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
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
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? ’Öd 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. ‘Öd, man,
that’s fine; that’s health o’ mind
and body. Mr. Leslie, here’s to you, sir.
’Öd, 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 helbow with our free and
galliant horseman.
BRODIE. The old move, I presume? The double
set of dice?
SMITH. That’s the rig,
Deakin. What you drop on the square you pick up
again on the cross. (Just as you did with G. S. and
Co.’s own agent and correspondent, the Admiral
from Nantz.) You always was a neat hand with the bones,
Deakin.
BRODIE. The usual terms, I suppose?
SMITH. The old discount, Deakin.
Ten in the pound for you, and the rest for your jolly
companions every one. (That’s the way
we does it!)
BRODIE. Who has the dice?
SMITH. Our mutual friend, the Candleworm.
BRODIE. You mean Ainslie? We trust
that creature too much, Geordie.
SMITH. He’s all right,
Marquis. He wouldn’t lay a finger on his
own mother. Why, he’s no more guile in
him than a set of sheep’s trotters.
(BRODIE. You think so? Then
see he don’t cheat you over the dice, and give
you light for loaded. See to that George, see
to that; and you may count the Captain as bare as
his last grazier.
SMITH. The Black Flag for ever! George’ll
trot him round to Mother
Clarke’s in two twos.) How long’ll you
be?
BRODIE. The time to lock up and
go to bed, and I’ll be with you. Can you
find your way out?
SMITH. Bloom on, my Sweet William, in peaceful
array. Ta-ta.
SCENE VIII
BRODIE, OLD BRODIE; to whom, MARY
MARY. O Willie, I am glad you
did not go with them. I have something to tell
you. If you knew how happy I am, you would clap
your hands, Will. But come, sit you down there,
and be my good big brother, and I will kneel here
and take your hand. We must keep close to dad,
and then he will feel happiness in the air. The
poor old love, if we could only tell him. But
I sometimes think his heart has gone to heaven already,
and takes a part in all our joys and sorrows; and
it is only his poor body that remains here, helpless
and ignorant. Come, Will, sit you down, and ask
me questions or guess that will
be better, guess.
BRODIE. Not to-night, Mary; not
to-night. I have other fish to fry, and they
won’t wait.
MARY. Not one minute for your
sister? One little minute for your little sister?
BRODIE. Minutes are precious,
Mary. I have to work for all of us, and the clock
is always busy. They are waiting for me even now.
Help me with the dad’s chair. And then
to bed, and dream happy things. And to-morrow
morning I will hear your news your good
news; it must be good, you look so proud and glad.
But to-night it cannot be.
MARY. I hate your business I
hate all business. To think of chairs, and tables,
and foot-rules, all dead and wooden and
cold pieces of money with the King’s ugly head
on them; and here is your sister, your pretty sister,
if you please, with something to tell, which she would
not tell you for the world, and would give the world
to have you guess, and you won’t? Not
you! For business! Fie, Deacon Brodie!
But I’m too happy to find fault with you!
BRODIE. “And me a Deacon,” as the
Procurator would say.
MARY. No such thing, sir!
I am not a bit afraid of you nor a bit angry
neither. Give me a kiss, and promise me hours
and hours to-morrow morning?
BRODIE. All day long to-morrow, if you like.
MARY. Business or none?
BRODIE. Business or none, little
sister! I’ll make time, I promise you;
and there’s another kiss for surety. Come
along. (They proceed to push out the chair, L.C.)
The wine and wisdom of this evening have given me
one of my headaches, and I’m in haste for bed.
You’ll be good, won’t you, and see they
make no noise, and let me sleep my fill to-morrow
morning till I wake?
MARY. Poor Will! How selfish
I must have seemed! You should have told me sooner,
and I wouldn’t have worried you. Come along.
(She goes out, pushing chair.)
SCENE IX
BRODIE
(He closes, locks, and double-bolts
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.)
ACT I - 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 himage, and he
desired his compliments to you (sir, and said that
between us he thought we’d do the trick).
LAWSON. Ay, he’ll be a
fine man, Sir John. Hand me owre your papers,
Hunt, and you’ll have your new warrant quam
primum. And see here, Hunt, ye’ll aiblins
have a while to yoursel’, and an active man,
as ye say ye are, should aye be grinding grist.
We’re sair forfeuchen wi’ our burglaries.
Non constat de personâ. We canna get a grip
o’ the delinquents. Here is the Hue
and Cry. Ye see there is a guid two hundred
pounds for ye.
HUNT. Well, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal
(I ain’t a rich man, and two hundred’s
two hundred. Thereby, sir), I don’t mind
telling you I’ve had a bit of a worry at it
already. You see, Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, I had
to look into a ken to-night about the Captain, and
an old cock always likes to be sure of his walk; so
I got one of your 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 ’olé
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.
ACT I - 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. Ã 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 saïs 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 hanar of a neam.
BRODIE. By these most hanarable
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 hanar 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 helbow
BRODIE. Where are the bones,
Ainslie? Where are the dice, Lord George? (AINSLIE
gives the dice and dice-box to BRODIE; and privately
a second pair of dice.) Old Fortune’s counters;
the bonnie money-catching, money-breeding bones!
Hark to their dry music! Scotland against England!
Sit round, you tame devils, and put your coins on me!
SMITH. Easy does it, my lord of high degree!
Keep cool.
BRODIE. Cool’s the word, Captain a
cool twenty on the first?
RIVERS. Done and done. (They play.)
HUNT (aside to MOORE, a little
drunk). Ain’t that ’ere Scots
gentleman, your friend, too drunk to play, sir?
MOORE. You hold your jaw; that’s what’s
the matter with you.
AINSLIE. He’s waur nor he looks. He’s
knockit the box aff the table.
SMITH (picking up box).
That’s the way we does it. Ten to
one and no takers!
BRODIE. Deuces again! More liquor, Mother
Clarke!
SMITH. Hooray, our side! (Pouring out.)
George and his pal for ever!
BRODIE. Deuces again, by heaven! Another?
RIVERS. Done!
BRODIE. Ten more; money’s made to go.
On with you!
RIVERS. Sixes.
BRODIE. Deuce-ace. Death and judgment!
Double or quits?
RIVERS. Drive on! Sixes.
SMITH. Fire away, brave boys. (To MOORE.)
It’s Tally-ho-the-Grinder,
Hump!
BRODIE. Treys! Death and the pit! How
much have you got there?
RIVERS. A cool forty-five.
BRODIE. I play you thrice the lot.
RIVERS. Who’s afraid?
SMITH. Stand by, Badger!
RIVERS. Cinq-ace.
BRODIE. My turn now. (He juggles
in and uses the second pair of dice.) Aces!
Aces again! What’s this? (Picking up
dice.) Sold!... You play false, you hound!
RIVERS. You lie!
BRODIE. In your teeth. (Overturns table, and
goes for him.)
MOORE. Here, none o’ that. (They hold
him back. Struggle.)
SMITH. Hold on, Deacon!
BRODIE. Let me go. Hands
off, I say! I’ll not touch him. (Stands
weighing dice in his hand.) But as for that thieving
whinger, Ainslie, I’ll cut his throat between
this dark and to-morrow’s. To the bone.
(Addressing the company.) Rogues, rogues, rogues!
(Singing without.) Ha! what’s that?
AINSLIE. It’s the psalm-singing up by at
the Holy Weaver’s. And, O
Deacon, if ye’re a Christian man
THE PSALM WITHOUT:
“Lord, who shall stand, if Thou,
O Lord,
Should’st mark iniquity?
But yet with Thee forgiveness is,
That fear’d Thou mayest
be.”
BRODIE. I think I’ll go.
“My son the Deacon was aye regular at kirk.”
If the old man could see his son, the Deacon!
I think I’ll . Ay, who shall
stand? There’s the rub! And forgiveness,
too? There’s a long word for you!
I learnt it all lang syne, and now ... hell and
ruin are on either hand of me, and the devil has me
by the leg. “My son, the Deacon...!”
Eh, God! but there’s no fool like an old fool!
(Becoming conscious of the others.) Rogues!
SMITH. Take my arm, Deacon.
BRODIE. Down, dog, down! (Stay
and be drunk with your equals.) Gentlemen and ladies,
I have already cursed you pretty heavily. Let
me do myself the pleasure of wishing you a
very good evening. (As he goes out,
HUNT, who has been staggering about in the crowd, falls
on a settle, as about to sleep.)
END OF THE FIRST ACT
ACT II - TABLEAU IV. EVIL AND GOOD
The Stage represents the Deacon’s
workshop; benches, shavings, tools,
boards, and so forth. Doors, C.,
on the street, and L., into the
house. Without, church bells; not
a chime, but a slow, broken tocsin.
SCENE I
BRODIE (solus). My head!
my head! It’s the sickness of the grave.
And those bells go on!... go on ... inexorable as
death and judgment. (There they go; the trumpets of
respectability, sounding encouragement to the world
to do and spare not, and not to be found out.
Found out! And to those who are they toll as
when a man goes to the gallows.) Turn where I will
are pitfalls hell-deep. Mary and her dowry; Jean
and her child my child; the dirty scoundrel
Moore; my uncle and his trust; perhaps the man from
Bow Street. Debt, vice, cruelty, dishonour, crime;
the whole canting, lying, double-dealing, beastly
business! “My son the Deacon Deacon
of the Wrights!” My thoughts sicken at it. (O,
the Deacon, the Deacon! Where’s a hat for
the Deacon, where’s a hat for the Deacon’s
headache? (Searching.) This place is a piggery.
To be respectable and not to find one’s hat.)
SCENE II
To him, JEAN, a baby in her shawl,
C.
JEAN (who has entered silently
during the Deacon’s last words). It’s
me, Wullie.
BRODIE (turning upon her).
What! You here again? (you again!)
JEAN. Deacon, I’m unco vexed.
BRODIE. Do you know what you
do? Do you know what you risk? (Is there nothing nothing! will
make you spare me this idiotic, wanton persecution?)
JEAN. I was wrong to come yestreen;
I ken that fine. But the day it’s different;
I but to come the day, Deacon, though I ken fine it’s
the Sabbath, and I think shame to be seen upon the
streets.
BRODIE. See here, Jean.
You must go now. I’ll come to you to-night;
I swear that. But now I’m for the road.
JEAN. No’ till you’ve
heard me, William Brodie. Do ye think I came to
pleasure mysel’, where I’m no’ wanted?
I’ve a pride o’ my ain.
BRODIE. Jean, I am going now.
If you please to stay on alone, in this house of mine,
where I wish I could say you are welcome, stay. (Going.)
JEAN. It’s the man frae Bow Street.
BRODIE. Bow Street?
JEAN. I thocht ye would hear
me. Ye think little o’ me; but it’s
mebbe a braw thing for you that I think sae muckle
o’ William Brodie ... ill as it sets me.
