OR THE DOUBLE LIFE
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., 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.
To these, Leslie, C.
Leslie. May I come in, Mary?
Mary. Why not?
Leslie. I scarce knew where to find you.
Mary. The dad and I must have a corner, must we not?
So when my brother’s friends are in the parlour he
allows us to sit in his room. ’Tis a great favour, I
can tell you; the place is sacred.
Leslie. Are you sure that “sacred” is strong enough?
Mary. You are satirical!
Leslie. I? And with regard to the Deacon? Believe
me, I am not so ill-advised. You have trained me
well, and I feel by him as solemnly as a true-born
Brodie.
Mary. And now you are impertinent! Do you mean
to go any further? We are a fighting race, we Brodies.
O, you may laugh, sir! But ’tis no child’s play to
jest us on our Deacon, or, for that matter, on our
Deacon’s chamber either. It was his father’s before
him: he works in it by day and sleeps in it by night;
and scarce anything it contains but is the labour of
his hands. Do you see this table, Walter? He made
it while he was yet a ’prentice. I remember how I
used to sit and watch him at his work. It would
be grand, I thought, to be able to do as he did, and
handle edge-tools without cutting my fingers, and
getting my ears pulled for a meddlesome minx! He
used to give me his mallet to keep and his nails to
hold; and didn’t I fly when he called for them! and
wasn’t I proud to be ordered about with them! And
then, you know, there is the tall cabinet yonder;
that it was that proved him the first of Edinburgh
joiners, and worthy to be their Deacon and their
head. And the father’s chair, and the sister’s work-box,
and the dear dead mother’s footstool—what are
they all but proofs of the Deacon’s skill, and tokens
of the Deacon’s care for those about him?
Leslie. I am all penitence. Forgive me this last time,
and I promise you I never will again.
Mary. Candidly, now, do you think you deserve forgiveness?
Leslie. Candidly, I do not.
Mary. Then I suppose you must have it. What have
you done with Willie and my uncle?
Leslie. I left them talking deeply. The dear old Procurator
has not much thought just now for anything
but those mysterious burglaries——
Mary. I know!——
Leslie. Still, all of him that is not magistrate and official
is politician and citizen; and he has been striving
his hardest to undermine the Deacon’s principles, and
win the Deacon’s vote and interest.
Mary. They are worth having, are they not?
Leslie. The Procurator seems to think that having
them makes the difference between winning and
losing.
Mary. Did he say so? You may rely upon it that he
knows. There are not many in Edinburgh who can
match with our Will.
Leslie. There shall be as many as you please, and not
one more.
Mary. How I should like to have heard you! What
did uncle say? Did he speak of the Town Council
again? Did he tell Will what a wonderful Bailie
he would make? O, why did you come away?
Leslie. I could not pretend to listen any longer. The
election is months off yet; and if it were not—if it
were tramping up-stairs this moment—drums, flags,
cockades, guineas, candidates, and all!—how should
I care for it? What are Whig and Tory to me?
Mary. O, fie on you! It is for every man to concern
himself in the common weal. Mr. Leslie—Leslie of
the Craig!—should know that much at least.
Leslie. And be a politician like the Deacon! All in good
time, but not now. I hearkened while I could, and
when I could no more I slipped out and followed my
heart. I hoped I should be welcome.
Mary. I suppose you mean to be unkind.
Leslie. Tit for tat. Did you not ask me why I came
away? And is it usual for a young lady to say “Mr.”
to the man she means to marry?
Mary. That is for the young lady to decide, sir.
Leslie. And against that judgment there shall be no
appeal?
Mary. O, if you mean to argue!——
Leslie. I do not mean to argue. I am content to love
and be loved. I think I am the happiest man in the
world.
Mary. That is as it should be; for I am the happiest
girl.
Leslie. Why not say the happiest wife? I have your
word, and you have mine. Is not that enough?
Mary. Have you so soon forgotten? Did I not tell you
how it must be as my brother wills? I can do only
as he bids me.
Leslie. Then you have not spoken as you promised?
Mary. I have been too happy to speak.
Leslie. I am his friend. Precious as you are, he will
trust you to me. He has but to know how I love you,
Mary, and how your life is all in your love of me,
to give us his blessing with a full heart.
Mary. I am sure of him. It is that which makes my
happiness complete. Even to our marriage I should
find it hard to say “Yes” when he said “No.”
Leslie. Your father is trying to speak. I’ll wager he
echoes you.
Mary (to Old Brodie). My poor dearie! Do you want
to say anything to me? No? Is it to Mr. Leslie,
then?
Leslie. I am listening, Mr. Brodie.
Mary. What is it, daddie?
Old Brodie. My son—the Deacon—Deacon Brodie—the
first at school.
Leslie. I know it, Mr. Brodie. Was I not the last in the
same class? (To Mary.) But he seems to have
forgotten us.
Mary. O, yes! his mind is wellnigh gone. He will sit
for hours as you see him, and never speak nor stir
but at the touch of Will’s hand or the sound of Will’s
name.
Leslie. It is so good to sit beside you. By and by
it will always be like this. You will not let me speak
to the Deacon? You are fast set upon speaking
yourself? I could be so eloquent, Mary—I would
touch him. I cannot tell you how I fear to trust my
happiness to any one else—even to you.
Mary. He must hear of my good fortune from none but
me. And, besides, you do not understand. We are
not like other families, we Brodies. We are so clannish,
we hold so close together.
Leslie. You Brodies, and your Deacon!
Old Brodie. Deacon of his craft, sir—Deacon of the
Wrights—my son! If his mother—his mother—had
but lived to see!
Mary. You hear how he runs on. A word about my
brother and he catches it. ’Tis as if he were awake
in his poor blind way to all the Deacon’s care for
him and all the Deacon’s kindness to me. I believe
he only lives in the thought of the Deacon. There,
it is not so long since I was one with him. But indeed
I think we are all Deacon-mad, we Brodies.—Are
we not, daddie dear?
Brodie (without, and entering). You are a mighty magistrate,
Procurator, but you seem to have met your
match.
To these, Brodie and Lawson
Mary (curtseying). So, uncle! you have honoured us
at last.
Lawson. Quam primum, my dear, quam primum.
Brodie. Well, father, do you know me? (He sits beside
his father, and takes his hand.)
(Old Brodie. William—ay—Deacon. Greater man—than—his
father.
Brodie. You see, Procurator, the news is as fresh to
him as it was five years ago. He was struck down
before he got the Deaconship, and lives his lost life
in mine.
Lawson. Ay, I mind. He was aye ettling after a bit
handle to his name. He was kind of hurt when first
they made me Procurator.)
Mary. And what have you been talking of?
Lawson. Just o’ thae robberies, Mary. Baith as a burgher
and a Crown offeecial, I tak’ the maist absorbing
interest in thae robberies.
Leslie. Egad, Procurator, and so do I.
Brodie (with a quick look at Leslie). A dilettante interest,
doubtless! See what it is to be idle.
Leslie. ’Faith, Brodie, I hardly know how to style it.
Brodie. At any rate, ’tis not the interest of a victim, or
we should certainly have known of it before; nor
a practical tool-mongering interest, like my own;
nor an interest professional and official, like the Procurator’s.
You can answer for that, I suppose?
Leslie. I think I can; if for no more. It’s an interest
of my own, you see, and is best described as indescribable,
and of no manner of moment to anybody. (It
will take no hurt if we put off its discussion till a month
of Sundays.)
Brodie. You are more fortunate than you deserve.
What do you say, Procurator?
Lawson. Ay is he! There’s no’ a house in Edinburgh
safe. The law is clean helpless, clean helpless! A
week syne it was auld Andra Simpson’s in the Lawn-market.
Then, naething would set the catamarans
but to forgather privily wi’ the Provost’s ain butler,
and tak’ unto themselves the Provost’s ain plate.
And the day, information was laid down before me
offeecially that the limmers had made infraction,
vi et clam, into Leddy Mar’get Dalziel’s, and left her
leddyship wi’ no’ sae muckle’s a spune to sup her
parritch wi’. It’s unbelievable, it’s awful, it’s anti-christian!
Mary. If you only knew them, uncle, what an example
you would make! But, tell me, is it not strange
that men should dare such things, in the midst of
a city, and nothing, nothing be known of them—nothing
at all?
Leslie. Little, indeed! But we do know that there
are several in the gang, and that one at least is an
unrivalled workman.
Lawson. Ye’re right, sir; ye’re vera right, Mr. Leslie.
It had been deponed to me offeecially that no’ a tradesman—no’
the Deacon here himsel’—could have made
a cleaner job wi’ Andra Simpson’s shutters. And as
for the lock o’ the bank—but that’s an auld
sang.
Brodie. I think you believe too much, Procurator.
Rumour’s an ignorant jade, I tell you. I’ve had
occasion to see some little of their handiwork—broken
cabinets, broken shutters, broken doors—and I find
them bunglers. Why, I could do it better myself.
Leslie. Gad, Brodie, you and I might go into partnership.
I back myself to watch outside, and I suppose
you could do the work of skill within?
Brodie. An opposition company? Leslie, your mind
is full of good things. Suppose we begin to-night,
and give the Procurator’s house the honours of our
innocence?
Mary. You could do anything, you two!
Lawson. Onyway, Deacon, ye’d put your ill-gotten
gains to a right use; they might come by the wind,
but they wouldna gang wi’ the water; and that’s aye
a solatium, as we say. If I am to be robbit, I would
like to be robbit wi’ decent folk; and no’ think o’
my bonnie clean siller dirling among jads and dicers.
’Faith, William, the mair I think on’t, the mair I’m
o’ Mr. Leslie’s mind. Come the night, or come the
morn, and I’se gie ye my free permission, and lend
ye a hand in at the window forbye!
Brodie. Come, come, Procurator, lead not our poor clay
into temptation. (Leslie and Mary talk apart.)
Lawson. I’m no muckle afraid for your puir clay, as
ye ca’t. But hark i’ your ear: ye’re likely, joking
apart, to be gey and sune in partnership wi’ Mr. Leslie.
He and Mary are gey and pack, a’body can see that.
Brodie. “Daffin, and want o’ wit”—you know the rest.
Lawson. Vidi, scivi, et audivi, as we say in a Sasine,
William.) Man, because my wig’s pouthered do you
think I havena a green heart? I was aince a lad
mysel’, and I ken fine by the glint o’ the e’e when a
lad’s fain and a lassie’s willing. And, man, it’s the
town’s talk; communis error fit jus, ye ken.
Old Brodie. Oh!
Lawson. See, ye’re hurting your faither’s hand.
Brodie. Dear dad, it is not good to have an ill-tempered
son.
Lawson. What the deevil ails ye at the match? ’Od
man, he has a nice bit divot o’ Fife corn-land, I can
tell ye, and some Bordeaux wine in his cellar! But
I needna speak o’ the Bordeaux; ye’ll ken the smack
o’t as weel’s I do mysel’; onyway it’s grand wine.
Tantum et tale. I tell ye the pro’s, find you the con.’s,
if ye’re able.
Brodie. (I am sorry, Procurator, but I must be short
with you.) You are talking in the air, as lawyers
will. I prefer to drop the subject (and it will displease
me if you return to it in my hearing).
Leslie. At four o’clock to-morrow? At my house? (To
Mary.)
Mary. As soon as church is done. (Exit Mary.)
Lawson. Ye needna be sae high and mighty, onyway.
Brodie. I ask your pardon, Procurator. But we Brodies—you
know our failings! (A bad temper and a humour
of privacy.)
Lawson. Weel, I maun be about my business. But I
could tak’ a doch-an-dorach, William; superflua non
nocent, as we say; an extra dram hurts naebody,
Mr. Leslie.
Brodie (with bottle and glasses). Here’s your old friend,
Procurator. Help yourself, Leslie. O no, thank you,
not any for me. You strong people have the advantage
of me there. With my attacks, you know, I must
always live a bit of a hermit’s life.
Lawson. ’Od, man, that’s fine; that’s health o’ mind
and body. Mr. Leslie, here’s to you, sir. ’Od, it’s
harder to end than to begin with stuff like that.
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.)
Smith, Jean Watt, Old Brodie
Smith (bowing them out). Your humble and most devoted
servant, George Smith, Esquire. And so this is the
garding, is it? And this is the style of horticulture?
Ha, it is! (At the mirror.) In that case George’s
mother bids him bind his hair. (Kisses his hand.)
My dearest Duchess——(To Jean.) I say, Jean,
there’s a good deal of difference between this sort of
thing and the way we does it in Libberton’s Wynd.
