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       THE WORKS OF

  ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

     SWANSTON EDITION

        VOLUME XV




  _Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five
  Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS
  STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies
  have been printed, of which only Two Thousand
  Copies are for sale._

  _This is No ........._

  [Illustration: R.L.S. AND MRS. STRONG

  (_From an old tin-type, posed and taken by a strolling photographer at
     a fair in Sydney, N.S.W., in 1892_)]




   THE WORKS OF

   ROBERT LOUIS
    STEVENSON

  VOLUME FIFTEEN

  LONDON : PUBLISHED BY CHATTO AND
  WINDUS : IN ASSOCIATION WITH CASSELL
  AND COMPANY LIMITED : WILLIAM
  HEINEMANN : AND LONGMANS GREEN
  AND COMPANY      MDCCCCXII


  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED




  CONTENTS


                                        PAGE

  DEACON BRODIE, OR THE DOUBLE LIFE        1

  BEAU AUSTIN                             91

  ADMIRAL GUINEA                         145

  MACAIRE                                205




         DRAMATIC WORKS
               OF
  R.L. STEVENSON & W.E. HENLEY




                DEACON BRODIE

             OR THE DOUBLE LIFE

  A MELODRAMA IN FIVE ACTS AND EIGHT TABLEAUX




  PERSONS REPRESENTED


  WILLIAM BRODIE, Deacon of the Wrights, Housebreaker and Master Carpenter

  OLD BRODIE, the Deacon's Father

  WILLIAM LAWSON, Procurator-Fiscal, the Deacon's Uncle

  ANDREW AINSLIE, \
                   |
  HUMPHREY MOORE,   > Robbers in the Deacon's Gang
                   |
  GEORGE SMITH,   /

  CAPTAIN RIVERS, an English Highwayman

  HUNT, a Bow Street Runner

  A DOCTOR

  WALTER LESLIE

  MARY BRODIE, the Deacon's Sister

  JEAN WATT, the Deacon's Mistress

  VAGABONDS, OFFICERS OF THE WATCH, MEN-SERVANTS


The Scene is laid in Edinburgh. The Time is towards the close of the
Eighteenth Century. The Action, some fifty hours long, begins at eight
p.m. on Saturday and ends before midnight on Monday

NOTE.--_Passages suggested for omission in representation are enclosed
in parentheses, thus_ ( )




SYNOPSIS OF ACTS AND TABLEAUX


ACT I

   TABLEAU I        The Double Life
   TABLEAU II       Hunt the Runner
   TABLEAU III      Mother Clarke's


ACT II

   TABLEAU IV       Evil and Good


ACT III

   TABLEAU V        King's Evidence
   TABLEAU VI       Unmasked


ACT IV

   TABLEAU VII      The Robbery


ACT V

   TABLEAU VIII     The Open Door





DEACON BRODIE

OR THE DOUBLE LIFE




  ACT I


  TABLEAU I

  THE DOUBLE LIFE

  _The Stage represents a room in the Deacon's house, furnished partly
  as a sitting-, partly as a bedroom, in the style of an easy burgess
  of about 1780. C., a door; L.C., second and smaller door; R.C.,
  practicable window; L., alcove, supposed to contain bed; at the back,
  a clothes-press and a corner cupboard containing bottles, etc._

  _MARY BRODIE at needlework; OLD BRODIE, a paralytic, in wheeled chair,
  at the fireside, L._


  SCENE I

  _To these, LESLIE, C._

LESLIE. May I come in, Mary?

MARY. Why not?

LESLIE. I scarce knew where to find you.

MARY. The dad and I must have a corner, must we not? So when my
brother's friends are in the parlour he allows us to sit in his room.
'Tis a great favour, I can tell you; the place is sacred.

LESLIE. Are you sure that "sacred" is strong enough?

MARY. You are satirical!

LESLIE. I? And with regard to the Deacon? Believe me, I am not so
ill-advised. You have trained me well, and I feel by him as solemnly as
a true-born Brodie.

MARY. And now you are impertinent! Do you mean to go any further? We are
a fighting race, we Brodies. O, you may laugh, sir! But 'tis no child's
play to jest us on our Deacon, or, for that matter, on our Deacon's
chamber either. It was his father's before him: he works in it by day
and sleeps in it by night; and scarce anything it contains but is the
labour of his hands. Do you see this table, Walter? He made it while he
was yet a 'prentice. I remember how I used to sit and watch him at his
work. It would be grand, I thought, to be able to do as he did, and
handle edge-tools without cutting my fingers, and getting my ears pulled
for a meddlesome minx! He used to give me his mallet to keep and his
nails to hold; and didn't I fly when he called for them! and wasn't I
proud to be ordered about with them! And then, you know, there is the
tall cabinet yonder; that it was that proved him the first of Edinburgh
joiners, and worthy to be their Deacon and their head. And the father's
chair, and the sister's work-box, and the dear dead mother's
footstool--what are they all but proofs of the Deacon's skill, and
tokens of the Deacon's care for those about him?

LESLIE. I am all penitence. Forgive me this last time, and I promise you
I never will again.

MARY. Candidly, now, do you think you deserve forgiveness?

LESLIE. Candidly, I do not.

MARY. Then I suppose you must have it. What have you done with Willie
and my uncle?

LESLIE. I left them talking deeply. The dear old Procurator has not much
thought just now for anything but those mysterious burglaries----

MARY. I know!----

LESLIE. Still, all of him that is not magistrate and official is
politician and citizen; and he has been striving his hardest to
undermine the Deacon's principles, and win the Deacon's vote and
interest.

MARY. They are worth having, are they not?

LESLIE. The Procurator seems to think that having them makes the
difference between winning and losing.

MARY. Did he say so? You may rely upon it that he knows. There are not
many in Edinburgh who can match with our Will.

LESLIE. There shall be as many as you please, and not one more.

MARY. How I should like to have heard you! What did uncle say? Did he
speak of the Town Council again? Did he tell Will what a wonderful
Bailie he would make? O, why did you come away?

LESLIE. I could not pretend to listen any longer. The election is months
off yet; and if it were not--if it were tramping upstairs this
moment--drums, flags, cockades, guineas, candidates, and all!--how
should I care for it? What are Whig and Tory to me?

MARY. O, fie on you! It is for every man to concern himself in the
common weal. Mr. Leslie--Leslie of the Craig!--should know that much at
least.

LESLIE. And be a politician like the Deacon! All in good time, but not
now. I hearkened while I could, and when I could no more I slipped out
and followed my heart. I hoped I should be welcome.

MARY. I suppose you mean to be unkind.

LESLIE. Tit for tat. Did you not ask me why I came away? And is it usual
for a young lady to say "Mr." to the man she means to marry?

MARY. That is for the young lady to decide, sir.

LESLIE. And against that judgment there shall be no appeal?

MARY. O, if you mean to argue!----

LESLIE. I do not mean to argue. I am content to love and be loved. I
think I am the happiest man in the world.

MARY. That is as it should be; for I am the happiest girl.

LESLIE. Why not say the happiest wife? I have your word, and you have
mine. Is not that enough?

MARY. Have you so soon forgotten? Did I not tell you how it must be as
my brother wills? I can do only as he bids me.

LESLIE. Then you have not spoken as you promised?

MARY. I have been too happy to speak.

LESLIE. I am his friend. Precious as you are, he will trust you to me.
He has but to know how I love you, Mary, and how your life is all in
your love of me, to give us his blessing with a full heart.

MARY. I am sure of him. It is that which makes my happiness complete.
Even to our marriage I should find it hard to say "Yes" when he said
"No."

LESLIE. Your father is trying to speak. I'll wager he echoes you.

MARY (_to OLD BRODIE_). My poor dearie! Do you want to say anything to
me? No? Is it to Mr. Leslie, then?

LESLIE. I am listening, Mr. Brodie.

MARY. What is it, daddie?

OLD BRODIE. My son--the Deacon--Deacon Brodie--the first at school.

LESLIE. I know it, Mr. Brodie. Was I not the last in the same class?
(_To MARY._) But he seems to have forgotten us.

MARY. O, yes! his mind is wellnigh gone. He will sit for hours as you
see him, and never speak nor stir but at the touch of Will's hand or the
sound of Will's name.

LESLIE. It is so good to sit beside you. By and by it will always be
like this. You will not let me speak to the Deacon? You are fast set
upon speaking yourself? I could be so eloquent, Mary--I would touch
him. I cannot tell you how I fear to trust my happiness to any one
else--even to you.

MARY. He must hear of my good fortune from none but me. And, besides,
you do not understand. We are not like other families, we Brodies. We
are so clannish, we hold so close together.

LESLIE. You Brodies, and your Deacon!

OLD BRODIE. Deacon of his craft, sir--Deacon of the Wrights--my son! If
his mother--his mother--had but lived to see!

MARY. You hear how he runs on. A word about my brother and he catches
it. 'Tis as if he were awake in his poor blind way to all the Deacon's
care for him and all the Deacon's kindness to me. I believe he only
lives in the thought of the Deacon. There, it is not so long since I was
one with him. But indeed I think we are all Deacon-mad, we Brodies.--Are
we not, daddie dear?

BRODIE (_without, and entering_). You are a mighty magistrate,
Procurator, but you seem to have met your match.


  SCENE II

  _To these, BRODIE and LAWSON_

MARY (_curtseying_). So, uncle! you have honoured us at last.

LAWSON. _Quam primum_, my dear, _quam primum_.

BRODIE. Well, father, do you know me? (_He sits beside his father, and
takes his hand._)

(OLD BRODIE. William--ay--Deacon. Greater man--than--his father.

BRODIE. You see, Procurator, the news is as fresh to him as it was five
years ago. He was struck down before he got the Deaconship, and lives
his lost life in mine.

LAWSON. Ay, I mind. He was aye ettling after a bit handle to his name.
He was kind of hurt when first they made me Procurator.)

MARY. And what have you been talking of?

LAWSON. Just o' thae robberies, Mary. Baith as a burgher and a Crown
offeecial, I tak' the maist absorbing interest in thae robberies.

LESLIE. Egad, Procurator, and so do I.

BRODIE (_with a quick look at LESLIE_). A dilettante interest,
doubtless! See what it is to be idle.

LESLIE. 'Faith, Brodie, I hardly know how to style it.

BRODIE. At any rate, 'tis not the interest of a victim, or we should
certainly have known of it before; nor a practical tool-mongering
interest, like my own; nor an interest professional and official, like
the Procurator's. You can answer for that, I suppose?

LESLIE. I think I can; if for no more. It's an interest of my own, you
see, and is best described as indescribable, and of no manner of moment
to anybody. (It will take no hurt if we put off its discussion till a
month of Sundays.)

BRODIE. You are more fortunate than you deserve. What do you say,
Procurator?

LAWSON. Ay is he! There's no' a house in Edinburgh safe. The law is
clean helpless, clean helpless! A week syne it was auld Andra Simpson's
in the Lawn-market. Then, naething would set the catamarans but to
forgather privily wi' the Provost's ain butler, and tak' unto themselves
the Provost's ain plate. And the day, information was laid down before
me offeecially that the limmers had made infraction, _vi et clam_, into
Leddy Mar'get Dalziel's, and left her leddyship wi' no' sae muckle's a
spune to sup her parritch wi'. It's unbelievable, it's awful, it's
anti-christian!

MARY. If you only knew them, uncle, what an example you would make! But,
tell me, is it not strange that men should dare such things, in the
midst of a city, and nothing, nothing be known of them--nothing at all?

LESLIE. Little, indeed! But we do know that there are several in the
gang, and that one at least is an unrivalled workman.

LAWSON. Ye're right, sir; ye're vera right, Mr. Leslie. It had been
deponed to me offeecially that no' a tradesman--no' the Deacon here
himsel'--could have made a cleaner job wi' Andra Simpson's shutters. And
as for the lock o' the bank--but that's an auld sang.

BRODIE. I think you believe too much, Procurator. Rumour's an ignorant
jade, I tell you. I've had occasion to see some little of their
handiwork--broken cabinets, broken shutters, broken doors--and I find
them bunglers. Why, I could do it better myself.

LESLIE. Gad, Brodie, you and I might go into partnership. I back myself
to watch outside, and I suppose you could do the work of skill within?

BRODIE. An opposition company? Leslie, your mind is full of good things.
Suppose we begin to-night, and give the Procurator's house the honours
of our innocence?

MARY. You could do anything, you two!

LAWSON. Onyway, Deacon, ye'd put your ill-gotten gains to a right use;
they might come by the wind, but they wouldna gang wi' the water; and
that's aye a _solatium_, as we say. If I am to be robbit, I would like
to be robbit wi' decent folk; and no' think o' my bonnie clean siller
dirling among jads and dicers. ('Faith, William, the mair I think on't,
the mair I'm o' Mr. Leslie's mind. Come the night, or come the morn, and
I'se gie ye my free permission, and lend ye a hand in at the window
forbye!

BRODIE. Come, come, Procurator, lead not our poor clay into temptation.
(_LESLIE and MARY talk apart._)

LAWSON. I'm no muckle afraid for your puir clay, as ye ca't. But hark i'
your ear: ye're likely, joking apart, to be gey and sune in partnership
wi' Mr. Leslie. He and Mary are gey and pack, a'body can see that.

BRODIE. "Daffin, and want o' wit"--you know the rest.

LAWSON. _Vidi, scivi, et audivi_, as we say in a Sasine, William.) Man,
because my wig's pouthered do you think I havena a green heart? I was
aince a lad mysel', and I ken fine by the glint o' the e'e when a lad's
fain and a lassie's willing. And, man, it's the town's talk; _communis
error fit jus_, ye ken.

OLD BRODIE. Oh!

LAWSON. See, ye're hurting your faither's hand.

BRODIE. Dear dad, it is not good to have an ill-tempered son.

LAWSON. What the deevil ails ye at the match? 'Od man, he has a nice bit
divot o' Fife corn-land, I can tell ye, and some Bordeaux wine in his
cellar! But I needna speak o' the Bordeaux; ye'll ken the smack o't as
weel's I do mysel'; onyway it's grand wine. _Tantum et tale._ I tell ye
the _pro's_, find you the _con.'s_, if ye're able.

BRODIE. (I am sorry, Procurator, but I must be short with you.) You are
talking in the air, as lawyers will. I prefer to drop the subject (and
it will displease me if you return to it in my hearing).

LESLIE. At four o'clock to-morrow? At my house? (_To MARY._)

MARY. As soon as church is done. (_Exit MARY._)

LAWSON. Ye needna be sae high and mighty, onyway.

BRODIE. I ask your pardon, Procurator. But we Brodies--you know our
failings! (A bad temper and a humour of privacy.)

LAWSON. Weel, I maun be about my business. But I could tak' a
doch-an-dorach, William; _superflua non nocent_, as we say; an extra
dram hurts naebody, Mr. Leslie.

BRODIE (_with bottle and glasses_). Here's your old friend, Procurator.
Help yourself, Leslie. O no, thank you, not any for me. You strong
people have the advantage of me there. With my attacks, you know, I must
always live a bit of a hermit's life.

LAWSON. 'Od, man, that's fine; that's health o' mind and body. Mr.
Leslie, here's to you, sir. 'Od, it's harder to end than to begin with
stuff like that.


  SCENE III

  _To these, SMITH and JEAN, C._

SMITH. Is the king of the castle in, please?

LAWSON (_aside_). Lord's sake, it's Smith!

BRODIE (_to SMITH_). I beg your pardon?

SMITH. I beg yours, sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. Brodie at home, sir?

BRODIE. What do you want with him, my man?

SMITH. I've a message for him, sir; a job of work, sir.

BRODIE (_to SMITH; referring to JEAN_). And who is this?

JEAN. I am here for the Procurator, about my rent. There's nae offence,
I hope, sir.

LAWSON. It's just an honest wife I let a flat to in Libberton's Wynd.
It'll be for the rent?

JEAN. Just that, sir.

LAWSON. Weel, ye can just bide here a wee, and I'll step down the road
to my office wi' ye. (_Exeunt BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE, C._)


  SCENE IV

  SMITH, JEAN WATT, OLD BRODIE

SMITH (_bowing them out_). Your humble and most devoted servant, George
Smith, Esquire. And so this is the garding, is it? And this is the style
of horticulture? Ha, it is! (_At the mirror._) In that case George's
mother bids him bind his hair. (_Kisses his hand._) My dearest
Duchess----(_To JEAN._) I say, Jean, there's a good deal of difference
between this sort of thing and the way we does it in Libberton's Wynd.

JEAN. I daursay. And what wad ye expeck?

SMITH. Ah, Jean, if you'd cast affection's glance on this poor but
honest soger! George Lord S. is not the nobleman to cut the object of
his flame before the giddy throng; nor to keep her boxed up in an old
mouse-trap, while he himself is revelling in purple splendours like
these. He didn't know you, Jean: he was afraid to. Do you call that a
man? Try a man that is.

JEAN. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I'll tak' nane o' that sort o'
talk frae you. And what kind o' a man are you to even yoursel' to the
likes o' him? He's a gentleman.

SMITH. Ah, ain't he, just! And don't he live up to it? I say, Jean, feel
of this chair.

JEAN. My! look at yon bed!

SMITH. The carpet too! Axminster, by the bones of Oliver Cromwell!

JEAN. What a expense!

SMITH. Hey, brandy! The deuce of the grape! Have a toothful, Mrs. Watt.
(_Sings_--

             "Says Bacchus to Venus:
              There's brandy between us,
  And the cradle of love is the bowl, the bowl!")

JEAN. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith.

SMITH. What brings the man from stuff like this to rotgut and spittoons
at Mother Clarke's? But ah, George, you was born for a higher spear! And
so was you, Mrs. Watt, though I say it that shouldn't. (_Seeing OLD
BRODIE for the first time._) Hullo! it's a man!

JEAN. Thonder in the chair. (_They go to look at him, their backs to the
door._)

SMITH. Is he alive?

JEAN. I think there's something wrong with him.

SMITH. And how was you to-morrow, my valued old gentleman, eh?

JEAN. Dinna mak' a mock o' him, Geordie.

OLD BRODIE. My son--the Deacon--Deacon of his trade.

JEAN. He'll be his feyther. (_HUNT appears at door C., and stands
looking on._)

SMITH. The Deacon's old man! Well, he couldn't expect to have his quiver
full of sich, could he, Jean? (_To OLD BRODIE._) Ah, my Christian
soldier, if you had, the world would have been more variegated. Mrs.
Deakin (_to JEAN_), let me introduce you to your dear papa.

JEAN. Think shame to yoursel'! This is the Deacon's house; you and me
shouldna be here by rights; and if we are, it's the least we can do to
behave dacent. (This is no' the way ye'll mak' me like ye.)

SMITH. All right, Duchess. Don't be angry.


  SCENE V

  _To these, HUNT, C._ (_He steals down, and claps each one suddenly on
  the shoulder._)

HUNT. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr. Procurator-Fiscal?

SMITH (_pulling himself together_). D--n it, Jerry, what do you mean by
startling an old customer like that?

HUNT. What, my brave 'un? You're the very party I was looking for!

SMITH. There's nothing out against me this time?

HUNT. I'll take odds there is. But it ain't in my hands. (_To OLD
BRODIE._) You'll excuse me, old gentleman?

SMITH. Ah, well, if it's all in the way of friendship!... I say, Jean
(you and me had best be on the toddle). We shall be late for church.

HUNT. Lady, George?

SMITH. It's a----yes, it's a lady. Come along, Jean.

HUNT. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe. (That was the name, I think?) Won't Mrs.
Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz?

JEAN (_unmuffling_). I've naething to be ashamed of. My name's Mistress
Watt; I'm weel kennt at the Wyndheid; there's naething again' me.

HUNT. No, to be sure there ain't; and why clap on the blinkers, my dear?
You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like Jerry Hunt, that
might be your born father? (But all this don't tell me about Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal.)

SMITH (_in an agony_). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (_Going with
attempted swagger._) Well, ta-ta, Jerry.


  SCENE VI

  _To these, C., BRODIE and LAWSON (greatcoat, muffler, lantern_)

LAWSON (_from the door_). Come your ways, Mistress Watt.

JEAN. That's the Fiscal himsel'.

HUNT. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe?

LAWSON. That's me. Who'll you be?

HUNT. Hunt the Runner, sir; Hunt from Bow Street; English warrant.

LAWSON. There's a place for a' things, officer. Come your ways to my
office with me and this guid wife.

BRODIE (_aside to JEAN, as she passes with a curtsey_). How dare you be
here? (_Aloud to SMITH._) Wait you here, my man.

SMITH. If you please, sir. (_BRODIE goes out, C._)


  SCENE VII

  BRODIE, SMITH

BRODIE. What the devil brings you here?

SMITH. Confound it, Deakin! Not rusty?

BRODIE. (And not you only: Jean too! Are you mad?

SMITH. Why, you don't mean to say, Deakin, that you have been stodged by
G. Smith, Esquire? Plummy old George?)

BRODIE. There was my uncle the Procurator----

SMITH. The Fiscal? He don't count.

BRODIE. What d'ye mean?

SMITH. Well, Deakin, since Fiscal Lawson's Nunkey Lawson, and it's all
in the family way, I don't mind telling you that Nunkey Lawson's a
customer of George's. We give Nunkey Lawson a good deal of brandy--G. S.
and Co.'s celebrated Nantz.

BRODIE. What! does he buy that smuggled trash of yours?

SMITH. Well, we don't call it smuggled in the trade, Deakin. It's a wink
and King George's picter between G. S. and the Nunks.

BRODIE. Gad! that's worth knowing. O Procurator, Procurator, is there no
such thing as virtue? (_Allons!_ It's enough to cure a man of vice for
this world and the other.) But hark you hither, Smith; this is all
damned well in its way, but it don't explain what brings you here.

SMITH. I've trapped a pigeon for you.

BRODIE. Can't you pluck him yourself?

SMITH. Not me. He's too flash in the feather for a simple nobleman like
George Lord Smith. It's the great Capting Starlight, fresh in from York.
(He's exercised his noble art all the way from here to London. "Stand
and deliver, stap my vitals!") And the North Road is no bad lay, Deakin.

BRODIE. Flush?

SMITH (_mimicking_). "Three graziers, split me! A mail, stap my vitals!
and seven demned farmers, by the Lard----"

BRODIE. By Gad!

SMITH. Good for trade, ain't it? And we thought, Deakin, the Badger and
me, that coins being ever on the vanish, and you not over sweet on them
there lovely little locks at Leslie's, and them there bigger and uglier
marine stores at the Excise Office....

BRODIE (_impassible_). Go on.

SMITH. Worse luck!... We thought, me and the Badger, you know, that
maybe you'd like to exercise your _h_elbow with our free and galliant
horseman.

BRODIE. The old move, I presume? The double set of dice?

SMITH. That's the rig, Deakin. What you drop on the square you pick up
again on the cross. (Just as you did with G. S. and Co.'s own agent and
correspondent, the Admiral from Nantz.) You always was a neat hand with
the bones, Deakin.

BRODIE. The usual terms, I suppose?

SMITH. The old discount, Deakin. Ten in the pound for you, and the rest
for your jolly companions every one. (_That's_ the way _we_ does it!)

BRODIE. Who has the dice?

SMITH. Our mutual friend, the Candleworm.

BRODIE. You mean Ainslie?--We trust that creature too much, Geordie.

SMITH. He's all right, Marquis. He wouldn't lay a finger on his own
mother. Why, he's no more guile in him than a set of sheep's trotters.

(BRODIE. You think so? Then see he don't cheat you over the dice, and
give you light for loaded. See to that George, see to that; and you may
count the Captain as bare as his last grazier.

SMITH. The Black Flag for ever! George'll trot him round to Mother
Clarke's in two twos.) How long'll you be?

BRODIE. The time to lock up and go to bed, and I'll be with you. Can you
find your way out?

SMITH. Bloom on, my Sweet William, in peaceful array. Ta-ta.


  SCENE VIII

  _BRODIE, OLD BRODIE; to whom, MARY_

MARY. O Willie, I am glad you did not go with them. I have something to
tell you. If you knew how happy I am, you would clap your hands, Will.
But come, sit you down there, and be my good big brother, and I will
kneel here and take your hand. We must keep close to dad, and then he
will feel happiness in the air. The poor old love, if we could only tell
him. But I sometimes think his heart has gone to heaven already, and
takes a part in all our joys and sorrows; and it is only his poor body
that remains here, helpless and ignorant. Come, Will, sit you down, and
ask me questions--or guess--that will be better, guess.

BRODIE. Not to-night, Mary; not to-night. I have other fish to fry, and
they won't wait.

MARY. Not one minute for your sister? One little minute for your little
sister?

BRODIE. Minutes are precious, Mary. I have to work for all of us, and
the clock is always busy. They are waiting for me even now. Help me
with the dad's chair. And then to bed, and dream happy things. And
to-morrow morning I will hear your news--your good news; it must be
good, you look so proud and glad. But to-night it cannot be.

MARY. I hate your business--I hate all business. To think of chairs, and
tables, and foot-rules, all dead and wooden--and cold pieces of money
with the King's ugly head on them; and here is your sister, your pretty
sister, if you please, with something to tell, which she would not tell
you for the world, and would give the world to have you guess, and you
won't?--Not you! For business! Fie, Deacon Brodie! But I'm too happy to
find fault with you!

BRODIE. "And me a Deacon," as the Procurator would say.

MARY. No such thing, sir! I am not a bit afraid of you--nor a bit angry
neither. Give me a kiss, and promise me hours and hours to-morrow
morning?

BRODIE. All day long to-morrow, if you like.

MARY. Business or none?

BRODIE. Business or none, little sister! I'll make time, I promise you;
and there's another kiss for surety. Come along. (_They proceed to push
out the chair, L.C._) The wine and wisdom of this evening have given me
one of my headaches, and I'm in haste for bed. You'll be good, won't
you, and see they make no noise, and let me sleep my fill to-morrow
morning till I wake?

MARY. Poor Will! How selfish I must have seemed! You should have told me
sooner, and I wouldn't have worried you. Come along. (_She goes out,
pushing chair._)


  SCENE IX

  BRODIE

  (_He closes, locks, and double-bolts the doors_)

BRODIE. Now for one of the Deacon's headaches! Rogues all, rogues all!
(_Goes to clothes-press and proceeds to change his coat._) On with the
new coat and into the new life! Down with the Deacon and up with the
robber! (_Changing neck-band and ruffles._) Eh God! how still the house
is! There's something in hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we
seem, what would the world be? (The city has its vizard on, and we--at
night we are our naked selves. Trysts are keeping, bottles cracking,
knives are stripping; and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the man of
men he is!)--How still it is!... My father and Mary--Well! the day for
them, the night for me; the grimy cynical night that makes all cats
grey, and all honesties of one complexion. Shall a man not have _half_ a
life of his own?--not eight hours out of twenty-four? (Eight shall he
have should he dare the pit of Tophet.) (_Takes out money._) Where's the
blunt? I must be cool to-night, or ... steady, Deacon, you must win;
damn you, you must! You must win back the dowry that you've stolen, and
marry your sister, and pay your debts, and gull the world a little
longer! (_As he blows out the lights._) The Deacon's going to bed--the
poor sick Deacon! _Allons!_ (_Throws up the window and looks out._) Only
the stars to see me! (_Addressing the bed._) Lie there, Deacon! sleep
and be well to-morrow. As for me, I'm a man once more till morning.
(_Gets out of the window._)


  TABLEAU II

  HUNT THE RUNNER

  _The Scene represents the Procurator's Office_


  SCENE I

  LAWSON, HUNT

LAWSON (_entering_). Step your way in, Officer. (_At wing._) Mr.
Carfrae, give a chair to yon decent wife that cam' in wi' me. Nae news?

A VOICE WITHOUT. Naething, sir.

LAWSON (_sitting_). Weel, Officer, and what can I do for you?

HUNT. Well, sir, as I was saying, I've an English warrant for the
apprehension of one Jemmy Rivers, _alias_ Captain Starlight, now at
large within your jurisdiction.

LAWSON. That'll be the highwayman?

HUNT. That same, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. The Captain's given me a hard
hunt of it this time. I dropped on his marks at Huntingdon, but he was
away North, and I had to up and after him. I heard of him all along the
York road, for he's a light hand on the pad, has Jemmy, and leaves his
mark. I missed him at York by four-and-twenty hours, and lost him for as
much more. Then I picked him up again at Carlisle, and we made a race of
it for the Border; but he'd a better nag, and was best up in the road;
so I had to wait till I ran him to earth in Edinburgh here and could get
a new warrant. So here I am, sir. They told me you were an active sort
of gentleman, and I'm an active man myself. And Sir John Fielding, Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal, he's an active gentleman likewise, though he's blind
as a _h_image, and he desired his compliments to you (sir, and said
that between us he thought we'd do the trick).

LAWSON. Ay, he'll be a fine man, Sir John. Hand me owre your papers,
Hunt, and you'll have your new warrant _quam primum_. And see here,
Hunt, ye'll aiblins have a while to yoursel', and an active man, as ye
say ye are, should aye be grinding grist. We're sair forfeuchen wi' our
burglaries. _Non constat de personâ._ We canna get a grip o' the
delinquents. Here is the _Hue and Cry_. Ye see there is a guid two
hundred pounds for ye.

HUNT. Well, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal (I ain't a rich man, and two hundred's
two hundred. Thereby, sir), I don't mind telling you I've had a bit of a
worry at it already. You see, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I had to look into
a ken to-night about the Captain, and an old cock always likes to be
sure of his walk; so I got one of your Scots officers--him as was so
polite as to show me round to Mr. Brodie's--to give me full particulars
about the 'ouse, and the flash companions that use it. In his list I
drop on the names of two old lambs of my own; and I put it to you, Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal, as a gentleman as knows the world, if what's a black
sheep in London is likely or not to be keeping school in Edinburgh?

LAWSON. _Coelum non animum._ A just observe.

HUNT. I'll give it a thought, sir, and see if I can't kill two birds
with one stone. Talking of which, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I'd like to
have a bit of a confab with that nice young woman as came to pay her
rent.

LAWSON. Hunt, that's a very decent woman.

HUNT. And a very decent woman may have mighty queer pals, Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal. Lord love you, sir, I don't know what the profession
would do without 'em!

LAWSON. Ye're vera richt, Hunt. An active and a watchful officer, I'll
send her in till ye.


  SCENE II

HUNT (_solus_). Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One burglary
after another, and these Scots blockheads without a man to show for it.
Jock runs east, and Sawney cuts west; everything's at a deadlock and
they go on calling themselves thief-catchers! (By Jingo, I'll show them
how we do it down South! Well, I've worn out a good deal of
saddle-leather over Jemmy Rivers; but here's for new breeches if you
like.) Let's have another queer at the list. (_Reads._) "Humphrey Moore,
otherwise Badger; aged forty, thick-set, dark, close-cropped; has been a
prize-fighter; no apparent occupation." Badger's an old friend of mine.
"George Smith, otherwise the Dook, otherwise Jingling Geordie;
red-haired and curly, slight, flash; an old thimble-rig; has been a
stroller; suspected of smuggling; an associate of loose women." G. S.,
Esquire, is another of my flock. "Andrew Ainslie, otherwise Slink
Ainslie; aged thirty-five; thin, white-faced, lank-haired; no
occupation; has been in trouble for reset of theft and subornation of
youth; might be useful as King's evidence." That's an acquaintance to
make. "Jock Hamilton otherwise Sweepie," and so on. ("Willie M'Glashan,"
hum--yes, and so on, and so on.) Ha! here's the man I want. "William
Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights, about thirty; tall, slim, dark; wears his
own hair; is often at Clarke's, but seemingly for purposes of amusement
only; (is nephew to the Procurator-Fiscal; is commercially sound, but
has of late (it is supposed) been short of cash; has lost much at
cock-fighting;) is proud, clever, of good repute, but is fond of
adventures and secrecy, and keeps low company." Now, here's what I ask
myself: here's this list of the family party that drop into Mother
Clarke's; it's been in the hands of these nincompoops for weeks, and
I'm the first to cry Queer Street! Two well-known cracksmen, Badger and
the Dook! why, there's Jack in the Orchard at once. This here topsawyer
work they talk about, of course that's a chalk above Badger and the
Dook. But how about our Mohock-tradesman? "Purposes of amusement!" What
next? Deacon of the Wrights? and Wright in their damned lingo means a
kind of carpenter, I fancy? Why, damme, it's the man's trade! I'll look
you up, Mr. William Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights. As sure as my name's
Jerry Hunt, I wouldn't take one-ninety-nine in gold for my chance of
that 'ere two hundred!


  SCENE III

  _HUNT; to him, JEAN_

HUNT. Well, my dear, and how about your gentleman friend now? How about
Deacon Brodie?

JEAN. I dinna ken your name, sir, nor yet whae ye are; but this is a
very poor employ for ony gentleman--it sets ill wi' ony gentleman to
cast my shame in my teeth.

HUNT. Lord love you, my dear, that ain't my line of country. Suppose
you're not married and churched a hundred thousand times, what odds to
Jerry Hunt? Jerry, my Pamela Prue, is a cove as might be your parent; a
cove renowned for the ladies' friend (and he's dead certain to be on
your side). What I can't get over is this: here's this Mr. Deacon Brodie
doing the genteel at home, and leaving a nice young 'oman like you--as a
cove may say--to take it out on cold potatoes. That's what I can't get
over, Mrs. Watt. I'm a family man myself; and I can't get over it.

JEAN. And whae said that to ye? They lee'd whatever. I get naething but
guid by him; and I had nae richt to gang to his house; and O, I just ken
I've been the ruin of him!

HUNT. Don't you take on, Mrs. Watt. Why, now I hear you piping up for
him, I begin to think a lot of him myself. I like a cove to be
open-handed and free.

JEAN. Weel, sir, and he's a' that.

HUNT. Well, that shows what a wicked world this is. Why, they told
me----. Well, well, "here's the open 'and and the 'appy 'art." And how
much, my dear--speaking as a family man--now, how much might your
gentleman friend stand you in the course of a year?

JEAN. What's your wull?

HUNT. That's a mighty fancy shawl, Mrs. Watt. (I should like to take its
next-door neighbour to Mrs. Hunt in King Street, Common Garden.) What's
about the figure?

JEAN. It's paid for. Ye can sweir to that.

HUNT. Yes, my dear, and so is King George's crown; but I don't know what
it cost, and I don't know where the blunt came from to pay for it.

JEAN. I'm thinking ye'll be a vera clever gentleman.

HUNT. So I am, my dear; and I like you none the worse for being artful
yourself. But between friends now, and speaking as a family man----

JEAN. I'll be wishin' ye a fine nicht. (_Curtsies and goes out._)


  SCENE IV

  HUNT (_solus_)

HUNT. Ah! that's it, is it? "My fancy man's my 'ole delight," as we say
in Bow Street. But which _is_ the fancy man? George the Dook, or William
the Deacon? One or both? (_He winks solemnly._) Well, Jerry, my boy,
here's your work cut out for you; but if you took one-nine-five for that
ere little two hundred you'd be a disgrace to the profession.


  TABLEAU III

  MOTHER CLARKE'S

  _The Stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance: settles,
  spittoons, etc.; sanded floor. A large table at back, where AINSLIE,
  HAMILTON, and others are playing cards and quarrelling. In front, L.
  and R., smaller tables, at one of which are BRODIE and MOORE,
  drinking. MRS. CLARKE and women serving._


  SCENE I

MOORE. You've got the devil's own luck, Deacon, that's what you've got.

BRODIE. Luck! Don't talk of luck to a man like me! Why not say I've the
devil's own judgment? Men of my stamp don't risk--they plan, Badger;
they plan, and leave chance to such cattle as you (and Jingling Geordie.
They make opportunities before they take them).

MOORE. You're artful, ain't you?

BRODIE. Should I be here else? When I leave my house I leave an _alibi_
behind me. I'm ill--ill with a jumping headache, and the fiend's own
temper. I'm sick in bed this minute, and they're all going about with
the fear of death on them lest they should disturb the poor sick Deacon.
(My bedroom door is barred and bolted like the bank--you remember!--and
all the while the window's open, and the Deacon's over the hills and far
away. What do you think of me?)

MOORE. I've seen your sort before, I have.

BRODIE. Not you. As for Leslie's----

MOORE. That was a nick above you.

BRODIE. Ay was it. He wellnigh took me red-handed; and that was better
luck than I deserved. If I'd not been drunk and in my tantrums, you'd
never have got my hand within a thousand years of such a job.

MOORE. Why not? You're the King of the Cracksmen, ain't you?

BRODIE. Why not! He asks me why not! Gods what a brain it is! Hark ye,
Badger, it's all very well to be King of the Cracksmen, as you call it;
but however respectable he may have the misfortune to be, one's friend
is one's friend, and as such must be severely let alone. What! shall
there be no more honour among thieves than there is honesty among
politicians? Why, man, if under heaven there were but one poor lock
unpicked, and that the lock of one whose claret you've drunk, and who
has babbled of woman across your own mahogany--that lock, sir, were
entirely sacred. Sacred as the Kirk of Scotland; sacred as King George
upon his throne; sacred as the memory of Bruce and Bannockburn.

MOORE. O, rot! I ain't a parson, I ain't; I never had no college
education. Business is business. That's wot's the matter with me.

BRODIE. Ay, so we said when you lost that fight with Newcastle Jemmy,
and sent us home all poor men. That was a nick above _you_.

MOORE. Newcastle Jemmy! Muck: that's my opinion of him: muck. I'll mop
the floor up with him any day, if so be as you or any on 'em 'll make it
worth my while. If not, muck! That's my motto. Wot I now ses is, about
that 'ere crib at Leslie's, wos I right, I ses? or wos I wrong? That's
wot's the matter with you.

BRODIE. You are both right and wrong. You dared me to do it. I was
drunk; I was upon my mettle; and I as good as did it. More than that,
blackguardly as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is my friend. He had
dined with me that day, and I felt like a man in a story. I climbed his
wall, I crawled along his pantry roof, I mounted his window-sill. That
one turn of my wrist--you know it!--and the casement was open. It was as
dark as the pit, and I thought I'd won my wager, when, phewt! down went
something inside, and down went somebody with it. I made one leap, and
was off like a rocket. It was my poor friend in person; and if he'd
caught and passed me on to the watchman under the window, I should have
felt no viler rogue than I feel just now.

MOORE. I s'pose he knows you pretty well by this time?

BRODIE. 'Tis the worst of friendship. Here, Kirsty, fill these glasses.
Moore, here's better luck--and a more honourable plant!--next time.

MOORE. Deacon, I looks towards you. But it looks thundering like rotten
eggs, don't it?

BRODIE. I think not. I was masked, for one thing, and for another I was
as quick as lightning. He suspects me so little that he dined with me
this very afternoon.

MOORE. Anyway, you ain't game to try it on again, I'll lay odds on that.
Once bit, twice shy. That's your motto.

BRODIE. Right again. I'll put my _alibi_ to a better use. And, Badger,
one word in your ear: there's no Newcastle Jemmy about _me_. Drop the
subject, and for good, or I shall drop you. (_He rises, and walks
backwards and forwards, a little unsteadily; then returns, and sits, L.,
as before._)


  SCENE II

  _To these, HUNT, disguised_

_He is disguised as a "flying stationer" with a patch over his eye. He
sits at table opposite BRODIE'S, and is served with bread and cheese and
beer._

HAMILTON (_from behind_). The deevil tak' the cairts!

AINSLIE. Hoot, man, dinna blame the cairts.

MOORE. Look here, Deacon, I mean business, I do. (_HUNT looks up at the
name of "Deacon."_)

BRODIE. Gad, Badger, I never meet you that you do not. (You have a set
of the most commercial intentions!) You make me blush.

MOORE. That's all blazing fine, that is! But wot I ses is, wot about the
chips? That's what I ses. I'm after that thundering old Excise Office, I
am. That's my motto.

BRODIE. 'Tis a very good motto, and at your lips, Badger, it kind of
warms my heart. But it's not mine.

MOORE. Muck! why not?

BRODIE. 'Tis too big and too dangerous. I shirk King George; he has a
fat pocket, but he has a long arm. (You pilfer sixpence from him, and
it's three hundred reward for you, and a hue and cry from Tophet to the
stars.) It ceases to be business; it turns politics, and I'm not a
politician, Mr. Moore. (_Rising._) I'm only Deacon Brodie.

MOORE. All right. I can wait.

BRODIE (_seeing HUNT_). Ha, a new face--and with a patch! (There's
nothing under heaven I like so dearly as a new face with a patch.) Who
the devil, sir, are you that own it? And where did you get it? And how
much will you take for it second-hand?

HUNT. Well, sir, to tell you the truth--(_BRODIE bows_)--it's not for
sale. But it's my own, and I'll drink your honour's health in anything.

BRODIE. An Englishman, too! Badger, behold a countryman. What are you,
and what part of southern Scotland do you come from?

HUNT. Well, your honour, to tell you the honest truth----

BRODIE (_bowing_). Your obleeged!

HUNT. I knows a gentleman when I sees him, your honour (and, to tell
your honour the truth----

BRODIE. _Je vous baise les mains!_ [_Bowing._])

HUNT. A gentleman is a gentleman, your honour (is always a gentleman,
and to tell you the honest truth)--

BRODIE. Great heavens! answer in three words, and be hanged to you! What
are you, and where are you from?

HUNT. A patter-cove from Seven Dials.

BRODIE. Is it possible? All my life long have I been pining to meet with
a patter-cove from Seven Dials! Embrace me, at a distance. (A
patter-cove from Seven Dials!) Go, fill yourself as drunk as you dare,
at my expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. Clarke. He's a patter-cove from
Seven Dials. Hillo! what's all this?

