelight_. + + +SCENE I + + +LESLIE, LAWSON, MARY, _seated_. BRODIE _at back_, _walking between the +windows and strong-box_. + +LAWSON. Weel, weel, weel, weel, nae doubt. + +LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, I am perfectly satisfied with Brodie’s word; I will +wait gladly. + +LAWSON. I have nothing to say against that. + +BRODIE (_behind_ LAWSON). Nor for it. + +LAWSON. For it? for it, William? Ye’re perfectly richt there. (_To_ +LESLIE.) Just you do what William tells you; ye canna do better than +that. + +MARY. Dear uncle, I see you are vexed; but Will and I are perfectly +agreed on the best course. Walter and I are young. Oh, we can wait; we +can trust each other. + +BRODIE (_from behind_). Leslie, do you think it safe to keep this +strong-box in your room? + +LESLIE. It does not trouble me. + +BRODIE. I would not. ’Tis close to the window. + +LESLIE. It’s on the right side of it. + +BRODIE. I give you my advice: I would not. + +LAWSON. He may be right there too, Mr. Leslie. + +BRODIE. I give him fair warning: it’s not safe + +LESLIE. I have a different treasure to concern myself about; if all goes +right with that I shall be well contented. + +MARY. Walter! + +LAWSON. Ay, bairns, ye speak for your age. + +LESLIE. Surely, sir, for every age; the ties of blood, of love, of +friendship, these are life’s essence. + +MARY. And for no one is it truer than my uncle. If he live to be a +thousand, he will still be young in heart, full of love, full of trust. + +LAWSON. All, lassie, it’s a wicked world. + +MARY. Yes, you are out of sorts to-day; we know that. + +LESLIE. Admitted that you know more of life, sir; admitted (if you +please) that the world is wicked; yet you do not lose trust in those you +love. + +LAWSON. Weel . . . ye get gliffs, ye ken. + +LESLIE. I suppose so. We can all be shaken for a time; but not, I +think, in our friends. We are not deceived in them; in the few that we +admit into our hearts. + +MARY. Never in these. + +LESLIE. We know these (_to_ BRODIE), and we think the world of them. + +BRODIE (_at back_). We are more acquainted with each other’s tailors, +believe me. You, Leslie, are a very pleasant creature. My uncle Lawson +is the Procurator-Fiscal. I—What am I?—I am the Deacon of the Wrights, +my ruffles are generally clean. And you think the world of me? Bravo! + +LESLIE. Ay, and I think the world of you. + +BRODIE (_at back_, _pointing to_ LAWSON). Ask him. + +LAWSON. Hoot-toot. A wheen nonsense: an honest man’s an honest man, and +a randy thief’s a randy thief, and neither mair nor less. Mary, my lamb, +it’s time you were hame, and had you beauty sleep. + +MARY. Do you not come with us? + +LAWSON. I gang the ither gate, my lamb. (LESLIE _helps_ MARY _on with +her cloak_, _and they say farewell at back_. BRODIE _for the first time +comes front with_ LAWSON.) Sae ye’ve consented? + +BRODIE. As you see. + +LAWSON. Ye’ll can pay it back? + +BRODIE. I will. + +LAWSON. And how? That’s what I’m wonderin’ to mysel’. + +BRODIE. Ay, God knows that. + +MARY. Come, Will. + + +SCENE II + + + LESLIE, LAWSON (_wrapping up_) + +LESLIE. I wonder what ails Brodie? + +LAWSON. How should I ken? What should I ken that ails him? + +LESLIE. He seemed angry even with you. + +LAWSON (_impatient_). Hoot awa’. + +LESLIE. Of course, I know. But you see, on the very day when our +engagement is announced, even the best of men may be susceptible. You +yourself seem not quite pleased. + +LAWSON (_with great irritation_). I’m perfectly pleased. I’m perfectly +delighted. If I werena an auld man, I’d be just beside mysel’ wi’ +happiness. + +LESLIE. Well, I only fancied. + +LAWSON. Ye had nae possible excuse to fancy. Fancy? Perfect trash and +nonsense. Look at yersel’. Ye look like a ghaist, ye’re white-like, +ye’re black aboot the een; and do ye find me deavin’ ye wi’ fancies? Or +William Brodie either? I’ll say that for him. + +LESLIE. ’Tis not sorrow that alters my complexion; I’ve something else +on hand. Come, I’ll tell you, under seal. I’ve not been in bed till +daylight for a week. + +LAWSON. Weel, there’s nae sense in the like o’ that. + +LESLIE. Gad, but there is though. Why, Procurator, this is town’s +business; this is a municipal affair; I’m a public character. Why? Ah, +here’s a nut for the Crown Prosecutor! I’m a bit of a party to a +robbery. + +LAWSON. Guid guide us, man, what d’ye mean? + +LESLIE. You shall hear. A week ago to-night, I was passing through this +very room without a candle on my way to bed, when . . . what should I +see, but a masked man fumbling at that window! How he did the Lord +knows. I suspect, Procurator, it was not the first he’d tried . . . for +he opened it as handily as his own front door. + +LAWSON. Preserve me! Another of thae robberies! + +LESLIE. That’s it. And, of course, I tried to seize him. But the +rascal was too quick. He was down and away in an instant. You never saw +a thing so daring and adroit. + +LAWSON. Is that a’? Ye’re a bauld lad, I’ll say that for ye. I’m glad +it wasna waur. + +LESLIE. Yes, that’s all plain sailing. But here’s the hitch. Why +didn’t I tell the Procurator-Fiscal? You never thought of that. + +LAWSON. No, man. Why? + +LESLIE. Aha! There’s the riddle. Will you guess? No? . . . I thought +I knew the man. + +LAWSON. What d’ye say? + +LESLIE. I thought I knew him. + +LAWSON. Wha was’t? + +LESLIE. Ah, there you go beyond me. That I cannot tell. + +LAWSON. As God sees ye, laddie, are ye speaking truth? + +LESLIE. Well . . . of course! + +LAWSON. The haill truth? + +LESLIE. All of it. Why not? + +LAWSON. Man, I’d a kind o’ gliff. + +LESLIE. Why, what were you afraid of? Had you a suspicion? + +LAWSON. Me? Me a suspicion? Ye’re daft, sir; and me the Crown +offeecial! . . . Eh man, I’m a’ shakin’ . . . And sae ye thocht ye kennt +him? + +LESLIE. I did that. And what’s more, I’ve sat every night in case of +his return. I promise you, Procurator, he shall not slip me twice. +Meanwhile I’m worried and put out. You understand how such a fancy will +upset a man. I’m uneasy with my friends and on bad terms with my own +conscience. I keep watching, spying, comparing, putting two and two +together, hunting for resemblances until my head goes round. It’s like a +puzzle in a dream. Only yesterday I thought I had him. And who d’you +think it was? + +LAWSON. Wha? Wha was’t? Speak, Mr. Leslie, speak. I’m an auld man; +dinna forget that. + +LESLIE. I name no names. It would be unjust to him; and, upon my word, +it was so silly it would be unfair to me. However, here I sit, night +after night. I mean him to come back; come back he shall; and I’ll tell +you who he was next morning. + +LAWSON. Let sleeping dogs lie, Mr. Leslie; ye dinna ken what ye micht +see. And then, leave him alane, he’ll come nae mair. And sitting up a’ +nicht . . . it’s a _factum imprestabile_, as we say: a thing impossible +to man. Gang ye to your bed, like a guid laddie, and sleep lang and +soundly, and bonnie, bonnie dreams to ye! (_Without_.) Let sleeping +dogs lie, and gang ye to your bed. + + +SCENE III + + + LESLIE + +LESLIE (_calling_). In good time, never fear! (_He carefully bolts and +chains the door_.) The old gentleman seems upset. What for, I wonder? +Has he had a masked visitor? Why not? It’s the fashion. Out with the +lights. (_Blows out the candles_. _The stage is only lighted by the +moon through the window_.) He is sure to come one night or other. He +must come. Right or wrong, I feel it in the air. Man, but I know you, I +know you somewhere. That trick of the shoulders, the hang of the +clothes—whose are they? Where have I seen them? And then, that single +look of the eye, that one glance about the room as the window opened . . . +it is almost friendly; I have caught it over the glass’s rim! If it +should be . . . his? No, his it is not. + +WATCHMAN (_without_). Past ten o’clock, and a fine moonlight night. + +ANOTHER (_further away_). Past ten o’clock, and all’s well. + +LESLIE. Past ten? Ah, there’s a long night before you and me, watchmen. +Heavens, what a trade! But it will be something to laugh over with Mary +and . . . with him? Damn it, the delusion is too strong for me. It’s a +thing to be ashamed of. ‘We Brodies’: how she says it! ‘We Brodies and +our Deacon’: what a pride she takes in it, and how good it sounds to me! +‘Deacon of his craft, sir, Deacon of the . . .! (BRODIE, _masked_, +_appears without at the window_, _which he proceeds to force_.) Ha! I +knew he’d come. I was sure of it. (_He crouches near and nearer to the +window_, _keeping in the shade_.) And I know you too. I swear I know +you. + + +SCENE IV + + + BRODIE, LESLIE + +BRODIE _enters by the window with assurance and ease_, _closes it +silently_, _and proceeds to traverse the room_. _As he moves_, LESLIE +_leaps upon and grapples him_. + +LESLIE. Take off that mask! + +BRODIE. Hands off! + +LESLIE. Take off the mask! + +BRODIE. Leave go, by God, leave go! + +LESLIE. Take it off! + +BRODIE (_overpowered_). Leslie . . . + +LESLIE. Ah! you know me! (_Succeeds in tearing off the mask_.) Brodie! + +BRODIE (_in the moonlight_). Brodie. + +LESLIE. You . . . you, Brodie, you? + +BRODIE. Brodie, sir, Brodie as you see. + +LESLIE. What does it mean? What does it mean, my God? Were you here +before? Is this the second time? Are you a thief, man? are you a thief? +Speak, speak, or I’ll kill you. + +BRODIE. I am a thief. + +LESLIE. And my friend, my own friend, and . . . Mary, Mary! . . . +Deacon, Deacon, for God’s sake, no! + +BRODIE. God help me! + +LESLIE. ‘We Brodies! We Brodies!’ + +BRODIE. Leslie— + +LESLIE. Stand off! Don’t touch me! You’re a thief! + +BRODIE. Leslie, Leslie + +LESLIE. A thief’s sister! Why are you here? why are you here? Tell me! +Why do you not speak? Man, I know you of old. Are you Brodie, and have +nothing to say? + +BRODIE. To say? Not much—God help me—and commonplace, commonplace like +sin. I was honest once; I made a false step; I couldn’t retrace it; and +. . . that is all. + +LESLIE. You have forgot the bad companions! + +BRODIE. I did forget them. They were there. + +LESLIE. Commonplace! Commonplace! Do you speak to me, do you reason +with me, do you make excuses? You—a man found out, shamed, a liar, a +thief—a man that’s killed me, killed this heart in my body; and you +speak! What am I to do? I hold your life in my hand; have you thought +of that? What am I to do? + +BRODIE. Do what you please; you have me trapped. + +(JEAN WATT _is heard singing without two bars of_ ‘_Wanderin’ Willie_,’ +_by way of signal_.) + +LESLIE. What is that? + +BRODIE. A signal. + +LESLIE. What does it mean? + +BRODIE. Danger to me; there is someone coming. + +LESLIE. Danger to you? + +BRODIE. Some one is coming. What are you going to do with me? (_A +knock at the door_.) + +LESLIE (_after a pause_). Sit down. (_Knocking_.) + +BRODIE. What are you going to do with me? + +LESLIE. Sit down. (BRODIE _sits in darkest part of stage_. LESLIE +_opens door_, _and admits_ LAWSON. _Door open till end of Act_.) + + +SCENE V + + + BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE + +LAWSON. This is an unco’ time to come to your door; but eh, laddie, I +couldna bear to think o’ ye sittin’ your lane in the dark. + +LESLIE. It was very good of you. + +LAWSON. I’m no very fond of playing hidee in the dark mysel’; and noo +that I’m here— + +LESLIE. I will give you a light. (_He lights the candles_. _Lights +up_.) + +LAWSON. God A’michty! William Brodie! + +LESLIE. Yes, Brodie was good enough to watch with me. + +LAWSON. But he gaed awa’ . . . I dinna see . . . an’ Lord be guid to us, +the window’s open! + +LESLIE. A trap we laid for them: a device of Brodie’s. + +BRODIE (_to_ LAWSON). Set a thief to catch a thief. (_Passing to_ +LESLIE, _aside_.) Walter Leslie, God will reward. (JEAN _signals +again_.) + +LAWSON. I dinna like that singin’ at siccan a time o’ the nicht. + +BRODIE. I must go. + +LAWSON. Not one foot o’ ye. I’m ower glad to find ye in guid hands. +Ay, ye dinna ken how glad. + +BRODIE (_aside to_ LESLIE). Get me out of this. There’s a man there +will stick at nothing. + +LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, Brodie has done his shift. Why should we keep him? +(JEAN _appears at the door_, _and signs to_ BRODIE.) + +LAWSON. Hoots! this is my trade. That’s a bit o’ ‘Wanderin’ Willie.’ +I’ve had it before me in precognitions; that same stave has been used for +a signal by some o’ the very warst o’ them. + +BRODIE (_aside to_ LESLIE). Get me out of this. I’ll never forget +to-night. (JEAN _at door again_.) + +LESLIE. Well, good-night, Brodie. When shall we meet again? + +LAWSON. Not one foot o’ him. (JEAN _at door_.) I tell you, Mr. Leslie— + + +SCENE VI + + + _To these_, JEAN + +JEAN (_from she door_). Wullie, Wullie! + +LAWSON. Guid guide us, Mrs. Watt! A dacent wumman like yoursel’! +Whatten a time o’ nicht is this to come to folks’ doors? + +JEAN (_to_ BRODIE). Hawks, Wullie, hawks! + +BRODIE. I suppose you know what you’ve done, Jean? + +JEAN. I _had_ to come, Wullie, he wadna wait another minit. He wad have +come himsel’. + +BRODIE. This is my mistress. + +LAWSON. William, dinna tell me nae mair. + +BRODIE. I have told you so much. You may as well know all. That good +man knows it already. Have you issued a warrant for me . . . yet? + +LAWSON. No, no, man: not another word. + +BRODIE, (_pointing to the window_). That is my work. I am the man. +Have you drawn the warrant? + +LAWSON (_breaking down_). Your father’s son! + +LESLIE (_to_ LAWSON). My good friend! Brodie, you might have spared the +old man this. + +BRODIE. I might have spared him years ago; and you and my sister, and +myself. I might . . . would God I had! (_Weeping himself_.) Don’t +weep, my good old friend; I was lost long since; don’t think of me; don’t +pity me; don’t shame me with your pity! I began this when I was a boy. +I bound the millstone round my neck; [it is irrevocable now,] and you +must all suffer . . . all suffer for me! . . . [for this suffering +remnant of what was once a man]. O God, that I can have fallen to stand +here as I do now. My friend lying to save me from the gallows; my second +father weeping tears of blood for my disgrace! And all for what? By +what? Because I had an open hand, because I was a selfish dog, because I +loved this woman. + +JEAN. O Wullie, and she lo’ed ye weel! But come near me nae mair, come +near me nae mair, my man; keep wi’ your ain folks . . . your ain dacent +folks. + +LAWSON. Mistress Watt, ye shall sit rent free as lang’s there’s breath +in William Lawson’s body. + +LESLIE. You can do one thing still . . . for Mary’s sake. You can save +yourself; you must fly. + +BRODIE. It is my purpose; the day after to-morrow. It cannot be before. +Then I will fly; and O, as God sees me, I will strive to make a new and a +better life, and to be worthy of your friendship, and of your tears . . . +your tears. And to be worthy of you too, Jean; for I see now that the +bandage has fallen from my eyes; I see myself, O how unworthy even of +you. + +LESLIE. Why not to-night? + +BRODIE. It cannot be before. There are many considerations. I must +find money. + +JEAN. Leave me, and the wean. Dinna fash yoursel’ for us. + +LESLIE (_opening the strong-box_, _and pouring gold upon the table_). +Take this and go at once. + +BRODIE. Not that . . . not the money that I came to steal! + +LAWSON. Tak’ it, William; I’ll pay him. + +BRODIE. It is in vain. I cannot leave till I have said. There is a +man; I must obey him. If I slip my chain till he has done with me, the +hue and cry will blaze about the country; every outport will be shut; I +shall return to the gallows. He is a man that will stick at nothing. + + +SCENE VII + + + _To these_, MOORE + +MOORE. Are you coming? + +BRODIE. I am coming. + +MOORE (_appearing in the door_). Do you want us all to get thundering +well scragged? + +BRODIE (_going_). There is my master. + + * * * * * + + ACT-DROP + + + +ACT IV. + + +TABLEAU VII. +THE ROBBERY + + +_The Stage represents the outside of the Excise Office in Chessel’s +Court_. _At the back_, _L.C._, _an archway opening on the High Street_. +_The door of the Excise in wing_, _R._; _the opposite side of the stage +is lumbered with barrels_, _packing-cases_, _etc._ _Moonlight_; _the +Excise Office casts a shadow over half the stage_. _A clock strikes the +hour_. _A round of the City Guard_, _with halberts_, _lanterns_, _etc._, +_enters and goes out again by the arch_, _after having examined the +fastenings of the great door and the lumber on the left_. _Cry without +in the High Street_: ‘_Ten by the bell_, _and a fine clear night_.’ +_Then enter cautiously by the arch_, SMITH _and_ MOORE, _with_ AINSLIE +_loaded with tools_. + + +SCENE I + + + SMITH, MOORE, AINSLIE + +SMITH (_entering first_). Come on. Coast clear. + +MOORE (_after they have come to the front_.) Ain’t he turned up yet? + +SMITH (_to_ AINSLIE). Now Maggot! The fishing’s a going to begin. + +AINSLIE. Dinna cangle, Geordie. My back’s fair broke. + +MOORE. O muck! Hand out them pieces. + +SMITH. All right, Humptious! (_To_ AINSLIE.) You’re a nice old sort +for a rag-and-bone man: can’t hold a bag open! (_Taking out tools_.) +Here they was. Here are the bunchums, one _and_ two; and jolly old keys +was they. Here’s the picklocks, crow-bars, and here’s Lord George’s pet +bull’s eye, his old and valued friend, the Cracksman’s treasure! + +MOORE. Just like you. Forgot the rotten centrebit. + +SMITH. That’s all you know. Here she is, bless her! Portrait of George +as a gay hironmonger. + +MOORE. O rot! Hand it over, and keep yourself out of that there +thundering moonlight. + +SMITH (_lighting lantern_). All right, old mumble-peg. Don’t you get +carried away by the fire of old Rome. That’s your motto. Here are the +tools; a perfect picter of the sublime and beautiful; and all I hope is, +that our friend and pitcher, the Deakin, will make a better job of it +than he did last night. If he don’t, I shall retire from the +business—that’s all; and it’ll be George and his little wife and a black +footman till death do us part. + +MOORE. O muck! You’re all jaw like a sheep’s jimmy. That’s my opinion +of you. When did you see him last? + +SMITH. This morning; and he looked as if he was rehearsing for his own +epitaph. I never see such a change in a man. I gave him the office for +to-night; and was he grateful? Did he weep upon my faithful bosom? No; +he smiled upon me like a portrait of the dear departed. I see his ’art +was far away; and it broke my own to look at him. + +MOORE. Muck! Wot I ses is, if a cove’s got that much of the nob about +him, wot’s the good of his working single-handed? That’s wot’s the +matter with him. + +SMITH. Well, old Father Christmas, he ain’t single-handed to-night, is +he? + +MOORE. No, he ain’t; he’s got a man with him to-night. + +SMITH. Pardon me, Romeo; two men, I think? + +MOORE. A man wot means business. If I’d a bin with him last night, it +ain’t psalm-singin’ would have got us off. Psalm-singin’? Muck! Let +’em try it on with me. + +AINSLIE. Losh me, I heard a noise. (_Alarm; they crouch into the shadow +and listen_.) + +SMITH. All serene. (_To_ AINSLIE) Am I to cut that liver out of you? +Now, am I? (_A whistle_.) ’St! here we are. (_Whistles a modulation_, +_which is answered_.) + + +SCENE II + + + _To these_ BRODIE + +MOORE. Waiting for you, Deacon. + +BRODIE. I see. Everything ready? + +SMITH. All a-growing and a-blowing. + +BRODIE. Give me the light. (_Briefly examines tools and door with +bull’s eye_.) You, George, stand by, and hand up the pieces. Ainslie, +take the glim. Moore, out and watch. + +MOORE. I didn’t come here to do sentry-go, I didn’t. + +BRODIE. You came here to do as I tell you. (MOORE _goes up slowly_.) +Second bunch, George. I know the lock. Steady with the glim. (_At +work_.) No good. Give me the centrebit. + +SMITH. Right. (_Work continues_. AINSLIE _drops lantern_.) + +BRODIE. Curse you! (_Throttling and kicking him_.) You shake, and you +shake, and you can’t even hold a light for your betters. Hey? + +AINSLIE. Eh Deacon, Deacon . . . + +SMITH. Now Ghost! (_With lantern_.) + +BRODIE. ’St, Moore! + +MOORE. Wot’s the row? + +BRODIE. Take you the light. + +MOORE (_to_ AINSLIE). Wo’ j’ yer shakin’ at? (_Kicks him_.) + +BRODIE (_to_ AINSLIE). Go you, and see if you’re good at keeping watch. +Inside the arch. And if you let a footfall pass, I’ll break your back. +(AINSLIE _retires_.) Steady with the light. (_At work with centrebit_.) +Hand up number four, George. (_At work with picklock_.) That has it. + +SMITH. Well done our side. + +BRODIE. Now the crow bar! (_At work_.) That’s it. Put down the glim, +Badger, and help at the wrench. Your whole weight, men! Put your backs +to it! (_While they work at the bar_, BRODIE _stands by_, _dusting his +hands with a pocket-handkerchief_. _As the door opens_.)_ Voilà_! In +with you. + +MOORE (_entering with light_). Mucking fine work too, Deacon! + +BRODIE. Take up the irons, George! + +SMITH. How about the P(h)antom? + +BRODIE. Leave him to me. I’ll give him a look. (_Enters office_.) + +SMITH (_following_). Houp-là! + + +SCENE III + + + AINSLIE; _afterwards_ BRODIE; _afterwards_ HUNT _and_ OFFICERS + +AINSLIE. Ca’ ye that mainners? Ye’re grand gentry by your way o’t! Eh +sirs, my hench! Ay, that was the Badger. Man, but ye’ll look bonnie +hangin’! (_A faint whistle_.) Lord’s sake, what’s thon? Ay, it’ll be +Hunt an’ his lads. (_Whistle repeated_.) Losh me, what gars him +whustle, whustle? Does he think me deaf? (_Goes up_. BRODIE _enters +from office_, _stands an instant_, _and sees him making a signal through +the arch_.) + +BRODIE. Rats! Rats! (_Hides L. among lumber_. _Enter noiselessly +through arch_ HUNT _and_ OFFICERS.) + +HUNT. Birds caught? + +AINSLIE. They’re a’ ben the house, mister. + +HUNT. All three? + +AINSLIE. The hale set, mister. + +BRODIE. Liar! + +HUNT. Mum, lads, and follow me. (_Exit_, _with his men_, _into office_. +BRODIE _seen with dagger_.) + +HUNT (_within_). In the King’s name! + +MOORE (_within_). Muck! + +SMITH (_within_). Go it, Badger. + +HUNT (_within_). Take ’em alive, boys! + +AINSLIE. Eh, but that’s awful. (_The Deacon leaps out_, _and stabs +him_. _He falls without a cry_.) + +BRODIE. Saved! (_He goes out by the arch_.) + + +SCENE IV + + + HUNT _and_ OFFICERS; _with_ SMITH _and_ MOORE _handcuffed_. _Signs of a + severe struggle_ + +HUNT (_entering_). Bring ’em along, lads! (_Looking at prisoners with +lantern_.) Pleased to see you again, Badger. And you too, George. But +I’d rather have seen your principal. Where’s he got to? + +MOORE. To hell, I hope. + +HUNT. Always the same pretty flow of language, I see, Hump. (_Looking +at burglary with lantern_.) A very tidy piece of work, Dook; very tidy! +Much too good for you. Smacks of a fine tradesman. It _was_ the Deacon, +I suppose? + +SMITH. You ought to know G. S. better by this time, Jerry. + +HUNT. All right, your Grace: we’ll talk it over with the Deacon himself. +Where’s the jackal? Here, you, Ainslie! Where are you? By jingo, I +thought as much. Stabbed to the heart and dead as a herring! + +SMITH. Bravo! + +HUNT. More of the Deacon’s work, I guess? Does him credit too, don’t +it, Badger? + +MOORE. Muck. Was that the thundering cove that peached? + +HUNT. That was the thundering cove. + +MOORE. And is he corpsed? + +HUNT. I should just about reckon he was. + +MOORE. Then, damme, I don’t mind swinging! + +HUNT. We’ll talk about that presently. M’Intyre and Stewart, you get a +stretcher, and take that rubbish to the office. Pick it up; it’s only a +dead informer. Hand these two gentlemen over to Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, +with Mr. Jerry Hunt’s compliments. Johnstone and Syme, you come along +with me. I’ll bring the Deacon round myself. + + * * * * * + + ACT-DROP + + + +ACT V. + + +TABLEAU VIII. +THE OPEN DOOR + + +_The Stage represents the Deacon’s room_, _as in Tableau I_. _Fire +light_. _Stage dark_. _A pause_. _Then knocking at the door_, _C._ +_Cries without of_ ‘WILLIE!’ ‘MR. BRODIE!’ _The door is burst open_. + + +SCENE I + + + DOCTOR, MARY, a MAIDSERVANT with lights. + +DOCTOR. The apartment is unoccupied. + +MARY. Dead, and he not here! + +DOCTOR. The bed has not been slept in. The counterpane is not turned +down. + +MARY. It is not true; it cannot be true. + +DOCTOR. My dear young lady, you must have misunderstood your brother’s +language. + +MARY. O no; that I did not. That I am sure I did not. + +DOCTOR (_looking at door_). The strange thing is . . . the bolt. + +SERVANT. It’s unco strange. + +DOCTOR. Well, we have acted for the best. + +SERVANT. Sir, I dinna think this should gang nae further. + +DOCTOR. The secret is in our keeping. Affliction is enough without +scandal. + +MARY. Kind heaven, what does it mean? + +DOCTOR. I think there is no more to be done. + +MARY. I am here alone, Doctor; you pass my uncle’s door? + +DOCTOR. The Procurator-Fiscal? I shall make it my devoir. Expect him +soon. (_Goes out with_ MAID.) + +MARY (_hastily searches the room_). No, he is not there. She was right! +O father, you can never know, praise God! + + +SCENE II + + + MARY, _to whom_ JEAN _and afterwards_ LESLIE + +JEAN (_at door_). Mistress . . . ! + +MARY. Ah! Who is there? Who are you? + +JEAN. Is he no hame yet? I’m aye waitin’ on him. + +MARY. Waiting for him? Do you know the Deacon? You? + +JEAN. I maun see him. Eh, lassie, it’s life and death. + +MARY. Death . . . O my heart! + +JEAN. I maun see him, bonnie leddie. I’m a puir body, and no fit to be +seen speakin’ wi’ the likes o’ you. But O lass, ye are the Deacon’s +sister, and ye hae the Deacon’s e’en, and for the love of the dear kind +Lord, let’s in and hae a word wi’ him ere it be ower late. I’m bringin’ +siller. + +MARY. Siller? You? For him? O father, father, if you could hear! +What are you? What are you . . . to him? + +JEAN. I’ll be the best frien’ ’at ever he had; for, O dear leddie, I wad +gie my bluid to help him. + +MARY. And the . . . the child? + +JEAN. The bairn? + +MARY. Nothing! O nothing! I am in trouble, and I know not what I say. +And I cannot help you; I cannot help you if I would. He is not here; and +I believed he was; and ill . . . ill; and he is not—he is . . . O, I +think I shall lose my mind! + +JEAN. Ay, it’s unco business. + +MARY. His father is dead within there . . . dead, I tell you . . . dead! + +JEAN. It’s mebbe just as weel. + +MARY. Well? Well? Has it come to this? O Walter, Walter! come back to +me, or I shall die. (LESLIE _enters_, _C._) + +LESLIE. Mary, Mary! I hoped to have spared you this. (_To_ JEAN.) +What—you? Is he not here? + +JEAN. I’m aye waitin’ on him. + +LESLIE. What has become of him? Is he mad? Where is he? + +JEAN. The Lord A’michty kens, Mr. Leslie. But I maun find him; I maun +find him. + + +SCENE III + + + MARY, LESLIE + +MARY. O Walter, Walter! What does it mean? + +LESLIE. You have been a brave girl all your life, Mary; you must lean on +me . . . you must trust in me . . . and be a brave girl till the end. + +MARY. Who is she? What does she want with _him_? And he . . . where is +he? Do you know that my father is dead, and the Deacon not here? Where +has he gone? He may be dead, too. Father, brother . . . O God, it is +more than I can bear! + +LESLIE. Mary, my dear, dear girl . . . when will you be my wife? + +MARY. O, do not speak . . . not speak . . . of it to-night. Not +to-night! O not to-night! + +LESLIE. I know, I know dear heart! And do you think that I whom you +have chosen, I whose whole life is in your love—do you think that I would +press you now if there were not good cause? + +MARY. Good cause! Something has happened. Something has happened . . . +to him! Walter . . . ! Is he . . . dead? + +LESLIE. There are worse things in the world than death. There is O . . . +Mary, he is your brother! + +MARY. What? Dishonour! . . . The Deacon! . . . My God! + +LESLIE. My wife, my wife! + +MARY. No, no! Keep away from me. Don’t touch me. I’m not fit . . . +not fit to be near you. What has he done? I am his sister. Tell me the +worst. Tell me the worst at once. + +LESLIE. That, if God wills, dear, that you shall never know. Whatever +it be, think that I knew it all, and only loved you better; think that +your true husband is with you, and you are not to bear it alone. + +MARY. My husband? . . . Never. + +LESLIE. Mary . . . ! + +MARY. You forget, you forget what I am. I am his sister. I owe him a +lifetime of happiness and love; I owe him even you. And whatever his +fault, however ruinous his disgrace, he is my brother—my own brother—and +my place is still with him. + +LESLIE. Your place is with me—is with your husband. With me, with me; +and for his sake most of all. What can you do for him alone? how can you +help him alone? It wrings my heart to think how little. But together is +different. Together . . . I join my strength, my will, my courage to +your own, and together we may save him. + +MARY. All that is over. Once I was blessed among women. I was my +father’s daughter, my brother loved me, I lived to be your wife. Now . . . ! +My father is dead, my brother is shamed; and you . . . O how could I +face the world, how could I endure myself, if I preferred my happiness to +your honour? + +LESLIE. What is my honour but your happiness? In what else does it +consist? Is it in denying me my heart? is it in visiting another’s sin +upon the innocent? Could I do that, and be my mother’s son? Could I do +that, and bear my father’s name? Could I do that, and have ever been +found worthy of you? + +MARY. It is my duty . . . my duty. Why will you make it so hard for me? +So hard, Walter so hard! + +LESLIE. Do I pursue you only for your good fortune, your beauty, the +credit of your friends, your family’s good name? That were not love, and +I love you. I love you, dearest, I love you. Friend, father, brother, +husband . . . I must be all these to you. I am a man who can love well. + +MARY. Silence . . . in pity! I cannot . . . O, I cannot bear it. + +LESLIE. And say it was I who had fallen. Say I had played my neck and +lost it . . . that I were pushed by the law to the last limits of +ignominy and despair. Whose love would sanctify my jail to me? whose +pity would shine upon me in the dock? whose prayers would accompany me to +the gallows? Whose but yours? Yours! . . . And you would entreat +me—me!—to do what you shrink from even in thought, what you would die ere +you attempted in deed! + +MARY. Walter . . . on my knees . . . no more, no more! + +LESLIE. My wife! my wife! Here on my heart! It is I that must kneel . . . +I that must kneel to you. + +MARY. Dearest! . . . Husband! You forgive him? O, you forgive him? + +LESLIE. He is my brother now. Let me take you to our father. Come. + + +SCENE IV + + + _After a pause_, BRODIE, _through the window_ + +BRODIE. Saved! And the alibi! Man, but you’ve been near it this +time—near the rope, near the rope. Ah boy, it was your neck, your neck +you fought for. They were closing hell-doors upon me, swift as the wind, +when I slipped through and shot for heaven! Saved! The dog that sold +me, I settled him; and the other dogs are staunch. Man, but your alibi +will stand! Is the window fast? The neighbours must not see the Deacon, +the poor, sick Deacon, up and stirring at this time o’ night. Ay, the +good old room in the good, cozy old house . . . and the rat a dead rat, +and all saved. (_He lights the candles_.) Your hand shakes, sir? Fie! +And you saved, and you snug and sick in your bed, and it but a dead rat +after all? (_He takes off his hanger and lays it on the table_.) Ay, it +was a near touch. Will it come to the dock? If it does! You’ve a +tongue, and you’ve a head, and you’ve an alibi; and your alibi will +stand. (_He takes off his coat_, _takes out the dagger_, _and with a +gesture of striking_) Home! He fell without a sob. ‘He breaketh them +against the bosses of his buckler!’ (_Lays the dagger on the table_.) +Your alibi . . . ah Deacon, that’s your life! . . . your alibi, your +alibi. (_He takes up a candle and turns towards the door_.) O! . . . +Open, open, open! judgment of God, the door is open! + + +SCENE V + + + BRODIE, MARY. + +BRODIE. Did you open the door? + +MARY. I did. + +BRODIE. You . . . you opened the door? + +MARY. I did open it + +BRODIE. Were you . . . alone? + +MARY. I was not. The servant was with me; and the doctor. + +BRODIE. O . . . the servant . . . and the doctor. Very true. Then it’s +all over the town by now. The servant and the doctor. The doctor? What +doctor? Why the doctor? + +MARY. My father is dead. O Will, where have you been? + +BRODIE. Your father is dead. O yes! He’s dead, is he? Dead. Quite +right. Quite right . . . How did you open the door? It’s strange. I +bolted it. + +MARY. We could not help it, Will, now could we? The doctor forced it. +He had to, had he not? + +BRODIE. The doctor forced it? The doctor? Was he here? He forced it? +He? + +MARY. We did it for the best; it was I who did it . . . I, your own +sister. And O Will, my Willie, where have you been? You have not been +in any harm, any danger? + +BRODIE. Danger? O my young lady, you have taken care of that. It’s not +danger now, it’s death. Death? Ah! Death! Death! Death! (_Clutching +the table_. _Then_, _recovering as from a dream_.) Death? Did you say +my father was dead? My father? O my God, my poor old father! Is he +dead, Mary? Have I lost him? is he gone? O, Mary dear, and to think of +where his son was! + +MARY. Dearest, he is in heaven. + +BRODIE. Did he suffer? + +MARY. He died like a child. Your name . . . it was his last. + +BRODIE. My name? Mine? O Mary, if he had known! He knows now. He +knows; he sees us now . . . sees me! Ay, and sees you, left how lonely! + +MARY. Not so, dear; not while you live. Wherever you are, I shall not +be alone, so you live. + +BRODIE. While I live? I? The old house is ruined, and the old master +dead, and I! . . . O Mary, try and believe I did not mean that it +should come to this; try and believe that I was only weak at first. At +first? And now! The good old man dead, the kind sister ruined, the +innocent boy fallen, fallen . . . ! You will be quite alone; all your +old friends, all the old faces, gone into darkness. The night (_with a +gesture_) . . . it waits for me. You will be quite alone. + +MARY. The night! + +BRODIE. Mary, you must hear. How am I to tell her, and the old man just +dead! Mary, I was the boy you knew; I loved pleasure, I was weak; I have +fallen . . . low . . . lower than you think. A beginning is so small a +thing! I never dreamed it would come to this . . . this hideous last +night. + +MARY. Willie, you must tell me, dear. I must have the truth . . . the +kind truth . . . at once . . . in pity. + +BRODIE. Crime. I have fallen. Crime. + +MARY. Crime? + +BRODIE. Don’t shrink from me. Miserable dog that I am, selfish hound +that has dragged you to this misery . . . you and all that loved him . . . +think only of my torments, think only of my penitence, don’t shrink +from me. + +MARY. I do not care to hear, I do not wish, I do not mind; you are my +brother. What do I care? How can I help you? + +BRODIE. Help? help _me_? You would not speak of it, not wish it, if you +knew. My kind good sister, my little playmate, my sweet friend! was I +ever unkind to you till yesterday? Not openly unkind? you’ll say that +when I am gone. + +MARY. If you have done wrong, what do I care? If you have failed, does +it change my twenty years of love and worship? Never! + +BRODIE. Yet I must make her understand . . . ! + +MARY. I am your true sister, dear. I cannot fail, I will never leave +you, I will never blame you. Come! (_Goes to embrace_.) + +BRODIE (_recoiling_). No, don’t touch me, not a finger, not that, +anything but that! + +MARY. Willie, Willie! + +BRODIE (_taking the bloody dagger from the table_). See, do you +understand that? + +MARY. Ah! What, what is it! + +BRODIE. Blood. I have killed a man. + +MARY. You? . . . + +BRODIE. I am a murderer; I was a thief before. Your brother . . . the +old man’s only son! + +MARY. Walter, Walter, come to me! + +BRODIE. Now you see that I must die; now you see that I stand upon the +grave’s edge, all my lost life behind me, like a horror to think upon, +like a frenzy, like a dream that is past. And you, you are alone. +Father, brother, they are gone from you; one to heaven, one . . . ! + +MARY. Hush, dear, hush! Kneel, pray; it is not too late to repent. +Think of our father dear; repent. (_She weeps_, _straining to his +bosom_.) O Willie, my darling boy, repent and join us. + + +SCENE VI + + + _To these_, LAWSON, LESLIE, JEAN + +LAWSON. She kens a’, thank the guid Lord! + +BRODIE (_to_ MARY). I know you forgive me now; I ask no more. That is a +good man. (_To_ LESLIE.) Will you take her from my hands? (LESLIE +_takes_ MARY.) Jean, are ye here to see the end? + +JEAN. Eh man, can ye no fly? Could ye no say that it was me? + +BRODIE. No, Jean, this is where it ends. Uncle, this is where it ends. +And to think that not an hour ago I still had hopes! Hopes! Ay, not an +hour ago I thought of a new life. You were not forgotten, Jean. Leslie, +you must try to forgive me . . . you, too! + +LESLIE. You are her brother. + +BRODIE (_to_ LAWSON). And you? + +LAWSON. My name-child and my sister’s bairn! + +BRODIE. You won’t forget Jean, will you? nor the child? + +LAWSON. That I will not. + +MARY. O Willie, nor I. + + +SCENE VII + + + _To these_, HUNT + +HUNT. The game’s up, Deacon. I’ll trouble you to come along with me. + +BRODIE (_behind the table_). One moment, officer: I have a word to say +before witnesses ere I go. In all this there is but one man guilty; and +that man is I. None else has sinned; none else must suffer. This poor +woman (_pointing to_ JEAN) I have used; she never understood. Mr. +Procurator-Fiscal, that is my dying confession. (_He snatches his hanger +from the table_, _and rushes upon_ HUNT, _who parries_, _and runs him +through_. _He reels across the stage and falls_.) The new life . . . +the new life! (_He dies_.) + + * * * * * + + CURTAIN. + + + + +BEAU AUSTIN + + + DEDICATED + WITH ADMIRATION AND RESPECT + TO + GEORGE MEREDITH + + * * * * * + +BOURNEMOUTH: + 1_st_ _October_ 1884. + + + +PERSONS REPRESENTED + +GEORGE FREDERICK AUSTIN, called ‘Beau Austin’ Ætat. 50 +JOHN FENWICK, of Allonby Shaw ,, 26 +ANTHONY MUSGRAVE, Cornet in the Prince’s Own ,, 21 +MENTEITH, the Beau’s Valet ,, 55 +A ROYAL DUKE (Dumb show.) +DOROTHY MUSGRAVE, Anthony’s Sister ,, 25 +MISS EVELINA FOSTER, her Aunt ,, 45 +BARBARA RIDLEY, her Maid ,, 20 +VISITORS TO THE WELLS + +The Time is 1820. The Scene is laid at Tunbridge Wells. The Action +occupies a space of ten hours. + + + +HAYMARKET THEATRE + + + _Monday_, _November_ 3_d_, 1890 + + _CAST_ + +GEORGE FREDERICK AUSTIN Mr. TREE +JOHN FENWICK Mr. FRED TERRY +ANTHONY MUSGRAVE Mr. EDMUND MAURICE +MENTEITH Mr. BROOKFIELD +A ROYAL DUKE Mr. ROBB HARWOOD +DOROTHY MUSGRAVE Mrs. TREE +MISS EVELINA FOSTER Miss ROSE LECLERCQ +BARBARA RIDLEY Miss AYLWARD +VISITORS TO THE WELLS + +PROLOGUE + + + _Spoken by_ MR. TREE _in the character of Beau Austin_ + + ‘To all and singular,’ as Dryden says, + We bring a fancy of those Georgian days, + Whose style still breathed a faint and fine perfume + Of old-world courtliness and old-world bloom: + When speech was elegant and talk was fit + For slang had not been canonised as wit; + When manners reigned, when breeding had the wall, + And Women—yes!—were ladies first of all; + When Grace was conscious of its gracefulness, + And man—though Man!—was not ashamed to dress. + A brave formality, a measured ease, + Were his—and her’s—whose effort was to please. + And to excel in pleasing was to reign + And, if you sighed, never to sigh in vain. + + But then, as now—it may be, something more— + Woman and man were human to the core. + The hearts that throbbed behind that quaint attire + Burned with a plenitude of essential fire. + They too could risk, they also could rebel, + They could love wisely—they could love too well. + In that great duel of Sex, that ancient strife + Which is the very central fact of life, + They could—and did—engage it breath for breath, + They could—and did—get wounded unto death. + As at all times since time for us began + Woman was truly woman, man was man, + And joy and sorrow were as much at home + In trifling Tunbridge as in mighty Rome. + + Dead—dead and done with! Swift from shine to shade + The roaring generations flit and fade. + To this one, fading, flitting, like the rest, + We come to proffer—be it worst or best— + A sketch, a shadow, of one brave old time; + A hint of what it might have held sublime; + A dream, an idyll, call it what you will, + Of man still Man, and woman—Woman still! + + + +ACT I. + + +MUSICAL INDUCTION: ‘_Lascia ch’io pianga_’ (_Rinaldo_). + + HANDEL. + +_The Stage represents Miss Foster’s apartments at the Wells_. _Doors_, +_L. and C._; _a window_, _L. C._, _looking on the street_; _a table R._, +_laid for breakfast_. + + +SCENE I + + + BARBARA; _to her_ MISS FOSTER + +BARBARA (_out of window_). Mr. Menteith! Mr. Menteith! Mr. +Menteith!—Drat his old head! Will nothing make him hear?—Mr. Menteith! + +MISS FOSTER (_entering_). Barbara! this is incredible: after all my +lessons, to be leaning from the window, and calling (for unless my ears +deceived me, you were positively calling!) into the street. + +BARBARA. Well, madam, just wait until you hear who it was. I declare it +was much more for Miss Dorothy and yourself than for me; and if it was a +little countrified, I had a good excuse. + +MISS FOSTER. Nonsense, child! At least, who was it? + +BARBARA. Miss Evelina, I was sure you would ask. Well, what do you +think? I was looking out of window at the barber’s opposite— + +MISS FOSTER. Of which I entirely disapprove— + +BARBARA. And first there came out two of the most beautiful—the Royal +livery, madam! + +MISS FOSTER. Of course, of course: the Duke of York arrived last night. +I trust you did not hail the Duke’s footmen? + +BARBARA. O no, madam, it was after they were gone. Then, who should +come out—but you’ll never guess! + +MISS FOSTER. I shall certainly not try. + +BARBARA. Mr. Menteith himself! + +MISS FOSTER. Why, child, I never heard of him. + +BARBARA. O madam, not the Beau’s own gentleman? + +MISS FOSTER. Mr. Austin’s servant. No? Is it possible? By that, +George Austin must be here. + +BARBARA. No doubt of that, madam; they’re never far apart. He came out +feeling his chin, madam, so; and a packet of letters under his arm, so; +and he had the Beau’s own walk to that degree you couldn’t tell his back +from his master’s. + +MISS FOSTER. My dear Barbara, you too frequently forget yourself. A +young woman in your position must beware of levity. + +BARBARA. Madam, I know it; but la, what are you to make of me? Look at +the time and trouble dear Miss Dorothy was always taking—she that trained +up everybody—and see what’s come of it: Barbara Ridley I was, and Barbara +Ridley I am; and I don’t do with fashionable ways—I can’t do with them; +and indeed, Miss Evelina, I do sometimes wish we were all back again on +Edenside, and Mr. Anthony a boy again, and dear Miss Dorothy her old +self, galloping the bay mare along the moor, and taking care of all of us +as if she was our mother, bless her heart! + +MISS FOSTER. Miss Dorothy herself, child? Well, now you mention it, +Tunbridge of late has scarcely seemed to suit her constitution. She +falls away, has not a word to throw at a dog, and is ridiculously pale. +Well, now Mr. Austin has returned, after six months of infidelity to the +dear Wells, we shall all, I hope, be brightened up. Has the mail come? + +BARBARA. That it has, madam, and the sight of Mr. Menteith put it clean +out of my head. (_With letters_.) Four for you, Miss Evelina, two for +me, and only one for Miss Dorothy. Miss Dorothy seems quite neglected, +does she not? Six months ago, it was a different story. + +MISS FOSTER. Well, and that’s true, Barbara, and I had not remarked it. +I must take her seriously to task. No young lady in her position should +neglect her correspondence. (_Opening a letter_.) Here’s from that dear +ridiculous boy, the Cornet, announcing his arrival for to-day. + +BARBARA. O madam, will he come in his red coat? + +MISS FOSTER. I could not conceive him missing such a chance. Youth, +child, is always vain, and Mr. Anthony is unusually young. + +BARBARA. La, madam, he can’t help that. + +MISS FOSTER. My child, I am not so sure. Mr. Anthony is a great concern +to me. He was orphaned, to be sure, at ten years old; and ever since he +has been only as it were his sister’s son. Dorothy did everything for +him: more indeed than I thought quite ladylike, but I suppose I begin to +be old-fashioned. See how she worked and slaved—yes, slaved!—for him: +teaching him herself, with what pains and patience she only could reveal, +and learning that she might be able; and see what he is now: a gentleman, +of course, but, to be frank, a very commonplace one: not what I had hoped +of Dorothy’s brother; not what I had dreamed of the heir of two +families—Musgrave and Foster, child! Well, he may now meet Mr. Austin. +He requires a Mr. Austin to embellish and correct his manners. (_Opening +another letter_.) Why, Barbara, Mr. John Scrope and Miss Kate Dacre are +to be married! + +BARBARA. La, madam, how nice! + +MISS FOSTER. They are: As I’m a sinful woman. And when will you be +married, Barbara? and when dear Dorothy? I hate to see old maids +a-making. + +BARBARA. La, Miss Evelina, there’s no harm in an old maid. + +MISS FOSTER. You speak like a fool, child: sour grapes are all very well +but it’s a woman’s business to be married. As for Dorothy, she is +five-and-twenty, and she breaks my heart. Such a match, too! Ten +thousand to her fortune, the best blood in the north, a most advantageous +person, all the graces, the finest sensibility, excellent judgment, the +Foster walk; and all these to go positively a-begging! The men seem +stricken with blindness. Why, child, when I came out (and I was the dear +girl’s image!) I had more swains at my feet in a fortnight than our +Dorothy in—O, I cannot fathom it: it must be the girl’s own fault. + +BARBARA. Why, madam, I did think it was a case with Mr. Austin. + +MISS FOSTER. With Mr. Austin? why, how very rustic! The attentions of a +gentleman like Mr. Austin, child, are not supposed to lead to matrimony. +He is a feature of society: an ornament: a personage: a private gentleman +by birth, but a kind of king by habit and reputation. What woman could +he marry? Those to whom he might properly aspire are all too far below +him. I have known George Austin too long, child, and I understand that +the very greatness of his success condemns him to remain unmarried. + +BARBARA. Sure, madam, that must be tiresome for him. + +MISS FOSTER. Some day, child, you will know better than to think so. +George Austin, as I conceive him, and as he is regarded by the world, is +one of the triumphs of the other sex. I walked my first minuet with him: +I wouldn’t tell you the year, child, for worlds; but it was soon after +his famous rencounter with Colonel Villiers. He had killed his man, he +wore pink and silver, was most elegantly pale, and the most ravishing +creature! + +BARBARA. Well, madam, I believe that: he is the most beautiful gentleman +still. + + +SCENE II + + + _To these_, DOROTHY, _L_ + +DOROTHY (_entering_). Good-morning, aunt! Is there anything for me? +(_She goes eagerly to table_, _and looks at letters_.) + +MISS FOSTER. Good-morrow, niece. Breakfast, Barbara. + +DOROTHY (_with letter unopened_). Nothing. + +MISS FOSTER. And what do you call that, my dear? (_Sitting_.) Is John +Fenwick nobody? + +DOROTHY (_looking at letter_.) From John? O yes, so it is. (_Lays down +letter unopened_, _and sits to breakfast_, BARBARA _waiting_.) + +MISS FOSTER (_to_ BARBARA, _with plate_). Thanks, child; now you may +give me some tea. Dolly, I must insist on your eating a good breakfast: +I cannot away with your pale cheeks and that Patience-on-a Monument kind +of look. (Toast, Barbara.) At Edenside you ate and drank and looked +like Hebe. What have you done with your appetite? + +DOROTHY. I don’t know, aunt, I’m sure. + +MISS FOSTER. Then consider, please, and recover it as soon as you can: +to a young lady in your position a good appetite is an attraction—almost +a virtue. Do you know that your brother arrives this morning? + +DOROTHY. Dear Anthony! Where is his letter, Aunt Evelina? I am pleased +that he should leave London and its perils, if only for a day. + +MISS FOSTER. My dear, there are moments when you positively amaze. +(Barbara, some _pâté_, if you please!) I beg you not to be a prude. All +women, of course, are virtuous; but a prude is something I regard with +abhorrence. The Cornet is seeing life, which is exactly what he wanted. +You brought him up surprisingly well; I have always admired you for it; +but let us admit—as women of the world, my dear—it was no upbringing for +a man. You and that fine solemn fellow, John Fenwick, led a life that +was positively no better than the Middle Ages; and between the two of +you, poor Anthony (who, I am sure, was a most passive creature!) was so +packed with principle and admonition that I vow and declare he reminded +me of Issachar stooping between his two burdens. It was high time for +him to be done with your apron-string, my dear: he has all his wild oats +to sow; and that is an occupation which it is unwise to defer too long. +By the bye, have you heard the news? The Duke of York has done us a +service for which I was unprepared. (More tea, Barbara!) George Austin, +bringing the prince in his train, is with us once more. + +DOROTHY. I knew he was coming. + +MISS FOSTER. You knew, child? and did not tell? You are a public +criminal. + +DOROTHY. I did not think it mattered, Aunt Evelina. + +MISS FOSTER. O do not make-believe. I am in love with him myself, and +have been any time since Nelson and the Nile. As for you, Dolly, since +he went away six months ago, you have been positively in the megrims. I +shall date your loss of appetite from George Austin’s vanishing. No, my +dear, our family require entertainment: we must have wit about us, and +beauty, and the _bel air_. + +BARBARA. Well, Miss Dorothy, perhaps it’s out of my place: but I do hope +Mr. Austin will come: I should love to have him see my necklace on. + +DOROTHY. Necklace? what necklace? Did he give you a necklace? + +BARBARA. Yes, indeed, Miss, that he did: the very same day he drove you +in his curricle to Penshurst. You remember, Miss, I couldn’t go. + +DOROTHY. I remember. + +MISS FOSTER. And so do I. I had a touch of . . . Foster in the blood: +the family gout, dears! . . . And you, you ungrateful nymph, had him a +whole day to yourself, and not a word to tell me when you returned. + +DOROTHY. I remember. (_Rising_.) Is that the necklace, Barbara? It +does not suit you. Give it me. + +BARBARA. La, Miss Dorothy, I wouldn’t for the world. + +DOROTHY. Come, give it me. I want it. Thank you: you shall have my +birthday pearls instead. + +MISS FOSTER. Why, Dolly, I believe you’re jealous of the maid. Foster, +Foster: always a Foster trick to wear the willow in anger. + +DOROTHY. I do not think, madam, that I am of a jealous habit. + +MISS FOSTER. O, the personage is your excuse! And I can tell you, +child, that when George Austin was playing Florizel to the Duchess’s +Perdita, all the maids in England fell a prey to green-eyed melancholy. +It was the _ton_, you see: not to pine for that Sylvander was to resign +from good society. + +DOROTHY. Aunt Evelina, stop; I cannot endure to hear you. What is he +after all but just Beau Austin? What has he done—with half a century of +good health, what has he done that is either memorable or worthy? Diced +and danced and set fashions; vanquished in a drawing-room, fought for a +word; what else? As if these were the meaning of life! Do not make me +think so poorly of all of us women. Sure, we can rise to admire a better +kind of man than Mr. Austin. We are not all to be snared with the eye, +dear aunt; and those that are—O! I know not whether I more hate or pity +them. + +MISS FOSTER. You will give me leave, my niece: such talk is neither +becoming in a young lady nor creditable to your understanding. The world +was made a great while before Miss Dorothy Musgrave; and you will do much +better to ripen your opinions, and in the meantime read your letter, +which I perceive you have not opened. (DOROTHY _opens and reads +letter_.) Barbara, child, you should not listen at table. + +BARBARA. Sure, madam, I hope I know my place. + +MISS FOSTER. Then do not do it again. + +DOROTHY. Poor John Fenwick! he coming here! + +MISS FOSTER. Well, and why not? Dorothy, my darling child, you give me +pain. You never had but one chance, let me tell you pointedly: and that +was John Fenwick. If I were you, I would not let my vanity so blind me. +This is not the way to marry. + +DOROTHY. Dear aunt, I shall never marry. + +MISS FOSTER. A fiddlestick’s end! every one must marry. (_Rising_.) +Are you for the Pantiles? + +DOROTHY. Not to-day, dear, + +MISS FOSTER. Well, well! have your wish, Dolorosa. Barbara, attend and +dress me. + + +SCENE III + + + DOROTHY + +DOROTHY. How she tortures me, poor aunt, my poor blind aunt; and I—I +could break her heart with a word. That she should see nothing, know +nothing—there’s where it kills. O, it is more than I can bear . . . and +yet, how much less than I deserve! Mad girl, of what do I complain? that +this dear innocent woman still believes me good, still pierces me to the +soul with trustfulness. Alas, and were it otherwise, were her dear eyes +opened to the truth, what were left me but death?—He, too—she must still +be praising him, and every word is a lash upon my conscience. If I could +die of my secret: if I could cease—but one moment cease—this living lie; +if I could sleep and forget and be at rest!—Poor John! (_reading the +letter_) he at least is guiltless; and yet for my fault he too must +suffer, he too must bear part in my shame. Poor John Fenwick! Has he +come back with the old story: with what might have been, perhaps, had we +stayed by Edenside? Eden? yes, my Eden, from which I fell. O my old +north country, my old river—the river of my innocence, the old country of +my hopes—how could I endure to look on you now? And how to meet +John?—John, with the old love on his lips, the old, honest, innocent, +faithful heart! There was a Dorothy once who was not unfit to ride with +him, her heart as light as his, her life as clear as the bright rivers we +forded; he called her his Diana, he crowned her so with rowan. Where is +that Dorothy now? that Diana? she that was everything to John? For O, I +did him good; I know I did him good; I will still believe I did him good: +I made him honest and kind and a true man; alas, and could not guide +myself! And now, how will he despise me! For he shall know; if I die, +he shall know all; I could not live, and not be true with him. (_She +takes out the necklace and looks at it_.) That he should have bought me +from my maid! George, George, that you should have stooped to this! +Basely as you have used me, this is the basest. Perish the witness! +(_She treads the trinket under foot_.) Break, break like my heart, break +like my hopes, perish like my good name! + + +SCENE IV + + + _To her_, FENWICK, _C._ + +FENWICK (_after a pause_). Is this how you receive me, Dorothy? Am I +not welcome?—Shall I go then? + +DOROTHY (_running to him_, _with hands outstretched_). O no, John, not +for me. (_Turning_, _and pointing to the necklace_.) But you find me +changed. + +FENWICK (_with a movement towards the necklace_). This? + +DOROTHY. No, no, let it lie. That is a trinket—broken. But the old +Dorothy is dead. + +FENWICK. Dead, dear? Not to me. + +DOROTHY. Dead to you—dead to all men. + +FENWICK. Dorothy, I loved you as a boy. There is not a meadow on +Edenside but is dear to me for your sake, not a cottage but recalls your +goodness, not a rock nor a tree but brings back something of the best and +brightest youth man ever had. You were my teacher and my queen; I walked +with you, I talked with you, I rode with you; I lived in your shadow; I +saw with your eyes. You will never know, dear Dorothy, what you were to +the dull boy you bore with; you will never know with what romance you +filled my life, with what devotion, with what tenderness and honour. At +night I lay awake and worshipped you; in my dreams I saw you, and you +loved me; and you remember, when we told each other stories—you have not +forgotten, dearest—that Princess Hawthorn that was still the heroine of +mine: who was she? I was not bold enough to tell, but she was you! You, +my virgin huntress, my Diana, my queen. + +DOROTHY. O silence, silence—pity! + +FENWICK. No, dear; neither for your sake nor mine will I be silenced. I +have begun; I must go on and finish, and put fortune to the touch. It +was from you I learned honour, duty, piety, and love. I am as you made +me, and I exist but to reverence and serve you. Why else have I come +here, the length of England, my heart burning higher every mile, my very +horse a clog to me? why, but to ask you for my wife? Dorothy, you will +not deny me. + +DOROTHY. You have not asked me about this broken trinket? + +FENWICK. Why should I ask? I love you. + +DOROTHY. Yet I must tell you. Sit down. (_She picks up the necklace_, +_and stands looking at it_. _Then_, _breaking down_.) O John, John, +it’s long since I left home. + +FENWICK. Too long, dear love. The very trees will welcome you. + +DOROTHY. Ay, John, but I no longer love you. The old Dorothy is dead, +God pardon her! + +FENWICK. Dorothy, who is the man? + +DOROTHY. O poor Dorothy! O poor dead Dorothy! John, you found me +breaking this: me, your Diana of the Fells, the Diana of your old romance +by Edenside. Diana—O what a name for me! Do you see this trinket? It +is a chapter in my life. A chapter, do I say? my whole life, for there +is none to follow. John, you must bear with me, you must help me. I +have that to tell—there is a secret—I have a secret, John—O, for God’s +sake, understand. That Diana you revered—O John, John, you must never +speak of love to me again. + +FENWICK. What do you say? How dare you? + +DOROTHY. John, it is the truth. Your Diana, even she, she whom you so +believed in, she who so believed in herself, came out into the world only +to be broken. I met, here at the Wells, a man—why should I tell you his +name? I met him, and I loved him. My heart was all his own; yet he was +not content with that: he must intrigue to catch me, he must bribe my +maid with this. (_Throws the necklace on the table_.) Did he love me? +Well, John, he said he did; and be it so! He loved, he betrayed, and he +has left me. + +FENWICK. Betrayed? + +DOROTHY. Ay, even so; I was betrayed. The fault was mine that I forgot +our innocent youth, and your honest love. + +FENWICK. Dorothy, O Dorothy! + +DOROTHY. Yours is the pain; but, O John, think it is for your good. +Think in England how many true maids may be waiting for your love, haw +many that can bring you a whole heart, and be a noble mother to your +children, while your poor Diana, at the first touch, has proved all +frailty. Go, go and be happy, and let me be patient. I have sinned. + +FENWICK. By God, I’ll have his blood. + +DOROTHY. Stop! I love him. (_Between_ FENWICK _and door_, _C._) + +FENWICK. What do I care? I loved you too. Little he thought of that, +little either of you thought of that. His blood—I’ll have his blood! + +DOROTHY. You shall never know his name. + +FENWICK. Know it? Do you think I cannot guess? Do you think I had not +heard he followed you. Do you think I had not suffered—O suffered! +George Austin is the man. Dear shall he pay it! + +DOROTHY (_at his feet_). Pity me; spare me, spare your Dorothy! I love +him—love him—love him! + +FENWICK. Dorothy, you have robbed me of my happiness, and now you would +rob me of my revenge. + +DOROTHY. I know it; and shall I ask, and you not grant? + +FENWICK (_raising her_). No, Dorothy, you shall ask nothing, nothing in +vain from me. You ask his life; I give it you, as I would give you my +soul; as I would give you my life, if I had any left. My life is done; +you have taken it. Not a hope, not an end; not even revenge. (_He +sits_.) Dorothy, you see your work. + +DOROTHY. O God, forgive me. + +FENWICK. Ay, Dorothy, He will, as I do. + +DOROTHY. As you do? Do you forgive me, John? + +FENWICK. Ay, more than that, poor soul. I said my life was done, I was +wrong; I have still a duty. It is not in vain you taught me; I shall +still prove to you that it was not in vain. You shall soon find that I +am no backward friend. Farewell. + + + +ACT II. + + +MUSICAL INDUCTION: ‘_The Lass of Richmond Hill_.’ + +_The Stage represents George Austin’s dressing-room_. _Elaborate +toilet-table_, _R._, _with chair_; _a cheval glass so arranged as to +correspond with glass on table_. _Breakfast-table_, _L._, _front_. +_Door_, _L._ _The Beau is discovered at table_, _in dressing-grown_, +_trifling with correspondence_. MENTEITH _is frothing chocolate_. + + +SCENE I + + + AUSTIN, MENTEITH + +MENTEITH. At the barber’s, Mr. George, I had the pleasure of meeting two +of the Dook’s gentlemen. + +AUSTIN. Well, and was his Royal Highness satisfied with his quarters? + +MENTEITH. Quite so, Mr. George. Delighted, I believe. + +AUSTIN. I am rejoiced to hear it. I wish I could say I was as pleased +with my journey, Menteith. This is the first time I ever came to the +Wells in another person’s carriage; Duke or not, it shall be the last, +Menteith. + +MENTEITH. Ah, Mr. George, no wonder. And how many times have we made +that journey back and forth? + +AUSTIN. Enough to make us older than we look. + +MENTEITH. To be sure, Mr. George, you do wear well. + +AUSTIN. _We_ wear well, Menteith. + +MENTEITH. I hear, Mr. George, that Miss Musgrave is of the company. + +AUSTIN. Is she so? Well, well! well, well! + +MENTEITH. I’ve not seen the young lady myself, Mr. George; but the +barber tells me she’s looking poorly. + +AUSTIN. Poorly? + +MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George, poorly was his word. + +AUSTIN. Well, Menteith, I am truly sorry. She is not the first. + +MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George. (_A bell_. MENTEITH _goes out_, _and +re-enters with card_.) + +AUSTIN (_with card_). Whom have we here? Anthony Musgrave? + +MENTEITH. A fine young man, Mr. George; and with a look of the young +lady, but not so gentlemanly. + +AUSTIN. You have an eye, you have an eye. Let him in. + + +SCENE II + + + AUSTIN, MENTEITH, ANTHONY + +AUSTIN. I am charmed to have this opportunity, Mr. Musgrave. You belong +to my old corps, I think? And how does my good friend, Sir Frederick? I +had his line; but like all my old comrades, he thinks last about himself, +and gives me not of his news. + +ANTHONY. I protest, sir, this is a very proud moment. Your name is +still remembered in the regiment. (AUSTIN _bows_.) The Colonel—he keeps +his health, sir, considering his age (AUSTIN _bows again_, _and looks at_ +MENTEITH)—tells us young men you were a devil of a fellow in your time. + +AUSTIN. I believe I was—in my time. Menteith, give Mr. Musgrave a dish +of chocolate. So, sir, we see you at the Wells. + +ANTHONY. I have but just alighted. I had but one thought, sir: to pay +my respects to Mr. Austin. I have not yet kissed my aunt and sister. + +AUSTIN. In my time—to which you refer—the ladies had come first. + +ANTHONY. The women? I take you, sir. But then you see, a man’s +relatives don’t count. And besides, Mr. Austin, between men of the +world, I am fairly running away from the sex: I am positively in flight. +Little Hortense of the Opera; you know; she sent her love to you. She’s +mad about me, I think. You never saw a creature so fond. + +AUSTIN. Well, well, child! you are better here. In my time—to which you +have referred—I knew the lady. Does she wear well? + +ANTHONY. I beg your pardon, sir! + +AUSTIN. No offence, child, no offence. She was a very lively creature. +But you neglect your chocolate I see? + +ANTHONY. We don’t patronise it, Mr. Austin; we haven’t for some years: +the service has quite changed since your time. You’d be surprised. + +AUSTIN. Doubtless. I am. + +ANTHONY. I assure you, sir, I and Jack Bosbury of the Fifty-Second— + +AUSTIN. The Hampshire Bosburys?— + +ANTHONY. I do not know exactly, sir. I believe he is related. + +AUSTIN. Or perhaps—I remember a Mr. Bosbury, a cutter of coats. I have +the vanity to believe I formed his business. + +ANTHONY. I—I hope not, sir. But as I was saying, I and this Jack +Bosbury, and the Brummagem Bantam—a very pretty light-weight, sir—drank +seven bottles of Burgundy to the three of us inside the eighty minutes. +Jack, sir, was a little cut; but me and the Bantam went out and finished +the evening on hot gin. Life, sir, life! Tom Cribb was with us. He +spoke of you, too, Tom did: said you’d given him a wrinkle for his second +fight with the black man. No, sir, I assure you, you’re not forgotten. + +AUSTIN (_bows_). I am pleased to learn it. In my time, I had an esteem +for Mr. Cribb. + +ANTHONY. O come, sir! but your time cannot be said to be over. + +AUSTIN. Menteith, you hear? + +MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George. + +ANTHONY. The Colonel told me that you liked to shake an elbow. Your big +main, sir, with Lord Wensleydale, is often talked about. I hope I may +have the occasion to sit down with you. I shall count it an honour, I +assure you. + +AUSTIN. But would your aunt, my very good friend, approve? + +ANTHONY. Why, sir, you do not suppose I am in leading-strings? + +AUSTIN. You forget, child: a family must hang together. When I was +young—in my time—I was alone; and what I did concerned myself. But a +youth who has—as I think you have—a family of ladies to protect, must +watch his honour, child, and preserve his fortune. You have no commands +from Sir Frederick? + +ANTHONY. None, sir, none. + +AUSTIN. Shall I find you this noon upon the Pantiles? . . . I shall be +charmed. Commend me to your aunt and your fair sister. Menteith? + +MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George. (_Shows Anthony out_.) + + +SCENE III + + + AUSTIN, MENTEITH, _returning_ + +AUSTIN. Was I ever like that, Menteith? + +MENTEITH. No, Mr. George, you was always a gentleman. + +AUSTIN. Youth, my good fellow, youth. + +MENTEITH. Quite so, Mr. George. + +AUSTIN. Well, Menteith, we cannot make no mend. We cannot play the +jockey with Time. Age is the test: of wine, Menteith, and men. + +MENTEITH. Me and you and the old Hermitage, Mr. George, he-he! + +AUSTIN. And the best of these, the Hermitage. But come: we lose our +day. Help me off with this. (MENTEITH _takes off_ AUSTIN’S +_dressing-gown_; AUSTIN _passes R. to dressing-table_, _and takes up +first cravat_.) + +AUSTIN. Will the hair do, Menteith? + +MENTEITH. Never saw it lay better, Mr. George. (AUSTIN _proceeds to +wind first cravat_. _A bell_: _exit_ MENTEITH. AUSTIN _drops first +cravat in basket and takes second_.) + +AUSTIN (_winding and singing_)— + + ‘I’d crowns resign + To call her mine, + Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’ + +(_Second cravat a failure_. _Re-enter_ MENTEITH _with card_.) Fenwick? +of Allonby Shaw? A good family, Menteith, but I don’t know the +gentleman. (_Lays down card_, _and takes up third cravat_.) Send him +away with every consideration. + +MENTEITH. To be sure, Mr. George. (_He goes out_. _Third cravat a +success_. _Re-enter_ MENTEITH.) He says, Mr. George, that he has an +errand from Miss Musgrave. + +AUSTIN (_with waistcoat_). Show him in, Menteith, at once. (_Singing +and fitting waistcoat at glass_)— + + ‘I’d crowns resign + To call her mine, + Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’ + + + +SCENE IV + + + AUSTIN, _R. to him_ MENTEITH _and_ FENWICK + +MENTEITH (_announcing_). Mr. Fenwick, Mr. George. + +AUSTIN. At the name of Miss Musgrave, my doors fly always open. + +FENWICK. I believe, sir, you are acquainted with my cousin, Richard +Gaunt? + +AUSTIN. The county member? An old and good friend. But you need not go +so far afield: I know your good house of Allonby Shaw since the days of +the Black Knight. We are, in fact, and at a very royal distance, +cousins. + +FENWICK. I desired, sir, from the nature of my business, that you should +recognise me for a gentleman. + +AUSTIN. The preliminary, sir, is somewhat grave. + +FENWICK. My business is both grave and delicate. + +AUSTIN. Menteith, my good fellow. (_Exit_ MENTEITH.) Mr. Fenwick, +honour me so far as to be seated. (_They sit_.) I await your pleasure. + +FENWICK. Briefly, sir, I am come, not without hope, to appeal to your +good heart. + +AUSTIN. From Miss Musgrave? + +FENWICK. No, sir, I abused her name, and am here upon my own authority. +Upon me the consequence. + +AUSTIN. Proceed + +FENWICK. Mr. Austin, Dorothy Musgrave is the oldest and dearest of my +friends, is the lady whom for ten years it has been my hope to make my +wife. She has shown me reason to discard that hope for another: that I +may call her Mrs. Austin. + +AUSTIN. In the best interests of the lady (_rising_) I question if you +have been well inspired. You are aware, sir, that from such interference +there is but one issue: to whom shall I address my friend? + +FENWICK. Mr. Austin, I am here to throw myself upon your mercy. Strange +as my errand is, it will seem yet more strange to you that I came +prepared to accept at your hands any extremity of dishonour and not +fight. The lady whom it is my boast to serve has honoured me with her +commands. These are my law, and by these your life is sacred. + +AUSTIN. Then, sir (_with his hand upon the bell_), his conversation +becomes impossible. You have me at too gross a disadvantage; and, as you +are a gentleman and respect another, I would suggest that you retire. + +FENWICK. Sir, you speak of disadvantage; think of mine. All my life +long, with all the forces of my nature, I have loved this lady. I came +here to implore her to be my wife, to be my queen; my saint she had been +always! She was too noble to deceive me. She told me what you know. I +will not conceal that my first mood was of anger: I would have killed you +like a dog. But, Mr. Austin—bear with me awhile—I, on the threshold of +my life, who have made no figure in the world, nor ever shall now, who +had but one treasure, and have lost it—if I, abandoning revenge, +trampling upon jealousy, can supplicate you to complete my misfortune—O +Mr. Austin! you who have lived, you whose gallantry is beyond the +insolence of a suspicion, you who are a man crowned and acclaimed, who +are loved, and loved by such a woman—you who excel me in every point of +advantage, will you suffer me to surpass you in generosity? + +AUSTIN. You speak from the heart. (_Sits_.) What do you want with me? + +FENWICK. Marry her. + +AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, I am the older man. I have seen much of life, much +of society, much of love. When I was young, it was expected of a +gentleman to be ready with his hat to a lady, ready with his sword to a +man; to honour his word and his king; to be courteous with his equals, +generous to his dependants, helpful and trusty in friendship. But it was +not asked of us to be quixotic. If I had married every lady by whom it +is my fortune—not my merit—to have been distinguished, the Wells would +scarce be spacious enough for my establishment. You see, sir, that while +I respect your emotion, I am myself conducted by experience. And +besides, Mr. Fenwick, is not love a warfare? has it not rules? have not +our fair antagonists their tactics, their weapons, their place of arms? +and is there not a touch of—pardon me the word! of silliness in one who, +having fought, and having vanquished, sounds a parley, and capitulates to +his own prisoner? Had the lady chosen, had the fortune of war been +other, ’tis like she had been Mrs. Austin. Now I . . . You know the +world. + +FENWICK. I know, sir, that the world contains much cowardice. To find +Mr. Austin afraid to do the right, this surprises me. + +AUSTIN. Afraid, child? + +FENWICK. Yes, sir, afraid. You know her, you know if she be worthy; and +you answer me with—the world: the world which has been at your feet: the +world which Mr. Austin knows so well how to value and is so able to rule. + +AUSTIN. I have lived long enough, Mr. Fenwick, to recognise that the +world is a great power. It can make; but it can break. + +FENWICK. Sir, suffer me: you spoke but now of friendship, and spoke +warmly. Have you forgotten Colonel Villiers? + +AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Fenwick, you forget what I have suffered. + +FENWICK. O sir, I know you loved him. And yet, for a random word you +quarrelled; friendship was weighed in vain against the world’s code of +honour; you fought, and your friend fell. I have heard from others how +he lay long in agony, and how you watched and nursed him, and it was in +your embrace he died. In God’s name have you forgotten that? Was not +this sacrifice enough? or must the world, once again, step between Mr. +Austin and his generous heart? + +AUSTIN. Good God, sir, I believe you are in the right; I believe, upon +my soul I believe, there is something in what you say. + +FENWICK. Something, Mr. Austin? O credit me, the whole difference +betwixt good and evil. + +AUSTIN. Nay, nay, but there you go too far. There are many kinds of +good: honour is a diamond cut in a thousand facets, and with the true +fire in each. Thus, and with all our differences, Mr. Fenwick, you and I +can still respect, we can still admire each other. + +FENWICK. Bear with me still, sir, if I ask you what is the end of life +but to excel in generosity? To pity the weak, to comfort the afflicted, +to right where we have wronged, to be brave in reparation—these noble +elements you have; for of what besides is the fabric of your dealing with +Colonel Villiers? That is man’s chivalry to man. Yet to a suffering +woman—a woman feeble, betrayed, unconsoled—you deny your clemency, you +refuse your aid, you proffer injustice for atonement. Nay, you are so +disloyal to yourself that you can choose to be ungenerous and unkind. +Where, sir, is the honour? What facet of the diamond is that? + +AUSTIN. You forget, sir, you forget. But go on. + +FENWICK. O sir, not I—not I but yourself forgets: George Austin forgets +George Austin. A woman loved by him, betrayed by him, abandoned by +him—that woman suffers; and a point of honour keeps him from his place at +her feet. She has played and lost, and the world is with him if he deign +to exact the stakes. Is that the Mr. Austin whom Miss Musgrave honoured +with her trust? Then, sir, how miserably was she deceived! + +AUSTIN. Child—child— + +FENWICK. Mr. Austin, still bear with me, still follow me. O sir, will +you not picture that dear lady’s life? Her years how few, her error thus +irreparable, what henceforth can be her portion but remorse, the +consciousness of self-abasement, the shame of knowing that her trust was +ill-bestowed? To think of it: this was a queen among women; and +this—this is George Austin’s work! Sir, let me touch your heart: let me +prevail with you to feel that ’tis impossible. + +AUSTIN. I am a gentleman. What do you ask of me? + +FENWICK. To be the man she loved: to be clement where the world would +have you triumph, to be of equal generosity with the vanquished, to be +worthy of her sacrifice and of yourself. + +AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, your reproof is harsh— + +FENWICK (_interrupting him_). O sir, be, just be just!— + +AUSTIN. But it is merited, and I thank you for its utterance. You tell +me that the true victory comes when the fight is won: that our foe is +never so noble nor so dangerous as when she is fallen, that the crowning +triumph is that we celebrate over our conquering selves. Sir, you are +right. Kindness, ay kindness after all. And with age, to become +clement. Yes, ambition first; then, the rounded vanity—victory still +novel; and last, as you say, the royal mood of the mature man; to +abdicate for others . . . Sir, you touched me hard about my dead friend; +still harder about my living duty; and I am not so young but I can take a +lesson. There is my hand upon it: she shall be my wife. + +FENWICK. Ah, Mr. Austin, I was sure of it. + +AUSTIN. Then, sir, you were vastly mistaken. There is nothing of Beau +Austin here. I have simply, my dear child, sate at the feet of Mr. +Fenwick. + +FENWICK. Ah, sir, your heart was counsellor enough. + +AUSTIN. Pardon me. I am vain enough to be the judge: there are but two +people in the world who could have wrought this change: yourself and that +dear lady. (_Touches bell_.) Suffer me to dismiss you. One instant of +toilet, and I follow. Will you do me the honour to go before, and +announce my approach? (_Enter_ MENTEITH.) + +FENWICK. Sir, if my admiration— + +AUSTIN. Dear child, the admiration is the other way. (_Embraces him_. +MENTEITH _shows him out_.) + + +SCENE V + + + AUSTIN + +AUSTIN. Upon my word, I think the world is getting better. We were none +of us young men like that—in my time, to quote my future brother. (_He +sits down before the mirror_.) Well, here ends Beau Austin. Paris, +Rome, Vienna, London—victor everywhere: and now he must leave his bones +in Tunbridge Wells. (_Looks at his leg_.) Poor Dolly Musgrave! a good +girl after all, and will make me a good wife; none better. The last—of +how many?