Jean. I daursay. And what wad ye expeck?
Smith. Ah, Jean, if you’d cast affection’s glance on this
poor but honest soger! George Lord S. is not the
nobleman to cut the object of his flame before the
giddy throng; nor to keep her boxed up in an old
mouse-trap, while he himself is revelling in purple
splendours like these. He didn’t know you, Jean:
he was afraid to. Do you call that a man? Try a
man that is.
Jean. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I’ll tak’ nane o’
that sort o’ talk frae you. And what kind o’ a man
are you to even yoursel’ to the likes o’ him? He’s a
gentleman.
Smith. Ah, ain’t he, just! And don’t he live up to it?
I say, Jean, feel of this chair.
Jean. My! look at yon bed!
Smith. The carpet too! Axminster, by the bones of
Oliver Cromwell!
Jean. What a expense!
Smith. Hey, brandy! The deuce of the grape! Have
a toothful, Mrs. Watt. (Sings—
“Says Bacchus to Venus:
There’s brandy between us,
And the cradle of love is the bowl, the bowl!”)
|
Jean. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith.
Smith. What brings the man from stuff like this to rotgut
and spittoons at Mother Clarke’s? But ah, George,
you was born for a higher spear! And so was you,
Mrs. Watt, though I say it that shouldn’t. (Seeing
Old Brodie for the first time.) Hullo! it’s a man!
Jean. Thonder in the chair. (They go to look at him,
their backs to the door.)
Smith. Is he alive?
Jean. I think there’s something wrong with him.
Smith. And how was you to-morrow, my valued old
gentleman, eh?
Jean. Dinna mak’ a mock o’ him, Geordie.
Old Brodie. My son—the Deacon—Deacon of his trade.
Jean. He’ll be his feyther. (Hunt appears at door C.,
and stands looking on.)
Smith. The Deacon’s old man! Well, he couldn’t expect
to have his quiver full of sich, could he, Jean? (To
Old Brodie.) Ah, my Christian soldier, if you had,
the world would have been more variegated. Mrs.
Deakin (to Jean), let me introduce you to your dear
papa.
Jean. Think shame to yoursel’! This is the Deacon’s
house; you and me shouldna be here by rights; and
if we are, it’s the least we can do to behave dacent.
(This is no’ the way ye’ll mak’ me like ye.)
Smith. All right, Duchess. Don’t be angry.
To these, Hunt, C. (He steals down, and claps each one
suddenly on the shoulder.)
Hunt. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal?
Smith (pulling himself together). D—n it, Jerry, what
do you mean by startling an old customer like that?
Hunt. What, my brave ’un? You’re the very party I
was looking for!
Smith. There’s nothing out against me this time?
Hunt. I’ll take odds there is. But it ain’t in my hands.
(To Old Brodie.) You’ll excuse me, old gentleman?
Smith. Ah, well, if it’s all in the way of friendship!...
I say, Jean (you and me had best be on the toddle).
We shall be late for church.
Hunt. Lady, George?
Smith. It’s a——yes, it’s a lady. Come along, Jean.
Hunt. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe. (That was the name,
I think?) Won’t Mrs. Deacon let me have a queer at
her phiz?
Jean (unmuffling). I’ve naething to be ashamed of. My
name’s Mistress Watt; I’m weel kennt at the Wyndheid;
there’s naething again’ me.
Hunt. No, to be sure there ain’t; and why clap on the
blinkers, my dear? You that has a face like a rose,
and with a cove like Jerry Hunt, that might be your
born father? (But all this don’t tell me about Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal.)
Smith (in an agony). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (Going
with attempted swagger.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry.
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.)
Brodie, Smith
Brodie. What the devil brings you here?
Smith. Confound it, Deakin! Not rusty?
Brodie. (And not you only: Jean too! Are you mad?
Smith. Why, you don’t mean to say, Deakin, that you
have been stodged by G. Smith, Esquire? Plummy
old George?)
Brodie. There was my uncle the Procurator——
Smith. The Fiscal? He don’t count.
Brodie. What d’ye mean?
Smith. Well, Deakin, since Fiscal Lawson’s Nunkey
Lawson, and it’s all in the family way, I don’t mind
telling you that Nunkey Lawson’s a customer of
George’s. We give Nunkey Lawson a good deal of
brandy—G. S. and Co.’s celebrated Nantz.
Brodie. What! does he buy that smuggled trash of
yours?
Smith. Well, we don’t call it smuggled in the trade,
Deakin. It’s a wink and King George’s picter between
G. S. and the Nunks.
Brodie. Gad! that’s worth knowing. O Procurator,
Procurator, is there no such thing as virtue? (Allons!
It’s enough to cure a man of vice for this world and
the other.) But hark you hither, Smith; this is all
damned well in its way, but it don’t explain what
brings you here.
Smith. I’ve trapped a pigeon for you.
Brodie. Can’t you pluck him yourself?
Smith. Not me. He’s too flash in the feather for a
simple nobleman like George Lord Smith. It’s the
great Capting Starlight, fresh in from York. (He’s
exercised his noble art all the way from here to London.
“Stand and deliver, stap my vitals!”) And the
North Road is no bad lay, Deakin.
Brodie. Flush?
Smith (mimicking). “Three graziers, split me! A mail,
stap my vitals! and seven demned farmers, by the
Lard——”
Brodie. By Gad!
Smith. Good for trade, ain’t it? And we thought, Deakin,
the Badger and me, that coins being ever on the vanish,
and you not over sweet on them there lovely little
locks at Leslie’s, and them there bigger and uglier
marine stores at the Excise Office....
Brodie (impassible). Go on.
Smith. Worse luck!... We thought, me and the
Badger, you know, that maybe you’d like to exercise
your 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.
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.)
Brodie
(He closes, locks, and double-bolts the doors)
Brodie. Now for one of the Deacon’s headaches! Rogues
all, rogues all! (Goes to clothes-press and proceeds
to change his coat.) On with the new coat and into the
new life! Down with the Deacon and up with the
robber! (Changing neck-band and ruffles.) Eh God!
how still the house is! There’s something in hypocrisy
after all. If we were as good as we seem, what would
the world be? (The city has its vizard on, and we—at
night we are our naked selves. Trysts are keeping,
bottles cracking, knives are stripping; and here is
Deacon Brodie flaming forth the man of men he is!)—How
still it is!... My father and Mary—Well!
the day for them, the night for me; the grimy cynical
night that makes all cats grey, and all honesties of one
complexion. Shall a man not have half a life of his
own?—not eight hours out of twenty-four? (Eight
shall he have should he dare the pit of Tophet.) (Takes
out money.) Where’s the blunt? I must be cool
to-night, or ... steady, Deacon, you must win;
damn you, you must! You must win back the dowry
that you’ve stolen, and marry your sister, and pay
your debts, and gull the world a little longer! (As
he blows out the lights.) The Deacon’s going to bed—the
poor sick Deacon! Allons! (Throws up the window
and looks out.) Only the stars to see me! (Addressing
the bed.) Lie there, Deacon! sleep and be well
to-morrow. As for me, I’m a man once more till
morning. (Gets out of the window.)
Hunt The Runner
The Scene represents the Procurator’s Office
Lawson, Hunt
Lawson (entering). Step your way in, Officer. (At wing.)
Mr. Carfrae, give a chair to yon decent wife that cam’
in wi’ me. Nae news?
A Voice without. Naething, sir.
Lawson (sitting). Weel, Officer, and what can I do for
you?
Hunt. Well, sir, as I was saying, I’ve an English warrant
for the apprehension of one Jemmy Rivers, alias
Captain Starlight, now at large within your jurisdiction.
Lawson. That’ll be the highwayman?
Hunt. That same, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. The Captain’s
given me a hard hunt of it this time. I dropped
on his marks at Huntingdon, but he was away North,
and I had to up and after him. I heard of him all
along the York road, for he’s a light hand on the pad,
has Jemmy, and leaves his mark. I missed him at
York by four-and-twenty hours, and lost him for as
much more. Then I picked him up again at Carlisle,
and we made a race of it for the Border; but he’d a
better nag, and was best up in the road; so I had to
wait till I ran him to earth in Edinburgh here and
could get a new warrant. So here I am, sir. They
told me you were an active sort of gentleman, and I’m
an active man myself. And Sir John Fielding, Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal, he’s an active gentleman likewise,
though he’s blind as a 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 Scots officers—him as was so polite as
to show me round to Mr. Brodie’s—to give me full
particulars about the ’ouse, and the flash companions
that use it. In his list I drop on the names of two
old lambs of my own; and I put it to you, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal,
as a gentleman as knows the world,
if what’s a black sheep in London is likely or not to be
keeping school in Edinburgh?
Lawson. Coelum non animum. A just observe.
Hunt. I’ll give it a thought, sir, and see if I can’t kill
two birds with one stone. Talking of which, Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal, I’d like to have a bit of a confab
with that nice young woman as came to pay her rent.
Lawson. Hunt, that’s a very decent woman.
Hunt. And a very decent woman may have mighty queer
pals, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. Lord love you, sir, I
don’t know what the profession would do without
’em!
Lawson. Ye’re vera richt, Hunt. An active and a watchful
officer, I’ll send her in till ye.
Hunt (solus). Two hundred pounds reward. Curious
thing. One burglary after another, and these Scots
blockheads without a man to show for it. Jock runs
east, and Sawney cuts west; everything’s at a deadlock
and they go on calling themselves thief-catchers!
(By Jingo, I’ll show them how we do it down South!
Well, I’ve worn out a good deal of saddle-leather over
Jemmy Rivers; but here’s for new breeches if you
like.) Let’s have another queer at the list. (Reads.)
“Humphrey Moore, otherwise Badger; aged forty,
thick-set, dark, close-cropped; has been a prize-fighter;
no apparent occupation.” Badger’s an old
friend of mine. “George Smith, otherwise the Dook,
otherwise Jingling Geordie; red-haired and curly,
slight, flash; an old thimble-rig; has been a stroller;
suspected of smuggling; an associate of loose women.”
G. S., Esquire, is another of my flock. “Andrew
Ainslie, otherwise Slink Ainslie; aged thirty-five;
thin, white-faced, lank-haired; no occupation; has
been in trouble for reset of theft and subornation of
youth; might be useful as King’s evidence.” That’s
an acquaintance to make. “Jock Hamilton otherwise
Sweepie,” and so on. (“Willie M’Glashan,” hum—yes,
and so on, and so on.) Ha! here’s the man
I want. “William Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights,
about thirty; tall, slim, dark; wears his own hair;
is often at Clarke’s, but seemingly for purposes of
amusement only; (is nephew to the Procurator-Fiscal;
is commercially sound, but has of late (it is supposed)
been short of cash; has lost much at cock-fighting;)
is proud, clever, of good repute, but is fond of adventures
and secrecy, and keeps low company.” Now,
here’s what I ask myself: here’s this list of the family
party that drop into Mother Clarke’s; it’s been in the
hands of these nincompoops for weeks, and I’m the first
to cry Queer Street! Two well-known cracksmen,
Badger and the Dook! why, there’s Jack in the
Orchard at once. This here topsawyer work they talk
about, of course that’s a chalk above Badger and the
Dook. But how about our Mohock-tradesman? “Purposes
of amusement!” What next? Deacon of the
Wrights? and Wright in their damned lingo means a
kind of carpenter, I fancy? Why, damme, it’s the
man’s trade! I’ll look you up, Mr. William Brodie,
Deacon of the Wrights. As sure as my name’s Jerry
Hunt, I wouldn’t take one-ninety-nine in gold for my
chance of that ’ere two hundred!
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.)
Hunt (solus)
Hunt. Ah! that’s it, is it? “My fancy man’s my ’ole
delight,” as we say in Bow Street. But which is
the fancy man? George the Dook, or William the
Deacon? One or both? (He winks solemnly.) Well,
Jerry, my boy, here’s your work cut out for you;
but if you took one-nine-five for that ere little two
hundred you’d be a disgrace to the profession.
Mother Clarke’s
The Stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance: settles,
spittoons, etc.; sanded floor. A large table at back, where Ainslie,
Hamilton, and others are playing cards and quarrelling. In front,
L. and R., smaller tables, at one of which are Brodie and Moore,
drinking. Mrs. Clarke and women serving.
Moore. You’ve got the devil’s own luck, Deacon, that’s
what you’ve got.
Brodie. Luck! Don’t talk of luck to a man like me!
Why not say I’ve the devil’s own judgment? Men
of my stamp don’t risk—they plan, Badger; they
plan, and leave chance to such cattle as you (and
Jingling Geordie. They make opportunities before
they take them).
