SCENE X

BRODIE, MARY, OLD BRODIE

(BRODIE has fallen into a chair, with his face upon the table. Enter

MARY, by the side door pushing her father’s chair. She is supposed to

have advanced far enough for stage purposes before BRODIE is aware of

her. He starts up, and runs to her.)

BRODIE. Look up, my lass, look up, and be a woman! I . . . O kiss me,

Mary I give me a kiss for my good news.

MARY. Good news, Will? Is it changed?

BRODIE. Changed? Why, the world’s a different colour! It was night,

and now it’s broad day and I trust myself again. You must wait, dear,

wait, and I must work and work; and before the week is out, as sure as

God sees me, I’ll have made you happy. O you may think me broken,

hounds, but the Deacon’s not the man to be run down; trust him, he shall

turn a corner yet, and leave you snarling! And you, Poll, you. I’ve

done nothing for you yet; but, please God, I’ll make your life a life of

gold; and wherever I am, I’ll have a part in your happiness, and you’ll

know it, by heaven! and bless me.

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

glad with us.

BRODIE. My son—Deacon—better man than I was.

BRODIE. O for God’s sake, hear him!

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

BRODIE. Hear me, Mary. This is a big moment in our two lives. I swear

to you by the father here between us that it shall not be fault of mine

if this thing fails; if this ship founders you have set your hopes in. I

swear it by our father; I swear it by God’s judgments.

MARY. I want no oaths, Will.

BRODIE. No, but I do. And prayers, Mary, prayers. Pray night and day

upon your knees. I must move mountains.

OLD BRODIE. A wise son maketh—maketh—

BRODIE. A glad father? And does your son, the Deacon, make you glad? O

heaven of heavens, if I were a good man.

* * * * *

ACT-DROP

ACT III.

TABLEAU V.

KING’S EVIDENCE

_The Stage represents a public place in Edinburgh_.

SCENE I

JEAN, SMITH, _and_ MOORE

(_They loiter in L._, _and stand looking about as for somebody not

there_. SMITH _is hat in hand to_ JEAN; MOORE _as usual_.)

MOORE. Wot did I tell you? Is he ’ere, or ain’t he? Now, then. Slink

by name and Slink by nature, that’s wot’s the matter with him.

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

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

SMITH. Badger, you brute, you hang on to the lessons of your

dancing-master. None but the genteel deserves the fair; does they,

Duchess?

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

Slink Ainslie.

SMITH. All right, old Crossed-in-love. Give him forty winks, and he’ll

turn up as fresh as clean sawdust and as respectable as a new Bible.

MOORE. That’s right enough; but I ain’t agoing to stand here all day for

him. I’m for a drop of something short, I am. You tell him I showed you

that (_showing his doubled fist_). That’s wot’s the matter with him.

(_He lurches out_, _R._)

SCENE II

SMITH _and_ JEAN, _to whom_ HUNT, _and afterwards_ MOORE

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

JEAN. Ay, he’s an impident man.

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

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

SMITH. There’s our old particular the Deacon, now. Why is he ashamed of

a lovely woman? That’s not my idea of the Young Chevalier, Jean. If I

had luck, we should be married, and retire to our estates in the country,

shouldn’t us? and go to church and be happy, like the nobility and

gentry.

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

SMITH. Mean it? What else has ever been the ’umble petition of your

honest but well-meaning friend, Roman, and fellow-countryman? I know the

Deacon’s your man, and I know he’s a cut above G. S.; but he won’t last,

Jean, and I shall.

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

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

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

me be.

SMITH. I know I ain’t a Scotchman born.

JEAN. I dinna think sae muckle the waur o’ ye even for that; if ye would

just let me be.

[HUNT (_entering behind_, _aside_). Are they thick? Anyhow, it’s a

second chance.]

SMITH. But he won’t last, Jean, and when he leaves you, you come to me.

Is that your taste in pastry? That’s the kind of harticle that I

present.

HUNT (_surprising them as in Tableau I_.). Why, you’re the very parties

I was looking for!

JEAN. Mercy me!

SMITH. Damn it, Jerry, this is unkind.

HUNT. [Now this is what I call a picter of good fortune.] Ain’t it

strange I should have dropped across you comfortable and promiscuous like

this?

JEAN (_stolidly_). I hope ye’re middling weel, Mr. Hunt? (_Going_.)

Mr. Smith!

SMITH. Mrs. Watt, ma’am! (_Going_.)

HUNT. Hold hard, George. Speaking as one lady’s man to another, turn

about’s fair play. You’ve had your confab, and now I’m going to have

mine. [Not that I’ve done with you; you stand by and wait.] Ladies

first, George, ladies first; that’s the size of it. (_To_ JEAN,

_aside_.) Now, Mrs. Watt, I take it you ain’t a natural fool?

JEAN. And thank ye kindly, Mr. Hunt.

SMITH (_interfering_). Jean . . . !

HUNT (_keeping him off_). Half a tick, George. (_To_ JEAN.) Mrs. Watt,

I’ve a warrant in my pocket. One, two, three: will you peach?

JEAN. Whaten kind of a word’ll that be?

SMITH. Mum it is, Jean!

HUNT. _When_ you’ve done dancing, George! (_To_ JEAN.) It ain’t a

pretty expression, my dear, I own it. ‘Will you blow the gaff?’ is

perhaps more tenderer.

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

HUNT (_to_ JEAN). I can’t waste time on you, my girl. It’s now or

never. Will you turn king’s evidence?

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

HUNT. Well, I’m . . . ! (_Separating them_.) [No, not yet; don’t push

me.] George’s turn now. (_To_ GEORGE.) George, I’ve a warrant in my

pocket.

SMITH. As per usual, Jerry?

HUNT. Now I want king’s evidence.

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

HUNT. A free pardon and fifty shiners down.

SMITH. A free pardon, Jerry?

HUNT. Don’t I tell you so?

SMITH. And fifty down? fifty?

HUNT. On the nail.

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

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

SMITH. What I mean is, Jerry, that you’ve broke my heart. I used to

look up to you like a party might to Julius Cæsar. One more of boyhood’s

dreams gone pop. (_Enter_ MOORE, _L._)

HUNT (_to both_). Come, then, I’ll take the pair, and be damned to you.

Free pardon to both, fifty down and the Deacon out of the way. I don’t

care for you commoners, it’s the Deacon I want.

JEAN (_looking off stolidly_). I think the kirks are scalin’. There

seems to be mair people in the streets.

HUNT. O that’s the way, is it? Do you know that I can hang you, my

woman, and your fancy man a well?

JEAN. I daur say ye would like fine, Mr. Hunt; and here’s my service to

you. (_Going_.)

HUNT. George, don’t you be a tomfool, anyway. Think of the blowen here,

and have brains for two.

SMITH (_going_). Ah, Jerry, if you knew anything, how different you

would talk! (_They go together_, _R._)

SCENE III

HUNT, MOORE

HUNT. Half a tick, Badger. You’re a man of parts, you are; you’re

solid, you’re a true-born Englishman; you ain’t a Jerry-go-Nimble like

him. Do you know what your pal the Deacon’s worth to you? Fifty golden

Georges and a free pardon. No questions asked, and no receipts demanded.

What do you say? Is it a deal?

MOORE (_as to himself_). Muck. (_He goes out_, _R._)

SCENE IV

HUNT, _to whom_ AINSLIE

HUNT (_looking after them ruefully_). And these were the very parties I

was looking for! [Ah, Jerry, Jerry, if they knew this at the office!]

Well, the market price of that ’ere two hundred is a trifle on the

decline and fall. (_Looking L._) Hullo! (_Slapping his thigh_). Send

me victorious! It’s king’s evidence on two legs. (_Advancing with great

cordiality to meet_ AINSLIE, _who enters L._) And so your name’s Andrew

Ainslie, is it? As I was saying, you’re the very party I was looking

for. Ain’t it strange, now, that I should have dropped across you

comfortable and promiscuous like this?

AINSLIE. I dinna ken wha ye are, an’ I’m ill for my bed.

HUNT. Let your bed wait, Andrew. I want a little chat with you; just a

quiet little sociable wheeze. Just about our friends, you know. About

Badger Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy Rivers, and Deacon Brodie,

Andrew. Particularly Deacon Brodie.

AINSLIE. They’re nae friens o’ mine’s, mister. I ken naething an’

naebody. An’ noo I’ll get to my bed, wulln’t I?

HUNT. We’re going to have our little talk out first. After that perhaps

I’ll let you go, and perhaps I won’t. It all depends on how we get along

together. Now, in a general way, Andrew, and speaking of a man as you

find him, I’m all for peace and quietness myself. That’s my usual game,

Andrew, but when I do make a dust I’m considered by my friends to be

rather a good hand at it. So don’t you tread upon the worm.

AINSLIE. But I’m sayin’—

HUNT. You leave that to me, Andrew. You shall do your pitch presently.

I’m first on the ground, and I lead off. With a question, Andrew. Did

you ever hear in your life of such a natural curiosity as a Bow Street

Runner?

AINSLIE. Aiblins ay an’ aiblins no.

HUNT. ‘Aiblins ay and aiblins no.’ Very good indeed, Andrew. Now, I’ll

ask you another. Did you ever see a Bow Street Runner, Andrew? With the

naked eye, so to speak?

AINSLIE. What’s your wull?

HUNT. Artful bird! Now since we’re getting on so cosy _and_ so free,

I’ll ask you another, Andrew. Should you like to see a Bow Street

Runner? (_Producing staff_.) ’Cos, if so, you’ve only got to cast your

eyes on me. Do you queer the red weskit, Andrew? Pretty colour, ain’t

it? So nice and warm for the winter too. (AINSLIE _dives_, HUNT

_collars him_.) No, you don’t. Not this time. Run away like that

before we’ve finished our little conversation? You’re a nice young man,

you are. Suppose we introduce our wrists into these here darbies? Now

we shall get along cosier and freer than ever. Want to lie down, do you?

