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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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