Moore. You’re artful, ain’t you?
Brodie. Should I be here else? When I leave my house
I leave an alibi behind me. I’m ill—ill with a jumping
headache, and the fiend’s own temper. I’m sick in bed
this minute, and they’re all going about with the fear
of death on them lest they should disturb the poor sick
Deacon. (My bedroom door is barred and bolted like
the bank—you remember!—and all the while the
window’s open, and the Deacon’s over the hills and far
away. What do you think of me?)
Moore. I’ve seen your sort before, I have.
Brodie. Not you. As for Leslie’s——
Moore. That was a nick above you.
Brodie. Ay was it. He wellnigh took me red-handed;
and that was better luck than I deserved. If I’d not
been drunk and in my tantrums, you’d never have got
my hand within a thousand years of such a job.
Moore. Why not? You’re the King of the Cracksmen,
ain’t you?
Brodie. Why not! He asks me why not! Gods
what a brain it is! Hark ye, Badger, it’s all very
well to be King of the Cracksmen, as you call it;
but however respectable he may have the misfortune
to be, one’s friend is one’s friend, and as such must
be severely let alone. What! shall there be no
more honour among thieves than there is honesty
among politicians? Why, man, if under heaven
there were but one poor lock unpicked, and that
the lock of one whose claret you’ve drunk, and who
has babbled of woman across your own mahogany—that
lock, sir, were entirely sacred. Sacred as the
Kirk of Scotland; sacred as King George upon his
throne; sacred as the memory of Bruce and Bannockburn.
Moore. O, rot! I ain’t a parson, I ain’t; I never had
no college education. Business is business. That’s
wot’s the matter with me.
Brodie. Ay, so we said when you lost that fight with
Newcastle Jemmy, and sent us home all poor men.
That was a nick above you.
Moore. Newcastle Jemmy! Muck: that’s my opinion
of him: muck. I’ll mop the floor up with him any
day, if so be as you or any on ’em ’ll make it worth
my while. If not, muck! That’s my motto. Wot
I now ses is, about that ’ere crib at Leslie’s, wos I
right, I ses? or wos I wrong? That’s wot’s the
matter with you.
Brodie. You are both right and wrong. You dared
me to do it. I was drunk; I was upon my mettle;
and I as good as did it. More than that, blackguardly
as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is my friend.
He had dined with me that day, and I felt like a
man in a story. I climbed his wall, I crawled along
his pantry roof, I mounted his window-sill. That
one turn of my wrist—you know it!—and the casement
was open. It was as dark as the pit, and I thought
I’d won my wager, when, phewt! down went something
inside, and down went somebody with it. I
made one leap, and was off like a rocket. It was
my poor friend in person; and if he’d caught and
passed me on to the watchman under the window, I
should have felt no viler rogue than I feel just now.
Moore. I s’pose he knows you pretty well by this time?
Brodie. ’Tis the worst of friendship. Here, Kirsty, fill
these glasses. Moore, here’s better luck—and a more
honourable plant!—next time.
Moore. Deacon, I looks towards you. But it looks
thundering like rotten eggs, don’t it?
Brodie. I think not. I was masked, for one thing,
and for another I was as quick as lightning. He
suspects me so little that he dined with me this very
afternoon.
Moore. Anyway, you ain’t game to try it on again,
I’ll lay odds on that. Once bit, twice shy. That’s
your motto.
Brodie. Right again. I’ll put my alibi to a better use.
And, Badger, one word in your ear: there’s no Newcastle
Jemmy about me. Drop the subject, and for
good, or I shall drop you. (He rises, and walks backwards
and forwards, a little unsteadily; then returns,
and sits, L., as before.)
To these, Hunt, disguised
He is disguised as a “flying stationer” with a patch over
his eye. He sits at table opposite Brodie’s, and is
served with bread and cheese and beer.
Hamilton (from behind). The deevil tak’ the cairts!
Ainslie. Hoot, man, dinna blame the cairts.
Moore. Look here, Deacon, I mean business, I do.
(Hunt looks up at the name of “Deacon.”)
Brodie. Gad, Badger, I never meet you that you do not.
(You have a set of the most commercial intentions!)
You make me blush.
Moore. That’s all blazing fine, that is! But wot I ses
is, wot about the chips? That’s what I ses. I’m
after that thundering old Excise Office, I am. That’s
my motto.
Brodie. ’Tis a very good motto, and at your lips, Badger,
it kind of warms my heart. But it’s not mine.
Moore. Muck! why not?
Brodie. ’Tis too big and too dangerous. I shirk King
George; he has a fat pocket, but he has a long arm.
(You pilfer sixpence from him, and it’s three hundred
reward for you, and a hue and cry from Tophet to
the stars.) It ceases to be business; it turns politics,
and I’m not a politician, Mr. Moore. (Rising.) I’m
only Deacon Brodie.
Moore. All right. I can wait.
Brodie (seeing Hunt). Ha, a new face—and with a
patch! (There’s nothing under heaven I like so
dearly as a new face with a patch.) Who the devil,
sir, are you that own it? And where did you get
it? And how much will you take for it second-hand?
Hunt. Well, sir, to tell you the truth—(Brodie bows)—it’s
not for sale. But it’s my own, and I’ll drink
your honour’s health in anything.
Brodie. An Englishman, too! Badger, behold a countryman.
What are you, and what part of southern
Scotland do you come from?
Hunt. Well, your honour, to tell you the honest truth——
Brodie (bowing). Your obleeged!
Hunt. I knows a gentleman when I sees him, your honour
(and, to tell your honour the truth——
Brodie. Je vous baise les mains! [Bowing.])
Hunt. A gentleman is a gentleman, your honour (is
always a gentleman, and to tell you the honest truth)—
Brodie. Great heavens! answer in three words, and
be hanged to you! What are you, and where are you
from?
Hunt. A patter-cove from Seven Dials.
Brodie. Is it possible? All my life long have I been
pining to meet with a patter-cove from Seven Dials!
Embrace me, at a distance. (A patter-cove from
Seven Dials!) Go, fill yourself as drunk as you dare,
at my expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. Clarke. He’s
a patter-cove from Seven Dials. Hillo! what’s all
this?
Ainslie. Dod, I’m for nae mair! (At back, and rising.)
Players. Sit down, Ainslie.—Sit down, Andra.—Ma
revenge!
Ainslie. Na, na, I’m for canny goin’. (Coming forward
with bottle.) Deacon, let’s see your gless.
Brodie. Not an inch of it.
Moore. No rotten shirking, Deacon!
(Ainslie. I’m sayin’, man, let’s see your gless.
Brodie. Go to the deuce!)
Ainslie. But I’m sayin’——
Brodie. Haven’t I to play to-night?
Ainslie. But, man, ye’ll drink to bonnie Jean Watt?
Brodie. Ay, I’ll follow you there. À 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!
To these, Smith, Rivers
Smith. Where’s my beloved? Deakin, my beauty,
where are you? Come to the arms of George, and
let him introduce you. Capting Starlight Rivers!
Capting, the Deakin: Deakin, the Capting. An
English nobleman on the grand tour, to open his
mind, by the Lard!
Rivers. Stupendiously pleased to make your acquaintance,
Mr. Deaking, split me!
Brodie. We don’t often see England’s heroes our way,
Captain, but when we do, we make them infernally
welcome.
Rivers. Prettily put, sink me! (A demned genteel
sentiment, stap my vitals!)
Brodie. O Captain! you flatter me. (We Scotsmen
have our qualities, I suppose, but we are but rough and
ready at the best. There’s nothing like your Englishman
for genuine distinction. He is nearer France
than we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. That
d——d thing, the je ne sais quoi, too! Lard, Lard,
split me! stap my vitals! O such manners are
pure, pure, pure. They are, by the shade of Claude
Duval!)
Rivers. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin (this is passatively too
much). What will you sip? Give it the hanar of a
neam.
Brodie. By these most hanarable hands now, Captain,
you shall not. On such an occasion I could play
host with Lucifer himself. Here, Clarke, Mother
Midnight! Down with you, Captain (forcing him
boisterously into a chair). I don’t know if you can
lie, but, sink me! you shall sit. (Drinking, etc., in
dumb-show.)
Moore (aside to Smith). We’ve nobbled him, Geordie!
Smith (aside to Moore). As neat as ninepence! He’s
taking it down like mother’s milk. But there’ll be
wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger! It’ll be twopence
and toddle with George Smith.
Moore. O, muck! Who’s afraid of him? (To Ainslie.)
Hang on, Slinkie.
Hunt (who is feigning drunkenness, and has overheard;
aside). By Jingo!
Rivers. Will you sneeze, Mr. Deakin, sir?
Brodie. Thanks; I have all the vices, Captain. You
must send me some of your rappee. It is passatively
perfect.
Rivers. Mr. Deakin, I do myself the hanar of a sip to you.
Brodie. Topsy-turvy with the can!
Moore (aside to Smith). That made him wink.
Brodie. Your high and mighty hand, my Captain! Shall
we dice—dice—dice? (Dumb-show between them.)
Ainslie (aside to Moore). I’m sayin’——?
Moore. What’s up now?
Ainslie. I’m no’ to gie him the coggit dice?
Moore. The square ones, rot you! Ain’t he got to lose
every brass farden?
Ainslie. What’ll like be my share?
Moore. You mucking well leave that to me.
Rivers. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will have
me shake a helbow——
Brodie. Where are the bones, Ainslie? Where are
the dice, Lord George? (Ainslie gives the dice and
dice-box to Brodie; and privately a second pair of dice.)
Old Fortune’s counters; the bonnie money-catching,
money-breeding bones! Hark to their dry music!
Scotland against England! Sit round, you tame devils,
and put your coins on me!
Smith. Easy does it, my lord of high degree! Keep cool.
Brodie. Cool’s the word, Captain—a cool twenty on the
first?
Rivers. Done and done. (They play.)
Hunt (aside to Moore, a little drunk). Ain’t that ’ere
Scots gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir?
Moore. You hold your jaw; that’s what’s the matter
with you.
Ainslie. He’s waur nor he looks. He’s knockit the
box aff the table.
Smith (picking up box). That’s the way we does it. Ten
to one and no takers!
Brodie. Deuces again! More liquor, Mother Clarke!
Smith. Hooray, our side! (Pouring out.) George and
his pal for ever!
Brodie. Deuces again, by heaven! Another?
Rivers. Done!
Brodie. Ten more; money’s made to go. On with you!
Rivers. Sixes.
Brodie. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment! Double or
quits?
Rivers. Drive on! Sixes.
Smith. Fire away, brave boys. (To Moore.) It’s Tally-ho-the-Grinder,
Hump!
Brodie. Treys! Death and the pit! How much have
you got there?
Rivers. A cool forty-five.
Brodie. I play you thrice the lot.
Rivers. Who’s afraid?
Smith. Stand by, Badger!
Rivers. Cinq-ace.
Brodie. My turn now. (He juggles in and uses the
second pair of dice.) Aces! Aces again! What’s
this? (Picking up dice.) Sold!... You play false,
you hound!
Rivers. You lie!
Brodie. In your teeth. (Overturns table, and goes for him.)
Moore. Here, none o’ that. (They hold him back. Struggle.)
Smith. Hold on, Deacon!
Brodie. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I’ll not touch
him. (Stands weighing dice in his hand.) But as
for that thieving whinger, Ainslie, I’ll cut his throat
between this dark and to-morrow’s. To the bone.
(Addressing the company.) Rogues, rogues, rogues!
(Singing without.) Ha! what’s that?
Ainslie. It’s the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver’s.
And, O Deacon, if ye’re a Christian man——
The Psalm without:—
“Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord,
Should’st mark iniquity?
But yet with Thee forgiveness is,
That fear’d Thou mayest be.”
|
Brodie. I think I’ll go. “My son the Deacon was
aye regular at kirk.” If the old man could see his
son, the Deacon! I think I’ll——. Ay, who shall
stand? There’s the rub! And forgiveness, too?
There’s a long word for you! I learnt it all lang
syne, and now ... hell and ruin are on either hand
of me, and the devil has me by the leg. “My son,
the Deacon...!” Eh, God! but there’s no
fool like an old fool! (Becoming conscious of the others.)
Rogues!
Smith. Take my arm, Deacon.
Brodie. Down, dog, down! (Stay and be drunk with
your equals.) Gentlemen and ladies, I have already
cursed you pretty heavily. Let me do myself the
pleasure of wishing you—a very—good evening. (As
he goes out, Hunt, who has been staggering about in
the crowd, falls on a settle, as about to sleep.)