All right! anything to oblige.

AINSLIE (_grovelling_). It wasna me, it wasna me. It’s bad companions;

I’ve been lost wi’ bad companions an’ the drink. An’ O mister, ye’ll be

a kind gentleman to a puir lad, an’ me sae weak, an’ fair rotten wi’ the

drink an’ that. Ye’ve a bonnie kind heart, my dear, dear gentleman; ye

wadna hang sitchan a thing as me. I’m no fit to hang. They ca’ me the

Cannleworm! An’ I’ll dae somethin’ for ye, wulln’t I? An’ ye’ll can

hang the ithers?

HUNT. I thought I hadn’t mistook my man. Now, you look here, Andrew

Ainslie, you’re a bad lot. I’ve evidence to hang you fifty times over.

But the Deacon is my mark. Will you peach, or wont you? You blow the

gaff, and I’ll pull you through. You don’t, and I’ll scragg you as sure

as my name’s Jerry Hunt.

AINSLIE. I’ll dae onything. It’s the hanging fleys me. I’ll dae

onything, onything no to hang.

HUNT. Don’t lie crawling there, but get up and answer me like a man.

Ain’t this Deacon Brodie the fine workman that’s been doing all these

tip-topping burglaries?

AINSLIE. It’s him, mister; it’s him. That’s the man. Ye’re in the very

bit. Deacon Brodie. I’ll can tak’ ye to his vera door.

HUNT. How do you know?

AINSLIE. I gi’ed him a han’ wi’ them a’. It was him an’ Badger Moore,

and Geordie Smith; an’ they gart me gang wi’ them whether or no; I’m that

weak, an’ whiles I’m donner’d wi’ the drink. But I ken a’, an’ I’ll tell

a’. And O kind gentleman, you’ll speak to their lordships for me, an’

I’ll no be hangit . . . I’ll no be hangit, wull I?

HUNT. But you shared, didn’t you? I wonder what share they thought you

worth. How much did you get for last night’s performance down at Mother

Clarke’s?

AINSLIE. Just five pund, mister. Five pund. As sure’s deith it wadna

be a penny mair. No but I askit mair: I did that; I’ll do deny it,

mister. But Badger kickit me, an’ Geordie, he said a bad sweir, an’ made

he’d cut the liver out o’ me, an’ catch fish wi’t. It’s been that way

frae the first: an aith an’ a bawbee was aye guid eneuch for puir Andra.

HUNT. Well, and why did they do it? I saw Jemmy dance a hornpipe on the

table, and booze the company all round, when the Deacon was gone. What

made you cross the fight, and play booty with your own man?

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

wicked men.

HUNT. And is he right for it?

AINSLIE. Ay is he.

HUNT. By jingo! When’s it for?

AINSLIE. Dear, kind gentleman, I dinna rightly ken: the Deacon’s that

sair angered wi’ me. I’m to get my orders frae Geordie the nicht.

HUNT. O, you’re to get your orders from Geordie, are you? Now look

here, Ainslie. You know me. I’m Hunt the Runner; I put Jemmy Rivers in

the jug this morning; I’ve got you this evening. I mean to wind up with

the Deacon. You understand? All right. Then just you listen. I’m

going to take these here bracelets off, and send you home to that

celebrated bed of yours. Only, as soon as you’ve seen the Dook you come

straight round to me at Mr. Procurator-Fiscal’s, and let me know the

Dook’s views. One word, mind, and . . . cl’k! It’s a bargain?

AINSLIE. Never you fear that. I’ll tak’ my bannet an’ come straucht to

ye. Eh God, I’m glad it’s nae mair nor that to start wi’. An’ may the

Lord bless ye, dear, kind gentleman, for your kindness. May the Lord

bless ye.

HUNT. You pad the hoof.

AINSLIE (_going out_). An’ so I wull, wulln’t I not? An’ bless, bless

ye while there’s breath in my body, wulln’t I not?

HUNT (_solus_). You’re a nice young man, Andrew Ainslie. Jemmy Rivers

and the Deacon in two days! By jingo! (_He dances an instant gravely_,

_whistling to himself_.) Jerry, that ’ere little two hundred of ours is

as safe as the bank.

TABLEAU VI.

UNMASKED

_The Stage represents a room in Leslie’s house_. _A practicable window_,

_C._, _through which a band of strong moonlight falls into the room_.

_Near the window a strong-box_. _A practicable door in wing_, _L._

_Candlelight_.

SCENE I

LESLIE, LAWSON, MARY, _seated_. BRODIE _at back_, _walking between the

windows and strong-box_.

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

LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, I am perfectly satisfied with Brodie’s word; I will

wait gladly.

LAWSON. I have nothing to say against that.

BRODIE (_behind_ LAWSON). Nor for it.

LAWSON. For it? for it, William? Ye’re perfectly richt there. (_To_

LESLIE.) Just you do what William tells you; ye canna do better than

that.

MARY. Dear uncle, I see you are vexed; but Will and I are perfectly

agreed on the best course. Walter and I are young. Oh, we can wait; we

can trust each other.

BRODIE (_from behind_). Leslie, do you think it safe to keep this

strong-box in your room?

LESLIE. It does not trouble me.

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

LESLIE. It’s on the right side of it.

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

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

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

LESLIE. I have a different treasure to concern myself about; if all goes

right with that I shall be well contented.

MARY. Walter!

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

LESLIE. Surely, sir, for every age; the ties of blood, of love, of

friendship, these are life’s essence.

MARY. And for no one is it truer than my uncle. If he live to be a

thousand, he will still be young in heart, full of love, full of trust.

LAWSON. All, lassie, it’s a wicked world.

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

LESLIE. Admitted that you know more of life, sir; admitted (if you

please) that the world is wicked; yet you do not lose trust in those you

love.

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

LESLIE. I suppose so. We can all be shaken for a time; but not, I

think, in our friends. We are not deceived in them; in the few that we

admit into our hearts.

MARY. Never in these.

LESLIE. We know these (_to_ BRODIE), and we think the world of them.

BRODIE (_at back_). We are more acquainted with each other’s tailors,

believe me. You, Leslie, are a very pleasant creature. My uncle Lawson

is the Procurator-Fiscal. I—What am I?—I am the Deacon of the Wrights,

my ruffles are generally clean. And you think the world of me? Bravo!

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

BRODIE (_at back_, _pointing to_ LAWSON). Ask him.

LAWSON. Hoot-toot. A wheen nonsense: an honest man’s an honest man, and

a randy thief’s a randy thief, and neither mair nor less. Mary, my lamb,

it’s time you were hame, and had you beauty sleep.

MARY. Do you not come with us?

LAWSON. I gang the ither gate, my lamb. (LESLIE _helps_ MARY _on with

her cloak_, _and they say farewell at back_. BRODIE _for the first time

comes front with_ LAWSON.) Sae ye’ve consented?

BRODIE. As you see.

LAWSON. Ye’ll can pay it back?

BRODIE. I will.

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

BRODIE. Ay, God knows that.

MARY. Come, Will.

SCENE II

LESLIE, LAWSON (_wrapping up_)

LESLIE. I wonder what ails Brodie?

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

LESLIE. He seemed angry even with you.

LAWSON (_impatient_). Hoot awa’.

LESLIE. Of course, I know. But you see, on the very day when our

engagement is announced, even the best of men may be susceptible. You

yourself seem not quite pleased.

LAWSON (_with great irritation_). I’m perfectly pleased. I’m perfectly

delighted. If I werena an auld man, I’d be just beside mysel’ wi’

happiness.

LESLIE. Well, I only fancied.

LAWSON. Ye had nae possible excuse to fancy. Fancy? Perfect trash and

nonsense. Look at yersel’. Ye look like a ghaist, ye’re white-like,

ye’re black aboot the een; and do ye find me deavin’ ye wi’ fancies? Or

William Brodie either? I’ll say that for him.

LESLIE. ’Tis not sorrow that alters my complexion; I’ve something else

on hand. Come, I’ll tell you, under seal. I’ve not been in bed till

daylight for a week.

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

LESLIE. Gad, but there is though. Why, Procurator, this is town’s

business; this is a municipal affair; I’m a public character. Why? Ah,

here’s a nut for the Crown Prosecutor! I’m a bit of a party to a

robbery.

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

LESLIE. You shall hear. A week ago to-night, I was passing through this

very room without a candle on my way to bed, when . . . what should I

see, but a masked man fumbling at that window! How he did the Lord

knows. I suspect, Procurator, it was not the first he’d tried . . . for

he opened it as handily as his own front door.

LAWSON. Preserve me! Another of thae robberies!

LESLIE. That’s it. And, of course, I tried to seize him. But the

rascal was too quick. He was down and away in an instant. You never saw

a thing so daring and adroit.

LAWSON. Is that a’? Ye’re a bauld lad, I’ll say that for ye. I’m glad

it wasna waur.

LESLIE. Yes, that’s all plain sailing. But here’s the hitch. Why

didn’t I tell the Procurator-Fiscal? You never thought of that.

LAWSON. No, man. Why?

LESLIE. Aha! There’s the riddle. Will you guess? No? . . . I thought

I knew the man.

LAWSON. What d’ye say?

LESLIE. I thought I knew him.

LAWSON. Wha was’t?

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

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

LESLIE. Well . . . of course!

LAWSON. The haill truth?

LESLIE. All of it. Why not?

LAWSON. Man, I’d a kind o’ gliff.

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

LAWSON. Me? Me a suspicion? Ye’re daft, sir; and me the Crown

offeecial! . . . Eh man, I’m a’ shakin’ . . . And sae ye thocht ye kennt

him?

LESLIE. I did that. And what’s more, I’ve sat every night in case of

his return. I promise you, Procurator, he shall not slip me twice.

Meanwhile I’m worried and put out. You understand how such a fancy will

upset a man. I’m uneasy with my friends and on bad terms with my own

conscience. I keep watching, spying, comparing, putting two and two

together, hunting for resemblances until my head goes round. It’s like a

puzzle in a dream. Only yesterday I thought I had him. And who d’you

think it was?