BRODIE. (You don’t know what
is on my mind, Jennie, else you would forgive me.)
Bow Street?
JEAN. It’s the man Hunt:
him that was here yestreen for the Fiscal.
BRODIE. Hunt?
JEAN. He kens a hantle.
He.... Ye maunna be angered wi’ me, Wullie!
I said what I shouldna.
BRODIE. Said? Said what?
JEAN. Just that ye were a guid
frien’ to me. He made believe he was awfu’
sorry for me, because ye gied me nae siller; and I
said, “Wha tellt him that?” and that he
lee’d.
BRODIE. God knows he did! What next?
JEAN. He was that soft-spoken,
butter wouldna melt in his mouth; and he keept aye
harp, harpin’; but after that let-out, he got
neither black nor white frae me. Just that ae
word and nae mair; and at the hinder end he just speired
straucht out, whaur it was ye got your siller frae.
BRODIE. Where I got my siller?
JEAN. Ay, that was it. “You ken,”
says he.
BRODIE. Did he? and what said you?
JEAN. I couldna think on naething,
but just that he was a gey and clever gentleman.
BRODIE. You should have said
I was in trade, and had a good business. That’s
what you should have said. That’s what you
would have said had you been worth your salt.
But it’s blunder, blunder, outside and in (upstairs,
down-stairs, and in my lady’s chamber).
You women! Did he see Smith?
JEAN. Ay, and kennt him.
BRODIE. Damnation! No,
I’m not angry with you, but you see what I’ve
to endure for you. Don’t cry. (Here’s
the devil at the door, and we must bar him out as
best we can.)
JEAN. God’s truth, ye are nae vexed wi’
me?
BRODIE. God’s truth, I am grateful to you.
How is the child? Well?
That’s right. (Peeping.) Poor wee laddie!
He’s like you, Jean.
JEAN. I thocht he was liker you.
BRODIE. Is he? Perhaps he
is. Ah, Jeannie, you must see and make him a
better man than his father.
JEAN. Eh man, Deacon, the proud
wumman I’ll be gin he’s only half sae
guid.
BRODIE. Well, well, if I win
through this, we’ll see what we can dae
for him between us. (Leading her out, C.) And
now; go go go.
LAWSON (without L.). I ken the way, I
ken the way.
JEAN (starting to door). It’s the
Fiscal; I’m awa. (BRODIE, L.)
SCENE III
To these, LAWSON, L.
LAWSON. A braw day this, William.
(Seeing JEAN.) Eh. Mistress Watt?
And what’ll have brocht you here?
BRODIE (seated on bench).
Something, uncle, she lost last night, and she thinks
that something she lost is here. Voilà .
LAWSON. Why are ye no’
at the kirk, woman? Do ye gang to the kirk?
JEAN. I’m mebbe no’
what ye would just ca’ reg’lar.
Ye see, Fiscal, it’s the wean.
LAWSON. A bairn’s an excuse;
I ken that fine, Mistress Watt. But bairn or
nane, my woman, ye should be at the kirk. Awa’
wi’ ye! Hear to the bells; they’re
ringing in. (JEAN curtsies to both, and goes out
C. The bells, which have been ringing quicker, cease.)
SCENE IV
LAWSON (to BRODIE, returning C.
from door). Mulier formosa superne, William:
a braw lass and a decent woman forbye.
BRODIE. I’m no judge, Procurator,
but I’ll take your word for it. Is she
not a tenant of yours?
LAWSON. Ay, ay; a bit house on
my land in Libberton’s Wynd. Her man’s
awa, puir body; or they tell me sae; and I’m
concerned for her (she’s unco bonnie to be left
her lane). But it sets me brawly to be finding
faut wi’ the puir lass, and me an elder,
and should be at the plate. (There’ll be
twa words about this in the Kirk Session.) However,
it’s nane of my business that brings me, or
I should tak’ the mair shame to mysel.’
Na, sir, it’s for you; it’s your business
keeps me frae the kirk.
BRODIE. My business, Procurator?
I rejoice to see it in such excellent hands.
LAWSON. Ye see, it’s this
way. I had a crack wi’ the laddie Leslie,
inter pocula (he took a stirrup-cup wi’
me), and he tells me he has askit Mary, and she was
to speak to ye hersel’. O, ye needna look
sae gash. Did she speak? and what’ll you
have said to her?
BRODIE. She has not spoken; I
have said nothing; and I believe I asked you to avoid
the subject.
LAWSON. Ay, I made a note o’
that observation, William (and assoilzied mysel’).
Mary’s a guid lass, and I’m her uncle,
and I’m here to be answered. Is it to be
ay or no?
BRODIE. It’s to be no.
This marriage must be quashed; and hark ye, Procurator,
you must help me.
LAWSON. Me? ye’re daft! And what for
why?
BRODIE. Because I’ve spent the trust-money,
and I can’t refund it.
LAWSON. Ye reprobate deevil!
BRODIE. Have a care, Procurator. No wry
words!
LAWSON. Do you say it to my face, sir? Dod,
sir, I’m the Crown
Prosecutor.
BRODIE. Right. The Prosecutor
for the Crown. And where did you get your brandy?
LAWSON. Eh?
BRODIE. Your brandy! Your
brandy, man! Where do you get your brandy?
And you a Crown official and an elder!
LAWSON. Whaur the deevil did ye hear that?
BRODIE. Rogues all! Rogues all, Procurator!
LAWSON. Ay, ay. Lord save
us! Guidsake, to think o’ that noo!...
Can ye give me some o’ that Cognac? I’m
... I’m sort o’ shaken, William, I’m
sort o’ shaken. Thank you, William! (Looking
piteously at glass.) Nunc est bibendum.
(Drinks.) Troth, I’m set ajee a bit.
Wha the deevil tauld ye?
BRODIE. Ask no questions, brother. We are
a pair.
LAWSON. Pair, indeed! Pair,
William Brodie! Upon my saul, sir, ye’re
a brazen-faced man that durst say it to my face!
Tak’ you care, my bonnie young man, that your
craig doesna feel the wecht o’ your hurdies.
Keep the plainstanes side o’ the gallows. Via
trita, via tuta, William Brodie!
BRODIE. And the brandy, Procurator? and the brandy?
LAWSON. Ay ... weel ... be’t
sae! Let the brandy bide, man, let the brandy
bide! But for you and the trust-money ... damned!
It’s felony. Tutor in rem suam, ye ken,
tutor in rem suam. But O man, Deacon,
whaur is the siller?
BRODIE. It’s gone O
how the devil should I know? But it’ll never
come back.
LAWSON. Dear, dear! A’
gone to the winds o’ heaven! Sae ye’re
an extravagant dog, too. Prodigus et furiosus!
And that puir lass eh, Deacon, man, that
puir lass! I mind her such a bonnie bairn.
BRODIE (stopping his ears).
Brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy, brandy!
LAWSON. William Brodie, mony’s
the long day that I’ve believed in you; prood,
prood was I to be the Deacon’s uncle; and a sore
hearing have I had of it the day. That’s
past; that’s past like Flodden Field; it’s
an auld sang noo, and I’m an aulder man than
when I crossed your door. But mark ye this mark
ye this, William Brodie, I may be no’ sae guid’s
I should be; but there’s no’ a saul between
the east sea and the wast can lift his een to God
that made him, and say I wranged him as ye wrang
that lassie. I bless God, William Brodie ay,
though he was like my brother I bless God
that he that got ye has the hand of death upon his
hearing, and can win into his grave a happier man than
me. And ye speak to me, sir? Think shame think
shame upon your heart!
BRODIE. Rogues all!
LAWSON. You’re the son
of my sister, William Brodie. Mair than that I
stop not to inquire. If the siller is spent, and
the honour tint Lord help us, and the honour
tint! sae be it, I maun bow the head.
Ruin shallna come by me. Na, and I’ll say
mair, William; we have a’ our weary sins upon
our backs, and maybe I have mair than mony. But,
man, if ye could bring half the jointure ...
(potius quam pereas) ... for your mither’s
son? Na? You couldna bring the half?
Weel, weel, it’s a sair heart I have this day,
a sair heart and a weary. If I were a better man
mysel’ ... but there, there, it’s a sair
heart that I have gotten. And the Lord kens I’ll
help ye if I can. (Potius quam pereas.) (He
goes out.)
SCENE V
BRODIE. Sore hearing, does he
say? My hand’s wet. But it’s
victory. Shall it be go? or stay? (I should show
them all I can, or they may pry closer than they ought.)
Shall I have it out and be done with it? To see
Mary at once (to carry bastion after bastion at the
charge) there were the true safety after
all! Hurry hurry’s the road to
silence now. Let them once get tattling in their
parlours, and it’s death to me. For I’m
in a cruel corner now. I’m down, and I shall
get my kicking soon and soon enough. I began
it in the lust of life, in a hey-day of mystery and
adventure. I felt it great to be a bolder, craftier
rogue than the drowsy citizen that called himself
my fellow-man. (It was meat and drink to know him
in the hollow of my hand, hoarding that I and mine
might squander, pinching that we might wax fat.) It
was in the laughter of my heart that I tip-toed into
his greasy privacy. I forced the strong-box at
his ear while he sprawled beside his wife. He
was my butt, my ape, my jumping-jack. And now
... O fool, fool! (Duped by such knaves as are
a shame to knavery, crime’s rabble, hell’s
tatterdemalions!) Shorn to the quick! Rooked
to my vitals! And I must thieve for my daily
bread like any crawling blackguard in the gutter.
And my sister ... my kind, innocent sister! She
will come smiling to me with her poor little love-story,
and I must break her heart. Broken hearts, broken
lives!... I should have died before.
SCENE VI
BRODIE, MARY
MARY (tapping without). Can I come in,
Will?
BRODIE. O yes, come in, come
in! (MARY enters.) I wanted to be quiet, but
it doesn’t matter, I see. You women are
all the same.
MARY. O no, Will, they’re
not all so happy, and they’re not all Brodies.
But I’ll be a woman in one thing. For I’ve
come to claim your promise, dear; and I’m going
to be petted and comforted and made much of, although
I don’t need it, and.... Why, Will, what’s
wrong with you? You look ... I don’t
know what you look like.
BRODIE. O nothing! A splitting
head and an aching heart. Well! you’ve
come to speak to me. Speak up. What is it?
Come, girl! What is it? Can’t you
speak?
MARY. Why, Will, what is the matter?
BRODIE. I thought you had come to tell me something.
Here I am. For
God’s sake out with it, and don’t stand
beating about the bush.
MARY. O be kind, be kind to me.
BRODIE. Kind? I am kind.
I’m only ill and worried, can’t you see?
Whimpering? I knew it! Sit down, you goose!
Where do you women get your tears?
MARY. Why are you so cross with
me? O, Will, you have forgot your sister!