AINSLIE. Dod, I'm for nae mair! (_At back, and rising._)

PLAYERS. Sit down, Ainslie.--Sit down, Andra.--Ma revenge!

AINSLIE. Na, na, I'm for canny goin'. (_Coming forward with bottle._)
Deacon, let's see your gless.

BRODIE. Not an inch of it.

MOORE. No rotten shirking, Deacon!

(AINSLIE. I'm sayin', man, let's see your gless.

BRODIE. Go to the deuce!)

AINSLIE. But I'm sayin'----

BRODIE. Haven't I to play to-night?

AINSLIE. But, man, ye'll drink to bonnie Jean Watt?

BRODIE. Ay, I'll follow you there. _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!


  SCENE III

  _To these, SMITH, RIVERS_

SMITH. Where's my beloved? Deakin, my beauty, where are you? Come to the
arms of George, and let him introduce you. Capting Starlight Rivers!
Capting, the Deakin: Deakin, the Capting. An English nobleman on the
grand tour, to open his mind, by the Lard!

RIVERS. Stupendiously pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deaking,
split me!

BRODIE. We don't often see England's heroes our way, Captain, but when
we do, we make them infernally welcome.

RIVERS. Prettily put, sink me! (A demned genteel sentiment, stap my
vitals!)

BRODIE. O Captain! you flatter me. (We Scotsmen have our qualities, I
suppose, but we are but rough and ready at the best. There's nothing
like your Englishman for genuine distinction. He is nearer France than
we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. That d----d thing, the _je ne
sais quoi_, too! Lard, Lard, split me! stap my vitals! O such manners
are pure, pure, pure. They are, by the shade of Claude Duval!)

RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin (this is passatively too much). What will
you sip? Give it the _h_anar of a neam.

BRODIE. By these most _h_anarable hands now, Captain, you shall not. On
such an occasion I could play host with Lucifer himself. Here, Clarke,
Mother Midnight! Down with you, Captain (_forcing him boisterously into
a chair_). I don't know if you can lie, but, sink me! you shall sit.
(_Drinking, etc., in dumb-show._)

MOORE (_aside to SMITH_). We've nobbled him, Geordie!

SMITH (_aside to MOORE_). As neat as ninepence! He's taking it down like
mother's milk. But there'll be wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger!
It'll be twopence and toddle with George Smith.

MOORE. O, muck! Who's afraid of him? (_To AINSLIE._) Hang on, Slinkie.

HUNT (_who is feigning drunkenness, and has overheard; aside_). By
Jingo!

RIVERS. Will you sneeze, Mr. Deakin, sir?

BRODIE. Thanks; I have all the vices, Captain. You must send me some of
your rappee. It is passatively perfect.

RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, I do myself the _h_anar of a sip to you.

BRODIE. Topsy-turvy with the can!

MOORE (_aside to SMITH_). That made him wink.

BRODIE. Your high and mighty hand, my Captain! Shall we
dice--dice--dice? (_Dumb-show between them._)

AINSLIE (_aside to MOORE_). I'm sayin'----?

MOORE. What's up now?

AINSLIE. I'm no' to gie him the coggit dice?

MOORE. The square ones, rot you! Ain't he got to lose every brass
farden?

AINSLIE. What'll like be my share?

MOORE. You mucking well leave that to me.

RIVERS. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will have me shake a
_h_elbow----

BRODIE. Where are the bones, Ainslie? Where are the dice, Lord George?
(_AINSLIE gives the dice and dice-box to BRODIE; and privately a second
pair of dice._) Old Fortune's counters; the bonnie money-catching,
money-breeding bones! Hark to their dry music! Scotland against
England! Sit round, you tame devils, and put your coins on me!

SMITH. Easy does it, my lord of high degree! Keep cool.

BRODIE. Cool's the word, Captain--a cool twenty on the first?

RIVERS. Done and done. (_They play._)

HUNT (_aside to MOORE, a little drunk_). Ain't that 'ere Scots
gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir?

MOORE. You hold your jaw; that's what's the matter with you.

AINSLIE. He's waur nor he looks. He's knockit the box aff the table.

SMITH (_picking up box_). That's the way _we_ does it. Ten to one and no
takers!

BRODIE. Deuces again! More liquor, Mother Clarke!

SMITH. Hooray, our side! (_Pouring out._) George and his pal for ever!

BRODIE. Deuces again, by heaven! Another?

RIVERS. Done!

BRODIE. Ten more; money's made to go. On with you!

RIVERS. Sixes.

BRODIE. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment! Double or quits?

RIVERS. Drive on! Sixes.

SMITH. Fire away, brave boys. (_To MOORE._) It's Tally-ho-the-Grinder,
Hump!

BRODIE. Treys! Death and the pit! How much have you got there?

RIVERS. A cool forty-five.

BRODIE. I play you thrice the lot.

RIVERS. Who's afraid?

SMITH. Stand by, Badger!

RIVERS. Cinq-ace.

BRODIE. My turn now. (_He juggles in and uses the second pair of dice._)
Aces! Aces again! What's this? (_Picking up dice._) Sold!... You play
false, you hound!

RIVERS. You lie!

BRODIE. In your teeth. (_Overturns table, and goes for him._)

MOORE. Here, none o' that. (_They hold him back. Struggle._)

SMITH. Hold on, Deacon!

BRODIE. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I'll not touch him. (_Stands
weighing dice in his hand._) But as for that thieving whinger, Ainslie,
I'll cut his throat between this dark and to-morrow's. To the bone.
(_Addressing the company._) Rogues, rogues, rogues! (_Singing without._)
Ha! what's that?

AINSLIE. It's the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver's. And, O
Deacon, if ye're a Christian man----

  THE PSALM WITHOUT:--

  "Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord,
    Should'st mark iniquity?
  But yet with Thee forgiveness is,
    That fear'd Thou mayest be."

BRODIE. I think I'll go. "My son the Deacon was aye regular at kirk." If
the old man could see his son, the Deacon! I think I'll----. Ay, who
_shall_ stand? There's the rub! And forgiveness, too? There's a long
word for you! I learnt it all lang syne, and now ... hell and ruin are
on either hand of me, and the devil has me by the leg. "My son, the
Deacon...!" Eh, God! but there's no fool like an old fool! (_Becoming
conscious of the others._) Rogues!

SMITH. Take my arm, Deacon.

BRODIE. Down, dog, down! (Stay and be drunk with your equals.) Gentlemen
and ladies, I have already cursed you pretty heavily. Let me do myself
the pleasure of wishing you--a very--good evening. (_As he goes out,
HUNT, who has been staggering about in the crowd, falls on a settle, as
about to sleep._)

  END OF THE FIRST ACT




  ACT II

  TABLEAU IV

  EVIL AND GOOD


  _The Stage represents the Deacon's workshop; benches, shavings, tools,
  boards, and so forth. Doors, C., on the street, and L., into the
  house. Without, church bells; not a chime, but a slow, broken tocsin._


  SCENE I

BRODIE (_solus_). My head! my head! It's the sickness of the grave. And
those bells go on!... go on ... inexorable as death and judgment. (There
they go; the trumpets of respectability, sounding encouragement to the
world to do and spare not, and not to be found out. Found out! And to
those who are they toll as when a man goes to the gallows.) Turn where I
will are pitfalls hell-deep. Mary and her dowry; Jean and her child--my
child; the dirty scoundrel Moore; my uncle and his trust; perhaps the
man from Bow Street. Debt, vice, cruelty, dishonour, crime; the whole
canting, lying, double-dealing, beastly business! "My son the
Deacon--Deacon of the Wrights!" My thoughts sicken at it. (O, the
Deacon, the Deacon! Where's a hat for the Deacon, where's a hat for the
Deacon's headache? (_Searching._) This place is a piggery. To be
respectable and not to find one's hat.)


  SCENE II

  _To him, JEAN, a baby in her shawl, C._

JEAN (_who has entered silently during the Deacon's last words_). It's
me, Wullie.

BRODIE (_turning upon her_). What! You here again? (you again!)

JEAN. Deacon, I'm unco vexed.

BRODIE. Do you know what you do? Do you know what you risk? (Is there
nothing--nothing!--will make you spare me this idiotic, wanton
persecution?)

JEAN. I was wrong to come yestreen; I ken that fine. But the day it's
different; I but to come the day, Deacon, though I ken fine it's the
Sabbath, and I think shame to be seen upon the streets.

BRODIE. See here, Jean. You must go now. I'll come to you to-night; I
swear that. But now I'm for the road.

JEAN. No' till you've heard me, William Brodie. Do ye think I came to
pleasure mysel', where I'm no' wanted? I've a pride o' my ain.

BRODIE. Jean, I am going now. If you please to stay on alone, in this
house of mine, where I wish I could say you are welcome, stay.
(_Going._)

JEAN. It's the man frae Bow Street.

BRODIE. Bow Street?

JEAN. I thocht ye would hear me. Ye think little o' me; but it's mebbe a
braw thing for you that I think sae muckle o' William Brodie ... ill as
it sets me.

BRODIE. (You don't know what is on my mind, Jennie, else you would
forgive me.) Bow Street?

JEAN. It's the man Hunt: him that was here yestreen for the Fiscal.

BRODIE. Hunt?

JEAN. He kens a hantle. He.... Ye maunna be angered wi' me, Wullie! I
said what I shouldna.

BRODIE. Said? Said what?

JEAN. Just that ye were a guid frien' to me. He made believe he was
awfu' sorry for me, because ye gied me nae siller; and I said, "Wha
tellt him that?" and that he lee'd.

BRODIE. God knows he did! What next?

JEAN. He was that soft-spoken, butter wouldna melt in his mouth; and he
keept aye harp, harpin'; but after that let-out, he got neither black
nor white frae me. Just that ae word and nae mair; and at the hinder end
he just speired straucht out, whaur it was ye got your siller frae.

BRODIE. Where I got my siller?

JEAN. Ay, that was it. "You ken," says he.

BRODIE. Did he? and what said you?

JEAN. I couldna think on naething, but just that he was a gey and clever
gentleman.

BRODIE. You should have said I was in trade, and had a good business.
That's what you should have said. That's what you would have said had
you been worth your salt. But it's blunder, blunder, outside and in
(upstairs, down-stairs, and in my lady's chamber). You women! Did he see
Smith?

JEAN. Ay, and kennt him.

BRODIE. Damnation!----No, I'm not angry with you, but you see what I've
to endure for you. Don't cry. (Here's the devil at the door, and we must
bar him out as best we can.)

JEAN. God's truth, ye are nae vexed wi' me?

BRODIE. God's truth, I am grateful to you. How is the child? Well?
That's right. (_Peeping._) Poor wee laddie! He's like you, Jean.

JEAN. I thocht he was liker you.

BRODIE. Is he? Perhaps he is. Ah, Jeannie, you must see and make him a
better man than his father.

JEAN. Eh man, Deacon, the proud wumman I'll be gin he's only half sae
guid.

BRODIE. Well, well, if I win through this, we'll see what we can dae for
him between us. (_Leading her out, C._) And now; go--go--go.

LAWSON (_without L._). I ken the way, I ken the way.

JEAN (_starting to door_). It's the Fiscal; I'm awa. (BRODIE, L.)


  SCENE III

  _To these, LAWSON, L._

LAWSON. A braw day this, William. (_Seeing JEAN._) Eh. Mistress Watt?
And what'll have brocht you here?

BRODIE (_seated on bench_). Something, uncle, she lost last night, and
she thinks that something she lost is here. _Voilà._

LAWSON. Why are ye no' at the kirk, woman? Do ye gang to the kirk?

JEAN. I'm mebbe no' what ye would just ca' reg'lar. Ye see, Fiscal, it's
the wean.

LAWSON. A bairn's an excuse; I ken that fine, Mistress Watt. But bairn
or nane, my woman, ye should be at the kirk. Awa' wi' ye! Hear to the
bells; they're ringing in. (_JEAN curtsies to both, and goes out C. The
bells, which have been ringing quicker, cease._)


  SCENE IV

LAWSON (_to BRODIE, returning C. from door_). _Mulier formosa superne_,
William: a braw lass and a decent woman forbye.

BRODIE. I'm no judge, Procurator, but I'll take your word for it. Is she
not a tenant of yours?

LAWSON. Ay, ay; a bit house on my land in Libberton's Wynd. Her man's
awa, puir body; or they tell me sae; and I'm concerned for her (she's
unco bonnie to be left her lane). But it sets me brawly to be finding
faut wi' the puir lass, and me an elder, and should be at the plate.
(There'll be twa words about this in the Kirk Session.) However, it's
nane of my business that brings me, or I should tak' the mair shame to
mysel.' Na, sir, it's for you; it's your business keeps me frae the
kirk.

BRODIE. My business, Procurator? I rejoice to see it in such excellent
hands.

LAWSON. Ye see, it's this way. I had a crack wi' the laddie Leslie,
_inter pocula_ (he took a stirrup-cup wi' me), and he tells me he has
askit Mary, and she was to speak to ye hersel'. O, ye needna look sae
gash. Did she speak? and what'll you have said to her?

BRODIE. She has not spoken; I have said nothing; and I believe I asked
you to avoid the subject.

LAWSON. Ay, I made a note o' that observation, William (and assoilzied
mysel'). Mary's a guid lass, and I'm her uncle, and I'm here to be
answered. Is it to be ay or no?

BRODIE. It's to be no. This marriage must be quashed; and hark ye,
Procurator, you must help me.

LAWSON. Me? ye're daft! And what for why?

BRODIE. Because I've spent the trust-money, and I can't refund it.

LAWSON. Ye reprobate deevil!

BRODIE. Have a care, Procurator. No wry words!

LAWSON. Do you say it to my face, sir? Dod, sir, I'm the Crown
Prosecutor.

BRODIE. Right. The Prosecutor for the Crown. And where did you get your
brandy?

LAWSON. Eh?

BRODIE. Your brandy! Your brandy, man! Where do you get your brandy? And
you a Crown official and an elder!

LAWSON. Whaur the deevil did ye hear that?

BRODIE. Rogues all! Rogues all, Procurator!

LAWSON. Ay, ay. Lord save us! Guidsake, to think o' that noo!... Can ye
give me some o' that Cognac? I'm ... I'm sort o' shaken, William, I'm
sort o' shaken. Thank you, William! (_Looking piteously at glass._)
_Nunc est bibendum._ (_Drinks._) Troth, I'm set ajee a bit. Wha the
deevil tauld ye?

BRODIE. Ask no questions, brother. We are a pair.

LAWSON. Pair, indeed! Pair, William Brodie! Upon my saul, sir, ye're a
brazen-faced man that durst say it to my face! Tak' you care, my bonnie
young man, that your craig doesna feel the wecht o' your hurdies. Keep
the plainstanes side o' the gallows. _Via trita, via tuta_, William
Brodie!

BRODIE. And the brandy, Procurator? and the brandy?

LAWSON. Ay ... weel ... be't sae! Let the brandy bide, man, let the
brandy bide! But for you and the trust-money ... damned! It's felony.
_Tutor in rem suam_, ye ken, _tutor in rem suam_. But O man, Deacon,
whaur is the siller?

BRODIE. It's gone--O how the devil should I know? But it'll never come
back.

LAWSON. Dear, dear! A' gone to the winds o' heaven! Sae ye're an
extravagant dog, too. _Prodigus et furiosus!_ And that puir lass--eh,
Deacon, man, that puir lass! I mind her such a bonnie bairn.

BRODIE (_stopping his ears_). Brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy!

LAWSON. William Brodie, mony's the long day that I've believed in you;
prood, prood was I to be the Deacon's uncle; and a sore hearing have I
had of it the day. That's past; that's past like Flodden Field; it's an
auld sang noo, and I'm an aulder man than when I crossed your door. But
mark ye this--mark ye this, William Brodie, I may be no' sae guid's I
should be; but there's no' a saul between the east sea and the wast can
lift his een to God that made him, and say I wranged him as ye wrang
that lassie. I bless God, William Brodie--ay, though he was like my
brother--I bless God that he that got ye has the hand of death upon his
hearing, and can win into his grave a happier man than me. And ye speak
to me, sir? Think shame--think shame upon your heart!

BRODIE. Rogues all!

LAWSON. You're the son of my sister, William Brodie. Mair than that I
stop not to inquire. If the siller is spent, and the honour tint--Lord
help us, and the honour tint!--sae be it, I maun bow the head. Ruin
shallna come by me. Na, and I'll say mair, William; we have a' our weary
sins upon our backs, and maybe I have mair than mony. But, man, if ye
could bring _half_ the jointure ... (_potius quam pereas_) ... for your
mither's son? Na? You couldna bring the half? Weel, weel, it's a sair
heart I have this day, a sair heart and a weary. If I were a better man
mysel' ... but there, there, it's a sair heart that I have gotten. And
the Lord kens I'll help ye if I can. (_Potius quam pereas._) (_He goes
out._)


  SCENE V

BRODIE. Sore hearing, does he say? My hand's wet. But it's victory.
Shall it be go? or stay? (I should show them all I can, or they may pry
closer than they ought.) Shall I have it out and be done with it? To see
Mary at once (to carry bastion after bastion at the charge)--there were
the true safety after all! Hurry--hurry's the road to silence now. Let
them once get tattling in their parlours, and it's death to me. For I'm
in a cruel corner now. I'm down, and I shall get my kicking soon and
soon enough. I began it in the lust of life, in a hey-day of mystery and
adventure. I felt it great to be a bolder, craftier rogue than the
drowsy citizen that called himself my fellow-man. (It was meat and
drink to know him in the hollow of my hand, hoarding that I and mine
might squander, pinching that we might wax fat.) It was in the laughter
of my heart that I tip-toed into his greasy privacy. I forced the
strong-box at his ear while he sprawled beside his wife. He was my butt,
my ape, my jumping-jack. And now ... O fool, fool! (Duped by such knaves
as are a shame to knavery, crime's rabble, hell's tatterdemalions!)
Shorn to the quick! Rooked to my vitals! And I must thieve for my daily
bread like any crawling blackguard in the gutter. And my sister ... my
kind, innocent sister! She will come smiling to me with her poor little
love-story, and I must break her heart. Broken hearts, broken lives!...
I should have died before.


  SCENE VI

  BRODIE, MARY

MARY (_tapping without_). Can I come in, Will?

BRODIE. O yes, come in, come in! (_MARY enters._) I wanted to be quiet,
but it doesn't matter, I see. You women are all the same.

MARY. O no, Will, they're not all so happy, and they're not all Brodies.
But I'll be a woman in one thing. For I've come to claim your promise,
dear; and I'm going to be petted and comforted and made much of,
although I don't need it, and.... Why, Will, what's wrong with you? You
look ... I don't know what you look like.

BRODIE. O nothing! A splitting head and an aching heart. Well! you've
come to speak to me. Speak up. What is it? Come, girl! What is it? Can't
you speak?

MARY. Why, Will, what is the matter?

BRODIE. I thought you had come to tell me something. Here I am. For
God's sake out with it, and don't stand beating about the bush.

MARY. O be kind, be kind to me.

BRODIE. Kind? I am kind. I'm only ill and worried, can't you see?
Whimpering? I knew it! Sit down, you goose! Where do you women get your
tears?

MARY. Why are you so cross with me? O, Will, you have forgot your
sister! Remember, dear, that I have nobody but you. It's your own fault,
Will, if you've taught me to come to you for kindness, for I always
found it. And I mean you shall be kind to me again. I know you will, for
this is my great need, and the day I've missed my mother sorest. Just a
nice look, dear, and a soft tone in your voice, to give me courage, for
I can tell you nothing till I know that you're my own brother once
again.

BRODIE. If you'd take a hint, you'd put it off until to-morrow. But I
suppose you won't. On, then, I'm listening. I'm listening!

MARY. Mr. Leslie has asked me to be his wife.

BRODIE. He has, has he?

MARY. And I have consented.

BRODIE. And...?

MARY. You can say that to me? And that is all you have to say?

BRODIE. O no, not all.

MARY. Speak out, sir. I am not afraid.

BRODIE. I suppose you want my consent?

MARY. Can you ask?

BRODIE. I didn't know. You seem to have got on pretty well without it so
far.

MARY. O shame on you! shame on you!

BRODIE. Perhaps you may be able to do without it altogether. I hope so.
For you'll never have it.... Mary! ... I hate to see you look like that.
If I could say anything else, believe me, I would say it. But I have
said all; every word is spoken; there's the end.

MARY. It shall not be the end. You owe me explanation; and I'll have it.

BRODIE. Isn't my "No" enough, Mary?

MARY. It might be enough for me; but it is not, and it cannot be, enough
for him. He has asked me to be his wife; he tells me his happiness is in
my hands--poor hands, but they shall not fail him, if my poor heart
should break! If he has chosen and set his hopes upon me, of all women
in the world, I shall find courage somewhere to be worthy of the choice.
And I dare you to leave this room until you tell me all your
thoughts--until you prove that this is good and right.

BRODIE. Good and right? They are strange words, Mary. I mind the time
when it was good and right to be your father's daughter and your
brother's sister.... Now!...

MARY. Have I changed? Not even in thought. My father, Walter says, shall
live and die with us. He shall only have gained another son. And
you--you know what he thinks of you; you know what I would do for you.

BRODIE. Give him up.

MARY. I have told you: not without a reason.

BRODIE. You must.

MARY. I will not.

BRODIE. What if I told you that you could only compass your happiness
and his at the price of my ruin?

MARY. Your ruin?

BRODIE. Even so.

MARY. Ruin!

BRODIE. It has an ugly sound, has it not?

MARY. O Willie, what have you done? What have you done? What have you
done?

BRODIE. I cannot tell you, Mary. But you may trust me. You must give up
this Leslie ... and at once. It is to save me.

MARY. I would die for you, dear; you know that. But I cannot be false to
him. Even for you, I cannot be false to him.

BRODIE. We shall see. Let me take you to your room. Come. And, remember,
it is for your brother's sake. It is to save me.

MARY. I am a true Brodie. Give me time, and you shall not find me
wanting. But it is all so sudden ... so strange and dreadful! You will
give me time, will you not? I am only a woman, and.... O my poor Walter!
It will break his heart! It will break his heart! (_A knock._)

BRODIE. You hear!

MARY. Yes, yes. Forgive me. I am going. I will go. It is to save you, is
it not? To save you. Walter ... Mr. Leslie ... O Deacon, Deacon, God
forgive you! (_She goes out._)

BRODIE. Amen. But will He?


  SCENE VII

  BRODIE, HUNT

HUNT (_hat in hand_). Mr. Deacon Brodie, I believe?

BRODIE. I am he, Mr----?

HUNT. Hunt, sir: an officer from Sir John Fielding of Bow Street.

BRODIE. There can be no better passport than the name. In what can I
serve you?

HUNT. You'll excuse me, Mr. Deacon.

BRODIE. Your duty excuses you, Mr. Hunt.

HUNT. Your obedient. The fact is, Mr. Deacon (we in the office see a
good deal of the lives of private parties; and I needn't tell a
gentleman of your experience it's part of our duty to hold our tongues.
Now), it comes to our knowledge that you are a trifle jokieous. Of
course I know there ain't any harm in that. I've been young myself, Mr.
Deacon, and speaking----

BRODIE. O, but pardon me, Mr. Hunt, I am not going to discuss my private
character with you.

HUNT. To be sure you ain't. (And do I blame you? Not me.) But, speaking
as one man of the world to another, you naturally see a great deal of
bad company.

BRODIE. Not half so much as you do. But I see what you're driving at;
and if I can illuminate the course of justice, you may command me. (_He
sits, and motions HUNT to do likewise._)

HUNT. I was dead sure of it: and 'and upon 'art, Mr. Deacon, I thank
you. Now--(_consulting pocket-book_)--did you ever meet a certain George
Smith?

BRODIE. The fellow they call Jingling Geordie? (_HUNT nods._) Yes.

HUNT. Bad character?

BRODIE. Let us say ... disreputable.

HUNT. Any means of livelihood?

BRODIE. I really cannot pretend to guess. I have met the creature at
cock-fights (which, as you know, are my weakness). Perhaps he bets.

HUNT. (Mr. Deacon, from what I know of the gentleman, I should say that
if he don't--if he ain't open to any mortal thing--he ain't the man I
mean.) He used to be about with a man called Badger Moore.

BRODIE. The boxer?

HUNT. That's him. Know anything of him?

BRODIE. Not much. I lost five pieces on him in a fight; and I fear he
sold his backers.

HUNT. Speaking as one admirer of the noble art to another, Mr. Deacon,
the losers always do. I suppose the Badger cock-fights like the rest of
us?

BRODIE. I have met him in the pit.

HUNT. Well, it's a pretty sport. I'm as partial to a main as anybody.

BRODIE. It's not an elegant taste, Mr. Hunt.

HUNT. It costs as much as though it was. And that reminds me, speaking
as one sportsman to another, Mr. Deacon, I was sorry to hear that you've
been dropping a hatful of money lately.

BRODIE. You are very good.

HUNT. Four hundred in three months, they tell me.

BRODIE. Ah!

HUNT. So they say, sir.

BRODIE. They have a perfect right to say so, Mr. Hunt.

HUNT. And you to do the other thing? Well, I'm a good hand at keeping
close myself.

BRODIE. I am not consulting you, Mr. Hunt; 'tis you who are consulting
me. And if there is nothing else (_rising_) in which I can pretend to
serve you...?

HUNT (_rising_). That's about all, sir, unless you can put me on to
anything good in the way of heckle and spur? I'd try to look in.

BRODIE. O come, Mr. Hunt, if you have nothing to do, frankly and flatly
I have. This is not the day for such a conversation; and so good-bye to
you. (_A knocking, C._)

HUNT. Servant, Mr. Deacon. (_SMITH and MOORE, without waiting to be
answered, open and enter, C. They are well into the room before they
observe HUNT._) (Talk of the devil, sir!)

BRODIE. What brings you here? (_SMITH and MOORE, confounded by the
officer's presence, slouch together to right of door. HUNT, stopping as
he goes out, contemplates the pair, sarcastically. This is supported by
MOORE with sullen bravado; by SMITH with cringing airiness._)

HUNT (_digging SMITH in the ribs_). Why, you are the very parties I was
looking for! (_He goes out, C._)


  SCENE VIII

  BRODIE, MOORE, SMITH

MOORE. Wot was that cove here about?

BRODIE (_with folded arms, half-sitting on bench_). He was here about
you.

SMITH (_still quite discountenanced_). About us? Scissors! And what did
you tell him?

BRODIE (_same attitude_). I spoke of you as I have found you. (I told
him you were a disreputable hound, and that Moore had crossed a fight.)
I told him you were a drunken ass, and Moore an incompetent and
dishonest boxer.

MOORE. Look here, Deacon! Wot's up? Wot I ses is, if a cove's got any
thundering grudge agin a cove, why can't he spit it out, I ses.

BRODIE. Here are my answers. (_Producing purse and dice._) These are
both too light. This purse is empty, these dice are not loaded. Is it
indiscretion to inquire how you share? Equal with the Captain, I
presume?

SMITH. It's as easy as my eye, Deakin. Slink Ainslie got letting the
merry glass go round, and didn't know the right bones from the wrong.
That's _h_all.

BRODIE. (What clumsy liars you are!

SMITH. In boyhood's hour, Deakin, he were called Old Truthful. Little
did he think----)

BRODIE. What is your errand?

MOORE. Business.

SMITH. After the melancholy games of last night, Deakin, which no one
deplores so much as George Smith, we thought we'd trot round--didn't us,
Hump?--and see how you and your bankers was a-getting on.

BRODIE. Will you tell me your errand?

MOORE. You're dry, ain't you?

BRODIE. Am I?

MOORE. We ain't none of us got a stiver, that's wot's the matter with
us.

BRODIE. Is it?

MOORE. Ay, strike me, it is! And wot we've got to do is to put up the
Excise.

SMITH. It's the last plant in the shrubbery, Deakin, and it's breaking
George the gardener's heart, it is. We really must!

BRODIE. Must we?

MOORE. Must's the thundering word. I mean business, I do.

BRODIE. That's lucky. I don't.

MOORE. O, you don't, don't you?

BRODIE. I do not.

MOORE. Then p'raps you'll tell us wot you thundering well do?

BRODIE. What do I mean? I mean that you and that merry-andrew shall walk
out of this room and this house. Do you suppose, you blockheads, that I
am blind? I'm the Deacon, am I not? I've been your king and your
commander. I've led you and fed you and thought for you with this head.
And you think to steal a march upon a man like me? I see you through and
through (I know you like the clock); I read your thoughts like print.
Brodie, you thought, has money, and won't do the job. Therefore, you
thought, we must rook him to the heart. And therefore, you put up your
idiot cockney. And now you come round, and dictate, and think sure of
your Excise? Sure? Are you sure I'll let you pack with a whole skin? By
my soul, but I've a mind to pistol you like dogs. Out of this! Out, I
say, and soil my home no more.

MOORE (_sitting_). Now look 'ere. Mr. bloody Deacon Brodie, you see this
'ere chair of yours, don't you? Wot I ses to you is, Here I am, I ses,
and here I mean to stick. That's my motto. Who the devil are you to do
the high and mighty? You make all you can out of us, don't you? and
when one of your plants goes cross, you order us out of the ken? Muck!
That's wot I think of you. Muck! Don't you get coming the nob over me,
Mr. Deacon Brodie, or I'll smash you.

BRODIE. You will?

MOORE. Ay will I. If I thundering well swing for it. And as for clearing
out? Muck! Here I am, and here I stick. Clear out? You try it on. I'm a
man, I am.

BRODIE. This is plain speaking.

MOORE. Plain? Wot about your father as can't walk? Wot about your
fine-madam sister? Wot about the stone-jug, and the dock, and the rope
in the open street? Is that plain? If it ain't, you let me know, and
I'll spit it out so as it'll raise the roof of this 'ere ken. Plain! I'm
that cove's master, and I'll make it plain enough for him.

BRODIE. What do you want of me?

MOORE. Wot do I want of you? Now you speak sense. Leslie's is wot I want
of you. The Excise is wot I want of you. Leslie's to-night and the
Excise to-morrow. That's wot I want of you, and wot I thundering well
mean to get.

BRODIE. Damn you!

MOORE. Amen. But you've got your orders.

BRODIE (_with pistol_). Orders? hey? orders?

SMITH (_between them_). Deacon, Deacon!--Badger, are you mad?

MOORE. Muck! That's my motto. Wot I ses is, Has he got his orders or has
he not? That's wot's the matter with him.

SMITH. Deacon, half a tick. Humphrey, I'm only a light weight, and you
fight at twelve stone ten, but I'm damned if I'm going to stand still
and see you hitting a pal when he's down.

MOORE. Muck! That's wot I think of you.

SMITH. He's a cut above us, ain't he? He never sold his backers, did he?
We couldn't have done without him, could we? You dry up about his old
man, and his sister; and don't go on hitting a pal when he's knocked out
of time and cannot hit back, for, damme, I will not stand it.

MOORE. Amen to you. But I'm cock of this here thundering walk, and that
cove's got his orders.

BRODIE (_putting pistol on bench_). I give in. I will do your work for
you once more. Leslie's to-night and the Excise to-morrow. If that is
enough, if you have no more ... orders, you may count it as done.

MOORE. Fen larks. No rotten shirking, mind.

BRODIE. I have passed you my word. And now you have said what you came
to say, you must go. I have business here; but two hours hence I am at
your ... orders. Where shall I await you?

MOORE. What about that woman's place of yours?

BRODIE. Your will is my law.

MOORE. That's good enough. Now, Dook.

SMITH. Bye-bye, my William. Don't forget.


  SCENE IX

BRODIE. Trust me. No man forgets his vice, you dogs, or forgives it
either. It must be done: Leslie's to-night and the Excise to-morrow. It
shall be done. This settles it. They used to fetch and carry for me, and
now ... I've licked their boots, have I? I'm their man, their tool,
their chattel. It's the bottom rung of the ladder of shame. I sound with
my foot, and there's nothing underneath but the black emptiness of
damnation. Ah, Deacon, Deacon, and so this is where you've been
travelling all these years; and it's for this that you learned French!
The gallows ... God help me, it begins to dog me like my shadow.
_There's_ a step to take! And the jerk upon your spine! How's a man to
die with a night-cap on? I've done with this. Over yonder, across the
great ocean, is a new land, with new characters, and perhaps new lives.
The sun shines, and the bells ring, and it's a place where men live
gladly; and the Deacon himself can walk without terror, and begin again
like a new-born child. It must be good to see day again and not to fear;
it must be good to be one's self with all men. Happy like a child, wise
like a man, free like God's angels ... should I work these hands off and
eat crusts, there were a life to make me young and good again. And it's
only over the sea! O man, you have been blind, and now your eyes are
opened. It was half a life's nightmare, and now you are awake. Up,
Deacon, up, it's hope that's at the window! Mary! Mary! Mary!


  SCENE X

  BRODIE, MARY, OLD BRODIE

  _BRODIE has fallen into a chair, with his face upon the table. Enter
  MARY, by the side door, pushing her father's chair. She is supposed to
  have advanced far enough for stage purposes before BRODIE is aware of
  her. He starts up and runs to her._

BRODIE. Look up, my lass, look up, and be a woman! I.... O, kiss me,
Mary! give me a kiss for my good news.

MARY. Good news, Will? Is it changed?

BRODIE. Changed? Why, the world's a different colour! It was night, and
now it's broad day, and I trust myself again. You must wait, dear, wait,
and I must work and work; and before the week is out, as sure as God
sees me, I'll have made you happy. O you may think me broken, hounds,
but the Deacon's not the man to be run down; trust him, he shall turn a
corner yet, and leave you snarling! And you, Poll, you. I've done
nothing for you yet; but, please God, I'll make your life a life of
gold; and wherever I am, I'll have a part in your happiness, and you'll
know it, by heaven! and bless me.

MARY. O Willie, look at him; I think he hears you, and is trying to be
glad with us.

OLD BRODIE. My son--Deacon--better man than I was.

BRODIE. O, for God's sake, hear him!

MARY. He is quite happy, Will, and so am I ... so am I.

BRODIE. Hear me, Mary. This is a big moment in our two lives. I swear to
you by the father here between us that it shall not be fault of mine if
this thing fails; if this ship founders you have set your hopes in. I
swear it by our father; I swear it by God's judgments.

MARY. I want no oaths, Will.

BRODIE. No, but I do. And prayers, Mary, prayers. Pray night and day
upon your knees. I must move mountains.

OLD BRODIE. A wise son maketh--maketh----

BRODIE. A glad father? And does your son, the Deacon, make you glad? O
heaven of heavens, if I were a good man!

  END OF THE SECOND ACT




  ACT III


  TABLEAU V

  KING'S EVIDENCE

  _The Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh_


  SCENE I

  JEAN, SMITH, AND MOORE

  _They loiter in L., and stand looking about as for somebody not there.
  SMITH is hat in hand to JEAN; MOORE as usual_

MOORE. Wot did I tell you? Is he 'ere or ain't he? Now then. Slink by
name and Slink by nature, that's wot's the matter with him.

JEAN. He'll no' be lang; he's regular enough, if that was a'.

MOORE. I'd regular him; I'd break his back.

SMITH. Badger, you brute, you hang on to the lessons of your
dancing-master. None but the genteel deserves the fair; does they,
Duchess?

MOORE. O rot! Did I insult the blowen? Wot's the matter with me is Slink
Ainslie.

SMITH. All right, old Crossed-in-love. Give him forty winks, and he'll
turn up as fresh as clean sawdust and as respectable as a new Bible.

MOORE. That's right enough; but I ain't a-going to stand here all day
for him. I'm for a drop of something short, I am. You tell him I showed
you that (_showing his doubled fist_). That's wot's the matter with him.
(_He lurches out, R._)


  SCENE II

  _SMITH and JEAN, to whom HUNT and afterwards MOORE_

SMITH (_critically_). No, Duchess, he has not good manners.

JEAN. Ay, he's an impident man.

SMITH. So he is, Jean; and for the matter of that he ain't the only one.

JEAN. Geordie, I want nae mair o' your nonsense, mind.

SMITH. There's our old particular the Deacon, now. Why is he ashamed of
a lovely woman? That's not my idea of the Young Chevalier, Jean. If I
had luck, we should be married, and retired to our estates in the
country, shouldn't us? and go to church and be happy, like the nobility
and gentry.

JEAN. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye'd mairry me?

SMITH. Mean it? What else has ever been the 'umble petition of your
honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, and fellow-countryman? I know the
Deacon's your man, and I know he's a cut above G. S.; but he won't last,
Jean, and I shall.

JEAN. Ay, I'm muckle ta'en up wi' him; wha could help it?

SMITH. Well, and my sort don't grow on apple-trees, either.

JEAN. Ye're a fine, cracky, neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad just let
me be.

SMITH. I know I ain't a Scotsman born.

JEAN. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o' ye even for that; if ye would
just let me be.

HUNT (_entering behind, aside_). (Are they thick? Anyhow, it's a second
chance.)

SMITH. But he won't last, Jean; and when he leaves you, you come to me.
Is that your taste in pastry? That's the kind of _h_article that I
present!

HUNT (_surprising them as in Tableau I_). Why, you're the very parties I
was looking for!

JEAN. Mercy me!

SMITH. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind.

HUNT. (Now this is what I call a picter of good fortune.) Ain't it
strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous
like this?

JEAN (_stolidly_). I hope ye're middling weel, Mr. Hunt? (_Going._) Mr.
Smith!

SMITH. Mrs. Watt, ma'am! (_Going._)

HUNT. Hold hard, George. Speaking as one lady's man to another, turn
about's fair play. You've had your confab, and now I'm going to have
mine. (Not that I've done with you; you stand by and wait.) Ladies
first, George, ladies first; that's the size of it. (_To JEAN, aside._)
Now, Mrs. Watt, I take it you ain't a natural fool?

JEAN. And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt.

SMITH (_interfering_). Jean...!

HUNT (_keeping him off_). Half a tick, George. (_To JEAN._) Mrs. Watt,
I've a warrant in my pocket. One, two, three: will you peach?

JEAN. Whatten kind of a word'll that be?

SMITH. Mum it is, Jean!

HUNT. _When_ you've done dancing, George! (_To JEAN._) It ain't a pretty
expression, my dear, I own it. "Will you blow the gaff?" is perhaps more
tenderer.

JEAN. I think ye've a real strange way o' expressin' yoursel'.

HUNT (_to JEAN_). I can't waste time on you, my girl. It's now or never.
Will you turn King's evidence?

JEAN. I think ye'll have made a mistake, like.

HUNT. Well, I'm...! (_Separating them._) (No, not yet; don't push me.)
George's turn now. (_To GEORGE._) George, I've a warrant in my pocket.

SMITH. As per usual, Jerry?

HUNT. Now I want King's evidence.

SMITH. Ah! so you came a cropper with _her_, Jerry. Pride had a fall.

HUNT. A free pardon and fifty shiners down.

SMITH. A free pardon, Jerry?

HUNT. Don't I tell you so?

SMITH. And fifty down? fifty?

HUNT. On the nail.

SMITH. So you came a cropper with her, and then you tried it on with me?

HUNT. I suppose you mean you're a born idiot?

SMITH. What I mean is, Jerry, that you've broke my heart. I used to look
up to you like a party might to Julius 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._)


  SCENE III

  HUNT, MOORE

HUNT. Half a tick, Badger. You're a man of parts, you are; you're solid,
you're a true-born Englishman; you ain't a Jerry-go-Nimble like him. Do
you know what your pal the Deacon's worth to you? Fifty golden Georges
and a free pardon. No questions asked and no receipts demanded. What do
you say? Is it a deal?

MOORE (_as to himself_). Muck! (_He goes out, R._)


  SCENE IV

  _HUNT, to whom AINSLIE_

HUNT (_looking after them ruefully_). And these were the very parties I
was looking for! (Ah, Jerry, Jerry, if they knew this at the office!)
Well, the market price of that 'ere two hundred is a trifle on the
decline and fall. (_Looking L._) Hullo! (_Slapping his thigh._) Send me
victorious! It's King's evidence on two legs. (_Advancing with great
cordiality to meet AINSLIE, who enters L._) And so your name's Andrew
Ainslie, is it? As I was saying, you're the very party I was looking
for. Ain't it strange, now, that I should have dropped across you
comfortable and promiscuous like this?

AINSLIE. I dinna ken wha ye are, and I'm ill for my bed.

HUNT. Let your bed wait, Andrew. I want a little chat with you; just a
quiet little sociable wheeze. Just about our friends, you know. About
Badger Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy Rivers, and Deacon Brodie,
Andrew. Particularly Deacon Brodie.

AINSLIE. They're nae frien's o' mine, mister. I ken naething an'
naebody. An' noo I'll get to my bed, wulln't I?

HUNT. We're going to have our little talk out first. After that perhaps
I'll let you go, and perhaps I won't. It all depends on how we get along
together. Now, in a general way, Andrew, and speaking of a man as you
find him, I'm all for peace and quietness myself. That's my usual game,
Andrew, but when I do make a dust I'm considered by my friends to be
rather a good hand at it. So don't you tread upon the worm.

AINSLIE. But I'm sayin'----

HUNT. You leave that to me, Andrew. You shall do your pitch presently.
I'm first on the ground, and I lead off. With a question, Andrew. Did
you ever hear in your life of such a natural curiosity as a Bow Street
Runner?

AINSLIE. Aiblins ay an' aiblins no.

HUNT. "Aiblins ay an' aiblins no." Very good indeed, Andrew. Now, I'll
ask you another: Did you ever see a Bow Street Runner, Andrew? With the
naked eye, so to speak?

AINSLIE. What's your wull?

