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THE WORKS OF
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
SWANSTON EDITION
VOLUME XV
_Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five
Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS
STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies
have been printed, of which only Two Thousand
Copies are for sale._
_This is No ........._
[Illustration: R.L.S. AND MRS. STRONG
(_From an old tin-type, posed and taken by a strolling photographer at
a fair in Sydney, N.S.W., in 1892_)]
THE WORKS OF
ROBERT LOUIS
STEVENSON
VOLUME FIFTEEN
LONDON : PUBLISHED BY CHATTO AND
WINDUS : IN ASSOCIATION WITH CASSELL
AND COMPANY LIMITED : WILLIAM
HEINEMANN : AND LONGMANS GREEN
AND COMPANY MDCCCCXII
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
PAGE
DEACON BRODIE, OR THE DOUBLE LIFE 1
BEAU AUSTIN 91
ADMIRAL GUINEA 145
MACAIRE 205
DRAMATIC WORKS
OF
R.L. STEVENSON & W.E. HENLEY
DEACON BRODIE
OR THE DOUBLE LIFE
A MELODRAMA IN FIVE ACTS AND EIGHT TABLEAUX
PERSONS REPRESENTED
WILLIAM BRODIE, Deacon of the Wrights, Housebreaker and Master Carpenter
OLD BRODIE, the Deacon's Father
WILLIAM LAWSON, Procurator-Fiscal, the Deacon's Uncle
ANDREW AINSLIE, \
|
HUMPHREY MOORE, > Robbers in the Deacon's Gang
|
GEORGE SMITH, /
CAPTAIN RIVERS, an English Highwayman
HUNT, a Bow Street Runner
A DOCTOR
WALTER LESLIE
MARY BRODIE, the Deacon's Sister
JEAN WATT, the Deacon's Mistress
VAGABONDS, OFFICERS OF THE WATCH, MEN-SERVANTS
The Scene is laid in Edinburgh. The Time is towards the close of the
Eighteenth Century. The Action, some fifty hours long, begins at eight
p.m. on Saturday and ends before midnight on Monday
NOTE.--_Passages suggested for omission in representation are enclosed
in parentheses, thus_ ( )
SYNOPSIS OF ACTS AND TABLEAUX
ACT I
TABLEAU I The Double Life
TABLEAU II Hunt the Runner
TABLEAU III Mother Clarke's
ACT II
TABLEAU IV Evil and Good
ACT III
TABLEAU V King's Evidence
TABLEAU VI Unmasked
ACT IV
TABLEAU VII The Robbery
ACT V
TABLEAU VIII The Open Door
DEACON BRODIE
OR THE DOUBLE LIFE
ACT I
TABLEAU I
THE DOUBLE LIFE
_The Stage represents a room in the Deacon's house, furnished partly
as a sitting-, partly as a bedroom, in the style of an easy burgess
of about 1780. C., a door; L.C., second and smaller door; R.C.,
practicable window; L., alcove, supposed to contain bed; at the back,
a clothes-press and a corner cupboard containing bottles, etc._
_MARY BRODIE at needlework; OLD BRODIE, a paralytic, in wheeled chair,
at the fireside, L._
SCENE I
_To these, LESLIE, C._
LESLIE. May I come in, Mary?
MARY. Why not?
LESLIE. I scarce knew where to find you.
MARY. The dad and I must have a corner, must we not? So when my
brother's friends are in the parlour he allows us to sit in his room.
'Tis a great favour, I can tell you; the place is sacred.
LESLIE. Are you sure that "sacred" is strong enough?
MARY. You are satirical!
LESLIE. I? And with regard to the Deacon? Believe me, I am not so
ill-advised. You have trained me well, and I feel by him as solemnly as
a true-born Brodie.
MARY. And now you are impertinent! Do you mean to go any further? We are
a fighting race, we Brodies. O, you may laugh, sir! But 'tis no child's
play to jest us on our Deacon, or, for that matter, on our Deacon's
chamber either. It was his father's before him: he works in it by day
and sleeps in it by night; and scarce anything it contains but is the
labour of his hands. Do you see this table, Walter? He made it while he
was yet a 'prentice. I remember how I used to sit and watch him at his
work. It would be grand, I thought, to be able to do as he did, and
handle edge-tools without cutting my fingers, and getting my ears pulled
for a meddlesome minx! He used to give me his mallet to keep and his
nails to hold; and didn't I fly when he called for them! and wasn't I
proud to be ordered about with them! And then, you know, there is the
tall cabinet yonder; that it was that proved him the first of Edinburgh
joiners, and worthy to be their Deacon and their head. And the father's
chair, and the sister's work-box, and the dear dead mother's
footstool--what are they all but proofs of the Deacon's skill, and
tokens of the Deacon's care for those about him?
LESLIE. I am all penitence. Forgive me this last time, and I promise you
I never will again.
MARY. Candidly, now, do you think you deserve forgiveness?
LESLIE. Candidly, I do not.
MARY. Then I suppose you must have it. What have you done with Willie
and my uncle?
LESLIE. I left them talking deeply. The dear old Procurator has not much
thought just now for anything but those mysterious burglaries----
MARY. I know!----
LESLIE. Still, all of him that is not magistrate and official is
politician and citizen; and he has been striving his hardest to
undermine the Deacon's principles, and win the Deacon's vote and
interest.
MARY. They are worth having, are they not?
LESLIE. The Procurator seems to think that having them makes the
difference between winning and losing.
MARY. Did he say so? You may rely upon it that he knows. There are not
many in Edinburgh who can match with our Will.
LESLIE. There shall be as many as you please, and not one more.
MARY. How I should like to have heard you! What did uncle say? Did he
speak of the Town Council again? Did he tell Will what a wonderful
Bailie he would make? O, why did you come away?
LESLIE. I could not pretend to listen any longer. The election is months
off yet; and if it were not--if it were tramping upstairs this
moment--drums, flags, cockades, guineas, candidates, and all!--how
should I care for it? What are Whig and Tory to me?
MARY. O, fie on you! It is for every man to concern himself in the
common weal. Mr. Leslie--Leslie of the Craig!--should know that much at
least.
LESLIE. And be a politician like the Deacon! All in good time, but not
now. I hearkened while I could, and when I could no more I slipped out
and followed my heart. I hoped I should be welcome.
MARY. I suppose you mean to be unkind.