LAWSON. Wha? Wha was’t? Speak, Mr. Leslie, speak. I’m an auld man;

dinna forget that.

LESLIE. I name no names. It would be unjust to him; and, upon my word,

it was so silly it would be unfair to me. However, here I sit, night

after night. I mean him to come back; come back he shall; and I’ll tell

you who he was next morning.

LAWSON. Let sleeping dogs lie, Mr. Leslie; ye dinna ken what ye micht

see. And then, leave him alane, he’ll come nae mair. And sitting up a’

nicht . . . it’s a _factum imprestabile_, as we say: a thing impossible

to man. Gang ye to your bed, like a guid laddie, and sleep lang and

soundly, and bonnie, bonnie dreams to ye! (_Without_.) Let sleeping

dogs lie, and gang ye to your bed.

SCENE III

LESLIE

LESLIE (_calling_). In good time, never fear! (_He carefully bolts and

chains the door_.) The old gentleman seems upset. What for, I wonder?

Has he had a masked visitor? Why not? It’s the fashion. Out with the

lights. (_Blows out the candles_. _The stage is only lighted by the

moon through the window_.) He is sure to come one night or other. He

must come. Right or wrong, I feel it in the air. Man, but I know you, I

know you somewhere. That trick of the shoulders, the hang of the

clothes—whose are they? Where have I seen them? And then, that single

look of the eye, that one glance about the room as the window opened . . .

it is almost friendly; I have caught it over the glass’s rim! If it

should be . . . his? No, his it is not.

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

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

LESLIE. Past ten? Ah, there’s a long night before you and me, watchmen.

Heavens, what a trade! But it will be something to laugh over with Mary

and . . . with him? Damn it, the delusion is too strong for me. It’s a

thing to be ashamed of. ‘We Brodies’: how she says it! ‘We Brodies and

our Deacon’: what a pride she takes in it, and how good it sounds to me!

‘Deacon of his craft, sir, Deacon of the . . .! (BRODIE, _masked_,

_appears without at the window_, _which he proceeds to force_.) Ha! I

knew he’d come. I was sure of it. (_He crouches near and nearer to the

window_, _keeping in the shade_.) And I know you too. I swear I know

you.

SCENE IV

BRODIE, LESLIE

BRODIE _enters by the window with assurance and ease_, _closes it

silently_, _and proceeds to traverse the room_. _As he moves_, LESLIE

_leaps upon and grapples him_.

LESLIE. Take off that mask!

BRODIE. Hands off!

LESLIE. Take off the mask!

BRODIE. Leave go, by God, leave go!

LESLIE. Take it off!

BRODIE (_overpowered_). Leslie . . .

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

BRODIE (_in the moonlight_). Brodie.

LESLIE. You . . . you, Brodie, you?

BRODIE. Brodie, sir, Brodie as you see.

LESLIE. What does it mean? What does it mean, my God? Were you here

before? Is this the second time? Are you a thief, man? are you a thief?

Speak, speak, or I’ll kill you.

BRODIE. I am a thief.

LESLIE. And my friend, my own friend, and . . . Mary, Mary! . . .

Deacon, Deacon, for God’s sake, no!

BRODIE. God help me!

LESLIE. ‘We Brodies! We Brodies!’

BRODIE. Leslie—

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

BRODIE. Leslie, Leslie

LESLIE. A thief’s sister! Why are you here? why are you here? Tell me!

Why do you not speak? Man, I know you of old. Are you Brodie, and have

nothing to say?

BRODIE. To say? Not much—God help me—and commonplace, commonplace like

sin. I was honest once; I made a false step; I couldn’t retrace it; and

. . . that is all.

LESLIE. You have forgot the bad companions!

BRODIE. I did forget them. They were there.

LESLIE. Commonplace! Commonplace! Do you speak to me, do you reason

with me, do you make excuses? You—a man found out, shamed, a liar, a

thief—a man that’s killed me, killed this heart in my body; and you

speak! What am I to do? I hold your life in my hand; have you thought

of that? What am I to do?

BRODIE. Do what you please; you have me trapped.

(JEAN WATT _is heard singing without two bars of_ ‘_Wanderin’ Willie_,’

_by way of signal_.)

LESLIE. What is that?

BRODIE. A signal.

LESLIE. What does it mean?

BRODIE. Danger to me; there is someone coming.

LESLIE. Danger to you?

BRODIE. Some one is coming. What are you going to do with me? (_A

knock at the door_.)

LESLIE (_after a pause_). Sit down. (_Knocking_.)

BRODIE. What are you going to do with me?

LESLIE. Sit down. (BRODIE _sits in darkest part of stage_. LESLIE

_opens door_, _and admits_ LAWSON. _Door open till end of Act_.)

SCENE V

BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE

LAWSON. This is an unco’ time to come to your door; but eh, laddie, I

couldna bear to think o’ ye sittin’ your lane in the dark.

LESLIE. It was very good of you.

LAWSON. I’m no very fond of playing hidee in the dark mysel’; and noo

that I’m here—

LESLIE. I will give you a light. (_He lights the candles_. _Lights

up_.)

LAWSON. God A’michty! William Brodie!

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

LAWSON. But he gaed awa’ . . . I dinna see . . . an’ Lord be guid to us,

the window’s open!

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

BRODIE (_to_ LAWSON). Set a thief to catch a thief. (_Passing to_

LESLIE, _aside_.) Walter Leslie, God will reward. (JEAN _signals

again_.)

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

BRODIE. I must go.

LAWSON. Not one foot o’ ye. I’m ower glad to find ye in guid hands.

Ay, ye dinna ken how glad.

BRODIE (_aside to_ LESLIE). Get me out of this. There’s a man there

will stick at nothing.

LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, Brodie has done his shift. Why should we keep him?

(JEAN _appears at the door_, _and signs to_ BRODIE.)

LAWSON. Hoots! this is my trade. That’s a bit o’ ‘Wanderin’ Willie.’

I’ve had it before me in precognitions; that same stave has been used for

a signal by some o’ the very warst o’ them.

BRODIE (_aside to_ LESLIE). Get me out of this. I’ll never forget

to-night. (JEAN _at door again_.)

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

LAWSON. Not one foot o’ him. (JEAN _at door_.) I tell you, Mr. Leslie—

SCENE VI

_To these_, JEAN

JEAN (_from she door_). Wullie, Wullie!

LAWSON. Guid guide us, Mrs. Watt! A dacent wumman like yoursel’!

Whatten a time o’ nicht is this to come to folks’ doors?

JEAN (_to_ BRODIE). Hawks, Wullie, hawks!

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

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

come himsel’.

BRODIE. This is my mistress.

LAWSON. William, dinna tell me nae mair.

BRODIE. I have told you so much. You may as well know all. That good

man knows it already. Have you issued a warrant for me . . . yet?

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

BRODIE, (_pointing to the window_). That is my work. I am the man.

Have you drawn the warrant?

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

LESLIE (_to_ LAWSON). My good friend! Brodie, you might have spared the

old man this.

BRODIE. I might have spared him years ago; and you and my sister, and

myself. I might . . . would God I had! (_Weeping himself_.) Don’t

weep, my good old friend; I was lost long since; don’t think of me; don’t

pity me; don’t shame me with your pity! I began this when I was a boy.

I bound the millstone round my neck; [it is irrevocable now,] and you

must all suffer . . . all suffer for me! . . . [for this suffering

remnant of what was once a man]. O God, that I can have fallen to stand

here as I do now. My friend lying to save me from the gallows; my second

father weeping tears of blood for my disgrace! And all for what? By

what? Because I had an open hand, because I was a selfish dog, because I

loved this woman.

JEAN. O Wullie, and she lo’ed ye weel! But come near me nae mair, come

near me nae mair, my man; keep wi’ your ain folks . . . your ain dacent

folks.

LAWSON. Mistress Watt, ye shall sit rent free as lang’s there’s breath

in William Lawson’s body.

LESLIE. You can do one thing still . . . for Mary’s sake. You can save

yourself; you must fly.

BRODIE. It is my purpose; the day after to-morrow. It cannot be before.

Then I will fly; and O, as God sees me, I will strive to make a new and a

better life, and to be worthy of your friendship, and of your tears . . .

your tears. And to be worthy of you too, Jean; for I see now that the

bandage has fallen from my eyes; I see myself, O how unworthy even of

you.

LESLIE. Why not to-night?

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

find money.

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

LESLIE (_opening the strong-box_, _and pouring gold upon the table_).

Take this and go at once.

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

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

BRODIE. It is in vain. I cannot leave till I have said. There is a

man; I must obey him. If I slip my chain till he has done with me, the

hue and cry will blaze about the country; every outport will be shut; I

shall return to the gallows. He is a man that will stick at nothing.

SCENE VII

_To these_, MOORE

MOORE. Are you coming?

BRODIE. I am coming.

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

well scragged?

BRODIE (_going_). There is my master.

* * * * *

ACT-DROP

ACT IV.

TABLEAU VII.

THE ROBBERY

_The Stage represents the outside of the Excise Office in Chessel’s

Court_. _At the back_, _L.C._, _an archway opening on the High Street_.

_The door of the Excise in wing_, _R._; _the opposite side of the stage

is lumbered with barrels_, _packing-cases_, _etc._ _Moonlight_; _the

Excise Office casts a shadow over half the stage_. _A clock strikes the

hour_. _A round of the City Guard_, _with halberts_, _lanterns_, _etc._,

_enters and goes out again by the arch_, _after having examined the

fastenings of the great door and the lumber on the left_. _Cry without

in the High Street_: ‘_Ten by the bell_, _and a fine clear night_.’

_Then enter cautiously by the arch_, SMITH _and_ MOORE, _with_ AINSLIE

_loaded with tools_.

SCENE I

SMITH, MOORE, AINSLIE

SMITH (_entering first_). Come on. Coast clear.