HUNT. Artful bird! Now since we're getting on so cosy and so free, I'll
ask you another, Andrew: Should you like to see a Bow Street Runner?
(_Producing staff._) 'Cos, if so, you've only got to cast your eyes on
me. Do you queer the red weskit, Andrew? Pretty colour, ain't it? So
nice and warm for the winter too. (_AINSLIE dives, HUNT collars him._)
No, you don't. Not this time. Run away like that before we've finished
our little conversation? You're a nice young man, you are. Suppose we
introduce our wrists into these here darbies? Now we shall get along
cosier and freer than ever. Want to lie down, do you? All right!
anything to oblige.

AINSLIE (_grovelling_). It wasna me, it wasna me. It's bad companions;
I've been lost wi' bad companions an' the drink. An' O mister, ye'll be
a kind gentleman to a puir lad, and me sae weak, and fair rotten wi' the
drink an' that. Ye've a bonnie kind heart, my dear, dear gentleman; ye
wadna hang sitchan a thing as me. I'm no' fit to hang. They ca' me the
Cannleworm! An' I'll dae somethin' for ye, wulln't I? An' ye'll can hang
the ithers?

HUNT. I thought I hadn't mistook my man. Now you look here, Andrew
Ainslie, you're a bad lot. I've evidence to hang you fifty times over.
But the Deacon is my mark. Will you peach, or won't you? You blow the
gaff, and I'll pull you through. You don't, and I'll scrag you as sure
as my name's Jerry Hunt.

AINSLIE. I'll dae onything. It's the hanging fleys me. I'll dae
onything, onything no' to hang.

HUNT. Don't lie crawling there, but get up and answer me like a man.
Ain't this Deacon Brodie the fine workman that's been doing all these
tip-topping burglaries?

AINSLIE. It's him, mister; it's him. That's the man. Ye're in the very
bit. Deacon Brodie. I'll can tak' ye to his very door.

HUNT. How do you know?

AINSLIE. I gi'ed him a han' wi' them a'. It was him an' Badger Moore and
Geordie Smith; an' they gart me gang wi' them whether or no: I'm that
weak, and whiles I'm donner'd wi' the drink. But I ken a' an' I'll tell
a'. And O kind gentleman, you'll speak to their lordships for me, and
I'll no be hangit ... I'll no be hangit, wull I?

HUNT. But you shared, didn't you? I wonder what share they thought you
worth. How much did you get for last night's performance down at Mother
Clarke's?

AINSLIE. Just five pund, mister. Five pund. As sure's deith it wadna be
a penny mair. No' but I askit mair: I did that; I'll no' deny it,
mister. But Badger kickit me, an' Geordie, he said a bad sweir, an' made
he'd cut the liver out o' me, an' catch fish wi't. It's been that way
frae the first: an aith an' a bawbee was aye guid eneuch for puir Andra.

HUNT. Well, and why did they do it? I saw Jemmy dance a hornpipe on the
table, and booze the company all round, when the Deacon was gone. What
made you cross the fight, and play booty with your own man?

AINSLIE. Just to make him rob the Excise, mister. They're wicked, wicked
men.

HUNT. And is he right for it?

AINSLIE. Ay is he.

HUNT. By Jingo! When's it for?

AINSLIE. Dear, kind gentleman, I dinna rightly ken: the Deacon's that
sair angered wi' me. I'm to get my orders frae Geordie the nicht.

HUNT. O, you're to get your orders from Geordie, are you? Now look here,
Ainslie. You know me. I'm Hunt the Runner: I put Jemmy Rivers in the jug
this morning; I've got you this evening. I mean to wind up with the
Deacon. You understand? All right. Then just you listen. I'm going to
take these here bracelets off, and send you home to that celebrated bed
of yours. Only, as soon as you've seen the Dook you come straight round
to me at Mr. Procurator-Fiscal's, and let me know the Dook's views. One
word, mind, and ... cl'k! It's a bargain?

AINSLIE.. Never you fear that. I'll tak' my bannet an' come straucht to
ye. Eh God, I'm glad it's nae mair nor that to start wi'. An' may the
Lord bless ye, dear, kind gentleman, for your kindness! May the Lord
bless ye!

HUNT. You pad the hoof.

AINSLIE (_going out_). An' so I wull, wulln't I not? An' bless, bless ye
while there's breath in my body, wulln't I not?

HUNT (_solus_). You're a nice young man, Andrew Ainslie. Jemmy Rivers
and the Deacon in two days! By Jingo! (_He dances an instant gravely,
whistling to himself._) Jerry, that 'ere little two hundred of ours is
as safe as the bank.


  TABLEAU VI

  UNMASKED

  _The Stage represents a room in Leslie's house. A practicable window,
  C., through which a band of strong moonlight falls into the room. Near
  the window a strong-box. A practicable door in wing, L. Candlelight_


  SCENE I

  _LESLIE, LAWSON, MARY, seated. BRODIE at back, walking between the
  windows and the strong-box_

LAWSON. Weel, weel, weel, weel, nae doubt.

LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, I am perfectly satisfied with Brodie's word; I will
wait gladly.

LAWSON. I have nothing to say against that.

BRODIE (_behind LAWSON_). Nor for it.

LAWSON. For it? for it, William? Ye're perfectly richt there. (_To
LESLIE._) Just you do what William tells you; ye canna do better than
that.

MARY. Dear uncle, I see you are vexed; but Will and I are perfectly
agreed on the best course. Walter and I are young. O, we can wait; we
can trust each other.

BRODIE (_from behind_). Leslie, do you think it safe to keep this
strong-box in your room?

LESLIE. It does not trouble me.

BRODIE. I would not. 'Tis close to the window.

LESLIE. It's on the right side of it.

BRODIE. I give you my advice: I would not.

LAWSON. He may be right there too, Mr. Leslie.

BRODIE. I give him fair warning: it's not safe.

LESLIE. I have a different treasure to concern myself about; if all goes
right with that I shall be well contented.

MARY. Walter!

LAWSON. Ay, bairns, ye speak for your age.

LESLIE. Surely, sir, for every age: the ties of blood, of love, of
friendship, these are life's essence.

MARY. And for no one is it truer than my uncle. If he live to be a
thousand, he will still be young in heart, full of love, full of trust.

LAWSON. Ah, lassie, it's a wicked world.

MARY. Yes, you are out of sorts to-day; we know that.

LESLIE. Admitted that you know more of life, sir; admitted (if you
please) that the world is wicked; yet you do not lose trust in those you
love.

LAWSON. Weel ... ye get gliffs, ye ken.

LESLIE. I suppose so. We can all be shaken for a time; but not, I think,
in our friends. We are not deceived in them; in the few that we admit
into our hearts.

MARY. Never in these.

LESLIE. We know these (_to BRODIE_), and we think the world of them.

BRODIE (_at back_). We are more acquainted with each other's tailors,
believe me. You, Leslie, are a very pleasant creature. My uncle Lawson
is the Procurator-Fiscal. I--what am I? I am the Deacon of the Wrights;
my ruffles are generally clean; and you think the world of me. Bravo!

LESLIE. Ay, and I think the world of you.

BRODIE (_at back, pointing to LAWSON_). Ask him.

LAWSON. Hoot-toot. A wheen nonsense: an honest man's an honest man, and
a randy thief's a randy thief, and neither mair nor less. Mary, my lamb,
it's time you were hame, and had your beauty sleep.

MARY. Do you not come with us?

LAWSON. I gang the ither gate, my lamb. (_LESLIE helps MARY on with her
cloak, and they say farewell at back. BRODIE, for the first time, comes
front with LAWSON._) Sae ye've consented?

BRODIE. As you see.

LAWSON. Ye'll can pay it back?

BRODIE. I will.

LAWSON. And how? That's what I'm wonderin' to mysel'.

BRODIE. Ay, God knows that.

MARY. Come, Will.


  SCENE II

  LESLIE, LAWSON (_wrapping up_)

LESLIE. I wonder what ails Brodie?

LAWSON. How should I ken? What should I ken that ails him?

LESLIE. He seemed angry even with you.

LAWSON (_impatient_). Hoot awa'!

LESLIE. Of course, I know. But you see, on the very day when our
engagement is announced, even the best of men may be susceptible. You
yourself seem not quite pleased.

LAWSON (_with great irritation_). I'm perfectly pleased. I'm perfectly
delighted. If I werena an auld man, I'd be just beside mysel' wi'
happiness.

LESLIE. Well, I only fancied ...

LAWSON. Ye had nae possible excuse to fancy. Fancy? Perfect trash and
nonsense. Look at yersel'. Ye look like a ghaist, ye're white-like,
ye're black aboot the een; and do you find me deavin' ye wi' fancies? Or
William Brodie either? I'll say that for him.

LESLIE. 'Tis not sorrow that alters my complexion; I've something else
on hand. Come, I'll tell you, under seal. I've not been in bed till
daylight for a week.

LAWSON. Weel, there's nae sense in the like o' that.

LESLIE. Gad, but there is, though. Why, Procurator, this is town's
business; this is a municipal affair; I'm a public character. Why? Ah,
here's a nut for the Crown Prosecutor! I'm a bit of a party to a
robbery.

LAWSON. Guid guide us, man, what d'ye mean?

LESLIE. You shall hear. A week ago to-night I was passing through this
very room without a candle on my way to bed, when ... what should I see
but a masked man fumbling at that window! How he did the Lord knows. I
suspect, Procurator, it was not the first he'd tried ... for he opened
it as handily as his own front door.

LAWSON. Preserve me! Another of thae robberies!

LESLIE. That's it. And, of course, I tried to seize him. But the rascal
was too quick. He was down and away in an instant. You never saw a thing
so daring and adroit.

LAWSON. Is that a'? Ye're a bauld lad, I'll say that for ye. I'm glad it
wasna waur.

LESLIE. Yes, that's all plain sailing. But here's the hitch. Why didn't
I tell the Procurator-Fiscal? You never thought of that.

LAWSON. No, man. Why?

LESLIE. Aha! There's the riddle. Will you guess? No?... I thought I knew
the man.

LAWSON. What d'ye say?

LESLIE. I thought I knew him.

LAWSON. Wha was't?

LESLIE. Ah, there you go beyond me. That I cannot tell.

LAWSON. As God sees ye, laddie, are ye speaking truth?

LESLIE. Well ... of course!

LAWSON. The haill truth?

LESLIE. All of it. Why not?

LAWSON. Man, I'd a kind o' gliff.

LESLIE. Why, what were you afraid of? Had you a suspicion?

LAWSON. Me? Me a suspicion? Ye're daft, sir; and me the Crown
offeecial!... Eh, man, I'm a' shakin' ... And sae ye thocht ye kennt
him?

LESLIE. I did that. And what's more, I've sat every night in case of his
return. I promise you, Procurator, he shall not slip me twice.
Meanwhile, I'm worried and put out. You understand how such a fancy will
upset a man. I'm uneasy with my friends and on bad terms with my own
conscience. I keep watching, spying, comparing, putting two and two
together, and hunting for resemblances until my head goes round. It's
like a puzzle in a dream. Only yesterday I thought I had him. And who
d'you think it was?

LAWSON. Wha? Wha was't? Speak, Mr. Leslie, speak. I'm an auld man: dinna
forget that.

LESLIE. I name no names. It would be unjust to him; and, upon my word,
it was so silly it would be unfair to me. However, here I sit, night
after night. I mean him to come back; come back he shall; and I'll tell
you who he was next morning.

LAWSON. Let sleeping dogs lie, Mr. Leslie; ye dinna ken what ye micht
see. And then, leave him alane, he'll come nae mair. And sitting up a'
nicht ... it's a _factum imprestabile_, as we say: a thing impossible to
man. Gang ye to your bed, like a guid laddie, and sleep lang and
soundly, and bonnie, bonnie dreams to ye! (_Without._) Let sleeping dogs
lie, and gang ye to your bed.


  SCENE III

LESLIE (_calling_). In good time, never fear! (_He carefully bolts and
chains the door._) The old gentleman seems upset. What for, I wonder?
Has he had a masked visitor? Why not? It's the fashion. Out with the
lights. (_Blows out the candles. The stage is only lighted by the moon
through the window._) He is sure to come one night or other. He must
come. Right or wrong, I feel it in the air. Man, but I know you, I know
you somewhere. That trick of the shoulders, the hang of the
clothes--whose are they? Where have I seen them? And then, that single
look of the eye, that one glance about the room as the window opened ...
it is almost friendly; I have caught it over the glass's rim! If it
should be ... his? No, his it is not.

WATCHMAN (_without_). Past ten o'clock, and a fine moonlight night.

ANOTHER (_further away_). Past ten o'clock, and all's well.

LESLIE. Past ten? Ah, there's a long night before you and me, watchmen.
Heavens, what a trade! But it will be something to laugh over with Mary
and ... with him! Damn it, the delusion is too strong for me. It's a
thing to be ashamed of. "We Brodies": how she says it! "We Brodies and
our Deacon": what a pride she takes in it, and how good it sounds to me!
"Deacon of his craft, sir, Deacon of the ..." (_BRODIE, masked, appears
without at the window, which he proceeds to force._) Ha! I knew he'd
come. I was sure of it. (_He crouches near and nearer to the window,
keeping in the shade._) And I know you too. I swear I know you.


  SCENE IV

  BRODIE, LESLIE

  _BRODIE enters by the window with assurance and ease, closes it
  silently and proceeds to traverse the room. As he moves, LESLIE leaps
  upon and grapples him._

LESLIE. Take off that mask!

BRODIE. Hands off!

LESLIE. Take off that mask!

BRODIE. Leave go, by God, leave go!

LESLIE. Take it off!

BRODIE (_overpowered_). Leslie....

LESLIE. Ah! you know me! (_Succeeds in tearing off the mask._) Brodie!

BRODIE (_in the moonlight_). Brodie.

LESLIE. You ... you, Brodie, you!

BRODIE. Brodie, sir, Brodie, as you see.

LESLIE. What does it mean? What does it mean? My God! Were you here
before? Is this the second time? Are you a thief, man? are you a thief?
Speak, speak, or I'll kill you.

BRODIE. I am a thief.

LESLIE. And my friend, my own friend, and ... Mary, Mary!... Deacon,
Deacon, for God's sake, no!

BRODIE. God help me!

LESLIE. "We Brodies! We Brodies!"

BRODIE. Leslie----

LESLIE. Stand off! Don't touch me! You're a thief!

BRODIE. Leslie, Leslie----

LESLIE. A thief's sister! Why are you here? why are you here? Tell me!
Why do you not speak? Man, I know you of old. Are you Brodie, and have
nothing to say?

BRODIE. To say? Not much--God help me!--and commonplace, commonplace
like sin. I was honest once; I made a false step; I couldn't retrace it;
and ... that is all.

LESLIE. You have forgot the bad companions!

BRODIE. I did forget them. They were there.

LESLIE. Commonplace! Commonplace! Do you speak to me, do you reason with
me, do you make excuses? You--a man found out, shamed, a liar, a
thief--a man that's killed me, killed this heart in my body; and you
speak! What am I to do? I hold your life in my hand; have you thought of
that? What am I to do?

BRODIE. Do what you please; you have me trapped. (_JEAN WATT is heard
singing without two bars of "Wanderin' Willie," by way of signal._)

LESLIE. What is that?

BRODIE. A signal.

LESLIE. What does it mean?

BRODIE. Danger to me: there is some one coming.

LESLIE. Danger to you?

BRODIE. Some one is coming. What are you going to do with me? (_A knock
at the door._)

LESLIE (_after a pause_). Sit down. (_Knocking._)

BRODIE. What are you going to do with me?

LESLIE. Sit down. (_BRODIE sits in darkest part of stage. LESLIE opens
door and admits LAWSON. Door open till end of Act._)


  SCENE V

  BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE

LAWSON. This is an unco' time to come to your door; but eh, laddie, I
couldna bear to think o' ye sittin' yer lane in the dark.

LESLIE. It was very good of you.

LAWSON. I'm no' very fond of playing hidee in the dark mysel': and noo
that I'm here----

LESLIE. I will give you a light. (_He lights the candles. Lights up._)

LAWSON. God A'michty! William Brodie!

LESLIE. Yes, Brodie was good enough to watch with me.

LAWSON. But he gaed awa' ... I dinna see ... an' Lord be guid to us, the
window's open!

LESLIE. A trap we laid for them: a device of Brodie's.

BRODIE (_to LAWSON_). Set a thief to catch a thief. (_Passing to LESLIE,
aside._) Walter Leslie, God will reward. (_JEAN signals again._)

LAWSON. I dinna like that singin' at siccan a time o' the nicht.

BRODIE. I must go.

LAWSON. Not one foot o' ye. I'm ower glad to find ye in guid hands. Ay,
ye dinna ken how glad.

BRODIE (_aside to LESLIE_). Get me out of this. There's a man there will
stick at nothing.

LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, Brodie has done his shift. Why should we keep him?
(_JEAN appears at the door, and signs to BRODIE._)

LAWSON. Hoots! this is my trade. That's a bit o' "Wanderin' Willie."
I've had it before me in precognitions; that same stave has been used
for a signal by some o' the very warst o' them.

BRODIE (_aside to LESLIE_). Get me out of this. I'll never forget
to-night. (_JEAN at door again._)

LESLIE. Well, good-night, Brodie. When shall we meet again?

LAWSON. Not one foot o' him. (_JEAN at door._) I tell you, Mr.
Leslie----


  SCENE VI

  _To these, JEAN_

JEAN (_from the door_). Wullie, Wullie!

LAWSON. Guid guide us, Mrs. Watt! A dacent wumman like yoursel'! Whatten
a time o' nicht is this to come to folks' doors?

JEAN (_to BRODIE_). Hawks, Wullie, hawks!

BRODIE. I suppose you know what you've done, Jean?

JEAN. I _had_ to come, Wullie; he wadna wait another minit. He wad have
come himsel'.

BRODIE. This is my mistress.

LAWSON. William, dinna tell me nae mair.

BRODIE. I have told you so much. You may as well know all. That good
man knows it already. Have you issued a warrant for me ... yet?

LAWSON. No, no, man: not another word.

BRODIE (_pointing to the window_). That is my work. I am the man. Have
you drawn the warrant?

LAWSON (_breaking down_). Your father's son!

LESLIE (_to LAWSON_). My good friend! Brodie, you might have spared the
old man this.

BRODIE. I might have spared him years ago; and you and my sister, and
myself. I might ... would God I had! (_Weeping himself._) Don't weep, my
good old friend; I was lost long since; don't think of me; don't pity
me; don't shame me with your pity! I began this when I was a boy. I
bound the millstone round my neck; (it is irrevocable now), and you must
all suffer ... all suffer for me!... (for this suffering remnant of what
was once a man). O God, that I can have fallen to stand here as I do
now. My friend lying to save me from the gallows; my second father
weeping tears of blood for my disgrace! And all for what? Ay what?
Because I had an open hand, because I was a selfish dog, because I loved
this woman.

JEAN. O Wullie, and she lo'ed ye weel! But come near me nae mair, come
near me nae mair, my man; keep wi' your ain folks ... your ain dacent
folks.

LAWSON. Mistress Watt, ye shall sit rent free as lang's there's breath
in William Lawson's body.

LESLIE. You can do one thing still ... for Mary's sake. You can save
yourself; you must fly.

BRODIE. It is my purpose; the day after to-morrow. It cannot be before.
Then I will fly; and O, as God sees me, I will strive to make a new and a
better life, and to be worthy of your friendship, and of your tears ...
your tears. And to be worthy of you, too, Jean; for I see now that the
bandage has fallen from my eyes; I see myself, O how unworthy even of
you!

LESLIE. Why not to-night?

BRODIE. It cannot be before. There are many considerations. I must find
money.

JEAN. Leave me, and the wean. Dinna fash yoursel' for us.

LESLIE (_opening the strong-box and pouring gold upon the table_). Take
this and go at once.

BRODIE. Not that ... not the money that I came to steal!

LAWSON. Tak' it, William; I'll pay him.

BRODIE. It is in vain. I cannot leave till I have said. There is a man;
I must obey him. If I slip my chain till he has done with me, the hue
and cry will blaze about the country; every outport will be shut; I
shall return to the gallows. He is a man that will stick at nothing.


  SCENE VII

  _To these, MOORE_

MOORE. Are you coming?

BRODIE. I am coming.

MOORE (_appearing in the door_). Do you want us all to get thundering
well scragged?

BRODIE (_going_). There is my master.


  END OF THE THIRD ACT




  ACT IV

  TABLEAU VII

  THE ROBBERY


  _The Stage represents the outside of the Excise Office in Chessel's
  Court. At the back, L.C., an archway opening on the High Street. The
  door of the Excise in wing, R.; the opposite side of the stage is
  lumbered with barrels, packing-cases, etc. Moonlight; the Excise
  Office casts a shadow over half the stage. A clock strikes the hour. A
  round of the City Guard, with halberts, lanterns, etc., enters and
  goes out again by the arch, after having examined the fastenings of
  the great door and the lumber on the left. Cry without in the High
  Court: "_Ten by the bell and a fine clear night._" Then enter
  cautiously by the arch, SMITH and MOORE, with AINSLIE loaded with
  tools_


  SCENE I

  SMITH, MOORE, AINSLIE

SMITH (_entering first_). Come on, coast clear.

MOORE (_after they have come to the front_). Ain't he turned up yet?

SMITH (_to AINSLIE_). Now, Maggot! The fishing's a-going to begin.

AINSLIE. Dinna cangle, Geordie. My back's fair broke.

MOORE. O, muck! Hand out them pieces.

SMITH. All right, Humptious! (_To AINSLIE._) You're a nice old sort for
a rag-and-bone man: can't hold a bag open! (_Taking out tools._) Here
they was. Here are the bunchums, one and two; and jolly old keys was
they. Here's the picklocks, crowbars, and here's Lord George's pet
bull's-eye, his old and valued friend, the Cracksman's Treasure!

MOORE. Just like you. Forgot the rotten centre-bit.

SMITH. That's all you know. Here she is, bless her! Portrait of George
as a gay _h_ironmonger.

MOORE. O, rot! Hand it over, and keep yourself out of that there
thundering moonlight.

SMITH (_lighting lantern_). All right, old mumble-peg. Don't you get
carried away by the fire of old Rome. That's your motto. Here are the
tools, a perfect picter of the sublime and beautiful; and all I hope is
that our friend and pitcher, the Deakin, will make a better job of it
than he did last night. If he don't, I shall retire from the
business--that's all; and it'll be George and his little wife and a
black footman till death do us part.

MOORE. O, muck! You're all jaw like a sheep's jimmy. That's my opinion
of you. When did you see him last?

SMITH. This morning; and he looked as if he was rehearsing for his own
epitaph. I never see such a change in a man. I gave him the office for
to-night; and was he grateful? Did he weep upon my faithful bosom? No;
he smiled upon me like a portrait of the dear departed. I see his 'art
was far away; and it broke my own to look at him.

MOORE. Muck! Wot I ses is, if a cove's got that much of the nob about
him, wot's the good of his working single-handed? That's wot's the
matter with him.

SMITH. Well, old Father Christmas, he ain't single-handed to-night, is
he?

MOORE. No, he ain't; he's got a man with him to-night.

SMITH. Pardon me, Romeo: two men, I think?

MOORE. A man wot means business. If I'd 'a' bin with him last night, it
ain't psalm-singin' would have got us off. Psalm-singin'? Muck! Let 'em
try it on with me.

AINSLIE. Losh me, I heard a noise. (_Alarm; they crouch into the shadow
and listen._)

SMITH. All serene. (_To AINSLIE._) Am I to cut that liver out of you?
Now, am I? (_A whistle._) 'St! here we are. (_Whistles a modulation,
which is answered._)


  SCENE II

  _To these, BRODIE_

MOORE. Waiting for you, Deacon.

BRODIE. I see. Everything ready?

SMITH. All a-growing and a-blowing.

BRODIE. Give me the light. (_Briefly examines tools and door with
bull's-eye._) You, George, stand by, and hand up the pieces. Ainslie,
take the glim. Moore, out and watch.

MOORE. I didn't come here to do sentry-go, I didn't.

BRODIE. You came here to do as I tell you. (_MOORE goes up slowly._)
Second bunch, George. I know the lock. Steady with the glim. (_At
work._) No good. Give me the centre-bit.

SMITH. Right. (_Work continues. AINSLIE drops lantern._)

BRODIE. Curse you! (_Throttling and kicking him._) You shake, and you
shake, and you can't even hold a light for your betters. Hey?

AINSLIE. Eh, Deacon, Deacon....

SMITH. Now, Ghost! (_With lantern._)

BRODIE. 'St, Moore!

MOORE. Wot's the row?

BRODIE. Take you the light.

MOORE (_to AINSLIE_). Wo' j' yer shakin' at? (_Kicks him._)

BRODIE (_to AINSLIE_). Go you, and see if you're good at keeping watch.
Inside the arch. And if you let a footfall past, I'll break your back.
(_AINSLIE retires._) Steady with the light. (_At work with centre-bit._)
Hand up number four, George. (_At work with picklock._) That has it.

SMITH. Well done, our side.

BRODIE. Now the crowbar! (_At work._) That's it. Put down the glim,
Badger, and help at the wrench. Your whole weight, men! Put your backs
to it! (_While they work at the bar, BRODIE stands by, dusting his hands
with a pocket-handkerchief. As the door opens._) _Voilà!_ In with you.

MOORE (_entering with light_). Mucking fine work too, Deacon!

BRODIE. Take up the irons, George.

SMITH. How about the P(h)antom?

BRODIE. Leave him to me. I'll give him a look. (_Enters office._)

SMITH (_following_). Houp-là!


  SCENE III

  _AINSLIE; afterwards BRODIE; afterwards HUNT and OFFICERS_

AINSLIE. Ca' ye that mainners? Ye're grand gentry by your way o't! Eh
sirs, my hench! Ay, that was the Badger. Man, but ye'll look bonnie
hangin'! (_A faint whistle._) Lord's sake, what's thon? Ay, it'll be
Hunt an' his lads. (_Whistle repeated._) Losh me, what gars him whustle,
whustle? Does he think me deaf? (_Goes up. BRODIE enters from office,
stands an instant, and sees him making a signal through the arch._)

BRODIE. Rats! Rats! (_Hides L. among lumber. Enter noiselessly through
arch HUNT and OFFICERS._)

HUNT. Birds caught?

AINSLIE. They're a' ben the house, mister.

HUNT. All three?

AINSLIE. The haill set, mister.

BRODIE. Liar!

HUNT. Mum, lads, and follow me. (_Exit, with his men, into office.
BRODIE seen with dagger._)

HUNT (_within_). In the King's name!

MOORE (_within_). Muck!

SMITH (_within_). Go it, Badger.

HUNT (_within_). Take 'em alive, boys!

AINSLIE. Eh, but that's awfu'. (_The DEACON leaps out, and stabs him. He
falls without a cry._)

BRODIE. Saved! (_He goes out by the arch._)


  SCENE IV

  _HUNT and OFFICERS; with SMITH _and_ MOORE handcuffed. Signs of a
  severe struggle_

HUNT (_entering_). Bring 'em along, lads! (_Looking at prisoners with
lantern._) Pleased to see you again, Badger. And you too, George. But
I'd rather have seen your principal. Where's he got to?

MOORE. To hell, I hope.

HUNT. Always the same pretty flow of language, I see, Hump. (_Looking at
burglary with lantern._) A very tidy piece of work, Dook; very tidy!
Much too good for you. Smacks of a fine tradesman. It _was_ the Deacon,
I suppose?

SMITH. You ought to know G. S. better by this time, Jerry.

HUNT. All right, your Grace: we'll talk it over with the Deacon himself.
Where's the jackal? Here, you, Ainslie! Where are you? By Jingo, I
thought as much. Stabbed to the heart and dead as a herring!

SMITH. Bravo!

HUNT. More of the Deacon's work, I guess? Does him credit too, don't it,
Badger?

MOORE. Muck. Was that the thundering cove that peached?

HUNT. That was the thundering cove.

MOORE. And is he corpsed?

HUNT. I should just about reckon he was.

MOORE. Then, damme, I don't mind swinging!

HUNT. We'll talk about that presently. M'Intyre and Stewart, you get a
stretcher, and take that rubbish to the office. Pick it up; it's only a
dead informer. Hand these two gentlemen over to Mr. Procurator-Fiscal,
with Mr. Jerry Hunt's compliments. Johnstone and Syme, you come along
with me. I'll bring the Deacon round myself.

  END OF THE FOURTH ACT




  ACT V

  TABLEAU VIII

  THE OPEN DOOR

  _The Stage represents the Deacon's room, as in Tableau I. Firelight.
  Stage dark. A pause. Then knocking at the door, C. Cries without of
  "WILLIE!" "MR. BRODIE!" The door is burst open_


  SCENE I

  _DOCTOR, MARY, a MAIDSERVANT with lights_

DOCTOR. The apartment is unoccupied.

MARY. Dead, and he not here!

DOCTOR. The bed has not been slept in. The counterpane is not turned
down.

MARY. It is not true; it cannot be true.

DOCTOR. My dear young lady, you must have misunderstood your brother's
language.

MARY. O no; that I did not. That I am sure I did not.

DOCTOR (_looking at door_). The strange thing is ... the bolt.

SERVANT. It's unco strange.

DOCTOR. Well, we have acted for the best.

SERVANT. Sir, I dinna think this should gang nae further.

DOCTOR. The secret is in our keeping. Affliction is enough without
scandal.

MARY. Kind heaven, what does it mean?

DOCTOR. I think there is no more to be done.

MARY. I am here alone, Doctor; you pass my uncle's door?

DOCTOR. The Procurator-Fiscal? I shall make it my devoir. Expect him
soon. (_Goes out with MAID._)

MARY (_hastily searches the room_). No, he is not there. She was right!
O father, you can never know, praise God!


  SCENE II

  _MARY, to whom JEAN and afterwards LESLIE_

JEAN (_at door_). Mistress ...!

MARY. Ah! Who is there? Who are you?

JEAN. Is he no' hame yet? I'm aye waitin' on him.

MARY. Waiting for him? Do you know the Deacon? You?

JEAN. I maun see him. Eh, lassie, it's life and death.

MARY. Death ... O my heart!

JEAN. I maun see him, bonnie leddie. I'm a puir body, and no' fit to be
seen speakin' wi' the likes o' you. But O lass, ye are the Deacon's
sister, and ye hae the Deacon's een, and for the love of the dear kind
Lord, let's in and hae a word wi' him ere it be ower late. I'm bringin'
siller.

MARY. Siller? You? For him? O father, father, if you could hear! What
are you? What are you ... to him?

JEAN. I'll be the best frien' 'at ever he had; for, O dear leddie, I wad
gie my bluid to help him.

MARY. And the ... the child?

JEAN. The bairn?

MARY. Nothing! O nothing! I am in trouble, and I know not what I say.
And I cannot help you; I cannot help you if I would. He is not here; and
I believe he was; and ill ... ill; and he is not--he is ... O, I think I
shall lose my mind!

JEAN. Ay, it's unco business.

MARY. His father is dead within there ... dead, I tell you ... dead!

JEAN. It's mebbe just as weel.

MARY. Well? Well? Has it come to this? O Walter, Walter! come back to
me, or I shall die. (_LESLIE enters, C._)

LESLIE. Mary, Mary! I hoped to have spared you this. (_To JEAN._)
What--you? Is he not here?

JEAN. I'm aye waitin' on him.

LESLIE. What has become of him? Is he mad? Where is he?

JEAN. The Lord A'michty kens, Mr. Leslie. But I maun find him; I maun
find him.


  SCENE III

  MARY, LESLIE

MARY. O Walter, Walter! What does it mean?

LESLIE. You have been a brave girl all your life, Mary; you must lean on
me ... you must trust in me ... and be a brave girl till the end.

MARY. Who is she? What does she want with _him_? And he ... where is he?
Do you know that my father is dead, and the Deacon not here? Where has
he gone? He may be dead, too. Father, brother ... O God, it is more than
I can bear!

LESLIE. Mary, my dear, dear girl ... when will you be my wife?

MARY. O, do not speak ... not speak ... of it to-night. Not to-night! O,
not to-night!

LESLIE. I know, I know, dear heart! And do you think that I, whom you
have chosen, I whose whole life is in your love--do you think that I
would press you now if there were not good cause?

MARY. Good cause! Something has happened. Something has happened ... to
him! Walter...! Is he ... dead?

LESLIE. There are worse things in the world than death. There is ... O
Mary, he is your brother!

MARY. What?... Dishonour!... The Deacon!... My God!

LESLIE. My wife, my wife!

MARY. No, no! Keep away from me. Don't touch me. I'm not fit ... not fit
to be near you. What has he done? I am his sister. Tell me the worst.
Tell me the worst at once.

LESLIE. That, if God wills, dear, you shall never know. Whatever it be,
think that I knew it all, and only loved you better; think that your
true husband is with you, and you are not to bear it alone.

MARY. My husband?... Never.

LESLIE. Mary...!

MARY. You forget, you forget what I am. I am his sister. I owe him a
lifetime of happiness and love; I owe him even you. And whatever his
fault, however ruinous his disgrace, he is my brother--my own
brother--and my place is still with him.

LESLIE. Your place is with me--is with your husband. With me, with me;
and for his sake most of all. What can you do for him alone? how can you
help him alone? It wrings my heart to think how little. But together is
different. Together...! Join my strength, my will, my courage to your
own, and together we may save him.

MARY. All that is over. Once I was blessed among women. I was my
father's daughter, my brother loved me, I lived to be your wife. Now...!
My father is dead, my brother is shamed; and you ... O how could I face
the world, how could I endure myself, if I preferred my happiness to
your honour?

LESLIE. What is my honour but your happiness? In what else does it
consist? Is it in denying me my heart? is it in visiting another's sin
upon the innocent? Could I do that, and be my mother's son? Could I do
that, and bear my father's name? Could I do that, and have ever been
found worthy of you?

MARY. It is my duty ... my duty. Why will you make it so hard for me? So
hard, Walter, so hard!

LESLIE. Do I pursue you only for your good fortune, your beauty, the
credit of your friends, your family's good name? That were not love, and
I love you. I love you, dearest, I love you. Friend, father, brother,
husband ... I must be all these to you. I am a man who can love well.

MARY. Silence ... in pity! I cannot ... O, I cannot bear it.

LESLIE. And say it was I who had fallen. Say I had played my neck and
lost it ... that I were pushed by the law to the last limits of ignominy
and despair. Whose love would sanctify my gaol to me? whose pity would
shine upon me in the dock? whose prayers would accompany me to the
gallows? Whose but yours? Yours!... And you would entreat me--me!--to do
what you shrink from even in thought, what you would die ere you
attempted in deed!

MARY. Walter ... on my knees ... no more, no more!

LESLIE. My wife! my wife! Here on my heart! It is I that must kneel ...
I that must kneel to you.

MARY. Dearest!... Husband! You forgive him? O, you forgive him?

LESLIE. He is my brother now. Let me take you to our father. Come.


  SCENE IV

  _After a pause, BRODIE through the window_

BRODIE. Saved! And the _alibi_! Man, but you've been near it this
time--near the rope, near the rope. Ah, boy, it was your neck, your neck
you fought for. They were closing hell-doors upon me, swift as the wind,
when I slipped through and shot for heaven! Saved! The dog that sold me,
I settled him; and the other dogs are staunch. Man, but your _alibi_ will
stand! Is the window fast? The neighbours must not see the Deacon, the
poor, sick Deacon, up and stirring at this time o' night. Ay, the good
old room in the good, cosy old house ... and the rat a dead rat, and all
saved. (_He lights the candles._) Your hand shakes, sir? Fie! And you
saved, and snug and sick in your bed, and _it_ but a dead rat after all?
(_He takes off his hanger and lays it on the table._) Ay, it was a near
touch. Will it come to the dock? If it does! You've a tongue and you've a
head, and you've an _alibi_; and your _alibi_ will stand. (_He takes off
his coat, takes out the dagger, and with a gesture of striking._) Home!
He fell without a sob. "He breaketh them against the bosses of His
buckler!" (_Lays the dagger on the table._) Your _alibi_ ... ah, Deacon,
that's your life!... your _alibi_, your _alibi_. (_He takes up a candle
and turns towards the door._) O!... Open, open, open! Judgment of God,
the door is open!


  SCENE V

  BRODIE, MARY

BRODIE. Did you open the door?

MARY. I did.

BRODIE. You ... you opened the door?

MARY. I did open it.

BRODIE. Were you ... alone?

MARY. I was not. The servant was with me; and the doctor.

BRODIE. O ... the servant ... and the doctor. Very true. Then it's all
over the town by now. The servant and the doctor. The doctor? What
doctor? Why the doctor?

MARY. My father is dead. O Will, where have you been?

BRODIE. Your father is dead. O yes! He's dead, is he? Dead. Quite right.
Quite right.... How did you open the door? It's strange. I bolted it.

MARY. We could not help it, Will, now could we? The doctor forced it. He
had to, had he not?

BRODIE. The doctor forced it? The doctor? Was he here? He forced it? He?

MARY. We did it for the best; it was I who did it ... I, your own
sister. And O Will, my Willie, where have you been? You have not been in
any harm, any danger?

BRODIE. Danger? O, my young lady, you have taken care of that. It's not
danger now, it's death. Death? Ah! Death! Death! Death! (_Clutching the
table. Then recovering as from a dream._) Death? Did you say my father
was dead? My father? O my God, my poor old father! Is he dead, Mary?
Have I lost him? is he gone? O, Mary dear, and to think of where his son
was!

MARY. Dearest, he is in heaven.

BRODIE. Did he suffer?

MARY. He died like a child. Your name ... it was his last.

BRODIE. My name? Mine? O Mary, if he had known! He knows now. He knows;
he sees us now ... sees me! Ay, and sees you left--how lonely!

MARY. Not so, dear; not while you live. Wherever you are, I shall not be
alone, so you live.

BRODIE. While I live? I? The old house is ruined, and the old master
dead, and I!... O Mary, try and believe I did not mean that it should
come to this; try and believe that I was only weak at first. At first?
And now! The good old man dead, the kind sister ruined, the innocent boy
fallen, fallen.... You will be quite alone; all your old friends, all
the old faces, gone into darkness. The night (_with a gesture_) ... it
waits for me. You will be quite alone.

MARY. The night!

BRODIE. Mary, you must hear. How am I to tell her, and the old man just
dead! Mary, I was the boy you knew; I loved pleasure, I was weak; I have
fallen ... low ... lower than you think. A beginning is so small a
thing! I never dreamed it would come to this ... this hideous last
night.

MARY. Willie, you must tell me, dear. I must have the truth ... the kind
truth ... at once ... in pity.

BRODIE. Crime. I have fallen. Crime.

MARY. Crime?

BRODIE. Don't shrink from me. Miserable dog that I am, selfish hound
that has dragged you to this misery ... you and all that loved him ...
think only of my torments, think only of my penitence, don't shrink from
me.

MARY. I do not care to hear, I do not wish, I do not mind; you are my
brother. What do I care? How can I help you?

BRODIE. Help? help _me_? You would not speak of it, not wish it, if you
knew. My kind good sister, my little playmate, my sweet friend! Was I
ever unkind to you till yesterday? Not openly unkind? You'll say that
when I am gone.

MARY. If you have done wrong, what do I care? If you have failed, does
it change my twenty years of love and worship? Never!

BRODIE. Yet I must make her understand...!

MARY. I am your true sister, dear. I cannot fail, I will never leave
you, I will never blame you. Come! (_Goes to embrace._)

BRODIE (_recoiling_). No, don't touch me, not a finger, not that,
anything but that!

MARY. Willie, Willie!

BRODIE (_taking the bloody dagger from the table_). See, do you
understand that?

MARY. Ah! What, what is it!

BRODIE. Blood. I have killed a man.

MARY. You?...

BRODIE. I am a murderer; I was a thief before. Your brother ... the old
man's only son!

MARY. Walter, Walter, come to me!

BRODIE. Now you see that I must die; now you see that I stand upon the
grave's edge, all my lost life behind me, like a horror to think upon,
like a frenzy, like a dream that is past. And you, you are alone.
Father, brother, they are gone from you; one to heaven, one...!

MARY. Hush, dear, hush! Kneel, pray; it is not too late to repent. Think
of our father, dear; repent. (_She weeps, straining to his bosom._) O
Willie, my darling boy, repent and join us.


  SCENE VI

  _To these, LAWSON, LESLIE, JEAN_

LAWSON. She kens a', thank the guid Lord!

BRODIE (_to MARY_). I know you forgive me now; I ask no more. That is a
good man. (_To LESLIE._) Will you take her from my hands? (_LESLIE takes
MARY._) Jean, are ye here to see the end?

JEAN. Eh man, can ye no' fly? Could ye no' say that it was me?

BRODIE. No, Jean, this is where it ends. Uncle, this is where it ends.
And to think that not an hour ago I still had hopes! Hopes! Ay, not an
hour ago I thought of a new life. You were not forgotten, Jean. Leslie,
you must try to forgive me ... you too!

LESLIE. You are her brother.

BRODIE (_to LAWSON_). And you.

LAWSON. My name-child and my sister's bairn.

BRODIE. You won't forget Jean, will you? nor the child?

LAWSON. That I will not.

MARY. O Willie, nor I.


  SCENE VII

  _To these, HUNT_

HUNT. The game's up, Deacon. I'll trouble you to come along with me.