—ay, and the best! Walks like Hebe. But still, here ends Beau +Austin. Perhaps it’s time. Poor Dolly—was she looking poorly? She +shall have her wish. Well, we grow older, but we grow no worse. + + +SCENE VI + + + AUSTIN, MENTEITH + +AUSTIN. Menteith, I am going to be married. + +MENTEITH. Well, Mr. George, but I am pleased to hear it. Miss Musgrave +is a most elegant lady. + +AUSTIN. Ay, Mr. Menteith? and who told you the lady’s name? + +MENTEITH. Mr. George, you was always a gentleman. + +AUSTIN. You mean I wasn’t always? Old boy, you are in the right. This +shall be a good change for both you and me. We have lived too long like +a brace of truants: now is the time to draw about the fire. How much is +left of the old Hermitage? + +MENTEITH. Hard upon thirty dozen, Mr. George, and not a bad cork in the +bin. + +AUSTIN. And a mistress, Menteith, that’s worthy of that wine. + +MENTEITH. Mr. George, sir, she’s worthy of you. + +AUSTIN. Gad, I believe it. (_Shakes hands with him_.) + +MENTEITH (_breaking down_). Mr. George, you’ve been a damned good master +to me, and I’ve been a damned good servant to you; we’ve been proud of +each other from the first; but if you’ll excuse my plainness, Mr. George, +I never liked you better than to-day. + +AUSTIN. Cheer up, old boy, the best is yet to come. Get out the tongs, +and curl me like a bridegroom. (_Sits before dressing-glass_; MENTEITH +_produces curling irons and plies them_. AUSTIN _sings_)— + + ‘I’d crowns resign + To call her mine, + Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’ + + DROP + + + +ACT III. + + +MUSICAL INDUCTION: the ‘Minuet’ from ‘_Don Giovanni_’ + +_The stage represents Miss Foster’s lodging as in Act I_. + + +SCENE I + + + DOROTHY, R., _at tambour_; ANTHONY, _C._, _bestriding chair_; MISS + FOSTER, _L.C._ + +ANTHONY. Yes, ma’am, I like my regiment: we are all gentlemen, from old +Fred downwards, and all of a good family. Indeed, so are all my friends, +except one tailor sort of fellow, Bosbury. But I’m done with him. I +assure you, Aunt Evelina, we are Corinthian to the last degree. I +wouldn’t shock you ladies for the world— + +MISS FOSTER. Don’t mind me, my dear; go on. + +ANTHONY. Really, ma’am, you must pardon me: I trust I understand what +topics are to be avoided among females—And before my sister, too! A girl +of her age! + +DOROTHY. Why, you dear, silly fellow, I’m old enough to be your mother. + +ANTHONY. My dear Dolly, you do not understand; you are not a man of the +world. But, as I was going on to say, there is no more spicy regiment in +the service. + +MISS FOSTER. I am not surprised that it maintains its old reputation. +You know, my dear (_to_ DOROTHY), it was George Austin’s regiment. + +DOROTHY. Was it, aunt? + +ANTHONY. Beau Austin? Yes, it was; and a precious dust they make about +him still—a parcel of old frumps! That’s why I went to see him. But +he’s quite extinct: he couldn’t be Corinthian if he tried. + +MISS FOSTER. I am afraid that even at your age George Austin held a very +different position from the distinguished Anthony Musgrave. + +ANTHONY. Come, ma’am, I take that unkindly. Of course I know what +you’re at: of course the old pût cut no end of a dash with the Duchess. + +MISS FOSTER. My dear child, I was thinking of no such thing; _that_ was +immoral. + +ANTHONY. Then you mean that affair at Brighton: when he cut the Prince +about Perdita Robinson. + +MISS FOSTER. No, I had forgotten it. + +ANTHONY. O, well, I know—that duel! But look here, Aunt Evelina, I +don’t think you’d be much gratified after all if I were to be broke for +killing my commanding officer about a quarrel at cards. + +DOROTHY. Nobody asks you, Anthony, to imitate Mr. Austin. I trust you +will set yourself a better model. But you may choose a worse. With all +his faults, and all his enemies, Mr. Austin is a pattern gentleman: You +would not ask a man to be braver, and there are few so generous. I +cannot bear to hear him called in fault by one so young. Better judges, +dear, are better pleased. + +ANTHONY. Hey-day! what’s this? + +MISS FOSTER. Why, Dolly, this is April and May. You surprise me. + +DOROTHY. I am afraid, indeed, madam, that you have much to suffer from +my caprice. (_She goes out_, _L._) + + +SCENE II + + + ANTHONY, MISS FOSTER + +ANTHONY. What is the meaning of all this, ma’am? I don’t like it. + +MISS FOSTER. Nothing, child, that I know. You spoke of Mr. Austin, our +dear friend, like a groom; and she, like any lady of taste, took arms in +his defence. + +ANTHONY. No, ma’am, that won’t do. I know the sex. You mark my words, +the girl has some confounded nonsense in her head, and wants looking +after. + +MISS FOSTER. In my presence, Anthony, I shall ask you to speak of +Dorothy with greater respect. With your permission, your sister and I +will continue to direct our own affairs. When we require the +interference of so young and confident a champion, you shall know. +(_Curtsies_, _kisses her hand_, _and goes out_, _L._) + + +SCENE III + + + ANTHONY + +ANTHONY. Upon my word, I think Aunt Evelina one of the most uncivil old +women in the world. Nine weeks ago I came of age; and they still treat +me like a boy. I’m a recognised Corinthian, too: take my liquor with old +Fred, and go round with the Brummagem Bantam and Jack Bosb— . . . O damn +Jack Bosbury. If his father was a tailor, he shall fight me for his +ungentlemanly conduct. However, that’s all one. What I want is to make +Aunt Evelina understand that I’m not the man to be put down by an old +maid who’s been brought up in a work-basket, begad! I’ve had nothing but +rebuffs all day. It’s very remarkable. There was that man Austin, to +begin with. I’ll be hanged if I can stand him. I hear too much of him; +and if I can only get a good excuse to put him to the door, I believe it +would give Dorothy and all of us a kind of a position. After all, he’s +not a man to visit in the house of ladies: not when I’m away, at least. +Nothing in it of course; but is he a man whose visits I can sanction? + + +SCENE IV + + + ANTHONY, BARBARA + +BARBARA. Please, Mr. Anthony, Miss Foster said I was to show your room. + +ANTHONY. Ha! Baby? Now, you come here. You’re a girl of sense, I +know. + +BARBARA. La, Mr. Anthony, I hope I’m nothing of the kind. + +ANTHONY. Come, come! that’s not the tone I want: I’m serious. Does this +man Austin come much about the house? + +BARBARA. O Mr. Anthony, for shame! Why don’t you ask Miss Foster? + +ANTHONY. Now I wish you to understand: I’m the head of this family. +It’s my business to look after my sister’s reputation, and my aunt’s too, +begad! That’s what I’m here for: I’m their natural protector. And what +I want you, Barbara Ridley, to understand—you whose fathers have served +my fathers—is just simply this: if you’ve any common gratitude, you’re +bound to help me in the work. Now Barbara, you know me, and you know my +Aunt Evelina. She’s a good enough woman; I’m the first to say so. But +who is she to take care of a young girl? She’s ignorant of the world to +that degree she believes in Beau Austin! Now you and I, Bab, who are not +so high and dry, see through and through him; we know that a man like +that is no fit company for any inexperienced girl. + +BARBARA. O Mr. Anthony, don’t say that. (_Weeping_.) + +ANTHONY. Hullo! what’s wrong? + +BARBARA. Nothing that I know of. O Mr. Anthony, I don’t think there can +be anything. + +ANTHONY. Think? Don’t think? What’s this? + +BARBARA. O sir! I don’t know, and yet I don’t like it. Here’s my +beautiful necklace all broke to bits: she took it off my very neck, and +gave me her birthday pearls instead; and I found it afterwards on the +table, all smashed to pieces; and all she wanted it for was to take and +break it. Why that? It frightens me, Mr. Anthony, it frightens me. + +ANTHONY (_with necklace_). This? What has this trumpery to do with us? + +BARBARA. He gave it me: that’s why she broke it. + +ANTHONY. He? who? + +BARBARA. Mr. Austin did; and I do believe I should not have taken it, +Mr. Anthony, but I thought no harm, upon my word of honour. He was +always here: that was six months ago; and indeed, indeed, I thought they +were to marry. How would I think else with a born lady like Miss +Dorothy? + +ANTHONY. Why, Barbara, God help us all, what’s this? You don’t mean to +say that there was— + +BARBARA. Here it is, as true as true: they were going for a jaunt; and +Miss Foster had her gout; and I was to go with them; and he told me to +make-believe I was ill; and I did; and I stayed at home; and he gave me +that necklace; and they went away together; and, oh dear! I wish I’d +never been born. + +ANTHONY. Together? he and Dolly? Good Lord! my sister! And since then? + +BARBARA. We haven’t seen him from that day to this, the wicked villain; +and, Mr. Anthony, he hasn’t so much as written the poor dear a word. + +ANTHONY. Bab, Bab, Bab, this is a devil of a bad business; this is a +cruel bad business, Baby; cruel upon me, cruel upon all of us; a family +like mine. I’m a young man, Barbara, to have this delicate affair to +manage; but, thank God, I’m Musgrave to the bone. He bribed a +servant-maid, did he? I keep his bribe; it’s mine now; dear bought, by +George! He shall have it in his teeth. Shot Colonel Villiers, did he? +we’ll see how he faces Anthony Musgrave. You’re a good girl, Barbara; so +far you’ve served the family. You leave this to me. And, hark ye, dry +your eyes and hold your tongue: I’ll have no scandal raised by you. + +BARBARA. I do hope, sir, you won’t use me against Miss Dorothy. + +ANTHONY. That’s my affair; your business is to hold your tongue. Miss +Dorothy has made her bed and must lie on it. Here’s Jack Fenwick. You +can go. + + +SCENE V + + + ANTHONY, FENWICK + +ANTHONY. Jack Fenwick, is that you? Come here, my boy. Jack, you’ve +given me many a thrashing, and I deserved ’em; and I’ll not see you made +a fool of now. George Austin is a damned villain, and Dorothy Musgrave +is no girl for you to marry: God help me that I should have to say it. + +FENWICK. Good God, who told _you_? + +ANTHONY. Ay, Jack; it’s hard on me, Jack. But you’ll stand my friend in +spite of this, and you’ll take my message to the man, won’t you? For +it’s got to come to blood, Jack: there’s no way out of that. And perhaps +your poor friend will fall, Jack; think of that: like Villiers. And all +for an unworthy sister. + +FENWICK. Now, Anthony Musgrave, I give you fair warning; see you take +it: one word more against your sister, and we quarrel. + +ANTHONY. You let it slip yourself, Jack: you know yourself she’s not a +virtuous girl. + +FENWICK. What do you know of virtue, whose whole boast is to be vicious? +How dare you draw conclusions? Dolt and puppy! you can no more +comprehend that angel’s excellencies than she can stoop to believe in +your vices. And you talk morality? Anthony, I’m a man who has been +somewhat roughly tried: take care. + +ANTHONY. You don’t seem able to grasp the situation, Jack. It’s very +remarkable; I’m the girl’s natural protector; and you should buckle-to +and help, like a friend of the family. And instead of that, begad! you +turn on me like all the rest. + +FENWICK. Now mark me fairly: Mr. Austin follows at my heels; he comes to +offer marriage to your sister—that is all you know, and all you shall +know; and if by any misplaced insolence of yours this marriage should +miscarry, you have to answer, not to Mr. Austin only, but to me. + +ANTHONY. It’s all a most discreditable business, and I don’t see how you +propose to better it by cutting my throat. Of course if he’s going to +marry her, it’s a different thing; but I don’t believe he is, or he’d +have asked me. You think me a fool? Well see they marry, or they’ll +find me a dangerous fool. + + +SCENE VI + + + _To these_, AUSTIN, BARBARA _announcing_. + +BARBARA. Mr. Austin. (_She shows_ AUSTIN _in_, _and retires_.) + +AUSTIN. You will do me the justice to acknowledge, Mr. Fenwick, that I +have been not long delayed by my devotion to the Graces. + +ANTHONY. So, sir, I find you in my house— + +AUSTIN. And charmed to meet you again. It went against my conscience to +separate so soon. Youth, Mr. Musgrave, is to us older men a perpetual +refreshment. + +ANTHONY. You came here, sir, I suppose, upon some errand? + +AUSTIN. My errand, Mr. Musgrave, is to your fair sister. Beauty, as you +know, comes before valour. + +ANTHONY. In my own house, and about my own sister, I presume I have the +right to ask for something more explicit. + +AUSTIN. The right, my dear sir, is beyond question; but it is one, as +you were going on to observe, on which no gentleman insists. + +FENWICK. Anthony, my good fellow, I think we had better go. + +ANTHONY. I have asked a question. + +AUSTIN. Which I was charmed to answer, but which, on repetition, might +begin to grow distasteful. + +ANTHONY. In my own house— + +FENWICK. For God’s sake, Anthony! + +AUSTIN. In your aunt’s house, young gentleman, I shall be careful to +refrain from criticism. I am come upon a visit to a lady: that visit I +shall pay; when you desire (if it be possible that you desire it) to +resume this singular conversation, select some fitter place. Mr. +Fenwick, this afternoon, may I present you to his Royal Highness? + +ANTHONY. Why, sir, I believe you must have misconceived me. I have no +wish to offend: at least at present. + +AUSTIN. Enough, sir. I was persuaded I had heard amiss. I trust we +shall be friends. + +FENWICK. Come, Anthony, come: here is your sister. + + (_As_ FENWICK _and_ ANTHONY _go out_, _C._, _enter_ DOROTHY, _L._) + + +SCENE VII + + + AUSTIN, DOROTHY + +DOROTHY. I am told, Mr. Austin, that you wish to see me. + +AUSTIN. Madam, can you doubt of that desire? can you question my +sincerity? + +DOROTHY. Sir, between you and me these compliments are worse than idle: +they are unkind. Sure, we are alone! + +AUSTIN. I find you in an hour of cruelty, I fear. Yet you have +condescended to receive this poor offender; and having done so much, you +will not refuse to give him audience. + +DOROTHY. You shall have no cause, sir, to complain of me. I listen. + +AUSTIN. My fair friend, I have sent myself—a poor ambassador—to plead +for your forgiveness. I have been too long absent; too long, I would +fain hope, madam, for you; too long for my honour and my love. I am no +longer, madam, in my first youth; but I may say that I am not unknown. +My fortune, originally small, has not suffered from my husbandry. I have +excellent health, an excellent temper, and the purest ardour of affection +for your person. I found not on my merits, but on your indulgence. Miss +Musgrave, will you honour me with your hand in marriage? + +DOROTHY. Mr. Austin, if I thought basely of marriage, I should perhaps +accept your offer. There was a time, indeed, when it would have made me +proudest among women. I was the more deceived, and have to thank you for +a salutary lesson. You chose to count me as a cipher in your rolls of +conquest; for six months you left me to my fate; and you come here +to-day—prompted, I doubt not, by an honourable impulse—to offer this +tardy reparation. No: it is too late. + +AUSTIN. Do you refuse? + +DOROTHY. Yours is the blame: we are no longer equal. You have robbed me +of the right to marry any one but you; and do you think me, then, so poor +in spirit as to accept a husband on compulsion? + +AUSTIN. Dorothy, you loved me once. + +DOROTHY. Ay, you will never guess how much: you will never live to +understand how ignominious a defeat that conquest was. I loved and +trusted you: I judged you by myself; think, then, of my humiliation, +when, at the touch of trial, all your qualities proved false, and I +beheld you the slave of the meanest vanity—selfish, untrue, base! Think, +sir, what a humbling of my pride to have been thus deceived: to have +taken for my idol such a commonplace imposture as yourself; to have +loved—yes, loved—such a shadow, such a mockery of man. And now I am +unworthy to be the wife of any gentleman; and you—look me in the face, +George—are you worthy to be my husband? + +AUSTIN. No, Dorothy, I am not. I was a vain fool; I blundered away the +most precious opportunity; and my regret will be lifelong. Do me the +justice to accept this full confession of my fault. I am here to-day to +own and to repair it. + +DOROTHY. Repair it? Sir you condescend too far. + +AUSTIN. I perceive with shame how grievously I had misjudged you. But +now, Dorothy, believe me, my eyes are opened. I plead with you, not as +my equal, but as one in all ways better than myself. I admire you, not +in that trivial sense in which we men are wont to speak of women, but as +God’s work: as a wise mind, a noble soul, and a most generous heart, from +whose society I have all to gain, all to learn. Dorothy, in one word, I +love you. + +DOROTHY. And what, sir, has wrought this transformation? You knew me of +old, or thought you knew me? Is it in six months of selfish absence that +your mind has changed? When did that change begin? A week ago? Sure, +you would have written! To-day? Sir, if this offer be anything more +than fresh offence, I have a right to be enlightened. + +AUSTIN. Madam, I foresaw this question. So be it: I respect, and I will +not deceive you. But give me, first of all, a moment for defence. There +are few men of my habits and position who would have done as I have done: +sate at the feet of a young boy, accepted his lessons, gone upon his +errand: fewer still, who would thus, at the crisis of a love, risk the +whole fortune of the soul—love, gratitude, even respect. Yet more than +that! For conceive how I respect you, if I, whose lifelong trade has +been flattery, stand before you and make the plain confession of a truth +that must not only lower me, but deeply wound yourself. + +DOROTHY. What means—? + +AUSTIN. Young Fenwick, my rival for your heart, he it was that sent me. + +DOROTHY. He? O disgrace! He sent you! That was what he meant? Am I +fallen so low? Am I your common talk among men? Did you dice for me? +Did he kneel? O John, John, how could you! And you, Mr. Austin, whither +have you brought me down? shame heaping upon shame—to what end! oh, to +what end? + +AUSTIN. Madam, you wound me: you look wilfully amiss. Sure, any lady in +the land might well be proud to be loved as you are loved, with such +nobility as Mr. Fenwick’s, with such humility as mine. I came, indeed, +in pity, in good-nature, what you will. (See, dearest lady, with what +honesty I speak: if I win you, it shall be with the unblemished truth.) +All that is gone. Pity? it is myself I pity. I offer you not love—I am +not worthy. I ask, I beseech of you: suffer me to wait upon you like a +servant, to serve you with my rank, my name, the whole devotion of my +life. I am a gentleman—ay, in spite of my fault—an upright gentleman; +and I swear to you that you shall order your life and mine at your free +will. Dorothy, at your feet, in remorse, in respect, in love—O such love +as I have never felt, such love as I derided—I implore, I conjure you to +be mine! + +DOROTHY. Too late! too late. + +AUSTIN. No, no, not too late: not too late for penitence, not too late +for love. + +DOROTHY. Which do you propose? that I should abuse your compassion, or +reward your treachery? George Austin, I have been your mistress, and I +will never be your wife. + +AUSTIN. Child, dear child, I have not told you all: there is worse +still: your brother knows; the boy as good as told me. Dorothy, this is +scandal at the door—O let that move you: for that, if not for my sake, +for that, if not for love, trust me, trust me again. + +DOROTHY. I am so much the more your victim: that is all, and shall that +change my heart? The sin must have its wages. This, too, was done long +ago: when you stooped to lie to me. The shame is still mine, the fault +still yours. + +AUSTIN. Child, child, you kill me: you will not understand. Can you not +see? the lad will force me to a duel. + +DOROTHY. And you will kill him? Shame after shame, threat upon threat. +Marry me, or you are dishonoured; marry me, or your brother dies: and +this is man’s honour! But my honour and my pride are different. I will +encounter all misfortune sooner than degrade myself by an unfaithful +marriage. How should I kneel before the altar, and vow to reverence as +my husband you, you who deceived me as my lover? + +AUSTIN. Dorothy, you misjudge me cruelly; I have deserved it. You will +not take me for your husband; why should I wonder? You are right. I +have indeed filled your life with calamity: the wages, ay, the wages, of +my sin are heavy upon you. But I have one more thing to ask of your +pity; and O remember, child, who it is that asks it: a man guilty in your +sight, void of excuse, but old, and very proud, and most unused to +supplication. Dorothy Musgrave, will you forgive George Austin? + +DOROTHY. O, George! + +AUSTIN. It is the old name: that is all I ask, and more than I deserve. +I shall remember, often remember, how and where it was bestowed upon me +for the last time. I thank you, Dorothy, from my heart; a heart, child, +that has been too long silent, but is not too old, I thank God! not yet +too old, to learn a lesson and to accept a reproof. I will not keep you +longer: I will go—I am so bankrupt in credit that I dare not ask you to +believe in how much sorrow. But, Dorothy, my acts will speak for me with +more persuasion. If it be in my power, you shall suffer no more through +me: I will avoid your brother; I will leave this place, I will leave +England, to-morrow; you shall be no longer tortured with the +neighbourhood of your ungenerous lover. Dorothy, farewell! + + +SCENE VIII + + + DOROTHY; _to whom_, ANTHONY, _L._ + +DOROTHY (_on her knees_, _and reaching with her hands_.) George, George! +(_Enter_ ANTHONY.) + +ANTHONY. Ha! what are you crying for? + +DOROTHY. Nothing, dear! (_Rising_.) + +ANTHONY. Is Austin going to marry you? + +DOROTHY. I shall never marry. + +ANTHONY. I thought as much. You should have come to me. + +DOROTHY. I know, dear, I know; but there was nothing to come about. + +ANTHONY. It’s a lie. You have disgraced the family. You went to John +Fenwick: see what he has made of it! But I will have you righted: it +shall be atoned in the man’s blood. + +DOROTHY. Anthony! And if I had refused him? + +ANTHONY. You? refuse George Austin? You never had the chance. + +DOROTHY. I have refused him. + +ANTHONY. Dorothy, you lie. You would shield your lover; but this +concerns not you only: it strikes my honour and my father’s honour. + +DOROTHY. I have refused him—refused him, I tell you—refused him. The +blame is mine; are you so mad and wicked that you will not see? + +ANTHONY. I see this: that man must die. + +DOROTHY. He? never! You forget, you forget whom you defy; you run upon +your death. + +ANTHONY. Ah, my girl, you should have thought of that before. It is too +late now. + +DOROTHY. Anthony, if I beg you—Anthony, I have tried to be a good +sister; I brought you up, dear, nursed you when you were sick, fought for +you, hoped for you, loved you—think of it, think of the dear past, think +of our home and the happy winter nights, the castles in the fire, the +long shining future, the love that was to forgive and suffer always—O you +will spare, you will spare me this. + +ANTHONY. I will tell you what I will do, Dolly: I will do just what you +taught me—my duty: that, and nothing else. + +DOROTHY. O Anthony, you also, you to strike me! Heavens, shall I kill +them—I—I, that love them, kill them! Miserable, sinful girl! George, +George, thank God, you will be far away! O go, George, go at once! + +ANTHONY. He goes the coward! Ay, is this more of your contrivance? +Madam, you make me blush. But to-day at least I know where I can find +him. This afternoon, on the Pantiles, he must dance attendance on the +Duke of York. Already he must be there; and there he is at my mercy. + +DOROTHY. Thank God, you are deceived: he will not fight. He promised me +that; thank God I have his promise for that. + +ANTHONY. Promise! Do you see this? (_producing necklace_) the thing he +bribed your maid with? I shall dash it in his teeth before the Duke and +before all Tunbridge. Promise, you poor fool? what promise holds against +a blow? Get to your knees and pray for him; for, by the God above, if he +has any blood in his body, one of us shall die before to-night. (_He +goes out_.) + +DOROTHY. Anthony, Anthony! . . . O my God, George will kill him. + + _Music_: ‘_Chè farò_,’ _as the drop falls_. + + DROP. + + + +ACT IV. + + +MUSICAL INDUCTION: ‘Gavotte;’ ‘_Iphigénie en Aulide_.’ + + GLUCK + +_The Stage represents the Pantiles_: _the alleys fronting the spectators +in parallel lines_. _At the back_, _a stand of musicians_, _from which +the_ ‘_Gavotte_’ _is repeated on muted strings_. _The music continues +nearly through Scene I_. _Visitors walking to and fro beneath the +lines_. _A seat in front_, _L._ + + +SCENE I + + + MISS FOSTER, BARBARA, MENTEITH; _Visitors_ + +MISS FOSTER (_entering_; _escorted by_ MENTEITH, _and followed by_ +BARBARA). And so, Menteith, here you are once more. And vastly pleased +I am to see you, my good fellow, not only for your own sake, but because +you harbinger the Beau. (_Sits_, _L._; MENTEITH _standing over her_.) + +MENTEITH. Honoured madam, I have had the pleasure to serve Mr. George +for more than thirty years. This is a privilege—a very great privilege. +I have beheld him in the first societies, moving among the first rank of +personages; and none, madam, none outshone him. + +BARBARA. I assure you, madam, when Mr. Menteith took me to the play, he +talked so much of Mr. Austin that I couldn’t hear a word of Mr. Kean. + +MISS FOSTER. Well, well, and very right. That was the old school of +service, Barbara, which you would do well to imitate. This is a child, +Menteith, that I am trying to form. + +MENTEITH. Quite so, madam. + +MISS FOSTER. And are we soon to see our princely guest, Menteith? + +MENTEITH. His Royal Highness, madam? I believe I may say quite so. Mr. +George will receive our gallant prince upon the Pantiles (_looking at his +watch_) in, I should say, a matter of twelve minutes from now. Such, +madam, is Mr. George’s order of the day. + +BARBARA. I beg your pardon, madam, I am sure, but are we really to see +one of His Majesty’s own brothers? That will be pure! O madam, this is +better than Carlisle. + +MISS FOSTER. The wood-note wild: a loyal Cumbrian, Menteith. + +MENTEITH. Eh? Quite so, madam. + +MISS FOSTER. When she has seen as much of the Royal Family as you, my +good fellow, she will find it vastly less entertaining. + +MENTEITH. Yes, madam, indeed; In these distinguished circles, life is +but a slavery. None of the best set would relish Tunbridge without Mr. +George; Tunbridge and Mr. George (if you’ll excuse my plainness, madam) +are in a manner of speaking identified; and indeed it was the Dook’s +desire alone that brought us here. + +BARBARA. What? the Duke? O dear! was it for that? + +MENTEITH. Though, to be sure, madam, Mr. George would always be charmed +to find himself (_bowing_) among so many admired members of his own set. + +MISS FOSTER. Upon my word, Menteith, Mr. Austin is as fortunate in his +servant as his reputation. + +MENTEITH. Quite so, madam. But let me observe that the opportunities I +have had of acquiring a knowledge of Mr. George’s character have been +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 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. Oh! 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 there_, _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_.’) + + * * * * * + + THE END + + + + +ADMIRAL GUINEA + + + DEDICATED + WITH AFFECTION AND ESTEEM + TO ANDREW LANG BY + THE SURVIVORS OF + THE _WALRUS_ + +SAVANNAH, this 27_th_ 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 +square brackets_, _thus_ [ ]. + + + +ACT I. + + +_The Stage represents a room in the 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 widows 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 letter 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 here 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 bowline? 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 + +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 + + + GAUNT + +ARETHUSA; _to her_, PEW + +PEW (_singing without_)— + + ‘Time for us to go! + Time for us to go! + And we’ll keep the brig three pints 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 crosses 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; only +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 belold! 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 an 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 +pût 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_.) + + DROP. + + + +ACT II. + + +_The Stage represents the parlour of the_ ‘_Admiral Benbow_’ _inn_. +_Fire-place_, _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 the half-door in L._, +_corner back_; _door_, _R._, _beyond the fire-place_; _window with red +half-curtains_; _spittons_; _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—chimbley—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 haint +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 all 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 +half-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 bos’un, ma’am. In the Guinea trade, we +was known as ‘Pew’s Cap’n,’ and ‘Gaunt’s Bo’sun,’ one for 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 god-father. [‘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 know 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 dammne,’ 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 starn 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 look-out. 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 +course; 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! + + +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 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! + + +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 you are, 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’d 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 lands! 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. O, 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 mony +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.’ + + * * * * * + + DROP + + + +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 aught 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 into +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 +worst 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 +bare-foot! + +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 hear 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 pint,’ 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. + + ‘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 is 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! 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 the 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 leaps 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. O, 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 thought 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 off. 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 quarterdeck_, _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! + + * * * * * + + CURTAIN + + + + +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 1800. 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_. + + + +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 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 jail. + +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 (_aside_). A pound in his pocket? + +BERTRAND (_aside_). Keep for nothing? + +MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten! + +BERTRAND (_aside_). 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 jail 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 (_aside_). Bitten! + +BERTRAND (_aside_). 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 you 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. + +(_All speak together_ . . . + + DUMONT. O dear, O dear! + + ALINE. What spoil the wedding? + + ERNESTINE. O father! + + CHARLES. Sir, sir, you would not— + +. . . ) + +GORIOT (_exasperated_). I wun’t, and what’s more I shan’t. + +NOTARY. I donno if I make myself clear? + +DUMONT. Goriot, do let’s have happy faces! + +GORIOT. Fudge! Fudge!! Fudge!!! + +CURATE. Possibly on application to this conscientious jurist, light may +be obtained. + +ALL. The Notary; yes, yes; the Notary! + +DUMONT. Now, how about this marriage? + +NOTARY. Marriage is a contract, to which there are two constracting +parties, John Doe and Richard Roe. I donno if I make myself clear? + +ALINE. Poor lamb! + +CURATE. Silence, my friend; you will expose yourself to misconstruction. + +MACAIRE (_taking the stage_). As an entire stranger in this painful +scene, will you permit a gentleman and a traveller to interject one word? +There sits the young man, full, I am sure, of pleasing qualities; here +the young maiden, by her own confession bashfully consenting to the +match; there sits that dear old gentleman, a lover of bright faces like +myself, his own now dimmed with sorrow; and here—(may I be allowed to +add?)—here sits this noble Roman, a father like myself, and like myself +the slave of duty. Last you have me—Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de +Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, the man of the world and the man of +delicacy. I find you all—permit me the expression—gravelled. A marriage +and an obstacle. Now, what is marriage? The union of two souls, and, +what is possibly more romantic, the fusion of two dowries. What is an +obstacle? the devil. And this obstacle? to me, as a man of family, the +obstacle seems grave; but to me, as a man and a brother, what is it but a +word? O my friend (_to_ GORIOT), you whom I single out as the victim of +the same noble failings with myself—of pride of birth, of pride of +honesty—O my friend, reflect. Go now apart with your dishevelled +daughter, your tearful son-in-law, and let their plaints constrain you. +Believe me, when you come to die, you will recall with pride this amiable +weakness. + +GORIOT. I shan’t, and what’s more I wun’t. (CHARLES _and_ ERNESTINE +_lead him up stage_, _protesting_. _All rise_, _except_ NOTARY.) + +DUMONT (_front R._, _shaking hands with_ MACAIRE). Sir, you have a noble +nature. (MACAIRE _picks his pocket_.) Dear me, dear me, and you are +rich. + +MACAIRE. I own, sir, I deceived you: I feared some wounding offer, and +my pride replied. But to be quite frank with you, you behold me here, +the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, and +between my simple manhood and the infinite these rags are all. + +DUMONT. Dear me, and with this noble pride, my gratitude is useless. +For I, too, have delicacy: I understand you could not stoop to take a +gift. + +MACAIRE. A gift? a small one? never! + +DUMONT. And I will never wound you by the offer. + +MACAIRE (_aside_). Bitten. + +BERTRAND (_aside_). Sold again. + +GORIOT (_taking the stage_). But, look’ee here, he can’t marry. + +(_All speak together_ . . . + + MACAIRE. Hey? + + DUMONT. Ah! + + ALINE. Hey day! + + CURATE. Wherefore? + + ERNESTINE. Oh! + + 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. + +(_All speak together_ . . . + + MACAIRE. Can’t they marry? + + DUMONT. Can’t he marry? + + ALINE. Can’t she marry? + + 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. + +(_All speak together_ . . . + + MACAIRE. Bravo! + + DUMONT. Excellent! + + CHARLES. Let’s go at once! + + 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 turns 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—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 church-warden_: _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 +a 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 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? + +(_All speak together_ . . . + + ALINE. No wedding, no wedding! + + GORIOT. I told ’ee he can’t and he can’t. + + DUMONT. Dear, dear me! + + 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 only known 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_: _smiling 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-Cotterêts de la Cherté de Médoc. +(_Sensation_.) + +MACAIRE. 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. + +MACAIRE. 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? + +MACAIRE. This is the man, my lord; here stands the father; Charles, to +my arms! (CHARLES _backs_.) + +DUMONT. He knew the letter. + +MARQUIS. Well, but 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. + +MACAIRE. Mine, Marquis, mine. + +MARQUIS. My figure, I think? + +MACAIRE. 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. Look 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 the 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_.) + +MACAIRE. 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. + +MACAIRE. 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. + +MACAIRE. 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. + +MACAIRE (_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! + + +SCENE V + + +MACAIRE, _to whom_ BERTRAND. _Afterwards_ DUMONT + +BERTRAND. Well? + +MACAIRE. Bitten. + +BERTRAND. Sold again. + +MACAIRE. 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. + +MACAIRE. Ah, my good old Dumont, this is very sad. + +DUMONT. Dear me, what is wrong? + +MACAIRE. Dumont, you had a dowry for my son? + +DUMONT. I had; I have: ten thousand francs. + +MACAIRE. 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? + +MACAIRE. 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! + +MACAIRE. 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? + +MACAIRE. 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, nobleman! + +MACAIRE. 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 . . . + +MACAIRE. No, Dumont, you had not; do not seek to impose upon my +simplicity. What you did think was this, Dumont: for the sake of this +noble father, for the sake of this son whom he denies for his own +interest—I mean, for his interest—no, I mean, for his own—well, anyway, +in order to keep up the general atmosphere of sacrifice and nobility, I +must hand over this dowry to the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main +de la Tonnerre de Brest. + +(_Together_: _each shaking him by the hand_ . . . + + DUMONT. Noble, O noble! + + BERTRAND. Beautiful, O beautiful! + +. . .) + +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. Oh!! (_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 (_aside_). Bitten. + +BERTRAND (_aside_). 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? +My, 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 + + +SCENE I + + + MACAIRE, BERTRAND + +_As the curtain rises_, _the stage is dark and empty_. _Enter_ MACAIRE, +_L. U. E._, _with lantern_. _He looks about_ + +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 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 night-cap, 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 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? + +(Sitting on the table dissembling box and dissembling box . . . + + MACAIRE. Good-morning, good-morning! + + BERTRAND. Early birds, early birds. + +. . . ) + +DUMONT. By the way, very remarkable thing: I found the 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 your sitting on? + +BERTRAND. Nothing. + +MACAIRE. The table! I beg your pardon. + +DUMONT. Why, it’s my cash-box! + +MACAIRE. 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 its key_.) It’s a singular +thing (_blowing_), key won’t turn. It’s a patent. Some one 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 (_aside_). Bitten. + +BERTRAND (_aside_). Sold again. + +DUMONT. Welcome, old friend! + +BRIGADIER. It is not the friend that comes; it is the Brigadier. Summon +your guests: I must investigate their passports. I am in pursuit of a +notorious malefactor, Robert Macaire. + +DUMONT. But I was led to believe that both Macaire and his accomplice +had been arrested and condemned. + +BRIGADIER. They were, but they have once more escaped for the moment, +and justice is indefatigable. (_He sits at table R._) Dumont, a bottle +of white wine. + +MACAIRE (_to_ DUMONT). My excellent friend, I will discharge your +commission, and return with all speed. (_Going_.) + +BRIGADIER. Halt! + +MACAIRE (_returning: as if he saw_ BRIGADIER _for the first time_). Ha? +a member of the force? Charmed, I’m sure. But you misconceive me: I +return at once, and my friend remains behind to answer for me. + +BRIGADIER. Justice is insensible to friendship. I shall deal with you +in due time. Dumont, that bottle. + +MACAIRE. Sir, my friend and I, who are students of character, would +grasp the opportunity to share and—may one add?—to pay the bottle. +Dumont, three! + +BERTRAND. For God’s sake! (_Enter_ ALINE _and_ MAIDS.) + +MACAIRE. My friend is an author: so, in a humbler way, am I. Your +knowledge of the criminal classes naturally tempts one to pursue so +interesting an acquaintance. + +BRIGADIER. Justice is impartial. Gentlemen, your health. + +MACAIRE. Will not these brave fellows join us? + +BRIGADIER. They are on duty; but what matters? + +MACAIRE. My dear sir, what is duty? duty is my eye. + +BRIGADIER (_solemnly_). And Betty Martin. (GENDARMES _sit at table_.) + +MACAIRE (_to_ BERTRAND). Dear friend, sit down. + +BERTRAND (_sitting down_). O Lord! + +BRIGADIER (_to_ MACAIRE). You seem to be a gentleman of considerable +intelligence. + +MACAIRE. I fear, sir, you flatter. One has lived, one has loved, and +one remembers: that is all. One’s _Lives of Celebrated Criminals_ has +met with a certain success, and one is ever in quest of fresh material. + +DUMONT. By the way, a singular thing about my patent key. + +BRIGADIER. This gentleman is speaking. + +MACAIRE. Excellent Dumont! he means no harm. This Macaire is not +personally known to you? + +BRIGADIER. Are you connected with justice? + +MACAIRE. Ah, sir, justice is a point above a poor author. + +BRIGADIER (_with glass_). Justice is the very devil. + +MACAIRE. My dear sir, my friend and I, I regret to say, have an +appointment in Lyons, or I could spend my life in this society. Charge +your glasses: one hour to madness and to joy! What is to-morrow? the +enemy of to-day. Wine? the bath of life. One moment: I find I have +forgotten my watch. (_He makes for the door_.) + +BRIGADIER. Halt! + +MACAIRE. Sir, what is this jest? + +BRIGADIER. Sentry at the door. Your passports. + +MACAIRE. My good man, with all the pleasure in life. (Gives papers. +_The_ BRIGADIER _puts on spectacles_, _and examines them_.) + +BERTRAND (_rising_, _and passing round to_ MACAIRE’S _other side_). It’s +life and death: they must soon find it. + +MACAIRE (_aside_). Don’t I know? My heart’s like fire in my body. + +BRIGADIER. Your name is? + +MACAIRE. It is; one’s name is not unknown. + +BRIGADIER. Justice exacts your name. + +MACAIRE. Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest. + +BRIGADIER. Your profession? + +MACAIRE. Gentleman. + +BRIGADIER. No, but what is your trade? + +MACAIRE. I am an analytical chymist. + +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 (_aside_). Bitten, by God! + +BERTRAND (_aside_). 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 T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty + at the Edinburgh University Press + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PLAYS OF W. E. HENLEY AND R. L. +STEVENSON*** + + +******* This file should be named 719-0.txt or 719-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/7/1/719 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson, by Robert Louis Stevenson</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. +Stevenson, by Robert Louis Stevenson, et al + + +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 Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson + + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + + + +Release Date: March 10, 2013 [eBook #719] +[This file was first posted on November 22, 1996] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PLAYS OF W. E. HENLEY AND R. +L. STEVENSON*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1907 William Heinemann edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>The Plays<br /> +of<br /> +W. E. Henley and<br /> +R. L. Stevenson</h1> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p>Deacon Brodie</p> +</td> +<td><p>Beau Austin</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Admiral Guinea</p> +</td> +<td><p>Robert Macaire</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center">London</p> +<p style="text-align: center">William Heinemann</p> +<p style="text-align: center">1907</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p> <i>Copyright</i><br /> +<i>All rights reserved</i></p> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>DEACON BRODIE</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>BEAU AUSTIN</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page111">111</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>ADMIRAL GUINEA</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page177">177</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>ROBERT MACAIRE</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page251">251</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>DEACON +BRODIE<br /> +OR THE DOUBLE LIFE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">A MELODRAMA IN FIVE ACTS</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND EIGHT TABLEAUX</span></h2> +<h3>PERSONS REPRESENTED</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">William Brodie</span>, Deacon of the +Wrights, Housebreaker and Master Carpenter.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Brodie</span>, the Deacon’s +Father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">William Lawson</span>, Procurator-Fiscal, +the Deacon’s Uncle.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Andrew Ainslie</span>, <span +class="smcap">Humphrey Moore</span>, <span class="smcap">George +Smith</span>, Robbers in the Deacon’s gang.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Captain Rivers</span>, an English +Highwayman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>, a Bow Street Runner.</p> +<p>A <span class="smcap">Doctor</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Walter Leslie</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary Brodie</span>, the Deacon’s +Sister.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean Watt</span>, the Deacon’s +Mistress.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Vagabonds</span>, <span class="smcap">Officers of +the Watch</span>, <span class="smcap">Men-servants</span>.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Note</span>.—<i>Passages suggested +for omission in representation are enclosed in square +brackets</i>, <i>thus</i> [ ].</p> +<h3>SYNOPSIS OF ACTS AND TABLEAUX</h3> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">ACT I.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">TABLEAU I.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The Double Life.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">TABLEAU II.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Hunt the Runner.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">TABLEAU III.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Mother Clarke’s.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">ACT II.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">TABLEAU IV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Evil and Good.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">ACT III.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">TABLEAU V.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>King’s Evidence.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">TABLEAU VI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Unmasked.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">ACT IV.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">TABLEAU VII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The Robbery.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">ACT V.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">TABLEAU VIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>The Open Door.</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h3>LONDON: PRINCE’S THEATRE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">2<i>d</i> <i>July</i> 1884</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Deacon Brodie</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. E. J. <span class="smcap">Henley</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Walter Leslie</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Charles Cartwright</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">William Lawson</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">John Maclean</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Andrew Ainslie</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Fred Desmond</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Humphrey Moore</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Edmund Grace</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">George Smith</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Julian Cross</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Hubert Akhurst</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Old Brodie</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. A. <span class="smcap">Knight</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Captain Rivers</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Brandon Thomas</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Mary Brodie</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Miss <span class="smcap">Lizzie Williams</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Jean Watt</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Miss <span class="smcap">Minnie Bell</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h3>MONTREAL</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">26<i>th</i> <i>September</i> +1887</p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Deacon Brodie</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. E. J. <span class="smcap">Henley</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Walter Leslie</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Graham Stewart</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">William Lawson</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Edmund Lyons</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Andrew Ainslie</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Fred Desmond</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Humphrey Moore</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Edmund Grace</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">George smith</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Horatio Saker</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Henry Vernon</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Captain Rivers</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Bruce Philips</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Mary Brodie</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Miss <span class="smcap">Annie Robe</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Jean Watt</span>,</p> +</td> +<td><p>Miss <span class="smcap">Carrie Coote</span>.</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h3>ACT I.</h3> +<h4>TABLEAU I.<br /> +<span class="smcap">The Double Life</span>.</h4> +<p><i>The Stage represents a room in the Deacon’s +house</i>, <i>furnished partly as a sitting-</i>, <i>partly as a +bed-room</i>, <i>in the style of an easy burgess of about</i> +1780. <i>C.</i>, <i>a door</i>; <i>L. C.</i>, <i>a second +and smaller door</i>; <i>R. C.</i>, <i>practicable window</i>; +<i>L.</i>, <i>alcove</i>, <i>supposed to contain bed</i>; <i>at +the back</i>, <i>a clothes-press and a corner cupboard containing +bottles</i>, <i>etc.</i> <span class="smcap">Mary +Brodie</span> <i>at needlework</i>; <span class="smcap">Old +Brodie</span>, <i>a paralytic</i>, <i>in wheeled chair</i>, <i>at +the fireside</i>, <i>L.</i></p> +<h5>SCENE I</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i> <span +class="smcap">Leslie</span>, <i>C.</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. May I come in, +Mary?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Why not?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. I scarce knew where +to find you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Are you sure that +‘sacred’ is strong enough?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. You are satirical!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. And now you are +impertinent! Do you mean to go any further? We are a +fighting race, we Brodies. Oh, you may laugh, sir! +But ’tis no child’s play to jest us on our Deacon, +or, for that matter, on our Deacon’s chamber either. +It was his father’s before him: he works in it by day and +sleeps in it by night; and scarce anything it contains but is the +labour of his hands. Do you see this table, Walter? +He made it while he was yet a ’prentice. I remember +how I used to sit and watch him at his work. It would be +grand, I thought, to be able to do as he did, and handle +edge-tools without cutting my fingers, and getting my ears pulled +for a meddlesome minx! He used to give me his mallet to +keep and his nails to hold; and didn’t I fly when he called +for them! and wasn’t I proud to be ordered about with +them! And then, you know, there is the tall cabinet yonder; +that it was that proved him the first of Edinburgh joiners, and +worthy to be their Deacon and their head. And the +father’s chair, and the sister’s workbox, and the +dear dead mother’s footstool—what are they all but +proofs of the Deacon’s skill, and tokens of the +Deacon’s care for those about him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. I am all +penitence. Forgive me this last time, and I promise you I +never will again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Candidly, now, do you +think you deserve forgiveness?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Candidly, I do +not.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Then I suppose you must +have it. What have you done with Willie and my uncle?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. I left them talking +deeply. The dear old Procurator has not much thought just +now for anything but those mysterious burglaries—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I know!—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. They are worth having, +are they not?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. The Procurator seems +to think that having them makes the difference between winning +and losing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Did he say so? +You may rely upon it that he knows. There are not many in +Edinburgh who can match with our Will.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. There shall be as +many as you please, and not one more.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I suppose you mean to +be unkind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. That is for the young +lady to decide, sir.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. And against that +judgment there shall be no appeal?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. O, if you mean to +argue!—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. I do not mean to +argue. I am content to love and be loved. I think I +am the happiest man in the world.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. That is as it should +be; for I am the happiest girl.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Why not say the +happiest wife? I have your word, and you have mine. +Is not that enough?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Then you have not +spoken as you promised?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I have been too happy +to speak.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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.’</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Your father is trying +to speak. I’ll wager he echoes you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Old Brodie</span>). My poor dearie! Do +you want to say anything to me? No? Is it to Mr. +Leslie, then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. I am listening, Mr. +Brodie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. What is it, daddie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Brodie</span>. My son—the +Deacon—Deacon Brodie—the first at school.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. I know it, Mr. +Brodie. Was I not the last in the same class? +(<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Mary</span>.) But he seems +to have forgotten us.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. It is so good to sit +beside you. By and by it will be always like this. +You will not let me speak to the Deacon? You are fast set +upon speaking yourself? I could be so eloquent, +Mary—I would touch him. I cannot tell you how I fear +to trust my happiness to any one else—even to you!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. He must hear of my good +fortune from none but me. And besides, you do not +understand. We are not like families, we Brodies. We +are so clannish, we hold so close together.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. You Brodies, and your +Deacon!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Brodie</span>. Deacon of his +craft, sir—Deacon of the Wrights—my son! If his +mother—his mother—had but lived to see!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>without</i>, <i>and +entering</i>). You are a mighty magistrate, Procurator, but +you seem to have met your match.</p> +<h5>SCENE II</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Brodie</span> and <span +class="smcap">Lawson</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span> (<i>curtseying</i>). So, +uncle! you have honoured us at last.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. <i>Quam primum</i>, +my dear, <i>quam primum</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Well, father, do you +know me? (<i>He sits beside his father and takes his +hand</i>.)</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Old Brodie</span>. +William—ay—Deacon. Greater +man—than—his father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. And what have you been +talking of?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Just o’ thae +robberies, Mary. Baith as a burgher and a Crown offeecial, +I tak’ the maist absorbing interest in thae robberies.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Egad, Procurator, and +so do I.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>with a quick look at</i> +<span class="smcap">Leslie</span>). A dilettante interest, +doubtless! See what it is to be idle.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Faith, Brodie, I +hardly know how to style it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. You are more +fortunate than you deserve. What do you say, +Procurator?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Ay is he! There +is no a house in Edinburgh safe. The law is clean helpless, +clean helpless! A week syne it was auld Andra +Simpson’s in the Lawnmarket. Then, naething would set +the catamarans but to forgather privily wi’ the +Provost’s ain butler, and tak’ unto themselves the +Provost’s ain plate. And the day, information was +laid before me offeecially that the limmers had made infraction, +<i>vi et clam</i>, 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Little, indeed! +But we do know that there are several in the gang, and that one +at least is an unrivalled workman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. You could do anything, +you two!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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 <i>a solatium</i>, 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Come, come, +Procurator, lead not our poor clay into temptation. (<span +class="smcap">Leslie</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>talk apart</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. ‘Daffin’ +and want o’ wit’—you know the rest.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. <i>Vidi</i>, +<i>scivi</i>, <i>et audivi</i>, as we say in a Sasine, +William.] Man, because my wig’s pouthered do ye think +I havena a green heart? I was aince a lad mysel’, and +I ken fine by the glint o’ the e’e when a lad’s +fain and a lassie’s willing. And, man, it’s the +town’s talk; <i>communis error fit jus</i>, ye ken.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Old Brodie</span>. Oh!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. See, ye’re +hurting your faither’s hand.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Dear dad, it is not +good to have an ill-tempered son.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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. <i>Tantum et +tale</i>. I tell ye the <i>pro’s</i>, find you the +<i>con.’s</i>, if ye’re able.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. [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].</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. At four o’clock +to-morrow? At my house? (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Mary</span>).</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. As soon as church is +done. (<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Mary</span>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Ye needna be sae high +and mighty, onyway.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I ask your pardon, +Procurator. But we Brodies—you know our +failings! [A bad temper and a humour of privacy.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Weel, I maun be about +my business. But I could tak’ a doch-an-dorach, +William; <i>superflua non nocent</i>, as we say; an extra dram +hurts naebody, Mr. Leslie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>with bottle and +glasses</i>). Here’s your old friend, +Procurator. Help yourself, Leslie. Oh no, thank you, +not any for me. You strong people have the advantage of me +there. With my attacks, you know, I must always live a bit +of a hermit’s life.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. ’Od, man, +that’s fine; that’s health o’ mind and +body. Mr. Leslie, here’s to you, sir. +’Od, it’s harder to end than to begin wi’ stuff +like that.</p> +<h5>SCENE III</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Smith</span> and <span class="smcap">Jean</span>, +<i>C.</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Is the king of the +castle in, please?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span> (<i>aside</i>). +Lord’s sake, it’s Smith!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Smith</span>). I beg your pardon?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. I beg yours, +sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. Brodie at home, sir?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. What do you want with +him, my man?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. I’ve a message +for him, sir, a job of work, sir!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Smith</span>; <i>referring to</i> <span +class="smcap">Jean</span>). And who is this?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I am here for the +Procurator, about my rent. There’s nae offence, I +hope, sir.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. It’s just an +honest wife I let a flat to in Libberton’s Wynd. +It’ll be for the rent?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Just that, sir.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Weel, ye can just +bide here a wee, and I’ll step down the road to my office +wi’ ye. (<i>Exeunt</i> <span +class="smcap">Brodie</span>, <span class="smcap">Lawson</span>, +<span class="smcap">Leslie</span>, <i>C.</i>)</p> +<h5>SCENE IV</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Smith</span>, +<span class="smcap">Jean Watt</span>, <span class="smcap">Old +Brodie</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>bowing them +out</i>). 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! +(<i>At the mirror</i>.) In that case George’s mother +bids him bind his hair. (<i>Kisses his hand</i>.) My +dearest Duchess,—(<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Jean</span>.) 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I daursay. And +what wad ye expeck?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Geordie Smith, ye ken +vera weel I’ll tak’ nane o’ that sort of talk +frae you. And what kind o’ a man are you to even +yoursel’ to the likes o’ him? He’s a +gentleman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Ah, ain’t he +just! And don’t he live up to it? I say, Jean, +feel of this chair.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. My! look at yon +bed!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. The carpet too! +Axminster, by the bones of Oliver Cromwell!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. What a expense!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Hey, brandy! The +deuce of the grape! Have a toothful, Mrs. Watt. +[(<i>Sings</i>)—</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘Says +Bacchus to Venus,<br /> + There’s brandy between +us,<br /> +And the cradle of love is the bowl, the bowl!’]</p> +</blockquote> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Nane for me, I thank +ye, Mr. Smith.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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. (<i>Seeing</i> <span class="smcap">Old +Brodie</span> <i>for the first time</i>.) Hullo! it’s +a man!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Thonder in the +chair. (<i>They go to look at him</i>, <i>their backs to +the door</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. Is he alive?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I think there’s +something wrong with him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span>. And how was you +to-morrow, my valued old gentleman, eh?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Dinna mak’ a mock +o’ him, Geordie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Brodie</span>. My son—the +Deacon—Deacon of his trade.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. He’ll be his +feyther. (<span class="smcap">Hunt</span> <i>appears at +door C.</i>, <i>and stands looking on</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. The Deacon’s old +man! Well, he couldn’t expect to have his quiver full +of sich, could he, Jean? (<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Old +Brodie</span>.) Ah, my Christian soldier, if you had, the +world would have been more varigated. Mrs. Deakin +(<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Jean</span>), let me introduce you +to your dear papa.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. 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.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. All right, +Duchess. Don’t be angry.</p> +<h5>SCENE V</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Hunt</span>, <i>C.</i> (<i>He steals +down</i>, <i>and claps each one suddenly on the +shoulder</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Is there a gentleman +here by the name of Mr. Procurator-Fiscal?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>pulling himself +together</i>). D—n it, Jerry, what do you mean by +startling an old customer like that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. What, my brave +un’? You’re the very party I was looking +for!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. There’s nothing +out against me this time?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. I’ll take odds +there is. But it ain’t in my hands. (<i>To</i> +<span class="smcap">Old Brodie</span>.) You’ll excuse +me, old genelman?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Lady, George?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. It’s +a—yes, it’s a lady. Come along, Jean.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. A Mrs. Deacon, I +believe? [That was the name, I think?] Won’t +Mrs. Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span> (<i>unmuffling</i>). +I’ve naething to be ashamed of. My name’s +Mistress Watt; I’m weel kennt at the Wynd heid; +there’s naething again me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">George</span> (<i>in an agony</i>). +Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (<i>Going with attempted +swagger</i>.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry.</p> +<h5>SCENE VI</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <i>C</i>, <span +class="smcap">Brodie</span> and <span class="smcap">Lawson</span> +(greatcoat, muffler, lantern).</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span> (<i>from the +door</i>). Come your ways, Mistress Watt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. That’s the Fiscal +himsel’.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, +I believe?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. That’s +me. Who’ll you be?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Hunt the Runner, sir; +Hunt from Bow Street; English warrant.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. There’s a place +for a’ things, officer. Come your ways to my office, +with me and this guid wife.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>aside to</i> <span +class="smcap">Jean</span>, <i>as she passes with a +curtsey</i>). How dare you be here? (<i>Aloud to</i> +<span class="smcap">Smith</span>.) Wait you here, my +man.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. If you please, +sir. (<span class="smcap">Brodie</span> <i>goes out</i>, +<i>C.</i>)</p> +<h5>SCENE VII</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>, +<span class="smcap">Smith</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. What the devil brings +you here?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. <i>Con</i>found it, +Deakin! Not rusty?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. And not you only: +Jean too! Are you mad?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Why, you don’t +mean to say, Deakin, that you have been stodged by G. Smith, +Esquire? Plummy old George?]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. There was my uncle +the Procurator—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. The Fiscal? He +don’t count.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. What d’ye +mean?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. What! does he buy +that smuggled trash of yours?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Gad! that’s +worth knowing. O Procurator, Procurator, is there no such +thing as virtue? [<i>Allons</i>! 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. I’ve trapped a +pigeon for you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Can’t you pluck +him yourself?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Flush?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>mimicking</i>). +‘The graziers, split me! A mail, stap my vitals! and +seven demned farmers, by the Lard—’</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. By Gad!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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 . . .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>impassible</i>). +Go on.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Worse luck! . . . We +thought, me and the Badger, you know, that maybe you’d like +to exercise your helbow with our free and galliant horseman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. The old move, I +presume? the double set of dice?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. The usual terms, I +suppose?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. The old discount, +Deakin. Ten in the pound for you, and the rest for your +jolly companions every one. [<i>That’s</i> the way +<i>we</i> does it!]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Who has the dice?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Our mutual friend, the +Candleworm.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. You mean +Ainslie?—We trust that creature too much, Geordie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. The Black Flag for +ever! George’ll trot him round to Mother +Clarke’s in two twos.] How long’ll you be?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. The time to lock up +and go to bed, and I’ll be with you. Can you find +your way out?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Bloom on, my Sweet +William, in peaceful array. Ta-ta.</p> +<h5>SCENE VIII</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>, +<span class="smcap">Old Brodie</span>; to whom, <span +class="smcap">Mary</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Not to-night, Mary; +not to-night. I have other fish to fry, and they +won’t wait.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Not one minute for your +sister? One little minute for your little sister?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. ‘And me a +Deacon,’ as the Procurator would say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. All day long +to-morrow, if you like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Business or none?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Business or none, +little sister! I’ll make time, I promise you; and +there’s another kiss for surety. Come along. +(<i>They proceed to push out the chair</i>, <i>L.C.</i>) +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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Poor Will! How +selfish I must have seemed! You should have told me sooner, +and I wouldn’t have worried you. Come along.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">(<i>She goes out</i>, <i>pushing +chair</i>.)</p> +<h5>SCENE IX</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Brodie</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>He closes</i>, <i>locks</i>, +<i>and double-bolts both doors</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Now for one of the +Deacon’s headaches! Rogues all, rogues all! +(<i>Goes to clothes-press</i>, <i>and proceeds to change his +coat</i>.) On with the new coat and into the new +life! Down with the Deacon and up with the robber! +(<i>Changing neck-band and ruffles</i>.) 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 <i>half</i> a life of his +own?—not eight hours out of twenty-four? [Eight shall +he have should he dare the pit of Tophet.] (<i>Takes out +money</i>.) 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! (<i>As he blows out the lights</i>.) +The Deacon’s going to bed—the poor sick Deacon! +<i>Allons</i>! (<i>Throws up the window</i>, <i>and looks +out</i>.) Only the stars to see me! (<i>Addressing the +bed</i>.) Lie there, Deacon! sleep and be well +to-morrow. As for me, I’m a man once more till +morning. (<i>Gets out of the window</i>.)</p> +<h4>TABLEAU II.<br /> +<span class="smcap">Hunt the Runner</span></h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The Scene represents the +Procurator’s Office</i>.</p> +<h5>SCENE I</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>, +<span class="smcap">Hunt</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Lawson</span> (<i>entering</i>). +Step your ways in, Officer. (<i>At wing</i>.) Mr. +Carfrae, give a chair to yon decent wife that cam’ in +wi’ me. Nae news?</p> +<p>A <span class="smcap">voice without</span>. Naething, +sir.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span> (<i>sitting</i>). +Weel, Officer, and what can I do for you?]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Well, sir, as I was +saying, I’ve an English warrant for the apprehension of one +Jemmy Rivers, <i>alias</i> Captain Starlight, now at large within +your jurisdiction.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. That’ll be the +highwayman?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. That same, Mr. +Procurator-Fiscal. The Captain’s given me a hard hunt +of it this time. I dropped on his marks first at +Huntingdon, but he was away North, and I had to up and after +him. I heard of him all along the York road, for he’s +a light hand on the pad, has Jemmy, and leaves his mark. [I +missed him at York by four-and-twenty hours, and lost him for as +much more. Then I picked him up again at Carlisle, and we +made a race of it for the Border; but he’d a better nag, +and was best up in the road; so I had to wait till I ran him to +earth in Edinburgh here and could get a new warrant.] So +here I am, sir. They told me you were an active sort of +gentleman, and I’m an active man myself. And Sir John +Fielding, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, he’s an active gentleman, +likewise, though he’s blind as a himage, and he desired his +compliments to you, [sir, and said that between us he thought +we’d do the trick].</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Ay, he’ll be a +fine man, Sir John. Hand me owre your papers, Hunt, and +you’ll have your new warrant <i>quam primum</i>. 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. <i>Non constat de personâ</i>. +We canna get a grip o’ the delinquents. Here is the +<i>Hue and Cry</i>. Ye see there is a guid two hundred +pounds for ye.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Well, Mr. +Procurator-Fiscal [I ain’t a rich man, and two +hundred’s two hundred. Thereby, sir], I don’t +mind telling you I’ve had a bit of a worry at it +already. You see, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I had to look into +a ken to-night about the Captain, and an old cock always likes to +be sure of his walk; so I got one of your Scotch +officers—him as was so polite as to show me round to Mr. +Brodie’s—to give me full particulars about the +’ouse, and the flash companions that use it. In his +list I drop on the names of two old lambs of my own; and I put it +to you, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, as a genleman as knows the world, +if what’s a black sheep in London is likely or not to be +keeping school in Edinburgh?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. <i>Coelum non +animum</i>. A just observe.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Hunt, that’s a +very decent woman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Ye’re vera +richt, Hunt. An active and a watchful officer. +I’ll send her in till ye.</p> +<h5>SCENE II</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> +(<i>solus</i>)</p> +<p>Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One +burglary after another, and these Scotch blockheads without a man +to show for it. Jock runs east, and Sawney cuts west; +everything’s at a deadlock; and they go on calling +themselves thief-catchers! [By jingo, I’ll show them +how we do it down South! Well, I’ve worn out a good +deal of saddle leather over Jemmy Rivers; but here’s for +new breeches if you like.] Let’s have another queer +at the list. (<i>Reads</i>.) ‘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!</p> +<h5>SCENE III</h5> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>; to him <span +class="smcap">Jean</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Well, my dear, and how +about your gentleman friend now? How about Deacon +Brodie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Weel, sir, and +he’s a’ that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. What’s your +wull?