END OF THE FIRST ACT
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.
Brodie (solus). My head! my head! It’s the sickness of
the grave. And those bells go on!... go on ... inexorable
as death and judgment. (There they
go; the trumpets of respectability, sounding encouragement
to the world to do and spare not, and not to be
found out. Found out! And to those who are they
toll as when a man goes to the gallows.) Turn where
I will are pitfalls hell-deep. Mary and her dowry;
Jean and her child—my child; the dirty scoundrel
Moore; my uncle and his trust; perhaps the man
from Bow Street. Debt, vice, cruelty, dishonour,
crime; the whole canting, lying, double-dealing,
beastly business! “My son the Deacon—Deacon of
the Wrights!” My thoughts sicken at it. (O, the
Deacon, the Deacon! Where’s a hat for the Deacon,
where’s a hat for the Deacon’s headache? (Searching.)
This place is a piggery. To be respectable and not
to find one’s hat.)
To him, Jean, a baby in her shawl, C.
Jean (who has entered silently during the Deacon’s last
words). It’s me, Wullie.
Brodie (turning upon her). What! You here again?
(you again!)
Jean. Deacon, I’m unco vexed.
Brodie. Do you know what you do? Do you know
what you risk? (Is there nothing—nothing!—will
make you spare me this idiotic, wanton persecution?)
Jean. I was wrong to come yestreen; I ken that fine.
But the day it’s different; I but to come the day,
Deacon, though I ken fine it’s the Sabbath, and I
think shame to be seen upon the streets.
Brodie. See here, Jean. You must go now. I’ll come to
you to-night; I swear that. But now I’m for the road.
Jean. No’ till you’ve heard me, William Brodie. Do
ye think I came to pleasure mysel’, where I’m no’
wanted? I’ve a pride o’ my ain.
Brodie. Jean, I am going now. If you please to stay
on alone, in this house of mine, where I wish I could
say you are welcome, stay. (Going.)
Jean. It’s the man frae Bow Street.
Brodie. Bow Street?
Jean. I thocht ye would hear me. Ye think little o’
me; but it’s mebbe a braw thing for you that I think
sae muckle o’ William Brodie ... ill as it sets
me.
Brodie. (You don’t know what is on my mind, Jennie,
else you would forgive me.) Bow Street?
Jean. It’s the man Hunt: him that was here yestreen
for the Fiscal.
Brodie. Hunt?
Jean. He kens a hantle. He.... Ye maunna be
angered wi’ me, Wullie! I said what I shouldna.
Brodie. Said? Said what?
Jean. Just that ye were a guid frien’ to me. He made
believe he was awfu’ sorry for me, because ye gied me
nae siller; and I said, “Wha tellt him that?” and
that he lee’d.
Brodie. God knows he did! What next?
Jean. He was that soft-spoken, butter wouldna melt
in his mouth; and he keept aye harp, harpin’; but
after that let-out, he got neither black nor white
frae me. Just that ae word and nae mair; and at
the hinder end he just speired straucht out, whaur it
was ye got your siller frae.
Brodie. Where I got my siller?
Jean. Ay, that was it. “You ken,” says he.
Brodie. Did he? and what said you?
Jean. I couldna think on naething, but just that he
was a gey and clever gentleman.
Brodie. You should have said I was in trade, and had
a good business. That’s what you should have said.
That’s what you would have said had you been worth
your salt. But it’s blunder, blunder, outside and in
(upstairs, down-stairs, and in my lady’s chamber).
You women! Did he see Smith?
Jean. Ay, and kennt him.
Brodie. Damnation!——No, I’m not angry with you,
but you see what I’ve to endure for you. Don’t
cry. (Here’s the devil at the door, and we must
bar him out as best we can.)
Jean. God’s truth, ye are nae vexed wi’ me?
Brodie. God’s truth, I am grateful to you. How is the
child? Well? That’s right. (Peeping.) Poor wee
laddie! He’s like you, Jean.
Jean. I thocht he was liker you.
Brodie. Is he? Perhaps he is. Ah, Jeannie, you must
see and make him a better man than his father.
Jean. Eh man, Deacon, the proud wumman I’ll be gin
he’s only half sae guid.
Brodie. Well, well, if I win through this, we’ll see what
we can dae for him between us. (Leading her out, C.)
And now; go—go—go.
Lawson (without L.). I ken the way, I ken the way.
Jean (starting to door). It’s the Fiscal; I’m awa.
(Brodie, L.)
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.)
Lawson (to Brodie, returning C. from door). Mulier
formosa superne, William: a braw lass and a decent
woman forbye.
Brodie. I’m no judge, Procurator, but I’ll take your
word for it. Is she not a tenant of yours?
Lawson. Ay, ay; a bit house on my land in Libberton’s
Wynd. Her man’s awa, puir body; or they tell me
sae; and I’m concerned for her (she’s unco bonnie
to be left her lane). But it sets me brawly to be
finding faut wi’ the puir lass, and me an elder, and
should be at the plate. (There’ll be twa words about
this in the Kirk Session.) However, it’s nane of my
business that brings me, or I should tak’ the mair
shame to mysel.’ Na, sir, it’s for you; it’s your
business keeps me frae the kirk.
Brodie. My business, Procurator? I rejoice to see it
in such excellent hands.
Lawson. Ye see, it’s this way. I had a crack wi’ the
laddie Leslie, inter pocula (he took a stirrup-cup wi’
me), and he tells me he has askit Mary, and she was
to speak to ye hersel’. O, ye needna look sae gash.
Did she speak? and what’ll you have said to her?
Brodie. She has not spoken; I have said nothing; and
I believe I asked you to avoid the subject.
Lawson. Ay, I made a note o’ that observation, William
(and assoilzied mysel’). Mary’s a guid lass, and I’m
her uncle, and I’m here to be answered. Is it to be
ay or no?
Brodie. It’s to be no. This marriage must be quashed;
and hark ye, Procurator, you must help me.
Lawson. Me? ye’re daft! And what for why?
Brodie. Because I’ve spent the trust-money, and I
can’t refund it.
Lawson. Ye reprobate deevil!
Brodie. Have a care, Procurator. No wry words!
Lawson. Do you say it to my face, sir? Dod, sir, I’m
the Crown Prosecutor.
Brodie. Right. The Prosecutor for the Crown. And
where did you get your brandy?
Lawson. Eh?
Brodie. Your brandy! Your brandy, man! Where
do you get your brandy? And you a Crown official
and an elder!
Lawson. Whaur the deevil did ye hear that?
Brodie. Rogues all! Rogues all, Procurator!
Lawson. Ay, ay. Lord save us! Guidsake, to think
o’ that noo!... Can ye give me some o’ that Cognac?
I’m ... I’m sort o’ shaken, William, I’m
sort o’ shaken. Thank you, William! (Looking
piteously at glass.) Nunc est bibendum. (Drinks.)
Troth, I’m set ajee a bit. Wha the deevil tauld ye?
Brodie. Ask no questions, brother. We are a pair.
Lawson. Pair, indeed! Pair, William Brodie! Upon
my saul, sir, ye’re a brazen-faced man that durst
say it to my face! Tak’ you care, my bonnie young
man, that your craig doesna feel the wecht o’ your
hurdies. Keep the plainstanes side o’ the gallows.
Via trita, via tuta, William Brodie!
Brodie. And the brandy, Procurator? and the brandy?
Lawson. Ay ... weel ... be’t sae! Let the
brandy bide, man, let the brandy bide! But for you and
the trust-money ... damned! It’s felony. Tutor
in rem suam, ye ken, tutor in rem suam. But O man,
Deacon, whaur is the siller?
Brodie. It’s gone—O how the devil should I know?
But it’ll never come back.
Lawson. Dear, dear! A’ gone to the winds o’ heaven!
Sae ye’re an extravagant dog, too. Prodigus et furiosus!
And that puir lass—eh, Deacon, man, that puir lass!
I mind her such a bonnie bairn.
Brodie (stopping his ears). Brandy, brandy, brandy,
brandy, brandy!
Lawson. William Brodie, mony’s the long day that
I’ve believed in you; prood, prood was I to be the
Deacon’s uncle; and a sore hearing have I had of
it the day. That’s past; that’s past like Flodden
Field; it’s an auld sang noo, and I’m an aulder man
than when I crossed your door. But mark ye this—mark
ye this, William Brodie, I may be no’ sae guid’s
I should be; but there’s no’ a saul between the east
sea and the wast can lift his een to God that made
him, and say I wranged him as ye wrang that lassie.
I bless God, William Brodie—ay, though he was like
my brother—I bless God that he that got ye has the
hand of death upon his hearing, and can win into his
grave a happier man than me. And ye speak to me,
sir? Think shame—think shame upon your heart!
Brodie. Rogues all!
Lawson. You’re the son of my sister, William Brodie.
Mair than that I stop not to inquire. If the siller
is spent, and the honour tint—Lord help us, and the
honour tint!—sae be it, I maun bow the head. Ruin
shallna come by me. Na, and I’ll say mair, William;
we have a’ our weary sins upon our backs, and maybe
I have mair than mony. But, man, if ye could
bring half the jointure ... (potius quam pereas) ... for
your mither’s son? Na? You couldna
bring the half? Weel, weel, it’s a sair heart I have
this day, a sair heart and a weary. If I were a better
man mysel’ ... but there, there, it’s a sair
heart that I have gotten. And the Lord kens I’ll
help ye if I can. (Potius quam pereas.) (He goes out.)
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.
Brodie, Mary
Mary (tapping without). Can I come in, Will?
Brodie. O yes, come in, come in! (Mary enters.) I
wanted to be quiet, but it doesn’t matter, I see. You
women are all the same.
Mary. O no, Will, they’re not all so happy, and they’re
not all Brodies. But I’ll be a woman in one thing. For
I’ve come to claim your promise, dear; and I’m going
to be petted and comforted and made much of, although
I don’t need it, and.... Why, Will, what’s
wrong with you? You look ... I don’t know
what you look like.
Brodie. O nothing! A splitting head and an aching
heart. Well! you’ve come to speak to me. Speak
up. What is it? Come, girl! What is it? Can’t
you speak?
Mary. Why, Will, what is the matter?
Brodie. I thought you had come to tell me something.
Here I am. For God’s sake out with it, and don’t
stand beating about the bush.
Mary. O be kind, be kind to me.
Brodie. Kind? I am kind. I’m only ill and worried,
can’t you see? Whimpering? I knew it! Sit down,
you goose! Where do you women get your tears?
Mary. Why are you so cross with me? O, Will, you
have forgot your sister! Remember, dear, that I
have nobody but you. It’s your own fault, Will, if
you’ve taught me to come to you for kindness, for
I always found it. And I mean you shall be kind to
me again. I know you will, for this is my great need,
and the day I’ve missed my mother sorest. Just a
nice look, dear, and a soft tone in your voice, to give
me courage, for I can tell you nothing till I know
that you’re my own brother once again.
Brodie. If you’d take a hint, you’d put it off until to-morrow.
But I suppose you won’t. On, then, I’m
listening. I’m listening!
Mary. Mr. Leslie has asked me to be his wife.
Brodie. He has, has he?
Mary. And I have consented.
Brodie. And...?
Mary. You can say that to me? And that is all you
have to say?
Brodie. O no, not all.
Mary. Speak out, sir. I am not afraid.
Brodie. I suppose you want my consent?
Mary. Can you ask?
Brodie. I didn’t know. You seem to have got on pretty
well without it so far.
Mary. O shame on you! shame on you!
Brodie. Perhaps you may be able to do without it
altogether. I hope so. For you’ll never have it....
Mary! ... I hate to see you look like that. If
I could say anything else, believe me, I would say it.
But I have said all; every word is spoken; there’s
the end.
Mary. It shall not be the end. You owe me explanation;
and I’ll have it.
Brodie. Isn’t my “No” enough, Mary?
Mary. It might be enough for me; but it is not, and it
cannot be, enough for him. He has asked me to be his
wife; he tells me his happiness is in my hands—poor
hands, but they shall not fail him, if my poor heart
should break! If he has chosen and set his hopes
upon me, of all women in the world, I shall find courage
somewhere to be worthy of the choice. And I dare
you to leave this room until you tell me all your
thoughts—until you prove that this is good and
right.
Brodie. Good and right? They are strange words,
Mary. I mind the time when it was good and right
to be your father’s daughter and your brother’s sister....
Now!...
