Transcribed from the 1907 William Heinemann edition by David Price, email
ccx074@pglaf.org
The Plays
of
W. E. Henley and
R. L. Stevenson
Deacon Brodie Beau Austin
Admiral Guinea Robert Macaire
[Picture: Decorative graphic]
London
William Heinemann
1907
* * * * *
_Copyright_
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
PAGE
DEACON BRODIE 1
BEAU AUSTIN 111
ADMIRAL GUINEA 177
ROBERT MACAIRE 251
DEACON BRODIE
OR THE DOUBLE LIFE
A MELODRAMA IN FIVE ACTS
AND EIGHT TABLEAUX
PERSONS REPRESENTED
WILLIAM BRODIE, Deacon of the Wrights, Housebreaker and Master Carpenter.
OLD BRODIE, the Deacon’s Father.
WILLIAM LAWSON, Procurator-Fiscal, the Deacon’s Uncle.
ANDREW AINSLIE, HUMPHREY MOORE, GEORGE SMITH, Robbers in the Deacon’s
gang.
CAPTAIN RIVERS, an English Highwayman.
HUNT, a Bow Street Runner.
A DOCTOR.
WALTER LESLIE.
MARY BRODIE, the Deacon’s Sister.
JEAN WATT, the Deacon’s Mistress.
VAGABONDS, OFFICERS OF THE WATCH, MEN-SERVANTS.
The Scene is laid in Edinburgh. The Time is towards the close of the
Eighteenth Century. The Action, some fifty hours long, begins at eight
p.m. on Saturday and ends before midnight on Monday.
NOTE.—_Passages suggested for omission in representation are enclosed in
square brackets_, _thus_ [ ].
SYNOPSIS OF ACTS AND TABLEAUX
ACT I.
TABLEAU I. The Double Life.
TABLEAU II. Hunt the Runner.
TABLEAU III. Mother Clarke’s.
ACT II.
TABLEAU IV. Evil and Good.
ACT III.
TABLEAU V. King’s Evidence.
TABLEAU VI. Unmasked.
ACT IV.
TABLEAU VII. The Robbery.
ACT V.
TABLEAU VIII. The Open Door.
LONDON: PRINCE’S THEATRE
2_d_ _July_ 1884
DEACON BRODIE, Mr. E. J. HENLEY.
WALTER LESLIE, Mr. CHARLES CARTWRIGHT.
WILLIAM LAWSON, Mr. JOHN MACLEAN.
ANDREW AINSLIE, Mr. FRED DESMOND.
HUMPHREY MOORE, Mr. EDMUND GRACE.
GEORGE SMITH, Mr. JULIAN CROSS.
HUNT, Mr. HUBERT AKHURST.
OLD BRODIE, Mr. A. KNIGHT.
CAPTAIN RIVERS, Mr. BRANDON THOMAS.
MARY BRODIE, Miss LIZZIE WILLIAMS.
JEAN WATT, Miss MINNIE BELL.
MONTREAL
26_th_ _September_ 1887
DEACON BRODIE, Mr. E. J. HENLEY.
WALTER LESLIE, Mr. GRAHAM STEWART.
WILLIAM LAWSON, Mr. EDMUND LYONS.
ANDREW AINSLIE, Mr. FRED DESMOND.
HUMPHREY MOORE, Mr. EDMUND GRACE.
GEORGE SMITH, Mr. HORATIO SAKER.
HUNT, Mr. HENRY VERNON.
CAPTAIN RIVERS, Mr. BRUCE PHILIPS.
MARY BRODIE, Miss ANNIE ROBE.
JEAN WATT, Miss CARRIE COOTE.
ACT I.
TABLEAU I.
THE DOUBLE LIFE.
_The Stage represents a room in the Deacon’s house_, _furnished partly as
a sitting-_, _partly as a bed-room_, _in the style of an easy burgess of
about_ 1780. _C._, _a door_; _L. C._, _a second and smaller door_; _R.
C._, _practicable window_; _L._, _alcove_, _supposed to contain bed_; _at
the back_, _a clothes-press and a corner cupboard containing bottles_,
_etc._ MARY BRODIE _at needlework_; OLD BRODIE, _a paralytic_, _in
wheeled chair_, _at the fireside_, _L._
SCENE I
_To these_ LESLIE, _C._
LESLIE. May I come in, Mary?
MARY. Why not?
LESLIE. I scarce knew where to find you.
MARY. The dad and I must have a corner, must we not? So when my
brother’s friends are in the parlour he allows us to sit in his room.
’Tis a great favour, I can tell you; the place is sacred.
LESLIE. Are you sure that ‘sacred’ is strong enough?
MARY. You are satirical!
LESLIE. I? And with regard to the Deacon? Believe me, I am not so
ill-advised. You have trained me well, and I feel by him as solemnly as
a true-born Brodie.
MARY. And now you are impertinent! Do you mean to go any further? We
are a fighting race, we Brodies. Oh, you may laugh, sir! But ’tis no
child’s play to jest us on our Deacon, or, for that matter, on our
Deacon’s chamber either. It was his father’s before him: he works in it
by day and sleeps in it by night; and scarce anything it contains but is
the labour of his hands. Do you see this table, Walter? He made it
while he was yet a ’prentice. I remember how I used to sit and watch him
at his work. It would be grand, I thought, to be able to do as he did,
and handle edge-tools without cutting my fingers, and getting my ears
pulled for a meddlesome minx! He used to give me his mallet to keep and
his nails to hold; and didn’t I fly when he called for them! and wasn’t I
proud to be ordered about with them! And then, you know, there is the
tall cabinet yonder; that it was that proved him the first of Edinburgh
joiners, and worthy to be their Deacon and their head. And the father’s
chair, and the sister’s workbox, and the dear dead mother’s
footstool—what are they all but proofs of the Deacon’s skill, and tokens
of the Deacon’s care for those about him?
LESLIE. I am all penitence. Forgive me this last time, and I promise
you I never will again.
MARY. Candidly, now, do you think you deserve forgiveness?
LESLIE. Candidly, I do not.
MARY. Then I suppose you must have it. What have you done with Willie
and my uncle?
LESLIE. I left them talking deeply. The dear old Procurator has not
much thought just now for anything but those mysterious burglaries—
MARY. I know!—
LESLIE. Still, all of him that is not magistrate and official is
politician and citizen; and he has been striving his hardest to undermine
the Deacon’s principles, and win the Deacon’s vote and interest.
MARY. They are worth having, are they not?
LESLIE. The Procurator seems to think that having them makes the
difference between winning and losing.
MARY. Did he say so? You may rely upon it that he knows. There are not
many in Edinburgh who can match with our Will.