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. It’s paid +for. Ye can sweir to that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I’m thinking +ye’ll be a vera clever gentleman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I’ll be +wishin’ ye a fine nicht. (<i>Curtsies and goes +out</i>.)</p> +<h5>SCENE IV</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> +(<i>solus</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Ah! that’s it, is +it? ‘My fancy man’s my ’ole +delight,’ as we say in Bow Street. But which +<i>is</i> the fancy man? George the Dock, or William the +Deacon? One or both? (<i>He winks +solemnly</i>.) 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.</p> +<h4>TABLEAU III.<br /> +<span class="smcap">Mother Clarke’s</span></h4> +<h5>SCENE I</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The Stage represents a room of +coarse and sordid appearance</i>: <i>settles</i>, +<i>spittoons</i>, <i>etc.</i>; <i>sanded floor</i>. <i>A +large table at back</i>, <i>where</i> <span +class="smcap">Ainslie</span>, <span +class="smcap">Hamilton</span>, <i>and others are playing cards +and quarrelling</i>. <i>In front</i>, <i>L. and R. smaller +tables</i>, <i>at one of which are</i> <span +class="smcap">Brodie</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Moore</span>, <i>drinking</i>. <span +class="smcap">Mrs. Clarke</span> <i>and women serving</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. You’ve got the +devil’s own luck, Deacon, that’s what you’ve +got.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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].</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. You’re artful, +ain’t you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Should I be here +else? When I leave my house I leave an <i>alibi</i> 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?]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. I’ve seen your +sort before, I have.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Not you. As for +Leslie’s—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. That was a nick above +you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Why not? +You’re the King of the Cracksmen, ain’t you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Oh, rot! I +ain’t a parson, I ain’t; I never had no college +education. Business is business. That’s +wot’s the matter with me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Ay, so we said when +you lost that fight with Newcastle Jemmy, and sent us all home +poor men. That was a nick above <i>you</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. You are both right +and wrong. You dared me to do it. I was drunk; I was +upon my mettle; and I as good as did it. More than that, +black-guardly as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is my +friend. He had dined with me that day, and I felt like a +man in a story. I climbed his wall, I crawled along his +pantry roof, I mounted his window-sill. That one turn of my +wrist—you know it I—and the casement was open. +It was as dark as the pit, and I thought I’d won my wager, +when, phewt! down went something inside, and down went somebody +with it. I made one leap, and was off like a rocket. +It was my poor friend in person; and if he’d caught and +passed me on to the watchman under the window, I should have felt +no viler rogue than I feel just now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. I s’pose he +knows you pretty well by this time?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. ’Tis the worst +of friendship. Here, Kirsty, fill these glasses. +Moore, here’s better luck—and a more honourable +plant!—next time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Deacon, I looks +towards you. But it looks thundering like rotten eggs, +don’t it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Anyway, you +ain’t game to try it on again, I’ll lay odds on +that. Once bit, twice shy. That’s your +motto.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Right again. +I’ll put my <i>alibi</i> to a better use. And, +Badger, one word in your ear: there’s no Newcastle Jemmy +about <i>me</i>. Drop the subject, and for good, or I shall +drop you. (<i>He rises</i>, <i>and walks backwards and +forwards</i>, <i>a little unsteadily</i>. <i>Then +returns</i>, <i>and sits L.</i>, <i>as before</i>.)</p> +<h5>SCENE II</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Hunt</span>, <i>disguised</i></p> +<p><i>He is disguised as a</i> ‘<i>flying +stationer</i>’ <i>with a patch over his eye</i>. +<i>He sits at table opposite</i> <span +class="smcap">Brodie’s</span> <i>and is served with bread +and cheese and beer</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hamilton</span> (<i>from +behind</i>). The deevil tak’ the cairts!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. Hoot, man, dinna +blame the cairts.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Look here, Deacon, I +mean business, I do. (<span class="smcap">Hunt</span> +<i>looks up at the name of</i> ‘<i>Deacon</i>.’)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Gad, Badger, I never +meet you that you do not. [You have a set of the most +commercial intentions!] You make me blush.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. ’Tis a very +good motto, and at your lips, Badger, it kind of warms my +heart. But it’s not mine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Muck! why not?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. ’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. +(<i>Rising</i>.) I’m only Deacon Brodie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. All right. I can +wait.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>seeing</i> <span +class="smcap">Hunt</span>). 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Well, sir, to tell you +the truth (<span class="smcap">Brodie</span> <i>bows</i>) +it’s not for sale. But it’s my own, and +I’ll drink your honour’s health in anything.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. An Englishman, +too! Badger, behold a countryman. What are you, and +what part of southern Scotland do you come from?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Well, your honour, to +tell you the honest truth—</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>bowing</i>). Your +obleeged!]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. I knows a gentleman +when I sees him, your honour [and, to tell your honour the +truth—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. <i>Je vous baise les +mains</i>! (<i>Bowing</i>.)]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. A gentleman as is a +gentleman, your honour [is always a gentleman, and to tell you +the honest truth]—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Great heavens! answer +in three words, and be hanged to you! What are you, and +where are you from?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. A patter-cove from +Seven Dials.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. Dod, I’m for +nae mair! (<i>At back</i>, <i>and rising</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Players</span>. Sit down, +Ainslie.—Sit down, Andra.—Ma revenge!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. Na, na, I’m +for canny goin’. (<i>Coming forward with +bottle</i>.) Deacon, let’s see your gless.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Not an inch of +it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. No rotten shirking, +Deacon!</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. I’m +sayin’, man, let’s see your gless.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Go to the deuce!]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. But I’m +sayin’—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Haven’t I to +play to-night?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. But, man, +ye’ll drink to bonnie Jean Watt?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Ay, I’ll follow +you there. <i>A la reine de mes amours</i>! +(<i>Drinks</i>.) What fiend put this in your way, you +hound? You’ve filled me with raw stuff. By the +muckle deil!—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Don’t hit him, +Deacon; tell his mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>aside</i>). Oho!</p> +<h5>SCENE III</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Smith</span>, <span +class="smcap">Rivers</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rivers</span>. Stupendiously pleased +to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deakin, split me!</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. We don’t often +see England’s heroes our way, Captain, but when we do, we +make them infernally welcome.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rivers</span>. Prettily put, sink +me! A demned genteel sentiment, stap my vitals!]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Oh Captain! you +flatter me. [We Scotsmen have our qualities, I suppose, but +we are but rough and ready at the best. There’s +nothing like your Englishman for genuine distinction. He is +nearer France than we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. +That d—d thing, the <i>je ne sais quoi</i>, too! +Lard, Lard, split me! stap my vitals! O such manners are +pure, pure, pure. They are, by the shade of Claude +Duval!]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rivers</span>. Mr. Deakin, Mr. +Deakin [this is passatively too much]. What will you +sip? Give it the <i>h</i>anar of a neam.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. By these most +<i>h</i>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! +(<i>forcing him boisterously into a chair</i>.) I +don’t know if you can lie, but, sink me! you shall +sit. (<i>Drinking</i>, <i>etc.</i>, <i>in +dumb-show</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span> (<i>aside to</i> <span +class="smcap">Smith</span>). We’ve nobbled him, +Geordie!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>aside to</i> <span +class="smcap">Moore</span>). As neat as ninepence! +He’s taking it down like mother’s milk. But +there’ll be wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger! +It’ll be tuppence and toddle with George Smith.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. O muck! +Who’s afraid of him? (<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Ainslie</span>.) Hang on, Slinkie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>who is feigning +drunkenness</i>, <i>and has overheard; aside</i>). By +jingo!</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Rivers</span>. Will you sneeze, Mr. +Deakin, sir?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Thanks; I have all +the vices, Captain. You must send me some of your +rappee. It is passatively perfect.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rivers</span>. Mr. Deakin, I do +myself the <i>h</i>anar of a sip to you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Topsy-turvy with the +can!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span> (<i>aside to</i> <span +class="smcap">Smith</span>). That made him wink.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Your high and mighty +hand, my Captain! Shall we +dice—dice—dice? (<i>Dumb-show between +them</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span> (<i>aside to</i> <span +class="smcap">Moore</span>). I’m +sayin’—?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. What’s up +now?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. I’m no to gie +him the coggit dice?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. The square ones, rot +you! Ain’t he got to lose every brass farden?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. What’ll like +be my share?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. You mucking well leave +that to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rivers</span>. Well, Mr. Deakin, if +you passatively will have me shake a <i>h</i>elbow—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Where are the bones, +Ainslie? Where are the dice, Lord George? (<span +class="smcap">Ainslie</span> <i>gives the dice and dice-box +to</i> <span class="smcap">Brodie</span>; <i>and privately a +second pair of dice</i>.) 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Easy does it, my lord +of high degree! Keep cool.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Cool’s the +word, Captain—a cool twenty on the first?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rivers</span>. Done and done. +(<i>They play</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>aside to</i> <span +class="smcap">Moore</span>, <i>a little drunk</i>). +Ain’t that ’ere Scotch gentleman, your friend, too +drunk to play, sir?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. You hold your jaw; +that’s what’s the matter with you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. He’s waur nor +he looks. He’s knockit the box aff the table.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>picking up +box</i>). That’s the way we does it. Ten to one +and no takers!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Deuces again! +More liquor, Mother Clarke!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Hooray our side! +(<i>Pouting out</i>.) George and his pal for ever!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Deuces again, by +heaven! Another?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rivers</span>. Done!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Ten more; +money’s made to go. On with you!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rivers</span>. Sixes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Deuce-ace. +Death and judgment? Double or quits?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rivers</span>. Drive on! +Sixes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Fire away, brave +boys! (<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Moore</span>) +It’s Tally-ho-the-Grinder, Hump!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Treys! Death +and the pit! How much have you got there?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rivers</span>. A cool +forty-five.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I play you thrice the +lot.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rivers</span>. Who’s +afraid?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Stand by, Badger!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rivers</span>. Cinq-ace.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. My turn now. +(<i>He juggles in and uses the second pair of dice</i>.) +Aces! Aces again! What’s this? +(<i>Picking up dice</i>.) Sold! . . . You play false, you +hound!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Rivers</span>. You lie!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. In your teeth. +(<i>Overturns table</i>, <i>and goes for him</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Here, none o’ +that. (<i>They hold him back</i>. +<i>Struggle</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Hold on, Deacon!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Let me go. +Hands off, I say! I’ll not touch him. +(<i>Stands weighing dice in his hand</i>.) But as for that +thieving whinger, Ainslie, I’ll cut his throat between this +dark and to-morrow’s. To the bone. +(<i>Addressing the company</i>.) Rogues, rogues, +rogues! (<i>Singing without</i>.) Ha! what’s +that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. It’s the +psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver’s. And O +Deacon, if ye’re a Christian man—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Psalm Without</span>:—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord,<br +/> + Should’st mark iniquity?<br /> +But yet with Thee forgiveness is,<br /> + That feared Thou may’st be.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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 <i>shall</i> +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! (<i>Becoming conscious of the +others</i>.) Rogues!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Take my arm, +Deacon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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. (<i>As he goes out</i>, <span +class="smcap">Hunt</span>, <i>who has been staggering about in +the crowd</i>, <i>falls on a settle</i>, <i>as about to +sleep</i>.)</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Act-Drop</span>.</p> +<h3>ACT II.</h3> +<h4>TABLEAU IV.<br /> +<span class="smcap">Evil and Good</span></h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The Stage represents the +Deacon’s workshop</i>; <i>benches</i>, <i>shavings</i>, +<i>tools</i>, <i>boards</i>, <i>and so forth</i>. +<i>Doors</i>, <i>C. on the street</i>, <i>and L. into the +house</i>. <i>Without</i>, <i>church bells</i>; <i>not a +chime</i>, <i>but a slow broken tocsin</i>.</p> +<h5>SCENE I</h5> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>solus</i>). My +head! my head! It’s the sickness of the grave. +And those bells go on . . . go on! . . . inexorable as death and +judgment. [There they go; the trumpets of respectability, +sounding encouragement to the world to do and spare not, and not +to be found out. Found out! And to those who are they +toll as when a man goes to the gallows.] Turn where I will +are pitfalls hell-deep. Mary and her dowry; Jean and her +child—my child; the dirty scoundrel Moore; my uncle and his +trust; perhaps the man from Bow Street. Debt, vice, +cruelty, dishonour, crime; the whole canting, lying, +double-dealing, beastly business! ‘My son the +Deacon—Deacon of the Wrights!’ My thoughts +sicken at it. [Oh the Deacon, the Deacon! +Where’s a hat for the Deacon? where’s a hat for the +Deacon’s headache? (<i>searching</i>). This place is +a piggery. To be respectable and not to find one’s +hat.)</p> +<h5>SCENE II</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To him</i>, <span +class="smcap">Jean</span>, <i>a baby in her shawl</i>. +<i>C.</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span> (<i>who has entered silently +during the Deacon’s last words</i>). It’s me, +Wullie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>turning upon +her</i>). What! You here again? [you +again!]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Deacon, I’m unco +vexed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Do you know what you +do? Do you know what you risk? [Is there +nothing—nothing!—will make you spare me this idiotic, +wanton prosecution?]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. See here, Jean. +You must go now. I come to you to-night; I swear +that. But now I’m for the road.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. No till you’ve +heard me, William Brodie. Do ye think I came to pleasure +mysel’, where I’m no wanted? I’ve a pride +o’ my ains.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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 +(<i>going</i>).</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. It’s the man frae +Bow Street.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Bow Street?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. [You don’t know +what is on my mind, Jeannie, else you would forgive me.] +Bow Street?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. It’s the man +Hunt: him that was here yestreen for the Fiscal.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Hunt?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. He kens a hantle. +He . . . Ye maunna be angered wi’ me, Wullie! I said +what I shouldna.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Said? Said +what?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Just that ye were a +guid frien’ to me. He made believe he was awful sorry +for me, because ye gied me nae siller; and I said, ‘Wha +tellt him that?’ and that he lee’d.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. God knows he +did! What next?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Where I got my +siller?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Ay, that was it! +‘You ken,’ says he.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Did he? and what said +you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I couldna think on +naething, but just that he was a gey and clever gentleman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. You should have said +I was in trade, and had a good business. That’s what +you should have said. That’s what you would have said +had you been worth your salt. But it’s blunder, +blunder, outside and in [upstairs, downstairs, and in my +lady’s chamber]. You women! Did he see +Smith?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Ay, and kennt him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. God’s truth, ye +are nae vexed wi’ me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. God’s truth, I +am grateful to you. How is the child? Well? +That’s right. (<i>Peeping.</i>) Poor wee +laddie! He’s like you, Jean.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I aye thocht he was +liker you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Is he? Perhaps +he is. Ah, Jeannie, you must see and make him a better man +than his father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Eh man, Deacon, the +proud wumman I’ll be gin he’s only half sae guid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Well, well, if I win +through this, we’ll see what we can do for him between +us. (<i>Leading her out</i>, <i>C.</i>) And now, +go—go—go.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span> (<i>without</i>, +<i>L.</i>). I ken the way, I ken the way.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span> (<i>starring to +door</i>). It’s the Fiscal; I’m awa. +(<span class="smcap">Brodie</span>, <i>L.</i>).</p> +<h5>SCENE III</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Lawson</span>, <i>L.</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. A braw day this, +William. (<i>Seeing</i> <span +class="smcap">Jean</span>.) Eh Mistress Watt? And +what’ll have brocht you here?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>seated on +bench</i>). Something, uncle, she lost last night, and she +thinks that something she lost is here. +<i>Voilà</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Why are ye no at the +kirk, woman? Do ye gang to the kirk?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I’m mebbe no what +ye would just ca’ reg’lar. Ye see, Fiscal, +it’s the wean.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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. (<span +class="smcap">Jean</span> <i>curtsies to both</i>, <i>and goes +out C.</i> <i>The bells which have been ringing +quicker</i>, <i>cease</i>.)</p> +<h5>SCENE IV</h5> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Brodie</span>, <i>returning C. from +door</i>). <i>Mulier formosa superne</i>, William: a braw +lass, and a decent woman forbye.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I’m no judge, +Procurator, but I’ll take your word for it. Is she +not a tenant of yours?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Ay, ay; a bit house +on my land in Liberton’s Wynd. Her man’s awa, +puir body; or they tell me sae; and I’m concerned for her +[she’s unco bonnie to be left her lane]. But it sets +me brawly to be finding faut wi’ the puir lass, and me an +elder, and should be at the plate. [There’ll be twa +words about this in the Kirk Session.] However, it’s +nane of my business that brings me, or I should tak’ the +mair shame to mysel’. Na, sir, it’s for you; +it’s your business keeps me frae the kirk.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. My business, +Procurator? I rejoice to see it in such excellent +hands.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Ye see, it’s +this way. I had a crack wi’ the laddie, Leslie, +<i>inter pocula</i> (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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. She has not spoken; I +have said nothing; and I believe I asked you to avoid the +subject.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. It’s to be +no. This marriage must be quashed; and hark ye, Procurator, +you must help me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Me? ye’re +daft! And what for why?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Because I’ve +spent the trust-money, and I can’t refund it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Ye reprobate +deevil!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Have a care, +Procurator. No wry words!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Do you say it to my +face, sir? Dod, sir, I’m the Crown Prosecutor.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Right. The +Prosecutor for the Crown. And where did you get your +brandy?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Eh?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Your brandy! +Your brandy man! Where do you get your brandy? And +you a Crown official and an elder!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Whaur the deevil did +ye hear that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Rogues all! +Rogues all, Procurator!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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! (<i>Looking</i>, <i>piteously +at glass</i>.) <i>Nunc est bibendum</i>. +(<i>Drinks</i>.) Troth, I’m set ajee a bit. Wha +the deevil tauld ye?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Ask no questions, +brother. We are a pair.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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. <i>Via trita</i>, <i>via tuta</i>, +William Brodie!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. And the brandy, +Procurator? and the brandy?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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. <i>Tutor in rem suam</i>, ye ken, +<i>tutor in rem suam</i>. But O man, Deacon, whaur is the +siller?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. It’s +gone—O how the devil should I know? But it’ll +never come back.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Dear, dear! +A’ gone to the winds o’ heaven! Sae ye’re +an extravagant dog, too. <i>Prodigus et furiosus</i>! +And that puir lass—eh, Deacon, man, that puir lass! I +mind her such a bonny bairn.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>stopping his +ears</i>). Brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Rogues all!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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 <i>half</i> the jointure . . . [<i>potius quam +pereas</i>] . . . 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. [<i>Potius quam pereas</i>.]</p> +<h5>SCENE V</h5> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<h5>SCENE VI</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>, +<span class="smcap">Mary</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span> (<i>tapping +without</i>). Can I come in, Will?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. O yes, come in, come +in! (<span class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>enters</i>.) +I wanted to be quiet, but it doesn’t matter, I see. +You women are all the same.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. O no, Will, +they’re not all so happy, and they’re not all +Brodies. But I’ll be a woman in one thing. For +I’ve come to claim your promise, dear; and I’m going +to be petted and comforted and made much of, altho’ I +don’t need it, and . . . Why, Will, what’s wrong with +you? You look . . . I don’t know what you look +like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Why, Will, what is the +matter?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. O be kind, be kind to +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Why are you so cross +with me? Oh, Will, you have forgot your sister! +Remember, dear, that I have nobody but you. It’s your +own fault, Will, if you’ve taught me to come to you for +kindness, for I always found it. And I mean you shall be +kind to me again. I know you will, for this is my great +need, and the day I’ve missed my mother sorest. Just +a nice look, dear, and a soft tone in your voice, to give me +courage, for I can tell you nothing till I know that you’re +my own brother once again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. If you’d take a +hint, you’d put it off till to-morrow. But I suppose +you won’t. On, then, I’m listening. +I’m listening!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Mr. Leslie has asked me +to be his wife.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. He has, has he?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. And I have +consented.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. And . . . ?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. You can say that to +me? And that is all you have to say?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. O no, not all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Speak out, sir. I +am not afraid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I suppose you want my +consent?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Can you ask?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I didn’t +know. You seem to have got on pretty well without it so +far.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. O shame on you! shame +on you!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. It shall not be the +end. You owe me explanation; and I’ll have it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Isn’t my +‘No’ enough, Mary?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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! . . .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Give him up.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I have told you: not +without a reason.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. You must.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I will not.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. What if I told you +that you could only compass your happiness and his at the price +of my ruin?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Your ruin?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Even so.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Ruin!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. It has an ugly sound, +has it not?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. O Willie, what have you +done? What have you done? What have you done?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I cannot tell you, +Mary. But you may trust me. You must give up this +Leslie . . . and at once. It is to save me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I am true Brodie. +Give me time, and you shall not find me wanting. But it is +all so sudden . . . so strange and dreadful! You will give +me time, will you not? I am only a woman, and . . . O my +poor Walter! It will break his heart! It will break +his heart! (<i>A knock</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. You hear!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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! (<i>She goes +out</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Amen. But will +He?</p> +<h5>SCENE VII</h5> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>, <span +class="smcap">Hunt</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>hat in hand</i>). +Mr. Deacon Brodie, I believe?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I am he, +Mr.—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Hunt, sir; an officer +from Sir John Fielding of Bow Street.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. There can be no +better passport than the name. In what can I serve you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. You’ll excuse me, +Mr. Deacon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Your duty excuses +you, Mr. Hunt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Your obedient. +The fact is, Mr. Deacon [we in the office see a good deal of the +lives of private parties; and I needn’t tell a gentleman of +your experience it’s part of our duty to hold our +tongues. Now], it’s come to my knowledge that you are +a trifle jokieous. Of course I know there ain’t any +harm in that. I’ve been young myself, Mr. Deacon, and +speaking—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. O, but pardon +me. Mr. Hunt, I am not going to discuss my private +character with you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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. +(<i>He sits</i>, <i>and motions</i> <span +class="smcap">Hunt</span> <i>to do likewise</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. I was dead sure of it; +and ’and upon ’art, Mr. Deacon, I thank you. +Now (<i>consulting pocket-book</i>), did you ever meet a certain +George Smith?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. The fellow they call +Jingling Geordie? (<span class="smcap">Hunt</span> +<i>nods</i>.) Yes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Bad character.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Let us say . . . +disreputable.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Any means of +livelihood?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I really cannot +pretend to guess, I have met the creature at cock-fights [which, +as you know, are my weakness]. Perhaps he bets.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. [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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. The boxer?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. That’s him. +Know anything of him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Not much. I +lost five pieces on him in a fight; and I fear he sold his +backers.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Speaking as one admirer +of the noble art to another, Mr. Deacon, the losers always +do. I suppose the Badger cockfights like the rest of +us?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I have met him in the +pit.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Well, it’s a +pretty sport. I’m as partial to a main as +anybody.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. It’s not an +elegant taste, Mr. Hunt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. You are very +good.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Four hundred in three +months, they tell me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Ah!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. So they say, sir.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. They have a perfect +right to say so, Mr. Hunt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. And you to do the other +thing? Well, I’m a good hand at keeping close +myself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I am not consulting +you, Mr. Hunt; ’tis you who are consulting me. And if +there is nothing else (<i>rising</i>) in which I can pretend to +serve you . . . ?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>rising</i>). +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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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. (<i>A knocking</i>, <i>C.</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Servant, Mr. +Deacon. (<span class="smcap">Smith</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Moore</span>, <i>without waiting to be +answered</i>, <i>open and enter</i>, <i>C.</i> <i>They are +well into the room before they observe</i> <span +class="smcap">Hunt</span>.) [Talk of the Devil, sir!]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. What brings you +here? (<span class="smcap">Smith</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Moore</span>, <i>confounded by the officer’s +presence</i>, <i>slouch together to right of door</i>. +<span class="smcap">Hunt</span>, <i>stopping as he goes out</i>, +<i>contemplates the pair</i>, <i>sarcastically</i>. <i>This +is supported by</i> <span class="smcap">Moore</span> <i>with +sullen bravado</i>; <i>by</i> <span class="smcap">Smith</span>, +<i>with cringing airiness</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>digging</i> <span +class="smcap">Smith</span> <i>in the ribs</i>). Why, you +are the very parties I was looking for! (<i>He goes +out</i>, <i>C.</i>)</p> +<h5>SCENE VIII</h5> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>, <span +class="smcap">Moore</span>, <span class="smcap">Smith</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Wot was that cove here +about?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>with folded arms</i>, +<i>half-sitting on bench</i>). He was here about you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>still quite +discountenanced</i>). About us? Scissors! And +what did you tell him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>same +attitude</i>). 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Here are my answers +(<i>producing purse and dice</i>). 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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 <i>h</i>all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. [What clumsy liars +you are!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. In boyhood’s +hour, Deakin, he were called Old Truthful. Little did he +think—]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. What is your +errand?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Business.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Will you tell me your +errand?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. You’re dry, +ain’t you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Am I?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. We ain’t none of +us got a stiver, that’s wot’s the matter with us.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Is it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Ay, strike me, it +is! And wot we’ve got to is to put up the Excise.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. It’s the last +plant in the shrubbery Deakin, and it’s breaking George the +gardener’s heart, it is. We really must!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Must we?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Must’s the +thundering word. I mean business, I do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. That’s +lucky. I don’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. O, you don’t, +don’t you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I do not.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Then p’raps +you’ll tell us wot you thundering well do?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span> (<i>sitting</i>). Now +look ’ere. Mr. bloody Deacon Brodie, you see this +’ere chair of yours, don’t you? Wot I ses to +you is, here I am, I ses, and here I mean to stick. +That’s my motto. Who the devil are you to do the high +and mighty? You make all you can out of us, don’t +you? and when one of your plants get cross, you order us out of +the ken? Muck! That’s wot I think of you. +Muck! Don’t you get coming the nob over me, Mr. +Deacon Brodie, or I’ll smash you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. You will?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. This is plain +speaking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Plain? Wot about +your father as can’t walk? Wot about your fine-madam +sister? Wot about the stone-jug, and the dock, and the rope +in the open street? Is that plain? If it ain’t, +you let me know, and I’ll spit it out so as it’ll +raise the roof off this ’ere ken. Plain! +I’m that cove’s master, and I’ll make it plain +enough for him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. What do you want of +me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Damn you!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Amen. But +you’ve got your orders.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>with pistol</i>). +Orders? hey? orders?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>between them</i>). +Deacon, Deacon!—Badger, are you mad?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Muck! +That’s wot I think of you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Amen to you. But +I’m cock of this here thundering walk, and that +cove’s got his orders.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>putting pistol on +bench</i>). 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Fen larks. No +rotten shirking, mind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. What about that +woman’s place of yours?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Your will is my +law.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. That’s good +enough. Now, Dock.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Bye-bye, my +William. Don’t forget.</p> +<h5>SCENE IX</h5> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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. <i>There’s</i> 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!</p> +<h5>SCENE X</h5> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>, <span +class="smcap">Mary</span>, <span class="smcap">Old +Brodie</span></p> +<p>(<span class="smcap">Brodie</span> has fallen into a chair, +with his face upon the table. Enter <span +class="smcap">Mary</span>, by the side door pushing her +father’s chair. She is supposed to have advanced far +enough for stage purposes before <span +class="smcap">Brodie</span> is aware of her. He starts up, +and runs to her.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Look up, my lass, +look up, and be a woman! I . . . O kiss me, Mary I give me +a kiss for my good news.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Good news, Will? +Is it changed?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. O Willie, look at him; +I think he hears you, and is trying to be glad with us.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. My +son—Deacon—better man than I was.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. O for God’s +sake, hear him!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. He is quite happy, +Will, and so am I . . . so am I.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I want no oaths, +Will.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. No, but I do. +And prayers, Mary, prayers. Pray night and day upon your +knees. I must move mountains.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Old Brodie</span>. A wise son +maketh—maketh—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. A glad father? +And does your son, the Deacon, make you glad? O heaven of +heavens, if I were a good man.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Act-Drop</span></p> +<h3>ACT III.</h3> +<h4>TABLEAU V.<br /> +<span class="smcap">King’s Evidence</span></h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The Stage represents a public +place in Edinburgh</i>.</p> +<h5>SCENE I</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Jean</span>, +<span class="smcap">Smith</span>, <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Moore</span></p> +<p>(<i>They loiter in L.</i>, <i>and stand looking about as for +somebody not there</i>. <span class="smcap">Smith</span> +<i>is hat in hand to</i> <span class="smcap">Jean</span>; <span +class="smcap">Moore</span> <i>as usual</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. He’ll no be lang; +he’s regular enough, if that was a’.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. I’d regular him; +I’d break his back.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Badger, you brute, you +hang on to the lessons of your dancing-master. None but the +genteel deserves the fair; does they, Duchess?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. O rot! Did I +insult the blowen? Wot’s the matter with me is Slink +Ainslie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. That’s right +enough; but I ain’t agoing to stand here all day for +him. I’m for a drop of something short, I am. +You tell him I showed you that (<i>showing his doubled +fist</i>). That’s wot’s the matter with +him. (<i>He lurches out</i>, <i>R.</i>)</p> +<h5>SCENE II</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Smith</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Jean</span>, <i>to whom</i> <span +class="smcap">Hunt</span>, <i>and afterwards</i> <span +class="smcap">Moore</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>critically</i>). +No, Duchess, he has not good manners.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Ay, he’s an +impident man.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. So he is, Jean; and +for the matter of that he ain’t the only one.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Geordie, I want nae +mair o’ your nonsense, mind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. There’s our old +particular the Deacon, now. Why is he ashamed of a lovely +woman? That’s not my idea of the Young Chevalier, +Jean. If I had luck, we should be married, and retire to +our estates in the country, shouldn’t us? and go to church +and be happy, like the nobility and gentry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Geordie Smith, div ye +mean ye’d mairry me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Ay, I’m muckle +ta’en up wi’ him; wha could help it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Well, and my sort +don’t grow on apple-trees either.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Ye’re a fine, +cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad just let me be.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. I know I ain’t a +Scotchman born.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I dinna think sae +muckle the waur o’ ye even for that; if ye would just let +me be.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>entering behind</i>, +<i>aside</i>). Are they thick? Anyhow, it’s a +second chance.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. But he won’t +last, Jean, and when he leaves you, you come to me. Is that +your taste in pastry? That’s the kind of harticle +that I present.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>surprising them as in +Tableau I</i>.). Why, you’re the very parties I was +looking for!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Mercy me!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Damn it, Jerry, this +is unkind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. [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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span> (<i>stolidly</i>). I +hope ye’re middling weel, Mr. Hunt? +(<i>Going</i>.) Mr. Smith!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Mrs. Watt, +ma’am! (<i>Going</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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. (<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Jean</span>, <i>aside</i>.) Now, Mrs. Watt, I +take it you ain’t a natural fool?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. And thank ye kindly, +Mr. Hunt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>interfering</i>). +Jean . . . !</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>keeping him +off</i>). Half a tick, George. (<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Jean</span>.) Mrs. Watt, I’ve a warrant +in my pocket. One, two, three: will you peach?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Whaten kind of a +word’ll that be?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Mum it is, Jean!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. <i>When</i> +you’ve done dancing, George! (<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Jean</span>.) It ain’t a pretty +expression, my dear, I own it. ‘Will you blow the +gaff?’ is perhaps more tenderer.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I think ye’ve a +real strange way o’ expressin yoursel’.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Jean</span>). I can’t waste time on +you, my girl. It’s now or never. Will you turn +king’s evidence?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I think ye’ll +have made a mistake, like.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Well, I’m . . . ! +(<i>Separating them</i>.) [No, not yet; don’t push +me.] George’s turn now. (<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">George</span>.) George, I’ve a warrant +in my pocket.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. As per usual, +Jerry?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Now I want king’s +evidence.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Ah! so you came a +cropper with <i>her</i>, Jerry. Pride had a fall.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. A free pardon and fifty +shiners down.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. A free pardon, +Jerry?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Don’t I tell you +so?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. And fifty down? +fifty?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. On the nail.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. So you came a cropper +with her, and then you tried it on with me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. I suppose you mean +you’re a born idiot?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. What I mean is, Jerry, +that you’ve broke my heart. I used to look up to you +like a party might to Julius Cæsar. One more of +boyhood’s dreams gone pop. (<i>Enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Moore</span>, <i>L.</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>to both</i>). 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span> (<i>looking off +stolidly</i>). I think the kirks are scalin’. +There seems to be mair people in the streets.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. O that’s the way, +is it? Do you know that I can hang you, my woman, and your +fancy man a well?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I daur say ye would +like fine, Mr. Hunt; and here’s my service to you. +(<i>Going</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. George, don’t you +be a tomfool, anyway. Think of the blowen here, and have +brains for two.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>going</i>). Ah, +Jerry, if you knew anything, how different you would talk! +(<i>They go together</i>, <i>R.</i>)</p> +<h5>SCENE III</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>, +<span class="smcap">Moore</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span> (<i>as to himself</i>). +Muck. (<i>He goes out</i>, <i>R.</i>)</p> +<h5>SCENE IV</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>, +<i>to whom</i> <span class="smcap">Ainslie</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>looking after them +ruefully</i>). 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. (<i>Looking +L.</i>) Hullo! (<i>Slapping his thigh</i>). +Send me victorious! It’s king’s evidence on two +legs. (<i>Advancing with great cordiality to meet</i> <span +class="smcap">Ainslie</span>, <i>who enters L.</i>) 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. I dinna ken wha ye +are, an’ I’m ill for my bed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. They’re nae +friens o’ mine’s, mister. I ken naething +an’ naebody. An’ noo I’ll get to my bed, +wulln’t I?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. But I’m +sayin’—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. Aiblins ay an’ +aiblins no.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. ‘Aiblins ay and +aiblins no.’ Very good indeed, Andrew. Now, +I’ll ask you another. Did you ever see a Bow Street +Runner, Andrew? With the naked eye, so to speak?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. What’s your +wull?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Artful bird! Now +since we’re getting on so cosy <i>and</i> so free, +I’ll ask you another, Andrew. Should you like to see +a Bow Street Runner? (<i>Producing staff</i>.) +’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. (<span class="smcap">Ainslie</span> <i>dives</i>, +<span class="smcap">Hunt</span> <i>collars him</i>.) 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span> (<i>grovelling</i>). +It wasna me, it wasna me. It’s bad companions; +I’ve been lost wi’ bad companions an’ the +drink. An’ O mister, ye’ll be a kind gentleman +to a puir lad, an’ me sae weak, an’ fair rotten +wi’ the drink an’ that. Ye’ve a bonnie +kind heart, my dear, dear gentleman; ye wadna hang sitchan a +thing as me. I’m no fit to hang. They ca’ +me the Cannleworm! An’ I’ll dae somethin’ +for ye, wulln’t I? An’ ye’ll can hang the +ithers?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. I thought I +hadn’t mistook my man. Now, you look here, Andrew +Ainslie, you’re a bad lot. I’ve evidence to +hang you fifty times over. But the Deacon is my mark. +Will you peach, or wont you? You blow the gaff, and +I’ll pull you through. You don’t, and +I’ll scragg you as sure as my name’s Jerry Hunt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. I’ll dae +onything. It’s the hanging fleys me. I’ll +dae onything, onything no to hang.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. It’s him, +mister; it’s him. That’s the man. +Ye’re in the very bit. Deacon Brodie. +I’ll can tak’ ye to his vera door.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. How do you know?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. I gi’ed him a +han’ wi’ them a’. It was him an’ +Badger Moore, and Geordie Smith; an’ they gart me gang +wi’ them whether or no; I’m that weak, an’ +whiles I’m donner’d wi’ the drink. But I +ken a’, an’ I’ll tell a’. And O +kind gentleman, you’ll speak to their lordships for me, +an’ I’ll no be hangit . . . I’ll no be hangit, +wull I?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. Just five pund, +mister. Five pund. As sure’s deith it wadna be +a penny mair. No but I askit mair: I did that; I’ll +do deny it, mister. But Badger kickit me, an’ +Geordie, he said a bad sweir, an’ made he’d cut the +liver out o’ me, an’ catch fish wi’t. +It’s been that way frae the first: an aith an’ a +bawbee was aye guid eneuch for puir Andra.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. Just to make him rob +the Excise, mister. They’re wicked, wicked men.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. And is he right for +it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. Ay is he.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. By jingo! +When’s it for?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. You pad the hoof.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span> (<i>going out</i>). +An’ so I wull, wulln’t I not? An’ bless, +bless ye while there’s breath in my body, wulln’t I +not?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>solus</i>). +You’re a nice young man, Andrew Ainslie. Jemmy Rivers +and the Deacon in two days! By jingo! (<i>He dances +an instant gravely</i>, <i>whistling to himself</i>.) +Jerry, that ’ere little two hundred of ours is as safe as +the bank.</p> +<h4>TABLEAU VI.<br /> +<span class="smcap">Unmasked</span></h4> +<p><i>The Stage represents a room in Leslie’s +house</i>. <i>A practicable window</i>, <i>C.</i>, +<i>through which a band of strong moonlight falls into the +room</i>. <i>Near the window a strong-box</i>. <i>A +practicable door in wing</i>, <i>L.</i> +<i>Candlelight</i>.</p> +<h5>SCENE I</h5> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>, <span +class="smcap">Lawson</span>, <span class="smcap">Mary</span>, +<i>seated</i>. <span class="smcap">Brodie</span> <i>at +back</i>, <i>walking between the windows and strong-box</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Weel, weel, weel, +weel, nae doubt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Mr. Lawson, I am +perfectly satisfied with Brodie’s word; I will wait +gladly.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. I have nothing to say +against that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>behind</i> <span +class="smcap">Lawson</span>). Nor for it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. For it? for it, +William? Ye’re perfectly richt there. +(<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Leslie</span>.) Just you do +what William tells you; ye canna do better than that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Dear uncle, I see you +are vexed; but Will and I are perfectly agreed on the best +course. Walter and I are young. Oh, we can wait; we +can trust each other.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>from behind</i>). +Leslie, do you think it safe to keep this strong-box in your +room?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. It does not trouble +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I would not. +’Tis close to the window.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. It’s on the +right side of it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I give you my advice: +I would not.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. He may be right there +too, Mr. Leslie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I give him fair +warning: it’s not safe</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. I have a different +treasure to concern myself about; if all goes right with that I +shall be well contented.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Walter!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Ay, bairns, ye speak +for your age.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Surely, sir, for +every age; the ties of blood, of love, of friendship, these are +life’s essence.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. All, lassie, +it’s a wicked world.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Yes, you are out of +sorts to-day; we know that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Weel . . . ye get +gliffs, ye ken.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Never in these.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. We know these +(<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Brodie</span>), and we think the +world of them.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>at back</i>). 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Ay, and I think the +world of you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>at back</i>, <i>pointing +to</i> <span class="smcap">Lawson</span>). Ask him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Hoot-toot. A +wheen nonsense: an honest man’s an honest man, and a randy +thief’s a randy thief, and neither mair nor less. +Mary, my lamb, it’s time you were hame, and had you beauty +sleep.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Do you not come with +us?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. I gang the ither +gate, my lamb. (<span class="smcap">Leslie</span> +<i>helps</i> <span class="smcap">Mary</span> <i>on with her +cloak</i>, <i>and they say farewell at back</i>. <span +class="smcap">Brodie</span> <i>for the first time comes front +with</i> <span class="smcap">Lawson</span>.) Sae +ye’ve consented?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. As you see.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Ye’ll can pay +it back?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I will.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. And how? +That’s what I’m wonderin’ to mysel’.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Ay, God knows +that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Come, Will.</p> +<h5>SCENE II</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>, +<span class="smcap">Lawson</span> (<i>wrapping up</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. I wonder what ails +Brodie?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. How should I +ken? What should I ken that ails him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. He seemed angry even +with you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span> (<i>impatient</i>). +Hoot awa’.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span> (<i>with great +irritation</i>). I’m perfectly pleased. +I’m perfectly delighted. If I werena an auld man, +I’d be just beside mysel’ wi’ happiness.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Well, I only +fancied.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Ye had nae possible +excuse to fancy. Fancy? Perfect trash and +nonsense. Look at yersel’. Ye look like a +ghaist, ye’re white-like, ye’re black aboot the een; +and do ye find me deavin’ ye wi’ fancies? Or +William Brodie either? I’ll say that for him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. ’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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Weel, there’s +nae sense in the like o’ that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Guid guide us, man, +what d’ye mean?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Preserve me! +Another of thae robberies!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Is that +a’? Ye’re a bauld lad, I’ll say that for +ye. I’m glad it wasna waur.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Yes, that’s all +plain sailing. But here’s the hitch. Why +didn’t I tell the Procurator-Fiscal? You never +thought of that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. No, man. +Why?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Aha! +There’s the riddle. Will you guess? No? . . . I +thought I knew the man.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. What d’ye +say?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. I thought I knew +him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Wha was’t?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Ah, there you go +beyond me. That I cannot tell.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. As God sees ye, +laddie, are ye speaking truth?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Well . . . of +course!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. The haill truth?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. All of it. Why +not?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Man, I’d a kind +o’ gliff.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Why, what were you +afraid of? Had you a suspicion?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. I did that. And +what’s more, I’ve sat every night in case of his +return. I promise you, Procurator, he shall not slip me +twice. Meanwhile I’m worried and put out. You +understand how such a fancy will upset a man. I’m +uneasy with my friends and on bad terms with my own +conscience. I keep watching, spying, comparing, putting two +and two together, hunting for resemblances until my head goes +round. It’s like a puzzle in a dream. Only +yesterday I thought I had him. And who d’you think it +was?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Wha? Wha +was’t? Speak, Mr. Leslie, speak. I’m an +auld man; dinna forget that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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 <i>factum imprestabile</i>, 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! (<i>Without</i>.) Let sleeping +dogs lie, and gang ye to your bed.</p> +<h5>SCENE III</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Leslie</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span> (<i>calling</i>). In +good time, never fear! (<i>He carefully bolts and chains +the door</i>.) 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. (<i>Blows out the candles</i>. <i>The stage +is only lighted by the moon through the window</i>.) 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Watchman</span> (<i>without</i>). +Past ten o’clock, and a fine moonlight night.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Another</span> (<i>further +away</i>). Past ten o’clock, and all’s +well.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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 . . .! (<span +class="smcap">Brodie</span>, <i>masked</i>, <i>appears without at +the window</i>, <i>which he proceeds to force</i>.) Ha! I +knew he’d come. I was sure of it. (<i>He +crouches near and nearer to the window</i>, <i>keeping in the +shade</i>.) And I know you too. I swear I know +you.</p> +<h5>SCENE IV</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>, +<span class="smcap">Leslie</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> <i>enters by the window with +assurance and ease</i>, <i>closes it silently</i>, <i>and +proceeds to traverse the room</i>. <i>As he moves</i>, +<span class="smcap">Leslie</span> <i>leaps upon and grapples +him</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Take off that +mask!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Hands off!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Take off the +mask!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Leave go, by God, +leave go!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Take it off!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>overpowered</i>). +Leslie . . .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Ah! you know +me! (<i>Succeeds in tearing off the mask</i>.) +Brodie!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>in the +moonlight</i>). Brodie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. You . . . you, +Brodie, you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Brodie, sir, Brodie +as you see.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I am a thief.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. And my friend, my own +friend, and . . . Mary, Mary! . . . Deacon, Deacon, for +God’s sake, no!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. God help me!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. ‘We +Brodies! We Brodies!’</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Leslie—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Stand off! +Don’t touch me! You’re a thief!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Leslie, Leslie</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. You have forgot the +bad companions!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I did forget +them. They were there.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Do what you please; +you have me trapped.</p> +<p>(<span class="smcap">Jean Watt</span> <i>is heard singing +without two bars of</i> ‘<i>Wanderin’ +Willie</i>,’ <i>by way of signal</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. What is that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. A signal.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. What does it +mean?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Danger to me; there +is someone coming.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Danger to you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Some one is +coming. What are you going to do with me? (<i>A knock +at the door</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span> (<i>after a +pause</i>). Sit down. (<i>Knocking</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. What are you going to +do with me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Sit down. +(<span class="smcap">Brodie</span> <i>sits in darkest part of +stage</i>. <span class="smcap">Leslie</span> <i>opens +door</i>, <i>and admits</i> <span +class="smcap">Lawson</span>. <i>Door open till end of +Act</i>.)</p> +<h5>SCENE V</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>, +<span class="smcap">Lawson</span>, <span +class="smcap">Leslie</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. This is an +unco’ time to come to your door; but eh, laddie, I couldna +bear to think o’ ye sittin’ your lane in the +dark.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. It was very good of +you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. I’m no very +fond of playing hidee in the dark mysel’; and noo that +I’m here—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. I will give you a +light. (<i>He lights the candles</i>. <i>Lights +up</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. God +A’michty! William Brodie!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Yes, Brodie was good +enough to watch with me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. But he gaed +awa’ . . . I dinna see . . . an’ Lord be guid to us, +the window’s open!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. A trap we laid for +them: a device of Brodie’s.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Lawson</span>). Set a thief to catch a +thief. (<i>Passing to</i> <span +class="smcap">Leslie</span>, <i>aside</i>.) Walter Leslie, +God will reward. (<span class="smcap">Jean</span> +<i>signals again</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. I dinna like that +singin’ at siccan a time o’ the nicht.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I must go.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Not one foot o’ +ye. I’m ower glad to find ye in guid hands. Ay, +ye dinna ken how glad.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>aside to</i> <span +class="smcap">Leslie</span>). Get me out of this. +There’s a man there will stick at nothing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Mr. Lawson, Brodie +has done his shift. Why should we keep him? (<span +class="smcap">Jean</span> <i>appears at the door</i>, <i>and +signs to</i> <span class="smcap">Brodie</span>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>aside to</i> <span +class="smcap">Leslie</span>). Get me out of this. +I’ll never forget to-night. (<span +class="smcap">Jean</span> <i>at door again</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Well, good-night, +Brodie. When shall we meet again?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Not one foot o’ +him. (<span class="smcap">Jean</span> <i>at +door</i>.) I tell you, Mr. Leslie—</p> +<h5>SCENE VI</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Jean</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span> (<i>from she door</i>). +Wullie, Wullie!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Guid guide us, Mrs. +Watt! A dacent wumman like yoursel’! Whatten a +time o’ nicht is this to come to folks’ doors?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Brodie</span>). Hawks, Wullie, hawks!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I suppose you know +what you’ve done, Jean?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I <i>had</i> to come, +Wullie, he wadna wait another minit. He wad have come +himsel’.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. This is my +mistress.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. William, dinna tell +me nae mair.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. No, no, man: not +another word.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>, (<i>pointing to the +window</i>). That is my work. I am the man. +Have you drawn the warrant?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span> (<i>breaking +down</i>). Your father’s son!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Lawson</span>). My good friend! Brodie, +you might have spared the old man this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I might have spared +him years ago; and you and my sister, and myself. I might . +. . would God I had! (<i>Weeping himself</i>.) +Don’t weep, my good old friend; I was lost long since; +don’t think of me; don’t pity me; don’t shame +me with your pity! I began this when I was a boy. I +bound the millstone round my neck; [it is irrevocable now,] and +you must all suffer . . . all suffer for me! . . . [for this +suffering remnant of what was once a man]. O God, that I +can have fallen to stand here as I do now. My friend lying +to save me from the gallows; my second father weeping tears of +blood for my disgrace! And all for what? By +what? Because I had an open hand, because I was a selfish +dog, because I loved this woman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Mistress Watt, ye +shall sit rent free as lang’s there’s breath in +William Lawson’s body.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. You can do one thing +still . . . for Mary’s sake. You can save yourself; +you must fly.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Why not to-night?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. It cannot be +before. There are many considerations. I must find +money.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Leave me, and the +wean. Dinna fash yoursel’ for us.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span> (<i>opening the +strong-box</i>, <i>and pouring gold upon the table</i>). +Take this and go at once.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Not that . . . not +the money that I came to steal!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. Tak’ it, +William; I’ll pay him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<h5>SCENE VII</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Moore</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Are you coming?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I am coming.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span> (<i>appearing in the +door</i>). Do you want us all to get thundering well +scragged?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>going</i>). There +is my master.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Act-Drop</span></p> +<h3>ACT IV.</h3> +<h4>TABLEAU VII.<br /> +<span class="smcap">The Robbery</span></h4> +<p><i>The Stage represents the outside of the Excise Office in +Chessel’s Court</i>. <i>At the back</i>, <i>L.C.</i>, +<i>an archway opening on the High Street</i>. <i>The door +of the Excise in wing</i>, <i>R.</i>; <i>the opposite side of the +stage is lumbered with barrels</i>, <i>packing-cases</i>, +<i>etc.</i> <i>Moonlight</i>; <i>the Excise Office casts a +shadow over half the stage</i>. <i>A clock strikes the +hour</i>. <i>A round of the City Guard</i>, <i>with +halberts</i>, <i>lanterns</i>, <i>etc.</i>, <i>enters and goes +out again by the arch</i>, <i>after having examined the +fastenings of the great door and the lumber on the +left</i>. <i>Cry without in the High Street</i>: +‘<i>Ten by the bell</i>, <i>and a fine clear +night</i>.’ <i>Then enter cautiously by the arch</i>, +<span class="smcap">Smith</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Moore</span>, <i>with</i> <span +class="smcap">Ainslie</span> <i>loaded with tools</i>.</p> +<h5>SCENE I</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Smith</span>, +<span class="smcap">Moore</span>, <span +class="smcap">Ainslie</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>entering +first</i>). Come on. Coast clear.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span> (<i>after they have come to +the front</i>.) Ain’t he turned up yet?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Ainslie</span>). Now Maggot! The +fishing’s a going to begin.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. Dinna cangle, +Geordie. My back’s fair broke.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. O muck! Hand out +them pieces.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. All right, +Humptious! (<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Ainslie</span>.) You’re a nice old sort +for a rag-and-bone man: can’t hold a bag open! +(<i>Taking out tools</i>.) Here they was. Here are +the bunchums, one <i>and</i> two; and jolly old keys was +they. Here’s the picklocks, crow-bars, and +here’s Lord George’s pet bull’s eye, his old +and valued friend, the Cracksman’s treasure!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Just like you. +Forgot the rotten centrebit.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. That’s all you +know. Here she is, bless her! Portrait of George as a +gay hironmonger.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. O rot! Hand it +over, and keep yourself out of that there thundering +moonlight.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>lighting +lantern</i>). 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. O muck! +You’re all jaw like a sheep’s jimmy. +That’s my opinion of you. When did you see him +last?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Well, old Father +Christmas, he ain’t single-handed to-night, is he?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. No, he ain’t; +he’s got a man with him to-night.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Pardon me, Romeo; two +men, I think?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. Losh me, I heard a +noise. (<i>Alarm; they crouch into the shadow and +listen</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. All serene. +(<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>) Am I to cut +that liver out of you? Now, am I? (<i>A +whistle</i>.) ’St! here we are. (<i>Whistles a +modulation</i>, <i>which is answered</i>.)</p> +<h5>SCENE II</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i> <span +class="smcap">Brodie</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Waiting for you, +Deacon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I see. +Everything ready?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. All a-growing and +a-blowing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Give me the +light. (<i>Briefly examines tools and door with +bull’s eye</i>.) You, George, stand by, and hand up +the pieces. Ainslie, take the glim. Moore, out and +watch.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. I didn’t come +here to do sentry-go, I didn’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. You came here to do +as I tell you. (<span class="smcap">Moore</span> <i>goes up +slowly</i>.) Second bunch, George. I know the +lock. Steady with the glim. (<i>At work</i>.) +No good. Give me the centrebit.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Right. (<i>Work +continues</i>. <span class="smcap">Ainslie</span> <i>drops +lantern</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Curse you! +(<i>Throttling and kicking him</i>.) You shake, and you +shake, and you can’t even hold a light for your +betters. Hey?