Mary. Have I changed? Not even in thought. My
father, Walter says, shall live and die with us. He
shall only have gained another son. And you—you
know what he thinks of you; you know what I would
do for you.
Brodie. Give him up.
Mary. I have told you: not without a reason.
Brodie. You must.
Mary. I will not.
Brodie. What if I told you that you could only compass
your happiness and his at the price of my ruin?
Mary. Your ruin?
Brodie. Even so.
Mary. Ruin!
Brodie. It has an ugly sound, has it not?
Mary. O Willie, what have you done? What have you
done? What have you done?
Brodie. I cannot tell you, Mary. But you may trust
me. You must give up this Leslie ... and at
once. It is to save me.
Mary. I would die for you, dear; you know that. But
I cannot be false to him. Even for you, I cannot be
false to him.
Brodie. We shall see. Let me take you to your room.
Come. And, remember, it is for your brother’s sake.
It is to save me.
Mary. I am a true Brodie. Give me time, and you shall
not find me wanting. But it is all so sudden ...
so strange and dreadful! You will give me time,
will you not? I am only a woman, and.... O
my poor Walter! It will break his heart! It will
break his heart! (A knock.)
Brodie. You hear!
Mary. Yes, yes. Forgive me. I am going. I will go.
It is to save you, is it not? To save you. Walter ...
Mr. Leslie ... O Deacon, Deacon, God
forgive you! (She goes out.)
Brodie. Amen. But will He?
Brodie, Hunt
Hunt (hat in hand). Mr. Deacon Brodie, I believe?
Brodie. I am he, Mr——?
Hunt. Hunt, sir: an officer from Sir John Fielding of
Bow Street.
Brodie. There can be no better passport than the name.
In what can I serve you?
Hunt. You’ll excuse me, Mr. Deacon.
Brodie. Your duty excuses you, Mr. Hunt.
Hunt. Your obedient. The fact is, Mr. Deacon (we in
the office see a good deal of the lives of private parties;
and I needn’t tell a gentleman of your experience it’s
part of our duty to hold our tongues. Now), it comes
to our knowledge that you are a trifle jokieous. Of
course I know there ain’t any harm in that. I’ve
been young myself, Mr. Deacon, and speaking——
Brodie. O, but pardon me, Mr. Hunt, I am not going to
discuss my private character with you.
Hunt. To be sure you ain’t. (And do I blame you?
Not me.) But, speaking as one man of the world
to another, you naturally see a great deal of bad
company.
Brodie. Not half so much as you do. But I see what
you’re driving at; and if I can illuminate the course
of justice, you may command me. (He sits, and
motions Hunt to do likewise.)
Hunt. I was dead sure of it: and ’and upon ’art, Mr.
Deacon, I thank you. Now—(consulting pocket-book)—did
you ever meet a certain George Smith?
Brodie. The fellow they call Jingling Geordie? (Hunt
nods.) Yes.
Hunt. Bad character?
Brodie. Let us say ... disreputable.
Hunt. Any means of livelihood?
Brodie. I really cannot pretend to guess. I have met
the creature at cock-fights (which, as you know, are
my weakness). Perhaps he bets.
Hunt. (Mr. Deacon, from what I know of the gentleman,
I should say that if he don’t—if he ain’t open to any
mortal thing—he ain’t the man I mean.) He used
to be about with a man called Badger Moore.
Brodie. The boxer?
Hunt. That’s him. Know anything of him?
Brodie. Not much. I lost five pieces on him in a fight;
and I fear he sold his backers.
Hunt. Speaking as one admirer of the noble art to another,
Mr. Deacon, the losers always do. I suppose the Badger
cock-fights like the rest of us?
Brodie. I have met him in the pit.
Hunt. Well, it’s a pretty sport. I’m as partial to a
main as anybody.
Brodie. It’s not an elegant taste, Mr. Hunt.
Hunt. It costs as much as though it was. And that
reminds me, speaking as one sportsman to another,
Mr. Deacon, I was sorry to hear that you’ve been
dropping a hatful of money lately.
Brodie. You are very good.
Hunt. Four hundred in three months, they tell me.
Brodie. Ah!
Hunt. So they say, sir.
Brodie. They have a perfect right to say so, Mr. Hunt.
Hunt. And you to do the other thing? Well, I’m a good
hand at keeping close myself.
Brodie. I am not consulting you, Mr. Hunt; ’tis you
who are consulting me. And if there is nothing else
(rising) in which I can pretend to serve you...?
Hunt (rising). That’s about all, sir, unless you can
put me on to anything good in the way of heckle and
spur? I’d try to look in.
Brodie. O come, Mr. Hunt, if you have nothing to do,
frankly and flatly I have. This is not the day for
such a conversation; and so good-bye to you. (A
knocking, C.)
Hunt. Servant, Mr. Deacon. (Smith and Moore,
without waiting to be answered, open and enter, C. They
are well into the room before they observe Hunt.) (Talk
of the devil, sir!)
Brodie. What brings you here? (Smith and Moore,
confounded by the officer’s presence, slouch together
to right of door. Hunt, stopping as he goes out, contemplates
the pair, sarcastically. This is supported
by Moore with sullen bravado; by Smith with cringing
airiness.)
Hunt (digging Smith in the ribs). Why, you are the
very parties I was looking for! (He goes out, C.)
Brodie, Moore, Smith
Moore. Wot was that cove here about?
Brodie (with folded arms, half-sitting on bench). He
was here about you.
Smith (still quite discountenanced). About us? Scissors!
And what did you tell him?
Brodie (same attitude). I spoke of you as I have found
you. (I told him you were a disreputable hound, and
that Moore had crossed a fight.) I told him you were
a drunken ass, and Moore an incompetent and dishonest
boxer.
Moore. Look here, Deacon! Wot’s up? Wot I ses
is, if a cove’s got any thundering grudge agin a cove,
why can’t he spit it out, I ses.
Brodie. Here are my answers. (Producing purse and
dice.) These are both too light. This purse is empty,
these dice are not loaded. Is it indiscretion to inquire
how you share? Equal with the Captain, I
presume?
Smith. It’s as easy as my eye, Deakin. Slink Ainslie
got letting the merry glass go round, and didn’t know
the right bones from the wrong. That’s hall.
Brodie. (What clumsy liars you are!
Smith. In boyhood’s hour, Deakin, he were called Old
Truthful. Little did he think——)
Brodie. What is your errand?
Moore. Business.
Smith. After the melancholy games of last night, Deakin,
which no one deplores so much as George Smith, we
thought we’d trot round—didn’t us, Hump?—and
see how you and your bankers was a-getting on.
Brodie. Will you tell me your errand?
Moore. You’re dry, ain’t you?
Brodie. Am I?
Moore. We ain’t none of us got a stiver, that’s wot’s
the matter with us.
Brodie. Is it?
Moore. Ay, strike me, it is! And wot we’ve got to
do is to put up the Excise.
Smith. It’s the last plant in the shrubbery, Deakin, and
it’s breaking George the gardener’s heart, it is. We
really must!
Brodie. Must we?
Moore. Must’s the thundering word. I mean business,
I do.
Brodie. That’s lucky. I don’t.
Moore. O, you don’t, don’t you?
Brodie. I do not.
Moore. Then p’raps you’ll tell us wot you thundering
well do?
Brodie. What do I mean? I mean that you and that
merry-andrew shall walk out of this room and this
house. Do you suppose, you blockheads, that I am
blind? I’m the Deacon, am I not? I’ve been your
king and your commander. I’ve led you and fed you
and thought for you with this head. And you think
to steal a march upon a man like me? I see you
through and through (I know you like the clock); I
read your thoughts like print. Brodie, you thought,
has money, and won’t do the job. Therefore, you
thought, we must rook him to the heart. And therefore,
you put up your idiot cockney. And now you
come round, and dictate, and think sure of your
Excise? Sure? Are you sure I’ll let you pack with
a whole skin? By my soul, but I’ve a mind to pistol
you like dogs. Out of this! Out, I say, and soil my
home no more.
Moore (sitting). Now look ’ere. Mr. bloody Deacon Brodie,
you see this ’ere chair of yours, don’t you? Wot I
ses to you is, Here I am, I ses, and here I mean to stick.
That’s my motto. Who the devil are you to do the
high and mighty? You make all you can out of us,
don’t you? and when one of your plants goes cross,
you order us out of the ken? Muck! That’s wot
I think of you. Muck! Don’t you get coming the
nob over me, Mr. Deacon Brodie, or I’ll smash you.
Brodie. You will?
Moore. Ay will I. If I thundering well swing for it.
And as for clearing out? Muck! Here I am, and
here I stick. Clear out? You try it on. I’m a
man, I am.
Brodie. This is plain speaking.
Moore. Plain? Wot about your father as can’t walk?
Wot about your fine-madam sister? Wot about the
stone-jug, and the dock, and the rope in the open
street? Is that plain? If it ain’t, you let me know,
and I’ll spit it out so as it’ll raise the roof of this ’ere
ken. Plain! I’m that cove’s master, and I’ll make
it plain enough for him.
Brodie. What do you want of me?
Moore. Wot do I want of you? Now you speak sense.
Leslie’s is wot I want of you. The Excise is wot I
want of you. Leslie’s to-night and the Excise to-morrow.
That’s wot I want of you, and wot I thundering
well mean to get.
Brodie. Damn you!
Moore. Amen. But you’ve got your orders.
Brodie (with pistol). Orders? hey? orders?
Smith (between them). Deacon, Deacon!—Badger, are
you mad?
Moore. Muck! That’s my motto. Wot I ses is, Has he
got his orders or has he not? That’s wot’s the matter
with him.
Smith. Deacon, half a tick. Humphrey, I’m only a
light weight, and you fight at twelve stone ten, but
I’m damned if I’m going to stand still and see you
hitting a pal when he’s down.
Moore. Muck! That’s wot I think of you.
Smith. He’s a cut above us, ain’t he? He never sold
his backers, did he? We couldn’t have done without
him, could we? You dry up about his old man,
and his sister; and don’t go on hitting a pal when
he’s knocked out of time and cannot hit back, for,
damme, I will not stand it.
Moore. Amen to you. But I’m cock of this here thundering
walk, and that cove’s got his orders.
Brodie (putting pistol on bench). I give in. I will do
your work for you once more. Leslie’s to-night and
the Excise to-morrow. If that is enough, if you
have no more ... orders, you may count it as
done.
Moore. Fen larks. No rotten shirking, mind.
Brodie. I have passed you my word. And now you
have said what you came to say, you must go. I
have business here; but two hours hence I am at
your ... orders. Where shall I await you?
Moore. What about that woman’s place of yours?
Brodie. Your will is my law.
Moore. That’s good enough. Now, Dook.
Smith. Bye-bye, my William. Don’t forget.
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!
Brodie, Mary, Old Brodie
Brodie has fallen into a chair, with his face upon the table.
Enter Mary, by the side door, pushing her father’s chair.
She is supposed to have advanced far enough for stage
purposes before Brodie is aware of her. He starts up
and runs to her.
Brodie. Look up, my lass, look up, and be a woman!
I.... O, kiss me, Mary! give me a kiss for my
good news.
Mary. Good news, Will? Is it changed?
Brodie. Changed? Why, the world’s a different colour!
It was night, and now it’s broad day, and I trust
myself again. You must wait, dear, wait, and I
must work and work; and before the week is out,
as sure as God sees me, I’ll have made you happy.
O you may think me broken, hounds, but the Deacon’s
not the man to be run down; trust him, he shall turn
a corner yet, and leave you snarling! And you, Poll,
you. I’ve done nothing for you yet; but, please God,
I’ll make your life a life of gold; and wherever I am,
I’ll have a part in your happiness, and you’ll know it,
by heaven! and bless me.
Mary. O Willie, look at him; I think he hears you, and
is trying to be glad with us.
Old Brodie. My son—Deacon—better man than I was.
Brodie. O, for God’s sake, hear him!
Mary. He is quite happy, Will, and so am I ... so
am I.
Brodie. Hear me, Mary. This is a big moment in
our two lives. I swear to you by the father here
between us that it shall not be fault of mine if this
thing fails; if this ship founders you have set your
hopes in. I swear it by our father; I swear it by
God’s judgments.
Mary. I want no oaths, Will.
Brodie. No, but I do. And prayers, Mary, prayers.
Pray night and day upon your knees. I must move
mountains.
Old Brodie. A wise son maketh—maketh——
Brodie. A glad father? And does your son, the Deacon,
make you glad? O heaven of heavens, if I were a
good man!