LESLIE. Tit for tat. Did you not ask me why I came away? And is it usual
for a young lady to say "Mr." to the man she means to marry?
MARY. That is for the young lady to decide, sir.
LESLIE. And against that judgment there shall be no appeal?
MARY. O, if you mean to argue!----
LESLIE. I do not mean to argue. I am content to love and be loved. I
think I am the happiest man in the world.
MARY. That is as it should be; for I am the happiest girl.
LESLIE. Why not say the happiest wife? I have your word, and you have
mine. Is not that enough?
MARY. Have you so soon forgotten? Did I not tell you how it must be as
my brother wills? I can do only as he bids me.
LESLIE. Then you have not spoken as you promised?
MARY. I have been too happy to speak.
LESLIE. I am his friend. Precious as you are, he will trust you to me.
He has but to know how I love you, Mary, and how your life is all in
your love of me, to give us his blessing with a full heart.
MARY. I am sure of him. It is that which makes my happiness complete.
Even to our marriage I should find it hard to say "Yes" when he said
"No."
LESLIE. Your father is trying to speak. I'll wager he echoes you.
MARY (_to OLD BRODIE_). My poor dearie! Do you want to say anything to
me? No? Is it to Mr. Leslie, then?
LESLIE. I am listening, Mr. Brodie.
MARY. What is it, daddie?
OLD BRODIE. My son--the Deacon--Deacon Brodie--the first at school.
LESLIE. I know it, Mr. Brodie. Was I not the last in the same class?
(_To MARY._) But he seems to have forgotten us.
MARY. O, yes! his mind is wellnigh gone. He will sit for hours as you
see him, and never speak nor stir but at the touch of Will's hand or the
sound of Will's name.
LESLIE. It is so good to sit beside you. By and by it will always be
like this. You will not let me speak to the Deacon? You are fast set
upon speaking yourself? I could be so eloquent, Mary--I would touch
him. I cannot tell you how I fear to trust my happiness to any one
else--even to you.
MARY. He must hear of my good fortune from none but me. And, besides,
you do not understand. We are not like other families, we Brodies. We
are so clannish, we hold so close together.
LESLIE. You Brodies, and your Deacon!
OLD BRODIE. Deacon of his craft, sir--Deacon of the Wrights--my son! If
his mother--his mother--had but lived to see!
MARY. You hear how he runs on. A word about my brother and he catches
it. 'Tis as if he were awake in his poor blind way to all the Deacon's
care for him and all the Deacon's kindness to me. I believe he only
lives in the thought of the Deacon. There, it is not so long since I was
one with him. But indeed I think we are all Deacon-mad, we Brodies.--Are
we not, daddie dear?
BRODIE (_without, and entering_). You are a mighty magistrate,
Procurator, but you seem to have met your match.
SCENE II
_To these, BRODIE and LAWSON_
MARY (_curtseying_). So, uncle! you have honoured us at last.
LAWSON. _Quam primum_, my dear, _quam primum_.
BRODIE. Well, father, do you know me? (_He sits beside his father, and
takes his hand._)
(OLD BRODIE. William--ay--Deacon. Greater man--than--his father.
BRODIE. You see, Procurator, the news is as fresh to him as it was five
years ago. He was struck down before he got the Deaconship, and lives
his lost life in mine.
LAWSON. Ay, I mind. He was aye ettling after a bit handle to his name.
He was kind of hurt when first they made me Procurator.)
MARY. And what have you been talking of?
LAWSON. Just o' thae robberies, Mary. Baith as a burgher and a Crown
offeecial, I tak' the maist absorbing interest in thae robberies.
LESLIE. Egad, Procurator, and so do I.
BRODIE (_with a quick look at LESLIE_). A dilettante interest,
doubtless! See what it is to be idle.
LESLIE. 'Faith, Brodie, I hardly know how to style it.
BRODIE. At any rate, 'tis not the interest of a victim, or we should
certainly have known of it before; nor a practical tool-mongering
interest, like my own; nor an interest professional and official, like
the Procurator's. You can answer for that, I suppose?
LESLIE. I think I can; if for no more. It's an interest of my own, you
see, and is best described as indescribable, and of no manner of moment
to anybody. (It will take no hurt if we put off its discussion till a
month of Sundays.)
BRODIE. You are more fortunate than you deserve. What do you say,
Procurator?
LAWSON. Ay is he! There's no' a house in Edinburgh safe. The law is
clean helpless, clean helpless! A week syne it was auld Andra Simpson's
in the Lawn-market. Then, naething would set the catamarans but to
forgather privily wi' the Provost's ain butler, and tak' unto themselves
the Provost's ain plate. And the day, information was laid down before
me offeecially that the limmers had made infraction, _vi et clam_, into
Leddy Mar'get Dalziel's, and left her leddyship wi' no' sae muckle's a
spune to sup her parritch wi'. It's unbelievable, it's awful, it's
anti-christian!
MARY. If you only knew them, uncle, what an example you would make! But,
tell me, is it not strange that men should dare such things, in the
midst of a city, and nothing, nothing be known of them--nothing at all?
LESLIE. Little, indeed! But we do know that there are several in the
gang, and that one at least is an unrivalled workman.
LAWSON. Ye're right, sir; ye're vera right, Mr. Leslie. It had been
deponed to me offeecially that no' a tradesman--no' the Deacon here
himsel'--could have made a cleaner job wi' Andra Simpson's shutters. And
as for the lock o' the bank--but that's an auld sang.
BRODIE. I think you believe too much, Procurator. Rumour's an ignorant
jade, I tell you. I've had occasion to see some little of their
handiwork--broken cabinets, broken shutters, broken doors--and I find
them bunglers. Why, I could do it better myself.
LESLIE. Gad, Brodie, you and I might go into partnership. I back myself
to watch outside, and I suppose you could do the work of skill within?
BRODIE. An opposition company? Leslie, your mind is full of good things.
Suppose we begin to-night, and give the Procurator's house the honours
of our innocence?
MARY. You could do anything, you two!
LAWSON. Onyway, Deacon, ye'd put your ill-gotten gains to a right use;
they might come by the wind, but they wouldna gang wi' the water; and
that's aye a _solatium_, as we say. If I am to be robbit, I would like
to be robbit wi' decent folk; and no' think o' my bonnie clean siller
dirling among jads and dicers. ('Faith, William, the mair I think on't,
the mair I'm o' Mr. Leslie's mind. Come the night, or come the morn, and
I'se gie ye my free permission, and lend ye a hand in at the window
forbye!