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. Eh Deacon, Deacon . +. .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Now Ghost! +(<i>With lantern</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. ’St, Moore!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Wot’s the +row?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Take you the +light.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Ainslie</span>). Wo’ j’ yer +shakin’ at? (<i>Kicks him</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Ainslie</span>). Go you, and see if +you’re good at keeping watch. Inside the arch. +And if you let a footfall pass, I’ll break your back. +(<span class="smcap">Ainslie</span> <i>retires</i>.) Steady +with the light. (<i>At work with centrebit</i>.) Hand +up number four, George. (<i>At work with +picklock</i>.) That has it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Well done our +side.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Now the crow +bar! (<i>At work</i>.) That’s it. Put +down the glim, Badger, and help at the wrench. Your whole +weight, men! Put your backs to it! (<i>While they +work at the bar</i>, <span class="smcap">Brodie</span> <i>stands +by</i>, <i>dusting his hands with a +pocket-handkerchief</i>. <i>As the door +opens</i>.)<i> Voilà</i>! In with you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span> (<i>entering with +light</i>). Mucking fine work too, Deacon!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Take up the irons, +George!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. How about the +P(h)antom?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Leave him to +me. I’ll give him a look. (<i>Enters +office</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>following</i>). +Houp-là!</p> +<h5>SCENE III</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>; +<i>afterwards</i> <span class="smcap">Brodie</span>; +<i>afterwards</i> <span class="smcap">Hunt</span> <i>and</i> +<span class="smcap">Officers</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. 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’! (<i>A faint whistle</i>.) Lord’s +sake, what’s thon? Ay, it’ll be Hunt an’ +his lads. (<i>Whistle repeated</i>.) Losh me, what +gars him whustle, whustle? Does he think me deaf? +(<i>Goes up</i>. <span class="smcap">Brodie</span> +<i>enters from office</i>, <i>stands an instant</i>, <i>and sees +him making a signal through the arch</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Rats! Rats! +(<i>Hides L. among lumber</i>. <i>Enter noiselessly through +arch</i> <span class="smcap">Hunt</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Officers</span>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Birds caught?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. They’re +a’ ben the house, mister.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. All three?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. The hale set, +mister.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Liar!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Mum, lads, and follow +me. (<i>Exit</i>, <i>with his men</i>, <i>into +office</i>. <span class="smcap">Brodie</span> <i>seen with +dagger</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>within</i>). In the +King’s name!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span> (<i>within</i>). +Muck!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span> (<i>within</i>). Go it, +Badger.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>within</i>). Take +’em alive, boys!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ainslie</span>. Eh, but that’s +awful. (<i>The Deacon leaps out</i>, <i>and stabs +him</i>. <i>He falls without a cry</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Saved! (<i>He +goes out by the arch</i>.)</p> +<h5>SCENE IV</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Officers</span>; <i>with</i> <span +class="smcap">Smith</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Moore</span> <i>handcuffed</i>. <i>Signs of a +severe struggle</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span> (<i>entering</i>). Bring +’em along, lads! (<i>Looking at prisoners with +lantern</i>.) Pleased to see you again, Badger. And +you too, George. But I’d rather have seen your +principal. Where’s he got to?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. To hell, I hope.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. Always the same pretty +flow of language, I see, Hump. (<i>Looking at burglary with +lantern</i>.) A very tidy piece of work, Dook; very +tidy! Much too good for you. Smacks of a fine +tradesman. It <i>was</i> the Deacon, I suppose?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. You ought to know G. +S. better by this time, Jerry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Smith</span>. Bravo!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. More of the +Deacon’s work, I guess? Does him credit too, +don’t it, Badger?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Muck. Was that +the thundering cove that peached?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. That was the thundering +cove.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. And is he corpsed?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. I should just about +reckon he was.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Moore</span>. Then, damme, I +don’t mind swinging!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. 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.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Act-Drop</span></p> +<h3>ACT V.</h3> +<h4>TABLEAU VIII.<br /> +<span class="smcap">The Open Door</span></h4> +<p><i>The Stage represents the Deacon’s room</i>, <i>as in +Tableau I</i>. <i>Fire light</i>. <i>Stage +dark</i>. <i>A pause</i>. <i>Then knocking at the +door</i>, <i>C.</i> <i>Cries without of</i> ‘<span +class="smcap">Willie</span>!’ ‘<span +class="smcap">Mr. Brodie</span>!’ <i>The door is +burst open</i>.</p> +<h5>SCENE I</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Doctor</span>, +<span class="smcap">Mary</span>, a <span +class="smcap">Maidservant</span> with lights.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Doctor</span>. The apartment is +unoccupied.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Dead, and he not +here!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Doctor</span>. The bed has not been +slept in. The counterpane is not turned down.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. It is not true; it +cannot be true.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Doctor</span>. My dear young lady, +you must have misunderstood your brother’s language.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. O no; that I did +not. That I am sure I did not.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Doctor</span> (<i>looking at +door</i>). The strange thing is . . . the bolt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Servant</span>. It’s unco +strange.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Doctor</span>. Well, we have acted +for the best.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Servant</span>. Sir, I dinna think +this should gang nae further.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Doctor</span>. The secret is in our +keeping. Affliction is enough without scandal.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Kind heaven, what does +it mean?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Doctor</span>. I think there is no +more to be done.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I am here alone, +Doctor; you pass my uncle’s door?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Doctor</span>. The +Procurator-Fiscal? I shall make it my devoir. Expect +him soon. (<i>Goes out with</i> <span +class="smcap">Maid</span>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span> (<i>hastily searches the +room</i>). No, he is not there. She was right! +O father, you can never know, praise God!</p> +<h5>SCENE II</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Mary</span>, +<i>to whom</i> <span class="smcap">Jean</span> <i>and +afterwards</i> <span class="smcap">Leslie</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span> (<i>at door</i>). +Mistress . . . !</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Ah! Who is +there? Who are you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Is he no hame +yet? I’m aye waitin’ on him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Waiting for him? +Do you know the Deacon? You?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I maun see him. +Eh, lassie, it’s life and death.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Death . . . O my +heart!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I maun see him, bonnie +leddie. I’m a puir body, and no fit to be seen +speakin’ wi’ the likes o’ you. But O +lass, ye are the Deacon’s sister, and ye hae the +Deacon’s e’en, and for the love of the dear kind +Lord, let’s in and hae a word wi’ him ere it be ower +late. I’m bringin’ siller.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Siller? +You? For him? O father, father, if you could +hear! What are you? What are you . . . to him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I’ll be the best +frien’ ’at ever he had; for, O dear leddie, I wad gie +my bluid to help him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. And the . . . the +child?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. The bairn?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Nothing! O +nothing! I am in trouble, and I know not what I say. +And I cannot help you; I cannot help you if I would. He is +not here; and I believed he was; and ill . . . ill; and he is +not—he is . . . O, I think I shall lose my mind!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Ay, it’s unco +business.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. His father is dead +within there . . . dead, I tell you . . . dead!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. It’s mebbe just +as weel.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Well? Well? +Has it come to this? O Walter, Walter! come back to me, or +I shall die. (<span class="smcap">Leslie</span> +<i>enters</i>, <i>C.</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Mary, Mary! I +hoped to have spared you this. (<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Jean</span>.) What—you? Is he not +here?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. I’m aye +waitin’ on him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. What has become of +him? Is he mad? Where is he?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. The Lord A’michty +kens, Mr. Leslie. But I maun find him; I maun find him.</p> +<h5>SCENE III</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Mary</span>, +<span class="smcap">Leslie</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. O Walter, Walter! +What does it mean?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Who is she? What +does she want with <i>him</i>? 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Mary, my dear, dear +girl . . . when will you be my wife?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. O, do not speak . . . +not speak . . . of it to-night. Not to-night! O not +to-night!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Good cause! +Something has happened. Something has happened . . . to +him! Walter . . . ! Is he . . . dead?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. There are worse +things in the world than death. There is O . . . Mary, he +is your brother!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. What? Dishonour! +. . . The Deacon! . . . My God!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. My wife, my wife!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. That, if God wills, +dear, that you shall never know. Whatever it be, think that +I knew it all, and only loved you better; think that your true +husband is with you, and you are not to bear it alone.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. My husband? . . . +Never.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Mary . . . !</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. Your place is with +me—is with your husband. With me, with me; and for +his sake most of all. What can you do for him alone? how +can you help him alone? It wrings my heart to think how +little. But together is different. Together . . . I +join my strength, my will, my courage to your own, and together +we may save him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. It is my duty . . . my +duty. Why will you make it so hard for me? So hard, +Walter so hard!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Silence . . . in +pity! I cannot . . . O, I cannot bear it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. And say it was I who +had fallen. Say I had played my neck and lost it . . . that +I were pushed by the law to the last limits of ignominy and +despair. Whose love would sanctify my jail to me? whose +pity would shine upon me in the dock? whose prayers would +accompany me to the gallows? Whose but yours? Yours! +. . . And you would entreat me—me!—to do what you +shrink from even in thought, what you would die ere you attempted +in deed!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Walter . . . on my +knees . . . no more, no more!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. My wife! my +wife! Here on my heart! It is I that must kneel . . . +I that must kneel to you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Dearest! . . . +Husband! You forgive him? O, you forgive him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. He is my brother +now. Let me take you to our father. Come.</p> +<h5>SCENE IV</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>After a pause</i>, <span +class="smcap">Brodie</span>, <i>through the window</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Saved! And the +alibi! Man, but you’ve been near it this +time—near the rope, near the rope. Ah boy, it was +your neck, your neck you fought for. They were closing +hell-doors upon me, swift as the wind, when I slipped through and +shot for heaven! Saved! The dog that sold me, I +settled him; and the other dogs are staunch. Man, but your +alibi will stand! Is the window fast? The neighbours +must not see the Deacon, the poor, sick Deacon, up and stirring +at this time o’ night. Ay, the good old room in the +good, cozy old house . . . and the rat a dead rat, and all +saved. (<i>He lights the candles</i>.) Your hand +shakes, sir? Fie! And you saved, and you snug and +sick in your bed, and it but a dead rat after all? (<i>He +takes off his hanger and lays it on the table</i>.) 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. (<i>He +takes off his coat</i>, <i>takes out the dagger</i>, <i>and with +a gesture of striking</i>) Home! He fell without a +sob. ‘He breaketh them against the bosses of his +buckler!’ (<i>Lays the dagger on the +table</i>.) Your alibi . . . ah Deacon, that’s your +life! . . . your alibi, your alibi. (<i>He takes up a +candle and turns towards the door</i>.) O! . . . +Open, open, open! judgment of God, the door is open!</p> +<h5>SCENE V</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>, +<span class="smcap">Mary</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Did you open the +door?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I did.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. You . . . you opened +the door?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I did open it</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Were you . . . +alone?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I was not. The +servant was with me; and the doctor.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. My father is +dead. O Will, where have you been?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. We could not help it, +Will, now could we? The doctor forced it. He had to, +had he not?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. The doctor forced +it? The doctor? Was he here? He forced +it? He?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Danger? O my +young lady, you have taken care of that. It’s not +danger now, it’s death. Death? Ah! Death! +Death! Death! (<i>Clutching the table</i>. +<i>Then</i>, <i>recovering as from a dream</i>.) +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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Dearest, he is in +heaven.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Did he suffer?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. He died like a +child. Your name . . . it was his last.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Not so, dear; not while +you live. Wherever you are, I shall not be alone, so you +live.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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 (<i>with a +gesture</i>) . . . it waits for me. You will be quite +alone.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. The night!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Willie, you must tell +me, dear. I must have the truth . . . the kind truth . . . +at once . . . in pity.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Crime. I have +fallen. Crime.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Crime?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Help? help +<i>me</i>? 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. If you have done wrong, +what do I care? If you have failed, does it change my +twenty years of love and worship? Never!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Yet I must make her +understand . . . !</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. I am your true sister, +dear. I cannot fail, I will never leave you, I will never +blame you. Come! (<i>Goes to embrace</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>recoiling</i>). +No, don’t touch me, not a finger, not that, anything but +that!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Willie, Willie!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>taking the bloody dagger +from the table</i>). See, do you understand that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Ah! What, what is +it!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. Blood. I have +killed a man.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. You? . . .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. I am a murderer; I +was a thief before. Your brother . . . the old man’s +only son!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Walter, Walter, come to +me!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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 . . . !</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. Hush, dear, hush! +Kneel, pray; it is not too late to repent. Think of our +father dear; repent. (<i>She weeps</i>, <i>straining to his +bosom</i>.) O Willie, my darling boy, repent and join +us.</p> +<h5>SCENE VI</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Lawson</span>, <span class="smcap">Leslie</span>, +<span class="smcap">Jean</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. She kens a’, +thank the guid Lord!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Mary</span>). I know you forgive me now; I +ask no more. That is a good man. (<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Leslie</span>.) Will you take her from my +hands? (<span class="smcap">Leslie</span> <i>takes</i> +<span class="smcap">Mary</span>.) Jean, are ye here to see +the end?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Jean</span>. Eh man, can ye no +fly? Could ye no say that it was me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Leslie</span>. You are her +brother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Lawson</span>). And you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. My name-child and my +sister’s bairn!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span>. You won’t +forget Jean, will you? nor the child?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Lawson</span>. That I will not.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mary</span>. O Willie, nor I.</p> +<h5>SCENE VII</h5> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Hunt</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Hunt</span>. The game’s up, +Deacon. I’ll trouble you to come along with me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brodie</span> (<i>behind the +table</i>). 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 (<i>pointing to</i> <span +class="smcap">Jean</span>) I have used; she never +understood. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, that is my dying +confession. (<i>He snatches his hanger from the table</i>, +<i>and rushes upon</i> <span class="smcap">Hunt</span>, <i>who +parries</i>, <i>and runs him through</i>. <i>He reels +across the stage and falls</i>.) The new life . . . the new +life! (<i>He dies</i>.)</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Curtain</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>BEAU +AUSTIN</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">DEDICATED<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">WITH ADMIRATION AND RESPECT</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">TO</span><br /> +GEORGE MEREDITH</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><span class="smcap">Bournemouth</span>:<br /> + 1<i>st</i> <i>October</i> +1884.</p> +<h3>PERSONS REPRESENTED</h3> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">George Frederick Austin</span>, called +‘Beau Austin’</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">Ætat. 50</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">John Fenwick</span>, of Allonby +Shaw</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">,, 26</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Anthony Musgrave</span>, Cornet in the +Prince’s Own</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">,, 21</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>, the Beau’s +Valet</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">,, 55</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Royal Duke</span> (Dumb show.)</p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Dorothy Musgrave</span>, +Anthony’s Sister</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">,, 25</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Miss Evelina Foster</span>, her +Aunt</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">,, 45</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Barbara Ridley</span>, her Maid</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right">,, 20</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Visitors to the Wells</span></p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p>The Time is 1820. The Scene is laid at Tunbridge +Wells. The Action occupies a space of ten hours.</p> +<h3>HAYMARKET THEATRE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Monday</i>, <i>November</i> +3<i>d</i>, 1890</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>CAST</i></p> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">George Frederick Austin</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Tree</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">John Fenwick</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Fred Terry</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Anthony Musgrave</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Edmund Maurice</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Brookfield</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Royal Duke</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Mr. <span class="smcap">Robb Harwood</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Dorothy Musgrave</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Mrs. <span class="smcap">Tree</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Miss Evelina Foster</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Miss <span class="smcap">Rose Leclercq</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Barbara Ridley</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Miss <span class="smcap">Aylward</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Visitors to the Wells</span></p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h3>PROLOGUE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Spoken by</i> <span +class="smcap">Mr. Tree</span> <i>in the character of Beau +Austin</i></p> +<p class="poetry">‘To all and singular,’ as Dryden +says,<br /> +We bring a fancy of those Georgian days,<br /> +Whose style still breathed a faint and fine perfume<br /> +Of old-world courtliness and old-world bloom:<br /> +When speech was elegant and talk was fit<br /> +For slang had not been canonised as wit;<br /> +When manners reigned, when breeding had the wall,<br /> +And Women—yes!—were ladies first of all;<br /> +When Grace was conscious of its gracefulness,<br /> +And man—though Man!—was not ashamed to dress.<br /> +A brave formality, a measured ease,<br /> +Were his—and her’s—whose effort was to +please.<br /> +And to excel in pleasing was to reign<br /> +And, if you sighed, never to sigh in vain.</p> +<p class="poetry">But then, as now—it may be, something +more—<br /> +Woman and man were human to the core.<br /> +The hearts that throbbed behind that quaint attire<br /> +Burned with a plenitude of essential fire.<br /> +They too could risk, they also could rebel,<br /> +They could love wisely—they could love too well.<br /> +In that great duel of Sex, that ancient strife<br /> +Which is the very central fact of life,<br /> +They could—and did—engage it breath for breath,<br /> +They could—and did—get wounded unto death.<br /> +As at all times since time for us began<br /> +Woman was truly woman, man was man,<br /> +And joy and sorrow were as much at home<br /> +In trifling Tunbridge as in mighty Rome.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dead—dead and done with! Swift from +shine to shade<br /> +The roaring generations flit and fade.<br /> +To this one, fading, flitting, like the rest,<br /> +We come to proffer—be it worst or best—<br /> +A sketch, a shadow, of one brave old time;<br /> +A hint of what it might have held sublime;<br /> +A dream, an idyll, call it what you will,<br /> +Of man still Man, and woman—Woman still!</p> +<h3>ACT I.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Musical Induction</span>: ‘<i>Lascia +ch’io pianga</i>’ (<i>Rinaldo</i>).</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Handel</span>.</p> +<p><i>The Stage represents Miss Foster’s apartments at the +Wells</i>. <i>Doors</i>, <i>L. and C.</i>; <i>a window</i>, +<i>L. C.</i>, <i>looking on the street</i>; <i>a table R.</i>, +<i>laid for breakfast</i>.</p> +<h4>SCENE I</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>; +<i>to her</i> <span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span> (<i>out of +window</i>). Mr. Menteith! Mr. Menteith! Mr. +Menteith!—Drat his old head! Will nothing make him +hear?—Mr. Menteith!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span> +(<i>entering</i>). 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. Nonsense, +child! At least, who was it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. Miss Evelina, I was +sure you would ask. Well, what do you think? I was +looking out of window at the barber’s opposite—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. Of which I +entirely disapprove—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. And first there came +out two of the most beautiful—the Royal livery, madam!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. Of course, of +course: the Duke of York arrived last night. I trust you +did not hail the Duke’s footmen?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. O no, madam, it was +after they were gone. Then, who should come out—but +you’ll never guess!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. I shall +certainly not try.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. Mr. Menteith +himself!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. Why, child, I +never heard of him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. O madam, not the +Beau’s own gentleman?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. Mr. +Austin’s servant. No? Is it possible? By +that, George Austin must be here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. My dear Barbara, +you too frequently forget yourself. A young woman in your +position must beware of levity.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. That it has, madam, +and the sight of Mr. Menteith put it clean out of my head. +(<i>With letters</i>.) 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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. (<i>Opening a +letter</i>.) Here’s from that dear ridiculous boy, +the Cornet, announcing his arrival for to-day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. O madam, will he +come in his red coat?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. I could not +conceive him missing such a chance. Youth, child, is always +vain, and Mr. Anthony is unusually young.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. La, madam, he +can’t help that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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. +(<i>Opening another letter</i>.) Why, Barbara, Mr. John +Scrope and Miss Kate Dacre are to be married!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. La, madam, how +nice!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. La, Miss Evelina, +there’s no harm in an old maid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. You speak like a +fool, child: sour grapes are all very well but it’s a +woman’s business to be married. As for Dorothy, she +is five-and-twenty, and she breaks my heart. Such a match, +too! Ten thousand to her fortune, the best blood in the +north, a most advantageous person, all the graces, the finest +sensibility, excellent judgment, the Foster walk; and all these +to go positively a-begging! The men seem stricken with +blindness. Why, child, when I came out (and I was the dear +girl’s image!) I had more swains at my feet in a fortnight +than our Dorothy in—O, I cannot fathom it: it must be the +girl’s own fault.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. Why, madam, I did +think it was a case with Mr. Austin.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. Sure, madam, that +must be tiresome for him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. Some day, child, +you will know better than to think so. George Austin, as I +conceive him, and as he is regarded by the world, is one of the +triumphs of the other sex. I walked my first minuet with +him: I wouldn’t tell you the year, child, for worlds; but +it was soon after his famous rencounter with Colonel +Villiers. He had killed his man, he wore pink and silver, +was most elegantly pale, and the most ravishing creature!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. Well, madam, I +believe that: he is the most beautiful gentleman still.</p> +<h4>SCENE II</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Dorothy</span>, <i>L</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span> (<i>entering</i>). +Good-morning, aunt! Is there anything for me? (<i>She +goes eagerly to table</i>, <i>and looks at letters</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. Good-morrow, +niece. Breakfast, Barbara.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span> (<i>with letter +unopened</i>). Nothing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. And what do you +call that, my dear? (<i>Sitting</i>.) Is John Fenwick +nobody?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span> (<i>looking at +letter</i>.) From John? O yes, so it is. +(<i>Lays down letter unopened</i>, <i>and sits to breakfast</i>, +<span class="smcap">Barbara</span> <i>waiting</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Barbara</span>, <i>with plate</i>). 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. I don’t know, +aunt, I’m sure.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Dear Anthony! +Where is his letter, Aunt Evelina? I am pleased that he +should leave London and its perils, if only for a day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. My dear, there +are moments when you positively amaze. (Barbara, some +<i>pâté</i>, 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. I knew he was +coming.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. You knew, child? +and did not tell? You are a public criminal.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. I did not think it +mattered, Aunt Evelina.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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 +<i>bel air</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Necklace? what +necklace? Did he give you a necklace?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. I remember.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. I remember. +(<i>Rising</i>.) Is that the necklace, Barbara? It +does not suit you. Give it me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. La, Miss Dorothy, I +wouldn’t for the world.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Come, give it +me. I want it. Thank you: you shall have my birthday +pearls instead.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. Why, Dolly, I +believe you’re jealous of the maid. Foster, Foster: +always a Foster trick to wear the willow in anger.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. I do not think, +madam, that I am of a jealous habit.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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 <i>ton</i>, you see: not to pine for that Sylvander +was to resign from good society.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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. (<span +class="smcap">Dorothy</span> <i>opens and reads +letter</i>.) Barbara, child, you should not listen at +table.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. Sure, madam, I hope +I know my place.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. Then do not do +it again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Poor John Fenwick! +he coming here!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Dear aunt, I shall +never marry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. A +fiddlestick’s end! every one must marry. +(<i>Rising</i>.) Are you for the Pantiles?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Not to-day, +dear,</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. Well, well! have +your wish, Dolorosa. Barbara, attend and dress me.</p> +<h4>SCENE III</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Dorothy</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. 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! (<i>reading the letter</i>) 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. (<i>She takes out the necklace +and looks at it</i>.) 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! (<i>She treads the trinket under +foot</i>.) Break, break like my heart, break like my hopes, +perish like my good name!</p> +<h4>SCENE IV</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To her</i>, <span +class="smcap">Fenwick</span>, <i>C.</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span> (<i>after a +pause</i>). Is this how you receive me, Dorothy? Am I +not welcome?—Shall I go then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span> (<i>running to him</i>, +<i>with hands outstretched</i>). O no, John, not for +me. (<i>Turning</i>, <i>and pointing to the +necklace</i>.) But you find me changed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span> (<i>with a movement towards +the necklace</i>). This?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. No, no, let it +lie. That is a trinket—broken. But the old +Dorothy is dead.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Dead, dear? +Not to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Dead to +you—dead to all men.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. O silence, +silence—pity!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. You have not asked +me about this broken trinket?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Why should I +ask? I love you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Yet I must tell +you. Sit down. (<i>She picks up the necklace</i>, +<i>and stands looking at it</i>. <i>Then</i>, <i>breaking +down</i>.) O John, John, it’s long since I left +home.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Too long, dear +love. The very trees will welcome you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Ay, John, but I no +longer love you. The old Dorothy is dead, God pardon +her!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Dorothy, who is the +man?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. What do you +say? How dare you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. John, it is the +truth. Your Diana, even she, she whom you so believed in, +she who so believed in herself, came out into the world only to +be broken. I met, here at the Wells, a man—why should +I tell you his name? I met him, and I loved him. My +heart was all his own; yet he was not content with that: he must +intrigue to catch me, he must bribe my maid with this. +(<i>Throws the necklace on the table</i>.) Did he love +me? Well, John, he said he did; and be it so! He +loved, he betrayed, and he has left me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Betrayed?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Ay, even so; I was +betrayed. The fault was mine that I forgot our innocent +youth, and your honest love.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Dorothy, O +Dorothy!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Yours is the pain; +but, O John, think it is for your good. Think in England +how many true maids may be waiting for your love, haw many that +can bring you a whole heart, and be a noble mother to your +children, while your poor Diana, at the first touch, has proved +all frailty. Go, go and be happy, and let me be +patient. I have sinned.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. By God, I’ll +have his blood.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Stop! I love +him. (<i>Between</i> <span class="smcap">Fenwick</span> +<i>and door</i>, <i>C.</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. You shall never know +his name.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span> (<i>at his feet</i>). +Pity me; spare me, spare your Dorothy! I love +him—love him—love him!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Dorothy, you have +robbed me of my happiness, and now you would rob me of my +revenge.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. I know it; and shall +I ask, and you not grant?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span> (<i>raising her</i>). +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. (<i>He sits</i>.) Dorothy, you see +your work.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. O God, forgive +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Ay, Dorothy, He +will, as I do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. As you do? Do +you forgive me, John?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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.</p> +<h3>ACT II.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Musical Induction</span>: ‘<i>The +Lass of Richmond Hill</i>.’</p> +<p><i>The Stage represents George Austin’s +dressing-room</i>. <i>Elaborate toilet-table</i>, +<i>R.</i>, <i>with chair</i>; <i>a cheval glass so arranged as to +correspond with glass on table</i>. <i>Breakfast-table</i>, +<i>L.</i>, <i>front</i>. <i>Door</i>, <i>L.</i> +<i>The Beau is discovered at table</i>, <i>in dressing-grown</i>, +<i>trifling with correspondence</i>. <span +class="smcap">Menteith</span> <i>is frothing chocolate</i>.</p> +<h4>SCENE I</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Austin</span>, +<span class="smcap">Menteith</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. At the +barber’s, Mr. George, I had the pleasure of meeting two of +the Dook’s gentlemen.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Well, and was his +Royal Highness satisfied with his quarters?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Quite so, Mr. +George. Delighted, I believe.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Ah, Mr. George, no +wonder. And how many times have we made that journey back +and forth?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Enough to make us +older than we look.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. To be sure, Mr. +George, you do wear well.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. <i>We</i> wear well, +Menteith.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. I hear, Mr. George, +that Miss Musgrave is of the company.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Is she so? +Well, well! well, well!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. I’ve not seen +the young lady myself, Mr. George; but the barber tells me +she’s looking poorly.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Poorly?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Yes, Mr. George, +poorly was his word.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Well, Menteith, I am +truly sorry. She is not the first.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Yes, Mr. +George. (<i>A bell</i>. <span +class="smcap">Menteith</span> <i>goes out</i>, <i>and re-enters +with card</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span> (<i>with card</i>). +Whom have we here? Anthony Musgrave?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. A fine young man, +Mr. George; and with a look of the young lady, but not so +gentlemanly.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. You have an eye, you +have an eye. Let him in.</p> +<h4>SCENE II</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Austin</span>, +<span class="smcap">Menteith</span>, <span +class="smcap">Anthony</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. I protest, sir, this +is a very proud moment. Your name is still remembered in +the regiment. (<span class="smcap">Austin</span> +<i>bows</i>.) The Colonel—he keeps his health, sir, +considering his age (<span class="smcap">Austin</span> <i>bows +again</i>, <i>and looks at</i> <span +class="smcap">Menteith</span>)—tells us young men you were +a devil of a fellow in your time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. I believe I +was—in my time. Menteith, give Mr. Musgrave a dish of +chocolate. So, sir, we see you at the Wells.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. In my time—to +which you refer—the ladies had come first.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Well, well, child! +you are better here. In my time—to which you have +referred—I knew the lady. Does she wear well?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. I beg your pardon, +sir!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. No offence, child, no +offence. She was a very lively creature. But you +neglect your chocolate I see?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Doubtless. I +am.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. I assure you, sir, I +and Jack Bosbury of the Fifty-Second—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. The Hampshire +Bosburys?—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. I do not know +exactly, sir. I believe he is related.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Or perhaps—I +remember a Mr. Bosbury, a cutter of coats. I have the +vanity to believe I formed his business.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span> (<i>bows</i>). I am +pleased to learn it. In my time, I had an esteem for Mr. +Cribb.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. O come, sir! but +your time cannot be said to be over.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Menteith, you +hear?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Yes, Mr. +George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. But would your aunt, +my very good friend, approve?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Why, sir, you do not +suppose I am in leading-strings?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. None, sir, none.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Shall I find you this +noon upon the Pantiles? . . . I shall be charmed. Commend +me to your aunt and your fair sister. Menteith?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Yes, Mr. +George. (<i>Shows Anthony out</i>.)</p> +<h4>SCENE III</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Austin</span>, +<span class="smcap">Menteith</span>, <i>returning</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Was I ever like that, +Menteith?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. No, Mr. George, you +was always a gentleman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Youth, my good +fellow, youth.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Quite so, Mr. +George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Well, Menteith, we +cannot make no mend. We cannot play the jockey with +Time. Age is the test: of wine, Menteith, and men.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Me and you and the +old Hermitage, Mr. George, he-he!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. And the best of +these, the Hermitage. But come: we lose our day. Help +me off with this. (<span class="smcap">Menteith</span> +<i>takes off</i> <span class="smcap">Austin’s</span> +<i>dressing-gown</i>; <span class="smcap">Austin</span> <i>passes +R. to dressing-table</i>, <i>and takes up first cravat</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Will the hair do, +Menteith?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Never saw it lay +better, Mr. George. (<span class="smcap">Austin</span> +<i>proceeds to wind first cravat</i>. <i>A bell</i>: +<i>exit</i> <span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. <span +class="smcap">Austin</span> <i>drops first cravat in basket and +takes second</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span> (<i>winding and +singing</i>)—</p> + +<blockquote><p> ‘I’d +crowns resign<br /> + To call her mine,<br /> +Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>(<i>Second cravat a failure</i>. <i>Re-enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Menteith</span> <i>with card</i>.) Fenwick? +of Allonby Shaw? A good family, Menteith, but I don’t +know the gentleman. (<i>Lays down card</i>, <i>and takes up +third cravat</i>.) Send him away with every +consideration.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. To be sure, Mr. +George. (<i>He goes out</i>. <i>Third cravat a +success</i>. <i>Re-enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Menteith</span>.) He says, Mr. George, that +he has an errand from Miss Musgrave.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span> (<i>with +waistcoat</i>). Show him in, Menteith, at once. +(<i>Singing and fitting waistcoat at glass</i>)—</p> + +<blockquote><p> ‘I’d +crowns resign<br /> + To call her mine,<br /> +Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’</p> +</blockquote> +<h4>SCENE IV</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Austin</span>, +<i>R. to him</i> <span class="smcap">Menteith</span> <i>and</i> +<span class="smcap">Fenwick</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span> (<i>announcing</i>). +Mr. Fenwick, Mr. George.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. At the name of Miss +Musgrave, my doors fly always open.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. I believe, sir, you +are acquainted with my cousin, Richard Gaunt?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. I desired, sir, from +the nature of my business, that you should recognise me for a +gentleman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. The preliminary, sir, +is somewhat grave.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. My business is both +grave and delicate.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Menteith, my good +fellow. (<i>Exit</i> <span +class="smcap">Menteith</span>.) Mr. Fenwick, honour me so +far as to be seated. (<i>They sit</i>.) I await your +pleasure.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Briefly, sir, I am +come, not without hope, to appeal to your good heart.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. From Miss +Musgrave?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. No, sir, I abused +her name, and am here upon my own authority. Upon me the +consequence.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Proceed</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. In the best interests +of the lady (<i>rising</i>) 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Then, sir (<i>with +his hand upon the bell</i>), his conversation becomes +impossible. You have me at too gross a disadvantage; and, +as you are a gentleman and respect another, I would suggest that +you retire.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Sir, you speak of +disadvantage; think of mine. All my life long, with all the +forces of my nature, I have loved this lady. I came here to +implore her to be my wife, to be my queen; my saint she had been +always! She was too noble to deceive me. She told me +what you know. I will not conceal that my first mood was of +anger: I would have killed you like a dog. But, Mr. +Austin—bear with me awhile—I, on the threshold of my +life, who have made no figure in the world, nor ever shall now, +who had but one treasure, and have lost it—if I, abandoning +revenge, trampling upon jealousy, can supplicate you to complete +my misfortune—O Mr. Austin! you who have lived, you whose +gallantry is beyond the insolence of a suspicion, you who are a +man crowned and acclaimed, who are loved, and loved by such a +woman—you who excel me in every point of advantage, will +you suffer me to surpass you in generosity?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. You speak from the +heart. (<i>Sits</i>.) What do you want with me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Marry her.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Mr. Fenwick, I am the +older man. I have seen much of life, much of society, much +of love. When I was young, it was expected of a gentleman +to be ready with his hat to a lady, ready with his sword to a +man; to honour his word and his king; to be courteous with his +equals, generous to his dependants, helpful and trusty in +friendship. But it was not asked of us to be +quixotic. If I had married every lady by whom it is my +fortune—not my merit—to have been distinguished, the +Wells would scarce be spacious enough for my establishment. +You see, sir, that while I respect your emotion, I am myself +conducted by experience. And besides, Mr. Fenwick, is not +love a warfare? has it not rules? have not our fair antagonists +their tactics, their weapons, their place of arms? and is there +not a touch of—pardon me the word! of silliness in one who, +having fought, and having vanquished, sounds a parley, and +capitulates to his own prisoner? Had the lady chosen, had +the fortune of war been other, ’tis like she had been Mrs. +Austin. Now I . . . You know the world.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. I know, sir, that +the world contains much cowardice. To find Mr. Austin +afraid to do the right, this surprises me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Afraid, child?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. I have lived long +enough, Mr. Fenwick, to recognise that the world is a great +power. It can make; but it can break.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Sir, suffer me: you +spoke but now of friendship, and spoke warmly. Have you +forgotten Colonel Villiers?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Mr. Fenwick, Mr. +Fenwick, you forget what I have suffered.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Good God, sir, I +believe you are in the right; I believe, upon my soul I believe, +there is something in what you say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Something, Mr. +Austin? O credit me, the whole difference betwixt good and +evil.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. You forget, sir, you +forget. But go on.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. +Child—child—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. I am a +gentleman. What do you ask of me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Mr. Fenwick, your +reproof is harsh—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span> (<i>interrupting +him</i>). O sir, be, just be just!—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Ah, Mr. Austin, I +was sure of it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Ah, sir, your heart +was counsellor enough.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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. (<i>Touches bell</i>.) 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? +(<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Menteith</span>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Sir, if my +admiration—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Dear child, the +admiration is the other way. (<i>Embraces him</i>. +<span class="smcap">Menteith</span> <i>shows him out</i>.)</p> +<h4>SCENE V</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Austin</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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. +(<i>He sits down before the mirror</i>.) Well, here ends +Beau Austin. Paris, Rome, Vienna, London—victor +everywhere: and now he must leave his bones in Tunbridge +Wells. (<i>Looks at his leg</i>.) 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.</p> +<h4>SCENE VI</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Austin</span>, +<span class="smcap">Menteith</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Menteith, I am going +to be married.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Well, Mr. George, +but I am pleased to hear it. Miss Musgrave is a most +elegant lady.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Ay, Mr. Menteith? and +who told you the lady’s name?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Mr. George, you was +always a gentleman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Hard upon thirty +dozen, Mr. George, and not a bad cork in the bin.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. And a mistress, +Menteith, that’s worthy of that wine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Mr. George, sir, +she’s worthy of you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Gad, I believe +it. (<i>Shakes hands with him</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span> (<i>breaking +down</i>). 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Cheer up, old boy, +the best is yet to come. Get out the tongs, and curl me +like a bridegroom. (<i>Sits before dressing-glass</i>; +<span class="smcap">Menteith</span> <i>produces curling irons and +plies them</i>. <span class="smcap">Austin</span> +<i>sings</i>)—</p> + +<blockquote><p> ‘I’d +crowns resign<br /> + To call her mine,<br /> +Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Drop</span></p> +<h3>ACT III.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Musical Induction</span>: the +‘Minuet’ from ‘<i>Don Giovanni</i>’</p> +<p><i>The stage represents Miss Foster’s lodging as in Act +I</i>.</p> +<h4>SCENE I</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>, +R., <i>at tambour</i>; <span class="smcap">Anthony</span>, +<i>C.</i>, <i>bestriding chair</i>; <span class="smcap">Miss +Foster</span>, <i>L.C.</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. Don’t mind +me, my dear; go on.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Why, you dear, silly +fellow, I’m old enough to be your mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. I am not +surprised that it maintains its old reputation. You know, +my dear (<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>), it was +George Austin’s regiment.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Was it, aunt?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. I am afraid that +even at your age George Austin held a very different position +from the distinguished Anthony Musgrave.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Come, ma’am, I +take that unkindly. Of course I know what you’re at: +of course the old pût cut no end of a dash with the +Duchess.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. My dear child, I +was thinking of no such thing; <i>that</i> was immoral.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Then you mean that +affair at Brighton: when he cut the Prince about Perdita +Robinson.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. No, I had +forgotten it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Hey-day! +what’s this?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. Why, Dolly, this +is April and May. You surprise me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. I am afraid, indeed, +madam, that you have much to suffer from my caprice. +(<i>She goes out</i>, <i>L.</i>)</p> +<h4>SCENE II</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>, +<span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. What is the meaning +of all this, ma’am? I don’t like it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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. (<i>Curtsies</i>, <i>kisses her hand</i>, <i>and goes +out</i>, <i>L.</i>)</p> +<h4>SCENE III</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Anthony</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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?</p> +<h4>SCENE IV</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>, +<span class="smcap">Barbara</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. Please, Mr. Anthony, +Miss Foster said I was to show your room.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Ha! +Baby? Now, you come here. You’re a girl of +sense, I know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. La, Mr. Anthony, I +hope I’m nothing of the kind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Come, come! +that’s not the tone I want: I’m serious. Does +this man Austin come much about the house?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. O Mr. Anthony, for +shame! Why don’t you ask Miss Foster?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. O Mr. Anthony, +don’t say that. (<i>Weeping</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Hullo! what’s +wrong?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. Nothing that I know +of. O Mr. Anthony, I don’t think there can be +anything.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Think? +Don’t think? What’s this?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span> (<i>with +necklace</i>). This? What has this trumpery to do +with us?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. He gave it me: +that’s why she broke it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. He? who?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Why, Barbara, God +help us all, what’s this? You don’t mean to say +that there was—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. Here it is, as true +as true: they were going for a jaunt; and Miss Foster had her +gout; and I was to go with them; and he told me to make-believe I +was ill; and I did; and I stayed at home; and he gave me that +necklace; and they went away together; and, oh dear! I wish +I’d never been born.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Together? he and +Dolly? Good Lord! my sister! And since then?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. I do hope, sir, you +won’t use me against Miss Dorothy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<h4>SCENE V</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>, +<span class="smcap">Fenwick</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Good God, who told +<i>you</i>?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Now, Anthony +Musgrave, I give you fair warning; see you take it: one word more +against your sister, and we quarrel.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. You let it slip +yourself, Jack: you know yourself she’s not a virtuous +girl.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. What do you know of +virtue, whose whole boast is to be vicious? How dare you +draw conclusions? Dolt and puppy! you can no more +comprehend that angel’s excellencies than she can stoop to +believe in your vices. And you talk morality? +Anthony, I’m a man who has been somewhat roughly tried: +take care.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<h4>SCENE VI</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Austin</span>, <span class="smcap">Barbara</span> +<i>announcing</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. Mr. Austin. +(<i>She shows</i> <span class="smcap">Austin</span> <i>in</i>, +<i>and retires</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. You will do me the +justice to acknowledge, Mr. Fenwick, that I have been not long +delayed by my devotion to the Graces.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. So, sir, I find you +in my house—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. You came here, sir, +I suppose, upon some errand?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. My errand, Mr. +Musgrave, is to your fair sister. Beauty, as you know, +comes before valour.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. In my own house, and +about my own sister, I presume I have the right to ask for +something more explicit.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. The right, my dear +sir, is beyond question; but it is one, as you were going on to +observe, on which no gentleman insists.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Anthony, my good +fellow, I think we had better go.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. I have asked a +question.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Which I was charmed +to answer, but which, on repetition, might begin to grow +distasteful.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. In my own +house—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. For God’s +sake, Anthony!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Why, sir, I believe +you must have misconceived me. I have no wish to offend: at +least at present.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Enough, sir. I +was persuaded I had heard amiss. I trust we shall be +friends.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Come, Anthony, come: +here is your sister.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>As</i> <span +class="smcap">Fenwick</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Anthony</span> <i>go out</i>, <i>C.</i>, +<i>enter</i> <span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>, <i>L.</i>)</p> +<h4>SCENE VII</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Austin</span>, +<span class="smcap">Dorothy</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. I am told, Mr. +Austin, that you wish to see me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Madam, can you doubt +of that desire? can you question my sincerity?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Sir, between you and +me these compliments are worse than idle: they are unkind. +Sure, we are alone!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. You shall have no +cause, sir, to complain of me. I listen.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Do you refuse?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Dorothy, you loved me +once.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Repair it? Sir +you condescend too far.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. What +means—?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Young Fenwick, my +rival for your heart, he it was that sent me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. He? O +disgrace! He sent you! That was what he meant? +Am I fallen so low? Am I your common talk among men? +Did you dice for me? Did he kneel? O John, John, how +could you! And you, Mr. Austin, whither have you brought me +down? shame heaping upon shame—to what end! oh, to what +end?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Too late! too +late.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. No, no, not too late: +not too late for penitence, not too late for love.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Child, child, you +kill me: you will not understand. Can you not see? the lad +will force me to a duel.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. O, George!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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!</p> +<h4>SCENE VIII</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>; +<i>to whom</i>, <span class="smcap">Anthony</span>, <i>L.</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span> (<i>on her knees</i>, +<i>and reaching with her hands</i>.) George, George! +(<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Anthony</span>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Ha! what are you +crying for?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Nothing, dear! +(<i>Rising</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Is Austin going to +marry you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. I shall never +marry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. I thought as +much. You should have come to me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. I know, dear, I +know; but there was nothing to come about.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Anthony! And +if I had refused him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. You? refuse George +Austin? You never had the chance.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. I have refused +him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Dorothy, you +lie. You would shield your lover; but this concerns not you +only: it strikes my honour and my father’s honour.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. I see this: that man +must die.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. He? never! You +forget, you forget whom you defy; you run upon your death.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Ah, my girl, you +should have thought of that before. It is too late now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. I will tell you what +I will do, Dolly: I will do just what you taught me—my +duty: that, and nothing else.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Thank God, you are +deceived: he will not fight. He promised me that; thank God +I have his promise for that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Promise! Do +you see this? (<i>producing necklace</i>) 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. (<i>He goes +out</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>. Anthony, Anthony! . +. . O my God, George will kill him.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Music</i>: ‘<i>Chè +farò</i>,’ <i>as the drop falls</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Drop</span>.</p> +<h3>ACT IV.</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Musical Induction</span>: +‘Gavotte;’ ‘<i>Iphigénie en +Aulide</i>.’</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Gluck</span></p> +<p><i>The Stage represents the Pantiles</i>: <i>the alleys +fronting the spectators in parallel lines</i>. <i>At the +back</i>, <i>a stand of musicians</i>, <i>from which the</i> +‘<i>Gavotte</i>’ <i>is repeated on muted +strings</i>. <i>The music continues nearly through Scene +I</i>. <i>Visitors walking to and fro beneath the +lines</i>. <i>A seat in front</i>, <i>L.</i></p> +<h4>SCENE I</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Miss +Foster</span>, <span class="smcap">Barbara</span>, <span +class="smcap">Menteith</span>; <i>Visitors</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span> (<i>entering</i>; +<i>escorted by</i> <span class="smcap">Menteith</span>, <i>and +followed by</i> <span class="smcap">Barbara</span>). 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. (<i>Sits</i>, <i>L.</i>; +<span class="smcap">Menteith</span> <i>standing over +her</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Quite so, +madam.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. And are we soon +to see our princely guest, Menteith?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. His Royal Highness, +madam? I believe I may say quite so. Mr. George will +receive our gallant prince upon the Pantiles (<i>looking at his +watch</i>) in, I should say, a matter of twelve minutes from +now. Such, madam, is Mr. George’s order of the +day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. The wood-note +wild: a loyal Cumbrian, Menteith.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Eh? Quite so, +madam.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. When she has +seen as much of the Royal Family as you, my good fellow, she will +find it vastly less entertaining.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Barbara</span>. What? the +Duke? O dear! was it for that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Though, to be sure, +madam, Mr. George would always be charmed to find himself +(<i>bowing</i>) among so many admired members of his own set.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. Upon my word, +Menteith, Mr. Austin is as fortunate in his servant as his +reputation.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. I hope, +Menteith, you are not taking leave of your senses. Is it +possible you mean my niece?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Menteith</span>. Madam, I have the +honour to congratulate you. I put a second curl in Mr. +George’s hair on purpose.</p> +<h4>SCENE II</h4> +<p><i>To these</i>, <span class="smcap">Austin</span>. +<span class="smcap">Menteith</span> <i>falls back</i>, <i>and</i> +<span class="smcap">Austin</span> <i>takes his place in front +of</i> <span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>, <i>his attitude a +counterpart of</i> <span +class="smcap">Menteith’s</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Madam, I hasten to +present my homage.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. A truce to +compliments! Menteith, your charming fellow there, has set +me positively crazy. Dear George Austin, is it true? can it +be true?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. Is it possible? +why, my dear George Austin . . . then I suppose it is John +Fenwick after all!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Not one of us is +worthy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>. George, you are +changed. I would not know you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. I scarce know +myself. But pardon me, dear friend (<i>taking his +watch</i>), 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!—</p> +<h4>SCENE III</h4> +<p><i>To these</i>, <span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. +<span class="smcap">Miss Foster</span> <i>remains seated</i>, +<i>L.</i> <span class="smcap">Austin</span> <i>goes R. +to</i> <span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>, <i>whom he salutes +with great respect</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. She refused +you? Pardon me, sir, but was the fault not yours?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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. +Oh! that was a brave life, that was a great heart that I have +ruined.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. Ay, sir, indeed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. No, sir, he knows +all; and being both intemperate and ignorant—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Fenwick</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Child, child, you +could not afford it.</p> +<h4>SCENE IV</h4> +<p><i>To there</i>, <i>the</i> <span class="smcap">Royal +Duke</span>, <i>C.</i>; <i>then</i>, <i>immediately</i>, <span +class="smcap">Anthony</span>, <i>L.</i> <span +class="smcap">Fenwick</span> <i>crosses to</i> <span +class="smcap">Miss Foster</span>, <i>R.</i> <span +class="smcap">Austin</span> <i>accosts the</i> <span +class="smcap">Duke</span>, <i>C.</i>, <i>in dumb show</i>; <i>the +muted strings take up a new air</i>, <i>Mozart’s</i> +‘<i>Anglaise</i>’; <i>couples passing under the +limes</i>, <i>and forming a group behind</i> <span +class="smcap">Austin</span> <i>and the</i> <span +class="smcap">Duke</span>. <span +class="smcap">Anthony</span> <i>in front</i>, <i>L.</i>, +<i>watches</i> <span class="smcap">Austin</span>, <i>who</i>, +<i>as he turns from the</i> <span class="smcap">Duke</span>, +<i>sees him</i>, <i>and comes forward with extended hand</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Dear child, let me +present you to his Royal Highness.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span> (<i>with +necklace</i>). Mr. Austin, do you recognise the bribe you +gave my sister’s maid?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. Hush, sir, hush! you +forget the presence of the Duke.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. Mr. Austin, you are +a coward and a scoundrel.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span>. My child, you will +regret these words: I refuse your quarrel.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Anthony</span>. You do? Take +that. (<i>He strikes</i> <span class="smcap">Austin</span> +<i>on the mouth</i>. <i>At the moment of the +blow</i>—)</p> +<h4>SCENE V</h4> +<p><i>To these</i>, <span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>, <i>L. U. +E.</i> <span class="smcap">Dorothy</span>, <i>unseen by</i> +<span class="smcap">Austin</span>, <i>shrieks</i>. +<i>Sensation</i>. <i>Music stops</i>. +<i>Tableau</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span> (<i>recovering his +composure</i>). 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dorothy</span> (<i>rushing forward</i>, +<i>falling at</i> <span class="smcap">Austin’s</span> +<i>knees</i>, <i>and seizing his hand</i>). George, George, +it was for me. My hero! take me! What you will!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Austin</span> (<i>in an agony</i>). +My dear creature, remember that we are in public. +(<i>Raising her</i>.) Your Royal Highness, may I present +you Mrs. George Frederick Austin? (<i>The Curtain falls on +a few bars of the</i> ‘<i>Lass of Richmond +Hill</i>.’)</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">THE END</p> +<h2><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +177</span>ADMIRAL GUINEA</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">DEDICATED<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">WITH AFFECTION AND ESTEEM</span><br /> +TO ANDREW LANG BY<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE SURVIVORS OF</span><br /> +THE <i>WALRUS</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Savannah</span>, this 27<i>th</i> day +of<br /> + <i>September</i> 1884</p> +<h3>PERSONS REPRESENTED</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">John Gaunt</span>, called ‘<span +class="smcap">Admiral Guinea</span>,’ once Captain of the +Slaver <i>Arethusa</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa Gaunt</span>, his Daughter.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">David Pew</span>, a Blind Beggar, once +Boatswain of the <i>Arethusa</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit French</span>, a Privateersman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>, Landlady of the +<i>Admiral Benbow</i> Inn.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p>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.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><span class="smcap">Note</span>.—<i>Passages suggested +for omission in representation are enclosed in square +brackets</i>, <i>thus</i> [ ].</p> +<h3>ACT I.</h3> +<p><i>The Stage represents a room in the Admiral Guinea’s +house</i>: <i>fireplace</i>, <i>arm-chair</i>, <i>and table with +Bible</i>, <i>L.</i>, <i>towards the front</i>; <i>door C.</i>, +<i>with window on each side</i>, <i>the window on the R.</i>, +<i>practicable</i>; <i>doors</i>, <i>R. and L.</i>, <i>back</i>; +<i>corner cupboard</i>, <i>a brass-strapped sea-chest fixed to +the wall and floor</i>, <i>R.</i>; <i>cutlasses</i>, +<i>telescopes</i>, <i>sextant</i>, <i>quadrant</i>, <i>a +calendar</i>, <i>and several maps upon the wall</i>; <i>a ship +clock</i>; <i>three wooden chairs</i>; <i>a dresser against +wall</i>, <i>R. C.</i>; <i>on the chimney-piece the model of a +brig and several shells</i>. <i>The centre bare of +furniture</i>. <i>Through the widows and the door</i>, +<i>which is open</i>, <i>green trees and a small field of +sea</i>.</p> +<h4>SCENE I</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span> +<i>is discovered</i>, <i>dusting</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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; (<i>at the chart</i>) 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. (<i>She takes down the +telescope to dust it</i>.) Father’s spy-glass again; +and my poor Kit perhaps with such another, sweeping the great +deep!</p> +<h4>SCENE II</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Arethusa</span>; <i>to her</i>, <span +class="smcap">Kit</span>, <i>C.</i> [<i>He enters on +tiptoe</i>, <i>and she does not see or hear him</i>]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span> (<i>dusting +telescope</i>). At sea they have less dust at least: +that’s so much comfort.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Sweetheart, ahoy!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Kit!