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

SMITH (_to_ AINSLIE). Now Maggot! The fishing’s a going to begin.

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

MOORE. O muck! Hand out them pieces.

SMITH. All right, Humptious! (_To_ AINSLIE.) You’re a nice old sort

for a rag-and-bone man: can’t hold a bag open! (_Taking out tools_.)

Here they was. Here are the bunchums, one _and_ two; and jolly old keys

was they. Here’s the picklocks, crow-bars, and here’s Lord George’s pet

bull’s eye, his old and valued friend, the Cracksman’s treasure!

MOORE. Just like you. Forgot the rotten centrebit.

SMITH. That’s all you know. Here she is, bless her! Portrait of George

as a gay hironmonger.

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

thundering moonlight.

SMITH (_lighting lantern_). All right, old mumble-peg. Don’t you get

carried away by the fire of old Rome. That’s your motto. Here are the

tools; a perfect picter of the sublime and beautiful; and all I hope is,

that our friend and pitcher, the Deakin, will make a better job of it

than he did last night. If he don’t, I shall retire from the

business—that’s all; and it’ll be George and his little wife and a black

footman till death do us part.

MOORE. O muck! You’re all jaw like a sheep’s jimmy. That’s my opinion

of you. When did you see him last?

SMITH. This morning; and he looked as if he was rehearsing for his own

epitaph. I never see such a change in a man. I gave him the office for

to-night; and was he grateful? Did he weep upon my faithful bosom? No;

he smiled upon me like a portrait of the dear departed. I see his ’art

was far away; and it broke my own to look at him.

MOORE. Muck! Wot I ses is, if a cove’s got that much of the nob about

him, wot’s the good of his working single-handed? That’s wot’s the

matter with him.

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

he?

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

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

MOORE. A man wot means business. If I’d a bin with him last night, it

ain’t psalm-singin’ would have got us off. Psalm-singin’? Muck! Let

’em try it on with me.

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

and listen_.)

SMITH. All serene. (_To_ AINSLIE) Am I to cut that liver out of you?

Now, am I? (_A whistle_.) ’St! here we are. (_Whistles a modulation_,

_which is answered_.)

SCENE II

_To these_ BRODIE

MOORE. Waiting for you, Deacon.

BRODIE. I see. Everything ready?

SMITH. All a-growing and a-blowing.

BRODIE. Give me the light. (_Briefly examines tools and door with

bull’s eye_.) You, George, stand by, and hand up the pieces. Ainslie,

take the glim. Moore, out and watch.

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

BRODIE. You came here to do as I tell you. (MOORE _goes up slowly_.)

Second bunch, George. I know the lock. Steady with the glim. (_At

work_.) No good. Give me the centrebit.

SMITH. Right. (_Work continues_. AINSLIE _drops lantern_.)

BRODIE. Curse you! (_Throttling and kicking him_.) You shake, and you

shake, and you can’t even hold a light for your betters. Hey?

AINSLIE. Eh Deacon, Deacon . . .

SMITH. Now Ghost! (_With lantern_.)

BRODIE. ’St, Moore!

MOORE. Wot’s the row?

BRODIE. Take you the light.

MOORE (_to_ AINSLIE). Wo’ j’ yer shakin’ at? (_Kicks him_.)

BRODIE (_to_ AINSLIE). Go you, and see if you’re good at keeping watch.

Inside the arch. And if you let a footfall pass, I’ll break your back.

(AINSLIE _retires_.) Steady with the light. (_At work with centrebit_.)

Hand up number four, George. (_At work with picklock_.) That has it.

SMITH. Well done our side.

BRODIE. Now the crow bar! (_At work_.) That’s it. Put down the glim,

Badger, and help at the wrench. Your whole weight, men! Put your backs

to it! (_While they work at the bar_, BRODIE _stands by_, _dusting his

hands with a pocket-handkerchief_. _As the door opens_.)_ Voilà_! In

with you.

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

BRODIE. Take up the irons, George!

SMITH. How about the P(h)antom?

BRODIE. Leave him to me. I’ll give him a look. (_Enters office_.)

SMITH (_following_). Houp-là!

SCENE III

AINSLIE; _afterwards_ BRODIE; _afterwards_ HUNT _and_ OFFICERS

AINSLIE. Ca’ ye that mainners? Ye’re grand gentry by your way o’t! Eh

sirs, my hench! Ay, that was the Badger. Man, but ye’ll look bonnie

hangin’! (_A faint whistle_.) Lord’s sake, what’s thon? Ay, it’ll be

Hunt an’ his lads. (_Whistle repeated_.) Losh me, what gars him

whustle, whustle? Does he think me deaf? (_Goes up_. BRODIE _enters

from office_, _stands an instant_, _and sees him making a signal through

the arch_.)

BRODIE. Rats! Rats! (_Hides L. among lumber_. _Enter noiselessly

through arch_ HUNT _and_ OFFICERS.)

HUNT. Birds caught?

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

HUNT. All three?

AINSLIE. The hale set, mister.

BRODIE. Liar!

HUNT. Mum, lads, and follow me. (_Exit_, _with his men_, _into office_.

BRODIE _seen with dagger_.)

HUNT (_within_). In the King’s name!

MOORE (_within_). Muck!

SMITH (_within_). Go it, Badger.

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

AINSLIE. Eh, but that’s awful. (_The Deacon leaps out_, _and stabs

him_. _He falls without a cry_.)

BRODIE. Saved! (_He goes out by the arch_.)

SCENE IV

HUNT _and_ OFFICERS; _with_ SMITH _and_ MOORE _handcuffed_. _Signs of a

severe struggle_

HUNT (_entering_). Bring ’em along, lads! (_Looking at prisoners with

lantern_.) Pleased to see you again, Badger. And you too, George. But

I’d rather have seen your principal. Where’s he got to?

MOORE. To hell, I hope.

HUNT. Always the same pretty flow of language, I see, Hump. (_Looking

at burglary with lantern_.) A very tidy piece of work, Dook; very tidy!

Much too good for you. Smacks of a fine tradesman. It _was_ the Deacon,

I suppose?

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

HUNT. All right, your Grace: we’ll talk it over with the Deacon himself.

Where’s the jackal? Here, you, Ainslie! Where are you? By jingo, I

thought as much. Stabbed to the heart and dead as a herring!

SMITH. Bravo!

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

it, Badger?

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

HUNT. That was the thundering cove.

MOORE. And is he corpsed?

HUNT. I should just about reckon he was.

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

HUNT. We’ll talk about that presently. M’Intyre and Stewart, you get a

stretcher, and take that rubbish to the office. Pick it up; it’s only a

dead informer. Hand these two gentlemen over to Mr. Procurator-Fiscal,

with Mr. Jerry Hunt’s compliments. Johnstone and Syme, you come along

with me. I’ll bring the Deacon round myself.

* * * * *

ACT-DROP

ACT V.

TABLEAU VIII.

THE OPEN DOOR

_The Stage represents the Deacon’s room_, _as in Tableau I_. _Fire

light_. _Stage dark_. _A pause_. _Then knocking at the door_, _C._

_Cries without of_ ‘WILLIE!’ ‘MR. BRODIE!’ _The door is burst open_.

SCENE I

DOCTOR, MARY, a MAIDSERVANT with lights.

DOCTOR. The apartment is unoccupied.

MARY. Dead, and he not here!

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

down.

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

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

language.

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

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

SERVANT. It’s unco strange.

DOCTOR. Well, we have acted for the best.

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

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

scandal.

MARY. Kind heaven, what does it mean?

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

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

DOCTOR. The Procurator-Fiscal? I shall make it my devoir. Expect him

soon. (_Goes out with_ MAID.)

MARY (_hastily searches the room_). No, he is not there. She was right!

O father, you can never know, praise God!

SCENE II

MARY, _to whom_ JEAN _and afterwards_ LESLIE

JEAN (_at door_). Mistress . . . !

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

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

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

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

MARY. Death . . . O my heart!

JEAN. I maun see him, bonnie leddie. I’m a puir body, and no fit to be

seen speakin’ wi’ the likes o’ you. But O lass, ye are the Deacon’s

sister, and ye hae the Deacon’s e’en, and for the love of the dear kind

Lord, let’s in and hae a word wi’ him ere it be ower late. I’m bringin’

siller.

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

What are you? What are you . . . to him?

JEAN. I’ll be the best frien’ ’at ever he had; for, O dear leddie, I wad

gie my bluid to help him.

MARY. And the . . . the child?

JEAN. The bairn?

MARY. Nothing! O nothing! I am in trouble, and I know not what I say.

And I cannot help you; I cannot help you if I would. He is not here; and

I believed he was; and ill . . . ill; and he is not—he is . . . O, I

think I shall lose my mind!

JEAN. Ay, it’s unco business.

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

JEAN. It’s mebbe just as weel.

MARY. Well? Well? Has it come to this? O Walter, Walter! come back to

me, or I shall die. (LESLIE _enters_, _C._)

LESLIE. Mary, Mary! I hoped to have spared you this. (_To_ JEAN.)

What—you? Is he not here?

JEAN. I’m aye waitin’ on him.

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

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

find him.

SCENE III

MARY, LESLIE

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

LESLIE. You have been a brave girl all your life, Mary; you must lean on

me . . . you must trust in me . . . and be a brave girl till the end.

MARY. Who is she? What does she want with _him_? And he . . . where is

he? Do you know that my father is dead, and the Deacon not here? Where

has he gone? He may be dead, too. Father, brother . . . O God, it is

more than I can bear!

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

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

to-night! O not to-night!

LESLIE. I know, I know dear heart! And do you think that I whom you

have chosen, I whose whole life is in your love—do you think that I would

press you now if there were not good cause?

MARY. Good cause! Something has happened. Something has happened . . .

to him! Walter . . . ! Is he . . . dead?

LESLIE. There are worse things in the world than death. There is O . . .

Mary, he is your brother!

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

LESLIE. My wife, my wife!