Remember, dear, that I have nobody but you. It’s
your own fault, Will, if you’ve taught me to
come to you for kindness, for I always found it.
And I mean you shall be kind to me again. I know
you will, for this is my great need, and the day I’ve
missed my mother sorest. Just a nice look, dear,
and a soft tone in your voice, to give me courage,
for I can tell you nothing till I know that you’re
my own brother once again.
BRODIE. If you’d take a
hint, you’d put it off until to-morrow.
But I suppose you won’t. On, then, I’m
listening. I’m listening!
MARY. Mr. Leslie has asked me to be his wife.
BRODIE. He has, has he?
MARY. And I have consented.
BRODIE. And...?
MARY. You can say that to me? And that is
all you have to say?
BRODIE. O no, not all.
MARY. Speak out, sir. I am not afraid.
BRODIE. I suppose you want my consent?
MARY. Can you ask?
BRODIE. I didn’t know.
You seem to have got on pretty well without it so
far.
MARY. O shame on you! shame on you!
BRODIE. Perhaps you may be able
to do without it altogether. I hope so.
For you’ll never have it.... Mary! ...
I hate to see you look like that. If I could
say anything else, believe me, I would say it.
But I have said all; every word is spoken; there’s
the end.
MARY. It shall not be the end. You owe me
explanation; and I’ll have it.
BRODIE. Isn’t my “No” enough,
Mary?
MARY. It might be enough for
me; but it is not, and it cannot be, enough for him.
He has asked me to be his wife; he tells me his happiness
is in my hands poor hands, but they shall
not fail him, if my poor heart should break!
If he has chosen and set his hopes upon me, of all
women in the world, I shall find courage somewhere
to be worthy of the choice. And I dare you to
leave this room until you tell me all your thoughts until
you prove that this is good and right.
BRODIE. Good and right?
They are strange words, Mary. I mind the time
when it was good and right to be your father’s
daughter and your brother’s sister....
Now!...
MARY. Have I changed? Not
even in thought. My father, Walter says, shall
live and die with us. He shall only have gained
another son. And you you know what
he thinks of you; you know what I would do for you.
BRODIE. Give him up.
MARY. I have told you: not without a reason.
BRODIE. You must.
MARY. I will not.
BRODIE. What if I told you that
you could only compass your happiness and his at the
price of my ruin?
MARY. Your ruin?
BRODIE. Even so.
MARY. Ruin!
BRODIE. It has an ugly sound, has it not?
MARY. O Willie, what have you
done? What have you done? What have you
done?
BRODIE. I cannot tell you, Mary.
But you may trust me. You must give up this Leslie
... and at once. It is to save me.
MARY. I would die for you, dear;
you know that. But I cannot be false to him.
Even for you, I cannot be false to him.
BRODIE. We shall see. Let
me take you to your room. Come. And, remember,
it is for your brother’s sake. It is to
save me.
MARY. I am a true Brodie.
Give me time, and you shall not find me wanting.
But it is all so sudden ... so strange and dreadful!
You will give me time, will you not? I am only
a woman, and.... O my poor Walter! It will
break his heart! It will break his heart! (A
knock.)
BRODIE. You hear!
MARY. Yes, yes. Forgive
me. I am going. I will go. It is to
save you, is it not? To save you. Walter
... Mr. Leslie ... O Deacon, Deacon, God
forgive you! (She goes out.)
BRODIE. Amen. But will He?
SCENE VII
BRODIE, HUNT
HUNT (hat in hand). Mr. Deacon Brodie,
I believe?
BRODIE. I am he, Mr ?
HUNT. Hunt, sir: an officer from Sir John
Fielding of Bow Street.
BRODIE. There can be no better
passport than the name. In what can I serve you?
HUNT. You’ll excuse me, Mr. Deacon.
BRODIE. Your duty excuses you, Mr. Hunt.
HUNT. Your obedient. The
fact is, Mr. Deacon (we in the office see a good deal
of the lives of private parties; and I needn’t
tell a gentleman of your experience it’s part
of our duty to hold our tongues. Now), it comes
to our knowledge that you are a trifle jokieous.
Of course I know there ain’t any harm in that.
I’ve been young myself, Mr. Deacon, and speaking
BRODIE. O, but pardon me, Mr.
Hunt, I am not going to discuss my private character
with you.
HUNT. To be sure you ain’t.
(And do I blame you? Not me.) But, speaking as
one man of the world to another, you naturally see
a great deal of bad company.
BRODIE. Not half so much as you
do. But I see what you’re driving at; and
if I can illuminate the course of justice, you may
command me. (He sits, and motions HUNT to do likewise.)
HUNT. I was dead sure of it:
and ’and upon ’art, Mr. Deacon, I thank
you. Now (consulting pocket-book) did
you ever meet a certain George Smith?
BRODIE. The fellow they call
Jingling Geordie? (HUNT nods.) Yes.
HUNT. Bad character?
BRODIE. Let us say ... disreputable.
HUNT. Any means of livelihood?
BRODIE. I really cannot pretend
to guess. I have met the creature at cock-fights
(which, as you know, are my weakness). Perhaps
he bets.
HUNT. (Mr. Deacon, from what I know
of the gentleman, I should say that if he don’t if
he ain’t open to any mortal thing he
ain’t the man I mean.) He used to be about with
a man called Badger Moore.
BRODIE. The boxer?
HUNT. That’s him. Know anything of
him?
BRODIE. Not much. I lost
five pieces on him in a fight; and I fear he sold
his backers.
HUNT. Speaking as one admirer
of the noble art to another, Mr. Deacon, the losers
always do. I suppose the Badger cock-fights like
the rest of us?
BRODIE. I have met him in the pit.
HUNT. Well, it’s a pretty sport. I’m
as partial to a main as anybody.
BRODIE. It’s not an elegant taste, Mr.
Hunt.
HUNT. It costs as much as though
it was. And that reminds me, speaking as one
sportsman to another, Mr. Deacon, I was sorry to hear
that you’ve been dropping a hatful of money
lately.
BRODIE. You are very good.
HUNT. Four hundred in three months, they tell
me.
BRODIE. Ah!
HUNT. So they say, sir.
BRODIE. They have a perfect right to say so,
Mr. Hunt.
HUNT. And you to do the other
thing? Well, I’m a good hand at keeping
close myself.
BRODIE. I am not consulting you,
Mr. Hunt; ’tis you who are consulting me.
And if there is nothing else (rising) in which
I can pretend to serve you...?
HUNT (rising). That’s
about all, sir, unless you can put me on to anything
good in the way of heckle and spur? I’d
try to look in.
BRODIE. O come, Mr. Hunt, if
you have nothing to do, frankly and flatly I have.
This is not the day for such a conversation; and so
good-bye to you. (A knocking, C.)
HUNT. Servant, Mr. Deacon. (SMITH
and MOORE, without waiting to be answered, open and
enter, C. They are well into the room before they
observe HUNT.) (Talk of the devil, sir!)
BRODIE. What brings you here?
(SMITH and MOORE, confounded by the officer’s
presence, slouch together to right of door. HUNT,
stopping as he goes out, contemplates the pair, sarcastically.
This is supported by MOORE with sullen bravado; by
SMITH with cringing airiness.)
HUNT (digging SMITH in the ribs).
Why, you are the very parties I was looking for! (He
goes out, C.)
SCENE VIII
BRODIE, MOORE, SMITH
MOORE. Wot was that cove here about?
BRODIE (with folded arms, half-sitting
on bench). He was here about you.
SMITH (still quite discountenanced).
About us? Scissors! And what did you tell
him?
BRODIE (same attitude).
I spoke of you as I have found you. (I told him you
were a disreputable hound, and that Moore had crossed
a fight.) I told him you were a drunken ass, and Moore
an incompetent and dishonest boxer.
MOORE. Look here, Deacon!
Wot’s up? Wot I ses is, if a cove’s
got any thundering grudge agin a cove, why can’t
he spit it out, I ses.
BRODIE. Here are my answers.
(Producing purse and dice.) These are both
too light. This purse is empty, these dice are
not loaded. Is it indiscretion to inquire how
you share? Equal with the Captain, I presume?
SMITH. It’s as easy as
my eye, Deakin. Slink Ainslie got letting the
merry glass go round, and didn’t know the right
bones from the wrong. That’s hall.
BRODIE. (What clumsy liars you are!
SMITH. In boyhood’s hour,
Deakin, he were called Old Truthful. Little did
he think )
BRODIE. What is your errand?
MOORE. Business.
SMITH. After the melancholy games
of last night, Deakin, which no one deplores so much
as George Smith, we thought we’d trot round didn’t
us, Hump? and see how you and your bankers
was a-getting on.
BRODIE. Will you tell me your errand?
MOORE. You’re dry, ain’t you?
BRODIE. Am I?
MOORE. We ain’t none of
us got a stiver, that’s wot’s the matter
with us.
BRODIE. Is it?
MOORE. Ay, strike me, it is! And wot we’ve
got to do is to put up the
Excise.
SMITH. It’s the last plant in the shrubbery,
Deakin, and it’s breaking
George the gardener’s heart, it is. We
really must!
BRODIE. Must we?
MOORE. Must’s the thundering word.
I mean business, I do.
BRODIE. That’s lucky. I don’t.
MOORE. O, you don’t, don’t you?
BRODIE. I do not.
MOORE. Then p’raps you’ll tell us
wot you thundering well do?
BRODIE. What do I mean?
I mean that you and that merry-andrew shall walk out
of this room and this house. Do you suppose, you
blockheads, that I am blind? I’m the Deacon,
am I not? I’ve been your king and your
commander. I’ve led you and fed you and
thought for you with this head. And you think
to steal a march upon a man like me? I see you
through and through (I know you like the clock); I
read your thoughts like print. Brodie, you thought,
has money, and won’t do the job. Therefore,
you thought, we must rook him to the heart. And
therefore, you put up your idiot cockney. And
now you come round, and dictate, and think sure of
your Excise? Sure? Are you sure I’ll
let you pack with a whole skin? By my soul, but
I’ve a mind to pistol you like dogs. Out
of this! Out, I say, and soil my home no more.
MOORE (sitting). Now look
’ere. Mr. bloody Deacon Brodie, you see
this ’ere chair of yours, don’t you?
Wot I ses to you is, Here I am, I ses, and
here I mean to stick. That’s my motto.
Who the devil are you to do the high and mighty?
You make all you can out of us, don’t you? and
when one of your plants goes cross, you order us out
of the ken? Muck! That’s wot I think
of you. Muck! Don’t you get coming
the nob over me, Mr. Deacon Brodie, or I’ll
smash you.
BRODIE. You will?
MOORE. Ay will I. If I thundering
well swing for it. And as for clearing out?
Muck! Here I am, and here I stick. Clear
out? You try it on. I’m a man, I am.