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Arethusa.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. My Kit! Home +again—O my love!—home again to me!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. As straight as wind and +tide could carry me!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. O Kit, my +dearest. O Kit—O! O!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Hey? Steady, lass: +steady, I say. For goodness’ sake, ease it off.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. I will, Kit—I +will. But you came so sudden.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. I thought ten months of +it about preparation enough.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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. (<i>Starting</i>.) Lord, that’s not the +Admiral?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Aha, Mr. +Dreadnought! you see you fear my father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. That I do. But, +thank goodness, it’s nobody. Kiss me: no, I +won’t kiss you: kiss <i>me</i>. I’ll give you a +present for that. See!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. A wedding-ring!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. My mother’s. +Will you take it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Yes, will +I—and give myself for it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Ah, if we could only +count upon your father! He’s a man every inch of him; +but he can’t endure Kit French.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Right, Kit: and +small blame to him. There is only one way to be honest, and +the name of that is thrift.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Well, and that’s +my motto. I’ve left the ship; no more letter 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Kit, if you dare to +say that faint-hearted word again, I’ll take my ring +off. What are we here for but to grow better or grow +worse? Do you think Arethusa French will be the same as +Arethusa Gaunt?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. I don’t want her +better.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Ah, but she shall +be!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Hark, here he is! +By George, it’s neck or nothing now. Stand by to back +me up.</p> +<h4>SCENE III</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Gaunt</span>, <i>C.</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span> (<i>with</i> <span +class="smcap">Arethusa’s</span> <i>hand</i>). Captain +Gaunt, I have come to ask you for your daughter.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Hum. (<i>He sits +in his chair</i>, <i>L.</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. In whose strength, +Christopher French?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Father, I know Kit, +and I love him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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! (<i>Striking +table with his fist</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Salvation, Christopher +French, is from above.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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 bowline? 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Arethusa, what do you +say?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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. (<span class="smcap">Gaunt</span> <i>opens +his Bible and begins to read</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Don’t say that, +don’t say such things to me; I sink or swim with you. +(<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>.) 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span> (<i>looking up</i>). I +make no such compacts. Go, and swear not at all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Go, Kit! I +keep the ring.</p> +<h4>SCENE IV</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Arethusa</span>, <span +class="smcap">Gaunt</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Father, what have +we done that you should be so cruel?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span> (<i>laying down Bible</i>, +<i>and rising</i>). 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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. (<i>Goes out</i>, +<i>C.</i>)</p> +<h4>SCENE V</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Arethusa</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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? (<i>She begins to +dust</i>.) 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. (<i>Putting back the telescope</i>.) 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!</p> +<h4>SCENE VI</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Gaunt</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>; <i>to her</i>, <span +class="smcap">Pew</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>singing +without</i>)—</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘Time +for us to go!<br /> + Time for us to go!<br /> +And we’ll keep the brig three pints away,<br /> + For it’s time for us to +go.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Who comes here? a +seaman by his song, and father out! (<i>She tries the +air</i>) ‘Time for us to go!’ It sounds a +wild kind of song. (<i>Tap-tap</i>; <span +class="smcap">Pew</span> <i>passes the window</i>.) O, what +a face—and blind!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>entering</i>). 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. What can I do for +you, sailor?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. I live here with my +father, and my father is abroad.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Dear, beautiful, +Christian lady, tell a poor blind man your honoured name, that he +may remember it in his poor blind prayers.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Sailor, I am +Arethusa Gaunt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Captain John Gaunt +is my father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>dropping the blind +man’s whine</i>). 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 (<i>seizes</i> <span +class="smcap">Arethusa</span>). Ah, and a bouncer you are, +and no mistake.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Let me go! how dare +you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Lord love you, +don’t you struggle, now, don’t you. (<i>She +escapes into front R. corner</i>, <i>where he keeps her +imprisoned</i>.) 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. (<i>She tries to escape; he stops her</i>.) 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. (<i>Singing</i>)—</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘Be they black like +ebony;<br /> +Or be they blue like to the sky.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>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 <i>have</i> 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. You leave this +house.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Hey? (<i>he crosses and +seizes her again</i>) 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. (<i>He gives her arm a +wrench</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. O! help, help!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Stash your patter, damn +you. (<span class="smcap">Arethusa</span> <i>gives +in</i>.) 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. I have said: he is +abroad.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. When’s he coming +aboard again?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. At any moment.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Does he keep his +strength?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. You’ll see +when he returns. (<i>He wrenches her arm again</i>.) +Ah!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Is he still on +piety?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. O, he is a +Christian man!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. A Christian man, is +he? Where does he keep his rum?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Nay, you shall +steal nothing by my help.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. No more I shall +(<i>becoming amorous</i>). 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Leave go, leave +go!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Hey? you would?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Ah! (<i>She +thrusts him down</i>, <i>and escapes to door</i>, <i>R.</i>)</p> +<h4>SCENE VII</h4> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>picking himself +up</i>). 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. (<i>Listens +at L. door</i>.) 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; only a big lock (<i>trying keys +from his pocket</i>). Key one; no go. Key two; no +go. Key three; ah, that does it. Ah! (<i>feeling +key</i>) 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. (<i>Searching about with stick</i>.) +Dresser—chair—(<i>knocking his head on the +cupboard</i>.) 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 (<i>his stick just avoids the chest</i>). 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 (<i>tap-tapping</i>). +Rum—rum—rum. Hey? (<i>He +listens</i>.) Footsteps. Is it the Admiral? +(<i>With the whine</i>.) Kind Christian friends—</p> +<h4>SCENE VIII</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Pew</span>; to +him <span class="smcap">Gaunt</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. What brings you +here?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Cap’n, do my ears +deceive me? or is this my old commander?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. My name is John +Gaunt. Who are you, my man, and what’s your +business?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Here’s the facks, +so help me. A lovely female in this house was Christian +enough to pity the poor blind; and lo and belold! 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span> (<i>sitting down</i>). +Well?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Well, Cap’n?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. What do you want?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Well, Admiral, in a +general way, what I want in a manner of speaking is money and +rum. (<i>A pause</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. David Pew, I have +known you a long time.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. And so you have; aboard +the old <i>Arethusa</i>; and you don’t seem that cheered up +as I’d looked for, with an 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?—</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘Time +for us to go,<br /> + Time for us to go,<br /> +And when we’d clapped the hatches on,<br /> + ’Twas time for us to go.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>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 pût 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.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Cap’n Gaunt, +Cap’n Gaunt, these are ugly words.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Now, I want this clear: +Do I understand that you’re going back on me, and +you’ll see me damned first?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. I fear nothing. +My feet are on the Rock. Begone! (<i>He opens the +Bible and begins to read</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>after a pause</i>). +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? (<span +class="smcap">Gaunt</span> <i>turns a page</i>.) Ah, +reading, was you? Reading, by thunder! Well, +here’s my respecks (<i>singing</i>)—</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘Time +for us to go,<br /> + Time for us to go,<br /> +When the money’s out, and the liquor’s done,<br /> + Why, it’s time for us to +go.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>(<i>He goes tapping up to door</i>, <i>turns on the +threshold</i>, <i>and listens</i>. <span +class="smcap">Gaunt</span> <i>turns a page</i>. <span +class="smcap">Pew</span>, <i>with a grimace</i>, <i>strikes his +hand upon the pocket with the keys</i>, <i>and goes</i>.)</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Drop</span>.</p> +<h3>ACT II.</h3> +<p><i>The Stage represents the parlour of the</i> +‘<i>Admiral Benbow</i>’ <i>inn</i>. +<i>Fire-place</i>, <i>R.</i>, <i>with high-backed settles on each +side</i>; <i>in front of these</i>, <i>and facing the +audience</i>, <i>R.</i>, <i>a small table laid with a +cloth</i>. <i>Tables</i>, <i>L.</i>, <i>with glasses</i>, +<i>pipes</i>, <i>etc.</i> <i>Broadside ballads on the +wall</i>. <i>Outer door of inn</i>, <i>with the half-door +in L.</i>, <i>corner back</i>; <i>door</i>, <i>R.</i>, <i>beyond +the fire-place</i>; <i>window with red half-curtains</i>; +<i>spittons</i>; <i>candles on both the front tables</i>; +<i>night without</i>.</p> +<h4>SCENE I</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Pew</span>; +afterwards <span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>, out and in</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>entering</i>). Kind +Christian friends—(<i>listening; then dropping the +whine</i>.) 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—chimbley—settle +again—spittoon—table rigged for supper. +Table-glass. (<i>Drinks heeltap</i>.) Brandy and water; and +not enough of it to wet your eye; damn all greediness, I +say. Pot (<i>drinks</i>), small beer—a drink that I +ab’or like bilge! What I want is rum. +(<i>Calling</i>, <i>and rapping with stick on table</i>.) +Halloa, there! House, ahoy!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span> (<i>without</i>). +Coming, sir, coming. (<i>She enters</i>, <i>R.</i>) +What can I do—? (<i>Seeing</i> <span +class="smcap">Pew</span>.) Well I never did! Now, +beggar-man, what’s for you?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Rum, ma’am, rum; +and a bit o’ supper.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. And a bed to +follow, I shouldn’t wonder!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. <i>And</i> a bed to +follow: <i>if</i> you please.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. This is the +‘<i>Admiral Benbow</i>,’ 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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, <i>my</i> 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.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. Blind man, I +don’t fancy you, and that’s the truth; and I’ll +thank you to take yourself off.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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 haint 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. 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—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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. (<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>, +<i>R.</i> <span class="smcap">Pew</span> <i>sits at the +table</i>, <i>R.</i> <i>The settle conceals him from all +the upper part of the stage</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span> +(<i>re-entering</i>). Here’s the rum, sailor.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>drinks</i>). 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. I’m +counting it now. There, there it is, and thank you for your +custom. (<i>She goes out</i>, <i>R.</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>calling after +her</i>). 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 (<i>re-enter</i> <span +class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span> <i>with supper</i>, <i>pipe</i>, +<i>etc.</i>); 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 half-tusheroon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span> (<i>changing +piece</i>). I’m sure I didn’t know it, +sailor.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>trying new coin between his +teeth</i>). 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? (<i>Sniffing and +feeling</i>.) 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span> (<i>at +knitting</i>). Do you know the captain, sailor?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Know him? I was +that man’s bos’un, ma’am. In the Guinea +trade, we was known as ‘Pew’s Cap’n,’ and +‘Gaunt’s Bo’sun,’ one for other +like. We was like two brothers, ma’am. And a +excellent cold duck, to be sure; and the rum lovely.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. If you know John +Gaunt, you know his daughter Arethusa.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. What? +Arethusa? Know her, says you? know her? Why, Lord +love you, I was her god-father. [‘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 +<i>you</i>; 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. (<i>Exit</i> <span +class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>: <span class="smcap">Pew</span> +<i>eating</i>. <span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span> +<i>re-entering with rum</i>.)</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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 know +yourself, and there you are; and I’ll trouble you for +another noggin of rum.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. I think +you’ve had enough.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. I don’t; so bear a +hand. (<i>Exit</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>; +<span class="smcap">Pew</span> <i>empties the glass</i>.) +Rum, ah, rum, you’re a lovely creature; they haven’t +never done you justice. (<i>Proceeds to fill and light +pipe</i>; <i>re-enter</i> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span> +<i>with rum</i>.)] 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. Well, sailor, +people talk, you know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. I know, ma’am; +I’d have been rolling in my coach, if they’d have +held their tongues.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. And they do say +that Captain Gaunt, for so pious a man, is little better than a +miser.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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 dammne,’ +he says, ‘money,’ he says, ‘is like rum to +me.’ (<i>Insinuating</i>.) And what about a old +sea-chest, hey? a old sea-chest, strapped with brass bands?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. No, ma’am, that +ain’t good enough; you don’t bam old Pew. You +never was in that parlour in your life.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. I never +was? Well, I declare!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Well then, if you was, +where’s the chest? Beside the chimbley, hey? +(<i>Winking</i>.) Beside the table with the ’oly +Bible?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. No, sailor, you +don’t get any information out of me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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 starn 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. No, sailor, +nothing out of me! And if you want to know, you can ask the +Admiral himself! (<i>She crosses</i>, <i>L.</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Hey? Old girl +fly? Then I reckon I must have a mate, if it was the parish +bull.</p> +<h4>SCENE II</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Kit</span>, <i>a little drunk</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span> (<i>looking in over +half-door</i>). Mrs. Drake! Mother! Where are +you? Come and welcome the prodigal!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span> (<i>coming forward to +meet him as he enters</i>; <span class="smcap">Pew</span> +<i>remains concealed by the settle</i>, <i>smoking</i>, +<i>drinking</i>, <i>and listening</i>). Lord bless us and +save us, if it ain’t my boy! Give us a kiss.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. That I will, and twenty +if you like, old girl. (<i>Kisses her</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. O Kit, Kit, +you’ve been at those other houses, where the stuff they +give you, my dear, it is poison for a dog.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Round with friends, +mother: only round with friends.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. Well, anyway, +you’ll take a glass just to settle it, from me. +(<i>She brings the bottle</i>, <i>and fills for him</i>.) +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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. What cheer, +mother? I’m only a sheet in the wind; and who’s +the worse for it but me?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. Ah, and that dear +young lady; and her waiting and keeping single these two years +for the love of you!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. Why not? +You’re as good a man as him any day.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>looking round the corner of +the settle</i>). 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span> (<i>coming down</i>). +Hullo, my hearty! who the devil are you? Who’s this, +mother?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. Nay, I know +nothing about him. (<i>She goes out</i>, <i>R.</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Benbow? Steady, +mate! D’ye mean to say you went to sea before you +were born?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Well, mate, you may be +all that, and more; but you’re a rum un to look at, +anyhow.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span> (<i>without</i>). +Mrs. Drake! Mrs. Drake!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. What, a female? hey? a +female? Board her board her, mate! I’m +dark. (<i>He retires again behind</i>, <i>to table</i>, +<i>R.</i>, <i>behind settle</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span> (<i>without</i>). +Mrs. Drake!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span> (<i>re-entering and +running to door</i>). Here I am, my dear; come in.</p> +<h4>SCENE III</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Arethusa</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Ah, Kit, I’ve +found you. I thought you would lodge with Mrs. Drake.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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!</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Can I? Would +I? Ah, just couldn’t and just won’t I, +then!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Why, who could help +it, Mrs. Drake?]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Why, you stupid +boy, do you think that would please him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. On my knees I’ll +drink it! (<i>As he kneels and drains the glass</i>, <span +class="smcap">Gaunt</span> <i>enters</i>, <i>and he scrambles to +his feet</i>.)</p> +<h4>SCENE IV</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Gaunt</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Arethusa, this is no +place for you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. No, father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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 +(<i>to</i> <span class="smcap">Kit</span>), you have proved that +I was right. Are you the husband for this innocent +maid?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Well, sir, I want my +word with you, and by your leave I’ll have it out.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Kit, for +pity’s sake!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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 +look-out. 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?]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. You speak wildly; or +the devil of drink that is in you speaks instead.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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 course; you’re +no good man to my view, be you who you may.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. O +Christopher! To Captain Gaunt?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Father, father, +come away!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Come!</p> +<h4>SCENE V</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Pew</span>, +<span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>, <span +class="smcap">Kit</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>coming out and waving his +pipe</i>). 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Ay, rum’s the +sailor’s fancy. Mrs. Drake, a bottle and clean +glasses.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. Kit French, I +wouldn’t. Think better of it, there’s a +dear! And that sweet girl just gone!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. Kit, don’t +you listen to that blind man; he’s the devil wrote upon his +face.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Don’t you +insinuate against my friend. <i>He</i> ain’t a child, +I hope? <i>he</i> knows his business? Don’t you get +trying to go a lowering of my friend in his own esteem.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. Well, I’ll +bring it, Kit; but it’s against the grain. +(<i>Exit</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. You? and you just +argy’d the ’ed off of Admiral Guinea? O stash +that! <i>I</i> stand treat, if it comes to that!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. What! Do I meet +with a blind seaman and not stand him? That’s not the +man I am!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span> (<i>re-entering with +bottle and glasses</i>). There!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Easy does it, +ma’am.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Mrs. Drake, you had +better trot.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. Yes, I’ll +trot; and I 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Come now, you walk!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Mrs. Drake</span>. 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!</p> +<h4>SCENE VI</h4> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>, <span +class="smcap">Kit</span>. They sit at the other table, +L.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Commander, here’s +<i>her</i> ’ealth!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Ay, that’s the +line: <i>her</i> health! But that old woman there is a good +old woman, Pew.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. David Pew, I don’t +know who you are, 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Ah, and why, says +you? Because I up and put her in her place, when she forgot +herself to you, Commander.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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 +(<i>sings</i>)—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘We hadn’t been three days at sea +before we saw a sail,<br /> +So we clapped on every stitch would stand, although it blew a +gale,<br /> +And we walked along full fourteen knots, for the barkie she did +know<br /> +As well as ever a soul on board, ’twas time for us to +go.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Chorus, Cap’n!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Kit</span> (<i>in chorus</i>)—</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘Time +for us to go,<br /> + Time for us to go,<br /> +As well as ever a soul on board,<br /> + ’Twas time for us to +go.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>sings</i>)—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘We carried away the royal yard, and the +stunsail boom was gone;<br /> +Says the skipper, “They may go or stand, I’m damned +if I don’t crack on;”<br /> +So the weather braces we’ll round in, and the trysail set +also,<br /> +And we’ll keep the brig three p’ints away, for +it’s time for us to go.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Give it mouth, Commander!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Kit</span> (<i>in chorus</i>)—</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘Time +for us to go,<br /> + Time for us to go,<br /> +And we’ll keep the brig three p’ints away,<br /> + For it’s time for us to +go.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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 (<i>touching his +hat</i>), ‘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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. I say, Pew, how’s +this? How do you know about Admiral Guinea? I say, +Pew, I begin to think you know too much.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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 <i>Arethusa</i>; and we was like two +brothers. Did you never hear of Guinea-land and the black +ivory business? (<i>sings</i>)—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘A quick run to the south we had, and when +we made the Bight<br /> +We kept the offing all day long and crossed the bar at night.<br +/> +Six hundred niggers in the hold and seventy we did stow,<br /> +And when we’d clapped the hatches on, ’twas time for +us to go.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Lay forward, lads!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>in chorus</i>)—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Time for us to go,’ etc.</p> +</blockquote> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Ah, <i>I</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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Well, Pew, now you put a +name to it, why not?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. No, Pew, my head’s +gone; I don’t see.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Why, cheer up, +Commander! You want to marry this lovely female?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Ay, that I do; but +I’m not fit for her, Pew; I’m a drunken dog, and +I’m not fit for her.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. David Pew, do you mean +what you say?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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 +lands! Pew does, is what those naval commanders would +reply. Mean it? I reckon so.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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. O, ah! But +<i>can</i> you? That’s the point. Can you; +don’t you see?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Me, Pew? +I’ll go through fire and water.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. I’ll risk +it.—Well, then, see here, my son: another swallow and we +jog.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. No, not to-night, Pew, +not to-night!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Commander, in a manner +of speaking, wherefore?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Wherefore, Pew? +’Cause why, Pew? ’Cause I’m drunk, and be +damned to you!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Ah, you leave that to +me. All I want is what I’ve got: your promise to +stand by and bear a hand (<i>producing a dark +lantern</i>).] 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 mony blind men could do, take the pick o’ +them! (<i>lighting a screw of paper</i>, <i>and with that</i>, +<i>the lantern</i>). Hey? That’s it. +Hey? Go and pity the poor blind!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span> (<i>while</i> <span +class="smcap">Pew</span> <i>blows out the candles</i>). But +I say, Pew, what do you want with it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. To see by, my son. +(<i>He shuts the lantern and puts it in his pocket</i>. +<i>Stage quite dark</i>. <i>Moonlight at window</i>.) +All ship-shape? No sparks about? No? Come, +then, lean on me and heave ahead for the lovely female. +(<i>Singing sotto voce</i>)—</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘Time +for us to go,<br /> + Time for us to go,<br /> +And when we’d clapped the hatches on,<br /> + ’Twas time for us to +go.’</p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Drop</span></p> +<h3>ACT III.</h3> +<p><i>The Stage represents the Admiral’s house</i>, <i>as +in Act I</i>. <span class="smcap">Gaunt</span> +<i>seated</i>, <i>is reading aloud</i>; <span +class="smcap">Arethusa</span> <i>sits at his feet</i>. +<i>Candles</i></p> +<h4>SCENE I</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Arethusa</span>, <span +class="smcap">Gaunt</span></p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Gaunt</span> (<i>reading</i>). +‘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 aught but +death part thee and me.’ (<i>He closes the +book</i>.) Amen.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Amen. Father, +there spoke my heart.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. I see nothing but +the face I love.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Remember her? +Ah, if she had been here to-day!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Killed her? my +mother? You?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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 into 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 worst 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. O!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Mother! O +poor soul! O poor father! O father, it was hard on +you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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 bare-foot!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. They call me a +miser. They say that in this sea-chest of mine I hoard my +gold. (<i>He passes R. to chest</i>, <i>takes out key</i>, +<i>and unlocks it</i>.) They think my treasure and my very +soul are locked up here. They speak after the flesh, but +they are right. See!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Her watch? the +wedding ring? O father, forgive me!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. And you come in +your sleep to look at them. O poor father! I +understand—I understand you now.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. In my sleep? Ay? +do I so? My Hester!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Why should I have +spoken? It was all between my Hester and me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. And you, Arethusa: I +was to bring her little maid.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. God bless her, yes, +and me! But, father, can you not see that she was blessed +among women?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Child, child, you +speak in ignorance; you touch upon griefs you cannot fathom.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Ay, do you so love +him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Even as my mother +loved my father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. O father, I know +you at last.</p> +<h4>SCENE II</h4> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Arethusa</span> <i>go out</i>, <i>L.</i>, +<i>carrying the candles</i>. <i>Stage dark</i>. <i>A +distant clock chimes the quarters</i>, <i>and strikes +one</i>. <i>Then</i>, <i>the tap-tapping of Pew’s +stick is hear without</i>; <i>the key is put into the lock</i>; +<i>and enter</i> <span class="smcap">Pew</span>, <i>C.</i>, <i>he +pockets key</i>, <i>and is followed by</i> <span +class="smcap">Kit</span>, <i>with dark lantern</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Quiet, you lubber! +Can’t you foot it soft, you that has daylights and a +glim?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. All right, old +boy. How the devil did we get through the door? Shall +I knock him up?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Stow your gab +(<i>seizing his wrist</i>). Under your breath!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Avast that! +You’re a savage dog, aren’t you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Turn on that glim.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. It’s as right as a +trivet, Pew. What next? By George, Pew, I’ll +make your fortune.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Here, now, look round +this room, and sharp. D’ye see a old sea-chest?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. See it, Pew? why, +d’ye think I’m blind?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Take me across, and let +me feel of her. Mum; catch my hand. Ah, that’s +her (<i>feeling the chest</i>), 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>seated on chest</i>). +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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. So you brought me here +to steal did you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Ay did I; and you +shall. I’m a biter: I bring blood.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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 (<i>drawing his +cutlass</i>), and off!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>leaping at his throat</i>, +<i>and with a great voice</i>). Help! murder! thieves!</p> +<h4>SCENE III</h4> +<p><i>To these</i>, <span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>, <span +class="smcap">Gaunt</span>, <i>with lights</i>. <i>Stage +light</i>. <span class="smcap">Pew</span> <i>has</i> <span +class="smcap">Kit</span> <i>down</i>, <i>and is throttling +him</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. I’ve got him, +Cap’n. What, kill my old commander, and rob him of +his blessed child? Not with old Pew!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Get up, David: +can’t you see you’re killing him? Unhand, I +say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. In heaven’s +name, who is it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. It’s a damned +villain, my pretty; and his name, to the best of my belief, is +French.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Kit? Kit +French? Never!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span> (<i>rising</i>). +He’s done for me. (<i>Falls on chest</i>.)</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Father, this is the +blind man that came while you were abroad. Sure +you’ll not listen to <i>him</i>. And you, Kit, you, +what is this?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. And you, David Pew, +what do you say?]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Cap’n, the rights +of it is this. Me and that young man there was partaking in +a friendly drop of rum at the <i>Admiral Benbow</i> 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. The chest? +(<i>He leaps</i>, <i>R.</i>, <i>and examines chest</i>.) +Ah!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Father, have you +heard?</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. I know this man, +Arethusa, and the truth is not in him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Well, and why do we +wait? We know Kit, do we not?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Ay, Captain, you know +the pair of us, and you can see his face and mine.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. Ah, Cap’n, what a +’ed for argyment!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. And now, sir, now that +you have spoken, I claim the liberty to speak on my side.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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 (<i>touching his hat</i>), +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 pint,’ 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.’</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. David Pew, you never +set your foot on a King’s ship in all your life. +There lies the road.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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.</p> +<blockquote><p> ‘Time +for us to go,<br /> + Time for us to go,<br /> +And when we’d clapped the hatches on,<br /> + ’Twas time for us to +go.’</p> +</blockquote> +<h4>SCENE IV</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Kit</span>, +<span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>, <span +class="smcap">Gaunt</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Now, Kit?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Well, sir, and now?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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 (<i>laying his hand on</i> <span +class="smcap">Arethusa’s</span> <i>shoulder</i>) I know you +covet. Christopher, is this your love?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Is this man, Pew, your +enemy?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. No sir; I never saw him +till to-night.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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.</p> +<p>[<span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Go?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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.]</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Let me go? My +girl, if you had cast me out is 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. You have spoken like a +man, French, and you may go. I leave you free.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Kit, dear +Kit—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Silence! Young +man, I have offered you liberty without bond or condition. +You refuse. You shall be judged. Meanwhile +(<i>opening the door</i>, <i>R.</i>), you will go in here. +I keep your cutlass. The night brings counsel: to-morrow +shall decide. (<i>He locks</i> <span +class="smcap">Kit</span> <i>in</i>, <i>leaving the key in the +door</i>.)</p> +<h4>SCENE V</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>, +<span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>, <i>afterwards</i> <span +class="smcap">Pew</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Father, you believe +in him; you do; I know you do.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Child, I am not given +to be hasty. I will pray and sleep upon this matter. +(<i>A knocking at the door</i>, <i>C.</i>) Who knocks so +late? (<i>He opens</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>entering</i>). +Cap’n, shall I fetch the constable?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. No.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. No? Have ye killed +him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. My man, I’ll see +you into the road. (<i>He takes</i> <span +class="smcap">Pew</span> <i>by the arm</i>, <i>and goes out with +him</i>.)</p> +<h4>SCENE VI</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Arethusa</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. (<i>Listens</i>; +<i>then running to door</i>, <i>R.</i>) Kit—dearest! +wait! I will come to you soon. (<span +class="smcap">Gaunt</span> <i>re-enters</i>, <i>C.</i>, <i>as the +drop falls</i>.)</p> +<h3>ACT IV.</h3> +<p><i>The Stage represents the Admiral’s house</i>, <i>as +in Acts I. and III</i>. <i>A chair</i>, <i>L.</i>, <i>in +front</i>. <i>As the curtain rises</i>, <i>the Stage is +dark</i>. <i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>, +<i>L.</i>, <i>with candle</i>; <i>she lights another</i>; <i>and +passes to door</i>, <i>R.</i>, <i>which she unbolts</i>. +<i>Stage light</i></p> +<h4>SCENE I</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Arethusa</span>, <span class="smcap">Kit</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Come, dear Kit, +come!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Well, I’m +here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. O Kit, you are not +angry with me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Have I reason to be +pleased?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Kit, I was +wrong. Forgive me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. I am a downright fool; I +saw it inside out. Why, give you up, by George!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. O, that blind +man! The fiend! He came back, Kit: did you hear him? +he thought we had killed you—you!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Well, well, it serves me +right for keeping company with such a swab.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. One thing puzzles +me: how did you get in? I saw my father lock the door.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Again? that +man!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Ay, can he! +Again! When he likes!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Kit, I am +afraid. O Kit, he will kill my father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. O Kit, he is too +strong for you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Arethusa, that’s +below the belt! Never you fear; I’ll give a good +account of him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span> (<i>taking cutlass from +the wall</i>). You’ll be none the worse for this, +dear.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. That’s so +(<i>making cuts</i>). All the same, I’m half ashamed +to draw on a blind man; it’s too much odds. (<i>He +leaps suddenly against the table</i>.) Ah!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Kit! Are you +ill?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. My head’s like a +humming top; it serves me right for drinking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. O, and the blind +man! (<i>She runs</i>, <i>L.</i>, <i>to the corner +cupboard</i>, <i>brings a bottle and glass</i>, <i>and fills and +offers glass</i>.) Here, lad, drink that.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. To you! +That’s better. (<i>Bottle and glass remain on +Gaunt’s table</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Suppose you miss +him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Miss him! The road +is straight; and I can hear the tap-tapping of that stick a mile +away.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span> (<i>listening</i>). +St! my father stirring in his room!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. Let me get clear; tell +him why when I’m gone. The door—?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Locked!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Kit</span>. The window!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Quick, quick! +(<i>She unfastens R. window</i>, <i>by which</i> <span +class="smcap">Kit</span> <i>goes out</i>.)</p> +<h4>SCENE II</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Arethusa</span>, <span class="smcap">Gaunt</span> +<i>entering L.</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Father, Kit is gone +. . . He is asleep.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Waiting, waiting and +wearying. The years, they go so heavily, my Hester still +waiting! (<i>He goes R. to chest</i>, <i>which he +opens</i>.) That is your chain; it’s of Guinea gold; +I brought it you from Guinea. (<i>Taking out +chain</i>.) 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Ah, for my sake, it +was for my sake!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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! +(<i>as thought the sea were making a breach over the ship at the +moment</i>).</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. O!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. O pity him, pity +him! Let him sleep, let him forget! Let her prayers +avail in heaven, and let him rest!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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! (<i>With ring</i>.) Hester, +here is your ring (<i>he tries to put the ring on his +finger</i>). 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. O father, if you +could but hear me thank and bless you! (<i>The tapping of +Pew’s stick is heard approaching</i>. <span +class="smcap">Gaunt</span> <i>passes L. front and sits</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span> (<i>beginning to count the +taps</i>). One—two—two hundred and five</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span> (<i>listening</i>). +God help me, the blind man! (<i>She runs to door</i>, +<i>C.</i>; <i>the key is put into the lock from without</i>, +<i>and the door opens</i>.)</p> +<h4>SCENE III</h4> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span> (<i>at back of stage by +the door</i>); <span class="smcap">Gaunt</span> (<i>front +L.</i>); <i>to these</i>, <span class="smcap">Pew</span>, +<i>C.</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>sotto voce</i>). All +snug. (<i>Coming down</i>.) 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. (<i>At these +words</i> <span class="smcap">Arethusa</span> <i>locks the +door</i>, <i>and takes the key</i>.) 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 off. Where’s the +tool? (<i>Producing knife</i>.) 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! (<span +class="smcap">Gaunt</span> <i>rises and begins to pace the stage +like a quarterdeck</i>, <i>L.</i>) What’s that? +A man’s walk. He don’t see me, thank the +blessed dark! But it’s time to slip, my bo. +(<i>He gropes his way stealthily till he comes to Gaunt’s +table</i>, <i>where he burns his hand in the candle</i>.) A +candle—lighted—then it’s bright as day! +Lord God, doesn’t he see me? It’s the horrors +come alive. (<span class="smcap">Gaunt</span> <i>draws near +and turns away</i>.) I’ll go mad, mad! (<i>He +gropes to the door</i>, <i>stopping and starting</i>.) +Door. (<i>His voice rising for the first time</i>, <i>sharp +with terror</i>.) Locked? Key gone? +Trapped! Keep off—keep off of me—keep +away! (<i>Sotto voce again</i>.) Keep your head, Lord +have mercy, keep your head. I’m wet with sweat. +What devil’s den is this? I must out—out! +(<i>He shakes the door vehemently</i>.) No? Knife it +is then—knife—knife—knife! (<i>He moves +with the knife raised towards</i> <span +class="smcap">Gaunt</span>, <i>intently listening</i>, <i>and +changing his direction as</i> <span class="smcap">Gaunt</span> +<i>changes his position on the stage</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span> (<i>rushing to intercept +him</i>). Father, father, wake!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Hester, Hester! +(<i>He turns</i>, <i>in time to see</i> <span +class="smcap">Arethusa</span> <i>grapple</i> <span +class="smcap">Pew</span> <i>in the centre of the Stage</i>, +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Pew</span> <i>force her +down</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Kit! Kit!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>with the knife +raised</i>). Pew’s way!</p> +<h4>SCENE IV</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Kit</span></p> +<p>(<i>He leaps through window</i>, <i>R.</i>, <i>and cuts</i> +<span class="smcap">Pew</span> <i>down</i>. <i>At the same +moment</i>, <span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>, <i>who has been +staring helplessly at his daughter’s peril</i>, <i>fully +awakes</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Death and blood! +(<span class="smcap">Kit</span>, <i>helping</i> <span +class="smcap">Arethusa</span>, <i>has let fall the +cutlass</i>. <span class="smcap">Gaunt</span><i> picks it +up and runs on</i> <span class="smcap">Pew</span>.) Damned +mutineer, I’ll have your heart out! (<i>He stops</i>, +<i>stands staring</i>, <i>drops cutlass</i>, <i>falls upon his +knees</i>.) 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Arethusa</span>. Father, I am not +hurt.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Ay, daughter, but my +soul—my lost soul!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>rising on his +elbow</i>). Rum? You’ve done me. For +God’s sake, rum. (<span class="smcap">Arethusa</span> +<i>pours out a glass</i>, <i>which</i> <span +class="smcap">Kit</span> <i>gives to him</i>.) Rum? +This ain’t rum; it’s fire! (<i>With great +excitement</i>.) What’s this? I don’t +like rum? (<i>Feebly</i>.) Ay, then, I’m a dead +man, and give me water.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. Now even his sins +desert him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span> (<i>drinking water</i>). +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! +(<i>Seizing</i> <span class="smcap">Gaunt’s</span> +<i>arm</i>.) I say—fair dealings, Jack!—none of +that heaven business: Fiddler’s Green’s my port, now, +ain’t it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Pew</span>. 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. +(<i>Trying to sing</i>)—</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Time for us to go,<br /> +Time for us—’</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: right">(<i>He dies</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span>. 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!</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">CURTAIN</p> +<h2><a name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +251</span>MACAIRE<br /> +A MELODRAMATIC FARCE<br /> +IN THREE ACTS</h2> +<h3>PERSONS REPRESENTED</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Robert Macaire</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>, Landlord of the <i>Auberge +des Adrets</i>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>, a Gendarme, Dumont’s +supposed son.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Marquis</span>, Charles’s +Father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Brigadier</span> of Gendarmerie.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Curate</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">The Notary</span>.</p> +<p>A <span class="smcap">Waiter</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ernestine</span>, Goriot’s +Daughter.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Aline</span>.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Maids</span>, <span +class="smcap">Peasants</span> (<i>Male and Female</i>), <span +class="smcap">Gendarmes</span>.</p> +<p>The Scene is laid in the Courtyard of the <i>Auberge des +Adrets</i>, on the frontier of France and Savoy. The time +1800. The action occupies an interval of from twelve to +fourteen hours: from four in the afternoon till about five in the +morning.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><span class="smcap">Note</span>.—<i>The time between the +acts should be as brief as possible</i>, <i>and the piece +played</i>, <i>where it is merely comic</i>, <i>in a vein of +patter</i>.</p> +<h3>ACT I.</h3> +<p><i>The Stage represents the courtyard of the Auberge des +Adrets</i>. <i>It is surrounded by the buildings of the +inn</i>, <i>with a gallery on the first story</i>, +<i>approached</i>, <i>C.</i>, <i>by a straight flight of +stairs</i>. <i>L. C.</i>, <i>the entrance +doorway</i>. <i>A little in front of this</i>, <i>a small +grated office</i>, <i>containing business table</i>, +<i>brass-bound cabinet</i>, <i>and portable cash-box</i>. +<i>In front</i>, <i>R. and L.</i>, <i>tables and benches</i>; +<i>one</i>, <i>L.</i>, <i>partially laid for a considerable +party</i>.</p> +<h4>SCENE I</h4> +<p><span class="smcap">Aline</span> and <span +class="smcap">Maids</span>; <i>to whom</i> <span +class="smcap">Fiddlers</span>; <i>afterwards</i> <span +class="smcap">Dumont</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Charles</span>. <i>As the curtain rises</i>, +<i>the sound of the violins is heard approaching</i>. <span +class="smcap">Aline</span> <i>and the inn servants</i>, <i>who +are discovered laying the table</i>, <i>dance up to door L. +C.</i>, <i>to meet the</i> <span class="smcap">Fiddlers</span>, +<i>who enter likewise dancing to their own music</i>. +<i>Air</i>: ‘<i>Haste to the Wedding</i>.’ +<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Fiddlers</span> <i>exeunt playing +into house</i>, <i>R. U. E.</i> <span +class="smcap">Aline</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Maids</span> <i>dance back to table</i>, <i>which +they proceed to arrange</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span> (<i>entering</i>; +<i>with</i> <span class="smcap">Charles</span>). Good +girls, good girls! Charles, in ten minutes from now what +happy faces will smile around that board!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. Sir, my good fortune +is complete; and most of all in this, that my happiness has made +my father happy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Your father? +Ah, well, upon that point we shall have more to say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. 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. (<i>Looking off L. C.</i>) Our guests +arrive: here is our good Curate, and here our cheerful +Notary.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. His old infirmity, I +fear.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. But +Charles—dear boy!—at your wedding feast! I +should have taken it unneighbourly had he come strictly +sober.</p> +<h4>SCENE II</h4> +<p><i>To these</i>, <i>by the door L. C.</i>, <i>the</i> <span +class="smcap">Curate</span> <i>and the</i> <span +class="smcap">Notary</span>, <i>arm in arm</i>; <i>the latter +owl-like and titubant</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. Peace be on this +house!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Notary</span> (<i>singing</i>). +‘Prove an excuse for the glass.’</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Welcome, excellent +neighbours! The Church and the Law.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. And you, Charles, let +me hope your feelings are in solemn congruence with this +momentous step.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Notary</span> (<i>digging</i> <span +class="smcap">Charles</span> <i>in the ribs</i>). +Married? Lovely bride? Prove an excuse!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Curate</span>). I fear our friend? perhaps? +as usual? eh?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. Possibly: I had not +yet observed it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Well, well, his heart +is good.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. He doubtless meant it +kindly.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Notary</span>. Where’s +Aline?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. Coming, sir! +(<span class="smcap">Notary</span> <i>makes for her</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span> (<i>capturing +him</i>). You will infallibly expose yourself to +misconstruction. (<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Charles</span>.) Where is your commanding +officer?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. That will do, +Charles: you may go. (<i>Exit</i> <span +class="smcap">Charles</span>.) You have considered the case +I laid before you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Notary</span>. Considered a +case?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Yes, yes. +Charles, you know, Charles. Can he marry? under these +untoward and peculiar circumstances, can he marry?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Notary</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. No.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Notary</span>. Now, lemme tell you: +by applying justice of peace might possibly afford relief.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. But how?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Notary</span>. Ay, there’s the +rub.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. But what am I to +do? He’s not my son, I tell you: Charles is not my +son.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Notary</span>. I know.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Perhaps a glass of +wine would clear him?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Notary</span>. That’s what I +want. (<i>They go out</i>, <i>L. U. E.</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. And now, if +you’ve done deranging my table, to the cellar for the wine, +the whole pack of you. (<i>Manet sola</i>, <i>considering +table</i>.) There: it’s like a garden. If I had +as sweet a table for my wedding, I would marry the Notary.</p> +<h4>SCENE III</h4> +<p><i>The Stage remains vacant</i>. <i>Enter</i>, <i>by +door L. C.</i>, <span class="smcap">Macaire</span>, <i>followed +by</i> <span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> <i>with bundle</i>; +<i>in the traditional costume</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Good! No +police.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>looking off</i>, <i>L. +C.</i>). Sold again!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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. +(<i>Reading</i>) ‘<i>Auberge des Adrets</i>, 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—(<i>makes as if turning key</i>.) 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Macaire, I’m +hungry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. If I could get a +full meal and a pound in my pocket I would hold my tongue.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. 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 jail.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. What is a +chaplain? A man they pay to say what you don’t want +to hear.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. What is life? +A boose and the police.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. 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—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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—(<i>He shows his knife</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Put it up, put it +up: I’ll do what you want.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. What is obedience? +fear. So march straight, or look for mischief. +It’s not <i>bon ton</i>, 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. (<i>Calling</i>.) House, house here!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Are you mad? +We haven’t a brass farthing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Now!—But +before we leave!</p> +<h4>SCENE IV</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Dumont</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Gentlemen, what can a +plain man do for your service?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. My good creature, +you are strangely in error; one is rolling in gold.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. And very +hungry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>aside</i>). A +pound in his pocket?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>aside</i>). Keep +for nothing?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>aside</i>). +Bitten!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>aside</i>). Sold +again!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. I will send you what +we have: poor fare, perhaps, for gentlemen like you.</p> +<h4>SCENE V</h4> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>, <span +class="smcap">Bertrand</span>; <i>afterwards</i> <span +class="smcap">Charles</span>, <i>who appears on the gallery</i>, +<i>and comes down</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. I told you +so. Why will you fly so high?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>seeing</i> <span +class="smcap">Charles</span>). Lord, a policeman!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Steady! What +is a policeman? Justice’s blind eye. (<i>To</i> +<span class="smcap">Charles</span>.) I think, sir, you are +in the force?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. I am, sir, and it +was in that character—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Ah, sir, a fine +service!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. It is, sir, and if +your papers—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. You become your +uniform. Have you a mother? Ah, well, well!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. My duty, +sir—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. They tell me one +Macaire—is not that his name, Bertrand?—has broken +jail at Lyons?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. He has, sir, and it +is precisely for that reason—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Well, +good-bye. (<i>Shaking</i> <span +class="smcap">Charles</span> <i>by the hand and leading him +towards the door</i>, <i>L. U. E.</i>) Sweet spot, sweet +spot. The scenery is . . . (<i>kisses his +finger-tips</i>. <i>Exit</i> <span +class="smcap">Charles</span>). And now, what is a +policeman?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. A bobby.</p> +<h4>SCENE VI</h4> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>, <span +class="smcap">Bertrand</span>; <i>to whom</i> <span +class="smcap">Aline</span> <i>with tray</i>; <i>and +afterwards</i> <span class="smcap">Maids</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Aline</span> (<i>entering with tray</i>, +<i>and proceeding to lay table</i>, <i>L.</i>) My men, you +are in better luck than usual. It isn’t every day you +go shares in a wedding feast.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. A wedding? Ah, +and you’re the bride.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. What makes you fancy +that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Heavens, am I +blind?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. Well, then, I wish I +was.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. I take you at the +word: have me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. You will never be +hanged for modesty.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Modesty is for the +poor: when one is rich and nobly born, ’tis but a +clog. I love you. What is your name?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. Guess again, and +you’ll guess wrong. (<i>Enter the other servants with +wine baskets</i>.) Here, set the wine down. No, that +is the old Burgundy for the wedding party. These gentlemen +must put up with a different bin. (<i>Setting wine +before</i> <span class="smcap">Macaire</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Bertrand</span>, <i>who are at table</i>, +<i>L.</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>drinking</i>). +Vinegar, by the supreme Jove!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Sold again!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Now, Bertrand, mark +me. (<i>Before the servants he exchanges the bottle for the +one in front of</i> <span class="smcap">Dumont’s</span> +<i>place at the head of the other table</i>.) Was it well +done?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Immense.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>emptying his glass +into</i> <span class="smcap">Bertrand’s</span>). +There, Bertrand, you may finish that. Ha! music?</p> +<h4>SCENE VII</h4> +<p><i>To these</i>, <i>from the inn</i>, <i>L. U. E.</i>, <span +class="smcap">Dumont</span>, <span class="smcap">Charles</span>, +the <span class="smcap">Curate</span>, the <span +class="smcap">Notary</span> jigging: from the inn, <i>R. U. +E.</i>, <span class="smcap">Fiddlers</span> playing and dancing; +and through door L. C., <span class="smcap">Goriot</span>, <span +class="smcap">Ernestine</span>, <span +class="smcap">Peasants</span>, dancing likewise. Air: +‘Haste to the Wedding.’ As the parties meet, +the music ceases</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Welcome, neighbours! +welcome friends! Ernestine, here is my Charles, no longer +mine. A thousand welcomes. O the gay day! O the +auspicious wedding! (<span class="smcap">Charles</span>, +<span class="smcap">Ernestine</span>, <span +class="smcap">Dumont</span>, <span class="smcap">Goriot</span>, +<span class="smcap">Curate</span>, <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Notary</span> <i>sit to the wedding feast</i>; +<span class="smcap">Peasants</span>, <span +class="smcap">Fiddlers</span>, <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Maids</span>, <i>grouped at back</i>, <i>drinking +from the barrel</i>.) O, I must have all happy around +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. Then help the +soup.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. 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. +(<i>To</i> <span class="smcap">Macaire</span>, <i>who is just +about to fill his glass</i>) Don’t touch it, +sir! Aline, give me that gentleman’s bottle and take +him mine: with old Dumont’s compliments.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. What?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Change the +bottle?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>aside</i>). +Bitten!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>aside</i>). Sold +again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Yes, all shall be +happy.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. I tell ’ee, +help the soup!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span> (<i>begins to help +soup</i>. <i>Then</i>, <i>dropping ladle</i>.) One +word: a matter of detail: Charles is not my son. (<i>All +exclaim</i>.) O no, he is not my son. Perhaps I +should have mentioned it before.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. I am not your son, +sir?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. O no, far from +it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. Then who the +devil’s son be he?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. 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 <i>Golden +Head</i> 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 +you all to witness I’m as innocent of him as the babe +unborn.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Ahem! I think +you said the linen bore an M?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Pardon me: the +markings were cut off.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. True. The +basket white, I think?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Brown, brown.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Ah! brown—a +whitey-brown.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. I tell ’ee +what, Dumont, this is all very well; but in that case, I’ll +be danged if he gets my daater. (<i>General +consternation</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. O Goriot, let’s +have happy faces!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. 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! (<i>Exclamations</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. The situation is +crepuscular.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ernestine</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. And you, sir, would +you rob me in one day of both a father and a wife?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span> (<i>weeping</i>). +Happy faces, happy faces!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. I know nothing about +robbery; but she cannot marry without my consent, and that she +cannot get.</p> +<p>(<i>All speak together</i> . . .</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. O +dear, O dear!</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. What +spoil the wedding?</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Ernestine</span>. +O father!</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. +Sir, sir, you would not—</p> +<p>. . . )</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span> (<i>exasperated</i>). +I wun’t, and what’s more I shan’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Notary</span>. I donno if I make +myself clear?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Goriot, do +let’s have happy faces!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. Fudge! Fudge!! +Fudge!!!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. Possibly on +application to this conscientious jurist, light may be +obtained.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">All</span>. The Notary; yes, yes; +the Notary!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Now, how about this +marriage?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Notary</span>. Marriage is a +contract, to which there are two constracting parties, John Doe +and Richard Roe. I donno if I make myself clear?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. Poor lamb!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. Silence, my friend; +you will expose yourself to misconstruction.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>taking the +stage</i>). As an entire stranger in this painful scene, +will you permit a gentleman and a traveller to interject one +word? There sits the young man, full, I am sure, of +pleasing qualities; here the young maiden, by her own confession +bashfully consenting to the match; there sits that dear old +gentleman, a lover of bright faces like myself, his own now +dimmed with sorrow; and here—(may I be allowed to +add?)—here sits this noble Roman, a father like myself, and +like myself the slave of duty. Last you have me—Baron +Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de +Brest, the man of the world and the man of delicacy. I find +you all—permit me the expression—gravelled. A +marriage and an obstacle. Now, what is marriage? The +union of two souls, and, what is possibly more romantic, the +fusion of two dowries. What is an obstacle? the +devil. And this obstacle? to me, as a man of family, the +obstacle seems grave; but to me, as a man and a brother, what is +it but a word? O my friend (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Goriot</span>), 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. I shan’t, and +what’s more I wun’t. (<span +class="smcap">Charles</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Ernestine</span> <i>lead him up stage</i>, +<i>protesting</i>. <i>All rise</i>, <i>except</i> <span +class="smcap">Notary</span>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span> (<i>front R.</i>, <i>shaking +hands with</i> <span class="smcap">Macaire</span>). Sir, +you have a noble nature. (<span +class="smcap">Macaire</span> <i>picks his pocket</i>.) Dear +me, dear me, and you are rich.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. I own, sir, I +deceived you: I feared some wounding offer, and my pride +replied. But to be quite frank with you, you behold me +here, the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de +la Tonnerre de Brest, and between my simple manhood and the +infinite these rags are all.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. A gift? a small one? +never!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. And I will never +wound you by the offer.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>aside</i>). +Bitten.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>aside</i>). Sold +again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span> (<i>taking the +stage</i>). But, look’ee here, he can’t +marry.</p> +<p>(<i>All speak together</i> . . .</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. +Hey?</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. +Ah!</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. Hey +day!</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. +Wherefore?</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Ernestine</span>. +Oh!</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. +Ah!</p> +<p>. . . ) </p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. Then the law of France +ought to be ashamed of itself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ernestine</span>. O, couldn’t +we ask the Notary again?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. Indubitably you may +ask him.</p> +<p>(<i>All speak together</i> . . .</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. +Can’t they marry?</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. +Can’t he marry?</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. +Can’t she marry?</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Ernestine</span>. +Can’t we marry?</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. +Can’t I marry?</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. +Bain’t I right?</p> +<p>. . . )</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Notary</span>. Constracting +parties.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. Possibly to-morrow at +an early hour he may be more perspicuous.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. Ay, before +he’ve time to get at it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Notary</span>. Unoffending +jurisconsult overtaken by sorrow. Possibly by applying +justice of peace might afford relief.</p> +<p>(<i>All speak together</i> . . .</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. +Bravo!</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. +Excellent!</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. +Let’s go at once!</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. The +very thing!</p> +<p>. . . )</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ernestine</span>. Yes, this +minute!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. I’ll go. +I don’t mind getting advice, but I wun’t take it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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. (<i>Dance</i>, <i>in the +course of which</i> <span class="smcap">Macaire</span> +<i>picks</i> <span class="smcap">Dumont’s</span> <i>pocket +of his keys</i>, <i>selects the key of the cash-box</i>, <i>and +returns the others to his pocket</i>. <i>In the end</i>, +<i>all dance out</i>: <i>the wedding-party</i>, <i>headed by</i> +<span class="smcap">Fiddlers</span>, <i>L. C.</i>; <i>the</i> +<span class="smcap">Maids</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Aline</span> <i>into the inn</i>, <i>R. U. +E.</i> <i>Manet</i> <span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Macaire</span>.)</p> +<h4>SCENE VIII</h4> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>, <span +class="smcap">Bertrand</span>, <i>who instantly takes a bottle +from the wedding-table</i>, <i>and sits with it</i>, +<i>L.</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Bertrand, +there’s a devil of a want of a father here.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Ay, if we only knew +where to find him.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Bertrand, look at +me: I am Macaire; I am that father.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. You, Macaire? you a +father?