LESLIE. There shall be as many as you please, and not one more.
MARY. How I should like to have heard you! What did uncle say? Did he
speak of the Town Council again? Did he tell Will what a wonderful
Bailie he would make? O why did you come away?
LESLIE. I could not pretend to listen any longer. The election is
months off yet; and if it were not—if it were tramping upstairs this
moment—drums, flags, cockades, guineas, candidates, and all!—how should I
care for it? What are Whig and Tory to me?
MARY. O fie on you! It is for every man to concern himself in the
common weal. Mr. Leslie—Leslie of the Craig!—should know that much at
least.
LESLIE. And be a politician like the Deacon? All in good time, but not
now. I hearkened while I could, and when I could no more I slipped out
and followed my heart. I hoped I should be welcome.
MARY. I suppose you mean to be unkind.
LESLIE. Tit for tat. Did you not ask me why I came away? And is it
usual for a young lady to say ‘Mr.’ to the man she means to marry?
MARY. That is for the young lady to decide, sir.
LESLIE. And against that judgment there shall be no appeal?
MARY. O, if you mean to argue!—
LESLIE. I do not mean to argue. I am content to love and be loved. I
think I am the happiest man in the world.
MARY. That is as it should be; for I am the happiest girl.
LESLIE. Why not say the happiest wife? I have your word, and you have
mine. Is not that enough?
MARY. Have you so soon forgotten? Did I not tell you how it must be as
my brother wills? I can do only as he bids me.
LESLIE. Then you have not spoken as you promised?
MARY. I have been too happy to speak.
LESLIE. I am his friend. Precious as you are, he will trust you to me.
He has but to know how I love you, Mary, and how your life is all in your
love of me, to give us his blessing with a full heart.
MARY. I am sure of him. It is that which makes my happiness complete.
Even to our marriage I should find it hard to say ‘Yes’ when he said
‘No.’
LESLIE. Your father is trying to speak. I’ll wager he echoes you.
MARY (_to_ OLD BRODIE). My poor dearie! Do you want to say anything to
me? No? Is it to Mr. Leslie, then?
LESLIE. I am listening, Mr. Brodie.
MARY. What is it, daddie?
OLD BRODIE. My son—the Deacon—Deacon Brodie—the first at school.
LESLIE. I know it, Mr. Brodie. Was I not the last in the same class?
(_To_ MARY.) But he seems to have forgotten us.
MARY. O yes! his mind is wellnigh gone. He will sit for hours as you
see him, and never speak nor stir but at the touch of Will’s hand or the
sound of Will’s name.
LESLIE. It is so good to sit beside you. By and by it will be always
like this. You will not let me speak to the Deacon? You are fast set
upon speaking yourself? I could be so eloquent, Mary—I would touch him.
I cannot tell you how I fear to trust my happiness to any one else—even
to you!
MARY. He must hear of my good fortune from none but me. And besides,
you do not understand. We are not like families, we Brodies. We are so
clannish, we hold so close together.
LESLIE. You Brodies, and your Deacon!
OLD BRODIE. Deacon of his craft, sir—Deacon of the Wrights—my son! If
his mother—his mother—had but lived to see!
MARY. You hear how he runs on. A word about my brother and he catches
it. ’Tis as if he were awake in his poor blind way to all the Deacon’s
care for him and all the Deacon’s kindness to me. I believe he only
lives in the thought of the Deacon. There, it is not so long since I was
one with him. But indeed I think we are all Deacon-mad, we Brodies. Are
we not, daddie dear?
BRODIE (_without_, _and entering_). You are a mighty magistrate,
Procurator, but you seem to have met your match.
SCENE II
_To these_, BRODIE and LAWSON.
MARY (_curtseying_). So, uncle! you have honoured us at last.
LAWSON. _Quam primum_, my dear, _quam primum_.
BRODIE. Well, father, do you know me? (_He sits beside his father and
takes his hand_.)
[OLD BRODIE. William—ay—Deacon. Greater man—than—his father.
BRODIE. You see, Procurator, the news is as fresh to him as it was five
years ago. He was struck down before he got the Deaconship, and lives
his lost life in mine.
LAWSON. Ay, I mind. He was aye ettling after a bit handle to his name.
He was kind of hurt when first they made me Procurator.]
MARY. And what have you been talking of?
LAWSON. Just o’ thae robberies, Mary. Baith as a burgher and a Crown
offeecial, I tak’ the maist absorbing interest in thae robberies.
LESLIE. Egad, Procurator, and so do I.
BRODIE (_with a quick look at_ LESLIE). A dilettante interest,
doubtless! See what it is to be idle.
LESLIE. Faith, Brodie, I hardly know how to style it.
BRODIE. At any rate, ’tis not the interest of a victim, or we should
certainly have known of it before; nor a practical tool-mongering
interest, like my own; nor an interest professional and official, like
the Procurator’s. You can answer for that, I suppose?
LESLIE. I think I can; if for no more. It’s an interest of my own, you
see, and is best described as indescribable, and of no manner of moment
to anybody. [It will take no hurt if we put off its discussion till a
month of Sundays.]
BRODIE. You are more fortunate than you deserve. What do you say,
Procurator?
LAWSON. Ay is he! There is no a house in Edinburgh safe. The law is
clean helpless, clean helpless! A week syne it was auld Andra Simpson’s
in the Lawnmarket. Then, naething would set the catamarans but to
forgather privily wi’ the Provost’s ain butler, and tak’ unto themselves
the Provost’s ain plate. And the day, information was laid before me
offeecially that the limmers had made infraction, _vi et clam_, into
Leddy Mar’get Dalziel’s, and left her leddyship wi’ no sae muckle’s a
spune to sup her parritch wi’. It’s unbelievable, it’s awful, it’s
anti-christian!
MARY. If you only knew them, uncle, what an example you would make! But
tell me, is it not strange that men should dare such things, in the midst
of a city, and nothing, nothing be known of them—nothing at all?
LESLIE. Little, indeed! But we do know that there are several in the
gang, and that one at least is an unrivalled workman.
LAWSON. Ye’re right, sir; ye’re vera right, Mr. Leslie. It had been
deponed to me offeecially that no a tradesman—no the Deacon here
himsel’—could have made a cleaner job wi’ Andra Simpson’s shutters. And
as for the lock o’ the bank—but that’s an auld sang.
BRODIE. I think you believe too much, Procurator. Rumour’s an ignorant
jade, I tell you. I’ve had occasion to see some little of their
handiwork—broken cabinets, broken shutters, broken doors—and I find them
bunglers. Why, I could do it better myself!
LESLIE. Gad, Brodie, you and I might go into partnership. I back myself
to watch outside, and I suppose you could do the work of skill within?