MARY. No, no! Keep away from me. Don’t touch me. I’m not fit . . .

not fit to be near you. What has he done? I am his sister. Tell me the

worst. Tell me the worst at once.

LESLIE. That, if God wills, dear, that you shall never know. Whatever

it be, think that I knew it all, and only loved you better; think that

your true husband is with you, and you are not to bear it alone.

MARY. My husband? . . . Never.

LESLIE. Mary . . . !

MARY. You forget, you forget what I am. I am his sister. I owe him a

lifetime of happiness and love; I owe him even you. And whatever his

fault, however ruinous his disgrace, he is my brother—my own brother—and

my place is still with him.

LESLIE. Your place is with me—is with your husband. With me, with me;

and for his sake most of all. What can you do for him alone? how can you

help him alone? It wrings my heart to think how little. But together is

different. Together . . . I join my strength, my will, my courage to

your own, and together we may save him.

MARY. All that is over. Once I was blessed among women. I was my

father’s daughter, my brother loved me, I lived to be your wife. Now . . . !

My father is dead, my brother is shamed; and you . . . O how could I

face the world, how could I endure myself, if I preferred my happiness to

your honour?

LESLIE. What is my honour but your happiness? In what else does it

consist? Is it in denying me my heart? is it in visiting another’s sin

upon the innocent? Could I do that, and be my mother’s son? Could I do

that, and bear my father’s name? Could I do that, and have ever been

found worthy of you?

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

So hard, Walter so hard!

LESLIE. Do I pursue you only for your good fortune, your beauty, the

credit of your friends, your family’s good name? That were not love, and

I love you. I love you, dearest, I love you. Friend, father, brother,

husband . . . I must be all these to you. I am a man who can love well.

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

LESLIE. And say it was I who had fallen. Say I had played my neck and

lost it . . . that I were pushed by the law to the last limits of

ignominy and despair. Whose love would sanctify my jail to me? whose

pity would shine upon me in the dock? whose prayers would accompany me to

the gallows? Whose but yours? Yours! . . . And you would entreat

me—me!—to do what you shrink from even in thought, what you would die ere

you attempted in deed!

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

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

I that must kneel to you.

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

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

SCENE IV

_After a pause_, BRODIE, _through the window_

BRODIE. Saved! And the alibi! Man, but you’ve been near it this

time—near the rope, near the rope. Ah boy, it was your neck, your neck

you fought for. They were closing hell-doors upon me, swift as the wind,

when I slipped through and shot for heaven! Saved! The dog that sold

me, I settled him; and the other dogs are staunch. Man, but your alibi

will stand! Is the window fast? The neighbours must not see the Deacon,

the poor, sick Deacon, up and stirring at this time o’ night. Ay, the

good old room in the good, cozy old house . . . and the rat a dead rat,

and all saved. (_He lights the candles_.) Your hand shakes, sir? Fie!

And you saved, and you snug and sick in your bed, and it but a dead rat

after all? (_He takes off his hanger and lays it on the table_.) Ay, it

was a near touch. Will it come to the dock? If it does! You’ve a

tongue, and you’ve a head, and you’ve an alibi; and your alibi will

stand. (_He takes off his coat_, _takes out the dagger_, _and with a

gesture of striking_) Home! He fell without a sob. ‘He breaketh them

against the bosses of his buckler!’ (_Lays the dagger on the table_.)

Your alibi . . . ah Deacon, that’s your life! . . . your alibi, your

alibi. (_He takes up a candle and turns towards the door_.) O! . . .

Open, open, open! judgment of God, the door is open!

SCENE V

BRODIE, MARY.

BRODIE. Did you open the door?

MARY. I did.

BRODIE. You . . . you opened the door?

MARY. I did open it

BRODIE. Were you . . . alone?

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

BRODIE. O . . . the servant . . . and the doctor. Very true. Then it’s

all over the town by now. The servant and the doctor. The doctor? What

doctor? Why the doctor?

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

BRODIE. Your father is dead. O yes! He’s dead, is he? Dead. Quite

right. Quite right . . . How did you open the door? It’s strange. I

bolted it.

MARY. We could not help it, Will, now could we? The doctor forced it.

He had to, had he not?

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

He?

MARY. We did it for the best; it was I who did it . . . I, your own

sister. And O Will, my Willie, where have you been? You have not been

in any harm, any danger?

BRODIE. Danger? O my young lady, you have taken care of that. It’s not

danger now, it’s death. Death? Ah! Death! Death! Death! (_Clutching

the table_. _Then_, _recovering as from a dream_.) Death? Did you say

my father was dead? My father? O my God, my poor old father! Is he

dead, Mary? Have I lost him? is he gone? O, Mary dear, and to think of

where his son was!

MARY. Dearest, he is in heaven.

BRODIE. Did he suffer?

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

BRODIE. My name? Mine? O Mary, if he had known! He knows now. He

knows; he sees us now . . . sees me! Ay, and sees you, left how lonely!

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

be alone, so you live.

BRODIE. While I live? I? The old house is ruined, and the old master

dead, and I! . . . O Mary, try and believe I did not mean that it

should come to this; try and believe that I was only weak at first. At

first? And now! The good old man dead, the kind sister ruined, the

innocent boy fallen, fallen . . . ! You will be quite alone; all your

old friends, all the old faces, gone into darkness. The night (_with a

gesture_) . . . it waits for me. You will be quite alone.

MARY. The night!

BRODIE. Mary, you must hear. How am I to tell her, and the old man just

dead! Mary, I was the boy you knew; I loved pleasure, I was weak; I have

fallen . . . low . . . lower than you think. A beginning is so small a

thing! I never dreamed it would come to this . . . this hideous last

night.

MARY. Willie, you must tell me, dear. I must have the truth . . . the

kind truth . . . at once . . . in pity.

BRODIE. Crime. I have fallen. Crime.

MARY. Crime?

BRODIE. Don’t shrink from me. Miserable dog that I am, selfish hound

that has dragged you to this misery . . . you and all that loved him . . .

think only of my torments, think only of my penitence, don’t shrink

from me.

MARY. I do not care to hear, I do not wish, I do not mind; you are my

brother. What do I care? How can I help you?

BRODIE. Help? help _me_? You would not speak of it, not wish it, if you

knew. My kind good sister, my little playmate, my sweet friend! was I

ever unkind to you till yesterday? Not openly unkind? you’ll say that

when I am gone.

MARY. If you have done wrong, what do I care? If you have failed, does

it change my twenty years of love and worship? Never!

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

MARY. I am your true sister, dear. I cannot fail, I will never leave

you, I will never blame you. Come! (_Goes to embrace_.)

BRODIE (_recoiling_). No, don’t touch me, not a finger, not that,

anything but that!

MARY. Willie, Willie!

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

understand that?

MARY. Ah! What, what is it!

BRODIE. Blood. I have killed a man.

MARY. You? . . .

BRODIE. I am a murderer; I was a thief before. Your brother . . . the

old man’s only son!

MARY. Walter, Walter, come to me!

BRODIE. Now you see that I must die; now you see that I stand upon the

grave’s edge, all my lost life behind me, like a horror to think upon,

like a frenzy, like a dream that is past. And you, you are alone.

Father, brother, they are gone from you; one to heaven, one . . . !

MARY. Hush, dear, hush! Kneel, pray; it is not too late to repent.

Think of our father dear; repent. (_She weeps_, _straining to his

bosom_.) O Willie, my darling boy, repent and join us.

SCENE VI

_To these_, LAWSON, LESLIE, JEAN

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

BRODIE (_to_ MARY). I know you forgive me now; I ask no more. That is a

good man. (_To_ LESLIE.) Will you take her from my hands? (LESLIE

_takes_ MARY.) Jean, are ye here to see the end?

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

BRODIE. No, Jean, this is where it ends. Uncle, this is where it ends.

And to think that not an hour ago I still had hopes! Hopes! Ay, not an

hour ago I thought of a new life. You were not forgotten, Jean. Leslie,

you must try to forgive me . . . you, too!

LESLIE. You are her brother.

BRODIE (_to_ LAWSON). And you?

LAWSON. My name-child and my sister’s bairn!

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

LAWSON. That I will not.

MARY. O Willie, nor I.

SCENE VII

_To these_, HUNT

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

BRODIE (_behind the table_). One moment, officer: I have a word to say

before witnesses ere I go. In all this there is but one man guilty; and

that man is I. None else has sinned; none else must suffer. This poor

woman (_pointing to_ JEAN) I have used; she never understood. Mr.

Procurator-Fiscal, that is my dying confession. (_He snatches his hanger

from the table_, _and rushes upon_ HUNT, _who parries_, _and runs him

through_. _He reels across the stage and falls_.) The new life . . .

the new life! (_He dies_.)

* * * * *

CURTAIN.

BEAU AUSTIN

DEDICATED

WITH ADMIRATION AND RESPECT

TO

GEORGE MEREDITH

* * * * *

BOURNEMOUTH:

1_st_ _October_ 1884.

PERSONS REPRESENTED

GEORGE FREDERICK AUSTIN, called ‘Beau Austin’ Ætat. 50

JOHN FENWICK, of Allonby Shaw ,, 26

ANTHONY MUSGRAVE, Cornet in the Prince’s Own ,, 21

MENTEITH, the Beau’s Valet ,, 55

A ROYAL DUKE (Dumb show.)

DOROTHY MUSGRAVE, Anthony’s Sister ,, 25

MISS EVELINA FOSTER, her Aunt ,, 45

BARBARA RIDLEY, her Maid ,, 20

VISITORS TO THE WELLS

The Time is 1820. The Scene is laid at Tunbridge Wells. The Action

occupies a space of ten hours.