END OF THE SECOND ACT
King’s Evidence
The Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh
Jean, Smith, and Moore
They loiter in L., and stand looking about as for somebody
not there. Smith is hat in hand to Jean; Moore as usual
Moore. Wot did I tell you? Is he ’ere or ain’t he?
Now then. Slink by name and Slink by nature,
that’s wot’s the matter with him.
Jean. He’ll no’ be lang; he’s regular enough, if that
was a’.
Moore. I’d regular him; I’d break his back.
Smith. Badger, you brute, you hang on to the lessons
of your dancing-master. None but the genteel deserves
the fair; does they, Duchess?
Moore. O rot! Did I insult the blowen? Wot’s the
matter with me is Slink Ainslie.
Smith. All right, old Crossed-in-love. Give him forty
winks, and he’ll turn up as fresh as clean sawdust
and as respectable as a new Bible.
Moore. That’s right enough; but I ain’t a-going to
stand here all day for him. I’m for a drop of something
short, I am. You tell him I showed you that
(showing his doubled fist). That’s wot’s the matter
with him. (He lurches out, R.)
Smith and Jean, to whom Hunt and afterwards
Moore
Smith (critically). No, Duchess, he has not good manners.
Jean. Ay, he’s an impident man.
Smith. So he is, Jean; and for the matter of that he
ain’t the only one.
Jean. Geordie, I want nae mair o’ your nonsense, mind.
Smith. There’s our old particular the Deacon, now.
Why is he ashamed of a lovely woman? That’s not
my idea of the Young Chevalier, Jean. If I had
luck, we should be married, and retired to our estates
in the country, shouldn’t us? and go to church and
be happy, like the nobility and gentry.
Jean. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye’d mairry me?
Smith. Mean it? What else has ever been the ’umble
petition of your honest but well-meaning friend, Roman,
and fellow-countryman? I know the Deacon’s your
man, and I know he’s a cut above G. S.; but he won’t
last, Jean, and I shall.
Jean. Ay, I’m muckle ta’en up wi’ him; wha could
help it?
Smith. Well, and my sort don’t grow on apple-trees,
either.
Jean. Ye’re a fine, cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if
ye wad just let me be.
Smith. I know I ain’t a Scotsman born.
Jean. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o’ ye even for
that; if ye would just let me be.
Hunt (entering behind, aside). (Are they thick? Anyhow,
it’s a second chance.)
Smith. But he won’t last, Jean; and when he leaves
you, you come to me. Is that your taste in pastry?
That’s the kind of 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. Whatten kind of a word’ll that be?
Smith. Mum it is, Jean!
Hunt. When you’ve done dancing, George! (To Jean.)
It ain’t a pretty expression, my dear, I own it. “Will
you blow the gaff?” is perhaps more tenderer.
Jean. I think ye’ve a real strange way o’ expressin’
yoursel’.
Hunt (to Jean). I can’t waste time on you, my girl.
It’s now or never. Will you turn King’s evidence?
Jean. I think ye’ll have made a mistake, like.
Hunt. Well, I’m...! (Separating them.) (No, not
yet; don’t push me.) George’s turn now. (To
George.) George, I’ve a warrant in my pocket.
Smith. As per usual, Jerry?
Hunt. Now I want King’s evidence.
Smith. Ah! so you came a cropper with her, Jerry.
Pride had a fall.
Hunt. A free pardon and fifty shiners down.
Smith. A free pardon, Jerry?
Hunt. Don’t I tell you so?
Smith. And fifty down? fifty?
Hunt. On the nail.
Smith. So you came a cropper with her, and then you
tried it on with me?
Hunt. I suppose you mean you’re a born idiot?
Smith. What I mean is, Jerry, that you’ve broke my
heart. I used to look up to you like a party might
to Julius 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 as well?
Jean. I daur say ye would like fine to, Mr. Hunt; and
here’s my service to you. (Going.)
Hunt. George, don’t you be a tomfool, anyway. Think
of the blowen here, and have brains for two.
Smith (going). Ah, Jerry, if you knew anything, how
different you would talk! (They go off together, R.)
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.)
Hunt, to whom Ainslie
Hunt (looking after them ruefully). And these were the
very parties I was looking for! (Ah, Jerry, Jerry,
if they knew this at the office!) Well, the market
price of that ’ere two hundred is a trifle on the decline
and fall. (Looking L.) Hullo! (Slapping his thigh.)
Send me victorious! It’s King’s evidence on two legs.
(Advancing with great cordiality to meet Ainslie, who
enters L.) And so your name’s Andrew Ainslie, is
it? As I was saying, you’re the very party I was
looking for. Ain’t it strange, now, that I should have
dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like
this?
Ainslie. I dinna ken wha ye are, and I’m ill for my
bed.
Hunt. Let your bed wait, Andrew. I want a little
chat with you; just a quiet little sociable wheeze.
Just about our friends, you know. About Badger
Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy Rivers,
and Deacon Brodie, Andrew. Particularly Deacon
Brodie.
Ainslie. They’re nae frien’s o’ mine, mister. I ken
naething an’ naebody. An’ noo I’ll get to my bed,
wulln’t I?
Hunt. We’re going to have our little talk out first. After
that perhaps I’ll let you go, and perhaps I won’t. It
all depends on how we get along together. Now,
in a general way, Andrew, and speaking of a man as
you find him, I’m all for peace and quietness myself.
That’s my usual game, Andrew, but when I
do make a dust I’m considered by my friends to be
rather a good hand at it. So don’t you tread upon
the worm.
Ainslie. But I’m sayin’——
Hunt. You leave that to me, Andrew. You shall do
your pitch presently. I’m first on the ground, and
I lead off. With a question, Andrew. Did you ever
hear in your life of such a natural curiosity as a Bow
Street Runner?
Ainslie. Aiblins ay an’ aiblins no.
Hunt. “Aiblins ay an’ aiblins no.” Very good indeed,
Andrew. Now, I’ll ask you another: Did you ever
see a Bow Street Runner, Andrew? With the naked
eye, so to speak?
Ainslie. What’s your wull?
Hunt. Artful bird! Now since we’re getting on so cosy
and so free, I’ll ask you another, Andrew: Should
you like to see a Bow Street Runner? (Producing
staff.) ’Cos, if so, you’ve only got to cast your eyes
on me. Do you queer the red weskit, Andrew?
Pretty colour, ain’t it? So nice and warm for the
winter too. (Ainslie dives, Hunt collars him.) No,
you don’t. Not this time. Run away like that before
we’ve finished our little conversation? You’re a
nice young man, you are. Suppose we introduce our
wrists into these here darbies? Now we shall get
along cosier and freer than ever. Want to lie down,
do you? All right! anything to oblige.
Ainslie (grovelling). It wasna me, it wasna me. It’s
bad companions; I’ve been lost wi’ bad companions
an’ the drink. An’ O mister, ye’ll be a kind gentleman
to a puir lad, and me sae weak, and fair rotten
wi’ the drink an’ that. Ye’ve a bonnie kind heart,
my dear, dear gentleman; ye wadna hang sitchan a
thing as me. I’m no’ fit to hang. They ca’ me the
Cannleworm! An’ I’ll dae somethin’ for ye, wulln’t
I? An’ ye’ll can hang the ithers?
Hunt. I thought I hadn’t mistook my man. Now you
look here, Andrew Ainslie, you’re a bad lot. I’ve
evidence to hang you fifty times over. But the Deacon
is my mark. Will you peach, or won’t you? You
blow the gaff, and I’ll pull you through. You don’t,
and I’ll scrag you as sure as my name’s Jerry Hunt.
Ainslie. I’ll dae onything. It’s the hanging fleys me.
I’ll dae onything, onything no’ to hang.
Hunt. Don’t lie crawling there, but get up and answer
me like a man. Ain’t this Deacon Brodie the fine
workman that’s been doing all these tip-topping
burglaries?
Ainslie. It’s him, mister; it’s him. That’s the man.
Ye’re in the very bit. Deacon Brodie. I’ll can tak’
ye to his very door.
Hunt. How do you know?
Ainslie. I gi’ed him a han’ wi’ them a’. It was him
an’ Badger Moore and Geordie Smith; an’ they
gart me gang wi’ them whether or no: I’m that weak,
and whiles I’m donner’d wi’ the drink. But I ken a’
an’ I’ll tell a’. And O kind gentleman, you’ll speak to
their lordships for me, and I’ll no be hangit ...
I’ll no be hangit, wull I?
Hunt. But you shared, didn’t you? I wonder what
share they thought you worth. How much did you get
for last night’s performance down at Mother Clarke’s?
Ainslie. Just five pund, mister. Five pund. As sure’s
deith it wadna be a penny mair. No’ but I askit
mair: I did that; I’ll no’ deny it, mister. But
Badger kickit me, an’ Geordie, he said a bad sweir,
an’ made he’d cut the liver out o’ me, an’ catch fish
wi’t. It’s been that way frae the first: an aith an’ a
bawbee was aye guid eneuch for puir Andra.
Hunt. Well, and why did they do it? I saw Jemmy
dance a hornpipe on the table, and booze the company
all round, when the Deacon was gone. What
made you cross the fight, and play booty with your
own man?
Ainslie. Just to make him rob the Excise, mister. They’re
wicked, wicked men.
Hunt. And is he right for it?
Ainslie. Ay is he.
Hunt. By Jingo! When’s it for?
Ainslie. Dear, kind gentleman, I dinna rightly ken:
the Deacon’s that sair angered wi’ me. I’m to get
my orders frae Geordie the nicht.
Hunt. O, you’re to get your orders from Geordie, are you?
Now look here, Ainslie. You know me. I’m Hunt the
Runner: I put Jemmy Rivers in the jug this morning;
I’ve got you this evening. I mean to wind up with the
Deacon. You understand? All right. Then just
you listen. I’m going to take these here bracelets off,
and send you home to that celebrated bed of yours.
Only, as soon as you’ve seen the Dook you come straight
round to me at Mr. Procurator-Fiscal’s, and let me
know the Dook’s views. One word, mind, and ...
cl’k! It’s a bargain?
Ainslie.. Never you fear that. I’ll tak’ my bannet an’
come straucht to ye. Eh God, I’m glad it’s nae mair
nor that to start wi’. An’ may the Lord bless ye,
dear, kind gentleman, for your kindness! May the
Lord bless ye!
Hunt. You pad the hoof.
Ainslie (going out). An’ so I wull, wulln’t I not? An’
bless, bless ye while there’s breath in my body, wulln’t
I not?
Hunt (solus). You’re a nice young man, Andrew Ainslie.
Jemmy Rivers and the Deacon in two days! By
Jingo! (He dances an instant gravely, whistling to
himself.) Jerry, that ’ere little two hundred of ours
is as safe as the bank.
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
Leslie, Lawson, Mary, seated. Brodie at back, walking
between the windows and the strong-box
Lawson. Weel, weel, weel, weel, nae doubt.
Leslie. Mr. Lawson, I am perfectly satisfied with Brodie’s
word; I will wait gladly.
Lawson. I have nothing to say against that.
Brodie (behind Lawson). Nor for it.
Lawson. For it? for it, William? Ye’re perfectly
richt there. (To Leslie.) Just you do what William
tells you; ye canna do better than that.
Mary. Dear uncle, I see you are vexed; but Will and
I are perfectly agreed on the best course. Walter
and I are young. O, we can wait; we can trust
each other.
Brodie (from behind). Leslie, do you think it safe to
keep this strong-box in your room?
Leslie. It does not trouble me.
Brodie. I would not. ’Tis close to the window.
Leslie. It’s on the right side of it.
Brodie. I give you my advice: I would not.
Lawson. He may be right there too, Mr. Leslie.
Brodie. I give him fair warning: it’s not safe.
Leslie. I have a different treasure to concern myself
about; if all goes right with that I shall be well contented.
Mary. Walter!
Lawson. Ay, bairns, ye speak for your age.
Leslie. Surely, sir, for every age: the ties of blood, of
love, of friendship, these are life’s essence.
Mary. And for no one is it truer than my uncle. If he
live to be a thousand, he will still be young in heart,
full of love, full of trust.
Lawson. Ah, lassie, it’s a wicked world.
Mary. Yes, you are out of sorts to-day; we know that.
Leslie. Admitted that you know more of life, sir; admitted
(if you please) that the world is wicked; yet
you do not lose trust in those you love.
Lawson. Weel ... ye get gliffs, ye ken.
Leslie. I suppose so. We can all be shaken for a time;
but not, I think, in our friends. We are not deceived
in them; in the few that we admit into our hearts.
Mary. Never in these.