BRODIE. This is plain speaking.
MOORE. Plain? Wot about
your father as can’t walk? Wot about your
fine-madam sister? Wot about the stone-jug, and
the dock, and the rope in the open street? Is
that plain? If it ain’t, you let me know,
and I’ll spit it out so as it’ll raise
the roof of this ’ere ken. Plain! I’m
that cove’s master, and I’ll make it plain
enough for him.
BRODIE. What do you want of me?
MOORE. Wot do I want of you?
Now you speak sense. Leslie’s is wot I want
of you. The Excise is wot I want of you.
Leslie’s to-night and the Excise to-morrow.
That’s wot I want of you, and wot I thundering
well mean to get.
BRODIE. Damn you!
MOORE. Amen. But you’ve got your orders.
BRODIE (with pistol). Orders? hey? orders?
SMITH (between them). Deacon, Deacon! Badger,
are you mad?
MOORE. Muck! That’s
my motto. Wot I ses is, Has he got his orders
or has he not? That’s wot’s the matter
with him.
SMITH. Deacon, half a tick.
Humphrey, I’m only a light weight, and you fight
at twelve stone ten, but I’m damned if I’m
going to stand still and see you hitting a pal when
he’s down.
MOORE. Muck! That’s wot I think of
you.
SMITH. He’s a cut above
us, ain’t he? He never sold his backers,
did he? We couldn’t have done without him,
could we? You dry up about his old man, and his
sister; and don’t go on hitting a pal when he’s
knocked out of time and cannot hit back, for, damme,
I will not stand it.
MOORE. Amen to you. But
I’m cock of this here thundering walk, and that
cove’s got his orders.
BRODIE (putting pistol on bench).
I give in. I will do your work for you once more.
Leslie’s to-night and the Excise to-morrow.
If that is enough, if you have no more ... orders,
you may count it as done.
MOORE. Fen larks. No rotten shirking, mind.
BRODIE. I have passed you my
word. And now you have said what you came to
say, you must go. I have business here; but two
hours hence I am at your ... orders. Where shall
I await you?
MOORE. What about that woman’s place of
yours?
BRODIE. Your will is my law.
MOORE. That’s good enough. Now, Dook.
SMITH. Bye-bye, my William. Don’t
forget.
SCENE IX
BRODIE. Trust me. No man
forgets his vice, you dogs, or forgives it either.
It must be done: Leslie’s to-night and the
Excise to-morrow. It shall be done. This
settles it. They used to fetch and carry for me,
and now ... I’ve licked their boots, have
I? I’m their man, their tool, their chattel.
It’s the bottom rung of the ladder of shame.
I sound with my foot, and there’s nothing underneath
but the black emptiness of damnation. Ah, Deacon,
Deacon, and so this is where you’ve been travelling
all these years; and it’s for this that you learned
French! The gallows ... God help me, it
begins to dog me like my shadow. There’s
a step to take! And the jerk upon your spine!
How’s a man to die with a night-cap on?
I’ve done with this. Over yonder, across
the great ocean, is a new land, with new characters,
and perhaps new lives. The sun shines, and the
bells ring, and it’s a place where men live
gladly; and the Deacon himself can walk without terror,
and begin again like a new-born child. It must
be good to see day again and not to fear; it must
be good to be one’s self with all men. Happy
like a child, wise like a man, free like God’s
angels ... should I work these hands off and eat crusts,
there were a life to make me young and good again.
And it’s only over the sea! O man, you
have been blind, and now your eyes are opened.
It was half a life’s nightmare, and now you are
awake. Up, Deacon, up, it’s hope that’s
at the window! Mary! Mary! Mary!
SCENE X
BRODIE, MARY, OLD BRODIE
BRODIE has fallen into a chair, with
his face upon the table. Enter MARY, by the
side door, pushing her father’s chair. She
is supposed to have advanced far enough for stage
purposes before BRODIE is aware of her. He
starts up and runs to her.
BRODIE. Look up, my lass, look
up, and be a woman! I.... O, kiss me, Mary!
give me a kiss for my good news.
MARY. Good news, Will? Is it changed?
BRODIE. Changed? Why, the
world’s a different colour! It was night,
and now it’s broad day, and I trust myself again.
You must wait, dear, wait, and I must work and work;
and before the week is out, as sure as God sees me,
I’ll have made you happy. O you may think
me broken, hounds, but the Deacon’s not the
man to be run down; trust him, he shall turn a corner
yet, and leave you snarling! And you, Poll, you.
I’ve done nothing for you yet; but, please God,
I’ll make your life a life of gold; and wherever
I am, I’ll have a part in your happiness, and
you’ll know it, by heaven! and bless me.
MARY. O Willie, look at him;
I think he hears you, and is trying to be glad with
us.
OLD BRODIE. My son Deacon better
man than I was.
BRODIE. O, for God’s sake, hear him!
MARY. He is quite happy, Will, and so am I ...
so am I.
BRODIE. Hear me, Mary. This
is a big moment in our two lives. I swear to
you by the father here between us that it shall not
be fault of mine if this thing fails; if this ship
founders you have set your hopes in. I swear
it by our father; I swear it by God’s judgments.
MARY. I want no oaths, Will.
BRODIE. No, but I do. And
prayers, Mary, prayers. Pray night and day upon
your knees. I must move mountains.
OLD BRODIE. A wise son maketh maketh
BRODIE. A glad father? And
does your son, the Deacon, make you glad? O heaven
of heavens, if I were a good man!
END OF THE SECOND ACT
ACT III - TABLEAU V. KING’S EVIDENCE
The Stage represents a public place
in Edinburgh
SCENE I
JEAN, SMITH, AND MOORE
They loiter in L., and stand looking
about as for somebody not there.
SMITH is hat in hand to JEAN; MOORE as
usual
MOORE. Wot did I tell you?
Is he ’ere or ain’t he? Now then.
Slink by name and Slink by nature, that’s wot’s
the matter with him.
JEAN. He’ll no’ be
lang; he’s regular enough, if that was a’.
MOORE. I’d regular him; I’d break
his back.
SMITH. Badger, you brute, you
hang on to the lessons of your dancing-master.
None but the genteel deserves the fair; does they,
Duchess?
MOORE. O rot! Did I insult
the blowen? Wot’s the matter with me is
Slink Ainslie.
SMITH. All right, old Crossed-in-love.
Give him forty winks, and he’ll turn up as fresh
as clean sawdust and as respectable as a new Bible.
MOORE. That’s right enough;
but I ain’t a-going to stand here all day for
him. I’m for a drop of something short,
I am. You tell him I showed you that (showing
his doubled fist). That’s wot’s
the matter with him. (He lurches out, R.)
SCENE II
SMITH and JEAN, to whom HUNT and afterwards
MOORE
SMITH (critically). No,
Duchess, he has not good manners.
JEAN. Ay, he’s an impident man.
SMITH. So he is, Jean; and for the matter of
that he ain’t the only one.
JEAN. Geordie, I want nae mair o’ your
nonsense, mind.
SMITH. There’s our old
particular the Deacon, now. Why is he ashamed
of a lovely woman? That’s not my idea of
the Young Chevalier, Jean. If I had luck, we
should be married, and retired to our estates in the
country, shouldn’t us? and go to church and be
happy, like the nobility and gentry.
JEAN. Geordie Smith, div ye mean ye’d mairry
me?
SMITH. Mean it? What else
has ever been the ’umble petition of your honest
but well-meaning friend, Roman, and fellow-countryman?
I know the Deacon’s your man, and I know he’s
a cut above G. S.; but he won’t last, Jean,
and I shall.
JEAN. Ay, I’m muckle ta’en up wi’
him; wha could help it?
SMITH. Well, and my sort don’t grow on
apple-trees, either.
JEAN. Ye’re a fine, cracky,
neebourly body, Geordie, if ye wad just let me be.
SMITH. I know I ain’t a Scotsman born.
JEAN. I dinna think sae muckle
the waur o’ ye even for that; if ye would just
let me be.
HUNT (entering behind, aside).
(Are they thick? Anyhow, it’s a second
chance.)
SMITH. But he won’t last,
Jean; and when he leaves you, you come to me.
Is that your taste in pastry? That’s the
kind of 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. Whatten kind of a word’ll that be?
SMITH. Mum it is, Jean!
HUNT. When you’ve done
dancing, George! (To JEAN.) It ain’t a
pretty expression, my dear, I own it. “Will
you blow the gaff?” is perhaps more tenderer.
JEAN. I think ye’ve a real strange way
o’ expressin’ yoursel’.
HUNT (to JEAN). I can’t waste time
on you, my girl. It’s now or never.
Will you turn King’s evidence?
JEAN. I think ye’ll have made a mistake,
like.
HUNT. Well, I’m...! (Separating them.)
(No, not yet; don’t push me.)
George’s turn now. (To GEORGE.) George,
I’ve a warrant in my pocket.
SMITH. As per usual, Jerry?
HUNT. Now I want King’s evidence.
SMITH. Ah! so you came a cropper with her,
Jerry. Pride had a fall.
HUNT. A free pardon and fifty shiners down.
SMITH. A free pardon, Jerry?
HUNT. Don’t I tell you so?
SMITH. And fifty down? fifty?
HUNT. On the nail.
SMITH. So you came a cropper with her, and then
you tried it on with me?
HUNT. I suppose you mean you’re a born
idiot?
SMITH. What I mean is, Jerry,
that you’ve broke my heart. I used to look
up to you like a party might to Julius Cæsar.
One more of boyhood’s dreams gone pop! (Enter
MOORE, L.)
HUNT (to both). Come,
then, I’ll take the pair, and be damned to you.
Free pardon to both, fifty down and the Deacon out
of the way. I don’t care for you commoners,
it’s the Deacon I want.
JEAN (looking off stolidly).
I think the kirks are scalin’. There seems
to be mair people in the streets.
HUNT. O, that’s the way,
is it? Do you know that I can hang you, my woman,
and your fancy man as well?
JEAN. I daur say ye would like
fine to, Mr. Hunt; and here’s my service to
you. (Going.)
HUNT. George, don’t you
be a tomfool, anyway. Think of the blowen here,
and have brains for two.
SMITH (going). Ah, Jerry,
if you knew anything, how different you would talk!
(They go off together, R.)
SCENE III
HUNT, MOORE
HUNT. Half a tick, Badger.
You’re a man of parts, you are; you’re
solid, you’re a true-born Englishman; you ain’t
a Jerry-go-Nimble like him. Do you know what
your pal the Deacon’s worth to you? Fifty
golden Georges and a free pardon. No questions
asked and no receipts demanded. What do you say?
Is it a deal?
MOORE (as to himself). Muck! (He goes
out, R.)
SCENE IV
HUNT, to whom AINSLIE
HUNT (looking after them ruefully).