BRODIE (_behind the table_). One moment, officer: I have a word to say
before witnesses ere I go. In all this there is but one man guilty; and
that man is I. None else has sinned; none else must suffer. This poor
woman (_pointing to JEAN_) I have used; she never understood. Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal, that is my dying confession. (_He snatches his hanger
from the table, and rushes upon HUNT, who parries, and runs him through.
He reels across the stage and falls._) The new life ... the new life!
(_He dies._)

  CURTAIN




BEAU AUSTIN




         DEDICATED
           WITH
  ADMIRATION AND RESPECT

            TO

     GEORGE MEREDITH

BOURNEMOUTH,
     _1st October, 1884_




PERSONS REPRESENTED


  GEORGE FREDERICK AUSTIN, called "Beau Austin"       _Ætat._ 50

  JOHN FENWICK, of Allonby Shaw                          "    26

  ANTHONY MUSGRAVE, Cornet in the Prince's Own           "    21

  MENTEITH, the Beau's Valet                             "    55

  A ROYAL DUKE. (Dumb show.)

  DOROTHY MUSGRAVE, Anthony's Sister                     "    25

  MISS EVELINA FOSTER, her Aunt                          "    45

  BARBARA RIDLEY, her Maid                               "    20

  VISITORS TO THE WELLS


  The Time is 1820. The Scene is laid at Tunbridge Wells.
  The Action occupies a space of ten hours.




PROLOGUE

  "To all and singular," as Dryden says,
  We bring a fancy of those Georgian days,
  Whose style still breathed a faint and fine perfume
  Of old-world courtliness and old-world bloom:
  When speech was elegant and talk was fit,
  For slang had not been canonised as wit;
  When manners reigned, when breeding had the wall,
  And Women--yes!--were ladies first of all;
  When Grace was conscious of its gracefulness,
  And man--though Man!--was not ashamed to dress.
  A brave formality, a measured ease,
  Were his--and hers--whose effort was to please.
  And to excel in pleasing was to reign,
  And, if you sighed, never to sigh in vain.

  But then, as now--it may be, something more--
  Woman and man were human to the core.
  The hearts that throbbed behind that quaint attire
  Burned with a plenitude of essential fire.
  They too could risk, they also could rebel.
  They could love wisely--they could love too well.
  In that great duel of Sex, that ancient strife
  Which is the very central fact of life,
  They could--and did--engage it breath for breath,
  They could--and did--get wounded unto death.
  As at all times since time for us began
  Woman was truly woman, man was man.
  And joy and sorrow were as much at home
  In trifling Tunbridge as in mighty Rome.

  Dead--dead and done with! Swift from shine to shade
  The roaring generations flit and fade.
  To this one, fading, flitting, like the rest,
  We come to proffer--be it worst or best--
  A sketch, a shadow, of one brave old time;
  A hint of what it might have held sublime;
  A dream, an idyll, call it what you will,
  Of man still Man, and woman--Woman still!

                                      W. E. H.




BEAU AUSTIN

MUSICAL INDUCTION: "Lascia ch'io pianga" (_Rinaldo_), HANDEL




  ACT I

  _The Stage represents Miss Foster's apartments at the Wells. Doors, L.
  and C.; a window, L.C., looking on the street; a table, R., laid for
  breakfast_


  SCENE I

  _BARBARA; to her, MISS FOSTER_

BARBARA (_out of window_). Mr. Menteith! Mr. Menteith! Mr.
Menteith!--Drat his old head! Will nothing make him hear?--Mr. Menteith!

MISS FOSTER (_entering_). Barbara! this is incredible: after all my
lessons, to be leaning from the window, and calling (for unless my ears
deceived me, you were positively calling!) into the street.

BARBARA. Well, madam, just wait until you hear who it was. I declare it
was much more for Miss Dorothy and yourself than for me; and if it was a
little countrified, I had a good excuse.

MISS FOSTER. Nonsense, child! At least, who was it?

BARBARA. Miss Evelina, I was sure you would ask. Well, what do you
think? I was looking out of the window at the barber's opposite----

MISS FOSTER. Of which I entirely disapprove----

BARBARA. And first there came out two of the most beautiful--the Royal
livery, madam!

MISS FOSTER. Of course, of course: the Duke of York arrived last night.
I trust you did not hail the Duke's footmen?

BARBARA. O no, madam, it was after they were gone. Then, who should come
out--but you'll never guess!

MISS FOSTER. I shall certainly not try.

BARBARA. Mr. Menteith himself!

MISS FOSTER. Why, child, I never heard of him.

BARBARA. O madam, not the Beau's own gentleman?

MISS FOSTER. Mr. Austin's servant. No? Is it possible? By that, George
Austin must be here.

BARBARA. No doubt of that, madam; they're never far apart. He came out
feeling his chin, madam, so; and a packet of letters under his arm, so;
and he had the Beau's own walk to that degree you couldn't tell his back
from his master's.

MISS FOSTER. My dear Barbara, you too frequently forget yourself. A
young woman in your position must beware of levity.

BARBARA. Madam, I know it; but la, what are you to make of me? Look at
the time and trouble dear Miss Dorothy was always taking--she that
trained up everybody--and see what's come of it: Barbara Ridley I was,
and Barbara Ridley I am; and I don't do with fashionable ways--I can't
do with them; and indeed, Miss Evelina, I do sometimes wish we were all
back again on Edenside, and Mr. Anthony a boy again, and dear Miss
Dorothy her old self, galloping the bay mare along the moor, and taking
care of all of us as if she was our mother, bless her heart!

MISS FOSTER. Miss Dorothy herself, child? Well, now you mention it,
Tunbridge of late has scarcely seemed to suit her constitution. She
falls away, has not a word to throw at a dog, and is ridiculously pale.
Well, now Mr. Austin has returned, after six months of infidelity, to
the dear Wells, we shall all, I hope, be brightened up. Has the mail
come?

BARBARA. That it has, madam, and the sight of Mr. Menteith put it clean
out of my head. (_With letters._) Four for you, Miss Evelina, two for
me, and only one for Miss Dorothy. Miss Dorothy seems quite neglected,
does she not? Six months ago, it was a different story.

MISS FOSTER. Well, and that's true, Barbara, and I had not remarked it.
I must take her seriously to task. No young lady in her position should
neglect her correspondence. (_Opening a letter._) Here's from that dear
ridiculous boy, the Cornet, announcing his arrival for to-day.

BARBARA. O madam, will he come in his red coat?

MISS FOSTER. I could not conceive him missing such a chance. Youth,
child, is always vain, and Mr. Anthony is unusually young.

BARBARA. La, madam, he can't help that.

MISS FOSTER. My child, I am not so sure. Mr. Anthony is a great concern
to me. He was orphaned, to be sure, at ten years old; and ever since he
has been only as it were his sister's son. Dorothy did everything for
him: more indeed than I thought quite ladylike, but I suppose I begin to
be old-fashioned. See how she worked and slaved--yes, slaved!--for him:
teaching him herself, with what pains and patience she only could
reveal, and learning that she might be able; and see what he is now: a
gentleman, of course, but, to be frank, a very commonplace one: not what
I had hoped of Dorothy's brother; not what I had dreamed of the heir of
two families--Musgrave and Foster, child! Well, he may now meet Mr.
Austin. He requires a Mr. Austin to embellish and correct his manners.
(_Opening another letter._) Why, Barbara, Mr. John Scrope and Miss Kate
Dacre are to be married!

BARBARA. La, madam, how nice!

MISS FOSTER. They are: as I'm a sinful woman. And when will you be
married, Barbara? and when dear Dorothy? I hate to see old maids
a-making.

BARBARA. La, Miss Evelina, there's no harm in an old maid.

MISS FOSTER. You speak like a fool, child: sour grapes are all very
well, but it's a woman's business to be married. As for Dorothy, she is
five-and-twenty, and she breaks my heart. Such a match, too! Ten
thousand to her fortune, the best blood in the north, a most
advantageous person, all the graces, the finest sensibility, excellent
judgment, the Foster walk; and all these go positively a-begging! The
men seem stricken with blindness. Why, child, when I came out (and I was
the dear girl's image!) I had more swains at my feet in a fortnight than
our Dorothy in----O, I cannot fathom it: it must be the girl's own
fault.

BARBARA. Why, madam, I did think it was a case with Mr. Austin.

MISS FOSTER. With Mr. Austin? why, how very rustic! The attentions of a
gentleman like Mr. Austin, child, are not supposed to lead to matrimony.
He is a feature of society: an ornament: a personage: a private
gentleman by birth, but a kind of king by habit and reputation. What
woman could he marry? Those to whom he might properly aspire are all too
far below him. I have known George Austin too long, child, and I
understand that the very greatness of his success condemns him to remain
unmarried.

BARBARA. Sure, madam, that must be tiresome for him.

MISS FOSTER. Some day, child, you will know better than to think so.
George Austin, as I conceive him, and as he is regarded by the world, is
one of the triumphs of the other sex. I walked my first minuet with him:
I wouldn't tell you the year, child, for worlds; but it was soon after
his famous encounter with Colonel Villiers. He had killed his man, he
wore pink and silver, was most elegantly pale, and the most ravishing
creature!

BARBARA. Well, madam, I believe that: he is the most beautiful gentleman
still.


  SCENE II

  _To these, DOROTHY, L._

DOROTHY (_entering_). Good-morning, aunt! Is there anything for me?
(_She goes eagerly to table and looks at letters._)

MISS FOSTER. Good-morrow, niece. Breakfast, Barbara.

DOROTHY (_with letter unopened_). Nothing.

MISS FOSTER. And what do you call that, my dear? (_Sitting._) Is John
Fenwick nobody?

DOROTHY (_looking at letter_). From John? O yes, so it is. (_Lays letter
down unopened, and sits to breakfast, BARBARA waiting._)

MISS FOSTER (_to BARBARA, with plate_). Thanks, child; now you may give
me some tea. Dolly, I must insist on your eating a good breakfast: I
cannot away with your pale cheeks and that Patience-on-a-Monument kind
of look. (Toast, Barbara!) At Edenside you ate and drank and looked like
Hebe. What have you done with your appetite?

DOROTHY. I don't know, aunt, I'm sure.

MISS FOSTER. Then consider, please, and recover it as soon as you can: to
a young lady in your position a good appetite is an attraction--almost a
virtue. Do you know that your brother arrives this morning?

DOROTHY. Dear Anthony! Where is his letter, Aunt Evelina? I am pleased
that he should leave London and its perils, if only for a day.

MISS FOSTER. My dear, there are moments when you positively amaze me.
(Barbara, some _pâté_, if you please!) I beg you not to be a prude. All
women, of course, are virtuous; but a prude is something I regard with
abhorrence. The Cornet is seeing life, which is exactly what he wanted.
You brought him up surprisingly well; I have always admired you for it;
but let us admit--as women of the world, my dear--it was no upbringing
for a man. You and that fine solemn fellow, John Fenwick, led a life
that was positively no better than the Middle Ages; and between the two
of you poor Anthony (who, I am sure, was a most passive creature!) was
so packed with principle and admonition that I vow and declare he
reminded me of Issachar stooping between his two burdens. It was high
time for him to be done with your apron-string, my dear: he has all his
wild oats to sow; and that is an occupation which it is unwise to defer
too long. By the bye, have you heard the news? The Duke of York has done
us a service for which I was unprepared. (More tea, Barbara!) George
Austin, bringing the prince in his train, is with us once more.

DOROTHY. I knew he was coming.

MISS FOSTER. You knew, child? and did not tell? You are a public
criminal.

DOROTHY. I did not think it mattered, Aunt Evelina.

MISS FOSTER. O do not make-believe. I am in love with him myself, and
have been any time since Nelson and the Nile. As for you, Dolly, since
he went away six months ago, you have been positively in the megrims. I
shall date your loss of appetite from George Austin's vanishing. No, my
dear, our family require entertainment: we must have wit about us, and
beauty, and the _bel air_.

BARBARA. Well, Miss Dorothy, perhaps it's out of my place: but I do hope
Mr. Austin will come: I should love to have him see my necklace on.

DOROTHY. Necklace? what necklace? Did he give you a necklace?

BARBARA. Yes, indeed, Miss, that he did; the very same day he drove you
in his curricle to Penshurst. You remember, Miss, I couldn't go.

DOROTHY. I remember.

MISS FOSTER. And so do I. I had a touch of ... Foster in the blood: the
family gout, dears!... And you, you ungrateful nymph, had him a whole
day to yourself, and not a word to tell me when you returned.

DOROTHY. I remember. (_Rising._) Is that the necklace, Barbara? It does
not suit you. Give it me.

BARBARA. La, Miss Dorothy, I wouldn't for the world.

DOROTHY. Come, give it me. I want it. Thank you: you shall have my
birthday pearls instead.

MISS FOSTER. Why, Dolly, I believe you're jealous of the maid. Foster,
Foster: always a Foster trick to wear the willow in anger.

DOROTHY. I do not think, madam, that I am of a jealous habit.

MISS FOSTER. O, the personage is your excuse! And I can tell you, child,
that when George Austin was playing Florizel to the Duchess's Perdita,
all the maids in England fell a prey to green-eyed melancholy. It was
the _ton_, you see: not to pine for that Sylvander was to resign from
good society.

DOROTHY. Aunt Evelina, stop; I cannot endure to hear you. What is he
after all but just Beau Austin? What has he done--with half a century of
good health, what has he done that is either memorable or worthy? Diced
and danced and set fashions; vanquished in a drawing-room, fought for a
word; what else? As if these were the meaning of life! Do not make me
think so poorly of all of us women. Sure, we can rise to admire a better
kind of man than Mr. Austin. We are not all to be snared with the eye,
dear aunt; and those that are--O! I know not whether I more hate or pity
them.

MISS FOSTER. You will give me leave, my niece: such talk is neither
becoming in a young lady nor creditable to your understanding. The world
was made a great while before Miss Dorothy Musgrave; and you will do
much better to ripen your opinions, and in the meantime read your
letter, which I perceive you have not opened. (_DOROTHY opens and reads
letter._) Barbara, child, you should not listen at table.

BARBARA. Sure, madam, I hope I know my place.

MISS FOSTER. Then do not do it again.

DOROTHY. Poor John Fenwick! he coming here!

MISS FOSTER. Well, and why not? Dorothy, my darling child, you give me
pain. You never had but one chance, let me tell you pointedly; and that
was John Fenwick. If I were you, I would not let my vanity so blind me.
This is not the way to marry.

DOROTHY. Dear aunt, I shall never marry.

MISS FOSTER. A fiddlestick's end! every one must marry. (_Rising._) Are
you for the Pantiles?

DOROTHY. Not to-day, dear.

MISS FOSTER. Well, well! have your wish, Dolorosa.--Barbara, attend and
dress me.


  SCENE III

DOROTHY. How she tortures me, poor aunt, my poor blind aunt; and I--I
could break her heart with a word. That she should see nothing, know
nothing--there's where it kills. O, it is more than I can bear ... and
yet, how much less than I deserve! Mad girl, of what do I complain? that
this dear innocent woman still believes me good, still pierces me to the
soul with trustfulness. Alas, and were it otherwise, were her dear eyes
opened to the truth, what were left me but death?--He, too--she must
still be praising him, and every word is a lash upon my conscience. If I
could die of my secret: if I could cease--but one moment cease--this
living lie; if I could sleep and forget and be at rest!--Poor John!
(_reading the letter_) he at least is guiltless; and yet for my fault
he too must suffer, he too must bear part in my shame. Poor John
Fenwick! Has he come back with the old story: with what might have been,
perhaps, had we stayed by Edenside? Eden? yes, my Eden, from which I
fell. O, my old north country, my old river--the river of my innocence,
the old country of my hopes--how could I endure to look on you now? And
how to meet John?--John, with the old love on his lips, the old, honest,
innocent, faithful heart! There was a Dorothy once who was not unfit to
ride with him, her heart as light as his, her life as clear as the
bright rivers we forded; he called her his Diana, he crowned her so with
rowan. Where is that Dorothy now? that Diana? she that was everything to
John? For O, I did him good; I know I did him good; I will still believe
I did him good: I made him honest and kind and a true man; alas, and
could not guide myself! And now, how will he despise me! For he shall
know; if I die, he shall know all; I could not live, and not be true
with him. (_She takes out the necklace and looks at it._) That he should
have bought me from my maid! George, George, that you should have
stooped to this! Basely as you have used me, this is the basest. Perish
the witness. (_She treads the trinket under foot._) Break, break like my
heart, break like my hopes, perish like my good name!


  SCENE IV

  _To her, FENWICK, C._

FENWICK (_after a pause_). Is this how you receive me, Dorothy? Am I not
welcome?--Shall I go then?

DOROTHY (_running to him, with hands outstretched_). O no, John, not
for me. (_Turning and pointing to the necklace._) But you find me
changed.

FENWICK (_with a movement towards the necklace_). This?

DOROTHY. No, no, let it lie. That is a trinket--broken. But the old
Dorothy is dead.

FENWICK. Dead, dear? Not to me.

DOROTHY. Dead to you--dead to all men.

FENWICK. Dorothy, I loved you as a boy. There is not a meadow on
Edenside but is dear to me for your sake, not a cottage but recalls your
goodness, not a rock nor a tree but brings back something of the best
and brightest youth man ever had. You were my teacher and my queen; I
walked with you, I talked with you, I rode with you; I lived in your
shadow; I saw with your eyes. You will never know, dear Dorothy, what
you were to the dull boy you bore with; you will never know with what
romance you filled my life, with what devotion, with what tenderness and
honour. At night I lay awake and worshipped you; in my dreams I saw you,
and you loved me; and you remember, when we told each other stories--you
have not forgotten, dearest--that Princess Hawthorn that was still the
heroine of mine: who was she? I was not bold enough to tell, but she was
you! You, my virgin huntress, my Diana, my queen.

DOROTHY. O silence, silence--pity!

FENWICK. No, dear; neither for your sake nor mine will I be silenced. I
have begun; I must go on and finish, and put fortune to the touch. It
was from you I learned honour, duty, piety, and love. I am as you made
me, and I exist but to reverence and serve you. Why else have I come
here, the length of England, my heart burning higher every mile, my very
horse a clog to me?--why, but to ask you for my wife? Dorothy, you will
not deny me?

DOROTHY. You have not asked me about this broken trinket?

FENWICK. Why should I ask? I love you.

DOROTHY. Yet I must tell you. Sit down. (_She picks up the necklace, and
stands looking at it. Then, breaking down._) O John, John, it's long
since I left home.

FENWICK. Too long, dear love. The very trees will welcome you.

DOROTHY. Ay, John, but I no longer love you. The old Dorothy is dead,
God pardon her!

FENWICK. Dorothy, who is the man?

DOROTHY. O poor Dorothy! O poor dead Dorothy! John, you found me
breaking this: me, your Diana of the Fells, the Diana of your old
romance by Edenside. Diana--O what a name for me! Do you see this
trinket? It is a chapter in my life. A chapter, do I say? my whole life,
for there is none to follow. John, you must bear with me, you must help
me. I have that to tell--there is a secret--I have a secret, John--O,
for God's sake, understand. That Diana you revered--O John, John, you
must never speak of love to me again.

FENWICK. What do you say? How dare you?

DOROTHY. John, it is the truth. Your Diana, even she, she whom you
believed in, she who so believed in herself, came out into the world
only to be broken. I met, here at the Wells, a man--why should I tell
you his name? I met him, and I loved him. My heart was all his own; yet
he was not content with that: he must intrigue to catch me, he must
bribe my maid with this. (_Throws the necklace on the table._) Did he
love me? Well, John, he said he did; and be it so! He loved, he
betrayed, and he has left me.

FENWICK. Betrayed?

DOROTHY. Ay, even so; I was betrayed. The fault was mine that I forgot
our innocent youth, and your honest love.

FENWICK. Dorothy, O Dorothy!

DOROTHY. Yours is the pain; but, O John, think it is for your good.
Think in England how many true maids may be waiting for your love, how
many that can bring you a whole heart, and be a noble mother to your
children, while your poor Diana, at the first touch, has proved all
frailty. Go, go and be happy, and let me be patient. I have sinned.

FENWICK. By God, I'll have his blood.

DOROTHY. Stop! I love him. (_Between FENWICK and door, C._)

FENWICK. What do I care? I loved you too. Little he thought of that,
little either of you thought of that. His blood--I'll have his blood!

DOROTHY. You shall never know his name.

FENWICK. Know it? Do you think I cannot guess? Do you think I had not
heard he followed you? Do you think I had not suffered--O, suffered!
George Austin is the man. Dear shall he pay it!

DOROTHY (_at his feet_). Pity me; spare me; spare your Dorothy! I love
him--love him--love him!

FENWICK. Dorothy, you have robbed me of my happiness, and now you would
rob me of my revenge.

DOROTHY. I know it; and shall I ask, and you not grant?

FENWICK (_raising her_). No, Dorothy, you shall ask nothing, nothing in
vain from me. You ask his life; I give it you, as I would give you my
soul; as I would give you my life, if I had any left. My life is done;
you have taken it. Not a hope, not an end; not even revenge. (_He
sits._) Dorothy, you see your work.

DOROTHY. O God, forgive me!

FENWICK. Ay, Dorothy, He will, as I do.

DOROTHY. As you do? Do you forgive me, John?

FENWICK. Ay, more than that, poor soul. I said my life was done, I was
wrong; I have still a duty. It is not in vain you taught me; I shall
still prove to you that it was not in vain. You shall soon find that I
am no backward friend. Farewell.




  MUSICAL INDUCTION: "The Lass of Richmond Hill"

  ACT II


  _The Stage represents George Austin's dressing-room. Elaborate
  toilet-table, R., with chair; a cheval-glass so arranged as to
  correspond with glass on table. Breakfast-table, L., front. Door, L.
  The Beau is discovered at table in dressing-gown, trifling with
  correspondence. MENTEITH is frothing chocolate_


  SCENE I

  AUSTIN, MENTEITH

MENTEITH. At the barber's, Mr. George, I had the pleasure of meeting two
of the Dook's gentlemen.

AUSTIN. Well, and was his Royal Highness satisfied with his quarters?

MENTEITH. Quite so, Mr. George. Delighted, I believe.

AUSTIN. I am rejoiced to hear it. I wish I could say I was as pleased
with my journey, Menteith. This is the first time I ever came to the
Wells in another person's carriage; Duke or not, it shall be the last,
Menteith.

MENTEITH. Ah, Mr. George, no wonder. And how many times have we made
that journey back and forth?

AUSTIN. Enough to make us older than we look.

MENTEITH. To be sure, Mr. George, you do wear well.

AUSTIN. _We_ wear well, Menteith.

MENTEITH. I hear, Mr. George, that Miss Musgrave is of the company.

AUSTIN. Is she so? Well, well! well, well!

MENTEITH. I've not seen the young lady myself, Mr. George; but the
barber tells me she's looking poorly.

AUSTIN. Poorly?

MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George, poorly was his word.

AUSTIN. Well, Menteith, I am truly sorry. She is not the first.

MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George.

(_A bell. MENTEITH goes out and re-enters with card._)

AUSTIN (_with card_). Whom have we here? Anthony Musgrave?

MENTEITH. A fine young man, Mr. George; and with a look of the young
lady, but not so gentlemanly.

AUSTIN. You have an eye, you have an eye. Let him in.


  SCENE II

  AUSTIN, MENTEITH, ANTHONY

AUSTIN. I am charmed to have this opportunity, Mr. Musgrave. You belong
to my old corps, I think? And how does my good friend, Sir Frederick? I
had his line; but, like all my old comrades, he thinks last about
himself, and gives me not of his news.

ANTHONY. I protest, sir, this is a very proud moment. Your name is still
remembered in the regiment. (_AUSTIN bows._) The Colonel--he keeps his
health, sir, considering his age (_AUSTIN bows again and looks at
MENTEITH_)--tells us young men you were a devil of a fellow in your
time.

AUSTIN. I believe I was--in my time. Menteith, give Mr. Musgrave a dish
of chocolate. So, sir, we see you at the Wells.

ANTHONY. I have but just alighted. I had but one thought, sir: to pay my
respects to Mr. Austin. I have not yet kissed my aunt and sister.

AUSTIN. In my time--to which you refer--the ladies had come first.

ANTHONY. The women? I take you, sir. But then, you see, a man's
relatives don't count. And besides, Mr. Austin, between men of the
world, I am fairly running away from the sex: I am positively in flight.
Little Hortense of the Opera; you know; she sent her love to you. She's
mad about me, I think. You never saw a creature so fond.

AUSTIN. Well, well, child! you are better here. In my time--to which you
have referred--I knew the lady. Does she wear well?

ANTHONY. I beg your pardon, sir!

AUSTIN. No offence, child, no offence. She was a very lively creature.
But you neglect your chocolate, I see?

ANTHONY. We don't patronise it, Mr. Austin; we haven't for some years:
the service has quite changed since your time. You'd be surprised.

AUSTIN. Doubtless. I am.

ANTHONY. I assure you, sir, I and Jack Bosbury of the Fifty-second----

AUSTIN. The Hampshire Bosburys?

ANTHONY. I do not know exactly, sir. I believe he is related.

AUSTIN. Or perhaps--I remember a Mr. Bosbury, a cutter of coats. I have
the vanity to believe I formed his business.

ANTHONY. I--I hope not, sir. But as I was saying, I and this Jack
Bosbury, and the Brummagem Bantam--a very pretty light-weight,
sir--drank seven bottles of Burgundy to the three of us inside the
eighty minutes. Jack, sir, was a little cut; but me and the Bantam went
out and finished the evening on hot gin. Life, sir, life! Tom Cribb was
with us. He spoke of you, too, Tom did: said you'd given him a wrinkle
for his second fight with the black man. No, sir, I assure you, you're
not forgotten.

AUSTIN (_bows_). I am pleased to learn it. In my time, I had an esteem
for Mr. Cribb.

ANTHONY. O come, sir! but your time cannot be said to be over.

AUSTIN. Menteith, you hear!

MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George.

ANTHONY. The Colonel told me that you liked to shake an elbow. Your big
main, sir, with Lord Wensleydale, is often talked about. I hope I may
have the occasion to sit down with you. I shall count it an honour, I
assure you.

AUSTIN. But would your aunt, my very good friend, approve?

ANTHONY. Why, sir, you do not suppose I am in leading-strings?

AUSTIN. You forget, child: a family must hang together. When I was
young--in my time--I was alone; and what I did concerned myself. But a
youth who has--as I think you have--a family of ladies to protect, must
watch his honour, child, and preserve his fortune.... You have no
commands from Sir Frederick?

ANTHONY. None, sir, none.

AUSTIN. Shall I find you this noon upon the Pantiles?... I shall be
charmed. Commend me to your aunt and your fair sister. Menteith?

MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George. (_Shows ANTHONY out._)


  SCENE III

  _AUSTIN, MENTEITH, returning_

AUSTIN. Was I ever like that, Menteith?

MENTEITH. No, Mr. George, you was always a gentleman.

AUSTIN. Youth, my good fellow, youth.

MENTEITH. Quite so, Mr. George.

AUSTIN. Well, Menteith, we cannot make nor mend. We cannot play the
jockey with Time. Age is the test; of wine, Menteith, and men.

MENTEITH. Me and you and the old Hermitage, Mr. George, he-he!

AUSTIN. And the best of these, the Hermitage. But come: we lose our day.
Help me off with this.

(_MENTEITH takes off AUSTIN'S dressing-gown; AUSTIN passes R. to
dressing-table, and takes up first cravat._)

AUSTIN. Will the hair do, Menteith?

MENTEITH. Never saw it lay better, Mr. George. (_AUSTIN proceeds to wind
first cravat. A bell: exit MENTEITH. AUSTIN drops first cravat in basket
and takes second._)

AUSTIN (_winding and singing_)--

       "I'd crowns resign
        To call her mine,
  Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!"

(_Second cravat a failure. Re-enter MENTEITH with card._) Fenwick? of
Allonby Shaw? A good family, Menteith, but I don't know the gentleman.
(_Lays down card, and takes up third cravat._) Send him away with every
consideration.

MENTEITH. To be sure, Mr. George. (_He goes out. Third cravat a success.
Re-enter MENTEITH._) He says, Mr. George, that he has an errand from
Miss Musgrave.

AUSTIN (_with waistcoat_). Show him in, Menteith, at once. (_Singing and
fitting waistcoat at glass_)--

       "I'd crowns resign
        To call her mine,
  Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!"


  SCENE IV

  _AUSTIN, R. To him, MENTEITH and FENWICK_

MENTEITH (_announcing_). Mr. Fenwick, Mr. George.

AUSTIN. At the name of Miss Musgrave, my doors fly always open.

FENWICK. I believe, sir, you are acquainted with my cousin, Richard
Gaunt?

AUSTIN. The county member? An old and good friend. But you need not go
so far afield: I know your good house of Allonby Shaw since the days of
the Black Knight. We are, in fact, and at a very royal distance,
cousins.

FENWICK. I desired, sir, from the nature of my business, that you should
recognise me for a gentleman.

AUSTIN. The preliminary, sir, is somewhat grave.

FENWICK. My business is both grave and delicate.

AUSTIN. Menteith, my good fellow. (_Exit MENTEITH._) Mr. Fenwick, honour
me so far as to be seated. (_They sit._) I await your pleasure.

FENWICK. Briefly, sir, I am come, not without hope, to appeal to your
good heart.

AUSTIN. From Miss Musgrave?

FENWICK. No, sir, I abused her name, and am here upon my own authority.
Upon me the consequence.

AUSTIN. Proceed.

FENWICK. Mr. Austin, Dorothy Musgrave is the oldest and dearest of my
friends; is the lady whom for ten years it has been my hope to make my
wife. She has shown me reason to discard that hope for another: that I
may call her Mrs. Austin.

AUSTIN. In the best interests of the lady (_rising_) I question if you
have been well inspired. You are aware, sir, that from such interference
there is but one issue: to whom shall I address my friend?

FENWICK. Mr. Austin, I am here to throw myself upon your mercy. Strange
as my errand is, it will seem yet more strange to you that I came
prepared to accept at your hands any extremity of dishonour and not
fight. The lady whom it is my boast to serve has honoured me with her
commands. These are my law, and by these your life is sacred.

AUSTIN. Then, sir (_with his hand upon the bell_), this conversation
becomes impossible. You have me at too gross a disadvantage; and, as you
are a gentleman and respect another, I would suggest that you retire.

FENWICK. Sir, you speak of disadvantage; think of mine. All my life
long, with all the forces of my nature, I have loved this lady. I came
here to implore her to be my wife, to be my queen; my saint she had been
always! She was too noble to deceive me. She told me what you know. I
will not conceal that my first mood was of anger: I would have killed
you like a dog. But, Mr. Austin--bear with me a while--I, on the
threshold of my life, who have made no figure in the world, nor ever
shall now, who had but one treasure, and have lost it--if I, abandoning
revenge, trampling upon jealousy, can supplicate you to complete my
misfortune--O Mr. Austin! you who have lived, you whose gallantry is
beyond the insolence of a suspicion, you who are a man crowned and
acclaimed, who are loved, and loved by such a woman--you who excel me in
every point of advantage, will you suffer me to surpass you in
generosity?

AUSTIN. You speak from the heart. (_Sits._) What do you want with me?

FENWICK. Marry her.

AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, I am the older man. I have seen much of life, much
of society, much of love. When I was young, it was expected of a
gentleman to be ready with his hat to a lady, ready with his sword to a
man; to honour his word and his king; to be courteous with his equals,
generous to his dependants, helpful and trusty in friendship. But it was
not asked of us to be quixotic. If I had married every lady by whom it
is my fortune--not my merit--to have been distinguished, the Wells would
scarce be spacious enough for my establishment. You see, sir, that while
I respect your emotion, I am myself conducted by experience. And
besides, Mr. Fenwick, is not love a warfare? has it not rules? have not
our fair antagonists their tactics, their weapons, their place of arms?
and is there not a touch of--pardon me the word! of silliness in one
who, having fought and having vanquished, sounds a parley, and
capitulates to his own prisoner? Had the lady chosen, had the fortune of
war been other, 'tis like she had been Mrs. Austin. Now!... You know the
world.

FENWICK. I know, sir, that the world contains much cowardice. To find
Mr. Austin afraid to do the right, this surprises me.

AUSTIN. Afraid, child?

FENWICK. Yes, sir, afraid. You know her, you know if she be worthy; and
you answer me with--the world: the world which has been at your feet:
the world which Mr. Austin knows so well how to value and is so able to
rule.

AUSTIN. I have lived long enough, Mr. Fenwick, to recognise that the
world is a great power. It can make; but it can break.

FENWICK. Sir, suffer me: you spoke but now of friendship, and spoke
warmly. Have you forgotten Colonel Villiers?

AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Fenwick, you forget what I have suffered.

FENWICK. O sir, I know you loved him. And yet, for a random word you
quarrelled; friendship was weighed in vain against the world's code of
honour; you fought, and your friend fell. I have heard from others how
he lay long in agony, and how you watched and nursed him, and it was in
your embrace he died. In God's name, have you forgotten that? Was not
this sacrifice enough, or must the world, once again, step between Mr.
Austin and his generous heart?

AUSTIN. Good God, sir, I believe you are in the right; I believe, upon
my soul I believe, there is something in what you say.

FENWICK. Something, Mr. Austin? O credit me, the whole difference
betwixt good and evil.

AUSTIN. Nay, nay, but there you go too far. There are many kinds of
good; honour is a diamond cut in a thousand facets, and with the true
fire in each. Thus, and with all our differences, Mr. Fenwick, you and I
can still respect, we can still admire each other.

FENWICK. Bear with me still, sir, if I ask you what is the end of life
but to excel in generosity? To pity the weak, to comfort the afflicted,
to right where we have wronged, to be brave in reparation--these noble
elements you have; for of what besides is the fabric of your dealing
with Colonel Villiers? That is man's chivalry to man. Yet to a suffering
woman--a woman feeble, betrayed, unconsoled--you deny your clemency, you
refuse your aid, you proffer injustice for atonement. Nay, you are so
disloyal to yourself that you can choose to be ungenerous and unkind.
Where, sir, is the honour? What facet of the diamond is that?

AUSTIN. You forget, sir, you forget. But go on.

FENWICK. O sir, not I--not I but yourself forgets: George Austin forgets
George Austin. A woman loved by him, betrayed by him, abandoned by
him--that woman suffers; and a point of honour keeps him from his place
at her feet. She has played and lost, and the world is with him if he
deign to exact the stakes. Is that the Mr. Austin whom Miss Musgrave
honoured with her trust? Then, sir, how miserably was she deceived!

AUSTIN. Child--child----

FENWICK. Mr. Austin, still bear with me, still follow me. O sir, will
you not picture that dear lady's life? Her years how few, her error thus
irreparable, what henceforth can be her portion but remorse, the
consciousness of self-abasement, the shame of knowing that her trust was
ill-bestowed? To think of it: this was a queen among women; and
this--this is George Austin's work! Sir, let me touch your heart: let me
prevail with you to feel that 'tis impossible.

AUSTIN. I am a gentleman. What do you ask of me?

FENWICK. To be the man she loved: to be clement where the world would
have you triumph, to be of equal generosity with the vanquished, to be
worthy of her sacrifice and of yourself.

AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, your reproof is harsh----

FENWICK (_interrupting him_). O sir, be just, be just!----

AUSTIN. But it is merited, and I thank you for its utterance. You tell
me that the true victory comes when the fight is won: that our foe is
never so noble nor so dangerous as when she is fallen, that the crowning
triumph is that we celebrate over our conquering selves. Sir, you are
right. Kindness, ay, kindness, after all. And with age, to become
clement. Yes, ambition first; then, the rounded vanity--victory still
novel; and last, as you say, the royal mood of the mature man; to
abdicate for others.... Sir, you touched me hard about my dead friend;
still harder about my living duty; and I am not so young but I can take
a lesson. There is my hand upon it: she shall be my wife.

FENWICK. Ah, Mr. Austin, I was sure of it.

AUSTIN. Then, sir, you were vastly mistaken. There is nothing of Beau
Austin here. I have simply, my dear child, sate at the feet of Mr.
Fenwick.

FENWICK. Ah, sir, your heart was counsellor enough.

AUSTIN. Pardon me. I am vain enough to be the judge: there are but two
people in the world who could have wrought this change: yourself and
that dear lady. (_Touches bell._) Suffer me to dismiss you. One instant
of toilet, and I follow. Will you do me the honour to go before, and
announce my approach? (_Enter MENTEITH._)

FENWICK. Sir, if my admiration----

AUSTIN. Dear child, the admiration is the other way. (_Embraces him.
MENTEITH shows him out._)


  SCENE V

AUSTIN. Upon my word, I think the world is getting better. We were none
of us young men like that--in my time--to quote my future brother. (_He
sits down before the mirror._) Well, here ends Beau Austin. Paris, Rome,
Vienna, London--victor everywhere: and now he must leave his bones in
Tunbridge Wells. (_Looks at his leg._) Poor Dolly Musgrave! a good girl
after all, and will make me a good wife; none better. The last--of how
many?--ay, and the best! Walks like Hebe. But still, here ends Beau
Austin. Perhaps it's time. Poor Dolly--was she looking poorly? She shall
have her wish. Well, we grow older, but we grow no worse.


  SCENE VI

  AUSTIN, MENTEITH

AUSTIN. Menteith, I am going to be married.

MENTEITH. Well, Mr. George, but I am pleased to hear it. Miss Musgrave
is a most elegant lady.

AUSTIN. Ay, Mr. Menteith; and who told you the lady's name?

MENTEITH. Mr. George, you was always a gentleman.

AUSTIN. You mean I wasn't always? Old boy, you are in the right. This
shall be a good change for both you and me. We have lived too long like
a brace of truants: now is the time to draw about the fire. How much is
left of the old Hermitage?

MENTEITH. Hard upon thirty dozen, Mr. George, and not a bad cork in the
bin.

AUSTIN. And a mistress, Menteith, that's worthy of that wine.

MENTEITH. Mr. George, sir, she's worthy of you.

AUSTIN. Gad, I believe it. (_Shakes hands with him._)

MENTEITH (_breaking down_). Mr. George, you've been a damned good master
to me, and I've been a damned good servant to you; we've been proud of
each other from the first; but if you'll excuse my plainness, Mr.
George, I never liked you better than to-day.

AUSTIN. Cheer up, old boy, the best is yet to come. Get out the tongs,
and curl me like a bridegroom. (_Sits before dressing-glass; MENTEITH
produces curling-irons and plies them. AUSTIN sings_)--

       "I'd crowns resign
        To call her mine,
  Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!"




  MUSICAL INDUCTION: The "Minuet" from _Don Giovanni_

  ACT III


  _The Stage represents MISS FOSTER'S lodging as in Act I_


  SCENE I

  _DOROTHY, R., at tambour; ANTHONY, C., bestriding chair; MISS FOSTER,
  L.C._

ANTHONY. Yes, ma'am, I like my regiment: we are all gentlemen, from old
Fred downwards, and all of a good family. Indeed, so are all my friends,
except one tailor sort of fellow, Bosbury. But I'm done with him. I
assure you, Aunt Evelina, we are Corinthian to the last degree. I
wouldn't shock you ladies for the world----

MISS FOSTER. Don't mind me, my dear; go on.

ANTHONY. Really, ma'am, you must pardon me: I trust I understand what
topics are to be avoided among females--and before my sister, too! A
girl of her age!

DOROTHY. Why, you dear, silly fellow, I'm old enough to be your mother.

ANTHONY. My dear Dolly, you do not understand; you are not a man of the
world. But, as I was going on to say, there is no more spicy regiment in
the service.

MISS FOSTER. I am not surprised that it maintains its old reputation.
You know, my dear (_to DOROTHY_), it was George Austin's regiment.

DOROTHY. Was it, aunt?

ANTHONY. Beau Austin? Yes, it was; and a precious dust they make about
him still--a parcel of old frumps! That's why I went to see him. But
he's quite extinct: he couldn't be Corinthian if he tried.

MISS FOSTER. I am afraid that even at your age George Austin held a very
different position from the distinguished Anthony Musgrave.

ANTHONY. Come, ma'am, I take that unkindly. Of course I know what you're
at: of course the old put cut no end of a dash with the Duchess.

MISS FOSTER. My dear child, I was thinking of no such thing; _that_ was
immoral.

ANTHONY. Then you mean that affair at Brighton: when he cut the Prince
about Perdita Robinson.

MISS FOSTER. No, I had forgotten it.

ANTHONY. O, well, I know--that duel! But look here, Aunt Evelina, I
don't think you'd be much gratified after all if I were to be broke for
killing my commanding officer about a quarrel at cards.

DOROTHY. Nobody asks you, Anthony, to imitate Mr. Austin. I trust you
will set yourself a better model. But you may choose a worse. With all
his faults, and all his enemies, Mr. Austin is a pattern gentleman. You
would not ask a man to be braver, and there are few so generous. I
cannot bear to hear him called in fault by one so young. Better judges,
dear, are better pleased.

ANTHONY. Hey-day! what's this?

MISS FOSTER. Why, Dolly, this is April and May. You surprise me.

DOROTHY. I am afraid, indeed, madam, that you have much to suffer from
my caprice. (_She goes out, L._)


  SCENE II

  ANTHONY, MISS FOSTER

ANTHONY. What is the meaning of all this, ma'am? I don't like it.

MISS FOSTER. Nothing, child, that I know. You spoke of Mr. Austin, our
dear friend, like a groom; and she, like any lady of taste, took arms in
his defence.

ANTHONY. No, ma'am, that won't do. I know the sex. You mark my words,
the girl has some confounded nonsense in her head, and wants looking
after.