BRODIE. Come, come, Procurator, lead not our poor clay into temptation.
(_LESLIE and MARY talk apart._)
LAWSON. I'm no muckle afraid for your puir clay, as ye ca't. But hark i'
your ear: ye're likely, joking apart, to be gey and sune in partnership
wi' Mr. Leslie. He and Mary are gey and pack, a'body can see that.
BRODIE. "Daffin, and want o' wit"--you know the rest.
LAWSON. _Vidi, scivi, et audivi_, as we say in a Sasine, William.) Man,
because my wig's pouthered do you think I havena a green heart? I was
aince a lad mysel', and I ken fine by the glint o' the e'e when a lad's
fain and a lassie's willing. And, man, it's the town's talk; _communis
error fit jus_, ye ken.
OLD BRODIE. Oh!
LAWSON. See, ye're hurting your faither's hand.
BRODIE. Dear dad, it is not good to have an ill-tempered son.
LAWSON. What the deevil ails ye at the match? 'Od man, he has a nice bit
divot o' Fife corn-land, I can tell ye, and some Bordeaux wine in his
cellar! But I needna speak o' the Bordeaux; ye'll ken the smack o't as
weel's I do mysel'; onyway it's grand wine. _Tantum et tale._ I tell ye
the _pro's_, find you the _con.'s_, if ye're able.
BRODIE. (I am sorry, Procurator, but I must be short with you.) You are
talking in the air, as lawyers will. I prefer to drop the subject (and
it will displease me if you return to it in my hearing).
LESLIE. At four o'clock to-morrow? At my house? (_To MARY._)
MARY. As soon as church is done. (_Exit MARY._)
LAWSON. Ye needna be sae high and mighty, onyway.
BRODIE. I ask your pardon, Procurator. But we Brodies--you know our
failings! (A bad temper and a humour of privacy.)
LAWSON. Weel, I maun be about my business. But I could tak' a
doch-an-dorach, William; _superflua non nocent_, as we say; an extra
dram hurts naebody, Mr. Leslie.
BRODIE (_with bottle and glasses_). Here's your old friend, Procurator.
Help yourself, Leslie. O no, thank you, not any for me. You strong
people have the advantage of me there. With my attacks, you know, I must
always live a bit of a hermit's life.
LAWSON. 'Od, man, that's fine; that's health o' mind and body. Mr.
Leslie, here's to you, sir. 'Od, it's harder to end than to begin with
stuff like that.
SCENE III
_To these, SMITH and JEAN, C._
SMITH. Is the king of the castle in, please?
LAWSON (_aside_). Lord's sake, it's Smith!
BRODIE (_to SMITH_). I beg your pardon?
SMITH. I beg yours, sir. If you please, sir, is Mr. Brodie at home, sir?
BRODIE. What do you want with him, my man?
SMITH. I've a message for him, sir; a job of work, sir.
BRODIE (_to SMITH; referring to JEAN_). And who is this?
JEAN. I am here for the Procurator, about my rent. There's nae offence,
I hope, sir.
LAWSON. It's just an honest wife I let a flat to in Libberton's Wynd.
It'll be for the rent?
JEAN. Just that, sir.
LAWSON. Weel, ye can just bide here a wee, and I'll step down the road
to my office wi' ye. (_Exeunt BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE, C._)
SCENE IV
SMITH, JEAN WATT, OLD BRODIE
SMITH (_bowing them out_). Your humble and most devoted servant, George
Smith, Esquire. And so this is the garding, is it? And this is the style
of horticulture? Ha, it is! (_At the mirror._) In that case George's
mother bids him bind his hair. (_Kisses his hand._) My dearest
Duchess----(_To JEAN._) I say, Jean, there's a good deal of difference
between this sort of thing and the way we does it in Libberton's Wynd.
JEAN. I daursay. And what wad ye expeck?
SMITH. Ah, Jean, if you'd cast affection's glance on this poor but
honest soger! George Lord S. is not the nobleman to cut the object of
his flame before the giddy throng; nor to keep her boxed up in an old
mouse-trap, while he himself is revelling in purple splendours like
these. He didn't know you, Jean: he was afraid to. Do you call that a
man? Try a man that is.
JEAN. Geordie Smith, ye ken vera weel I'll tak' nane o' that sort o'
talk frae you. And what kind o' a man are you to even yoursel' to the
likes o' him? He's a gentleman.
SMITH. Ah, ain't he, just! And don't he live up to it? I say, Jean, feel
of this chair.
JEAN. My! look at yon bed!
SMITH. The carpet too! Axminster, by the bones of Oliver Cromwell!
JEAN. What a expense!
SMITH. Hey, brandy! The deuce of the grape! Have a toothful, Mrs. Watt.
(_Sings_--
"Says Bacchus to Venus:
There's brandy between us,
And the cradle of love is the bowl, the bowl!")
JEAN. Nane for me, I thank ye, Mr. Smith.
SMITH. What brings the man from stuff like this to rotgut and spittoons
at Mother Clarke's? But ah, George, you was born for a higher spear! And
so was you, Mrs. Watt, though I say it that shouldn't. (_Seeing OLD
BRODIE for the first time._) Hullo! it's a man!
JEAN. Thonder in the chair. (_They go to look at him, their backs to the
door._)
SMITH. Is he alive?
JEAN. I think there's something wrong with him.
SMITH. And how was you to-morrow, my valued old gentleman, eh?
JEAN. Dinna mak' a mock o' him, Geordie.
OLD BRODIE. My son--the Deacon--Deacon of his trade.
JEAN. He'll be his feyther. (_HUNT appears at door C., and stands
looking on._)
SMITH. The Deacon's old man! Well, he couldn't expect to have his quiver
full of sich, could he, Jean? (_To OLD BRODIE._) Ah, my Christian
soldier, if you had, the world would have been more variegated. Mrs.
Deakin (_to JEAN_), let me introduce you to your dear papa.
JEAN. Think shame to yoursel'! This is the Deacon's house; you and me
shouldna be here by rights; and if we are, it's the least we can do to
behave dacent. (This is no' the way ye'll mak' me like ye.)
SMITH. All right, Duchess. Don't be angry.