And these were the very parties I was looking for!
(Ah, Jerry, Jerry, if they knew this at the office!)
Well, the market price of that ’ere two hundred
is a trifle on the decline and fall. (Looking L.)
Hullo! (Slapping his thigh.) Send me victorious!
It’s King’s evidence on two legs. (Advancing
with great cordiality to meet AINSLIE, who enters
L.) And so your name’s Andrew Ainslie, is
it? As I was saying, you’re the very party
I was looking for. Ain’t it strange, now,
that I should have dropped across you comfortable
and promiscuous like this?
AINSLIE. I dinna ken wha ye are, and I’m
ill for my bed.
HUNT. Let your bed wait, Andrew.
I want a little chat with you; just a quiet little
sociable wheeze. Just about our friends, you know.
About Badger Moore, and George the Dook, and Jemmy
Rivers, and Deacon Brodie, Andrew. Particularly
Deacon Brodie.
AINSLIE. They’re nae frien’s
o’ mine, mister. I ken naething an’
naebody. An’ noo I’ll get to my bed,
wulln’t I?
HUNT. We’re going to have
our little talk out first. After that perhaps
I’ll let you go, and perhaps I won’t.
It all depends on how we get along together.
Now, in a general way, Andrew, and speaking of a man
as you find him, I’m all for peace and quietness
myself. That’s my usual game, Andrew, but
when I do make a dust I’m considered by my friends
to be rather a good hand at it. So don’t
you tread upon the worm.
AINSLIE. But I’m sayin’
HUNT. You leave that to me, Andrew.
You shall do your pitch presently. I’m
first on the ground, and I lead off. With a question,
Andrew. Did you ever hear in your life of such
a natural curiosity as a Bow Street Runner?
AINSLIE. Aiblins ay an’ aiblins no.
HUNT. “Aiblins ay an’
aiblins no.” Very good indeed, Andrew.
Now, I’ll ask you another: Did you ever
see a Bow Street Runner, Andrew? With the naked
eye, so to speak?
AINSLIE. What’s your wull?
HUNT. Artful bird! Now since
we’re getting on so cosy and so free, I’ll
ask you another, Andrew: Should you like to see
a Bow Street Runner? (Producing staff.) ’Cos,
if so, you’ve only got to cast your eyes on
me. Do you queer the red weskit, Andrew?
Pretty colour, ain’t it? So nice and warm
for the winter too. (AINSLIE dives, HUNT collars
him.) No, you don’t. Not this time.
Run away like that before we’ve finished our
little conversation? You’re a nice young
man, you are. Suppose we introduce our wrists
into these here darbies? Now we shall get along
cosier and freer than ever. Want to lie down,
do you? All right! anything to oblige.
AINSLIE (grovelling).
It wasna me, it wasna me. It’s bad companions;
I’ve been lost wi’ bad companions an’
the drink. An’ O mister, ye’ll be
a kind gentleman to a puir lad, and me sae weak, and
fair rotten wi’ the drink an’ that.
Ye’ve a bonnie kind heart, my dear, dear gentleman;
ye wadna hang sitchan a thing as me. I’m
no’ fit to hang. They ca’ me
the Cannleworm! An’ I’ll dae
somethin’ for ye, wulln’t I? An’
ye’ll can hang the ithers?
HUNT. I thought I hadn’t
mistook my man. Now you look here, Andrew Ainslie,
you’re a bad lot. I’ve evidence to
hang you fifty times over. But the Deacon is
my mark. Will you peach, or won’t you?
You blow the gaff, and I’ll pull you through.
You don’t, and I’ll scrag you as sure
as my name’s Jerry Hunt.
AINSLIE. I’ll dae
onything. It’s the hanging fleys me.
I’ll dae onything, onything no’ to
hang.
HUNT. Don’t lie crawling
there, but get up and answer me like a man. Ain’t
this Deacon Brodie the fine workman that’s been
doing all these tip-topping burglaries?
AINSLIE. It’s him, mister;
it’s him. That’s the man. Ye’re
in the very bit. Deacon Brodie. I’ll
can tak’ ye to his very door.
HUNT. How do you know?
AINSLIE. I gi’ed him a
han’ wi’ them a’. It was
him an’ Badger Moore and Geordie Smith; an’
they gart me gang wi’ them whether or no:
I’m that weak, and whiles I’m donner’d
wi’ the drink. But I ken a’ an’
I’ll tell a’. And O kind gentleman,
you’ll speak to their lordships for me, and
I’ll no be hangit ... I’ll no be hangit,
wull I?
HUNT. But you shared, didn’t
you? I wonder what share they thought you worth.
How much did you get for last night’s performance
down at Mother Clarke’s?
AINSLIE. Just five pund, mister.
Five pund. As sure’s deith it wadna be
a penny mair. No’ but I askit mair:
I did that; I’ll no’ deny it, mister.
But Badger kickit me, an’ Geordie, he said a
bad sweir, an’ made he’d cut the liver
out o’ me, an’ catch fish wi’t.
It’s been that way frae the first: an aith
an’ a bawbee was aye guid eneuch for puir Andra.
HUNT. Well, and why did they
do it? I saw Jemmy dance a hornpipe on the table,
and booze the company all round, when the Deacon was
gone. What made you cross the fight, and play
booty with your own man?
AINSLIE. Just to make him rob
the Excise, mister. They’re wicked, wicked
men.
HUNT. And is he right for it?
AINSLIE. Ay is he.
HUNT. By Jingo! When’s it for?
AINSLIE. Dear, kind gentleman,
I dinna rightly ken: the Deacon’s that
sair angered wi’ me. I’m to get my
orders frae Geordie the nicht.
HUNT. O, you’re to get
your orders from Geordie, are you? Now look here,
Ainslie. You know me. I’m Hunt the
Runner: I put Jemmy Rivers in the jug this morning;
I’ve got you this evening. I mean to wind
up with the Deacon. You understand? All
right. Then just you listen. I’m going
to take these here bracelets off, and send you home
to that celebrated bed of yours. Only, as soon
as you’ve seen the Dook you come straight round
to me at Mr. Procurator-Fiscal’s, and let
me know the Dook’s views. One word, mind,
and ... cl’k! It’s a bargain?
AINSLIE.. Never you fear that.
I’ll tak’ my bannet an’ come straucht
to ye. Eh God, I’m glad it’s nae
mair nor that to start wi’. An’ may
the Lord bless ye, dear, kind gentleman, for your
kindness! May the Lord bless ye!
HUNT. You pad the hoof.
AINSLIE (going out). An’
so I wull, wulln’t I not? An’ bless,
bless ye while there’s breath in my body, wulln’t
I not?
HUNT (solus). You’re
a nice young man, Andrew Ainslie. Jemmy Rivers
and the Deacon in two days! By Jingo! (He dances
an instant gravely, whistling to himself.) Jerry,
that ’ere little two hundred of ours is as safe
as the bank.
ACT III - TABLEAU VI. UNMASKED
The Stage represents a room in Leslie’s
house. A practicable window,
C., through which a band of strong moonlight
falls into the room. Near
the window a strong-box. A practicable
door in wing, L. Candlelight
SCENE I
LESLIE, LAWSON, MARY, seated.
BRODIE at back, walking between the
windows and the strong-box
LAWSON. Weel, weel, weel, weel, nae doubt.
LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, I am perfectly
satisfied with Brodie’s word; I will wait gladly.
LAWSON. I have nothing to say against that.
BRODIE (behind LAWSON). Nor for it.
LAWSON. For it? for it, William?
Ye’re perfectly richt there. (To LESLIE.)
Just you do what William tells you; ye canna do better
than that.
MARY. Dear uncle, I see you are
vexed; but Will and I are perfectly agreed on the
best course. Walter and I are young. O, we
can wait; we can trust each other.
BRODIE (from behind).
Leslie, do you think it safe to keep this strong-box
in your room?
LESLIE. It does not trouble me.
BRODIE. I would not. ’Tis close to
the window.
LESLIE. It’s on the right side of it.
BRODIE. I give you my advice: I would not.
LAWSON. He may be right there too, Mr. Leslie.
BRODIE. I give him fair warning: it’s
not safe.
LESLIE. I have a different treasure
to concern myself about; if all goes right with that
I shall be well contented.
MARY. Walter!
LAWSON. Ay, bairns, ye speak for your age.
LESLIE. Surely, sir, for every
age: the ties of blood, of love, of friendship,
these are life’s essence.
MARY. And for no one is it truer
than my uncle. If he live to be a thousand, he
will still be young in heart, full of love, full of
trust.
LAWSON. Ah, lassie, it’s a wicked world.
MARY. Yes, you are out of sorts to-day; we know
that.
LESLIE. Admitted that you know
more of life, sir; admitted (if you please) that the
world is wicked; yet you do not lose trust in those
you love.
LAWSON. Weel ... ye get gliffs, ye ken.
LESLIE. I suppose so. We
can all be shaken for a time; but not, I think, in
our friends. We are not deceived in them; in the
few that we admit into our hearts.
MARY. Never in these.
LESLIE. We know these (to BRODIE), and
we think the world of them.
BRODIE (at back). We are
more acquainted with each other’s tailors, believe
me. You, Leslie, are a very pleasant creature.
My uncle Lawson is the Procurator-Fiscal. I what
am I? I am the Deacon of the Wrights; my ruffles
are generally clean; and you think the world of me.
Bravo!
LESLIE. Ay, and I think the world of you.
BRODIE (at back, pointing to LAWSON).
Ask him.
LAWSON. Hoot-toot. A wheen
nonsense: an honest man’s an honest man,
and a randy thief’s a randy thief, and neither
mair nor less. Mary, my lamb, it’s time
you were hame, and had your beauty sleep.
MARY. Do you not come with us?
LAWSON. I gang the ither gate,
my lamb. (LESLIE helps MARY on with her cloak,
and they say farewell at back. BRODIE, for the
first time, comes front with LAWSON.) Sae ye’ve
consented?
BRODIE. As you see.
LAWSON. Ye’ll can pay it back?
BRODIE. I will.
LAWSON. And how? That’s what I’m
wonderin’ to mysel’.
BRODIE. Ay, God knows that.
MARY. Come, Will.
SCENE II
LESLIE, LAWSON (wrapping up)
LESLIE. I wonder what ails Brodie?
LAWSON. How should I ken? What should I
ken that ails him?
LESLIE. He seemed angry even with you.
LAWSON (impatient). Hoot awa’!
LESLIE. Of course, I know.
But you see, on the very day when our engagement is
announced, even the best of men may be susceptible.
You yourself seem not quite pleased.
LAWSON (with great irritation).
I’m perfectly pleased. I’m perfectly
delighted. If I werena an auld man, I’d
be just beside mysel’ wi’ happiness.
LESLIE. Well, I only fancied ...