HAYMARKET THEATRE

_Monday_, _November_ 3_d_, 1890

_CAST_

GEORGE FREDERICK AUSTIN Mr. TREE

JOHN FENWICK Mr. FRED TERRY

ANTHONY MUSGRAVE Mr. EDMUND MAURICE

MENTEITH Mr. BROOKFIELD

A ROYAL DUKE Mr. ROBB HARWOOD

DOROTHY MUSGRAVE Mrs. TREE

MISS EVELINA FOSTER Miss ROSE LECLERCQ

BARBARA RIDLEY Miss AYLWARD

VISITORS TO THE WELLS

PROLOGUE

_Spoken by_ MR. TREE _in the character of Beau Austin_

‘To all and singular,’ as Dryden says,

We bring a fancy of those Georgian days,

Whose style still breathed a faint and fine perfume

Of old-world courtliness and old-world bloom:

When speech was elegant and talk was fit

For slang had not been canonised as wit;

When manners reigned, when breeding had the wall,

And Women—yes!—were ladies first of all;

When Grace was conscious of its gracefulness,

And man—though Man!—was not ashamed to dress.

A brave formality, a measured ease,

Were his—and her’s—whose effort was to please.

And to excel in pleasing was to reign

And, if you sighed, never to sigh in vain.

But then, as now—it may be, something more—

Woman and man were human to the core.

The hearts that throbbed behind that quaint attire

Burned with a plenitude of essential fire.

They too could risk, they also could rebel,

They could love wisely—they could love too well.

In that great duel of Sex, that ancient strife

Which is the very central fact of life,

They could—and did—engage it breath for breath,

They could—and did—get wounded unto death.

As at all times since time for us began

Woman was truly woman, man was man,

And joy and sorrow were as much at home

In trifling Tunbridge as in mighty Rome.

Dead—dead and done with! Swift from shine to shade

The roaring generations flit and fade.

To this one, fading, flitting, like the rest,

We come to proffer—be it worst or best—

A sketch, a shadow, of one brave old time;

A hint of what it might have held sublime;

A dream, an idyll, call it what you will,

Of man still Man, and woman—Woman still!

ACT I.

MUSICAL INDUCTION: ‘_Lascia ch’io pianga_’ (_Rinaldo_).

HANDEL.

_The Stage represents Miss Foster’s apartments at the Wells_. _Doors_,

_L. and C._; _a window_, _L. C._, _looking on the street_; _a table R._,

_laid for breakfast_.

SCENE I

BARBARA; _to her_ MISS FOSTER

BARBARA (_out of window_). Mr. Menteith! Mr. Menteith! Mr.

Menteith!—Drat his old head! Will nothing make him hear?—Mr. Menteith!

MISS FOSTER (_entering_). Barbara! this is incredible: after all my

lessons, to be leaning from the window, and calling (for unless my ears

deceived me, you were positively calling!) into the street.

BARBARA. Well, madam, just wait until you hear who it was. I declare it

was much more for Miss Dorothy and yourself than for me; and if it was a

little countrified, I had a good excuse.

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

BARBARA. Miss Evelina, I was sure you would ask. Well, what do you

think? I was looking out of window at the barber’s opposite—

MISS FOSTER. Of which I entirely disapprove—

BARBARA. And first there came out two of the most beautiful—the Royal

livery, madam!

MISS FOSTER. Of course, of course: the Duke of York arrived last night.

I trust you did not hail the Duke’s footmen?

BARBARA. O no, madam, it was after they were gone. Then, who should

come out—but you’ll never guess!

MISS FOSTER. I shall certainly not try.

BARBARA. Mr. Menteith himself!

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

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

MISS FOSTER. Mr. Austin’s servant. No? Is it possible? By that,

George Austin must be here.

BARBARA. No doubt of that, madam; they’re never far apart. He came out

feeling his chin, madam, so; and a packet of letters under his arm, so;

and he had the Beau’s own walk to that degree you couldn’t tell his back

from his master’s.

MISS FOSTER. My dear Barbara, you too frequently forget yourself. A

young woman in your position must beware of levity.

BARBARA. Madam, I know it; but la, what are you to make of me? Look at

the time and trouble dear Miss Dorothy was always taking—she that trained

up everybody—and see what’s come of it: Barbara Ridley I was, and Barbara

Ridley I am; and I don’t do with fashionable ways—I can’t do with them;

and indeed, Miss Evelina, I do sometimes wish we were all back again on

Edenside, and Mr. Anthony a boy again, and dear Miss Dorothy her old

self, galloping the bay mare along the moor, and taking care of all of us

as if she was our mother, bless her heart!

MISS FOSTER. Miss Dorothy herself, child? Well, now you mention it,

Tunbridge of late has scarcely seemed to suit her constitution. She

falls away, has not a word to throw at a dog, and is ridiculously pale.

Well, now Mr. Austin has returned, after six months of infidelity to the

dear Wells, we shall all, I hope, be brightened up. Has the mail come?

BARBARA. That it has, madam, and the sight of Mr. Menteith put it clean

out of my head. (_With letters_.) Four for you, Miss Evelina, two for

me, and only one for Miss Dorothy. Miss Dorothy seems quite neglected,

does she not? Six months ago, it was a different story.

MISS FOSTER. Well, and that’s true, Barbara, and I had not remarked it.

I must take her seriously to task. No young lady in her position should

neglect her correspondence. (_Opening a letter_.) Here’s from that dear

ridiculous boy, the Cornet, announcing his arrival for to-day.

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

MISS FOSTER. I could not conceive him missing such a chance. Youth,

child, is always vain, and Mr. Anthony is unusually young.

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

MISS FOSTER. My child, I am not so sure. Mr. Anthony is a great concern

to me. He was orphaned, to be sure, at ten years old; and ever since he

has been only as it were his sister’s son. Dorothy did everything for

him: more indeed than I thought quite ladylike, but I suppose I begin to

be old-fashioned. See how she worked and slaved—yes, slaved!—for him:

teaching him herself, with what pains and patience she only could reveal,

and learning that she might be able; and see what he is now: a gentleman,

of course, but, to be frank, a very commonplace one: not what I had hoped

of Dorothy’s brother; not what I had dreamed of the heir of two

families—Musgrave and Foster, child! Well, he may now meet Mr. Austin.

He requires a Mr. Austin to embellish and correct his manners. (_Opening

another letter_.) Why, Barbara, Mr. John Scrope and Miss Kate Dacre are

to be married!

BARBARA. La, madam, how nice!

MISS FOSTER. They are: As I’m a sinful woman. And when will you be

married, Barbara? and when dear Dorothy? I hate to see old maids

a-making.

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

MISS FOSTER. You speak like a fool, child: sour grapes are all very well

but it’s a woman’s business to be married. As for Dorothy, she is

five-and-twenty, and she breaks my heart. Such a match, too! Ten

thousand to her fortune, the best blood in the north, a most advantageous

person, all the graces, the finest sensibility, excellent judgment, the

Foster walk; and all these to go positively a-begging! The men seem

stricken with blindness. Why, child, when I came out (and I was the dear

girl’s image!) I had more swains at my feet in a fortnight than our

Dorothy in—O, I cannot fathom it: it must be the girl’s own fault.

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

MISS FOSTER. With Mr. Austin? why, how very rustic! The attentions of a

gentleman like Mr. Austin, child, are not supposed to lead to matrimony.

He is a feature of society: an ornament: a personage: a private gentleman

by birth, but a kind of king by habit and reputation. What woman could

he marry? Those to whom he might properly aspire are all too far below

him. I have known George Austin too long, child, and I understand that

the very greatness of his success condemns him to remain unmarried.

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

MISS FOSTER. Some day, child, you will know better than to think so.

George Austin, as I conceive him, and as he is regarded by the world, is

one of the triumphs of the other sex. I walked my first minuet with him:

I wouldn’t tell you the year, child, for worlds; but it was soon after

his famous rencounter with Colonel Villiers. He had killed his man, he

wore pink and silver, was most elegantly pale, and the most ravishing

creature!

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

still.

SCENE II

_To these_, DOROTHY, _L_

DOROTHY (_entering_). Good-morning, aunt! Is there anything for me?

(_She goes eagerly to table_, _and looks at letters_.)

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

DOROTHY (_with letter unopened_). Nothing.

MISS FOSTER. And what do you call that, my dear? (_Sitting_.) Is John

Fenwick nobody?

DOROTHY (_looking at letter_.) From John? O yes, so it is. (_Lays down

letter unopened_, _and sits to breakfast_, BARBARA _waiting_.)

MISS FOSTER (_to_ BARBARA, _with plate_). Thanks, child; now you may

give me some tea. Dolly, I must insist on your eating a good breakfast:

I cannot away with your pale cheeks and that Patience-on-a Monument kind

of look. (Toast, Barbara.) At Edenside you ate and drank and looked

like Hebe. What have you done with your appetite?

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

MISS FOSTER. Then consider, please, and recover it as soon as you can:

to a young lady in your position a good appetite is an attraction—almost

a virtue. Do you know that your brother arrives this morning?

DOROTHY. Dear Anthony! Where is his letter, Aunt Evelina? I am pleased

that he should leave London and its perils, if only for a day.

MISS FOSTER. My dear, there are moments when you positively amaze.

(Barbara, some _pâté_, if you please!) I beg you not to be a prude. All

women, of course, are virtuous; but a prude is something I regard with

abhorrence. The Cornet is seeing life, which is exactly what he wanted.

You brought him up surprisingly well; I have always admired you for it;

but let us admit—as women of the world, my dear—it was no upbringing for

a man. You and that fine solemn fellow, John Fenwick, led a life that

was positively no better than the Middle Ages; and between the two of

you, poor Anthony (who, I am sure, was a most passive creature!) was so

packed with principle and admonition that I vow and declare he reminded

me of Issachar stooping between his two burdens. It was high time for

him to be done with your apron-string, my dear: he has all his wild oats

to sow; and that is an occupation which it is unwise to defer too long.

By the bye, have you heard the news? The Duke of York has done us a

service for which I was unprepared. (More tea, Barbara!) George Austin,

bringing the prince in his train, is with us once more.

DOROTHY. I knew he was coming.

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

criminal.