SCENE V
_To these, HUNT, C._ (_He steals down, and claps each one suddenly on
the shoulder._)
HUNT. Is there a gentleman here by the name of Mr. Procurator-Fiscal?
SMITH (_pulling himself together_). D--n it, Jerry, what do you mean by
startling an old customer like that?
HUNT. What, my brave 'un? You're the very party I was looking for!
SMITH. There's nothing out against me this time?
HUNT. I'll take odds there is. But it ain't in my hands. (_To OLD
BRODIE._) You'll excuse me, old gentleman?
SMITH. Ah, well, if it's all in the way of friendship!... I say, Jean
(you and me had best be on the toddle). We shall be late for church.
HUNT. Lady, George?
SMITH. It's a----yes, it's a lady. Come along, Jean.
HUNT. A Mrs. Deacon, I believe. (That was the name, I think?) Won't Mrs.
Deacon let me have a queer at her phiz?
JEAN (_unmuffling_). I've naething to be ashamed of. My name's Mistress
Watt; I'm weel kennt at the Wyndheid; there's naething again' me.
HUNT. No, to be sure there ain't; and why clap on the blinkers, my dear?
You that has a face like a rose, and with a cove like Jerry Hunt, that
might be your born father? (But all this don't tell me about Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal.)
SMITH (_in an agony_). Jean, Jean, we shall be late. (_Going with
attempted swagger._) Well, ta-ta, Jerry.
SCENE VI
_To these, C., BRODIE and LAWSON (greatcoat, muffler, lantern_)
LAWSON (_from the door_). Come your ways, Mistress Watt.
JEAN. That's the Fiscal himsel'.
HUNT. Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I believe?
LAWSON. That's me. Who'll you be?
HUNT. Hunt the Runner, sir; Hunt from Bow Street; English warrant.
LAWSON. There's a place for a' things, officer. Come your ways to my
office with me and this guid wife.
BRODIE (_aside to JEAN, as she passes with a curtsey_). How dare you be
here? (_Aloud to SMITH._) Wait you here, my man.
SMITH. If you please, sir. (_BRODIE goes out, C._)
SCENE VII
BRODIE, SMITH
BRODIE. What the devil brings you here?
SMITH. Confound it, Deakin! Not rusty?
BRODIE. (And not you only: Jean too! Are you mad?
SMITH. Why, you don't mean to say, Deakin, that you have been stodged by
G. Smith, Esquire? Plummy old George?)
BRODIE. There was my uncle the Procurator----
SMITH. The Fiscal? He don't count.
BRODIE. What d'ye mean?
SMITH. Well, Deakin, since Fiscal Lawson's Nunkey Lawson, and it's all
in the family way, I don't mind telling you that Nunkey Lawson's a
customer of George's. We give Nunkey Lawson a good deal of brandy--G. S.
and Co.'s celebrated Nantz.
BRODIE. What! does he buy that smuggled trash of yours?
SMITH. Well, we don't call it smuggled in the trade, Deakin. It's a wink
and King George's picter between G. S. and the Nunks.
BRODIE. Gad! that's worth knowing. O Procurator, Procurator, is there no
such thing as virtue? (_Allons!_ It's enough to cure a man of vice for
this world and the other.) But hark you hither, Smith; this is all
damned well in its way, but it don't explain what brings you here.
SMITH. I've trapped a pigeon for you.
BRODIE. Can't you pluck him yourself?
SMITH. Not me. He's too flash in the feather for a simple nobleman like
George Lord Smith. It's the great Capting Starlight, fresh in from York.
(He's exercised his noble art all the way from here to London. "Stand
and deliver, stap my vitals!") And the North Road is no bad lay, Deakin.
BRODIE. Flush?
SMITH (_mimicking_). "Three graziers, split me! A mail, stap my vitals!
and seven demned farmers, by the Lard----"
BRODIE. By Gad!
SMITH. Good for trade, ain't it? And we thought, Deakin, the Badger and
me, that coins being ever on the vanish, and you not over sweet on them
there lovely little locks at Leslie's, and them there bigger and uglier
marine stores at the Excise Office....
BRODIE (_impassible_). Go on.
SMITH. Worse luck!... We thought, me and the Badger, you know, that
maybe you'd like to exercise your _h_elbow with our free and galliant
horseman.
BRODIE. The old move, I presume? The double set of dice?
SMITH. That's the rig, Deakin. What you drop on the square you pick up
again on the cross. (Just as you did with G. S. and Co.'s own agent and
correspondent, the Admiral from Nantz.) You always was a neat hand with
the bones, Deakin.
BRODIE. The usual terms, I suppose?
SMITH. The old discount, Deakin. Ten in the pound for you, and the rest
for your jolly companions every one. (_That's_ the way _we_ does it!)
BRODIE. Who has the dice?
SMITH. Our mutual friend, the Candleworm.
BRODIE. You mean Ainslie?--We trust that creature too much, Geordie.
SMITH. He's all right, Marquis. He wouldn't lay a finger on his own
mother. Why, he's no more guile in him than a set of sheep's trotters.
(BRODIE. You think so? Then see he don't cheat you over the dice, and
give you light for loaded. See to that George, see to that; and you may
count the Captain as bare as his last grazier.
SMITH. The Black Flag for ever! George'll trot him round to Mother
Clarke's in two twos.) How long'll you be?
BRODIE. The time to lock up and go to bed, and I'll be with you. Can you
find your way out?
SMITH. Bloom on, my Sweet William, in peaceful array. Ta-ta.
SCENE VIII
_BRODIE, OLD BRODIE; to whom, MARY_
MARY. O Willie, I am glad you did not go with them. I have something to
tell you. If you knew how happy I am, you would clap your hands, Will.
But come, sit you down there, and be my good big brother, and I will
kneel here and take your hand. We must keep close to dad, and then he
will feel happiness in the air. The poor old love, if we could only tell
him. But I sometimes think his heart has gone to heaven already, and
takes a part in all our joys and sorrows; and it is only his poor body
that remains here, helpless and ignorant. Come, Will, sit you down, and
ask me questions--or guess--that will be better, guess.
BRODIE. Not to-night, Mary; not to-night. I have other fish to fry, and
they won't wait.
MARY. Not one minute for your sister? One little minute for your little
sister?