LAWSON. Ye had nae possible excuse
to fancy. Fancy? Perfect trash and nonsense.
Look at yersel’. Ye look like a ghaist,
ye’re white-like, ye’re black aboot the
een; and do you find me deavin’ ye wi’
fancies? Or William Brodie either? I’ll
say that for him.
LESLIE. ’Tis not sorrow
that alters my complexion; I’ve something else
on hand. Come, I’ll tell you, under seal.
I’ve not been in bed till daylight for a week.
LAWSON. Weel, there’s nae sense in the
like o’ that.
LESLIE. Gad, but there is, though.
Why, Procurator, this is town’s business; this
is a municipal affair; I’m a public character.
Why? Ah, here’s a nut for the Crown Prosecutor!
I’m a bit of a party to a robbery.
LAWSON. Guid guide us, man, what d’ye mean?
LESLIE. You shall hear.
A week ago to-night I was passing through this very
room without a candle on my way to bed, when ... what
should I see but a masked man fumbling at that window!
How he did the Lord knows. I suspect, Procurator,
it was not the first he’d tried ... for he opened
it as handily as his own front door.
LAWSON. Preserve me! Another of thae robberies!
LESLIE. That’s it.
And, of course, I tried to seize him. But the
rascal was too quick. He was down and away in
an instant. You never saw a thing so daring and
adroit.
LAWSON. Is that a’?
Ye’re a bauld lad, I’ll say that for ye.
I’m glad it wasna waur.
LESLIE. Yes, that’s all
plain sailing. But here’s the hitch.
Why didn’t I tell the Procurator-Fiscal?
You never thought of that.
LAWSON. No, man. Why?
LESLIE. Aha! There’s
the riddle. Will you guess? No?... I
thought I knew the man.
LAWSON. What d’ye say?
LESLIE. I thought I knew him.
LAWSON. Wha was’t?
LESLIE. Ah, there you go beyond me. That
I cannot tell.
LAWSON. As God sees ye, laddie, are ye speaking
truth?
LESLIE. Well ... of course!
LAWSON. The haill truth?
LESLIE. All of it. Why not?
LAWSON. Man, I’d a kind o’ gliff.
LESLIE. Why, what were you afraid of? Had
you a suspicion?
LAWSON. Me? Me a suspicion?
Ye’re daft, sir; and me the Crown offeecial!...
Eh, man, I’m a’ shakin’ ...
And sae ye thocht ye kennt him?
LESLIE. I did that. And
what’s more, I’ve sat every night in case
of his return. I promise you, Procurator, he
shall not slip me twice. Meanwhile, I’m
worried and put out. You understand how such a
fancy will upset a man. I’m uneasy with
my friends and on bad terms with my own conscience.
I keep watching, spying, comparing, putting two and
two together, and hunting for resemblances until my
head goes round. It’s like a puzzle in
a dream. Only yesterday I thought I had him.
And who d’you think it was?
LAWSON. Wha? Wha was’t?
Speak, Mr. Leslie, speak. I’m an auld man:
dinna forget that.
LESLIE. I name no names.
It would be unjust to him; and, upon my word, it was
so silly it would be unfair to me. However, here
I sit, night after night. I mean him to come
back; come back he shall; and I’ll tell you
who he was next morning.
LAWSON. Let sleeping dogs lie,
Mr. Leslie; ye dinna ken what ye micht see. And
then, leave him alane, he’ll come nae mair.
And sitting up a’ nicht ... it’s
a factum imprestabile, as we say: a thing
impossible to man. Gang ye to your bed, like
a guid laddie, and sleep lang and soundly, and
bonnie, bonnie dreams to ye! (Without.) Let
sleeping dogs lie, and gang ye to your bed.
SCENE III
LESLIE (calling). In good
time, never fear! (He carefully bolts and chains
the door.) The old gentleman seems upset.
What for, I wonder? Has he had a masked visitor?
Why not? It’s the fashion. Out with
the lights. (Blows out the candles. The stage
is only lighted by the moon through the window.)
He is sure to come one night or other. He must
come. Right or wrong, I feel it in the air.
Man, but I know you, I know you somewhere. That
trick of the shoulders, the hang of the clothes whose
are they? Where have I seen them? And then,
that single look of the eye, that one glance about
the room as the window opened ... it is almost friendly;
I have caught it over the glass’s rim! If
it should be ... his? No, his it is not.
WATCHMAN (without). Past
ten o’clock, and a fine moonlight night.
ANOTHER (further away).
Past ten o’clock, and all’s well.
LESLIE. Past ten? Ah, there’s
a long night before you and me, watchmen. Heavens,
what a trade! But it will be something to laugh
over with Mary and ... with him! Damn it, the
delusion is too strong for me. It’s a thing
to be ashamed of. “We Brodies”:
how she says it! “We Brodies and our Deacon”:
what a pride she takes in it, and how good it sounds
to me! “Deacon of his craft, sir, Deacon
of the ...” (BRODIE, masked, appears without
at the window, which he proceeds to force.) Ha!
I knew he’d come. I was sure of it. (He
crouches near and nearer to the window, keeping in
the shade.) And I know you too. I swear I
know you.
SCENE IV
BRODIE, LESLIE
BRODIE enters by the window with assurance
and ease, closes it
silently and proceeds to traverse the
room. As he moves, LESLIE leaps
upon and grapples him.
LESLIE. Take off that mask!
BRODIE. Hands off!
LESLIE. Take off that mask!
BRODIE. Leave go, by God, leave go!
LESLIE. Take it off!
BRODIE (overpowered). Leslie....
LESLIE. Ah! you know me! (Succeeds in tearing
off the mask.) Brodie!
BRODIE (in the moonlight). Brodie.
LESLIE. You ... you, Brodie, you!
BRODIE. Brodie, sir, Brodie, as you see.
LESLIE. What does it mean?
What does it mean? My God! Were you here
before? Is this the second time? Are you
a thief, man? are you a thief? Speak, speak,
or I’ll kill you.
BRODIE. I am a thief.
LESLIE. And my friend, my own friend, and ...
Mary, Mary!... Deacon,
Deacon, for God’s sake, no!
BRODIE. God help me!
LESLIE. “We Brodies! We Brodies!”
BRODIE. Leslie
LESLIE. Stand off! Don’t touch me!
You’re a thief!
BRODIE. Leslie, Leslie
LESLIE. A thief’s sister!
Why are you here? why are you here? Tell me!
Why do you not speak? Man, I know you of old.
Are you Brodie, and have nothing to say?
BRODIE. To say? Not much God
help me! and commonplace, commonplace like
sin. I was honest once; I made a false step; I
couldn’t retrace it; and ... that is all.
LESLIE. You have forgot the bad companions!
BRODIE. I did forget them. They were there.
LESLIE. Commonplace! Commonplace!
Do you speak to me, do you reason with me, do you
make excuses? You a man found out,
shamed, a liar, a thief a man that’s
killed me, killed this heart in my body; and you speak!
What am I to do? I hold your life in my hand;
have you thought of that? What am I to do?
BRODIE. Do what you please; you
have me trapped. (JEAN WATT is heard singing without
two bars of “Wanderin’ Willie,” by
way of signal.)
LESLIE. What is that?
BRODIE. A signal.
LESLIE. What does it mean?
BRODIE. Danger to me: there is some one
coming.
LESLIE. Danger to you?
BRODIE. Some one is coming.
What are you going to do with me? (A knock at the
door.)
LESLIE (after a pause). Sit down. (Knocking.)
BRODIE. What are you going to do with me?
LESLIE. Sit down. (BRODIE
sits in darkest part of stage. LESLIE opens door
and admits LAWSON. Door open till end of Act.)
SCENE V
BRODIE, LAWSON, LESLIE
LAWSON. This is an unco’
time to come to your door; but eh, laddie, I couldna
bear to think o’ ye sittin’ yer lane in
the dark.
LESLIE. It was very good of you.
LAWSON. I’m no’ very
fond of playing hidee in the dark mysel’:
and noo that I’m here
LESLIE. I will give you a light.
(He lights the candles. Lights up.)
LAWSON. God A’michty! William Brodie!
LESLIE. Yes, Brodie was good enough to watch
with me.
LAWSON. But he gaed awa’
... I dinna see ... an’ Lord be guid to
us, the window’s open!
LESLIE. A trap we laid for them: a device
of Brodie’s.
BRODIE (to LAWSON). Set
a thief to catch a thief. (Passing to LESLIE, aside.)
Walter Leslie, God will reward. (JEAN signals again.)
LAWSON. I dinna like that singin’ at siccan
a time o’ the nicht.
BRODIE. I must go.
LAWSON. Not one foot o’
ye. I’m ower glad to find ye in guid hands.
Ay, ye dinna ken how glad.
BRODIE (aside to LESLIE).
Get me out of this. There’s a man there
will stick at nothing.
LESLIE. Mr. Lawson, Brodie has
done his shift. Why should we keep him? (JEAN
appears at the door, and signs to BRODIE.)
LAWSON. Hoots! this is my trade.
That’s a bit o’ “Wanderin’
Willie.” I’ve had it before me in
precognitions; that same stave has been used for a
signal by some o’ the very warst o’ them.
BRODIE (aside to LESLIE).
Get me out of this. I’ll never forget to-night.
(JEAN at door again.)
LESLIE. Well, good-night, Brodie.
When shall we meet again?
LAWSON. Not one foot o’
him. (JEAN at door.) I tell you, Mr. Leslie
SCENE VI
To these, JEAN
JEAN (from the door). Wullie, Wullie!
LAWSON. Guid guide us, Mrs. Watt!
A dacent wumman like yoursel’! Whatten
a time o’ nicht is this to come to folks’
doors?
JEAN (to BRODIE). Hawks, Wullie, hawks!
BRODIE. I suppose you know what you’ve
done, Jean?
JEAN. I had to come, Wullie;
he wadna wait another minit. He wad have come
himsel’.
BRODIE. This is my mistress.
LAWSON. William, dinna tell me nae mair.
BRODIE. I have told you so much.
You may as well know all. That good man knows
it already. Have you issued a warrant for me ...
yet?
LAWSON. No, no, man: not another word.
BRODIE (pointing to the window).
That is my work. I am the man. Have you
drawn the warrant?
LAWSON (breaking down). Your father’s
son!
LESLIE (to LAWSON). My
good friend! Brodie, you might have spared the
old man this.
BRODIE. I might have spared him
years ago; and you and my sister, and myself.
I might ... would God I had! (Weeping himself.)
Don’t weep, my good old friend; I was lost long
since; don’t think of me; don’t pity me;
don’t shame me with your pity! I began this
when I was a boy. I bound the millstone round
my neck; (it is irrevocable now), and you must all
suffer ... all suffer for me!... (for this suffering
remnant of what was once a man). O God, that
I can have fallen to stand here as I do now.