BRODIE. An opposition company? Leslie, your mind is full of good
things. Suppose we begin to-night, and give the Procurator’s house the
honours of our innocence?
MARY. You could do anything, you two!
LAWSON. Onyway, Deacon, ye’d put your ill-gotten gains to a right use;
they might come by the wind but they wouldna gang wi’ the water; and
that’s aye _a solatium_, as we say. If I am to be robbit, I would like
to be robbit wi’ decent folk; and no think o’ my bonnie clean siller
dirling among jads and dicers. [Faith, William, the mair I think on’t,
the mair I’m o’ Mr. Leslie’s mind. Come the night, or come the morn, and
I’se gie ye my free permission, and lend ye a hand in at the window
forbye!
BRODIE. Come, come, Procurator, lead not our poor clay into temptation.
(LESLIE _and_ MARY _talk apart_.)
LAWSON. I’m no muckle afraid for your puir clay, as ye ca’t.] But hark
i’ your ear: ye’re likely, joking apart, to be gey and sune in
partnership wi’ Mr. Leslie. He and Mary are gey and pack, a body can see
that.
[BRODIE. ‘Daffin’ and want o’ wit’—you know the rest.
LAWSON. _Vidi_, _scivi_, _et audivi_, as we say in a Sasine, William.]
Man, because my wig’s pouthered do ye think I havena a green heart? I
was aince a lad mysel’, and I ken fine by the glint o’ the e’e when a
lad’s fain and a lassie’s willing. And, man, it’s the town’s talk;
_communis error fit jus_, ye ken.
[OLD BRODIE. Oh!
LAWSON. See, ye’re hurting your faither’s hand.
BRODIE. Dear dad, it is not good to have an ill-tempered son.
LAWSON. What the deevil ails ye at the match? ’Od, man, he has a nice
bit divot o’ Fife corn-land, I can tell ye, and some Bordeaux wine in his
cellar! But I needna speak o’ the Bordeaux; ye’ll ken the smack o’t as
weel’s I do mysel’; onyway it’s grand wine. _Tantum et tale_. I tell ye
the _pro’s_, find you the _con.’s_, if ye’re able.]
BRODIE. [I am sorry, Procurator, but I must be short with you.] You are
talking in the air, as lawyers will. I prefer to drop the subject [and
it will displease me if you return to it in my hearing].
LESLIE. At four o’clock to-morrow? At my house? (_to_ MARY).
MARY. As soon as church is done. (_Exit_ MARY.)
LAWSON. Ye needna be sae high and mighty, onyway.
BRODIE. I ask your pardon, Procurator. But we Brodies—you know our
failings! [A bad temper and a humour of privacy.]
LAWSON. Weel, I maun be about my business. But I could tak’ a
doch-an-dorach, William; _superflua non nocent_, as we say; an extra dram
hurts naebody, Mr. Leslie.
BRODIE (_with bottle and glasses_). Here’s your old friend, Procurator.
Help yourself, Leslie. Oh no, thank you, not any for me. You strong
people have the advantage of me there. With my attacks, you know, I must
always live a bit of a hermit’s life.
LAWSON. ’Od, man, that’s fine; that’s health o’ mind and body. Mr.
Leslie, here’s to you, sir. ’Od, it’s harder to end than to begin wi’
stuff like that.
SCENE III
_To these_, SMITH and JEAN, _C._
SMITH. Is the king of the castle in, please?
LAWSON (_aside_). Lord’s sake, it’s Smith!
BRODIE (_to_ SMITH). I beg your pardon?
SMITH. I beg yours, sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. Brodie at home,
sir?
BRODIE. What do you want with him, my man?
SMITH. I’ve a message for him, sir, a job of work, sir!
BRODIE (_to_ SMITH; _referring to_ JEAN). And who is this?
JEAN. I am here for the Procurator, about my rent. There’s nae offence,
I hope, sir.
LAWSON. It’s just an honest wife I let a flat to in Libberton’s Wynd.
It’ll be for the rent?
JEAN. Just that, sir.
LAWSON. Weel, ye can just bide here a wee, and I’ll step down the road
to my office wi’ ye. (_Exeunt_ BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE, _C._)
SCENE IV
SMITH, JEAN WATT, OLD BRODIE.
SMITH (_bowing them out_). Your humble and most devoted servant, George
Smith, Esquire. And so this is the garding, is it? And this is the
style of horticulture? Ha, it is! (_At the mirror_.) In that case
George’s mother bids him bind his hair. (_Kisses his hand_.) My dearest
Duchess,—(_To_ JEAN.) I say, Jean, there’s a good deal of difference
between this sort of thing and the way we does it in Libberton’s Wynd.
JEAN. I daursay. And what wad ye expeck?
SMITH. Ah, Jean, if you’d cast affection’s glance on this poor but
honest soger! George Lord S. is not the nobleman to cut the object of
his flame before the giddy throng; nor to keep her boxed up in an old
mouse-trap, while he himself is revelling in purple splendours like
these. He didn’t know you, Jean: he was afraid to. Do you call that a
man? Try a man that is.
JEAN. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I’ll tak’ nane o’ that sort of
talk frae you. And what kind o’ a man are you to even yoursel’ to the
likes o’ him? He’s a gentleman.
SMITH. Ah, ain’t he just! And don’t he live up to it? I say, Jean,
feel of this chair.
JEAN. My! look at yon bed!
SMITH. The carpet too! Axminster, by the bones of Oliver Cromwell!
JEAN. What a expense!
SMITH. Hey, brandy! The deuce of the grape! Have a toothful, Mrs.
Watt. [(_Sings_)—
‘Says Bacchus to Venus,
There’s brandy between us,
And the cradle of love is the bowl, the bowl!’]
JEAN. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith.
SMITH. What brings the man from stuff like this to rotgut and spittoons
at Mother Clarke’s; but ah, George, you was born for a higher spear! And
so was you, Mrs. Watt, though I say it that shouldn’t. (_Seeing_ OLD
BRODIE _for the first time_.) Hullo! it’s a man!
JEAN. Thonder in the chair. (_They go to look at him_, _their backs to
the door_.)
GEORGE. Is he alive?
JEAN. I think there’s something wrong with him.
GEORGE. And how was you to-morrow, my valued old gentleman, eh?
JEAN. Dinna mak’ a mock o’ him, Geordie.
OLD BRODIE. My son—the Deacon—Deacon of his trade.
JEAN. He’ll be his feyther. (HUNT _appears at door C._, _and stands
looking on_.)
SMITH. The Deacon’s old man! Well, he couldn’t expect to have his
quiver full of sich, could he, Jean? (_To_ OLD BRODIE.) Ah, my
Christian soldier, if you had, the world would have been more varigated.