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Not yet, but in five +minutes. I am capable of anything. (<i>Producing +key</i>.) What think you of this?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. That? Is it a +key?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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 (<i>twists the +handle of the key</i>); and now . . .? Where is my +long-lost child? produce my young policeman! show me my gallant +boy!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. I don’t +understand.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Dear innocence, how +should you? Your brains are in your fists. Go and +keep watch. (<i>He goes into the office and returns with +the cash-box</i>.) Keep watch, I say.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Where?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Everywhere. +(<i>He opens box</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Gold.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Hands off! +Keep watch. (<span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> <i>at back +of stage</i>.) Beat slower, my paternal heart! The +third compartment; let me see.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. S’st! +(<span class="smcap">Macaire</span> <i>shuts box</i>.) No; +false alarm.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. The third +compartment. Ay, here t—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. S’st! +(<i>Same business</i>.) No: fire away.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. The third +compartment: it must be this.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. S’st! +(<span class="smcap">Macaire</span>, <i>keeps box open</i>, +<i>watching</i> <span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>.) All +serene; it’s the wind.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Now, see here! +(<i>He darts his knife into the stage</i>.) 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. For the +Lord’s sake, Macaire!—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Ay, here it +is. (<i>Reading letter</i>). ‘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.’ (<i>He turns it over twice and replaces +it</i>. <i>Then</i>, <i>fingering the gold</i>) +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—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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>at his +shoulder</i>). Halves!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Halves? (<i>He +locks the box</i>.) Bertrand, I am a father. +(<i>Replaces box in office</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>looking after +him</i>). Well, I—am—damned!</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Drop</span>.</p> +<h3>ACT II.</h3> +<p><i>When the curtain rises</i>, <i>the night has +come</i>. <i>A hanging cluster of lighted lamps over each +table</i>, <i>R. and L.</i> <span +class="smcap">Macaire</span>, <i>R.</i>, <i>smoking a +cigarette</i>; <span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>, <i>L.</i>, +<i>with a church-warden</i>: <i>each with bottle and +glass</i></p> +<h4>SCENE I</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>, +<span class="smcap">Bertrand</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Bertrand, I am +content: a child might play with me. Does your pipe draw +well?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. I see ’em +right enough.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Man of little +vision, expound me these meteors! what do they signify, O +wooden-head? Clod, of what do they consist?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Damned bad +tobacco.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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 a 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. But what’s +the sense in honesty?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. No!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. The honest man, +Bertrand, that 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Ah! +Don’t you wish you may get it!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<h4>SCENE II</h4> +<p><i>To these</i>, <i>all the former characters</i>, <i>less +the</i> <span class="smcap">Notary</span>. <i>The fiddles +are heard without</i>, <i>playing dolefully</i>. +<i>Air</i>: ‘<i>O dear</i>, <i>what can the matter +be</i>?’ <i>in time to which the procession enters</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Well, friends, what +cheer?</p> +<p>(<i>All speak together</i> . . .</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. No +wedding, no wedding!</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. I +told ’ee he can’t and he can’t.</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. +Dear, dear me!</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Ernestine</span>. +They won’t let us marry.</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. No +wife, no father, no nothing!</p> +<p>. . . )</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. The facts have +justified the worst anticipations of our absent friend, the +Notary.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. I perceive I must +reveal myself.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. God bless me, no!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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 (<i>to the others</i>) +prepare a smiling countenance. (<i>Repeating</i>.) +‘Preserve this letter secretly; its terms are only known to +you and me; hence when the time comes, I shall repeat them, and +my son will recognise his father.—Your Unknown +Benefactor.’</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. The words! the +letter! Charles, alas! it is your father!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. Good Lord! +(<i>General consternation</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>aside</i>: <i>smiling +his brow</i>). I see it now; sublime!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. A highly singular +eventuality.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. Him? O well, +then, I wun’t. (<i>Goes up</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Charles, to my +arms! (<i>Business</i>.) Ernestine, your second +father waits to welcome you. (<i>Business</i>.) +Goriot, noble old man, I grasp your hand. (<i>He +doesn’t</i>.) And you, Dumont, how shall your unknown +benefactor thank you for your kindness to his boy? (<i>A +dead Pause</i>.) Charles, to my arms!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. 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—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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. (<i>A dead pause</i>.) 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. I trust, sir, you do +not think yourself less welcome for your poverty.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Nay, nay—more +welcome, more welcome. O, I know +your—(<i>business</i>) backs! Besides, my poverty is +noble. Political . . . Dumont, what are your politics?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. A plain old +republican, my lord.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. And yours, my good +Goriot?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. I be a royalist, I +be, and so be my daater.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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. +(<span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> <i>is rebuffed by one and +the other in dead silence</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Sold again!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Charles, to my +arms! (<i>Business</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ernestine</span>. Well, but now that +he has a father of some kind, cannot the marriage go on?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Angel, this very +night: I burn to take my grandchild on my knees.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. Be you that young +man’s veyther?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Ay, and what a +father!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. Then all I’ve +got to say is, I shan’t and I wun’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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? (<i>Business</i>.)</p> +<h4>SCENE III</h4> +<p><i>To these</i>, <i>the</i> <span +class="smcap">Marquis</span>, <i>L. C.</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. Is this the house of +John Paul Dumont, once of Lyons?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. It is, sir, and I am +he, at your disposal.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. I am the Marquis +Villers-Cotterêts de la Cherté de +Médoc. (<i>Sensation</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Marquis, delighted, +I am sure.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Dumont</span>). I come, as you perceive, +unfollowed; my errand, therefore, is discreet. I come +(<i>producing notes from breast-pocket</i>) equipped with thirty +thousand francs; my errand, therefore, must be generous. +Can you not guess?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Not I, my lord.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span> (<i>repeating</i>). +‘Preserve this letter,’ etc.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Bitten.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Sold again +(<i>aside</i>). (<i>A pause</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Aline</span>. Well, I never did!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Two fathers!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. Two? +Impossible.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Not at all. +This is the other.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. This man?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. This is the man, my +lord; here stands the father; Charles, to my arms! (<span +class="smcap">Charles</span> <i>backs</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. He knew the +letter.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. Well, but so did +I.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. The judgment of +Solomon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. What did I tell +’ee? he can’t marry.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ernestine</span>. Couldn’t +they both consent?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. But he’s my +living image.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Mine, Marquis, +mine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. My figure, I +think?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Ah, Charles, +Charles!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. We used to think his +physiognomy resembled Dumont’s.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Come to look at him, +he’s really like Goriot.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Ernestine</span>. O papa, I hope +he’s not my brother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Goriot</span>. What be talking +of? I tell ’ee, he’s like our Curate.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. Gentlemen, my head +aches.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. I have it: the +involuntary voice of nature. Look at me, my son.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Nay, Charles, but +look at me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. Gentlemen, I am +unconscious of the smallest natural inclination for either.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. Another thought: +what was his mother’s name?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. What was the name of +his mother by you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. Sir, you are +silenced.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Silenced by +honour. I had rather lose my boy than compromise his +sainted mother.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. A thought: twins +might explain it: had you not two foundlings?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Nay, sir, one only; +and judging by the miseries of this evening, I should say, thank +God!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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. (<i>They troop out</i>, <i>L. U. E. +and R. U. E.</i>, <i>the fiddlers playing</i>. <i>Air</i>: +‘<i>O dear</i>, <i>what can the matter be</i>?’)</p> +<h4>SCENE IV</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>, +<span class="smcap">Marquis</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. Well, sir?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. My lord, I feel for +you. (<i>Business</i>. <i>They sit</i>, +<i>R.</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. And now, sir?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. The bond that joins +us is remarkable and touching.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. Well, sir?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>touching him on the +breast</i>). You have there thirty thousand francs.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. Well, sir?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. Under my +pillow. I think it rather ingenious.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Admirably so! +I applaud the device.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. Well, sir?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Do you snuff, my +lord?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. No, sir, I do +not.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. My lord, I am a poor +man.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. Well, sir? and what +of that?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. The affections, my +lord, are priceless. Money will not buy them; or, at least, +it takes a great deal.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. Sir, your sentiments +do you honour.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. My lord, you are +rich.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. Well, sir?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Now follow me, I +beseech you. Here am I, my lord; and there, if I may so +express myself, are you. Each has the 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. I fail to grasp . . +.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>with +irritation</i>). My dear man, there is the door of the +house; here am I; there (<i>touching</i>, <span +class="smcap">Marquis</span> <i>on the breast</i>) are thirty +thousand francs. Well, now?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. 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 . . .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. My lord, will you +lay those thirty thousand francs upon the table?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. I fail to grasp . . +. but if it will in any way oblige you . . . (<i>Does +so</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. But that is my +cloak.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. I!—send for +the police.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Take your +money! (<i>Dashing down the notes</i>.) Man, if I met +you in a lane! (<i>He drops his head upon the +table</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. The poor soul is +insane. The other man, whom I suppose to be his keeper, is +very much to blame.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>raising his +head</i>). I have a light! (<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Marquis</span>.) 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. Poor fellow!</p> +<h4>SCENE V</h4> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>, <i>to whom</i> <span +class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. <i>Afterwards</i> <span +class="smcap">Dumont</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Well?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Bitten.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Sold again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span> (<i>entering</i>). I +hear you want me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Ah, my good old +Dumont, this is very sad.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Dear me, what is +wrong?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Dumont, you had a +dowry for my son?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. I had; I have: ten +thousand francs.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. It’s a poor +thing, but it must do. Dumont, I bury my old hopes, my old +paternal tenderness.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. What? is he not your +son?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Noble soul!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. To begone? to go?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. This is what I had +looked for at your hands. Noble, nobleman!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. But I had thought . . +. I had fancied . . .</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. No, Dumont, you had +not; do not seek to impose upon my simplicity. What you did +think was this, Dumont: for the sake of this noble father, for +the sake of this son whom he denies for his own interest—I +mean, for his interest—no, I mean, for his own—well, +anyway, in order to keep up the general atmosphere of sacrifice +and nobility, I must hand over this dowry to the Baron +Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de +Brest.</p> +<p>(<i>Together</i>: <i>each shaking him by the hand</i> . . +.</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. +Noble, O noble!</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. +Beautiful, O beautiful!</p> +<p>. . .)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. At once, at +once!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>aside to</i> <span +class="smcap">Bertrand</span>). Hang on. +(<i>Aloud</i>.) Charles, Charles, my lost boy! (<i>He +falls weeping at L. table</i>. <span +class="smcap">Dumont</span> <i>enters the office</i>, <i>and +brings down cash-box to table R.</i> <i>He feels in all his +pockets</i>: <span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> <i>from behind +him making signs to</i> <span class="smcap">Macaire</span>, +<i>which the latter does not see</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. That’s +strange. I can’t find the key. It’s a +patent key.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>behind</i> <span +class="smcap">Dumont</span>, <i>making signs to</i> <span +class="smcap">Macaire</span>). The key, he can’t find +the key.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. O yes, I +remember. I heard it drop. (<i>Drops key</i>.) +And here it is before my eyes.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. That? +That’s yours. I saw it drop.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. I give you my word +of honour I heard it fall five minutes back.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. But I saw it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Impossible. It +must be yours.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. It is like mine, +indeed. How came it in your pocket?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Bitten. +(<i>Aside</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Sold again +(<i>aside</i>) . . . You forget, Baron, it’s the key of my +valise; I gave it you to keep in consequence of the hole in my +pocket.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. True, true; and that +explains.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. O, that +explains. Now, all we have to do is to find mine. +It’s a patent key. You heard it drop.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Distinctly.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. So I did: +distinctly.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Here, Aline, Babette, +Goriot, Curate, Charles, everybody, come here and look for my +key!</p> +<h4>SCENE VI</h4> +<p><i>To these with candles</i>, <i>all the former +characters</i>, <i>except</i> <span +class="smcap">Fiddlers</span>, <span +class="smcap">Peasants</span>, <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Notary</span>. <i>They hunt for the +key</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. It’s bound to +be here. We all heard it drop.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span> (<i>with</i> <span +class="smcap">Bertrand’s</span> <i>bundle</i>). Is +this it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">All</span> (<i>with fury</i>). +No.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Hands off, +that’s my luggage. (<i>Hunt resumed</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. I heard it drop, as +plain as ever I heard anything.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Marquis</span>. By the way (<i>all +start up</i>), what are we looking for?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">All</span> (<i>with fury</i>). +O!!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Will you have the +kindness to find my key? (<i>Hunt resumed</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Curate</span>. What description of a +key—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. A patent, patent, +patent, patent key!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. I have it. +Here it is!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">All</span> (<i>with relief</i>). +Ah!!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. That? What do +you mean? That’s yours.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Pardon me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. It is.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. It isn’t.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. I tell you it is: +look at that twisted handle.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. It can’t be +mine, and so it must be yours.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. It is not. Feel +in your pockets. (<i>To the others</i>.) Will you +have the kindness to find my patent key?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">All</span>. Oh!! (<i>Hunt +resumed</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Ah, well, +you’re right. (<i>He slips key into</i> <span +class="smcap">Dumont’s</span> <i>pocket</i>.) An +idea: suppose you felt in your pocket?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">All</span> (<i>rising</i>). +Yes! Suppose you did!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>aside</i>). +Bitten.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>aside</i>). Sold +again.</p> +<p>(<span class="smcap">Aline</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Maids</span> <i>extinguish hanging lamps over +tables</i>, <i>R. and L.</i> <i>Stage lighted only by +guests’ candles</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span>. But, sir, I cannot +decently retire to rest till I embrace my honoured parent. +Which is it to be?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Charles, to +my—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Embrace neither of +them; embrace nobody; there has been too much of this sickening +folly. To bed!!! (<i>Exit violently R. U. +E.</i> <i>All the characters troop slowly upstairs</i>, +<i>talking in dumb show</i>. <span +class="smcap">Bertrand</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Macaire</span> <i>remain in front C.</i>, +<i>watching them go</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Sold again, +captain?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Ay, they will have +it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. It? What?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Murder?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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? My, 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—(<i>grappling him</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Macaire—O +no!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. You frighten +me. Who is it?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Mark well. +(<i>The</i> <span class="smcap">Marquis</span> <i>opens the door +of Number Thirteen</i>, <i>and the rest</i>, <i>clustering +round</i>, <i>bid him good-night</i>. <i>As they begin to +disperse along the gallery he enters and shuts the +door</i>.) Out, out, brief candle! That man is +doomed.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Drop</span></p> +<h3>ACT III</h3> +<h4>SCENE I</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>, +<span class="smcap">Bertrand</span></p> +<p><i>As the curtain rises</i>, <i>the stage is dark and +empty</i>. <i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Macaire</span>, +<i>L. U. E.</i>, <i>with lantern</i>. <i>He looks +about</i></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>calling off</i>). +S’st!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>entering L. U. +E.</i>). It’s creeping dark.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Blinding dark; and a +good job.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Macaire, I’m +cold; my very hair’s cold.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Work, work will warm +you: to your keys.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. No, Macaire, +it’s a horror. You not kill him; let’s have no +bloodshed.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. May I take the +light?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. You may not. +Go. (<span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> <i>mounts the +stairs</i>, <i>and is seen picking the lock of Number +Thirteen</i>.) 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 night-cap, +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—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>from above</i>). +S’st, Macaire!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Is it done, dear +boy? Come down. (<span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> +<i>descends</i>.) 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! (<i>Sharpening his knife upon his +sleeve</i>.) What is a knife? A plain man’s +sword.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Not the knife, +Macaire; O, not the knife!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. My name is +Self-Defence. (<i>He goes upstairs and enters Number +Thirteen</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. 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. +(<i>A stroke</i>, <i>and groan from above</i>.) God +Almighty, one of them’s gone! (<i>He falls with his +head on table</i>, <i>R.</i> <span +class="smcap">Macaire</span> <i>appears at the top of the +stairs</i>, <i>descends</i>, <i>comes airily forward and touches +him on the shoulder</i>. <span +class="smcap">Bertrand</span>, <i>with a cry</i>, <i>turns and +falls upon his neck</i>.) O, O, and I thought I had lost +him. (<i>Day breaking</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. The contrary, dear +boy. (<i>He produces notes</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. What was it +like?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Like? +Nothing. A little blood, a dead man.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Blood! . . . +Dead! <i>He falls at table sobbing</i>. <span +class="smcap">Macaire</span> <i>divides the notes into two +parts</i>; <i>on the smaller he wipes the bloody knife</i>, +<i>and folding the stains inward</i>, <i>thrusts the notes +into</i> <span class="smcap">Bertrand’s</span> +<i>face</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. What is life without +the pleasures of the table!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>taking and pocketing +notes</i>). Macaire, I can’t get over it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. I +can’t. Did he bleed much?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Bleed? Must I +bleed you? To work, or I’m dangerous.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. It’s all +right, Macaire; I’m going.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Better so: an old +friend is nearly sacred. (<i>Full daylight: lights +up</i>. <span class="smcap">Macaire</span> <i>blows out +lantern</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Where’s the +key?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Key? I tell +you to pick it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>with the +box</i>). But it’s a patent lock. Where is the +key? You had it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Will you pick that +lock?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. I can’t: +it’s a patent. Where’s the key?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. If you will have it, +I put it back in that old ass’s pocket.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Bitten, I +think. (<span class="smcap">Macaire</span> <i>dancing +mad</i>.)</p> +<h4>SCENE II</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <span +class="smcap">Dumont</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Ah, friends, up so +early? Catching the worm, catching the worm?</p> +<p>(Sitting on the table dissembling box and dissembling box . . +.</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. +Good-morning, good-morning!</p> +<p class="gutindent"><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. +Early birds, early birds.</p> +<p>. . . )</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. By the way, very +remarkable thing: I found the key.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. No!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. O!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Perhaps a still more +remarkable thing: it was my key that had the twisted handle.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. I told you so.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Now, what we have to +do is to get the cash-box. Hallo! what’s that your +sitting on?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Nothing.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. The table! I +beg your pardon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Why, it’s my +cash-box!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Why, so it is!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. It’s very +singular.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Diabolishly +singular.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Early worms, early +worms!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span> (<i>blowing in +key</i>). Well, I suppose you are still willing to +begone?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span> (<i>at box</i>). +It’s very odd. (<i>Blows its key</i>.) +It’s a singular thing (<i>blowing</i>), key won’t +turn. It’s a patent. Some one must have +tampered with the lock (<i>blowing</i>). 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! (<i>more +business</i>). Well (<i>giving it up and looking +reproachfully on key</i>), that’s pretty singular.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Let me try. +(<i>He tries</i>, <i>and flings down the key with a +curse</i>.) Bitten.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Sold again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span> (<i>picking up +key</i>). It’s a patent key.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Bertrand</span>). The game’s up: we +must save the swag. (<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Dumont</span>.) 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. (<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Bertrand</span>.) Now, boy! (<i>To</i> +<span class="smcap">Dumont</span>.) Embrace my fatherless +child! farewell! (<span class="smcap">Macaire</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> <i>turn to go off +and are met in the door by the</i> <span +class="smcap">Gendarmes</span>.)</p> +<h4>SCENE III</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>To these</i>, <i>the</i> <span +class="smcap">Brigadier</span> <i>and</i> <span +class="smcap">Gendarmes</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Let no man leave +the house.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>aside</i>). +Bitten.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>aside</i>). Sold +again.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Welcome, old +friend!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. But I was led to +believe that both Macaire and his accomplice had been arrested +and condemned.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. They were, but +they have once more escaped for the moment, and justice is +indefatigable. (<i>He sits at table R.</i>) Dumont, a +bottle of white wine.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Dumont</span>). My excellent friend, I will +discharge your commission, and return with all speed. +(<i>Going</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Halt!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>returning: as if he +saw</i> <span class="smcap">Brigadier</span> <i>for the first +time</i>). 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Justice is +insensible to friendship. I shall deal with you in due +time. Dumont, that bottle.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. For God’s +sake! (<i>Enter</i> <span class="smcap">Aline</span> +<i>and</i> <span class="smcap">Maids</span>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Justice is +impartial. Gentlemen, your health.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Will not these brave +fellows join us?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. They are on duty; +but what matters?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. My dear sir, what is +duty? duty is my eye.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span> (<i>solemnly</i>). +And Betty Martin. (<span class="smcap">Gendarmes</span> +<i>sit at table</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Bertrand</span>). Dear friend, sit down.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>sitting +down</i>). O Lord!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Macaire</span>). You seem to be a gentleman +of considerable intelligence.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. I fear, sir, you +flatter. One has lived, one has loved, and one remembers: +that is all. One’s <i>Lives of Celebrated +Criminals</i> has met with a certain success, and one is ever in +quest of fresh material.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. By the way, a +singular thing about my patent key.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. This gentleman is +speaking.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Excellent Dumont! he +means no harm. This Macaire is not personally known to +you?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Are you connected +with justice?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Ah, sir, justice is +a point above a poor author.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span> (<i>with +glass</i>). Justice is the very devil.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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. (<i>He makes for the +door</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Halt!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Sir, what is this +jest?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Sentry at the +door. Your passports.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. My good man, with +all the pleasure in life. (Gives papers. <i>The</i> +<span class="smcap">Brigadier</span> <i>puts on spectacles</i>, +<i>and examines them</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>rising</i>, <i>and +passing round to</i> <span class="smcap">Macaire’s</span> +<i>other side</i>). It’s life and death: they must +soon find it.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>aside</i>). +Don’t I know? My heart’s like fire in my +body.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Your name is?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. It is; one’s +name is not unknown.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Justice exacts +your name.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. +Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de +Brest.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Your +profession?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Gentleman.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. No, but what is +your trade?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. I am an analytical +chymist.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Justice is +inscrutable. Your papers are in order. (<i>To</i> +<span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>.) Now, sir, and +yours?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. I feel kind of +ill.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Those are my +sentiments.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. I beg your pardon, +I—(<i>Gives papers</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Your name?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Napoleon.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. What? In +your passport it is written Bertrand.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. 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.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. The truth is +always best. Your profession?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. I am an orphan.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. What the +devil! (<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Macaire</span>.) Is your friend an idiot?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Pardon me, he is a +poet.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Poetry is a great +hindrance to the ends of justice. Well, take your +papers.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Then we may go?</p> +<h4>SCENE IV</h4> +<p><i>To these</i>, <span class="smcap">Charles</span>, <i>who is +seen on the gallery</i>, <i>going to the door of Number +Thirteen</i>. <i>Afterwards all the characters but the</i> +<span class="smcap">Notary</span> <i>and the</i> <span +class="smcap">Marquis</span></p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. One glass +more. (<span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> <i>touches</i> +<span class="smcap">Macaire</span>, <i>and points to</i> <span +class="smcap">Charles</span>, <i>who enters Number +Thirteen</i>).</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. No more, no more, no +more.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span> (<i>rising and taking</i> +<span class="smcap">Macaire</span> <i>by the arm</i>). I +stipulate!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Engagement in +Turin!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Turin?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Lyons, Lyons!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. For God’s +sake.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Well, +good-bye!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Good-bye, +good—</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span> (<i>from within</i>). +Murder! Help! (<i>Appearing</i>.) Help +here! The Marquis is murdered.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Stand to the +door. A man up there. (<i>A</i> <span +class="smcap">Gendarme</span> <i>hurries up staircase into Number +Thirteen</i>, <span class="smcap">Charles</span> <i>following +him</i>. <i>Enter on both sides of gallery the remaining +characters of the piece</i>, <i>except the</i> <span +class="smcap">Notary</span> <i>and the</i> <span +class="smcap">Marquis</span>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span> (<i>aside</i>). +Bitten, by God!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span> (<i>aside</i>). +Lost!</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span> (<i>to</i> <span +class="smcap">Dumont</span>). John Paul Dumont, I arrest +you.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. Do your duty, +officer. I can answer for myself and my own people.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. Yes, but these +strangers?</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dumont</span>. They are strangers to +me.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. I am an honest man: +I stand upon my rights: search me; or search this person, of whom +I know too little. (<i>Smiting his brow</i>.) By +heaven, I see it all! This morning—(<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Bertrand</span>.) How, sir, did you dare to +flaunt your booty in my very face? (<i>To</i> <span +class="smcap">Brigadier</span>.) He showed me notes; he was +up ere day; search him, and you’ll find. There stands +the murderer.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. O, Macaire! +(<i>He is seized and searched and the notes are found</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Brigadier</span>. There is blood +upon the notes. Handcuffs. (<span +class="smcap">Macaire</span> <i>edging towards the door</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Macaire, you may as +well take the bundle. (<span class="smcap">Macaire</span> +<i>is stopped by sentry</i>, <i>and comes front</i>, +<i>R.</i>)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span> +(<i>re-appearing</i>). Stop, I know the truth. (<i>He +comes down</i>.) Brigadier, my father is not dead. He +is not even dangerously hurt. He has spoken. There is +the would-be assassin.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Hell! (<i>He +darts across to the staircase</i>, <i>and turns on the second +step</i>, <i>flashing out the knife</i>.) Back, +hounds! (<i>He springs up the stair</i>, <i>and confronts +them from the top</i>.) Fools, I am Robert Macaire! +(<i>As</i> <span class="smcap">Macaire</span> <i>turns to +flee</i>, <i>he is met by the gendarme coming out of Number +Thirteen</i>; <i>he stands an instant checked</i>, <i>is shot +from the stage</i>, <i>and falls headlong backward down the +stair</i>. <span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>, <i>with a +cry</i>, <i>breaks from the gendarmes</i>, <i>kneels at his +side</i>, <i>and raises his head</i>.)</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Bertrand</span>. Macaire, Macaire, +forgive me. I didn’t blab; you know I didn’t +blab.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Macaire</span>. Sold again, old +boy. Sold for the last time; at least, the last time this +side death. Death—what is death? (<i>He +dies</i>.)</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">CURTAIN</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Printed by T. and A. <span +class="smcap">Constable</span>, Printers to His Majesty<br /> +at the Edinburgh University Press</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PLAYS OF W. E. HENLEY AND R. 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Hart + + + +INVICTUS + + +Out of the night that covers me, + Black as the pit from pole to pole, +I thank whatever gods may be + for my unconquerable soul. + +In the fell clutch of circumstance + I have not winced nor cried aloud. +Under the bludgeonings of chance + My head is bloody, but unbowed. + +Beyond this place of wrath and tears + Looms but the Horror of the shade, +And yet the menace of the years + Finds and shall find me unafraid. + +It matters not how strait the gate, + How charged with punishments the scroll, +I am the master of my fate: + I am the captain of my soul. + + + + + +The Plays of W. E. Henley and R. L. Stevenson + +Contents + + Deacon Brodie + Beau Austin + Admiral Guinea + Robert Macaire +------------------------------------------------------------- + +Play: 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, } C +APTAIN RIVERS, an English Highwayman. +HUNT, a Bow Street Runner. +A DOCTOR. +WALTER LESLIE. +MARY BRODIE, the Deacon's Sister. +JEAN WATT, the Deacon's Mistress. +VAGABONDS, OFFICERS OF THE WATCH, MEN-SERVANTS. + +The Scene is laid in Edinburgh. The Time is towards the close of +the Eighteenth Century. The Action, some fifty hours long, +begins at eight p.m. on Saturday and ends before midnight on +Monday. + +NOTE. - PASSAGES SUGGESTED FOR OMISSION IN REPRESENTATION ARE +ENCLOSED IN SQUARE BRACKETS, THUS [ ]. + +SYNOPSIS OF ACTS AND TABLEAUX + +ACT I. +TABLEAU I. The Double Life. +TABLEAU II. Hunt the Runner. +TABLEAU III. Mother Clarke's. +ACT II. +TABLEAU IV. Evil and Good. +ACT III. +TABLEAU V. King's Evidence. TABLEAU VI. Unmasked. +ACT IV. +TABLEAU VII. The Robbery. +ACT V. +TABLEAU VIII. The Open Door. + + +LONDON: PRINCE'S THEATRE 2D JULY 1884 + +DEACON BRODIE, MR. E. J. HENLEY. +WALTER LESLIE, MR. CHARLES CARTWRIGHT. +WILLIAM LAWSON, MR. JOHN MACLEAN. +ANDREW AINSLIE, MR. FRED DESMOND. +HUMPHREY MOORE, MR. EDMUND GRACE. +GEORGE SMITH, MR. JULIAN CROSS. +HUNT, MR. HUBERT AKHURST. +OLD BRODIE, MR. A. KNIGHT. +CAPTAIN RIVERS, MR. BRANDON THOMAS. +MARY BRODIE, MISS LIZZIE WILLIAMS. +JEAN WATT, MISS MINNIE BELL. + +MONTREAL 26TH SEPTEMBER 1887 + +DEACON BRODIE, MR. E. J. HENLEY. +WALTER LESLIE, MR. GRAHAM STEWART. +WILLIAM LAWSON, MR. EDMUND LYONS. +ANDREW AINSLIE, MR. FRED DESMOND. +HUMPHREY MOORE, MR. EDMUND GRACE. +GEORGE SMITH, MR. HORATIO SAKER. +HUNT, MR. HENRY VERNON. +CAPTAIN RIVERS, MR. BRUCE PHILIPS. +MARY BRODIE, MISS ANNIE ROBE. +JEAN WATT, MISS CARRIE COOTE. + + +ACT I. + +TABLEAU I. THE DOUBLE LIFE. + +The Stage represents a room in the Deacon's house, furnished +partly as a sitting-, partly as a bed-room, in the style of an +easy burgess of about 1780. C., a door; L. C., a second and +smaller door; R. C., practicable window; L., alcove, supposed to +contain bed; at the back, a clothes-press and a corner cupboard +containing bottles, etc. MARY BRODIE at needlework; OLD BRODIE, +a paralytic, in wheeled chair, at the fireside, L. + +SCENE I + +To these LESLIE, C. + +LESLIE. May I come in, Mary? + +MARY. Why not? + +LESLIE. I scarce knew where to find you. + +MARY. The dad and I must have a corner, must we not? So when my +brother's friends are in the parlour he allows us to sit in his +room. 'Tis a great favour, I can tell you; the place is sacred. + +LESLIE. Are you sure that 'sacred' is strong enough? + +MARY. You are satirical! + +LESLIE. I? And with regard to the Deacon? Believe me, I am not +so ill-advised. You have trained me well, and I feel by him as +solemnly as a true-born Brodie. + +MARY. And now you are impertinent! Do you mean to go any +further? We are a fighting race, we Brodies. Oh, you may laugh, +sir! But 'tis no child's play to jest us on our Deacon, or, for +that matter, on our Deacon's chamber either. It was his father's +before him: he works in it by day and sleeps in it by night; and +scarce anything it contains but is the labour of his hands. Do +you see this table, Walter? He made it while he was yet a +'prentice. I remember how I used to sit and watch him at his +work. It would be grand, I thought, to be able to do as he did, +and handle edge-tools without cutting my fingers, and getting my +ears pulled for a meddlesome minx! He used to give me his mallet +to keep and his nails to hold; and didn't I fly when he called +for them! and wasn't I proud to be ordered about with them! And +then, you know, there is the tall cabinet yonder; that it was +that proved him the first of Edinburgh joiners, and worthy to be +their Deacon and their head. And the father's chair, and the +sister's workbox, and the dear dead mother's footstool - what are +they all but proofs of the Deacon's skill, and tokens of the +Deacon's care for those about him? + +LESLIE. I am all penitence. Forgive me this last time, and I +promise you I never will again. + +MARY. Candidly, now, do you think you deserve forgiveness? + +LESLIE. Candidly, I do not. + +MARY. Then I suppose you must have it. What have you done with +Willie and my uncle? + +LESLIE. I left them talking deeply. The dear old Procurator has +not much thought just now for anything but those mysterious +burglaries - + +MARY. I know! - + +LESLIE. Still, all of him that is not magistrate and official is +politician and citizen; and he has been striving his hardest to +undermine the Deacon's principles, and win the Deacon's vote and +interest. + +MARY. They are worth having, are they not? + +LESLIE. The Procurator seems to think that having them makes the +difference between winning and losing. + +MARY. Did he say so? You may rely upon it that he knows. There +are not many in Edinburgh who can match with our Will. + +LESLIE. There shall be as many as you please, and not one more. + +MARY. How I should like to have heard you! What did uncle say? +Did he speak of the Town Council again? Did he tell Will what a +wonderful Bailie he would make? O why did you come away? + +LESLIE. I could not pretend to listen any longer. The election +is months off yet; and if it were not - if it were tramping +upstairs this moment - drums, flags, cockades, guineas, +candidates, and all! - how should I care for it? What are Whig +and Tory to me? + +MARY. O fie on you! It is for every man to concern himself in +the common weal. Mr. Leslie - Leslie of the Craig! - should know +that much at least. + +LESLIE. And be a politician like the Deacon? All in good time, +but not now. I hearkened while I could, and when I could no more +I slipped out and followed my heart. I hoped I should be +welcome. + +MARY. I suppose you mean to be unkind. + +LESLIE. Tit for tat. Did you not ask me why I came away? And +is it usual for a young lady to say 'Mr.' to the man she means to +marry? + +MARY. That is for the young lady to decide, sir. + +LESLIE. And against that judgment there shall be no appeal? + +MARY. O, if you mean to argue! - + +LESLIE. I do not mean to argue. I am content to love and be +loved. I think I am the happiest man in the world. + +MARY. That is as it should be; for I am the happiest girl. + +LESLIE. Why not say the happiest wife? I have your word, and +you have mine. Is not that enough? + +MARY. Have you so soon forgotten? Did I not tell you how it +must be as my brother wills? I can do only as he bids me. + +LESLIE. Then you have not spoken as you promised? + +MARY. I have been too happy to speak. + +LESLIE. I am his friend. Precious as you are, he will trust you +to me. He has but to know how I love you, Mary, and how your +life is all in your love of me, to give us his blessing with a +full heart. + +MARY. I am sure of him. It is that which makes my happiness +complete. Even to our marriage I should find it hard to say +'Yes' when he said 'No.' + +LESLIE. Your father is trying to speak. I'll wager he echoes +you. + +MARY (TO OLD BRODIE). My poor dearie! Do you want to say +anything to me? No? Is it to Mr. Leslie, then? + +LESLIE. I am listening, Mr. Brodie. + +MARY. What is it, daddie? + +OLD BRODIE. My son - the Deacon - Deacon Brodie - the first at +school. + +LESLIE. I know it, Mr. Brodie. Was I not the last in the same +class? (TO MARY.) But he seems to have forgotten us. + +MARY. O yes! his mind is wellnigh gone. He will sit for hours +as you see him, and never speak nor stir but at the touch of +Will's hand or the sound of Will's name. + +LESLIE. It is so good to sit beside you. By and by it will be +always like this. You will not let me speak to the Deacon? You +are fast set upon speaking yourself? I could be so eloquent, +Mary - I would touch him. I cannot tell you how I fear to trust +my happiness to any one else - even to you! + +MARY. He must hear of my good fortune from none but me. And +besides, you do not understand. We are not like families, we +Brodies. We are so clannish, we hold so close together. + +LESLIE. You Brodies, and your Deacon! + +OLD BRODIE. Deacon of his craft, sir - Deacon of the Wrights - +my son! If his mother - his mother - had but lived to see! + +MARY. You hear how he runs on. A word about my brother and he +catches it. 'Tis as if he were awake in his poor blind way to +all the Deacon's care for him and all the Deacon's kindness to +me. I believe he only lives in the thought of the Deacon. +There, it is not so long since I was one with him. But indeed I +think we are all Deacon-mad, we Brodies. Are we not, daddie +dear? + +BRODIE (WITHOUT, AND ENTERING). You are a mighty magistrate, +Procurator, but you seem to have met your match. + + +SCENE II + +To these, BRODIE and LAWSON. + +MARY (CURTSEYING). So, uncle! you have honoured us at last. + +LAWSON. QUAM PRIMUM, my dear, QUAM PRIMUM. + +BRODIE. Well, father, do you know me? (HE SITS BESIDE HIS +FATHER AND TAKES HIS HAND.) + +[OLD BRODIE. William - ay - Deacon. Greater man - than - his +father. + +BRODIE. You see, Procurator, the news is as fresh to him as it +was five years ago. He was struck down before he got the +Deaconship, and lives his lost life in mine. + +LAWSON. Ay, I mind. He was aye ettling after a bit handle to +his name. He was kind of hurt when first they made me +Procurator.] + +MARY. And what have you been talking of? + +LAWSON. Just o' thae robberies, Mary. Baith as a burgher and a +Crown offeecial, I tak' the maist absorbing interest in thae +robberies. + +LESLIE. Egad, Procurator, and so do I. + +BRODIE (WITH A QUICK LOOK AT LESLIE). A dilettante interest, +doubtless! See what it is to be idle. + +LESLIE. Faith, Brodie, I hardly know how to style it. + +BRODIE. At any rate, 'tis not the interest of a victim, or we +should certainly have known of it before; nor a practical tool- +mongering interest, like my own; nor an interest professional and +official, like the Procurator's. You can answer for that, I +suppose? + +LESLIE. I think I can; if for no more. It's an interest of my +own, you see, and is best described as indescribable, and of no +manner of moment to anybody. [It will take no hurt if we put off +its discussion till a month of Sundays.] + +BRODIE. You are more fortunate than you deserve. What do you +say, Procurator? + +LAWSON. Ay is he! There is no a house in Edinburgh safe. The +law is clean helpless, clean helpless! A week syne it was auld +Andra Simpson's in the Lawnmarket. Then, naething would set the +catamarans but to forgather privily wi' the Provost's ain butler, +and tak' unto themselves the Provost's ain plate. And the day, +information was laid before me offeecially that the limmers had +made infraction, VI ET CLAM, into Leddy Mar'get Dalziel's, and +left her leddyship wi' no sae muckle's a spune to sup her +parritch wi'. It's unbelievable, it's awful, it's +anti-christian! + +MARY. If you only knew them, uncle, what an example you would +make! But tell me, is it not strange that men should dare such +things, in the midst of a city, and nothing, nothing be known of +them - nothing at all? + +LESLIE. Little, indeed! But we do know that there are several +in the gang, and that one at least is an unrivalled workman. + +LAWSON. Ye're right, sir; ye're vera right, Mr. Leslie. It had +been deponed to me offeecially that no a tradesman - no the +Deacon here himsel' - could have made a cleaner job wi' Andra +Simpson's shutters. And as for the lock o' the bank - but that's +an auld sang. + +BRODIE. I think you believe too much, Procurator. Rumour's an +ignorant jade, I tell you. I've had occasion to see some little +of their handiwork - broken cabinets, broken shutters, broken +doors - and I find them bunglers. Why, I could do it better +myself! + +LESLIE. Gad, Brodie, you and I might go into partnership. I +back myself to watch outside, and I suppose you could do the work +of skill within? + +BRODIE. An opposition company? Leslie, your mind is full of +good things. Suppose we begin to-night, and give the +Procurator's house the honours of our innocence? + +MARY. You could do anything, you two! + +LAWSON. Onyway, Deacon, ye'd put your ill-gotten gains to a +right use; they might come by the wind but they wouldna gang wi' +the water; and that's aye A SOLATIUM, as we say. If I am to be +robbit, I would like to be robbit wi' decent folk; and no think +o' my bonnie clean siller dirling among jads and dicers. [Faith, +William, the mair I think on't, the mair I'm o' Mr. Leslie's +mind. Come the night, or come the morn, and I'se gie ye my free +permission, and lend ye a hand in at the window forbye! + +BRODIE. Come, come, Procurator, lead not our poor clay into +temptation. (LESLIE AND MARY TALK APART.) + +LAWSON. I'm no muckle afraid for your puir clay, as ye ca't.] +But hark i' your ear: ye're likely, joking apart, to be gey and +sune in partnership wi' Mr. Leslie. He and Mary are gey and +pack, a body can see that. + +[BRODIE. 'Daffin' and want o' wit' - you know the rest. + +LAWSON. VIDI, SCIVI, ET AUDIVI, as we say in a Sasine, William.] +Man, because my wig's pouthered do ye think I havena a green +heart? I was aince a lad mysel', and I ken fine by the glint o' +the e'e when a lad's fain and a lassie's willing. And, man, it's +the town's talk; COMMUNIS ERROR FIT JUS, ye ken. + +[OLD BRODIE. Oh! + +LAWSON. See, ye're hurting your faither's hand. + +BRODIE. Dear dad, it is not good to have an ill-tempered son. + +LAWSON. What the deevil ails ye at the match? 'Od, man, he has +a nice bit divot o' Fife corn-land, I can tell ye, and some +Bordeaux wine in his cellar! But I needna speak o' the Bordeaux; +ye'll ken the smack o't as weel's I do mysel'; onyway it's grand +wine. TANTUM ET TALE. I tell ye the PRO'S, find you the CON.'S, +if ye're able.] + +BRODIE. [I am sorry, Procurator, but I must be short with you.] +You are talking in the air, as lawyers will. I prefer to drop +the subject [and it will displease me if you return to it in my +hearing]. + +LESLIE. At four o'clock to-morrow? At my house? (TO MARY). + +MARY. As soon as church is done. (EXIT MARY.) + +LAWSON. Ye needna be sae high and mighty, onyway. + +BRODIE. I ask your pardon, Procurator. But we Brodies - you +know our failings! [A bad temper and a humour of privacy.] + +LAWSON. Weel, I maun be about my business. But I could tak' a +doch-an-dorach, William; SUPERFLUA NON NOCENT, as we say; an +extra dram hurts naebody, Mr. Leslie. + +BRODIE (WITH BOTTLE AND GLASSES). Here's your old friend, +Procurator. Help yourself, Leslie. Oh no, thank you, not any +for me. You strong people have the advantage of me there. With +my attacks, you know, I must always live a bit of a hermit's +life. + +LAWSON. 'Od, man, that's fine; that's health o' mind and body. +Mr. Leslie, here's to you, sir. 'Od, it's harder to end than to +begin wi' stuff like that. + + +SCENE III + +To these, SMITH and JEAN, C. + +SMITH. Is the king of the castle in, please? + +LAWSON (ASIDE). Lord's sake, it's Smith! + +BRODIE (TO SMITH). I beg your pardon? + +SMITH. I beg yours, sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. Brodie at +home, sir? + +BRODIE. What do you want with him, my man? + +SMITH. I've a message for him, sir, a job of work, sir! + +BRODIE (TO SMITH; REFERRING TO JEAN). And who is this? + +JEAN. I am here for the Procurator, about my rent. There's nae +offence, I hope, sir. + +LAWSON. It's just an honest wife I let a flat to in Libberton's +Wynd. It'll be for the rent? + +JEAN. Just that, sir. + +LAWSON. Weel, ye can just bide here a wee, and I'll step down +the road to my office wi' ye. (EXEUNT BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE, +C.) + + +SCENE IV + +SMITH, JEAN WATT, OLD BRODIE. + +SMITH (BOWING THEM OUT). Your humble and most devoted servant, +George Smith, Esquire. And so this is the garding, is it? And +this is the style of horticulture? Ha, it is! (AT THE MIRROR.) +In that case George's mother bids him bind his hair. (KISSES HIS +HAND.) My dearest Duchess, - (TO JEAN.) I say, Jean, there's a +good deal of difference between this sort of thing and the way we +does it in Libberton's Wynd. + +JEAN. I daursay. And what wad ye expeck? + +SMITH. Ah, Jean, if you'd cast affection's glance on this poor +but honest soger! George Lord S. is not the nobleman to cut the +object of his flame before the giddy throng; nor to keep her +boxed up in an old mouse-trap, while he himself is revelling in +purple splendours like these. He didn't know you, Jean: he was +afraid to. Do you call that a man? Try a man that is. + +JEAN. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I'll tak' nane o' that +sort of talk frae you. And what kind o' a man are you to even +yoursel' to the likes o' him? He's a gentleman. + +SMITH. Ah, ain't he just! And don't he live up to it? I say, +Jean, feel of this chair. + +JEAN. My! look at yon bed! + +SMITH. The carpet too! Axminster, by the bones of Oliver +Cromwell! + +JEAN. What a expense! + +SMITH. Hey, brandy! The deuce of the grape! Have a toothful, +Mrs. Watt. [(SINGS) - + +'Says Bacchus to Venus, +There's brandy between us, +And the cradle of love is the bowl, the bowl!'] + +JEAN. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith. + +SMITH. What brings the man from stuff like this to rotgut and +spittoons at Mother Clarke's; but ah, George, you was born for a +higher spear! And so was you, Mrs. Watt, though I say it that +shouldn't. (SEEING OLD BRODIE FOR THE FIRST TIME.) Hullo! it's +a man! + +JEAN. Thonder in the chair. (THEY GO TO LOOK AT HIM, THEIR +BACKS TO THE DOOR.) + +GEORGE. Is he alive? + +JEAN. I think there's something wrong with him. + +GEORGE. And how was you to-morrow, my valued old gentleman, eh? + +JEAN. Dinna mak' a mock o' him, Geordie. + +OLD BRODIE. My son - the Deacon - Deacon of his trade. + +JEAN. He'll be his feyther. (HUNT APPEARS AT DOOR C., AND +STANDS LOOKING ON.) + +SMITH. The Deacon's old man! Well, he couldn't expect to have +his quiver full of sich, could he, Jean? (TO OLD BRODIE.) Ah, +my Christian soldier, if you had, the world would have been more +varigated. Mrs. Deakin (TO JEAN), let me introduce you to your +dear papa. + +JEAN. Think shame to yoursel'! This is the Deacon's house; you +and me shouldna be here by rights; and if we are, it's the least +we can do to behave dacent. [This is no the way ye'll mak' me +like ye.] + +SMITH. All right, Duchess. Don't be angry. + + +SCENE V + +To these, HUNT, C. (He steals down, and claps each one suddenly +on the shoulder.) + +HUNT. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr. Procurator- +Fiscal? + +SMITH (PULLING HIMSELF TOGETHER). D-n it, Jerry, what do you +mean by startling an old customer like that? + +HUNT. What, my brave un'? You're the very party I was looking +for! + +SMITH. There's nothing out against me this time? + +HUNT. I'll take odds there is. But it ain't in my hands. (TO +OLD BRODIE.) You'll excuse me, old genelman? + +SMITH. Ah, well, if it's all in the way of friendship! . . . I +say, Jean, [you and me had best be on the toddle.] We shall be +late for church. + +HUNT. Lady, George? + +SMITH. It's a - yes, it's a lady. Come along, Jean. + +HUNT. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe? [That was the name, I think?] +Won't Mrs. Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz? + +JEAN (UNMUFFLING). I've naething to be ashamed of. My name's +Mistress Watt; I'm weel kennt at the Wynd heid; there's naething +again me. + +HUNT. No, to be sure, there ain't; and why clap on the blinkers, +my dear? You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like +Jerry Hunt that might be your born father? [But all this don't +tell me about Mr. Procurator-Fiscal.] + +GEORGE (IN AN AGONY). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (GOING WITH + +ATTEMPTED SWAGGER.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry. + + +SCENE VI + +To these, C, BRODIE and LAWSON (greatcoat, muffler, lantern). + +LAWSON (FROM THE DOOR). Come your ways, Mistress Watt. + +JEAN. That's the Fiscal himsel'. + +HUNT. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe? + +LAWSON. That's me. Who'll you be? + +HUNT. Hunt the Runner, sir; Hunt from Bow Street; English +warrant. + +LAWSON. There's a place for a' things, officer. Come your ways +to my office, with me and this guid wife. + +BRODIE (ASIDE TO JEAN, AS SHE PASSES WITH A CURTSEY). How dare +you be here? (ALOUD TO SMITH.) Wait you here, my man. + +SMITH. If you please, sir. (BRODIE GOES OUT, C.) + + +SCENE VII + +BRODIE, SMITH. + +BRODIE. What the devil brings you here? + +SMITH. 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). 'The graziers, split me! A mail, stap my +vitals! and seven demned farmers, by the Lard - ' + +BRODIE. By Gad! + +SMITH. Good for trade, ain't it? And we thought, Deakin, the +Badger and me, that coins being ever on the vanish, and you not +over sweet on them there lovely little locks at Leslie's, and +them there bigger and uglier marine stores at the Excise Office . +. . + +BRODIE (IMPASSIBLE). Go on. + +SMITH. Worse luck! . . . We thought, me and the Badger, you +know, that maybe you'd like to exercise your helbow with our free +and galliant horseman. + +BRODIE. The old move, I presume? the double set of dice? + +SMITH. That's the rig, Deakin. What you drop on the square you +pick up again on the cross. [Just as you did with G. S. and +Co.'s own agent and correspondent, the Admiral from Nantz.] You +always was a neat hand with the bones, Deakin. + +BRODIE. The usual terms, I suppose? + +SMITH. The old discount, Deakin. Ten in the pound for you, and +the rest for your jolly companions every one. [THAT'S the way WE +does it!] + +BRODIE. Who has the dice? + +SMITH. Our mutual friend, the Candleworm. + +BRODIE. You mean Ainslie? - We trust that creature too much, +Geordie. + +SMITH. He's all right, Marquis. He wouldn't lay a finger on his +own mother. Why, he's no more guile in him than a set of sheep's +trotters. + +[BRODIE. You think so? Then see he don't cheat you over the +dice, and give you light for loaded. See to that, George, see to +that; and you may count the Captain as bare as his last grazier. + +SMITH. The Black Flag for ever! George'll trot him round to +Mother Clarke's in two twos.] How long'll you be? + +BRODIE. The time to lock up and go to bed, and I'll be with you. +Can you find your way out? + +SMITH. Bloom on, my Sweet William, in peaceful array. Ta-ta. + + +SCENE VIII + +BRODIE, OLD BRODIE; to whom, MARY + +MARY. O Willie, I am glad you did not go with them. I have +something to tell you. If you knew how happy I am, you would +clap your hands, Will. But come, sit you down there, and be my +good big brother, and I will kneel here and take your hand. We +must keep close to dad, and then he will feel happiness in the +air. The poor old love, if we could only tell him! But I +sometimes think his heart has gone to heaven already, and takes a +part in all our joys and sorrows; and it is only his poor body +that remains here, helpless and ignorant. Come, Will, sit you +down, and ask me questions - or guess - that will be better, +guess. + +BRODIE. Not to-night, Mary; not to-night. I have other fish to +fry, and they won't wait. + +MARY. Not one minute for your sister? One little minute for +your little sister? + +BRODIE. Minutes are precious, Mary. I have to work for all of +us, and the clock is always busy. They are waiting for me even +now. Help me with the dad's chair. And then to bed, and dream +happy things. And to-morrow morning I will hear your news - your +good news; it must be good, you look so proud and glad. But +to-night it cannot be. + +MARY. I hate your business - I hate all business. To think of +chairs, and tables, and foot-rules, all dead and wooden - and +cold pieces of money with the King's ugly head on them; and here +is your sister, your pretty sister, if you please, with something +to tell, which she would not tell you for the world, and would +give the world to have you guess, and you won't? - Not you! For +business! Fie, Deacon Brodie! But I'm too happy to find fault +with you. + +BRODIE. 'And me a Deacon,' as the Procurator would say. + +MARY. No such thing, sir! I am not a bit afraid of you - nor a +bit angry neither. Give me a kiss, and promise me hours and +hours to-morrow morning. + +BRODIE. All day long to-morrow, if you like. + +MARY. Business or none? + +BRODIE. Business or none, little sister! I'll make time, I +promise you; and there's another kiss for surety. Come along. +(THEY PROCEED TO PUSH OUT THE CHAIR, L.C.) The wine and wisdom +of this evening have given me one of my headaches, and I'm in +haste for bed. You'll be good, won't you, and see they make no +noise, and let me sleep my fill to-morrow morning till I wake? + +MARY. Poor Will! How selfish I must have seemed! You should +have told me sooner, and I wouldn't have worried you. Come +along. + +(SHE GOES OUT, PUSHING CHAIR.) + + +SCENE IX + +BRODIE + +(HE CLOSES, LOCKS, AND DOUBLE-BOLTS BOTH DOORS) + +BRODIE. Now for one of the Deacon's headaches! Rogues all, +rogues all! (GOES TO CLOTHES-PRESS, AND PROCEEDS TO CHANGE HIS +COAT.) On with the new coat and into the new life! Down with +the Deacon and up with the robber! (CHANGING NECK-BAND AND +RUFFLES.) Eh God! how still the house is! There's something in +hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we seem, what would +the world be? [The city has its vizard on, and we - at night we +are our naked selves. Trysts are keeping, bottles cracking, +knives are stripping; and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the +man of men he is!] - How still it is! . . . My father and Mary - +Well! the day for them, the night for me; the grimy cynical night +that makes all cats grey, and all honesties of one complexion. +Shall a man not have HALF a life of his own? - not eight hours +out of twenty-four? [Eight shall he have should he dare the pit +of Tophet.] (TAKES OUT MONEY.) Where's the blunt? I must be +cool to-night, or . . . steady, Deacon, you must win; damn you, +you must! You must win back the dowry that you've stolen, and +marry your sister, and pay your debts, and gull the world a +little longer! (AS HE BLOWS OUT THE LIGHTS.) The Deacon's going +to bed - the poor sick Deacon! ALLONS! (THROWS UP THE WINDOW, +AND LOOKS OUT.) Only the stars to see me! (ADDRESSING THE BED.) +Lie there, Deacon! sleep and be well to-morrow. As for me, I'm a +man once more till morning. (GETS OUT OF THE WINDOW.) + + +TABLEAU II. HUNT THE RUNNER + +THE SCENE REPRESENTS THE PROCURATOR'S OFFICE. + +SCENE I + +LAWSON, HUNT + +[LAWSON (ENTERING). Step your ways in, Officer. (AT WING.) Mr. +Carfrae, give a chair to yon decent wife that cam' in wi' me. +Nae news? + +A VOICE WITHOUT. Naething, sir. + +LAWSON (SITTING). Weel, Officer, and what can I do for you?] + +HUNT. Well, sir, as I was saying, I've an English warrant for +the apprehension of one Jemmy Rivers, ALIAS Captain Starlight, +now at large within your jurisdiction. + +LAWSON. That'll be the highwayman? + +HUNT. That same, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. The Captain's given me +a hard hunt of it this time. I dropped on his marks first at +Huntingdon, but he was away North, and I had to up and after him. +I heard of him all along the York road, for he's a light hand on +the pad, has Jemmy, and leaves his mark. [I missed him at York +by four-and-twenty hours, and lost him for as much more. Then I +picked him up again at Carlisle, and we made a race of it for the +Border; but he'd a better nag, and was best up in the road; so I +had to wait till I ran him to earth in Edinburgh here and could +get a new warrant.] So here I am, sir. They told me you were an +active sort of gentleman, and I'm an active man myself. And Sir +John Fielding, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, he's an active gentleman, +likewise, though he's blind as a himage, and he desired his +compliments to you, [sir, and said that between us he thought +we'd do the trick]. + +LAWSON. Ay, he'll be a fine man, Sir John. Hand me owre your +papers, Hunt, and you'll have your new warrant QUAM PRIMUM. And +see here, Hunt, ye'll aiblins have a while to yoursel', and an +active man, as ye say ye are, should aye be grinding grist. +We're sair forfeuchen wi' our burglaries. NON CONSTAT DE +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 Scotch officers - him as was so polite as to +show me round to Mr. Brodie's - to give me full particulars about +the 'ouse, and the flash companions that use it. In his list I +drop on the names of two old lambs of my own; and I put it to +you, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, as a genleman as knows the world, if +what's a black sheep in London is likely or not to be keeping +school in Edinburgh? + +LAWSON. COELUM NON ANIMUM. A just observe. + +HUNT. I'll give it a thought, sir, and see if I can't kill two +birds with one stone. Talking of which, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, +I'd like to have a bit of a confab with that nice young woman as +came to pay her rent. + +LAWSON. Hunt, that's a very decent woman. + +HUNT. And a very decent woman may have mighty queer pals, Mr. +Procurator-Fiscal. Lord love you, sir, I don't know what the +profession would do without 'em! + +LAWSON. Ye're vera richt, Hunt. An active and a watchful +officer. I'll send her in till ye. + + +SCENE II + +HUNT (SOLUS) + +Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One burglary after +another, and these Scotch blockheads without a man to show for +it. Jock runs east, and Sawney cuts west; everything's at a +deadlock; and they go on calling themselves thief-catchers! [By +jingo, I'll show them how we do it down South! Well, I've worn +out a good deal of saddle leather over Jemmy Rivers; but here's +for new breeches if you like.] Let's have another queer at the +list. (READS.) 'Humphrey Moore, otherwise Badger; aged forty, +thick-set, dark, close-cropped; has been a prize-fighter; no +apparent occupation.' Badger's an old friend of mine, 'George +Smith, otherwise the Dook, otherwise Jingling Geordie; red-haired +and curly, slight, flash; an old thimble-rig; has been a +stroller; suspected of smuggling; an associate of loose women.' +G. S., Esquire, is another of my flock. 'Andrew Ainslie, +otherwise Slink Ainslie; aged thirty-five; thin, white-faced, +lank-haired; no occupation; has been in trouble for reset of +theft and subornation of youth; might be useful as king's +evidence.' That's an acquaintance to make. 'Jock Hamilton, +otherwise Sweepie,' and so on. ['Willie M'Glashan,' hum - yes, +and so on, and so on.] Ha! here's the man I want. 'William +Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights, about thirty; tall, slim, dark; +wears his own hair; is often at Clarke's, but seemingly for +purposes of amusement only; [is nephew to the Procurator-Fiscal; +is commercially sound, but has of late (it is supposed) been +short of cash; has lost much at cock-fighting;] is proud, clever, +of good repute, but is fond of adventures and secrecy, and keeps +low company.' Now, here's what I ask myself: here's this list +of the family party that drop into Mother Clarke's; it's been in +the hands of these nincompoops for weeks, and I'm the first to +cry Queer Street! Two well-known cracksmen, Badger and the Dook! +why, there's Jack in the Orchard at once. This here topsawyer +work they talk about, of course that's a chalk above Badger and +the Dook. But how about our Mohock-tradesman? 'Purposes of +amusement!' What next? Deacon of the Wrights? and wright in +their damned lingo means a kind of carpenter, I fancy? Why, +damme, it's the man's trade! I'll look you up, Mr. William +Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights. As sure as my name's Jerry Hunt, +I wouldn't take one-ninety-nine in gold for my chance of that +'ere two hundred! + + +SCENE III + +HUNT; to him JEAN + +HUNT. Well, my dear, and how about your gentleman friend now? +How about Deacon Brodie? + +JEAN. I dinna ken your name, sir, nor yet whae ye are; but this +is a very poor employ for ony gentleman - it sets ill wi' ony +gentleman to cast my shame in my teeth. + +HUNT. Lord love you, my dear, that ain't my line of country. +Suppose you're not married and churched a hundred thousand times, +what odds to Jerry Hunt? Jerry, my Pamela Prue, is a cove as +might be your parent; a cove renowned for the ladies' friend [and +he's dead certain to be on your side]. What I can't get over is +this: here's this Mr. Deacon Brodie doing the genteel at home, +and leaving a nice young 'oman like you - as a cove may say - to +take it out on cold potatoes. That's what I can't get over, Mrs. +Watt. I'm a family man myself; and I can't get over it. + +JEAN. And whae said that to ye? They lee'd whatever. I get +naething but guid by him; and I had nae richt to gang to his +house; and O, I just ken I've been the ruin of him! + +HUNT. Don't you take on, Mrs. Watt. Why, now I hear you piping +up for him, I begin to think a lot of him myself. I like a cove +to be open-handed and free. + +JEAN. Weel, sir, and he's a' that. + +HUNT. Well, that shows what a wicked world this is. Why, they +told me - . Well, well, 'here's the open 'and and the 'appy +'art.' And how much, my dear - speaking as a family man - now, +how much might your gentleman friend stand you in the course of a +year? + +JEAN. What's your wull? + +HUNT. That's a mighty fancy shawl, Mrs. Watt. [I should like to +take its next-door neighbour to Mrs. Hunt in King Street, Common +Garden.] What's about the figure? + +JEAN. It's paid for. Ye can sweir to that. + +HUNT. Yes, my dear, and so is King George's crown; but I don't +know what it cost, and I don't know where the blunt came from to +pay for it. + +JEAN. I'm thinking ye'll be a vera clever gentleman. + +HUNT. So I am, my dear; and I like you none the worse for being +artful yourself. But between friends now, and speaking as a +family man - + +JEAN. I'll be wishin' ye a fine nicht. (CURTSIES AND GOES OUT.) + + +SCENE IV + +HUNT (SOLUS) + +HUNT. Ah! that's it, is it? 