MISS FOSTER. In my presence, Anthony, I shall ask you to speak of
Dorothy with greater respect. With your permission, your sister and I
will continue to direct our own affairs. When we require the
interference of so young and confident a champion, you shall know.
(_Curtsies, kisses her hand and goes out, L._)


  SCENE III

ANTHONY. Upon my word, I think Aunt Evelina one of the most uncivil old
women in the world. Nine weeks ago I came of age; and they still treat
me like a boy. I'm a recognised Corinthian, too: take my liquor with old
Fred, and go round with the Brummagem Bantam and Jack Bosb----.... O,
damn Jack Bosbury. If his father was a tailor, he shall fight me for his
ungentlemanly conduct. However, that's all one. What I want is to make
Aunt Evelina understand that I'm not the man to be put down by an old
maid who's been brought up in a work-basket, begad! I've had nothing but
rebuffs all day. It's very remarkable. There was that man Austin, to
begin with. I'll be hanged if I can stand him. I hear too much of him;
and if I can only get a good excuse to put him to the door, I believe
it would give Dorothy and all of us a kind of a position. After all,
he's not a man to visit in the house of ladies: not when I'm away, at
least. Nothing in it, of course; but is he a man whose visits I can
sanction?


  SCENE IV

  ANTHONY, BARBARA

BARBARA. Please, Mr. Anthony, Miss Foster said I was to show your room.

ANTHONY. Ah! Baby? Now, you come here. You're a girl of sense, I know.

BARBARA. La, Mr. Anthony, I hope I'm nothing of the kind.

ANTHONY. Come, come! that's not the tone I want: I'm serious. Does this
man Austin come much about the house?

BARBARA. O Mr. Anthony, for shame! Why don't you ask Miss Foster?

ANTHONY. Now I wish you to understand: I'm the head of this family. It's
my business to look after my sister's reputation, and my aunt's too,
begad! That's what I'm here for: I'm their natural protector. And what I
want you, Barbara Ridley, to understand--you whose fathers have served
my fathers--is just simply this: if you've any common gratitude, you're
bound to help me in the work. Now, Barbara, you know me, and you know my
Aunt Evelina. She's a good enough woman; I'm the first to say so. But
who is she to take care of a young girl? She's ignorant of the world to
that degree she believes in Beau Austin! Now you and I, Bab, who are not
so high and dry, see through and through him; we know that a man like
that is no fit company for any inexperienced girl.

BARBARA. O Mr. Anthony, don't say that. (_Weeping._)

ANTHONY. Hullo! what's wrong?

BARBARA. Nothing that I know of. O Mr. Anthony, I don't think there can
be anything.

ANTHONY. Think? Don't think? What's this?

BARBARA. O sir! I don't know, and yet I don't like it. Here's my
beautiful necklace all broke to bits: she took it off my very neck, and
gave me her birthday pearls instead; and I found it afterwards on the
table, all smashed to pieces; and all she wanted it for was to take and
break it. Why that? It frightens me, Mr. Anthony, it frightens me.

ANTHONY (_with necklace_). This? What has this trumpery to do with us?

BARBARA. He gave it me: that's why she broke it.

ANTHONY. He? Who?

BARBARA. Mr. Austin did; and I do believe I should not have taken it,
Mr. Anthony, but I thought no harm, upon my word of honour. He was
always here; that was six months ago; and indeed, indeed, I thought they
were to marry. How would I think else with a born lady like Miss
Dorothy?

ANTHONY. Why, Barbara, God help us all, what's this? You don't mean to
say that there was----

BARBARA. Here it is, as true as true: they were going for a jaunt; and
Miss Foster had her gout; and I was to go with them; and he told me to
make-believe I was ill; and I did; and I stayed at home; and he gave me
that necklace; and they went away together; and, O dear! I wish I'd
never been born.

ANTHONY. Together? he and Dolly? Good Lord! my sister! And since then?

BARBARA. We haven't seen him from that day to this, the wicked villain;
and, Mr. Anthony, he hasn't so much as written the poor dear a word.

ANTHONY. Bab, Bab, Bab, this is a devil of a bad business; this is a
cruel, bad business, Baby; cruel upon me, cruel upon all of us; a
family like mine. I'm a young man, Barbara, to have this delicate affair
to manage; but, thank God, I'm Musgrave to the bone. He bribed a
servant-maid, did he? I keep his bribe; it's mine now: dear bought, by
George! He shall have it in his teeth. Shot Colonel Villiers, did he?
we'll see how he faces Anthony Musgrave. You're a good girl, Barbara; so
far you've served the family. You leave this to me. And, hark ye, dry
your eyes and hold your tongue: I'll have no scandal raised by you.

BARBARA. I do hope, sir, you won't use me against Miss Dorothy.

ANTHONY. That's my affair; your business is to hold your tongue. Miss
Dorothy has made her bed and must lie on it. Here's Jack Fenwick. You
can go.


  SCENE V

  ANTHONY, FENWICK

ANTHONY. Jack Fenwick, is that you? Come here, my boy. Jack, you've
given me many a thrashing, and I deserved 'em; and I'll not see you made
a fool of now. George Austin is a damned villain, and Dorothy Musgrave
is no girl for you to marry: God help me that I should have to say it.

FENWICK. Good God, who told _you_?

ANTHONY. Ay, Jack; it's hard on me, Jack. But you'll stand my friend in
spite of this, and you'll take my message to the man, won't you? For
it's got to come to blood, Jack: there's no way out of that. And perhaps
your poor friend will fall, Jack; think of that: like Villiers. And all
for an unworthy sister.

FENWICK. Now, Anthony Musgrave, I give you fair warning; see you take
it: one more word against your sister, and we quarrel.

ANTHONY. You let it slip yourself, Jack: you know yourself she's not a
virtuous girl.

FENWICK. What do you know of virtue, whose whole boast is to be vicious?
How dare you draw conclusions? Dolt and puppy! you can no more
comprehend that angel's excellences than she can stoop to believe in
your vices. And you talk morality? Anthony, I'm a man who has been
somewhat roughly tried: take care.

ANTHONY. You don't seem able to grasp the situation, Jack. It's very
remarkable; I'm the girl's natural protector; and you should buckle-to
and help, like a friend of the family. And instead of that, begad! you
turn on me like all the rest.

FENWICK. Now mark me fairly: Mr. Austin follows at my heels; he comes to
offer marriage to your sister--that is all you know, and all you shall
know; and if by any misplaced insolence of yours this marriage should
miscarry, you have to answer, not to Mr. Austin only, but to me.

ANTHONY. It's all a most discreditable business, and I don't see how you
propose to better it by cutting my throat. Of course, if he's going to
marry her, it's a different thing, but I don't believe he is, or he'd
have asked me. You think me a fool? Well, see they marry, or they'll
find me a dangerous fool.


  SCENE VI

  _To these, AUSTIN, BARBARA announcing_

BARBARA. Mr. Austin. (_She shows AUSTIN in, and retires._)

AUSTIN. You will do me the justice to acknowledge, Mr. Fenwick, that I
have been not long delayed by my devotion to the Graces.

ANTHONY. So, sir, I find you in my house----

AUSTIN. And charmed to meet you again. It went against my conscience to
separate so soon. Youth, Mr. Musgrave, is to us older men a perpetual
refreshment.

ANTHONY. You came here, sir, I suppose, upon some errand?

AUSTIN. My errand, Mr. Musgrave, is to your fair sister. Beauty, as you
know, comes before valour.

ANTHONY. In my own house, and about my own sister, I presume I have the
right to ask for something more explicit.

AUSTIN. The right, my dear sir, is beyond question; but it is one, as
you were going on to observe, on which no gentleman insists.

FENWICK. Anthony, my good fellow, I think we had better go.

ANTHONY. I have asked a question.

AUSTIN. Which I was charmed to answer, but which, on repetition, might
begin to grow distasteful.

ANTHONY. In my own house----

FENWICK. For God's sake, Anthony!

AUSTIN. In your aunt's house, young gentleman, I shall be careful to
refrain from criticism. I am come upon a visit to a lady: that visit I
shall pay; when you desire (if it be possible that you desire it) to
resume this singular conversation, select some fitter place. Mr.
Fenwick, this afternoon, may I present you to his Royal Highness?

ANTHONY. Why, sir, I believe you must have misconceived me. I have no
wish to offend: at least at present.

AUSTIN. Enough, sir. I was persuaded I had heard amiss. I trust we shall
be friends.

FENWICK. Come, Anthony, come: here is your sister. (_As FENWICK and
ANTHONY go out, C., enter DOROTHY, L._)


  SCENE VII

  AUSTIN, DOROTHY

DOROTHY. I am told, Mr. Austin, that you wish to see me.

AUSTIN. Madam, can you doubt of that desire? can you question my
sincerity?

DOROTHY. Sir, between you and me these compliments are worse than idle:
they are unkind. Sure, we are alone!

AUSTIN. I find you in an hour of cruelty, I fear. Yet you have
condescended to receive this poor offender; and, having done so much,
you will not refuse to give him audience.

DOROTHY. You shall have no cause, sir, to complain of me. I listen.

AUSTIN. My fair friend, I have sent myself--a poor ambassador--to plead
for your forgiveness. I have been too long absent; too long, I would
fain hope, madam, for you; too long for my honour and my love. I am no
longer, madam, in my first youth; but I may say that I am not unknown.
My fortune, originally small, has not suffered from my husbandry. I have
excellent health, an excellent temper, and the purest ardour of
affection for your person. I found not on my merits, but on your
indulgence. Miss Musgrave, will you honour me with your hand in
marriage?

DOROTHY. Mr. Austin, if I thought basely of marriage, I should perhaps
accept your offer. There was a time, indeed, when it would have made me
proudest among women. I was the more deceived, and have to thank you for
a salutary lesson. You chose to count me as a cipher in your rolls of
conquest; for six months you left me to my fate; and you come here
to-day--prompted, I doubt not, by an honourable impulse--to offer this
tardy reparation. No; it is too late.

AUSTIN. Do you refuse?

DOROTHY. Yours is the blame; we are no longer equal. You have robbed me
of the right to marry any one but you; and do you think me, then, so
poor in spirit as to accept a husband on compulsion?

AUSTIN. Dorothy, you loved me once.

DOROTHY. Ay, you will never guess how much: you will never live to
understand how ignominious a defeat that conquest was. I loved and
trusted you: I judged you by myself; think, then, of my humiliation,
when, at the touch of trial, all your qualities proved false, and I
beheld you the slave of the meanest vanity--selfish, untrue, base!
Think, sir, what a humbling of my pride to have been thus deceived; to
have taken for my idol such a commonplace imposture as yourself; to have
loved--yes, loved--such a shadow, such a mockery of man. And now I am
unworthy to be the wife of any gentleman; and you--look me in the face,
George--are you worthy to be my husband?

AUSTIN. No, Dorothy, I am not. I was a vain fool; I blundered away the
most precious opportunity; and my regret will be lifelong. Do me the
justice to accept this full confession of my fault. I am here to-day to
own and to repair it.

DOROTHY. Repair it? Sir, you condescend too far.

AUSTIN. I perceive with shame how grievously I had misjudged you. But
now, Dorothy, believe me, my eyes are opened. I plead with you, not as
my equal, but as one in all ways better than myself. I admire you, not
in that trivial sense in which we men are wont to speak of women, but as
God's work: as a wise mind, a noble soul, and a most generous heart,
from whose society I have all to gain, all to learn. Dorothy, in one
word, I love you.

DOROTHY. And what, sir, has wrought this transformation? You knew me of
old, or thought you knew me? Is it in six months of selfish absence that
your mind has changed? When did that change begin? A week ago? Sure,
you would have written! To-day? Sir, if this offer be anything more than
fresh offence, I have a right to be enlightened.

AUSTIN. Madam, I foresaw this question. So be it: I respect, and I will
not deceive you. But give me, first of all, a moment for defence. There
are few men of my habits and position who would have done as I have
done: sate at the feet of a young boy, accepted his lessons, gone upon
his errand: fewer still, who would thus, at the crisis of a love, risk
the whole fortune of the soul--love, gratitude, even respect. Yet more
than that! For conceive how I respect you, if I, whose lifelong trade
has been flattery, stand before you and make the plain confession of a
truth that must not only lower me, but deeply wound yourself.

DOROTHY. What means----?

AUSTIN. Young Fenwick, my rival for your heart, he it was that sent me.

DOROTHY. He? O disgrace! He sent you! That was what he meant? Am I
fallen so low? Am I your common talk among men? Did you dice for me? Did
he kneel? O John, John, how could you! And you, Mr. Austin, whither have
you brought me down? shame heaping upon shame--to what end! O, to what
end?

AUSTIN. Madam, you wound me: you look wilfully amiss. Sure, any lady in
the land might well be proud to be loved as you are loved, with such
nobility as Mr. Fenwick's, with such humility as mine. I came, indeed,
in pity, in good-nature, what you will. (See, dearest lady, with what
honesty I speak: if I win you, it shall be with the unblemished truth.)
All that is gone. Pity? it is myself I pity. I offer you not love--I am
not worthy. I ask, I beseech of you: suffer me to wait upon you like a
servant, to serve you with my rank, my name, the whole devotion of my
life. I am a gentleman--ay, in spite of my fault--an upright gentleman;
and I swear to you that you shall order your life and mine at your free
will. Dorothy, at your feet, in remorse, in respect, in love--O such
love as I have never felt, such love as I derided--I implore, I conjure
you to be mine!

DOROTHY. Too late! too late.

AUSTIN. No, no; not too late: not too late for penitence, not too late
for love.

DOROTHY. Which do you propose? that I should abuse your compassion, or
reward your treachery? George Austin, I have been your mistress, and I
will never be your wife.

AUSTIN. Child, dear child, I have not told you all: there is worse
still: your brother knows; the boy as good as told me. Dorothy, this is
scandal at the door--O let that move you: for that, if not for my sake,
for that, if not for love, trust me, trust me again.

DOROTHY. I am so much the more your victim: that is all, and shall that
change my heart? The sin must have its wages. This, too, was done long
ago: when you stooped to lie to me. The shame is still mine, the fault
still yours.

AUSTIN. Child, child, you kill me: you will not understand. Can you not
see? the lad will force me to a duel.

DOROTHY. And you will kill him? Shame after shame, threat upon threat.
Marry me, or you are dishonoured; marry me, or your brother dies: and
this is man's honour! But my honour and my pride are different. I will
encounter all misfortune sooner than degrade myself by an unfaithful
marriage. How should I kneel before the altar, and vow to reverence as
my husband you, you who deceived me as my lover?

AUSTIN. Dorothy, you misjudge me cruelly; I have deserved it. You will
not take me for your husband; why should I wonder? You are right. I have
indeed filled your life with calamity: the wages, ay, the wages, of my
sin are heavy upon you. But I have one more thing to ask of your pity;
and O remember, child, who it is that asks it: a man guilty in your
sight, void of excuse, but old, and very proud, and most unused to
supplication. Dorothy Musgrave, will you forgive George Austin?

DOROTHY. O George!

AUSTIN. It is the old name: that is all I ask, and more than I deserve.
I shall remember, often remember, how and where it was bestowed upon me
for the last time. I thank you, Dorothy, from my heart; a heart, child,
that has been too long silent, but is not too old, I thank God! not yet
too old to learn a lesson and to accept a reproof. I will not keep you
longer: I will go--I am so bankrupt in credit that I dare not ask you to
believe in how much sorrow. But, Dorothy, my acts will speak for me with
more persuasion. If it be in my power, you shall suffer no more through
me: I will avoid your brother; I will leave this place, I will leave
England, to-morrow; you shall be no longer tortured with the
neighbourhood of your ungenerous lover. Dorothy, farewell!


  SCENE VIII

  _DOROTHY; to whom, ANTHONY, L._

DOROTHY (_on her knees and reaching with her hands_). George, George!
(_Enter ANTHONY._)

ANTHONY. Ha! what are you crying for?

DOROTHY. Nothing, dear. (_Rising._)

ANTHONY. Is Austin going to marry you?

DOROTHY. I shall never marry.

ANTHONY. I thought as much. You should have come to me.

DOROTHY. I know, dear, I know; but there was nothing to come about.

ANTHONY. It's a lie. You have disgraced the family. You went to John
Fenwick: see what he has made of it. But I will have you righted: it
shall be atoned in the man's blood.

DOROTHY. Anthony! And if I had refused him?

ANTHONY. You? refuse George Austin? You never had the chance.

DOROTHY. I have refused him.

ANTHONY. Dorothy, you lie. You would shield your lover; but this
concerns not you only: it strikes my honour and my father's honour.

DOROTHY. I have refused him--refused him, I tell you--refused him. The
blame is mine; are you so mad and wicked that you will not see?

ANTHONY. I see this: that man must die.

DOROTHY. He? never! You forget, you forget whom you defy; you run upon
your death.

ANTHONY. Ah, my girl, you should have thought of that before. It is too
late now.

DOROTHY. Anthony, if I beg you--Anthony, I have tried to be a good
sister; I brought you up, dear, nursed you when you were sick, fought
for you, hoped for you, loved you--think of it, think of the dear past,
think of our home and the happy winter nights, the castles in the fire,
the long shining future, the love that was to forgive and suffer
always--O you will spare, you will spare me this.

ANTHONY. I will tell you what I will do, Dolly: I will do just what you
taught me--my duty: that, and nothing else.

DOROTHY. O Anthony, you also, you to strike me! Heavens, shall I kill
them--I--I, that love them, kill them! Miserable, sinful girl! George,
George, thank God, you will be far away! O go, George, go at once!

ANTHONY. He goes, the coward! Ay, is this more of your contrivance?
Madam, you make me blush. But to-day at least I know where I can find
him. This afternoon, on the Pantiles, he must dance attendance on the
Duke of York. Already he must be there; and there he is at my mercy.

DOROTHY. Thank God, you are deceived: he will not fight. He promised me
that; thank God, I have his promise for that.

ANTHONY. Promise! Do you see this? (_producing necklace_) the thing he
bribed your maid with? I shall dash it in his teeth before the Duke and
before all Tunbridge. Promise, you poor fool? what promise holds against
a blow? Get to your knees and pray for him; for, by the God above, if he
has any blood in his body, one of us shall die before to-night. (_He
goes out._)

DOROTHY. Anthony, Anthony!... O my God, George will kill him.


  (MUSIC: "Chè farò" as the drop falls.)




  MUSICAL INDUCTION: "Gavotte," _Iphigénie en Aulide_, GLUCK

  ACT IV


  _The Stage represents the Pantiles: the alleys fronting the spectators
  in parallel lines. At the back, a stand of musicians, from which the
  "Gavotte" is repeated on muted strings. The music continues nearly
  through Scene I. Visitors walking to and fro beneath the limes. A seat
  in front, L._


  SCENE I

  _MISS FOSTER, BARBARA, MENTEITH; Visitors_

MISS FOSTER (_entering; escorted by MENTEITH, and followed by BARBARA_).
And so, Menteith, here you are once more. And vastly pleased I am to see
you, my good fellow, not only for your own sake, but because you
harbinger the Beau. (_Sits, L., MENTEITH standing over her._)

MENTEITH. Honoured madam, I have had the pleasure to serve Mr. George
for more than thirty years. This is a privilege--a very great privilege.
I have beheld him in the first societies, moving among the first rank of
personages; and none, madam, none outshone him.

BARBARA. I assure you, madam, when Mr. Menteith took me to the play, he
talked so much of Mr. Austin that I couldn't hear a word of Mr. Kean.

MISS FOSTER. Well, well, and very right. That was the old school of
service, Barbara, which you would do well to imitate.--This is a child,
Menteith, that I am trying to form.

MENTEITH. Quite so, madam.

MISS FOSTER. And are we soon to see our princely guest, Menteith?

MENTEITH. His Royal Highness, madam? I believe I may say quite so. Mr.
George will receive our gallant prince upon the Pantiles (_looking at
his watch_) in, I should say, a matter of twelve minutes from now. Such,
madam, is Mr. George's order of the day.

BARBARA. I beg your pardon, madam, I am sure, but are we really to see
one of His Majesty's own brothers? That will be pure! O madam, this is
better than Carlisle.

MISS FOSTER. The wood-note wild: a loyal Cumbrian, Menteith.

MENTEITH. Eh? Quite so, madam.

MISS FOSTER. When she has seen as much of the Royal Family as you, my
good fellow, she will find it vastly less entertaining.

MENTEITH. Yes, madam, indeed; in these distinguished circles life is but
a slavery. None of the best set would relish Tunbridge without Mr.
George; Tunbridge and Mr. George (if you'll excuse my plainness, madam)
are in a manner of speaking identified; and indeed it was the Dook's
desire alone that brought us here.

BARBARA. What? the Duke? O dear! was it for that?

MENTEITH. Though, to be sure, madam, Mr. George would always be charmed
to find himself (_bowing_) among so many admired members of his own set.

MISS FOSTER. Upon my word, Menteith, Mr. Austin is as fortunate in his
servant as his reputation.

MENTEITH. Quite so, madam. But let me observe that the opportunities I
have had of acquiring a knowledge of Mr. George's character have been
positively unrivalled. Nobody knows Mr. George like his old attendant.
The goodness of that gentleman--but, madam, you will soon be equally
fortunate, if, as I understand, it is to be a match.

MISS FOSTER. I hope, Menteith, you are not taking leave of your senses.
Is it possible you mean my niece?

MENTEITH. Madam, I have the honour to congratulate you. I put a second
curl in Mr. George's hair on purpose.


  SCENE II

  _To these, AUSTIN. MENTEITH falls back, and AUSTIN takes his place in
  front of MISS FOSTER, his attitude a counterpart of MENTEITH'S_

AUSTIN. Madam, I hasten to present my homage.

MISS FOSTER. A truce to compliments; Menteith, your charming fellow
there, has set me positively crazy. Dear George Austin, is it true? Can
it be true?

AUSTIN. Madam, if he has been praising your niece he has been well
inspired. If he was speaking, as I spoke an hour ago myself, I wish,
Miss Foster, that he had held his tongue. I have indeed offered myself
to Miss Dorothy, and she, with the most excellent reason, has refused
me.

MISS FOSTER. Is it possible? why, my dear George Austin, ... then I
suppose it is John Fenwick after all?

AUSTIN. Not one of us is worthy.

MISS FOSTER. This is the most amazing circumstance. You take my breath
away. My niece refuse George Austin? why, I give you my word, I thought
she had adored you. A perfect scandal: it positively must not get
abroad.

AUSTIN. Madam, for that young lady I have a singular regard. Judge me as
tenderly as you can, and set it down, if you must, to an old man's
vanity--for, Evelina, we are no longer in the heyday of our youth--judge
me as you will: I should prefer to have it known.

MISS FOSTER. Can you? George Austin, you? My youth was nothing; I was a
failure; but for you? no, George, you never can, you never must be old.
You are the triumph of my generation, George, and of our old friendship
too. Think of my first dance and my first partner. And to have this
story--no, I could not bear to have it told of you.

AUSTIN. Madam, there are some ladies over whom it is a boast to have
prevailed; there are others whom it is a glory to have loved. And I am
so vain, dear Evelina, that even thus I am proud to link my name with
that of Dorothy Musgrave.

MISS FOSTER. George, you are changed. I would not know you.

AUSTIN. I scarce know myself. But pardon me, dear friend (_taking out
his watch_), in less than four minutes our illustrious guest will
descend amongst us; and I observe Mr. Fenwick, with whom I have a
pressing business. Suffer me, dear Evelina!----


  SCENE III

  _To these, FENWICK. MISS FOSTER remains seated, L. AUSTIN goes R. to
  FENWICK, whom he salutes with great respect_

AUSTIN. Mr. Fenwick, I have played and lost. That noble lady, justly
incensed at my misconduct, has condemned me. Under the burden of such a
loss, may I console myself with the esteem of Mr. Fenwick?

FENWICK. She refused you? Pardon me, sir, but was the fault not yours?

AUSTIN. Perhaps to my shame, I am no novice, Mr. Fenwick; but I have
never felt nor striven as to-day. I went upon your errand; but, you may
trust me, sir, before I had done I found it was my own. Until to-day I
never rightly valued her; sure, she is fit to be a queen. I have a
remorse here at my heart to which I am a stranger. O! that was a brave
life, that was a great heart that I have ruined.

FENWICK. Ay, sir, indeed.

AUSTIN. But, sir, it is not to lament the irretrievable that I intrude
myself upon your leisure. There is something to be done, to save, at
least to spare, that lady. You did not fail to observe the brother?

FENWICK. No, sir, he knows all; and being both intemperate and
ignorant----

AUSTIN. Surely. I know. I have to ask you then to find what friends you
can among this company; and if you have none, to make them. Let
everybody hear the news. Tell it (if I may offer the suggestion) with
humour: how Mr. Austin, somewhat upon the wane, but still filled with
sufficiency, gloriously presumed and was most ingloriously set down by a
young lady from the north: the lady's name a secret, which you will
permit to be divined. The laugh--the position of the hero--will make it
circulate;--you perceive I am in earnest;--and in this way I believe our
young friend will find himself forestalled.

FENWICK. Mr. Austin, I would not have dared to ask so much of you; I
will go further: were the positions changed, I should fear to follow
your example.

AUSTIN. Child, child, you could not afford it.


  SCENE IV

  _To these, the ROYAL DUKE, C.; then, immediately, ANTHONY, L. FENWICK
  crosses to MISS FOSTER, R. AUSTIN accosts the DUKE, C., in dumb show;
  the muted strings take up a new air, Mozart's "Anglaise"; couples
  passing under the limes, and forming a group behind AUSTIN and the
  DUKE. ANTHONY in front, L., watches AUSTIN, who, as he turns from the
  Duke, sees him, and comes forward with extended hand_

AUSTIN. Dear child, let me present you to his Royal Highness.

ANTHONY (_with necklace_). Mr. Austin, do you recognise the bribe you
gave my sister's maid?

AUSTIN. Hush, sir, hush! you forget the presence of the Duke.

ANTHONY. Mr. Austin, you are a coward and a scoundrel.

AUSTIN. My child, you will regret these words: I refuse your quarrel.

ANTHONY. You do? Take that. (_He strikes AUSTIN on the mouth. At the
moment of the blow----_)


  SCENE V

  _To these, DOROTHY, L. U. E. DOROTHY, unseen by AUSTIN, shrieks.
  Sensation. Music stops. Tableau_

AUSTIN (_recovering his composure_). Your Royal Highness, suffer me to
excuse the disrespect of this young gentleman. He has so much apology,
and I have, I hope, so good a credit, as incline me to accept this blow.
But I must beg of your Highness, and, gentlemen, all of you here
present, to bear with me while I will explain what is too capable of
misconstruction. I am the rejected suitor of this young gentleman's
sister; of Miss Dorothy Musgrave: a lady whom I singularly honour and
esteem; a word from whom (if I could hope that word) would fill my life
with happiness. I was not worthy of that lady; when I was defeated in
fair field, I presumed to make advances through her maid. See in how
laughable a manner fate repaid me! The waiting-girl derided, the
mistress denied, and now comes in this very ardent champion who publicly
insults me. My vanity is cured; you will judge it right, I am persuaded,
all of you, that I should accept my proper punishment in silence; you,
my Lord Duke, to pardon this young gentleman; and you, Mr. Musgrave, to
spare me further provocation, which I am determined to ignore.

DOROTHY (_rushing forward, falling at AUSTIN'S knees, and seizing his
hand_). George, George, it was for me. My hero! take me! What you will!

AUSTIN (_in an agony_). My dear creature, remember that we are in
public. (_Raising her._) Your Royal Highness, may I present you Mrs.
George Frederick Austin? (_The curtain falls on a few bars of "The Lass
of Richmond Hill."_)




ADMIRAL GUINEA




           DEDICATED
  WITH AFFECTION AND ESTEEM TO

          ANDREW LANG

      BY THE SURVIVORS OF
         THE _WALRUS_


SAVANNAH, _this 27th day of
   September, 1884_




  PERSONS REPRESENTED

  JOHN GAUNT, called "ADMIRAL GUINEA," once Captain of the Slaver
    _Arethusa_

  ARETHUSA GAUNT, his Daughter

  DAVID PEW, a Blind Beggar, once Boatswain of the _Arethusa_

  KIT FRENCH, a Privateersman

  MRS. DRAKE, Landlady of the "Admiral Benbow" Inn

The Scene is laid in the neighbourhood of Barnstaple. The Time is about
the year 1760. The Action occupies part of a day and night

NOTE.--_Passages suggested for omission in representation are enclosed
in parentheses, thus_ ( )





ADMIRAL GUINEA




  ACT I

  _The Stage represents a room in Admiral Guinea's house: fireplace,
  arm-chair, and table with Bible, L., towards the front; door C., with
  window on each side, the window on the R. practicable; doors R. and
  L., back; corner cupboard, a brass-strapped sea-chest fixed to the
  wall and floor, R.; cutlasses, telescopes, sextant, quadrant, a
  calendar, and several maps upon the wall; a ship clock; three wooden
  chairs; a dresser against wall, R.C.; on the chimney-piece the model
  of a brig and several shells. The centre bare of furniture. Through
  the windows and the door, which is open, green trees and a small field
  of sea_


  SCENE I

  _ARETHUSA is discovered, dusting_

ARETHUSA. Ten months and a week to-day! Now for a new mark. Since the
last, the sun has set and risen over the fields and the pleasant trees
at home, and on Kit's lone ship and the empty sea. Perhaps it blew,
perhaps rained; (_at the chart_) perhaps he was far up here to the
nor'ard, where the icebergs sail; perhaps at anchor among these wild
islands of the snakes and buccaneers. O, you big chart, if I could see
him sailing on you! North and South Atlantic; such a weary sight of
water and no land; never an island for the poor lad to land upon. But
still God's there. (_She takes down the telescope to dust it._) Father's
spy-glass again; and my poor Kit perhaps with such another, sweeping the
great deep!


  SCENE II

  _ARETHUSA; to her, KIT, C. He enters on tiptoe, and she does not see
  or hear him._

ARETHUSA (_dusting telescope_). At sea they have less dust at least:
that's so much comfort.

KIT. Sweetheart, ahoy!

ARETHUSA. Kit!

KIT. Arethusa!

ARETHUSA. My Kit! Home again--O my love!--home again to me!

KIT. As straight as wind and tide could carry me!

ARETHUSA. O Kit, my dearest. O Kit--O! O!

KIT. Hey? Steady, lass: steady, I say. For goodness' sake, ease it off.

ARETHUSA. I will, Kit--I will. But you came so sudden.

KIT. I thought ten months of it about preparation enough.

ARETHUSA. Ten months and a week; you haven't counted the days as I have.
Another day gone, and one day nearer to Kit: that has been my almanac.
How brown you are! how handsome!

KIT. A pity you can't see yourself! Well, no, I'll never be handsome:
brown I may be, never handsome. But I'm better than that, if the
proverb's true; for I'm ten hundred thousand fathoms deep in love. I
bring you a faithful sailor. What! you don't think much of that for a
curiosity? Well, that's so: you're right; the rarity is in the girl
that's worth it ten times over. Faithful? I couldn't help it if I tried!
No, sweetheart, and I fear nothing: I don't know what fear is, but just
of losing you. (_Starting._) Lord, that's not the Admiral?

ARETHUSA. Aha, Mr. Dreadnought! you see you fear my father.

KIT. That I do. But, thank goodness, it's nobody. Kiss me: no, I won't
kiss you: kiss _me_. I'll give you a present for that. See!

ARETHUSA. A wedding-ring!

KIT. My mother's. Will you take it?

ARETHUSA. Yes, will I--and give myself for it.

KIT. Ah, if we could only count upon your father! He's a man every inch
of him; but he can't endure Kit French.

ARETHUSA. He hasn't learned to know you, Kit, as I have, nor yet do you
know him. He seems hard and violent; at heart he is only a man
overwhelmed with sorrow. Why else, when he looks at me and does not know
that I observe him, should his face change, and fill with such
tenderness, that I could weep to see him? Why, when he walks in his
sleep, as he does almost every night, his eyes open and beholding
nothing, why should he cry so pitifully on my mother's name? Ah, if you
could hear him then, you would say yourself: Here is a man that has
loved; here is a man that will be kind to lovers.

KIT. Is that so? Ay, it's a hard thing to lose your wife; ay, that must
cut the heart indeed. But for all that, my lass, your father is keen for
the doubloons.

ARETHUSA. Right, Kit: and small blame to him. There is only one way to
be honest, and the name of that is thrift.

KIT. Well, and that's my motto. I've left the ship; no more letters of
marque for me. Good-bye to Kit French, privateersman's mate; and
how-d'ye-do to Christopher, the coasting skipper. I've seen the very
boat for me: I've enough to buy her, too; and to furnish a good house,
and keep a shot in the locker for bad luck. So far, there's nothing to
gainsay. So far it's hopeful enough; but still there's Admiral Guinea,
you know--and the plain truth is that I'm afraid of him.

ARETHUSA. Admiral Guinea? Now, Kit, if you are to be true lover of
mine, you shall not use that name. His name is Captain Gaunt. As for
fearing him, Kit French, you're not the man for me, if you fear anything
but sin. He's a stern man because he's in the right.

KIT. He is a man of God; I am what he calls a child of perdition. I was
a privateersman--serving my country, I say; but he calls it pirate. He
is thrifty and sober; he has a treasure, they say, and it lies so near
his heart that he tumbles up in his sleep to stand watch over it. What
has a harum-scarum dog like me to expect from a man like him? He won't
see I'm starving for a chance to mend. "Mend," he'll say; "I'll be shot
if you mend at the expense of my daughter"; and the worst of it is, you
see, he'll be right.

ARETHUSA. Kit, if you dare to say that faint-hearted word again, I'll
take my ring off. What are we for but to grow better or grow worse? Do
you think Arethusa French will be the same as Arethusa Gaunt?

KIT. I don't want her better.

ARETHUSA. Ah, but she shall be!

KIT. Hark, here he is! By George, it's neck or nothing now. Stand by to
back me up.


  SCENE III

  _To these, GAUNT, C._

KIT (_with ARETHUSA'S hand_). Captain Gaunt, I have come to ask you for
your daughter.

GAUNT. Hum. (_He sits in his chair, L._)

KIT. I love her, and she loves me, sir. I've left the privateering. I've
enough to set me up and buy a tidy sloop--Jack Lee's; you know the boat,
Captain; clinker built, not four years old, eighty tons burthen, steers
like a child. I've put my mother's ring on Arethusa's finger; and if
you'll give us your blessing, I'll engage to turn over a new leaf, and
make her a good husband.

GAUNT. In whose strength, Christopher French?

KIT. In the strength of my good, honest love for her: as you did for her
mother, and my father for mine. And you know, Captain, a man can't
command the wind; but (excuse me, sir) he can always lie the best course
possible, and that's what I'll do, so God help me.

GAUNT. Arethusa, you at least are the child of many prayers; your eyes
have been unsealed; and to you the world stands naked, a morning watch
for duration, a thing spun of cobwebs for solidity. In the presence of
an angry God, I ask you: Have you heard this man?

ARETHUSA. Father, I know Kit, and I love him.

GAUNT. I say it solemnly, this is no Christian union. To you,
Christopher French, I will speak nothing of eternal truths: I will speak
to you the language of this world. You have been trained among sinners
who gloried in their sin: in your whole life you never saved one
farthing; and now, when your pockets are full, you think you can begin,
poor dupe, in your own strength. You are a roysterer, a jovial
companion; you mean no harm--you are nobody's enemy but your own. No
doubt you tell this girl of mine, and no doubt you tell yourself, that
you can change. Christopher, speaking under correction, I defy you! You
ask me for this child of many supplications, for this brand plucked from
the burning: I look at you: I read you through and through; and I tell
you--no! (_Striking table with his fist._)

KIT. Captain Gaunt, if you mean that I am not worthy of her, I'm the
first to say so. But, if you'll excuse me, sir, I'm a young man, and
young men are no better'n they ought to be; it's known; they're all like
that; and what's their chance? To be married to a girl like this! And
would you refuse it to me? Why, sir, you yourself, when you came
courting, you were young and rough; and yet I'll make bold to say that
Mrs. Gaunt was a happy woman, and the saving of yourself into the
bargain. Well, now, Captain Gaunt, will you deny another man, and that
man a sailor, the very salvation that you had yourself?

GAUNT. Salvation, Christopher French, is from above.

KIT. Well, sir, that is so; but there's means, too; and what means so
strong as the wife a man has to strive and toil for, and that bears the
punishment whenever he goes wrong? Now, sir, I've spoke with your old
shipmates in the Guinea trade. Hard as nails, they said, and true as the
compass: as rough as a slaver, but as just as a judge. Well, sir, you
hear me plead: I ask you for my chance; don't you deny it to me.

GAUNT. You speak of me? In the true balances we both weigh nothing. But
two things I know: the depth of iniquity, how foul it is; and the agony
with which a man repents. Not until seven devils were cast out of me did
I awake; each rent me as it passed. Ay, that was repentance.
Christopher, Christopher, you have sailed before the wind since first
you weighed your anchor, and now you think to sail upon a bow-line? You
do not know your ship, young man: you will go to le'ward like a sheet of
paper; I tell you so that know--I tell you so that have tried, and
failed, and wrestled in the sweat of prayer, and at last, at last, have
tasted grace. But, meanwhile, no flesh and blood of mine shall lie at
the mercy of such a wretch as I was then, or as you are this day. I
could not own the deed before the face of heaven, if I sanctioned this
unequal yoke. Arethusa, pluck off that ring from off your finger.
Christopher French, take it, and go hence.

KIT. Arethusa, what do you say?

ARETHUSA. O Kit, you know my heart. But he is alone, and I am his only
comfort; and I owe all to him; and shall I not obey my father? But, Kit,
if you will let me, I will keep your ring. Go, Kit; go, and prove to my
father that he was mistaken; go and win me. And O, Kit, if ever you
should weary, come to me--no, do not come! but send a word--and I shall
know all, and you shall have your ring. (_GAUNT opens his Bible and
begins to read._)

KIT. Don't say that, don't say such things to me; I sink or swim with
you. (_To GAUNT._) Old man, you've struck me hard; give me a good word
to go with. Name your time; I'll stand the test. Give me a spark of
hope, and I'll fight through for it. Say just this--"Prove I was
mistaken," and by George, I'll prove it.

GAUNT (_looking up_). I make no such compacts. Go, and swear not at all.

ARETHUSA. Go, Kit! I keep the ring.


  SCENE IV

  ARETHUSA, GAUNT

ARETHUSA. Father, what have we done that you should be so cruel?

GAUNT (_laying down Bible, and rising_). Do you call me cruel? You speak
after the flesh. I have done you this day a service that you will live
to bless me for upon your knees.

ARETHUSA. He loves me, and I love him: you can never alter that; do what
you will, father, that can never change. I love him, I believe in him, I
will be true to him.

GAUNT. Arethusa, you are the sole thing death has left me on this earth;
and I must watch over your carnal happiness and your eternal weal. You
do not know what this implies to me. Your mother--my Hester--tongue
cannot tell, nor heart conceive the pangs she suffered. If it lies in
me, your life shall not be lost on that same reef of an ungodly husband.
(_Goes out, C._)


  SCENE V

ARETHUSA. I thought the time dragged long and weary when I knew that Kit
was homeward bound, all the white sails a-blowing out towards England,
and my Kit's face turned this way! (_She begins to dust._) Sure, if my
mother were here she would understand and help us; she would understand
a young maid's heart, though her own had never an ache; and she would
love my Kit. (_Putting back the telescope._) To think she died: husband
and child--and so much love--she was taken from them all. Ah, there is
no parting but the grave! And Kit and I both live, and both love each
other; and here am I cast down? O, Arethusa, shame! And your love home
from the deep seas, and loving you still; and the sun shining; and the
world all full of hope? O, Hope, you're a good word!


  SCENE VI

  _ARETHUSA; to her, PEW_

PEW (_singing without_)--

           "Time for us to go!
            Time for us to go!
  And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away,
            For it's time for us to go."

ARETHUSA. Who comes here? a seaman by his song, and father out! (_She
tries the air._) "Time for us to go!" It sounds a wild kind of song.
(_Tap-tap; PEW passes the window._) O, what a face--and blind!

PEW (_entering_). Kind Christian friends, take pity on a poor blind
mariner, as lost his precious sight in the defence of his native
country, England, and God bless King George!

ARETHUSA. What can I do for you, sailor?

PEW. Good Christian lady, help a poor blind mariner to a mouthful of
meat. I've served His Majesty in every quarter of the globe; I've spoke
with 'Awke and glorious Anson, as I might with you: and I've tramped it
all night long upon my sinful feet, and with a empty belly.

ARETHUSA. You shall not ask bread and be denied by a sailor's daughter
and a sailor's sweetheart; and when my father returns he shall give you
something to set you on your road.

PEW. Kind and lovely lady, do you tell me that you are in a manner of
speaking alone? or do my ears deceive a poor blind seaman?

ARETHUSA. I live here with my father, and my father is abroad.

PEW. Dear, beautiful, Christian lady, tell a poor blind man your
honoured name, that he may remember it in his poor blind prayers.

ARETHUSA. Sailor, I am Arethusa Gaunt.

PEW. Sweet lady, answer a poor blind man one other question: Are you in
a manner of speaking related to Cap'n John Gaunt? Cap'n John as in the
ebony trade were known as Admiral Guinea?

ARETHUSA. Captain John Gaunt is my father.

PEW (_dropping the blind man's whine_). Lord, think of that now! They
told me this was where he lived, and so it is. And here's old Pew, old
David Pew, as was the Admiral's own bo'sun, colloguing in his old
commander's parlour, with his old commander's gal (_seizes ARETHUSA_).
Ah, and a bouncer you are, and no mistake.

ARETHUSA. Let me go! how dare you?

PEW. Lord love you, don't you struggle, now, don't you. (_She escapes
into front R. corner, where he keeps her imprisoned._) Ah, well, we'll
get you again, my lovely woman. What a arm you've got--great god of
love--and a face like a peach! I'm a judge, I am. (_She tries to
escape; he stops her._) No, you don't; O, I can hear a flea jump! (But
it's here where I miss my deadlights. Poor old Pew; him as the ladies
always would have for their fancy man and take no denial; here you are
with your commander's daughter close aboard, and you can't so much as
guess the colour of her lovely eyes. [_Singing_]--

  "Be they black like ebony,
   Or be they blue like to the sky."