BRODIE. Minutes are precious, Mary. I have to work for all of us, and
the clock is always busy. They are waiting for me even now. Help me
with the dad's chair. And then to bed, and dream happy things. And
to-morrow morning I will hear your news--your good news; it must be
good, you look so proud and glad. But to-night it cannot be.
MARY. I hate your business--I hate all business. To think of chairs, and
tables, and foot-rules, all dead and wooden--and cold pieces of money
with the King's ugly head on them; and here is your sister, your pretty
sister, if you please, with something to tell, which she would not tell
you for the world, and would give the world to have you guess, and you
won't?--Not you! For business! Fie, Deacon Brodie! But I'm too happy to
find fault with you!
BRODIE. "And me a Deacon," as the Procurator would say.
MARY. No such thing, sir! I am not a bit afraid of you--nor a bit angry
neither. Give me a kiss, and promise me hours and hours to-morrow
morning?
BRODIE. All day long to-morrow, if you like.
MARY. Business or none?
BRODIE. Business or none, little sister! I'll make time, I promise you;
and there's another kiss for surety. Come along. (_They proceed to push
out the chair, L.C._) The wine and wisdom of this evening have given me
one of my headaches, and I'm in haste for bed. You'll be good, won't
you, and see they make no noise, and let me sleep my fill to-morrow
morning till I wake?
MARY. Poor Will! How selfish I must have seemed! You should have told me
sooner, and I wouldn't have worried you. Come along. (_She goes out,
pushing chair._)
SCENE IX
BRODIE
(_He closes, locks, and double-bolts the doors_)
BRODIE. Now for one of the Deacon's headaches! Rogues all, rogues all!
(_Goes to clothes-press and proceeds to change his coat._) On with the
new coat and into the new life! Down with the Deacon and up with the
robber! (_Changing neck-band and ruffles._) Eh God! how still the house
is! There's something in hypocrisy after all. If we were as good as we
seem, what would the world be? (The city has its vizard on, and we--at
night we are our naked selves. Trysts are keeping, bottles cracking,
knives are stripping; and here is Deacon Brodie flaming forth the man of
men he is!)--How still it is!... My father and Mary--Well! the day for
them, the night for me; the grimy cynical night that makes all cats
grey, and all honesties of one complexion. Shall a man not have _half_ a
life of his own?--not eight hours out of twenty-four? (Eight shall he
have should he dare the pit of Tophet.) (_Takes out money._) Where's the
blunt? I must be cool to-night, or ... steady, Deacon, you must win;
damn you, you must! You must win back the dowry that you've stolen, and
marry your sister, and pay your debts, and gull the world a little
longer! (_As he blows out the lights._) The Deacon's going to bed--the
poor sick Deacon! _Allons!_ (_Throws up the window and looks out._) Only
the stars to see me! (_Addressing the bed._) Lie there, Deacon! sleep
and be well to-morrow. As for me, I'm a man once more till morning.
(_Gets out of the window._)
TABLEAU II
HUNT THE RUNNER
_The Scene represents the Procurator's Office_
SCENE I
LAWSON, HUNT
LAWSON (_entering_). Step your way in, Officer. (_At wing._) Mr.
Carfrae, give a chair to yon decent wife that cam' in wi' me. Nae news?
A VOICE WITHOUT. Naething, sir.
LAWSON (_sitting_). Weel, Officer, and what can I do for you?
HUNT. Well, sir, as I was saying, I've an English warrant for the
apprehension of one Jemmy Rivers, _alias_ Captain Starlight, now at
large within your jurisdiction.
LAWSON. That'll be the highwayman?
HUNT. That same, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal. The Captain's given me a hard
hunt of it this time. I dropped on his marks at Huntingdon, but he was
away North, and I had to up and after him. I heard of him all along the
York road, for he's a light hand on the pad, has Jemmy, and leaves his
mark. I missed him at York by four-and-twenty hours, and lost him for as
much more. Then I picked him up again at Carlisle, and we made a race of
it for the Border; but he'd a better nag, and was best up in the road;
so I had to wait till I ran him to earth in Edinburgh here and could get
a new warrant. So here I am, sir. They told me you were an active sort
of gentleman, and I'm an active man myself. And Sir John Fielding, Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal, he's an active gentleman likewise, though he's blind
as a _h_image, and he desired his compliments to you (sir, and said
that between us he thought we'd do the trick).
LAWSON. Ay, he'll be a fine man, Sir John. Hand me owre your papers,
Hunt, and you'll have your new warrant _quam primum_. And see here,
Hunt, ye'll aiblins have a while to yoursel', and an active man, as ye
say ye are, should aye be grinding grist. We're sair forfeuchen wi' our
burglaries. _Non constat de persona._ We canna get a grip o' the
delinquents. Here is the _Hue and Cry_. Ye see there is a guid two
hundred pounds for ye.
HUNT. Well, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal (I ain't a rich man, and two hundred's
two hundred. Thereby, sir), I don't mind telling you I've had a bit of a
worry at it already. You see, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I had to look into
a ken to-night about the Captain, and an old cock always likes to be
sure of his walk; so I got one of your Scots officers--him as was so
polite as to show me round to Mr. Brodie's--to give me full particulars
about the 'ouse, and the flash companions that use it. In his list I
drop on the names of two old lambs of my own; and I put it to you, Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal, as a gentleman as knows the world, if what's a black
sheep in London is likely or not to be keeping school in Edinburgh?
LAWSON. _Coelum non animum._ A just observe.
HUNT. I'll give it a thought, sir, and see if I can't kill two birds
with one stone. Talking of which, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I'd like to
have a bit of a confab with that nice young woman as came to pay her
rent.
LAWSON. Hunt, that's a very decent woman.
HUNT. And a very decent woman may have mighty queer pals, Mr.
Procurator-Fiscal. Lord love you, sir, I don't know what the profession
would do without 'em!
LAWSON. Ye're vera richt, Hunt. An active and a watchful officer, I'll
send her in till ye.
SCENE II
HUNT (_solus_). Two hundred pounds reward. Curious thing. One burglary
after another, and these Scots blockheads without a man to show for it.
Jock runs east, and Sawney cuts west; everything's at a deadlock and
they go on calling themselves thief-catchers! (By Jingo, I'll show them
how we do it down South! Well, I've worn out a good deal of
saddle-leather over Jemmy Rivers; but here's for new breeches if you
like.) Let's have another queer at the list. (_Reads._) "Humphrey Moore,
otherwise Badger; aged forty, thick-set, dark, close-cropped; has been a
prize-fighter; no apparent occupation." Badger's an old friend of mine.