Leslie. We know these (to Brodie), and we think the
world of them.
Brodie (at back). We are more acquainted with each
other’s tailors, believe me. You, Leslie, are a very
pleasant creature. My uncle Lawson is the Procurator-Fiscal.
I—what am I? I am the Deacon of the
Wrights; my ruffles are generally clean; and you
think the world of me. Bravo!
Leslie. Ay, and I think the world of you.
Brodie (at back, pointing to Lawson). Ask him.
Lawson. Hoot-toot. A wheen nonsense: an honest
man’s an honest man, and a randy thief’s a randy
thief, and neither mair nor less. Mary, my lamb,
it’s time you were hame, and had your beauty sleep.
Mary. Do you not come with us?
Lawson. I gang the ither gate, my lamb. (Leslie helps
Mary on with her cloak, and they say farewell at back.
Brodie, for the first time, comes front with Lawson.)
Sae ye’ve consented?
Brodie. As you see.
Lawson. Ye’ll can pay it back?
Brodie. I will.
Lawson. And how? That’s what I’m wonderin’ to
mysel’.
Brodie. Ay, God knows that.
Mary. Come, Will.
Leslie, Lawson (wrapping up)
Leslie. I wonder what ails Brodie?
Lawson. How should I ken? What should I ken that
ails him?
Leslie. He seemed angry even with you.
Lawson (impatient). Hoot awa’!
Leslie. Of course, I know. But you see, on the very
day when our engagement is announced, even the
best of men may be susceptible. You yourself seem
not quite pleased.
Lawson (with great irritation). I’m perfectly pleased.
I’m perfectly delighted. If I werena an auld man,
I’d be just beside mysel’ wi’ happiness.
Leslie. Well, I only fancied ...
Lawson. Ye had nae possible excuse to fancy. Fancy?
Perfect trash and nonsense. Look at yersel’. Ye
look like a ghaist, ye’re white-like, ye’re black aboot
the een; and do you find me deavin’ ye wi’ fancies?
Or William Brodie either? I’ll say that for him.
Leslie. ’Tis not sorrow that alters my complexion; I’ve
something else on hand. Come, I’ll tell you, under
seal. I’ve not been in bed till daylight for a week.
Lawson. Weel, there’s nae sense in the like o’ that.
Leslie. Gad, but there is, though. Why, Procurator,
this is town’s business; this is a municipal affair;
I’m a public character. Why? Ah, here’s a nut for
the Crown Prosecutor! I’m a bit of a party to a robbery.
Lawson. Guid guide us, man, what d’ye mean?
Leslie. You shall hear. A week ago to-night I was
passing through this very room without a candle on my
way to bed, when ... what should I see but a
masked man fumbling at that window! How he did the
Lord knows. I suspect, Procurator, it was not the
first he’d tried ... for he opened it as handily
as his own front door.
Lawson. Preserve me! Another of thae robberies!
Leslie. That’s it. And, of course, I tried to seize him.
But the rascal was too quick. He was down and away
in an instant. You never saw a thing so daring and
adroit.
Lawson. Is that a’? Ye’re a bauld lad, I’ll say that for
ye. I’m glad it wasna waur.
Leslie. Yes, that’s all plain sailing. But here’s the hitch.
Why didn’t I tell the Procurator-Fiscal? You never
thought of that.
Lawson. No, man. Why?
Leslie. Aha! There’s the riddle. Will you guess?
No?... I thought I knew the man.
Lawson. What d’ye say?
Leslie. I thought I knew him.
Lawson. Wha was’t?
Leslie. Ah, there you go beyond me. That I cannot tell.
Lawson. As God sees ye, laddie, are ye speaking truth?
Leslie. Well ... of course!
Lawson. The haill truth?
Leslie. All of it. Why not?
Lawson. Man, I’d a kind o’ gliff.
Leslie. Why, what were you afraid of? Had you a
suspicion?
Lawson. Me? Me a suspicion? Ye’re daft, sir; and
me the Crown offeecial!... Eh, man, I’m a’
shakin’ ... And sae ye thocht ye kennt him?
Leslie. I did that. And what’s more, I’ve sat every
night in case of his return. I promise you, Procurator,
he shall not slip me twice. Meanwhile, I’m
worried and put out. You understand how such a
fancy will upset a man. I’m uneasy with my friends
and on bad terms with my own conscience. I keep
watching, spying, comparing, putting two and two
together, and hunting for resemblances until my head
goes round. It’s like a puzzle in a dream. Only
yesterday I thought I had him. And who d’you think
it was?
Lawson. Wha? Wha was’t? Speak, Mr. Leslie, speak.
I’m an auld man: dinna forget that.
Leslie. I name no names. It would be unjust to him;
and, upon my word, it was so silly it would be unfair
to me. However, here I sit, night after night. I
mean him to come back; come back he shall; and I’ll
tell you who he was next morning.
Lawson. Let sleeping dogs lie, Mr. Leslie; ye dinna
ken what ye micht see. And then, leave him alane,
he’ll come nae mair. And sitting up a’ nicht ...
it’s a factum imprestabile, as we say: a thing impossible
to man. Gang ye to your bed, like a guid laddie,
and sleep lang and soundly, and bonnie, bonnie dreams
to ye! (Without.) Let sleeping dogs lie, and gang ye
to your bed.
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.
Brodie, Leslie
Brodie enters by the window with assurance and ease,
closes it silently and proceeds to traverse the room.
As he moves, Leslie leaps upon and grapples him.
Leslie. Take off that mask!
Brodie. Hands off!
Leslie. Take off that mask!
Brodie. Leave go, by God, leave go!
Leslie. Take it off!
Brodie (overpowered). Leslie....
Leslie. Ah! you know me! (Succeeds in tearing off
the mask.) Brodie!
Brodie (in the moonlight). Brodie.
Leslie. You ... you, Brodie, you!
Brodie. Brodie, sir, Brodie, as you see.
Leslie. What does it mean? What does it mean? My
God! Were you here before? Is this the second
time? Are you a thief, man? are you a thief?
Speak, speak, or I’ll kill you.
Brodie. I am a thief.
Leslie. And my friend, my own friend, and ...
Mary, Mary!... Deacon, Deacon, for God’s sake,
no!
Brodie. God help me!
Leslie. “We Brodies! We Brodies!”
Brodie. Leslie——
Leslie. Stand off! Don’t touch me! You’re a thief!
Brodie. Leslie, Leslie——
Leslie. A thief’s sister! Why are you here? why are
you here? Tell me! Why do you not speak? Man,
I know you of old. Are you Brodie, and have nothing
to say?
Brodie. To say? Not much—God help me!—and commonplace,
commonplace like sin. I was honest once;
I made a false step; I couldn’t retrace it; and ...
that is all.
Leslie. You have forgot the bad companions!
Brodie. I did forget them. They were there.
Leslie. Commonplace! Commonplace! Do you speak
to me, do you reason with me, do you make excuses?
You—a man found out, shamed, a liar, a thief—a man
that’s killed me, killed this heart in my body; and
you speak! What am I to do? I hold your life in my
hand; have you thought of that? What am I to do?
Brodie. Do what you please; you have me trapped.
(Jean Watt is heard singing without two bars of “Wanderin’
Willie,” by way of signal.)
Leslie. What is that?
Brodie. A signal.
Leslie. What does it mean?
Brodie. Danger to me: there is some one coming.
Leslie. Danger to you?
Brodie. Some one is coming. What are you going to do
with me? (A knock at the door.)
Leslie (after a pause). Sit down. (Knocking.)
Brodie. What are you going to do with me?
Leslie. Sit down. (Brodie sits in darkest part of stage.
Leslie opens door and admits Lawson. Door open till
end of Act.)
Brodie, Lawson, Leslie
Lawson. This is an unco’ time to come to your door;
but eh, laddie, I couldna bear to think o’ ye sittin’ yer
lane in the dark.
Leslie. It was very good of you.
Lawson. I’m no’ very fond of playing hidee in the dark
mysel’: and noo that I’m here——
Leslie. I will give you a light. (He lights the candles.
Lights up.)
Lawson. God A’michty! William Brodie!
Leslie. Yes, Brodie was good enough to watch with me.
Lawson. But he gaed awa’ ... I dinna see ...
an’ Lord be guid to us, the window’s open!
Leslie. A trap we laid for them: a device of Brodie’s.
Brodie (to Lawson). Set a thief to catch a thief. (Passing
to Leslie, aside.) Walter Leslie, God will reward.
(Jean signals again.)
Lawson. I dinna like that singin’ at siccan a time o’ the
nicht.
Brodie. I must go.
Lawson. Not one foot o’ ye. I’m ower glad to find ye in
guid hands. Ay, ye dinna ken how glad.
Brodie (aside to Leslie). Get me out of this. There’s
a man there will stick at nothing.
Leslie. Mr. Lawson, Brodie has done his shift. Why
should we keep him? (Jean appears at the door, and
signs to Brodie.)
Lawson. Hoots! this is my trade. That’s a bit o’
“Wanderin’ Willie.” I’ve had it before me in precognitions;
that same stave has been used for a signal
by some o’ the very warst o’ them.
Brodie (aside to Leslie). Get me out of this. I’ll never
forget to-night. (Jean at door again.)
Leslie. Well, good-night, Brodie. When shall we meet
again?
Lawson. Not one foot o’ him. (Jean at door.) I tell you,
Mr. Leslie——
To these, Jean
Jean (from the door). Wullie, Wullie!
Lawson. Guid guide us, Mrs. Watt! A dacent wumman
like yoursel’! Whatten a time o’ nicht is this to come
to folks’ doors?
Jean (to Brodie). Hawks, Wullie, hawks!
Brodie. I suppose you know what you’ve done, Jean?
Jean. I had to come, Wullie; he wadna wait another
minit. He wad have come himsel’.
Brodie. This is my mistress.
Lawson. William, dinna tell me nae mair.
Brodie. I have told you so much. You may as well
know all. That good man knows it already. Have
you issued a warrant for me ... yet?
Lawson. No, no, man: not another word.
Brodie (pointing to the window). That is my work. I
am the man. Have you drawn the warrant?
Lawson (breaking down). Your father’s son!
Leslie (to Lawson). My good friend! Brodie, you might
have spared the old man this.
Brodie. I might have spared him years ago; and you
and my sister, and myself. I might ... would God
I had! (Weeping himself.) Don’t weep, my good
old friend; I was lost long since; don’t think of
me; don’t pity me; don’t shame me with your pity!
I began this when I was a boy. I bound the millstone
round my neck; (it is irrevocable now), and
you must all suffer ... all suffer for me!... (for
this suffering remnant of what was once a man). O
God, that I can have fallen to stand here as I do now.
My friend lying to save me from the gallows; my
second father weeping tears of blood for my disgrace!
And all for what? Ay what? Because I had an
open hand, because I was a selfish dog, because I loved
this woman.
Jean. O Wullie, and she lo’ed ye weel! But come near
me nae mair, come near me nae mair, my man; keep
wi’ your ain folks ... your ain dacent folks.
Lawson. Mistress Watt, ye shall sit rent free as lang’s
there’s breath in William Lawson’s body.
Leslie. You can do one thing still ... for Mary’s sake.
You can save yourself; you must fly.
Brodie. It is my purpose; the day after to-morrow.
It cannot be before. Then I will fly; and O, as God
sees me, I will strive to make a new and a better life,
and to be worthy of your friendship, and of your
tears ... your tears. And to be worthy of you, too,
Jean; for I see now that the bandage has fallen from
my eyes; I see myself, O how unworthy even of you!
Leslie. Why not to-night?
Brodie. It cannot be before. There are many considerations.
I must find money.
Jean. Leave me, and the wean. Dinna fash yoursel’
for us.
Leslie (opening the strong-box and pouring gold upon the
table). Take this and go at once.
Brodie. Not that ... not the money that I came to
steal!
Lawson. Tak’ it, William; I’ll pay him.
Brodie. It is in vain. I cannot leave till I have said.
There is a man; I must obey him. If I slip my chain
till he has done with me, the hue and cry will blaze
about the country; every outport will be shut; I shall
return to the gallows. He is a man that will stick at
nothing.
To these, Moore
Moore. Are you coming?
Brodie. I am coming.
Moore (appearing in the door). Do you want us all to get
thundering well scragged?
Brodie (going). There is my master.
END OF THE THIRD ACT
The Robbery
The Stage represents the outside of the Excise Office in Chessel’s Court.