My friend lying to save me from the gallows; my second
father weeping tears of blood for my disgrace!
And all for what? Ay what? Because I had
an open hand, because I was a selfish dog, because
I loved this woman.
JEAN. O Wullie, and she lo’ed
ye weel! But come near me nae mair, come near
me nae mair, my man; keep wi’ your ain folks
... your ain dacent folks.
LAWSON. Mistress Watt, ye shall
sit rent free as lang’s there’s breath
in William Lawson’s body.
LESLIE. You can do one thing
still ... for Mary’s sake. You can save
yourself; you must fly.
BRODIE. It is my purpose; the
day after to-morrow. It cannot be before.
Then I will fly; and O, as God sees me, I will strive
to make a new and a better life, and to be worthy
of your friendship, and of your tears ... your tears.
And to be worthy of you, too, Jean; for I see now that
the bandage has fallen from my eyes; I see myself,
O how unworthy even of you!
LESLIE. Why not to-night?
BRODIE. It cannot be before.
There are many considerations. I must find money.
JEAN. Leave me, and the wean. Dinna fash
yoursel’ for us.
LESLIE (opening the strong-box
and pouring gold upon the table). Take this
and go at once.
BRODIE. Not that ... not the money that I came
to steal!
LAWSON. Tak’ it, William; I’ll pay
him.
BRODIE. It is in vain. I
cannot leave till I have said. There is a man;
I must obey him. If I slip my chain till he has
done with me, the hue and cry will blaze about the
country; every outport will be shut; I shall return
to the gallows. He is a man that will stick at
nothing.
SCENE VII
To these, MOORE
MOORE. Are you coming?
BRODIE. I am coming.
MOORE (appearing in the door).
Do you want us all to get thundering well scragged?
BRODIE (going). There is my master.
END OF THE THIRD ACT
ACT IV - TABLEAU VII. THE ROBBERY
The Stage represents the outside of
the Excise Office in Chessel’s Court.
At the back, L.C., an archway opening on the High Street.
The door of the Excise in wing, R.; the opposite
side of the stage is lumbered with barrels, packing-cases,
etc. Moonlight; the Excise Office casts a shadow
over half the stage. A clock strikes the hour.
A round of the City Guard, with halberts, lanterns,
etc., enters and goes out again by the arch, after
having examined the fastenings of the great door
and the lumber on the left. Cry without in the
High Court: “Ten by the bell and
a fine clear night._” Then enter cautiously
by the arch, SMITH and MOORE, with AINSLIE loaded with
tools_
SCENE I
SMITH, MOORE, AINSLIE
SMITH (entering first). Come on, coast
clear.
MOORE (after they have come to
the front). Ain’t he turned up yet?
SMITH (to AINSLIE). Now,
Maggot! The fishing’s a-going to begin.
AINSLIE. Dinna cangle, Geordie. My back’s
fair broke.
MOORE. O, muck! Hand out them pieces.
SMITH. All right, Humptious!
(To AINSLIE.) You’re a nice old sort for
a rag-and-bone man: can’t hold a bag open!
(Taking out tools.) Here they was. Here
are the bunchums, one and two; and jolly old keys was
they. Here’s the picklocks, crowbars, and
here’s Lord George’s pet bull’s-eye,
his old and valued friend, the Cracksman’s Treasure!
MOORE. Just like you. Forgot the rotten
centre-bit.
SMITH. That’s all you know.
Here she is, bless her! Portrait of George as
a gay 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 centre-bit.
SMITH. Right. (Work continues. AINSLIE
drops lantern.)
BRODIE. Curse you! (Throttling
and kicking him.) You shake, and you shake, and
you can’t even hold a light for your betters.
Hey?
AINSLIE. Eh, Deacon, Deacon....
SMITH. Now, Ghost! (With lantern.)
BRODIE. ’St, Moore!
MOORE. Wot’s the row?
BRODIE. Take you the light.
MOORE (to AINSLIE). Wo’ j’
yer shakin’ at? (Kicks him.)
BRODIE (to AINSLIE). Go
you, and see if you’re good at keeping watch.
Inside the arch. And if you let a footfall past,
I’ll break your back. (AINSLIE retires.)
Steady with the light. (At work with centre-bit.)
Hand up number four, George. (At work with picklock.)
That has it.
SMITH. Well done, our side.
BRODIE. Now the crowbar! (At
work.) That’s it. Put down the glim,
Badger, and help at the wrench. Your whole weight,
men! Put your backs to it! (While they work
at the bar, BRODIE stands by, dusting his hands with
a pocket-handkerchief. As the door opens.)
Voilà ! In with you.
MOORE (entering with light). Mucking fine
work too, Deacon!
BRODIE. Take up the irons, George.
SMITH. How about the P(h)antom?
BRODIE. Leave him to me. I’ll give
him a look. (Enters office.)
SMITH (following). Houp-là !
SCENE III
AINSLIE; afterwards BRODIE; afterwards
HUNT and OFFICERS
AINSLIE. Ca’ ye that
mainners? Ye’re grand gentry by your way
o’t! Eh sirs, my hench! Ay, that was
the Badger. Man, but ye’ll look bonnie
hangin’! (A faint whistle.) Lord’s
sake, what’s thon? Ay, it’ll
be Hunt an’ his lads. (Whistle repeated.)
Losh me, what gars him whustle, whustle?
Does he think me deaf? (Goes up. BRODIE enters
from office, stands an instant, and sees him making
a signal through the arch.)
BRODIE. Rats! Rats! (Hides
L. among lumber. Enter noiselessly through arch
HUNT and OFFICERS.)
HUNT. Birds caught?
AINSLIE. They’re a’ ben the
house, mister.
HUNT. All three?
AINSLIE. The haill set, mister.
BRODIE. Liar!
HUNT. Mum, lads, and follow me. (Exit, with
his men, into office.
BRODIE seen with dagger.)
HUNT (within). In the King’s name!
MOORE (within). Muck!
SMITH (within). Go it, Badger.
HUNT (within). Take ’em alive, boys!
AINSLIE. Eh, but that’s
awfu’. (The DEACON leaps out, and stabs him.
He falls without a cry.)
BRODIE. Saved! (He goes out by the arch.)
SCENE IV
HUNT and OFFICERS; with SMITH and_
MOORE handcuffed. Signs of a
severe struggle_
HUNT (entering). Bring
’em along, lads! (Looking at prisoners with
lantern.) Pleased to see you again, Badger.
And you too, George. But I’d rather have
seen your principal. Where’s he got to?
MOORE. To hell, I hope.
HUNT. Always the same pretty
flow of language, I see, Hump. (Looking at burglary
with lantern.) A very tidy piece of work, Dook;
very tidy! Much too good for you. Smacks
of a fine tradesman. It was the Deacon,
I suppose?
SMITH. You ought to know G. S.
better by this time, Jerry.
HUNT. All right, your Grace:
we’ll talk it over with the Deacon himself.
Where’s the jackal? Here, you, Ainslie!
Where are you? By Jingo, I thought as much.
Stabbed to the heart and dead as a herring!
SMITH. Bravo!
HUNT. More of the Deacon’s work, I guess?
Does him credit too, don’t it,
Badger?
MOORE. Muck. Was that the thundering cove
that peached?
HUNT. That was the thundering cove.
MOORE. And is he corpsed?
HUNT. I should just about reckon he was.
MOORE. Then, damme, I don’t mind swinging!
HUNT. We’ll talk about
that presently. M’Intyre and Stewart, you
get a stretcher, and take that rubbish to the office.
Pick it up; it’s only a dead informer.
Hand these two gentlemen over to Mr. Procurator-Fiscal,
with Mr. Jerry Hunt’s compliments. Johnstone
and Syme, you come along with me. I’ll
bring the Deacon round myself.
END OF THE FOURTH ACT
ACT V - TABLEAU VIII. THE OPEN DOOR
The Stage represents the Deacon’s
room, as in Tableau I. Firelight.
Stage dark. A pause. Then knocking
at the door, C. Cries without of
“WILLIE!” “MR. BRODIE!”
The door is burst open
SCENE I
DOCTOR, MARY, a MAIDSERVANT with lights
DOCTOR. The apartment is unoccupied.
MARY. Dead, and he not here!
DOCTOR. The bed has not been
slept in. The counterpane is not turned down.
MARY. It is not true; it cannot be true.
DOCTOR. My dear young lady, you
must have misunderstood your brother’s language.
MARY. O no; that I did not. That I am sure
I did not.
DOCTOR (looking at door). The strange
thing is ... the bolt.
SERVANT. It’s unco strange.
DOCTOR. Well, we have acted for the best.
SERVANT. Sir, I dinna think this should gang
nae further.
DOCTOR. The secret is in our
keeping. Affliction is enough without scandal.
MARY. Kind heaven, what does it mean?
DOCTOR. I think there is no more to be done.
MARY. I am here alone, Doctor; you pass my uncle’s
door?
DOCTOR. The Procurator-Fiscal?
I shall make it my devoir. Expect him soon. (Goes
out with MAID.)
MARY (hastily searches the room). No,
he is not there. She was right!
O father, you can never know, praise God!
SCENE II
MARY, to whom JEAN and afterwards LESLIE
JEAN (at door). Mistress ...!
MARY. Ah! Who is there? Who are you?
JEAN. Is he no’ hame yet? I’m
aye waitin’ on him.
MARY. Waiting for him? Do you know the Deacon?
You?
JEAN. I maun see him. Eh, lassie, it’s
life and death.
MARY. Death ... O my heart!
JEAN. I maun see him, bonnie
leddie. I’m a puir body, and no’ fit
to be seen speakin’ wi’ the likes o’
you. But O lass, ye are the Deacon’s sister,
and ye hae the Deacon’s een, and for the love
of the dear kind Lord, let’s in and hae a word
wi’ him ere it be ower late. I’m bringin’
siller.
MARY. Siller? You?
For him? O father, father, if you could hear!
What are you? What are you ... to him?
JEAN. I’ll be the best
frien’ ’at ever he had; for, O dear leddie,
I wad gie my bluid to help him.
MARY. And the ... the child?
JEAN. The bairn?
MARY. Nothing! O nothing!
I am in trouble, and I know not what I say. And
I cannot help you; I cannot help you if I would.
He is not here; and I believe he was; and ill ...
ill; and he is not he is ... O, I think
I shall lose my mind!
JEAN. Ay, it’s unco business.
MARY. His father is dead within there ... dead,
I tell you ... dead!
JEAN. It’s mebbe just as weel.
MARY. Well? Well? Has
it come to this? O Walter, Walter! come back to
me, or I shall die. (LESLIE enters, C.)
LESLIE. Mary, Mary! I hoped to have spared
you this. (To JEAN.)
What you? Is he not here?
JEAN. I’m aye waitin’ on him.