"George Smith, otherwise the Dook, otherwise Jingling Geordie;
red-haired and curly, slight, flash; an old thimble-rig; has been a
stroller; suspected of smuggling; an associate of loose women." G. S.,
Esquire, is another of my flock. "Andrew Ainslie, otherwise Slink
Ainslie; aged thirty-five; thin, white-faced, lank-haired; no
occupation; has been in trouble for reset of theft and subornation of
youth; might be useful as King's evidence." That's an acquaintance to
make. "Jock Hamilton otherwise Sweepie," and so on. ("Willie M'Glashan,"
hum--yes, and so on, and so on.) Ha! here's the man I want. "William
Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights, about thirty; tall, slim, dark; wears his
own hair; is often at Clarke's, but seemingly for purposes of amusement
only; (is nephew to the Procurator-Fiscal; is commercially sound, but
has of late (it is supposed) been short of cash; has lost much at
cock-fighting;) is proud, clever, of good repute, but is fond of
adventures and secrecy, and keeps low company." Now, here's what I ask
myself: here's this list of the family party that drop into Mother
Clarke's; it's been in the hands of these nincompoops for weeks, and
I'm the first to cry Queer Street! Two well-known cracksmen, Badger and
the Dook! why, there's Jack in the Orchard at once. This here topsawyer
work they talk about, of course that's a chalk above Badger and the
Dook. But how about our Mohock-tradesman? "Purposes of amusement!" What
next? Deacon of the Wrights? and Wright in their damned lingo means a
kind of carpenter, I fancy? Why, damme, it's the man's trade! I'll look
you up, Mr. William Brodie, Deacon of the Wrights. As sure as my name's
Jerry Hunt, I wouldn't take one-ninety-nine in gold for my chance of
that 'ere two hundred!
SCENE III
_HUNT; to him, JEAN_
HUNT. Well, my dear, and how about your gentleman friend now? How about
Deacon Brodie?
JEAN. I dinna ken your name, sir, nor yet whae ye are; but this is a
very poor employ for ony gentleman--it sets ill wi' ony gentleman to
cast my shame in my teeth.
HUNT. Lord love you, my dear, that ain't my line of country. Suppose
you're not married and churched a hundred thousand times, what odds to
Jerry Hunt? Jerry, my Pamela Prue, is a cove as might be your parent; a
cove renowned for the ladies' friend (and he's dead certain to be on
your side). What I can't get over is this: here's this Mr. Deacon Brodie
doing the genteel at home, and leaving a nice young 'oman like you--as a
cove may say--to take it out on cold potatoes. That's what I can't get
over, Mrs. Watt. I'm a family man myself; and I can't get over it.
JEAN. And whae said that to ye? They lee'd whatever. I get naething but
guid by him; and I had nae richt to gang to his house; and O, I just ken
I've been the ruin of him!
HUNT. Don't you take on, Mrs. Watt. Why, now I hear you piping up for
him, I begin to think a lot of him myself. I like a cove to be
open-handed and free.
JEAN. Weel, sir, and he's a' that.
HUNT. Well, that shows what a wicked world this is. Why, they told
me----. Well, well, "here's the open 'and and the 'appy 'art." And how
much, my dear--speaking as a family man--now, how much might your
gentleman friend stand you in the course of a year?
JEAN. What's your wull?
HUNT. That's a mighty fancy shawl, Mrs. Watt. (I should like to take its
next-door neighbour to Mrs. Hunt in King Street, Common Garden.) What's
about the figure?
JEAN. It's paid for. Ye can sweir to that.
HUNT. Yes, my dear, and so is King George's crown; but I don't know what
it cost, and I don't know where the blunt came from to pay for it.
JEAN. I'm thinking ye'll be a vera clever gentleman.
HUNT. So I am, my dear; and I like you none the worse for being artful
yourself. But between friends now, and speaking as a family man----
JEAN. I'll be wishin' ye a fine nicht. (_Curtsies and goes out._)
SCENE IV
HUNT (_solus_)
HUNT. Ah! that's it, is it? "My fancy man's my 'ole delight," as we say
in Bow Street. But which _is_ the fancy man? George the Dook, or William
the Deacon? One or both? (_He winks solemnly._) Well, Jerry, my boy,
here's your work cut out for you; but if you took one-nine-five for that
ere little two hundred you'd be a disgrace to the profession.
TABLEAU III
MOTHER CLARKE'S
_The Stage represents a room of coarse and sordid appearance: settles,
spittoons, etc.; sanded floor. A large table at back, where AINSLIE,
HAMILTON, and others are playing cards and quarrelling. In front, L.
and R., smaller tables, at one of which are BRODIE and MOORE,
drinking. MRS. CLARKE and women serving._
SCENE I
MOORE. You've got the devil's own luck, Deacon, that's what you've got.
BRODIE. Luck! Don't talk of luck to a man like me! Why not say I've the
devil's own judgment? Men of my stamp don't risk--they plan, Badger;
they plan, and leave chance to such cattle as you (and Jingling Geordie.
They make opportunities before they take them).
MOORE. You're artful, ain't you?
BRODIE. Should I be here else? When I leave my house I leave an _alibi_
behind me. I'm ill--ill with a jumping headache, and the fiend's own
temper. I'm sick in bed this minute, and they're all going about with
the fear of death on them lest they should disturb the poor sick Deacon.
(My bedroom door is barred and bolted like the bank--you remember!--and
all the while the window's open, and the Deacon's over the hills and far
away. What do you think of me?)
MOORE. I've seen your sort before, I have.
BRODIE. Not you. As for Leslie's----
MOORE. That was a nick above you.
BRODIE. Ay was it. He wellnigh took me red-handed; and that was better
luck than I deserved. If I'd not been drunk and in my tantrums, you'd
never have got my hand within a thousand years of such a job.
MOORE. Why not? You're the King of the Cracksmen, ain't you?
BRODIE. Why not! He asks me why not! Gods what a brain it is! Hark ye,
Badger, it's all very well to be King of the Cracksmen, as you call it;
but however respectable he may have the misfortune to be, one's friend
is one's friend, and as such must be severely let alone. What! shall
there be no more honour among thieves than there is honesty among
politicians? Why, man, if under heaven there were but one poor lock
unpicked, and that the lock of one whose claret you've drunk, and who
has babbled of woman across your own mahogany--that lock, sir, were
entirely sacred. Sacred as the Kirk of Scotland; sacred as King George
upon his throne; sacred as the memory of Bruce and Bannockburn.