At the back, L.C., an archway opening on the High Street. The door
of the Excise in wing, R.; the opposite side of the stage is lumbered
with barrels, packing-cases, etc. Moonlight; the Excise Office casts
a shadow over half the stage. A clock strikes the hour. A round of
the City Guard, with halberts, lanterns, etc., enters and goes out again
by the arch, after having examined the fastenings of the great door and
the lumber on the left. Cry without in the High Court: “Ten by the
bell and a fine clear night.” Then enter cautiously by the arch,
Smith and Moore, with Ainslie loaded with tools
Smith, Moore, Ainslie
Smith (entering first). Come on, coast clear.
Moore (after they have come to the front). Ain’t he turned
up yet?
Smith (to Ainslie). Now, Maggot! The fishing’s a-going
to begin.
Ainslie. Dinna cangle, Geordie. My back’s fair broke.
Moore. O, muck! Hand out them pieces.
Smith. All right, Humptious! (To Ainslie.) You’re a
nice old sort for a rag-and-bone man: can’t hold
a bag open! (Taking out tools.) Here they was. Here
are the bunchums, one and two; and jolly old keys
was they. Here’s the picklocks, crowbars, and here’s
Lord George’s pet bull’s-eye, his old and valued friend,
the Cracksman’s Treasure!
Moore. Just like you. Forgot the rotten centre-bit.
Smith. That’s all you know. Here she is, bless her!
Portrait of George as a gay 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.)
To these, Brodie
Moore. Waiting for you, Deacon.
Brodie. I see. Everything ready?
Smith. All a-growing and a-blowing.
Brodie. Give me the light. (Briefly examines tools and
door with bull’s-eye.) You, George, stand by, and
hand up the pieces. Ainslie, take the glim. Moore,
out and watch.
Moore. I didn’t come here to do sentry-go, I didn’t.
Brodie. You came here to do as I tell you. (Moore
goes up slowly.) Second bunch, George. I know the
lock. Steady with the glim. (At work.) No good.
Give me the centre-bit.
Smith. Right. (Work continues. Ainslie drops lantern.)
Brodie. Curse you! (Throttling and kicking him.) You
shake, and you shake, and you can’t even hold a light
for your betters. Hey?
Ainslie. Eh, Deacon, Deacon....
Smith. Now, Ghost! (With lantern.)
Brodie. ’St, Moore!
Moore. Wot’s the row?
Brodie. Take you the light.
Moore (to Ainslie). Wo’ j’ yer shakin’ at? (Kicks him.)
Brodie (to Ainslie). Go you, and see if you’re good at
keeping watch. Inside the arch. And if you let a
footfall past, I’ll break your back. (Ainslie retires.)
Steady with the light. (At work with centre-bit.)
Hand up number four, George. (At work with picklock.)
That has it.
Smith. Well done, our side.
Brodie. Now the crowbar! (At work.) That’s it. Put
down the glim, Badger, and help at the wrench. Your
whole weight, men! Put your backs to it! (While
they work at the bar, Brodie stands by, dusting his hands
with a pocket-handkerchief. As the door opens.) 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!
Ainslie; afterwards Brodie; afterwards Hunt
and Officers
Ainslie. Ca’ ye that mainners? Ye’re grand gentry by
your way o’t! Eh sirs, my hench! Ay, that was
the Badger. Man, but ye’ll look bonnie hangin’!
(A faint whistle.) Lord’s sake, what’s thon? Ay, it’ll
be Hunt an’ his lads. (Whistle repeated.) Losh me,
what gars him whustle, whustle? Does he think
me deaf? (Goes up. Brodie enters from office, stands
an instant, and sees him making a signal through the
arch.)
Brodie. Rats! Rats! (Hides L. among lumber. Enter
noiselessly through arch Hunt and Officers.)
Hunt. Birds caught?
Ainslie. They’re a’ ben the house, mister.
Hunt. All three?
Ainslie. The haill set, mister.
Brodie. Liar!
Hunt. Mum, lads, and follow me. (Exit, with his men,
into office. Brodie seen with dagger.)
Hunt (within). In the King’s name!
Moore (within). Muck!
Smith (within). Go it, Badger.
Hunt (within). Take ’em alive, boys!
Ainslie. Eh, but that’s awfu’. (The Deacon leaps out,
and stabs him. He falls without a cry.)
Brodie. Saved! (He goes out by the arch.)
Hunt and Officers; with Smith and Moore handcuffed.
Signs of a severe struggle
Hunt (entering). Bring ’em along, lads! (Looking at
prisoners with lantern.) Pleased to see you again,
Badger. And you too, George. But I’d rather have
seen your principal. Where’s he got to?
Moore. To hell, I hope.
Hunt. Always the same pretty flow of language, I see,
Hump. (Looking at burglary with lantern.) A very
tidy piece of work, Dook; very tidy! Much too good
for you. Smacks of a fine tradesman. It was the
Deacon, I suppose?
Smith. You ought to know G.S. better by this time, Jerry.
Hunt. All right, your Grace: we’ll talk it over with
the Deacon himself. Where’s the jackal? Here, you,
Ainslie! Where are you? By Jingo, I thought as
much. Stabbed to the heart and dead as a herring!
Smith. Bravo!
Hunt. More of the Deacon’s work, I guess? Does him
credit too, don’t it, Badger?
Moore. Muck. Was that the thundering cove that
peached?
Hunt. That was the thundering cove.
Moore. And is he corpsed?
Hunt. I should just about reckon he was.
Moore. Then, damme, I don’t mind swinging!
Hunt. We’ll talk about that presently. M’Intyre and
Stewart, you get a stretcher, and take that rubbish
to the office. Pick it up; it’s only a dead informer.
Hand these two gentlemen over to Mr. Procurator-Fiscal,
with Mr. Jerry Hunt’s compliments. Johnstone
and Syme, you come along with me. I’ll bring
the Deacon round myself.
END OF THE FOURTH ACT
The Open Door
The Stage represents the Deacon’s room, as in Tableau I. Firelight.
Stage dark. A pause. Then knocking at the door, C. Cries
without of “Willie!” “Mr. Brodie!” The door is burst open
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!
Mary, to whom Jean and afterwards Leslie
Jean (at door). Mistress ...!
Mary. Ah! Who is there? Who are you?
Jean. Is he no’ hame yet? I’m aye waitin’ on him.
Mary. Waiting for him? Do you know the Deacon?
You?
Jean. I maun see him. Eh, lassie, it’s life and death.
Mary. Death ... O my heart!
Jean. I maun see him, bonnie leddie. I’m a puir body,
and no’ fit to be seen speakin’ wi’ the likes o’ you.
But O lass, ye are the Deacon’s sister, and ye hae the
Deacon’s een, and for the love of the dear kind Lord,
let’s in and hae a word wi’ him ere it be ower late.
I’m bringin’ siller.
Mary. Siller? You? For him? O father, father, if
you could hear! What are you? What are you
... to him?
Jean. I’ll be the best frien’ ’at ever he had; for, O dear
leddie, I wad gie my bluid to help him.
Mary. And the ... the child?
Jean. The bairn?
Mary. Nothing! O nothing! I am in trouble, and
I know not what I say. And I cannot help you; I
cannot help you if I would. He is not here; and
I believe he was; and ill ... ill; and he is not—he
is ... O, I think I shall lose my mind!
Jean. Ay, it’s unco business.
Mary. His father is dead within there ... dead, I tell
you ... dead!
Jean. It’s mebbe just as weel.
Mary. Well? Well? Has it come to this? O Walter,
Walter! come back to me, or I shall die. (Leslie
enters, C.)
Leslie. Mary, Mary! I hoped to have spared you this.
(To Jean.) What—you? Is he not here?
Jean. I’m aye waitin’ on him.
Leslie. What has become of him? Is he mad? Where
is he?
Jean. The Lord A’michty kens, Mr. Leslie. But I maun
find him; I maun find him.
Mary, Leslie
Mary. O Walter, Walter! What does it mean?
Leslie. You have been a brave girl all your life, Mary;
you must lean on me ... you must trust in me
... and be a brave girl till the end.
Mary. Who is she? What does she want with him?
And he ... where is he? Do you know that
my father is dead, and the Deacon not here? Where
has he gone? He may be dead, too. Father, brother
... O God, it is more than I can bear!
Leslie. Mary, my dear, dear girl ... when will
you be my wife?
Mary. O, do not speak ... not speak ... of it
to-night. Not to-night! O, not to-night!
Leslie. I know, I know, dear heart! And do you think
that I, whom you have chosen, I whose whole life is
in your love—do you think that I would press you
now if there were not good cause?
Mary. Good cause! Something has happened. Something
has happened ... to him! Walter...!
Is he ... dead?
Leslie. There are worse things in the world than death.
There is ... O Mary, he is your brother!
Mary. What?... Dishonour!... The Deacon!...
My God!
Leslie. My wife, my wife!
Mary. No, no! Keep away from me. Don’t touch me.
I’m not fit ... not fit to be near you. What has
he done? I am his sister. Tell me the worst. Tell
me the worst at once.
Leslie. That, if God wills, dear, you shall never know.
Whatever it be, think that I knew it all, and only
loved you better; think that your true husband is
with you, and you are not to bear it alone.
Mary. My husband?... Never.
Leslie. Mary...!
Mary. You forget, you forget what I am. I am his
sister. I owe him a lifetime of happiness and love;
I owe him even you. And whatever his fault, however
ruinous his disgrace, he is my brother—my own
brother—and my place is still with him.
Leslie. Your place is with me—is with your husband.
With me, with me; and for his sake most of all. What
can you do for him alone? how can you help him
alone? It wrings my heart to think how little. But
together is different. Together...! Join my
strength, my will, my courage to your own, and together
we may save him.
Mary. All that is over. Once I was blessed among
women. I was my father’s daughter, my brother
loved me, I lived to be your wife. Now...! My
father is dead, my brother is shamed; and you ...
O how could I face the world, how could I endure
myself, if I preferred my happiness to your honour?
Leslie. What is my honour but your happiness? In
what else does it consist? Is it in denying me my
heart? is it in visiting another’s sin upon the innocent?
Could I do that, and be my mother’s son? Could
I do that, and bear my father’s name? Could I
do that, and have ever been found worthy of you?
Mary. It is my duty ... my duty. Why will you
make it so hard for me? So hard, Walter, so hard!
Leslie. Do I pursue you only for your good fortune,
your beauty, the credit of your friends, your family’s
good name? That were not love, and I love you.
I love you, dearest, I love you. Friend, father, brother,
husband ... I must be all these to you. I am
a man who can love well.
Mary. Silence ... in pity! I cannot ... O, I
cannot bear it.
Leslie. And say it was I who had fallen. Say I had
played my neck and lost it ... that I were pushed
by the law to the last limits of ignominy and despair.
Whose love would sanctify my gaol to me? whose
pity would shine upon me in the dock? whose prayers
would accompany me to the gallows? Whose but
yours? Yours!... And you would entreat me—me!—to
do what you shrink from even in thought,
what you would die ere you attempted in deed!
Mary. Walter ... on my knees ... no more,
no more!
Leslie. My wife! my wife! Here on my heart! It
is I that must kneel ... I that must kneel to you.
Mary. Dearest!... Husband! You forgive him?
O, you forgive him?
Leslie. He is my brother now. Let me take you to our
father. Come.
After a pause, Brodie through the window
Brodie. Saved! And the alibi! Man, but you’ve been
near it this time—near the rope, near the rope. Ah,
boy, it was your neck, your neck you fought for.
They were closing hell-doors upon me, swift as the
wind, when I slipped through and shot for heaven!
Saved! The dog that sold me, I settled him; and
the other dogs are staunch. Man, but your alibi
will stand! Is the window fast? The neighbours
must not see the Deacon, the poor, sick Deacon, up
and stirring at this time o’ night. Ay, the good old
room in the good, cosy old house ... and the
rat a dead rat, and all saved. (He lights the candles.)
Your hand shakes, sir? Fie! And you saved, and
snug and sick in your bed, and it but a dead rat after
all? (He takes off his hanger and lays it on the table.)
Ay, it was a near touch. Will it come to the dock?
If it does! You’ve a tongue and you’ve a head, and
you’ve an alibi; and your alibi will stand. (He takes
off his coat, takes out the dagger, and with a gesture of
striking.) Home! He fell without a sob. “He breaketh
them against the bosses of His buckler!” (Lays
the dagger on the table.) Your alibi ... ah, Deacon,
that’s your life!... your alibi, your alibi. (He
takes up a candle and turns towards the door.) O!...
Open, open, open! Judgment of God, the door
is open!
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.
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.
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