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

MISS FOSTER. O do not make-believe. I am in love with him myself, and

have been any time since Nelson and the Nile. As for you, Dolly, since

he went away six months ago, you have been positively in the megrims. I

shall date your loss of appetite from George Austin’s vanishing. No, my

dear, our family require entertainment: we must have wit about us, and

beauty, and the _bel air_.

BARBARA. Well, Miss Dorothy, perhaps it’s out of my place: but I do hope

Mr. Austin will come: I should love to have him see my necklace on.

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

BARBARA. Yes, indeed, Miss, that he did: the very same day he drove you

in his curricle to Penshurst. You remember, Miss, I couldn’t go.

DOROTHY. I remember.

MISS FOSTER. And so do I. I had a touch of . . . Foster in the blood:

the family gout, dears! . . . And you, you ungrateful nymph, had him a

whole day to yourself, and not a word to tell me when you returned.

DOROTHY. I remember. (_Rising_.) Is that the necklace, Barbara? It

does not suit you. Give it me.

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

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

birthday pearls instead.

MISS FOSTER. Why, Dolly, I believe you’re jealous of the maid. Foster,

Foster: always a Foster trick to wear the willow in anger.

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

MISS FOSTER. O, the personage is your excuse! And I can tell you,

child, that when George Austin was playing Florizel to the Duchess’s

Perdita, all the maids in England fell a prey to green-eyed melancholy.

It was the _ton_, you see: not to pine for that Sylvander was to resign

from good society.

DOROTHY. Aunt Evelina, stop; I cannot endure to hear you. What is he

after all but just Beau Austin? What has he done—with half a century of

good health, what has he done that is either memorable or worthy? Diced

and danced and set fashions; vanquished in a drawing-room, fought for a

word; what else? As if these were the meaning of life! Do not make me

think so poorly of all of us women. Sure, we can rise to admire a better

kind of man than Mr. Austin. We are not all to be snared with the eye,

dear aunt; and those that are—O! I know not whether I more hate or pity

them.

MISS FOSTER. You will give me leave, my niece: such talk is neither

becoming in a young lady nor creditable to your understanding. The world

was made a great while before Miss Dorothy Musgrave; and you will do much

better to ripen your opinions, and in the meantime read your letter,

which I perceive you have not opened. (DOROTHY _opens and reads

letter_.) Barbara, child, you should not listen at table.

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

MISS FOSTER. Then do not do it again.

DOROTHY. Poor John Fenwick! he coming here!

MISS FOSTER. Well, and why not? Dorothy, my darling child, you give me

pain. You never had but one chance, let me tell you pointedly: and that

was John Fenwick. If I were you, I would not let my vanity so blind me.

This is not the way to marry.

DOROTHY. Dear aunt, I shall never marry.

MISS FOSTER. A fiddlestick’s end! every one must marry. (_Rising_.)

Are you for the Pantiles?

DOROTHY. Not to-day, dear,

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

dress me.

SCENE III

DOROTHY

DOROTHY. How she tortures me, poor aunt, my poor blind aunt; and I—I

could break her heart with a word. That she should see nothing, know

nothing—there’s where it kills. O, it is more than I can bear . . . and

yet, how much less than I deserve! Mad girl, of what do I complain? that

this dear innocent woman still believes me good, still pierces me to the

soul with trustfulness. Alas, and were it otherwise, were her dear eyes

opened to the truth, what were left me but death?—He, too—she must still

be praising him, and every word is a lash upon my conscience. If I could

die of my secret: if I could cease—but one moment cease—this living lie;

if I could sleep and forget and be at rest!—Poor John! (_reading the

letter_) he at least is guiltless; and yet for my fault he too must

suffer, he too must bear part in my shame. Poor John Fenwick! Has he

come back with the old story: with what might have been, perhaps, had we

stayed by Edenside? Eden? yes, my Eden, from which I fell. O my old

north country, my old river—the river of my innocence, the old country of

my hopes—how could I endure to look on you now? And how to meet

John?—John, with the old love on his lips, the old, honest, innocent,

faithful heart! There was a Dorothy once who was not unfit to ride with

him, her heart as light as his, her life as clear as the bright rivers we

forded; he called her his Diana, he crowned her so with rowan. Where is

that Dorothy now? that Diana? she that was everything to John? For O, I

did him good; I know I did him good; I will still believe I did him good:

I made him honest and kind and a true man; alas, and could not guide

myself! And now, how will he despise me! For he shall know; if I die,

he shall know all; I could not live, and not be true with him. (_She

takes out the necklace and looks at it_.) That he should have bought me

from my maid! George, George, that you should have stooped to this!

Basely as you have used me, this is the basest. Perish the witness!

(_She treads the trinket under foot_.) Break, break like my heart, break

like my hopes, perish like my good name!

SCENE IV

_To her_, FENWICK, _C._

FENWICK (_after a pause_). Is this how you receive me, Dorothy? Am I

not welcome?—Shall I go then?

DOROTHY (_running to him_, _with hands outstretched_). O no, John, not

for me. (_Turning_, _and pointing to the necklace_.) But you find me

changed.

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

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

Dorothy is dead.

FENWICK. Dead, dear? Not to me.

DOROTHY. Dead to you—dead to all men.

FENWICK. Dorothy, I loved you as a boy. There is not a meadow on

Edenside but is dear to me for your sake, not a cottage but recalls your

goodness, not a rock nor a tree but brings back something of the best and

brightest youth man ever had. You were my teacher and my queen; I walked

with you, I talked with you, I rode with you; I lived in your shadow; I

saw with your eyes. You will never know, dear Dorothy, what you were to

the dull boy you bore with; you will never know with what romance you

filled my life, with what devotion, with what tenderness and honour. At

night I lay awake and worshipped you; in my dreams I saw you, and you

loved me; and you remember, when we told each other stories—you have not

forgotten, dearest—that Princess Hawthorn that was still the heroine of

mine: who was she? I was not bold enough to tell, but she was you! You,

my virgin huntress, my Diana, my queen.

DOROTHY. O silence, silence—pity!

FENWICK. No, dear; neither for your sake nor mine will I be silenced. I

have begun; I must go on and finish, and put fortune to the touch. It

was from you I learned honour, duty, piety, and love. I am as you made

me, and I exist but to reverence and serve you. Why else have I come

here, the length of England, my heart burning higher every mile, my very

horse a clog to me? why, but to ask you for my wife? Dorothy, you will

not deny me.

DOROTHY. You have not asked me about this broken trinket?

FENWICK. Why should I ask? I love you.

DOROTHY. Yet I must tell you. Sit down. (_She picks up the necklace_,

_and stands looking at it_. _Then_, _breaking down_.) O John, John,

it’s long since I left home.

FENWICK. Too long, dear love. The very trees will welcome you.

DOROTHY. Ay, John, but I no longer love you. The old Dorothy is dead,

God pardon her!

FENWICK. Dorothy, who is the man?

DOROTHY. O poor Dorothy! O poor dead Dorothy! John, you found me

breaking this: me, your Diana of the Fells, the Diana of your old romance

by Edenside. Diana—O what a name for me! Do you see this trinket? It

is a chapter in my life. A chapter, do I say? my whole life, for there

is none to follow. John, you must bear with me, you must help me. I

have that to tell—there is a secret—I have a secret, John—O, for God’s

sake, understand. That Diana you revered—O John, John, you must never

speak of love to me again.

FENWICK. What do you say? How dare you?

DOROTHY. John, it is the truth. Your Diana, even she, she whom you so

believed in, she who so believed in herself, came out into the world only

to be broken. I met, here at the Wells, a man—why should I tell you his

name? I met him, and I loved him. My heart was all his own; yet he was

not content with that: he must intrigue to catch me, he must bribe my

maid with this. (_Throws the necklace on the table_.) Did he love me?

Well, John, he said he did; and be it so! He loved, he betrayed, and he

has left me.

FENWICK. Betrayed?

DOROTHY. Ay, even so; I was betrayed. The fault was mine that I forgot

our innocent youth, and your honest love.

FENWICK. Dorothy, O Dorothy!

DOROTHY. Yours is the pain; but, O John, think it is for your good.

Think in England how many true maids may be waiting for your love, haw

many that can bring you a whole heart, and be a noble mother to your

children, while your poor Diana, at the first touch, has proved all

frailty. Go, go and be happy, and let me be patient. I have sinned.

FENWICK. By God, I’ll have his blood.

DOROTHY. Stop! I love him. (_Between_ FENWICK _and door_, _C._)

FENWICK. What do I care? I loved you too. Little he thought of that,

little either of you thought of that. His blood—I’ll have his blood!

DOROTHY. You shall never know his name.

FENWICK. Know it? Do you think I cannot guess? Do you think I had not

heard he followed you. Do you think I had not suffered—O suffered!

George Austin is the man. Dear shall he pay it!

DOROTHY (_at his feet_). Pity me; spare me, spare your Dorothy! I love

him—love him—love him!

FENWICK. Dorothy, you have robbed me of my happiness, and now you would

rob me of my revenge.

DOROTHY. I know it; and shall I ask, and you not grant?

FENWICK (_raising her_). No, Dorothy, you shall ask nothing, nothing in

vain from me. You ask his life; I give it you, as I would give you my

soul; as I would give you my life, if I had any left. My life is done;

you have taken it. Not a hope, not an end; not even revenge. (_He

sits_.) Dorothy, you see your work.

DOROTHY. O God, forgive me.

FENWICK. Ay, Dorothy, He will, as I do.

DOROTHY. As you do? Do you forgive me, John?

FENWICK. Ay, more than that, poor soul. I said my life was done, I was

wrong; I have still a duty. It is not in vain you taught me; I shall

still prove to you that it was not in vain. You shall soon find that I

am no backward friend. Farewell.

ACT II.

MUSICAL INDUCTION: ‘_The Lass of Richmond Hill_.’

_The Stage represents George Austin’s dressing-room_. _Elaborate

toilet-table_, _R._, _with chair_; _a cheval glass so arranged as to

correspond with glass on table_. _Breakfast-table_, _L._, _front_.