Mrs. Deakin (_to_ JEAN), let me introduce you to your dear papa.
JEAN. Think shame to yoursel’! This is the Deacon’s house; you and me
shouldna be here by rights; and if we are, it’s the least we can do to
behave dacent. [This is no the way ye’ll mak’ me like ye.]
SMITH. All right, Duchess. Don’t be angry.
SCENE V
_To these_, HUNT, _C._ (_He steals down_, _and claps each one suddenly
on the shoulder_.)
HUNT. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr. Procurator-Fiscal?
SMITH (_pulling himself together_). D—n it, Jerry, what do you mean by
startling an old customer like that?
HUNT. What, my brave un’? You’re the very party I was looking for!
SMITH. There’s nothing out against me this time?
HUNT. I’ll take odds there is. But it ain’t in my hands. (_To_ OLD
BRODIE.) You’ll excuse me, old genelman?
SMITH. Ah, well, if it’s all in the way of friendship! . . . I say,
Jean, [you and me had best be on the toddle.] We shall be late for
church.
HUNT. Lady, George?
SMITH. It’s a—yes, it’s a lady. Come along, Jean.
HUNT. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe? [That was the name, I think?] Won’t
Mrs. Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz?
JEAN (_unmuffling_). I’ve naething to be ashamed of. My name’s Mistress
Watt; I’m weel kennt at the Wynd heid; there’s naething again me.
HUNT. No, to be sure, there ain’t; and why clap on the blinkers, my
dear? You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like Jerry Hunt
that might be your born father? [But all this don’t tell me about Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal.]
GEORGE (_in an agony_). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (_Going with
attempted swagger_.) Well, ta-ta, Jerry.
SCENE VI
_To these_, _C_, BRODIE and LAWSON (greatcoat, muffler, lantern).
LAWSON (_from the door_). Come your ways, Mistress Watt.
JEAN. That’s the Fiscal himsel’.
HUNT. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe?
LAWSON. That’s me. Who’ll you be?
HUNT. Hunt the Runner, sir; Hunt from Bow Street; English warrant.
LAWSON. There’s a place for a’ things, officer. Come your ways to my
office, with me and this guid wife.
BRODIE (_aside to_ JEAN, _as she passes with a curtsey_). How dare you
be here? (_Aloud to_ SMITH.) Wait you here, my man.
SMITH. If you please, sir. (BRODIE _goes out_, _C._)
SCENE VII
BRODIE, SMITH.
BRODIE. What the devil brings you here?
SMITH. _Con_found it, Deakin! Not rusty?
[BRODIE. And not you only: Jean too! Are you mad?
SMITH. Why, you don’t mean to say, Deakin, that you have been stodged by
G. Smith, Esquire? Plummy old George?]
BRODIE. There was my uncle the Procurator—
SMITH. The Fiscal? He don’t count.
BRODIE. What d’ye mean?
SMITH. Well, Deakin, since Fiscal Lawson’s Nunkey Lawson, and it’s all
in the family way, I don’t mind telling you that Nunkey Lawson’s a
customer of George’s. We give Nunkey Lawson a good deal of brandy—G. S.
and Co.’s celebrated Nantz.
BRODIE. What! does he buy that smuggled trash of yours?
SMITH. Well, we don’t call it smuggled in the trade, Deakin. It’s a
wink, and King George’s picter between G. S. and the Nunks.
BRODIE. Gad! that’s worth knowing. O Procurator, Procurator, is there
no such thing as virtue? [_Allons_! It’s enough to cure a man of vice
for this world and the other.] But hark you hither, Smith; this is all
damned well in its way, but it don’t explain what brings you here.
SMITH. I’ve trapped a pigeon for you.
BRODIE. Can’t you pluck him yourself?
SMITH. Not me. He’s too flash in the feather for a simple nobleman like
George Lord Smith. It’s the great Capting Starlight, fresh in from York.
[He’s exercised his noble art all the way from here to London. ‘Stand
and deliver, stap my vitals!’] And the north road is no bad lay, Deakin.
BRODIE. Flush?
SMITH (_mimicking_). ‘The graziers, split me! A mail, stap my vitals!
and seven demned farmers, by the Lard—’
BRODIE. By Gad!
SMITH. Good for trade, ain’t it? And we thought, Deakin, the Badger and
me, that coins being ever on the vanish, and you not over sweet on them
there lovely little locks at Leslie’s, and them there bigger and uglier
marine stores at the Excise Office . . .
BRODIE (_impassible_). Go on.
SMITH. Worse luck! . . . We thought, me and the Badger, you know, that
maybe you’d like to exercise your helbow with our free and galliant
horseman.
BRODIE. The old move, I presume? the double set of dice?
SMITH. That’s the rig, Deakin. What you drop on the square you pick up
again on the cross. [Just as you did with G. S. and Co.’s own agent and
correspondent, the Admiral from Nantz.] You always was a neat hand with
the bones, Deakin.
BRODIE. The usual terms, I suppose?
SMITH. The old discount, Deakin. Ten in the pound for you, and the rest
for your jolly companions every one. [_That’s_ the way _we_ does it!]
BRODIE. Who has the dice?
SMITH. Our mutual friend, the Candleworm.
BRODIE. You mean Ainslie?—We trust that creature too much, Geordie.
SMITH. He’s all right, Marquis. He wouldn’t lay a finger on his own
mother. Why, he’s no more guile in him than a set of sheep’s trotters.
[BRODIE. You think so? Then see he don’t cheat you over the dice, and
give you light for loaded. See to that, George, see to that; and you may
count the Captain as bare as his last grazier.
SMITH. The Black Flag for ever! George’ll trot him round to Mother
Clarke’s in two twos.] How long’ll you be?
BRODIE. The time to lock up and go to bed, and I’ll be with you. Can
you find your way out?
SMITH. Bloom on, my Sweet William, in peaceful array. Ta-ta.
SCENE VIII
BRODIE, OLD BRODIE; to whom, MARY.
MARY. O Willie, I am glad you did not go with them. I have something to
tell you. If you knew how happy I am, you would clap your hands, Will.
But come, sit you down there, and be my good big brother, and I will
kneel here and take your hand. We must keep close to dad, and then he
will feel happiness in the air. The poor old love, if we could only tell
him! But I sometimes think his heart has gone to heaven already, and
takes a part in all our joys and sorrows; and it is only his poor body
that remains here, helpless and ignorant. Come, Will, sit you down, and
ask me questions—or guess—that will be better, guess.
BRODIE. Not to-night, Mary; not to-night. I have other fish to fry, and
they won’t wait.
MARY. Not one minute for your sister? One little minute for your little
sister?
