LAWSON (_to BRODIE, returning C. from door_). _Mulier formosa superne_,
William: a braw lass and a decent woman forbye.
BRODIE. I'm no judge, Procurator, but I'll take your word for it. Is she
not a tenant of yours?
LAWSON. Ay, ay; a bit house on my land in Libberton's Wynd. Her man's
awa, puir body; or they tell me sae; and I'm concerned for her (she's
unco bonnie to be left her lane). But it sets me brawly to be finding
faut wi' the puir lass, and me an elder, and should be at the plate.
(There'll be twa words about this in the Kirk Session.) However, it's
nane of my business that brings me, or I should tak' the mair shame to
mysel.' Na, sir, it's for you; it's your business keeps me frae the
kirk.
BRODIE. My business, Procurator? I rejoice to see it in such excellent
hands.
LAWSON. Ye see, it's this way. I had a crack wi' the laddie Leslie,
_inter pocula_ (he took a stirrup-cup wi' me), and he tells me he has
askit Mary, and she was to speak to ye hersel'. O, ye needna look sae
gash. Did she speak? and what'll you have said to her?
BRODIE. She has not spoken; I have said nothing; and I believe I asked
you to avoid the subject.
LAWSON. Ay, I made a note o' that observation, William (and assoilzied
mysel'). Mary's a guid lass, and I'm her uncle, and I'm here to be
answered. Is it to be ay or no?
BRODIE. It's to be no. This marriage must be quashed; and hark ye,
Procurator, you must help me.
LAWSON. Me? ye're daft! And what for why?
BRODIE. Because I've spent the trust-money, and I can't refund it.
LAWSON. Ye reprobate deevil!
BRODIE. Have a care, Procurator. No wry words!
LAWSON. Do you say it to my face, sir? Dod, sir, I'm the Crown
Prosecutor.
BRODIE. Right. The Prosecutor for the Crown. And where did you get your
brandy?
LAWSON. Eh?
BRODIE. Your brandy! Your brandy, man! Where do you get your brandy? And
you a Crown official and an elder!
LAWSON. Whaur the deevil did ye hear that?
BRODIE. Rogues all! Rogues all, Procurator!
LAWSON. Ay, ay. Lord save us! Guidsake, to think o' that noo!... Can ye
give me some o' that Cognac? I'm ... I'm sort o' shaken, William, I'm
sort o' shaken. Thank you, William! (_Looking piteously at glass._)
_Nunc est bibendum._ (_Drinks._) Troth, I'm set ajee a bit. Wha the
deevil tauld ye?
BRODIE. Ask no questions, brother. We are a pair.
LAWSON. Pair, indeed! Pair, William Brodie! Upon my saul, sir, ye're a
brazen-faced man that durst say it to my face! Tak' you care, my bonnie
young man, that your craig doesna feel the wecht o' your hurdies. Keep
the plainstanes side o' the gallows. _Via trita, via tuta_, William
Brodie!
BRODIE. And the brandy, Procurator? and the brandy?
LAWSON. Ay ... weel ... be't sae! Let the brandy bide, man, let the
brandy bide! But for you and the trust-money ... damned! It's felony.
_Tutor in rem suam_, ye ken, _tutor in rem suam_. But O man, Deacon,
whaur is the siller?
BRODIE. It's gone--O how the devil should I know? But it'll never come
back.
LAWSON. Dear, dear! A' gone to the winds o' heaven! Sae ye're an
extravagant dog, too. _Prodigus et furiosus!_ And that puir lass--eh,
Deacon, man, that puir lass! I mind her such a bonnie bairn.
BRODIE (_stopping his ears_). Brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy!
LAWSON. William Brodie, mony's the long day that I've believed in you;
prood, prood was I to be the Deacon's uncle; and a sore hearing have I
had of it the day. That's past; that's past like Flodden Field; it's an
auld sang noo, and I'm an aulder man than when I crossed your door. But
mark ye this--mark ye this, William Brodie, I may be no' sae guid's I
should be; but there's no' a saul between the east sea and the wast can
lift his een to God that made him, and say I wranged him as ye wrang
that lassie. I bless God, William Brodie--ay, though he was like my
brother--I bless God that he that got ye has the hand of death upon his
hearing, and can win into his grave a happier man than me. And ye speak
to me, sir? Think shame--think shame upon your heart!
BRODIE. Rogues all!
LAWSON. You're the son of my sister, William Brodie. Mair than that I
stop not to inquire. If the siller is spent, and the honour tint--Lord
help us, and the honour tint!--sae be it, I maun bow the head. Ruin
shallna come by me. Na, and I'll say mair, William; we have a' our weary
sins upon our backs, and maybe I have mair than mony. But, man, if ye
could bring _half_ the jointure ... (_potius quam pereas_) ... for your
mither's son? Na? You couldna bring the half? Weel, weel, it's a sair
heart I have this day, a sair heart and a weary. If I were a better man
mysel' ... but there, there, it's a sair heart that I have gotten. And
the Lord kens I'll help ye if I can. (_Potius quam pereas._) (_He goes
out._)