_Door_, _L._ _The Beau is discovered at table_, _in dressing-grown_,

_trifling with correspondence_. MENTEITH _is frothing chocolate_.

SCENE I

AUSTIN, MENTEITH

MENTEITH. At the barber’s, Mr. George, I had the pleasure of meeting two

of the Dook’s gentlemen.

AUSTIN. Well, and was his Royal Highness satisfied with his quarters?

MENTEITH. Quite so, Mr. George. Delighted, I believe.

AUSTIN. I am rejoiced to hear it. I wish I could say I was as pleased

with my journey, Menteith. This is the first time I ever came to the

Wells in another person’s carriage; Duke or not, it shall be the last,

Menteith.

MENTEITH. Ah, Mr. George, no wonder. And how many times have we made

that journey back and forth?

AUSTIN. Enough to make us older than we look.

MENTEITH. To be sure, Mr. George, you do wear well.

AUSTIN. _We_ wear well, Menteith.

MENTEITH. I hear, Mr. George, that Miss Musgrave is of the company.

AUSTIN. Is she so? Well, well! well, well!

MENTEITH. I’ve not seen the young lady myself, Mr. George; but the

barber tells me she’s looking poorly.

AUSTIN. Poorly?

MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George, poorly was his word.

AUSTIN. Well, Menteith, I am truly sorry. She is not the first.

MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George. (_A bell_. MENTEITH _goes out_, _and

re-enters with card_.)

AUSTIN (_with card_). Whom have we here? Anthony Musgrave?

MENTEITH. A fine young man, Mr. George; and with a look of the young

lady, but not so gentlemanly.

AUSTIN. You have an eye, you have an eye. Let him in.

SCENE II

AUSTIN, MENTEITH, ANTHONY

AUSTIN. I am charmed to have this opportunity, Mr. Musgrave. You belong

to my old corps, I think? And how does my good friend, Sir Frederick? I

had his line; but like all my old comrades, he thinks last about himself,

and gives me not of his news.

ANTHONY. I protest, sir, this is a very proud moment. Your name is

still remembered in the regiment. (AUSTIN _bows_.) The Colonel—he keeps

his health, sir, considering his age (AUSTIN _bows again_, _and looks at_

MENTEITH)—tells us young men you were a devil of a fellow in your time.

AUSTIN. I believe I was—in my time. Menteith, give Mr. Musgrave a dish

of chocolate. So, sir, we see you at the Wells.

ANTHONY. I have but just alighted. I had but one thought, sir: to pay

my respects to Mr. Austin. I have not yet kissed my aunt and sister.

AUSTIN. In my time—to which you refer—the ladies had come first.

ANTHONY. The women? I take you, sir. But then you see, a man’s

relatives don’t count. And besides, Mr. Austin, between men of the

world, I am fairly running away from the sex: I am positively in flight.

Little Hortense of the Opera; you know; she sent her love to you. She’s

mad about me, I think. You never saw a creature so fond.

AUSTIN. Well, well, child! you are better here. In my time—to which you

have referred—I knew the lady. Does she wear well?

ANTHONY. I beg your pardon, sir!

AUSTIN. No offence, child, no offence. She was a very lively creature.

But you neglect your chocolate I see?

ANTHONY. We don’t patronise it, Mr. Austin; we haven’t for some years:

the service has quite changed since your time. You’d be surprised.

AUSTIN. Doubtless. I am.

ANTHONY. I assure you, sir, I and Jack Bosbury of the Fifty-Second—

AUSTIN. The Hampshire Bosburys?—

ANTHONY. I do not know exactly, sir. I believe he is related.

AUSTIN. Or perhaps—I remember a Mr. Bosbury, a cutter of coats. I have

the vanity to believe I formed his business.

ANTHONY. I—I hope not, sir. But as I was saying, I and this Jack

Bosbury, and the Brummagem Bantam—a very pretty light-weight, sir—drank

seven bottles of Burgundy to the three of us inside the eighty minutes.

Jack, sir, was a little cut; but me and the Bantam went out and finished

the evening on hot gin. Life, sir, life! Tom Cribb was with us. He

spoke of you, too, Tom did: said you’d given him a wrinkle for his second

fight with the black man. No, sir, I assure you, you’re not forgotten.

AUSTIN (_bows_). I am pleased to learn it. In my time, I had an esteem

for Mr. Cribb.

ANTHONY. O come, sir! but your time cannot be said to be over.

AUSTIN. Menteith, you hear?

MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George.

ANTHONY. The Colonel told me that you liked to shake an elbow. Your big

main, sir, with Lord Wensleydale, is often talked about. I hope I may

have the occasion to sit down with you. I shall count it an honour, I

assure you.

AUSTIN. But would your aunt, my very good friend, approve?

ANTHONY. Why, sir, you do not suppose I am in leading-strings?

AUSTIN. You forget, child: a family must hang together. When I was

young—in my time—I was alone; and what I did concerned myself. But a

youth who has—as I think you have—a family of ladies to protect, must

watch his honour, child, and preserve his fortune. You have no commands

from Sir Frederick?

ANTHONY. None, sir, none.

AUSTIN. Shall I find you this noon upon the Pantiles? . . . I shall be

charmed. Commend me to your aunt and your fair sister. Menteith?

MENTEITH. Yes, Mr. George. (_Shows Anthony out_.)

SCENE III

AUSTIN, MENTEITH, _returning_

AUSTIN. Was I ever like that, Menteith?

MENTEITH. No, Mr. George, you was always a gentleman.

AUSTIN. Youth, my good fellow, youth.

MENTEITH. Quite so, Mr. George.

AUSTIN. Well, Menteith, we cannot make no mend. We cannot play the

jockey with Time. Age is the test: of wine, Menteith, and men.

MENTEITH. Me and you and the old Hermitage, Mr. George, he-he!

AUSTIN. And the best of these, the Hermitage. But come: we lose our

day. Help me off with this. (MENTEITH _takes off_ AUSTIN’S

_dressing-gown_; AUSTIN _passes R. to dressing-table_, _and takes up

first cravat_.)

AUSTIN. Will the hair do, Menteith?

MENTEITH. Never saw it lay better, Mr. George. (AUSTIN _proceeds to

wind first cravat_. _A bell_: _exit_ MENTEITH. AUSTIN _drops first

cravat in basket and takes second_.)

AUSTIN (_winding and singing_)—

‘I’d crowns resign

To call her mine,

Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’

(_Second cravat a failure_. _Re-enter_ MENTEITH _with card_.) Fenwick?

of Allonby Shaw? A good family, Menteith, but I don’t know the

gentleman. (_Lays down card_, _and takes up third cravat_.) Send him

away with every consideration.

MENTEITH. To be sure, Mr. George. (_He goes out_. _Third cravat a

success_. _Re-enter_ MENTEITH.) He says, Mr. George, that he has an

errand from Miss Musgrave.

AUSTIN (_with waistcoat_). Show him in, Menteith, at once. (_Singing

and fitting waistcoat at glass_)—

‘I’d crowns resign

To call her mine,

Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill!’

SCENE IV

AUSTIN, _R. to him_ MENTEITH _and_ FENWICK

MENTEITH (_announcing_). Mr. Fenwick, Mr. George.

AUSTIN. At the name of Miss Musgrave, my doors fly always open.

FENWICK. I believe, sir, you are acquainted with my cousin, Richard

Gaunt?

AUSTIN. The county member? An old and good friend. But you need not go

so far afield: I know your good house of Allonby Shaw since the days of

the Black Knight. We are, in fact, and at a very royal distance,

cousins.

FENWICK. I desired, sir, from the nature of my business, that you should

recognise me for a gentleman.

AUSTIN. The preliminary, sir, is somewhat grave.

FENWICK. My business is both grave and delicate.

AUSTIN. Menteith, my good fellow. (_Exit_ MENTEITH.) Mr. Fenwick,

honour me so far as to be seated. (_They sit_.) I await your pleasure.

FENWICK. Briefly, sir, I am come, not without hope, to appeal to your

good heart.

AUSTIN. From Miss Musgrave?

FENWICK. No, sir, I abused her name, and am here upon my own authority.

Upon me the consequence.

AUSTIN. Proceed

FENWICK. Mr. Austin, Dorothy Musgrave is the oldest and dearest of my

friends, is the lady whom for ten years it has been my hope to make my

wife. She has shown me reason to discard that hope for another: that I

may call her Mrs. Austin.

AUSTIN. In the best interests of the lady (_rising_) I question if you

have been well inspired. You are aware, sir, that from such interference

there is but one issue: to whom shall I address my friend?

FENWICK. Mr. Austin, I am here to throw myself upon your mercy. Strange

as my errand is, it will seem yet more strange to you that I came

prepared to accept at your hands any extremity of dishonour and not

fight. The lady whom it is my boast to serve has honoured me with her

commands. These are my law, and by these your life is sacred.

AUSTIN. Then, sir (_with his hand upon the bell_), his conversation

becomes impossible. You have me at too gross a disadvantage; and, as you

are a gentleman and respect another, I would suggest that you retire.

FENWICK. Sir, you speak of disadvantage; think of mine. All my life

long, with all the forces of my nature, I have loved this lady. I came

here to implore her to be my wife, to be my queen; my saint she had been

always! She was too noble to deceive me. She told me what you know. I

will not conceal that my first mood was of anger: I would have killed you

like a dog. But, Mr. Austin—bear with me awhile—I, on the threshold of

my life, who have made no figure in the world, nor ever shall now, who

had but one treasure, and have lost it—if I, abandoning revenge,

trampling upon jealousy, can supplicate you to complete my misfortune—O

Mr. Austin! you who have lived, you whose gallantry is beyond the

insolence of a suspicion, you who are a man crowned and acclaimed, who

are loved, and loved by such a woman—you who excel me in every point of

advantage, will you suffer me to surpass you in generosity?

AUSTIN. You speak from the heart. (_Sits_.) What do you want with me?

FENWICK. Marry her.