'My fancy man's my 'ole delight,' +as we say in Bow Street. But which IS the fancy man? George the +Dock, or William the Deacon? One or both? (HE WINKS SOLEMNLY.) +Well, Jerry, my boy, here's your work cut out for you; but if you +took one-nine-five for that 'ere little two hundred you'd be a +disgrace to the profession. + + +TABLEAU III. MOTHER CLARKE'S + +SCENE I + +The Stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance: +settles, spittoons, etc.; sanded floor. A large table at back, +where AINSLIE, HAMILTON, and others are playing cards and +quarrelling. In front, L. and R. smaller tables, at one of which +are BRODIE and MOORE, drinking. MRS. CLARKE and women serving. + +MOORE. You've got the devil's own luck, Deacon, that's what +you've got. + +BRODIE. Luck! Don't talk of luck to a man like me! Why not say +I've the devil's own judgment? Men of my stamp don't risk - they +plan, Badger; they plan, and leave chance to such cattle as you +[and Jingling Geordie. They make opportunities before they take +them]. + +MOORE. You're artful, ain't you? + +BRODIE. Should I be here else? When I leave my house I leave an +ALIBI behind me. I'm ill - ill with a jumping headache, and the +fiend's own temper. I'm sick in bed this minute, and they're all +going about with the fear of death on them lest they should +disturb the poor sick Deacon. [My bedroom door is barred and +bolted like the bank - you remember! - and all the while the +window's open, and the Deacon's over the hills and far away. +What do you think of me?] + +MOORE. I've seen your sort before, I have. + +BRODIE. Not you. As for Leslie's - + +MOORE. That was a nick above you. + +BRODIE. Ay was it. He wellnigh took me red-handed; and that was +better luck than I deserved. If I'd not been drunk, and in my +tantrums, you'd never have got my hand within a thousand years of +such a job. + +MOORE. Why not? You're the King of the Cracksmen, ain't you? + +BRODIE. Why not! He asks me why not! Gods, what a brain it is! +Hark ye, Badger, it's all very well to be King of the Cracksmen, +as you call it; but however respectable he may have the +misfortune to be, one's friend is one's friend, and as such must +be severely let alone. What! shall there be no more honour among +thieves than there is honesty among politicians? Why, man, if +under heaven there were but one poor lock unpicked, and that the +lock of one whose claret you've drunk, and who has babbled of +woman across your own mahogany - that lock, sir, were entirely +sacred. Sacred as the Kirk of Scotland; sacred as King George +upon his throne; sacred as the memory of Bruce and Bannockburn. + +MOORE. Oh, rot! I ain't a parson, I ain't; I never had no +college education. Business is business. That's wot's the +matter with me. + +BRODIE. Ay, so we said when you lost that fight with Newcastle +Jemmy, and sent us all home poor men. That was a nick above YOU. + +MOORE. Newcastle Jemmy! Muck: that's my opinion of him: muck. +I'll mop the floor up with him any day, if so be as you or any on +'em 'll make it worth my while. If not, muck! That's my motto. +Wot I now ses is, about that 'ere crib at Leslie's, wos I right, +I ses? or wos I wrong? That's wot's the matter with you. + +BRODIE. You are both right and wrong. You dared me to do it. I +was drunk; I was upon my mettle; and I as good as did it. More +than that, black-guardly as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is +my friend. He had dined with me that day, and I felt like a man +in a story. I climbed his wall, I crawled along his pantry roof, +I mounted his window-sill. That one turn of my wrist - you know +it I - and the casement was open. It was as dark as the pit, and +I thought I'd won my wager, when, phewt! down went something +inside, and down went somebody with it. I made one leap, and was +off like a rocket. It was my poor friend in person; and if he'd +caught and passed me on to the watchman under the window, I +should have felt no viler rogue than I feel just now. + +MOORE. I s'pose he knows you pretty well by this time? + +BRODIE. 'Tis the worst of friendship. Here, Kirsty, fill these +glasses. Moore, here's better luck - and a more honourable +plant! - next time. + +MOORE. Deacon, I looks towards you. But it looks thundering +like rotten eggs, don't it? + +BRODIE. I think not. I was masked, for one thing, and for +another I was as quick as lightning. He suspects me so little +that he dined with me this very afternoon. + +MOORE. Anyway, you ain't game to try it on again, I'll lay odds +on that. Once bit, twice shy. That's your motto. + +BRODIE. Right again. I'll put my ALIBI to a better use. And, +Badger, one word in your ear: there's no Newcastle Jemmy about +ME. Drop the subject, and for good, or I shall drop you. (HE +RISES, AND WALKS BACKWARDS AND FORWARDS, A LITTLE UNSTEADILY. +THEN RETURNS, AND SITS L., AS BEFORE.) + + +SCENE II + +To these, HUNT, disguised He is disguised as a 'flying stationer' +with a patch over his eye. He sits at table opposite BRODIE'S +and is served with bread and cheese and beer. + +HAMILTON (FROM BEHIND). The deevil tak' the cairts! + +AINSLIE. Hoot, man, dinna blame the cairts. + +MOORE. Look here, Deacon, I mean business, I do. (HUNT LOOKS UP +AT THE NAME OF 'DEACON.') + +BRODIE. Gad, Badger, I never meet you that you do not. [You +have a set of the most commercial intentions!] You make me +blush. + +MOORE. That's all blazing fine, that is! But wot I ses is, wot +about the chips? That's what I ses. I'm after that thundering +old Excise Office, I am. That's my motto. + +BRODIE. 'Tis a very good motto, and at your lips, Badger, it +kind of warms my heart. But it's not mine. + +MOORE. Muck! why not? + +BRODIE. 'Tis too big and too dangerous. I shirk King George; he +has a fat pocket, but he has a long arm. [You pilfer sixpence +from him, and it's three hundred reward for you, and a hue and +cry from Tophet to the stars.] It ceases to be business; it +turns politics, and I'm not a politician, Mr. Moore. (RISING.) +I'm only Deacon Brodie. + +MOORE. All right. I can wait. + +BRODIE (SEEING HUNT). Ha, a new face, - and with a patch! +[There's nothing under heaven I like so dearly as a new face with +a patch.] Who the devil, sir, are you that own it? And where +did you get it? And how much will you take for it second-hand? + +HUNT. Well, sir, to tell you the truth (BRODIE BOWS) it's not +for sale. But it's my own, and I'll drink your honour's health +in anything. BRODIE. An Englishman, too! Badger, behold a +countryman. What are you, and what part of southern Scotland do +you come from? + +HUNT. Well, your honour, to tell you the honest truth - + +[BRODIE (BOWING). Your obleeged!] + +HUNT. I knows a gentleman when I sees him, your honour [and, to +tell your honour the truth - + +BRODIE. JE VOUS BAISE LES MAINS! (BOWING.)] + +HUNT. A gentleman as is a gentleman, your honour [is always a +gentleman, and to tell you the honest truth] - + +BRODIE. Great heavens! answer in three words, and be hanged to +you! What are you, and where are you from? + +HUNT. A patter-cove from Seven Dials. + +BRODIE. Is it possible? All my life long have I been pining to +meet with a patter-cove from Seven Dials! Embrace me, at a +distance. [A patter-cove from Seven Dials!] Go, fill yourself +as drunk as you dare, at my expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. +Clarke. He's a patter-cove from Seven Dials. Hillo! what's all +this? + +AINSLIE. Dod, I'm for nae mair! (AT BACK, AND RISING.) + +PLAYERS. Sit down, Ainslie. - Sit down, Andra. - Ma revenge! + +AINSLIE. Na, na, I'm for canny goin'. (COMING FORWARD WITH +BOTTLE.) Deacon, let's see your gless. + +BRODIE. Not an inch of it. + +MOORE. No rotten shirking, Deacon! + +[AINSLIE. I'm sayin', man, let's see your gless. + +BRODIE. Go to the deuce!] + +AINSLIE. But I'm sayin' - + +BRODIE. Haven't I to play to-night? + +AINSLIE. But, man, ye'll drink to bonnie Jean Watt? + +BRODIE. Ay, I'll follow you there. A LA REINE DE MES AMOURS! +(DRINKS.) What fiend put this in your way, you hound? You've +filled me with raw stuff. By the muckle deil! - + +MOORE. Don't hit him, Deacon; tell his mother. + +HUNT (ASIDE). Oho! + + +SCENE III + +To these, SMITH, RIVERS + +SMITH. Where's my beloved? Deakin, my beauty, where are you? +Come to the arms of George, and let him introduce you. Capting +Starlight Rivers! Capting, the Deakin: Deakin, the Capting. An +English nobleman on the grand tour, to open his mind, by the +Lard! + +RIVERS. Stupendiously pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. +Deakin, split me! + +[BRODIE. We don't often see England's heroes our way, Captain, +but when we do, we make them infernally welcome. + +RIVERS. Prettily put, sink me! A demned genteel sentiment, stap +my vitals!] + +BRODIE. Oh Captain! you flatter me. [We Scotsmen have our +qualities, I suppose, but we are but rough and ready at the best. +There's nothing like your Englishman for genuine distinction. He +is nearer France than we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. +That d-d thing, the JE NE SAIS QUOI, too! Lard, Lard, split me! +stap my vitals! O such manners are pure, pure, pure. They are, +by the shade of Claude Duval!] + +RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin [this is passatively too much]. +What will you sip? Give it the Hanar of a neam. + +BRODIE. By these most Hanarable hands now, Captain, you shall +not. On such an occasion I could play host with Lucifer +himself. Here, Clarke, Mother Midnight! Down with you, Captain! +(FORCING HIM BOISTEROUSLY INTO A CHAIR.) I don't know if you can +lie, but, sink me! you shall sit. (DRINKING, ETC., IN +DUMB-SHOW.) + +MOORE (ASIDE TO SMITH). We've nobbled him, Geordie! + +SMITH (ASIDE TO MOORE). As neat as ninepence! He's taking it +down like mother's milk. But there'll be wigs on the green +to-morrow, Badger! It'll be tuppence and toddle with George +Smith. + +MOORE. O muck! Who's afraid of him? (TO AINSLIE.) Hang on, +Slinkie. + +HUNT (WHO IS FEIGNING DRUNKENNESS, AND HAS OVERHEARD; ASIDE). By +jingo! + +[RIVERS. Will you sneeze, Mr. Deakin, sir? + +BRODIE. Thanks; I have all the vices, Captain. You must send me +some of your rappee. It is passatively perfect.] + +RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, I do myself the Hanar 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 Helbow - + +BRODIE. Where are the bones, Ainslie? Where are the dice, Lord +George? (AINSLIE GIVES THE DICE AND DICE-BOX TO BRODIE; AND +PRIVATELY A SECOND PAIR OF DICE.) Old Fortune's counters the +bonnie money-catching, money-breeding bones! Hark to their dry +music! Scotland against England! Sit round, you tame devils, +and put your coins on me! + +SMITH. Easy does it, my lord of high degree! Keep cool. + +BRODIE. Cool's the word, Captain - a cool twenty on the first? + +RIVERS. Done and done. (THEY PLAY.) + +HUNT (ASIDE TO MOORE, A LITTLE DRUNK). Ain't that 'ere Scotch +gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir? + +MOORE. You hold your jaw; that's what's the matter with you. + +AINSLIE. He's waur nor he looks. He's knockit the box aff the +table. + +SMITH (PICKING UP BOX). That's the way we does it. Ten to one +and no takers! + +BRODIE. Deuces again! More liquor, Mother Clarke! + +SMITH. Hooray our side! (POUTING OUT.) George and his pal for +ever! + +BRODIE. Deuces again, by heaven! Another? + +RIVERS. Done! + +BRODIE. Ten more; money's made to go. On with you! + +RIVERS. Sixes. + +BRODIE. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment? Double or quits? + +RIVERS. Drive on! Sixes. + +SMITH. Fire away, brave boys! (TO MOORE) It's Tally-ho-the- +Grinder, Hump! + +BRODIE. Treys! Death and the pit! How much have you got there? + +RIVERS. A cool forty-five. + +BRODIE. I play you thrice the lot. + +RIVERS. Who's afraid? + +SMITH. Stand by, Badger! + +RIVERS. Cinq-ace. + +BRODIE. My turn now. (HE JUGGLES IN AND USES THE SECOND PAIR OF +DICE.) Aces! Aces again! What's this? (PICKING UP DICE.) +Sold! . . . You play false, you hound! + +RIVERS. You lie! + +BRODIE. In your teeth. (OVERTURNS TABLE, AND GOES FOR HIM.) + +MOORE. Here, none o' that. (THEY HOLD HIM BACK. STRUGGLE.) + +SMITH. Hold on, Deacon! + +BRODIE. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I'll not touch him. +(STANDS WEIGHING DICE IN HIS HAND.) But as for that thieving +whinger, Ainslie, I'll cut his throat between this dark and +to-morrow's. To the bone. (ADDRESSING THE COMPANY.) Rogues, +rogues, rogues! (SINGING WITHOUT.) Ha! what's that? + +AINSLIE. It's the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver's. And +O Deacon, if ye're a Christian man - + +THE PSALM WITHOUT:- 'Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord, +Should'st mark iniquity? But yet with Thee forgiveness is, That +feared Thou may'st be.' + +BRODIE. I think I'll go. 'My son the Deacon was aye regular at +kirk.' If the old man could see his son, the Deacon! I think +I'll - Ay, who SHALL stand? There's the rub! And forgiveness, +too? There's a long word for you! I learnt it all lang syne, +and now . . . hell and ruin are on either hand of me, and the +devil has me by the leg. 'My son, the Deacon . . . !' Eh, God! +but there's no fool like an old fool! (BECOMING CONSCIOUS OF THE +OTHERS.) Rogues! + +SMITH. Take my arm, Deacon. + +BRODIE. Down, dog, down! [Stay and be drunk with your equals.] +Gentlemen and ladies, I have already cursed you pretty heavily. +Let me do myself the pleasure of wishing you - a very - good +evening. (AS HE GOES OUT, HUNT, WHO HAS BEEN STAGGERING ABOUT IN +THE CROWD, FALLS ON A SETTLE, AS ABOUT TO SLEEP.) + +ACT-DROP. + + +ACT II. + +TABLEAU. 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 +brokentocsin. + +SCENE I + +BRODIE (SOLUS). My head! my head! It's the sickness of the +grave. And those bells go on . . . go on! . . . inexorable as +death and judgment. [There they go; the trumpets of +respectability, sounding encouragement to the world to do and +spare not, and not to be found out. Found out! And to those who +are they toll as when a man goes to the gallows.] Turn where I +will are pitfalls hell-deep. Mary and her dowry; Jean and her +child - my child; the dirty scoundrel Moore; my uncle and his +trust; perhaps the man from Bow Street. Debt, vice, cruelty, +dishonour, crime; the whole canting, lying, double-dealing, +beastly business! 'My son the Deacon - Deacon of the Wrights!' +My thoughts sicken at it. [Oh the Deacon, the Deacon! Where's a +hat for the Deacon? where's a hat for the Deacon's headache? +(SEARCHING). This place is a piggery. To be respectable and not +to find one's hat.) + + +SCENE II + +To him, JEAN, a baby in her shawl. C. + +JEAN (WHO HAS ENTERED SILENTLY DURING THE DEACON'S LAST WORDS). +It's me, Wullie. + +BRODIE (TURNING UPON HER). What! You here again? [you again!] + +JEAN. Deacon, I'm unco vexed. + +BRODIE. Do you know what you do? Do you know what you risk? +[Is there nothing - nothing! - will make you spare me this +idiotic, wanton prosecution?] + +JEAN. I was wrong to come yestreen; I ken that fine. But the +day it's different; I but to come the day, Deacon, though I ken +fine it's the Sabbath, and I think shame to be seen upon the +streets. + +BRODIE. See here, Jean. You must go now. I come to you +to-night; I swear that. But now I'm for the road. + +JEAN. No till you've heard me, William Brodie. Do ye think I +came to pleasure mysel', where I'm no wanted? I've a pride o' my +ains. + +BRODIE. Jean, I am going now. If you please to stay on alone, +in this house of mine, where I wish I could say you are welcome, +stay (GOING). + +JEAN. It's the man frae Bow Street. + +BRODIE. Bow Street? + +JEAN. I thocht ye would hear me. Ye think little o' me; but +it's mebbe a braw thing for you that I think sae muckle o' +William Brodie . . . ill as it sets me. + +BRODIE. [You don't know what is on my mind, Jeannie, else you +would forgive me.] Bow Street? + +JEAN. It's the man Hunt: him that was here yestreen for the +Fiscal. + +BRODIE. Hunt? + +JEAN. He kens a hantle. He . . . Ye maunna be angered wi' me, +Wullie! I said what I shouldna. + +BRODIE. Said? Said what? + +JEAN. Just that ye were a guid frien' to me. He made believe he +was awful sorry for me, because ye gied me nae siller; and I +said, 'Wha tellt him that?' and that he lee'd. + +BRODIE. God knows he did! What next? + +JEAN. He was that soft-spoken, butter wouldna melt in his mouth; +and he keept aye harp, harpin'; but after that let out, he got +neither black nor white frae me. Just that ae word and nae mair; +and at the hinder end he just speired straucht out, whaur it was +ye got your siller frae. + +BRODIE. Where I got my siller? + +JEAN. Ay, that was it! 'You ken,' says he. + +BRODIE. Did he? and what said you? + +JEAN. I couldna think on naething, but just that he was a gey +and clever gentleman. + +BRODIE. You should have said I was in trade, and had a good +business. That's what you should have said. That's what you +would have said had you been worth your salt. But it's blunder, +blunder, outside and in [upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's +chamber]. You women! Did he see Smith? + +JEAN. Ay, and kennt him. + +BRODIE. Damnation! - No, I'm not angry with you. But you see +what I've to endure for you. Don't cry. [Here's the devil at +the door, and we must bar him out as best we can.] + +JEAN. God's truth, ye are nae vexed wi' me? + +BRODIE. God's truth, I am grateful to you. How is the child? +Well? That's right. (PEEPING.) Poor wee laddie! He's like +you, Jean. + +JEAN. I aye thocht he was liker you. + +BRODIE. Is he? Perhaps he is. Ah, Jeannie, you must see and +make him a better man than his father. + +JEAN. Eh man, Deacon, the proud wumman I'll be gin he's only +half sae guid. + +BRODIE. Well, well, if I win through this, we'll see what we can +do for him between us. (LEADING HER OUT, C.) And now, go - go - +go. + +LAWSON (WITHOUT, L.). I ken the way, I ken the way. + +JEAN (STARRING TO DOOR). It's the Fiscal; I'm awa. (BRODIE, +L.). + + +SCENE III + +To these, LAWSON, L. + +LAWSON. A braw day this, William. (SEEING JEAN.) Eh Mistress +Watt? And what'll have brocht you here? + +BRODIE (SEATED ON BENCH). Something, uncle, she lost last night, +and she thinks that something she lost is here. 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 Liberton's Wynd. Her +man's awa, puir body; or they tell me sae; and I'm concerned for +her [she's unco bonnie to be left her lane]. But it sets me +brawly to be finding faut wi' the puir lass, and me an elder, and +should be at the plate. [There'll be twa words about this in the +Kirk Session.] However, it's nane of my business that brings me, +or I should tak' the mair shame to mysel'. Na, sir, it's for +you; it's your business keeps me frae the kirk. + +BRODIE. My business, Procurator? I rejoice to see it in such +excellent hands. + +LAWSON. Ye see, it's this way. I had a crack wi' the laddie, +Leslie, INTER POCULA (he took a stirrup-cup wi' me), and he tells +me he has askit Mary, and she was to speak to ye hersel'. O, ye +needna look sae gash. Did she speak? and what'll you have said +to her? + +BRODIE. She has not spoken; I have said nothing; and I believe I +asked you to avoid the subject. + +LAWSON. Ay, I made a note o' that observation, William [and +assoilzied mysel']. Mary's a guid lass, and I'm her uncle, and +I'm here to be answered. Is it to be ay or no? + +BRODIE. It's to be no. This marriage must be quashed; and hark +ye, Procurator, you must help me. + +LAWSON. Me? ye're daft! And what for why? + +BRODIE. Because I've spent the trust-money, and I can't refund +it. + +LAWSON. Ye reprobate deevil! + +BRODIE. Have a care, Procurator. No wry words! + +LAWSON. Do you say it to my face, sir? Dod, sir, I'm the Crown +Prosecutor. + +BRODIE. Right. The Prosecutor for the Crown. And where did you +get your brandy? + +LAWSON. Eh? + +BRODIE. Your brandy! Your brandy man! Where do you get your +brandy? And you a Crown official and an elder! + +LAWSON. Whaur the deevil did ye hear that? + +BRODIE. Rogues all! Rogues all, Procurator! + +LAWSON. Ay, ay. Lord save us! Guidsake, to think o' that noo! +. . . Can ye give me some o' that Cognac? I'm . . . . . I'm sort +o' shaken, William, I'm sort o' shaken. Thank you, William! +(LOOKING, PITEOUSLY AT GLASS.) NUNC EST BIBENDUM. (DRINKS.) +Troth, I'm set ajee a bit. Wha the deevil tauld ye? + +BRODIE. Ask no questions, brother. We are a pair. + +LAWSON. Pair, indeed! Pair, William Brodie! Upon my saul, sir, +ye're a brazen-faced man that durst say it to my face! Tak' you +care, my bonnie young man, that your craig doesna feel the wecht +o' your hurdies. Keep the plainstanes side o' the gallows. VIA +TRITA, VIA TUTA, William Brodie! + +BRODIE. And the brandy, Procurator? and the brandy? + +LAWSON. Ay . . . weel . . . be't sae! Let the brandy bide, man, +let the brandy bide! But for you and the trust-money . . . +damned! It's felony. TUTOR IN REM SUAM, ye ken, TUTOR IN REM +SUAM. But O man, Deacon, whaur is the siller? + +BRODIE. It's gone - O how the devil should I know? But it'll +never come back. + +LAWSON. Dear, dear! A' gone to the winds o' heaven! Sae ye're +an extravagant dog, too. PRODIGUS ET FURIOSUS! And that puir +lass - eh, Deacon, man, that puir lass! I mind her such a bonny +bairn. + +BRODIE (STOPPING HIS EARS). Brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy, +brandy + +LAWSON. William Brodie, mony's the long day that I've believed +in you; prood, prood was I to be the Deacon's uncle; and a sore +hearing have I had of it the day. That's past; that's past like +Flodden Field; it's an auld sang noo, and I'm an aulder man than +when I crossed your door. But mark ye this - mark ye this, +William Brodie, I may be no sae guid's I should be; but there's +no a saul between the east sea and the wast can lift his een to +God that made him, and say I wranged him as ye wrang that lassie. +I bless God, + +William Brodie - ay, though he was like my brother - I bless God +that he that got ye has the hand of death upon his hearing, and +can win into his grave a happier man than me. And ye speak to +me, sir? Think shame - think shame upon your heart! + +BRODIE. Rogues all! + +LAWSON. You're the son of my sister, William Brodie. Mair than +that I stop not to inquire. If the siller is spent, and the +honour tint - Lord help us, and the honour tint! - sae be it, I +maun bow the head. Ruin shallna come by me. Na, and I'll say +mair, William; we have a' our weary sins upon our backs, and +maybe I have mair than mony. But, man, if ye could bring HALF +the jointure . . . [POTIUS QUAM PEREAS] . . . for your mither's +son? Na? You couldna bring the half? Weel, weel, it's a sair +heart I have this day, a sair heart and a weary. If I were a +better man mysel' . . . but there, there, it's a sair heart that +I have gotten. And the Lord kens I'll help ye if I can. [POTIUS +QUAM PEREAS.] + + +SCENE V + +BRODIE. Sore hearing, does he say? My hand's wet. But it's +victory. Shall it be go? or stay? [I should show them all I +can, or they may pry closer than they ought.] Shall I have it +out and be done with it? To see Mary at once [to carry bastion +after bastion at the charge] - there were the true safety after +all! Hurry - hurry's the road to silence now. Let them once get +tattling in their parlours, and it's death to me. For I'm in a +cruel corner now. I'm down, and I shall get my kicking soon and +soon enough. I began it in the lust of life, in a hey-day of +mystery and adventure. I felt it great to be a bolder, craftier +rogue than the drowsy citizen that called himself my fellow-man. +[It was meat and drink to know him in the hollow of my hand, +hoarding that I and mine might squander, pinching that we might +wax fat.] It was in the laughter of my heart that I tip-toed +into his greasy privacy. I forced the strong-box at his ear +while he sprawled beside his wife. He was my butt, my ape, my +jumping-jack. And now . . . O fool, fool! [Duped by such knaves +as are a shame to knavery, crime's rabble, hell's +tatterdemalions!] Shorn to the quick! Rooked to my vitals! And +I must thieve for my daily bread like any crawling blackguard in +the gutter. And my sister . . . my kind, innocent sister! She +will come smiling to me with her poor little love-story, and I +must break her heart. Broken hearts, broken lives! . . . I +should have died before. + + +SCENE VI + +BRODIE, MARY + +MARY (TAPPING WITHOUT). Can I come in, Will? + +BRODIE. O yes, come in, come in! (MARY ENTERS.) I wanted to be +quiet, but it doesn't matter, I see. You women are all the same. + +MARY. O no, Will, they're not all so happy, and they're not all +Brodies. But I'll be a woman in one thing. For I've come to +claim your promise, dear; and I'm going to be petted and +comforted and made much of, altho' I don't need it, and . . . +Why, Will, what's wrong with you? You look . . . I don't know +what you look like. + +BRODIE. O nothing! A splitting head and an aching heart. Well! +you've come to speak to me. Speak up. What is it? Come, girl! +What is it? Can't you speak? + +MARY. Why, Will, what is the matter? + +BRODIE. I thought you had come to tell me something. Here I am. +For God's sake out with it, and don't stand beating about the +bush. + +MARY. O be kind, be kind to me. + +BRODIE. Kind? I am kind. I'm only ill and worried, can't you +see? Whimpering? I knew it! Sit down, you goose! Where do you +women get your tears? + +MARY. Why are you so cross with me? Oh, Will, you have forgot +your sister! Remember, dear, that I have nobody but you. It's +your own fault, Will, if you've taught me to come to you for +kindness, for I always found it. And I mean you shall be kind to +me again. I know you will, for this is my great need, and the +day I've missed my mother sorest. Just a nice look, dear, and a +soft tone in your voice, to give me courage, for I can tell you +nothing till I know that you're my own brother once again. + +BRODIE. If you'd take a hint, you'd put it off till to-morrow. +But I suppose you won't. On, then, I'm listening. I'm +listening! + +MARY. Mr. Leslie has asked me to be his wife. + +BRODIE. He has, has he? + +MARY. And I have consented. + +BRODIE. And ...? + +MARY. You can say that to me? And that is all you have to say? + +BRODIE. O no, not all. + +MARY. Speak out, sir. I am not afraid. + +BRODIE. I suppose you want my consent? + +MARY. Can you ask? + +BRODIE. I didn't know. You seem to have got on pretty well +without it so far. + +MARY. O shame on you! shame on you! + +BRODIE. Perhaps you may be able to do without it altogether. I +hope so. For you'll never have it. ... Mary! ... I hate to see +you look like that. If I could say anything else, believe me, I +would say it. But I have said all; every word is spoken; there's +the end. + +MARY. It shall not be the end. You owe me explanation; and I'll +have it. + +BRODIE. Isn't my 'No' enough, Mary? + +MARY. It might be enough for me; but it is not, and it cannot +be, enough for him. He has asked me to be his wife; he tells me +his happiness is in my hands - poor hands, but they shall not +fail him, if my poor heart should break! If he has chosen and +set his hopes upon me, of all women in the world, I shall find +courage somewhere to be worthy of the choice. And I dare you to +leave this room until you tell me all your thoughts - until you +prove that this is good and right. + +BRODIE. Good and right? They are strange words, Mary. I mind +the time when it was good and right to be your father's daughter +and your brother's sister . . . Now! . . . + +MARY. Have I changed? Not even in thought. My father, Walter +says, shall live and die with us. He shall only have gained +another son. And you - you know what he thinks of you; you know +what I would do for you. + +BRODIE. Give him up. + +MARY. I have told you: not without a reason. + +BRODIE. You must. + +MARY. I will not. + +BRODIE. What if I told you that you could only compass your +happiness and his at the price of my ruin? + +MARY. Your ruin? + +BRODIE. Even so. + +MARY. Ruin! + +BRODIE. It has an ugly sound, has it not? + +MARY. O Willie, what have you done? What have you done? What +have you done? + +BRODIE. I cannot tell you, Mary. But you may trust me. You +must give up this Leslie . . . and at once. It is to save me. + +MARY. I would die for you, dear, you know that. But I cannot be +false to him. Even for you, I cannot be false to him. + +BRODIE. We shall see. Let me take you to your room. Come. +And, remember, it is for your brother's sake. It is to save me. + +MARY. I am true Brodie. Give me time, and you shall not find me +wanting. But it is all so sudden ... so strange and dreadful! +You will give me time, will you not? I am only a woman, and ... +O my poor Walter! It will break his heart! It will break his +heart! (A KNOCK.) + +BRODIE. You hear! + +MARY. Yes, yes. Forgive me. I am going. I will go. It is to +save you, is it not? To save you. Walter . . . Mr. Leslie ... O +Deacon, Deacon, God forgive you! (SHE GOES OUT.) + +BRODIE. Amen. But will He? + + +SCENE VII + +BRODIE, HUNT + +HUNT (HAT IN HAND). Mr. Deacon Brodie, I believe? + +BRODIE. I am he, Mr. - + +HUNT. Hunt, sir; an officer from Sir John Fielding of Bow +Street. + +BRODIE. There can be no better passport than the name. In what +can I serve you? + +HUNT. You'll excuse me, Mr. Deacon. + +BRODIE. Your duty excuses you, Mr. Hunt. + +HUNT. Your obedient. The fact is, Mr. Deacon [we in the office +see a good deal of the lives of private parties; and I needn't +tell a gentleman of your experience it's part of our duty to hold +our tongues. Now], it's come to my knowledge that you are a +trifle jokieous. Of course I know there ain't any harm in that. +I've been young myself, Mr. Deacon, and speaking - + +BRODIE. O, but pardon me. Mr. Hunt, I am not going to discuss +my private character with you. + +HUNT. To be sure you ain't. [And do I blame you? Not me.] +But, speaking as one man of the world to another, you naturally +see a great deal of bad company. + +BRODIE. Not half so much as you do. But I see what you're +driving at; and if I can illuminate the course of justice, you +may command me. (HE SITS, AND MOTIONS HUNT TO DO LIKEWISE.) + +HUNT. I was dead sure of it; and 'and upon 'art, Mr. Deacon, I +thank you. Now (CONSULTING POCKET-BOOK), did you ever meet a +certain George Smith? + +BRODIE. The fellow they call Jingling Geordie? (HUNT NODS.) +Yes. + +HUNT. Bad character. + +BRODIE. Let us say . . . disreputable. + +HUNT. Any means of livelihood? + +BRODIE. I really cannot pretend to guess, I have met the +creature at cock-fights [which, as you know, are my weakness]. +Perhaps he bets. + +HUNT. [Mr. Deacon, from what I know of the gentleman, I should +say that if he don't - if he ain't open to any mortal thing - he +ain't the man I mean.] He used to be about with a man called +Badger Moore. + +BRODIE. The boxer? + +HUNT. That's him. Know anything of him? + +BRODIE. Not much. I lost five pieces on him in a fight; and I +fear he sold his backers. + +HUNT. Speaking as one admirer of the noble art to another, Mr. +Deacon, the losers always do. I suppose the Badger cockfights +like the rest of us? + +BRODIE. I have met him in the pit. + +HUNT. Well, it's a pretty sport. I'm as partial to a main as +anybody. + +BRODIE. It's not an elegant taste, Mr. Hunt. + +HUNT. It costs as much as though it was. And that reminds me, +speaking as one sportsman to another, Mr. Deacon, I was sorry to +hear that you've been dropping a hatful of money lately. + +BRODIE. You are very good. + +HUNT. Four hundred in three months, they tell me. + +BRODIE. Ah! + +HUNT. So they say, sir. + +BRODIE. They have a perfect right to say so, Mr. Hunt. + +HUNT. And you to do the other thing? Well, I'm a good hand at +keeping close myself. + +BRODIE. I am not consulting you, Mr. Hunt; 'tis you who are +consulting me. And if there is nothing else (RISING) in which I +can pretend to serve you . . . ? + +HUNT (RISING). That's about all, sir, unless you can put me on +to anything good in the way of heckle and spur? I'd try to look +in. + +BRODIE. O, come, Mr. Hunt, if you have nothing to do, frankly +and flatly I have. This is not the day for such a conversation; +and so good-bye to you. (A KNOCKING, C.) + +HUNT. Servant, Mr. Deacon. (SMITH AND MOORE, WITHOUT WAITING TO +BE ANSWERED, OPEN AND ENTER, C. THEY ARE WELL INTO THE ROOM +BEFORE THEY OBSERVE HUNT.) [Talk of the Devil, sir!] + +BRODIE. What brings you here? (SMITH AND MOORE, CONFOUNDED BY +THE OFFICER'S PRESENCE, SLOUCH TOGETHER TO RIGHT OF DOOR. HUNT, +STOPPING AS HE GOES OUT, CONTEMPLATES THE PAIR, SARCASTICALLY. +THIS IS SUPPORTED BY MOORE WITH SULLEN BRAVADO; BY SMITH, WITH +CRINGING AIRINESS.) + +HUNT (DIGGING SMITH IN THE RIBS). Why, you are the very parties +I was looking for! (HE GOES OUT, C.) + + +SCENE VIII + +BRODIE, MOORE, SMITH + +MOORE. Wot was that cove here about? + +BRODIE (WITH FOLDED ARMS, HALF-SITTING ON BENCH). He was here +about you. + +SMITH (STILL QUITE DISCOUNTENANCED). About us? Scissors! And +what did you tell him? + +BRODIE (SAME ATTITUDE). I spoke of you as I have found you. [I +told him you were a disreputable hound, and that Moore had +crossed a fight.] I told him you were a drunken ass, and Moore +an incompetent and dishonest boxer. + +MOORE. Look here, Deacon! Wot's up? Wot I ses is, if a cove's +got any thundering grudge agin a cove, why can't he spit it out, +I ses. + +BRODIE. Here are my answers (PRODUCING PURSE AND DICE). These +are both too light. This purse is empty, these dice are not +loaded. Is it indiscretion to inquire how you share? Equal with +the Captain, I presume? + +SMITH. It's as easy as my eye, Deakin. Slink Ainslie got +letting the merry glass go round, and didn't know the right bones +from the wrong. That's Hall. + +BRODIE. [What clumsy liars you are! + +SMITH. In boyhood's hour, Deakin, he were called Old Truthful. +Little did he think -] + +BRODIE. What is your errand? + +MOORE. Business. + +SMITH. After the melancholy games of last night, Deakin, which +no one deplores so much as George Smith, we thought we'd trot +round - didn't us, Hump? and see how you and your bankers was +a-getting on. + +BRODIE. Will you tell me your errand? + +MOORE. You're dry, ain't you? + +BRODIE. Am I? + +MOORE. We ain't none of us got a stiver, that's wot's the matter +with us. + +BRODIE. Is it? + +MOORE. Ay, strike me, it is! And wot we've got to is to put up +the Excise. + +SMITH. It's the last plant in the shrubbery Deakin, and it's +breaking George the gardener's heart, it is. We really must! + +BRODIE. Must we? + +MOORE. Must's the thundering word. I mean business, I do. + +BRODIE. That's lucky. I don't. + +MOORE. O, you don't, don't you? + +BRODIE. I do not. + +MOORE. Then p'raps you'll tell us wot you thundering well do? + +BRODIE. What do I mean? I mean that you and that merry-andrew +shall walk out of this room and this house. Do you suppose, you +blockheads, that I am blind? I'm the Deacon, am I not? I've +been your king and your commander. I've led you, and fed you, +and thought for you with this head. And you think to steal a +march upon a man like me? I see you through and through [I know +you like the clock]; I read your thoughts like print. Brodie, +you thought, has money, and won't do the job. Therefore, you +thought, we must rook him to the heart. And therefore, you put +up your idiot cockney. And now you come round, and dictate, and +think sure of your Excise? Sure? Are you sure I'll let you pack +with a whole skin? By my soul, but I've a mind to pistol you +like dogs. Out of this! Out, I say, and soil my home no more. + +MOORE (SITTING). Now look 'ere. Mr. bloody Deacon Brodie, you +see this 'ere chair of yours, don't you? Wot I ses to you is, +here I am, I ses, and here I mean to stick. That's my motto. +Who the devil are you to do the high and mighty? You make all +you can out of us, don't you? and when one of your plants get +cross, you order us out of the ken? Muck! That's wot I think of +you. Muck! Don't you get coming the nob over me, Mr. Deacon +Brodie, or I'll smash you. + +BRODIE. You will? + +MOORE. Ay will I. If I thundering well swing for it. And as +for clearing out? Muck! Here I am, and here I stick. Clear +out? You try it on. I'm a man, I am. + +BRODIE. This is plain speaking. + +MOORE. Plain? Wot about your father as can't walk? Wot about +your fine-madam sister? Wot about the stone-jug, and the dock, +and the rope in the open street? Is that plain? If it ain't, +you let me know, and I'll spit it out so as it'll raise the roof +off this 'ere ken. Plain! I'm that cove's master, and I'll make +it plain enough for him. + +BRODIE. What do you want of me? + +MOORE. Wot do I want of you? Now you speak sense. Leslie's is +wot I want of you. The Excise is wot I want of you. Leslie's +to-night and the Excise to-morrow. That's wot I want of you, and +wot I thundering well mean to get. + +BRODIE. Damn you! + +MOORE. Amen. But you've got your orders. + +BRODIE (WITH PISTOL). Orders? hey? orders? + +SMITH (BETWEEN THEM). Deacon, Deacon! - Badger, are you mad? + +MOORE. Muck! That's my motto. Wot I ses is, has he got his +orders or has he not? That's wot's the matter with him. + +SMITH. Deacon, half a tick. Humphrey, I'm only a light weight, +and you fight at twelve stone ten, but I'm damned if I'm going to +stand still and see you hitting a pal when he's down. + +MOORE. Muck! That's wot I think of you. + +SMITH. He's a cut above us, ain't he? He never sold his +backers, did he? We couldn't have done without him, could we? +You dry up about his old man, and his sister; and don't go on +hitting a pal when he's knocked out of time and cannot hit back, +for, damme, I will not stand it. + +MOORE. Amen to you. But I'm cock of this here thundering walk, +and that cove's got his orders. + +BRODIE (PUTTING PISTOL ON BENCH). I give in. I will do your +work for you once more. Leslie's to-night and the Excise +to-morrow. If that is enough, if you have no more . . . orders, +you may count it as done. + +MOORE. Fen larks. No rotten shirking, mind. + +BRODIE. I have passed you my word. And now you have said what +you came to say, you must go. I have business here; but two +hours hence I am at your ... orders. Where shall I await you? + +MOORE. What about that woman's place of yours? + +BRODIE. Your will is my law. + +MOORE. That's good enough. Now, Dock. + +SMITH. Bye-bye, my William. Don't forget. + + +SCENE IX + +BRODIE. Trust me. No man forgets his vice, you dogs, or +forgives it either. It must be done: Leslie's to-night and the +Excise to-morrow. It shall be done. This settles it. They used +to fetch and carry for me, and now . . . I've licked their boots, +have I? I'm their man, their tool, their chattel. It's the +bottom rung of the ladder of shame. I sound with my foot, and +there's nothing underneath but the black emptiness of damnation. +Ah, Deacon, Deacon, and so this is where you've been travelling +all these years; and it's for this that you learned French! The +gallows . . . God help me, it begins to dog me like my shadow. +THERE'S a step to take! And the jerk upon your spine! How's a +man to die with a night-cap on? I've done with this. Over +yonder, across the great ocean, is a new land, with new +characters, and perhaps new lives. The sun shines, and the bells +ring, and it's a place where men live gladly; and the Deacon +himself can walk without terror, and begin again like a new-born +child. It must be good to see day again and not to fear; it must +be good to be one's self with all men. Happy like a child, wise +like a man, free like God's angels . . . should I work these +hands off and eat crusts, there were a life to make me young and +good again. And it's only over the sea! O man, you have been +blind, and now your eyes are opened. It was half a life's +nightmare, and now you are awake. Up, Deacon, up, it's hope +that's at the window! Mary! Mary! Mary! + + +SCENE X + +BRODIE, MARY, OLD BRODIE + +(BRODIE has fallen into a chair, with his face upon the table. +Enter MARY, by the side door pushing her father's chair. She is +supposed to have advanced far enough for stage purposes before +BRODIE is aware of her. He starts up, and runs to her.) + +BRODIE. Look up, my lass, look up, and be a woman! I . . . O +kiss me, Mary I give me a kiss for my good news. + +MARY. Good news, Will? Is it changed? + +BRODIE. Changed? Why, the world's a different colour! It was +night, and now it's broad day and I trust myself again. You must +wait, dear, wait, and I must work and work; and before the week +is out, as sure as God sees me, I'll have made you happy. O you +may think me broken, hounds, but the Deacon's not the man to be +run down; trust him, he shall turn a corner yet, and leave you +snarling! And you, Poll, you. I've done nothing for you yet; +but, please God, I'll make your life a life of gold; and wherever +I am, I'll have a part in your happiness, and you'll know it, by +heaven! and bless me. + +MARY. O Willie, look at him; I think he hears you, and is trying +to be glad with us. + +BRODIE. My son - Deacon - better man than I was. + +BRODIE. O for God's sake, hear him! + +MARY. He is quite happy, Will, and so am I ... so am I. + +BRODIE. Hear me, Mary. This is a big moment in our two lives. +I swear to you by the father here between us that it shall not be +fault of mine if this thing fails; if this ship founders you have +set your hopes in. I swear it by our father; I swear it by God's +judgments. + +MARY. I want no oaths, Will. + +BRODIE. No, but I do. And prayers, Mary, prayers. Pray night +and day upon your knees. I must move mountains. + +OLD BRODIE. A wise son maketh - maketh - + +BRODIE. A glad father? And does your son, the Deacon, make you +glad? O heaven of heavens, if I were a good man. + +ACT-DROP + + +ACT III. + +TABLEAU V. KING'S EVIDENCE + +The Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh. + +SCENE I + +JEAN, SMITH, AND MOORE + +(They loiter in L., and stand looking about as for somebody not +there. SMITH is hat in hand to JEAN; MOORE as usual.) + +MOORE. Wot did I tell you? Is he 'ere, or ain't he? Now, then. +Slink by name and Slink by nature, that's wot's the matter with +him. + +JEAN. He'll no be lang; he's regular enough, if that was a'. + +MOORE. I'd regular him; I'd break his back. + +SMITH. Badger, you brute, you hang on to the lessons of your +dancing-master. None but the genteel deserves the fair; does +they, Duchess? + +MOORE. O rot! Did I insult the blowen? Wot's the matter with +me is Slink Ainslie. + +SMITH. All right, old Crossed-in-love. Give him forty winks, +and he'll turn up as fresh as clean sawdust and as respectable as +a new Bible. + +MOORE. That's right enough; but I ain't agoing to stand here all +day for him. I'm for a drop of something short, I am. You tell +him I showed you that (SHOWING HIS DOUBLED FIST). That's wot's +the matter with him. (HE LURCHES OUT, R.) + + +SCENE II + +SMITH and JEAN, to whom HUNT, and afterwards MOORE + +SMITH (CRITICALLY). No, Duchess, he has not good manners. + +JEAN. Ay, he's an impident man. + +SMITH. So he is, Jean; and for the matter of that he ain't the +only one. + +JEAN. Geordie, I want nae mair o' your nonsense, mind. + +SMITH. There's our old particular the Deacon, now. Why is he +ashamed of a lovely woman? That's not my idea of the Young +Chevalier, Jean. If I had luck, we should be married, and retire +to our estates in the country, shouldn't us? and go to church and +be happy, like the nobility and gentry. + +JEAN. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye'd mairry me? + +SMITH. Mean it? What else has ever been the 'umble petition of +your honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, and +fellow-countryman? I know the Deacon's your man, and I know he's +a cut above G. S.; but he won't last, Jean, and I shall. + +JEAN. Ay, I'm muckle ta'en up wi' him; wha could help it? + +SMITH. Well, and my sort don't grow on apple-trees either. + +JEAN. Ye're a fine, cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad +just let me be. + +SMITH. I know I ain't a Scotchman born. + +JEAN. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o' ye even for that; if +ye would just let me be. + +[HUNT (ENTERING BEHIND, ASIDE). Are they thick? Anyhow, it's a +second chance.] + +SMITH. But he won't last, Jean, and when he leaves you, you come +to me. Is that your taste in pastry? That's the kind of +harticle that I present. + +HUNT (SURPRISING THEM AS IN TABLEAU I.). Why, you're the very +parties I was looking for! + +JEAN. Mercy me! + +SMITH. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind. + +HUNT. [Now this is what I call a picter of good fortune.] Ain't +it strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and +promiscuous like this? + +JEAN (STOLIDLY). I hope ye're middling weel, Mr. Hunt? (GOING.) +Mr. Smith! + +SMITH. Mrs. Watt, ma'am! (GOING.) + +HUNT. Hold hard, George. Speaking as one lady's man to another, +turn about's fair play. You've had your confab, and now I'm +going to have mine. [Not that I've done with you; you stand by +and wait.] Ladies first, George, ladies first; that's the size +of it. (TO JEAN, ASIDE.) Now, Mrs. Watt, I take it you ain't a +natural fool? + +JEAN. And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt. + +SMITH (INTERFERING). Jean . . . ! + +HUNT (KEEPING HIM OFF). Half a tick, George. (TO JEAN.) Mrs. +Watt, I've a warrant in my pocket. One, two, three: will you +peach? + +JEAN. Whaten kind of a word'll that be? + +SMITH. Mum it is, Jean! + +HUNT. WHEN you've done dancing, George! (TO JEAN.) It ain't a +pretty expression, my dear, I own it. 'Will you blow the gaff?' +is perhaps more tenderer. + +JEAN. I think ye've a real strange way o' expressin yoursel'. + +HUNT (TO JEAN). I can't waste time on you, my girl. It's now or +never. Will you turn king's evidence? + +JEAN. I think ye'll have made a mistake, like. + +HUNT. Well, I'm ... ! (SEPARATING THEM.) [No, not yet; don't +push me.] George's turn now. (TO GEORGE.) George, I've a +warrant in my pocket. + +SMITH. As per usual, Jerry? + +HUNT. Now I want king's evidence. + +SMITH. Ah! so you came a cropper with HER, Jerry. Pride had a +fall. + +HUNT. A free pardon and fifty shiners down. + +SMITH. A free pardon, Jerry? + +HUNT. Don't I tell you so? + +SMITH. And fifty down? fifty? + +HUNT. On the nail. + +SMITH. So you came a cropper with her, and then you tried it on +with me? + +HUNT. I suppose you mean you're a born idiot? + +SMITH. What I mean is, Jerry, that you've broke my heart. I +used to look up to you like a party might to Julius 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 a well? + +JEAN. I daur say ye would like fine, Mr. Hunt; and here's my +service to you. (GOING.) + +HUNT. George, don't you be a tomfool, anyway. Think of the +blowen here, and have brains for two. + +SMITH (GOING). Ah, Jerry, if you knew anything, how different +you would talk! (THEY GO TOGETHER, R.) + + +SCENE III + +HUNT, MOORE + +HUNT. Half a tick, Badger. You're a man of parts, you are; +you're solid, you're a true-born Englishman; you ain't a +Jerry-go-Nimble like him. Do you know what your pal the Deacon's +worth to you? Fifty golden Georges and a free pardon. No +questions asked, and no receipts demanded. What do you say? Is +it a deal? + +MOORE (AS TO HIMSELF). Muck. (HE GOES OUT, R.) + + +SCENE IV + +HUNT, TO WHOM AINSLIE + +HUNT (LOOKING AFTER THEM RUEFULLY). And these were the very +parties I was looking for! [Ah, Jerry, Jerry, if they knew this +at the office!] Well, the market price of that 'ere two hundred +is a trifle on the decline and fall. (LOOKING L.) Hullo! +(SLAPPING HIS THIGH). Send me victorious! It's king's evidence +on two legs. (ADVANCING WITH GREAT CORDIALITY TO MEET AINSLIE, +WHO ENTERS L.) And so your name's Andrew Ainslie, is it? As I +was saying, you're the very party I was looking for. Ain't it +strange, now, that I should have dropped across you comfortable +and promiscuous like this? + +AINSLIE. I dinna ken wha ye are, an' I'm ill for my bed. + +HUNT. Let your bed wait, Andrew. I want a little chat with you; +just a quiet little sociable wheeze. Just about our friends, you +know. About Badger Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy Rivers, +and Deacon Brodie, Andrew. Particularly Deacon Brodie. + +AINSLIE. They're nae friens o' mine's, mister. I ken naething +an' naebody. An' noo I'll get to my bed, wulln't I? + +HUNT. We're going to have our little talk out first. After that +perhaps I'll let you go, and perhaps I won't. It all depends on +how we get along together. Now, in a general way, Andrew, and +speaking of a man as you find him, I'm all for peace and +quietness myself. That's my usual game, Andrew, but when I do +make a dust I'm considered by my friends to be rather a good hand +at it. So don't you tread upon the worm. + +AINSLIE. But I'm sayin' - + +HUNT. You leave that to me, Andrew. You shall do your pitch +presently. I'm first on the ground, and I lead off. With a +question, Andrew. Did you ever hear in your life of such a +natural curiosity as a Bow Street Runner? + +AINSLIE. Aiblins ay an' aiblins no. + +HUNT. 'Aiblins ay and aiblins no.' Very good indeed, Andrew. +Now, I'll ask you another. Did you ever see a Bow Street Runner, +Andrew? With the naked eye, so to speak? + +AINSLIE. What's your wull? + +HUNT. Artful bird! Now since we're getting on so cosy AND so +free, I'll ask you another, Andrew. Should you like to see a Bow +Street Runner? (PRODUCING STAFF.) 'Cos, if so, you've only got +to cast your eyes on me. Do you queer the red weskit, Andrew? +Pretty colour, ain't it? So nice and warm for the winter too. +(AINSLIE DIVES, HUNT COLLARS HIM.) No, you don't. Not this +time. Run away like that before we've finished our little +conversation? You're a nice young man, you are. Suppose we +introduce our wrists into these here darbies? Now we shall get +along cosier and freer than ever. Want to lie down, do you? All +right! anything to oblige. + +AINSLIE (GROVELLING). It wasna me, it wasna me. It's bad +companions; I've been lost wi' bad companions an' the drink. An' +O mister, ye'll be a kind gentleman to a puir lad, an' me sae +weak, an' fair rotten wi' the drink an' that. Ye've a bonnie +kind heart, my dear, dear gentleman; ye wadna hang sitchan a +thing as me. I'm no fit to hang. They ca' me the Cannleworm! +An' I'll dae somethin' for ye, wulln't I? An' ye'll can hang the +ithers? + +HUNT. I thought I hadn't mistook my man. Now, you look here, +Andrew Ainslie, you're a bad lot. I've evidence to hang you +fifty times over. But the Deacon is my mark. Will you peach, or +wont you? You blow the gaff, and I'll pull you through. You +don't, and I'll scragg you as sure as my name's Jerry Hunt. + +AINSLIE. I'll dae onything. It's the hanging fleys me. I'll +dae onything, onything no to hang. + +HUNT. Don't lie crawling there, but get up and answer me like a +man. Ain't this Deacon Brodie the fine workman that's been doing +all these tip-topping burglaries? + +AINSLIE. It's him, mister; it's him. That's the man. Ye're in +the very bit. Deacon Brodie. I'll can tak' ye to his vera door. + +HUNT. How do you know? + +AINSLIE. I gi'ed him a han' wi' them a'. It was him an' Badger +Moore, and Geordie Smith; an' they gart me gang wi' them whether +or no; I'm that weak, an' whiles I'm donner'd wi' the drink. +But I ken a', an' I'll tell a'. And O kind gentleman, you'll +speak to their lordships for me, an' I'll no be hangit. . . I'll +no be hangit, wull I? + +HUNT. But you shared, didn't you? I wonder what share they +thought you worth. How much did you get for last night's +performance down at Mother Clarke's? + +AINSLIE. Just five pund, mister. Five pund. As sure's deith it +wadna be a penny mair. No but I askit mair: I did that; I'll do +deny it, mister. But Badger kickit me, an' Geordie, he said a +bad sweir, an' made he'd cut the liver out o' me, an' catch fish +wi't. It's been that way frae the first: an aith an' a bawbee +was aye guid eneuch for puir Andra. + +HUNT. Well, and why did they do it? I saw Jemmy dance a +hornpipe on the table, and booze the company all round, when the +Deacon was gone. What made you cross the fight, and play booty +with your own man? + +AINSLIE. Just to make him rob the Excise, mister. They're +wicked, wicked men. + +HUNT. And is he right for it? + +AINSLIE. Ay is he. + +HUNT. By jingo! When's it for? + +AINSLIE. Dear, kind gentleman, I dinna rightly ken: the +Deacon's that sair angered wi' me. I'm to get my orders frae +Geordie the nicht. + +HUNT. O, you're to get your orders from Geordie, are you? Now +look here, Ainslie. You know me. I'm Hunt the Runner; I put +Jemmy Rivers in the jug this morning; I've got you this evening. +I mean to wind up with the Deacon. You understand? All right. +Then just you listen. I'm going to take these here bracelets +off, and send you home to that celebrated bed of yours. Only, as +soon as you've seen the Dook you come straight round to me at Mr. +Procurator-Fiscal's, and let me know the Dook's views. One word, +mind, and ... cl'k! It's a bargain? + +AINSLIE. Never you fear that. I'll tak' my bannet an' come +straucht to ye. Eh God, I'm glad it's nae mair nor that to start +wi'. An' may the Lord bless ye, dear, kind gentleman, for your +kindness. May the Lord bless ye. + +HUNT. You pad the hoof. + +AINSLIE (GOING OUT). An' so I wull, wulln't I not? An' bless, +bless ye while there's breath in my body, wulln't I not? + +HUNT (SOLUS). You're a nice young man, Andrew Ainslie. Jemmy +Rivers and the Deacon in two days! By jingo! (HE DANCES AN +INSTANT GRAVELY, WHISTLING TO HIMSELF.) Jerry, that 'ere little +two hundred of ours is as safe as the bank. + + +TABLEAU VI. UNMASKED + +The Stage represents a room in Leslie's house. A practicable +window, C., through which a band of strong moonlight falls into +the room. Near the window a strong-box. A practicable door in +wing, L. Candlelight. + +SCENE I + +LESLIE, LAWSON, MARY, seated. BRODIE at back, walking between +the windows and strong-box. + +LAWSON. Weel, weel, weel, weel, nae doubt. + +LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, I am perfectly satisfied with Brodie's word; +I will wait gladly. + +LAWSON. I have nothing to say against that. + +BRODIE (BEHIND LAWSON). Nor for it. + +LAWSON. For it? for it, William? Ye're perfectly richt there. +(TO LESLIE.) Just you do what William tells you; ye canna do +better than that. + +MARY. Dear uncle, I see you are vexed; but Will and I are +perfectly agreed on the best course. Walter and I are young. +Oh, we can wait; we can trust each other. + +BRODIE (FROM BEHIND). Leslie, do you think it safe to keep this +strong-box in your room? + +LESLIE. It does not trouble me. + +BRODIE. I would not. 'Tis close to the window. + +LESLIE. It's on the right side of it. + +BRODIE. I give you my advice: I would not. + +LAWSON. He may be right there too, Mr. Leslie. + +BRODIE. I give him fair warning: it's not safe. + +LESLIE. I have a different treasure to concern myself about; if +all goes right with that I shall be well contented. + +MARY. Walter! + +LAWSON. Ay, bairns, ye speak for your age. + +LESLIE. Surely, sir, for every age; the ties of blood, of love, +of friendship, these are life's essence. + +MARY. And for no one is it truer than my uncle. If he live to +be a thousand, he will still be young in heart, full of love, +full of trust. + +LAWSON. All, lassie, it's a wicked world. + +MARY. Yes, you are out of sorts to-day; we know that. + +LESLIE. Admitted that you know more of life, sir; admitted (if +you please) that the world is wicked; yet you do not lose trust +in those you love. + +LAWSON. Weel . . . ye get gliffs, ye ken. + +LESLIE. I suppose so. We can all be shaken for a time; but not, +I think, in our friends. We are not deceived in them; in the few +that we admit into our hearts. + +MARY. Never in these. + +LESLIE. We know these (TO BRODIE), and we think the world of +them. + +BRODIE (AT BACK). We are more acquainted with each other's +tailors, believe me. You, Leslie, are a very pleasant creature. +My uncle Lawson is the Procurator-Fiscal. I - What am I? - I am +the Deacon of the Wrights, my ruffles are generally clean. And +you think the world of me? Bravo! + +LESLIE. Ay, and I think the world of you. + +BRODIE (AT BACK, POINTING TO LAWSON). Ask him. + +LAWSON. Hoot-toot. A wheen nonsense: an honest man's an honest +man, and a randy thief's a randy thief, and neither mair nor +less. Mary, my lamb, it's time you were hame, and had you beauty +sleep. + +MARY. Do you not come with us? + +LAWSON. I gang the ither gate, my lamb. (LESLIE HELPS MARY ON +WITH HER CLOAK, AND THEY SAY FAREWELL AT BACK. BRODIE FOR THE +FIRST TIME COMES FRONT WITH LAWSON.) Sae ye've consented? + +BRODIE. As you see. + +LAWSON. Ye'll can pay it back? + +BRODIE. I will. + +LAWSON. And how? That's what I'm wonderin' to mysel'. + +BRODIE. Ay, God knows that. + +MARY. Come, Will. + + +SCENE II + +LESLIE, LAWSON (wrapping up) + +LESLIE. I wonder what ails Brodie? + +LAWSON. How should I ken? What should I ken that ails him? + +LESLIE. He seemed angry even with you. + +LAWSON (IMPATIENT). Hoot awa'. + +LESLIE. Of course, I know. But you see, on the very day when +our engagement is announced, even the best of men may be +susceptible. You yourself seem not quite pleased. + +LAWSON (WITH GREAT IRRITATION). I'm perfectly pleased. I'm +perfectly delighted. If I werena an auld man, I'd be just beside +mysel' wi' happiness. + +LESLIE. Well, I only fancied. + +LAWSON. Ye had nae possible excuse to fancy. Fancy? Perfect +trash and nonsense. Look at yersel'. Ye look like a ghaist, +ye're white-like, ye're black aboot the een; and do ye find me +deavin' ye wi' fancies? Or William Brodie either? I'll say that +for him. + +LESLIE. 'Tis not sorrow that alters my complexion; I've +something else on hand. Come, I'll tell you, under seal. I've +not been in bed till daylight for a week. + +LAWSON. Weel, there's nae sense in the like o' that. + +LESLIE. Gad, but there is though. Why, Procurator, this is +town's business; this is a municipal affair; I'm a public +character. Why? Ah, here's a nut for the Crown Prosecutor! I'm +a bit of a party to a robbery. + +LAWSON. Guid guide us, man, what d'ye mean? + +LESLIE. You shall hear. A week ago to-night, I was passing +through this very room without a candle on my way to bed, when . +. . what should I see, but a masked man fumbling at that window! +How he did the Lord knows. I suspect, Procurator, it was not the +first he'd tried . . . for he opened it as handily as his own +front door. + +LAWSON. Preserve me! Another of thae robberies! + +LESLIE. That's it. And, of course, I tried to seize him. But +the rascal was too quick. He was down and away in an instant. +You never saw a thing so daring and adroit. + +LAWSON. Is that a'? Ye're a bauld lad, I'll say that for ye. +I'm glad it wasna waur. + +LESLIE. Yes, that's all plain sailing. But here's the hitch. +Why didn't I tell the Procurator-Fiscal? You never thought of +that. + +LAWSON. No, man. Why? + +LESLIE. Aha! There's the riddle. Will you guess? No? . . . I +thought I knew the man. + +LAWSON. What d'ye say? + +LESLIE. I thought I knew him. + +LAWSON. Wha was't? + +LESLIE. Ah, there you go beyond me. That I cannot tell. + +LAWSON. As God sees ye, laddie, are ye speaking truth? + +LESLIE. Well . . . of course! + +LAWSON. The haill truth? + +LESLIE. All of it. Why not? + +LAWSON. Man, I'd a kind o' gliff. + +LESLIE. Why, what were you afraid of? Had you a suspicion? + +LAWSON. Me? Me a suspicion? Ye're daft, sir; and me the Crown +offeecial! . . . Eh man, I'm a' shakin' ... And sae ye thocht ye +kennt him? + +LESLIE. I did that. And what's more, I've sat every night in +case of his return. I promise you, Procurator, he shall not slip +me twice. Meanwhile I'm worried and put out. You understand how +such a fancy will upset a man. I'm uneasy with my friends and on +bad terms with my own conscience. I keep watching, spying, +comparing, putting two and two together, hunting for resemblances +until my head goes round. It's like a puzzle in a dream. Only +yesterday I thought I had him. And who d'you think it was? + +LAWSON. Wha? Wha was't? Speak, Mr. Leslie, speak. I'm an auld +man; dinna forget that. + +LESLIE. I name no names. It would be unjust to him; and, upon +my word, it was so silly it would be unfair to me. However, here +I sit, night after night. I mean him to come back; come back he +shall; and I'll tell you who he was next morning. + +LAWSON. Let sleeping dogs lie, Mr. Leslie; ye dinna ken what ye +micht see. And then, leave him alane, he'll come nae mair. And +sitting up a' nicht . . . it's a FACTUM IMPRESTABILE, as we say: +a thing impossible to man. Gang ye to your bed, like a guid +laddie, and sleep lang and soundly, and bonnie, bonnie dreams to +ye! (WITHOUT.) Let sleeping dogs lie, and gang ye to your bed. + + +SCENE III + +LESLIE + +LESLIE (CALLING). In good time, never fear! (HE CAREFULLY BOLTS + +AND CHAINS THE DOOR.) The old gentleman seems upset. What for, +I wonder? Has he had a masked visitor? Why not? It's the +fashion. Out with the lights. (BLOWS OUT THE CANDLES. THE +STAGE IS ONLY LIGHTED BY THE MOON THROUGH THE WINDOW.) He is +sure to come one night or other. He must come. Right or wrong, +I feel it in the air. Man, but I know you, I know you somewhere. +That trick of the shoulders, the hang of the clothes - whose are +they? Where have I seen them? And then, that single look of the +eye, that one glance about the room as the window opened . . . it +is almost friendly; I have caught it over the glass's rim! If it +should be . . . his? No, his it is not. + +WATCHMAN (WITHOUT). Past ten o'clock, and a fine moonlight +night. + +ANOTHER (FURTHER AWAY). Past ten o'clock, and all's well. + +LESLIE. Past ten? Ah, there's a long night before you and me, +watchmen. Heavens, what a trade! But it will be something to +laugh over with Mary and . . . with him? Damn it, the delusion +is too strong for me. It's a thing to be ashamed of. 'We +Brodies': how she says it! 'We Brodies and our Deacon': what a +pride she takes in it, and how good it sounds to me! 'Deacon of +his craft, sir, Deacon of the . . .! (BRODIE, MASKED, APPEARS +WITHOUT AT THE WINDOW, WHICH HE PROCEEDS TO FORCE.) Ha! I knew +he'd come. I was sure of it. (HE CROUCHES NEAR AND NEARER TO +THE WINDOW, KEEPING IN THE SHADE.) And I know you too. I swear +I know you. + + +SCENE IV + +BRODIE, LESLIE + +BRODIE enters by the window with assurance and ease, closes it +silently, and proceeds to traverse the room. As he moves, LESLIE +leaps upon and grapples him. + +LESLIE. Take off that mask! + +BRODIE. Hands off! + +LESLIE. Take off the mask! + +BRODIE. Leave go, by God, leave go! + +LESLIE. Take it off! + +BRODIE (OVERPOWERED). Leslie .... + +LESLIE. Ah! you know me! (SUCCEEDS IN TEARING OFF THE MASK.) +Brodie! + +BRODIE (IN THE MOONLIGHT). Brodie. + +LESLIE. You . . . you, Brodie, you? + +BRODIE. Brodie, sir, Brodie as you see. + +LESLIE. What does it mean? What does it mean, my God? Were you +here before? Is this the second time? Are you a thief, man? are +you a thief? Speak, speak, or I'll kill you. + +BRODIE. I am a thief. + +LESLIE. And my friend, my own friend, and . . . Mary, Mary! . . +. Deacon, Deacon, for God's sake, no! + +BRODIE. God help me! + +LESLIE. 'We Brodies! We Brodies!' + +BRODIE. Leslie - + +LESLIE. Stand off! Don't touch me! You're a thief! + +BRODIE. Leslie, Leslie + +LESLIE. A thief's sister! Why are you here? why are you here? +Tell me! Why do you not speak? Man, I know you of old. Are you +Brodie, and have nothing to say? + +BRODIE. To say? Not much - God help me - and commonplace, +commonplace like sin. I was honest once; I made a false step; I +couldn't retrace it; and . . . that is all. + +LESLIE. You have forgot the bad companions! + +BRODIE. I did forget them. They were there. + +LESLIE. Commonplace! Commonplace! Do you speak to me, do you +reason with me, do you make excuses? You - a man found out, +shamed, a liar, a thief - a man that's killed me, killed this +heart in my body; and you speak! What am I to do? I hold your +life in my hand; have you thought of that? What am I to do? + +BRODIE. Do what you please; you have me trapped. + +(JEAN WATT IS HEARD SINGING WITHOUT TWO BARS OF 'WANDERIN' +WILLIE,' BY WAY OF SIGNAL.) + +LESLIE. What is that? + +BRODIE. A signal. + +LESLIE. What does it mean? + +BRODIE. Danger to me; there is someone coming. + +LESLIE. Danger to you? + +BRODIE. Some one is coming. What are you going to do with me? +(A KNOCK AT THE DOOR.) + +LESLIE (AFTER A PAUSE). Sit down. (KNOCKING.) + +BRODIE. What are you going to do with me? + +LESLIE. Sit down. (BRODIE SITS IN DARKEST PART OF STAGE. +LESLIE OPENS DOOR, AND ADMITS LAWSON. DOOR OPEN TILL END OF +ACT.) + + +SCENE V + +BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE + +LAWSON. This is an unco' time to come to your door; but eh, +laddie, I couldna bear to think o' ye sittin' your lane in the +dark. + +LESLIE. It was very good of you. + +LAWSON. I'm no very fond of playing hidee in the dark mysel'; +and noo that I'm here - + +LESLIE. I will give you a light. (HE LIGHTS THE CANDLES. +LIGHTS UP.) + +LAWSON. God A'michty! William Brodie! + +LESLIE. Yes, Brodie was good enough to watch with me. + +LAWSON. But he gaed awa' . . . I dinna see . . . an' Lord be +guid to us, the window's open! + +LESLIE. A trap we laid for them: a device of Brodie's. + +BRODIE (TO LAWSON). Set a thief to catch a thief. (PASSING TO +LESLIE, ASIDE.) Walter Leslie, God will reward. (JEAN SIGNALS +AGAIN.) + +LAWSON. I dinna like that singin' at siccan a time o' the nicht. + +BRODIE. I must go. + +LAWSON. Not one foot o' ye. I'm ower glad to find ye in guid +hands. Ay, ye dinna ken how glad. + +BRODIE (ASIDE TO LESLIE). Get me out of this. There's a man +there will stick at nothing. + +LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, Brodie has done his shift. Why should we +keep him? (JEAN APPEARS AT THE DOOR, AND SIGNS TO BRODIE.) + +LAWSON. Hoots! this is my trade. That's a bit o' 'Wanderin' +Willie.' I've had it before me in precognitions; that same stave +has been used for a signal by some o' the very warst o' them. + +BRODIE (ASIDE TO LESLIE). Get me out of this. I'll never forget +to-night. (JEAN AT DOOR AGAIN.) + +LESLIE. Well, good-night, Brodie. When shall we meet again? + +LAWSON. Not one foot o' him. (JEAN AT DOOR.) I tell you, Mr. +Leslie - + + +SCENE VI + +To these, JEAN + +JEAN (FROM SHE DOOR). Wullie, Wullie! + +LAWSON. Guid guide us, Mrs. Watt! A dacent wumman like +yoursel'! Whatten a time o' nicht is this to come to folks' +doors? + +JEAN (TO BRODIE). Hawks, Wullie, hawks! + +BRODIE. I suppose you know what you've done, Jean? + +JEAN. I HAD to come, Wullie, he wadna wait another minit. He +wad have come himsel'. + +BRODIE. This is my mistress. + +LAWSON. William, dinna tell me nae mair. + +BRODIE. I have told you so much. You may as well know all. +That good man knows it already. Have you issued a warrant for me +. . . . yet? + +LAWSON. No, no, man: not another word. + +BRODIE, (POINTING TO THE WINDOW). That is my work. I am the +man. Have you drawn the warrant? + +LAWSON (BREAKING DOWN). Your father's son! + +LESLIE (TO LAWSON). My good friend! Brodie, you might have +spared the old man this. + +BRODIE. I might have spared him years ago; and you and my +sister, and myself. I might . . . would God I had! (WEEPING +HIMSELF.) Don't weep, my good old friend; I was lost long since; +don't think of me; don't pity me; don't shame me with your pity! +I began this when I was a boy. I bound the millstone round my +neck; [it is irrevocable now,] and you must all suffer . . . all +suffer for me! . . . [for this suffering remnant of what was once +a man]. O God, that I can have fallen to stand here as I do now. +My friend lying to save me from the gallows; my second father +weeping tears of blood for my disgrace! And all for what? By +what? Because I had an open hand, because I was a selfish dog, +because I loved this woman. + +JEAN. O Wullie, and she lo'ed ye weel! But come near me nae +mair, come near me nae mair, my man; keep wi' your ain folks . . +. your ain dacent folks. + +LAWSON. Mistress Watt, ye shall sit rent free as lang's there's +breath in William Lawson's body. + +LESLIE. You can do one thing still . . . for Mary's sake. You +can save yourself; you must fly. + +BRODIE. It is my purpose; the day after to-morrow. It cannot be +before. Then I will fly; and O, as God sees me, I will strive to +make a new and a better life, and to be worthy of your +friendship, and of your tears . . . your tears. And to be worthy +of you too, Jean; for I see now that the bandage has fallen from +my eyes; I see myself, O how unworthy even of you. + +LESLIE. Why not to-night? + +BRODIE. It cannot be before. There are many considerations. I +must find money. + +JEAN. Leave me, and the wean. Dinna fash yoursel' for us. + +LESLIE (OPENING THE STRONG-BOX, AND POURING GOLD UPON THE TABLE). +Take this and go at once. + +BRODIE. Not that . . . not the money that I came to steal! + +LAWSON. Tak' it, William; I'll pay him. + +BRODIE. It is in vain. I cannot leave till I have said. There +is a man; I must obey him. If I slip my chain till he has done +with me, the hue and cry will blaze about the country; every +outport will be shut; I shall return to the gallows. He is a man +that will stick at nothing. + + +SCENE VII + +To these, MOORE + +MOORE. Are you coming? + +BRODIE. I am coming. + +MOORE (APPEARING IN THE DOOR). Do you want us all to get +thundering well scragged? + +BRODIE (GOING). There is my master. + +ACT-DROP + + +ACT IV. + +TABLEAU VII. THE ROBBERY + +The Stage represents the outside of the Excise Office in +Chessel's Court. At the back, L.C., an archway opening on the +High Street. The door of the Excise in wing, R.; the opposite +side of the stage is lumbered with barrels, packing-cases, etc. +Moonlight; the Excise Office casts a shadow over half the stage. +A clock strikes the hour. A round of the City Guard, with +halberts, lanterns, etc. enters and goes out again by the arch, +after having examined the fastenings of the great door and the +lumber on the left. Cry without in the High Street: 'Ten by the +bell, and a fine clear night.' Then enter cautiously by the +arch, SMITH and MOORE, with AINSLIE loaded with tools. + +SCENE I + +SMITH, MOORE, AINSLIE + +SMITH (ENTERING FIRST). Come on. Coast clear. + +MOORE (AFTER THEY HAVE COME TO THE FRONT.) Ain't he turned up +yet? + +SMITH (TO AINSLIE). Now Maggot! The fishing's a going to begin. + +AINSLIE. Dinna cangle, Geordie. My back's fair broke. + +MOORE. O muck! Hand out them pieces. + +SMITH. All right, Humptious! (TO AINSLIE.) You're a nice old +sort for a rag-and-bone man: can't hold a bag open! (TAKING OUT + +TOOLS.) Here they was. Here are the bunchums, one AND two; and +jolly old keys was they. Here's the picklocks, crow-bars, and +here's Lord George's pet bull's eye, his old and valued friend, +the Cracksman's treasure! + +MOORE. Just like you. Forgot the rotten centrebit. + +SMITH. That's all you know. Here she is, bless her! Portrait +of George as a gay hironmonger. + +MOORE. O rot! Hand it over, and keep yourself out of that there +thundering moonlight. + +SMITH (LIGHTING LANTERN). All right, old mumble-peg. Don't you +get carried away by the fire of old Rome. That's your motto. +Here are the tools; a perfect picter of the sublime and +beautiful; and all I hope is, that our friend and pitcher, the +Deakin, will make a better job of it than he did last night. If +he don't, I shall retire from the business - that's all; and +it'll be George and his little wife and a black footman till +death do us part. + +MOORE. O muck! You're all jaw like a sheep's jimmy. That's my +opinion of you. When did you see him last? + +SMITH. This morning; and he looked as if he was rehearsing for +his own epitaph. I never see such a change in a man. I gave him +the office for to-night; and was he grateful? Did he weep upon +my faithful bosom? No; he smiled upon me like a portrait of the +dear departed. I see his 'art was far away; and it broke my own +to look at him. + +MOORE. Muck! Wot I ses is, if a cove's got that much of the nob +about him, wot's the good of his working single-handed? That's +wot's the matter with him. + +SMITH. Well, old Father Christmas, he ain't single-handed to- +night, is he? + +MOORE. No, he ain't; he's got a man with him to-night. + +SMITH. Pardon me, Romeo; two men, I think? + +MOORE. A man wot means business. If I'd a bin with him last +night, it ain't psalm-singin' would have got us off. Psalm- +singin'? Muck! Let 'em try it on with me. + +AINSLIE. Losh me, I heard a noise. (ALARM; THEY CROUCH INTO THE +SHADOW AND LISTEN.) + +SMITH. All serene. (TO AINSLIE) Am I to cut that liver out of +you? Now, am I? (A WHISTLE.) 'St! here we are. (WHISTLES A +MODULATION, WHICH IS ANSWERED.) + + +SCENE II + +To these BRODIE + +MOORE. Waiting for you, Deacon. + +BRODIE. I see. Everything ready? + +SMITH. All a-growing and a-blowing. + +BRODIE. Give me the light. (BRIEFLY EXAMINES TOOLS AND DOOR WITH + +BULL'S EYE.) You, George, stand by, and hand up the pieces. +Ainslie, take the glim. Moore, out and watch. + +MOORE. I didn't come here to do sentry-go, I didn't. + +BRODIE. You came here to do as I tell you. (MOORE GOES UP +SLOWLY.) Second bunch, George. I know the lock. Steady with +the glim. (AT WORK.) No good. Give me the centrebit. + +SMITH. Right. (WORK CONTINUES. AINSLIE DROPS LANTERN.) + +BRODIE. Curse you! (THROTTLING AND KICKING HIM.) You shake, +and you shake, and you can't even hold a light for your betters. +Hey? + +AINSLIE. Eh Deacon, Deacon . . . + +SMITH. Now Ghost! (WITH LANTERN.) + +BRODIE. 'St, Moore! + +MOORE. Wot's the row? + +BRODIE. Take you the light. + +MOORE (TO AINSLIE). Wo' j' yer shakin' at? (KICKS HIM.) + +BRODIE (TO AINSLIE). Go you, and see if you're good at keeping +watch. Inside the arch. And if you let a footfall pass, I'll +break your back. (AINSLIE RETIRES.) Steady with the light. (AT + +WORK WITH CENTREBIT.) Hand up number four, George. (AT WORK +WITH PICKLOCK.) That has it. + +SMITH. Well done our side. + +BRODIE. Now the crow bar! (AT WORK.) That's it. Put down the +glim, Badger, and help at the wrench. Your whole weight, men! +Put your backs to it! (WHILE THEY WORK AT THE BAR, BRODIE STANDS +BY, DUSTING HIS HANDS WITH A POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF. AS THE DOOR +OPENS.) 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 hale set, mister. + +BRODIE. Liar! + +HUNT. Mum, lads, and follow me. (EXIT, WITH HIS MEN, INTO +OFFICE. BRODIE SEEN WITH DAGGER.) + +HUNT. In the King's name! } + +MOORE. Muck! } (WITHIN.) + +SMITH. Go it, Badger. } + +HUNT. Take 'em alive, boys! } + +AINSLIE. Eh, but that's awful. (THE DEACON LEAPS OUT, AND STABS +HIM. HE FALLS WITHOUT A CRY.) + +BRODIE. Saved! (HE GOES OUT BY THE ARCH.) + + +SCENE IV + +HUNT and OFFICERS; with SMITH and MOORE handcuffed. Signs of a +severe struggle + +HUNT (ENTERING). Bring 'em along, lads! (LOOKING AT PRISONERS +WITH LANTERN.) Pleased to see you again, Badger. And you too, +George. But I'd rather have seen your principal. Where's he got +to? + +MOORE. To hell, I hope. + +HUNT. Always the same pretty flow of language, I see, Hump. +(LOOKING AT BURGLARY WITH LANTERN.) A very tidy piece of work, +Dook; very tidy! Much too good for you. Smacks of a fine +tradesman. It WAS the Deacon, I suppose? + +SMITH. You ought to know G. S. better by this time, Jerry. + +HUNT. All right, your Grace: we'll talk it over with the Deacon +himself. Where's the jackal? Here, you, Ainslie! Where are +you? By jingo, I thought as much. Stabbed to the heart and dead +as a herring! + +SMITH. Bravo! + +HUNT. More of the Deacon's work, I guess? Does him credit too, +don't it, Badger? + +MOORE. Muck. Was that the thundering cove that peached? + +HUNT. That was the thundering cove. + +MOORE. And is he corpsed? + +HUNT. I should just about reckon he was. + +MOORE. Then, damme, I don't mind swinging! + +HUNT. We'll talk about that presently. M'Intyre and Stewart, +you get a stretcher, and take that rubbish to the office. Pick +it up; it's only a dead informer. Hand these two gentlemen over +to Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, with Mr. Jerry Hunt's compliments. +Johnstone and Syme, you come along with me. I'll bring the +Deacon round myself. + +ACT-DROP + + +ACT V. + +TABLEAU VIII. THE OPEN DOOR + +The Stage represents the Deacon's room, as in Tableau I. Fire +light. Stage dark. A pause. Then knocking at the door, C. +Cries without of 'WILLIE!' 