MOORE. O, rot! I ain't a parson, I ain't; I never had no college
education. Business is business. That's wot's the matter with me.
BRODIE. Ay, so we said when you lost that fight with Newcastle Jemmy,
and sent us home all poor men. That was a nick above _you_.
MOORE. Newcastle Jemmy! Muck: that's my opinion of him: muck. I'll mop
the floor up with him any day, if so be as you or any on 'em 'll make it
worth my while. If not, muck! That's my motto. Wot I now ses is, about
that 'ere crib at Leslie's, wos I right, I ses? or wos I wrong? That's
wot's the matter with you.
BRODIE. You are both right and wrong. You dared me to do it. I was
drunk; I was upon my mettle; and I as good as did it. More than that,
blackguardly as it was, I enjoyed the doing. He is my friend. He had
dined with me that day, and I felt like a man in a story. I climbed his
wall, I crawled along his pantry roof, I mounted his window-sill. That
one turn of my wrist--you know it!--and the casement was open. It was as
dark as the pit, and I thought I'd won my wager, when, phewt! down went
something inside, and down went somebody with it. I made one leap, and
was off like a rocket. It was my poor friend in person; and if he'd
caught and passed me on to the watchman under the window, I should have
felt no viler rogue than I feel just now.
MOORE. I s'pose he knows you pretty well by this time?
BRODIE. 'Tis the worst of friendship. Here, Kirsty, fill these glasses.
Moore, here's better luck--and a more honourable plant!--next time.
MOORE. Deacon, I looks towards you. But it looks thundering like rotten
eggs, don't it?
BRODIE. I think not. I was masked, for one thing, and for another I was
as quick as lightning. He suspects me so little that he dined with me
this very afternoon.
MOORE. Anyway, you ain't game to try it on again, I'll lay odds on that.
Once bit, twice shy. That's your motto.
BRODIE. Right again. I'll put my _alibi_ to a better use. And, Badger,
one word in your ear: there's no Newcastle Jemmy about _me_. Drop the
subject, and for good, or I shall drop you. (_He rises, and walks
backwards and forwards, a little unsteadily; then returns, and sits, L.,
as before._)
SCENE II
_To these, HUNT, disguised_
_He is disguised as a "flying stationer" with a patch over his eye. He
sits at table opposite BRODIE'S, and is served with bread and cheese and
beer._
HAMILTON (_from behind_). The deevil tak' the cairts!
AINSLIE. Hoot, man, dinna blame the cairts.
MOORE. Look here, Deacon, I mean business, I do. (_HUNT looks up at the
name of "Deacon."_)
BRODIE. Gad, Badger, I never meet you that you do not. (You have a set
of the most commercial intentions!) You make me blush.
MOORE. That's all blazing fine, that is! But wot I ses is, wot about the
chips? That's what I ses. I'm after that thundering old Excise Office, I
am. That's my motto.
BRODIE. 'Tis a very good motto, and at your lips, Badger, it kind of
warms my heart. But it's not mine.
MOORE. Muck! why not?
BRODIE. 'Tis too big and too dangerous. I shirk King George; he has a
fat pocket, but he has a long arm. (You pilfer sixpence from him, and
it's three hundred reward for you, and a hue and cry from Tophet to the
stars.) It ceases to be business; it turns politics, and I'm not a
politician, Mr. Moore. (_Rising._) I'm only Deacon Brodie.
MOORE. All right. I can wait.
BRODIE (_seeing HUNT_). Ha, a new face--and with a patch! (There's
nothing under heaven I like so dearly as a new face with a patch.) Who
the devil, sir, are you that own it? And where did you get it? And how
much will you take for it second-hand?
HUNT. Well, sir, to tell you the truth--(_BRODIE bows_)--it's not for
sale. But it's my own, and I'll drink your honour's health in anything.
BRODIE. An Englishman, too! Badger, behold a countryman. What are you,
and what part of southern Scotland do you come from?
HUNT. Well, your honour, to tell you the honest truth----
BRODIE (_bowing_). Your obleeged!
HUNT. I knows a gentleman when I sees him, your honour (and, to tell
your honour the truth----
BRODIE. _Je vous baise les mains!_ [_Bowing._])
HUNT. A gentleman is a gentleman, your honour (is always a gentleman,
and to tell you the honest truth)--
BRODIE. Great heavens! answer in three words, and be hanged to you! What
are you, and where are you from?
HUNT. A patter-cove from Seven Dials.
BRODIE. Is it possible? All my life long have I been pining to meet with
a patter-cove from Seven Dials! Embrace me, at a distance. (A
patter-cove from Seven Dials!) Go, fill yourself as drunk as you dare,
at my expense. Anything he likes, Mrs. Clarke. He's a patter-cove from
Seven Dials. Hillo! what's all this?
AINSLIE. Dod, I'm for nae mair! (_At back, and rising._)
PLAYERS. Sit down, Ainslie.--Sit down, Andra.--Ma revenge!
AINSLIE. Na, na, I'm for canny goin'. (_Coming forward with bottle._)
Deacon, let's see your gless.
BRODIE. Not an inch of it.
MOORE. No rotten shirking, Deacon!
(AINSLIE. I'm sayin', man, let's see your gless.
BRODIE. Go to the deuce!)
AINSLIE. But I'm sayin'----
BRODIE. Haven't I to play to-night?
AINSLIE. But, man, ye'll drink to bonnie Jean Watt?
BRODIE. Ay, I'll follow you there. _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. Deaking,
split me!
BRODIE. We don't often see England's heroes our way, Captain, but when
we do, we make them infernally welcome.
RIVERS. Prettily put, sink me! (A demned genteel sentiment, stap my
vitals!)
BRODIE. O Captain! you flatter me. (We Scotsmen have our qualities, I
suppose, but we are but rough and ready at the best. There's nothing
like your Englishman for genuine distinction. He is nearer France than
we are, and smells of his neighbourhood. That d----d thing, the _je ne
sais quoi_, too! Lard, Lard, split me! stap my vitals! O such manners
are pure, pure, pure. They are, by the shade of Claude Duval!)
RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, Mr. Deakin (this is passatively too much). What will
you sip? Give it the _h_anar of a neam.
BRODIE. By these most _h_anarable hands now, Captain, you shall not. On
such an occasion I could play host with Lucifer himself. Here, Clarke,
Mother Midnight! Down with you, Captain (_forcing him boisterously into
a chair_). I don't know if you can lie, but, sink me! you shall sit.
(_Drinking, etc., in dumb-show._)
MOORE (_aside to SMITH_). We've nobbled him, Geordie!
SMITH (_aside to MOORE_). As neat as ninepence! He's taking it down like
mother's milk. But there'll be wigs on the green to-morrow, Badger!
It'll be twopence and toddle with George Smith.
MOORE. O, muck! Who's afraid of him? (_To AINSLIE._) Hang on, Slinkie.
HUNT (_who is feigning drunkenness, and has overheard; aside_). By
Jingo!
RIVERS. Will you sneeze, Mr. Deakin, sir?
BRODIE. Thanks; I have all the vices, Captain. You must send me some of
your rappee. It is passatively perfect.
RIVERS. Mr. Deakin, I do myself the _h_anar of a sip to you.
BRODIE. Topsy-turvy with the can!
MOORE (_aside to SMITH_). That made him wink.
BRODIE. Your high and mighty hand, my Captain! Shall we
dice--dice--dice? (_Dumb-show between them._)
AINSLIE (_aside to MOORE_). I'm sayin'----?
MOORE. What's up now?
AINSLIE. I'm no' to gie him the coggit dice?
MOORE. The square ones, rot you! Ain't he got to lose every brass
farden?
AINSLIE. What'll like be my share?
MOORE. You mucking well leave that to me.
RIVERS. Well, Mr. Deakin, if you passatively will have me shake a
_h_elbow----
BRODIE. Where are the bones, Ainslie? Where are the dice, Lord George?
(_AINSLIE gives the dice and dice-box to BRODIE; and privately a second
pair of dice._) Old Fortune's counters; the bonnie money-catching,
money-breeding bones! Hark to their dry music! Scotland against
England! Sit round, you tame devils, and put your coins on me!
SMITH. Easy does it, my lord of high degree! Keep cool.
BRODIE. Cool's the word, Captain--a cool twenty on the first?
RIVERS. Done and done. (_They play._)
HUNT (_aside to MOORE, a little drunk_). Ain't that 'ere Scots
gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir?
MOORE. You hold your jaw; that's what's the matter with you.
AINSLIE. He's waur nor he looks. He's knockit the box aff the table.
SMITH (_picking up box_). That's the way _we_ does it. Ten to one and no
takers!
BRODIE. Deuces again! More liquor, Mother Clarke!
SMITH. Hooray, our side! (_Pouring out._) George and his pal for ever!
BRODIE. Deuces again, by heaven! Another?
RIVERS. Done!
BRODIE. Ten more; money's made to go. On with you!
RIVERS. Sixes.
BRODIE. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment! Double or quits?
RIVERS. Drive on! Sixes.
SMITH. Fire away, brave boys. (_To MOORE._) It's Tally-ho-the-Grinder,
Hump!
BRODIE. Treys! Death and the pit! How much have you got there?
RIVERS. A cool forty-five.
BRODIE. I play you thrice the lot.
RIVERS. Who's afraid?
SMITH. Stand by, Badger!
RIVERS. Cinq-ace.
BRODIE. My turn now. (_He juggles in and uses the second pair of dice._)
Aces! Aces again! What's this? (_Picking up dice._) Sold!... You play
false, you hound!
RIVERS. You lie!
BRODIE. In your teeth. (_Overturns table, and goes for him._)
MOORE. Here, none o' that. (_They hold him back. Struggle._)
SMITH. Hold on, Deacon!
BRODIE. Let me go. Hands off, I say! I'll not touch him. (_Stands
weighing dice in his hand._) But as for that thieving whinger, Ainslie,
I'll cut his throat between this dark and to-morrow's. To the bone.
(_Addressing the company._) Rogues, rogues, rogues! (_Singing without._)
Ha! what's that?
AINSLIE. It's the psalm-singing up by at the Holy Weaver's. And, O
Deacon, if ye're a Christian man----
THE PSALM WITHOUT:--
"Lord, who shall stand, if Thou, O Lord,
Should'st mark iniquity?
But yet with Thee forgiveness is,
That fear'd Thou mayest be."
BRODIE. I think I'll go. "My son the Deacon was aye regular at kirk." If
the old man could see his son, the Deacon! I think I'll----. Ay, who
_shall_ stand? There's the rub! And forgiveness, too? There's a long
word for you! I learnt it all lang syne, and now ... hell and ruin are
on either hand of me, and the devil has me by the leg. "My son, the
Deacon...!" Eh, God! but there's no fool like an old fool! (_Becoming
conscious of the others._) Rogues!
SMITH. Take my arm, Deacon.
BRODIE. Down, dog, down! (Stay and be drunk with your equals.) Gentlemen
and ladies, I have already cursed you pretty heavily. Let me do myself
the pleasure of wishing you--a very--good evening. (_As he goes out,
HUNT, who has been staggering about in the crowd, falls on a settle, as
about to sleep._)
END OF THE FIRST ACT
ACT II
TABLEAU IV
EVIL AND GOOD
_The Stage represents the Deacon's workshop; benches, shavings, tools,
boards, and so forth. Doors, C., on the street, and L., into the
house. Without, church bells; not a chime, but a slow, broken tocsin._
SCENE I
BRODIE (_solus_). My head! my head! It's the sickness of the grave. And
those bells go on!... go on ... inexorable as death and judgment. (There
they go; the trumpets of respectability, sounding encouragement to the
world to do and spare not, and not to be found out. Found out! And to
those who are they toll as when a man goes to the gallows.) Turn where I
will are pitfalls hell-deep. Mary and her dowry; Jean and her child--my
child; the dirty scoundrel Moore; my uncle and his trust; perhaps the
man from Bow Street. Debt, vice, cruelty, dishonour, crime; the whole
canting, lying, double-dealing, beastly business! "My son the
Deacon--Deacon of the Wrights!" My thoughts sicken at it. (O, the
Deacon, the Deacon! Where's a hat for the Deacon, where's a hat for the
Deacon's headache? (_Searching._) This place is a piggery. To be
respectable and not to find one's hat.)