BRODIE. Minutes are precious, Mary. I have to work for all of us, and
the clock is always busy. They are waiting for me even now. Help me
with the dad’s chair. And then to bed, and dream happy things. And
to-morrow morning I will hear your news—your good news; it must be good,
you look so proud and glad. But to-night it cannot be.
MARY. I hate your business—I hate all business. To think of chairs, and
tables, and foot-rules, all dead and wooden—and cold pieces of money with
the King’s ugly head on them; and here is your sister, your pretty
sister, if you please, with something to tell, which she would not tell
you for the world, and would give the world to have you guess, and you
won’t?—Not you! For business! Fie, Deacon Brodie! But I’m too happy to
find fault with you.
BRODIE. ‘And me a Deacon,’ as the Procurator would say.
MARY. No such thing, sir! I am not a bit afraid of you—nor a bit angry
neither. Give me a kiss, and promise me hours and hours to-morrow
morning.
BRODIE. All day long to-morrow, if you like.
MARY. Business or none?
BRODIE. Business or none, little sister! I’ll make time, I promise you;
and there’s another kiss for surety. Come along. (_They proceed to push
out the chair_, _L.C._) The wine and wisdom of this evening have given
me one of my headaches, and I’m in haste for bed. You’ll be good, won’t
you, and see they make no noise, and let me sleep my fill to-morrow
morning till I wake?
MARY. Poor Will! How selfish I must have seemed! You should have told
me sooner, and I wouldn’t have worried you. Come along.
(_She goes out_, _pushing chair_.)
SCENE IX
BRODIE
(_He closes_, _locks_, _and double-bolts both doors_)
BRODIE. Now for one of the Deacon’s headaches! Rogues all, rogues all!
(_Goes to clothes-press_, _and proceeds to change his coat_.) On with
the new coat and into the new life! Down with the Deacon and up with the
robber! (_Changing neck-band and ruffles_.) Eh God! how still the house
is! There’s something in hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we
seem, what would the world be? [The city has its vizard on, and we—at
night we are our naked selves. Trysts are keeping, bottles cracking,
knives are stripping; and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the man of
men he is!]—How still it is! . . . My father and Mary—Well! the day for
them, the night for me; the grimy cynical night that makes all cats grey,
and all honesties of one complexion. Shall a man not have _half_ a life
of his own?—not eight hours out of twenty-four? [Eight shall he have
should he dare the pit of Tophet.] (_Takes out money_.) Where’s the
blunt? I must be cool to-night, or . . . steady, Deacon, you must win;
damn you, you must! You must win back the dowry that you’ve stolen, and
marry your sister, and pay your debts, and gull the world a little
longer! (_As he blows out the lights_.) The Deacon’s going to bed—the
poor sick Deacon! _Allons_! (_Throws up the window_, _and looks out_.)
Only the stars to see me! (_Addressing the bed_.) Lie there, Deacon!
sleep and be well to-morrow. As for me, I’m a man once more till
morning. (_Gets out of the window_.)
TABLEAU II.
HUNT THE RUNNER
_The Scene represents the Procurator’s Office_.
SCENE I
LAWSON, HUNT
[LAWSON (_entering_). Step your ways in, Officer. (_At wing_.) Mr.
Carfrae, give a chair to yon decent wife that cam’ in wi’ me. Nae news?
A VOICE WITHOUT. Naething, sir.
LAWSON (_sitting_). Weel, Officer, and what can I do for you?]
HUNT. Well, sir, as I was saying, I’ve an English warrant for the
apprehension of one Jemmy Rivers, _alias_ Captain Starlight, now at large
within your jurisdiction.
LAWSON. That’ll be the highwayman?
HUNT. That same, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. The Captain’s given me a hard
hunt of it this time. I dropped on his marks first at Huntingdon, but he
was away North, and I had to up and after him. I heard of him all along
the York road, for he’s a light hand on the pad, has Jemmy, and leaves
his mark. [I missed him at York by four-and-twenty hours, and lost him
for as much more. Then I picked him up again at Carlisle, and we made a
race of it for the Border; but he’d a better nag, and was best up in the
road; so I had to wait till I ran him to earth in Edinburgh here and
could get a new warrant.] So here I am, sir. They told me you were an
active sort of gentleman, and I’m an active man myself. And Sir John
Fielding, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, he’s an active gentleman, likewise,
though he’s blind as a himage, and he desired his compliments to you,
[sir, and said that between us he thought we’d do the trick].
LAWSON. Ay, he’ll be a fine man, Sir John. Hand me owre your papers,
Hunt, and you’ll have your new warrant _quam primum_. And see here,
Hunt, ye’ll aiblins have a while to yoursel’, and an active man, as ye
say ye are, should aye be grinding grist. We’re sair forfeuchen wi’ our
burglaries. _Non constat de personâ_. We canna get a grip o’ the
delinquents. Here is the _Hue and Cry_. Ye see there is a guid two
hundred pounds for ye.
HUNT. Well, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal [I ain’t a rich man, and two hundred’s
two hundred. Thereby, sir], I don’t mind telling you I’ve had a bit of a
worry at it already. You see, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I had to look into
a ken to-night about the Captain, and an old cock always likes to be sure
of his walk; so I got one of your Scotch officers—him as was so polite as
to show me round to Mr. Brodie’s—to give me full particulars about the
’ouse, and the flash companions that use it. In his list I drop on the
names of two old lambs of my own; and I put it to you, Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal, as a genleman as knows the world, if what’s a black
sheep in London is likely or not to be keeping school in Edinburgh?
LAWSON. _Coelum non animum_. A just observe.
HUNT. I’ll give it a thought, sir, and see if I can’t kill two birds
with one stone. Talking of which, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I’d like to
have a bit of a confab with that nice young woman as came to pay her
rent.
LAWSON. Hunt, that’s a very decent woman.
HUNT. And a very decent woman may have mighty queer pals, Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal. Lord love you, sir, I don’t know what the profession
would do without ’em!
LAWSON. Ye’re vera richt, Hunt. An active and a watchful officer. I’ll
send her in till ye.