Black like the Admiral's? or blue like his poor dear wife's? Ah, I was
fond of that there woman, I was; the Admiral was jealous of me.)
Arethusa, my dear,--my heart, what a 'and and arm you _have_ got; I'll
dream o' that 'and and arm, I will!--but as I was a-saying, does the
Admiral ever in a manner of speaking refer to his old bo'sun David Pew?
him as he fell out with about the black woman at Lagos, and almost
slashed the shoulder off of him one morning before breakfast?

ARETHUSA. You leave this house.

PEW. Hey? (_he closes and seizes her again_). Don't you fight, my lovely
one: now don't make old blind Pew forget his manners before a female.
What! you will? Stop that, or I'll have the arm right out of your body.
(_He gives her arm a wrench._)

ARETHUSA. O! help, help!

PEW. Stash your patter, damn you. (_ARETHUSA gives in._) Ah, I thought
it: Pew's way, Pew's way. Now look you here, my lovely woman. If you
sling in another word that isn't in answer to my questions, I'll pull
your j'ints out one by one. Where's the Commander?

ARETHUSA. I have said: he is abroad.

PEW. When's he coming aboard again?

ARETHUSA. At any moment.

PEW. Does he keep his strength?

ARETHUSA. You'll see when he returns. (_He wrenches her arm again._) Ah!

PEW. Is he still on piety?

ARETHUSA. O, he is a Christian man!

PEW. A Christian man, is he? Where does he keep his rum?

ARETHUSA. Nay, you shall steal nothing by my help.

PEW. No more I shall (_becoming amorous_). You're a lovely woman, that's
what you are; how would you like old Pew for a sweetheart, hey? He's
blind, is Pew, but strong as a lion; and the sex is his 'ole delight.
Ah, them beautiful, beautiful lips! A kiss! Come!

ARETHUSA. Leave go, leave go!

PEW. Hey? you would?

ARETHUSA. Ah! (_She thrusts him down, and escapes to door, R._)


  SCENE VII

PEW (_picking himself up_). Ah, she's a bouncer, she is! Where's my
stick? That's the sort of female for David Pew. Didn't she fight? and
didn't she struggle? and shouldn't I like to twist her lovely neck for
her? Pew's way with 'em all: the prettier they was, the uglier he were to
'em. Pew's way: a way he had with him; and a damned good way too.
(_Listens at L. door._) That's her bedroom, I reckon; and she's
double-locked herself in. Good again: it's a crying mercy the Admiral
didn't come in. But you always loses your 'ed, Pew, with a female: that's
what charms 'em.--Now for business. The front door. No bar; on'y a big
lock (_trying keys from his pocket_). Key one; no go. Key two; no go. Key
three; ah, that does it. Ah! (_feeling key_) him with the three wards and
the little 'un: good again! Now if I could only find a mate in this
rotten country 'amlick: one to be eyes to me; I can steer, but I can't
conn myself, worse luck! If I could only find a mate. And to-night about
three bells in the middle watch, old Pew will take a little cruise, and
lay aboard his ancient friend the Admiral; or, barring that, the
Admiral's old sea-chest--the chest he kept the shiners in aboard the
brig. Where is it, I wonder? in his berth, or in the cabin here? It's big
enough, and the brass bands is plain to feel by. (_Searching about with
stick._) Dresser--chair (_knocking his head on the cupboard_). Ah!--O,
corner cupboard. Admiral's chair--Admiral's table--Admiral's--hey! what's
this?--a book--sheepskin--smells like a 'oly Bible. Chair (_his stick
just avoids the chest_). No sea-chest. I must have a mate to see for me,
to see for old Pew: him as had eyes like a eagle! Meanwhile, rum. Corner
cupboard, of course (_tap-tapping_). Rum--rum--rum. Hey? (_He listens._)
Footsteps. Is it the Admiral? (_With the whine._) Kind Christian
friends----


  SCENE VIII

  _PEW; to him, GAUNT_

GAUNT. What brings you here?

PEW. Cap'n, do my ears deceive me? or is this my old commander?

GAUNT. My name is John Gaunt. Who are you, my man, and what's your
business?

PEW. Here's the facks, so help me. A lovely female in this house was
Christian enough to pity the poor blind; and lo and be'old! who should
she turn out to be but my old commander's daughter! "My dear," says I to
her, "I was the Admiral's own particular bo'sun."--"La, sailor," she
says to me, "how glad he'll be to see you!"--"Ah," says I, "won't he
just--that's all."--"I'll go and fetch him," she says; "you make
yourself at 'ome." And off she went; and, Commander, here I am.

GAUNT (_sitting down_). Well.

PEW. Well, Cap'n?

GAUNT. What do you want?

PEW. Well, Admiral, in a general way, what I want in a manner of
speaking is money and rum. (_A pause._)

GAUNT. David Pew, I have known you a long time.

PEW. And so you have; aboard the old _Arethusa_; and you don't seem that
cheered up as I'd looked for, with a old shipmate dropping in, one as
has been seeking you two years and more--and blind at that. Don't you
remember the old chantie?--

       "Time for us to go,
        Time for us to go,
  And when we'd clapped the hatches on,
        'Twas time for us to go."

What a note you had to sing, what a swaller for a pannikin of rum, and
what a fist for the shiners. Ah, Cap'n, they didn't call you Admiral
Guinea for nothing. I can see that old sea-chest of yours--her with the
brass bands, where you kept your gold dust and doubloons: you know!--I
can see her as well this minute as though you and me was still at it
playing put on the lid of her.... You don't say nothing, Cap'n?...
Well, here it is: I want money and I want rum. You don't know what it is
to want rum, you don't: it gets to that p'int that you would kill a 'ole
ship's company for just one guttle of it. What? Admiral Guinea, my old
Commander, go back on poor old Pew? and him high and dry? (Not you! When
we had words over the negro lass at Lagos, what did you do? fair
dealings was your word: fair as between man and man; and we had it out
with p'int and edge on Lagos sands. And you're not going back on your
word to me, now I'm old and blind! No, no! belay that, I say. Give me
the old motto: Fair dealings, as between man and man.)

GAUNT. David Pew, it were better for you that you were sunk in fifty
fathom. I know your life; and first and last, it is one broadside of
wickedness. You were a porter in a school, and beat a boy to death; you
ran for it, turned slaver, and shipped with me, a green hand. Ay, that
was the craft for you; that was the right craft, and I was the right
captain; there was none worse that sailed to Guinea. Well, what came of
that? In five years' time you made yourself the terror and abhorrence of
your messmates. The worst hands detested you; your captain--that was me,
John Gaunt, the chief of sinners--cast you out for a Jonah. (Who was it
stabbed the Portuguese and made off inland with his miserable wife? Who,
raging drunk on rum, clapped fire to the baracoons and burned the poor
soulless creatures in their chains?) Ay, you were a scandal to the
Guinea coast, from Lagos down to Calabar; and when at last I sent you
ashore, a marooned man--your shipmates, devils as they were, cheering
and rejoicing to be quit of you--by heaven, it was a ton's weight off
the brig!

PEW. Cap'n Gaunt, Cap'n Gaunt, these are ugly words.

GAUNT. What next? You shipped with Flint the Pirate. What you did then I
know not; the deep seas have kept the secret; kept it, ay, and will keep
against the Great Day. God smote you with blindness, but you heeded not
the sign. That was His last mercy; look for no more. To your knees, man,
and repent. Pray for a new heart; flush out your sins with tears; flee
while you may from the terrors of the wrath to come.

PEW. Now, I want this clear: Do I understand that you're going back on
me, and you'll see me damned first?

GAUNT. Of me you shall have neither money nor strong drink: not a guinea
to spend in riot; not a drop to fire your heart with devilry.

PEW. Cap'n, do you think it wise to quarrel with me? I put it to you
now, Cap'n, fairly, as between man and man--do you think it wise?

GAUNT. I fear nothing. My feet are on the Rock. Begone! (_He opens the
Bible and begins to read._)

Pew (_after a pause_). Well, Cap'n, you know best, no doubt; and David
Pew's about the last man, though I says it, to up and thwart an old
Commander. You've been 'ard on David Pew, Cap'n: 'ard on the poor blind;
but you'll live to regret it--ah, my Christian friend, you'll live to
eat them words up. But there's no malice here: that ain't Pew's way;
here's a sailor's hand upon it.... You don't say nothing? (_GAUNT turns
a page._) Ah, reading, was you? Reading, by thunder! Well, here's my
respecks. (_Singing_)--

        "Time for us to go,
         Time for us to go,
  When the money's out, and the liquor's done,
         Why, it's time for us to go."

(_He goes tapping up to door, turns on the threshold, and listens. GAUNT
turns a page. PEW, with a grimace, strikes his hand upon the pocket with
the keys, and goes._)




  ACT II


  _The Stage represents the parlour of the "Admiral Benbow" inn.
  Fireplace, R., with high-backed settles on each side; in front of
  these, and facing the audience, R., a small table laid with a cloth.
  Tables, L., with glasses, pipes, etc. Broadside ballads on the wall.
  Outer door of inn, with half-door in L., corner back; door, R., beyond
  the fireplace; window with red half-curtains; spittoons; candles on
  both the front tables; night without_


  SCENE I

  _PEW; afterwards MRS. DRAKE, out and in._

PEW (_entering_). Kind Christian friends----(_listening, then dropping
the whine_). Hey? nobody! Hey? A grog-shop not two cable-lengths from
the Admiral's back-door, and the Admiral not there? I never knew a
seaman brought so low: he ain't but the bones of the man he used to be.
Bear away for the New Jerusalem, and this is what you run aground on, is
it? Good again; but it ain't Pew's way; Pew's way is rum.--Sanded floor.
Rum is his word, and rum his motion.--Settle--chimbly--settle
again--spittoon--table rigged for supper. Table--glass. (_Drinks
heeltap._) Brandy and water; and not enough of it to wet your eye; damn
all greediness, I say. Pot (_drinks_), small beer--a drink that I ab'or
like bilge! What I want is rum. (_Calling and rapping with stick on
table._) Halloa, there! House, ahoy!

MRS. DRAKE (_without_). Coming, sir, coming. (_She enters, R._) What can
I do----? (_Seeing PEW._) Well, I never did! Now, beggar-man, what's for
you?

PEW. Rum, ma'am, rum; and a bit o' supper.

MRS. DRAKE. And a bed to follow, I shouldn't wonder!

PEW. _And_ a bed to follow: _if_ you please.

MRS. DRAKE. This is the "Admiral Benbow," a respectable house, and
receives none but decent company; and I'll ask you to go somewhere else,
for I don't like the looks of you.

PEW. Turn me away? Why, Lord love you, I'm David Pew--old David Pew--him
as was Benbow's own particular cox'n. You wouldn't turn away old Pew
from the sign of his late commander's 'ed? Ah, my British female, you'd
have used me different if you'd seen me in the fight! (There laid old
Benbow, both his legs shot off, in a basket, and the blessed spy-glass
at his eye to that same hour: a picter, ma'am, of naval daring: when a
round shot come, and took and knocked a bucketful of shivers right into
my poor daylights. "Damme," says the Admiral, "is that old Pew, _my_ old
Pew?" he says.--"It's old Pew, sir," says the first lootenant, "worse
luck," he says.--"Then damme," says Admiral Benbow, "if that's how they
serve a lion-'arted seaman, damme if I care to live," he says; and,
ma'am, he laid down his spy-glass.)

MRS. DRAKE. Blind man, I don't fancy you, and that's the truth; and I'll
thank you to take yourself off.

PEW. Thirty years have I fought for country and king, and now in my
blind old age I'm to be sent packing from a measly public-'ouse? Mark
ye, ma'am, if I go, you take the consequences. Is this a inn? Or hain't
it? If it is a inn, then by act of parleyment, I'm free to sling my
'ammick. Don't you forget: this is a act of parleyment job, this is. You
look out.

MRS. DRAKE. Why, what's to do with the man and his acts of parliament? I
don't want to fly in the face of an act of parliament, not I. If what
you say is true----

PEW. True? If there's anything truer than a act of parleyment--Ah! you
ask the beak. True? I've that in my 'art as makes me wish it wasn't.

MRS. DRAKE. I don't like to risk it. I don't like your looks, and you're
more sea-lawyer than seaman to my mind. But I'll tell you what: if you
can pay, you can stay. So there.

PEW. No chink, no drink? That's your motto, is it? Well, that's sense.
Now, look here, ma'am, I ain't beautiful like you; but I'm good, and
I'll give you warrant for it. Get me a noggin of rum, and suthin' to
scoff, and a penny pipe, and a half-a-foot of baccy; and there's a
guinea for the reckoning. There's plenty more in the locker; so bear a
hand, and be smart. I don't like waiting; it ain't my way. (_Exit MRS.
DRAKE, R. PEW sits at the table, R. The settle conceals him from the
upper part of the stage._)

MRS. DRAKE (_re-entering_). Here's the rum, sailor.

PEW (_drinks_). Ah, rum! That's my sheet-anchor; rum and the blessed
Gospel. Don't you forget that, ma'am: rum and the Gospel is old Pew's
sheet-anchor. You can take for another while you're about it; and, I
say, short reckonings make long friends, hey? Where's my change?

MRS. DRAKE. I'm counting it now. There, there it is, and thank you for
your custom. (_She goes out, R._)

PEW (_calling after her_). Don't thank me, ma'am; thank the act of
parleyment! Rum, fourpence; two penny pieces and a Willi'm-and-Mary
tizzy makes a shilling; and a spade half-guinea is eleven and six
(_re-enter MRS. DRAKE with supper, pipe, etc._); and a blessed majesty
George the First crown-piece makes sixteen and six; and two shilling
bits is eighteen and six; and a new half-crown makes--no it don't! O no!
Old Pew's too smart a hand to be bammed with a soft tusheroon.

MRS. DRAKE (_changing piece_). I'm sure I didn't know it, sailor.

PEW (_trying new coin between his teeth_). In course you didn't, my
dear; but I did, and I thought I'd mention it. Is that my supper, hey?
Do my nose deceive me? (_Sniffing and feeling._) Cold duck? sage and
onions? a round of double Gloster? and that noggin o' rum? Why, I
declare if I'd stayed and took pot-luck with my old commander, Cap'n
John Gaunt, he couldn't have beat this little spread, as I've got by act
of parleyment.

MRS. DRAKE (_at knitting_). Do you know the captain, sailor?

PEW. Know him? I was that man's bo'sun, ma'am. In the Guinea trade, we
was known as "Pew's Cap'n" and "Gaunt's Bo'sun," one for the other like.
We was like two brothers, ma'am. And a excellent cold duck, to be sure;
and the rum lovely.

MRS. DRAKE. If you know John Gaunt, you know his daughter Arethusa.

PEW. What? Arethusa? Know her, says you? know her? Why, Lord love you, I
was her godfather. ("Pew," says Jack Gaunt to me, "Pew," he says,
"you're a man," he says; "I like a man to be a man," says he, "and
damme," he says, "I like _you_; and sink me," says he, "if you don't
promise and vow in the name of that new-born babe," he says, "why,
damme, Pew," says he, "you're not the man I take you for.") Yes, ma'am,
I named that female; with my own 'ands I did; Arethusa I named her; that
was the name I give her; so now you know if I speak true. And if you'll
be as good as get me another noggin of rum, why, we'll drink her 'elth
with three times three. (_Exit MRS. DRAKE; Pew eating; MRS. DRAKE
re-entering with rum._)

MRS. DRAKE. If what you say be true, sailor (and I don't say it isn't,
mind!), it's strange that Arethusa and that godly man her father have
never so much as spoke your name.

PEW. Why, that's so! And why, says you? Why, when I dropped in and paid
my respecks this morning, do you think she knew me? No more'n a babe
unborn! Why, ma'am, when I promised and vowed for her, I was the picter
of a man-o'war's man, I was: eye like a eagle; walked the deck in a
hornpipe, foot up and foot down; v'ice as mellow as rum; 'and upon 'art,
and all the females took dead aback at the first sight, Lord bless 'em!
Know me? Not likely. And as for me, when I found her such a lovely
woman--by the feel of her 'and and arm!--you might have knocked me down
with a feather. But here's where it is, you see: when you've been
knocking about on blue water for a matter of two and forty year,
shipwrecked here, and blown up there, and everywhere out of luck, and
given over for dead by all your messmates and relations, why, what it
amounts to is this: nobody knows you, and you hardly knows yourself, and
there you are; and I'll trouble you for another noggin of rum.

MRS. DRAKE. I think you've had enough.

PEW. I don't; so bear a hand. (_Exit MRS. DRAKE; PEW empties the
glass._) Rum, ah, rum, you're a lovely creature; they haven't never done
you justice. (_Proceeds to fill and light pipe; re-enter MRS. DRAKE with
rum._) And now, ma'am, since you're so genteel and amicable-like, what
about my old commander? Is he, in a manner of speaking, on half pay? or
is he living on his fortune, like a gentleman slaver ought?

MRS. DRAKE. Well, sailor, people talk, you know.

PEW. I know, ma'am; I'd have been rolling in my coach, if they'd have
held their tongues.

MRS. DRAKE. And they do say that Captain Gaunt, for so pious a man, is
little better than a miser.

PEW. Don't say it, ma'am; not to old Pew. Ah, how often have I up and
strove with him! "Cap'n, live it down," says I. "Ah, Pew," says he,
"you're a better man than I am," he says; "but damme," he says, "money,"
he says, "is like rum to me." (_Insinuating._) And what about a old
sea-chest, hey? a old sea-chest, strapped with brass bands?

MRS. DRAKE. Why, that'll be the chest in his parlour, where he has it
bolted to the wall, as I've seen with my own eyes; and so might you, if
you had eyes to see with.

PEW. No, ma'am, that ain't good enough; you don't bam old Pew. You never
was in that parlour in your life.

MRS. DRAKE. I never was! Well, I declare!

PEW. Well, then, if you was, where's the chest? Beside the chimbley,
hey? (_Winking._) Beside the table with the 'oly Bible?

MRS. DRAKE. No, sailor, you don't get any information out of me.

PEW. What, ma'am? Not to old Pew? Why, my god-child showed it me
herself, and I told her where she'd find my name--P, E, W, Pew--cut out
on the stern of it; and sure enough she did. Why, ma'am, it was his old
money-box when he was in the Guinea trade; and they do say he keeps the
rhino in it still.

MRS. DRAKE. No, sailor, nothing out of me! And if you want to know, you
can ask the Admiral himself! (_She crosses, L._)

PEW. Hey? Old girl fly? Then I reckon I must have a mate, if it was the
parish bull.


  SCENE II

  _To these, KIT, a little drunk_

KIT (_looking in over half-door_). Mrs. Drake! Mother! Where are you?
Come and welcome the prodigal!

MRS. DRAKE (_coming forward to meet him as he enters; PEW remains
concealed by the settle, smoking, drinking, and listening_). Lord bless
us and save us, if it ain't my boy! Give us a kiss.

KIT. That I will, and twenty if you like, old girl. (_Kisses her._)

MRS. DRAKE. O Kit, Kit, you've been at those other houses, where the
stuff they give you, my dear, it is poison for a dog.

KIT. Round with friends, mother: only round with friends.

Mrs. Drake. Well, anyway, you'll take a glass just to settle it from me.
(_She brings the bottle and fills for him._) There, that's pure; that'll
do you no harm. But O, Kit, Kit, I thought you were done with all this
Jack-a-shoring.

KIT. What cheer, mother? I'm only a sheet in the wind; and who's the
worse for it but me?

MRS. DRAKE. Ah, and that dear young lady; and her waiting and keeping
single these two years for the love of you!

KIT. She, mother? she's heart of oak, she's true as steel, and good as
gold; and she has my ring on her finger, too. But where's the use? The
Admiral won't look at me.

MRS. DRAKE. Why not? You're as good a man as him any day.

KIT. Am I? He says I'm a devil, and swears that none of his flesh and
blood--that's what he said, mother!--should lie at my mercy. That's what
cuts me. If it wasn't for the good stuff I've been taking aboard, and
the jolly companions I've been seeing it out with, I'd just go and make
a hole in the water, and be done with it, I would, by George!

MRS. DRAKE. That's like you men. Ah, we know you, we that keeps a
public-house--we know you, good and bad: you go off on a frolic and
forget; and you never think of the women that sit crying at home.

KIT. Crying? Arethusa cry? Why, dame, she's the bravest-hearted girl in
all broad England! Here, fill the glass! I'll win her yet. I drink to
her; here's to her bright eyes, and here's to the blessed feet she
walks upon!

PEW (_looking round the corner of the settle_). Spoke like a gallant
seaman, every inch. Shipmate, I'm a man as has suffered, and I'd like to
shake your fist, and drink a can of flip with you.

KIT (_coming down_). Hullo, my hearty! who the devil are you? Who's
this, mother?

MRS. DRAKE. Nay, I know nothing about him. (_She goes out, R._)

PEW. Cap'n, I'm a brother seaman, and my name is Pew, old David Pew, as
you may have heard of in your time, he having sailed along of 'Awke and
glorious Benbow, and a right-'and man to both.

KIT. Benbow? Steady, mate! D'ye mean to say you went to sea before you
were born?

PEW. See now! The sign of this here inn was running in my 'ed, I reckon.
Benbow, says you? no, not likely! Anson, I mean; Anson and Sir Edward
'Awke: that's the pair: I was their right-'and man.

KIT. Well, mate, you may be all that, and more; but you're a rum 'un to
look at, anyhow.

PEW. Right you are, and so I am. But what is looks? It's the 'art that
does it: the 'art is the seaman's star; and here's old David Pew's a
matter of fifty years at sea, but tough and sound as the British
Constitootion.

KIT. You're right there, Pew. Shake hands upon it. And you're a man
they're down upon, just like myself, I see. We're a pair of plain,
good-hearted, jolly tars; and all these 'longshore fellows cock a lip at
us, by George. What cheer, mate?

ARETHUSA (_without_). Mrs. Drake! Mrs. Drake!

PEW. What, a female? hey? a female? Board her, board her, mate! I'm
dark. (_He retires again behind, to table, R., behind settle._)

ARETHUSA (_without_). Mrs. Drake!

MRS. DRAKE (_re-entering and running to door_). Here I am, my dear; come
in.


  SCENE III

  _To these, ARETHUSA_

ARETHUSA. Ah, Kit, I've found you. I thought you would lodge with Mrs.
Drake.

KIT. What? are you looking for your consort? Whistle, I'm your dog; I'll
come to you. I've been toasting you fathom deep, my beauty; and with
every glass I love you dearer.

ARETHUSA. Now, Kit, if you want to please my father, this is not the
way. Perhaps he thinks too much of the guineas: well, gather them--if
you think me worth the price. Go you to your sloop, clinker built,
eighty tons burthen--you see I remember. Skipper Kit! I don't deny I
like a man of spirit; but if you care to please Captain Gaunt, keep out
of taverns; and if you could carry yourself a bit more--more elderly!

KIT. Can I? Would I? Ah, just couldn't and just won't I, then!

MRS. DRAKE. I hope, madam, you don't refer to my house; a publican I may
be, but tavern is a word that I don't hold with; and here there's no bad
drink, and no loose company; and as for my blessedest Kit, I declare I
love him like my own.

ARETHUSA. Why, who could help it, Mrs. Drake?

KIT. Arethusa, you're an angel. Do I want to please Captain Gaunt? Why,
that's as much as ask whether I love you. (I don't deny that his words
cut me; for they did. But as for wanting to please him, if he was deep
as the blue Atlantic, I would beat it out. And elderly, too? Aha, you
witch, you're wise! Elderly? You've set the course; you leave me alone
to steer it. Matrimony's my port, and love is my cargo.) That's a
likely question, ain't it, Mrs. Drake? Do I want to please him! Elderly,
says you? Why, see here: Fill up my glass, and I'll drink to Arethusa on
my knees.

ARETHUSA. Why, you stupid boy, do you think that would please him?

KIT. On my knees I'll drink it! (_As he kneels and drains the glass,
GAUNT enters, and he scrambles to his feet._)


  SCENE IV

  _To these, GAUNT_

GAUNT. Arethusa, this is no place for you.

ARETHUSA. No, father.

GAUNT. I wish you had been spared this sight; but look at him, child,
since you are here; look at God's image, so debased. And you, young man
(_to KIT_), you have proved that I was right. Are you the husband for
this innocent maid?

KIT. Captain Gaunt, I have a word to say to you. Terror is your last
word; you're bitter hard upon poor sinners, bitter hard and black--you
that were a sinner yourself. These are not the true colours; don't
deceive yourself; you're out of your course.

GAUNT. Heaven forbid that I should be hard, Christopher. It is not I;
it's God's law that is of iron. Think! if the blow were to fall now,
some cord to snap within you, some enemy to plunge a knife into your
heart; this room, with its poor taper light, to vanish; this world to
disappear like a drowning man into the great ocean; and you, your brain
still whirling, to be snatched into the presence of the Eternal Judge:
Christopher French, what answer would you make? For these gifts wasted,
for this rich mercy scorned, for these high-handed bravings of your
better angel--what have you to say?

KIT. Well, sir, I want my word with you, and by your leave I'll have it
out.

ARETHUSA. Kit, for pity's sake!

KIT. Arethusa, I don't speak to you, my dear: you've got my ring, and I
know what that means. The man I speak to is Captain Gaunt. I came to-day
as happy a man as ever stepped, and with as fair a lookout. What did you
care? what was your reply? None of your flesh and blood, you said,
should lie at the mercy of a wretch like me! Am I not flesh and blood
that you should trample on me like that? Is that charity, to stamp the
hope out of a poor soul?

GAUNT. You speak wildly; or the devil of drink that is in you speaks
instead.

KIT. You think me drunk; well, so I am, and whose fault is it but yours?
It was I that drank; but you take your share of it, Captain Gaunt: you
it was that filled the can.

GAUNT. Christopher French, I spoke but for your good, your good and
hers. "Woe unto him"--these are the dreadful words--"by whom offences
shall come: it were better----" Christopher, I can but pray for both of
us.

KIT. Prayers? Now I tell you freely, Captain Gaunt, I don't value your
prayers. Deeds are what I ask; kind deeds and words--that's the
true-blue piety: to hope the best and do the best, and speak the
kindest. As for you, you insult me to my face; and then you'll pray for
me? What's that? Insult behind my back is what I call it! No, sir;
you're out of the courses; you're no good man to my view, be you who you
may.

MRS. DRAKE. O Christopher! To Captain Gaunt?

ARETHUSA. Father, father, come away!

KIT. Ah, you see? She suffers too; we all suffer. You spoke just now of
a devil; well, I'll tell you the devil you have: the devil of judging
others. And as for me, I'll get as drunk as Bacchus.

GAUNT. Come! (_Exit, with ARETHUSA._)


  SCENE V

  PEW, MRS. DRAKE, KIT

PEW. (_coming out and waving his pipe_). Commander, shake! Hooray for
old England! If there's anything in the world that goes to old Pew's
'art, it's argyment. Commander, you handled him like a babby, kept the
weather gauge, and hulled him every shot. Commander, give it a name, and
let that name be rum!

KIT. Ay, rum's the sailor's fancy. Mrs. Drake, a bottle and clean
glasses.

MRS. DRAKE. Kit French, I wouldn't. Think better of it, there's a dear!
And that sweet girl just gone!

PEW. Ma'am, I'm not a 'ard man; I'm not the man to up and force a act of
parleyment upon a helpless female. But you see here: Pew's friends is
sacred. Here's my friend here, a perfeck seaman, and a man with a 'ed
upon his shoulders, and a man that, damme, I admire. He give you a
order, ma'am--march!

MRS. DRAKE. Kit, don't you listen to that blind man; he's the devil
wrote upon his face.

PEW. Don't you insinuate against my friend. _He_ ain't a child, I hope?
_he_ knows his business? Don't you get trying to go a-lowering of my
friend in his own esteem.

MRS. DRAKE. Well, I'll bring it, Kit; but it's against the grain.
(_Exit._)

KIT. I say, old boy, come to think of it, why should we? It's been
glasses round with me all day. I've got my cargo.

PEW. You? and you just argy'd the 'ed off of Admiral Guinea? O stash
that! _I_ stand treat, if it comes to that!

KIT. What! Do I meet with a blind seaman and not stand him? That's not
the man I am!

MRS. DRAKE (_re-entering with bottle and glasses_). There!

PEW. Easy does it, ma'am.

KIT. Mrs. Drake, you had better trot.

MRS. DRAKE. Yes, I'll trot; and I'll trot with a sick heart, Kit French,
to leave you drinking your wits away with that low blind man. For a low
man you are--a low blind man--and your clothes they would disgrace a
scarecrow. I'll go to my bed, Kit; and O, dear boy, go soon to
yours--the old room, you know; it's ready for you--and go soon and sleep
it off; for you know, dear, they, one and all, regret it in the morning;
thirty years I've kept this house, and one and all they did regret it,
dear.

PEW. Come now, you walk!

MRS. DRAKE. O, it's not for your bidding. You a seaman? The ship for you
to sail in is the hangman's cart.--Good-night, Kit, dear, and better
company. (_Exit._)


  SCENE VI

  PEW, KIT

  _They sit at the other table, L._

PEW. Commander, here's _her_ 'ealth!

KIT. Ay, that's the line: _her_ health! But that old woman there is a
good old woman, Pew.

PEW. So she is, Commander. But there's no woman understands a seaman;
now you and me, being both bred to it, we splice by natur'. As for A.
G., if argyment can win her, why, she's yours. If I'd a-had your 'ed for
argyment, damme, I'd a-been a Admiral, I would! And if argyment won't
win her, well, see here, you put your trust in David Pew.

KIT. David Pew, I don't know who are you, David Pew; I never heard of
you; I don't seem able to clearly see you. Mrs. Drake, she's a smart old
woman, Pew, and she says you've the devil in your face.

PEW. Ah, and why, says you? Because I up and put her in her place, when
she forgot herself to you, Commander.

KIT. Well, Pew, that's so; you stood by me like a man. Shake hands, Pew;
and we'll make a night of it, or we'll know why, old boy!

PEW. That's my way. That's Pew's way, that is. That's Pew's way all
over. Commander, excuse the liberty; but when I was your age, making
allowance for a lowlier station and less 'ed for argyment, I was as like
you as two peas. I know it by the v'ice. (_Sings_)--

 "We hadn't been three days at sea before we saw a sail,
  So we clapped on every stitch would stand, although it blew a gale,
  And we walked along full fourteen knots, for the barkie she did know,
  As well as ever a soul on board, 'twas time for us to go."

Chorus, Cap'n!

PEW _and_ KIT (_in chorus_)--

   "Time for us to go,
    Time for us to go,
  As well as ever a soul on board
    'Twas time for us to go."

PEW (_sings_)--

 "We carried away the royal yard, and the stunsail boom was gone;
  Says the skipper, 'They may go or stand, I'm damned if I don't crack
     on;'
  So the weather braces we'll round in, and the trysail set also,
  And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away, for it's time for us to go."

Give it mouth, Commander!

PEW _and_ KIT (_in chorus_)--

   "Time for us to go,
    Time for us to go,
  And we'll keep the brig three p'ints away,
    For it's time for us to go."

PEW. I ain't sung like that since I sang to Admiral 'Awke, the night
before I lost my eyes, I ain't. "Sink me!" says he, says Admiral 'Awke,
my old commander (_touching his hat_), "sink me!" he says, "if that
ain't 'art-of-oak," he says: "'art-of-oak," says he, "and a pipe like a
bloody blackbird!" Commander, here's my respecks, and the devil fly away
with Admiral Guinea!

KIT. I say, Pew, how's this? How do you know about Admiral Guinea? I
say, Pew, I begin to think you know too much.

PEW. I ax your pardon; but as a man with a 'ed for argyment--and that's
your best p'int o' sailing, Commander; intelleck is your best p'int--as
a man with a 'ed for argyment, how do I make it out?

KIT. Aha, you're a sly dog, you're a deep dog, Pew; but you can't get
the weather of Kit French. How do I make it out? I'll tell you. I make
it out like this: Your name's Pew, ain't it? Very well. And you know
Admiral Guinea, and that's his name, eh? Very well. Then you're Pew; and
the Admiral's the Admiral; and you know the Admiral; and by George,
that's all. Hey? Drink about, boys, drink about!

PEW. Lord love you, if I'd a-had a 'ed like yours! Why, the Admiral was
my first cap'n. I was that man's bo'sun, I was, aboard the _Arethusa_;
and we was like two brothers. Did you never hear of Guinea-land and the
black ivory business? (_Sings_)--

 "A quick run to the south we had, and when we made the Bight,
  We kept the offing all day long and crossed the Bar at night.
  Six hundred niggers in the hold and seventy we did stow,
  And when we clapped the hatches on, 'twas time for us to go."

Lay forward, lads!

KIT _and_ PEW (_in chorus_)--

  "Time for us to go," etc.

KIT. I say, Pew, I like you; you're a damned ugly dog; but I like you.
But look ye here, Pew: fair does it, you know, or we part company this
minute. If you and the Ad----the Admirable were like brothers on the
Guinea coast, why aren't you like brothers here?

PEW. Ah, _I_ see you coming. What a 'ed! what a 'ed! Since Pew is a
friend of the family, says you, why didn't he sail in and bear a hand,
says you, when you was knocking the Admiral's ship about his ears in
argyment?

KIT. Well, Pew, now you put a name to it, why not?

PEW. Ah, why not? There I recko'nise you. Well, see here: argyment's my
weakness, in a manner of speaking; I wouldn't a-borne down and spiled
sport not for gold untold, no, not for rum, I wouldn't! And besides,
Commander, I put it to you as between man and man, would it have been
seaman-like to let on and show myself to a old shipmate, when he was
yard-arm to yard-arm with a craft not half his metal, and getting blown
out of water every broadside? Would it have been 'ansome? I put it to
you, as between man and man.

KIT. Pew, I may have gifts; but I never thought of that. Why, no: not
seaman-like. Pew, you've a heart, that's what I like you for.

PEW. Ah, that I have: you'll see. I wanted--now you follow me--I wanted
to keep square with Admiral Guinea. Why? says you. Well, put it that I
know a fine young fellow when I sees him; and put it that I wish him
well; and put it, for the sake of argyment, that the father of that
lovely female's in my power. Aha? Pew's power! Why, in my 'ands he's
like this pocket 'andke'cher. Now, brave boy, do you see?

KIT. No, Pew, my head's gone; I don't see.

PEW. Why, cheer up, Commander! You want to marry this lovely female?

KIT. Ay, that I do; but I'm not fit for her, Pew; I'm a drunken dog, and
I'm not fit for her.

PEW. Now, Cap'n, you'll allow a old seaman to be judge: one as sailed
with 'Awke and blessed Benb----with 'Awke and noble Anson. You've been
open and above-board with me, and I'll do the same by you: it being the
case that you're hard hit about a lovely woman, which many a time and
oft it has happened to old Pew; and him with a feeling 'art that bleeds
for you, Commander; why, look here: I'm that girl's godfather; promised
and vowed for her, I did; and I like you; and you're the man for her;
and, by the living Jacob, you shall splice!

KIT. David Pew, do you mean what you say?

PEW. Do I mean what I say? Does David Pew? Ask Admiral 'Awke! Ask old
Admiral Byng in his coffin, where I laid him with these 'ands! Pew does,
is what those naval commanders would reply. Mean it? I reckon so.

KIT. Then, shake hands. You're an honest man, Pew--old Pew!--and I'll
make your fortune. But there's something else, if I could keep the run
of it. Oh, ah! But _can_ you? That's the point. Can you? don't you see?

PEW. Can I? You leave that to me; I'll bring you to your moorings; I'm
the man that can, and I'm him that will. But only, look here, let's
understand each other. You're a bold blade, ain't you? You won't stick
at a trifle for a lovely female? You'll back me up? You're a man, ain't
you? a man, and you'll see me through and through it, hey? Come; is that
so? Are you fair and square and stick at nothing?

KIT. Me, Pew? I'll go through fire and water.

PEW. I'll risk it. Well, then, see here, my son: another swallow and we
jog.

KIT. No, not to-night, Pew, not to-night!

PEW. Commander, in a manner of speaking, wherefore?

KIT. Wherefore, Pew? 'Cause why, Pew? 'Cause I'm drunk, and be damned to
you!

PEW. Commander, I ax your pardon; but, saving your presence, that's a
lie. What? drunk? a man with a 'ed for argyment like that? Just you get
up, and steady yourself on your two pins, and you'll be as right as
ninepence.

KIT. Pew, before we budge, let me shake your flipper again. You're heart
of oak, Pew, sure enough; and if you can bring the Adam--Admirable
about, why, damme, I'll make your fortune! How you're going to do it, I
don't know; but I'll stand by; and I know you'll do it if anybody can.
But I'm drunk, Pew, you can't deny that; I'm as drunk as a Plymouth
fiddler, Pew; and how you're going to do it is a mystery to me.

PEW. Ah, you leave that to me. All I want is what I've got: your promise
to stand by and bear a hand (_producing a dark lantern_). Now, here, you
see, is my little glim; it ain't for me, because I'm blind, worse luck!
and the day and night is the blessed same to David Pew. But you watch.
You put the candle near me. Here's what there ain't many blind men could
do, take the pick o' them! (_lighting a screw of paper, and with that,
the lantern_). Hey? That's it. Hey? Go and pity the poor blind!

KIT (_while PEW blows out the candles_). But I say, Pew, what do you
want with it?

PEW. To see by, my son. (_He shuts the lantern and puts it in his
pocket. Stage quite dark. Moonlight at window._) All ship-shape? No
sparks about? No? Come, then, lean on me and heave ahead for the lovely
female. (_Singing sotto voce_)--

        "Time for us to go,
         Time for us to go,
  And when we'd clapped the hatches on,
        'Twas time for us to go."




  ACT III


  _The Stage represents the Admiral's house, as in Act I. GAUNT, seated,
  is reading aloud; ARETHUSA sits at his feet. Candles_


  SCENE I

  ARETHUSA, GAUNT

GAUNT (_reading_). "And Ruth said, Intreat me not to leave thee, or to
return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and
where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy
God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried:
the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and
me." (_He closes the book._) Amen.

ARETHUSA. Amen. Father, there spoke my heart.

GAUNT. Arethusa, the Lord in His mercy has seen right to vex us with
trials of many kinds. It is a little matter to endure the pangs of the
flesh, the smart of wounds, the passion of hunger and thirst, the
heaviness of disease; and in this world I have learned to take thought
for nothing save the quiet of your soul. It is through our affections
that we are smitten with the true pain, even the pain that kills.

ARETHUSA. And yet this pain is our natural lot. Father, I fear to boast,
but I know that I can bear it. Let my life, then, flow like common
lives, each pain rewarded with some pleasure, each pleasure linked with
some pain: nothing pure whether for good or evil: and my husband, like
myself and all the rest of us, only a poor, kind-hearted sinner,
striving for the better part. What more could any woman ask?

GAUNT. Child, child, your words are like a sword. What would she ask?
Look upon me whom, in the earthly sense, you are commanded to respect.
Look upon me: do I bear a mark? is there any outward sign to bid a woman
avoid and flee from me?

ARETHUSA. I see nothing but the face I love.

GAUNT. There is none: nor yet on the young man Christopher, whose words
still haunt and upbraid me. Yes, I am hard; I was born hard, born a
tyrant, born to be what I was, a slaver captain. But to-night, and to
save you, I will pluck my heart out of my bosom. You shall know what
makes me what I am; you shall hear, out of my own life, why I dread and
deprecate this marriage. Child, do you remember your mother?

ARETHUSA. Remember her? Ah, if she had been here to-day!

GAUNT. It is thirteen years since she departed, and took with her the
whole sunshine of my life. Do you remember the manner of her departure?
You were a child, and cannot; but I can and do. Remember? shall I ever
forget? Here or hereafter, ever forget! Ten years she was my wife, and
ten years she lay a-dying. Arethusa, she was a saint on earth; and it
was I that killed her.

ARETHUSA. Killed her? my mother? You?

GAUNT. Not with my hand; for I loved her. I would not have hurt one hair
upon her head. But she got her death by me, as sure as by a blow.

ARETHUSA. I understand--I can see; you brood on trifles,
misunderstandings, unkindnesses you think them; though my mother never
knew of them, or never gave them a second thought. It is natural when
death has come between.

GAUNT. I married her from Falmouth. She was comely as the roe; I see her
still--her dove's eyes and her Smile! I was older than she; and I had a
name for hardness, a hard and wicked man; but she loved me--my
Hester!--and she took me as I was. O how I repaid her trust! Well, our
child was born to us; and we named her after the brig I had built and
sailed, the old craft whose likeness--older than you, girl--stands there
above our heads. And so far, that was happiness. But she yearned for my
salvation; and it was there I thwarted her. My sins were a burden upon
her spirit, a shame to her in this world, her terror in the world to
come. She talked much and often of my leaving the devil's trade I sailed
in. She had a tender and a Christian heart, and she would weep and pray
for the poor heathen creatures that I bought and sold and shipped in
misery, till my conscience grew hot within me. I've put on my hat, and
gone out and made oath that my next cargo should be my last; but it
never was, that oath was never kept. So I sailed again and again for the
Guinea coast, until the trip came that was to be my last indeed. Well,
it fell out that we had good luck trading, and I stowed the brig with
these poor heathen as full as she would hold. We had a fair run westward
till we were past the line; but one night the wind rose, and there came
a hurricane, and for seven days we were tossed on the deep seas, in the
hardest straits, and every hand on deck. For several days they were
battened down: all that time we heard their cries and lamentations, but
worse at the beginning; and when at last, and near dead myself, I crept
below--O, some they were starved, some smothered, some dead of broken
limbs; and the hold was like a lazar-house in the time of the anger of
the Lord!