'MR. BRODIE!' The door is burst open. + +SCENE I + +DOCTOR, MARY, a MAIDSERVANT with lights. + +DOCTOR. The apartment is unoccupied. + +MARY. Dead, and he not here! + +DOCTOR. The bed has not been slept in. The counterpane is not +turned down. + +MARY. It is not true; it cannot be true. + +DOCTOR. My dear young lady, you must have misunderstood your +brother's language. + +MARY. O no; that I did not. That I am sure I did not. + +DOCTOR (LOOKING AT DOOR). The strange thing is . . . the bolt. + +SERVANT. It's unco strange. + +DOCTOR. Well, we have acted for the best. + +SERVANT. Sir, I dinna think this should gang nae further. + +DOCTOR. The secret is in our keeping. Affliction is enough +without scandal. + +MARY. Kind heaven, what does it mean? + +DOCTOR. I think there is no more to be done. + +MARY. I am here alone, Doctor; you pass my uncle's door? + +DOCTOR. The Procurator-Fiscal? I shall make it my devoir. +Expect him soon. (GOES OUT WITH MAID.) + +MARY (HASTILY SEARCHES THE ROOM). No, he is not there. She was +right! O father, you can never know, praise God! + + +SCENE II + +MARY, to whom JEAN and afterwards LESLIE + +JEAN (AT DOOR). Mistress . . . .! + +MARY. Ah! Who is there? Who are you? + +JEAN. Is he no hame yet? I'm aye waitin' on him. + +MARY. Waiting for him? Do you know the Deacon? You? + +JEAN. I maun see him. Eh, lassie, it's life and death. + +MARY. Death . . . O my heart! + +JEAN. I maun see him, bonnie leddie. I'm a puir body, and no +fit to be seen speakin' wi' the likes o' you. But O lass, ye are +the Deacon's sister, and ye hae the Deacon's e'en, and for the +love of the dear kind Lord, let's in and hae a word wi' him ere +it be ower late. I'm bringin' siller. + +MARY. Siller? You? For him? O father, father, if you could +hear! What are you? What are you . . . to him? + +JEAN. I'll be the best frien' 'at ever he had; for, O dear +leddie, I wad gie my bluid to help him. + +MARY. And the . . . . the child? + +JEAN. The bairn? + +MARY. Nothing! O nothing! I am in trouble, and I know not what +I say. And I cannot help you; I cannot help you if I would. He +is not here; and I believed he was; and ill . . . ill; and he is +not - he is . . . . O, I think I shall lose my mind! + +JEAN. Ay, it's unco business. + +MARY. His father is dead within there . . . dead, I tell you . . +. dead! + +JEAN. It's mebbe just as weel. + +MARY. Well? Well? Has it come to this? O Walter, Walter! come +back to me, or I shall die. (LESLIE ENTERS, C.) + +LESLIE. Mary, Mary! I hoped to have spared you this. (TO +JEAN.) What - you? Is he not here? + +JEAN. I'm aye waitin' on him. + +LESLIE. What has become of him? Is he mad? Where is he? + +JEAN. The Lord A'michty kens, Mr. Leslie. But I maun find him; +I maun find him. + + +SCENE III + +MARY, LESLIE + +MARY. O Walter, Walter! What does it mean? + +LESLIE. You have been a brave girl all your life, Mary; you must +lean on me . . . you must trust in me . . . and be a brave girl +till the end. + +MARY. Who is she? What does she want with HIM? And he . . . +where is he? Do you know that my father is dead, and the Deacon +not here? Where has he gone? He may be dead, too. Father, +brother . . . O God, it is more than I can bear! + +LESLIE. Mary, my dear, dear girl . . . when will you be my wife? + +MARY. O, do not speak . . . not speak . . . of it to-night. Not +to-night! O not to-night! + +LESLIE. I know, I know dear heart! And do you think that I whom +you have chosen, I whose whole life is in your love - do you +think that I would press you now if there were not good cause? + +MARY. Good cause! Something has happened. Something has +happened . . . . to him! Walter . . . ! Is he . . . . dead? + +LESLIE. There are worse things in the world than death. There +is O . . . Mary, he is your brother! + +MARY. What? Dishonour! . . . . The Deacon! . . . . My God! + +LESLIE. My wife, my wife! + +MARY. No, no! Keep away from me. Don't touch me. I'm not fit +. . . not fit to be near you. What has he done? I am his +sister. Tell me the worst. Tell me the worst at once. + +LESLIE. That, if God wills, dear, that you shall never know. +Whatever it be, think that I knew it all, and only loved you +better; think that your true husband is with you, and you are not +to bear it alone. + +MARY. My husband? . . . Never. + +LESLIE. Mary . . . ! + +MARY. You forget, you forget what I am. I am his sister. I owe +him a lifetime of happiness and love; I owe him even you. And +whatever his fault, however ruinous his disgrace, he is my +brother - my own brother - and my place is still with him. + +LESLIE. Your place is with me - is with your husband. With me, +with me; and for his sake most of all. What can you do for him +alone? how can you help him alone? It wrings my heart to think +how little. But together is different. Together . . . . I join +my strength, my will, my courage to your own, and together we may +save him. + +MARY. All that is over. Once I was blessed among women. I was +my father's daughter, my brother loved me, I lived to be your +wife. Now . . . . ! My father is dead, my brother is shamed; +and you . . . O how could I face the world, how could I endure +myself, if I preferred my happiness to your honour? + +LESLIE. What is my honour but your happiness? In what else does +it consist? Is it in denying me my heart? is it in visiting +another's sin upon the innocent? Could I do that, and be my +mother's son? Could I do that, and bear my father's name? Could +I do that, and have ever been found worthy of you? + +MARY. It is my duty . . . my duty. Why will you make it so hard +for me? So hard, Walter so hard! + +LESLIE. Do I pursue you only for your good fortune, your beauty, +the credit of your friends, your family's good name? That were +not love, and I love you. I love you, dearest, I love you. +Friend, father, brother, husband . . . I must be all these to +you. I am a man who can love well. + +MARY. Silence . . . in pity! I cannot . . . . O, I cannot bear +it. + +LESLIE. And say it was I who had fallen. Say I had played my +neck and lost it . . . that I were pushed by the law to the last +limits of ignominy and despair. Whose love would sanctify my +jail to me? whose pity would shine upon me in the dock? whose +prayers would accompany me to the gallows? Whose but yours? +Yours! . . . And you would entreat me - me! - to do what you +shrink from even in thought, what you would die ere you attempted +in deed! + +MARY. Walter . . . on my knees . . . no more, no more! + +LESLIE. My wife! my wife! Here on my heart! It is I that must +kneel . . . I that must kneel to you. + +MARY. Dearest! . . . . Husband! You forgive him? O, you +forgive him? + +LESLIE. He is my brother now. Let me take you to our father. +Come. + + +SCENE IV + +After a pause, BRODIE, through the window + +BRODIE. Saved! And the alibi! Man, but you've been near it +this time - near the rope, near the rope. Ah boy, it was your +neck, your neck you fought for. They were closing hell-doors +upon me, swift as the wind, when I slipped through and shot for +heaven! Saved! The dog that sold me, I settled him; and the +other dogs are staunch. Man, but your alibi will stand! Is the +window fast? The neighbours must not see the Deacon, the poor, +sick Deacon, up and stirring at this time o' night. Ay, the good +old room in the good, cozy old house . . . and the rat a dead +rat, and all saved. (HE LIGHTS THE CANDLES.) Your hand shakes, +sir? Fie! And you saved, and you snug and sick in your bed, and +it but a dead rat after all? (HE TAKES OFF HIS HANGER AND LAYS +IT ON THE TABLE.) Ay, it was a near touch. Will it come to the +dock? If it does! You've a tongue, and you've a head, and +you've an alibi; and your alibi will stand. (HE TAKES OFF HIS +COAT, TAKES OUT THE DAGGER, AND WITH A GESTURE OF STRIKING) +Home! He fell without a sob. 'He breaketh them against the +bosses of his buckler!' (LAYS THE DAGGER ON THE TABLE.) Your +alibi . . . ah Deacon, that's your life! . . . your alibi, your +alibi. (HE TAKES UP A CANDLE AND TURNS TOWARDS THE DOOR.) O! +. . . Open, open, open! judgment of God, the door is open! + + +SCENE V + +BRODIE, MARY + +BRODIE. Did you open the door? + +MARY. I did. + +BRODIE. You . . . . you opened the door? + +MARY. I did open it + +BRODIE. Were you . . . alone? + +MARY. I was not. The servant was with me; and the doctor. + +BRODIE. O . . . the servant . . . and the doctor. Very +true. Then it's all over the town by now. The servant and the +doctor. The doctor? What doctor? Why the doctor? + +MARY. My father is dead. O Will, where have you been? + +BRODIE. Your father is dead. O yes! He's dead, is he? Dead. +Quite right. Quite right . . . How did you open the door? It's +strange. I bolted it. + +MARY. We could not help it, Will, now could we? The doctor +forced it. He had to, had he not? + +BRODIE. The doctor forced it? The doctor? Was he here? He +forced it? He? + +MARY. We did it for the best; it was I who did it . . . I, your +own sister. And O Will, my Willie, where have you been? You +have not been in any harm, any danger? + +BRODIE. Danger? O my young lady, you have taken care of that. +It's not danger now, it's death. Death? Ah! Death! Death! +Death! (CLUTCHING THE TABLE. THEN, RECOVERING AS FROM A DREAM.) +Death? Did you say my father was dead? My father? O my God, my +poor old father! Is he dead, Mary? Have I lost him? is he gone? +O, Mary dear, and to think of where his son was! + +MARY. Dearest, he is in heaven. + +BRODIE. Did he suffer? + +MARY. He died like a child. Your name . . . it was his last. + +BRODIE. My name? Mine? O Mary, if he had known! He knows now. +He knows; he sees us now . . . sees me! Ay, and sees you, left +how lonely! + +MARY. Not so, dear; not while you live. Wherever you are, I +shall not be alone, so you live. + +BRODIE. While I live? I? The old house is ruined, and the old +master dead, and I! . . . O Mary, try and believe I did not +mean that it should come to this; try and believe that I was only +weak at first. At first? And now! The good old man dead, the +kind sister ruined, the innocent boy fallen, fallen . . . ! You +will be quite alone; all your old friends, all the old faces, +gone into darkness. The night (WITH A GESTURE) . . . it waits +for me. You will be quite alone. + +MARY. The night! + +BRODIE. Mary, you must hear. How am I to tell her, and the old +man just dead! Mary, I was the boy you knew; I loved pleasure, I +was weak; I have fallen . . . low . . . lower than you think. +A beginning is so small a thing! I never dreamed it would come +to this . . . . this hideous last night. + +MARY. Willie, you must tell me, dear. I must have the truth . +. . the kind truth . . . at once . . . in pity. + +BRODIE. Crime. I have fallen. Crime. + +MARY. Crime? + +BRODIE. Don't shrink from me. Miserable dog that I am, selfish +hound that has dragged you to this misery . . . you and all +that loved him . . . think only of my torments, think only of my +penitence, don't shrink from me. + +MARY. I do not care to hear, I do not wish, I do not mind; you +are my brother. What do I care? How can I help you? + +BRODIE. Help? help ME? You would not speak of it, not wish it, +if you knew. My kind good sister, my little playmate, my sweet +friend! was I ever unkind to you till yesterday? Not openly +unkind? you'll say that when I am gone. + +MARY. If you have done wrong, what do I care? If you have +failed, does it change my twenty years of love and worship? +Never! + +BRODIE. Yet I must make her understand . . . . ! + +MARY. I am your true sister, dear. I cannot fail, I will never +leave you, I will never blame you. Come! (GOES TO EMBRACE.) + +BRODIE (RECOILING). No, don't touch me, not a finger, not that, +anything but that! + +MARY. Willie, Willie! + +BRODIE (TAKING THE BLOODY DAGGER FROM THE TABLE). See, do you +understand that? + +MARY. Ah! What, what is it! + +BRODIE. Blood. I have killed a man. + +MARY. You? . . . . + +BRODIE. I am a murderer; I was a thief before. Your brother . . +. the old man's only son! + +MARY. Walter, Walter, come to me! + +BRODIE. Now you see that I must die; now you see that I stand +upon the grave's edge, all my lost life behind me, like a horror +to think upon, like a frenzy, like a dream that is past. And +you, you are alone. Father, brother, they are gone from you; one +to heaven, one . . . . ! + +MARY. Hush, dear, hush! Kneel, pray; it is not too late to +repent. Think of our father dear; repent. (SHE WEEPS, STRAINING +TO HIS BOSOM.) O Willie, my darling boy, repent and join us. + + +SCENE VI + +To these, LAWSON, LESLIE, JEAN + +LAWSON. She kens a', thank the guid Lord! + +BRODIE (TO MARY). I know you forgive me now; I ask no more. +That is a good man. (TO LESLIE.) Will you take her from my +hands? (LESLIE TAKES MARY.) Jean, are ye here to see the end? + +JEAN. Eh man, can ye no fly? Could ye no say that it was me? + +BRODIE. No, Jean, this is where it ends. Uncle, this is where +it ends. And to think that not an hour ago I still had hopes! +Hopes! Ay, not an hour ago I thought of a new life. You were +not forgotten, Jean. Leslie, you must try to forgive me . . . +you, too! + +LESLIE. You are her brother. + +BRODIE (TO LAWSON). And you? + +LAWSON. My name-child and my sister's bairn! + +BRODIE. You won't forget Jean, will you? nor the child? + +LAWSON. That I will not. + +MARY. O Willie, nor I. + + +SCENE VII + +To these, HUNT + +HUNT. The game's up, Deacon. I'll trouble you to come along +with me. + +BRODIE (BEHIND THE TABLE). One moment, officer: I have a word +to say before witnesses ere I go. In all this there is but one +man guilty; and that man is I. None else has sinned; none else +must suffer. This poor woman (POINTING TO JEAN) I have used; she +never understood. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, that is my dying +confession. (HE SNATCHES HIS HANGER FROM THE TABLE, AND RUSHES +UPON HUNT, WHO PARRIES, AND RUNS HIM THROUGH. HE REELS ACROSS +THE STAGE AND FALLS.) The new life . . . the new life! (HE +DIES.) + +CURTAIN. + +----------------------------------------------------------- +Play: 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. + +HAYMARKET THEATRE MONDAY, NOVEMBER 3d, 1890 + +CAST + +GEORGE FREDERICK AUSTIN MR. TREE +JOHN FENWICK MR. FRED TERRY +ANTHONY MUSGRAVE MR. EDMUND MAURICE +MENTEITH MR. BROOKFIELD +A ROYAL DUKE MR. ROBB HARWOOD +DOROTHY MUSGRAVE MRS. TREE +MISS EVELINA FOSTER MISS ROSE LECLERCQ +BARBARA RIDLEY MISS AYLWARD +VISITORS TO THE WELLS + + +PROLOGUE + + +SPOKEN BY MR. TREE IN THE CHARACTER OF BEAU AUSTIN + + +'To all and singular,' as Dryden says, +We bring a fancy of those Georgian days, +Whose style still breathed a faint and fine perfume +Of old-world courtliness and old-world bloom: +When speech was elegant and talk was fit +For slang had not been canonised as wit; +When manners reigned, when breeding had the wall, +And Women - yes! - were ladies first of all; +When Grace was conscious of its gracefulness, +And man - though Man! - was not ashamed to dress. +A brave formality, a measured ease, +Were his - and her's - whose effort was to please. +And to excel in pleasing was to reign +And, if you sighed, never to sigh in vain. + +But then, as now - it may be, something more - +Woman and man were human to the core. +The hearts that throbbed behind that quaint attire +Burned with a plenitude of essential fire. +They too could risk, they also could rebel, +They could love wisely - they could love too well. +In that great duel of Sex, that ancient strife +Which is the very central fact of life, +They could - and did - engage it breath for breath, +They could - and did - get wounded unto death. +As at all times since time for us began +Woman was truly woman, man was man, +And joy and sorrow were as much at home +In trifling Tunbridge as in mighty Rome. + +Dead - dead and done with! Swift from shine to shade +The roaring generations flit and fade. +To this one, fading, flitting, like the rest, +We come to proffer - be it worst or best - +A sketch, a shadow, of one brave old time; +A hint of what it might have held sublime; +A dream, an idyll, call it what you will, +Of man still Man, and woman - Woman still! + + +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 window at the barber's opposite +- + +MISS FOSTER. Of which I entirely disapprove - + +BARBARA. And first there came out two of the most beautiful - +the Royal livery, madam! + +MISS FOSTER. Of course, of course: the Duke of York arrived +last night. I trust you did not hail the Duke's footmen? + +BARBARA. O no, madam, it was after they were gone. Then, who +should come out - but you'll never guess! + +MISS FOSTER. I shall certainly not try. + +BARBARA. Mr. Menteith himself! + +MISS FOSTER. Why, child, I never heard of him. + +BARBARA. O madam, not the Beau's own gentleman? + +MISS FOSTER. Mr. Austin's servant. No? Is it possible? By +that, George Austin must be here. + +BARBARA. No doubt of that, madam; they're never far apart. He +came out feeling his chin, madam, so; and a packet of letters +under his arm, so; and he had the Beau's own walk to that degree +you couldn't tell his back from his master's. + +MISS FOSTER. My dear Barbara, you too frequently forget +yourself. A young woman in your position must beware of levity. + +BARBARA. Madam, I know it; but la, what are you to make of me? +Look at the time and trouble dear Miss Dorothy was always taking +- she that trained up everybody - and see what's come of it: +Barbara Ridley I was, and Barbara Ridley I am; and I don't do +with fashionable ways - I can't do with them; and indeed, Miss +Evelina, I do sometimes wish we were all back again on Edenside, +and Mr. Anthony a boy again, and dear Miss Dorothy her old self, +galloping the bay mare along the moor, and taking care of all of +us as if she was our mother, bless her heart! + +MISS FOSTER. Miss Dorothy herself, child? Well, now you mention +it, Tunbridge of late has scarcely seemed to suit her +constitution. She falls away, has not a word to throw at a dog, +and is ridiculously pale. Well, now Mr. Austin has returned, +after six months of infidelity to the dear Wells, we shall all, I +hope, be brightened up. Has the mail come? + +BARBARA. That it has, madam, and the sight of Mr. Menteith put +it clean out of my head. (WITH LETTERS.) Four for you, Miss +Evelina, two for me, and only one for Miss Dorothy. Miss Dorothy +seems quite neglected, does she not? Six months ago, it was a +different story. + +MISS FOSTER. Well, and that's true, Barbara, and I had not +remarked it. I must take her seriously to task. No young lady +in her position should neglect her correspondence. (OPENING A +LETTER.) Here's from that dear ridiculous boy, the Cornet, +announcing his arrival for to-day. + +BARBARA. O madam, will he come in his red coat? + +MISS FOSTER. I could not conceive him missing such a chance. +Youth, child, is always vain, and Mr. Anthony is unusually young. + +BARBARA. La, madam, he can't help that. + +MISS FOSTER. My child, I am not so sure. Mr. Anthony is a great +concern to me. He was orphaned, to be sure, at ten years old; +and ever since he has been only as it were his sister's son. +Dorothy did everything for him: more indeed than I thought quite +ladylike, but I suppose I begin to be old-fashioned. See how she +worked and slaved - yes, slaved! - for him: teaching him +herself, with what pains and patience she only could reveal, and +learning that she might be able; and see what he is now: a +gentleman, of course, but, to be frank, a very commonplace one: +not what I had hoped of Dorothy's brother; not what I had dreamed +of the heir of two families - Musgrave and Foster, child! Well, +he may now meet Mr.Austin. He requires a Mr. Austin to embellish +and correct his manners. (OPENING ANOTHER LETTER.) Why, +Barbara, Mr. John Scrope and Miss Kate Dacre are to be married! + +BARBARA. La, madam, how nice! + +MISS FOSTER. They are: As I'm a sinful woman. And when will +you be married, Barbara? and when dear Dorothy? I hate to see +old maids a-making. + +BARBARA. La, Miss Evelina, there's no harm in an old maid. + +MISS FOSTER. You speak like a fool, child: sour grapes are all +very well but it's a woman's business to be married. As for +Dorothy, she is five-and-twenty, and she breaks my heart. Such a +match, too! Ten thousand to her fortune, the best blood in the +north, a most advantageous person, all the graces, the finest +sensibility, excellent judgment, the Foster walk; and all these +to go positively a-begging! The men seem stricken with +blindness. Why, child, when I came out (and I was the dear +girl's image!) I had more swains at my feet in a fortnight than +our Dorothy in - O, I cannot fathom it: it must be the girl's +own fault. + +BARBARA. Why, madam, I did think it was a case with Mr. Austin. + +MISS FOSTER. With Mr. Austin? why, how very rustic! The +attentions of a gentleman like Mr. Austin, child, are not +supposed to lead to matrimony. He is a feature of society: an +ornament: a personage: a private gentleman by birth, but a kind +of king by habit and reputation. What woman could he marry? +Those to whom he might properly aspire are all too far below him. +I have known George Austin too long, child, and I understand that +the very greatness of his success condemns him to remain +unmarried. + +BARBARA. Sure, madam, that must be tiresome for him. + +MISS FOSTER. Some day, child, you will know better than to think +so. George Austin, as I conceive him, and as he is regarded by +the world, is one of the triumphs of the other sex. I walked my +first minuet with him: I wouldn't tell you the year, child, for +worlds; but it was soon after his famous rencounter with Colonel +Villiers. He had killed his man, he wore pink and silver, was +most elegantly pale, and the most ravishing creature! + +BARBARA. Well, madam, I believe that: he is the most beautiful +gentleman still. + + +SCENE II + +To these, DOROTHY, L. + +DOROTHY (ENTERING). Good-morning, aunt! Is there anything for +me? (SHE GOES EAGERLY TO TABLE, AND LOOKS AT LETTERS.) + +MISS FOSTER. Good-morrow, niece. Breakfast, Barbara. + +DOROTHY (WITH LETTER UNOPENED). Nothing. + +MISS FOSTER. And what do you call that, my dear? (SITTING.) Is +John Fenwick nobody? + +DOROTHY (LOOKING AT LETTER.) From John? O yes, so it is. (LAYS +DOWN LETTER UNOPENED, AND SITS TO BREAKFAST, BARBARA WAITING.) + +MISS FOSTER (TO BARBARA, WITH PLATE). Thanks, child; now you may +give me some tea. Dolly, I must insist on your eating a good +breakfast: I cannot away with your pale cheeks and that +Patience-on-a Monument kind of look. (Toast, Barbara.) At +Edenside you ate and drank and looked like Hebe. What have you +done with your appetite? + +DOROTHY. I don't know, aunt, I'm sure. + +MISS FOSTER. Then consider, please, and recover it as soon as +you can: to a young lady in your position a good appetite is an +attraction - almost a virtue. Do you know that your brother +arrives this morning? + +DOROTHY. Dear Anthony! Where is his letter, Aunt Evelina? I am +pleased that he should leave London and its perils, if only for a +day. + +MISS FOSTER. My dear, there are moments when you positively +amaze. (Barbara, some 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 washigh time for him to be done with your +apron-string, my dear: he has all his wild oats to sow; and that +is an occupation which it is unwise to defer too long. By the +bye, have you heard the news? The Duke of York has done us a +service for which I was unprepared. (More tea, Barbara!) George +Austin, bringing the prince in his train, is with us once more. + +DOROTHY. I knew he was coming. + +MISS FOSTER. You knew, child? and did not tell? You are a +public criminal. + +DOROTHY. I did not think it mattered, Aunt Evelina. + +MISS FOSTER. O do not make-believe. I am in love with him +myself, and have been any time since Nelson and the Nile. As for +you, Dolly, since he went away six months ago, you have been +positively in the megrims. I shall date your loss of appetite +from George Austin's vanishing. No, my dear, our family require +entertainment: we must have wit about us, and beauty, and the +BEL AIR. + +BARBARA. Well, Miss Dorothy, perhaps it's out of my place: but +I do hope Mr. Austin will come: I should love to have him see my +necklace on. + +DOROTHY. Necklace? what necklace? Did he give you a necklace? + +BARBARA. Yes, indeed, Miss, that he did: the very same day he +drove you in his curricle to Penshurst. You remember, Miss, I +couldn't go. + +DOROTHY. I remember. + +MISS FOSTER. And so do I. I had a touch of . . . Foster in the +blood: the family gout, dears! . . . And you, you ungrateful +nymph, had him a whole day to yourself, and not a word to tell me +when you returned. + +DOROTHY. I remember. (RISING.) Is that the necklace, Barbara? +It does not suit you. Give it me. + +BARBARA. La, Miss Dorothy, I wouldn't for the world. + +DOROTHY. Come, give it me. I want it. Thank you: you shall +have my birthday pearls instead. + +MISS FOSTER. Why, Dolly, I believe you're jealous of the maid. +Foster, Foster: always a Foster trick to wear the willow in +anger. + +DOROTHY. I do not think, madam, that I am of a jealous habit. + +MISS FOSTER. O, the personage is your excuse! And I can tell +you, child, that when George Austin was playing Florizel to the +Duchess's Perdita, all the maids in England fell a prey to green- +eyed melancholy. It was the TON, you see: not to pine for that +Sylvander was to resign from good society. + +DOROTHY. Aunt Evelina, stop; I cannot endure to hear you. What +is he after all but just Beau Austin? What has he done - with +half a century of good health, what has he done that is either +memorable or worthy? Diced and danced and set fashions; +vanquished in a drawing-room, fought for a word; what else? As +if these were the meaning of life! Do not make me think so +poorly of all of us women. Sure, we can rise to admire a better +kind of man than Mr. Austin. We are not all to be snared with +the eye, dear aunt; and those that are - O! I know not whether I +more hate or pity them. + +MISS FOSTER. You will give me leave, my niece: such talk is +neither becoming in a young lady nor creditable to your +understanding. The world was made a great while before Miss +Dorothy Musgrave; and you will do much better to ripen your +opinions, and in the meantime read your letter, which I perceive +you have not opened. (DOROTHY OPENS AND READS LETTER.) Barbara, +child, you should not listen at table. + +BARBARA. Sure, madam, I hope I know my place. + +MISS FOSTER. Then do not do it again. + +DOROTHY. Poor John Fenwick! he coming here! + +MISS FOSTER. Well, and why not? Dorothy, my darling child, you +give me pain. You never had but one chance, let me tell you +pointedly: and that was John Fenwick. If I were you, I would +not let my vanity so blind me. This is not the way to marry. + +DOROTHY. Dear aunt, I shall never marry. + +MISS FOSTER. A fiddlestick's end! every one must marry. +(RISING.) Are you for the Pantiles? + +DOROTHY. Not to-day, dear, + +MISS FOSTER. Well, well! have your wish, Dolorosa. Barbara, +attend and dress me. + + +SCENE III + +DOROTHY + +DOROTHY. How she tortures me, poor aunt, my poor blind aunt; and +I - I could break her heart with a word. That she should see +nothing, know nothing - there's where it kills. O, it is more +than I can bear . . . and yet, how much less than I deserve! Mad +girl, of what do I complain? that this dear innocent woman still +believes me good, still pierces me to the soul with trustfulness. +Alas, and were it otherwise, were her dear eyes opened to the +truth, what were left me but death? - He, too - she must still be +praising him, and every word is a lash upon my conscience. If I +could die of my secret: if I could cease - but one moment cease +- this living lie; if I could sleep and forget and be at rest! - +Poor John! (READING THE LETTER) he at least is guiltless; and yet +for my fault he too must suffer, he too must bear part in my +shame. Poor John Fenwick! Has he come back with the old story: +with what might have been, perhaps, had we stayed by Edenside? +Eden? yes, my Eden, from which I fell. O my old north country, +my old river - the river of my innocence, the old country of my +hopes - how could I endure to look on you now? And how to meet +John? - John, with the old love on his lips, the old, honest, +innocent, faithful heart! There was a Dorothy once who was not +unfit to ride with him, her heart as light as his, her life as +clear as the bright rivers we forded; he called her his Diana, he +crowned her so with rowan. Where is that Dorothy now? that +Diana? she that was everything to John? For O, I did him good; +I know I did him good; I will still believe I did him good: I +made him honest and kind and a true man; alas, and could not +guide myself! And now, how will he despise me! For he shall +know; if I die, he shall know all; I could not live, and not be +true with him. (SHE TAKES OUT THE NECKLACE AND LOOKS AT IT.) +That he should have bought me from my maid! George, George, that +you should have stooped to this! Basely as you have used me, +this is the basest. Perish the witness! (SHE TREADS THE TRINKET +UNDER FOOT.) Break, break like my heart, break like my hopes, +perish like my good name! + + +SCENE IV + +To her, FENWICK, C. + +FENWICK (AFTER A PAUSE). Is this how you receive me, Dorothy? +Am I not welcome? - Shall I go then? + +DOROTHY (RUNNING TO HIM, WITH HANDS OUTSTRETCHED). O no, John, +not for me. (TURNING, AND POINTING TO THE NECKLACE.) But you +find me changed. + +FENWICK (WITH A MOVEMENT TOWARDS THE NECKLACE). This? + +DOROTHY. No, no, let it lie. That is a trinket - broken. But +the old Dorothy is dead. + +FENWICK. Dead, dear? Not to me. + +DOROTHY. Dead to you - dead to all men. + +FENWICK. Dorothy, I loved you as a boy. There is not a meadow +on Edenside but is dear to me for your sake, not a cottage but +recalls your goodness, not a rock nor a tree but brings back +something of the best and brightest youth man ever had. You were +my teacher and my queen; I walked with you, I talked with you, I +rode with you; I lived in your shadow; I saw with your eyes. You +will never know, dear Dorothy, what you were to the dull boy you +bore with; you will never know with what romance you filled my +life, with what devotion, with what tenderness and honour. At +night I lay awake and worshipped you; in my dreams I saw you, and +you loved me; and you remember, when we told each other stories - +you have not forgotten, dearest - that Princess Hawthorn that was +still the heroine of mine: who was she? I was not bold enough +to tell, but she was you! You, my virgin huntress, my Diana, my +queen. + +DOROTHY. O silence, silence - pity! + +FENWICK. No, dear; neither for your sake nor mine will I be +silenced. I have begun; I must go on and finish, and put fortune +to the touch. It was from you I learned honour, duty, piety, and +love. I am as you made me, and I exist but to reverence and +serve you. Why else have I come here, the length of England, my +heart burning higher every mile, my very horse a clog to me? why, +but to ask you for my wife? Dorothy, you will not deny me. + +DOROTHY. You have not asked me about this broken trinket? + +FENWICK. Why should I ask? I love you. + +DOROTHY. Yet I must tell you. Sit down. (SHE PICKS UP THE +NECKLACE, AND STANDS LOOKING AT IT. THEN, BREAKING DOWN.) O +John, John, it's long since I left home. + +FENWICK. Too long, dear love. The very trees will welcome you. + +DOROTHY. Ay, John, but I no longer love you. The old Dorothy is +dead, God pardon her! + +FENWICK. Dorothy, who is the man? + +DOROTHY. O poor Dorothy! O poor dead Dorothy! John, you found +me breaking this: me, your Diana of the Fells, the Diana of your +old romance by Edenside. Diana - O what a name for me! Do you +see this trinket? It is a chapter in my life. A chapter, do I +say? my whole life, for there is none to follow. John, you must +bear with me, you must help me. I have that to tell - there is a +secret - I have a secret, John - O, for God's sake, understand. +That Diana you revered - O John, John, you must never speak of +love to me again. + +FENWICK. What do you say? How dare you? + +DOROTHY. John, it is the truth. Your Diana, even she, she whom +you so believed in, she who so believed in herself, came out into +the world only to be broken. I met, here at the Wells, a man - +why should I tell you his name? I met him, and I loved him. My +heart was all his own; yet he was not content with that: he must +intrigue to catch me, he must bribe my maid with this. (THROWS +THE NECKLACE ON THE TABLE.) Did he love me? Well, John, he said +he did; and be it so! He loved, he betrayed, and he has left me. + +FENWICK. Betrayed? + +DOROTHY. Ay, even so; I was betrayed. The fault was mine that I +forgot our innocent youth, and your honest love. + +FENWICK. Dorothy, O Dorothy! + +DOROTHY. Yours is the pain; but, O John, think it is for your +good. Think in England how many true maids may be waiting for +your love, 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-grown, +trifling with correspondence. MENTEITH is frothing chocolate. + +SCENE I + +AUSTIN, MENTEITH + +MENTEITH. At the barber's, Mr. George, I had the pleasure of +meeting two of the Dook's gentlemen. + +AUSTIN. Well, and was his Royal Highness satisfied with his +quarters? + +MENTEITH. Quite so, Mr. George. Delighted, I believe. + +AUSTIN. I am rejoiced to hear it. I wish I could say I was as +pleased with my journey, Menteith. This is the first time I ever +came to the Wells in another person's carriage; Duke or not, it +shall be the last, Menteith. + +MENTEITH. Ah, Mr. George, no wonder. And how many times have we +made that journey back and forth? + +AUSTIN. Enough to make us older than we look. + +MENTEITH. To be sure, Mr. George, you do wear well. + +AUSTIN. WE wear well, Menteith. + +MENTEITH. I hear, Mr. George, that Miss Musgrave is of the +company. + +AUSTIN. Is she so? Well, well! well, well! + +MENTEITH. I've not seen the young lady myself, Mr. George; but +the barber tells me she's looking poorly. + +AUSTIN. Poorly? + +MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George, poorly was his word. + +AUSTIN. Well, Menteith, I am truly sorry. She is not the first. + +MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George. (A BELL. MENTEITH GOES OUT, AND RE- +ENTERS WITH CARD.) + +AUSTIN (WITH CARD). Whom have we here? Anthony Musgrave? + +MENTEITH. A fine young man, Mr. George; and with a look of the +young lady, but not so gentlemanly. + +AUSTIN. You have an eye, you have an eye. Let him in. + + +SCENE II + +AUSTIN, MENTEITH, ANTHONY + +AUSTIN. I am charmed to have this opportunity, Mr. Musgrave. +You belong to my old corps, I think? And how does my good +friend, Sir Frederick? I had his line; but like all my old +comrades, he thinks last about himself, and gives me not of his +news. + +ANTHONY. I protest, sir, this is a very proud moment. Your name +is still remembered in the regiment. (AUSTIN BOWS.) The Colonel +- he keeps his health, sir, considering his age (AUSTIN BOWS +AGAIN, AND LOOKS AT MENTEITH) - tells us young men you were a +devil of a fellow in your time. + +AUSTIN. I believe I was - in my time. Menteith, give Mr. +Musgrave a dish of chocolate. So, sir, we see you at the Wells. + +ANTHONY. I have but just alighted. I had but one thought, sir: +to pay my respects to Mr. Austin. I have not yet kissed my aunt +and sister. + +AUSTIN. In my time - to which you refer - the ladies had come +first. + +ANTHONY. The women? I take you, sir. But then you see, a man's +relatives don't count. And besides, Mr. Austin, between men of +the world, I am fairly running away from the sex: I am +positively in flight. Little Hortense of the Opera; you know; +she sent her love to you. She's mad about me, I think. You +never saw a creature so fond. + +AUSTIN. Well, well, child! you are better here. In my time - to +which you have referred - I knew the lady. Does she wear well? + +ANTHONY. I beg your pardon, sir! + +AUSTIN. No offence, child, no offence. She was a very lively +creature. But you neglect your chocolate I see? + +ANTHONY. We don't patronise it, Mr. Austin; we haven't for some +years: the service has quite changed since your time. You'd be +surprised. + +AUSTIN. Doubtless. I am. + +ANTHONY. I assure you, sir, I and Jack Bosbury of the +Fifty-Second - + +AUSTIN. The Hampshire Bosburys? - + +ANTHONY. I do not know exactly, sir. I believe he is related. + +AUSTIN. Or perhaps - I remember a Mr. Bosbury, a cutter of +coats. I have the vanity to believe I formed his business. + +ANTHONY. I - I hope not, sir. But as I was saying, I and this +Jack Bosbury, and the Brummagem Bantam - a very pretty light- +weight, sir - drank seven bottles of Burgundy to the three of us +inside the eighty minutes. Jack, sir, was a little cut; but me +and the Bantam went out and finished the evening on hot gin. +Life, sir, life! Tom Cribb was with us. He spoke of you, too, +Tom did: said you'd given him a wrinkle for his second fight +with the black man. No, sir, I assure you, you're not forgotten. + +AUSTIN (BOWS). I am pleased to learn it. In my time, I had an +esteem for Mr. Cribb. + +ANTHONY. O come, sir! but your time cannot be said to be over. + +AUSTIN. Menteith, you hear? + +MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George. + +ANTHONY. The Colonel told me that you liked to shake an elbow. +Your big main, sir, with Lord Wensleydale, is often talked about. +I hope I may have the occasion to sit down with you. I shall +count it an honour, I assure you. + +AUSTIN. But would your aunt, my very good friend, approve? + +ANTHONY. Why, sir, you do not suppose I am in leading-strings? + +AUSTIN. You forget, child: a family must hang together. When I +was young - in my time - I was alone; and what I did concerned +myself. But a youth who has - as I think you have - a family of +ladies to protect, must watch his honour, child, and preserve his +fortune. You have no commands from Sir Frederick? + +ANTHONY. None, sir, none. + +AUSTIN. Shall I find you this noon upon the Pantiles? . . . I +shall be charmed. Commend me to your aunt and your fair sister. +Menteith? + +MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George. (SHOWS ANTHONY OUT.) + + +SCENE III + +AUSTIN, MENTEITH, RETURNING + +AUSTIN. Was I ever like that, Menteith? + +MENTEITH. No, Mr. George, you was always a gentleman. + +AUSTIN. Youth, my good fellow, youth. + +MENTEITH. Quite so, Mr. George. + +AUSTIN. Well, Menteith, we cannot make no mend. We cannot play +the jockey with Time. Age is the test: of wine, Menteith, and +men. + +MENTEITH. Me and you and the old Hermitage, Mr. George, he-he! + +AUSTIN. And the best of these, the Hermitage. But come: we +lose our day. Help me off with this. (MENTEITH TAKES OFF +AUSTIN'S DRESSING-GOWN; AUSTIN PASSES R. TO DRESSING-TABLE, AND +TAKES UP FIRST CRAVAT.) + +AUSTIN. Will the hair do, Menteith? + +MENTEITH. Never saw it lay better, Mr. George. (AUSTIN PROCEEDS +TO WIND FIRST CRAVAT. A BELL: EXIT MENTEITH. AUSTIN DROPS +FIRST CRAVAT IN BASKET AND TAKES SECOND.) + +AUSTIN (WINDING AND SINGING) - + +'I'd crowns resign To call her mine, Sweet Lass of Richmond +Hill!' + +(SECOND CRAVAT A FAILURE. RE-ENTER MENTEITH WITH CARD.) +Fenwick? of Allonby Shaw? A good family, Menteith, but I don't +know the gentleman. (LAYS DOWN CARD, AND TAKES UP THIRD CRAVAT.) +Send him away with every consideration. + +MENTEITH. To be sure, Mr. George. (HE GOES OUT. THIRD CRAVAT A +SUCCESS. RE-ENTER MENTEITH.) He says, Mr. George, that he has +an errand from Miss Musgrave. + +AUSTIN (WITH WAISTCOAT). Show him in, Menteith, at once. +(SINGING AND FITTING WAISTCOAT AT GLASS) - + +'I'd crowns resign To call her mine, Sweet Lass of Richmond +Hill!' + + +SCENE IV + +AUSTIN, R. TO HIM MENTEITH AND FENWICK + +MENTEITH (ANNOUNCING). Mr. Fenwick, Mr. George. + +AUSTIN. At the name of Miss Musgrave, my doors fly always open. + +FENWICK. I believe, sir, you are acquainted with my cousin, +Richard Gaunt? + +AUSTIN. The county member? An old and good friend. But you +need not go so far afield: I know your good house of Allonby +Shaw since the days of the Black Knight. We are, in fact, and at +a very royal distance, cousins. + +FENWICK. I desired, sir, from the nature of my business, that +you should recognise me for a gentleman. + +AUSTIN. The preliminary, sir, is somewhat grave. + +FENWICK. My business is both grave and delicate. + +AUSTIN. Menteith, my good fellow. (EXIT MENTEITH.) Mr. +Fenwick, honour me so far as to be seated. (THEY SIT.) I await +your pleasure. + +FENWICK. Briefly, sir, I am come, not without hope, to appeal to +your good heart. + +AUSTIN. From Miss Musgrave? + +FENWICK. No, sir, I abused her name, and am here upon my own +authority. Upon me the consequence. + +AUSTIN. Proceed. + +FENWICK. Mr. Austin, Dorothy Musgrave is the oldest and dearest +of my friends, is the lady whom for ten years it has been my hope +to make my wife. She has shown me reason to discard that hope +for another: that I may call her Mrs. Austin. + +AUSTIN. In the best interests of the lady (RISING) I question if +you have been well inspired. You are aware, sir, that from such +interference there is but one issue: to whom shall I address my +friend? + +FENWICK. Mr. Austin, I am here to throw myself upon your mercy. +Strange as my errand is, it will seem yet more strange to you +that I came prepared to accept at your hands any extremity of +dishonour and not fight. The lady whom it is my boast to serve +has honoured me with her commands. These are my law, and by +these your life is sacred. + +AUSTIN. Then, sir (WITH HIS HAND UPON THE BELL), his +conversation becomes impossible. You have me at too gross a +disadvantage; and, as you are a gentleman and respect another, I +would suggest that you retire. + +FENWICK. Sir, you speak of disadvantage; think of mine. All my +life long, with all the forces of my nature, I have loved this +lady. I came here to implore her to be my wife, to be my queen; +my saint she had been always! She was too noble to deceive me. +She told me what you know. I will not conceal that my first mood +wasof anger: I would have killed you like a dog. But, Mr. +Austin - bear with me awhile - I, on the threshold of my life, +who have made no figure in the world, nor ever shall now, who had +but one treasure, and have lost it - if I, abandoning revenge, +trampling upon jealousy, can supplicate you to complete my +misfortune - O Mr. Austin! you who have lived, you whose +gallantry is beyond the insolence of a suspicion, you who are a +man crowned and acclaimed, who are loved, and loved by such a +woman - you who excel me in every point of advantage, will you +suffer me to surpass you in generosity? + +AUSTIN. You speak from the heart. (SITS.) What do you want +with me? + +FENWICK. Marry her. + +AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, I am the older man. I have seen much of +life, much of society, much of love. When I was young, it was +expected of a gentleman to be ready with his hat to a lady, ready +with his sword to a man; to honour his word and his king; to be +courteous with his equals, generous to his dependants, helpful +and trusty in friendship. But it was not asked of us to be +quixotic. If I had married every lady by whom it is my fortune - +not my merit - to have been distinguished, the Wells would scarce +be spacious enough for my establishment. You see, sir, that +while I respect your emotion, I am myself conducted by +experience. And besides, Mr. Fenwick, is not love a warfare? has +it not rules? have not our fair antagonists their tactics, their +weapons, their place of arms? and is there not a touch of - +pardon me the word! of silliness in one who, having fought, and +having vanquished, sounds a parley, and capitulates to his own +prisoner? Had the lady chosen, had the fortune of war been +other, 'tis like she had been Mrs. Austin. Now I . . . You know +the world. + +FENWICK. I know, sir, that the world contains much cowardice. +To find Mr. Austin afraid to do the right, this surprises me. + +AUSTIN. Afraid, child? + +FENWICK. Yes, sir, afraid. You know her, you know if she be +worthy; and you answer me with - the world: the world which has +been at your feet: the world which Mr. Austin knows so well how +to value and is so able to rule. + +AUSTIN. I have lived long enough, Mr. Fenwick, to recognise that +the world is a great power. It can make; but it can break. + +FENWICK. Sir, suffer me: you spoke but now of friendship, and +spoke warmly. Have you forgotten Colonel Villiers? + +AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Fenwick, you forget what I have +suffered. + +FENWICK. O sir, I know you loved him. And yet, for a random +word you quarrelled; friendship was weighed in vain against the +world's code of honour; you fought, and your friend fell. I have +heard from others how he lay long in agony, and how you watched +and nursed him, and it was in your embrace he died. In God's +name have you forgotten that? Was not this sacrifice enough? or +must the world, once again, step between Mr. Austin and his +generous heart? + +AUSTIN. Good God, sir, I believe you are in the right; I +believe, upon my soul I believe, there is something in what you +say. + +FENWICK. Something, Mr. Austin? O credit me, the whole +difference betwixt good and evil. + +AUSTIN. Nay, nay, but there you go too far. There are many +kinds of good: honour is a diamond cut in a thousand facets, and +with the true fire in each. Thus, and with all our differences, +Mr. Fenwick, you and I can still respect, we can still admire +each other. + +FENWICK. Bear with me still, sir, if I ask you what is the end +of life but to excel in generosity? To pity the weak, to comfort +the afflicted, to right where we have wronged, to be brave in +reparation - these noble elements you have; for of what besides +is the fabric of your dealing with Colonel Villiers? That is +man's chivalry to man. Yet to a suffering woman - a woman +feeble, betrayed, unconsoled - you deny your clemency, you refuse +your aid, you proffer injustice for atonement. Nay, you are so +disloyal to yourself that you can choose to be ungenerous and +unkind. Where, sir, is the honour? What facet of the diamond is +that? + +AUSTIN. You forget, sir, you forget. But go on. + +FENWICK. O sir, not I - not I but yourself forgets: George +Austin forgets George Austin. A woman loved by him, betrayed by +him, abandoned by him - that woman suffers; and a point of honour +keeps him from his place at her feet. She has played and lost, +and the world is with him if he deign to exact the stakes. Is +that the Mr. Austin whom Miss Musgrave honoured with her trust? +Then, sir, how miserably was she deceived! + +AUSTIN. Child - child - + +FENWICK. Mr. Austin, still bear with me, still follow me. O +sir, will you not picture that dear lady's life? Her years how +few, her error thus irreparable, what henceforth can be her +portion but remorse, the consciousness of self-abasement, the +shame of knowing that her trust was ill-bestowed? To think of +it: this was a queen among women; and this - this is George +Austin's work! Sir, let me touch your heart: let me prevail +with you to feel that 'tis impossible. + +AUSTIN. I am a gentleman. What do you ask of me? + +FENWICK. To be the man she loved: to be clement where the world +would have you triumph, to be of equal generosity with the +vanquished, to be worthy of her sacrifice and of yourself. + +AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, your reproof is harsh - + +FENWICK (INTERRUPTING HIM). O sir, be, just be just! - + +AUSTIN. But it is merited, and I thank you for its utterance. +You tell me that the true victory comes when the fight is won: +that our foe is never so noble nor so dangerous as when she is +fallen, that the crowning triumph is that we celebrate over our +conquering selves. Sir, you are right. Kindness, ay kindness +after all. And with age, to become clement. Yes, ambition +first; then, the rounded vanity - victory still novel; and last, +as you say, the royal mood of the mature man; to abdicate for +others . . . Sir, you touched me hard about my dead friend; still +harder about my living duty; and I am not so young but I can take +a lesson. There is my hand upon it: she shall be my wife. + +FENWICK. Ah, Mr. Austin, I was sure of it. + +AUSTIN. Then, sir, you were vastly mistaken. There is nothing +of Beau Austin here. I have simply, my dear child, sate at the +feet of Mr. Fenwick. + +FENWICK. Ah, sir, your heart was counsellor enough. + +AUSTIN. Pardon me. I am vain enough to be the judge: there are +but two people in the world who could have wrought this change: +yourself and that dear lady. (TOUCHES BELL.) Suffer me to +dismiss you. One instant of toilet, and I follow. Will you do +me the honour to go before, and announce my approach? (ENTER +MENTEITH.) + +FENWICK. Sir, if my admiration - + +AUSTIN. Dear child, the admiration is the other way. (EMBRACES +HIM. MENTEITH SHOWS HIM OUT.) + + +SCENE V + +AUSTIN + +AUSTIN. Upon my word, I think the world is getting better. We +were none of us young men like that - in my time, to quote my +future brother. (HE SITS DOWN BEFORE THE MIRROR.) Well, here +ends Beau Austin. Paris, Rome, Vienna, London - victor +everywhere: and now he must leave his bones in Tunbridge Wells. +(LOOKS AT HIS LEG.) Poor Dolly Musgrave! a good girl after all, +and will make me a good wife; none better. The last - of how +many? - ay, and the best! Walks like Hebe. But still, here ends +Beau Austin. Perhaps it's time. Poor Dolly - was she looking +poorly? She shall have her wish. Well, we grow older, but we +grow no worse. + + +SCENE VI + +AUSTIN, MENTEITH + +AUSTIN. Menteith, I am going to be married. + +MENTEITH. Well, Mr. George, but I am pleased to hear it. Miss +Musgrave is a most elegant lady. + +AUSTIN. Ay, Mr. Menteith? and who told you the lady's name? + +MENTEITH. Mr. George, you was always a gentleman. + +AUSTIN. You mean I wasn't always? Old boy, you are in the +right. This shall be a good change for both you and me. We have +lived too long like a brace of truants: now is the time to draw +about the fire. How much is left of the old Hermitage? + +MENTEITH. Hard upon thirty dozen, Mr. George, and not a bad cork +in the bin. + +AUSTIN. And a mistress, Menteith, that's worthy of that wine. + +MENTEITH. Mr. George, sir, she's worthy of you. + +AUSTIN. Gad, I believe it. (SHAKES HANDS WITH HIM.) + +MENTEITH (BREAKING DOWN). Mr. George, you've been a damned good +master to me, and I've been a damned good servant to you; we've +been proud of each other from the first; but if you'll excuse my +plainness, Mr. George, I never liked you better than to-day. + +AUSTIN. Cheer up, old boy, the best is yet to come. Get out the +tongs, and curl me like a bridegroom. (SITS BEFORE +DRESSING-GLASS; MENTEITH PRODUCES CURLING IRONS AND PLIES THEM. +AUSTIN SINGS) - + +'I'd crowns resign +To call her mine, S +weet Lass of Richmond Hill!' + +DROP + + +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 + +ANTHONY. Upon my word, I think Aunt Evelina one of the most +uncivil old women in the world. Nine weeks ago I came of age; +and they still treat me like a boy. I'm a recognised Corinthian, +too: take my liquor with old Fred, and go round with the +Brummagem Bantam and Jack Bosb- . . . O damn Jack Bosbury. If +his father was a tailor, he shall fight me for his ungentlemanly +conduct. However, that's all one. What I want is to make Aunt +Evelina understand that I'm not the man to be put down by an old +maid who's been brought up in a work-basket, begad! I've had +nothing but rebuffs all day. It's very remarkable. There was +that man Austin, to begin with. I'll be hanged if I can stand +him. I hear too much of him; and if I can only get a good excuse +to put him to the door, I believe it would give Dorothy and all +of us a kind of a position. After all, he's not a man to visit +in the house of ladies: not when I'm away, at least. Nothing in +it of course; but is he a man whose visits I can sanction? + + +SCENE IV + +ANTHONY, BARBARA + +BARBARA. Please, Mr. Anthony, Miss Foster said I was to show +your room. + +ANTHONY. Ha! Baby? Now, you come here. You're a girl of +sense, I know. + +BARBARA. La, Mr. Anthony, I hope I'm nothing of the kind. + +ANTHONY. Come, come! that's not the tone I want: I'm serious. +Does this man Austin come much about the house? + +BARBARA. O Mr. Anthony, for shame! Why don't you ask Miss +Foster? + +ANTHONY. Now I wish you to understand: I'm the head of this +family. It's my business to look after my sister's reputation, +and my aunt's too, begad! That's what I'm here for: I'm their +natural protector. And what I want you, Barbara Ridley, to +understand - you whose fathers have served my fathers - is just +simply this: if you've any common gratitude, you're bound to +help me in the work. Now Barbara, you know me, and you know my +Aunt Evelina. She's a good enough woman; I'm the first to say +so. But who is she to take care of a young girl? She's ignorant +of the world to that degree she believes in Beau Austin! Now you +and I, Bab, who are not so high and dry, see through and through +him; we know that a man like that is no fit company for any +inexperienced girl. + +BARBARA. O Mr. Anthony, don't say that. (WEEPING.) + +ANTHONY. Hullo! what's wrong? + +BARBARA. Nothing that I know of. O Mr. Anthony, I don't think +there can be anything. + +ANTHONY. Think? Don't think? What's this? + +BARBARA. O sir! I don't know, and yet I don't like it. Here's +my beautiful necklace all broke to bits: she took it off my very +neck, and gave me her birthday pearls instead; and I found it +afterwards on the table, all smashed to pieces; and all she +wanted it for was to take and break it. Why that? It frightens +me, Mr. Anthony, it frightens me. + +ANTHONY (WITH NECKLACE). This? What has this trumpery to do +with us? + +BARBARA. He gave it me: that's why she broke it. + +ANTHONY. He? who? + +BARBARA. Mr. Austin did; and I do believe I should not have +taken it, Mr. Anthony, but I thought no harm, upon my word of +honour. He was always here: that was six months ago; and +indeed, indeed, I thought they were to marry. How would I think +else with a born lady like Miss Dorothy? + +ANTHONY. Why, Barbara, God help us all, what's this? You don't +mean to say that there was - + +BARBARA. Here it is, as true as true: they were going for a +jaunt; and Miss Foster had her gout; and I was to go with them; +and he told me to make-believe I was ill; and I did; and I stayed +at home; and he gave me that necklace; and they went away +together; and, oh dear! I wish I'd never been born. + +ANTHONY. Together? he and Dolly? Good Lord! my sister! And +since then? + +BARBARA. We haven't seen him from that day to this, the wicked +villain; and, Mr. Anthony, he hasn't so much as written the poor +dear a word. + +ANTHONY. Bab, Bab, Bab, this is a devil of a bad business; this +is a cruel bad business, Baby; cruel upon me, cruel upon all of +us; a family like mine. I'm a young man, Barbara, to have this +delicate affair to manage; but, thank God, I'm Musgrave to the +bone. He bribed a servant-maid, did he? I keep his bribe; it's +mine now; dear bought, by George! He shall have it in his teeth. +Shot Colonel Villiers, did he? we'll see how he faces Anthony +Musgrave. You're a good girl, Barbara; so far you've served the +family. You leave this to me. And, hark ye, dry your eyes and +hold your tongue: I'll have no scandal raised by you. + +BARBARA. I do hope, sir, you won't use me against Miss Dorothy. + +ANTHONY. That's my affair; your business is to hold your tongue. +Miss Dorothy has made her bed and must lie on it. Here's Jack +Fenwick. You can go. + + +SCENE V + +ANTHONY, FENWICK + +ANTHONY. Jack Fenwick, is that you? Come here, my boy. Jack, +you've given me many a thrashing, and I deserved 'em; and I'll +not see you made a fool of now. George Austin is a damned +villain, and Dorothy Musgrave is no girl for you to marry: God +help me that I should have to say it. + +FENWICK. Good God, who told YOU? + +ANTHONY. Ay, Jack; it's hard on me, Jack. But you'll stand my +friend in spite of this, and you'll take my message to the man, +won't you? For it's got to come to blood, Jack: there's no way +out of that. And perhaps your poor friend will fall, Jack; think +of that: like Villiers. And all for an unworthy sister. + +FENWICK. Now, Anthony Musgrave, I give you fair warning; see you +take it: one word more against your sister, and we quarrel. + +ANTHONY. You let it slip yourself, Jack: you know yourself +she's not a virtuous girl. + +FENWICK. What do you know of virtue, whose whole boast is to be +vicious? How dare you draw conclusions? Dolt and puppy! you can +no more comprehend that angel's excellencies than she can stoop +to believe in your vices. And you talk morality? Anthony, I'm a +man who has been somewhat roughly tried: take care. + +ANTHONY. You don't seem able to grasp the situation, Jack. It's +very remarkable; I'm the girl's natural protector; and you should +buckle-to and help, like a friend of the family. And instead of +that, begad! you turn on me like all the rest. + +FENWICK. Now mark me fairly: Mr. Austin follows at my heels; he +comes to offer marriage to your sister - that is all you know, +and all you shall know; and if by any misplaced insolence of +yours this marriage should miscarry, you have to answer, not to +Mr. Austin only, but to me. + +ANTHONY. It's all a most discreditable business, and I don't see +how you propose to better it by cutting my throat. Of course if +he's going to marry her, it's a different thing; but I don't +believe he is, or he'd have asked me. You think me a fool? Well +see they marry, or they'll find me a dangerous fool. + + +SCENE VI + +TO THESE, AUSTIN, BARBARA ANNOUNCING + +BARBARA. Mr. Austin. (SHE SHOWS AUSTIN IN, AND RETIRES.) + +AUSTIN. You will do me the justice to acknowledge, Mr. Fenwick, +that I have been not long delayed by my devotion to the Graces. + +ANTHONY. So, sir, I find you in my house - + +AUSTIN. And charmed to meet you again. It went against my +conscience to separate so soon. Youth, Mr. Musgrave, is to us +older men a perpetual refreshment. + +ANTHONY. You came here, sir, I suppose, upon some errand? + +AUSTIN. My errand, Mr. Musgrave, is to your fair sister. +Beauty, as you know, comes before valour. + +ANTHONY. In my own house, and about my own sister, I presume I +have the right to ask for something more explicit. + +AUSTIN. The right, my dear sir, is beyond question; but it is +one, as you were going on to observe, on which no gentleman +insists. + +FENWICK. Anthony, my good fellow, I think we had better go. + +ANTHONY. I have asked a question. + +AUSTIN. Which I was charmed to answer, but which, on repetition, +might begin to grow distasteful. + +ANTHONY. In my own house - + +FENWICK. For God's sake, Anthony! + +AUSTIN. In your aunt's house, young gentleman, I shall be +careful to refrain from criticism. I am come upon a visit to a +lady: that visit I shall pay; when you desire (if it be possible +that you desire it) to resume this singular conversation, select +some fitter place. Mr. Fenwick, this afternoon, may I present +you to his Royal Highness? + +ANTHONY. Why, sir, I believe you must have misconceived me. I +have no wish to offend: at least at present. + +AUSTIN. Enough, sir. I was persuaded I had heard amiss. I +trust we shall be friends. + +FENWICK. Come, Anthony, come: here is your sister. + +(AS FENWICK AND ANTHONY GO OUT, C., ENTER DOROTHY, L.) + + +SCENE VII + +AUSTIN, DOROTHY + +DOROTHY. I am told, Mr. Austin, that you wish to see me. + +AUSTIN. Madam, can you doubt of that desire? can you question my +sincerity? + +DOROTHY. Sir, between you and me these compliments are worse +than idle: they are unkind. Sure, we are alone! + +AUSTIN. I find you in an hour of cruelty, I fear. Yet you have +condescended to receive this poor offender; and having done so +much, you will not refuse to give him audience. + +DOROTHY. You shall have no cause, sir, to complain of me. I +listen. + +AUSTIN. My fair friend, I have sent myself - a poor ambassador - +to plead for your forgiveness. I have been too long absent; too +long, I would fain hope, madam, for you; too long for my honour +and my love. I am no longer, madam, in my first youth; but I may +say that I am not unknown. My fortune, originally small, has not +suffered from my husbandry. I have excellent health, an +excellent temper, and the purest ardour of affection for your +person. I found not on my merits, but on your indulgence. Miss +Musgrave, will you honour me with your hand in marriage? + +DOROTHY. Mr. Austin, if I thought basely of marriage, I should +perhaps accept your offer. There was a time, indeed, when it +would have made me proudest among women. I was the more +deceived, and have to thank you for a salutary lesson. You chose +to count me as a cipher in your rolls of conquest; for six months +you left me to my fate; and you come here to-day - prompted, I +doubt not, by an honourable impulse - to offer this tardy +reparation. No: it is too late. + +AUSTIN. Do you refuse? + +DOROTHY. Yours is the blame: we are no longer equal. You have +robbed me of the right to marry any one but you; and do you think +me, then, so poor in spirit as to accept a husband on compulsion? + +AUSTIN. Dorothy, you loved me once. + +DOROTHY. Ay, you will never guess how much: you will never live +to understand how ignominious a defeat that conquest was. I +loved and trusted you: I judged you by myself; think, then, of +my humiliation, when, at the touch of trial, all your qualities +proved false, and I beheld you the slave of the meanest vanity - +selfish, untrue, base! Think, sir, what a humbling of my pride +to have been thus deceived: to have taken for my idol such a +commonplace imposture as yourself; to have loved - yes, loved - +such a shadow, such a mockery of man. And now I am unworthy to +be the wife of any gentleman; and you - look me in the face, +George - are you worthy to be my husband? + +AUSTIN. No, Dorothy, I am not. I was a vain fool; I blundered +away the most precious opportunity; and my regret will be +lifelong. Do me the justice to accept this full confession of my +fault. I am here to-day to own and to repair it. + +DOROTHY. Repair it? Sir you condescend too far. + +AUSTIN. I perceive with shame how grievously I had misjudged +you. But now, Dorothy, believe me, my eyes are opened. I plead +with you, not as my equal, but as one in all ways better than +myself. I admire you, not in that trivial sense in which we men +are wont to speak of women, but as God's work: as a wise mind, a +noble soul, and a most generous heart, from whose society I have +all to gain, all to learn. Dorothy, in one word, I love you. + +DOROTHY. And what, sir, has wrought this transformation? You +knew me of old, or thought you knew me? Is it in six months of +selfish absence that your mind has changed? When did that change +begin? A week ago? Sure, you would have written! To-day? Sir, +if this offer be anything more than fresh offence, I have a right +to be enlightened. + +AUSTIN. Madam, I foresaw this question. So be it: I respect, +and I will not deceive you. But give me, first of all, a moment +for defence. There are few men of my habits and position who +would have done as I have done: sate at the feet of a young boy, +accepted his lessons, gone upon his errand: fewer still, who +would thus, at the crisis of a love, risk the whole fortune of +the soul - love, gratitude, even respect. Yet more than that! +For conceive how I respect you, if I, whose lifelong trade has +been flattery, stand before you and make the plain confession of +a truth that must not only lower me, but deeply wound yourself. + +DOROTHY. What means - ? + +AUSTIN. Young Fenwick, my rival for your heart, he it was that +sent me. + +DOROTHY. He? O disgrace! He sent you! That was what he meant? +Am I fallen so low? Am I your common talk among men? Did you +dice for me? Did he kneel? O John, John, how could you! And +you, Mr. Austin, whither have you brought me down? shame heaping +upon shame - to what end! oh, to what end? + +AUSTIN. Madam, you wound me: you look wilfully amiss. Sure, +any lady in the land might well be proud to be loved as you are +loved, with such nobility as Mr. Fenwick's, with such humility as +mine. I came, indeed, in pity, in good-nature, what you will. +(See, dearest lady, with what honesty I speak: if I win you, it +shall be with the unblemished truth.) All that is gone. Pity? +it is myself I pity. I offer you not love - I am not worthy. I +ask, I beseech of you: suffer me to wait upon you like a +servant, to serve you with my rank, my name, the whole devotion +of my life. I am a gentleman - ay, in spite of my fault - an +upright gentleman; and I swear to you that you shall order your +life and mine at your free will. Dorothy, at your feet, in +remorse, in respect, in love - O such love as I have never felt, +such love as I derided - I implore, I conjure you to be mine! + +DOROTHY. Too late! too late. + +AUSTIN. No, no, not too late: not too late for penitence, not +too late for love. + +DOROTHY. Which do you propose? that I should abuse your +compassion, or reward your treachery? George Austin, I have been +your mistress, and I will never be your wife. + +AUSTIN. Child, dear child, I have not told you all: there is +worse still: your brother knows; the boy as good as told me. +Dorothy, this is scandal at the door - O let that move you: for +that, if not for my sake, for that, if not for love, trust me, +trust me again. + +DOROTHY. I am so much the more your victim: that is all, and +shall that change my heart? The sin must have its wages. This, +too, was done long ago: when you stooped to lie to me. The +shame is still mine, the fault still yours. + +AUSTIN. Child, child, you kill me: you will not understand. +Can you not see? the lad will force me to a duel. + +DOROTHY. And you will kill him? Shame after shame, threat upon +threat. Marry me, or you are dishonoured; marry me, or your +brother dies: and this is man's honour! But my honour and my +pride are different. I will encounter all misfortune sooner than +degrade myself by an unfaithful marriage. How should I kneel +before the altar, and vow to reverence as my husband you, you who +deceived me as my lover? + +AUSTIN. Dorothy, you misjudge me cruelly; I have deserved it. +You will not take me for your husband; why should I wonder? You +are right. I have indeed filled your life with calamity: the +wages, ay, the wages, of my sin are heavy upon you. But I have +one more thing to ask of your pity; and O remember, child, who it +is that asks it: a man guilty in your sight, void of excuse, but +old, and very proud, and most unused to supplication. Dorothy +Musgrave, will you forgive George Austin? + +DOROTHY. O, George! + +AUSTIN. It is the old name: that is all I ask, and more than I +deserve. I shall remember, often remember, how and where it was +bestowed upon me for the last time. I thank you, Dorothy, from +my heart; a heart, child, that has been too long silent, but is +not too old, I thank God! not yet too old, to learn a lesson and +to accept a reproof. I will not keep you longer: I will go - I +am so bankrupt in credit that I dare not ask you to believe in +how much sorrow. But, Dorothy, my acts will speak for me with +more persuasion. If it be in my power, you shall suffer no more +through me: I will avoid your brother; I will leave this place, +I will leave England, to-morrow; you shall be no longer tortured +with the neighbourhood of your ungenerous lover. Dorothy, +farewell! + + +SCENE VIII + +DOROTHY; TO WHOM, ANTHONY, L. + +DOROTHY (ON HER KNEES, AND REACHING WITH HER HANDS.) George, +George! (ENTER ANTHONY.) + +ANTHONY. Ha! what are you crying for? + +DOROTHY. Nothing, dear! (RISING.) + +ANTHONY. Is Austin going to marry you? + +DOROTHY. I shall never marry. + +ANTHONY. I thought as much. You should have come to me. + +DOROTHY. I know, dear, I know; but there was nothing to come +about. + +ANTHONY. It's a lie. You have disgraced the family. You went +to John Fenwick: see what he has made of it! But I will have +you righted: it shall be atoned in the man's blood. + +DOROTHY. Anthony! And if I had refused him? + +ANTHONY. You? refuse George Austin? You never had the chance. + +DOROTHY. I have refused him. + +ANTHONY. Dorothy, you lie. You would shield your lover; but +this concerns not you only: it strikes my honour and my father's +honour. + +DOROTHY. I have refused him - refused him, I tell you - refused +him. The blame is mine; are you so mad and wicked that you will +not see? + +ANTHONY. I see this: that man must die. + +DOROTHY. He? never! You forget, you forget whom you defy; you +run upon your death. + +ANTHONY. Ah, my girl, you should have thought of that before. +It is too late now. + +DOROTHY. Anthony, if I beg you - Anthony, I have tried to be a +good sister; I brought you up, dear, nursed you when you were +sick, fought for you, hoped for you, loved you - think of it, +think of the dear past, think of our home and the happy winter +nights, the castles in the fire, the long shining future, the +love that was to forgive and suffer always - O you will spare, +you will spare me this. + +ANTHONY. I will tell you what I will do, Dolly: I will do just +what you taught me - my duty: that, and nothing else. + +DOROTHY. O Anthony, you also, you to strike me! Heavens, shall +I kill them - I - I, that love them, kill them! Miserable, +sinful girl! George, George, thank God, you will be far away! O +go, George, go at once! + +ANTHONY. He goes the coward! Ay, is this more of your +contrivance? Madam, you make me blush. But to-day at least I +know where I can find him. This afternoon, on the Pantiles, he +must dance attendance on the Duke of York. Already he must be +there; and there he is at my mercy. DOROTHY. Thank God, you are +deceived: he will not fight. He promised me that; thank God I +have his promise for that. + +ANTHONY. Promise! Do you see this? (PRODUCING NECKLACE) the +thing he bribed your maid with? I shall dash it in his teeth +before the Duke and before all Tunbridge. Promise, you poor +fool? what promise holds against a blow? Get to your knees and +pray for him; for, by the God above, if he has any blood in his +body, one of us shall die before to-night. (HE GOES OUT.) + +DOROTHY. Anthony, Anthony! . . . O my God, George will kill him. + +MUSIC: 'CHE FARO,' AS THE DROP FALLS. + +DROP. + + +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 lines. A seat in front, L. + +SCENE I + +MISS FOSTER, BARBARA, MENTEITH; VISITORS + +MISS FOSTER (ENTERING; ESCORTED BY MENTEITH, AND FOLLOWED BY +BARBARA). And so, Menteith, here you are once more. And vastly +pleased I am to see you, my good fellow, not only for your own +sake, but because you harbinger the Beau. (SITS, L.; MENTEITH +STANDING OVER HER.) + +MENTEITH. Honoured madam, I have had the pleasure to serve Mr. +George for more than thirty years. This is a privilege - a very +great privilege. I have beheld him in the first societies, +moving among the first rank of personages; and none, madam, none +outshone him. + +BARBARA. I assure you, madam, when Mr. Menteith took me to the +play, he talked so much of Mr. Austin that I couldn't hear a word +of Mr. Kean. + +MISS FOSTER. Well, well, and very right. That was the old +school of service, Barbara, which you would do well to imitate. +This is a child, Menteith, that I am trying to form. + +MENTEITH. Quite so, madam. + +MISS FOSTER. And are we soon to see our princely guest, +Menteith? + +MENTEITH. His Royal Highness, madam? I believe I may say quite +so. Mr. George will receive our gallant prince upon the Pantiles + +(LOOKING AT HIS WATCH) in, I should say, a matter of twelve +minutes from now. Such, madam, is Mr. George's order of the day. + +BARBARA. I beg your pardon, madam, I am sure, but are we really +to see one of His Majesty's own brothers? That will be pure! O +madam, this is better than Carlisle. + +MISS FOSTER. The wood-note wild: a loyal Cumbrian, Menteith. + +MENTEITH. Eh? Quite so, madam. + +MISS FOSTER. When she has seen as much of the Royal Family as +you, my good fellow, she will find it vastly less entertaining. + +MENTEITH. Yes, madam, indeed; In these distinguished circles, +life is but a slavery. None of the best set would relish +Tunbridge without Mr. George; Tunbridge and Mr. George (if you'll +excuse my plainness, madam) are in a manner of speaking +identified; and indeed it was the Dook's desire alone that +brought us here. + +BARBARA. What? the Duke? O dear! was it for that? + +MENTEITH. Though, to be sure, madam, Mr. George would always be +charmed to find himself (BOWING) among so many admired members of +his own set. + +MISS FOSTER. Upon my word, Menteith, Mr. Austin is as fortunate +in his servant as his reputation. + +MENTEITH. Quite so, madam. But let me observe that the +opportunities I have had of acquiring a knowledge of Mr. George's +character have been 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 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. Oh! 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 there, 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.') + +THE END + +---------------------------------------------------------- + +Play: 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 SQUARE BRACKETS, THUS [ ]. + +ADMIRAL GUINEA + +ACT I. + +The Stage represents a room in the 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 widows 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 +letter 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 here 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 bowline? 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 + +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 pints 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 CROSSES 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; only 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 +belold! 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 an 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.) + +DROP. + + +ACT II. + +The Stage represents the parlour of the 'Admiral Benbow' inn. +Fire-place, 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 the half-door in L., corner +back; door, R., beyond the fire-place; window with red half- +curtains; spittons; 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 - chimbley - 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 haint 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 ALL 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 half-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 bos'un, ma'am. In the Guinea +trade, we was known as 'Pew's Cap'n,' and 'Gaunt's Bo'sun,' one +for 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 god-father. ['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 know 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 +dammne,' 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 starn 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 look-out. 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 course; 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! + + +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 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! + + +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 you are, 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'd 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 +lands! 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. O, 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 mony 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.' + +DROP + + +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 aught 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 into 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 worst 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 bare-foot! + +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 hear 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 pint,' 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. + +'Time for us to go, +Time for us to go, A +nd 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 is 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! +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 THE 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 LEAPS 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. O, 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. + +AUNT. 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 THOUGHT 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 off. 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 QUARTERDECK, 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! + +CURTAIN + +---------------------------------------------------------- + + +Play: 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 1800. 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 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 +jail. + +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 jail 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 you 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, wha 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. } + +BERTRAND. Sold again. } ASIDE. + +GORIOT (TAKING THE STAGE). But, look'ee here, he can't marry. + +MACAIRE. Hey? } + +DUMONT. Ah! } + +ALINE. Hey day! } + +CURATE. Wherefore? } TOGETHER. + +ERNESTINE. Oh! } + +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! } TOGETHER. + +CHARLES. Let's go at once! } + +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 +TURNS 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 - 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 church-warden: 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 a 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 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 he 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 only known 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: SMILING 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.) + +MACAIRE. 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. + +MACAIRE. 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? + +MACAIRE. This is the man, my lord; here stands the father; +Charles, to my arms! (CHARLES BACKS.) + +DUMONT. He knew the letter. + +MARQUIS. Well, but 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. + +MACAIRE. Mine, Marquis, mine. + +MARQUIS. My figure, I think? + +MACAIRE. 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. Look 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 the +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.) + +MACAIRE. 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. + +MACAIRE. 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. + +MACAIRE. 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. + +MACAIRE (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! + + +SCENE V + +MACAIRE, TO WHOM BERTRAND. AFTERWARDS DUMONT + +BERTRAND. Well? + +MACAIRE. Bitten. + +BERTRAND. Sold again. + +MACAIRE. 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. + +MACAIRE. Ah, my good old Dumont, this is very sad. + +DUMONT. Dear me, what is wrong? + +MACAIRE. Dumont, you had a dowry for my son? + +DUMONT. I had; I have: ten thousand francs. + +MACAIRE. 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? + +MACAIRE. 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! + +MACAIRE. 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? + +MACAIRE. 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, +nobleman! + +MACAIRE. 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 . . . . + +MACAIRE. 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: EACH SHAKING + +BERTRAND. Beautiful, O beautiful! } HIM BY 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. Oh!! (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. } + +BERTRAND. Sold again. } Aside + +(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? My, 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. + +SCENE I + +MACAIRE, BERTRAND + +As the curtain rises, the stage is dark and empty. Enter +MACAIRE, L. U. E., with lantern. He looks about. + +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 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 night-cap, 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 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! } SITTING ON THE TABLE + +BERTRAND. Early birds, early birds. } DISSEMBLING BOX. + +DUMONT. By the way, very remarkable thing: I found the 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 your sitting on? + +BERTRAND. Nothing. + +MACAIRE. The table! I beg your pardon. + +DUMONT. Why, it's my cash-box! + +MACAIRE. 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 ITS KEY.) It's a +singular thing (BLOWING), key won't turn. It's a patent. Some +one 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 chymist. + +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 +------------------------------------------------------------- + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Plays of +William Ernest Henley and Robert Louis Stevenson diff --git a/old/tpohs10.zip b/old/tpohs10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4ce4920 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/tpohs10.zip |