SCENE II
HUNT (_solus_)
Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One burglary after another,
and these Scotch blockheads without a man to show for it. Jock runs
east, and Sawney cuts west; everything’s at a deadlock; and they go on
calling themselves thief-catchers! [By jingo, I’ll show them how we do
it down South! Well, I’ve worn out a good deal of saddle leather over
Jemmy Rivers; but here’s for new breeches if you like.] Let’s have
another queer at the list. (_Reads_.) ‘Humphrey Moore, otherwise Badger;
aged forty, thick-set, dark, close-cropped; has been a prize-fighter; no
apparent occupation.’ Badger’s an old friend of mine, ‘George Smith,
otherwise the Dook, otherwise Jingling Geordie; red-haired and curly,
slight, flash; an old thimble-rig; has been a stroller; suspected of
smuggling; an associate of loose women.’ G. S., Esquire, is another of
my flock. ‘Andrew Ainslie, otherwise Slink Ainslie; aged thirty-five;
thin, white-faced, lank-haired; no occupation; has been in trouble for
reset of theft and subornation of youth; might be useful as king’s
evidence.’ That’s an acquaintance to make. ‘Jock Hamilton, otherwise
Sweepie,’ and so on. [’Willie M’Glashan,’ hum—yes, and so on, and so
on.] Ha! here’s the man I want. ‘William Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights,
about thirty; tall, slim, dark; wears his own hair; is often at Clarke’s,
but seemingly for purposes of amusement only; [is nephew to the
Procurator-Fiscal; is commercially sound, but has of late (it is
supposed) been short of cash; has lost much at cock-fighting;] is proud,
clever, of good repute, but is fond of adventures and secrecy, and keeps
low company.’ Now, here’s what I ask myself: here’s this list of the
family party that drop into Mother Clarke’s; it’s been in the hands of
these nincompoops for weeks, and I’m the first to cry Queer Street! Two
well-known cracksmen, Badger and the Dook! why, there’s Jack in the
Orchard at once. This here topsawyer work they talk about, of course
that’s a chalk above Badger and the Dook. But how about our
Mohock-tradesman? ‘Purposes of amusement!’ What next? Deacon of the
Wrights? and wright in their damned lingo means a kind of carpenter, I
fancy? Why, damme, it’s the man’s trade! I’ll look you up, Mr. William
Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights. As sure as my name’s Jerry Hunt, I
wouldn’t take one-ninety-nine in gold for my chance of that ’ere two
hundred!
SCENE III
HUNT; to him JEAN
HUNT. Well, my dear, and how about your gentleman friend now? How about
Deacon Brodie?
JEAN. I dinna ken your name, sir, nor yet whae ye are; but this is a
very poor employ for ony gentleman—it sets ill wi’ ony gentleman to cast
my shame in my teeth.
HUNT. Lord love you, my dear, that ain’t my line of country. Suppose
you’re not married and churched a hundred thousand times, what odds to
Jerry Hunt? Jerry, my Pamela Prue, is a cove as might be your parent; a
cove renowned for the ladies’ friend [and he’s dead certain to be on your
side]. What I can’t get over is this: here’s this Mr. Deacon Brodie
doing the genteel at home, and leaving a nice young ’oman like you—as a
cove may say—to take it out on cold potatoes. That’s what I can’t get
over, Mrs. Watt. I’m a family man myself; and I can’t get over it.
JEAN. And whae said that to ye? They lee’d whatever. I get naething
but guid by him; and I had nae richt to gang to his house; and O, I just
ken I’ve been the ruin of him!
HUNT. Don’t you take on, Mrs. Watt. Why, now I hear you piping up for
him, I begin to think a lot of him myself. I like a cove to be
open-handed and free.
JEAN. Weel, sir, and he’s a’ that.
HUNT. Well, that shows what a wicked world this is. Why, they told me—.
Well, well, ‘here’s the open ’and and the ’appy ’art.’ And how much, my
dear—speaking as a family man—now, how much might your gentleman friend
stand you in the course of a year?
JEAN. What’s your wull?
HUNT. That’s a mighty fancy shawl, Mrs. Watt. [I should like to take
its next-door neighbour to Mrs. Hunt in King Street, Common Garden.]
What’s about the figure?
JEAN. It’s paid for. Ye can sweir to that.
HUNT. Yes, my dear, and so is King George’s crown; but I don’t know what
it cost, and I don’t know where the blunt came from to pay for it.
JEAN. I’m thinking ye’ll be a vera clever gentleman.
HUNT. So I am, my dear; and I like you none the worse for being artful
yourself. But between friends now, and speaking as a family man—
JEAN. I’ll be wishin’ ye a fine nicht. (_Curtsies and goes out_.)
SCENE IV
HUNT (_solus_)
HUNT. Ah! that’s it, is it? ‘My fancy man’s my ’ole delight,’ as we say
in Bow Street. But which _is_ the fancy man? George the Dock, or
William the Deacon? One or both? (_He winks solemnly_.) Well, Jerry,
my boy, here’s your work cut out for you; but if you took one-nine-five
for that ’ere little two hundred you’d be a disgrace to the profession.
TABLEAU III.
MOTHER CLARKE’S
SCENE I
_The Stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance_: _settles_,
_spittoons_, _etc._; _sanded floor_. _A large table at back_, _where_
AINSLIE, HAMILTON, _and others are playing cards and quarrelling_. _In
front_, _L. and R. smaller tables_, _at one of which are_ BRODIE _and_
MOORE, _drinking_. MRS. CLARKE _and women serving_.
MOORE. You’ve got the devil’s own luck, Deacon, that’s what you’ve got.
BRODIE. Luck! Don’t talk of luck to a man like me! Why not say I’ve
the devil’s own judgment? Men of my stamp don’t risk—they plan, Badger;
they plan, and leave chance to such cattle as you [and Jingling Geordie.
They make opportunities before they take them].
MOORE. You’re artful, ain’t you?
BRODIE. Should I be here else? When I leave my house I leave an _alibi_
behind me. I’m ill—ill with a jumping headache, and the fiend’s own
temper. I’m sick in bed this minute, and they’re all going about with
the fear of death on them lest they should disturb the poor sick Deacon.
[My bedroom door is barred and bolted like the bank—you remember!—and all
the while the window’s open, and the Deacon’s over the hills and far
away. What do you think of me?]
MOORE. I’ve seen your sort before, I have.
BRODIE. Not you. As for Leslie’s—
MOORE. That was a nick above you.
BRODIE. Ay was it. He wellnigh took me red-handed; and that was better
luck than I deserved. If I’d not been drunk, and in my tantrums, you’d
never have got my hand within a thousand years of such a job.
MOORE. Why not? You’re the King of the Cracksmen, ain’t you?
BRODIE. Why not! He asks me why not! Gods, what a brain it is! Hark
ye, Badger, it’s all very well to be King of the Cracksmen, as you call
it; but however respectable he may have the misfortune to be, one’s
friend is one’s friend, and as such must be severely let alone. What!
shall there be no more honour among thieves than there is honesty among
politicians? Why, man, if under heaven there were but one poor lock
unpicked, and that the lock of one whose claret you’ve drunk, and who has
babbled of woman across your own mahogany—that lock, sir, were entirely
sacred. Sacred as the Kirk of Scotland; sacred as King George upon his
throne; sacred as the memory of Bruce and Bannockburn.