ARETHUSA. O!

GAUNT. It was two hundred and five that we threw overboard: two hundred
and five lost souls that I had hurried to their doom. I had many die
with me before; but not like that--not such a massacre as that; and I
stood dumb before the sight. For I saw I was their murderer--body and
soul their murderer and, Arethusa, my Hester knew it. That was her
death-stroke: it felled her. She had long been dying slowly; but from
the hour she heard that story, the garment of the flesh began to waste
and perish, the fountains of her life dried up; she faded before my
face; and in two months from my landing--O Hester, Hester, would God I
had died for thee!

ARETHUSA. Mother! O poor soul! O poor father! O father, it was hard on
you.

GAUNT. The night she died, she lay there, in her bed. She took my hand.
"I am going," she said, "to heaven. For Christ's sake," she said, "come
after me, and bring my little maid. I'll be waiting and wearying till
you come"; and she kissed my hand, the hand that killed her. At that I
broke out, calling on her to stop, for it was more than I could bear.
But no, she said she must still tell me of my sins, and how the thought
of them had bowed down her life. "And O!" she said, "if I couldn't
prevail on you alive, let my death."... Well, then, she died. What have
I done since then? I've laid my course for Hester. Sin, temptation,
pleasure, all this poor shadow of a world, I saw them not; I saw my
Hester waiting, waiting and wearying. I have made my election sure; my
sins I have cast them out. Hester, Hester, I will come to you, poor
waiting one; and I'll bring your little maid: ay, dearest soul, I'll
bring your little maid safe with me!

ARETHUSA. O teach me how! Show me the way! only show me.--O mother,
mother!--If it were paved with fire, show me the way, and I will walk it
barefoot!

GAUNT. They call me a miser. They say that in this sea-chest of mine I
hoard my gold. (_He passes R. to chest, takes out key and unlocks it._)
They think my treasure and my very soul are locked up here. They speak
after the flesh, but they are right. See!

ARETHUSA. Her watch? the wedding ring? O father, forgive me!

GAUNT. Ay, her watch that counted the hours when I was away; they were
few and sorrowful, my Hester's hours; and this poor contrivance numbered
them. The ring--with that I married her. This chain, it's of Guinea
gold; I brought it home for her, the year before we married, and she
wore it to her wedding. It was a vanity: they are all vanities; but they
are the treasure of my soul. Below here, see, her wedding dress. Ay, the
watch has stopped: dead, dead. And I know that my Hester died of me; and
day and night, asleep and awake, my soul abides in her remembrance.

ARETHUSA. And you come in your sleep to look at them. O, poor father! I
understand--I understand you now.

GAUNT. In my sleep? Ay? do I so? My Hester!

ARETHUSA. And why, why did you not tell me? I thought--I was like the
rest!--I feared you were a miser. O, you should have told me; I should
have been so proud--so proud and happy. I knew you loved her; but not
this, not this.

GAUNT. Why should I have spoken? It was all between my Hester and me.

ARETHUSA. Father, may I speak? May I tell you what my heart tells me?
You do not understand about my mother. You loved her--O, as few men can
love. And she loved you: think how she loved you! In this world, you
know--you have told me--there is nothing perfect. All we men and women
have our sins; and they are a pain to those that love us, and the deeper
the love, the crueller the pain. That is life; and it is life we ask,
not heaven; and what matter for the pain, if only the love holds on? Her
love held: then she was happy. Her love was immortal; and when she
died, her one grief was to be parted from you, her one hope to welcome
you again.

GAUNT. And you, Arethusa: I was to bring her little maid.

ARETHUSA. God bless her, yes, and me! But, father, can you not see that
she was blessed among women?

GAUNT. Child, child, you speak in ignorance; you touch upon griefs you
cannot fathom.

ARETHUSA. No, dearest, no. She loved you, loved you and died of it. Why
else do women live? What would I ask but just to love my Kit, and die
for him, and look down from heaven, and see him keep my memory holy and
live the nobler for my sake?

GAUNT. Ay, do you so love him?

ARETHUSA. Even as my mother loved my father.

GAUNT. Ay? Then we will see. What right have I----You are your mother's
child: better, tenderer, wiser than I. Let us seek guidance in prayer.
Good-night, my little maid.

ARETHUSA. O father, I know you at last.


  SCENE II

  _GAUNT and ARETHUSA go out L., carrying the candles. Stage dark. A
  distant clock chimes the quarters, and strikes one. Then the
  tap-tapping of Pew's stick is heard without; the key is put into the
  lock; and enter PEW, C.; he pockets key, and is followed by KIT, with
  dark lantern_

PEW. Quiet, you lubber! Can't you foot it soft, you that has daylights
and a glim?

KIT. All right, old boy. How the devil did we get through the door?
Shall I knock him up?

PEW. Stow your gab (_seizing his wrist_). Under your breath!

KIT. Avast that! You're a savage dog, aren't you?

PEW. Turn on that glim.

KIT. It's as right as a trivet, Pew. What next? By George, Pew, I'll
make your fortune.

PEW. Here, now, look round this room, and sharp. D'ye see a old
sea-chest?

KIT. See it, Pew? why, d'ye think I'm blind?

PEW. Take me across, and let me feel of her. Mum; catch my hand. Ah,
that's her (_feeling the chest_), that's the Golden Mary. Now, see here,
my bo, if you've the pluck of a weevil in a biscuit, this girl is yours;
if you hain't, and think to sheer off, I'm blind, but I'm deadly.

KIT. You'll keep a civil tongue in your head all the same. I'll take
threats from nobody, blind or not. Let's knock up the Admiral and be
done with it. What I want is to get rid of this dark lantern. It makes
me feel like a housebreaker, by George.

PEW (_seated on chest_). You follow this. I'm sick of drinking bilge,
when I might be rolling in my coach, and I'm dog-sick of Jack Gaunt.
Who's he to be wallowing in gold, when a better man is groping crusts in
the gutter and spunging for rum? Now, here, in this blasted chest, is
the gold to make men of us for life: gold, ay, gobs of it; and writin's
too--things that if I had the proof of 'em I'd hold Jack Gaunt to the
grindstone till his face was flat. I'd have done it single-handed; but
I'm blind, worse luck: I'm all in the damned dark here, poking with a
stick--Lord, burn up with lime the eyes that saw it! That's why I raked
up you. Come, out with your iron, and prise the lid off. You shall touch
your snack, and have the wench for nothing; ay, and fling her in the
street, when done.

KIT. So you brought me here to steal, did you?

PEW. Ay did I; and you shall. I'm a biter: I bring blood.

KIT. Now, Pew, you came here on my promise, or I'd kill you like a rat.
As it is, out of that door! One, two, three (_drawing his cutlass_), and
off!

PEW (_leaping at his throat and with a great voice_). Help! murder!
thieves!


  SCENE III

  _To these, ARETHUSA, GAUNT, with lights. Stage light, PEW has KIT
  down, and is throttling him_

PEW. I've got him, Cap'n. What, kill my old commander, and rob him of
his blessed child? Not with old Pew!

GAUNT. Get up, David; can't you see you're killing him? Unhand, I say.

ARETHUSA. In heaven's name, who is it?

PEW. It's a damned villain, my pretty; and his name, to the best of my
belief, is French.

ARETHUSA. Kit? Kit French? Never.

KIT (_rising_). He's done for me. (_Falls on chest._)

PEW. Don't you take on about him, ducky; he ain't worth it. Cap'n Gaunt,
I took him and I give him up. You was 'ard on me this morning, Cap'n:
this is my way--Pew's way, this is--of paying of you out.

ARETHUSA. Father, this is the blind man that came while you were abroad.
Sure you'll not listen to _him_. And you, Kit, you, what is this?

KIT. Captain Gaunt, that blind devil has half-throttled me. He brought
me here--I can't speak--he has almost killed me--and I'd been drinking
too.

GAUNT. And you, David Pew, what do you say?

PEW. Cap'n, the rights of it is this. Me and that young man there was
partaking in a friendly drop of rum at the "Admiral Benbow" inn; and I'd
just proposed his blessed Majesty, when the young man he ups and says to
me: "Pew," he says, "I like you, Pew: you're a true seaman," he says;
"and I'm one as sticks at nothing; and damme, Pew," he says, "I'll make
your fortune." (Can he deny as them was his words? Look at him, you as
has eyes: no, he cannot. "Come along of me," he says, "and, damme, I'll
make your fortune.") Well, Cap'n, he lights a dark lantern (which you'll
find it somewhere on the floor, I reckon), and out we goes, me follerin'
his lead, as I thought was 'art-of-oak and a true-blue mariner; and the
next I knows is, here we was in here, and him a-askin' me to 'old the
glim, while he prised the lid off of your old sea-chest with his
cutlass.

GAUNT. The chest? (_He leaps, R., and examines chest._) Ah!

PEW. Leastways, I was to 'elp him, by his account of it, while he nailed
the rhino, and then took and carried off that lovely maid of yours; for
a lovely maid she is, and one as touched old Pew's 'art. Cap'n, when I
'eard that, my blood biled. "Young man," I says, "you don't know David
Pew," I says; and with that I ups and does my dooty by him, cutlass and
all, like a lion-'arted seaman, though blind. (And then in comes you,
and I gives him up: as you know for a fack is true, and I'll subscribe
at the Assizes. And that, if you was to cut me into junks, is the truth,
the 'ole truth, and nothing but the truth, world without end, so help
me, amen; and if you'll 'and me over the 'oly Bible, me not having such
a thing about me at the moment, why, I'll put a oath upon it like a
man.)

ARETHUSA. Father, have you heard?

GAUNT. I know this man, Arethusa, and the truth is not in him.

ARETHUSA. Well, and why do we wait? We know Kit, do we not?

KIT. Ay, Captain, you know the pair of us, and you can see his face and
mine.

GAUNT. Christopher, the facts are all against you. I find you here in my
house at midnight: you who at least had eyes to see, and must have known
whither you were going. It was this man, not you, who called me up: and
when I came in, it was he who was uppermost and who gave you up to
justice. This unsheathed cutlass is yours; there hangs the scabbard,
empty; and as for the dark lantern, of what use is light to the blind?
and who could have trimmed and lighted it but you?

PEW. Ah, Cap'n, what a 'ed for argyment!

KIT. And now, sir, now that you have spoken, I claim the liberty to
speak on my side.

GAUNT. Not so. I will first have done with this man. David Pew, it were
too simple to believe your story as you tell it; but I can find no
testimony against you. From whatever reason, assuredly you have done me
service. Here are five guineas to set you on your way. Begone at once;
and while it is yet time, think upon your repentance.

PEW. Cap'n, here's my respecks. You've turned a pious man, Cap'n; it
does my 'art good to 'ear you. But you ain't the only one. O no! I came
about and paid off on the other tack before you, I reckon: you ask the
Chaplain of the Fleet else, as called me on the quarter-deck before old
Admiral 'Awke himself (_touching his hat_), my old commander. ("David
Pew," he says, "five-and-thirty year have I been in this trade, man and
boy," that chaplain says, "and damme, Pew," says he, "if ever I seen the
seaman that could rattle off his catechism within fifty mile of you.
Here's five guineas out of my own pocket," he says; "and what's more to
the p'int," he says, "I'll speak to my reverend brother-in-law, the
Bishop of Dover," he says; "and if ever you leave the sea, and wants a
place as beadle, why, damme," says he, "you go to him, for you're the
man for him and him for you.")

GAUNT. David Pew, you never set your foot on a King's ship in all your
life. There lies the road.

PEW. Ah, you was always a 'ard man, Cap'n, and a 'ard man to believe,
like Didymus the 'Ebrew prophet. But it's time for me to go, and I'll be
going. My service to you, Cap'n: and I kiss my 'and to that lovely
female. (_Singing_)--

       "Time for us to go,
        Time for us to go,
  And when we'd clapped the hatches on,
        'Twas time for us to go."


  SCENE IV

  KIT, ARETHUSA, GAUNT

ARETHUSA. Now, Kit?

KIT. Well, sir, and now?

GAUNT. I find you here in my house at this untimely and unseemly hour; I
find you there in company with one who, to my assured knowledge, should
long since have swung in the wind at Execution Dock. What brought you?
Why did you open my door while I slept to such a companion? Christopher
French, I have two treasures. One (_laying his hand on ARETHUSA'S
shoulder_) I know you covet: Christopher, is this your love?

KIT. Sir, I have been fooled and trapped. That man declared he knew you,
declared he could make you change your mind about our marriage. I was
drunk, sir, and I believed him: heaven knows I am sober now, and can see
my folly; but I believed him then, and followed him. He brought me here,
he told me your chest was full of gold that would make men of us for
life. At that I saw my fault, sir, and drew my cutlass; and he, in the
wink of an eye, roared out for help, leaped at my throat like a weasel,
and had me rolling on the floor. He was quick, and I, as I tell you,
sir, was off my balance.

GAUNT. Is this man, Pew, your enemy?

KIT. No, sir; I never saw him till to-night.

GAUNT. Then, if you must stand the justice of your country, come to the
proof with a better plea. What? lantern and cutlass yours; you the one
that knew the house; you the one that saw; you the one overtaken and
denounced; and you spin me a galley yarn like that? If that is all your
defence, you'll hang, sir, hang.

ARETHUSA. Ah!... Father, I give him up: I will never see him, never
speak to him, never think of him again; I take him from my heart; I give
myself wholly up to you and to my mother; I will obey you in every
point--O, not at a word merely--at a finger raised! I will do all this;
I will do anything--anything you bid me; I swear it in the face of
heaven. Only--Kit! I love him, father, I love him. Let him go.

GAUNT. Go?

ARETHUSA. You let the other. Open the door again for my sake, father--in
my mother's name--O, open the door and let him go.

KIT. Let me go? My girl, if you had cast me out this morning, good and
well: I would have left you, though it broke my heart. But it's a
changed story now; now I'm down on my luck, and you come and stab me
from behind. I ask no favour, and I'll take none; I stand here on my
innocence, and God helping me I'll clear my good name, and get your love
again, if it's love worth having. Now, Captain Gaunt, I've said my say,
and you may do your pleasure. I am my father's son, and I never feared
to face the truth.

GAUNT. You have spoken like a man, French, and you may go. I leave you
free.

KIT. Nay, sir, not so: not with my will. I'm accused and counted guilty;
the proofs are against me; the girl I love has turned upon me. I'll
accept no mercy at your hands. Captain Gaunt, I am your prisoner.

ARETHUSA. Kit, dear Kit----

GAUNT. Silence! Young man, I have offered you liberty without bond or
condition. You refuse. You shall be judged. Meanwhile (_opening the
door, R._), you will go in here. I keep your cutlass. The night brings
counsel: to-morrow shall decide. (_He locks KIT in, leaving the key in
the door._)


  SCENE V

  _GAUNT, ARETHUSA, afterwards PEW_

ARETHUSA. Father, you believe in him; you do; I know you do.

GAUNT. Child, I am not given to be hasty. I will pray and sleep upon
this matter. (_A knocking at the door, C._) Who knocks so late? (_He
opens._)

PEW (_entering_). Cap'n, shall I fetch the constable?

GAUNT. No.

PEW. No? Have ye killed him?

GAUNT. My man, I'll see you into the road. (_He takes PEW by the arm,
and goes out with him._)


  SCENE VI

  ARETHUSA

ARETHUSA. (_Listens; then running to door, R._) Kit--dearest Kit! wait!
I will come to you soon. (_GAUNT re-enters, C., as the drop falls._)




  ACT IV


  _The Stage represents the Admiral's house, as in Acts I. and III. A
  chair, L., in front. As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark. Enter
  ARETHUSA, L., with candle; she lights another; and passes to door, R.,
  which she unbolts. Stage light_


  SCENE I

  ARETHUSA, KIT

ARETHUSA. Come, dear Kit, come!

KIT. Well, I'm here.

ARETHUSA. O Kit, you are not angry with me.

KIT. Have I reason to be pleased?

ARETHUSA. Kit, I was wrong. Forgive me.

KIT. O yes. I forgive you. I suppose you meant it kindly; but there are
some kindnesses a man would rather die than take a gift of. When a man
is accused, Arethusa, it is not that he fears the gallows--it's the
shame that cuts him. At such a time as that, the way to help was to
stand to your belief. You should have nailed my colours to the mast, not
spoke of striking them. If I were to be hanged to-morrow, and your love
there, and a free pardon and a dukedom on the other side--which would I
choose?

ARETHUSA. Kit, you must judge me fairly. It was not my life that was at
stake, it was yours. Had it been mine--mine, Kit--what had you done,
then?

KIT. I am a downright fool; I saw it inside out. Why, give you up, by
George!

ARETHUSA. Ah, you see! Now you understand. It was all pure love. When he
said that word--O! death and that disgrace!... But I know my father. He
fears nothing so much as the goodness of his heart; and yet it conquers.
He would pray, he said; and to-night, and by the kindness of his voice,
I knew he was convinced already. All that is wanted is that you should
forgive me.

KIT. Arethusa, if you looked at me like that I'd forgive you piracy on
the high seas. I was only sulky; I was boxed up there in the black dark,
and couldn't see my hand. It made me pity that blind man, by George.

ARETHUSA. O, that blind man! The fiend! He came back, Kit: did you hear
him? he thought we had killed you--you!

KIT. Well, well, it serves me right for keeping company with such a
swab.

ARETHUSA. One thing puzzles me: how did you get in? I saw my father lock
the door.

KIT. Ah, how? That's just it. I was a sheet in the wind, you see. How
did we? He did it somehow.... By George, he had a key! He can get in
again.

ARETHUSA. Again? that man!

KIT. Ay can he! Again! When he likes!

ARETHUSA. Kit, I am afraid. O Kit, he will kill my father.

KIT. Afraid. I'm glad of that. Now, you'll see I'm worth my salt at
something. Ten to one he's back to Mrs. Drake's. I'll after, and lay him
aboard.

ARETHUSA. O Kit, he is too strong for you.

KIT. Arethusa, that's below the belt! Never you fear; I'll give a good
account of him.

ARETHUSA (_taking cutlass from wall_). You'll be none the worse for
this, dear.

KIT. That's so (_making cuts_). All the same, I'm half ashamed to draw
on a blind man; it's too much odds. (_He leans suddenly against the
table._) Ah!

ARETHUSA. Kit! are you ill?

KIT. My head's like a humming top; it serves me right for drinking.

ARETHUSA. Oh, and the blind man! (_She runs, L., to the corner cupboard,
brings a bottle and glass, and fills and offers glass._) Here, lad,
drink that.

KIT. To you! That's better. (_Bottle and glass remain on GAUNT'S
table._)

ARETHUSA. Suppose you miss him?

KIT. Miss him! The road is straight; and I can hear the tap-tapping of
that stick a mile away.

ARETHUSA (_listening_). 'St! my father stirring in his room!

KIT. Let me get clear; tell him why when I'm gone. The door----?

ARETHUSA. Locked!

KIT. The window!

ARETHUSA. Quick, quick! (_She unfastens R. window, by which KIT goes
out._)


  SCENE II

  _ARETHUSA, GAUNT entering L._

ARETHUSA. Father, Kit is gone.... He is asleep.

GAUNT. Waiting, waiting and wearying. The years, they go so heavily, my
Hester still waiting! (_He goes R. to chest, which he opens._) That is
your chain; it's of Guinea gold; I brought it you from Guinea. (_Taking
out chain._) You liked it once; it pleased you long ago; O, why not
now--why will you not be happy now?... I swear this is my last voyage;
see, I lay my hand upon the Holy Book and swear it. One more
venture--for the child's sake, Hester; you don't think upon your little
maid.

ARETHUSA. Ah, for my sake, it was for my sake!

GAUNT. Ten days out from Lagos. That's a strange sunset, Mr. Yeo. All
hands shorten sail! Lay aloft there, look smart!... What's that? Only
the negroes in the hold.... Mr. Yeo, she can't live long at this; I have
a wife and child in Barnstaple.... Christ, what a sea! Hold on, for
God's sake--hold on fore and aft! Great God! (_as though the sea were
making a breach over the ship at the moment_).

ARETHUSA. O!

GAUNT. They seem quieter down below there.... No water--no light--no
air--seven days battened down, and the seas mountain high, and the ship
labouring hell-deep! Two hundred and five, two hundred and five, two
hundred and five--all to eternal torture!

ARETHUSA. O pity him, pity him! Let him sleep, let him forget! Let her
prayers avail in heaven, and let him rest!

GAUNT. Hester, no, don't smile at me. Rather tears! I have seen you
weep--often, often; two hundred and five times. Two hundred and five!
(_With ring._) Hester, here is your ring (_he tries to put the ring on
his finger_). How comes it in my hand? Not fallen off again? O no,
impossible! it was made smaller, dear, it can't have fallen off! Ah, you
waste away. You must live, you must, for the dear child's sake, for
mine, Hester, for mine! Ah, the child. Yes. Who am I to judge? Poor Kit
French! And she, your little maid, she's like you, Hester, and she will
save him! How should a man be saved without a wife?

ARETHUSA. O father, if you could but hear me thank and bless you! (_The
tapping of PEW'S stick is heard approaching. GAUNT passes L. front and
sits._)

GAUNT (_beginning to count the taps_). One--two--two hundred and
five----

ARETHUSA (_listening_). God help me, the blind man! (_She runs to door,
C.; the key is put into the lock from without, and the door opens._)


  SCENE III

  _ARETHUSA (at back of stage by the door); GAUNT (front L.); to these,
  PEW, C._

PEW (_sotto voce_). All snug. (_Coming down._) So that was you, my young
friend Christopher, as shot by me on the road; and so you was hot foot
after old Pew? Christopher, my young friend, I reckon I'll have the
bowels out of that chest, and I reckon, you'll be lagged and scragged for
it. (_At these words ARETHUSA locks the door, and takes the key._) What's
that? All still. There's something wrong about this room. Pew, my 'art of
oak, you're queer to-night; brace up and carry on. Where's the tool?
(_Producing knife._) Ah, here she is; and now for the chest; and the
gold; and rum--rum--rum. What! Open?... old clothes, by God!... He's done
me; he's been before me; he's bolted with the swag; that's why he ran:
Lord wither and waste him forty year for it! O Christopher, if I had my
fingers on your throat! Why didn't I strangle the soul out of him? I
heard the breath squeak in his weasand; and Jack Gaunt pulled me off. Ah,
Jack, that's another I owe you. My pious friend, if I was God Almighty
for five minutes! (_GAUNT rises and begins to pace the stage like a
quarter-deck, L._) What's that? A man's walk. He don't see me, thank the
blessed dark! But it's time to slip, my bo. (_He gropes his way
stealthily till he comes to GAUNT'S table, where he burns his hand in the
candle._) A candle--lighted--then it's bright as day! Lord God, doesn't
he see me? It's the horrors come alive. (_GAUNT draws near and turns
away._) I'll go mad, mad! (_He gropes to the door, stopping and
starting._) Door. (_His voice rising for the first time, sharp with
terror._) Locked? Key gone? Trapped! Keep off--keep off of me--keep away!
(_Sotto voce again._) Keep your head, Lord have mercy, keep your head.
I'm wet with sweat. What devil's den is this? I must out--out! (_He
shakes the door vehemently._) No? Knife it is, then--knife--knife--knife!
(_He moves with the knife raised towards GAUNT, intently listening and
changing his direction as GAUNT changes his position on the stage._)

ARETHUSA (_rushing to intercept him_). Father, father, wake!

GAUNT. Hester, Hester! (_He turns, in time to see ARETHUSA grapple PEW
in the centre of the stage, and PEW force her down._)

ARETHUSA. Kit! Kit!

PEW (_with the knife raised_). Pew's way!


  SCENE IV

  _To these, KIT_

  (_He leaps through window, R., and cuts PEW down. At the same moment,
  GAUNT, who has been staring helplessly at his daughter's peril, fully
  awakes._)

GAUNT. Death and blood! (_KIT, helping ARETHUSA, has let fall the
cutlass. GAUNT picks it up and runs on PEW._) Damned mutineer, I'll have
your heart out! (_He stops, stands staring, drops cutlass, falls upon
his knees._) God forgive me! Ah, foul sins, would you blaze forth again?
Lord, close your ears! Hester, Hester, hear me not! Shall all these
years and tears be unavailing?

ARETHUSA. Father, I am not hurt.

GAUNT. Ay, daughter, but my soul--my lost soul!

PEW (_rising on his elbow_). Rum? You've done me. For God's sake, rum.
(_ARETHUSA pours out a glass, which KIT gives to him._) Rum? This ain't
rum; it's fire! (_With great excitement._) What's this? I don't like
rum? (_Feebly._) Ay, then, I'm a dead man, and give me water.

GAUNT. Now even his sins desert him.

PEW (_drinking water_). Jack Gaunt, you've always been my rock ahead.
It's thanks to you I've got my papers, and this time I'm shipped for
Fiddler's Green. Admiral, we ain't like to meet again, and I'll give you
a toast; Here's Fiddler's Green, and damn all lubbers! (_Seizing GAUNT'S
arm._) I say--fair dealings, Jack!--none of that heaven business:
Fiddler's Green's my port, now, ain't it?

GAUNT. David, you've hove short up, and God forbid that I deceive you.
Pray, man, pray; for in the place to which you are bound there is no
mercy and no hope.

PEW. Ay, my lass, you're black, but your blood's red, and I'm all a-muck
with it. Pass the rum, and be damned to you (_Trying to sing_)--

  "Time for us to go,
   Time for us----"

(_He dies._)

GAUNT. But for the grace of God, there lies John Gaunt! Christopher, you
have saved my child; and _I_, I, that was blinded with self-righteousness,
have fallen. Take her, Christopher; but O, walk humbly!




MACAIRE

  A MELODRAMATIC FARCE
     IN THREE ACTS




PERSONS REPRESENTED


  ROBERT MACAIRE

  BERTRAND

  DUMONT, Landlord of the "Auberge des Adrets"

  CHARLES, a Gendarme, Dumont's supposed Son

  GORIOT

  THE MARQUIS, Charles's Father

  THE BRIGADIER of Gendarmerie

  THE CURATE

  THE NOTARY

  A WAITER

  ERNESTINE, Goriot's Daughter

  ALINE

  MAIDS, PEASANTS (_Male and Female_), GENDARMES

The Scene is laid in the Courtyard of the "Auberge des Adrets," on the
frontier of France and Savoy. The time 1820. The Action occupies an
interval of from twelve to fourteen hours; from four in the afternoon
till about five in the morning

NOTE.--_The time between the acts should be as brief as possible, and
the piece played, where it is merely comic, in a vein of patter_




MACAIRE




  ACT I

  _The Stage represents the courtyard of the "Auberge des Adrets." It is
  surrounded by the buildings of the inn, with a gallery on the first
  story, approached, C., by a straight flight of stairs. L.C., the
  entrance doorway. A little in front of this, a small grated office,
  containing business table, brass-bound cabinet, and portable cash-box.
  In front, R. and L., tables and benches; one, L., partially laid for a
  considerable party_


  SCENE I

  _ALINE and MAIDS; to whom, FIDDLERS; afterwards DUMONT and CHARLES. As
  the curtain rises, the sound of the violins is heard approaching.
  ALINE and the inn servants, who are discovered laying the table, dance
  up to door L.C., to meet the FIDDLERS, who enter likewise dancing to
  their own music. Air: "Haste to the Wedding." The FIDDLERS exeunt
  playing into house, R.U.E. ALINE and MAIDS dance back to table, which
  they proceed to arrange_

ALINE. Well, give me fiddles: fiddles and a wedding feast. It tickles
your heart till your heels make a runaway match of it. I don't mind
extra work, I don't, so long as there's fun about it. Hand me up that
pile of plates. The quinces there, before the bride. Stick a pink in the
Notary's glass: that's the girl he's courting.

DUMONT (_entering; with CHARLES_). Good girls, good girls! Charles, in
ten minutes from now what happy faces will smile around that board!

CHARLES. Sir, my good fortune is complete; and most of all in this, that
my happiness has made my father happy.

DUMONT. Your father? Ah, well, upon that point we shall have more to
say.

CHARLES. What more remains that has not been said already? For surely,
sir, there are few sons more fortunate in their father: and, since you
approve of this marriage, may I not conceive you to be in that sense
fortunate in your son?

DUMONT. Dear boy, there is always a variety of considerations. But the
moment is ill chosen for dispute; to-night, at least, let our felicity be
unalloyed. (_Looking off L.C._) Our guests arrive: here is our good
Curate, and here our cheerful Notary.

CHARLES. His old infirmity, I fear.

DUMONT. But, Charles--dear boy!--at your wedding feast! I should have
taken it unneighbourly had he come strictly sober.


  SCENE II

  _To these, by the door L.C., the CURATE and the NOTARY arm in arm; the
  latter owl-like and titubant_

CURATE. Peace be on this house!

NOTARY (_singing_). "Prove an excuse for the glass."

DUMONT. Welcome, excellent neighbours! The Church and the Law.

CURATE. And you, Charles, let me hope your feelings are in solemn
congruence with this momentous step.

NOTARY (_digging CHARLES in the ribs_). Married? Lovely bride? Prove an
excuse!

DUMONT (_to CURATE_). I fear our friend? perhaps? as usual? eh?

CURATE. Possibly; I had not yet observed it.

DUMONT. Well, well, his heart is good.

CURATE. He doubtless meant it kindly.

NOTARY. Where's Aline?

ALINE. Coming, sir! (_NOTARY makes for her._)

CURATE (_capturing him_). You will infallibly expose yourself to
misconstruction. (_To CHARLES._) Where is your commanding officer?

CHARLES. Why, sir, we have quite an alert. Information has been received
from Lyons that the notorious malefactor, Robert Macaire, has broken
prison, and the Brigadier is now scouring the country in his pursuit. I
myself am instructed to watch the visitors to our house.

DUMONT. That will do, Charles: you may go. (_Exit CHARLES._) You have
considered the case I laid before you?

NOTARY. Considered a case?

DUMONT. Yes, yes. Charles, you know, Charles. Can he marry? under these
untoward and peculiar circumstances, can he marry?

NOTARY. Now, lemme tell you: marriage is a contract to which there are
two constracting parties. That being clear, I am prepared to argue
categorically that your son Charles--who, it appears, is not your son
Charles--I am prepared to argue that one party to a contract being null
and void, the other party to a contract cannot by law oblige or
constrain the first party to constract or bind himself to any contract,
except the other party be able to see his way clearly to constract
himself with him. I donno if I make myself clear?

DUMONT. No.

NOTARY. Now, lemme tell you: by applying justice of peace might possibly
afford relief.

DUMONT. But how?

NOTARY. Ay, there's the rub.

DUMONT. But what am I to do? He's not my son, I tell you: Charles is not
my son.

NOTARY. I know.

DUMONT. Perhaps a glass of wine would clear him?

NOTARY. That's what I want. (_They go out, L.U.E._)

ALINE. And now, if you've done deranging my table, to the cellar for the
wine, the whole pack of you. (_Manet sola, considering table._) There!
it's like a garden. If I had as sweet a table for my wedding, I would
marry the Notary.


  SCENE III

  _The Stage remains vacant. Enter, by door L.C., MACAIRE, followed by
  BERTRAND with the bundle; in the traditional costume_

MACAIRE. Good! No police!

BERTRAND (_looking off L.C._). Sold again!

MACAIRE. This is a favoured spot, Bertrand: ten minutes from the
frontier: ten minutes from escape. Blessings on that frontier line! The
criminal hops across, and lo! the reputable man. (_Reading._) "'Auberge
des Adrets,' by John Paul Dumont." A table set for company; this is
fate: Bertrand, are we the first arrivals? An office; a cabinet; a
cash-box--aha! and a cash-box, golden within. A money-box is like a
Quaker beauty: demure without, but what a figure of a woman! Outside
gallery: an architectural feature I approve; I count it a convenience
both for love and war; the troubadour--twang-twang; the
craftsmen----(_Makes as if turning key._) The kitchen window: humming
with cookery; truffles, before Jove! I was born for truffles. Cock your
hat: meat, wine, rest, and occupation; men to gull, women to fool, and
still the door open, the great unbolted door of the frontier!

BERTRAND. Macaire, I'm hungry.

MACAIRE. Bertrand, excuse me, you are a sensualist. I should have left
you in the stone-yard at Lyons, and written no passport but my own. Your
soul is incorporate with your stomach. Am I not hungry too? My body,
thanks to immortal Jupiter, is but the boy that holds the kite-string;
my aspirations and designs swim like the kite sky-high, and overlook an
empire.

BERTRAND. If I could get a full meal and a pound in my pocket I would
hold my tongue.

MACAIRE. Dreams, dreams! We are what we are; and what are we? Who are
you? who cares? Who am I? myself? What do we come from? an accident.
What's a mother? an old woman. A father? the gentleman who beats her.
What is crime? discovery. Virtue? opportunity. Politics? a pretext.
Affection? an affectation. Morality? an affair of latitude. Punishment?
this side the frontier. Reward? the other. Property? plunder. Business?
other people's money--not mine, by God! and the end of life to live till
we are hanged.

BERTRAND. Macaire, I came into this place with my tail between my legs
already, and hungry besides; and then you get to flourishing, and it
depresses me worse than the chaplain in the gaol.

MACAIRE. What is a chaplain? A man they pay to say what you don't want
to hear.

BERTRAND. And who are you after all? and what right have you to talk
like that? By what I can hear, you've been the best part of your life in
quod; and as for me, since I've followed you, what sort of luck have I
had? Sold again! A boose, a blue fright, two years' hard, and the police
hot-foot after us even now.

MACAIRE. What is life? A boose and the police.

BERTRAND. Of course, I know you're clever; I admire you down to the
ground, and I'll starve without you. But I can't stand it, and I'm off.
Good-bye: good luck to you, old man! and if you want the bundle----

MACAIRE. I am a gentleman of a mild disposition, and, I thank my Maker,
elegant manners; but rather than be betrayed by such a thing as you are,
with the courage of a hare, and the manners, by the Lord Harry, of a
jumping-jack----(_He shows his knife._)

BERTRAND. Put it up, put it up: I'll do what you want.

MACAIRE. What is obedience? fear. So march straight, or look for
mischief. It's not _bon ton_, I know, and far from friendly. But what is
friendship? convenience. But we lose time in this amiable dalliance.
Come, now, an effort of deportment: the head thrown back, a jaunty
carriage of the leg; crook gracefully the elbow. Thus. 'Tis better.
(_Calling._) House, house here!

BERTRAND. Are you mad? We haven't a brass farthing.

MACAIRE. Now!--But before we leave!


  SCENE IV

  _To these, DUMONT_

DUMONT. Gentlemen, what can a plain man do for your service?

MACAIRE. My good man, in a roadside inn one cannot look for the
impossible. Give one what small wine and what country fare you can
produce.

DUMONT. Gentlemen, you come here upon a most auspicious day, a
red-letter day for me and my poor house, when all are welcome. Suffer
me, with all delicacy, to inquire if you are not in somewhat narrow
circumstances?

MACAIRE. My good creature, you are strangely in error; one is rolling in
gold.

BERTRAND. And very hungry.

DUMONT. Dear me, and on this happy occasion I had registered a vow that
every poor traveller should have his keep for nothing, and a pound in
his pocket to help him on his journey.

MACAIRE. A pound in his pocket? \
                                 |
BERTRAND. Keep for nothing?      |
                                  >  _Aside._
MACAIRE. Bitten!                 |
                                 |
BERTRAND. Sold again!           /

DUMONT. I will send you what we have: poor fare, perhaps, for gentlemen
like you.


  SCENE V

  _MACAIRE, BERTRAND; afterwards CHARLES, who appears on the gallery and
  comes down_

BERTRAND. I told you so. Why will you fly so high?

MACAIRE. Bertrand, don't crush me. A pound: a fortune! With a pound to
start upon--two pounds, for I'd have borrowed yours--three months from
now I might have been driving in my barouche, with you behind it,
Bertrand, in a tasteful livery.

BERTRAND (_seeing CHARLES_). Lord, a policeman!

MACAIRE. Steady! What is a policeman? Justice's blind eye. (_To
CHARLES._) I think, sir, you are in the force?

CHARLES. I am, sir, and it was in that character----

MACAIRE. Ah, sir, a fine service!

CHARLES. It is, sir, and if your papers----

MACAIRE. You become your uniform. Have you a mother? Ah, well, well!

CHARLES. My duty, sir----

MACAIRE. They tell me one Macaire--is not that his name, Bertrand?--has
broken gaol at Lyons?

CHARLES. He has, sir, and it is precisely for that reason--

MACAIRE. Well, good-bye. (_Shaking CHARLES by the hand and leading him
towards the door, L.U.E._) Sweet spot, sweet spot. The scenery is....
(_kisses his finger-tips. Exit CHARLES._) And now, what is a policeman?

BERTRAND. A bobby.


  SCENE VI

  _MACAIRE, BERTRAND; to whom, ALINE with tray; and afterwards MAIDS_

ALINE (_entering with tray and proceeding to lay table, L._). My men,
you are in better luck than usual. It isn't every day you go shares in a
wedding feast.

MACAIRE. A wedding? Ah, and you're the bride.

ALINE. What makes you fancy that?

MACAIRE. Heavens, am I blind?

ALINE. Well, then, I wish I was.

MACAIRE. I take you at the word: have me.

ALINE. You will never be hanged for modesty.

MACAIRE. Modesty is for the poor: when one is rich and nobly born, 'tis
but a clog. I love you. What is your name?

ALINE. Guess again, and you'll guess wrong. (_Enter the other servants
with wine baskets._) Here, set the wine down. No, that is the old
Burgundy for the wedding party. These gentlemen must put up with a
different bin. (_Setting wine before MACAIRE and BERTRAND, who are at
table, L._)

MACAIRE (_drinking_). Vinegar, by the supreme Jove!

BERTRAND. Sold again!

MACAIRE. Now, Bertrand, mark me. (_Before the servants he exchanges the
bottle for the one in front of DUMONT'S place at the head of the other
table._) Was it well done?

BERTRAND. Immense.

MACAIRE (_emptying his glass into BERTRAND'S_). There, Bertrand, you may
finish that. Ha! music?


  SCENE VII

  _To these, from the inn, L.U.E., DUMONT, CHARLES, the CURATE, the
  NOTARY jigging; from the inn, R.U.E., FIDDLERS playing and dancing;
  and through door, L.C., GORIOT, ERNESTINE, PEASANTS, dancing likewise.
  Air: "Haste to the Wedding." As the parties meet, the music ceases_

DUMONT. Welcome, neighbours! welcome, friends! Ernestine, here is my
Charles, no longer mine. A thousand welcomes. O, the gay day! O, the
auspicious wedding! (_CHARLES, ERNESTINE, DUMONT, GORIOT, CURATE, and
NOTARY sit to the wedding feast; PEASANTS, FIDDLERS, and MAIDS, grouped
at back drinking from the barrel._) O, I must have all happy around me.

GORIOT. Then help the soup.

DUMONT. Give me leave: I must have all happy. Shall these poor gentlemen
upon a day like this drink ordinary wine? Not so; I shall drink it. (_To
MACAIRE, who is just about to fill his glass._) Don't touch it, sir!
Aline, give me that gentleman's bottle and take him mine: with old
Dumont's compliments.

MACAIRE. What?

BERTRAND. Change the bottle?

MACAIRE. Bitten!      \
                       > _Aside._
BERTRAND. Sold again! /

DUMONT. Yes, all shall be happy.

GORIOT. I tell 'ee, help the soup!

DUMONT (_begins to help soup. Then, dropping ladle_). One word: a matter
of detail; Charles is not my son. (_All exclaim._) O no, he is not my
son. Perhaps I should have mentioned it before.

CHARLES. I am not your son, sir?

DUMONT. O no, far from it.

GORIOT. Then who the devil's son be he?

DUMONT. O, I don't know. It's an odd tale, a romantic tale: it may amuse
you. It was twenty years ago, when I kept the "Golden Head" at Lyons;
Charles was left upon my doorstep in a covered basket, with sufficient
money to support the child till he should come of age. There was no mark
upon the linen, nor any clue but one: an unsigned letter from the father
of the child, which he strictly charged me to preserve. It was to prove
his identity; he, of course, would know the contents, and he only; so I
keep it safe in the third compartment of my cash-box, with the ten
thousand francs I've saved for his dowry. Here is the key; it's a patent
key. To-day the poor boy is twenty-one, to-morrow to be married. I did
perhaps hope the father would appear; there was a Marquis coming; he
wrote me for a room; I gave him the best, Number Thirteen, which you
have all heard of; I did hope it might be he, for a Marquis, you know,
is always genteel. But no, you see. As for me, I take all to witness I'm
as innocent of him as the babe unborn.

MACAIRE. Ahem! I think you said the linen bore an M?

DUMONT. Pardon me; the markings were cut off.

MACAIRE. True. The basket white, I think?

DUMONT. Brown, brown.

MACAIRE. Ah! brown--a whitey-brown.

GORIOT. I tell 'ee what, Dumont, this is all very well; but in that
case, I'll be danged if he gets my daater. (_General consternation._)

DUMONT. O Goriot, let's have happy faces!

GORIOT. Happy faces be danged! I want to marry my daater; I want your
son. But who be this? I don't know, and you don't know, and he don't
know. He may be anybody; by Jarge, he may be nobody! (_Exclamations._)

CURATE. The situation is crepuscular.

ERNESTINE. Father, and Mr. Dumont (and you, too, Charles), I wish to say
one word. You gave us leave to fall in love; we fell in love; and as for
me, my father, I will either marry Charles or die a maid.