LESLIE. What has become of him? Is he mad?
Where is he?
JEAN. The Lord A’michty
kens, Mr. Leslie. But I maun find him; I maun
find him.
SCENE III
MARY, LESLIE
MARY. O Walter, Walter! What does it mean?
LESLIE. You have been a brave
girl all your life, Mary; you must lean on me ...
you must trust in me ... and be a brave girl till the
end.
MARY. Who is she? What does
she want with him? And he ... where is
he? Do you know that my father is dead, and the
Deacon not here? Where has he gone? He may
be dead, too. Father, brother ... O God,
it is more than I can bear!
LESLIE. Mary, my dear, dear girl
... when will you be my wife?
MARY. O, do not speak ... not
speak ... of it to-night. Not to-night! O,
not to-night!
LESLIE. I know, I know, dear
heart! And do you think that I, whom you have
chosen, I whose whole life is in your love do
you think that I would press you now if there were
not good cause?
MARY. Good cause! Something
has happened. Something has happened ... to him!
Walter...! Is he ... dead?
LESLIE. There are worse things
in the world than death. There is ... O
Mary, he is your brother!
MARY. What?... Dishonour!... The Deacon!...
My God!
LESLIE. My wife, my wife!
MARY. No, no! Keep away
from me. Don’t touch me. I’m
not fit ... not fit to be near you. What has
he done? I am his sister. Tell me the worst.
Tell me the worst at once.
LESLIE. That, if God wills, dear,
you shall never know. Whatever it be, think that
I knew it all, and only loved you better; think that
your true husband is with you, and you are not to
bear it alone.
MARY. My husband?... Never.
LESLIE. Mary...!
MARY. You forget, you forget
what I am. I am his sister. I owe him a
lifetime of happiness and love; I owe him even you.
And whatever his fault, however ruinous his disgrace,
he is my brother my own brother and
my place is still with him.
LESLIE. Your place is with me is
with your husband. With me, with me; and for
his sake most of all. What can you do for him
alone? how can you help him alone? It wrings
my heart to think how little. But together is
different. Together...! Join my strength,
my will, my courage to your own, and together we may
save him.
MARY. All that is over.
Once I was blessed among women. I was my father’s
daughter, my brother loved me, I lived to be your wife.
Now...! My father is dead, my brother is shamed;
and you ... O how could I face the world, how
could I endure myself, if I preferred my happiness
to your honour?
LESLIE. What is my honour but
your happiness? In what else does it consist?
Is it in denying me my heart? is it in visiting another’s
sin upon the innocent? Could I do that, and be
my mother’s son? Could I do that, and bear
my father’s name? Could I do that, and have
ever been found worthy of you?
MARY. It is my duty ... my duty.
Why will you make it so hard for me? So hard,
Walter, so hard!
LESLIE. Do I pursue you only
for your good fortune, your beauty, the credit of
your friends, your family’s good name? That
were not love, and I love you. I love you, dearest,
I love you. Friend, father, brother, husband
... I must be all these to you. I am a man
who can love well.
MARY. Silence ... in pity!
I cannot ... O, I cannot bear it.
LESLIE. And say it was I who
had fallen. Say I had played my neck and lost
it ... that I were pushed by the law to the last limits
of ignominy and despair. Whose love would sanctify
my gaol to me? whose pity would shine upon me in the
dock? whose prayers would accompany me to the gallows?
Whose but yours? Yours!... And you would
entreat me me! to do what you
shrink from even in thought, what you would die ere
you attempted in deed!
MARY. Walter ... on my knees ... no more, no
more!
LESLIE. My wife! my wife! Here on my heart!
It is I that must kneel ...
I that must kneel to you.
MARY. Dearest!... Husband! You forgive
him? O, you forgive him?
LESLIE. He is my brother now. Let me take
you to our father. Come.
SCENE IV
After a pause, BRODIE through the window
BRODIE. Saved! And the alibi!
Man, but you’ve been near it this time near
the rope, near the rope. Ah, boy, it was your
neck, your neck you fought for. They were closing
hell-doors upon me, swift as the wind, when I slipped
through and shot for heaven! Saved! The dog
that sold me, I settled him; and the other dogs are
staunch. Man, but your alibi will stand!
Is the window fast? The neighbours must not see
the Deacon, the poor, sick Deacon, up and stirring
at this time o’ night. Ay, the good old
room in the good, cosy old house ... and the rat a
dead rat, and all saved. (He lights the candles.)
Your hand shakes, sir? Fie! And you saved,
and snug and sick in your bed, and it but a
dead rat after all? (He takes off his hanger and
lays it on the table.) Ay, it was a near touch.
Will it come to the dock? If it does! You’ve
a tongue and you’ve a head, and you’ve
an alibi; and your alibi will stand.
(He takes off his coat, takes out the dagger, and
with a gesture of striking.) Home! He fell
without a sob. “He breaketh them against
the bosses of His buckler!” (Lays the dagger
on the table.) Your alibi ... ah, Deacon,
that’s your life!... your alibi, your
alibi. (He takes up a candle and turns towards
the door.) O!... Open, open, open! Judgment
of God, the door is open!
SCENE V
BRODIE, MARY
BRODIE. Did you open the door?
MARY. I did.
BRODIE. You ... you opened the door?
MARY. I did open it.
BRODIE. Were you ... alone?
MARY. I was not. The servant was with me;
and the doctor.
BRODIE. O ... the servant ...
and the doctor. Very true. Then it’s
all over the town by now. The servant and the
doctor. The doctor? What doctor? Why
the doctor?
MARY. My father is dead. O Will, where have
you been?
BRODIE. Your father is dead. O yes!
He’s dead, is he? Dead. Quite right.
Quite right.... How did you open the door?
It’s strange. I bolted it.
MARY. We could not help it, Will,
now could we? The doctor forced it. He had
to, had he not?
BRODIE. The doctor forced it? The doctor?
Was he here? He forced it? He?
MARY. We did it for the best;
it was I who did it ... I, your own sister.
And O Will, my Willie, where have you been? You
have not been in any harm, any danger?
BRODIE. Danger? O, my young
lady, you have taken care of that. It’s
not danger now, it’s death. Death?
Ah! Death! Death! Death! (Clutching
the table. Then recovering as from a dream.)
Death? Did you say my father was dead? My
father? O my God, my poor old father! Is
he dead, Mary? Have I lost him? is he gone?
O, Mary dear, and to think of where his son was!
MARY. Dearest, he is in heaven.
BRODIE. Did he suffer?
MARY. He died like a child. Your name ...
it was his last.
BRODIE. My name? Mine?
O Mary, if he had known! He knows now. He
knows; he sees us now ... sees me! Ay, and sees
you left how lonely!
MARY. Not so, dear; not while
you live. Wherever you are, I shall not be alone,
so you live.
BRODIE. While I live? I?
The old house is ruined, and the old master dead,
and I!... O Mary, try and believe I did not mean
that it should come to this; try and believe that
I was only weak at first. At first? And
now! The good old man dead, the kind sister ruined,
the innocent boy fallen, fallen.... You will
be quite alone; all your old friends, all the old
faces, gone into darkness. The night (with
a gesture) ... it waits for me. You will
be quite alone.
MARY. The night!
BRODIE. Mary, you must hear.
How am I to tell her, and the old man just dead!
Mary, I was the boy you knew; I loved pleasure, I was
weak; I have fallen ... low ... lower than you think.
A beginning is so small a thing! I never dreamed
it would come to this ... this hideous last night.
MARY. Willie, you must tell me,
dear. I must have the truth ... the kind truth
... at once ... in pity.
BRODIE. Crime. I have fallen. Crime.
MARY. Crime?
BRODIE. Don’t shrink from
me. Miserable dog that I am, selfish hound that
has dragged you to this misery ... you and all that
loved him ... think only of my torments, think only
of my penitence, don’t shrink from me.
MARY. I do not care to hear,
I do not wish, I do not mind; you are my brother.
What do I care? How can I help you?
BRODIE. Help? help me?
You would not speak of it, not wish it, if you knew.
My kind good sister, my little playmate, my sweet friend!
Was I ever unkind to you till yesterday? Not
openly unkind? You’ll say that when I am
gone.
MARY. If you have done wrong,
what do I care? If you have failed, does it change
my twenty years of love and worship? Never!
BRODIE. Yet I must make her understand...!
MARY. I am your true sister,
dear. I cannot fail, I will never leave you,
I will never blame you. Come! (Goes to embrace.)
BRODIE (recoiling). No,
don’t touch me, not a finger, not that, anything
but that!
MARY. Willie, Willie!
BRODIE (taking the bloody dagger
from the table). See, do you understand that?
MARY. Ah! What, what is it!
BRODIE. Blood. I have killed a man.
MARY. You?...
BRODIE. I am a murderer; I was
a thief before. Your brother ... the old man’s
only son!
MARY. Walter, Walter, come to me!
BRODIE. Now you see that I must
die; now you see that I stand upon the grave’s
edge, all my lost life behind me, like a horror to
think upon, like a frenzy, like a dream that is past.
And you, you are alone. Father, brother, they
are gone from you; one to heaven, one...!
MARY. Hush, dear, hush!
Kneel, pray; it is not too late to repent. Think
of our father, dear; repent. (She weeps, straining
to his bosom.) O Willie, my darling boy, repent
and join us.
SCENE VI
To these, LAWSON, LESLIE, JEAN
LAWSON. She kens a’, thank the guid Lord!
BRODIE (to MARY). I know
you forgive me now; I ask no more. That is a
good man. (To LESLIE.) Will you take her from
my hands? (LESLIE takes MARY.) Jean, are ye
here to see the end?
JEAN. Eh man, can ye no’
fly? Could ye no’ say that it was me?
BRODIE. No, Jean, this is where
it ends. Uncle, this is where it ends. And
to think that not an hour ago I still had hopes!
Hopes! Ay, not an hour ago I thought of a new
life. You were not forgotten, Jean. Leslie,
you must try to forgive me ... you too!
LESLIE. You are her brother.
BRODIE (to LAWSON). And you.
LAWSON. My name-child and my sister’s bairn.
BRODIE. You won’t forget Jean, will you?
nor the child?
LAWSON. That I will not.
MARY. O Willie, nor I.
SCENE VII
To these, HUNT
HUNT. The game’s up, Deacon. I’ll
trouble you to come along with me.
BRODIE (behind the table).
One moment, officer: I have a word to say before
witnesses ere I go. In all this there is but one
man guilty; and that man is I. None else has sinned;
none else must suffer. This poor woman (pointing
to JEAN) I have used; she never understood.
Mr. Procurator-Fiscal, that is my dying confession.
(He snatches his hanger from the table, and rushes
upon HUNT, who parries, and runs him through.
He reels across the stage and falls.) The new life
... the new life! (He dies.)
CURTAIN