MOORE. Oh, rot! I ain’t a parson, I ain’t; I never had no college
education. Business is business. That’s wot’s the matter with me.
BRODIE. Ay, so we said when you lost that fight with Newcastle Jemmy,
and sent us all home poor men. That was a nick above _you_.
MOORE. Newcastle Jemmy! Muck: that’s my opinion of him: muck. I’ll mop
the floor up with him any day, if so be as you or any on ’em ’ll make it
worth my while. If not, muck! That’s my motto. Wot I now ses is, about
that ’ere crib at Leslie’s, wos I right, I ses? or wos I wrong? That’s
wot’s the matter with you.
BRODIE. You are both right and wrong. You dared me to do it. I was
drunk; I was upon my mettle; and I as good as did it. More than that,
black-guardly as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is my friend. He had
dined with me that day, and I felt like a man in a story. I climbed his
wall, I crawled along his pantry roof, I mounted his window-sill. That
one turn of my wrist—you know it I—and the casement was open. It was as
dark as the pit, and I thought I’d won my wager, when, phewt! down went
something inside, and down went somebody with it. I made one leap, and
was off like a rocket. It was my poor friend in person; and if he’d
caught and passed me on to the watchman under the window, I should have
felt no viler rogue than I feel just now.
MOORE. I s’pose he knows you pretty well by this time?
BRODIE. ’Tis the worst of friendship. Here, Kirsty, fill these glasses.
Moore, here’s better luck—and a more honourable plant!—next time.
MOORE. Deacon, I looks towards you. But it looks thundering like rotten
eggs, don’t it?
BRODIE. I think not. I was masked, for one thing, and for another I was
as quick as lightning. He suspects me so little that he dined with me
this very afternoon.
MOORE. Anyway, you ain’t game to try it on again, I’ll lay odds on that.
Once bit, twice shy. That’s your motto.
BRODIE. Right again. I’ll put my _alibi_ to a better use. And, Badger,
one word in your ear: there’s no Newcastle Jemmy about _me_. Drop the
subject, and for good, or I shall drop you. (_He rises_, _and walks
backwards and forwards_, _a little unsteadily_. _Then returns_, _and
sits L._, _as before_.)
SCENE II
_To these_, HUNT, _disguised_
_He is disguised as a_ ‘_flying stationer_’ _with a patch over his eye_.
_He sits at table opposite_ BRODIE’S _and is served with bread and cheese
and beer_.
HAMILTON (_from behind_). The deevil tak’ the cairts!
AINSLIE. Hoot, man, dinna blame the cairts.
MOORE. Look here, Deacon, I mean business, I do. (HUNT _looks up at the
name of_ ‘_Deacon_.’)
BRODIE. Gad, Badger, I never meet you that you do not. [You have a set
of the most commercial intentions!] You make me blush.
MOORE. That’s all blazing fine, that is! But wot I ses is, wot about
the chips? That’s what I ses. I’m after that thundering old Excise
Office, I am. That’s my motto.
BRODIE. ’Tis a very good motto, and at your lips, Badger, it kind of
warms my heart. But it’s not mine.
MOORE. Muck! why not?
BRODIE. ’Tis too big and too dangerous. I shirk King George; he has a
fat pocket, but he has a long arm. [You pilfer sixpence from him, and
it’s three hundred reward for you, and a hue and cry from Tophet to the
stars.] It ceases to be business; it turns politics, and I’m not a
politician, Mr. Moore. (_Rising_.) I’m only Deacon Brodie.
MOORE. All right. I can wait.
BRODIE (_seeing_ HUNT). Ha, a new face,—and with a patch! [There’s
nothing under heaven I like so dearly as a new face with a patch.] Who
the devil, sir, are you that own it? And where did you get it? And how
much will you take for it second-hand?
HUNT. Well, sir, to tell you the truth (BRODIE _bows_) it’s not for
sale. But it’s my own, and I’ll drink your honour’s health in anything.
BRODIE. An Englishman, too! Badger, behold a countryman. What are you,
and what part of southern Scotland do you come from?
HUNT. Well, your honour, to tell you the honest truth—
[BRODIE (_bowing_). Your obleeged!]
HUNT. I knows a gentleman when I sees him, your honour [and, to tell
your honour the truth—
BRODIE. _Je vous baise les mains_! (_Bowing_.)]
HUNT. A gentleman as is a gentleman, your honour [is always a gentleman,
and to tell you the honest truth]—
BRODIE. Great heavens! answer in three words, and be hanged to you!
What are you, and where are you from?
HUNT. A patter-cove from Seven Dials.
BRODIE. Is it possible? All my life long have I been pining to meet
with a patter-cove from Seven Dials! Embrace me, at a distance. [A
patter-cove from Seven Dials!] Go, fill yourself as drunk as you dare,
at my expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. Clarke. He’s a patter-cove from
Seven Dials. Hillo! what’s all this?
AINSLIE. Dod, I’m for nae mair! (_At back_, _and rising_.)
PLAYERS. Sit down, Ainslie.—Sit down, Andra.—Ma revenge!
AINSLIE. Na, na, I’m for canny goin’. (_Coming forward with bottle_.)
Deacon, let’s see your gless.
BRODIE. Not an inch of it.
MOORE. No rotten shirking, Deacon!
[AINSLIE. I’m sayin’, man, let’s see your gless.
BRODIE. Go to the deuce!]
AINSLIE. But I’m sayin’—
BRODIE. Haven’t I to play to-night?
AINSLIE. But, man, ye’ll drink to bonnie Jean Watt?
BRODIE. Ay, I’ll follow you there. _A la reine de mes amours_!
(_Drinks_.) What fiend put this in your way, you hound? You’ve filled
me with raw stuff. By the muckle deil!—
MOORE. Don’t hit him, Deacon; tell his mother.
HUNT (_aside_). Oho!
SCENE III
_To these_, SMITH, RIVERS.
SMITH. Where’s my beloved? Deakin, my beauty, where are you? Come to
the arms of George, and let him introduce you. Capting Starlight Rivers!
Capting, the Deakin: Deakin, the Capting. An English nobleman on the
grand tour, to open his mind, by the Lard!
RIVERS. Stupendiously pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deakin,
split me!
[BRODIE. We don’t often see England’s heroes our way, Captain, but when
we do, we make them infernally welcome.
RIVERS. Prettily put, sink me! A demned genteel sentiment, stap my
vitals!]
BRODIE. Oh Captain! you flatter me. [We Scotsmen have our qualities, I
suppose, but we are but rough and ready at the best. There’s nothing
like your Englishman for genuine distinction. He is nearer France than
we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. That d—d thing, the _je ne sais
quoi_, too! Lard, Lard, split me! stap my vitals! O such manners are
pure, pure, pure. They are, by the shade of Claude Duval!]
RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin [this is passatively too much]. What
will you sip? Give it the _h_anar of a neam.
BRODIE. By these most _h_anarable hands now, Captain, you shall not. On
such an occasion I could play host with Lucifer himself. Here, Clarke,
Mother Midnight! Down with you, Captain! (_forcing him boisterously into
a chair_.) I don’t know if you can lie, but, sink me! you shall sit.
(_Drinking_, _etc._, _in dumb-show_.)
MOORE (_aside to_ SMITH). We’ve nobbled him, Geordie!
SMITH (_aside to_ MOORE). As neat as ninepence! He’s taking it down
like mother’s milk. But there’ll be wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger!
It’ll be tuppence and toddle with George Smith.
MOORE. O muck! Who’s afraid of him? (_To_ AINSLIE.) Hang on, Slinkie.
HUNT (_who is feigning drunkenness_, _and has overheard; aside_). By
jingo!
[RIVERS. Will you sneeze, Mr. Deakin, sir?
BRODIE. Thanks; I have all the vices, Captain. You must send me some of
your rappee. It is passatively perfect.]
RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, I do myself the _h_anar of a sip to you.
BRODIE. Topsy-turvy with the can!
MOORE (_aside to_ SMITH). That made him wink.
BRODIE. Your high and mighty hand, my Captain! Shall we dice—dice—dice?
(_Dumb-show between them_.)
AINSLIE (_aside to_ MOORE). I’m sayin’—?
MOORE. What’s up now?
AINSLIE. I’m no to gie him the coggit dice?
MOORE. The square ones, rot you! Ain’t he got to lose every brass
farden?
AINSLIE. What’ll like be my share?
MOORE. You mucking well leave that to me.
RIVERS. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will have me shake a
_h_elbow—
BRODIE. Where are the bones, Ainslie? Where are the dice, Lord George?
(AINSLIE _gives the dice and dice-box to_ BRODIE; _and privately a second
pair of dice_.) Old Fortune’s counters the bonnie money-catching,
money-breeding bones! Hark to their dry music! Scotland against
England! Sit round, you tame devils, and put your coins on me!
SMITH. Easy does it, my lord of high degree! Keep cool.
BRODIE. Cool’s the word, Captain—a cool twenty on the first?
RIVERS. Done and done. (_They play_.)
HUNT (_aside to_ MOORE, _a little drunk_). Ain’t that ’ere Scotch
gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir?
MOORE. You hold your jaw; that’s what’s the matter with you.
AINSLIE. He’s waur nor he looks. He’s knockit the box aff the table.
SMITH (_picking up box_). That’s the way we does it. Ten to one and no
takers!
BRODIE. Deuces again! More liquor, Mother Clarke!
SMITH. Hooray our side! (_Pouting out_.) George and his pal for ever!
BRODIE. Deuces again, by heaven! Another?
RIVERS. Done!
BRODIE. Ten more; money’s made to go. On with you!
RIVERS. Sixes.
BRODIE. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment? Double or quits?
RIVERS. Drive on! Sixes.
SMITH. Fire away, brave boys! (_To_ MOORE) It’s Tally-ho-the-Grinder,
Hump!
BRODIE. Treys! Death and the pit! How much have you got there?
RIVERS. A cool forty-five.
BRODIE. I play you thrice the lot.
RIVERS. Who’s afraid?
SMITH. Stand by, Badger!
RIVERS. Cinq-ace.
BRODIE. My turn now. (_He juggles in and uses the second pair of
dice_.) Aces! Aces again! What’s this? (_Picking up dice_.) Sold! . . .
You play false, you hound!
RIVERS. You lie!
BRODIE. In your teeth. (_Overturns table_, _and goes for him_.)
MOORE. Here, none o’ that. (_They hold him back_. _Struggle_.)
SMITH. Hold on, Deacon!
BRODIE. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I’ll not touch him. (_Stands
weighing dice in his hand_.) But as for that thieving whinger, Ainslie,
I’ll cut his throat between this dark and to-morrow’s. To the bone.
(_Addressing the company_.) Rogues, rogues, rogues! (_Singing
without_.) Ha! what’s that?
AINSLIE. It’s the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver’s. And O
Deacon, if ye’re a Christian man—
THE PSALM WITHOUT:—
‘Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord,
Should’st mark iniquity?
But yet with Thee forgiveness is,
That feared Thou may’st be.’
BRODIE. I think I’ll go. ‘My son the Deacon was aye regular at kirk.’
If the old man could see his son, the Deacon! I think I’ll—Ay, who
_shall_ stand? There’s the rub! And forgiveness, too? There’s a long
word for you! I learnt it all lang syne, and now . . . hell and ruin are
on either hand of me, and the devil has me by the leg. ‘My son, the
Deacon . . . !’ Eh, God! but there’s no fool like an old fool!
(_Becoming conscious of the others_.) Rogues!
SMITH. Take my arm, Deacon.
BRODIE. Down, dog, down! [Stay and be drunk with your equals.]
Gentlemen and ladies, I have already cursed you pretty heavily. Let me
do myself the pleasure of wishing you—a very—good evening. (_As he goes
out_, HUNT, _who has been staggering about in the crowd_, _falls on a
settle_, _as about to sleep_.)
* * * * *
ACT-DROP.
ACT II.
TABLEAU IV.
EVIL AND GOOD
_The Stage represents the Deacon’s workshop_; _benches_, _shavings_,
_tools_, _boards_, _and so forth_. _Doors_, _C. on the street_, _and L.
into the house_. _Without_, _church bells_; _not a chime_, _but a slow
broken tocsin_.
SCENE I
BRODIE (_solus_). My head! my head! It’s the sickness of the grave.
And those bells go on . . . go on! . . . inexorable as death and
judgment. [There they go; the trumpets of respectability, sounding
encouragement to the world to do and spare not, and not to be found out.
Found out! And to those who are they toll as when a man goes to the
gallows.] Turn where I will are pitfalls hell-deep. Mary and her dowry;
Jean and her child—my child; the dirty scoundrel Moore; my uncle and his
trust; perhaps the man from Bow Street. Debt, vice, cruelty, dishonour,
crime; the whole canting, lying, double-dealing, beastly business! ‘My
son the Deacon—Deacon of the Wrights!’ My thoughts sicken at it. [Oh
the Deacon, the Deacon! Where’s a hat for the Deacon? where’s a hat for
the Deacon’s headache? (_searching_). This place is a piggery. To be
respectable and not to find one’s hat.)