CHARLES. And you, sir, would you rob me in one day of both a father and
a wife?

DUMONT (_weeping_). Happy faces, happy faces!

GORIOT. I know nothing about robbery; but she cannot marry without my
consent, and that she cannot get.

DUMONT. O dear, O dear!              \
                                      |
ALINE. What, spoil the wedding?       |
                                       > _Together._
ERNESTINE. O father!                  |
                                      |
CHARLES. Sir, sir, you would not---- /

GORIOT (_exasperated_). I wun't, and what's more I shan't.

NOTARY. I donno if I make myself clear.

DUMONT. Goriot, do let's have happy faces!

GORIOT. Fudge! Fudge!! Fudge!!!

CURATE. Possibly on application to this conscientious jurist, light may
be obtained.

ALL. The Notary; yes, yes; the Notary!

DUMONT. Now, how about this marriage?

NOTARY. Marriage is a contract, to which there are two constracting
parties, John Doe and Richard Roe. I donno if I make myself clear?

ALINE. Poor lamb!

CURATE. Silence, my friend; you will expose yourself to misconstruction.

MACAIRE (_taking the stage_). As an entire stranger in this painful
scene, will you permit a gentleman and a traveller to interject one
word? There sits the young man, full, I am sure, of pleasing qualities;
here the young maiden, by her own confession bashfully consenting to the
match; there sits that dear old gentleman, a lover of bright faces like
myself, his own now dimmed with sorrow; and here--(may I be allowed to
add?)--here sits this noble Roman, a father like myself, and like myself
the slave of duty. Last you have me--Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de
Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, the man of the world and the man of
delicacy. I find you all--permit me the expression--gravelled. A
marriage and an obstacle. Now, what is marriage? The union of two souls,
and, what is possibly more romantic, the fusion of two dowries. What is
an obstacle? the devil. And this obstacle? to me, as a man of family,
the obstacle seems grave; but to me, as a man and a brother, what is it
but a word? O my friend (_to GORIOT_), you whom I single out as the
victim of the same noble failings with myself of pride of birth, of
pride of honesty--O my friend, reflect. Go now apart with your
dishevelled daughter, your tearful son-in-law, and let their plaints
constrain you. Believe me, when you come to die, you will recall with
pride this amiable weakness.

GORIOT. I shan't, and what's more I wun't. (_CHARLES and ERNESTINE lead
him up stage, protesting. All rise except NOTARY._)

DUMONT (_front R., shaking hands with MACAIRE_). Sir, you have a noble
nature. (_MACAIRE picks his pocket._) Dear, me, dear me, and you are
rich.

MACAIRE. I own, sir, I deceived you: I feared some wounding offer, and
my pride replied. But to be quite frank with you, you behold me here,
the Baron Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest, and
between my simple manhood and the infinite, these rags are all.

DUMONT. Dear me, and with this noble pride, my gratitude is useless. For
I, too, have delicacy. I understand you could not stoop to take a gift.

MACAIRE. A gift? a small one? never!

DUMONT. And I will never wound you by the offer.

MACAIRE. Bitten!      \
                       > _Aside._
BERTRAND. Sold again! /

GORIOT (_taking the stage_). But, look 'ee here, he can't marry.

MACAIRE. Hey?     \
                   |
DUMONT. Ah!        |
                   |
ALINE. Heyday!     |
                    > _Together._
CURATE. Wherefore? |
                   |
ERNESTINE. O!      |
                   |
CHARLES. Ah!      /

GORIOT. Not without his veyther's consent! And he hasn't got it; and
what's more, he can't get it: and what's more, he hasn't got a veyther
to get it from. It's the law of France.

ALINE. Then the law of France ought to be ashamed of itself.

ERNESTINE. O, couldn't we ask the Notary again?

CURATE. Indubitably you may ask him.

MACAIRE. Can't they marry? \
                            |
DUMONT. Can't he marry?     |
                            |
ALINE. Can't she marry?     |
                             > _Together._
ERNESTINE. Can't we marry?  |
                            |
CHARLES. Can't I marry?     |
                            |
GORIOT. Bain't I right?    /

NOTARY. Constracting parties.

CURATE. Possibly to-morrow at an early hour he may be more perspicuous.

GORIOT. Ay, before he've time to get at it.

NOTARY. Unoffending jurisconsult overtaken by sorrow. Possibly by
applying justice of peace might afford relief.

MACAIRE. Bravo!              \
                              |
DUMONT. Excellent!            |
                              |
CHARLES. Let's go at once!     > _Together._
                              |
ALINE. The very thing!        |
                              |
ERNESTINE. Yes, this minute! /

GORIOT. I'll go. I don't mind getting advice, but I wun't take it.

MACAIRE. My friends, one word: I perceive by your downcast looks that
you have not recognised the true nature of your responsibility as
citizens of time. What is care? impiety. Joy? the whole duty of man.
Here is an opportunity of duty it were sinful to forego. With a word, I
could lighten your hearts; but I prefer to quicken your heels, and send
you forth on your ingenuous errand with happy faces and smiling
thoughts, the physicians of your own recovery. Fiddlers, to your catgut!
Up, Bertrand, and show them how one foots it in society; forward, girls,
and choose me every one the lad she loves; Dumont, benign old man, lead
forth our blushing Curate; and you, O bride, embrace the uniform of your
beloved, and help us dance in your wedding-day. (_Dance, in the course
of which MACAIRE picks DUMONT'S pocket of his keys, selects the key of
the cash-box, and returns the others to his pocket. In the end, all
dance out; the wedding-party, headed by FIDDLERS, L.C.; the MAIDS and
ALINE into the inn, R.U.E. Manet, BERTRAND and MACAIRE._)


  SCENE VIII

  _MACAIRE, BERTRAND, who instantly takes a bottle from the
  wedding-table, and sits with it, L._

MACAIRE. Bertrand, there's a devil of a want of a father here.

BERTRAND. Ay, if we only knew where to find him.

MACAIRE. Bertrand, look at me: I am Macaire; I am that father.

BERTRAND. You, Macaire?--you a father?

MACAIRE. Not yet, but in five minutes. I am capable of anything.
(_Producing key._) What think you of this?

BERTRAND. That? Is it a key?

MACAIRE. Ay, boy, and what besides? my diploma of respectability, my
patent of fatherhood. I prigged it--in the ardour of the dance I prigged
it; I change it beyond recognition, thus (_twists the handle of the
key_); and now...? Where is my long-lost child? produce my young
policeman, show me my gallant boy.

BERTRAND. I don't understand.

MACAIRE. Dear innocence, how should you? Your brains are in your fists.
Go and keep watch. (_He goes into the office and returns with the
cash-box._) Keep watch, I say.

BERTRAND. Where?

MACAIRE. Everywhere. (_He opens box._)

BERTRAND. Gold.

MACAIRE. Hands off! Keep watch. (_BERTRAND at back of stage._) Beat
slower, my paternal heart! The third compartment! let me see.

BERTRAND. S'st! (_MACAIRE shuts box._) No: false alarm.

MACAIRE. The third compartment. Ay, here t----

BERTRAND. S'st! (_Same business._) No: fire away.

MACAIRE. The third compartment: it must be this.

BERTRAND. S'st. (_MACAIRE keeps box open, watching BERTRAND._) All
serene: it's the wind.

MACAIRE. Now, see here! (_He darts his knife into the stage._) I will
either be backed as a man should be, or from this minute out I'll work
alone. Do you understand? I said alone.

BERTRAND. For the Lord's sake, Macaire!----

MACAIRE. Ay, here it is. (_Reading letter._) "Preserve this letter
secretly; its terms are known only to you and me; hence when the time
comes, I shall repeat them, and my son will recognise his father."
Signed: "Your Unknown Benefactor." (_He hums it over twice and replaces
it. Then, fingering the gold._) Gold! The yellow enchantress, happiness
ready-made and laughing in my face! Gold: what is gold? The world; the
term of ills; the empery of all; the multitudinous babble of the
'Change, the sailing from all ports of freighted argosies; music, wine,
a palace; the doors of the bright theatre, the key of consciences,
and--love's--love's whistle! All this below my itching fingers; and to
set this by, turn a deaf ear upon the siren present, and condescend once
more, naked, into the ring with fortune--Macaire, how few would do it!
But you, Macaire, you are compacted of more subtile clay. No cheap
immediate pilfering: no retail trade of petty larceny; but swoop at the
heart of the position, and clutch all!

BERTRAND (_at his shoulder_). Halves!

MACAIRE. Halves? (_He locks the box._) Bertrand, I am a father.
(_Replaces box in office._)

BERTRAND (_looking after him_). Well, I--am--damned!


  DROP




  ACT II


  _When the curtain rises, the night has come. A hanging cluster of
  lighted lamps over each table, R. and L. MACAIRE, R., smoking a
  cigarette; BERTRAND, L., with a churchwarden: each with bottle and
  glass_


  SCENE I

  MACAIRE, BERTRAND

MACAIRE. Bertrand, I am content: a child might play with me. Does your
pipe draw well?

BERTRAND. Like a factory chimney. This is my notion of life: liquor, a
chair, a table to put my feet on, a fine clean pipe, and no police.

MACAIRE. Bertrand, do you see these changing exhalations do you see
these blue rings and spirals, weaving their dance, like a round of
fairies, on the footless air?

BERTRAND. I see 'em right enough.

MACAIRE. Man of little vision, expound me these meteors! What do they
signify, O wooden-head? Clod, of what do they consist?

BERTRAND. Damned bad tobacco.

MACAIRE. I will give you a little course of science. Everything,
Bertrand (much as it may surprise you), has three states: a vapour, a
liquid, a solid. These are fortune in the vapour: these are ideas. What
are ideas? the protoplasm of wealth. To your head--which, by the way, is
solid, Bertrand--what are they but foul air? To mine, to my prehensile
and constructive intellects, see, as I grasp and work them, to what
lineaments of the future they transform themselves: a palace, a
barouche, a pair of luminous footmen, plate, wine, respect, and to be
honest!

BERTRAND. But what's the sense in honesty?

MACAIRE. The sense? You see me: Macaire: elegant, immoral, invincible in
cunning; well, Bertrand, much as it may surprise you, I am simply damned
by my dishonesty.

BERTRAND. No!

MACAIRE. The honest man, Bertrand, that's God's noblest work. He carries
the bag, my boy. Would you have me define honesty? the strategic point
for theft. Bertrand, if I'd three hundred a year, I'd be honest
to-morrow.

BERTRAND. Ah! don't you wish you may get it!

MACAIRE. Bertrand, I will bet you my head against your own--the longest
odds I can imagine--that with honesty for my spring-board, I leap
through history like a paper hoop, and come out among posterity heroic
and immortal.


  SCENE II

  _To these, all the former characters, less the NOTARY. The fiddles are
  heard without playing dolefully. Air: "O dear, what can the matter
  be?" in time to which the procession enters_

MACAIRE. Well, friends, what cheer?

ALINE. No wedding, no wedding!              \
                                            |
GORIOT. I told 'ee he can't, and 'ee can't. |
                                            |
DUMONT. Dear, dear me!                       > _Together._
                                            |
ERNESTINE. They won't let us marry.         |
                                            |
CHARLES. No wife, no father, no nothing!   /

CURATE. The facts have justified the worst anticipations of our absent
friend, the Notary.

MACAIRE. I perceive I must reveal myself.

DUMONT. God bless me, no!

MACAIRE. My friends, I had meant to preserve a strict incognito, for I
was ashamed (I own it!) of this poor accoutrement; but when I see a face
that I can render happy, say, my old Dumont, should I hesitate to work
the change? Hear me, then, and you (_to the others_) prepare a smiling
countenance. (_Repeating._) "Preserve this letter secretly; its terms
are known only to you and me: hence when the time comes, I shall repeat
them, and my son will recognise his father.--Your Unknown Benefactor."

DUMONT. The words! the letter! Charles, alas! it is your father!

CHARLES. Good Lord! (_General consternation._)

BERTRAND (_aside; smiting his brow_). I see it now; sublime!

CURATE. A highly singular eventuality.

GORIOT. Him? O well, then, I wun't. (_Goes up._)

MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (_Business._) Ernestine, your second
father waits to welcome you. (_Business._) Goriot, noble old man, I
grasp your hand. (_He doesn't._) And you, Dumont, how shall your unknown
benefactor thank you for your kindness to his boy? (_A dead pause._)
Charles, to my arms!

CHARLES. My father, you are still something of a stranger. I
hope--er--in the course of time--I hope that may be somewhat mended. But
I confess that I have so long regarded Mr. Dumont----

MACAIRE. Love him still, dear boy, love him still. I have not returned
to be a burden on your heart, nor much, comparatively, on your pocket. A
place by the fire, dear boy, a crust for my friend, Bertrand. (_A dead
pause._) Ah, well, this is a different home-coming from that I fancied
when I left the letter: I dreamed to grow rich. Charles, you remind me
of your sainted mother.

CHARLES. I trust, sir, you do not think yourself less welcome for your
poverty.

MACAIRE. Nay, nay--more welcome, more welcome. O, I know
your--(_business_) backs! Besides, my poverty is noble. Political....
Dumont, what are your politics?

DUMONT. A plain old republican, my lord.

MACAIRE. And yours, my good Goriot?

GORIOT. I be a royalist, I be, and so be my daater.

MACAIRE. How strange is the coincidence! The party that I sought to
found combined the peculiarities of both; a patriotic enterprise in
which I fell. This humble fellow ... have I introduced him? You behold
in us the embodiment of aristocracy and democracy. Bertrand, shake hands
with my family. (_BERTRAND is rebuffed by one and the other in dead
silence._)

BERTRAND. Sold again!

MACAIRE. Charles, to my arms! (_Business._)

ERNESTINE. Well, but now that he has a father of some kind, cannot the
marriage go on?

MACAIRE. Angel, this very night: I burn to take my grandchild on my
knees.

GORIOT. Be you that young man's veyther?

MACAIRE. Ay, and what a father!

GORIOT. Then all I've got to say is, I shan't and I wun't.

MACAIRE. Ah, friends, friends, what a satisfaction it is, what a sight
is virtue! I came among you in this poor attire to test you; how nobly
have you borne the test! But my disguise begins to irk me: who will lend
me a good suit? (_Business._)


  SCENE III

  _To these, the MARQUIS, L.C._

MARQUIS. Is this the house of John Paul Dumont, once of Lyons?

DUMONT. It is, sir, and I am he, at your disposal.

MARQUIS. I am the Marquis Villers-Cotterets de la Cherté de Médoc.
(_Sensation._)

MARCAIRE. Marquis, delighted, I am sure.

MARQUIS (_to DUMONT_). I come, as you perceive, unfollowed; my errand,
therefore, is discreet. I come (_producing notes from breast-pocket_)
equipped with thirty thousand francs; my errand, therefore, must be
generous. Can you not guess?

DUMONT. Not I, my lord.

MARQUIS (_repeating_). "Preserve this letter," etc.

MARCAIRE. Bitten!

BERTRAND. Sold again! (_Aside._) (_A pause._)

ALINE. Well, I never did!

DUMONT. Two fathers!

MARQUIS. Two? Impossible.

DUMONT. Not at all. This is the other.

MARQUIS. This man?

MARCAIRE. This is the man, my lord; here stands the father. Charles, to
my arms! (_CHARLES backs._)

DUMONT. He knew the letter.

MARQUIS. Well, so did I.

CURATE. The judgment of Solomon.

GORIOT. What did I tell 'ee? he can't marry.

ERNESTINE. Couldn't they both consent?

MARQUIS. But he's my living image.

MARCAIRE. Mine, Marquis, mine.

MARQUIS. My figure, I think?

MARCAIRE. Ah, Charles, Charles!

CURATE. We used to think his physiognomy resembled Dumont's.

DUMONT. Come to look at him, he's really like Goriot.

ERNESTINE. O papa, I hope he's not my brother.

GORIOT. What be talking of? I tell 'ee, he's like our Curate.

CHARLES. Gentlemen, my head aches.

MARQUIS. I have it: the involuntary voice of nature, at me, my son.

MACAIRE. Nay, Charles, but look at me.

CHARLES. Gentlemen, I am unconscious of the smallest natural inclination
for either.

MARQUIS. Another thought: what was his mother's name?

MACAIRE. What was the name of his mother by you?

MARQUIS. Sir, you are silenced.

MACAIRE. Silenced by honour. I had rather lose my boy than compromise
his sainted mother.

MARQUIS. A thought; twins might explain it: had you not two foundlings?

DUMONT. Nay, sir, one only; and, judging by the miseries of this
evening, I should say, thank God!

MACAIRE. My friends, leave me alone with the Marquis. It is only a
father that can understand a father's heart. Bertrand, follow the
members of my family. (_They troop out, L.U.E. and R.U.E., the fiddlers
playing. Air: "O dear, what can the matter be?"_)


  SCENE IV

  MACAIRE, MARQUIS

MARQUIS. Well, sir?

MACAIRE. My lord, I feel for you. (_Business. They sit, R._)

MARQUIS. And now, sir?

MACAIRE. The bond that joins us is remarkable and touching.

MARQUIS. Well, sir?

MACAIRE (_touching him on the breast_). You have there thirty thousand
francs.

MARQUIS. Well, sir?

MACAIRE. I was but thinking of the inequalities of life, my lord: that
I, who, for all you know, may be the father of your son, should have
nothing; and that you, who, for all I know, may be the father of mine,
should be literally bulging with bank notes.... Where do you keep them
at night?

MARQUIS. Under my pillow. I think it rather ingenious.

MACAIRE. Admirably so. I applaud the device.

MARQUIS. Well, sir?

MACAIRE. Do you snuff, my lord?

MARQUIS. No, sir, I do not.

MACAIRE. My lord, I am a poor man.

MARQUIS. Well, sir? and what of that?

MACAIRE. The affections, my lord, are priceless. Money will not buy
them; or, at least, it takes a great deal.

MARQUIS. Sir, your sentiments do you honour.

MACAIRE. My lord, you are rich.

MARQUIS. Well, sir?

MACAIRE. Now follow me, I beseech you. Here am I, my lord; and there, if
I may so express myself, are you. Each has a father's heart, and there
we are equal; each claims yon interesting lad, and there again we are on
a par. But, my lord--and here we come to the inequality, and what I
consider the unfairness of the thing--you have thirty thousand francs,
and I, my lord, have not a rap. You mark me! not a rap, my lord! My
lord, put yourself in my position; consider what must be my feelings, my
desires; and--hey?

MARQUIS. I fail to grasp....

MACAIRE (_with irritation_). My dear man, there is the door of the
house; here am I; there (_touching MARQUIS on the breast_) are thirty
thousand francs. Well, now?

MARQUIS. I give you my word of honour, sir, I gather nothing; my mind is
quite unused to such prolonged exertion. If the boy be yours, he is not
mine; if he be mine, he is not yours; and if he is neither of ours, or
both of ours ... in short, my mind....

MACAIRE. My lord, will you lay those thirty thousand francs upon the
table?

MARQUIS. I fail to grasp ... but if it will in any way oblige you....
(_Does so._)

MARCAIRE. Now, my lord, follow me: I take them up; you see? I put them
in my pocket; you follow me? This is my hat; here is my stick; and here
is my--my friend's bundle.

MARQUIS. But that is my cloak.

MARCAIRE. Precisely. Now, my lord, one more effort of your lordship's
mind. If I were to go out of that door, with the full intention--follow
me close--the full intention of never being heard of more, what would
you do?

MARQUIS. I!--send for the police.

MARCAIRE. Take your money! (_Dashing down the notes._) Man, if I met you
in a lane! (_He drops his head upon the table._)

MARQUIS. The poor soul is insane. The other man, whom I suppose to be
his keeper, is very much to blame.

MARCAIRE (_raising his head_). I have a light! (_To MARQUIS._) With
invincible oafishness, my lord, I cannot struggle. I pass you by; I
leave you gaping by the wayside; I blush to have a share in the progeny
of such an owl. Off, off, and send the tapster!

MARQUIS. Poor fellow! (_Exit._)


  SCENE V

  _MARCAIRE, to whom BERTRAND. Afterwards DUMONT_

BERTRAND. Well?

MARCAIRE. Bitten!

BERTRAND. Sold again!

MARCAIRE. Had he the wit of a lucifer-match! But what can gods or men
against stupidity? Still, I have a trick. Where is that damned old man?

DUMONT (_entering_). I hear you want me.

MARCAIRE. Ah, my good old Dumont, this is very sad.

DUMONT. Dear me, what is wrong?

MARCAIRE. Dumont, you had a dowry for my son?

DUMONT. I had; I have: ten thousand francs.

MARCAIRE. It's a poor thing, but it must do. Dumont, I bury my old
hopes, my old paternal tenderness.

DUMONT. What? is he not your son?

MARCAIRE. Pardon me, my friend. The Marquis claims my boy. I will not
seek to deny that he attempted to corrupt me, or that I spurned his
gold. It was thirty thousand.

DUMONT. Noble soul!

MARCAIRE. One has a heart.... He spoke, Dumont, that proud noble spoke,
of the advantages to our beloved Charles; and in my father's heart a
voice arose, louder than thunder. Dumont, was I unselfish? The voice
said no; the voice, Dumont, up and told me to begone.

DUMONT. To begone? to go?

MARCAIRE. To begone, Dumont, and to go. Both, Dumont. To leave my son to
marry, and be rich and happy as the son of another; to creep forth
myself, old, penniless, broken-hearted, exposed to the inclemencies of
heaven and the rebuffs of the police.

DUMONT. This is what I had looked for at your hands. Noble, noble man!

MARCAIRE. One has a heart ... and yet, Dumont, it can hardly have
escaped your penetration that if I were to shift from this hostelry
without a farthing and leave my offspring to wallow--literally--among
millions, I should play the part of little better than an ass.

DUMONT. But I had thought ... I had fancied....

MARCAIRE. No, Dumont, you had not; do not seek to impose upon my
simplicity. What you did think was this, Dumont: for the sake of this
noble father, for the sake of this son whom he denies for his own
interest--I mean, for his interest--no, I mean, for his own--well,
anyway, in order to keep up the general atmosphere of sacrifice and
nobility, I must hand over this dowry to the Baron Henri-Frédéric de
Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest.

DUMONT. Noble, O noble!           \
                                   > _Together: eachshaking him by
BERTRAND. Beautiful, O beautiful! /     the hand._

DUMONT. Now Charles is rich he needs it not. For whom could it more
fittingly be set aside than for his noble father? I will give it you at
once.

BERTRAND. At once, at once!

MACAIRE (_aside to BERTRAND_). Hang on. (_Aloud._) Charles, Charles, my
lost boy! (_He falls weeping at L. table. DUMONT enters the office and
brings down cash-box to table R. He feels in all his pockets: BERTRAND
from behind him making signs to MACAIRE, which the latter does not
see._)

DUMONT. That's strange. I can't find the key. It's a patent key.

BERTRAND (_behind DUMONT, making signs to MACAIRE_). The key, he can't
find the key.

MACAIRE. O, yes, I remember. I heard it drop. (_Drops key._) And here it
is before my eyes.

DUMONT. That? That's yours. I saw it drop.

MACAIRE. I give you my word of honour I heard it fall five minutes back.

DUMONT. But I saw it.

MACAIRE. Impossible. It must be yours.

DUMONT. It is like mine, indeed. How came it in your pocket?

MACAIRE. Bitten! (_Aside._)

BERTRAND. Sold again! (_Aside_) ... You forget, Baron, it's the key of
my valise; I gave it you to keep in consequence of the hole in my
pocket.

MACAIRE. True, true; and that explains.

DUMONT. O, that explains. Now, all we have to do is to find mine. It's a
patent key. You heard it drop.

MACAIRE. Distinctly.

BERTRAND. So I did: distinctly.

DUMONT. Here, Aline, Babette, Goriot, Curate, Charles, everybody, come
here and look for my key!


  SCENE VI

  _To these, with candles, all the former characters, except FIDDLERS,
  PEASANTS, and NOTARY. They hunt for the key_

DUMONT. It's bound to be here. We all heard it drop.

MARQUIS (_with BERTRAND'S bundle_). Is this it?

ALL (_with fury_). No.

BERTRAND. Hands off, that's my luggage. (_Hunt resumed._)

DUMONT. I heard it drop, as plain as ever I heard anything.

MARQUIS. By the way (_all start up_), what are we looking for?

ALL (_with fury_). O!!

DUMONT. Will you have the kindness to find my key? (_Hunt resumed._)

CURATE. What description of a key----

DUMONT. A patent, patent, patent, patent key!

MACAIRE. I have it. Here it is!

ALL (_with relief_). Ah!!

DUMONT. That? What do you mean? That's yours.

MACAIRE. Pardon me.

DUMONT. It is.

MACAIRE. It isn't.

DUMONT. I tell you it is: look at that twisted handle.

MACAIRE. It can't be mine, and so it must be yours.

DUMONT. It is NOT. Feel in your pockets. (_To the others._) Will you
have the kindness to find my patent key?

ALL. O!! (_Hunt resumed._)

MACAIRE. Ah, well, you're right. (_He slips key into DUMONT'S pocket._)
An idea: suppose you felt in your pocket?

ALL (_rising_). Yes! Suppose you did!

DUMONT. I will not feel in my pockets. How could it be there? It's a
patent key. This is more than any man can bear. First, Charles is one
man's son, and then he's another's, and then he's nobody's, and be
damned to him! And then there's my key lost; and then there's your key!
What is your key? Where is your key? Where isn't it? And why is it like
mine, only mine's a patent? The long and short of it is this: that I'm
going to bed, and that you're all going to bed, and that I refuse to
hear another word upon the subject or upon any subject. There!

MACAIRE. Bitten!      \
                       > _Aside._
BERTRAND. Sold again! /

(_ALINE and MAIDS extinguish hanging lamps over tables, R. and L. Stage
lighted only by guests' candles._)

CHARLES. But, sir, I cannot decently retire to rest till I embrace my
honoured parent. Which is it to be?

MACAIRE. Charles, to my----

DUMONT. Embrace neither of them; embrace nobody; there has been too much
of this sickening folly. To bed!!! (_Exit violently R.U.E. All the
characters troop slowly upstairs, talking in dumb show. BERTRAND and
MACAIRE remain in front C., watching them go._)

BERTRAND. Sold again, captain?

MACAIRE. Ay, they will have it.

BERTRAND. It? What?

MACAIRE. The worst, Bertrand. What is man?--a beast of prey. An hour
ago, and I'd have taken a crust and gone in peace. But no: they would
trick and juggle, curse them: they would wriggle and cheat! Well, I
accept the challenge: war to the knife.

BERTRAND. Murder?

MACAIRE. What is murder? A legal term for a man dying. Call it Fate, and
that's philosophy; call me Providence, and you talk religion. Die? Why,
that is what man is made for; we are full of mortal parts; we are all as
good as dead already, we hang so close upon the brink: touch a button,
and the strongest falls in dissolution. Now, see how easy: I take
you----(_grappling him_).

BERTRAND. Macaire--O no!

MACAIRE. Fool! Would I harm a fly, when I had nothing to gain? As the
butcher with the sheep, I kill to live; and where is the difference
between man and mutton? pride and a tailor's bill. Murder? I know who
made that name--a man crouching from the knife! Selfishness made it--the
aggregated egotism called society; but I meet that with a selfishness as
great. Has he money? Have I none--great powers, none? Well, then, I
fatten and manure my life with his.

BERTRAND. You frighten me. Who is it?

MACAIRE. Mark well. (_The MARQUIS opens the door of Number Thirteen, and
the rest, clustering round, bid him good-night. As they begin to
disperse along the gallery he enters and shuts the door._) Out, out,
brief candle! That man is doomed.


  DROP




  ACT III


  _As the curtain rises, the Stage is dark and empty. Enter MACAIRE,
  L.U.E., with lantern. He looks about_


  SCENE I

  MACAIRE, BERTRAND

MACAIRE (_calling off_). S'st!

BERTRAND (_entering L.U.E._). It's creeping dark.

MACAIRE. Blinding dark; and a good job.

BERTRAND. Macaire, I'm cold; my very hair's cold.

MACAIRE. Work, work will warm you: to your keys.

BERTRAND. No, Macaire, it's a horror. You'll not kill him; let's have no
bloodshed.

MACAIRE. None: it spoils your clothes. Now, see: you have keys and you
have experience: up that stair and pick me the lock of that man's door.
Pick me the lock of that man's door.

BERTRAND. May I take the light?

MACAIRE. You may not. Go. (_BERTRAND mounts the stairs and is seen
picking the lock of Number Thirteen._) The earth spins eastward, and the
day is at the door. Yet half an hour of covert, and the sun will be
afoot, the discoverer, the great policeman. Yet half an hour of night,
the good, hiding, practicable night; and lo! at a touch the gas-jet of
the universe turned on; and up with the sun gets the providence of
honest people, puts off his nightcap, throws up his window, stares out
of house--and the rogue must skulk again till dusk. Yet half an hour
and, Macaire, you shall be safe and rich. If yon fool--my fool--would
but miscarry, if the dolt within would hear and leap upon him, I could
intervene, kill both, by heaven--both!--cry murder with the best, and at
one stroke reap honour and gold. For, Bertrand dead----

BERTRAND (_from above_). S'st, Macaire.

MACAIRE. Is it done, dear boy? Come down. (_BERTRAND descends._) Sit
down beside this light: this is your ring of safety, budge not
beyond--the night is crowded with hobgoblins. See ghosts and tremble
like a jelly if you must; but remember men are my concern; and at the
creak of a man's foot, hist! (_Sharpening his knife upon his sleeve._)
What is a knife? A plain man's sword.

BERTRAND. Not the knife, Macaire; O, not the knife.

MACAIRE. My name is Self-Defence. (_He goes upstairs and enters Number
Thirteen._)

BERTRAND. He's in. I hear a board creak. What a night, what a night!
Will he hear him? O Lord, my poor Macaire! I hear nothing, nothing. The
night's as empty as a dream: he must hear him; he cannot help but hear
him; and then--O Macaire, Macaire, come back to me. It's death, and it's
death, and it's death. Red, red: a corpse. Macaire to kill, Macaire to
die? I'd rather starve, I'd rather perish, than either: I'm not fit, I'm
not fit for either! Why, how's this? I want to cry. (_A stroke, and a
groan from above._) God Almighty, one of them's gone! (_He falls with
his head on table, R. MACAIRE appears at the top of the stairs,
descends, comes airily forward and touches him on the shoulder.
BERTRAND, with a cry, turns, and falls upon his neck._) O, O, and I
thought I had lost him. (_Day breaking._)

MACAIRE. The contrary, dear boy. (_He produces notes._)

BERTRAND. What was it like?

MACAIRE. Like? Nothing. A little blood, a dead man.

BERTRAND. Blood!... Dead! (_He falls at table sobbing. MACAIRE divides
the notes into two parts; on the smaller he wipes the bloody knife,
and folding the stains inward, thrusts the notes into BERTRAND'S face._)

MACAIRE. What is life without the pleasures of the table?

BERTRAND (_taking and pocketing notes_). Macaire, I can't get over it.

MACAIRE. My mark is the frontier, and at top speed. Don't hang your jaw
at me. Up, up, at the double; pick me that cash-box; and let's get the
damned house fairly cleared.

BERTRAND. I can't. Did he bleed much?

MACAIRE. Bleed? Must I bleed you? To work, or I'm dangerous.

BERTRAND. It's all right, Macaire; I'm going.

MACAIRE. Better so: an old friend is nearly sacred. (_Full daylight:
lights up. MACAIRE blows out lantern._)

BERTRAND. Where's the key?

MACAIRE. Key? I tell you to pick it.

BERTRAND (_with the box_). But it's a patent lock. Where is the key? You
had it.

MACAIRE. Will you pick that lock?

BERTRAND. I can't; it's a patent. Where's the key?

MACAIRE. If you will have it, I put it back in that old ass's pocket.

BERTRAND. Bitten, I think. (_MACAIRE dancing mad._)


  SCENE II

  _To these, DUMONT_

DUMONT. Ah, friends, up so early? Catching the worm, catching the worm?

MACAIRE. Good morning, good morning! \
                                      > _Both sitting on the table and
BERTRAND. Early birds, early birds.  /     dissembling box._

DUMONT. By the way, very remarkable thing: I found that key.

MACAIRE. No!

BERTRAND. O!

DUMONT. Perhaps a still more remarkable thing: it was my key that had
the twisted handle.

MACAIRE. I told you so.

DUMONT. Now, what we have to do is to get the cash-box. Hallo! what's
that you're sitting on?

BERTRAND. Nothing.

MACAIRE. The table! I beg your pardon.

DUMONT. Why, it's my cash-box!

MACIARE. Why, so it is!

DUMONT. It's very singular.

MACAIRE. Diabolishly singular.

BERTRAND. Early worms, early worms!

DUMONT (_blowing in key_). Well, I suppose you are still willing to
begone?

MACAIRE. More than willing, my dear soul: pressed, I may say, for time;
for though it had quite escaped my memory, I have an appointment in
Turin with a lady of title.

DUMONT (_at box_). It's very odd. (_Blows in key._) It's a singular
thing (_blowing_), key won't turn. It's a patent. Someone must have
tampered with the lock (_blowing_). It's strangely singular, it's
singularly singular! I've shown this key to commercial gentlemen all the
way from Paris: they never saw a better key! (_more business_). Well,
(_giving it up and looking reproachfully on key_,) that's pretty
singular.

MACAIRE. Let me try. (_He tries, and flings down the key with a curse._)
Bitten!

BERTRAND. Sold again!

DUMONT (_picking up key_). It's a patent key.

Macaire (_to BERTRAND_). The game's up: we must save the swag. (_To
DUMONT._) Sir, since your key, on which I invoke the blight of Egypt,
has once more defaulted, my feelings are unequal to a repetition of
yesterday's distress, and I shall simply pad the hoof. From Turin you
shall receive the address of my banker, and may prosperity attend your
ventures. (_To BERTRAND._) Now, boy! (_To DUMONT._) Embrace my
fatherless child! farewell! (_MACAIRE and BERTRAND turn to go off, and
are met in the door by the GENDARMES._)


  SCENE III

  _To these, the BRIGADIER and GENDARMES_

BRIGADIER. Let no man leave the house.

MACAIRE. Bitten!      \
                       > _Aside._
BERTRAND. Sold again! /

DUMONT. Welcome, old friend!

BRIGADIER. It is not the friend that comes; it is the Brigadier. Summon
your guests; I must investigate their passports. I am in pursuit of a
notorious malefactor, Robert Macaire.

DUMONT. But I was led to believe that both Macaire and his accomplice
had been arrested and condemned.

BRIGADIER. They were, but they have once more escaped for the moment,
and justice is indefatigable. (_He sits at table, R._) Dumont, a bottle
of white wine.

MACAIRE (_to DUMONT_). My excellent friend, I will discharge your
commission, and return with all speed. (_Going._)

BRIGADIER. Halt!

MACAIRE (_returning: as if he saw BRIGADIER for the first time_). Ha! a
member of the force? Charmed, I'm sure. But you misconceive me: I
return, at once, and my friend remains behind to answer for me.

BRIGADIER. Justice is insensible to friendship. I shall deal with you in
due time. Dumont, that bottle.

MACAIRE. Sir, my friend and I, who are students of character, would
grasp the opportunity to share and--may one add?--to pay the bottle.
Dumont, three!

BERTRAND. For God's sake! (_Enter ALINE and MAIDS._)

MACAIRE. My friend is an author: so, in a humbler way, am I. Your
knowledge of the criminal classes naturally tempts one to pursue so
interesting an acquaintance.

BRIGADIER. Justice is impartial. Gentlemen, your health.

MACAIRE. Will not these brave fellows join us?

BRIGADIER. They are on duty; but what matters?

MACAIRE. My dear sir, what is duty? duty is my eye.

BRIGADIER (_solemnly_). And Betty Martin. (_GENDARMES sit at table._)

MACAIRE (_to BERTRAND_). Dear friend, sit down.

BERTRAND (_sitting down_). O Lord!

BRIGADIER (_to MACAIRE_). You seem to be a gentleman of considerable
intelligence.

MACAIRE. I fear, sir, you flatter. One has lived, one has loved, and one
remembers: that is all. One's "Lives of Celebrated Criminals" has met
with a certain success, and one is ever in quest of fresh material.

DUMONT. By the way, a singular thing about my patent key.

BRIGADIER. This gentleman is speaking.

MACAIRE. Excellent Dumont! he means no harm. This Macaire is not
personally known to you?

BRIGADIER. Are you connected with justice?

MACAIRE. Ah, sir, justice is a point above a poor author.

BRIGADIER (_with glass_). Justice is the very devil.

MACAIRE. My dear sir, my friend and I, I regret to say, have an
appointment in Lyons, or I could spend my life in this society. Charge
your glasses: one hour to madness and to joy! What is to-morrow? the
enemy of to-day. Wine? the bath of life. One moment: I find I have
forgotten my watch. (_He makes for the door._)

BRIGADIER. Halt!

MACAIRE. Sir, what is this jest?

BRIGADIER. Sentry at the door. Your passports.

MACAIRE. My good man, with all the pleasure in life. (_Gives papers. The
BRIGADIER puts on spectacles and examines them._)

BERTRAND (_rising and passing round to MACAIRE'S other side_). It's life
and death: they must soon find it.

MACAIRE (_aside_). Don't I know? My heart's like fire in my body.

BRIGADIER. Your name is?

MACAIRE. It is; one's name is not unknown.

BRIGADIER. Justice exacts your name.

MACAIRE. Henri-Frédéric de Latour de Main de la Tonnerre de Brest.

BRIGADIER. Your profession?

MACAIRE. Gentleman.

BRIGADIER. No, but what is your trade?

MACAIRE. I am an analytical chemist.

BRIGADIER. Justice is inscrutable. Your papers are in order. (_To
BERTRAND._) Now, sir, and yours?

BERTRAND. I feel kind of ill.

MACAIRE. Bertrand, this gentleman addresses you. He is not one of us; in
other scenes, in the gay and giddy world of fashion, one is his
superior. But to-day he represents the majesty of law; and as a citizen
it is one's pride to do him honour.

BRIGADIER. Those are my sentiments.

BERTRAND. I beg your pardon, I----(_Gives papers._)

BRIGADIER. Your name?

BERTRAND. Napoleon.

BRIGADIER. What? In your passport it is written Bertrand.

BERTRAND. It's this way: I was born Bertrand, and then I took the name
of Napoleon, and I mostly always call myself either Napoleon or
Bertrand.

BRIGADIER. The truth is always best. Your profession?

BERTRAND. I am an orphan.

BRIGADIER. What the devil! (_To MACAIRE._) Is your friend an idiot?

MACAIRE. Pardon me, he is a poet.

BRIGADIER. Poetry is a great hindrance to the ends of justice. Well,
take your papers.

MACAIRE. Then we may go?


  SCENE IV

  _To these, CHARLES, who is seen on the gallery going to the door of
  Number Thirteen. Afterwards all the characters but the NOTARY and the
  MARQUIS._

BRIGADIER. One glass more. (_BERTRAND touches MACAIRE, and points to
CHARLES, who enters Number Thirteen._)

MACAIRE. No more, no more, no more.

BRIGADIER (_rising and taking MACAIRE by the arm_). I stipulate.

MACAIRE. Engagement in Turin!

BRIGADIER. Turin?

MACAIRE. Lyons, Lyons!

BERTRAND. For God's sake ...

BRIGADIER. Well, good-bye!

MACAIRE. Good-bye, good----

CHARLES (_from within_). Murder! Help! (_Appearing._) Help here! The
Marquis is murdered.

BRIGADIER. Stand to the door. A man up there. (_A GENDARME hurries up
staircase into Number Thirteen, CHARLES following him. Enter on both
sides of gallery the remaining characters of the piece, except the
NOTARY and the MARQUIS._)

MACAIRE. Bitten, by God! \
                          > _Aside._
BERTRAND. Lost!          /

BRIGADIER (_to DUMONT_). John Paul Dumont, I arrest you.

DUMONT. Do your duty, officer. I can answer for myself and my own
people.

BRIGADIER. Yes, but these strangers?

DUMONT. They are strangers to me.

MACAIRE. I am an honest man: I stand upon my rights: search me; or
search this person, of whom I know too little. (_Smiting his brow._) By
heaven, I see it all! This morning----(_To BERTRAND._) How, sir, did
you dare to flaunt your booty in my very face? (_To BRIGADIER._) He
showed me notes; he was up ere day; search him, and you'll find. There
stands the murderer.

BERTRAND. O, Macaire! (_He is seized and searched and the notes are
found._)

BRIGADIER. There is blood upon the notes. Handcuffs. (_MACAIRE edging
towards the door._)

BERTRAND. Macaire, you may as well take the bundle. (_MACAIRE is stopped
by sentry, and comes front, R._)

CHARLES (_re-appearing_). Stop, I know the truth. (_He comes down._)
Brigadier, my father is not dead. He is not even dangerously hurt. He
has spoken. There is the would-be assassin.

MACAIRE. Hell! (_He darts across to the staircase, and turns on the
second step, flashing out the knife._) Back, hounds! (_He springs up the
stair, and confronts them from the top._) Fools, I am Robert Macaire!
(_As MACAIRE turns to flee, he is met by the Gendarme coming out of
Number Thirteen; he stands an instant checked, is shot from the stage,
and falls headlong backward down the stair. BERTRAND, with a cry, breaks
from the Gendarmes, kneels at his side, and raises his head._)

BERTRAND. Macaire, Macaire, forgive me. I didn't blab; you know I didn't
blab.

MACAIRE. Sold again, old boy. Sold for the last time; at least, the last
time this side death. Death----what is death? (_He dies._)


  CURTAIN




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